I am now one year older.

There's really nothing groundbreaking associated with being 17, except that you're another year closer to being 18. The additional year doesn't feel any different, as much as people keep asking how it feels to be another year older. Banalities have been spoken ad nauseum, among other birthday formalities I would very much like to avoid.

Tonight the family will dine at Olive Garden, a kind of safari in itself, like a bunch of rednecks at a science museum. We go nearly every year, and the experience doesn't ever get any less awkward. I am always thankful for the waiters, the blessed patient people they are when it comes time to order. It's already a stretch that we're eating out (Mom: "Why pay money to go eat somewhere else when I can make the same thing better at home?"), and the parents don't usually make a point of being all that gracious with the waiters; the scowl on their faces whenever anything extra is suggested (May I interest you in our desserts this evening?) is equally mortifying and amusing. And the waiters are awfully understanding and patient with them.

The great difficulty I have with birthdays, particularly my own, is due to my resolve to be as unremarkable as possible. Considering how inconvenient other peoples' birthdays are to me, I figure the same is true for mine. It's not humility so much as it is a dislike of scrutiny. Whatever critical interests people have are magnified ten-fold on a birthday, to the point where I am left in a sort of emotional limbo, trying to sustain a universally acceptable posture and facial expression. And then I'm told to relax and not be so tense.

Opening presents is always an adventure, especially this year since I didn't request anything in particular. I can't say I've ever really gotten a "bad gift" as defined by most normal people. Practicality is usually a plus when opposed to something nice but completely useless. As much as the giftee is scrutinized, the gifter is impressed upon immensely as well: a good indicator of what people think of you is what they get you on your birthday.

I don't anticipate anything remarkable this year, just an occasion to mark another year of life. I also don't plan to waste blog space and wax sentimental for those who crave sappy inspirational birthday memories. I'm going to eat Italian with Brazilians, that's all the exciting it gets.

With all this talk about global warming, I wonder how people account for the fact that it's mid-May and it's still not spring.

I mean, I was out riding my bike today (yes, I do leave the house on rare occasions), and I was wondering why I was shivering in my zip-up band hoodie and cargo pants. Yes, we can always invoke Ohio as the epicenter of climactic irregularity, but this is ridiculous even for Ohio. If the penguins and polar bears are having such a hard time in the poles, they should just move to the mid-western United States.

People everywhere are no doubt in a fix as to what to get their mothers for Mother's Day, and the guys in marketing don't seem to be helping.

I personally have a hard time believing that anyone would get their mother, say, a new cell phone for Mother's Day. The cell phone companies are constantly advertising new pink, frilly cell phones in order to make them seem as ubiquitous as that Elizabeth Arden compact you gave your mother last year. But the whole premise of gifting, of all things, a cell phone seems just ludicrous. Putting a pink bow on a year's worth of cell phone bills doesn't make them seem any more desirable.

Car dealers have also boasted of all the great deals you can get when you buy your mother that car she's always wanted. Seriously. To anyone who's considering getting their mother a car or two for Mother's Day, make sure to put those gas receipts in a really nice envelope.

And then there are gifts that are simply absurd no matter what kind of gift-giving convictions you have. Gifts.com includes as one of their top gifts a "pretty eyeglass case," in the event that your mother forgot about her deteriorating vision.

If you want my opinion, I think a thoughtful card is always a winner. Especially if it's in a nice envelope.

I have never cared much for poetry.

When one thinks of poetry, often one's thoughts go to dark, hazy spaces with the chanting of someone in dark clothing and a questionable state of consciousness. Poetry's reputation has been significantly dimmed in the shadow of voluminous tomes filled with the prose of the linguistically gifted, not to mention the incalculable mass of overly dramatic amateurs who have a habit of speaking through the genitals and assuming poetic license. One can name only a handful of truly worthwhile poets in the midst of a sea of phonies who can only aspire to claim such a title.

I find it less than surprising that poetry should be regarded with such disdain by anyone except the truly erudite, and I suspect that even they don't care for it much. Poetry depends a great deal upon the experiences of the individual reader; when the average reader experiences little else apart from television and sleep, poetry tends to take on a very dry and cryptic nature. Its language is so condensed and focused that it relies on outside experience to make it significant. The writer of prose, however, provides his own convenient microcosm upon which the reader can depend for a point of reference for the character's experience.

I am personally resolving to read more poetry. There is much that can be gained from it, like new insights and perspectives and experiences, but besides that it is simply inherently fulfilling once it is understood. Like any inexperienced art lover, I'm sure I'll be met with a mixture of good and bad poetry until I have enough of a sense of what to look for. I can at least hope that my experience as an adolescent among adolescents has prepared me enough for all of the bad poetry.