Sunday, May 21, 2006

Feliz cumpleaños.

We celebrated Craig's 40th birthday last night at Chez Piper.

Grace made sure we knew what we were in for as we arrived.

There were quite a few "extra special" guests including Craig's sister, Ann, in from Spartanburg, Mary Love +1, and Dennis up from Jackson.

Here's a look at Grace's 1960s inspired spread: Swedish Meatballs and Cheese Fondue in a proper German pot and using real Kirschwasser!

Craig even got some specialty napkins!

Grace designed a Birthday Bingo game involving questions about Craig like R2 "Craig is obsessed with what chore?", I2 "Craig ate the last one of these in front of a guest once.", and G4 "Craig loves to eat this when Grace goes out of town."

Following the party's decades of Craig's life theme; prizes were from the 1960s. As the first Bingo achiever I got a tin of Spam®! Other prizes included Susan's French's green beans for that casserole and the Astronaut's "favorite," Tang!

Here some forlorn gifts await Craig's tender mercies.

Susan and Bill gave fisherman Craig a new tackle box full of gear.

Craig and the King salute each other!

After opening this gift, Craig began to explain the various subtleties of the changing song structure of "How Many More Times" on Led Zeppelin I:
You see Bonham here lays down this wicked drum solo at the 4:43 mark which totally changes everything . . .

We closed the party out with cake and a 40 candle wish.

1 comment:

Coirí Filíochta said...

Happy Birthday

I am a penniless poet in Dublin and can write to order. I work in all forms and am one of the hot up and coming poets in Ireland, so if you need a verse or two drop me a line and get in at the beginning.

I grew up in the womb of West Lancs, where
skinheads dwelt in bushes by train tracks and
cut childrens' heads off if ever they dared
go under the tunnel after the last
light had sunk which signalled it was time to
come home. Playtime finished at sunset when
I was seven and in the darkness spooks
ghosts, ghouls or Father Christmas could descend
into the night depending on what time
of year it was. Gavin Hesketh once said
he had seen Santa ploughing through the sky
with Prancer and Rudolph making his way
to Nigel McLoughlin's on Ravenscroft
and I believed him, though Dad said he made
it up and what had really flown across
the roof of their house was his mum on her
broomstick. That year Gavin got a Chopper
and we started playing Top Trumps together
in the back of Dad's broken down car
which he parked in the garage. This was where
I would listen to the match from Fortress
Anfield, soaking up the statistics like
sapling roots drawing strength from the depths
of a spring laden earth.

Underneath it all we talk
over and above what is;
so why not stay a while
and let me dream of life with you.

I will not make a hollow pledge
of empty words that promise
something I can't give.
The wind
The sea
or starlight's shimmer on your hair.

The bond I undertake to seek
exchanges comforts found
from understanding
and being understood

when I gaze upon your form
I see emotion as a mirage,
you the one love
who will never truly
stand before me

your flesh
can be only touched
in dreams,
when reality comes alive
in epic tales, played out nightly,
or in that half snooze state
I sometimes get to fool around with

a world where my desire
for you can be indulged.


Two rotund balloon flare shapes,
baby on back
swaddled in white matching veil hoods,
fish stall crawl it seems
towards a dog rabbit whelp
heading east.
Further up the rails
an elongated tip toe straight
backed ballerina's eye, frozen
mid twirl, darts out sandwiched
between mountain point and plateau
buffered loose by bottle jug geometric
fawn and fading blue,
becoming deeper closer to the beach
blown sun scene
atop of a white washed cottage
West of the Van Gough central taper
splash and blurscape.

A maul duab knife scrape
of mermaid valley moon aglow
next to a rope stretched
and sun crazed boudhran player
seated in daze shot yellow facing the call of lunar boy's
ghostly pipe blowing into the scrub
behind a flower cat disguise of
snow board street lamp,
and see saw cart clunk line dancing men in suits who play on
above the thoroughbred goodtimers
seeking access.

And level with the boat toss in blue and white
dreamy harvesters and pedestrians
ascend daisy bridge.


Remember when we laughed at life square on,
in days existing now as only memories held inside,
distanced from this moment
by rotation measure time
we'll never halt
or with any words define?

Words will conjure images
and spark all sorts of trains of thought
careering through the mind,
like kaleidoscopic pictures,
but these we only glimpse upon in passing
with internal eyes
that swiftly frame in wordless abstract
any meaning they divine.

Some things lay beyond
where conscious grasp can't reach,
for time, like truth, is each our own,
unfolds unique to one and all
and lives are lived as days have gone,
no two the same
beyond the passing of horizons by the sun.

And should the echoes of our laughter then return,
when suns now set
outweigh the suns for rising,
will they live with those we leave behind,
when our stream of time no longer flows
and lips of life cease smiling?