Spoiler alert: This post may strike some as M.O.R.B.I.D. and/or C.O.M.P.L.E.T.E.L.Y. I.N.A.P.P.R.O.P.R.I.A.T.E. Now that we've got that out the way. . . .
Lately, I've been more than a little bit obsessed with obituaries.
No -- my latest surgical skirmish has not spawned some new dark interest in profound existential questions like what is the sum meaning of one's life? is there life after death? and, most existentially, what happens to your blog and Facebook page once you move on to the Big Wall in the Sky?
Nope, no one can accuse me of such profundity. Because right now, my obit obsession centers solely on pictures of the dearly departed.
It's amazing the kerfuffle obituary photos can cause. Even Miss Manners has weighed in on the appropriate use dead people photos.
Love your 40-year-old high school graduation picture? Bring it.
How about that one of you sitting on the dock at "The Lake,"
(Note to self: "The Lake" would be a worthy Bermtopian topic as we head into summer.)
A funny-hat Shriners photo?
Or a perennial Bermtopia favorite: The quick candid a buddy grabs at about Day 3 of the epic elk-hunting/bass-fishing/wood-cutting trip of 1989. You know the one -- redolent with cigarette and camp fire smoke, Jack Daniels whiskey, men who don't bathe and dead-animal musk.
Seriously, I think these are all worthy obit pix. At the end of the day, it's all about capturing the essence of the deceased, right?
Well, essence is good, but personally, I'm aiming for panache in my obit pic. The one that screams "Remember me for the free-spirited Audrey Hepburn-esque gamine I always was and always will be." (Hummmm. I already see a problem here: The last time I was gamine was back somewhere in October 1972. . . for about 45 seconds.)
THIS is panache when it comes to an obit pic.
And this, not so much.
I think I've got my work cut out for me.