Today’s itinerary includes cake, then pizza, then more cake, then milk and cookies. Plus, I can finally publish a little something I’ve been working on for some time. Let me know what you think. Here goes:

My fellow Americans:

We live in troubled times. There are some who say America’s best days are behind her.

Twenty years ago, America looked to Bill Clinton for change. Twelve years ago, America looked to George W. Bush for leadership. Four years ago, America looked to Barack Obama for hope.

And these men let America down. But I say that America never needed them.

I say that America needs you.

And because America needs you, America needs me.

I am pleased today to announce my candidacy for the office of President of the United States.

Let me begin by telling you how I got to this point.

I was born thirty-five years ago this very day in a little town in New Hampshire called Nashua, on the night of a Presidential debate in February 1980. That night, in the debate hall, shortly after Ronald Reagan famously told a newspaper editor that he had paid for a microphone, my mother went into labor. Bob Dole delivered me, with George H.W. Bush assisting. I was swaddled in copies of the Nashua Telegraph and the Manchester Union-Leader.

My father, a young economist from Kenya, and my mother, an unwed teenager from Kansas, weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America, their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.

I was named for my paternal grandfather, the son of Italian immigrants and an architect, and for the priest who married my parents. Rose Kennedy baptized me, the Reverend Jesse Jackson christened me, and Joe Lieberman… well, Joe rendered his services.

Years ago, as a farm boy sitting outdoors with my family on the ground in the middle of the night, gathered close around a radio connected to the automobile battery, eating peanuts and listening to the Democratic and Republican conventions in far-off cities, I was a long way from the selection process. I feel much closer to it tonight.

As a teenager I heard John Kennedy’s summons to citizenship. And then, as a student at Georgetown, I heard that call clarified by a professor I had, named Carroll Quigley, who said America was the greatest country in the history of the world because our people have always believed in two great ideas: first, that tomorrow can be better than today, and second, that each of us has a personal, moral responsibility to make it so.

I moved to Chicago over two decades ago. I was a young man then, just a year out of college; I knew no one in Chicago, was without money or family connections. But a group of churches had offered me a job as a community organizer for $13,000 a year. And I accepted the job, sight unseen, motivated then by a single, simple, powerful idea– that I might play a small part in building a better America.

I’ve seen America from the stadium press box as a sportscaster, as an actor, officer of my labor union, soldier, officeholder and as both a Democrat and Republican. I’ve lived in America where those who often had too little to eat outnumbered those who had enough. There have been seven wars in my lifetime and I’ve seen our country face financial ruin in the Depression. I have also seen the great strength of this nation as it pulled itself up from that ruin to become the dominant force in the world.

I am a man who sees life in terms of missions– missions defined and missions completed. When I was a torpedo bomber pilot in World War II, they defined the mission for us. Before we took off we all understood that no matter what, you try to reach the target. There have been other missions for me– Congress, China, the CIA. But I am here tonight– and I am your candidate– because the most important work of my life is to complete the mission we started so many years ago. How do we complete it? We build it.

Much more than this, it is our aim to give to our country a program of progressive policies drawn from our finest conservative traditions; to unite us wherever we have been divided; to strengthen freedom wherever among us any group has been weakened; to build a sure foundation for sound prosperity for all here at home and for a just and sure peace throughout our world.

As President, I will adamantly defend every woman’s right to choose as well as every unborn child’s right to life.

As President, I will protect the Second Amendment and will protect national security and stop crime by getting rid of assault weapons and handguns.

As President, I will make Wal-Mart stop undercutting its competition by raising its prices, and make the gas companies stop gouging its consumers by lowering the price of gas.

As President, I will provide total financial and medical security to our senior citizens at no cost whatsoever to their children and grandchildren.

As President, I will eliminate the mortgage interest deduction, which has distorted housing markets, and replace it with a deduction for interest on mortgages, which will help make more Americans into homeowners.

