Report

Here’s one thing I’ve learned after 64 years of living on planet earth: People born on March 27 have the best friends in the world.

Young Belinda’s buddies placed her regally in a lawn chair at the entrance to Volunteer Park and sat at her feet with a sign facing traffic to “Honk for the Birthday Girl,” and pretty much every car—and at least one monster truck—did just that, tooting their horns merrily on such a fine spring day in honor of her birth 28 trips around the sun ago.

But the of chums this old man did even better, congregating at a bike shop to ride two-wheelers all around town in order to recycle a year-old idea of commemorating human beings’ artistic accomplishments in literature, film and popular music for the years 1957, 1978, and 1999, infused in part with cannabis cookies and Covid-safe whiskey shots.  

Top that, no way.

And while the Friends of Belinda were unabashed in support of their Aries companion (as any Aries companion can’t help but expect), neither of them came out for her on a Dunkin’ Donuts-themed tandem bicycle or wore a green fright rig or, as far as I know, were willing to race uphill and finish by chugging a can of Rolling Rock beer just for the stupid fun of it.

Of course, I have had an extra 36 years on her to cultivate my amigos; even so, I’m not sure that even with three-plus decades more of practice, that anyone’s friends could live up to the standard of mine, who scarcely wavered in indulging me one more opportunity to amuse myself at their behest, in spite of the fact that there was at least one crack in the theme and eventually, after so much dilly-dallying, completion had to be set aside for practicality.

But that meant one more place with even more friends: the best in the world all time, this year and every year.