While Mr. B and I were in New Orleans, it was cold. Super-cold. Cold enough that we hadn’t planned for it. Isn’t the South always supposed to be perma-warm like that spot on the floor that always gets the sun?
Long story short, we had to buy clothes on vacation.
First things first. Oh, the irony:
Then, for five seconds, this was an option:
Until I realized I had become every woman I see at the Russian store. And I became terrified.
Why do Russian women love fur? What is it that brings out the fur coats, the fur collars, the leather? And why do American women hate them?
“In 1986, I wanted two things. Freedom and meat. There was a deficit on meat. And there was a deficit on freedom, too,” begins the quirky 2011 movie My Dad is Baryshnikov (мой папа барышников), which Mr. B and I saw last night at the Philadelphia Jewish Film Festival. ”Although,” the adult narrator continues to remember, “it was exactly in this year that we first heard of a word called perestroika.”
Mr. B and I have been wanting to plant a tree for a LONG time. Well, it’s more accurate to say that I’ve wanted to plant a tree. Mr. B has not been pushing as hard since he realized he would be doing a majority of the planting.
Everyone loves Okudzhava, but I hate his irritating singing voice, which he probably would have agreed with, as he refused to acknowledge his singing and playing in favor of his beautiful poetry.
Regina Spektor transforms this song into something raw and desperate.
Translated beautifully into rhyming English by Alec Vagapov with a few tweaks by me:
While the earth still turns, and while the light is bright,
Oh Lord, please give everyone what he or she hasn’t got.
Give the timid a horse to ride, give the wise a bright head,
Give the fortunate enough money and about me please don’t forget.
While the world is still turning, Lord, You are omnipotent,
Let those striving for power wield it to their heart’s content.
Give a break to the generous, at least for a day or two,
Pray, give Cain repentance, and remember me, too.
I know You are almighty, I believe You are wise
Like a soldier killed in a battle believes he’s in paradise.
Like every eared creature believes, oh, my Lord, in You,
Like we believe desperately, doing something, not knowing what we do.
Oh Lord, oh my sweet Lord, My emerald-eyed One, You’re Good.
While the world is still turning, wondering, why it should,
While it has got sufficient fire and time, as You see,
Give each man a little bit and don’t forget about me.