One other thing I probably should tell you. A man down in Texas heard my wife on the radio mention the fact that our two youngsters would like to have a dog. And, believe it or not, yesterday we got a message from Union Station in Baltimore saying they had a package for us. We went down to get it. You know what it was? It was a little cocker spaniel dog in a crate that he’d sent all the way from Texas. Black and white spotted. And my daughter– the six-year old– named it Checkers. And you know, the kids, like all kids, love the dog and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we’re going to keep it.

What I propose tonight is not new. It is as old as America, and as young as America, because America will never grow old.

You will remember when Thomas Jefferson said, “Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself– nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”

Teddy Roosevelt reminded us that, “Constitutionally, gentlemen, you have the president, the vice president and the secretary of state, in that order, and should the president decide he wants to transfer the helm to the vice president, he will do so. As for now, I’m in control here, in the White House.”

And Woodrow Wilson said, “We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

It’s time for us to change America. They have not led, we will. I still believe in a place called Hope, a brilliant diversity spread like stars, like a thousand points of light in a broad and peaceful sky, yielding only to morning again in America.

And read my lips: I will never lie to you.

I humbly ask for your vote.

I will do everything you’ve ever wanted your President to do.

Because I am you.

And together, we can be us again.

Thank you, and God bless America.

We accept unmarked, low-denomination cash only.

Your Humble Narrator is going to “live-blog” my 34th birthday. It’ll be a full day at school, no planning period, followed by coaching a game at Sandalwood, followed by God-only-knows-what since I don’t have to get up early tomorrow morning. The official familial birthday dinner was this past Sunday, so I’ll be munching on leftover lasanga rolls, meatballs, steak and cake throughout the day. Here goes:

12:01 AM: Hitting the sack and hoping that I can fall asleep.

3:17 AM: Awake.

4:41 AM: Awake.

6:19 AM: Alarm. Snooze.

6:28 AM: Alarm, out of bed. Shower.

6:55 AM: Off to work. Helped some lady catch her dog in the parking lot. I’m a hero.

7:23 AM: At work. Birthday cards waiting for me in the mailbox.

7:45ish AM: Received TOTY recommendation letters. Huzzah!

9:06 AM: Watched DVD about Hugo Black in class. I enjoyed it even if nobody else did.

Period 2A: Received and consumed birthday cookie-cake from former students. Tolerated birthday song.

11:55 AM: Feasted on reheated lasagna rolls, flank steak, and a meatball.

12:10 PM: Helped former student jumpstart her car because she left it running the whole time she was on campus. I’m still a hero.

2:48 PM: Prepping for the game.

7:32 PM: Ugly first half, fell behind 1-0, but the kids stayed cool and everything came together in the second half. Two late goals, we win 2-1.

8:14 PM: Eating cake.

8:19 PM: Eating more cake.

8:59 PM: Returning calls, thanking folks for birthday wishes.

9:33 PM: Heading out.

1:38 AM: Rest of the night was a blur. Bus full of orphans broke down on a railroad crossing, I pushed it out of the way with my bare hands just before the train bearing down on it would have obliterated it. Well, it turns out that terrorists with a doomsday virus had hijacked the train, and— wait, that was all after midnight! Wasn’t on my birthday, shouldn’t write about it. Never mind.

All in all, a good day. I’ll do it again next year.

Today I turned one-third of a century old. To celebrate, I went to work, found out I’d have two more paid days of work after “post-planning,” bought five reams of printer paper, ate a french toast bagel with cream cheese and opened a bottle of cabernet sauvignon I received as a gift a while back. Good times. I will celebrate my next third-of-a-century on Monday, July 25, 2043.

…

In my AP Government class, there are two statistics about race and voting that I emphasize. The first is that the average white person is more likely to vote than the average black person. The second is that if the only demographic difference between two people is that one is white and the other is black, the black person is more likely to vote than the white person. These facts are not contradictory because there are many differences in age, income, and other demographic characteristics between the average white person and the average black person. No big whoop.

So, today, my students discovered why I keep bringing these two facts up: because there are test items about it! Go figure. After the fact, one of my black students said that she thought I kept bringing those facts up to try and build up the self-esteem of the black students in the classroom.

