Manic Monday: Only the Weird Die Young

We've lately been a little maudlin and creepy, a little Hallowe'eny and freaky. If you haven't been able to tell yet, I'm ramping up for the last Manic Monday Mission of October, which will be announced this Thursday, October 23rd.

This week's mission was to write your obituary, the one you wished would make the paper when you finally kick the bucket, pass the veil, knock on the Pearly Gates or whatever your particular rite of passage is. (Mine will probably involve wandering around lost for a while trying to find a cafe, eventually shimmying up the side of the gates of Heaven, and getting told off by a Seraphim for not adhering to dress code once I'm in.)

Goddess Jenny's obit struck a chord in me, so I chose it to lead the pack tonight.

...She had a special way with words. She loved them dearly, and was seen sharing them with her kids. She shared them with her anonymous friends on the road, with strangers, with the customer service managers on the phone. She yelled them into pillows, waded them up and fed them to the trash can and even decorated them with paint and glitter. She knew how to speak to them and with them and was sometimes heard using them alone in public...

Jenny's foil is Vince.

Computer geek and sometimes writer/singer/actor/director Vince O'Connor kicked the bucket Friday October 17th, having lived more than twice as long as he had expected and four times as long as he deserved. It was in junior high that he began to make a name for himself, beginning with his inability to distinguish the boys locker room from the the girls locker room the first day of gym in eighth grade. Later exploits included the accidental damage of a chemistry lab to due the improper concocting of guncotton, impromptu air guitar concerts along the main street of town, and, of course, his first band - "Stoned Smashed and Wrecked."

After high school, Vince went to St. John's University in Collegeville, MN, only to be asked not to return, because going to class wasn't a high priority. From there, a stint in the Air Force gave him his community theater directorial debut, where he embarrassed his cast by completely forgetting the name of the play while introducing a scene from it on a local morning television show.

After leaving the Air Force, Vince returned to college, picking a small town in Minnesota with two colleges and a University. There he majored in girls, because what else would you major in when one college was an all girls school and the other college and the University had far more women than men enrolled. Again active in theater, he learned that he could write an entire two-act play in one weekend after assuring the head of the theater department that he only had "a little cleaning up to do" on the yet-to-be- written play. In addition to theater, student government, speech and debate, Vince was best known for organizing impromptu singing sessions on campus just prior to 7:30 am classes. The repertoire included the Ramones' "I Want To Be Sedated" and "Oh What A Beautiful Morning" with the lyrics altered to reflect how Vince and the chorus members actually felt about having to go to any class that began at 7:30 am.

It was there that Vince and a long-time friend decided to play a practical joke, and told everyone they had gotten married, without actually getting married. Things began to get out of hand when it was reported in the college paper, gifts were given from various friends and relatives (he had neglected to tell any relative other than his mother that the whole thing was a practical joke, and her only because she was part of it) and the youngest brother of his "wife's" best friend, who she didn't realize was going to school there. Unable to figure out how to extricate themselves from the practical joke gone out of control, they decided to actually get married. Later on this didn't work, so they agreed to divorce; assuming your definition of "agreed" isn't actually found in any dictionary.

The divorce freed Vince to become a local raconteur and connoisseur of odd music, as well returning to the world of community theater, where rehersals were simply an excuse for the director and most of the actors to retire to a local drinking and food establishment to rejoice in the rehersals but decry the fact that, sooner or later, they were going to have to perform in front of actual people.

The rest of Vince's life is pretty boring, so we're skipping it. Except to note that at the end, Vince actually let his ex move in with him as a roommate, which annoyed the people they dated.

Family and friends will miss his ability to quote a movie line or music lyric to match any situation, his belief that no night was too cold not to have a fan on, and his steadfast refusal to be "normal," no matter how often you redefined the word.

He was such a nice young man.

Tom came through for me again by making me snort coffee out my nose with his mention of Candy, his wife:

Tom Pierce Beauchamp passed away Sunday at the age of 93. While raiding with his long-time Guild in World of Evercrack XXXVI, Tom noted that the following day was another crappy Monday, signed off of vent, and quietly passed away while reading a Heinlein novel (The Moon is a Harsh Mistress) on the toilet. In lieu of a funeral, his beloved son (James) and daughter (Cassandra) ask all of Tom’s friends and family to meet on X-Box Live for a 24-hour Deathmatch Marthon of Halo 43. Asked for a comment, his wife Candace noted,”At least the son of a bitch is finally off the computer.” Candace asks that instead of flowers, that mourners send gi
ft-cards for local restaurants. Delivery is preferred.

Candy, the most succinct of all my friends, skipped the obit and went straight for the engraving on her headstone:

Here Lies Candace Beauchamp
She's finally getting a full night's sleep

Only a parent could write that.

Finishing off -- no pun intended -- the submissions, we have Justin:

Justin "Fifi" Ryan, 26

Renowned media personality and part-time Swedish chef Justin Ryan died Monday at his desk, mouse and whisk in hand. He was 26.

Justin was well-known to the Open Source community as the snarky, sharp-tongued News Editor for Linux Journal, where he was known for his in-depth reporting of history-making breaking news, including the 2008 surprise release of Spears-Federlinux. He was also a noted expert on mens style, held a 62.3% stake in a Latvian Poodle Wax and Sushi Stand in El Camino Real, and was the 2003 World Champion Pumpkin Waxer.

