(Today’s my day. The culmination of the celebration kicked off by Happy Gestation Day. And as fair warning, if the title of today’s rant wasn’t your first clue, I may be swearing a lot. Because that’s what crotchety old men do.)

Yep. Today I turned 36. Somewhere between my 20s and now, I became a grown ass man.

Pull your damn pants up.

Do you know how I know that I’m a grown ass man? Marketers told me so. I’ve officially fallen out of the hallowed demographic, that 18-35 age group that advertisers chase. Why? Because I’m officially unimpressed with what’s hip. I’m too old to care about what other people think about me. A lot of what’s hip now seem silly. Why?

Because I’m a grown ass man.

Turn your damn music down.

For that matter, you can’t honestly call that music. Music should have a melody. In the last few years, pop music has become noise (yes, hip-hop and techno– music I grew up with–I’m looking at you). I don’t need instructions in my music – it’s why I quit going to rap concerts. In fact, I was at a blues club the other night, listening to grown folks music, when the blues band tried to get me to do too much. Raise my hands, scream … I guess that’s what young people are into these days.

That’s right, a lot of you just became “young people” to me. Not that it matters since I’ve officially ceased to exist as a sexual being to young women. I’m the guy too old to be in the club. Young women look through me now. Don’t pity me, this goes two ways. College kids look like high schoolers to me. High schoolers look like pre-teens. Anyone else are various sizes of toddlers.

Because I’m a grown ass man.

Get off my lawn.

By the way, thank you to all of my myspace well wishers! And I need to go thank my mother.

And Happy Birthday fellow horror scribes Brian Knight and John C. Hay.