My response was, in essence, “I harp on those facts because I want you to get them right on the tests. I don’t care about your self-esteem. There’s a reason it’s called self-esteem. It reflects what you think about yourself.”

I suppose I should have been more tactful in my response, but they seemed to take it as intended. No tears were shed, no ego was bruised.

I’ve decided to start celebrating my birthday as a season, rather than as a single day. My birthseason shall begin on Halloween, is followed about a week-and-a-half later by a day off for Veterans’ Day (with the occasional Election Day thrown in-between), then what I like to call the “My Birthday-Thanksgiving Corridor” (November 22nd-28th), with at least two Leftover Days and a long weekend in there somewhere. My mom’s birthday is shortly thereafter, which is an opportunity to eat cake so that’s something. Then Hanukkah, Christmas Eve and Christmas, usually in that order, followed by at least one more Leftover Day. The final week of my birthseason includes New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, the college football bowl games, and it ends on January 6th, the Epiphany. Forty-four days of celebrating the day of my birth and the time around it.

..

Last night was birthday dinner with the family since I knew I wouldn’t have time today: Chicago deep-dish pizza with pepperoni and black olives. It did not quite make up for watching the Bears suck their way to a 24-20 loss against the Eagles.

Actual Birthday Today went pretty well, considering I woke up with a stuffed-up nose and the sinus pressure was incredible. It’s still pretty bad. Anyhow, I got to school, opened my office door, and found that my room had been decorated with blue and yellow crepe paper left over from Homecoming week. I thought that was nice, but I had to take it down because the kids wouldn’t have been able to see the screen or the board. I received several cards, several posters with “Happy Birthday” scrawled on them, a drawing, a watercolor painting, a birthday cookie, and a birthday song-and-a-half. No other presents. Close enough (to my goal of no presents aside from cards and food) for government work.

Got home, made a steak, ate the steak, felt like drilling a hole in my head to relieve the sinus pressure, was given a chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, made a wish that my sinus pressure would disappear, wasn’t surprised when it didn’t, ate said cake, felt better. All in all, another successful birthday.

…

I would like to celebrate the day I turn one-third-of-a-century-old. The question is, on what date should I celebrate? There are two possibilities. The easy one is March 23^rd, 2010, which is four calendar months after my 33^rd birthday. But the more precise one is two days later: March 25^th, 2010. Consider: on my 100^th birthday, I will have been alive 36,525 days; one-third of 36,525 is 12,175; and adding 12,175 days to the date of my birth yields a result of March 25^th, 2010. Tough call, but I’ve got time to make it.

…

Here are my previous birthday entries. Enjoy.

11/23/2005: On turning 30.

11/23/2006: On turning 30 (for real this time).

11/23/2007: On turning 29.

11/23/2008: On turning 30 again.

It occurs to me that there’s nothing special about turning 31, or 32 for that matter. In some cultures, 33 is a big deal because that’s how old Christ was when he was crucified. So this year, instead of turning 31, I’m going to turn 29 again. That way, I can heighten the drama next year when I turn “30,” and then the following year I’ll just turn 33. I’ll turn 33 again the year after that, and then turn 35. I’ll hold at 35 for the next four years, then turn 39 so I can have the big buildup to 40. None of this Jack Benny nonsense where I’m 39 for the rest of my life—that’s just silly.

–Me, “On turning 29,” November 23, 2007

In keeping with last year’s plan, I am turning 30 for the second and final time. On to 33 next year.

This birthday marks the closest I’ve yet come to my goal of receiving no birthday gifts aside from cards and food. The lone exception thus far was a movie theater gift card. Still, that’s remarkable progress.

Morning: woke up late after dreaming that I was playing soccer with a goalie clamped on to my ankle, and the ref never noticed. Got a week’s worth of paperwork out of the way.

Lunch: PB&J and two cups of tea. Tracked the Bears’ game over the internet. Bears defeated the Rams, 27-3. Saw that the MLS Cup Final was on TV, didn’t care. Made some photocopies.

