Sorry this is late, Ginger, but I have some great excuses.

First, some background. Back in November of last year, I made the mistake of posting a sort of happy birthday "eulogy" about my friend Chris. Well, it didn't take long for my three best girlfriends to make it clear that they expect equal time. So in March, I wrote one for my friend Kate. It was eight days late, mainly because it took me the first three days to remember the best highlights and lowlights from a friendship that is almost 30 years old, and the last five days to cut out all the stuff that might put our law licenses in jeopardy.

Now it's Ginger's turn, and her special birthday post is 12 days late. But like I said, I have some great excuses. So before we turn to the few Ginger stories that are fit for public consumption, let me digress:

Excuse number one: Ginger will be the first to tell you that my ability to keep in touch with friends is what she might describe as "heinous." (She likes that word, and I can't blame her. The fact that it rhymes with "anus" just makes it all the more, well, heinous.) I have lost count of the times she has accused me of being physically unable to dial a phone. (Not really. I never started counting.) She is also well aware that I am challenged when it comes to picking out the perfect card, scribbling some clever remark about getting old on it, putting it into the correct envelope, finding an address, writing the address on the envelope, affixing a return address label from the free sheet of them that I got from the cystic fibrosis society, finding a stamp with the appropriate amount of postage on it (I almost went online to see how much those "forever" stamps were worth), then transporting all that effort to a mailbox.

Excuse number two: Much to my utter dismay and unmitigated chagrin, Ginger did not acknowledge me whatsoever on any day on or around my birthday back in April. However, she did offer up a lame apology later, which I have yet to fully accept. So you may be asking yourselves if the tardiness of this most unique and special greeting is a sign of some sort of vengeful, passive-aggressive character flaw on my part. The answer, my friends, is: absolutely not. My faithful readers (Ginger included), know full well that my only flaw is abject and baseless narcissism.

Excuse number three: I started a new job that very day and was a little preoccupied. If Ginger would ever deign to join Facebook (which she won't now, just out of spite) she would have seen my updated status, and certainly would have understood that I was far too busy that day to acknowledge anyone but myself. (And my Facebook "friends.")

Excuse number four: I was also quite disturbed and distracted by all the recent celebrity deaths-- especially the two big ones that occurred on Ginger's birthday. After Farrah Fawcett ruined my morning and Michael Jackson put a damper on my afternoon, I started wondering who would be the third, or if Ed McMahon was the first of that trio. Then I thought what if Farrah was actually the third and Michael was starting up a new one? Then I wondered how big a celebrity they need to be to have the dubious honor of being included in this little pop culture superstition game. (For the most part, I am relying on my voice-activated software. If it knows who I'm talking about, then they're in.)

According to my past few minutes of exhaustive research, a lot of so-called celebrities have died so far this year. But I'm only counting the ones I'm familiar with or interested in. I intend no offense to the memory of any B, C, or D-list "stars" nor do I mean to show disrespect toward any 100-year-old silent film actors or any sports figures from the 1940's to the 1960's. So here are my unofficial results:

(1) Ricardo Montalban, Clint Ritchie (Clint Buchanan on One Life to Live), and Phil Carey (Asa Buchanan on One Life to Live)—I include these last two because I was addicted to that soap opera from 1984 to 1991 and again from 1996 to 1999. I can't remember whether Ginger watched it. (Not that that matters.) The other interesting thing I found was that Phil Carey was only 13 years older than the man who played his son. These three died within 23 days of each other. (Is there a time-frame we are shooting for?)

(2) James Whitmore, Paul Harvey, and Ron Silver. Now this is an odd mix. Their deaths cover a 37-day time span, so if we are going for a one-month window, I may need to relegate Whitmore and re-order this list.

(3) Natasha Richardson, porn star Marilyn Chambers, and Bea Arthur. While they are spread out (so to speak) over 38 days, I think I'll carve out an exemption simply because I like to see the name of a porn star next to Bea Arthur's. Sorry you have the misfortune of their company, Natasha. As if dying from a bump on the head wasn't bad enough.

(4) Jack Kemp, Dom DeLuise, and David Carradine. Here we have 34-day coverage. I'm starting to think the 30-day goal is a little too tight. Speaking of too tight, they find Grasshopper mysteriously bound and hanged in a Bangkok hotel room. Trust me folks, there's a Thai hooker out there who knows exactly what happened and how much he paid for it.

(5) Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. Yes, it was those three within three days just as we all figured. If Farrah had started a new set, she and MJ would have been in the Billy Mays group, and I'm sorry, the OxiClean guy's "celebrity" status would only add insult to injury. Or in this case, insult to death.

