Turning 30

I turned thirty yesterday and I'm still waiting for it to hit me. After I lost my virginity the reality of the situation didn't hit home for days. In fact, It took about four days. I walked into a Kroger's to do what it is that people do in such places, paused to consider what I needed, and thought "what the fuck?! I've had sex?" I sincerely thought I'd never get beyond first or second base in my entire life. It wasn't something that I felt sad about, I just thought it was going to happen that way. Maybe, I thought, I'll get to see a girl with no shirt on in real life. And I did. And it was as fun as I thought it would be.

In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .

As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.

We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.

Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.

Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!

What Do You Pour Out For A Dead 40oz.?

I just found out Patrick Swayze died at the age of 57. I can now say with some certainty that there is not a higher being, at least not one capable of intervening whatsoever in human affairs. No, this God, or god, or gods, or Cthulu or what have you, probably hates fun times of all sorts. Dear God, have you ever seen a little movie called Roadhouse ? It's about THE BEST DAMNED BOUNCER ever! He was so awesome at bouncering, that people all over the bouncer community talked about him at bouncer conferences. And now he's dead of cancer and not something Monster Truck related, which is actually how Patrick Swayze should have died.

My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.

So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.

My Savage Ulcer

On an almost annual basis, I apply for a different position within my company. I do this in an effort to lessen my stress load. Ideally, I'd like to not reach the ripe age of 46, fall over while cutting the grass one day, with a heat stroke, and a mild heart attack. By then, I wager that I'll have ulcers the size of footballs in my gut, I'll curse regularly, and I'll hate every child that walks across my lawn. I'll probably drink my liver into a tiny, shrivelled, hate filled sac of bile, that filters nothing but violence, and piss into my blood stream. I'll wear a fisherman's hat, but I'll hate myself for wearing it. I'll swear at passing cars and hate loud sounds. By then, I'll have sold my instruments in a fit of rage at my lack of accomplishment. I may have children by then and I'll put on a good face for them, but since I'm bottling my anger, it'll only increase the size of my ulcers. The stately age of 46 is not looking so bright.

To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.

I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.

It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.

So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.