65. Retirement age for sure. And Bob's earned the rest. But I don't think he wants it. Musicians don't retire. Neither do poets or writers. Neither do ideas or passion or melodies or addictions.
If I was a younger man without constraints, I'd get to Hibbing tomorrow, put on a party hat, blow a silly whistle or two, and eat some birthday cake. It's been a while since I've been to a good birthday party, and Hibbing looks like it's doing it up sweet. Maybe exploiting Bob for its own good, but who cares? I'm sure Bob understands.
And if that garage door isn't the coolest damn thing ever . . . I'd like to meet the cat who lives there.
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