Growing old disgracefully

Last night I went to have birthday drinks in honour of the lovely Jeff Khan, at Yarraville's version of the Supper Club, and a bar I now highly recommend, the delightfully decadent Acqua E Vino (you simply must try their La Fee absinthe, one of the best I've tasted; it creates a wonderfully lucid drunkeness in the imbiber).

On the way home, waiting for my train, I was listening to The Cure's Disintergration (the best album ever, dude, according to Kyle from Southpark) and grooving along the platform - not quite dancing, but more than walking - when I had the sudden realisation that at the age of almost 39, I'm not at all grown up.

Somehow, I suspect I never will be.

I'm largely free of responsibility, being unburdened by mortgages or children. I think nothing of taking lots of drugs and staying up for 36-48 hours straight, and after sleeping for 15 hours straight, feel more than ready to do it all over again. I cry easily in some movies, and laugh easily in others. I'm just as happy eating cold pizza and strawberry ice-cream for breakfast as I am discussing art and cinema over a cafe brunch. I still dress the way I did as a teenager, albeit with more emphasis on black.

About the only signs of maturity I ever display are an improved and varied palate, and (thankfully) a lessened ability to fall tragically in love with my straight best friends.

To quote Tom Waits:

"I don’t want my hair to fall out
I don’t wanna be filled with doubt
I don’t wanna be a good boy scout
I don’t wanna have to learn to count
I don’t wanna have the biggest amount
I don’t wanna grow up"

And I'm not going to, either!