The Reader Travels

Shakespeare’s formula goes something like this — tragedies end in death, and comedies end with a wedding. So a tragic comic is a bit of an oxymoron.  Back in the days when my man and I were “just friends,” he was a big fan of the band Extreme. Gary Cherone was always a goober, but Nuno Bettencourt was (and still is) a guitar god. And despite people wanting to classify Extreme as a worthless hair band, he’ll argue that Pornograffiti was one of the greatest guitar albums of all time.

Now, if we were comparing our relationship back in those days, he would’ve been Gary, and I’d have been Nuno, even though he played guitar and I sang.  My man always was a jokester, a cute little clown who turned cartwheels and told tall tales.  And I was long and slender, catlike in my sensuality, with music pouring out of me.

We were falling in love, though neither one of us wanted to jinx things by actually talking about it.  But when he discovered the song “Tragic Comic,”  it just seemed to sum us up perfectly. Breaking the ice of the friendship zone, he gave me the lyrics and played the song for me.

I’m a hapless romantic
St-t-tuttering p-poet
Just call me a tragic comic
Cause I’m, in, in love with you

Of course, it all ended as a proper comedy should. He turned out to be not so tragic after all.

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 20th, 2008 at 3:04 pm and is filed under meanderings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.