Growing Older but Not Up

On January 25th, 1999, the first successful hand transplant took place in Louisville, Kentucky and everyone knows that I like good hand job on my birthday.

Immortal screen legend Ava Gardner died of Pneumonia on this day, Al Capone kicked the can in Miami Beach, Charles Manson (who actually shares my first name) and three of the Manson Family females were convicted of murder in the 1969 slayings of seven people - including Roman Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate. Virginia Woolf and Lee Van Cleef were born, as was director of the classic chiller “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, Tobe Hooper (those who know me personally - please slap palm to head in revelation recoil). Opening statements of the oft celebrated miscarriage of justice known then as the O.J. Simpson trial were heard on this day. In 1994 Mister(ish) Michael Jackson settled the first of his ongoing child molestation charges (had he taken his own advice and “Beat It”, this would’ve never been an issue) and If I haven’t yet mentioned it, I was born on a chill winter evening in New Brunswick, Canada, to people that couldn’t keep me - Illustrious company indeed.

That’s right choice cuts and precious pieces; this cannibal was subsequently spat into the world on this very day sometime after the last ice age but before the first Star Wars movie. Abandonment issues? Quite possibly due to adoption when very young and later crippling questions of not being “good enough” for a pair of horny teenagers who more than likely conceived me in the back of a salt licked Volkswagen as the surf churned the swell of good intention back out to sea. I was presented with a handwritten letter from my “mom” when I was 18 (upon her instruction, don’t imagine she was much older than me at the time she wrote it), my parents gave me the note fearing that now that I was old enough I would venture out and find her - reconnect the bond of genetics – reignite the kindling of bloodline to the pyre of progression and forget their input into my evolution. I read the letter alone in my room, wandered back up the stairs wiping saline streams from my cheeks and vowed that “as far as I’m concerned, you are my real parents” and tossed the letter on the table where my mom and dad both sat. They looked so concerned, but when the paper hit the oak of the privileged table from which I ate a few thousand times, their faces melted with relief. I knew that I had made the right choice and proceeded to go get drunk with my friends, pound my girlfriend into waterbed of privilege and begin life as an eighteen year old suburban cannibal on the road to this very juncture.

Birthdays have never been easy for me, an alkaline allusion, like chewing rust from the ancient nails that crucify me to the cross of development; I valued youthful exuberance above most anything and therefore felt leery of aging to the point where some in my intimate circle still have no idea how old I am. Well, I am now but a sliver over thirty and the farthest thing from a traditional adult that you’re likely to find. The Pig and I went collectible and comic book shopping over the weekend and over a pint spoke of how happy we both were with our station in life (more or less). We truly never thought we’d make it this far. On summer nights by the pathetic current of the suburban puddle, all but a catapults reach from his house, we’d drink over carbonated domestic beer (price point driven lager purchases rarely make the grade but did the job), it was the conversation that was dutifully intoxicating not the swill we poured down our throats much less the stale underwear drawer hidden cigarettes we’d inhale. We all dreamt of escape (save one of us) and sure enough we all did, only to end up right back where we all started from, but under the guise of a different city. I think in the back of our muted minds at the time, we all knew that the circle of life was more than just a song from a movie that girls made us watch before allowing us to perfect the bra strap fumble, there was indeed something satisfying about coming full circle even though we thought it was a square all along.

Back when 30 was double my current age, I used to say that my friends and I had our entire lifetime to live again before we saw this side of the horrendous hill, much less the cemeteries collecting down at the bottom. It was impossible to imagine multiplying your entire life by two - now it’s come and gone like a fart in the dark or puppy love on a bikini beachfront bar. It’s nice to feel like I’m just getting started again, not unlike the first day after high school, an infinite ocean of possibility pickles bobbing around inside the wide mouth jar of the imminent. I’m just now starting to figure out the mechanics that hardwire this corpus of mine, the fuel I require to function and the ultimate limits as to not void my warrantee in this place. I can’t change who I am, nor would I want to for the most part, which is something that no 15 year old could ever boast. Was my last year a very unstable one filled with soul demolition, erogenous errors and measured repentance? Reading back on previous posts it would certainly appear to have been the case, but at the same time I’ve got that spark back. Something that I thought had been misplaced beneath the rubble of youth – reduced to pebbles under the ponderous bulk of personal pressure and societal suggestion. One of my all time favorite musicians once sang that you “can’t start a fire without a spark”; I used to think it was about foreplay, now I think I see where he was coming from.

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A few years ago I learned that my once fiercely Asthmatic father told my mom before marrying her that he would never put another person through the agony of not being able to breathe. He urged her to adopt instead of spawn genetically – breaking the affliction chain. As an alternative to putting a child through the genetic ringer and coming out with Asthma even by chance, they chose to pluck me from oblivion instead (or the back of a Volkswagen, whichever you prefer). Such a selfless act on both their parts made it all clear to me; I wasn’t in such a bad place after all and if I’ve somehow managed to collect a few traits from them along the way, I’ll do just fine.

My dad shares this birth day with me, he’s vacationing in Mexico, Happy Birthday Dadio and thanks for everything, and I do mean everything.

Ipod Played "The Birthday Party - Deep in the Woods" while posting