Getting Friendly with the Funereal

I've been called morbid, dark and even troubled because of my periodic/chronic/episodic obsession with death and dying--Worry not, I'm far from suicidal. Death just seems so....well...final. Given I can’t control the fact that one day I won’t be here, it seems like I should at least accept that truth.

If you want to face what awaits you, I suggest you follow this recipe:
1. Start with season one of Six Feet Under and work your way up to the final season;
2. Read Mary Roach's book Stiff;
3. Picnic, walk, and bike ride in your neighborhood cemetery, or come out to Jamaica Plain and head to my local haunt, Forest Hills Cemetery .

Note: If you haven't seen Six Feet Under or read Stiff, I highly recommend you do while you're still alive. As for Forest Hills, you should check it out also; it's one of the more redeeming sights of Boston.

Forest Hills is unique in that the usual piles of Boston trash are absent, it's quiet and it's beautiful—the only other place that fits that description is my living room.

You need not be a grave robber to know that its residents thought themselves important--they clearly had wallets as big as their egos (think Monument-to-self and Mausoleum).

There aint no paupers' but there are a few poets-- e.e. cummings and Anne Sexton are here.

Of course not all tombstones are lovely, but that doesn't mean they're not memorable.

Take One: Unhappy Husband

Take Two: Alex Acquiesces