R.I.P. Soph:

Amidst the hectic activities of Memorial Day came the sad news that Sophia had passed away. Just the day before she was sitting on her porch reading a letter, I waved as I passed her house. A group of us were at the beach that Sunday and continued the cocktails at my house into the early hours of Memorial Day. That’s when we received the call that Sophia was gone.

Never once saw anything but determination from her to beat the odds. Originally given thirty days to live she managed to make it thirty more including her forty-third birthday earlier in May. She maintained a positive upbeat energy throughout the short ordeal. No feeling sorry for herself or allowing others to express pity. I think she dismissed the possibility that she was going to die or created the illusion of such. She wanted everyone around her to be comfortable and happy so, “We’ll have none of that kind of talk.”

Soph and I were guilty of the same guilty pleasure that of partaking in a little smoke. I had stopped by a few weeks earlier and she had arranged an office of documents that surrounded her bedside headquarters. She asked me to do one thing for her and that was to bring a book of rolling papers. She reached under a stack of envelopes, asked for the papers, and rolled a big fat crawdad that we both enjoyed. We never once discussed her illness and honestly it never occurred to me to do so. In hindsight it was as if nothing were out of the ordinary plus we were laced. We hugged and then I left.

Wednesday was Soph’s memorial service, a sad affair put together by hillbilly lesbians, all in all it was poignant and reverent. Soph’s mother made me cry by ending with, “Thank you all for loving my daughter”. I’ve neglected to mention that her mother has terminal cancer as well and was given three months to live six months ago. Isn’t that the saddest thing? She’s going to outlive her daughter but only by a few months.

Soph:

Every morning I turn on the news for a quick rundown of the latest gloom forecast it’s something I have done since 911. I have terrible foreboding that another world changing event is going to strike at any minute. Then I realize that world changing events are happening everyday just with more time release action than with the usual cataclysm. The newsreaders report, “Numbers we haven’t seen since WWI” and so on.

Last night was a bright clear moon and as I was gazing at it I was reminded of those who have predeceased me. I was also thinking of all the trends and music and world events that they have missed out on since their passing. I was also struck by the fact that they really haven’t missed all that much. Some dull trends some dull music and some really terrifying world events.

Two weeks ago a friend Sophia suffered a seizure. When I heard the news my first reaction was that I didn’t know that Sophia was epileptic? She’s not epileptic. Oh then what could cause a seizure then? Sunday she and another friend went for a road trip in the country before her procedure that followed on Monday. What kind of procedure? She had a MRI and then the doctors scheduled her for an immediate exploratory surgery.

Today they gave her the news that it’s cancer and that it has spread all over the brain. She has thirty days.

Thirty days? I can’t imagine such a prognosis.

Thirty days is hardly enough time to get your affairs in order let alone grasp the concept of your own mortality. One day you have a headache the next you have a seizure the next you have thirty days. They have offered her treatments but she has refused as the doctors have told her that it’s hopeless. What kind of quality will these thirty days offer? Each one comes with less quality and diminishing capacity.

I think if given the same news I would rather go when world events are at their bleakest. It would somehow lessen the desire that I want to live and the feeling that I want to beat this thing because times have never been better. Some people check out early...some people have a better check out time.

I’m off to the hospital for a visit and some consolation. I’m sure she’s already planning out her final days with a big blow out. Very sad but also a cause for celebrating her life. It has left me with dread and the nagging question, What would I do if given thirty days to live?

R.I.P. BOZO:

On a gloomy Fourth of July, I’m doing what I usually do, lying in bed watching porn and obsessively switching channels.

Stop! Stop right there.

I navigate back to the image that peaked my interest.

There! Right there.

A familiar image. It’s my good good friend Bozo. You know the clown? Dead at 83. I hadn’t spoken to Bozo in a while but the last conversation seemed to be on an upbeat note.

Recovering from an addiction is a nasty thing and one should support friends with nasty addictions. Bozo was a little blue and not because he had used too much blue grease paint but because of his forced retirement from show business.

The call of applause and the adoration of millions of children is an evil vice. He never recovered. Sadly his last days were spent in the isolation of center ring on the sun porch of the Chicago Sunnyvale Celebrity Clown Community Retirement Center.

I’ll miss you Bozo.

Now where did I put that frame. Gotta get you into a frame and on the wall. The wall of autographed dead celebrity framed photos that grows ever more cramped by the day.

A shrine really.






















Bozo Obit