I am 27 years old now. The age has been in the news the past few days as Amy Winehouse shockingly died of a drug overdose at age 27. Everyone's been talking about, "The 27 Club" which is the name affixed to a group of unrelated famous musicians who tragically died at age 27: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and now people are pretending that Amy Winehouse belongs in this group. Let me explain something here - I am not sad in any way whatsoever that Amy Winehouse is dead. I understand that addiction is a disease, but there are millions of people who have diseases and they wish they had the money and means to cure their disease. Amy Winehouse had both, but decided to be a punchline. I could go into detail but it would reveal me to be the stone-hearted cretin everyone already suspects I am, so I'll just leave it at this: tons of people die every single day, and almost every single death is more tragic than hers. As far as, "The 27 Club," goes, she doesn't even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as those other folks. I'd argue that every single one of them changed the musical landscape in huge and long lasting ways. Amy Winehouse sang like a black woman, but not as good, and no one will be talking about her in twenty, or even ten, years unless it's about her drug addiction.
Anyway, I'm 27. About ten years ago I declared, probably inspired by, "The 27 Club" (as I write this a broken clock featuring Kurt Cobain hangs on my wall - between a Kill Bill samurai sword, a toy basketball goal, and a string of Christmas lights covered in plastic fish bulb casings) that I would be perfectly okay with dying at age 27. I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish in life, and I figured I could easily accomplish them all by age 27 (I aim low). I have completed all of my goals, as of about three years ago, except for procreating, and my wife is pregnant now. I don't want to die of course, and 27 seems much younger now than it did when I was 17, but when we're young and dumb we say young and dumb things.
My social life has sadly greatly diminished since marriage. I used to do something socially every single day of the week, and now I do only about once a week. It doesn't help that I moved to a new town where I know next to no one, and I do nothing in this town that would ever lead me to meet other people. So, to celebrate my birthday I did something that nearly all 27 year olds do - I went bowling.
Chappelle has a bit where he talks about the differences in how white people and black people party. White people, he says, when they recount a party to their friends have a mental list of everything they drank and go over it. Like all comedy, there's an immense amount of truth in that. I've greatly reduced my drinking habits, and plan to reduce them further still, but on the night before my birthday I decided to just get crazy. I had four shots before we left the house (over the course of a couple of hours), and then Mag, myself, Clayton, and a couple that we are good friends with headed to the restaurant/bar. While there I had another shot and one or two Long Island Iced Teas (my drink of choice), along with some delicious boneless chicken wings. After the restaurant we found some clever pretense to convince the ladies to return to the house and pick something up, which equaled Clayton and I taking a couple more shots. From there we went to the bowling alley, Margaret driving of course, and Clayton and I singing an amazing strange instrumental accompaniment to whatever trite pop song was on the radio.
The bowling alley, oh my brothers. The bowling alley. We walk in and the very first person I see is my ex-girlfriend. Now, no one wants to run into their ex on their birthday, but this particular ex was accompanied by her entire family, and her entire family hates me (the feeling would be mutual, but I forget to feel quite often). The last thing her mother ever said to me (just before Margaret and I got married) was, "I hope you and Margaret get what you deserve." I have this theory about embarrassing and awkward moments - the only possible reaction is to just go for broke. I walked up to my ex-girlfriend, threw my arm around Clayton's shoulders, and said, "Well this sure is awkward isn't it?" After a few lines of forgotten conversation I beat a hasty retreat to the safest part of the bowling alley - the bar.
The bartender happened to be a bartender I know from the Mexican restaurant Mag and I used to frequent and I slid onto one bar stool, Toph slid onto the other, and I struck up a conversation. She brought us a pitcher of beer and I started to pay in cash but then told her, "You know what? We're celebrating my birthday, I should probably just open a tab." She took my card and returned with a large shot of Jack Daniels (on the house of course) and I poured it's dank wooden goodness down my throat. The problem with bowling (even when I'm sober) is that I'm horrible at it. I was cursed with a medley of physical deformities (I may be slightly exaggerating here) at birth and as a result I've never been able to decide whether I'm left handed or right handed. You would think this would be obvious, but it's not, as I do some things with one hand some with another, but none of them well. Bowling is one of the areas that I still just cannot figure out. I know I play guitar right handed, and shoot a rifle right handed, and eat right handed, and I know that I bat left handed, and throw left handed, and wear my watch on my right wrist, but I don't know what to do when it comes to bowling. Every time I go I switch back and forth and I'm awful either way. Eventually we found ourselves in the parking lot, with two cups of beer that Clayton had smuggled out. We tilted our heads back in good humor and then climbed back into my truck. Ladies up front, men in the back - I'm a gentleman, after all.
By the time we hit the last 2 miles of the drive (also known as the street I live on) I was ready for some magic. I leaned forward and hit the button on the dash that makes my truck complete it's one awesome feature - the back window (between cab and bed) rolls down. I (sitting firmly ensconced betwixt Clayton and Toph) reached out and grabbed the top of the cab, pulling myself backwards, and sat on the windowsill. My head and shoulders were above the vehicle, staring into the night breeze, and Clayton was worriedly clutching my right leg with both hands. In these two miles of night silence, alone with the wind and my thoughts, I experienced the best three minutes of my birthday celebration. As much as I love everyone I'm still a loner at heart. I still need me, and myself, and the night. Breathe deeply of the magic, I tell myself, as I'll one day tell my son. These are the moments that can never be mistaken, replicated, or replaced.
Birthdays are terrible - they aren't so much a reminder of the one good thing I had no hand in (actually being born) as they are a terrible sounding of the gong that is counting down the days to your eventual death and, even worse, old age. I don't really like celebrating my birthday as I find no satisfaction or pleasure in it (Every day I'm glad that I was born. Trust me sister, in this house, every day is Andrew Day), but I do try and use my birthday as an arbitrary sort of marker to inspire and force me to make changes in my life. It's not all that arbitrary, if you really think about it. If I look at my driver's license, there's only one thing sure to change every year. My height, hair color, eye color, name, gender, and birth date all stay the same. My weight does, more or less. The only really basic personal question you could ask me that is sure to change each year is, "How old are you?"
I'm older than I was a few weeks ago. I'm younger than I hope to one day be. Years and ages tend to bleed together with a little bit of distance added to them, but not this one. I'll become at father at age 27. I will do a great and many mighty works which the vast majority of all humanity will never notice, but will resonate in my soul and echo far into my future. I will discover things about myself that I never before realized, and I will change things about myself I always thought unchangeable. I will do what I am determined to do each and every year for as long as I dare to occupy this Earth - become a better man.
Happy birthday to me.
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