One humid summer day back in 2001 or 2002, we drove around a certain neighborhood of Alexandria looking for his house. Apparently we weren't that far off, as a certain someone found out shortly thereafer that he worked with one of Grohl's neighbors, but she wouldn't divulge the address out of some semblance of privacy and respect. Fuck that, I wouldn't have been a bother, I just wanted to leave flowers in his mailbox or something! Or recordings, maybe. Or a bouquet bound together by the ribbon from old cassette tape recordings I'd made. Okay, I'm starting to sound like the uberfan from Flight of the Conchords here.
In conclusion: 40 isn't old, if you're a tree.