Bits and Pieces

What’s so special about a birthday, let alone this alleged “birthday week” trend? It’s not like we remember Day 1 of our lives. Our parents do. Maybe. If they weren’t blacking out while releasing us into world or at the bar across the street watching U of M lose to Florida State.

And when you’re a little kid, celebrating your birthday is clearly mostly for your parents. So they can dress you up in fluffy skirts or mini-Dockers and rent a pony to walk around a park. Don’t get me wrong, seeing those pictures now is hilarious, but back then I’m pretty sure we just wanted to eat ice cream in front of cartoons, learn how to poop like civilized adults and go to bed with our <insert name of favorite stuffed animal>

As we get older, our parents pass the responsibility of our birthdays on to us. And that, my friends, is bullshit! No, I don’t want mom and dad to plan birthdays for me for the rest of my life, but why celebrate the day at all?

It’s not an important day like New Year’s when we make promises to ourselves that we actually keep the entire year without once slipping by being the person we didn’t want to be anymore. Right? New Year’s has a distinct purpose that we all legally and morally abide by without a shadow of a doubt, no matter how unrealistic our resolutions are.

So why is celebrating a birthday important once we’re too old for our parents to dress us?

After all, kid birthdays are for parents and ponies. Adult birthdays are just for drinking and maybe ponies depending on what season it is. I hereby officially reduce “birthday week” to “birthday” to “drinking with friends and family day.” Because that’s what it is. Maybe I’ll bring some cake. I’ll definitely give a lot of hugs. Hell, I’ll probably make a birthday resolution to go on an alcohol diet starting the day after my birthday. Meaning exempting it, not use it as my only source of calories. Actually let’s keep that one TBD. And it’ll probably end with a speech about how much I’m grateful for the last year of my life and how excited I am for what’s to be in the years to come.

Wait a minute… That sounds almost… pro-birthday. Like someone who… likes birthdays. Whatever. It’s hope in writing. I’m on the fence. But did I mention how fucking pointless New Year’s is?

It’s hard to see the green beyond the buildings. The long roads against the highway. The dirt paths in between. The mountains you can touch if you reach far enough. The crispness. You can taste it in your memories. Smell it on your skin. You can hear it when you’re close enough. The quiet in the wind. It’s hard to see beyond the billboards with the girls barely dressed. But if you get there, there’s a spot of earth, waiting. Maybe not for you but for someone. Anyone. A minute, a mile, longer or less — there ain’t nothing like a patch of grass in the middle of nowhere.

The thing about you, is that you’re dead inside. And for me, that’s what I look for in a guy — dead insides. That way, when I fall in love with you, you can reject me. Which is a comforting feeling. Like eating creamy mashed potatoes on the couch or going to Six Flags alone on my birthday.

Dating a vampire would also be good for me because you’re known for your sense of humor. Always cracking jokes like: “Your heart, am I right?” “You smell like fresh deer.” Or, “Are you on your period?” HAHAHA. See? I get you.

Really, when I think about the 3 things I want in a guy, I always say: cold, fanged and flaccid. So… YOU in a nutshell. If you can’t have a boner, I can’t sexually disappoint you. So, we both win.

Plus, when a guy knows more about the world than I do, I feel like a candy wrapper in a trash can. Small and worthless. Two words I actually use to describe myself (when I’m not having a fat day). HAHA.

So, vampire, if you’re reading this, sneak up to the edge of my bed when I’m sleeping and it’s dark outside. Make sure you’re breathing really heavily though, like in my dreams. All I ask is, don’t kill me, K? ‘Cause then we won’t be able to have any fun! Like when your kind comes after us with an army so they can burn us in fire or rip us apart by the limbs. So romantic.

W/B ASAP

;)> (one fang because I can’t find the right key for two).

xoFutureWife

I miss ‘em. I miss disposable cameras like I miss LA Gear sneaks that light up pink when you walk. Sure, you can print out photos from your digi-cams but, admit it, you rarely do.

Maybe I’m too sentimental but when you show someone a picture that isn’t stuck inside your phone or personalized media, you see it differently. You feel the mortality of the moment in the photo paper in your hand. Time sticks between your fingertips. You have a chance to process your feelings since you’re without the capability to scroll. 

I’m not an old fogey but, man, I’ve got a craving for an album I can keep on my coffee table. So, if you see a chick on the street with a paper-wrapped green fuji cam you can toss after 24 snaps, that’s me.

I’m also having a lemonade sale in my driveway next week. You can pay in cash. Or VHS tape.

This is picture is from a moment I had at a concert I didn’t expect to go to.  It was at this concert that I found myself feeling backwards.  Remembering a part of me I had long forgotten.  This may sound odd because the concert I’m referring to was a Childish Gambino concert.  And the only thing I knew about Childish Gambino was that the lead singer is also an actor on a comedy I like called “Community.”  I thought the concert was going to be ironic.  In all honesty, I thought it was a joke.  The only song I knew of theirs included the lyrics “Asian girls everywhere.  UCLA.” 

But then, there I was standing in a crowd more diverse then I had seen in a long time and I live in Los Angeles.  Donald Glover, the lead singer/actor, was sweating on stage.  His performance was passionate, as though he was rapping his ideas for the first time.  Everyone was jumping up and down, eyes glued on Glover, his band and their music.  Naturally, I jumped up and down too. I didn’t know the lyrics but was able to sing along via a screen mid-stage, so I felt like part of it anyway.  

I looked at my friend, Max, in the crowd.  He’s the one who had drawn me off my couch that night with an extra ticket.  He knew the lyrics.  He sang those words.  Nothing else mattered.  I looked at him and he looked at me like, “Do you think this is ridiculous or something?”  And I just thought… No.  This is good. I needed this. 

I felt like I was back in high school when worries were small even though they felt big.  It was easier to let go then.  It was easier to hang out and not worry about the future or even the day you just had.  You were in The Now.  You were in the backseat of Josh Wasser’s stripped down Lincoln listening to Live, driving around the neighborhood and enjoying it because it signified freedom.  That’s where I was again.  I was a teenager at a Childish Gambino concert.  Which if you do the math, doesn’t make sense.  Yet, there I was with crimped hair wearing a backpack, full of hope and homework.  I was in Simple Time. 

The theater itself, the Palladium, well, it’s suited for a party.  It’s just space.  A large space with different tiers and carpeted floor in the lobby that makes you feel like you’re at home in the 80s.  The booze isn’t crazy expensive but people weren’t there to get fucked up.  They were there to participate and I was glad I was too.

So, there it is.  I had a moment of clarity in the most unlikely of situations.  It was obvious that I needed to feel this way more often.  Not get bogged down by a long day’s work.  A long week’s work.  A month.  Two.  Ironically, as the days pass, sometimes all you can hope for is a moment from your past — a moment in Simple Time. Even if it is at a rap concert.