OK, so let’s get this over with, shall we?

I’m 40.

Four. Zero.

Or, as the balloon says, “Oh NO … the Big Four OH!” (because this balloon apparently was designed by someone who thinks turning 40 is so universally awful that people will actually pay money to decorate their celebration with an enormous Mylar blimp that basically says “Embrace the dread, you ancient fuck!” … which would be funnier if not for the fact that we bought one).

That show “Thirty Something” that I never watched when it was on, because it was about old people? Yeah, well, it’s about young people now.

The good news is that I spent so much time during the past few months (years?) dreading my 40th birthday that I was sort of over it by the time the day actually arrived. OK, so maybe I’ve since gone back to lamenting my decrepitude and mortality, but on the actual date of my birth, I was feeling rather upbeat.

Now, as those of you who were here last year know, the Surprise 39th Birthday Celebration Gone Awry left me, shall we say, underwhelmed … and, sure, that mostly was because I’m a grumpy asshole, true … but it also was because it actually was planned by, and for, my children, and didn’t much take into account what the birthday dickhead boy himself would really want to do.

In retrospect, it was a good call for everyone to learn that lesson on my 39th birthday rather than on my 40th … because I really needed this one to keep me from crumbling into a weeping, geriatric, broken-hipped heap on the floor … and so it is with great joy that I tell you that, on Jan. 17, 2010, Wonder Woman hit one right out of the park.

This year, my wife and kiddos threw me a “Guitar Hero”-themed birthday party, which was beyond perfect, because, since I’m way too much of a pussy stand-up guy to have a proper midlife crisis marked by purchasing a convertible and running off to Mexico with a younger woman, I have instead taken to soothing my inner adolescent by playing a video game that showers me with canned applause and assures me that I “ROCK!” Yeah, baby!

But it wasn’t just the new copy of “Guitar Hero: Metallica” that made the day a success; it was the copious amount of tequila I drank:

I kid … sorta. I really did drink lots of tequila … but, actually, the thing that made the day so memorable was the fact that my nearest and dearest family members all went out of their way to be with me … and gifted me tons and tons of alcohol.

I kid some more … sorta. They really did give me tons and tons of alcohol … but they also treated me to the most touching tribute I’ve ever received.

My parents busted out the baby photos …

Here, take a closer look:

You see, back when I was an infant, baby formula was made with whale blubber and cream cheese. I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s history lesson.

Wonder Woman then unveiled a trunk she got for me as a kind of 40th-birthday time capsule, and my family took turns filling it with various photos and memorabilia, to include tributes many of them had written and read aloud, and, like, wow.

My late grandfather once said to me something along the lines of, “You know, you go to a guy’s wake, and everybody says all these amazing things about him, and all I can think to myself is, ‘Well, you shoulda told him all of that while he was still here!’” Well, I am happy to say that I have now been fortunate enough to experience my own wake. Wait, that didn’t sound right. But you get the idea: my family told me how they truly feel about me, and I didn’t even have to die for it. Thanks, family!

First up was my Dad.

And I quote: “As a young baby, you were very precocious, talking at 9 months old … and you haven’t stopped since. Although, blogging has taken the place of the spoken word.”

Then came my Mom, who not only exumed a shadow box containing some delicious 40-year-old Froot Loops…

… but also one of my first baby outfits:

Hearing your parents talk about you being a baby when you yourself are a parent of two young children is a perspective you can’t even begin to appreciate until you actually get there. It’s almost worth turning, you know, FORTY.

My siblings then took turns feting me, with my sister reading from a book she made that contained some of her memories about my childhood (let’s just say that the word “breakdancing” was invoked), as well as some remarks she had secretly gathered via email from a number of my childhood friends.

My brother and closest cousin each also said some incredibly flattering things about how much they looked up to me when we were younger, and since we usually show our love by simply busting each others balls, it was very touching to hear their words. (My brother also reminisced about as an ass-whupping I once bestowed upon him, of which I’ve no recollection whatsoever, and by which he was greatly traumatized, so to him, I say: thank you for your touching words, and sorry for beating the shit out of you.)

My favorite uncle gave me quite a tribute, during which he read from a list he had made of all things 1970, to include:

• Nixon was President
• Bread = 25¢ a loaf
• Milk = $1.25 a gallon
• Gas = 35¢ a gallon
• Stamp = 6¢
• Minimum wage = $1.60
• No microwaves, cell phones, computers or cable television

I think the only thing he forgot was the part about dinosaurs roaming the earth. (Meanwhile, he also gets line of the night for the following tribute-list item: “There was no Jeter, no Tweeter … and no Peter.” Peter is my sister’s husband, who wasn’t yet born in 1970, you see, so … oh, nevermind. Sometimes I have to include stuff that’s just for me, OK?)

My Dad’s wife bestowed upon me a poem (which I believe was written by the late James A. Michener):

The master in the art of living
makes little distinction between his work and his play,
his labor and his leisure,
his mind and his body,
his information and his recreation,
his love and his religion.
He hardly knows which is which.
He simply pursues his vision of excellence
at whatever he does, leaving others to decide
whether he is working or playing.
To him he’s always doing both.

Surely words to live by … and I like to think I have been.

