The Birthday.

So the plan was, and is, to camp…and that’s it. Fire, whiskey, stories…do it. The camping/celebration is going to happen the weekend after the actual birthday. Yes, this is when the adventures happen, and the hospital visits. I have the first aid kit, five knives, and pounds of vegetables ready…just give me the campsite and the night and it’s a green light.

The actual birthday, though, is a different story, entirely. As always.

I start the day with whiskey inside of my coffee. Not so different than a regular Saturday, it’s just that this time is on the phone with my Mother. (Father got off the phone when I disagreed with his view as an Obama America being side-by-side with the Socialist Canada and Britain. My response was, “Well, is that a bad thing? I mean they seem happy.”

“Here’s your mom. She just walked into the door.”)

After I hung up, William came over and we talked about music and politics and art. It sounds so faggy but it really wasn’t. The politics consisted of agreeing on our parents’ disagreements and the music was what I chose. We left our frustrations at, “I guess they just don’t get us…,” and I realized that I needed a cab to make it to the play on time.

The play. It was Dave Perez’s pet project for months. I wrote an article. It was a big deal. I had to attend. And I did.

The night before had to be shut down by the cops. Why? Because the articles written (including my own) said $15 tickets. As it turns out the venue cannot charge for a performance of any kind because they didn’t file with that special division of the Chicago City Council that deals with the arts. (I think it was clause #11223344666.) Well, a dude from the City saw the article and sent a bunch of cops down to shut it down.

Thank god they are shutting down a play and not some drug ring. Fuck-nuts.

Long story short, it was invite only the next night. When I was going. Super secret and unfortunate.

I was told to enter through the back entrance. I agreed but knew nothing else.

The cab dropped me off and I began walking down the row of loading docks and potential places to pee.

Suddenly a whistle.

I look over and see a man with a clipboard and lips that are fitting. “Yes,” I ask.

“Are you here to see, Lipstick Traces?”


“What’s your name and can I see an ID?”


“OK. It says two. Are you just one?”

“Uh huh.

“Go in and on the top of the stairs you will see the room. Enjoy.”


The play was amazing. The fellow that played John Lydon was spot on. My personal feeling about the entire project was resting on that. Good job, people. You kept a drunk, birthday boy awake to see your brilliance.

From there I trudged down to an unnamed bar to enjoy the spirits with a crowd of people that I haven’t seen in years. It’s the shame of posting a profile on any website…hell.

A snippet…

(Me) “So, how did you get the gig of opening for Third Eye Blind?”

(Him) “We had the same booking agent.”

“Oh, right. So what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“When this fizzles?”

“I know it’ll end. Soon enough. What do you do?”

“I write about music and work in a coffee shop.”

“Right. You wanna come over and hang sometime?”

“Y’all smoke?”

“No, but I drink. I mean, I drink a lot.”

“In that case…” and, of course, plans were made.

I then went to an afterparty for the play. Hell, I hate people. Let alone, actors.

Reason for the story…I woke up alive.

But it wasn’t the true celebration.

Bring it.

2 Responses to “The Birthday.”
  1. slurredpress says:

    “I was told to enter through the back entrance.”

    That’s what she said.

  2. C’mon, Apple. Grow up. I mean…that’s what HE said.

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