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She was loved, despised, laughed-at, laughed-with and seemed, approximately we thought, indestructible.

Legendary comedian Joan Rivers, who died Thursday in the chronilogical age of 81, a week after she entered cardiac event throughout an outpatient procedure in Nyc, was also one of the hardest working women in the entertainment business.

She performed in Las Vegas showrooms, at Hadassah menova heyeqianzi luncheons, in cabarets, in theaters, on television shows (her very own and merely about everyone else's) and wherever there was an audience for her patented brand of delicious (and, often malicious) sarcasm.

Comedy, she often said, was "Kill, kill, kill ..." and her stand-up routines were relentless attacks -- on herself, the wedding guests and the biggest names plucked in the worlds of Hollywood, politics and popular culture.

To Rivers, who had been born in Brooklyn and attended school within the Westchester village of Larchmont, no subject was off-limits, no target was too big, with no sacred cow am sacred that it couldn't be skewered onstage.

Later, shortly after her husband Edgar Rosenberg committed suicide, I watched Rivers perform at Michael's Pub in New York City for a packed house of fans who gasped when the jokes abruptly turned to Rosenberg's death. She would later say that the unlikely one-liners were how she coped with her grief and anger which comedy to her, was similar to therapy.

"I can tell precisely what I think onstage," she told People magazine. "And on the night when 500 people have said, 'Yeah, we believe exactly the same way' -- I come off feeling wonderful."

When audience members didn't think the same way, Rivers saw red. Whenever she was heckled to make fun of topics that others considered taboo or politically incorrect -- individuals with disabilities, among them -- Rivers switched on her attackers, insisting anything could and really should be funny.

Her take-no-prisoners approach to humor didn't sit well with a few folks. But Rivers refused to change her ways. And besides, audiences who did arrived at see her pretty much knew what they were in for and, generally, went along for that ride.

"They're your director," Rivers explained. "The audience lets you know everything. I never listen to anyone else with regards to getting laughs. I'll pay attention to you about anything else, but not comedy."

In the mid-Sixties, after many years of coughing up her dues in nightclubs, Rivers became mostly of the female comics in this area to be booked regularly on Ed Sullivan's "really big" Sunday night variety hour and Johnny Carson's "The Tonight Show."

Like Phyllis Diller before her, Rivers menova qianweisu was skilled at self-deprecating humor, much of it concentrating on her shortcomings like a homemaker and her lack of sex appeal. She told us she served "ketchup as a vegetable" and admitted that, within the era of "The Sensuous Woman," she once greeted her husband in the door wearing only Saran Wrap.