My condolences to Twisty on the death of her father.
You really must read her magnificent post on her visit to the funeral home. Excerpts:
Well, be she spinster aunt or no, I dare anybody to keep a straight face who darkens the stoop of the Sparkman/Hillcrest Funeral Home, Mausoleum, and Memorial Park. You wouldn’t believe this joint. It was like the set designers from Twin Peaks and Napoleon Dynamite had fused with Elvis Presley’s interior decorator and been reborn as Liberace’s angst-ridden evil twin, who then suffered a psychotic break, and bought up the world’s supply of harvest gold flocked wallpaper, brass upholstery tacks, and fake oak paneling, and ate it all with fava beans and a nice Chianti, and then puked it up all over the living room from Sartre’s No Exit. And holy shit, the palpable hush in there! I mean, it’s not like you don’t expect some kind of palpable hush to accompany these sepulchral scenarios, but a palpable hush that is simultaneously unctuous, clammy and surpassingly phony? That bears down on you like one of those superfatted, soul-sucking cloud entities from Star Trek? And leaves an oily film on your skin? Dag! It was like walking into an alternate universe where the earth is made of compressed gloom and you breathe an atmosphere of gaseous avocado green crushed velvet.
I was delirious with mirth, possibly because the funeral director’s insatiable serenity was sucking all the oxygen out of the air, but also because I was dumbfounded that this suffocating, synthetic one-stop grief-shop, with its cut-rate dramaturgy and hackneyed trappings, could be considered by any sane person to be an appropriate response to death. But the best was yet to come.