Today is Tom’s 35th birthday, though in practice, Tom is closer to 65.
Last night, not knowing it was 11:45PM, I wished Tom happy birthday.
“I’m still 34, bruh,” he said.
I patted his back, thinking he was ill prepared for the realities of old age, but Tom’s been easing himself into it since Sunday. He kicked off birthday week by buying himself an analogue record player, which is slowly making passage from Japan, and a handful of classical music records from a musty smelling store in the Village.
In preparation for spring, he also purchased a linen shirt from Club Monaco. Full-price, because Tom doesn’t do sales. At 35 going on 65, he doesn’t have the time.
In terms of entertainment, we’ve gone back in time, to even before Tom was born, perhaps to around the time his soul began to form.
I’m talking of course, about 1975, when “Fawlty Towers,” a two season, twelve-episode classic British sitcom starring John Cleese was released. They’re short, half hour episodes, easily binge-watched in three or four days. Tom’s already seen them, so it shouldn’t matter the rate at which I devour them but Tom, being older, wants to savor them. Like rereading letters from a hilarious old friend.
The real celebrations start tonight, but last night we made the impromptu decision to meet in Soho. After much wandering looking for a reasonably priced bite to eat, we found Mr. Donahue’s. With its intimate high-end diner feel and well-done homey dishes like meatloaf and roast chicken, it is now one of our favorite restaurants.
After dinner, we went home and took a break from “Fawlty Towers” to watch “The Discovery,” a new Netflix film about what happens when a scientist proves the existence of an afterlife. (Hint: Lots of people are curious but the curiosity has the same effect it had for cats).
The film was promising, but paired with Tom’s keen, running commentary on the lackluster performances by Robert Redford (“He looks like a baseball mitt”), a bovine Jason Segal (“What an emo little bitch”) and platinum blonde, stone-faced Rooney Mara (“Daria ass bitch”), it was clear “The Discovery” was a disappointing, predictable update on the manic-pixie dream girl formula.
“We just watched Garden State: Two,” Tom said, as the credits rolled. And I, amazed by Tom’s pithy, spot-on assessment, marveled at the wisdom that comes with age.
Anyway, tonight we sushi. Back when I was employed full-time, I made reservations at Tanoshi Sushi Sake Bar, thinking I would treat my Booboo to something fancy.
Now, the New York Department of Labor will treat us.
Happy Birthday, Tom!