Red red wine

Suck it, Japan.

Tonight I got off work and trolled the streets for an open liquor store, as Phil was hankering to get sauced in preparation for his 26th birthday tomorrow (today, Sunday — whatever, time nazis).

But nothing was still open at 11:30, which I decided to blame on the effing blue laws, whether or not they are actually responsible. What is the deal, Memphis? Think of the economic benefits of allowing alcoholics and bums and depressed twentysomethings buy liquor even on Sundays, the day of the week when the empty void inside swells to twice its normal size!

So we decided to just suck it up and cork into the snazzy wine sitting in my fridge that was given to me by one of my bosses for shuttling him to and from HTML training a month or so ago.

I'm not a wine person, never have been, but I found out tonight that this is because I am poor and cannot afford really good wine. Because this wine was awesome. It was a deep red wine, made in 2001, full and meaty and chosen by a man married to a food critic. I'm not sure it gets much better.

So I drank myself into a warm, fuzzy state (out of a Star Trek mug) and Phil took quick swigs from the bottle (and chased it with water, the wuss) and we hung out at his apartment, eating a celebratory cupcake, listening to a Muddy Waters/Howlin' Wolf split album on vinyl while the cat made biscuits on Phil's stomach and the ferrets scuttled around, sniffing things.

And it was nice. But bittersweet.

I haven't really explicitly mentioned anything about it on here, but Phil and I have recently decided to just be friends. Good, close friends who've known each other for nearly a decade and who share a history as well as pets. Friends who've grown up together and who feel at home among one another's families. Friends who love each other and care deeply for one another. But just friends. It's something I've wanted for a while now, and only recently got up the courage to pursue. So I'm taking it day by day, and we're getting along well and spending time doing friend things like getting drunk on fancy wine and shoving lard-covered cupcakes into our mouths at 1 a.m.

But this post isn't about relationships or any of that complicated messy stuff.

This post is about a kid who's turning 26 and trying to remember how to follow a dream he's had since he was able to walk: How to be a cool-ass rock star.


As soon as he learned to walk, Phil perfected the shoe-gazing emo pose.

Happy birthday, Phil.