Though McBone has nothing but contept for corniness, I hope McBone Nation will forgive me for indulging just once is sentimentality.
You have shared eight of your thirty years with me, and I want to thank you for them. Thank you for finding a common species of Ohio boy and making his life an adventure. You have taken me from New York to Boulder, from Caracas to Copenhagen, taught me languages, shown me great art and opened my eyes to the fact that there is a world that exists beyond the confines of a baseball diamond. You have been a muse to every page of a 600 page novel (except the bad pages: those are my fault). You have introduced me to salsa and merengue and taught me to dance (the salsa still needs work, of course). You have indulged my boyish side at every turn and endured grumpiness that I know sneaks out more than it should. You have watched 10,000 movies with me and seen about a billion paintings. You were there bringing me out of the depths after we saw 9/11 together, when I wondered if I would be happy again. You have been interesting. You have been weird. You have never once been boring. You have surpassed in beauty, intelligence and sophistication even my wildest and most self-indulgent dream of who my wife would be, and I thank you, above, for loving me. Happy, happy 30th birthday. Je t'aime para siempre.