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so ...
06/30/2007 = 07:31 AM

Yesterday, I was excited about my concept for a reality show about the newly off-the-endangered-list bald eagle called America's Got Talons.

Then I got to work and found out that So-Phil (so called, as it were, because of his habit of saying the word "so" before your name when addressing you, as in, "So, Golf Widow ...") had passed away.

Visiting begins Monday afternoon; the funeral is Tuesday. I hope So-Phil's wife will have JJ sing. They were pretty tight, and JJ is currently inconsolable.

So-Phil was 48. He had pneumonia or other lung-ish problems on and off for the better part of a year.

Heavy, heavy smoker. It led to pulmonary fibrosis.

I never told him to quit. I had a hard enough time doing it myself and I still miss cigarettes like mad.

He did, eventually, quit, but only after some doctor had scared him sufficiently, and by then, the damage was pretty much done, I guess.

One day last winter I told him a dirty joke and he only smiled a little. I said something like, "Come on, it was better than that," and he said if laughing didn't make him feel like he was drowning he'd have reacted better.

I'm really sad about So-Phil. He had a wicked sense of humor and I'll miss that.

But I guess I already sort of missed that. After his drowning comment, that joke last winter was the last one I ever told him.

I didn't mean to turn this into a cautionary tale or a big ol' preach. I was just trying to explain one of the many reasons I'm having so much difficulty lately, finding funny stuff to report back to you.

(what the hell is up with that?)

I feel I must, must, for my own sake and in So-Phil's memory, close this post by finding some happy, preferably in the form of making up a stupid joke of the sort he loved and would laugh uproariously at, now, assuming there is an afterlife and his lungs don't hurt anymore.

Woman 1: How's your husband?
Woman 2: I think he died.
Woman 1: You think he died? You don't know for sure?
Woman 2: Well, he's paying about the same amount of attention to me, but his golf clubs are getting dusty.

In the traditional depiction of Heaven-with-a-Capital-H, right about now So-Phil ought to be strolling into the Pearly Gates with his coffee mug, saying, "So, Saint Peter ..."

Then, he'd likely be telling Saint Peter the above joke, but adding something about sex and tits because, in its current incarnation, it's not sex- or tit-intensive enough for his routine.

Tags: death

drinking: ice water
listening to: Coldplay, X and Y
big find: a *$ card from a few months ago with $17 left on it. yay iced coffee i don't have to brew myself