This coming Monday, Craig's Hlist enters his 27th year of decadence and shame. One year closer to 30, with no signs of getting wiser or smarter. This year we have no clue as to what to do or where to go, other than see live music and drink too much. But that's a typical weekend anyway and will more than likely be so until we go deaf or die. Here's hoping it's not in that order. The last two birthdays were awesome though, seeing that they were largely planned by an ex-girlfriend who had a keen sense of what are basest needs were. A birthday cake fashioned to look like a Lone Star beer cap, a trip to see the Rolling Stones flick Shine a Light at IMAX, plates full of beef at Taste of Texas, the DVD set of Band of Brothers. You get the idea. We were spoiled. This year we are flying blind and are a little worried. The chick we are sweet on is forsaking us for a trip to Graceland, and we can't very well argue with the King. Plus it's too early for her to see us bent over a toilet with spring rolls barreling out of our throat while we hum Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home." If she proves she can hang, maybe we'll oblige her one day. Music has always played a big part of our celebrations, but none more than our 25th birthday when, for some reason, Boondocks let us DJ our own party with an iPod; bad idea on both our parts. In 2004, when we turned legal drinking age, we were drunkenly seduced by the Godsmack song "Awake" at a Clear Lake bar by a washtub-wielding cover band. We can now admit this foible six years on only because we love all of you and there are no secrets among friends.
Godsmack, "Awake": The morning after our 21st birthday we were told that we were seen screaming that this had been our favorite song, quote "forfuckingever," to whoever who would listen. It's shameful and sad what alcohol can do to you. For the record, it's not our favorite song, and never will be "forfuckingever". Our friends pumping whiskey into our then-inexperienced gullet was the culprit. Eddie Murphy, "Party All The Time": On our 25th birthday upstairs at Boondocks, the girlfriend made a huge cake that had little candy 45s on it. We got so drunk at one point that we were handing cake out to total strangers in between puking into any garbage can we could find. If you remember getting cake from a random dude wearing a leopard print bandana around his neck, then we apologize. We liked this Eddie Murphy song so much that night that we put it on repeat and after three spins the owner of Boons turned off our iPod. It was cool, because by that time we were asleep on the floor anyway.
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Creedence Clearwater Revival. "Lodi": Our 20th birthday was awful. We were in Marine Corps boot camp and on a lockdown thing and couldn't smuggle in real booze, so we drank Listerine all night in the supply closet until we couldn't see straight. Mouthwash is just like really cheap whiskey if you think about it, and is said to be a fave of hoboes and those in treatment centers. And apparently some of America's most elite fighting force considers it a party-starter. This song was playing on the radio in the closet before we nodded off, and it fit our life at that time.
Alkaline Trio, "Private Eye": On our 18th birthday, all we wanted to do was finally buy our own pornography and cigarettes. We didn't care about voting and not being imaginary jailbait anymore to the MILFs around Pearland. Oh no, we just wanted a pack of Lucky Strike Unfiltered and a copy of Club from the corner store by our parent's house. We seem to remember driving to Soundwaves off Montrose, back when it was still the hip vinyl place when Bucky Thuerwachter ran the indie section, to buy Alkaline Trio's just-released From Here To Infirmary with some birthday cash from Grandma. The Doors, "The End": We know turning 27 isn't a big deal to anyone over 27 because you have all already lived it and survived. [Ed. Note: Wait until you hit 33, aka The Jesus Year.] Growing up we were always obsessed with this age, what with all the rockers who have died before they hit 28. Jim Morrison was our age when he bit it, and we think we wanna for a Morrison Paris-era vibe this year. Grow a longer beard, drink gallons of wine, write (more) poetry about our penis, and die in a bathtub with Popeye's leavings surrounding us.