David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published March 8, 2005

Will science pay me my the pound for my bod?

I, David Spates, being of sound mind and body, hereby proclaim this to be my last viewpoint in regard to what my loved ones do with my corpus after it has been declared delicti. It seems that most folks have definite plans for their mortal remains. I think I should too.

My father, for instance, wants his ashes to be spread over the green of his yet-to-be-sunk hole-in-one. Not bad, but I wish he'd start playing more exotic courses. It'll be bad enough when Dad dies, but I'd hate to have to subject the entire family to a visit to some dinky municipal course where Dad carded his uno. Pop, if you're reading, I've never been to Scotland, and I hear they have some nice par threes at St. Andrews. No rush though. You've got plenty of time to drop your ace.

And then there's Hunter S. Thompson, the "gonzo journalist" who recently killed himself. His wish was for his ashes to be shot out of a cannon. It's terrible that Hunter felt the need to end his own life, but I must admit I kind of like the cannon idea. Most people just talk about going out with a bang. Hunter isn't fooling around. "Fear and Loathing in a Gun Barrel" -- it has a nice ring to it, no?

For Gene Roddenberry though, a cannon just wouldn't have provided enough oomph. His ashes were launched into orbit aboard a Spanish research satellite. The creator of the Star Trek enterprise (pun intended) was a space nut, so why not? Perhaps the satellite will somehow break free of Earth's gravity and, in a few eons or so, make its way to Klingon space. What's the point of making all that money if you can't take a stab at interstellar immortality?

We've all heard the rumors about Walt Disney, supposedly frozen in a block of ice somewhere in one of his parks. I've been to the Florida parks, and there's no way I'd want to spend eternity there. It's nice for an afternoon, but that's about it. I wonder if Walt had to wait in line before he was frozen.

And there's Ted Williams, whose head was separated from his body and the two pieces cryogenically frozen. Perhaps the technology will exist some day to use Ted's DNA to create a superhuman race of ballplayers, all of whom hit .450 or better. Of course if we're going to do that, we'll need some serious meat on the mound. Someone had better start talking to Roger Clemmens about freezing his remains. We're going to need some superhuman pitchers too, or we'll end up with baseball scores that look like football scores.

Back in the olden days, they used to prop the deceased's casket up under the porch so friends and relatives could come by the ol' homestead and pay their final respects. I had no idea this was ever done until my in-laws showed me some pictures of folks posing next to an upright body. To be honest, it was tough to pick out the corpse. I don't know why, but it seems that no one ever smiled in a picture prior to 1935. I've seen plenty of photos from that era, and no one is ever smiling, even in pictures that don't feature a cadaver. Maybe it was the Depression or the lack of air conditioning or the slow Internet connection speeds in those days, but they all looked very disgruntled.

So with the passing and imminent cannonization of Hunter S., I started thinking about what I might like to do with my body when I'm done walking around in it. I thought and thought, and I came to the realization that I could care less. If my surviving family wanted to do something to make themselves feel better, that's up to them. I won't be in much of a position to argue the point.

Truthfully though I really don't care. Ashes, caskets, cemetery plots, headstones -- I couldn't be more ambivalent. I'd just as soon sell my body to science (or science fiction, as Rodney Dangerfield used to say). Then I could take the cash and take the wife out for a night out on the town. I think I would have wanted it that way. Everybody has to die eventually, so you might as well get a nice steak dinner out of it.

This concludes my last viewpoint on my mortal remains. I'll see you in the hereafter, or possibly at the steakhouse this weekend.

· · ·
David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.