The definition of insanity...

is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Why, then, do I continue to make a big deal out of my birthday when it's a spectacular disaster every year? This began when I was 15. I'd alienated myself from most of my friends by doing some typically stupid teenage things, and my former best friend decided to throw my other friend a huge party on my birthday. I wasn't invited, of course, and was left watching Rocky Horror with the loyal few who remained by my side. At least my cake had an awesome shark on it. A salsa shark, in fact.



I'm still close to my dear birthday twin and have long forgiven the others, but this event set off a chain reaction that only seems to break when I leave the country. Bear in mind I'm not the Super Sweet Sixteen type, and I don't need tons of money or a fancy event to make the day worthwhile. In fact, I had my sixteenth birthday party on the patio behind Lapperts Ice Cream. It was a low-key celebration, but an uninvited guest from another school showed up to spoil everything. I don't know why I let these things get to me, or why I still remember them more than a decade later, but they represent a pattern that's been difficult to break, with the exception of my 20th and 25th birthdays, both spent in Sweden.

Last year, I thought I'd be clever and jet off to New Orleans. Bobby and I caught the red-eye just before midnight, and landed in Louisiana a few hours into my 27th year. We elected to remain awake, since we only had a day to spend in the city before we were due across the river in Mississippi. Everything was going alright, and though I'd gotten an upsetting phone call early that morning, I decided I wasn't going to let it ruin my day. We went to the aquarium, wandered around the French Quarter, and found a nice bar to settle into for the evening. I sent a birthday toast to my friends back home, and had a fine time chatting with the locals.



On the way back to the hotel, though, gravity got the better of me, and I ended up scraping my face into oblivion on the sidewalk. I spent the last moments of my 27th birthday crying and spitting bloody gravel into the street. Fortunately I didn't break my nose or any teeth, but I sure hurt my pride. Some nice passersby ran to a nearby convenience store to get me a handful of paper towels, and I yelled at them to go away when they offered to call an ambulance. I was fine, and was still in my right mind enough to know the last place I wanted to be was in a New Orleans ER at midnight during Spring Break. We walked the last two blocks to the hotel, where I frightened the desk attendant and made a tearful phone call to my parents, who I was scheduled to see the next day. Funny, nobody in Mississippi (or Louisiana) batted an eye at my swollen and scabby face. Perhaps because I began every conversation with "I broke my face in New Orleans!" and was met with knowing looks. This must be a common fate. By the time I returned to Portland, my skin had mostly healed, but the birthday curse remained firmly in place.

So here we are, another birthday looming on the calendar, and I'm left with a choice: do I hide until it goes away, or do I roll those cosmic dice one more time? The 28th time's the charm, I think. Party at my house!

Forgive the absence

I've been laying kinda low this week. Portland has a new cider bar, so I went there a couple of times. Last night, they were having a tasting event, but I wasn't feeling particularly social so I stood to the side sipping my samples and trying to find somebody to accompany me to next week's Elton John concert. Yes, Elton John is coming to town (well, by town I mean Eugene, but close enough), and for once he's not playing with Billy Joel. Tickets are a mere $29 for the cheap seats, and it's a greatest hits show, meaning I am guaranteed to have some Rocket Man to sing along with. However, once I got a companion (Michelle), all the cheap seats sold out and the next price tier is $79. Maybe next time, Sir Elton.

Frustrations have abounded in the more boring parts of my life, as a couple of you have received emails about. I won't provide details here, but hopefully they're being dealt with. No, none of this has anything to do with me or Bobby or anybody I care about. Different stuff.

I skipped this week's movie night and haven't really had any activities, although Jonathan once again rescued me from a horrible day. We're three and 0 at this point, so I am in his debt. I sent him a text around 5:03 on Wednesday that said "Missed bus. Drink?" and he was kind enough to oblige. It's good to have awesome friends who live a stone's throw from one's office. We went to Deschutes, where I drowned my annoyances in a great big slice of not-very-good red velvet cake and a couple glasses of wine before Bobby came to pick me up. That's the extent of my social life in the last few days. Next week looks much more promising with Drop Dead Fred movie night, LRC karaoke, Yo La Tengo, and Best Coast/Wavves. Too bad I'll be missing Elton John, but I guess I'll live.

I'm off to Target and DSW for some retail therapy. I leave you with the songs that got me through the week. Give 'em a listen.

Goodbyes and adventures

One of my favorite coworker-friends is abruptly leaving us for Chicago. She threw a fine going-away party at Ron Toms, though, which was filled with good conversation. Though we were sad, we covered it up well.



She'll be back to visit, but I get awfully sad when the people I like leave town. It doesn't happen very often, because Portland is the best place to have an awesome life, but every now and then folks move away. On the plus side, I have an open invitation to Lollapalooza and Six Flags Great America, which I fully intend to accept.

Once our Ron Toms numbers dwindled to a handful around midnight, a decision was made to migrate. Holocene, the nearest danceateria, was hosting some sort of ladies night featuring DJs with names like Womb Service, so we took our business up the street to a different establishment. The three remaining ladies took seats, and a very loud guy decided to occupy the empty chair next to me. He was offered a shot of Patron by the three dudes to his right, which he gladly accepted. I guess the rule of never accepting drinks from strangers doesn't apply to men. I refrained from telling him to enjoy his Rohypnol cocktail, though I thought about it. After he downed his shot, the guy started to talk to me. Why he made this decision, I do not know, because I make a point of looking unfriendly in such situations.

My new friend proceeded to tell me that he'd paid the DJ nine dollars to play some metal instead of the "Jay-Z crap" that had been blaring through the speakers. I asked what his problem was with Jay-Z, and his response was most impolite. I tried to ignore him, but he just kept talking at me. He said something about Slayer, and I muttered "yeah, but what has Slayer done in the last 20 years?" Big mistake. He decided to sing me their latest single, entitled "snuff," while demonstrating some air guitar. I began to look around for Bobby, who had been trying to get change at the bar. Bobby stood nearby, watching this unfold and looking terribly amused. Morgan and Brittany, to my left, were having a conversation and stopping periodically to watch Slayer guy. I was trapped. Fortunately, he finished his performance when I promised to look up the song on YouTube, and bade me adieu with a "bye, nice lady." Bobby quickly commandeered the empty seat, and we were free to enjoy ourselves further.

Eventually the bar became overly crowded, and I spied some Rose City Rollers t-shirts on several patrons. There was a bout last night, and this particular bar is a favored post-game destination. Not wanting to deal with uncomfortable derby small talk, we gave our final hugs to Morgan and left.

Both wide awake and hungry, Bobby and I decided to visit a familiar establishment. Since it wasn't quite 2:00, the Hotcake House hadn't become overrun with people making their post-last-call pit stops. We ordered some very late (or very early) breakfasts and claimed a table.



Bobby looks worried in this photo because the people at the next table were loudly quoting Blue Velvet and other David Lynch fare, and looked like models from the Trenchcoat Mafia Catalog. They were making us a little nervous, but booth space is limited and they seemed harmless enough.

For some reason, I still wasn't remotely tired after working all day and hanging out all evening. This might have something to do with the five cups of tea I'd had over the course of the day, and the giant iced tea I ordered at the Hotcake House. In any case, we went home and watched TV for a couple more hours before finally going to sleep. Sometimes it's great to party like a college student again. Everyone needs the occasional break from feeling like a boring old adult, especially when celebrating with good friends.