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Sunday, December 5, 2010

Bee, it’s your birthday!

Little sister, you are probably in Milan skipping presto across a piazza, humming out of the Hank Williams songbook. Me, I’m in a goddamn snowstorm, so pick up your phone, will ye. My fingers are stalagmites as is, and if you don’t hurry up, these little tweety birds pecking crumbs at my feet’ll get me so soft hearted, I may go all Holden Caulfield on you again.

Voicemail

Ok then. Here goes: Joyeux Anniversaaaire ♪♫♫♫ hmm mm mm hmm hm mm ♪♫♫ joyeux AAAnIIIversairUUh ♪♪♪♫♫ ♪♪ joyeux AAAnIIversaaaaaaaire ♫♫

Happy birthday, little sister. Happy birthday.

I still remember with fondness your birthday party way back, how you sent that clod from Belgrade running with a projectile-to-crotch. I believe it was your clog that time, but you were just as precise with bottines, flip-flops or velcro sneaks. I also remember with fondness – when it was not turned on me – your evil eye, that laser-dart from your pupils, feared across Zagreb by all youths under ten. So be careful, Don Juans on the piazza, she’s a feisty little miss, my sister.

And I am most fond of her. Especially when her laser is turned off and she is humming tunes like now. Then she a spark of light in this great dust cloud we inhabit, and which – to your great annoyance , I know, little sis – we must share with just too many darned dullards, weasels and clods. Aren’t you lucky to have a brother like me then, huh? Ha!

Happy birthday.

Your brother,

Lui