REASON #111372

It's my 35th birthday today, folks. As such, I'm drunk. Here's my favorite all-time birthday story, seen on this very blog all the way back in 2003. Enjoy, and I'll post some actual, you know, content tomorrow.

BOW DOWN BEFORE MY NEWLY ACQUIRED 31 YEARS OF KNOWLEDGE!

That's right, my one or two faithful readers, today is my birthday. As such, it seems like the perfect time to sit by the fire, light up my favorite pipe (The glass-blown one, that has a skull as its bowl. When you light it up, the eye sockets totally glow. KYUSS RULES!), and share with both of you my favorite birthday memory.

Freshman year. Theater school. And I was coming to the realization that...Well, I'm not going to say that it was the worst decision that I had ever made in my young life, because that would be like choosing the most malodorous specimen of canine offal at the Annual Canine Offal Sniffing Competition.

But, for many reasons, I was not pleased with how school was going. I didn't care for the classes (Ballet. Seriously? Can I just take the "F" now?), and I wasn't fitting in with my classmates.

Oh, and I was a smug, yet self-loathing prick with no social skills. This enabled me to feel superior to everyone else, while at the same time feel sorry for my self, and not know how to express these feelings to anyone.

In short, I was a PAR-TAY MACHINE!

My first inkling that my assimilation into the general populous was going to be anything but a breeze came when I wandered into a late-night chat up in my dorm's lounge. A bunch of my comrades were discussing when and how they fell in love with this business they call show. Needless to say, there was a lot of "The first time I saw Hamlet," and, "Chekhov spoke to my soul because," being bandied about.

Pure, unadulterated canine offal. Here are a selection of reasons why teenagers go into the theater:

1. To have sex.

That's it.

Anhoo, there I was, probably sitting in a corner of the room, simultaneously trying to hide while wondering why nobody would talk to me. And finally, the question came to me. Why did I want to be a man of the the-a-tah?

I said the first thing that came to my mind, which, as anyone who knows me could tell you, should never be my Plan A.

"Uh, I was a fan of 'The Muppet Show,' and I thought all of that stuff going on backstage to make the show happen looked like fun. So that's why I wanted to do it."

Now in my defense, this was no dumber or more untrue than anything anyone else was saying.

Sure, one kid in like a hundred might truly draw their very breath from the Bard. But, like, ten or fifteen kids? All in the same room? All trying to out-earnest each other? Shut up. No. Really. Shut up.

And that was about the reaction my statement received. A few giggles, an awkward pause, and then a return to talking about who the Dark Lady of the sonnets really could have been. (As it turns out, it was Pam Grier. Look it up.)

I went back to my dorm room, and attempted to figure out how I could go the next four years without speaking to anyone.

And...Scene.

Cut to November. It was my birthday, and nobody was privy to this information but yours truly. Sure, I could have, like, told people. But that would involve, like, talking to people. Besides, it was more fun to mope.

I'd like to take a moment to just say how happy I am that I wasn't a Smiths fan at that point in my life. Nothing against Marr & Co., I like them just fine now. But a mopey theater boy is bad enough. However, a mopey theater boy who firmly believes that, "The Boy With the Thorn in His Side" was written about him, is silently begging for a roundhouse kick to his male area. But I'm off my point.

So there I was, sitting in a puddle of glum (or as Wesley Reid Scantlin might say, a Puddle of Glumm) at a table in the dining hall. Silently eating my birthday jello while the rest of my classmates at the table talked about how cool learning the phonetic alphabet was going to be, or something.

And then one of the cafeteria ladies walked up to the table, holding a box.

"Which one of you is Josh Cagan?"

I vaguely gestured in the general vicinity of myself.

She placed the box in front of me.

"Your mom sent you a cake for your birthday."

The rest of the table seemed genuinely happy to learn this information. And, of course, to have an opportunity to eat cake that wasn't of the dining hall's made-with-70%-sawdust variety.

And I was happy as well. People now knew it was my birthday, and I didn't have to tell them. For a burgeoning passive-aggressive, this gift was even better than a shiny new rocket pony.

And then, the box was opened.

The cake read, in bright blue cursive frosting, "Happy Birthday Shawn."

Pretty goddamned funny. I can see that now.

Trouble is, the rest of the kids at the table could see that then. And laughter, the normal human response to a humorous situation, ensued.

But I was no normal human.

I was an utter ass.

I immediately ascertained that the laughter was meant to pierce my very soul, because, of course, the world was out to get me. I grabbed the cake, and ran from the dining hall on the verge of tears.

Alone in my dorm room, I eventually came to face some cold, hard facts.

1. Free cake is free cake, no matter who's name is on it.

2. It was pretty goddamned funny.

3. Running from a room on the verge of tears is acceptable if, say, the Veterinary Coroner has just removed the sheet from your beloved childhood pet, Old Yeller, who perished fightin' that darn ol' rabid wolf. Otherwise, it's a straight-up loser maneuver.

Armed with this knowledge, I knocked on some doors, and invited folks into my room for cake. Now I'm not saying that this was a giant turning point in my career, my life, or my spiritual journey.

But, for a little while, I was able to not be as much of a total pud.

And that, like the oft-joked-of 100 dead lawyers, was a good start.

And eventually, I was so okay with the story, that I incorporated it into one of the episodes of my eternally cancelled TV show, "Undergrads," which is why it may seem familiar to as many as one of you.

So happy B-Day, November 13th Scorpions. Cheers. A shiny new rocket pony to you all.