It's Your Funeral

The weaver puts a seed of an idea in my head, just before we are to retire for the evening. “We’re not a church-going religious family. What would we do for your funeral service?”

Urk.

So: in the middle of the night, already tossing and turning so as to make my aching back a little more comfortable, I start thinking the unthinkable. Who would officiate? I already have a sister who's a minister—no! It's not going to be that kind of ceremony! Someone more along the lines of Robin Williams would be a better choice. It might be nice to have an interpretive dance interlude. Hunter S. Thompson could deliver a great—if nearly incomprehensible—eulogy (no worse than some others I’ve endured), just two problems: #1. We’ve never met. #2. He's already dead. Other choices? My friends? They wouldn’t touch it. Maybe a struggling insult comic; if things didn't go so well he could always say: “Is it just me or did somebody die in here?”

OK, maybe it could just be a pot-luck, with an open mike (or better yet:  kaoroke!)
Usually there are pictures, although I was most often behind the camera. Maybe I should make up a photo board of pictures of things I liked to look at. (G-rated, of course!) I could burn a CD of some of my favorite tunes and have them play in the background, (Bach, Bruckner and Björk?) although my taste might be on the esoteric side.

Hmm. Maybe I should go over the top with this ‘Flippism’ stuff. Build an elaborate set, with strange runes and cabalistic symbols and robed druids chanting about ‘The Key’. The climax would be my coffin spilling open to reveal a glowing orb that shot out laser beams.

Or Not.

Well, if my genes hold true to their heritage, it could be another 30 to 40 years (or more- my grandfather’s cousin recently died at the age of 104!) I'll have think more about it some other day. (Of course I could get squished like a bug tomorrow from some SUV...)

It would be fun to leave ’em laughing, however.