Big Daddy Paul

Some people like to sew. Others enjoy backpacking or tinkering around with dead bodies to find out a cause of death. There are tribes in Africa that chase around rodents in a bizarre hybrid of lunch and soccer. Me? I enjoy celebrating my birthday. Each year, when my birthday comes around, I plan weeklong festivities so that everyone gets a chance to appreciate my fabulousness and drink lots of booze. This year was no different. I went to Las Vegas for my birthday. Amy had a conference there, and instead of dealing with me guilting her about how she abandoned me on my birthday, she invited me to join her. I gladly accepted and here is what I did to treat myself on my day of days:

Amy had an 8 a.m. session at her conference, and instead of bemoaning the early wake up call and the sudden onset of “all-alone-ness,” I went large. I decided that I would treat myself to a breakfast of chicken wings, french fries and beer. I love chicken wings like librarians love comfortable shoes, so watching the world cup soccer match and scarfing down wings and beer was the perfect way to begin my day.

This is Las Vegas?

Fortified with liquid courage from the beer, I headed out to the golf course for a round of golf at a posh Las Vegas resort course. One of the more interesting things about golf is that you get to meet a variety of different of people when you play, and this is especially true in Las Vegas. While there, I played with some New York investment bankers, a 20 year golf phenom who plays for the UNLV golf team, and a couple of toothless Texans whose favorite word seemed to be, “Dangit!”

I finished up at the golf course and rushed home for a quick nap in the room, followed by a massage that Amy set up for me. I have had a recent glut of male masseuses recently, so I was very glad to walk in the massage room to find a woman, even if she appeared to be a long lost relative of the Texas Dangit brothers I met on the course. The massage was pure bliss, save my stress over almost getting an erection when the masseuse spent five minutes rubbing the inside of my thighs. Luckily, I was pretty gassy after eating chicken wings and drinking beer all day, so instead of playing out fantasies of shtooping the masseuse, I focused single-mindedly on not farting. Worked like a charm!

From there, Amy and I had dinner at a outrageously fancy restaurant, Joel Robuchon. Mr. Robuchon was voted chef of the century and has three Michelin, stars, which simply means dude can cook. Our dinner was a ten course food orgy. The highlights for me were a langoustine ravioli with black truffles and foie gras butter, roast lobster and caramelized sea urchin, and duck breast and seared foie gras with cherries and almonds. It’s the kind of food where you can taste how much work went into each dish and I cherished each and every bite.

We even decided to have the restaurant’s sommelier pair glasses of wine with each course of our meal. It was a good deal more expensive to go this route, but the results were fantastic. The wines were chosen to bring out the buttery-ness of a sauce, the soy in the rice, or the richness of a meat. The sommelier used words like “minerality” or “acidity” to describe the pairings, but I was so stuffed and drunk that I could only reflect that the food and wine went together like pigs and blankets, a comment which, like my gas in the massage room, I kept to myself.

One of the best things about the meal was the number of ridiculous choices the restaurant offered. The bread cart had 30 different kinds of bread, all fresh and warm. We each had an appetizer, soup, two entrees, dessert, a choice of 30 cheeses and a meringue cake (with two kinds of ice cream inside for my birthday!) Just when we thought we were done, they brought a confectionary cart around filled with over 30 chocolates, pastries, and pretty much every other high sugar treat in the world. I didn’t need to eat three truffles, a praline candy and an eclair, but, then again, I didn’t need a dozen wings for breakfast either. That’s the joy of my birthday, I got to do it all, and it was one perfect day.

Thanks to my special lady for inviting me to Las Vegas. Amy, I love you dearly!

We attended two children’s birthday parties this weekend. This is still novel for us as a) we don’t know that many children, and b) parents of the children we do know don’t like me all that much. I hear horror stories of parents in a seemingly endless loop of birthday parties, often leaving one to go to another. With so many parties to attend, I thought it a good idea to provide some do’s and don’ts for kids parties.

DO have a drink if one is offered to you. DO NOT become the drunkest person at the party. If your significant other has to stop you from hitting on the other moms and dads at the party, you’ve had too much. Stay one drink behind the host and you’ll be OK.

DO make sure to play with the kids at the party. DO NOT try to scare them. Frightened children evacuate their bowels and cry, and neither is appropriate for this type of party. Peek-a-boo and keep away are acceptable. Chasing kids with a kitchen knife is not.

DO make polite conversation with the other adults at the party. DO NOT try to conduct business. If you hand me your business card at a four-year-old’s birthday party, I am going to wipe my kid’s nose with it. Don’t tell me about your exciting business idea and I won’t chase your kid around with a knife. That is the deal.

DO NOT tell the parents of the birthday child what you actually think about them. DO say something remotely positive which is mostly true. It’s their day to shine. Don’t fuck it up with the truth.

DO NOT stop your kid from tackling the birthday boy. DO make sure that the birthday boy is cool with it.

DO NOT ever find yourself using the following words during a conversation: “My Nipples. Colonoscopy. Misunderstood Nazi.” You’ll regret it. DO try and use the following action verbs: “Well bred. Hornswoggle. Britches.” OK, some of those aren’t action verbs, but so what? That reminds me: DO NOT correct people’s grammar. Remember, I’ve got a knife and I know how to use it. Leave me be.