As a student of rock music since he was born and sat in front of MTV and VH1, Craig's Hlist has grown up hearing constant aching throb of the number 27, the end-marker for a collection of rockers who died at that hallowed age, due mostly to their own chemical and/or personal misadventures.
Yesterday CHL turned 28 years old, beating the 27 Club and crossing an imaginary line we had in our heads since last April. It was a fun, sad, and altogether productive year. The closest we probably got to dying at 27 was probably our birthday party, gun-range visits, and the hellish death-ride that we take every morning on Highway 290 coming in to work.
Seriously, learn to use your turn signals.