A vision has been granted to me of the day and the manner of my death.

I’ll die in Mill Valley, California. At the corner of Miller and Throckmorton. In front of Coppa Coffee.

I’ll be standing at the curb, waiting to cross over to the Depot Bookstore. I’ll look to make eye contact with the driver at the stop sign waiting to make a right turn onto Miller, in front of me.

She will be a slim young blonde in a silver Lexus SUV. She will look right at me. Reassured, I’ll begin to step off the curb. As I turn away from her, I’ll glimpse the beginning of an expression of annoyance on her face. Her mouth will begin to move. As I turn away, just as my right foot hits the street, I’ll have a microsecond of realization that she never really did see me. She was absorbed in her cell phone conversation.

I’ll begin to raise my left hand reflexively to signal her but it’ll be too late. She’ll wheel the SUV around the corner. My left foot will be caught under the right front wheel. I will go down. Then the right rear wheel will catch my legs and flip me over so that I watch the SUV pulling away.

Lying on the ground in the last moment of my life, I’ll look up and see her child, in the back seat, staring curiously at me. I will notice that the child has a bagel in his mouth. I will realize that I cannot tell if the child is male or female. A yellow Labrador retriever in the screened off rear section of the Lexus will bark furiously at me for a few seconds. The child will say something. I will see the driver waving, dismissing them both. She will drive on down Miller Avenue.

A crowd will gather. The fire truck will arrive quickly from the station around the corner. But it will too late. I will be dead, my blood running into a drain with a sign stenciled on it “NO DUMPING - FLOWS TO BAY”.

Half an hour later the driver will be arrested at the Whole Foods deli. Her husband will put up bail immediately. She will be released in time for her appointment with her personal trainer.

She will be charged with vehicular homicide. Her husband will hire a pit bull lawyer. She will state that she thought she had run over the curb. The charges will be reduced to a misdemeanor. She will spend a day at traffic school.

end

Appreciation is one of those qualities, a virtue really, that has to do with relationship. That makes it less abstract, more real. Of course all virtues have to do with relationship in some way. Anyway, I can deal with appreciation.

Appreciation is low key. You might say it is an unappreciated virtue. It is different from honoring or complimenting. It locates the action in the appreciator while still focusing on the appreciated. It is a statement of one’s own feelings.

It is easier to accept than a straightforward compliment. It does not make the appreciated person self-conscious like it might if you said you were inspired by them or how wonderful they were.

The trick of appreciation is to not ascribe a virtue to the appreciatee.

It does not exist as a judgment, as something separate from you, it does not have that force. It registers simply as the expression of a positive reaction.

(I do understand that appreciation can apply to other things besides human beings, like nature.)

Appreciation is effective in changing the attitude of the person doing the appreciation.

“It is twice blessed. It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.”

Instead of asking, “Why aren’t you happy?,” you might ask, “What do you appreciate about your life right now?” Or the day, or your environment, or a person in your life.

You don’t have to go whole hog in appreciating. You can single out a small part of a situation or person, but if you say you especially appreciate something, that also implies that there are other things worth appreciating too. It kind of spreads out the appreciation effect. I call that “appreciation radiation.”

When you claim to appreciate something, you are implicitly stating that you have good taste. Or maybe that you have confidence in your own taste. But it does not acquire the weight of judgment. It is a kinder, gentler positive assessment.

“I appreciate the difficulty of the situation you are in.” That has a different quality than “I understand the difficulty…” Don’t you think?

This is the appreciation cycle: observe, respect, assess, acknowledge. Repeat.

I appreciate that I am done writing now. I appreciate that you have read this far. The word “appreciate” has now lost all meaning to me.

The end of appreciation.

I wake up fearful. As usual.

I decide to walk it off. I take my trash picker-upper device with me. I want to access my inner Catholic and rid the world of evil in the form of cigarette butts.

Down the hill, out of the rain forest toward the ocean. I’m headed through the heart of Roberts Creek toward the Georgia Strait. An eight minute walk.

Green explodes everywhere. The early morning slanting sun against huge cumulus thunderclouds is almost garish.

