SHOUTY, CAPSY THINGS

morninggloria:

My grandpa was a smartass, a cigar smoker, a beer drinker, a baseball fan, a fun-haver.  He always said that after he died, he wanted—

1.  “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” played at his funeral and

2.  Everyone to go out and get drunk afterward.

So when he died this summer, my (huge, devastated) family did our best to accommodatehim.  The priest acquiesced to my grandpa’s musical request, and after the funeral my cousins and I, without changing clothes, went to my hometown’s main street and proceeded to drink $2 beers and smoke cigarettes and play pool and just kind of hang around each other, not knowing what else to do.  My older cousins took control of the jukebox and put together a bizarre playlist of Slayer and New Kids on the Block and Peaches.  My 6’3” 240 lb older cousin, a little drunk, did a spirited robotic dance to “Fuck the Pain Away” in the middle of the empty bar while the bartender flirted with the only patron in the place who wasn’t a member of the post-funeral party. 

It’s weird that Peaches now reminds me of funerals.

When my grandmother died, she left a whole book entitled something like “After I’m Gone.”  There were instructions regarding her funeral and the music she wanted played.  Uptempo stuff like “When the Saints go Marching In” and “Spirit In the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum.  We were then supposed to throw a kickass dinner party in her honor and invite all of her crazy teacher friends.

The Family Powers that Be could not grasp these fairly clear instructions, so she got a sob-ful “Amazing Grace” and “Ave Maria” and a sedate-ass family only luncheon. 

Everytime I hear “When the Saints go Marching in” I sort of think it’s a sign from my Grandmother, telling me I’m doing it wrong.