image description: photographs of a document from the People With HIV/AIDS Action Coalition, by Michael Kearns, titled: "The Dos and Don'ts of Throwing A Memorial."
"Life is laughter amid a rosary of deaths" -- Federico Garcia Lorca
Remember pot parties and dinner parties? Saturday night orgies and Sunday morning brunches? Birthday bashes and other fashionable fetes?
Well, forget 'em. What you're likely to attend—and throw—during the '90s are Memorials (aka Celebrations of Life). Having become a Veteran Memorial Giver, I've compiled a few guidelines. Am I serious? Dead.
Do check dates to see if there's another Memorial (for someone more famous) on the same day.
Don't start on time—give people a chance to be phony.
Do keep the memorial indoors.
Don't go to an idyllic park (especially not Griffith).
Do use the deceased's phone book to compile the guest list.
Don't invite anyone who's only listed by first name and number of inches.
Do invite enemies of the deceased (they'll have a final opportunity to be resentful and jealous).
Don't introduce more than one person as the deceased's "best friend."
Do keep the Memorial brief (remember: most of the guests attend two or more of these things on weekends).
Don't allow out-of-work actors to speak extemporaneously.
Do display a photo of the deceased.
Don't choose the one with the double-headed dildo.
Do provide a guest book.
Don't provide trick pads.
Do provide live entertainment. An Earth Mother chanteuse (flown in from New York) would be divine.
Don't, if you resort to tapes, use "That's What Friends Are For," Judy's "Over the Rainbow," or any Stephen Sondheim.
Do, if serving food, serve up a bowl or two of AZT capsules next to the nuts.
Don't set out boxes of Kleenex (even if the deceased's shrink insists).
Do macaroons.
Don't do balloons.
Do have an out-of-uniform nurse in attendance (with some of the guests, a seizure is just a heartbeat away).
Don't have parking attendants.
Do mention the word AIDS repeatedly.
Don't be polite.
Do invite the family (especially the homophobes, if any).
Don't protect them.
Do discuss politics.
Don't discuss religion.
Do small talk (if you're apolitical).
Don't ascribe meaning to the weather ("God must be crying, too," "The sun is shining for our boy," "The smog is as heavy as my heart.")
Do, when eulogizing, exaggerate.
Don't, however, use "best," "greatest, "finest," or "most important." (You're bound to be challenged).
Do acknowledge VIPs in attendance—especially if they've made it to 40.
Don't introduce more than five former "significant others."
Do something literary (perhaps a selection of Whitman).
Don't quote Louise Hay
Do dress up (no 501s, please).
Don't do drag.
Do wear bright colors.
Don't insist the guests "wear something white."
Do honor most of the deceased's requests.
Don't, however, show those slides (we've all seen them—at least once) from his three faaabulous trips to Europe.
Do make a note to yourself to plan your own memorial.
Don't let it fall into the hands of your incompetent friends (who may not read this list).
And finally, when it's over:
Do remember why you threw the Memorial.
Don't forget how much you love your dead friend.
Do hear his laugh.
Don't let go of the memories.
Do cry.
Don't tell anyone how much.
Reprinted with the permission of the author and EDGE magazine. /end description.
