It happened on my birthday. I mean, on my real birthday, 41 years after the day my momma gave birth to me and my daddy exclaimed in horror, “It’s a WHAT?!” That’s when I got the phone call, the subject of which would have led me to declare that day as my birthday no matter what the calendar said.

When Sparky called that morning, I assumed he was calling to wish me a happy birthday. But just seconds into the call, I was reminded that, as one of those folks who is a possessor of a penis, remembering birthdays just ain’t one of his strong suits. He'd called for some other reason.

He stammered and stuttered, each gap in unintelligible speech adding to my heart rate as I awaited the promised life-altering news. Oh I was able to discern the occasional “you’re not going to believe this” and “you’re going to need to sit down,” but these articulated hiccups did nothing to prepare me for what was churning on the other side of that seemingly uncooperative tongue of his. But finally, finally, he was able to deliver the news: “The White Stripes are coming!”

Holy. Crap.

I should’ve been sitting down.

I became light-headed. Dizzy. And while I was looking up in the sky, hoping to catch my breath and prevent my falling down and flailing about on the ground in ecstasy like a mud-colored dog who’d found a sun-ripened, three-days-dead skunk, I noticed that my tongue had become strangely afflicted with the contagion that had vexed Sparky.

“When is the…where is…I can’t even…do you know if…?”

He’d recovered by then, but he wasn’t sufficiently healthy to have forgotten the parlance of the ill. “They’re not on sale yet, but it’s at Sloss Furnace at the end of July.”

On my birthday!

I checked and checked and checked and, as it turned out, the tickets went on sale the next day which just so happened to be...my birthday!

I ordered them online, three in all, one for myself…one for my son…and one just because…after all, there is no better way to celebrate your birthday than having an extra ticket to see The White Stripes, right?

And then I waited.

And waited.

It was on my birthday when they finally came in. And I immediately pulled the tickets out of the envelope and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed them all over myself. Which proved to be a problem because, I mean, who knew there would be other folks at the post office?

“They’re my White Stripes tickets!” I explained, just as I became aware of some paper cuts in a few of the more sensitive areas of my body.

(I left before the police arrived.)

Then I prowled these internets, trying to ensure that I'll get my copy of Icky Thump the very day it comes out. I know it will sell out ‘round here before I get back to town from work, but pre-ordering it online would delay its arrival by two, maybe three, days. I’d surely die by then.

So I called Oz.

And explained this dire predicament.

“I work out of town so I need to make sure that, when I get in that night, you’ll still have a copy. For me.”

“I’m not sure that I can reserve a copy for you.”

“But…but…it’s coming out on my BIRTHDAY.”

“I’ll check and see if I can.”

“Plus, having it on the day it comes out, that’ll make me the coolest kid on my block, right?”

“I guess that depends what block you live on, lady. Now can I put you on hold for a second?”

Asshole.

But just the same, he reserved a copy for me. To be picked up on my birthday.

So. Don't forget. The White Stripes. On my birthday.  July 30th.  Sloss Furnace. And if you are itching for something to kick off that weekend, the weekend that is sure to be one for the history books for The 'Ham's music fans, THE greatest live rock band you will ever see will be at Bottle Tree on July 28th. You should come see them too because, well, we'll be there. Celebrating my birthday.