I need to soak up beauty. And pick up the cigarette butts. In front of the post office, in front of the Gumboot Café, and at the bus stop across from the Roberts Creek General Store. I exult in the knowledge that I am a fountain of tidiness. I exult in the feeling of moral superiority.

At age 13, I was told by the Holy Cross Fathers that I was too disfigured to be a priest. So I have never been given the power to forgive sins Too bad for me. But I’ve found something better as a substitute. I pick up cigarette butts.

Instead of looking for beauty, I scan the ground for trash and butts.

OK, to be clear, I only do this every few weeks. But I am not anal retentive! I keep my obsessions under control. Isn’t that natural for someone obsessed with control?

I get to the Gumboot. It turns out that someone has been there before me. A couple of weeks’ accumulation of butts is mostly gone. What a boost for my dim faith in human nature.

Onward to the bus stop. I think that this is penance for the 23 years I smoked incessantly and threw my cigarette butts all over Chicago and Bloomington and San Francisco. Like Robert deNiro in The Mission, who lashed his armor to his back in permanent penance for his sins. I have another 22 years of this to make up for the littering of my youth. Better than going to hell and spending eternity in the smoker’s bowge.

Down to Roberts Creek Pier and I can almost see people in the houses in Nanaimo, 22 miles across the Strait on Vancouver Island. High tide and heavy seas beat stray logs against the beach. The ocean is gray-green, not dull but vibrant.

OK, there is dog shit. I fantasize for the hundredth time about my plan to make little index card signs attached to popsicle sticks that will say, “Another gift from the dog owners of Roberts Creek.” I will stick one into each pile of dog poop. I fine tune the fantasy a bit by planning to laminate the signs so that they will be legible on rainy days.

Oh my god, I have forgotten about the beauty. I endeavor to self-exorcise. Begone, fantasy! And it works. At least until the next time.

Later I confess my fantasy to Laurie during our writing session. She suggests that instead of my ironic, passive aggressive approach, I do a “culture jam” by putting positive messages in the dog poop. Like “Be sure to take advantage of opportunities that come your way.” “Engage in random acts of kindness.” “Good fortune is yours.” “True love will come your way today.”

The end

INTERVIEW WITH MYSELF

By David Roche

Q) David, what first gave rise to your career as a pioneer in the genre of facial-difference humor?

A) It was January 1990, when I was first falling in love with Marlena. We had a quarrel. I got discouraged and felt I was losing myself in the relationship, that I had to do something for myself. I decided it was time to take comedy classes. I had no intention of talking about my face at that time-I am part of the generation of denial. I rarely if ever talked about how I looked; I just pretended I was normal. This worked a great deal of the time, but it gets kind of ridiculous on stage. The classes were so supportive, I gradually was encouraged to talk about myself, which turned out to be richly humorous.

Q) Why are you sometimes called “Reverend Dave”?

A) My “Church of 80% Sincerity” grew out of improvisational work I was doing, as did the title. It is a church for people who are not perfect. Like me. I saw that we are the congregation of the flawed. And I get to be the Reverend Dave. I want to be Pope, but that seems a tad presumptuous to me right now.

Q) What do you feel like when you step up onstage to do the opposite of what people with visible disabilities so often want to do-hide, deny, change the subject?

A) Here is my secret: I have learned to tap into my inner beauty and express it on stage. I just try to be myself. This is very powerful, because it is commonly believed in America that the face is the locus of the human persona. So, a marred face reminds people that they themselves often feel disfigured, flawed, unacceptable to others. In performing, I deliberately bring up that fear and pain for the audience. Through humor, their vision of me (and themselves) gets reframed. When they see my beauty, they get a deep and healing reassurance. They like it and they pay me money. Cool, huh?

Q) What are some memorable audience responses to your work?

A) A very beautiful woman came into my dressing room, started crying and revealed that she wanted to disfigure her face because nobody really listened to her or took her seriously.

Oh, and I love it when someone in the audience loses control and can’t stop laughing.

The best compliment I ever received after a show was when a young man, an adolescent with multiple disabilities, who was in the audience, stood up in the audience after the show and said: “Up until tonight my heroes have been different than me, superheroes with costumes and superpowers. Now I have a hero who is like me and I can be a hero too.”

Q) You told me once that in pursuing this career, you’re scared a lot of the time. How so? Is it worth it?

