We used to get excited about Cinco de Mayo as kids because at school it meant that we could talk about the liberation of the Mexican people from Tyra Banks. Wait, no, the tyranny of the Spanish government. Not, really. The fifth of May was like any other day in May to us. As kids we didn’t care about what color our classmates’ skin was, we didn’t care about their immigration status it was much more important to have good playground game skills. I had a classmate named Jorge who disappeared one day. He just stopped coming to school. We didn’t know why. Some of us speculated that he’d moved. Some speculated aliens, and others just shrugged and moved on. Now, given all of the political hoopla about immigration, I wonder if his family was deported. I lived in California, and they have a lot of illegal immigrants.

But [not] seriously I actually look backwards to the fifth of May, mostly because any previous fifth of May I was younger than I am now, and I’m reaching thirty in a year and a half and getting into another decade of my life scares the crap out of me. Well, not literally or I’d be going through office chairs like kleenex on any episode of Mauri Povich wherein the girl finds out that it was the fifth guy she slept with who is the father of her child. It’s such a relief to find out which guy is the father. Speaking of which, being the father to my daughters becomes increasingly rough because they’re cute, but they’re rapidly torpedo-ing into girls and not babies, and from girlhood they will escalate into teenagers, and from there they might get married, make me a grandpa and then I will be officially older compared to a year and a half from thirty.

I have to stop now lest I start crying and my tears cause my wireless keyboard to electrocute me. Which wouln’t be all bad, if I died from keyboard electrocution Jess could probably sue Microsoft and be rich for decades.