Happy Birthday to Death!
Apologies to my dead friend Gregory Corso who once asked me to consider, "who the hell cares?"
A friend, who was a kid, had invited a bunch of us, who were also kids, to a party at his house. His father was a lawyer and his mother was an architect. And he? He was a nice Jewish boy and a good friend of mine.
The party itself was at a tony brownstone in Brooklyn and we descended on said house and party to find our friend in a mood that could only be described as “down”. Given the occasion and the event that had been meticulously planned and laid out. Apparently the fault rested with his mother and who, in the total spirit of inclusiveness, invited her son’s mortal enemy to the party in order that enemy not feel “left out”.
“Travis is going to be here,” he moaned. “I hate Travis.”
But when you’re 11 years old there’s all kinds of hate. There’s the “hate” I had for Debbie Michelson, which was no kind of hate at all. And then there’s what our friend was enduring. You see, Travis was a multilevel maker of misery and while he had extensively snowed the parents, his secretive and not-so-secretive torture of our friend was planned and included physical bullying and some sort of blackmailed compliance that had our friend frozen.
After listening to the case presented against Travis a summary judgment had been reached.
“We’ll handle it,” I said.
Now I had remembered reading how coyotes used to kill domestic dogs. They’d nip at them, in the spirit of play, just one coyote and one, say, large golden retriever, and run, the retriever would give chase, each time ending up further and further from the prying and possibly intervening eyes of owners and adults. Right up until the retriever found itself deeper in the woods and now surrounded by coyotes for whom this had never been a game.
So it was for Travis, now sequestered in a back room with me sitting on his chest holding a small pen knife to his throat while everyone else had blocked the door.
He was 11 and in no way could judge intent and ability but then again he’d probably had no one threaten his life before.
“If you ever mess with Michael again,” I said, smiling genially down at Travis who, if truth be told, seemed like an ok guy to me. “I’ll kill you. You’re not dead now because Michael doesn’t want you to ruin his party by dying. You get it?”
“Yes.” He seemed afraid. But he was cleared eyed and was taking the threat as seriously as he should have. He was 11 and in no way could judge intent and ability but then again he’d probably had no one threaten his life before.
Then this, just as quickly: “Cool! Hey, they’re about to bring out the cake!”
And we all ran out and never spoke of this again and indeed I’m writing of it here for the first time. For no other reason than to underscore my take on birthdays has always been strangely freighted.
“It’s my BIRTHDAY!” A coworker stood beaming in the common area kitchen at some Silicon Valley start-up. He was a good kid, 20-something and comfortably earnest in a pretty emotionally healthy Gen Z way.
“Your birthday, eh?” I hated the job. I hated the job so much I’d routinely pray, me a man not especially religious, for G-d to strike the founders dead. Or at least burn the building to the ground. Or any sort of mass casualty event of some sort. Which is to say: I hated the job.
I also got to the job in the mornings right after jiu jitsu which, depending on the morning I had at jiu jitsu might have had me be a little more churlish than usual.
“Well…” and I could feel the figurative knife in my hand, “…you knew that and I don’t care soooooooo….” This was a line I had ripped off from The Young Ones but it works even better for old, bitter guys like me too. I was darkly amused until I saw dude’s face. He was now blushing and I could see I had actually, seriously and earnestly hurt his feelings and being forced to confront the face of the outcome of my actions I felt immediate remorse.
You see, I really liked this kid and thought we had had an understanding that if I REALLY hadn’t cared I’d not have said anything at all. But I also have no problem cleaning up my messes and began apologizing. Profusely.
“Sorry, man, sorry, sorry….” And he caught himself and forgave me, maybe surprised at my attack but maybe even more surprised at my apology.
None of which is the point here.
The point here? I usually glide on by birthdays. Ever since I was 19 and the fact that I had been disowned by my father was made clear by his failure to note the day with a phone call, I have de-signified it. Every one has one and no one need care about it.
However, this birthday, my birthday today, was correctly framed for me by quantum mechanics guru and history of science professor extraordinaire Scott Walter who, in noting the day, started listing all of what I had survived to get here. No more or less than anyone else, really, but I care much less about anyone else than I care about me.
And the list is prodigious and long. Like Yossarian’s list in Catch22 when he lays out a world of assassins both hidden and not-so-much, and up to and including the ones that live inside of you — I’m talking to you, liver, spleen, colon, heart and head — and I find myself wanting to take/make note.
Because it’s kind of a miracle that I’ve made it this far given the life I’ve led and even more amazing that I’ve done it with the least amount of damage to myself and those I love and care about. Which is a cause for real celebration.
I am still younger than Rollins, Nick Cave, and Perry Farrell, and glad to throw those fucking old men under the bus by saying so…
So while there are not many I NEED to hear happy birthday from at this age and stage of the game, I am finally feeling A need to note, since I strongly suspect that I won’t make it to 120 years old, that while I am still younger than Rollins, Nick Cave, and Perry Farrell, and glad to throw those fucking old men under the bus by saying so, I AM 60.
And I knew that and you don’t care but to quote Arthur Miller in Death of a Salesman, “attention must be paid.” So I am and I do.
Now where the hell are my glasses and, oh…here they are. Well, why do they make these damn eyeglass ropes so dark that you can’t see them when they’re hanging around your neck?
Anyway as soon as I finish my pudding and the shuffleboard tournament I’ll be heading out to hit the Amplifest 2022 in Porto, Portugal with BUNUEL, bitches.
Not going gentle into this good night. Not even a little. So happy birthday to me.
And we’ll see you on the other side.
Happy Birthday to Death!
As one who hit 68 last Friday, and still drives like every car is my 1970 GTO, I say ROCK ON, my friend, ROCK ON!!! \m/ Hope your day has been as great as mine was, and that you experience many more still rocking. And do not forget... one of these days, you have to play DETROIT. <3
Happy birthday, Eugene!