Trapped with the Stars of Yesterday

I had to go down to the Civic Center today to snag several more of R Man’s certified death certificates for our lawyer, for the bank, for the mutual fund. I’m not even sure what they all are for any more. Everyone I deal with demands one; I expect to need one to get on the bus soon. After he was cremated, the funeral home ask me “How many death certificates you want?” I think I said “Uhm… five?” Should anyone ever ask you that, tell them you want a fucking ream of them. Believe me, they’ll come in handy. And why didn’t the funeral guy suggest something along those lines to me? Surely he’s run into this before.
So anyway, I was in the Civic Center, an odd nexus of San Francisco. Museums and the library and homeless guys and a farmer’s market and city hall and the Bill Graham Auditorium, which was surrounded by fancy ass tour buses and big rigs, one of which just said “drums” on its side. A flotilla of trucks, an armada of buses. Literally dozens of each. Traffic had just ground down to a complete halt. Complicating the picture was Larkin Street, the main way out of there, being closed by the cops at the federal building a block away. Why? Nobody was saying and even if they had been, you couldn’t hear them over all the horns honking.
But why where all tour stuff swarming the auditorium? Darling, BRET MICHAELS. Wowzah. Did you even know he was still alive? Did you care? Indeed, but yes, on tour with his rockin’ “We’re Still not Dead” or something like that tour.
I took my death certificates (and wouldn’t that be a fine, fine band name?) and fled.
SO very not Bret Michaels.

11 responses »

  1. Your funeral director was stupid. When my dad died (about 10 years ago), the funeral director asked the same question of my brother, my sister, and I. Then he flat out suggested 25 copies for each of us at a minimum.

    I think I've got three left.

    And what bakery do you shop at for buns like those in the photo???


  2. I feel for you. Since we sold my mother's house, I needed to get the ultilities final bills before the new owner get the house. Only the water company demanded a copy of the death certificate and a letter appoint authority, a total cost of $50 out-o-my-pocket. Sometimes I feel that mother's passing is turning into my hamster wheel of death.


  3. Thanks for sharing the death certificate info and that fine ass; leave it you to combine both topics so seamlessly.

    RE: Brett Michaels. Okay. HE can wear eyeliner and it's cool. If I sported it I'd get my head kicked in. It's a twisted fucked world.


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