Today is my father's birthday. January 22nd. He would have been seventy-eight today. A bit more grey. A bit more fragile. Softer, probably not. He'd still think of me as a dove, but I'd like to think his "My country, right or wrong" attitude would have softened. He would have seen Bush as a child of privilege and a buffoon. He'd hate reality television. He would love the internet and the quicker/smaller computers. He'd hate what the BCS did to college football. He'd love Single Malt Scotch, while laughing at designer martinis. He still wouldn't see what I saw in John Lennon. He'd love hybrid cars. He'd hate the smaller Lincoln. He'd love his grandchildren.

A great deal has changed since he died eighteen years ago - 6574 days is a long time, yet it's only a second when I close my eyes. Here's to you, Pop. Cheers!