A confluence of recent events has me both concerned and intrigued by the possibility of my own demise. I rarely dwell on the thought of death, and haven't spent more than five minutes of my entire life worried about the hereafter. Once a person realizes decomposition is his/her only future upon reaching life's goal line, there's really no reason to worry about anything else. EXCEPT maybe the post game celebration. And that's why I've called you here today. Both of you.
Okay, here's why this subject is even on today's menu. A few days ago I heard about a movie starring my favorite actor Robert Duvall. It was a film made about an old hermit who (in real life) lived on the outskirts of my childhood hometown of Kingston in east Tennessee. This old man had led a normal life until some violent, mysterious things took place, but after that he had taken to living way back in the hills out of contact with everyone. One afternoon he began to worry about what people might say about him after his death, so he drove his mule and wagon into town to arrange for his own funeral, complete with eulogy, under the condition that he be alive to see the show. He invited everyone in town to come tell a story about his dead ass, but wanted to hear what they had to say before he actually died. The movie took several factual liberties with the real story of Felix Bushaloo Breazeale, but I recommend "Get Low" for anyone unfamiliar with his life and "funeral".
Other things have had me pondering life and death, things that I'm not sure I should mention... but will, nonetheless. Our blobber buddy Mooner is going through some hell on Earth dealing with the Big C, and his saga has been weighing on my mind lately. On top of his struggles which are extremely serious, despite the fact that he retells them with great hilarity on his blog (http://www.moonerjohnson.com/blog/), we're currently dealing with local probate courts after my lovely (and dangerous) wife's mom's recent death. One of the things we're trying to get used to is raising the lively nine year-old niece of my wife. Having a child in the house for the first time in decades is nothing short of hilarious AND traumatic to old farts like us.
Yet another reason for this post was the surprise I received when I went over to visit the blog of America's wisest/funniest/strangest/sexiest lesbian writer Katy, whose own exploits make those of the aforementioned Felix Bushaloo Breazeale seem tame by comparison. I'd provide a link to her site, but I'm not sure it's going to be linkable for a while... You see, when I clicked to visit her blog I was met at the door by a big bouncer who informed me only invited readers could come into the club. Fearing the worst, I wrote an email to Katy to check on her status, and was told all's well, just locking it down for a few days... perhaps under construction, who knows?
Any damn way, it made me wonder if anyone would bother to tell me or the rest of the world if something ever happened to my blogger buddies on the other side of the country. I mean, if you came back to this site and nothing changed for two or three months, how would you know if I had died, or simply won a monster Powerball lottery and was sunning my ass on a clothing optional beach in Barbados? Life's odd like that. If you don't stay in touch with people, sometimes they up and die on you. Or get stinky rich and move off to paradise without sharing the loot like they'd always promised. People who get suddenly rich enough to want to vote for Republicans aren't common in my circle of friends, but I've heard of folks going over to the dark side once fortune has fallen into their laps.
But I've digressed.
So here's my idea for Google Blogger and Word Press. They should invite bloggers to submit self-written "I'm outta here" obit eulogies for publication upon their passing. Bloggers could designate an individual to deliver the news to those companies at the appropriate time, and upon notification Blogger or Word Press could publish the writer's obit as a farewell post on their blog.
Which made me wish I had something memorable to say if that were actually an option. It's sort of like the sense of "oh shit!" a person must feel the week before returning home for a high school reunion when he or she realizes they haven't done anything notable since the last time those people saw you. No great American novels in your name, no Nobel Prizes, Grammy Awards, Oscars, or great accomplishments worth pointing out to the assholes you went to school with when you were young and had potential.
So I'm going to start making a point to do remarkable things, just for the funeral.
Right after this Bloody Mary and some scrambled eggs with homemade salsa. And maybe a nap.
Film at eleven.