I think about death -- my own death -- with a certain amount of concentration at least three or four times a week. I figure this puts me well above the average of, say, my mother but not quite on the spooky level of, say, somebody who writes poetry. I don't hope for death; I just catch myself wondering how many of my daily scenarios might result in my doom -- simply taking one more step off the curb or train platform, or doing a stunt-dive off my girlfriend's balcony. (She's seven floors up but there are some trees that might queer the landing.) They always say baseball is a game of inches, but it can't approach being so wildly determined by small degrees the way life is. A three-inch tug on the steering wheel while you're doing sixty, and you can kindly notify next of kin. 

I think of my death fixation as an evolved version of that fascination kids have with wanting to see how close they can stick their finger to the fan. Again, I don't want to die, mind you (not usually anyway), I've just always found the idea of dying to be very compelling in a non-Goth sort of way -- more Emily Dickinson, less Marilyn Manson.

I think a lot about my funeral -- that great party held for me that I'll miss consciously attending by only a couple of days. I've burned many an hour of daylight wondering what'll be said about me, who'll weep openly, who'll tell lies about conversations never had, who might confess to having secretly loved me. I always imagine one very attractive girl I've known for years actually flinging herself upon my casket. It's great fun. The only thing that bothers me is that almost nobody will have any fun until my friends leave the funeral home and make it to a pub. I want my funeral to be less of a Sunday mass made creepier and more of an event. Even in my moments of morbid narcissism I'm looking out for other people.  

            This is partly why I think the plan to have Hunter S. Thompson's ashes fired from a cannon over his Colorado ranch (set to take place on August 20; the six month anniversary of the late author's suicide) is such a fun idea. According to all sorts of published accounts, Johnny Depp is bankrolling the event (by invitation only, so nix the idea of making a road trip) and Thompson's son and widow are in wholehearted support of it.

             I think it's great. I think it's healthy. I think the rest of us should be inspired to do something so grand when we're gone. I realize that Thompson's having been dead six months cushions the blow somewhat, but we should put some real thought in making ceremonies like Thompson's the rule instead of the exception. Have your memorial service at the beach or at a ballgame, weather permitting. Have it at a picnic on a mountainside, someplace that reminds people of you. Not some dreary room with uncomfortable chairs and somber organ music. Funerals, at least in this country, are almost entirely impersonal undertakings (pun sort of unintended). Thompson's memorial service is not only keeping in step with his wishes but very much a manifestation of how he lived his life.

            I'm not suggesting that my (or your) funeral should be flip and silly, just a lot more personalized. I realize we all don't have the means for something so grand, but we can do better than what we're doing now, right? If it makes me seem a little less morbid, I believe this sentiment should also apply to weddings, but don't get me started on that.
 

John McGreevy
Guest Editor