A) I still get scared. Not because of my appearance, but because I am somewhat  obsessive compulsive. I often find myself taking new risks and challenges, things I have never done before. The problem is, this upsets my carefully planned daily routines which have always given me the illusion of safety. Then I get afraid because I forget that what is happening is actually wonderful. But I am learning to get over it more quickly. I get by with 20% faith. You can imagine that it takes a lot of work.

Q) In dull, daily life, does Rev. Dave really practice what he preaches?

A) I beg your pardon? My sincerity level has averaged 86% this year!

Q) Where is Rev. Dave headed? A three-picture deal, a multinational entertainment conglomerate? You have mentioned soap operas a few times.

A) My friends have always said I should be in a soap opera. Marlena enjoys Bollywood films, but I am not sure I could take that level of excitement needed to be a performer in Bollywood. All that dancing! Plus the stars have to be even more handsome than in Hollywood.

I am busy enough speaking, performing, selling my book, and now blogging.

Q) What would you tell our readers, young and old, who have a latent spark in this direction?

A) What is “a latent spark”?

Q) We know that Americans can be obsessed with appearance. Are there any good things about being facially different in America?

A) Well, a few. Once in a while, I get on the bus, an elderly woman will get up and offer me her seat.

Q) Do you take her seat?

A) Oh yes!

I have also found that I do have an all-purpose excuse. I just say, “Sorry, can’t help you. My face is acting up.” And people don’t question that.

And because I have very few teeth due to receiving radiation therapy as a child,  I save a lot of time brushing them. I am grateful for that.

Q) How many teeth?

A) I have four teeth left, all on top, and I love them dearly. I have given them names: Shaky, Sturdy, Lefty and Tiny. I always give them compliments so that they remain confident.

Oh, and because I have no chewing surfaces, I do not waste time chewing food. I just swallow it down.

Q) By “latent spark,” I meant an interest in being a performer, a humorous performer.

A) Oh. Number one, choose to be around supportive and loving people. Then get out there and do it. Take classes. Take risks. Find what gives you strength and faith and find ways to build them that work for you. Don’t wait for inspiration to be creative. Work is the source of inspiration.

End of interview

All We Remember: Reflections on Honesty from the Founder of the Church of 80% Sincerity.

People sometimes tease me about the title of my imaginary church. They ask me if I am really sincere, really telling the truth. They wonder if the stories in my show and in my book are actually true stories.

They are true. In some cases I have changed the names, especially when the story might be embarrassing to someone in it. In some cases I have put two or more stories into one story, or compressed a time frame that stretched over several months into one event.

But I do not think it is possible for personal stories to be factually true. All we remember about a particular incident from the past is our feelings about what happened. When we tell a story about something, we recall those feelings and then construct a story from what bits and shards of so-called facts that we can recall.

I recently talked with a psychiatrist at a party. He told me that he had the opportunity to work with a group of US infantrymen who had participated in a military action in a village in Vietnam. For many reasons, it was a horrific event, one that caused post traumatic stress disorder for the men. In the course of working with them, he heard their stories about what had happened. There was a core of truth to the telling of the event that had happened years previously. But details differed significantly to the extent of contradicting one another. Now these stories were told confidentially to a psychiatrist. There was no need for reconciliation of the details, for the determination of facts. All those stories were true. All those men had to make sense of that experience.

I wrote a story entitled “A Roche Family Christmas” about a Christmas eve that took place when I was about 18. A key element in that story was the description of my father introducing my youngest sister, Teresa, to sing “The Huron Christmas Carol” and slurring the pronunciation of “Huron” into “Urine.” Five of my six siblings agreed with my recollection of what had taken place, but Teresa’s memory was that we had all been laughing at her singing. She had kept that memory for thirty some years. She remembered her feelings and constructed a story to make sense of them.

Who among us did not grow up in a family with at least some degree of dysfunction? A lot of the it involved learning methods of filtering reality, of ignoring or redefining events and suppressing the voices of those who might be trying to tell what they saw as the truth. Children should be seen and not heard. We carry these habits of mind into adulthood and believe that our stories are true, in part because our emotional survival seemed to depend on it.

