Like the Queen, I’ve Planned My Own Funeral

Black-tie Optional

My future funeral venue. Photo by the future-deceased.

The funeral of Queen Elizabeth II was a grand affair, one that we’ll likely never see again in our lifetime. She had orchestrated every aspect of the solemn event, and it all unfolded beautifully. As someone with OCD and control issues, it got me thinking — what a great idea! Just because I’m gone doesn’t mean I can’t take part in planning my own funeral festivities. By the time Her Majesty was being lowered into the Royal Vault, I had a few basic ideas sketched out:

The Big Event will be held at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park, NJ, the legendary music venue where Bruce Springsteen used to play and hang out back in the day. In lieu of prayer cards there will be wristbands, with a photo of me at my very hottest and the lyrics to Jackson Browne’s “That Girl Could Sing” imprinted on them.

I will be arriving about 10-15 minutes late. Therefore everyone else must arrive on time, so you can smile wistfully at my tardiness, and fondly recall the time I kept you waiting for that concert/coffee/first date. At one point or another, every last one of you told me that I’d be late for my own funeral, so I don’t want to disappoint.

When the sun eventually goes down on me, I’ll be ready. Photo by the author.

There will be no singing of heavenly hymns or playing of sacred music. It’s not my jam. This will be a rockin’ affair. I aim to put the “fun” in funeral. To kick things off, I’d like the DJ to spin “That Girl Could Sing” as I make my entrance. There’s a lot that people will say about me after I’m gone, some of it true, some not. But if there’s one thing that could be said, that I think all would agree on, it would be that.

In fact, you couldn’t shut me up.

I want every musician and singer I ever played with up on that stage, rocking out like a Light of Day finale or Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Pour your inconsolable sorrow and rage-at-the-injustice-of-it-all into your performance, so I can hear it from wherever the hell I am. Probably hell.

The rest of you just dance your asses off. I don’t want anyone crying (well maybe a little). I’d rather you laugh about that thing we did that time that was so funny and we couldn’t stop laughing. Or that time we stayed up all night talking and laughing and that other thing happened. Or that party where we got drunk and laughed our asses off and woke up the next morning not sure how we got home. Never mind that it was last week, you can still be nostalgic about it, OK?

As far as attire goes, certain people will wear black because they wear black every day, even in summer. You know who you are. The rest of you can wear whatever you like. I’ll be in jeans or jean shorts, depending on the season, and either a scoop-neck sleeveless top or a v-neck sweater. Because if there’s one thing that could be said about me, that I think all would agree on, it’s that I had nice cleavage.

After you’ve mourned sufficiently, walk across the street to the beach and sing and dance in the moonlight. No formal procession required. I’ll be there in spirit. A Spirit in the Night, if you will. (You know how much I loved the beach — and Bruce Springsteen.) I’ll make sure the night is warm and clear and the moon is full. After being at her mercy every month of my menstruating life until the sweet relief of menopause, she will be answering to me now.

In lieu of flowers, please send money. Just in case you CAN take it with you.