Nothing’s fun that can’t be shared with someone you love. And when it’s too late, life’ll reiterate that hokey lesson. Unless you’re crazy.
As time treks, inexplicably, I’ve changed. Becoming (a bit more like) Phyllis.
Phyllis had a terrific sense of humor. I couldn’t often make her laugh (unless I tripped and fell). She could always make me laugh with her. But there were two types of Phyl’s humor I didn’t “get”, and that aggravated her.
Part 1 Jewish
Watched the kids’ screener of upcoming season 2 of “Marvelous Mrs. Maisel’: terrific stuff, except the cartoony too-stereotypic Jewish parents. Usually, it’d be fingernails on a chalkboard for me. For Phyl, it’d have been Jackie Mason-Myron Cohen hysterical. One’d be able to hear her laughing from Philadephia. And yes, I’m bananas, but watched it as if Phyl were beside me. On one hand, it really hurt, because I knew she so would’ve loved it. And, sure as the cat in her lap, she would’ve looked at my not laughing and said, “You’re no fun.” On the other hand, I really liked it.
Our senses of ethnic humor had always differed. I never laughed at Reiner or Rickles or Fran Drescher (who was in our same cancer ward) or even Joan Rivers, all of whom we’d met. At his concerts, between songs, Neil Diamond tells funny ethnic-laced tales of his early life in New York City. 14,999 Jewish sycophants and tone-deaf devotees in Staples are joining my wife in uproarious laughter at his ubertalented storytelling prowess. I’m either looking around for something with which to commit suicide, or hoping for the only time in my life, for “Song Sung Blue”, so we can get on with this and outta here.
In the first couple of Mrs. Maisel episodes, they’re in Paris. When things went bad, I thought of giving up on the chemos and taking Phyl to Agatha Christie’s home and Paris. She never once heard my French. But we didn’t want to take a chance. So, in retrospect, unfortunately we stayed home. But she did discover Gracie Allen. Phyl was really sick by then, but watched episodes of George and Gracie throughout the nights. A little ironic for me, as that and Gleason were the two shows I watched with my Dad. Gracie’s was the same overthetop, manic humor as Mrs. Maisel. Miriam’s father, manager, inlaws; Phyl’d have laughed that loud, deep, long, choking laugh, that, even moreso than the kids’ babytalk, was just the most beautiful sound I was ever blessed to hear.. As indelibly precious as it was, it was seldom accompanied by my own laugh. Except this time. Though it hurt, likely because of my wishful pretending, I enjoyed it. I may have even laughed. Along with Phyl.