****

Sponge Speak

You might wonder how I know so much. An inanimate object. But, hey, I deserve some respect. I’ve been used as a metaphor for so damned long, same hackneyed metaphor, that is all people know about me. It’s never “as charming as a sponge,” “as durable as a sponge,” “as sexy as a sponge,” “as brilliant as a sponge”! No. It’s always: “he soaked it up like a sponge.” Passive! “Absorbent” is the most exciting thing ever said about me. Let’s not even mention “He was sponging off his parents.” And I get so tired of hearing, “Did you know a sponge is actually a living thing?” Well, what do you know?!

It’s not my fault I have a boring life. That jerk, David, with his obsessive compulsive disorder—would he ever let me visit the living room? Visit my family in the bathroom? NO. Not only am I stuck here at the kitchen sink, I am always—always!—on the same side of the faucet. My God, even when I go to the stove—aagh, the stove, don’t get me started—shoved up against a hot burner, wiping up unbelievable scuzz and gudge. I hate the stove. It’s like, like, going to Bosnia for a vacation.

Yes, I know about Bosnia. That’s my point! Listen to me. Sponges are absorbent. We…pick…things…up. Get it? Do you think we are stupid? Do you think when you squeeze us that it is our brains that drip out? That is water, stupid. Or soup or whatever scum you’ve pushed me into.

Thank god I am a kitchen sponge. Even if I have to sit in the same goddamned spot 24-7. God forbid that someone would move me to the other side of the sink. Or onto the counter. No. I have to stay here. I clean up everything else but my spot never gets wiped up.

I’ve seen it come and go, come and go.

It is not easy being a sponge. You know it itches a lot, all through me. Oh yeah. Bacteria. Billions. Billions of them. Whoa, I love a good bath in hot water. It relieves the itching for a while but it doesn’t cure it, the bacteria come back. Oh, what helps is to go into the microwave. Two minutes, that’s all, it fries the little buggers inside me. Feels so good. I come out a new sponge.

What? No, I don’t have e. coli. Never have. Proud of it. You must be thinking of the bathroom sponges. Go ask them.

No, it’s not hard work, you’re right. The metal thing, I don’t know its name, brillo, whatever, it does the hard work. No, don’t worry, it doesn’t understand what we are saying. No, you see, it’s not absorbent and intelligent like a sponge. It’s not a living thing. Touch it. It’s metal.

So, I just do what comes my way. They use biodegradable detergent, it’s a little milder, scent is not so bad, could be worse.

It’s not a bad life. Just lonely, pretty lonely. I’m glad you talked to me, good meeting you. Hmm? No, I don’t know what a sponge’s life span is. I think we live forever. Come back anytime.

Fudge and Forgiveness

On Sunday, Marlena and I arrived at Naramata Retreat Centre, where we were to lead a weeklong storytelling class. We brought our bags into Maple Court Residence Hall. After unpacking, I went to the common kitchen to stick a leftover sandwich in the refrigerator.

I happened to open the freezer, where I saw a white paper bag in the door shelf. It struck my interest because it was the kind of bag that candy comes in. It was sort of crumpled.

Aside from two ice cube trays, it was the only object in the freezer. I picked the bag up and hefted it. It held one object, weighing maybe half a pound.

Of course I was curious. Of course I opened the bag. Inside I found a piece of chocolate fudge in plastic wrap, with a label indicating it came from a candy store in Alberta.

We were in British Columbia, which meant that the fudge had made an arduous journey from another province.

The plastic wrapping was slightly clouded, perhaps with some condensation underneath, the kind of condensation that would form only after a period of time had passed.

Of course I did not open the package. I returned the fudge to the bag and to the freezer door.

*

On Monday, I didn’t think much about the fudge. I was busy with the storytelling class all morning. I did wonder why it had been in the freezer. Who keeps fudge in the freezer? Perhaps it stays fresher in there. But degree of freshness is not the main attraction when it comes to fudge. Plus, in the freezer, it gets frozen. Which means you have to thaw it out before you eat it. Who wants to wait to eat fudge? It was all very puzzling.

*

On Tuesday, during a free moment, I realized the white bag had camouflaged the fudge because it blended in with the white interior of the freezer. Which was probably no doubt why the person who put it there had forgotten it. Whenever that was possibly long ago.

