“Ball so hard, this shit crazy”
It was a money-draining party and I had a blast.
Heart Of Douche-ness or “The Imperialism Of Young Assholes”
Take up the White Mans Burden, Hipsters. Conquer the middle class with your bougie contempt and self-loathing fashion. But don’t complain when you’re branded the enemy.
EULA, Life Size Maps & More at Shea Stadium
Five great bands at a Friday show in Shea Stadium.
Silent Barn Public Meeting Tomorrow
Panelists gather to discuss All Ages venues, with some necessary rocking out.
alt-J at Glasslands
Lead singer Joe Newman asked us to sweat with him and we did.
Confession: How I Plan To Die
It’s probably not odd that I’ve been obsessing on death, considering my age and my fearfulness of oblivion. I’m enraged by the whole concept of memorials, wakes, shivas, eulogies, and obsequies, to the extent that they’ve become phenomena that have been taken over by the conglomerates that control most funeral homes. (The euphemism for their line of work is “making arrangements.”) Casket burial can be far more expensive than cremation, which itself is no bargain. But the modern funeral conforms completely to the laws of capitalism, with the division of labor producing economies of scale.
Tour the basement of the Riverside Funeral chapel, as I recently did, and you will understand how much caskets and assembly line cars have in common (a casket by the way is really a high-end coffin). But here’s the deal: I’m really in no position to make decisions about how my loved ones are going to be transported to the hereafter. My last go-around at a family funeral convinced me that I should have gotten my travel agent involved. I was overtaken with the idea that if I chose the wrong casket, it might create rejection problems once it reached the gates of St Peter. You never know who’s going to be minding the door, who’s going to be the bouncer behind the velvet rope.
The funny thing is that the occupant of a car statistically has a good chance to end up in the same place as the occupant of a casket. The one area in which caskets and cars differ is profit margin. I don’t have the facts in front of me, but let’s just say that there is no need for government subsidy of major casket makers, who have a monopoly on price-gouging our death trips. Cemeteries are gold mines. It’s real estate l01. Like garages, cemeteries are based on the notion that realtors can achieve higher per-square-foot sales on small spaces. Within the context of the market economy and the commodification of almost everything, there is still the need to congregate, to join in with other survivors. After all, survivors are the repositories of memory, and once they die, the memories go with them. This normal human urge is what stokes the fires of industry and pushes even rebellious souls, like myself, to sell their souls to the devil.
I personally intend to pass on my funeral the way Hollywood studios pass on a script. If we are going to have an occasion, let it be at one of the great swingers’ clubs of the past like Plato’s Retreat. Let ashes be spread in the women’s locker room at Equinox, where I was never granted entry when I was alive. Back in the ‘70s there was a club in Midtown called the P.G. Barnum Room filled with pre-op transsexual prostitutes who swung on trapezes. It was much better than the Cirque du Soleil, though a touch more dangerous since occasionally tempers would flare and some of the pre-ops carried shivs in their gaffes. Though that too no longer exists, I wouldn’t mind being eulogized there.
OK here is what I really want. I’m terribly claustrophobic, so no coffin or casket will do, especially in the case that my many readings of the late Ibsen play When We Dead Awaken have some residual effect. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing, a seemingly heterodox individual with a closet disposition to orthodoxy. Part of me wants to be buried in Cedar Park, the Jewish cemetery where my parents and grandparents now rest, but I can’t help myself. My final act will produce the solitude that is the handmaiden of freedom. When my ashes are thrown off the Forth Bridge, immortalized in Hitchcock’s 39 Steps, I will have avoided both physical and metaphysical confinement, but my restless spirit, that same autonomy-seeking delinquent that got me in trouble throughout my life, will insure that I will be deprived of not only a little plot of ground, with its perpetual care contract, but all the creature comforts of death.