A song for your birthday

A song for your birthday

On your birthday I want to be together again
The others’ birthdays are all vague to me
Hahaha, I say, I’m bad with names and dates, you guys
And start getting drunk in too much of a hurry.

An old fortuneteller said the whips of hell been chasing me
But it was when I was extra good that you took off your belt
What the hell do those bitches know anyway?
Slavic women swear by them – which would explain a lot.

They say you throw some impressive shadow, babe,
Giants can’t help it if all their gestures are grand
That’s why your ladies-in-waiting carry poison in their rings
While you let your pets sharpen their teeth on your throne.

Power is power, was it the heat of your whisper in my ear –
Or just summer creeping up the back stairs again?
Those grass stains never did come out of my jeans
My mother has her own score to settle with the delivery man.

I’m a big girl all the way, but I bite the pillow at night
It was you who taught me that some stories must wait to be told
Those seeds of the future you brought me on your tongue –
I kissed the red clay ground and still wait for them to grow.

Baby, do you remember, stars dropping like recon units from the sky
You and I, the hood of the car cooling, transferring energy to us
I didn’t know this kind of beauty was even possible
Let alone that it was a product of the laws of physics.

You didn’t know your strength, I didn’t know my weakness
We got by alright. Killer, painter, singer, soldier, moneychanger you were
Scientist, dreamer, reaper, slaver, shaman and winemaker
And me in your lap, braiding roses and rattlesnakes into my hair.

Baby, on your birthday, it was always you who gave the gifts
Some I wanted, some you pressed into my hand anyway
And when your sleazebag accountant said the balance was due
I put my hair up and decorated the sidewalk with my bags

I had a dream I was in the backseat with Nabokov
Hot leather stuck to my bare legs
Your smile in the rearview, those expensive teeth
Asking – Darlin, will you spring for the gas?

Rules are only for children and good Protestants
You said when I saw you last, teetering on the stair
I had that funny walk and I have it still
Ain’t no room inside me for a bigger affair.

A Norwegian TV show does “Let It Be.” Succeeds.

When you first watch this, you’re not quite sure what it is you’re seeing – but you know it’s freaking awesome. I mean, Sheryl Lee shows up. And Leslie Nielsen (RIP). AND STEVE GUTTENBERG!!!!!!!!!!!! And they’re all digitally superimposed onto a beach, singing one of the best songs of all time.

The TV show, apparently, has a retro theme and is dedicated to profiling people who were pretty famous back in the day, but are mostly straight up chilling out of the public eye nowadays. Or, you know, straight up chilling to the extent that such a thing is possible (in the case of Pam Anderson, Mickey Rourke, etc.).

I don’t know whose idea it was to bring “Let It Be” into all of this, but that person deserves a Nobel Prize in a category they need to make up exclusively for such attacks of random genius. I mean, this video made me smile when Tonya Harding appeared. The people who made it knew what they were doing. Ave.

I don’t love this song any less now that I’m knocked up

In fact, I kinda love it more.

And I’m totally smug. Totally.

Though this doesn’t stop me from making all sorts of jokes about how damn lucky this kid is right now, with it being -22 in Moscow, and him or her all snug in my womb. I mean, it’s so cold that your face hurts every time you go outside, but is that a problem for this kid? Hell no, it is not. Does he or she need to worry about purchasing a warmer pair of gloves or not being able to stand around and wait for the bus without his or her ass freezing off? Hell no, he or she does not.

He or she also has someone else eating for him or her, which is convenient and fascinating, really, because I can’t be five minutes late with my latest meal without feeling as though I am about to diiiiiiiiiiiiie. I’m forced to seek food like a rampaging zombie, interrupting meetings with “I’m sorry, I have to eat,” and reappearing after a few minutes with reheated lasagna in tow.

If anything, this kid ought to be smug as well, if not smugger.