Mere words cannot describe the surreality precipitated by an errand like this; a week ago the old man and I had been shooting the shit about this and that, and now Tidy and I were wheeling up to the parlor in his car, which he would never drive again, to take possession of his incinerated corpse. Whoa. Heavy, right?Go read the whole thing now -- before life passes you by.
Well, be she spinster aunt or no, I dare anybody to keep a straight face who darkens the stoop of the Sparkman/Hillcrest Funeral Home, Mausoleum, and Memorial Park. You wouldn’t believe this joint. It was like the set designers from Twin Peaks and Napoleon Dynamite had fused with Elvis Presley’s interior decorator and been reborn as Liberace’s angst-ridden evil twin, who then suffered a psychotic break, and bought up the world’s supply of harvest gold flocked wallpaper, brass upholstery tacks, and fake oak paneling….
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Spinster and the Funeral Parlor
Excerpted from I Blame the Patriarchy.