Frat guys, Vodka & Squirt, bar almost-fights, yuppies, waterfowl: the premature 29th birthday of champions

I started this typepad account shortly before my 27th birthday with excellent intentions and four dollars to my name. Then I re-entered graduate school; the intellectual quality of my extracurricular activity plummeted, I got into a lot of fights with my ex-boss (who, let it be repeated for the umpteenth time, is a douche bag, a jerk, a terrorizer of underlings, a menacer and a total dickweed) which never, unfortunately, escalated to fisticuffs; I went to Europe, had my 28th birthday at the Republican Convention, lived through Bush’s reelection with a (for me) minimal amount of melodrama, gained a "mysterious" amount of weight whilst writing a paper on Nietzsche and subsisting only on nefarious grilled sandwiches and cheap champagne, lost said weight and then some whilst going through the breakup of a three-year relationship, finished one leg of graduate school, prepared to start another one, moved back in (temporarily!!!) with my parents (let’s call it "visiting" protractedly), and wouldn’t you know it but day after tomorrow I will turn 29.

Because said anticlimax-in-a-can falls on an appropriately anticlimactic Wednesday and the following weekend will be taken up by me schlepping the entirety of my worldly possessions to Irvine, CA, I decided to "celebrate" my birthday a few days early by getting the fucking hell out of Eugene, OR, where my parents live, and whooping it up in the "big city," aka Portland. What I did was book a room at the Jupiter Hotel and invite a few friends and my brother for an evening of debauchery and jumping jacks. We never got to the jumping jacks, but my brother did get a "warning" at the bar for mouthing off in his wryly hilarious fashion to a harried waitress (he apologized, as per his instructions from the bouncer who "warned" him), I bought a bottle of expensive champagne with my brother’s generous birthday present to me, woke with a massive start at 6:30 the next morning and realized, once again, that hangovers grow increasingly more perilous with age, and spent the entire next day wandering around Portland in a semi-stupor and hanging out amidst yuppies, industrial waste-cum-gentrification and the occasional hostile member of a restaurant waitstaff with my friend Adrian, which represents a massive change from my previous life (in which I sometimes wandered around Queens in a semi-stupor, hanging out amidst yuppies, industrial waste-cum-gentrification and hostile restaurant staff, sometimes also with my friend Adrian in tow, who does not seem to be learning his lesson with respect to me plus liquor plus no discernible plans plus a buck o’ five plus a waterfront "community" equals serious trudging around). We also worked a bunch on this supersecret project none of the five of you who read this get to know about, but suffice it to say it will make the hoopla surrounding the release of that Segway scooter look like the overhyped release of a gay little scooter.

Well, regardless: another birthday, another bout of self-absorbed petty ranting and another year. I seem to have referred to my 27th birthday as the advent of "another year to suck," but that could be because New York City was very muggy at the time and my then-boyfriend hadn’t yet given me my birthday present, which was my brother flown in from Oregon. I was a lot more optimistic (and lowbrow, mercifully) on my 28th birthday, which is super funny considering that my 29th year turned out to be the second-suckiest year ever, second only to the year my cousin Tiffany fell off a cliff and died (2003) and that one time the city I live in blew up (I guess, although that particular event in history has been reclaimed by Sean Hannity, plus that was the year I traveled the country and fell in love, so it wasn’t all bad). I am actually kind of proud of myself for reigning in the desire to paint my upcoming 30th year as "another year to suck," thus demostrating the remarkable amount of maturity and consideration for the people of the world who have legitimate problems which I have gained since then. What can I say at turning 29 that will be less annoying than what I said at turning 28 or 27? Nothing too important, that’s a given, but nothing offensively insipid either. Broadly speaking, by that rationale I’ve come a long way.

One thought on “Frat guys, Vodka & Squirt, bar almost-fights, yuppies, waterfowl: the premature 29th birthday of champions

  1. Well, I’m bummed that I missed your birthday, but I hope it was a gloriously happy one. And if it wasn’t, fuck it. You’ve got a whole year to celebrate the fact that you’re still in your twenties — hence, able to get away with ridiculously juvenile behavior.
    Say hi to my dad!


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