Him Plenty Dead, Kemosabe^[1]

Curmudgeon iconoclast that I am, I’ve decided to ask my loved ones that my memorial service be dubbed “an acknowledgement of death” as opposed to “a celebration of life.”^[2]

Look, I get the sentiment, know Ecclesiastes/ Byrds song — a time to be born, a time to die and all that jazz. Focus on life, not death. Dear departed Uncle so-and-so did some good things, navigated life okay, so let’s reminisce, let’s celebrate the years at the Navy Yard but not mention the racist jokes. 

But here’s what I really bugs me: the phrase “Celebration of Life” is clunky, wordy, awkward.

            “Hey. Josh, let’s go surfing.”

            “Can’t, dude. Gotta go my Uncle Tims’s celebration of life ceremony.”

            “Bummer, dude.” 

What’s wrong with calling the postmortem get together a “memorial service?”

BTW, I hate fucking euphemisms, especially fucking Chamber of Commerce euphemisms. 

So there!

Emily Dickinson, First Year Medical Student

their Nightingales and psalms

Far removed from vanity
The old man lies exposed,
His organs sporting flags
Like holes of a golf course.

Nose and Ears are hairy;
He used to be a Man
Who ate beets – burped – blinked in the Sun –
It used to be Man.

Now disarticulated,
The antithesis of sentimentality,
Resting in pieces
Like left over turkey.

Yes, I have become accustomed
To hanging out with the Dead,
Assuming a cool, ironic air,
Pulling intestines like thread,

But when I die, I want my Lodging
As plush as plush can be,
For I have learned this lesson
In Gross Anatomy:

In spite of all
The noble palaver,
It’s impossible to respect
A desiccated cadaver.

^[1] a line from Tonto from an episode of the Lone Ranger circa 1958-ish

^[2] I wish I could demand it, but I realize that corpses are in a weak position as far as negotiations go.