“I want my machinery to disappear.” -Andy Warhol

With death and his friends hunting in packs this fall (coworker Bob Forrest in October, brother-in-law Ralph and close friend Ann in November, and yesterday fellow Oklahoma photojournalist Jerry Laizure), I’ve given a few minutes to thinking about how I want my machinery to disappear. I think I have finally found something that will satisfy my huge ego and misanthropic disdain of conventional funerals: I want to be thrown into an open field and have the Air Force bomb my rotting carcass into the stone age. A crowd cheering wildly might be nice as well.

My sister is aware of this final wish, but if her Bohemian New Orleans lifestyle snatches her first, it’s up to you to drag dead me to a missile range and bribe some B-52 pilots into dropping their load on the body formerly known as me.

2018 update: I am aware that the sun, then the galaxy, then the Universe will swallow my machinery and every mention of it in the end.