James Vernon Taylor turns 65 today. There are a bunch of obvious jokes to be made, but they won’t be by me. It kind of seems like the older I get, the more tolerable James Taylor becomes. Which may be the idea. I’m not running out to buy a Greatest Hits or anything, but I won’t make exaggerated gagging expressions anymore every time I come across “Fire and Rain,” which is still surprisingly frequently when you consider that the song is from like the first Nixon administration and there are fewer and fewer places than ever that play the radio these days, and yet wherever there are, Fire and Fucking Rain somehow seems to cued up and ready to go one more goddamn time. Okay, maybe I just don’t like that song. But “Mexico”’s alright, I guess. I mean, it could be a lot worse. If I ever start actively liking the Eagles then, sure, worry about me. But James Taylor, with, actually I’m going to draw the line here, with the exception of “Fire and Rain,” because screw that song, is alright with me. Anyway, happy birthday.