bunny bunny and more

Sunday evening, I went to Jenkins Hall at 6 PM, intending to stand in line, if need be, to gain entrance to a sold-out show. The box office wasn't even officially open yet, but the young woman acknowledged that I would be the first, should a ticket become available. She remembered me from Friday morning, trying to get a ticket for any of the last three shows, all of which were sold-out. I was fortunate Sunday, as were nine others, treated to an intimate experience in the Black Box at Jenkins Hall.
The show isn't one you've likely heard of. "Bunny Bunny... Gilda Radner, A Sort-Of Romantic Comedy" is a tale of love and friendship, told through the eyes and ears and heart of the writer who lost her to cancer. Zweibel was befriended by the comedienne once upon a time in the north, when both were young and new to the late-night world of New York City.
I had been a big fan of Gilda Radner and her zany characters in the early days of Saturday Night Live. I had rejoiced with her when she wed Gene Wilder, who loved her madly, and I was shocked and saddened when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer just two years later. They were married for just under five years before her death in 1989. She was only 42. Gene built a monument to her, in the form of Gilda's Club, there in her beloved NYC.
Zweibel and "Gilbert" were best friends. This play was his attempt to capture that friendship as a series of shared moments in time on the set, in restaurants, at basketball games. All of the moments really good friends spend together, shared visions, shared recordings of events and people and food.
Zweibel succeeded. His recounting of the bond between he and she brought to mind the bond between me and Sam. His loss of that vibrant tone from the music of his life reminded me of chords I would not hear again.

bunny bunny

I miss you, Sam Johnson.
I miss our conversations. We didn't talk every day, but pretty often. Sometimes by phone, mostly in person. Yeah, I know you had LOTS of talks with LOTS of folks, but I don't. Long conversations with a phone in my ear just isn't my speed, but it was a natural for you.
I miss our dinners out, especially on Thursdays. I don't know how that came to be "our" day, but it did. Sometimes we just went to Cici's and stuffed ourselves stupid with pizza. Other times, we'd go a little upscale, noshing at Applebee's or Bennigan's or Sticky Fingers. Wherever we dined, we had our own time going on, ignoring the noise from the tv and the background tunes and the folks around us. I miss those times.
I miss you, Sam Johnson.
You helped me find those islands of normal when I was floundering in the depths of lost. You were there to throw the lifeline and haul me back to land's edge when I was teetering on never and no more. You kept building bridges like a madman as the ones I thought were for forever were burning all around me.
I do so miss you, Sam Johnson.
You always had an easy smile for me, a great big hug, and love overflowing your heart.
I do so miss you.