*

On Wednesday, a funny thing happened. It turned out that I had been thinking about the fudge. I realized that, if it belonged to someone, that person would have taken it by then. A person who purchased fudge presumably liked fudge and would eat the fudge. Imagine my surprise when I happened to open the freezer door and saw that it was still languishing there. Whoever left it there possibly was not a serious fudge lover—like I am. This person did not have strong fudge needs. It came to me that I might probably need the fudge.

*

On Thursday, when the freezer door opened, the fudge was in the same place. There was no evidence that somebody cared enough about the fudge to be sure it was ok. I saw that the edges of the fudge were rounded, as if it had been handled carelessly before being discarded in the freezer.

I realized that not only did I deserve the fudge, but more importantly, the fudge deserved me—a person who cared about fudge, a man who could give that fudge what it needed.

The fudge spoke to me.

“Hello, big boy. Do you come here often? Listen, is it chilly in here or is it just me? Are you going to stick your hand in my bag? Oh, that’s nice and warm! Do you like to eat fudge? I’ll just bet you do. What do you say we go someplace where it’s a little more comfortable?”

I took the fudge to my room and set it on the dresser to let it warm up. Marlena spotted it an hour or so later.

“What’s this? Fudge! Where did this come from?”

“Umm, from the freezer. It had been left there some time ago.”

“Honey, this is nothing but chocolate flavored saturated fats and sugar,” said Marlena, viciously.

“Or one could simply call it fudge,” I responded, calmly.

“Hon? You’re not going to eat this, are you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I’m going to throw it out.”

I said nothing for a few seconds while I wondered why God had led me to marry a fudge-hater. I sighed with dignity. “OK.”

“And I am going to unwrap it before I throw it out. So don’t bother looking for it.”

I was appalled by what seemed like a possible lack of trust.

*

On Friday afternoon I was making tea in the kitchen when Corinne walked in. She is a young, lovely, energetic woman who had been at the centre all week teaching world dance. She walked right to the freezer, opened the door and spoke.

“Hey, what happened to my fudge?”

My first thought was that I should tell the honest truth and say, “I didn’t eat it.” But I knew that would be similar to an untruth. I knew that I had to take a higher road.

“Maybe somebody cleaned out the fridge?”

“Oh, no! I was saving it for today.” Corinne frowned.

I decided I had to do the right thing.

“Tell you what, Corinne. Marlena and I are just about to walk to the bakery in town. Come on along and I will buy you a brownie?”

“Oh, you are so kind!”

I acknowledged her compliment with a nod and a smile.

At the bakery I bought her a piece of lemon cheesecake. She cleaned the crumbs up with her finger. We walked back.

“Well, that was very generous of you.”

“Well, thank you, Corinne.”

The way she enjoyed the cheesecake crumbs was troubling to me. Corinne had been working hard all week teaching world dance. At the end of the week she had come to get her fudge. Oh, well. She got cheesecake instead. There is a way in which it was doubtless God’s will.

At dinner I saw Corinne walking by. She was sweating after rehearsing for the evening’s performance. I was reminded of how hard she had worked all week

I jumped up and walked over to her.

“Corinne, you know that fudge? I stole it. Or, I mean, I took it.”

“What? My fudge?”

“Yes, but Marlena wouldn’t let me eat it and she threw it out.”

“You took my fudge?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I apologize. That is why I bought you the cheesecake. I was too embarrassed…”

She laughed. “It’s just fudge, David.”

She hugged me. “You’re forgiven.”

As she walked back to rehearsal, she turned and said, “You know, I’ve done the same thing myself.”

I knew that we were kindred spirits. Fudge lovers.

On Saturday, on the plane home, Marlena told me she had returned the fudge to the freezer. I was surprised by her duplicity. Maybe it will still be there next summer.

*

Marlena and I sit on folding chairs as kids spill into the gym. The noise level rises exponentially. I sit with my eyes closed so the students can stare at me.

Eighth graders get the privilege of sitting on the bleacher seats. The seventh and sixth graders sit in rows on the floor.

Two boys are by themselves. off against the gym wall, about 30 feet to our left. They look unhappy.