Dinner: Chicago deep-dish with pepperoni and black olives. Watched the Cardinals attempt a “fair catch kick” (which I’d read about, but never seen) at the end of the first half. They shanked. Argued with parents over details of various stories from long ago.

Cake: chocolate with rich white frosting–a nearly-last-minute decision, because I couldn’t remember which type of cake was my favorite. I’m still not sure I guessed right.

…

Last school year, I worked on earning certification form the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards (NBPTS). Only 35% of teachers earn it on their first attempt. It’s a national certificate honored by every state, it’s good for 10 years at a time, it counts for as many as nine credits towards a master’s degree, and it means a raise (I mean a big raise, a sell-the-’Rolla-and-buy-two-Bentleys-and-a-Lear-jet raise). In March, I sent the Board a portfolio documenting and analyzing my teaching abilities, including two 15-minute DVDs packed with high-octane teaching action, starring me. In June, I took a computerized test with six essay questions on history, economics, political science, demography, etc. And then I waited.

On Thursday night, I got an e-mail warning me that my certification scores would be posted mid-morning on Friday. So naturally, I assumed that “mid-morning on Friday” meant “we’ve already posted it, and lied to you about Friday” and checked ten, twelve times before going to bed that night.

Friday morning, I checked the NBPTS website before I left for work, hoping that “mid-morning” meant 7 AM. I got to work and checked again, hoping that “mid-morning” meant 7:30. I checked right before first period started, hoping that “mid-morning” meant 8:10-ish.

The 9:55 bell rang to end first period. I got on the net, logged on to the site, and saw “Scores available for 2007-08 Candidates!” I entered the login information and hit enter.

The first word I saw was “Congratulations!”

I didn’t bother reading the rest. I did the celebration I used to do when beating my college roommate at NHL ‘95 on the Sega Genesis, ran down the hall and gave the thumbs up to the co-worker who’d been my mentor throughout the process, and then sauntered back to my classroom.

Granted, the funding’s probably going to get cut. But that hasn’t stopped me from dreaming about swimming in a marble silo filled with gold coins.

…

During my planning period, I read the rest. “You are a National Board Certified Teacher! …blah blah blah… Your total weighted scaled score, exercise scores and weighted exercise scores are shown in your score profile.” I clicked on the score profile and saw that I scored well above the cutoff. But the more I looked at it, the angrier I got. I should have scored higher. I should have done better. I wondered whether I could re-submit the portfolio and re-take the test to get closer to a perfect score.

I have since come to my senses. I have my national certificate. I’ll shut up and be grateful.

Once upon a time, I was dining out with some good friends. They brought along a woman I didn’t know—let’s call her “Mensa”—presumably to try and set us up. What ensued was a perfect example of why I hate setups.

The topic turned to birthdays on holidays, or shared with celebrities and historical figures. I mentioned that I share a birthday with Boris Karloff, Billy the Kid, and R.L. Burnside (“All I did was shoot him in the head. Him dyin’ was between him and the Lord.”), and that last year, my birthday was on Thanksgiving.

Mensa asked, “What about this year?”

I replied, deadpan, “It’s on Thanksgiving this year, too.”

With, like, total seriousness, she said, “No it isn’t.”

Me: “Sure it is.”

Her: “It can’t be.”

Animals instinctively know that showing signs of weakness will get you abandoned or eaten. It’s for the best, as far as the species as a whole is concerned. We supposedly enlightened humans have to settle for mocking those worthy of natural deselection. My friends saw the humor, and saw that Mensa didn’t, and did not intervene.

Me: “My birthday falls on Thanksgiving every single year.”

Her: “Not every year.”

Me: “Well, maybe not every year, but every year since I’ve been alive.”

Her: “That can’t be! It’s always on a Thursday—“

Me: “So’s my birthday.”

Her: “But it changes every year. Are you stupid?”

Me: “I’m not going to argue with someone who has the audacity to claim she knows more about my birthday than I do.”

Her: “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

Me: “All I know is, every Thanksgiving I’m a year older and I eat cake.”

