Man. I just kill myself with these titles. Anyway, as I've discussed at some length in the previous post, I just had a birthday. Go, me. But this afternoon, after the birthday glory and the sickness haze had both passed, I got my Mom's present--a 3-day woodworking workshop at the appropriately named Woodworker Academy (hence the "Wood"). I swear--you gestate inside someone for 9 months then hang around the house for a couple of decades and they really do get to know you--go figure.

You see, ever since Mr. Makowski's shop class in 7th grade and two summers of unsupervised fun with a wood lathe and a table saw at camp, I've had a thing for woodworking. But where the hell does one perform such a thing when one lives in garageless towns like LA, New York, or SF? Alameda, apparently. The Academy is in Alameda, so that's where I'm headed, once I can clear my oh-so-busy schedule (that's the "Waiting" part).

One last birthday shout-out before I return you to my regularly-scheduled life. In addition to the cupcakes she laid on me two days earlier, The Doc gave me a navy Guayabera and an almost-matching (but not so matching it looks like I'm trying) summer-weight Kangol cap, so I can be Big Havana Pimpin' without getting a sunburn on my pasty noggin. I'm thinking the look makes me a total lock for the next Carlos Santana video. I mean, if it worked for this dweeb, why not me?

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Howdy, all, and thanks a ton for the birthday wishes. As always, the family came through with some standouts. Sister Fi's "At least you made it another year without dying, even if your life is that much closer to mediocrity" card and Brother Eddie's "Happy Birthday, homo" text message kept it real. Props to Sister Sarah for going the heartwarming route with the "HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROTHER!!! LOVE YOU!!!"

As for me, I'm sick. Like nasty, middle-of-winter flu sick, so I'm postponing my annual turkey-dinner-at-a-diner routine for some time when I'm feeling less like launching whatever I eat. But I tell you this--the one thing I have been able to eat are the surprise Splenda birthday cupcakes Doctor Cheese dropped on me yesterday (picture above). Awesome, tasty, and, apparently, flu-proof. Plus the birthday message:

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
You ate lots of cupcakes,
Now get over your flu!

Sweet as, well, Splenda, I tell ya.

Happy birthday to my Columbia / Jupiter doppleganger, Joe Laszlo (or am I his? I think he came out first.), my homeboy Reggie Jackson, and the memory of Frank Capra. And Mt. St. Helen, while I'm at it.

Back to bed. And thanks again.

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It's been a while, so I'm going to throw categorization to the wind and just list a bunch of stuff that's gone down.

Doctor Cheese, musical hip kid that she is, invited me to a free lunch-time performance by the Slammin All-Body Band. Despite topping Weather Report and Mahavishnu Orchestra for the title of "Lamest Jazz Band Name Ever" (and no, "Sun Ra & his Astro-Galactic Infinity Arkestra" doesn't count because it is, in fact, the coolest jazz band name ever....), the show was completely, amazingly off the hook. And there was an earthquake toward the end. No one missed a beat.

Finally ate at Mama's Hot Tamales. I had the Michoacan Beef, the Guatemala Chicken, and the Oaxaca Chicken. All perfect. Cheese had the Jalapeño / Cheese Oaxaca Vegetarian, which also got rave reviews. The hot chocolate with cinnamon was so good I risked the sugar headache.

Saw Hot Fuzz at the Arclight. The Shaun of the Dead of buddy cop flicks. Worth it.

That Orson Scott Card can write. And yes, I know he writes Mormon fiction and animation scripts, and no, I'm not talking about that.

Visited Union Station, and it really is as beautiful as everyone says. Yet another reason to love LA.

The improv class is going well. I was sick last week, and really just wanted to go home, but I'm glad I toughed it out. I don't know if long-form is really my thing, but it's a good stretch,

And it's official. Section L2 for the Playboy Jazz Fest.

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