Robert Manners

It's About Time

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "for Miss Marlénè to come down with a cold."



Okay, so that's not what the Walrus said... but I do seem to be coming down with a cold. My throat hurts, I feel very tired, kind of chilly, achey, and super-sensitive to light and noise. There are no obvious visible symptoms yet, no hacking cough or serial sneezes or swollen dripping eyes, so I'm having to moan and cry a little to get any sympathy. Not that I require sympathy, mind you... I just like people to know I'm sick so that they're forewarned to stay away from me and to expect shoddy work from me.



Well, if I have to be sick, now is the most convenient time for it... I have no shows coming up, no big family gatherings to prepare for, no major work projects to wade through. I'd prefer not to be sick at all, but this is better than what I'm used to, always getting sick when it's really inconvenient and I have to live on Sudafed and Robitussin just so I can drag my tired carcass through its appointed rounds.



Mmmmmm... Robitussin.



In other news, there was an amusing sequel to the dream detailed below (and thanks, Will and Susan and Luiz, for the feedback... very helpful and thought-provoking): my sister called on Sunday and requested to join Grandmother and Daddy and I for brunch after church; she wanted to visit with family, but of course didn't want to go to church. She suggested the restaurant, too, and her suggestion was met with enthusiasm.



So I'm sitting at the International House of Pancakes, a dedicated pancake restaurant, waiting for my sister, and my eyes fall on the menu-entry for pecan pancakes, and I suddenly realize that my dream is actually happening... cue creepy soundtrack, zoom camera on my panicked eyes.



My Grandmother is a big fan of pecans, so I told her not to order the pecan pancakes... when she wondered why, I told her and Daddy (and Suzie and Ariel who came in during the story) all about the dream. Everyone thought it was pretty funny. Of course, I tend to tell stories so that they're funny, finding the humor in things that scared or upset me when they happened. It's one of my little habits.



Actually, I think it's one of my talents. The gift of humor is, according to Mark Twain, "the great thing, the saving thing, after all. The minute it crops up, all our hardnesses yield, all our irritations and resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place." Twain also pointed out (probably on a different occasion) that "The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow."



My University professors would be flabbergasted to see me using quotations in a written piece, something I almost never did in my school papers, where one is supposed to use quotations to support one's statements.



But it raises some interesting points. I have always tried to find the humor in situations, for two reasons: first, because I am an entertainer so I love to make people laugh, and since I never can remember set jokes I have to turn my own life into a funny story in order to do it; and second, perhaps more importantly, finding the humor in any situation makes it so much easier to bear. No matter what happens to you, if you can make a joke about it, if you can laugh about it somehow, you will survive it.



I think of humor as a sort of equalizing element to life... when you have joy, you laugh; and when you have sorrow you can use humor to turn it back into laughter and joy, the way plants turn carbon dioxide back into oxygen. And humor does not make us laugh because it is joyful... if you think about it, funny stories and jokes and humor are always about something unpleasant or embarrassing or potentially painful, but it gives us joy anyway... and I think that joy is the natural state of humankind, the place we always want to be.



So, what else is there to talk about? Oh, I watched the new WB show, Tarzan, starring the delectable Travis Fimmel. It was really stupid, disjointed and poorly written and not-very-convincingly acted... and Travis spent far too much of his time wearing clothes. Not much point in having a body like that if you're just going to cover it up in baggy sweaters and shapeless pants. Something tells me that tonight's planned viewing, The Mrs Bradley Mysteries, will be much better, though most likely lacking in hunky long-haired Australian underwear models.



Oh, well, such is the untidiness of the world we live in. I hope you're enjoying the hell out of your day. XOXO!