Those of you who regularly read this blog may remember a piece I did called “Red Ribbon Snippets” in which I outlined a conversation between myself and my friend Ryan, who happens to have an AIDS-infested gay uncle in Georgia. That gay uncle’s nickname was Girl Baby (to quote Court Sullivan quoting me, “You can’t make this stuff up”). Anyway, Girl Baby died two days ago. Pour some of your forty ounce on a curb in the name of one of the coolest black gay men in Augusta, Georgia. And if you don’t have a forty ounce, then pour out some Kool-Aid. Girl Baby would understand.
I think Bull Shannon of “Night Court” said it best when he said, “Dying is just nature’s way of telling you you’re not alive anymore.”
When my grandma died, I had to fly from Tampa to Chicago to Omaha and then drive two hours to a little town in Northwest Iowa. The entire trip, I tried to be pissed about the huge inconvenience that was this jumbled mix up of transit. But every time I got mad about how much that trip sucked, I remembered that I was alive and that’s all that really mattered. I hate not being able to get mad. I mean it really pisses me off.
I believe it was the philosopher Socrates who said, “Death is but a door. Time is but a window. I will return.” Oh wait, maybe that was in “Ghost Busters II.” Either way, it’s a great line.
One of the secrets to happiness is humility. One of the best ways to retain some semblance of humility and class is to avoid speaking ill of the dead. Because of this, I have absolutely nothing to say about Fred Rogers, River Phoenix or Dick Cheney (don’t split hairs; he might as well be dead for all we know. Shit. Odds are only 1000 to 1 in favor of him being a giant hologram).
Some wise dude once said that “Funerals are for the living.” I don’t think he’d ever been to one, though.
When I think back about all the friends I’ve lost to car accidents, drug use, random stupidity and weapons, it makes me feel proud that I managed to get this far in life without shooting myself in the foot. I’d like to say that it makes me sad to think about these dead friends, but well, I’m alive and that’s all that matters (see, it works both ways. Just because I can’t get mad doesn’t mean I have to get sad. Man, I love this country).
I believe it was my ex-girlfriend Jennifer who once said, “Nate, you go to hell and you die!” Ahh, women.
In summary: funerals are supposed to be celebrations of life, speaking ill of the dead is wrong, I know lots of people who have died (including my Grandma), and my friend Ryan has to drive to Augusta to celebrate the life of a homosexual AIDS victim who just happened to be his father’s brother.
Oh yeah, and all that really matters is that you’re alive.
So quit your bitching, already.