Today is G's birthday, and I'm broke. Not extra-spending broke, like, down to just enough for the bills, gotta tap into the savings, or make this fifty last until the next paycheck--more like...broke broke. Already took the pot-O-change to the CoinStar last week and now that money's gone too, broke. So besides a little home-made card and last night's leftovers, G ain't getting no birthday presents. Well, none that I will discuss here.
However, I've heard that it's the thought that counts. My grandma said it all the time, "It's the thought that counts, dear." Unfortunately necessity has forced me to test her theory. So here you go G! A list of things I really wanted to get you for your birthday!:
Willie Nelson's "Who'll Buy My Memories?" aka, the IRS tapes.
Marjane Satrapi's "Embroideries" to fill out the collection, and a gift cert to the comic store so you could pick up those other graphic novels by that guy whose name I can never, ever remember. The name that has forced me to participate in the most shameful activity one can engage in at a bookseller..."Um, yeah, um, I'm looking for a book. A graphic novel. I don't remember the author, but he's like, uh, French? I think? Or German? The book has a blue cover..."
A trip to Austin for huevos rancheros (and a handshake from Juan..."How are you my friend?") at Juan In A Million.
A plain-old, everyday, just stick the pre-ground coffee in the filter and press "go" coffee maker, so you could throw our fancy-pants piece of shit off the roof.
[Our current one is so complicated, it has so many bells and whistles and must-be-done-perfectly-right processes, that you have to go out and get a cup of coffee to be awake enough to have the dexterity and mental acuity to make a pot of coffee. I'm not joking.]
An eat-your-weight-in-ribs dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue in Harlem.
Everything you need to turn your laptop into a recording studio.
Oh, then a new mic. Cuz the old one is toast. And I'd get you this one because looking like Bob Barker while recording would be so fucking worth the crappy low-frequency response.
A selection of gourmet olives so that you may find that illusive perfect olive you so desperately seek. YOUR olive, baby. We have to find YOUR olive.
Lazy Susan Scrabble. So you could give me a sound beating without the added insult of your having found a place to put 'xu' on a triple word score while reading upside down and backward.
Fuzzy bear claw slippers. So you can kick my ass at scrabble, reading upside down, wearing ridiculous fuzzy bear claw slippers.
Rum. Of the world.
And I don't know if all the money in the world would have pulled this off...but a telephone conference with T.J. You know why.
Posted by Antigeist at November 8, 2005 01:04 PMHAPPY BIRTHDAY, G.!
I love all my gifts. Thanks, babe.
Posted by: g at November 8, 2005 03:40 PMDid I ever return those Willie Cd's? Happy Birthday G- by the way- don't ever get that super deluxe scrabble- the board is the size of central park and it takes like six hours to play one game, at which point you don't care who wins- you just want that last tile to go, or to die- whichever comes first.
Posted by: monk at November 9, 2005 10:03 AM