by emily

GRADE: for the episode, A

Okay guys, I KNOW that it’s borderline insane to mourn the death of someone who never existed in the first place, but I can’t help it. Oh, Ade. Why did you get in that car? You must have known. Why didn’t you just turn yourself in and spend the rest of your life in jail? I guess they probably would have found a way to kill you in jail anyway, and it’s sad to think of you without access to cosmetics or leopard-print accessories. So really you had no choice. But when did you know? Was it when Chrissy left for that highly questionable pack of cigarettes? Or were you astute enough to hear it in Tony’s voice on the phone (he’s such a bad liar!) Well, at least you didn’t attempt any of that bullshit dying-with-dignity stuff. I am glad you went to your grave whining and crying and begging for mercy because that’s exactly how I would have played it. Rage, rage against the dying of the light, Ade!

At first I was extra especially upset (even though, like most people who are aware of the existence of JOEY, I pretty much saw it coming) because, I reasoned, after the death of Adriana there is really no point in watching the Sopranos. But then I realized that the Sopranos is sort of like Days of Our Lives or The Bible in the sense that no one is ever really fully dead. It soothes my aching heart to imagine the many dream sequences and flashbacks that Adriana and her outfits will still be featured in. And plus now I have to watch in order to find out what happens to Christopher, that little shit. Nothing good, I’m guessing. God, that scene where Ade tells him that Danielle was an FBI agent! It’s almost like the words “Oh great now I have to kill her” are written in tiny letters inside his pupils.

Anyway, in the tradition of my previous poem about Ade and also the ancient Greeks, I have composed an Elegy.

Ode to Ade

No more mob, no more feds, no more IBS
Now you can rest
Safe in some sort of deceased-TV-character heaven with your dog Cosette
No more regret.

No more shame, no more pain, no one left to betray
No more trips to Bebe
No more hot pants and stiletto boots
No more platinum highlights and two-inch roots.

The world will seem empty without your lips, your hips
Your acrylic tips
Your eyes, your smile, your sandpaper-throated sass
Your phenomenal ass

Those left behind must take comfort, for we know
You’ve gone on to a better . . . ok, a more lucrative show
And that it’s just selfish of us to want you to remain in the HBO ghetto
But still, David C, why couldn’t you have whacked MEADOW????