Thursday, May 24, 2007
Happy Birthday.....
To me.
Today marks the beginning of the 12 months that I'll spend at the palindromically balanced age of 33. It's not a bad birthday, really. The weather here in NYC is ideal, the natives are mirthful, there's a three day weekend looming and, to top it off, I can scrape at least one night of free drinks from the pack of deadbeats I, sometimes reluctantly, refer to as friends. Ain't life grand?
The date itself has also always seemed a little special to me - it being Bob Dylan's birthday as well. Surely this harmonic nativity means that I, too, am destined for great things.
Still, I began to doubt the value of my very existence when I stumbled over to Lawyers, Guns and Money and noticed that Dave Noon had released Volume XV of his ongoing Worst American Birthdays series. It was with special interest that I took in this edition, as I hoped that Noon would reveal that I share my birthday with one of this nation's great scoundrels who, while no doubt a repugnant sort, would at least confirm myneurotic delusions of grandeur manifest destiny.
My hopes were dashed in an instant, however. Instead of a greedy robber baron who made millions on the backs of others, a twisted sadist who wrought destruction in his path or some other tyrannical oppressor of the masses, the post was dedicated to one of this country's legion of pop music mediocrities: Jewel. Coming fast on my sudden rush of chagrin, came the line that struck dread in my heart:
My stubborn refusal to exit my mother's womb by a mere handful of hours spared me this ignominious fate. So today I celebrate procrastination in all its glory - an art form that I had pretty well mastered by age 10, with the past 23 years dedicated to applying a finely hued sheen to my masterpiece-in-progress. And today, I received confirmation that my tireless efforts have not been in vain.
Today marks the beginning of the 12 months that I'll spend at the palindromically balanced age of 33. It's not a bad birthday, really. The weather here in NYC is ideal, the natives are mirthful, there's a three day weekend looming and, to top it off, I can scrape at least one night of free drinks from the pack of deadbeats I, sometimes reluctantly, refer to as friends. Ain't life grand?
The date itself has also always seemed a little special to me - it being Bob Dylan's birthday as well. Surely this harmonic nativity means that I, too, am destined for great things.
Still, I began to doubt the value of my very existence when I stumbled over to Lawyers, Guns and Money and noticed that Dave Noon had released Volume XV of his ongoing Worst American Birthdays series. It was with special interest that I took in this edition, as I hoped that Noon would reveal that I share my birthday with one of this nation's great scoundrels who, while no doubt a repugnant sort, would at least confirm my
My hopes were dashed in an instant, however. Instead of a greedy robber baron who made millions on the backs of others, a twisted sadist who wrought destruction in his path or some other tyrannical oppressor of the masses, the post was dedicated to one of this country's legion of pop music mediocrities: Jewel. Coming fast on my sudden rush of chagrin, came the line that struck dread in my heart:
Jewel turned 33 today...The same birthday and age as me? Vertigo had me reeling. This is too much. And then, by the grace of God (in whose infinite wisdom I am now a firm believer) I looked at the date stamp above the post and bore witness to my salvation: May 23, 2007.
My stubborn refusal to exit my mother's womb by a mere handful of hours spared me this ignominious fate. So today I celebrate procrastination in all its glory - an art form that I had pretty well mastered by age 10, with the past 23 years dedicated to applying a finely hued sheen to my masterpiece-in-progress. And today, I received confirmation that my tireless efforts have not been in vain.
