Facebook lets me be lazy the way a man in a stereotypical 1950s office can be lazy. Facebook is the digital equivalent of my secretary, or perhaps my wife, yelling at me not to forget to wish someone a happy birthday or to inform me I have a social engagement this evening.
I have an ambivalent relationship with Margaret Thatcher. She came to power in May 1979 – a month before my 11th birthday. I was far too young to have developed a great deal of political awareness. I remember it, though – my mother excited at the dinner table because Britain had its first female prime minister.
First I wanted number seven since my roll number in school was seven. But, someone was already wearing jersey number seven. Then a BCCI manager said I should take 18 since my birthday is on 18 July. At that time, I didn’t know that Virat Kohli also wears number 18.
A true nature is a gloomy monolith, sort of like that old black rotary phone that I had to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Grandpa on. But novelists, damn us, still need true natures – so we can give them to our protagonists. And so readers can vaguely predict how they’ll behave when we trap them in ‘situations’ that they can’t IM their way out of.
I thought it would be cool to Skype with fans on their birthday and spend, like, a half-hour with them. I did a couple of two-hour Skypes. I just hang out with them and play songs and stuff. At first they’re kind of shy, but after a while they open up. I’ve had a lot of people tell me I’m doing something no one has ever done before.
We were probably the last people in the country to get a VCR and we didn’t have cable. There wasn’t any admiration of glamour, no, ‘I want to look like them or have that lifestyle’, because everyone in my town had the same lifestyle. So I didn’t think, ‘Ooh, a movie star’s birthday!’ I just thought, ‘What?’
I wanted to be the next Dana Carvey. This was my ultimate goal. If I ever cut into a birthday cake and made a wish, I would wish to be on ‘Saturday Night Live.’ If I threw a coin into a fountain, I would wish to be on ‘Saturday Night Live.’ If I saw a shooting star, I would wish to be on ‘Saturday Night Live.’
I have a lot of respect for people who really work on their life – they’ve got this great apartment and a good personality, they write the thank-you cards and bake birthday cakes. That’s who I wish I was. When I see people cultivate their own life like that, I admire it.
I grew up going to bakeries in Tel Aviv; that’s where we got our birthday cakes, they were always European baking and butter creams. We have such good baking in Israel, and we have the Diaspora of Jews from all over, and we learned early on to adapt and absorb flavors from all over.
That’s the great thing about New Year’s, you get to be a year older. For me, that wasn’t such a joke, because my birthday was always around this time. When I was a kid, my father used to tell me that everybody was celebrating my birthday. That’s what the trees are all about.
I actually had the pleasure of meeting David Bowie at his 50th birthday party in New York City. I handed him the cassette of ‘Eight Arms to Hold You,’ which I had just got an advance of that day. He very graciously thanked me and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
I’ve died so many times. I’m 65. On my 40th birthday, my girlfriend gave me a reel with ways I had died, whether it was by knife, or electrocution or drowning or being thrown off a building or whatever it might have been. I’ve died a lot of times!
The more Mommy blogs going nuclear over playground etiquette I read and birthday parties of glazed adults munching cupcakes like demoralized zombies I attend, I realize this is what my friends who conceived before me meant by, ‘You just won’t care.’
If you believe in romance, and if you believe in marriage, you also have to believe in divorce. It’s like, with ‘Getting On,’ a lot of people say, ‘I don’t want to watch that. It’s so dark.’ But you can’t just want to go to weddings and children’s birthday parties. You’ve got to witness it all.
I can put my legs behind my head and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Because that’s something that me and my friends used to do when we were in gymnastics class as kids, and I can still do it. I was doing it since I was 8 and 9. They used to call me Gumby. Very bendy.
I have been a frequent air traveler since I was a few months shy of my sixth birthday, when my parents packed me off to boarding school two plane rides away from home. Those days of being willingly handed from air hostess to air hostess as an ‘unaccompanied minor’ made me blase about the rigors of air travel.
Fans are always going out of their way and doing so much, be it my birthday or any festival or occasion or most of the time nothing at all and there couldn’t be a better way than connecting with them personally and giving them access to my world.
My father was one of the fortunate wartime servicemen: he made a full recovery from his injuries, was promoted to captain, survived the war, had a satisfying career as a colonial officer and, eventually, died in February 2002, a month before his 85th birthday.
School was a big source of anxiety for me. I hated school. I have social anxiety, and it developed when I was a kid. I had trouble going to birthday parties. It was always there. I begged my mom to let me be home-schooled at one point for a semester because I was so miserable at school.
In the time of social media, I get lots of wishes. It’s overwhelming! What makes the day most special is the love I get from my fans, who try to make the occasion extra special. Almost 50 days before my birthday, they have started making plans. In fact, I have been receiving letters, too.
I came out at a very early age. I sat my mom down at my 12th birthday party and told her in front of my friends. She said, ‘Baby, mama already knows, and I’m going to love you regardless.’ Once I got my mom’s support, there was nothing else I needed.
When Oscar Niemeyer died on December 5, 2012, ten days before his 105th birthday, he was universally regarded as the very last of the twentieth century’s major architectural masters, an astonishing survivor whose most famous accomplishment, Brasilia, was the climactic episode of utopian High Modern urbanism.
I was standing right behind Marilyn, completely invisible, when she sang ‘Happy birthday, Mr. President.’ And indeed, the corny thing happened: Her dress split for my benefit, and there was Marilyn, and yes, indeed, she didn’t wear any underwear.
I know that might sound silly coming from someone my age, but I remember on my 14th birthday having a crisis like my mom should be having. I kept thinking that I was getting older, and I haven’t really accomplished anything. I remember thinking that I better accomplish something real soon.
I remember for my 18th birthday, I was going to get a tattoo, and I made the mistake of thinking I was a man and telling my father, and he was like, ‘Oh yeah? You better tattoo a new address on your arm, because you’re not living here!’ And that was the end of that discussion.
