Death is our future. No matter your attempts to be cool, suave , badass or ‘not all that contemporary’, you will end up shitting your pants in a box like the rest of us. Which does beg the question- how do you want to go?
Not your death, that is out of your hands but probably in those of your long suffering spouse. I mean, how do you want to be sent off?
Maybe you are indifferent, you will be dead- after all. Maybe you care a lot and have a very specific set of instructions for those still breathing- still it hardly matters, fudging the funeral literally means there is no-one to answer to.
Still it’s important, it is your say on your legacy. Here are three ways it could go awry.
-The Music.
Funeral music is super important. I have been to a weirdly large amount of funerals for my age and maybe ten percent have got this one right. It’s not like getting married, you don’t have to do the ‘Here Comes The Bride’ deal. Your funeral is the one and only pure selfish and pure apathy moment you get. It is your one chance to man the iPod with no protest.
Shouldn’t it, then, be something that reflects you. A song that is the sum of your bits. Or, at the very worst, a song you liked.
Too often we get classical nonsense, the usual bog standard. Someday I hope to hear motorhead at a funeral, until then- let’s stick with bog standard.
-The Speakers.
You know and I know that some of the people speaking at funerals only barely knew the deceased. Still, there they are, professing what a great love they and the carcass shared. We all know it is horse-shit. These people need to be the centre of attention and need, so desperately, to feed their ego by pretending the lump of flesh in the box was a dear friend.
You, said lump in box, deserve more. You should be able to designate people to speak for you, since you cannot clearly speak yourself. One of my recurring dream-fears is that everyone I ever hated is speaking at mine. It is some kind of hell.
-The After Party.
If you are from the same kind of people I am from, the after party is of prime concern. Of course, we call it a wake. But, to a certain extent, donning a suit deserves a few drinks. Crying over your lost comrade deserves a few more, shaking hands and sharing hugs earns a few more still. Basically, what you call a wake, we call a party. Basically any definition of grief, or joy, or memorableness involves us all getting leathered.
Not that I am saying that should be the go-to for everyone. Some will revel in lukewarm cups of tea and cold fish sandwiches. Some will, indeed, revel in beach snap-shots and cold-cut picnic, then some will like to get home and watch a movie that Timothy really loved, like Lassie or Spirit: Stallion of The Cimarron.
Not for me though, when I cark it- drink until you don’t know why hands exist.
NP.
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