May 10, 2011
Dear clusterflock
Today is more than just your routine Tuesday. Michael Smith is now 30 years old today! I heard from a reliable source that he really was torn up over missing clusterflockstock this year. Happy birthday, Mr. Smith. We missed you there too.
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Michael! Now you are big! Happy!
Oh, Michael! Happy Birthday, honey. I missed you more than I can say without embarrassing everyone.
Happy Birthday, Michael!
I always forget your younger than me. Maybe it’s the children, real job, and sense of responsibility?
Thank you!
I really did miss you all (even Cindy).
Andrew, I get that a lot. I’m all grown up. Sort of.
Izzy was worried this morning, she asked Alicia if I took my birthday to work with me. I think she was afraid of missing out on cake.
Happy Birthday, Michael.
I think the big question is: Are you renewing, or running?
Happy Birthday, Michael! I’ve still got that shot of Laphroaig.
Happy Birthday, Michael. I always thought you were older.
Happy Birthday. Last year I celebrated the silver anniversary of my 30th.
Deron, I’ll be in the East Bay on Friday celebrating my little brother’s 21st, if you fly in to Oakland I can pick the Laphroaig up from you there.
Amy, thanks?
How will I honk?
Seriously? You’re 30? But you seem so old and responsible!
It’s all the gray hair.
It’s sort of the reverse of what I try to achieve with the dyed red hair and the fecklessness.
Also, today is the birthday of John “Sid Vicious” Ritchie. Michael has always put me in mind of Sid.
aw, yay! have a happy!
An old, responsible Sid Vicious, apparently.
Okay, Michael, I’ll admit that I was surprised by your age when I first learned it. But it’s not because of the way you look or behave. You have a maturity about you that generally comes only with age. It’s an admirable quality.
This message will self-destruct in 10 seconds.
Do I need to make more fart jokes or something?
Oh, no. You just need to blunder your way along life’s pathways more clumsily.
Michael, I think a photo series of your poops would do the trick.
Speaking of farts, when I turned 13 or 14 my dad’s cousin got me a birthday card that had a black and white classic sci-fi looking image of a man in a spacesuit type thing with hoses and a bell jar like helmet bit and the card said, “Fred liked the smell of his farts so much he had a special suit constructed.” On the inside it said, “Hope you’re birthday’s a gas.”
Perhaps if I constructed a fart suit?
I fear there is little hope for you. You’re just old.
Michael, your feckfulness belies your chronological age.
The thirties are good, Michael. You begin to come to terms with who you are as opposed to who others told you you were supposed to be. You establish a space for yourself. In my experience, though, you’ve got about six years left with the body you were born with, and have developed for yourself. So, take advantage of that.
I treasure memories of my thirties, though there was a heap of heartbreak right there in the middle. All in all, though, things were fab from about 28 till I took a wrong turn in my mid-forties. But there have even been some splendid patches between then and now.