Send in the Clowns (before The Poison Sets In)
This was supposed to be a Sleepy, Silly Sunday. I intended to talk up my recent night out on the town with our dear friend, Kim-- aka kmarcus. And I will. But here I am, Miss Cockeyed Optimist spouting and spewing forth all the blues I've tucked inside my tongue for safekeeping, in fear of self-implosion. (You should know I always received high marks for sharing in kindergarten.)
Instead of controlling my mouthpiece and spreading sunshine all over the place, I've donned the mask of sorrow and acted out my personal Greek tragedies on this public stage. Class clown, you say. Make us laugh. Warm up the crowd, you third-rate comic relief, you. {}

But there's an undercurrent of creeping darkness on this eerily picture-perfect Sunday. Instead of giggles and gaffes from my house to yours, I'm selling a bad case of the blahs. I'm signing family wills this week (even though none of us can utter the words out loud; yes, I come from a long line of deniers and morbidly-obsessed types.) I'm driving parents to funeral homes and shiva calls to bid farewell to lost friends. I'm time warping back to days of young and restless love. Songs in the key of my life remind me of places and people I've loved-- and lost. Word of comedian Richard Jeni's alleged suicide is hitting the online news sites as I speak and it makes me sad to think the class clowns are usually the saddest souls in the crowd-- when the curtains fall and the lights go down.

So... make way for depressed ducklings. Flapping winds of misery have crisscrossed all day long and Yours Truly has long believed that... Sharing is Caring.

I hope you can put up with me while I wallow in the tears of Mother Nature's joke on us.

No one should die on a beautful Sunday.

My dearest friend lost one of her dearest, life long friends late last night. Pneumonia turned into theatre of the absurd complications and his body shut down, organ by organ. Leaving out the intimate and graphic details, after three weeks of life support, his last breaths came today when there was nothing left to do but let him go. Young People aren't supposed to die today. They should be out walking their dogs, picking up gallons of milk at the supermarket, or slumming around the house in their sweat pants and tees. (I hesitate even talking about this loss in light of docstymie's recent brush with the painful loss of a treasured friend. Please, Doc. Forgive me if my meanderings seem trivial and out-of-place and skewering towards the macabre. I certainly do not want to re-open your heart and make you suffer all over.) G-d willing none of us should ever get this close to death but when we do--when we lose a friend that carried so much of our souls in his heart-- letting go of them is letting go of pieces of who we are. Death happens. I know. I pretend otherwise but those drumbeats circle ever closer as we age ourselves. What once felt like forever now seems to have a time stamp on it and I do not cope well with endings. (See my earlier LJ post dated today.) {}

I think I have just discovered why I hate finishing books. I want to live. I Want Beginnings. I don't want to ever say "The End." {}

STOP THE MERRY GO ROUND. I want to get off!

Okay. I hear your grunts and groans.

I'll have mercy on you. {}

You need a break from me. I know it. I'm killing the party. I'm the evil ant at the 4th of July picnic. Step on me now and get back to your joy.

What we need is an overdose of sweet soul, rock and roll sugar. Liz--lizjonesbooks -- shared her vision of sugar-induced creativity with us the other day and it was a beaut. That was my brain after a dozen Dunkin Donuts. ;> (If life was fair, throw me a glass of milk and a Bavarian Creme and I'd be the poster child for The Happiest Kid on the planet.)

You're thinking: "Oh g-d no. Not another Bruce video."

Hold it right there, buster. Don't go there.

But no. It's not Bruce.

It's the first music that turned me on and made me think there was life beyond "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Ring Around the Rosie." It was the first music that seeped into my burgeoning, blossoming baby-eyed body and pricked the sleeping bear of my feminine identity, so to speak. (I hesitate to use the "bear" analogy when we have the likes of Flush Limbaugh and Scooter "Just Waiting to be Pardoned by Incurious George" Libby dipping into the same image bank.)

But my little bear brings you goodies that are just right. Pour some sugar on me, honey. Pour some sugar on me, baby.

Are you with me?

Before there was Bruce, before there was David Cassidy (eeeee) and Donny Osmond (eeiiii) and Jack Wild (the Artful Dodger in Oliver), there was... Archie.

Not bad for a mad crush at 7 years old. ;>



-Pamela, wondering if a Veronica Lodge-type is a scriptwriter for the television show Ugly Betty ;}