For at least three years Eduard Khil's oddly censored song has been spontaneously, whole-heartedly sung, at top volume by my children, and by my children and their friends. Suddenly, something triggers their inner Russians, and in baritones, I am regaled with those words, and the image of that man grinning like no one has grinned ever before. How can something so odd, so disturbing, actually start to feel _almost_ endearing? We will remember Eduard Khil, fondly, grinning, and singing his song. Rest in peace Mr. Trololo.
*If I had a picture of a U.S. American Cowboy, or a woman knitting for a cowboy, or of Khil, himself, I would have included it in this post. The best I could think of, at 4:30 in the morning, is Alex's sketch of Russian author Fydor Dostoyevsky. He did this in 2010, and called it: Dostoyevskyeskyesky. Like Eduard Khil's singing trololo, it has an amusing resonance.