Chuck Berry is celebrating his 80th birthday tonight with a big concert. I can all but see the venue from my front porch, and tickets were probably about $20.

Why did I not go?

Is it because he’s been a filthy old man for as long as I’ve been alive? Is it because we saw him a few years ago in the same venue and he sang the same lyrics for three different songs? Is it because the current versions of his songs seem to contain a number of lyrics about people going to the bathroom?

No. I love all of those things. It must be something else.

After a few months of lethargy, I have been pleased lately that my wife and I have finally started taking advantage of the neighborhood a little bit. If you live in a place where there are four Thai restaurants on one corner, you ought to at least see one of them every year or so. In the last few weeks, we have been painting the block red, even throwing some cash at our lackluster sushi place (philosophy: wasabi automatically belongs in everything. May I interest you in a wasabi diet Pepsi? Are you ready for some wasabi cheesecake?) Clearly, though, we still have a long way to go.

(One of the unsung jewels of this town, besides Chuck Berry, is its food. There aren’t a lot of burgs that get anything other than one lackluster sushi place, if that. I’m tripping over ‘em on my way to the car every morning.)

Incidentally, Bill Clinton played a venue on my street a few Saturdays ago. I didn’t even get out of bed for that one. So early.