It coulda been me
I just read about the young latino comic who died last week. He had performed at the Laugh Factory on Saturday night, got a standing ovation, and then he was found dead in his bed Sunday morning. Maybe he had a bad heart. Maybe it was natural causes and that was the end of his life. Maybe the obituary sections is just being kind. Whatever the situation, one can read the tea leaves. How close are we from making one crazy, human choice that could make our families, wives, daughters (daughter in this case) have to deal with this completely life changing scenario? You think it can't happen to me. My life is safe. I've got a multitude of things left to do. I'll just try a little of this and a little of that. Hell, it'll take the edge off. The truth about the "ism" is it sounds like a good idea if my life is going bad, and it sounds like a good idea if my life is going good. It waits with a long bony finger, sharp nails pointy, beckoning me to come here. Just a little taste. Just a small taste of that success, or relief, or whatever sounds appealing to make me believe I'm more than what I think I am. Because I'm never that. The standing ovation, see, that's the key, right there. That's the clue that makes me understand what happened. Poor guy, maybe he should have been booed offstage. Maybe he would have standed a better chance. Maybe he would have had "just one" and gone home to sleep it off, waking up to his wife and daughter, breakfast ready, Sunday paper brought in by his little girl, the ballgame coming on later. He would have gotten a call from his friend who told him "screw it. Fuck them" when talking about his tank the night before. Or, maybe it would have been the same sad story. That sad story that waits, long bony finger extended, sharp nails pointy, beckoning me to come here. I'll make what's bad better, and whats better best. I'm fucking lucky today. No, blessed. I better see that today. Then I have a chance. R.I.P. mi amigo.