Back in the day, my birthday parties were the stuff of legend. Think “Animal House” meets Megadeth and you’ll start to envision the wreckage.
Most of these black-tie affairs took place in San Antonio or just outside the city limits where we hoped to elude the cops while raising six kinds of hell. Flyers were handed out at concerts and bars. Friends called friends. Bonfires were torched, kegs were tapped, cops arrived, cops returned …
I’ll never forget my 25th birthday kegger at Gregg Maston’s land in Selma when Scythe brought neck-snapping death metal to the neighboring cow pastures. I drew the flyer and passed it around Sneakers and other S.A. rock clubs, because nothing less than a volcanic mob scene would make my party a success. Done!
A year earlier, my 24th was literally out in the woods near Canyon Lake (pictured right) where Scythe drained and punished a generator before the cops and a torrential downpour sent everyone scrambling for their cars. I still have a broken drumstick from Richie Gomez.
To this day, people still buy me birthday bottles of Jack Daniels, which I’ve barely touched since I was in my 20s. OK, 30s. Ok, ok … I still enjoy a sip here and there, but I’m long past the traditional Jugs-O-Jack that used to wreak more havoc than a Steelers blitz.
Today is my 44th birthday, which in and of itself is a miracle. By the grace of God and the prayers of my parents, I somehow survived my own stupidity.
And I’m so glad to be here! My life is richer than ever thanks to my beautiful wife, my adorable (and healthy) son, a job that I love and the continued strength of family and friends. The parties are a little tamer these days, but I’m forever young at heart. Fortunately, I have lots of friends who still like to play.
Thank you, friends. And as always, thank you Wildflower. I love you.