"I Love My Gay Dead Son!"

I hate funerals; no one knows how to act, and everyone tries to comport themselves with what they think others’ ideas of piety and respectfulness are.  The bulk of my experience has been with American funerals, and there’s nothing more un-American than death.

The last funeral I attended was in France, but that, too, lacked a consensus as to proper comportment and sentiment.  No one wants to disturb mourners with challenges to the treacly bromides that are the common currency of such events, and the choice between quiet dignity and moist catharsis is rarely met with universal approval.  Even dressing is a chore; only the flowers are supposed to be attractive at a funeral.

It was therefore a wry pleasure to read the words of Rich, Pat Tillman’s youngest brother.  Drink up.

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