While famous in his own right, close friends knew that he held greater renown as international exotic-dancing phenomenon Fifi Le Boom-Boom. Known far-and-wide for her famed Dance of the Seven Penguins, Le Boom-Boom was a global sensation, appearing before sold-out audiences in London, Paris, Rome, Milan, and Düsseldorf. A tour spokesman declined to confirm rumors that Julie Andrews will replace Le Boom-Boom for the remainder of the Antarctic tour.

A source close to the late writer, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said the cause of death was a rare heart attack/stroke/spontaneous human combustion triple induced by simultaneously viewing a YouTube video of two grown women in a bookstore "doing their best Jagger" and a strange presentation known only as Buntu Family Theater.

Per the late writer's final instructions, burial will take place on Tuesday, when famed Linux chef Marcel Gagné will bake the body into a ginormous crème brûlée live on The WFTL Show. Tequila shots will follow.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Pequot Lakes Home for Indigent Rubber Duckies.

Justin is survived by JustinBot, who will continue providing !coffee and !cupcakes in #linuxjournal until the DSL bill comes due or he's strangled to death by deranged channel-goers.

The women doing their best Jagger in a book store sounds... frightening. And I'm not deranged. JustinBot tried to give me decaf this morning when I asked for !coffee. Anybody would have reacted that way.

Just as I was about to publish this post, Dy slid in under the wire in the way all her friends have come to expect and love:

Is she here? I just want to make sure because, well, she always said she would be late to her own funeral and I want to see if she was right. Dy loved many people, most of them while in junior high and her freshman year of high school and none of whom knew it at the time. She took great pride in making people feel better about themselves, mostly by making an ass of herself, but that’s why we love her. Her hairstylist told me recently that Dy was the only great grandmother she knew who still came in to have a botched home hair cut fixed—most girls outgrow that before they’re old enough to vote but not our Dy! I don’t know what to say about her that she hasn’t Twittered to you all, so I’ll just stop here and remind everyone, please, to take one of Dy’s crocheted scarves on their way out, her husband would like to be able to use the 2-car garage, living room, dining room, and guest bedroom again. Heck y’all, take 2 or 3!

Scarves, oi! And I've never seen her wear a single one.

And another late submission! Late as in "not on time," not as in "the recently departed." Aw, screw it. You know what I mean.

Shawn, bless him, gives us this:

Biological Portion of "The Powers" Dies...

July 21, 3115

It is with great regret the Global Powers Collective announces the passing of the biologic remnant of 21st century historical figure "Shawn Powers". While his all encompassing consciousness continues to rule over known space, the death of his meat bits will be mourned by all. Forcefully if necessary. Aforementioned mourning will begin at noon, Earth Central time, and continue for 12 Martian sols.

Mr. Powers is survived by 627 trillion cybornetic implants spanning 12 galaxies, and 3 dimensionally phased universes. While the preservation of biologics has largely been a nostalgic choice for The Powers, there is some concern that along with the body will die the compassion. Any citizens concerned of such things will be detected and terminated immediately.

At the closing of the 12 Martian sol mourning, The Powers has decided to extinguish the sun (Sol) as a memorial to the death of Mr. Powers. This will of course mean the slow painful demise of billions in the Solar system, but the Global Powers Collective thinks it will be a fitting memorial. Any residents of the Solar system will be considered heros, and honored as such.

His even came with a headline. Cuz that's how he rolls.

And... meat bits? Not. Going. There.

Crystal Renay Raymond Edwards, creator of Manic Monday and several pseudonymed humorous writings, passed away peacefully at the age of 37 this week.

Edwards died at home, surrounded by her books, cats, notebooks, and family, said her husband Donald, and boy was everybody pissed when dinner wasn't on the table by 6:30.

Edwards was born near Chicago, Illinois, the daughter of a Scotswoman and Sicilian who declined to go into the family business and instead opted to become a chemical engineer. Throughout her early years, Edwards was raised on a mish-mash of Scots legend and music, and strict Catholic observances and lots of pasta. This would later impact her ability to cook a meal without singing in the kitchen and led her to feeling unloved and abandoned when every serving bowl wasn't eaten bare. She would prance around the table in agitation, mimicking her Sicilian grandmother: "You don't eat! You don't love me!"

She began studying opera at the age of 12 and went on to perform on the stages throughout the South and Midwest until the age of 21, when she decided she'd had enough and wanted to finally leave the ranks of underpaid singers-who-work-sales-to-get-money-to-live-on and join the ranks of underpaid writers-who-can't-stay-motivated. She contributed to many projects throughout her life, including role-playing games, screenplays, scripts, song parodies, and managed to eke out a living writing business communications and articles for several doctors and architects. She viewed this latter form of writing as being only slightly better than working as a gutter whore. Her love was always, throughout her entire life, the humorous written word, and she viewed Samuel Clemens as a saint of the pen.

She married Donald in 2000 at her parents' home in Ohio, and then settled with him in Austin, Texas where they began a family and their descent into true madness. After three kids and a move out to the country, she decided it was time to write again and began pounding out notes and story fragments at an alarming pace. No works were completed during this time, but it was one of the happiest periods of her life, except for that bit about being interrupted by children every two minutes.

She is survived by her husband Donald, her daughters McKinley and Cordelia, and her son Jasper. The family asks that someone for the LOVE of GOD come sort through Edwards' books and yarn and haul it all away, and bring a casserole while you're at it.

p.s. No cooked carrots in the casserole. And if you could pick up another gallon of milk on your way through town, that'd be swell.

Thanks to all who participated this week. Your creativity brings me so much joy.

Join me Thursday for next week's super-creepy mission.