CJ

I've always been rather cavalier in my attitude towards death. I don't want a funeral. I don't want to be buried or entombed. Burn my body, dump the ashes, order a cocktail and say a toast to me.

That's it, you can go when you've finished your drink.

I can say this because I've lived long enough to have studied some religion here, and a bit of philosophy there, and come to my own conclusions. The main one being that no one really knows what happens when we die.

Fear is the mind killer. Fear is when one doesn't know what will happen next, and there is a nagging suspicion that what does happen next won't be pleasant. I happen to like the unknown. I like learning about things I've never seen, places I've never been. Death is the ultimate unknown, so why would anyone with an inquisitive nature be afraid?

The flip side is for other people. I don't know if they are looking down, counting how many people showed up to the funeral, or interdimensionally sitting next to me, bored out of their metaphysical skulls and wondering when the ceremony will be over so they can get some peace. Maybe they really are in the celestial version of Ibiza, having a good ol' time and not even caring what goes on when they check out. Some might say I am being disrespectful, but I say respect life. Celebrate the lives of our dead friends and family. If, as many say, the dead are in a better place, then why sit around crying about it? Mourning is being selfish about how you won't ever see someone again.

Like I mentioned earlier, I've been able to formulate these opinions during the time I've had in this life, but now, with the death of a child, those opinions are in question.

Colin James wasn't even a month old. He didn't get to form any opinions. He hadn't learned to walk, or to read. He never tasted cheesecake, tied his own shoes, or said "Mama." What does that mean? What is the sum total of a fortnight and change of life? Is this one of those times that we are supposed to say life is short, and we don't know how much time we'll have so spend it wisely? Grab Life by the Reigns! Live Life to the Fullest! Semper Fi, Do or Die!

Let me get this straight: two people, still hardly more than kids themselves, decide that they will turn their lives upside down and inside out. Their family and friends will turn their lives topsy turvy and oogly boogly. The mother will endure the strain & discomfort, and the joy & beatitude of pregnancy. Finally, a beautiful, innocent new life will get the most fleeting of glimpses into our increasingly crappy little world. All this so a few people learn not to take life for granted?


I'm not buying it. I want a better answer than that.

What am I getting into?

I am habitually unhabituated. The idea of doing anything everyday, bi-weekly, monthly (you're getting the picture, I'm sure, but still I continue), quarterly, annually, biennially, sesquintennially... it just doesn't happen in my world. I am not now, nor have I ever been a communist... I meant diarist. Is diarist a word? If it isn't, would it matter? Shakespeare made up words all the time, and he did OK for himself; at least in retrospect. Really, I have no idea if the man had to wait tables between "Taming of the Shrew" and "Midsummer Night's Dream." I don't even know why he's so well respected. No, I take that back. I understand why he's respected, I don't understand why he's venerated. The dude was like Joe Eszterhas, or Michael Bay, Jerry Bruckheimer- only he did it at the Globe Theater instead of the AMC Theater 24plex. Imagine, two hundred years from now, college professors dissecting the use of double entendre in Basic Instinct.

Anyway, Shakespeare: populist writer trying to make a good living doing something he was good at. I have no problem with that, but don't try to tell me that he never farted. Shakespeare farted. Ghandi farted. Einstein farted. You know Nelson Mandella let a couple rip at his birthday party the other night. Understand- I don't want anyone to pull my finger, I'm just saying people are people (so why should it be?), and this deification has to stop. The cult of celebrity has become the institutionalized Religion of Celebrity.

"And it was written: when the spawn of Brangelina are ready to come forth into the world, rose petals will fall from Angelina's vajayjay*, and the birth of her twins will bring to fruition the next stage of human evolution."

I bet if Bono endorsed Barack Obama, they (you know, THEM), they would call off the elections. Dubya would be forced to leave office early if Bono AND Brad Pitt endorsed Obama. Then again, Hillary's support was largely middle American, upper-lower class to lower middle class women- the dominant target audience for Oprah, but Oprah backed Obama. How was such a prime opportunity for cross marketing thrown away? And now that I've posed the question, why do you care what the answer is?

My point is, I'm far more fascinated with the woman down the street who is almost finished painting a mural of four generations of women in her family than the family feud between Britbrit and KFed. I find that overcoming our Protestant cultural bias (and those pesky legal issues) against gay & lesbian adoption is more important than whether or not Madonna had permission to adopt Ghana.

OK, that's enough to get me started. I'll paddle my consciousness out of the stream, and head for the shore. I might be back tomorrow, I might not.

I'll stop worrying, and learn to love the blog.


*Who came up with "vajayjay?" Shakespeare would've made up a much better word. Are we really still so sexually inept that we can't say a woman has a hoo-ha, and a man has a thingy?