Goody Bastos has been a passion project of unserious frippery. But recently, life circumstances have taken an uncertain turn, and now, if I had gills I would let humor flow over them, thereby oxygenating. I've found no solace in my MRI reports of degenerated disks, insurance forms, and pamphlets on chronic pain clinics. My doctors are as serious as the carpets in their waiting rooms.
We sick don't need serious. We're overdosed on overhead lighting and chrome. We need humor. Sick humor. I know this because in the last few weeks I have been drawn as if by true love to Mr. Noodle. He is the clown on Sesame Street who has trouble putting his pants on. He puts them on his head and can't see. The kids on the show laugh and say, "Mr. Noodle, don't you know how to put pants on?"
Being ill is like having pants on your head. How the world was, it isn't anymore, and you travel in it differently, darkly, with films, reports, nerve conduction studies, and bottles of pills. What I want to do is laugh until it hurts less.