Riley has always been very secretive about his birth date; he's another one who hates a good old fashioned brou-ha-ha birthday. So, the talents of the Cuban Secret Service had to be employed (Cubans are very good at two things: medical knowledge and treatment and spying). This agent in the form of 7th member, Andy (yes we employ foreign agents when needed), preceded Riley into a club and told the security guard to card him and report his actual day of birth.

Thus armed, we left our homes shortly before nine in one of the most blinding lightening and thunderstorms I have ever witnessed. I actually thought I felt the heat of one bolt, but that might have been a overly tightened corset situation.

We made the little smart-ass wear a hat and blow out an absurdly-large candle to applause.

But--best of all--we made him wear a "Where Are My Midgets" tank top. Revenge is sweet.