At my funeral

Instructions for my immediate afterlife:

• Donate my organs. Donate my body. Cremate me. You may not have an open casket, you may not embalm me. No one’s going to be standing over me commenting how natural I look. If you need a place to go and remember me, then get a plot and stick a stone over it (I’ve always thought of West Glenville Cemetery, up the road from my great great aunt’s old house, as my home cemetery, if you need to know — but I’ve biked through Albany Rural a lot, too). But no mausoleums or crematoriumsm — for some reason those just creep me out. Too modern. You want to spread the ashes? Go ahead — Hudson River, Mohawk River, Raquette Lake — wherever makes you feel best. I won’t care. I will be dead.
• There will be no jive-ass preacher talking about heaven and hell. You religious folks can believe what you want to believe, and I’ll respect that. Say nice things about me, say nasty things about me, but don’t say I’m in a better place. The first person who says I’ve gone to live with Jesus will be poked with a stick. I have already appointed the stick-pokers; they know their duty.
• People can say a few words if they want to. I always find that amazing; I would never have the strength to speak at the funeral of a loved one, but some people do. But there should not be a formal program. And there will be no leading people in prayer — this is a funeral, not a public school. Keep that stuff where it belongs.
• Music should be eclectic, mixing my all-time favorites with some good, death-related songs. There will have to be Beatles, Elvis Costello, Ramones. Of course. For death-related, look to Zevon (“My Ride’s Here”), even Crash Test Dummies (“At My Funeral”). Don’t go too poignant, I don’t want people collapsing in a heap. Look to The Death Tape for some ideas, though it’s about 10 or more years old now. If I died in a car crash, Blotto’s brilliant “(My Baby’s the Star of a) Driver’s Ed Movie” is clearly out. You’ll have to play it by ear. As in life, death music has but one definite rule: no jazz. But no matter what, you must play The Fleshtones’ “Burning Hell” — ain’t no Heaven, ain’t no burning hell!
• A funeral is a ceremony at which we gather to provide our support to the bereaved and remember that our time here is short and precious. A marathon is a running event that requires months of training, covers 26.2 miles, lasts for a few hours, and demands enormous effort. These two things should not be confused. There is no call for a marathon of grief. Get in, have a good time, then go back to the house for food and more music. Or just have it at the house to begin with.
• Pictures of me are no doubt interesting at a time like this. But I’d like it if you’d also look at some of the pictures I’ve taken. I just love photography, and it has played a significant role in my life.
• There should be ice cream. I think that goes without saying.
• You think you’re sad? I’m the one who’s dead, pal.