“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story”

Happy birthday, mio babbino caro.



Do you still feel 24?

Or has the experience of Eternity fucked with your sense of nostalgia?

I still feel 24. And 12. And 18.
All at once.

Tell me, do you remember the advice you gave me the night before I left for college? It wasn’t about methods of binge drinking, it certainly wasn’t about studying, it wasn’t even about music. You set down your Marlboro red and took off those foolishly small reading glasses to say,

“Make mistakes.
Lots of them.”

And when I had finished rolling my eyes and giggling, I asked you to elaborate.

You went on to talk about the true meaning of learning, the intrinsic value of education and yes, somehow successfully managed to name drop both Princeton AND Spoleto while doing so.

You talked about mistakes you had made-which I know must have hurt your tenor pride something fierce-and you talked about their significance. How they shaped you. And how every bad decision was ultimately worth each and every euphoric moment it created. How these mistakes would fall in line, one right after another, knitting together the fabric of your legacy.

“The importance of actively making mistakes.”

I made them, Dad.
LOTS of them.
I’m still making them.

And I don’t pretend to know some hidden truth because of it. In fact, I don’t “pretend” to know anything.

I know I thought about your laugh yesterday.
I know I thought I saw you in the airport.

I also know I didn’t.

Laughter and metal wings aside, I celebrated this day in the best way you and I ever knew: blind emotion, excessively loud music and a severe lack of appropriate pants.

I have so much to tell you.

Another time, perhaps?

(I want you and Lenny to enjoy this special day.)



You still look 24.

All my love,


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