George Gurley's Thoughts on Turning 40: Mmmh ... FreshDirect Better Than Sex!

I remember being 18 and watching three seniors dancing ecstatically to Talking Heads’ “Wild Wild Life” and feeling sorry for them. They were 21—their lives were practically over. Suckers.

I’m five hours away from 40.

When I turned 30, I was optimistic and totally deluded. So many possibilities. The inside of my mouth gets numb after a smoke these days. Probably be talking through a voice box, which’ll be great during interviews: “So. What. Are. You. Going. Through. Now?”

So this is when things start to get interesting and intense, right? No more pipe dreams: You are who you are, the fix is in, it’s going to be a real struggle to improve. Hang on to what you got, work harder and you won’t end up homeless or in the cracker factory.

Great!

Don’t think about it. Kind of cool being at the halfway point, presumably. Exciting, isn’t it? At my peak! Let’s examine that. Are the synapses firing like they did at 25? Nope. How we doing physically? Flabby.

I’m not trapped, I’m not trapped. … Wiser, morally superior. Got a swagger these days. I’m not trapped. Born on a Tuesday at 2:30 a.m. Nice to have an evening at home. Read the Steve Martin book. Imagine when he turned 40, he was okay with it. Boning Victoria Tennant. All of Me had just come out. I remember being at Hatsuhana, baked on opium-ated pot, the plot of All of Me being explained to me. Couldn’t follow. Everyone’s head the size of hot-air balloons.

It’s been fun watching Friday Night Lights with Hilly. What are we gonna do when we run out of episodes?

Probably shouldn’t have hurled the shower curtain into the living room at 3 a.m. Mad at her for washing it and frustrated I couldn’t hook it back up.

Thing about 40 is there’s no more mystery. When you’re 20 or 30 you can still be like, Oh boy, what’s gonna happen to me? Now you know.

I’m going to pop that Tylenol 3 crumb I found in a pocket. Turning 40 in 10 minutes. Then the serious tick-tock begins! Until I cease to exist for the rest of eternity! Never having finished all these books I’ve Amazoned. Or scuba-dived around the Galapagos, hanging out with sea lions, catching waves with turtles, chasing iguanas.

Need to understand Nietzsche better, fast.

Steve Martin memoir fascinating. Sorry your childhood was such a mixed bag, Steve. Sounds pretty fricking idyllic to me. You grew up in Texas and Hollywood in the 1950s? Worked at Disneyland? Sorry your dad was so cranky and spanked you once.

Forty years old now. Bed.

Noon, I’m up. Bob Marley died at 36; John Lennon at 40. Blueberries and raspberries. Carolyn Maloney’s on NPR. Shaddup, loud annoying lady. Misery. All I’m asking for, Lord, is 25 million dollars and a private jet to Thailand—let me get on with my life.

Coffee, followed by au poivre burger slathered with mayo, catsup, avocado and Tabasco. No bun. There, I’m back. FreshDirect is better than sex.

Gonna keep things boring tonight. No boozin’ or Adderall. Worked it all out—no big birthday party, no “surprise!” bullshit. Got a big bowl of peanut M&Ms going. Sunny. Time for a bike ride. Pick up some Addie/Xannie scrips.

Ugh. Bike ride didn’t elevate mood index. Try a bath. Oh look, Huntington Hartford finally died. I took him out on the town, on his 87th birthday. Organized by Baird Jones—dead. Helped him take a bath that night, with his fourth wife—dead. Think she hit on me in the kitchen. Oh, fuck you, New York Times: 2 Columbus Circle was “considered a folly or worse”? You twerpy little insignificant mosquitoes.

Clean as whistle after bubble bathage. Smell good. Is it the Lilac Vegetal or Selsun Blue? Cat has dandruff, too. Wish I had someone to throw a Nerf and frisbee with. Don’t know anyone on Roosevelt Island that well. Anyone, period. Like to hire a friend.

Lately, only about 40 percent of my e-mails get replies.

It’s funny how on certain issues and topics, 90 percent of upscale New Yorkers think the exact same way. And yet they think this makes them sophisticated, not body-snatched zombies.

The word “fiancé” is too pretty, girly. Literal meaning is “a man engaged to be married.” Well, there’s no built-in connotation that suggests you gotta do it soon. Doesn’t come from some Latin word that means “If you don’t get married in a year, we’ll bury you alive or feed you to the lions.”

So if an 18-year-old girl with an exotic name calls me up at 3:17 a.m. asking—begging—me to come meet her and her girlfriends, saying she’s going to keep bugging me until I get back into her life, and that she has a present for me—this is not so I can get them into a nightclub? This is good, right, means I’m not over the hill?

I used to go out at 3 a.m. No, I’ll be YouTubing tonight. Wow, haven’t heard this

) in 25 years and still remember exceptional lyric: “And a cute little redhead down the road that wants to ball with me.” Kinda dirty song. Had the album when I was 6. Lots of John Denver and Barry Manilow, too. Saw Tommy at 7. Had to hang in the lobby until “Acid Queen” was over.

Had Farrah Fawcett sheets, posters and T-shirt. Hope she’s doing O.K. That’s a dumb fucking thought.

Haven’t seen Lesbian Sasquatch in years and no idea what happened to Hippie Chick. She let me have sex with her once, as a b-day present.

Kind of a relief not having to think about girls all the time: Pussy, pussy, me want pussy, wah-wah pussy, please sir, may I have some more? Kinda gay. Thinking bout Oliver Twist. And porridge.