I never liked clowns. In fact, growing up, clowns scared the shit out of me for some odd reason. Maybe it was a John Wayne Gacy thing. I never saw clowns as funny. For some reason, I viewed them as threatening. Maybe it’s the makeup. I dunno. More than likely that’s why I never enjoyed the circus as a kid.

My antipathy toward clowns has mellowed over the years, though, and I suppose that’s why I really enjoy any Simpson’s episodes in which Krusty the Klown plays a prominent role. (I’m sure that a shrink could dissect the whole thing for me.)

Anyway, Bozo died today.

There’s not much of a personal need for me to mark the passing of a clown. I had no ties to or fond memories of Bozo, even though he was a cultural icon during my formative years. Then again, maybe that’s the only reason that Larry Harmon’s death resonates with me just a bit.

I lost my own mother and father within six months of each other. The anchors from our childhood years leave us faster than we’d like. From a melancholia perspective, it’s probably more of a sense that with each passing, I’m closer to my own mortality. So even though I have no direct connection to Bozo, in a sense, I do. Everyone in my generation does.

For the most part, those of us in my age demographic are now the next in line for the grim reaper’s scythe.

It’s depressing sometimes. At other times, it’s liberating. All in all, I try not to dwell on it too much.