09/09/09: 31

Ten years ago I turned 21. A good-sized crew of Oregonian ne'er-do-wells gathered at the Vet's Club on Willamette and we all proceeded to drink all of their alcohol. If memory serves, I had something like three beers, twelve cocktails, and at least two Mind Erasers. I woke up the next morning completely un-hungover, having actually drank past the point at which my body had anything to say about it.

Last year I turned 30. An elite cadre of graduate students gathered in my tiny Parisian apartment on the Ile St. Louis and polished off a few bottles of wine. It was heartening to have a bunch of people to hang out with while I was missing B and swimming around in culture shock every day.

Today, I'm 31. Another elite cadre* is gathering at the Poet + Patriot for a few beers. It's a trite thing to say, but I'm stoked to be here, to have good friends, to be where I'm at, even though I'm still broke and maladjusted.

For next year, I'd like to request a rock n' roll birthday clown:



* Elite cadre = everyone's out of town or busy, so it'll be a strike team rather than a birthday army.