Polar Bear Road Kill

Polar Bear Road Kill

Better overkill than road kill, I always say.

I’ve become the defacto leader of a bereavement club, death by tiny death, over the past 6 months.

It’s kind of like Fight Club. But without the author. Or the soap. Or the rules.

There is no Polar Bear Club. If, when asked, there is no Polar Bear Club. Rule Number One: There is no Polar Bear Club. Rule Number Two: There is no Polar Bear Club.

But I made the rules, then. And I make the rules, now.

Norton and Pitt in a blender, that’s me, though. At least in these morbid meetings.

We, a.k.a, the Pallbearers, gather to mourn and tell stories and contemplate whether we have more life ahead or behind us. Everyone usually ends up talking about sex. And contemplating whether we have more life ahead or behind us.

I thought Roxanne said polar bear instead of pallbearer. En mass we all envisioned a bunch of drunken people who live near the edge of the continent and run into the cold ocean on a said cold winter day. To feel alive.

I had always found the cold ocean experience to be a negative extension of one’s sense of sexual levity. But then again the Polar Bear group tends to give me an erection that ends up in negotiation. (Sorry to get all 50 Cent on you, but that’s just the way culture works.)

Back to the Pallbearer Club.

For instance, I think it’s off target when a Graphic Artist extols the bells of vector imaging without wrapping it into the life of an ad concept.

These are the deaths we now talk about. Not the death of people, family or friends, but the death of ideas.

Laura brought up the loss of a charm on her charm bracelet the other night. She put it in detail that made me shiver. I never considered the flotation ability of a loved one’s prosthetic.

They say white polar bears will suffer from camouflage extinction as their territory shrinks.

I brought up the death of a squirrel I saw happen before my eyes on a 1997 bike ride. Road kill before my eyes at the speed of light. And of agonizing screaming, squishing sound.

Mary told of the death of her mom.

Matt told a story of lost sunglasses.

Not all deaths need coffins. But most have a living need to be boxed up. And, somehow, buried.

Bereavement puts the charm in death.

Duh.

Going to a gallery opening tonight. I'll be the guy watching the Red Sox vs. Yankees.