Her: “This is stupid.”

That made my night. Whatever my friends had hoped to accomplish by bringing her along had safely been thwarted. We laughed about it later.

Should I tell people when I’m kidding? Or do they deserve to think otherwise?

…

It occurs to me that there’s nothing special about turning 31, or 32 for that matter. In some cultures, 33 is a big deal because that’s how old Christ was when he was crucified. So this year, instead of turning 31, I’m going to turn 29 again. That way, I can heighten the drama next year when I turn “30,” and then the following year I’ll just turn 33. I’ll turn 33 again the year after that, and then turn 35. I’ll hold at 35 for the next four years, then turn 39 so I can have the big buildup to 40. None of this Jack Benny nonsense where I’m 39 for the rest of my life—that’s just silly.

…

This Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful:

…for my job. When people complain about being teachers—when they complain about the conditions, or the stress, or the district, or the exhaustion, or when they poor-mouth–I think back to some of my other jobs, and am contented. I will take my job at my school over most jobs that are out there.

…for my closest friends. The father of one of those closest friends used to say, “If you can count your closest friends on more than one hand, you’re lucky. If you count them on more than two, you’re lying.” I’m lucky. Looking back at college, I was lucky to get assigned to overflow honors housing. I wouldn’t have met my best friends otherwise.

…that I am me. I can’t imagine the horror of being anyone else. It chills me.

…that radical eco-nuts are sterilizing themselves. For this, O Lord, I thank thee.

…that I met most of my grandparents’ brothers and sisters before they died. One more died earlier this week, and is reunited with her husband who died in France in WWII.

…for my health. Avoiding the doctor has worked out pretty darned well for me, for a good long time.

…that the red pen I accidentally left in my shirt pocket didn’t break, open or melt in the washing machine or the dryer.

3 Responses to “On turning 29.”

1. gatorbob Says:
   November 26th, 2007 at 10:12 PMBest returns on your birthday, my friend. Interestingly, my better half turns 35 every year and somehow she pulls it off, whereas I look more and more like my old man every year. By the way, I’ve had dates like that. My favorite was the woman who compared me to Alexander Haig when I confessed that I preferred reading non-fiction books.

   Cheers!

2. VDV Says:
   November 27th, 2007 at 6:13 PMAl Haig? You?

   I won’t mention to KC that you’ve caught on.

3. Somesense91 Says:
   December 1st, 2007 at 5:09 PMWow, that is a funny story. She sounds like a keeper!

No. Dear God, No. NOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Okay, well, yes. I really don’t see what the big deal is about turning thirty years old. My hair didn’t turn gray or fall out overnight, my bones don’t creak, nothing is any different than yesterday. It’s no big deal.

Besides, on this birthday the entire nation is celebrating with me. I flipped on the tube this morning and there were parades, floats, and smiling people on channel after channel. I picked up the paper, and it turns out that the airports and highways were jammed full of travellers going to be with their families on this momentous occasion. Every school and most businesses in the nation are closed today, and the NFL is playing three games today instead of Sunday.

My family’s getting together in a few hours to eat a turkey with dressing, stuffing and fixins… but so are all of my relatives who couldn’t be with me today! They’re eating the same thing as we are on my birthday! It seems like everyone in the entire country is getting turkey, just to be like me.

I am honored beyond my capacity to express myself. Thank you, America. I love you all.

This sort of national observance of my birthday has happened before, such as when I turned two, thirteen, nineteen, and twenty-four. I’m not sure what the relationship is between those particular birthdays, but if this is the treatment everyone gets on their thirtieth, then no one has any business complaining about it. Happy 30th to me, and gimme my drumstick.

When growing up, you go through a stretch where birthdays are more than mere parties featuring the eating of cake, slurping of punch, and opening of presents. Starting at about your tenth birthday, they take on greater significance; you look forward to them with greater eagerness than before, for they mark rites of passage into adulthood.

