It’s that one day of the year. You know, the one when suddenly you have to say a different number when someone asks a certain question. Unless you’re one of those perpetual twenty-nine year olds.
Today the weather is an icy mess, but I’m still determined to go outside before having dinner at a place called Epif (?!) with some friends. Originally I was thinking I’d go check out this exhibit at PNCA about weird playgrounds, but now I’ll just settle for a free ice cream cone at Ben & Jerry’s. Maybe exchange some euros at the bank.
One of my favorite birthdays was number 27. I was sharing an apartment with my friend Earl and we had an awesome party. I put a long piece of butcher paper up in the hallway and provided all sorts of crap for guests to contribute to a giant collage. My friends Ady and Eric brought these recipe cards from 1974 (my birth year) with pictures of disgusting dishes nobody would take seriously in this day. Crown roast of wienies, savory gelatin salads, horrifying casseroles. We took polaroids of the guests and stapled them to the cards, trying to match each person to a suitable food item. A group of us had made a Super 8 film of a three minute dance party which we projected on the wall at some point in the middle of everything. People were playing African drums in Earl’s room and spilling out onto the front porch to smoke. At 4am, with only a few of us left, Jeri remembered the cake and brought it out. It was banana cream and I smashed my face into it before we all dug in with our hands.