Meanwhile, Zan and Jayna, who live for bithday parties, had a ball, and their excitement for me was very sweet … especially because it didn’t involve freezing my choochas off at an indoor waterpark. (Yes, folks, if you have a deceased horse that needs some pulverizing, let me know, for not a person on this earth can beat one quite like yours truly.)

Of course, my deepest thanks and appreciation for what turned out to be the most meaningful birthday I’ve ever had goes to Wonder Woman, whose Facebook status message on that day read:

Happy birthday to the most passionate, dedicated, hard-working and loving man I know. Looking forward to the next 40, and then some! XOXOX

Me too, babe. Thanks for my amazing birthday.

PS: Turns out I actually am running off to Mexico with a younger woman in honor of my 40th … but more on that later …

(See what I did there? It’s my job to suck you in … and boy, am I ever good at sucking, right? Wait, I mean … oh, nevermind.)

And now, finally, a birthday tale.

Except, not the big 40th-birthday-gala tale I keep promising and then never deliver. No, that again has been pushed back.

Seriously, though: I wasn’t just fucking with you when I said I planned to finally write and post that 40th-birthday-gala tale this past Saturday (although it did make for a mildly humorous punchline when Saturday came and went and I ended up not posting it after all, despite my assurances to the contrary, eh? Oh yes, what a chuckle; I am nothing if not unintentionally funny).

See, the thing is, my sister? Her first child decided to screw up my publication schedule by, you know, being all born and shit.

Yes, that’s right: my kid sister gave birth Saturday morning … via C-section … after hours and hours of labor and pushing and trying to get said child to make good her escape … but we of the Scratches bloodline possess spectacularly large craniums (yes, literally, in addition to figuratively) and said child apparently didn’t want to leave through the naturally occurring exit, so she had to be ushered through a hastily constructed emergency exit.

Which is why, on Saturday, rather than blogging, I was at the hospital doing some new-niece visiting.

And I’d show you her cute little face, but her parents have asked that I not do so, presumably because they don’t wish to immediately launch her from the womb into Jon’s Online Parade of Neuroses. Thus, the implementation of the new Daddy Scratches Privacy Button™.

But rest assured that there is a beautiful, healthy little baby girl under said button, and that I, in fact, did not have Wonder Woman pose with a swaddled loaf of bread simply to create for myself an excuse for not yet writing about my midlife crisis 40th birthday. It’s coming.

Meanwhile, Happy Birthday to my new niece, and congratulations to my sister and brother-in-law!

Love,

Uncle Scratches

Hi! Remember me? You know, the dude having the midlife crisis and going through Wellbutrin withdrawal and trying to keep a completely unmanageable schedule that, over the past couple weeks, has included working on a freelance web-design project until well past midnight every night, all the while weeping in sorrow over the fact that my blog, my beautiful blog, the most meaningful creative endeavor of my entire life and the thing to which I’ve lashed all of my hopes and dreams, has been dying on the vine? Yeah, me. Hi.

So, eight days later, here’s the winner of the autographed, hardcover copy of the late Robert B. Parker’s “School Days” [cue flourish of trumpets]:

MJ!

Congratulations, MJ (whom the Random Number Generator selected) and thanks to everyone else who entered.

Now, clearly, this doesn’t count as an actual, honest-to-goodness blog entry … but, for whatever it’s worth (damn little, I’m sure), I remain steadfast in my belief that I shall soon publish my 40th-birthday-gala entry, and I’m even foolhardy enough to go on record as saying that the publication of said 40th-birthday-gala entry will take place tomorrow, Saturday, January 30 … just 13 days after my 40th-birthday gala … which I originally convinced myself I’d be writing about on my actual 40th birthday … so you know my word is good.

In junior high, my friend Mike turned me on to Boston author Robert B. Parker’s “Spenser” detective series. A television series titled “Spenser for Hire,” starring the late Robert Urich as the Boston-based private investigator, had recently begun airing, and I was a fan, but had been unaware of the novels. During the more than 25 years since, I have read almost every book Parker has written (close to 70).

He is, by far, my favorite author. Smart, funny and prolific (he notoriously wrote about five pages per day, never bothered with rewrites, and cranked out a new book every three or four months), he seemed from afar to be a down-to-earth, tough-yet-sensitive, New England-area man’s man, and has always been an inspiration to me as a writer.

Which is why I was terribly saddened to learn that he died Monday at age 77. Fittingly, he was sitting at his desk, writing, when apparently he was struck down by a fatal heart attack.

I am sad that the few remaining books of his I’ve yet to read (to include a couple new ones due out this year) will be the last, and I’m also a bit disappointed to never have met the man; always figured I’d get to a book signing or bump into him in the city. Would have been nice to shake his hand, thank him for all the years of entertainment, and tell him what an influence his writing has had on me.

But since I didn’t get to introduce myself to him, I figured I’d introduce him to you — or, in the event that you already know (of) him, reacquaint you with him — by giving away an autographed copy (a little scribble that a family member kindly obtained for me at one of his book signings) of his 2005 Spenser novel “School Days.”

Just leave a comment below in which you name your favorite author and favorite book by that author, as well as any additional related tidbits you care to share about either. I’ll pick a random winner this weekend.

UPDATE, 01.25.10: Comments are now closed. I’ll name the winner today. Thanks for entering!