With A Little Help From My Friends

A short time before I began to get ready for the party my mother deigned to speak to me for about the second time since I hit 28.  

Nope, she didn't say that.

"Where's January's rent?"

As much as my fist wanted to punch her in the face and my mouth wanted to say "probably next to my birthday present, you self-centered bitch", I internalized it and went for a walk.  With age comes maturity, I guess.  I came back, and did all the usual acoutrement of getting ready, including the trusty lucky To: Women From: God gift shirt that has become ubiquitous with my finer moments.  

I grabbed Jessica Marie and I got gone, not a moment too soon.

I fired up the party folder, and we headed off to the Tractor Room.

The Tractor Room has pretty much every single kind of beef, ever, in any single form, ever.  It is an excellent place, made even more excellent by the fact I don't have to foot the bill, made more excellent by a fine French martini that is one of the 3 best alcoholic drinks I have ever had.  Some watermelon, Skyy, other things...absolutely delicious.  "I'm not entirely sure, but it's entirely possible they milked this from Scarlett Johansson," I say.   At least I had the good sense to stop after 4.   As the dinner continues, we do it family style and everybody gets some of everything.  We went through like 5 cornbreads, there was some sort of ludicrously awesome wild boar/mashed potato spring roll, mac and cheese--despite the fact I was planning on dancing later on I couldn't keep myself from gorging at the trough.

(This will become important later.)

So this went on for about 2 hours, intersped with myriad conversations and a couple of late arrivals.  People other than I had things to celebrate, and we did.  But the food was ludicrous.  Absolutely ludicrous.  At a certain point during a lengthy meal your mind and stomach keeps telling you stop and your taste buds say we may never get another opportunity like this again and your eyes say push it, push it real good.

Well, it is my birthday, despite actions to the contrary.

So we stagger out into the street and hit Confidential down the road.  And now, a fun bi-polar experience.

They lose my reservation.  I am good and screwed for a good 30, 35 seconds.

Then the owner comes up and recognizes me and waves us in.  And I even got to Ferris Bueller the door guy (not my usual buddy, Bobby, who got on later) by adding a few names to my list.  It was hilarious.  He had to write me down and then the five names I added onto the group I was already with.

We get inside and I inform Jen in my already-inebriated state it's my birthday.  Yes, I got my dap.  There was another tab started, and she comped me some shot of something-or-other that tasted like a German chocolate cake and involved a sugar-coated lemon I had to suck.  I wish I made more sense, all I can rely on is my motor memory.   Aaron gets me the last Charles Barkley and Chuck Klosterman books, Danny gets me gift cards for Borders and Karl Strauss.  (J&J have promised a soundcard, which should remind me to look up my specs.) The girls get a couple of her specialized cherry blossoms as we slowly come to the realization that without a reservation we have no table, and without a table, the now 10 of us are going to look very, very odd in the crowded bar.

Eventually an uprising happens and I have to think of something on the fly while drunk.

Meh.

Anyway, long story short, we somehow ended up at the Hustler down the block.

No, I didn't buy anything.  Perv.

I may or may not have recognized a movie I have on this hard drive.    It was here when Danny gave me the tower, I swear.

After that we went to Denny's (8 now) and had another discussion around a bunch of food like an old Italian family.  If it was possible for us to have a free-form Dinner For Five style Sunday morning show every week I would be all for it.  Topics ranged from pornography to egg consistency to child rearing to songs that should be banned at all weddings for the rest of time (this is just what I remembered).

Then I got home and slept.

Then I woke up 45 minutes later?!

I never wake up 45 minutes later.

It turns out either I was racked by emotional guilt (about 15%) or the 26 pounds of beef, cheese, and potato over dinner was keeping me up (about 85%).  Anyhow, I couldn't sleep, so I switched my mattress so I faced the window instead of the door.  I listened to U2, which is good for pondering all the Big Questions.

And sometime between 5 and 6, I actually slept.

My friends are good people.

And increasingly, the only ones I trust.

Are You Gonna Go My Way?  Lenny Kravitz