The assistant principal takes up the microphone. Nobody is looking, nobody pays attention. “Good afternoon, students!” he yells, and they respond. He does it again, more quietly, and they settle down. Teachers step into the crowd to shush a couple of noise pockets.

I am introduced and stand in front of the crowd. I pause for a couple of beats and begin: “I want you to stare at my face today.” They do so. A few grimace and turn away. I invite them to ask, “What happened to your face?” They shout in unison and are engrossed in my explanation.

They love physicality and humor, so my description of being a member of a gang consisting of Freddy Kreuger, the Beast, Frankenstein, Igor, the Phantom of the Opera and Quasimodo goes over well, especially when I finish with “and Michael Jackson,” and act out how my gang likes to play lurch tag while hanging out in the bushes at night.

I tell about how my parents supported me and how my grandmother (mi abuelita, my nana) reacted to the prayerful pose I learned from the nuns by jerking my chin up, up, up and yelling at me to keep it there and look people in the face. I act out her anger and it shocks them into silence.

Then comes the story of showing up, dressed as a clown, at a Halloween party that turns out to be my first boy-girl party, and the inevitable spin the bottle game which ends up in my being rejected by the cutest girl at Our Lady of Grace School.

All I do is tell stories and be as emotionally present as possible. I do indeed feel rejected as I kneel on the gym floor in my imaginary spin the bottle circle. A couple of times, students have come up to us afterwards and said, “Thanks for not telling us what to do.”

“Love at Second Sight” is all about appearance and acceptability, and that is also what their lives are about. They have to do math, but it is a secondary concern. They are trying to find their place in the world and much of it has to do with self image.

Next comes the story of how I sat on the couch with Carol, paralyzed with anxiety and self-doubt, wanting to kiss her but excruciatingly aware of having only one real lip. I finally do ask for a kiss and when she responds “I thought you would never ask,” a feminine “Aaaaw” arises. I look up and see a few boys staring wonderingly at the girls’ reaction.

They are a wonderful audience, reacting authentically to what we present. They are not yet practiced in being cool, in controlling their muscles of facial expression. They seem to radiate light.

I end by saying that my face is a gift because I have been forced to find my inner beauty, and how it has become a gift again in that I find I am able to see the beauty of others like them, that I know that I look different to them than when they first saw me. Some nod in assent. I say that they look different to me too, that I have seen the warmth in their eyes and their intelligence and that I want each them to hold their chin up and be proud of themselves.

I bring up Marlena and they look curiously as I put my arm around her.

“The first time I met David, I heard his voice before I saw his face.” Marlena shows how she walked away in shock when she first saw me.

Marlena’s is the true Love at Second Sight story of taking a longer deeper look, of looking for “the flash of gold” in another. It is all about how to relate to someone radically different and is the perfect counterpart to my story.

She asks, “Do you know how it is when you have a crush on someone?” and girls look knowingly at one another.

It is an afternoon assembly, the last period of the day, and the students are becoming restless. This can be like speaking to a big box of worms. But they are with Marlena when she describes her new awareness of how people like me can get stared at and affected by constant comments and pointing. This, too, is part of their lives and she acts it out well.

They become still again when Marlena tells the sickening feeling she had when Cheryl, her new best friend in high school asked: “Marlena, please don’t tell my parents that you are Jewish.”

She finishes by asking them to take a second look too. I rejoin her and the question and answer session begins. Some of the questions are asked most every time: “Did you tell Cheryl’s parents that you were Jewish?” “Does your face hurt?” “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

Boys tend to ask the more matter of fact, physically oriented questions: “Can you see ok out of your left eye?” “Did you play sports?”

The girls have other interests: “When did you get married?”

And always, some that surprise: “When did you first realize that you had inner beauty?” “If you could change your face by a special operation, would you do it?” When the latter question is asked, I look pensive and say, “Well, only if I could look like Britney Spears.” That gets a mixture of laughter and shock; I feel compelled to announce that I am kidding, that I would not want to give up what I have learned, that my face is a gift. But that I do wonder sometimes what it would be like to be normal. “Maybe I could have a six month trial period with a normal face?”

