If the Tranny Space Pirates Call, Tell ‘Em I’m NOT HERE

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Oh. I’m sorry. Have I been absent for a while? Turns out I was kidnapped by tranny secret agent space pirates AGAIN. If I never see another anal probe it’ll be too soon.
Also, I had to put together a memorial service for R Man. Did I want to put on a memorial service? No. Did I pout like a little girl about it? Possibly. Still, our friend Gaye pointed out that “It’s not all about you” which is still as patently untrue as the first time I heard that line, all those many years ago.
We had a deli cater, we had champagne and bourbon (R Man liked both,) all our friends dropped in and were all very supportive and sweet. Even Diane von Austinburg came back in town to help buck me up, which I most appreciated, since I needed plenty of bucking. I was dreading the whole thing right up until it started and then was immensely glad it was over once we were done. I got through it just fine, thank you ativan, and I even spoke a brief eulogy.
Most of the speech consisted of my not making eye contact with anyone who was crying, looked like they might cry, or even had moisture in their eye. Pretty much, I just looked at the cat. It was very much the same as any other public speaking I’ve had to do, just start at the beginning and blast on through to the end and don’t think too much about what I’m saying.
I also included a firm caveat that there would be no chance for other mourners to speak. You know the bit that has sprung up recently at funerals for everyone to take a chance at “remembering” the departed by offering clumsy attempts at humor at the dead guy’s expense so that the whole thing turns into a funereal roast? R Man hated those, so I nipped any idea of it in the bud. Afterwards, several guests thanked me, so yay for heavy handedly laying down rules.
Anyway, it wasn’t awful, and afterwards we had a bunch of sandwiches left, although all the petite fours were long gone. Bastards.
So, I’ve been hanging around, refusing to shave or answer the phone and claiming to be going through a “rough patch.” Actually I’m just lazy. Still to make up for being so slack in blogging, here’s a humpy houseboy as a token of my apology.

That’s not enough? OK here’s another one, complete with MeeMaw’s couch.


Oh, all right, here’s that gay rugby guy.


I hope you’re happy.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

15 responses »

  1. Sweetie, your friend was wrong – it was about both of you. RMan deserved a party for simply being, and you needed the service as well. If for no other reason than telling the others that no, they couldn't make s speech.

    When my ex passed away (he died from stomach cancer three years ago) I did the eulogy. Even though we had been apart for ten years, damnit, it was my place because I knew him better than any of the people in the room. It was a quiet catharsis. You can never say all the things you want to say, but you get the say.

    Now get up and get shaved and make yourself go out and do something. Its too easy to let things coast and while you may not feel you need to do it – you really do need to do it for you.

    Like

  2. Who the hell goes to a memorial and eats all the petit fours? Come to think of it, that probably would have been Miss J's strategy. Stuff down the grief with something sugary.

    Good call not letting others babble on.

    Thinking of you, Mr. P. And hoping you're taking care of yourself.

    Like

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