At ten, you’re finally in double digits. At thirteen, you’re finally a teenager. At fifteen, you can finally get your learner’s permit, and at sixteen your driver’s license. At seventeen you can get into R-rated movies alone, at eighteen you can vote, at twenty you’re no longer a teenager, and at twenty-one you can drink legally.

After that, the excitement and anticipation die down. Twenty-two and twenty-three are no big deal at all. At twenty-five, your auto insurance rates drop and you can run for the House of Representatives—but that isn’t exactly thrilling. At twenty-seven, you’re as old as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain when they died. Eventually, you stop looking for any significance in your age, and may even forget that your birthday is coming…

Until your thirtieth.

Granted, the anguish over turning thirty is partly arbitrary. It simply means that you have been out of the womb for thirty of Earth’s trips around the Sun. It’d be fewer trips if humans had fewer fingers, and more if we had more. In a sense, “thirty years old” is younger than ever before: it is a smaller and smaller fraction of an increasing average lifespan.

And yet…

The night before turning “The Big Three-Oh,” you lie awake in the dark, trying to think about anything other than these irrational but very real mortal dreads:

…that your youth is gone and it is not coming back…

…that dreams and opportunities have irrevocably passed you by…

…that one day, however near, however distant, no matter what, you will simply end. It is utterly horrifying.

No more of those good milestone birthdays are coming.

Kids who you think don’t look too much younger than you call you “sir,” and you wonder whether you really look old enough for them to naturally address you with a term denoting respect—or, more precisely, a term denoting age.

It takes a little bit longer to stand up than it should. Maybe you just bumped your knee, or maybe you’re just a little tired. Your back has been sore for a while, but will surely get better soon—probably after you start exercising, like you’ve been planning for how long now?

You have more hair where you shouldn’t, and less hair where you should. Even worse, some of it’s turning gray. All those tiny little birthmarks of yours are changing size and color, and you consider going to the doctor to have them looked at, like old people do.

The stars of your favorite sports teams are younger than you. The hottest actresses are younger than you. You don’t get today’s music. Bouncers and bartenders don’t card you anymore. Strangers ask you if you have children. Children?

You’re a parent and turning into your own parents, or you’re disappointed in not being one by now.

You’re married and settling into a rut, or you’re worried that your marital prospects are dwindling with age.

You don’t have the job you knew you’d have, the car you knew you’d have, the house you knew you’d have, the money you knew you’d have by this time.

You are nowhere near living the life you thought you’d be living by now, and it is killing you…

…well, what can I say? You’re thirty. Go ahead and die, you sniveling, geriatric whiner.

What, you thought I was talking about myself? In the second person? Wrong. I’m only twenty-nine. Thus, I don’t have to worry about aging, hopelessness, my own mortality or any of that crap that’s got your thirty-year-old knees a-wobbling.

I can skip and frolic and dance and sing tra-la-la… because I’m still in my twenties!

I can eat fast food, play soccer without stretching and let my cholesterol get so high it’ll have flashbacks for decades… because I’m still in my twenties!

I can go to the seediest bars, get impossibly wasted and schlep home at any hour of the night with some depraved, green-haired, tattooed strumpet and her shy, bespectacled twin sister who’s on leave from the convent… because I’m still in my twenties!

I can dodge the draft, I can drown my pregnant mistress near Chappaquiddick, I can go AWOL from the military, I can throw my Purple Hearts over the gates of the White House, I can drink, smoke, shoot and snort whatever I want and a year from now I’ll be able to wistfully say, “Ah, yes, I was young and foolish—I was still in my twenties!”

Now, am I actually going to do all those crazy, irresponsible things? Probably not. But the point I’m trying to emphasize in your moment of crisis is that you are a useless, washed-up mastodon, whereas I am not.

All those years growing up, I was always the youngest in the group. The youngest in my high school class. The youngest on my club soccer teams. I couldn’t drive when I graduated high school, couldn’t drink when I graduated college… Well, my thirty-year old friend, you may have gotten your license first, you may have voted first, you may have drank legally first, but guess what? I’ll turn thirty last, you ancient bastard. I win.

So happy 29th to me and gimme my cake and punch.