Taken September 6, 1978. I had requested a cake shaped like Bert and Ernie, and my mother painstakingly handcrafted this cake from scratch, using hand-colored frosting and black licorice for hair. My only memory from the day: I was ripshit because I had requested a piece of Ernie’s smile, but mom gave it to my neighbor Shannon instead (because she was a guest).
Now that I’m an adult, I get whatever fucking piece of cake I want.
Last night N and I had a celebratory birthday-eve dinner in Greenwich Village. Greil Marcus was just a few tables away. It’s reassuring that a cultural critic can afford to eat at expensive restaurants on days other than his birthday. It gives me hope that someday I’ll be properly compensated for my brilliant observations.