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post #157
bio: chris

wish list
first post
that week

Previous Posts
On Sting (and other crap)
Things I Say to My Dad, Because (like myself) He Thinks, Irrationally, He's Going to Die Soon
Why Hipstamatic Was Invented
Happy Mother's Day, Y'all
Black Pear Tree (Guest Post from John Darnielle)

The One Where I Get Mugged, The One Where I Get Happy, and The One Where I Talk About Porn with Ten-Year-Olds
Happy 6th Birthday, Happyrobot. What times we've had.

I remember meeting you on a slow work day almost three years ago. You had an AIMbot. I had AIM.

We made fun of snarky teenagers, and then you asked me to write on you.

Things haven't been the same since.

So cheers to you, Happyrobot. Happybirthday happyrobot.

In honor of you, happyrobot, I will share with you some of my more notable birthdays.


We'll start off with the bad.

I'll try to make this short.

So, back in the day, I was turning 25. I wanted to have an impromptu party. This would occur on the night before my actual birthday, since my birthday fell on a Sunday that year. But most of my close friends were going to be out of town for one reason or another.

The girl I was kinda going out with at the time decided to skip out on my birthday party at the last minute so that she could meet up with some friends in Connecticut,

Friends she used to have threesomes with. You know. Back in the day.

No big whoop.

So, the next day, my birthday rolls around. And I meet up with Mr.xls for some drinks. Good times. He's a good guy, that Mr.xls.

After that, I go... aw hell. Let's just get to the point.

I go visit the girl I'm kinda goin' out with after hangin' with Klutch. I leave to go home around 3 in the morning.

Some gangsta lookin' dudes catch me on my way home and say "Yo, you got any money?"

I think they're jokin, cuz they look like they're having a pretty good time, and I say "Naw, man." And just walk away.

I hear some laughing. I keep walkin', figurin' they're just having some good times.

And then I hear "Let's get him!"

You'd like to think that when the time comes, you'd be prepared for these kinds of things. That when the time comes, you're bad enough to get all Matrixy-kinda-shits on people and pull yourself out of it.

But you don't see the punch to the kidneys coming. And the next thing you know, five guys are pounding fists into the side of your head. They jack you up against a car, and they pull your pants down looking for anything you might be hiding.

Luckily, they only got my wallet. They got $40 and left the bank cards to me.

They took my birthday card, though. The handmade one from the girl I was going out with at the time. The one who ditched me for the people she used to have threesomes with.

It was the only thing I had that gave me any inkling that she cared.

As they walked away, my head ringing, my vision blurred because their punches had knocked the contacts from my eyes, I said,

"Hey, can I have my card back? It's my birthday."

They threw it back, laughed, and walked away.

I got pwn3d.


So back in at the end of 2003, I learned that the Pixies were reuniting.

As of my birthday, 2004, no east coast tour dates had been announced yet.

I was still living in Boston at the time, and my girlfriend, -b., was living in New Jersey.

So I went down to visit her the weekend before my birthday... and she totally surprised me with tickets to see The Pixies in Toronto. With Pony.

I mean, how much does that rock?

I mean, really?

I'm not devoting enough time to this story. Mainly because I'm friggin' exhausted and I have to be a productive citizen tomorrow. I should give this its own entry at some point.

But I mean, c'mon. If you know me, or read anything I throw up on here, you know I love The Pixies over almost anything else.

And I thought I wouldn't get to see em after, what, fourteen years of break-uppedness?

Instead, I get to see The Pixies with b. and Pony. Now c'mon, how much does that rock?

Didn't see that one coming when I opened up the birthday card.

And I admit, it got a little dusty in here when I opened the card. It got a lot dusty. Real dusty.

Sometimes, the dust gets to me.

But, c'mon, how much does that rock?


Okay... so growing up, my neighbors' kid was the same age as me. And on his 10th birthday, he had a party. His mom made him a big ol' ceramic Pac-Man with a hole in its head that you could put stuff in.

Some kid asked, "Why is there a hole in Pac-Man's head?"

Being the smart-ass that I am, even at ten years old, I said, "So he can hide his Playboys in it."

Unfortunately for me, my neighbor-kid's grandmother was entering the room just as I said that, and she kicked me out of the party, and I was never allowed to hang out over there again.

Which worked out well for me. That kid ended up being held back in 4th grade, and his mom ended up disappearing out of the blue after meeting some guy from Texas in a bowling alley.

And no, I'm not making any of this up.

So happybirthday, happyrobot. Here's to great stories, of which you have plenty. And here's to lives worth living. Their ups, their down, and their happy endings.

Here's to us. Who's like us?

Damn few.

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