The Funeral

“I have my funeral planned,” he said.

I was getting my hair cut. We’d been talking about Christmas music. I’d complained about Bob Dylan’s rendition of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” recorded in two thousand nine. It’s not my favorite Dyan song, or the best version of that song I’ve heard. He sounded painfully raspy, to me.

“I’d like to hear Metallic do Christmas songs,” my stylist said.

I said, “I’d like to hear Disturbed do a Christmas album.” I was thinking of their cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence.” I’ve come to like it better than the original.

“Funny you should say that,” my barber said. “I’m going to have that planned at my funeral.” He then described his other music choices, like Madonna and Gwen Stefani. He was having it catered by Luigi’s in Medford. His casket was going to be black, with the Batman emblem on it.

“Why Batman?” I said.

“He’s my favorite guy.”

Ah. “What’s the genesis for planning your funeral?”

“I was sick and had some health issues a few years ago.”

Must have been serious, went unsaid. Instead, I said. “I feel bad. I haven’t given any thought to my funeral music.”

I guess there’s something else to put on my to-do list. It’s always something.

After walking away, I did a search for Disturbed’s Christmas music. Knowing that group, you know it has to be out there already.

 

 

 

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