They Say It's Your Birthday
we're gonna have a good time
Oh my, it is that time of year again, and Flapjack is now a great forty-eight.
Which I suppose is better than the alternative. This timeline is, I think, a wee bit different than what I had originally envisioned when I was first told how old some people actually get. I'm still sorting those feelings out. I'll always be sorting those feelings out.
Last week the weather was wild...fires on K-10 out of Larryville, dust-bowl-like clouds filling the skies with chances of "mud rain", and then a winter freezing rain snow mix all in the span of...48 hours. What, me worry?
Not that St. Patty's Day hasn't always had bouts of harsh winter-weather leftovers, I just wish my employers were cool with me bringing Guinness into the office. I would certainly feel more productive. They would certainly be a lot cooler to work for. Maybe even chic.
My first Guinness was at a place called Harling's Upstairs, way back in '98, and it was love at first slurp. Where had this ambrosia been all my life? So smooth. So effortless. Music was pretty good, too. Cash only, great prices, scary bathrooms...Why did Harling's have to close? Outside of saving my liver, of course.
It seems some folk feel about Guinness the way I feel about IPAs (bleckch) and its too bad they're wrong, though this does leave more Guinness for me. I don't really tie one on these days, being more a tea toat'lr, emphasis on the tea, because of the fantasic amount of calories in a pint glass. Which ties into being 48, honest. Somewhere along the line my metabolism had decided to adopt Jello as a spiritual advisor and refuses to admit it has, in fact, joined a cult. Cutting the calories back was just easier than signing up for one of RFK's brain worm camps (I have to have a Real ID for the brain worm camp?!?) as well, so here we are, going to work and not drinking Guinness on this day of days.
Which is all still better than watching The Field for your thirteenth birthday because your parents are obsessed with Irish things due...to your birthday. And while there's likely some Irish genes in the pool, it's a pretty mixed bag with the rest of Northern Europe, so I'm just glad I didn't get christened 'Patrick'. Not because its a bad name, but it would be a wee bit too on the gotdam nose for my particular tastes. And, according to lore, it was a major contender for The Naming of FlapJack back in the day, so eternal thanks to Gma Flo for helping a bro out and just saying, 'No', to bad ideas certain-other-people-responsible-for-spawning-me were having. Not that they haven't stopped joking about it. Surely this, the forty-eighth time, will be the...lucky charm. If not, well, there's always next year.
Drink to our collective health, if drink you do, and I’ll raise a spiritual pint of gat alongside you. Cheers!
I wish I could adequately convey how much joy your writing, and you, bring me.
Happy happy birthday Stephen 🤍
Happy birthday!!