It was a very good year.

Tonight, Tammy had her birthday party at El Conquistador in Silverlake. I showed up late and apologetic, but dinner hadn't even been ordered yet, so I suppose no harm was done. Jeff, whose finger was injured yesterday in an incident whose description is impossible not to grimace through, was not complaining at all, which is amazing. I remember getting stitches in my fingers a few years back, and I was leveled by it. I don't think he was even on painkillers. What a stud.

Blaine and Vera were fine company. We talked about Bukowski and Carrot Top and reggae music and how fat Robert Smith didn't used to be and how Vera is in an Ima Robot video and how I'm a gigantic fan of Ima Robot.

Tammy was green and glistening in a fancy sequined top. Fancy like mermaid scales. And if she hadn't had to work in the morning, I suppose she'd have been amenable to having more drinks bought for her. But weekend birthdays only happen every seven or so years. In my favor is the fact that, this year, I'm having one. Happy birthday, Tammy. When it's my birthday, you will have no excuse not to get plastered. And as we were born in the same year, I suggest that Tammy continues to celebrate her birthday until mine comes around. I am an avid supporter of the birthday s-t-r-e-t-c-h.