posted: October 18, 2003
The car ahead has a bumper sticker on it which reads "Follow me to Certain Death." This seems a bit silly since, so far as we know, Death is the only certain thing in Life. I mean, you never hear anyone talk about "the path to un-certain death."
What would constitute Uncertain Death? Like pregnancy, you can't be just a little bit dead. Some people might, under the right circumstances, be dead off-and-on, but that probably doesn't last long. Those resuscitation thingies in hospitals must really make for confusion for poor Death. "Whoop, gotta pick-up--... oh, no--... wait, yes--... no.... 'Heck with it! Let the bastard live!"
Or maybe some fellow has decided to off himself but he just can't make up his mind about the method?
"Hmmm... pills or gun? Oh, what a quandary...."
And Death, hanging over his shoulder, is tapping his watch and saying "Snap it up, buddy. I ain't got all day. I have other appointments, y'know."
Or maybe it is Death, himself, who may be uncertain.
"Oh, should I just 'reap' the guy or not...? He's really pissing me off, here. Maybe I should go out for coffee and come back, later."
Death is someone you probably shouldn't piss off. Yet, people must get on his nerves all the time. You know the ones I mean; those people who laugh in his face or spit in his eye, defy him, cheat him and generally act like bad sports about the whole deal. I plan on being one, myself, but y'gotta see it from Death's perspective, sometime.
Here he is, just a Force of Nature, doing his job and people treat him pretty shittily. He never gets to go out for fun and hang out with the guys. No one wants to invite the Death of the Party to their place. And, in this P-C age, he's probably not very popular with anyone, really, since, I imagine, he smokes, which is such a no-no these days. I mean, why not? What's it going to do to him? He's Dead--about as Dead as you can get. But he's probably got that whole super-cool thing about cigarettes down pat. A friend recently said, "Smoked right, a cigarette could make a hideous person look smooth," and you can be sure that Death knows all about being both hideous and smooth. He can probably swing that scythe with insouciant aplomb and Deadly accuracy without disturbing the ash on the end of the smoldering smoke by so much as a hair.
But at the same, time, smooth as he may be, he's got to be one lonely dude. It's not to say he doesn't have plenty of dates with people, but they're all one-night stands and none of them is going to turn into a stable relationship. There's always going to be some brassy ball-breaker out there, tempting Death, flirting with him, then going and cheating him--the bitch--but she'll get her desserts, eventually, because Death probably retains a Hell of a collection agent. Piper, I imagine his name is.
If Death was Uncertain, it might be because he has a bit of an identity crisis. Although Western culture tends to think of Death as Male, that's not universal, yet Death is still Death. Like some gods, Death is all genders and all things. It must make the day kind of strange, not knowing quite what you are. Death could be a drag queen, for all we know. Does Death look into the wardrobe in the morning and think: "Should I go with the plain black shroud or... well, Black it is!" I tremble to think what would happen were Death ever made-over by the crew from Queer Eye for the Single Guy. Death might break out in paisley or be seen sporting red, patent-leather espadrilles under the Stygian robes to embrace his feminine side. How seriously could one take the Reaper who "zouzshes up" his sleeves? It would be the end of Death and we can't have that.
Terry Pratchett once sent Death on vacation and, before long, there were dozens of little Deaths all over the place (and I don't mean the euphemistic French kind!) While it might lighten the work-load, I don't think it would do much for the poor guy's self-confidence, knowing he could be replaced by a couple of smart-aleck junior Deaths at any time--slick, young things in slick, black Armani suits and slicked-back hair with shark-skin smiles and switch-blade scythes. He'd spend half his time looking over his bony shoulder to see who or what was coming up behind and, before you know it, Splotch! he's swung too soon like a rookie batter facing a change-up pitcher and reaped the wrong guy. "Errmm... 'scuse me. So sorry.... Uhh... I'll just be going along, now, shall I?"
Now, that really would make for an Uncertain Death. Dead one minute, back the next, in and out, up and down. If Death were truly that uncertain, they'd have to call it Life. But we already have that.
All in all, I think that Certain Death is a much better idea. Not only does it have a reassuring reliability and standard which is sorely lacking in so many other goods and services, but it's nice to know that someone out there is totally confident. In the event of Uncertain Death, I suspect there would be far too much paperwork, as well, and I really hate that, don't you?
Now, the only remaining questions are: how long do I have to follow this car and are we going to see anything really interesting during the trip?
posted: October 24, 2003
There are pumpkins by the payphone;
There are pumpkins in the hall;
Homeless pumpkins on the street corners
Are panhandling for Fall.
Everywhere I look, there's pumpkins by the score:
Pumpkins piled under windows;
Pumpkins propping open doors.
Pumpkins gleaming in the moonlight,
Pumpkins rolling on the floor,
Pumpkins waiting for the Mambo,
To shake and shimmy through the door.
There's a thousand-thousand pumpkins
Waiting for the dance
A million unborn Jack-o-Lanterns
Dying for a chance
Everywhere I look, there's pumpkins by the score:
Pumpkins piled under windows;
Pumpkins propping open doors.
A field of orange monsters,
A stall of orange beasts,
Patient martyr-pumpkins,
To punctuate the feast.
There's a hundred-thousand pumpkins
Scattered all around the place;
A hundred-thousand little monsters
Waiting for a face.
Everywhere I look, there's pumpkins by the score:
Pumpkins piled under windows;
Pumpkins propping open doors.
They await the Pumpkin Mambo,
Dressed in candle-grins and rags.
On Hallowe'en, they'll join the dance
With werewolves, ghosts and hags!
Beware the Pumpkin Mambo!
It's all for Tricks and not for Treats.
By dawn on All-Saints' morning,
A million pumpkins will lie slaughtered in the streets!
Everywhere I look, there's pumpkins by the score:
In shards across the landscape,
Orange smears across the floor.
They danced the Pumpkin Mambo;
Those poor, deluded gourds,
And went to death by hand and knife,
In grinning, orange hordes.
....
I've always rather liked carving pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns for Hallowe'en. There's nothing quite like jabbing a knife into a huge, juicy squash, trepanning its top and scooping out its stringy, slimy innards to set the mood for an evening fraught with ghosts, demons and Death--at least in form, if not in fact. El día de los muertos, alas, is honored somewhat more in the breach, these days, at least north of Albuquerque (and, sometimes, in Detroit). Scary is out, cute and safe is in. Kids don't trick-or-treat around their own neighborhoods, or dare each other to walk up to that old, dark house of local legend; they go to the mall where they are given safe, approved "treats" under the watchful eyes of parents in well-lit halls. No one goes all-out to build elaborate props to enhance the spookiness of their front walk and costumes for anyone under 35 are pretty tame, unless you're a religious fundamentalist who finds Harry Potter threateningly heretical.
Though I am too old to go out on All-Hallows' Eve and dare the wrath of spirits which walk freely on that night (or so the legends say), I still miss the dreadful thrill of it. What fun to walk among them! Dress in costume so they will not know you, for the spirits of the dead can be jealous and hungry. Carry your Jack-o-lantern to light your way, or the Will-o-the-wisps and ghost-lights will surely lead you astray. Go down to the cemetery and pay homage to the dead, dance around the bonfire and drive the demons back to Hell. It really seems a grand tradition.
Too bad it's become just an excuse to eat sweets.
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