Then Marlena interjects, “Well, do you think he should change his face?”, knowing they always shout out, “No!”

Afterwards, we stand at the door of the gym to say goodbye. They pour past us; not everyone gets to shake hands. One boy returns to the gym door after having left. He looks tentative. He holds his hand out halfway. As I hold it, he flinches slightly. After he turns away, a teacher says, “That was amazing. Richard never lets anybody touch him.”

***

Many baby boomers nearing the cusp of geezerdom are confused and concerned about what happens after death.

I can be of help. I have been studying the afterlife since being under the tutelage of the good sisters at Our Lady of Grace School in the 1950s.

Death itself may be a source of concern for you. Get over it. It is not so bad. It is what happens just before death (e.g., cardiac arrest, poisoning, removal of ventilator) that is often rather unpleasant. And according to Sister Mary Wenceslaus, the aftermath of death can be pretty distressing, too.

DEAD ON ARRIVAL: MANGIA, MANGIA.

The nuns were very clear that the first thing that happens when you die is that you have to finish all the food you wasted in your life. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

So let’s review the postdeath consumer choices you have after you are done eating.

RETRO VERSION

HELL: The most likely eventuality.

You probably chose hell long ago. Yes, you did. You’ve known it all along.

But it is no longer called Hell! Due to the influx of a better class of people who are interested in maintaining property values, it is now known as Lower Paradise Estates. You will find exclusive areas such as “Demon Oaks” and “Festering Ridge.” They are not gated communities, as Lower Paradise Estates itself is a form of gated community. It’s a buyer’s market right now, with lots of creative financing opportunities.

You’ll be pleased to know that a section of Hell has been preserved. It’s called “Old Hell,” and retains the quaint charm portrayed so well by Dante and Hieronymus Bosch. Be sure to schedule some time there (actually, it will be scheduled for you). The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse lead a parade through Old Hell every evening. They drive Hummers, dragging newly arrived CEOs behind them. At the new bowge for anal retentives, you can watch them clutch at postits dangling just out of reach.

Give up on trying to avoid hell. That is a lot of wasted effort. Instead, I advise you to spend time and energy developing as much endurance, stoicism and self-discipline as you can muster. Yes, you still will be covered with flaming boils for all eternity, but you will be a little more able to scream “one day at a time,” and other positive affirmations.

PURGATORY: Hell with a shelf life.

Purgatory is where you go if you die with relatively minor sins on your soul. Of course this is impossible, so purgatory is pretty much only a concept.

After all this time, there are only 34 people in purgatory. Those are the ones who dropped dead as they left the confessional, with no time to even think about committing new and exciting mortal sins. The bad news is that the suffering in purgatory is just as bad as in hell. Eternal flame, red hot pokers up your butt, the whole bit. The good news is that when you have suffered enough, you go up to heaven. However—you are not the one who gets to say, “I have suffered enough.” Somebody else does that, either God or someone he has appointed. I think it is probably one of the nuns from grade school. They had a pretty good sense of how much suffering one deserved.

Well, actually, you could say, “I have suffered enough.” You probably would be saying that constantly in purgatory. Or screaming it, rather.

Also, purgatory ends on Judgment Day. After Judgment Day there is only heaven or hell. So the luckiest people are the ones who die and go to purgatory the night before Judgment Day.

LIMBO: cancelled due to lack of interest.

Limbo used to be up there in the sky somewhere a little east of purgatory. It was a nondescript place where unbaptized babies went to wait until Judgment Day. They just waited there. Not happy, not sad. They were “in limbo.” That’s where the expression comes from. Think of a dog kennel for souls. Recently, the Catholic Church announced that there had been a misunderstanding and there was no Limbo. I don’t know what happens to the souls of the unbaptized babies now.

HEAVEN: the desired outcome.

The best thing about heaven, according to the nuns, was that you got to be in the presence of God for all eternity. Which seemed a little boring to me. The Mickey Mouse Club had an “Anything Can Happen Day” on Wednesdays—surely God could muster up something similar. Anyway, my vision of God at that point was of a cranky old bipolar alcoholic with a club behind his back and a forced smile on his face. Who wanted to be in his presence?

