Gratuitous interactive television post + lack of proper tasteful reverence

[constance]

One of my favorite televisional pleasures -- I was going to say guilty pleasures, except that as I wrote the word, I realized I don't feel guilty in the least -- is "My Name Is Earl," you know, that little thing that started as a bizarrely appealing Jason Lee vehicle focused on a small-time hood who's changed his ways through an imperfect introduction to the idea of karma and who is now charging through a (literal) list of the wrongs he's committed, trying to make everything right; but which has now turned into kind of an astonishingly clever ensemble comedy. The basic concept of the show is actually the least of its pleasures, in my opinion, but the fact is that it works well on two levels; it is a silly comedy featuring a group of interconnected and hilariously trashy characters who get into crazy situations each week as Earl tries to bulldoze his way into grace, and it is also a smashing postmodernist effort, wherein most of modern American life is called into play and into question, and wherein the fourth wall is done away with so often and so subtly that really it's more of a curtain than a wall, quietly drawn back in these little throwaway moments, and the curtain's dropped back into place so quickly that if you're not paying attention, you're in danger of missing it.

Thursday night's episode was probably one of my favorites so far, which is saying something. Not only were the meta parts spot-on (TWOP, anyone? Thanks, Amelia, for reminding me about that tiny but apropos joke), but the bottom-line premise of the episode was also riveting for someone with my own affinity for morbid humor and John Waters. In it, John Waters plays a funeral home director whose sales gimmick is to stage the deceased in lifelike tableaux instead of in coffins, according to their interests in life. (Examples shown: guy in recliner with beer hat and bowl-o-popcorn in front of football game; guy in front of laptop computer, connected to the internet.)

(An aside: is there anyone more suited to play the funeral director's role than John Waters? I mean, honestly, this is why MNIE is so often entirely, surefootedly perfect.)

I have been thinking ever since that before I am cremated, I want to be memorialized in this way; specifically, I want to be curled up in my chintz rocking-chair, book in hand (I'm thinking Harry Potter or Jane Austen, now, but I reserve the right change my mind about that), pets on floor and in lap (make sure they don't eat me, okay?), an enormous tea and a laptop (so I can listen for email) sitting on a table beside me.

Forget all those top-five lists of music-I'd-want-played-at-my-funeral, man. Here's what I really want to know. What scenario would you want John Waters to fit you into, at your own lacking-in-proper-tasteful-reverence funeral service?

Comments

[tofty.livejournal.com]

AHAHAHAHAHA I am perfectly willing to create a death-diorama if you are!

[amelia-eve.livejournal.com]

I never even got around to making my Snape diorama, so I doubt that the depiction of my own demise will get any sort of timely attention at this rate. Anyway, I think we have been jossed.

I just got back from an Irish wake in the heart of New Jersey. The deceased with the father of former coworker -- he is an art director and his wife is a managing editor. His wife had scanned probably 100 family photos for several massive poster collages, and he had arranged dad comfortably in his casket with a rosary in one hand and the TV remote in the other. There was also a bottle of Amaretto close at hand. It was sweet.