A Rotten End To A Lovely Day

Did you ever think when a hearse goes by,
That you may be the next to die?
They take you out to the family plot,
And there you wither, decay, and rot.
They wrap you up in a bloody sheet,
And then they bury you six-feet deep.
And all goes well for a week or two,
And then things start to happen to you.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
The ants play pinochle on your snout!
One of the worms that’s not so shy,
Crawls in one ear and out one eye.
They call their friends and their friends’ friends, too,
They’ll make a horrid mess of you!
And then your blood turns yellow-green,
And oozes out like whipping cream.
[Spoken] Darn, me without a spoon!
Your eyes fall out, your teeth decay
A rotten end to a lovely day
So never laugh when a hearse goes by,
For you may be the next to die.

Count Down Till Doomsday

You may have noticed (although it takes a keen eye) a countdown clock added to the “about me” section. Yeah, over there in the right hand column. Well, I have determined I have to get everything I am ever going to accomplish finished before that timer runs out. In true Owen Meany style I have predetermined the date of my death.

Sunday July 19th, 2054. 7:30 P.M.
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A Form Of Preparation

It was important. But it wasn’t as difficult as she thought it would be. Not for me at least. I suppose it may have been harder for her because it was her mortality we were defining.

Last Wednesday my brother, his girlfriend, and I went over to moms for dinner. She fixed red beans and rice, my favorite meal of hers. She always fixes it for my birthday. But tonight we wouldn’t be talking about birth, but death. Mom was putting together her living will, durable power of attorney, and such. She needed to put one of our names down as the executor. Of course, both my brother and me agreed it doesn’t really matter. There is no doubt that if an event should occur, in which a decision about how to deal with any of these issues, the both of us would be involved. The person who would tell the doctor what to do was irrelevant, be it my brother or me. My name got put down not for any other reason than I volunteered.

My Mom is a simple woman. She believes in “right-to-die” or pain control or whatever the current p.c. term for minimizing suffering of both victim and survivor in the case of tragic events and during severe illness or debilitation. I’m confident my brother and me would be able to make a good decision, and more importantly, my mom is too.

It sucks thinking about this kind of stuff sometimes. And it is can actually pretty depressing if you let it be. But it’s also very necessary. And nothing we discussed actually brought me down. It was just a form of preparation – in case of the unavoidable.

Goodbye Otha

This morning I got an email from a music-loving friend of mine that informed me of some sad news. Apparently, legendary bluesman and cane fife player, Otha Turner passed away last Thursday the 27th of March. His death overshadowed by that of a particular children’s television show host. Otha Turner and the Rising Star Drum and Fife Band played a style of “blues” called American drum and fife music. Its influences trace most directly to both the drum corps of the Revolutionary War and traditional African music brought to America by slaves.

I discovered Otha’s music a couple of years ago from some random zine I can no longer remember the name of. What I like most about Otha music, in addition to it’s simple but driving beats and southern man-of-the-earth feel, it was great to party to. In fact Otha threw picnic parties every summer for whomever wanted to attend. Otha and friends would roast goat, drink margaritas, and play music. The summer I first heard Otha I brought his CD to all the parties I went to. My friends with an interest in music (and most of those who didn’t) always got their interest piqued when they heard it. If you haven’t heard Othar Turner yet I recommend you do so. Try downloading (left click) some of his tunes from here, here, or here.
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