The other thing about heaven: people there get to look down upon the people in hell. Which is the most enjoyable thing about heaven. If you go out on the deck in heaven and look down, there they are. Covered with boils, skin blistering, body parts bursting into flame. Just what they deserve. They are all screaming for mercy. They look up at the people in heaven. They beg for a drop of water to ease their pain. They beg you to go pee on them. Really. They would love that. They think it would be much better than burning up. Don’t bother, though, because the pee evaporates on the way down.

NEW OPTIONS

REINCARNATION: Please leave my Blackberry in the coffin.

Catholics don’t believe in reincarnation. Instead, we have confession, where sins are forgiven immediately. Why wait until another lifetime? You don’t carry the guilt forward as if they were minutes on your cell phone plan. Another disadvantage to selecting reincarnation: your to do list adheres to your soul no matter what.

THE BARDO: Hell for type A personalities.

My understanding is that Buddhists believe that immediately after death, everything is the same except you have no body. You are wandering around in the air, same feelings, same desires. You are hungry but you can’t eat. You are horny but your sex organs are kind of misty and transparent.

That’s the definitive thumbnail guide to the afterlife. Clean your plate thoroughly.

End

Face transplants are in the news again.

Remember the woman in France who had the first face transplant a couple of years ago? I saw the photo of what she looked like presurgery. The whole lower part of her face had been torn off by a pit bull. She looked like one of the cadavers in that recent Chinese exhibit. I was skeptical, too, when I read that she started smoking not long after the transplant. That didn’t seem like a good thing for a new face. But the transplant worked!

The technique for a face transplant is developed but there is a new problem—people don’t want to be face donors.

“The liver, yes, the heart yes, the lungs, yes, but no, no, not
my face. I want to bring my face into the afterlife.”

Seems to me that the free market needs to take hold! Here are some of my musings about that prospect.

First of all, the upscale market needs to be emphasized. The rich will be first on board. Not as donors, but as donees. Wannabe CEOs will want a rugged executive face. “You can’t get ahead without one.”

Trophy wives will be a great niche market. Some Russian or Saudi billionaire, some hedge fund manager with an eight figure salary will get tired of his wife and want her to look like Angelina Jolie. He could pay to get Jolie’s face when she dies. As a gift for his wife’s 40th birthday! If Angelina dies within two years, her estate would receive, say, ten million dollars. If she died at age 65, the value of her face would be vastly reduced to, what, $20? It will only be useful as a memento or souvenir. Of course any hedge fund manager would also want to make a down payment on other attractive faces, perhaps in a cancer ward.

Many jobs will be created, for example in Homeland Security. Passport photos will no longer suffice as proof of identity; dental xrays will have to be analyzed at airport security checkpoints.

There will be opportunities for face recruiters. “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I’m so sorry to have to tell you that we lost Debbie on the operating table. But there is a way that you can keep her memory alive forever. Just sign here.”

As companies like WalMart get into the act, a market will be created for “budget” or “value” faces, which will be the only ones that the less well off can afford. Such as old ladies’ faces that still have powder deep in the wrinkles. Old men’s faces with hair coming out of the nostrils. Or faces where a bit of rigor mortis has set in.

The mass market (the faceless masses) will start seeing XS, S, M, L and XL sizes. Then “one size fits all”. When it’s too large, it bunches up around the edges. When it’s too small, it will gets stretched over your face. Those cheap faces will be itchy. People will have to wear a cone around your necks post op, like dogs get when neutered.

Other problems will have to be solved. For example, it appears that unwanted DNA is part of any transplant.

I read about the woman who got a heart and lung transplant from a 19 year old male. Not long afterwards, she was walking down the street and saw a young man she had never met. She recognized him and knew his name; it turns out he was a friend of the donor. I imagine she also found herself hungering for pizza and beer. Along with other unaccustomed desires: “I don’t know, doctor. I have this overpowering desire to have sex with myself.”

With a new face, you might find you can’t help picking your nose. If you got a younger person’s face, you’d get a libido boost, too. At least for oral sex.

A whole underground market will grow. People will start auctioning their faces on Ebay. Eface, it will be called.

That’s what I am waiting for. I figure I will get top dollar because my face comes with a ready made career as a performer and public speaker. Plus a web site. And a blog.

end