A friend of mine died a couple days ago. Well, I’m not sure we were ever friends, but we were pirates together oh, so many years ago, and it’s tradition that we mark the passing or all pirates who go on account before us.
Even though we didn’t always get along, I will still miss him. The pirating world back then was a very small one. As far as we knew 30 years ago, the Seafair Pirates were the only full-time pirate group in the country, and we were, whether we got along or not, mates.
There aren’t too many of us left in that era. Oh, I’m sure there are many of us still alive. But most have drifted away from the pirating world, finding other things to do with their time, going on to have a relatively normal life. Those of us from that era still performing I can count on one hand, and now there’s an extra digit left over as yet another of us old timers has passed on.
Which brings me to my own passing. I have been told that I should write down how I want my funeral/memorial to be, and rather than have to have the Janmeister try to find it on my computer or in my horrific filing system, I thought I would just put it here in plain view.
Long ago, I had big plans for my “going away” party. I really wanted to be propped up in the corner of the room, so my friends, exes and mates could bid me fond adieu. Sure, there would be some drinks in my face, but I’m pretty sure at this stage I won’t react too unkindly, or even react at all for that matter. It would be cool, though if they could animatronic me for the occasion so I could scare the hell out of a few of you one last time.
When I was a Seafair Pirate, I wanted to have my coffin loaded up on Moby Duck and paraded down Fourth Avenue one last time. I guess that was just a fleeting thought, as was the one where Diablo and I were going to be mixed together and interred in the Memorial Reef off Florida. Thankfully, that ship has sailed… and sunk.
The Janmeister offered to make me a cake when I die. No, really, a cake. She was just going to do a little baking every day to keep me looking fresh, adding new layers of fondant to spruce me up a bit. That idea went south when she admitted to a fondness of chocolate and would feel the need to make some “improvements” to certain parts of my anatomy after my passing.
My recently deceased friend is being buried in his Captain’s attire, his sword by his side. That is so cool. Well, it would be super cool but he’s not really being buried, but cremated. So I don’t really know what happens there, well, to the sword that is.
I too wanted to be cremated, largely because it’s cheap. Besides, I’m not fond of small spaces. I have a 2,000 square foot house at the moment and am not sure I could go with a small studio again, especially one without a kitchenette or bathroom; just a plush, satin lined single room.
I did like the guy I saw on TV who was buried lying on his favorite sofa. That makes me laugh. Why not be comfortable in the afterlife. If it was good enough for you when you were alive, why not when you’re passing through to the other side. And you don’t even have to worry about your legs falling asleep as they rest on the armrest for eternity.
As I write this, I’m beginning to realize that all my really good plans have fallen aside. Even my once real plan has fallen through. I have always had a thing for lighthouses. So it seemed ideal that I could be interred at the Tillamook Rock Lighthouse off Cannon Beach. For $5,000 I could be put in the lantern room of the lighthouse. Pretty cool, huh?
But the damned place lost its license in 1999. Something about the remains not being properly protected from the elements and that a tsunami could cast all the urns into the sea, and people didn’t pay for a burial at sea. So only 30 lucky souls with perfect timing for their demise have been put out there to date, well, 28, since two were stolen by vandals in 1991.
Dang, I was really looking forward to that idea, especially now that I’m back in the Pacific Northwest where it would have actually been possible again.
My friend’s funeral was lovely, by the way. There were speakers who brought Butch’s life to life once more, the gathered laughing at some of the good times we all had. But it definitely wasn’t for me. I don’t want that kind of swan song.
And therein lies the answer. As I sat at the funeral, listening to the quiet sobs of some of his family and friends, it occurred to me that I have to orchestrate the whole thing myself. As the old saying goes, “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” Since I won’t be able to do the heavy lifting in that regard after I bite the big one, I will just have to do it all ahead of time.
So, I have decided to write my own production. I’m going to do the casting, get me a director (yes, Cassie, it’s you), and write the script. I want a real wing ding, with some kind of brouhaha breaking out in the middle, fisticuffs, crying wenches, an attempt to heist my ashes as payment for an unpaid bar tab, sword fighting – in short, the works.
I only hope I have enough friends left to do the many parts I plan to write. Unfortunately, their numbers seem to be dwindling. Hopefully, each of my friends will be able to find a younger version of themselves who can handle the stunt work planned. I would hate to see a sword fight rage between two pirates with walkers. On second thought, I bet I could sell a lot of tickets to that.
In the Emerald City, casting about for a cast and taking a few turns on the old casting couch,
– Robb