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.

Twenty-two reasons

As a teenager my birthdays were always big productions. At fifteen I rented a limo and made my friends wear suits and dresses (pictured above) even though we dined at a restaurant in the parking lot of the mall.

Sweet-sixteen was a trip to the bustling metropolis of Grand Forks for a Dashboard Confessional and Get Up Kids show. For my seventeenth birthday I held a rural bush party, which would have been great were it not for all the mosquitoes.

At my second seventeenth birthday in Winnipeg (at this point I was holding two) I had all my friend attend a show at the Graffiti Gallery. The lineup: Buried In Denmark, Dolphin Striker, The Recovery and Abbott Prison Blues. Totally classic.

Eighteen and legal in Manitoba was the biggest and the best. We rented out a room at the Osborne Freehouse, then took over G-Martini, and ended the evening dancing at Mod Night at the Pyramid Cabaret.

At nineteen I let it die. Today I turn twenty-two. The plan? I've scheduled a job interview.

Forever fifteen

We pretended we could drink

So he sang: Hands down, the best night I can ever remember

Seventeen and green eyes. Krysta and Zach.

TJ gave me a shout out on stage.

Freehouse birthday cake

Eighteen and dancing with Lisa on stage

On the Pyramid patio

Eighteen reasons adulthood is less fun

One too many jack-n-cokes, two Pricketts, twenty three years old.
Happy Birthday, Carli.

Composition with the young things

The conversation started over tea and ended on the rocks. Secrets told and kept and admissions made were the excuse for late arrival, lack of appropriate attire. I was told to wear a primary hue but showed up all grey-and-black, just happy to have found them.

Peaking out of the black-out curtain sundown: a hostess in a floppy hat, a table of snacks, and a Persian rug to dance on. So we swung our legs to old eighties hits, found girls to drink tequila with, cracked the door to let the heat out.

Later with eyes adjusted there was less abstraction, a grid of wall flowers and attention grabbers. A happy birthday and a hug goodbye, we closed the night with clean black lines, colours mixed with nothing.