First things first: Let�s have a toast to Jonathan Richman, whose birthday is today. Ready? Cheers! Some of you might have to wait to drink that toast, which wouldn�t be the case if you�d only stashed a flask in your desk drawer, like I�ve been telling you to.

Now, on to more pressing business, namely: the Keelhauler�s birthday, which is two days away. It�s a Saturday, so unless you�re a telemarketer or fast food fry cook, you should be off work and able to drink and drink in his honor. And really, if you are either of those professions, you should probably already be drinking anyway.

It�s always a little challenging to find good presents for the Keelhauler. This year is one of the rare times he�ll be home for his birthday, i.e., not at sea. What that means is that he�ll be opening his presents in front of me, and I don�t have that extra buffer of distance to shield me from any disappointment he might express. Not that I ever give disappointing presents. I consider it a code of honor right up there with my virginity, to give appropriate gifts. Each gift is accompanied by a little card stating that should the recipient be displeased with my choice, he or she gets to �make out� with me for fifteen minutes. (Offer not extended to family members, thank you very much, Uncle Karl.)

To prepare myself for the Keelhauler�s birthday, I went shopping yesterday. It was a wholly fruitful experience. There in the Nordstrom�s shoe aisle, I suddenly remembered a pair of particularly savage Christian Dior wedge heels I�d seen a while back. These shoes were spectacular and cruel. Made of black leather, the toes were long and pointy, but square at the end, for maximum crazed pilgrim appeal. The angle of the black, wooden heel rose so abruptly that upon putting on the shoes, I pitched instantly to the floor, face-first. They came with a sheaf of papers admitting the bearer to the nearest mental health facility. Of course, when I looked this time, they were nowhere in sight. Such a rip. Why didn�t I buy them the first time around?

From the shoe aisle, I staggered through the racks of deranged designer frocks. There, great draping waths of 30 yards of fabric apiece are things marked Small, and a butterfly-sized wisp of chiffon with three sequins is an Extra-Large. I found very little that a normal person could wear to an event outside of, say, a mental competency hearing.

Jaunts through the land of earring carousels and the handbag pavilion, surprisingly, garnered me no Keelhauler presents. What am I going to do? Suggestions, please, and don�t just snuffle to yourself and type �blow job!� in the comments section, because that is vulgar. And obvious.

Also, if any of you beautiful people out there in the dark knows anything about the intricacies of MySpace, please holler at me, e-mail-style. I have a question and I don�t have any 13-year-olds to ask for help.

Star of the day. . .Jonathan Richman