Post the Forty-Fourth: Which Contains My Funeral

Post the Forty-Third: A Day At The Races Poetic Interlude CX

Post the Forty-Fourth: Which Contains My Funeral

“I’m turning 30, which – in gay years – is Dead. Come raise a glass in honor of my deceased youth at The Mix! Sing a song to appease my ghost. I’ll be there, haunting you all with my exceedingly advanced age. Join me?” Let that sink in, Gentle Reader. This is how I invite people to celebrate my milestones with me. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a morbid chuckle. After all, this isn’t the first time I’ve died. It seemed àpropos, and it was also on the List.

The Task: Hold a Funeral for my Youth.

The Execution: We began, of course, with brunch. Those left over from the Derby Party gathered to help cook traditional funeral foods – you know, Mormon funeral potatoes, baked funeral sandwiches, an entire ham.

We were joined by several new guests, including my mother and my Cousin Mary. People were swathed in black, and of course I wore a veil. There were mimosas.

Afterwards, I was lovingly eulogized on the veranda. Mary had written four pages of an uplifting homily on identity, growth, and change. Maman told the story of my birth – which I suppose is appropriate – and my beloved Ms. Capere marveled at the fact that we’ve known each other for half of our lives, now. It was very touching. There may have been tears.

That evening, after my youth was safely laid to rest, came the wake – to send it off in style. It was held, of course, at the Mix – if my life were a drama, the Mix would be one of its recurring sets.

There were a surprising number of surprise guests; many of the people who had R.S.V.P.’d failed to show, while others that I’d considered long shots came to join the festivities.

I really didn’t get many photos from that evening, but there were so many people, and so much going on that it really isn’t surprising. I spent as much time with each individual as I could, while circulating and keeping up on the karaoke rotation. Since it was my birthday and I’d just turned thirty and no longer had to care, I told the karaoke-smith that I wanted my list to be “as gay as fucking possible” and that is how I came to sing almost nothing but show tunes all night.

As gay as fucking possible.

The Verdict: All of the events on my birthday weekend were just splendid, you guys. I really can’t thank everyone enough; you have no idea how loved and spoiled I feel, still. Over the weekend I received four dozen roses, which are now drying. I was fêted and wooed and met interesting people and old friends; people showed up from ridiculous distances to tell me that they loved me and wished me well.

It was a good death, and I’m very pleased with the results. Also, a huge thank you to my friend Ted, who ensured that I got safely home. Thanks, friend! You’re stellar.