Today is Dusty's 25th birthday. According to Facebook, he's in Ohio, and though one's first reaction to that proper noun might be, "What the fuck is in Ohio?," I can tell you: well, my brother apparently, and all four seasons. I only mention where he is at this moment, because sometimes I don't know the answer to that question. I tell people he's off in the world being Jack Kerouac, and I'm pretty sure I'm not just being facetious. He's a poet, this kid, with all the inconsistencies and hauntings of a poet, but also all the verve and enigma of one. My silly brother, who pulls a face every time a camera is pointed at him--or at least that used to be the case. I miss him, and I hope he's well. In my 25th year, I got married. I don't know what's in the cards for Dusty, but I'm sure it's something big. A quarter of a century, this guy. Happy birthday.