A Widow’s Wedding Anniversary
Wedding collage by Max
It’s coming up on our 34th Wedding Anniversary! Well, not exactly. Sad to say, my beloved Max passed away last year after a major stroke that shattered his brain (but not our marriage). So, though we would be married 34 years on April 12, 2026 if Max were alive, we were actually only married 33 years.
But they were the best 33 years of my life! The number 33 is called a “Master Teacher,” the highest level of Scottish Freemasonry, and Jesus preached, died and was resurrected all at age 33. Alas, but the number 34 is not so special; it’s a “transitional” numeral, and unfortunately, Max has already transitioned in the other direction, and I am still in such deep grief, I’m not even trying to transition out of it. So, 33 is a *better* number, numerically speaking.
Still, it’s kind of static.
Am I crazy to keep counting? Is there a rule that says once one of you dies, the other must stop adding up the anniversaries? Maybe it’s a little macabre, or overly sentimental. But what else should a still-weeping widow do on the anniversary of the happiest day of her life?
Once Upon a Time in Philly…
Yes indeed, Brothers and Sisters, Lovers and Sinners – those of you who knew Max well and those who have only heard his legends… One sunny Spring Sunday in Philadelphia on April 12, 1992, Max and I got married, and 34 anniversaries later, one of us is gone, having died in the arms of the other.
Well, that last part involves another touch of poetic license. At the very end, Max was hooked up to too many tubes to be in the arms of anyone but the ICU angels. However, we were holding hands, as we so often did, my little hand in his big one, fingers intertwined with so much love… right before his very last squeeze. Then suddenly, I felt him leave me, sailing off into a sea of mysteries, as the life left his big strong hand and his entire body. The Code Blue alarms were sounded, and all the doctors and nurses came running in to do whatever they could, but no one and nothing could bring Capt’n Max back to shore.
That was almost a year ago, a little over a month after our 33rd, and this is our first wedding anniversary where we’re separated – not just by distance, but by dimensions. Having lived a life of Eros together, we were struck by Thanatos (death) – and now we’re more apart than ever. So, all I can do is honor the memory of My Beloved Capt’n Max, aka Prince Maximillian Rudolph Leblovic Lobkowicz di Filangieri (11/8/1943 – 5/13/2025) as best I can.
In that spirit, my fellow Bonobovillagers and I put on an amazing memorial (soon to be released!) flowing with eulogies, tears, laughs, music and memories. There, I declared Max’s birthday, November 8th, to be Free Speech Day. Don’t forget to celebrate by exercising your Free Speech, or supporting someone else’s – even when you don’t agree with them – as Max always did.
Widow’s Wedding Anniversary
Thanks to the über-capitalist internet, there’s now a gem for every anniversary (remember when it was silver for the 25th, gold for the 50th and for anything else, you were on your own?). Fortunately, the 34th is the opal, and I already have a radiant fire opal ring presented to me by our HBO producer Dave Bellright in front of a beaming Capt’n Max – a rather romantic way to seal a TV deal, but those were the days…
So, I’ve got the opal, but what else? It certainly doesn’t feel right to throw a big party, Erika Kirk-style (or is that now Druski-style?). Honestly, though I abhor Mrs. Charlie Kirk’s politics, I can’t help but feel some empathy for a fellow grieving widow as she navigates her strange widowhood through all the parodies and conspiracies (unless the conspiracists are right!).
My hazy plan for our 34th is to scatter some of Capt’n Max’s cremation ashes in the ocean that he loved so much. Maybe I’ll feel Max in the wind, hear him sing with the seagulls or hallucinate that My Beloved walks on the water towards me, arms outstretched to embrace me with his big strong hands (both of which are working in my fantasy)…
Of course, the best-laid plans may not get you laid the way you planned… But I don’t plan to get laid – probably ever again! My plan is just to sprinkle some of My Beloved’s sandy and *transformative* ashes into the free and salty waves of so many of his glorious journeys.
“The Goal is the Journey,” as Max used to say, and our journey continues – in our hearts and collages…
“Wedding Anni Wonderland”
The images that make up Max Collage #8 of the “My Beloved Max” collection, “Wedding Anniversary Wonderland,” range from the traditional splendor of the “white wedding” to our second anniversary with the bonobos at the zoo, our 3rd in San Francisco, our 8th in Amsterdam, our 10th in Paris, our 12th at DTLA’s Bonaventure, our 16th at the Farmer’s Daughter Hotel by West Hollywood’s Farmers Marker, our 22nd at the Green Horse in Inglewood, our 31sttaking the RV up the coast and our 33rd rushing from Kaiser Hollywood Hospital to the South Pasadena Care Center in an ambulance. Some couples take a limo for their anniversary; we took an ambulance.
Each anniversary was like a wonderful ride in our Disneyland of a marriage, but our favorite anniversaries were the big bawdy bacchanals we put on in the bosom of Bonoboville. Since there were pretty much always American wars being waged somewhere, our anniversary bacchanals were – besides being kinky, funny and fun – all vociferously anti-war.
I’d wiggle into my wedding corset (the dress broke on our wedding night – like the hymen I didn’t have) for these funky, fetishy, Bohemian extravaganzas, and Max was proud to fit into his tuxedo jacket, topped off with his “I love Dr. Suzy” hat (just in case someone didn’t know). Consenting adult revelersgathered around, dancing, singing, speaking at the Speakeasy, making love (not war) and making fun of hypocrites, spanking effigies of Trump (who still needs many spankings!) and other war criminals in sexy, lefty Commedia Erotica performances, celebrating the adventure of romance and the longevity of true love, the Bonobo Way.
These bacchanals were expressions of what we called “communal ecstasy,” inspired by the late great Barbara Ehrenreich’s concept of “collective joy.”
Through the Erotic Theater of the Mind and the theatrical anniversary gatherings of Bonoboville, we lived our fantasies to the fullest, while keeping a foot(well, maybe just a toe) in reality.
To Marriage, Bonobo-Style!
Marriage is not for everybody, and I’m sure most conservative (and hypocritical) marriage advocates would not approve of our sexy, lefty “Marriage Bonobo-Style” – but it was perfect for us.
So, pop a cork tonight (or sometime soon) for lawfully wedded love, long-term lust and pro-bonobo marriage. Go Bonobos (it’s our best chance)! Go forth and find romance. You might lose it, but you’ll never forget it.
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