If you
see me crying on the street, chances are I’m actually laughing. Yet when
something is sad, I cry…then laugh. As an addendum to Parkinson’s, I have
developed pseudobulbar affect, or PBA. It makes me feel like crying all of the
time. The only problem is that I’m rarely sad, if ever. But who wants to laugh
constantly?
I
slipped out last Thursday to Abilene to check out Ross Falzone
with Erin Futterer, who set my heart a-flutterer. It
was magic. It was Tin Pan Alley ensconced in velvet. It was a trip to the moon
on gossamer wings. There was nothing weird on stage: just Falzone
and his guitar next to Futterer, who was parked
behind a piano brandishing a French Horn.
I was
enchanted, entranced, entertained. But as the duo worked through its set, I
felt the laughter coming on, which meant the tears weren’t far behind. My face
started to screw up, and the tears began. I’m fearful of this because concerned
patrons ask why I’m crying, only to be rebuked with, “It’s OK, this is how I
laugh.”
The
problem has recently brought about situations which I can address from either
side–laughing maniacally, or sobbing my eyes out. My wife caught me in front
of the TV, wracked in sobs and giggles the other night. The fact that Trump is
actually still the President, the passing of John McCain and Aretha
Franklin–all of it came crashing down in a torrent of tears followed by
laughter. Why? Because it all seemed so effing funny.
I mean, what will you do when you read this? Will you laugh or cry? Somebody
get me a tissue, please.
This article appears in Sep 5-11, 2018.
