I say this because it cannot be 24 years ago this evening that I stood on a street corner outside of a now-defunct hospital in the West End and happily smoked a very bad dime-store cigar with BFF to celebrate this person's birth. But the fucking calendar says it's so. And while you know what I say about the calendar, none of us could have believed for a moment how charmed we would be by her life and times, how brilliant and beautiful and kind she would turn out to be, an incalculably greater gift than (as BFF's mom used to note, not unkindly) our generation deserved.
Happy birthday, Planet, beloved. Sorry about the cluster. I try so very hard not to belabor the point, but it is, of course, your dad's fault. Love rules nonetheless.
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| It is traditional to remind that this child grew up to tell me that "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." |
1 comment:
This, and Lennon. No less than two posts a year, without fail!
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