Happy birthday, blah, blah, blah
FIRST THERE was the laser light show and the fireworks. Then the kids gathered round and sang Gordon Lightfoot songs in perfect four-part harmony, turning “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” into something Bach might’ve penned. Just for me, my wife wiggled into her high school jeans as the dog lovingly licked frosting from my ankle. The entire day was much like our honeymoon, except that I never hit my head on the bathtub and passed out.
“Happy birthday,” one of the kids said.
OK, so maybe the birthday celebration wasn’t all that. Maybe they forgot the laser lights and the fireworks. If they sang, it was a little off-key. I got a few nice cards, some warm gum and a wine opener the size of a Suzuki motorcycle. For really big bottles of wine, I suppose. The kind you drink when you turn 49.
“Dads Rule!” said one card, followed by the scribbled note: “I love you, Dad. I hope all your wishes come true ... blah, blah, blah.”
By the way, have you noticed how “blah, blah, blah” is creeping into everyday conversation? I don’t really know what it represents, other than, “My mind is tired, my life too fast -- I just can’t think up any more real words right now, blah, blah, blah.”
You notice things like that as you get older. Trends in art and music. The evolution of word and wit. One card from the kids showed dozens of candles all melted together into a waxy blob, with the inscription, “Catch your breath and have a happy birthday.” Brevity. As you get older, you appreciate that too.
The celebration was punctuated by the ugly sound of overlapping TVs and shouts of “LEAVE THE CAT ALONE!” Chastened, the toddler sat on my bad knee and pulled at my chest hair, one rope pull at a time. It was like a trip to a spa staffed by bullies from the seventh grade.
All in all, the best birthday I’ve had all year.
Upset at nearing 50? Not really. Because here’s the thing about getting older: I notice that the senior members at my gym seem far happier than the younger men, who go about their morning workouts with the earnestness of spies trying to save the world.
In fact, I’m beginning to think that men peak around age 65. Maybe not physically -- the way women do -- but philosophically. Spiritually. Emotionally.
You can’t rattle a 65-year-old. He’s seen too much war, not to mention every Robert Mitchum movie ever made. Try to rattle a 65-year-old and he’ll just give you a pool hustler’s smirk, a twinkle of the eye: “I’ve seen it all before, kid,” he’ll growl. “There’s nothing you can show me.”
Of course, not all is good at 49. There are twinges of sciatica. The computer is my coal mine, numbing my back and neck, and doing odd things to the joints in my fingers. I’d have healthier hands if I spent all day punching walls.
Then there’s the ever-changing curfew. Even on “ER” night, I doze off around 10.
And if I have a bowl of ice cream before bed -- or perhaps a piece of pie -- my dreams are a cross between Kafka and “Sesame Street.” Big Bird has one eye, whiskey on his breath and is waving a handgun just anywhere.
Worse yet, at nearly 50, my memory bank seems maxed out. Names don’t pop into my head quite so fast. When I watch “Jeopardy,” grade-school teachers from Kentucky now beat me to the Daily Double.
If I have to remember one more computer password I’ll be forced to forget my own birth date, not to mention the date of the Magna Carta and Ernie Banks’ jersey number. They were 1215 and 14, by the way. Or was it 1066 and 12?
On the other end of the age spectrum is the toddler, who doesn’t know from birthdays. He only understands that every day is some kind of celebration. To him a dog’s howl is a brilliant aria. Spotting a fire engine is like meeting the pope. Every meal is a Mel Brooks film.
The toddler likes getting up early, as do I. He likes checking for the mail and unloading the dishwasher. The good news is that as he’ll become more like me -- more business-like, more eager to save the world -- the more I’ll become like him, playful and a connoisseur of idle moments.
In a few weeks, he’ll celebrate a birthday too. Three candles on the cake. Laser light show. Fireworks. A dog will lick his ankle. He’ll sit on my bum knee in that Spider-Man costume he never takes off and pull at my chest hair.
“Happy birthday, kid,” I’ll tell him. “Your turn to save the world.”
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
