of birthdays

So I'm 28 now. There's no use hiding it. I'm officially one year past the age when all good rock stars die, which means I'm not a good rock star. It's not like I thought I was, but now it's official--sorry, dude.

I can't say I recall living 28 years so far. I suppose I have, and it's not just some conspiracy. I remember the Mets winning in 1986; and I remember Gov. Cuomo being elected in New York, and I know that was in the '80s also. I was in a car in the back seat at a gas station, coming home from some family function or another when the news was on the radio. I remember being on line at Disneyworld in Florida when I was 8, but it was so damn expensive, my parents told me and my sister that we were really 6 and 4 (not 8 and 6) so we could get in for a discounted rate. I think that's the first time I saw a lie in action. And it worked! None of those things happened on my birthday, though. I'm just trying to put things in order. I think that's what people my age are supposed to do. I remember my first legal drink was at a bar in Queens. It was a bottle of Coors Light, and I made the bartender--a very cute, older woman with brown hair--card me because I was so proud. I was there with my guitar teacher's band. I still don't know if they were very good, but they treated me like a member because I helped them set shit up, and they dedicated a song of theirs that I really liked to me, so that felt good. On this, my 28th birthday, I sat at home watching movies and recovering from the seemingly endless debauchery of Halloween. Nothing major to report. I went as a bible thumper and read passages from the bible at random to people who asked me what I was supposed to be. Me and a friend bought two 24 packs of Miller High Life--cans--and they were all gone by the end of the night. I didn't drink them all, so don't even go there.

But R wouldn't let me get through a rumination on my place in the world without telling my best birthday story. Me and my sister were to have a joint birthday party in October--her birthday's in September--so my whole family could come over and celebrate. I don't remember how old I was...let's say 7 or 8. Back east, we have a chain of ice cream parlors called Carvel.

Carvel isn't a chain like a Wal-Mart or whatever. Carvel seems hopelessly lost in the '50s, but their ice cream is way nummy. It makes Baskin-Robins look like utter crap and don't even go there with Ben & Jerry's; Carvel's got them beat too. Carvel, however, wasn't only known for its ice cream, but its ice cream cakes, which were the must-have for any self-respecting grade schooler's birthday party. If you didn't have a Carvel cake, it must have meant your parents didn't love you. These cakes were usually in the standard rectangular shape, which was perfectly passable, but if you were a real kiddie baller, you simply had to have one of their character cakes--cakes formed in the shape of one of Carvel's loveable and edible characters. When I was however old I was, the new kid on the block was Cookie Puss--and me and sis just had to have him.

As the story went, Cookie Puss came from outer space to bring joy to little girls and boys--apparently, his race had no problem sacrificing their corporal forms to the greater good--and had cookie eyes, and and ice cream cone nose. I mean, just look at him! We begged our parents for a Cookie Puss, and since this was a very special event for the whole family, my parents were more than happy to oblige.

They bought the cake a couple of days before the party, and there he was in our freezer...Cookie Puss, wishing me and my sister a happy birthday with blue icing-letters. I don't think we could have been more happy. He was just so cute and wonderful and made of ice cream.

Day of the party--I honestly don't remember too much of it. I'm sure it was fine. After dinner it was time for the cake. My relatives all gathered around the table. My dad brought Cookie Puss out from the freezer. My sister and I stood ready as Cookie Puss was put into position. So cute, so smiley...so happy...And then my dad grabbed the knife, and shit went sour.

He was about to carve into Cookie Puss--our happy alien friend Cookie Puss--and that's when my sister and I lost it.

"YOU'RE GOING TO KILL COOKIE PUSS!!!" we cried and ran away, down the hallway. Now, so many years after the event, I almost wish there was a video camera running to capture the reactions on the faces of my relatives. I slammed my bedroom door and began screaming and crying. It took my mom forever to calm me down.

That totally seems like another life. I really don't know how I've made it this far. I'm at the point where I wish I'd taken better care of myself, or tried more things, or whatever, but I guess I wouldn't be me if I had. If I hadn't cried for Cookie Puss, if I hadn't smoked pot that night on the bleachers, if I didn't tell that girl something I probably didn't mean, if I hadn't moved to California. It's probably better not to think about it.