It’s that special time in a young man’s life, when he can look back and reflect on what direction his choices have led him, or at least, count on people to buy him free drinks. Or cake. Cake is good.

I started at this newspaper when I was 22. Today, I’m celebrating my 27th birthday here. Over that time I managed to wind up with a column on young people, which seemed to apply when I got the gig. But now that I can be categorized as “mid-to-late-twenties,” how much longer do I qualify for the job? Is there a shelf life on youth columnists? Do they get put out to pasture, or taken behind the barn?

Maybe I should shave the beard, or dye my hair?

This is as close as I’ll get to an existential, mid-twenties or quarter-life crisis.

Anyway, thanks to this job there are a few things I know not to do over the weekend to celebrate.

- I will have taxi fare at all times, and swear not to stiff a cabby if things go south.
- I will not wind up in a brawl on Wharf Street and avoid throwing punches at police officers.
- I will not make any derogatory remarks about people’s religion, race, gender or women’s basketball team.
- I will make sure my license is valid.
- I will wear underwear in case the paparazzi are watching.
- I will not go to Platinum Plus with a bunch of buddies after 1 a.m. Nothing good happens when you hear those combination of words.

Still, heading into the Old Port looks to be a sure bet for this weekend. Hopefully I don't end up face down in the Alley of Shame. In Monday's column we'll talk a little more about where the city council's two younger members see the Old Port heading.

I will however, go see this film, and pray for Mooninites.

Never forget...“The innocent shall suffer...big time.”

Back with the weekend planner later.

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