My twenty-eighth year is vii days away from being over.  I'm at an office at MLB.com, my new employer, right now.  I grade umpires on pitch calls.  This is, by definition, the best kind of joe job there is.  I can go out and do gigs and then put in iii or iv hours of half-ass work and call it a day.  I get to dress like garbage and rock via iPod throughout the gig (tonight's selection is Buffalo Springfield's box set--a collection of mature jangle-pop, simply put).

As my twenty-eighth year--the year when I'm xxvii, not xxviii (people always get this wrong.  When you're zero, it's your first year.  When you're one, it's your second year.  When you're 50, it's your 51st, and not your 50th, year)--draws to a close, I am reminded that this means that I have only one week to live since I'm a rockstar, and rockstars die at xxvii.

What will I be doing for my final week?  Simple:  scare up all the tail I can find, and reconcile with Christ.

We'll have the e-funeral soon, and you'll have your opportunity to pay your last respects.