May She Live a Hundred Years, May She Drink a Hundred Beers

Today is Amy's birthday (won't say which one as age on the internets is forever), a day she shares with numerous luminaries, all of whom offer insights into her wonderfulness. There's Vergil, with whom she shares an epic quality, and Helen Maria Hunt Jackson, as both are mighty myth makers of Southern California (if not natives), and Nietzsche, as she is uberfrau. Then she evokes P.G. Wodehouse for her wit, John L. Sullivan as she's a knockout, John Kenneth Galbraith as she's money (and rightly wiser than Milton Friedman--just look around), a loyal lefty like Arthur Schlesinger Jr., an appreciator of brilliant pulp like Mario Puzo. Marrying her was the offer I couldn't refuse. She's an engaging clown like Penny Marshall, a sassy addition to any kitchen like Linda Lavin, great in her skivvies like Jim Palmer, and her fellow birthday-sharer Richard Carpenter knows why birds fall from the sky every time she walks by. Happy Birthday, Sweetie.