I don’t “do” birthdays as a rule, but thanks for all the good wishes. Ever since I developed an acute sense of encroaching mortality (or sometime in my mid 30s), birthdays have been an official signifier that I am one year closer to the final curtain and the eternal black nothingness of death. I would much rather focus on the thousands upon thousands of profound delights, lessons and comforts afforded by being vigorously alive. Tatyana suggested yesterday that I should instead regard birthdays as a celebration of the sum total of my life and the fact that I’ve made it this far in good health and without any maladies, aches, neck wattles or bald spots to speak of. So okay, fine — I’m happy about that part of it.
Snapped during last night’s AFI Fest Call Me By Your Name after-party at the Hollywood Roosevelt.
