The looting of long-deserted midwestern graveyards first became a serious problem around the year 2040 as looters sought silver and gold fillings in skeletal non-Native Americans. Few of the living much cared for the specific burial rites of the dead as they had long since learned to despise them in general.
No, but a semi-well-known rocker was my neighbor. He’d broken up with his band, and he only seemed to be waiting to be carted off to the undertaker.
Also, I recall meeting Michael Tilson Thomas at the Ojai Festival in 1978. I told him I had seen him conduct on television, but never live, in-person. He said, “Oh, that wasn’t live. It was the Night of the Living Dead,” referring, of course, to the L.A. Philharmonic.
The palpable sense of the Living Dead also came from the fact that there were so many old Hollywood types around. It seemed like the cast party of “Death Becomes Her.”
My employer and all of the older generation of people I knew there were dead within a few years of my leaving. And most of my contemporaries from that place have now gone to better worlds, as well, including a couple of very hot young women and some amusing and talented guys. That place is my own private memento mori, even more so now that I’m getting this close (*holds up thumb and fore finger about 3mm apart*) to croaking myself.
Oh, listen to you! A mere babe! (I know, your kids growing up makes you feel that way.) Maybe you’ll find some solace (or at least a laugh) in this essay I wrote in my early-to-mid fifties (and didn’t post till my early 60s), the punch line of which is, “Nature is trying to kill you!”