When I celebrate my birthday, I usually decide to do it on the morning of. No matter how populated or slight the crowd is, it always ends up being a beautiful night scored with tunes that remind me of the rays beaming from the late August sun. It’s what a vibe feels like. But many moons ago, there was a time when I religiously celebrated each 365 in a double-breasted suit with a paisley clip-on bowtie (thanks Dad). The pinatas, the ice cream cake, and the pretty jawns with French barrettes in their hairs were all in attendance. But the culmination of every birthday was when the lights got low and I would witness the oldheads dance, bottle in hand, to “Murder She Wrote”. In hindsight, they were not as seasoned as I thought. I was just an impressionable youth witnessing my folks enjoy their evening after a hard day’s work.