L'Chaim! To Life!

Fifteen years ago this week, my oldest brother Mike died. He had AIDS and, back then, if a person had AIDS, that person also died of AIDS. While it would have been nice if AIDS were something he simply had to get through, such was not the case back in this disease's early, scary days. Still, I know without doubt that Mike managed to live a fine, full and fun life, all 46 years of it.

Perhaps surprisingly, his funeral was fine, full and fun, as well. I suppose you cannot be 6'5 with a laugh like an Ethel Merman song and expect to go quietly into the night. And, besides, Mike pretty much knew all the cool people in his adoptive city of New York.

DJs and artists and journalists and performers showed up for his wake. And his partner, Ben, was there, of course. Ben, who was the right hand man of Andy Warhol. While their presence gave Mike's funeral an "event" feel for his dusty, out-of-the-loop family from Nebraska, I suppose it was business as usual for his New York pals, who'd gone to far too many funerals in those days. Still, I couldn't help but stretch my neck, straining to get a glimpse of Kate Pierson from the B-52s, one of my favorite bands at the time.

Following the funeral, one of his friends, who owned a Spanish Tapas bar across the street from the church, closed up the place for a party. They served great finger food and plenty of Mike's favorite wine. I'm no wine person, but I do remember that it was French and white and the label had a space ship on it. People were getting loopy by the time I'd found my throwaway camera and located Kate Pierson again. Nervous, I gave the camera to my sister who was--let's admit it-- pretty shnockered and asked her to take a photo of Kate and me. I returned the favor for my sister, even though she could not utter two lines of "Rock Lobster" if her life depended on it.

The photo of Ann and Kate had nice balance, honoring the rule of thirds as all good photos do. Mine? Well, my teeth look straight and Kate does have a pretty nice smile, but there's really no way I can prove that I'm the one with her.

I like a good funeral. And I don't think that makes me morbid or bad. I like a funeral with good stories, some laughter, decent food and music. My dad's was a fun funeral and it felt like a real celebration of a rascal and great man. It made me glad I knew him.

I went to an exceptionally fantastic funeral a year or two ago, although very few people there realized just how great it was. That's because it was great in a bad way. I think the priest may have had a stroke during the funeral, or perhaps a few minutes beforehand, and it sure seemed like he was reading from a grocery list rather than any kind of prepared notes, given the ambling nature of his talk. It was amazing how many marriages and marriage partners he mixed up--like the ship's captain on a swingers' cruise. By the end of his sermon, I could not look anyone in the face, for fear of busting a gut. Oh, I still managed to see the quavering shoulders of my very, very bad friends who were sitting in front of me. It took kung-fu powers to keep it together. And I was not quite up to the task.

When I thought the hysterical urge had finally left me, an outside door just to the right of the altar slowly started to open. It was an exceptionally windy day, so whoever wanted in really had to work at it. I became fascinated by this slowly revealed mystery guest. By the time the door had opened enough for entrance, in walked an exotic-looking, dark-skinned woman, wrapped head to toe in an elaborate, ethnic robe. She bent at the waist repeatedly, crossing herself as she made her way across the front of the church, making her way to a pew up front.

I felt like I was in a Monty Python skit. And, by then, whatever shred of maturity and decency that had remained in my group of very, very bad friends...well, it left our bodies in a collective, gasping, release, each of us covering our snickers and snorts under the clever veil of tears.

I can only hope for such a memorable sendoff. I can only hope that people will leave with new stories, with good songs in their heads and decent food in their stomachs. A funeral, after all, really is for the living. And I say the more living, the better.