On Tuesday, I turned 23 years old. My Michael Jordan year would be ushered in with multiple glasses of Lagunitas IPA and an hour-and-a-half set from Andrew Bird and the Hands of Glory.
I didn’t have a large knowledge of Andrew Bird before the show started. I’ve heard some tunes from a buddy of mine, and liked what I heard, but all in all I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I was, however, pleasantly surprised.
At about 8:30, Andrew took the stage by himself, to do a few songs of looping a violin, whistling and singing his heart out. He made that violin make sounds that I didn’t know the violin was capable of making, creating the illusion that a full band was up there, one that my short girlfriend bought in to.
As the daylight faded, the wind picked up and it was just perfect. Here I am, in the other-worldly center of the center of the universe: Central Park in New York City. I’m smoking weed as the breeze hits my face, luckier than almost anyone else I know, watching world-class talent on one of the most monumental stages the world has to offer. Happy birthday, indeed.