Happy Birthday, Ken

My beloved friend Ken Bolden celebrated his birthday today, which of course gives me reason to reflect on my friends in general and him in particular.

A two-fold challenge, of course.  But simple at the same time.  The plainest truth in my life is that I would be next to nothing without my friends.  I know that much of today's psychology is built around building for yourself an identity separate from those around you.  "You are more than your boy- or girlfriend."

"You can't love someone else well until you love yourself first."

All of which is true (though to what degree, I might want to argue with you), but the fact of the matter is that I tend to define myself by the company I keep.  It's a mirror -- if, perhaps a funhouse mirror -- of what's going on inside you.

So what does it say about me that I have Ken Bolden as a friend?  And not just a friend, but a bosom friend for whom I'd like to think -- because, really: how do you know these things until the opportunity or challenge presents itself? -- that I would walk through fire for?

It's a question that's hard to approach, for a number of reasons.  I don't want to believe that I'm a mercenary fucker and only want Kenny in my life because of his moderating influence on my own craziness, but let's face it:  that's a little part of it.  I have to be a little honest with myself, dear readers:  Ken represents, somehow, things I wish I could be.