Yesterday was a national holiday—my birthday, folks. It was also Veteran’s Day here in the States, Remembrance Day in Canada. Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favorite authors, was born on November 11th, along with Dostoyevsky, Gen. George Patton, Alger Hiss, and…friggin’ Leonardo DiCaprio. Eh, he was good in The Departed, so I’m down.
I turned 23. As my parents like to point out, that’s seven years away from 30, and over halfway to 40. Sweet.
Something you should know about my birthdays—I celebrate them for a long time, roughly two weeks. I usually start on the actual birthday, November 11, and stop at Thanksgiving (which I’m convinced is a feast in my honor). This year, I started on the 7th—a friend was going out for their birthday, and asked me to come and make it a joint event. They were going to an Irish bar, how could I say no?
Yesterday, I woke up and did the same thing I do every year on my birthday—I say to myself, “I wonder where I’ll be next year, when I’m [insert my age on that day here].” Then, I immediately say, “Where’s the cake?”
I went with my brother to a great Mexican restaurant, then to the local bowling alley to play the mother of all arcade games aside from Trog!—Golden Tee Live 2008. I got to use my Golden Tee card for the first time, and felt like a fucking kid. I finished at -2, which is nowhere near good enough to get money back, but considering that it was maybe the tenth time I’ve played the game, and the first time I’ve finished under par, I was satisfied.
Later, after I’d blown out all my candles in one breath (which I love to do) my sister surprised me with the third season of The Office and Call of Duty: World at War. I was a very happy kid, and will be quite entertained up through the new year.
Fuck the 5th of November—remember the 11th.
Thanks to all of you who wish me well each year; I like wishes, they tickle when they hit your nose.