Johnny Cash handles a heckler in his own special way.
David Raffin, editor & Gentleman "Take a book home & put it under your bed– Tonight!"
by David Raffin | from Rhyme or Treason (hard fought illusion of choice)
Why are there no funeral cakes anymore? Why is this event not commoditized by the baker’s guild?
Cake is a standard at every other event. Did bakers find it was unwelcome to price gouge on the cake served at a funeral? When funeral cake was discontinued did the price of wedding cake rise?
I understand the Amish still serve funeral cake. They are set in their ways. They still mix it by hand. They make it themselves, bypassing the commercial bakeries altogether.
Was the cake discontinued for lack of choice? Did the mourned get to choose the color, shape, and flavor—stipulating such in a will or codicil, or were these choices thrust upon the mourned by a powerful subset of the mourners? Did someone finally wise up and say, “Who died and made you God?”
Did funeral cake enter disfavor when it was linked, intrinsically, with culinary fascism? Did Mussolini have a funeral cake? Was there enough for everybody? Is that what sullied its reputation the world over?
When Marie Antoinette famously said, “Let them eat cake!” was she talking about her funeral?
My research indicates that funeral cakes may have been somewhat akin to giant cookies. Presumably because it was disrespectful to let the flour rise.
What about funeral pie?
Are cream pies somber enough? Fruit? Pecan?
What about a funeral pudding?
Funeral cotton candy? Made at the funeral in a funeral cotton candy machine?
What about fondue? Which is more appropriate? Cheese, chocolate, coconut, honey, caramel, or marshmallow? Again, who will choose?
Milton Snavely Hershey’s body was dipped in chocolate, then caramel, then rolled in coconut. However, there was no dessert served at the reception. He forgot to leave his dessert instructions.
This is not the sort of thing people like to think about. That’s why people die without wills. That’s why people die with wills but failing to stipulate their final dessert wishes.
Today if you attend a funeral and you want cake you are best advised to keep it to yourself. If you stand and say, “Hey, where’s the cake!” people will think less of you.
Do not even think of sidestepping the problem by bringing a cake to the funeral. People may cry.
You don’t want to be known as the one who ruined the funeral.
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A David Raffin Sampler is also a free download at http://davidraffin.com
This is my friend Scott Erickson’s new video, Anomie, from his album Cobwebs & Constellations.
It was nice in the clouds. But for the ear-splitting din. That terrible din. The sound of a horn resounding. Unrehearsed.
An angel approached another.
“Did you blow the vuvuzela horn?” asked the approaching angel.
“Not I!” said the angel holding the vuvuzela horn.
“You know if the horn blows it’s the beginning of the end.”
“How well I know! It’s a big thing to blow the horn. And you can’t practice because you can’t blow the horn. It’s so aggravating.”
“You blew the vuvuzela horn, didn’t you?”
“I did not. All I’m saying is, what will an unrehearsed horn do? No one really knows.”
“It will be the end of all things.”
“No, it will be the beginning of the end of all things. Who knows what form that will take?”
“I heard that horn blow.”
“We’re wasting a lot of time standing here arguing about who blew what.”
The approaching angel just stared at the other angel, who was still holding the horn.
“For the last time, I didn’t blow it.”
My book “Scenic Cesspools & other indignities” came out May 1.
Scenic Cesspools is the story of a kid who is pulled into his high school disciplinary office to be chastised for achieving some of the highest test scores in the school while still managing to almost flunk out. Upon graduation, there is nothing left but to venture into the workforce.
Working at a paper mill he discovers the industrial site is an alien landscape filled with green noxious liquids, held in open surface containers, outgassing into the atmosphere. It’s a place where death is as close as a misstep and the air smells a little like poison every day.
He learns that sales is a religion. A religion based on morning motivational meetings, chanting, and believing. If you are “money motivated” all you need do… is believe.
Leasing low income housing is difficult when your supervisors dislike poor people. Especially when they hate deaf people, because “deaf people make trouble.”
He learns there is nothing like selling flowers on the street from the back of a pickup; except selling perfume on the street from a cardboard box, or working for Ralph Nader.
Characters float in and out, sometimes challenging perceptions of time. They are obsessed with nuclear war in Vietnam, sex, Canadians, and unearned heroism.
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