An idiot once said, “We must laugh in spite of awful sorrows if we are to laugh at all.” I actually agree with that, but my strict code of self-deprecation requires that I call myself an idiot. There is so much that is good in life, like pot roast and a cool breeze as a front blows in on a hot day and blustery, cool, grey autumn mornings that are electric with mystery. There is also, however, great sadness and sorrow in the world. You have to figure out how to synthesize the two into a quality life. I think it was Plato who said, “You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both and there you have the facts of life.” Or maybe that was Aristotle. It doesn’t matter. The point is this: A funny thing happened on the way to the grave.
I have trouble remembering what I’ve promised to various people in my life so I’ve started carrying a Sharpie and scribbling notes onto people’s foreheads as I talk to them. Most people don’t take it very well, but one person just kept talking like nothing was happening. I was so pleasantly surprised that I drew a star on her forehead, and a smiley face. Also I put a small “1” in superscript and wrote a note on her foot.
I went to a clown funeral. People lined up to view the body, all decked out in full clown regalia. Most of the flower arrangements squirted you if you got too close. The eulogist mimed his tribute, until he was overcome with tears and had to accept a long stream of handkerchiefs and a pair of polka-dotted boxers from a pallbearer.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re you. Someone has to be.
Later. Love.
