I wish everyday were my birthday, and not just for the cake.  Though the cake is nice.  I mean, who doesn't like cake.   Of course, when your birthday falls on Halloween, as mine does, there is already a cavalcade of candy coursing through your system, rendering the cake a smidge less essential.  Just a smudge.


Today I'm writing in a tea shop.  Old school.  Hundreds of shiny sliver tubes, all labelled with their worldly dry tea leaves, sit on shelves built to house the canisters. There is a shamisen playing on the hidden speakers up in the exposed wooden rafters. It's a mellow place.  On not my birthday, I type as much as I can before getting distracted, and then fiddle around online for a few minutes until I can get myself back on track.  This is not the most productive way to be productive.  It is MC Scat Cat productivity: three steps forward, two steps back.

But on my birthday, I waste much less time.  I get distracted, click over to Facebook, read eight messages of good tidings from long lost friends from high school, Israel, Japan, Australia, even New Jersey -- and that love focuses me back to the task at hand. Apparently getting a constant barrage of online loving for 36 hours (time zones!!!) is an affective counterbalance to the solitary nature of writing.

Which means the only logical conclusion is to find a way to make it my birthday everyday.  If I parcel out each date to my Facebook friends, I should be able to get at least 2 or three good threads going by midday, everyday.  I'll have start working with the volume turned off on my computer to avoid the noise pollution of my Facebook indicator chiming endlessly at the commentary rolling in.  Oh what a life it would be, if everyday were my birthday.

Who wants to take November 1st?