To A Girl On Her Birthday

My wonderful friend, Kath, is having a birthday today. She is, among other things, full of surprises.

One evening we were standing in her kitchen listening to the radio while she cooked something delectable and a song came on. In all likelihood it was from the Footloose soundtrack. It was definitely Heart. I remarked about these fine rocking chicks of our youth and Kath giggled and replied, "I've never told you? I don't believe that women can really rock." She of her rocking goodness, she with her vast knowledge of all things both rock and roll, she of the rock solidity didn't think chicks could rock? I didn't have much to say. I have no knowledge base from which to speak and was so knocked off my mark I couldn't even fake it. We spoke of cheese and wine and dogs with bad attitudes and I'll bet she doesn't even remember it happened.

This morning on the train I was thinking of Kath, it being her birthday and the celebration thereof being the light at the end of my dreary day (it's snowing y'all, that shit ain't funny). I had my iPod on and was dozing on the train when some slapdick wanders into the car and starts droning on about how he's here to witness that Jesus blah blah blah, saving, soul, eggs, bunnies, fishcakes. I don't know, I just knew that I didn't want to hear even one little monotone syllable more of it or I was going to get angry and my day didn't need angry. I flipped the switch on the iPod and scrolled the volume up to 11 and what to my wondering ears should appear? The incomparable Ms. Deborah Harry belting out my childhood favorite, Call Me. There was no angry and there might even have been a little seat dancing and I didn't have to bear witness to anything except the wonder that is Blondie.

So, I have this to say to you on your birthday my dear friend, "Happy Birthday!" and "Really? Not even Debbie Harry?" I'll see you tonight.