Today my best friend Yaz is turning twenty-three and today I’d like to address him directly. When I write for this here blog, I usually do my best to cast as wide a net as is humanly possible but today, I’m not going to pretend like of the fifteen people who visited the Desk last month, ten of them weren’t actually Yaz accessing from different IP’s (the other five were confused Iranian gentlemen who were actually looking to purchase reasonably priced furniture, for which I heartily recommend they seek out the good people at Ikea).
So it’s your birthday today. That’s rad. Now, as everyone knows, twenty-three is, in fact, not actually an important birthday at all. My own 23rd was fantastic –
– but generally speaking, turning twenty-three is the birthday in which one comes to realize there are no more milestones to celebrate beyond your being a dues-paying member of the Being Alive Club. That should be nothing new. While turning sixteen brings the right to drive, eighteen smoke, vote, and the knowledge that you could head out and purchase a gun, and twenty-one the right to drink, your twenty-second birthday was likely devoid of fanfare and confetti. Instead, beyond a few text messages from your mom, your twenty-second birthday was probably noticeably absent on people giving a fuck.
I mean, I guess you could look forward to renting a car at the age of twenty-five but if that’s actually something you’re actively looking forward to, you’re a far sadder individual than any of us actually suspected.
But I digress in a big bad way. The point I was trying to get to would be this: today may not be an altogether “important” birthday for ya, Yaz – but it is the twenty-third anniversary of your just being a good dude.
One of the most loyal, considerate and genuine people I’ve ever come across. Being that you’re not suffering from dementia, you probably remember how you went to college and I moved 903 miles away – of course, we’ve done our best to stay close ever since, though I appreciate you respecting my wish to never actually make me talk on my phone (or as I call it, the Texty Rectangle). Time and distance has only solidified the fact that you, sir, are just a really rare sort of person.
At varying points in my life, you’ve been there to keep me in check when I have been insane (often), talked me through some really rough times, and made me laugh more times than I can count.
But I think there’s one moment that sort of sums it up best, and that’d be how, after I got pulled out of that riptide at Wrighstville, how you poured me about eight fingers of Scotch almost like fucking immediately after Katrina said “No alcohol or you might die.”
Anyway, it’s your birthday, you’re a good dude, and blah blah blah. We’re already crossing over into “just kiss already” territory so if you don’t mind, I’d like to go ahead and skip to the end.
Happy Birthday, Yaz – my best friend, the Abe to my Hellboy (yes, even though this is a post all about how awesome you are, you still don’t get to be Hellboy, goddammit)
the Special Agent Dale Cooper to my Diane…
(see? I’m not a bad guy, you just can’t be Hellboy).
Roast Beef to my Ray,
And of course, most aptly and originally, the Carl to my Pete.
I just want to – wait, holy shit, what a startlingly perfect encapsulation of our friendship’s dynamic. That’s the picture I would fucking draw if someone demanded I try.
But no. I still don’t want to be Train Bros.