(6) Billy Mays, Karl Malden, and Steve McNair. How's that for a trio? (Only six days apart.) First, I thought Karl Malden was already dead. When I found out he wasn't, I couldn't believe he was 97. Ninety frickin' seven? No wonder I thought he was dead. As for McNair, I'm not sure he belongs on the list, bless his heart. If a more famous person dies within the next few weeks, they may have to take his place.

(By the way, for the record, my mom thinks Warren Beatty's number will be up soon.)

So those are my excuses. Now, back to the reason for my post.

Ginger and I met in 8th grade. (I just stared at that sentence in horror.) We were 13 or 14. That was 30 years ago. What? Honestly, she probably didn't really know who I was until a year or so later because, unbeknownst to her, she was chipping away at my soul daily as she shamelessly flirted with a boy named Dan Kuykendall. (Almost 20 years ago, I heard that he had been killed in a car accident, but that's neither here nor there. Other than to make me even more sad.) He was my reason for living, and she could not have cared less. I was too shy to even look at him, much less talk, or (God forbid) flirt. The hell of it is, they were just friends. She didn't love him madly like I did, but I didn't know that at the time, and I could not have been more jealous.

So ... one day, just to get all my feelings about her out, I took a purple marker and spewed the most vitriolic diatribe that a 14-year-old could write. I'm not sure which expletives I was able to muster, but you can bet that they were spelled correctly. I never intended for anyone to read that horrible note. (I've always done that. I scribble all kinds of things simply to clear them out of my head.) But this time, my parents found the note. And they grounded me for it. I can't remember how long I was grounded, or what exactly I was grounded from. I just remember that being grounded was not a good thing. The only time I remember actually missing something important because I was grounded was when I couldn't go to see The Who's "farewell" concert back in 1982. Little did I know they'd still be around (pretty much) almost 30 years later. Anyway, there I was in big trouble all because of her.

Once I figured out that she wasn't out to get me, we became friends. I think we connected because she was the rescuer type and I was always the one who needed rescuing. In high school, one of the many times that my smart mouth almost got me beat up, she appeared like Wonder Woman and wrapped her cape around my skinny ass as she pulled me to safety.

One of my favorite vague memories of a Ginger rescue comes from our college days when I was working for an attorney friend of my dad's. My boss took everyone from the office and several of his friends to the Fort Worth stock show and rodeo for an all-day outing. This must've been around 1985 or '86. So I was about 19 or 20. I remember my boss's friend showing off his "mobile" phone. It came in a briefcase that probably weighed a good 10 pounds or so. I think it had a coiled cord and a big honking antenna. He was Mr. Big Shot with that thing, and boy were we impressed. (There I go digressing again.) Anyway, I started drinking that morning and didn't stop until late that afternoon when I threw up in Mr. Big Shot's cowboy hat. They got me back to the office where I promptly passed out on my boss's couch. I awoke to Ginger's Gumby keychain swinging before my eyes. I can't remember whether I told them to call her for me, or whether I had already listed her as my emergency contact. I had a date that night at a Delt mixer with an unfortunate boy named Shawn. (I think that was his name.) Ginger took me to her house, cleaned me up, dressed me, put makeup on me to the point that I looked just like her, and propped me up at the front door just in time for him to pick me up. I think I ended up having a pretty good time that night.

Ginger and I were roommates for a brief time in college. We did have some good times, but let's just say that it wasn't always easy sharing an apartment. I have a vivid memory of her banging on my bedroom door and then slamming me in the face with a package of toilet paper. I can't remember why she did that, but probably because she was a real bitch back then.

I didn't want Ginger to marry her first husband and I made that pretty clear to her at the time. But she let me be her maid of honor anyway. I'm not sure if I ever said I told you so when it didn't work out. If I didn't, well, Ginger, I told you so.

She used to collect rhinos (rhinoceroses, rhinoceri?) so I always think of her when I see one. Not that I see them very often. Just like at the zoo or on Animal Planet or something. She used to be called Peaches. I think her dad gave her that nickname. She went by "Gini" in high school. One time a guy (who shall remain nameless because he knows who he is and I'm sure he's sorry now) wrote a sort of note/petition that slammed her mercilessly. I didn't know how to come to her rescue. In fact, I'm sure I stood by and did nothing. I don't think a person ever really gets over having their feelings hurt that badly during those teenage years.

Ginger and I have shared some of the wildest and saddest and scariest and happiest times of our lives. She has been remarried now for several years. I remember driving up from San Antonio in pouring down rain to get to her wedding. I was so happy for her, and I still am.

When I saw her daughter's high school graduation picture, I cried. I held that baby not long ago, and then there she was. Memories flooded my eyes. She looks so much like her mother.