Anyway, here goes.
A couple nights ago I dreamed I was going to my dad's funeral. He died in 2001. He had his funeral. But whatever, it's cool. I had about twenty minutes to kill so I stepped out of the church. I hopped on a kid's bike and pedaled up Nehalem Street toward 13th Avenue.
The sun was shining. I felt Zen. Except for this little feeling of frustration at the center, like a dill pickle slice in a meat roll-up. The bike was so low I had to hold my Chucks in dorsiflexion to keep my toes off the asphalt. I returned the bike and walked over to the parish hall. A few people stood around, talking.
I was in my tux (apparently there was a hipster dress code) feeling kind of fly, doing whatever. But next thing I knew it was five minutes before I had to be in the vestibule ready to proceed with dad's ashes toward the altar in front of hundreds of people to whom I would eventually, if dream followed history, speak some words of remembrance. I rushed over.
The funny thing is I wasn't sad, just a little burned out. I'd already done my mom's funeral a few months ago. I'd had to be on for it, like a sales rep has to be on, hustling because I wanted people to go to the reception where I had a video presentation prepared. This is true. Hurrying off to dad's funeral meant I had to be on again and I didn't want to be. Damn it, dad. How many times do people have to die in our family?
Not a weird dream, not even eventful. Not even emotional. I think I'm just tired of funerals. But -- something tells me, I won't say why -- I have a feeling they're not tired of me yet.
I'm hoping like Ice-T said, to die harder than Bruce Willis. But not everyone I know seems to want that for themselves.
And on that cryptic note, Happy Friday.
May you attend no funerals this weekend.
On further reflection that's a crappy way to end a post. Here's a song that should make you feel good: