Well, it’s November 15th, and you all know what that means.
Yup, it’s “America Recycles” Day.
I’ll be celebrating like most of you: goofing off on the Internet and eventually getting drunk. I’ll recycle by hitting the “Refresh” button on my browser. I’ll then recycle at the bar by ordering the same drink over and over again. You know, just doing my part. Because if I don’t recycle, um, I think the terrorists win. Or God kills kittens. Or next week on “Blossom”, it’s a Very Special Episode. One of those things happens. I think.
So yea, I’m not doing those things for “America Recycles” Day (based on the success of the other 364 “America Does Its Best to Overflow Landfills” Days, I’m not thinking today’s a big hit). I’m doing these things because on November 15th, 1975, my mother, Patricia McGee, did something no one in the history of this world ever did: give birth to me.
I’m actually a tad bit tired today, having seemingly spent the last week celebrating this impending day. Drank nearly my body weight in beer Thursday with a friend who shares the same birthday, had wine with dinner that I made for The Girl when she arrived Friday, had a few pints with lunch Saturday with Dad, drank my body weight again that night celebrating with the cousins, and then Jay Z’s entourage sprayed my heaving bosoms with champagne during a video shoot on Sunday. (This after they maced me, of course.)
The Girl’s now met the family, the family’s now met the girl. I now get to meet hers next weekend, and after that, I’m pretty sure I have to give her my letter jacket. I think that’s how these things go. Then again, her dad’s first question upon hearing she and I were serious was, “Is he handy around the house?” So the jacket exchange might not actually happen after all, since I look at power tools the way most red-state citizens look at two men making out: with a mixture of confusion and horror.
I won’t get into schlocky stories about the weekend together. The only schlockiness I’ll mention concerns the lead singer of the cover band at the bar Friday. You can rest easy knowing that Willie Ames’ 1980’s hair is alive and well on this dude’s scalp. It’s hard enough taking a guy seriously who’s singing “Meant to Live” by Switchfoot, but when he’s sporting this epic, curly mullet ‘do, well, it’s beyond the border of impossible. You can’t rock out to a guy who looks like Buddy on “Charles in Charge”, is all I’m saying.
I could go on about what birthdays mean, and how they are not so much another step towards maturity but rather another reminder that our mortal coil is but short and that each day marches us inexorably towards death, a death that might not actually lead us into Heaven but rather a dull void bereft of memory of the life we’ve led, proving in fact that life is meaningless, morality is simply a social construct, and everything we strive for is pointless.
But instead, I’ll just say my girlfriend has a great butt and leave it at that for now. Why be all morbid and nihilistic when I got THAT?
(And since we're in a recycling mood, why not read my "Best Of" page? Lots of recycled goodness there.)
(Update: The Girl chimes in. Yup, there be her blog. Cat's out of the bag and all that jazz. Then again, she's been listed to the right for like, six weeks now. Don't you all feel silly? Thought so.)
Posted by Ryan McGee at November 15, 2004 10:02 AM