1988. I was still pretty much the new kid at... Nash Central Middle School in Rocky Mount, NC (had to Google that). I was creeping up on 200 pounds, had an unkempt thatch of hair, and at least one Roger Rabbit t-shirt. Not my best year.

So I’m sitting in homeroom-- Ms. Flowers? Something-- and three girls come in and head over to me. Smiling, beaming. Jennifer something. Who else. Tammy! Tammy Gantt. Tammy and I would get friendly the next year and the one after-- it was her DOOLITTLE tape that got me into The Pixies so, y’know, when the revolution comes, she’s totally spared. I can’t recall the third girl. Anyway.

On clouds of 14-year-old girl perfume and hormones they drift up the aisle of desks, smiles and hips and bras and, oh lord, they’re coming over to me with a cake.

“Happy Birthday!” they’re grinning and giggling and holy shit, who are these girls, and how did they know it was my birthday? Jesus, I might cry. I think my face is burning. I think my face is ACTUALLY BURNING. DON’T CRY. BE COOL.

I want to say I asked things like-- how did you know? Who are you marvelous angelic-y angels and how is it you care about my birthday, me, who hasn’t said three things to you all the entire year, who know one knows, who really needs to lay off the Soft Batch cookies and not talk about comic books so much--

--but I’m pretty sure I just stuttered and stammered. Or just sort of moaned in a terrified teenage way. Yeah. Probably.

“Bwwhhhhuuuuurrrgggg,” I ululated at these angelic-y angels of homeroom and immediately covered my lap with nineteen textbooks totally cool and casual.

“What?” sneered one who wasn’t Tammy over the sound of my exploding boner like I’d just crapped a rat into her Jordache handbag. “Not you. It’s Jon Grainger’s birthday.”

Jon Grainger, stick thin, tall like tall things, funny, outgoing, everything that wasn’t me in quite possibly every single way. The Anti-Me. And he was sitting right behind me. Maybe homeroom was alphabetical? Then why wasn’t Tammy there? I dunno. Whatever. He was behind me.

Too. It was Jon Grainger’s birthday too.

And that’s how, twenty years ago today, I met my best friend.

Happy Birthday, Jonny. This was the first picture of you I could find, and this is what happens when it’s 3 AM and I don’t particularly feel like writing IRON MAN.

blogged from my pants:

Thanks Brando