Last week my grandfather set off the fire alarm in his Florida apartment complex at 11 PM. That very same night, in New York City, I had a shamanic vision. It was all sparks, licking flames, haze, and then oblivion.

Maybe you think I’m speaking metaphorically about an orgasm. If so, you’ve obviously never had sex with me. I’m talking about death. I think I now know how I am going to die. Strike the tragically fated hot air balloon chase scene from the script! [ . . . ] Continue »

I wonder what I look like to a stranger. More specifically, I wonder what I look like from a birds-eye view, seven stories up. Apparently from this vantage point, there is something distinctive and remarkably distasteful about me. Otherwise, why would someone choose to throw a full, glass handle of vodka down at me from a rooftop?

The weekend before last I was nearly killed dead—yes, “killed dead”—when a stranger threw a full gigantic bottle of booze down at me from a rooftop. [ . . . ] Continue »

Leaving flowers for dead people actually makes no sense at all. I’m not saying we should start leaving soda cans and gum wrappers around The Nana’s final resting place, however, if flowers have no useful purpose for living people (except to make people “feel good”—which really just means they get to show off), then dead people really, really can’t do anything with them.

Let’s just admit it: flowers make us, the living people, feel better. The Dead Nana has better things to do than look at flowers on her grave and compare “her” flowers to the lack of flowers on all the graves of all the total strangers around her. [ . . . ] Continue »

“Son of a bitch,” my mother exclaims. These are the first words out of her mouth as we approach The Nana’s grave for our Mother’s Day visit. I’d reprimand her for sullying a pious moment, however, there’s nobody around to take offense because everyone within earshot is dead. Two-week-old, trampled, disintegrating carnations are strewn on the ground in front of the headstone. Someone has actually dumped my Nana’s flowers out and stolen our nifty plastic graveside bouquet receptacle. (If only we’d outfitted Nana’s headstone for a computer lock!)

My mother’s eyes are wild. Her knuckles whiten around the fresh bouquet of flowers and the shovel. [ . . . ] Continue »

The question is: What were we doing in a cemetery with a small shovel on Mother’s Day?

Visiting The Dead Nana, of course!! [**High-fives all around!** Dead grandparents are the funnest.]

Shovel or no shovel, cemetery visits are tricky business: a “good” visit means your loved one is still deceased, while a “very bad” visit means your undead relative has risen from the grave and is waiting—knee cocked on her headstone—to beat your ass for showing up late, wearing jeans, and bringing nothing more than a cheap supermarket bouquet. [ . . . ] Continue »