R.Y.: If you die, I call dibs on your PS2. Yeah, Dead or Alive Volleyball.
K.T.: You know that’s only on X-box.
R.Y.: Damn.
Recent events have gotten me thinking about funerals. I read a book a while back about cadavers, called Stiff, by Mary Roach. In it, the final chapter discussed what the author intended for her own funeral. Her solution, simple and elegant, was to have her husband decide the funeral arrangements, as she would be dead and wouldn’t care so much about what would be going on. He, on the other hand, would have to express his grief, and the burial she might want might not necessarily be what was best for the assembled (though I do not believe she stated her preferred funeral arrangements). I like this approach, and if I know when my time is near, I will appoint my wife to make the necessary arrangements.
However, today is still today, I’m still alive, and I’d like to share with you what would be my funeral, if I may.
I’d like a Sunday morning, September preferably, as close to the seventh as possible. September 7, 2059 and 2064 both fall on Sundays. A bit ambitious for lifespan, yes, but benchmarks to aim for. That would be a nice bookend to my life. It should be a morning ceremony, done in time for the one o’clock games. If for whatever reason I am not on the East Coast, the ceremony should still be done in time for the one o’clock games.
Closed casket, closed casket all the way. No viewing. Tape pictures of me to the casket if you have to, but no open casket. Remember me in my better days, not after the morticians have worked their morbid magic and taxidermied me.
I have no preference for locale, beyond somewhere near
There should be soft music persistent in the background, lots of Final Fantasy thematic music, some selections from the Iron Chef soundtrack, some Cowboy Bebop, perhaps some old spirituals to make it seem like a funeral.
No suits. Please, no suits. Dress nice, but dress comfortably. Funerals tend to go on a while, and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable even after I’ve passed on. If we need embarrassment, we can send up D.C. to give a five minute monologue on his favorite insults. If we’re going to be celebrating my life, I want you to be able to breathe. I want you to be able to walk from point A to point B. I want you to appreciate the day.
Should we have advance warning, then what will happen is that we will have a present system. The assembled, just for coming, will not leave empty-handed. All of my most prized possessions will be apportioned and distributed. Then, I will post a list of what remains that I can feasibly give away (sorry Honey, whoever you are). People will call “dibs” on items, and will receive these items on the appointed day. I will try to write a note for everyone, calling from the dead if you will.
The structured portion will be short, fifteen minutes tops. We’ll also have an open section for people to say something, another fifteen minutes, less if no one wants to speak. Hell, I probably wouldn’t say anything at my own funeral if I were attending (and alive), so I wouldn’t fault any of you if you didn’t say anything (cause I wouldn’t be in any position to fault any of you).
To be fair, I probably would write something short, and have someone read it (thanks Dear, whoever you are). Something simple and to the point, but also a bit irreverent and irrelevant.
We’ll do it all outside, beneath tents, rain or shine. The seats will have nice cushioning. There will also be some light foods catered for the event, some of my personal favorites. Nachos, bacon-wrapped scallops, steak tips, spring rolls, orange slices and whole oranges, green beans, six different flavors of chicken wings, bacon wrapped filet-mignon if feasible, orange juice, soy milk, water, ham, mixed berries (straw, blue, rasp, black), pizza with many toppings, Grandma Utz’s Old Fashioned Chips (cooked in lard!) and French onion dip, oh man, the list could go on and on, and you’d all get a little fatter because of me. And you’d enjoy it damnit, I’d probably position someone to hand you a bacon wrapped scallop or two at the main entryway.
There would be televisions set up with pregame shows on, not too loud since its still a funeral, but loud enough to appreciate the day’s games.
Finally, at the appointed moment, I’d probably hire a few beautiful women to fling themselves at my casket if I were single (God forbid). If I’m married, we’ll probably have the cheese moment, where Whitney Houston will sing I Will Always Love You over the loudspeakers.
The longest moment should be the food-eating, since there should be a lot, and it should be so heavy. We’d arrange for people that wanted to chill there to be able to watch the games and continue eating, or set up a reception afterwards for the same. And really, that’s it. Is it extravagant, and not in keeping with the reality that I go out just as I came in? Yes, yes. Do I want people to be happy that I’m at rest, and understand that they persist, and continue on? Yes, yes. Am I now hungry, and seriously considering driving in the rain to pick up some bacon-wrapped scallops?
Yes, yes.
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