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Birthday Part the One before/after Ahhh birthdays. Some of us run, some of us hide, some indulge. Indeed. Indulgences like writing tawdry notes to big boned little girls or full blown drug orgies. As for me, my contention is to never wait or hope on some innocent remembrance to mark the occaison, some wistful caprice of a friend who manages to remember and throw together the social event of the century. No. Never. Be prepared. Be very prepared. To this end, I've always made the celebration happen wherever I was, with whomever was around, armed with a cooler full of beer, a half ounce of weed, and at least a dozen doses of some psychadelic. "Its my birthday, here, eat this." Take eat, this is my body... But not this time. No, no, not me. No drugs for me, sir. The taste has gone bland and they are no fun anymore. They either do little or nothing, or cause me great gaping bouts of paranoia that eventually see me in my bed, snuggled safely under the covers, where the world can only come at me one at a time. Usually. God DAMN I can't deal with my roomates right now, I need to go to fuckin' BED. I planned on going to the beach, and gazing luridly at the young flesh that was sure to be found. Look, but don't touch. Don't even think it. But it turned out to be cloudy. Had I left for the beach anyway, I now have little doubt that it would have turned out fine. Weathermen should be exposed for the fraudulent bastards that they are. In lieu of lecherous gazings beachside, I instead meandered around down town of my sleepy burg. Meandered in my fine automobile, blaring, "UNCLE FUCKER" from the South Park soundtrack, while graying republicans looked at me with anger and obvious distaste. It gave me a special little thrill. Until I found for what I was looking: a coffee shop with the right vibe. It was hot as hell, but the acoustics were right. Despite the heat, the vibes felt warm, forgiving, welcoming. I asked the coffee jerk if he minded if I played. "Naw, man, I'm just reading in back, so..." I set up on stage. It was me and a shy sixteen year old girl. I played for her on my birthday. She never knew. Painfully shy, we did an eye contact dance. When I played, I never really looked at her. As she sat and listened, she would stop reading, and pay careful attention to me. As I finished, she usually would stick her nose back in her book. I played well. I knew I played well. I always play well. She stayed the whole time. "Thanks for putting up with me, sweetie," I said. "You played really well," she said. And I left, walking out into the street, striding with arrogance, holding up traffic, not caring in the least. Oh, but the best part is still to come.
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