The royal tennis bomb

He told me if I got to the garbage pile I’d gone to far. Only in Seoul. Still, the directions got me there, to a roof top BBQ full of champagne, soju, and twenty-somethings dressed like tennis stars.

To frequent park-goers we’re probably “those people.” Or, as it were, they are. I am not. Every birthday is an occasion for a theme. K-pop, superheroes, the like. That night was Golf hos and tennis pros.

I used my imagination. High khaki shorts, an oxford, and penny loafers? Um, sorry. I don’t golf. Like, my dad’s a pro. He works here…I’m at the club for the bar tab. OK? Ok. Now go away.

Away.

Fitter, happier, more-productive years

Nineteen eighty-eight, put another candle on the cake. Grew no higher, maybe wider, flung feet further from the farm. Landed in some far-off suburb outgrowth of one of earth’s largest cities, ancient land and foreign tongue.

Come new friends to celebrate old years, order pints of brew. Dish out birthday cake to every patron in a Japanese style bar. Take the party early morning to the corner store by the river and order more.

Break out a bottle of scotch and cheers to another year of good grave taunting love.

Russ Martin, age twenty-three.

Because parties with name tags are better. And one from the archives, featuring Wesbos.com.

Nineteen-Twenty-ten

Teenage kicks right through the night

Before the blast-off of engines, there were a few last bad decisions to be made. Crowded two too many into the car we headed east, then north, then east again, ending up off our usual grid, out of the city core; at the right apartment. The mob scene had already begun, what with its bathroom penetration, guns behind locked doors, kids on ketamine. The crazed young things, we called them, as if we weren’t still walking in their shoes.

With toothy smiles and clutching presents we raised a glass to the woman of the hour before settling onto couches, around tables, and on wash-and-dryer tops to watch the madness, participate, and watch again. The air was thick with sexual expression, frustration, confusion: they danced and drank the evening and their inhibitions straight away. Then as the door began to swing we decided it best not be the last left in the room, dialing our way backwards to the highway lights.

And as we stumbled towards bed sheets we spun past the clock, blinking its early morning hour. Spilling into our homes we set alarms with time ticking closer, and despite the cabs to call, bags to pack, and farewells to say, we blinked black windows away unbothered, thinking: this must be what it feels like to be young and in love.

Terrible twenty-something trouble-bound twosome

Geminis, geminis, we like to get into trouble. And every good shit-disturber needs a right hand (wo)man. Today, I salute you, Ms. Bergman, my personal partner in crime. Genna is the perfect accomplice for both dance-floor shenanigans and Monday night TV dates. In matching outfits, the world is ours for the taking.

Happy Birthday, Berger.

Toronto trouble

In bed with the enemy

Drinking with SNP, Calvin Klein

Big bow ties, little kisses

Curt and Kourtney

The night I almost saved her life

Hugs, one "g"

Happy Birthday To My Favourite Scientologist. 

What do birthday celebrations for a Scientologist include? 

First: Get ready. Looking great is a must for every Scientologist. You never know who will show up to your party. Katie's bob is a lot to compete with.

Next: Pre drinks while watching Cocktail. Every time Tommy-boy mixes a drink, so do you. 

Then: Bible Dips in L. Ron Hubbard's Scientology: The Fundamentals of Thought. Find out what the next year has in store. (Truthbooks.com, $12.00)

Later: Party favours. I hear that Will Smith likes to give out Gift Cards for the church. How did JC not think of those?

Before the night's over: Get down. Everyone knows a Scientologist likes to dance. Jump up on the couch and boogie. 

The Next Morning: Press snooze and sleep in. You're going to need some rest if you want to take over the world. When your parents call to see how everything went, ignore the calls. After all, they were the ones who sent you to that pesky Catholic boarding school. Why couldn't you just have gone to a regular Scientology school, like all your friends?

Whatever mom, Scientology rules!