When I die, I want a destination funeral. I would rather have a destination wedding, but it doesn't look like I'll be allowed to get married in this lifetime, so I'm going to have to settle for a destination funeral. I don't think Republicans can outlaw that, though I suppose they can try. Anything can be outlawed if enough people make a stink over it. Just ask Anita Bryant.

This isn't the first time I've planned my post-death activities. When I was 15, I decided I wanted to be frozen when I died. Not like Lenin, though; frozen heads are so 1964. And not stuck in some mausoleum with a bunch of gawking tourists. No, I wanted to be frozen and sat on my couch with a remote control in my hand. Of course, the remote control would automatically change the channel every so often to make sure I didn't get bored. Sports-related channels would be blocked, except for swim meets. Death is no match for a well-fitting pair of Speedos.

But before anyone goes planning any interventions, let me be clear -- barring unforeseen circumstances, my destination funeral won't happen for several decades. I have a lot of living left to do, and several tasks I'd like to accomplish before I go. Read War and Peace. See the pyramids. Figure out why the Golden Girls spin-off failed so miserably. And even if I never accomplish any of these tasks, I'm not planning to go anywhere until gay marriage is legalized in Texas, so everyone has plenty of time to prepare.

Still, we all have to go sometime, so when 2073 rolls around, and I've had my fill of pool boys, sponge baths, and oatmeal, I want to be ready.

The biggest question, of course, is where to have it. Somewhere warm would be nice for the guests. Maybe Disneyworld. I went to a wedding in Disneyworld once, it was surprisingly fun. Mickey and Minnie cut the cake and then they did the watoosie with the bride and groom. No one can be unhappy in Disneyworld, not even during a funeral. Maybe they could shoot my body out of Space Mountain. Still, I think getting the Disney people to agree to a destination funeral would take a lot of convincing, unless I can persuade them that my body is animatronic. So Disneyworld is probably out.

Even so, it would surely be pleasant for my guests to get away for a weekend to a lovely tropical spot, like Hawaii. Of course, Hawaii could be expensive, but you only die once. And they wouldn't have to feel bad about taking a trip. There's always a bit of guilt when you take days off from work for happy occasions, like a vacation, or a Bette Midler concert. You're out of the office, enjoying your day, singing along to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, while your colleagues are toiling away, covering for you, seething with jealousy. No one would seethe with jealousy over a funeral. Well, maybe they would if it was in Hawaii, but expressing that sentiment would be in very poor taste. Gee, they might think, I wish my friend had just died so I could go to Hawaii, but they would never actually say that. At least not the polite ones.

I also want people to hook up at my funeral. What's the point of a vacation without a little nookie? Because I have more female friends than male ones, and because women generally live longer than men, I realize there's a good possibility that the guest list will be XX-heavy (although, the way they're going, some of my male friends might be women by then). I suppose if there are some lesbians on the guest list they could hook up with each other, but for the straight widows it's probably too late for them to switch teams at that point. They need some options too. Maybe I'll hire a few male prostitutes, just for them.

Another question is when and where to register. I think I'll pre-register; all gifts must be received between now and my 75th birthday. That will give people plenty of time to plan. Plus I can register for really expensive shit, maybe set up some kind of savings plans for the gifts. So instead of registering for bed sheets and fondue sets, I can register for trips to Barbados and Mercedes. All they have to do is save a few dollars a day for forty years - walk to work instead of taking the subway, buy generic detergent instead of a name-brand, send little Johnnie to state school instead of Yale. Little sacrifices, big payoffs. For me at least.

Of course, the fear is that people will procrastinate and not buy anything until it's clear that I'm on my way out. It's difficult to yell at someone for buying you a crock-pot when you're 94 years old and hooked up to a respirator. So I plan to drop subtle hints of my eventual demise over the coming years.

"I heard that Cuba is re-building its nuclear arsenal. You think we can avoid obliteration twice?"

"How about that Ebola virus? No telling when that little bugger might hit. I'm feeling a bit feverish myself."

"Is it a bad sign when you can see your own kidneys?"

If none of that works, I'll just wear a black t-shirt with a skull and crossbones and an arrow pointing towards my head.

Then there's the requisite "DJ or band" decision. DJs are more middle-class, though a band is always risky. "Wind Beneath My Wings" (the funeral's theme song, along with "Margaritaville") can really be butchered in the wrong hands. Although perhaps by the time my funeral comes around music as we know it will be obsolete. I bet Cher will still be around, though. Maybe I can pre-book her. I hear she gives a free toilet scrubber with each performance.

I expect that the sensationalism of the event will draw spectators and press, and there will be people clamoring to get on the guest list. A destination funeral? How unique and inventive! What genius came up with that unique and inventive idea? He must be quite a unique and inventive fellow! Maybe there should be a bouncer to keep out the undesirables, e.g., guys who pop their polo collar, and people who don't own a television set. Not owning a television set doesn't say "I'm intellectual" - it says "I'm boring." And polo collars are made to point down. If you want to rebel against society, do it the old-fashioned way - get fucked in a public restroom, or vote for Ralph Nader.

I've taken online life expectancy tests to help me estimate the date of my destination funeral. I don't think they are accurate. They ask questions like, do you smoke, and do you wear suntan lotion. I don't smoke, and I always wear suntan lotion. I've seen too many yellow-teethed, leathery-skinned queens at gay bars and Long Island diners to do otherwise. And I always eat my vegetables. I'm particularly partial to zucchini, the most sophisticated of the phallic squashes. According to these online tests I'm going to live to be 117 years old. Which would be nice, but given that I have at least two panic attacks a day and often lose feeling in my extremities, unlikely.

I need a personalized life expectancy test instead, with questions like, how many times a day do you masturbate (twice), and do you dry heave when you call your mom (yes). Other factors that should be considered in my personalized test:

Have you ever lived in New York City? Yes. Like a Liza Minnelli therapy session, New York is not for the faint of heart. When I first moved to New York, I went out with a guy who asked me if he could inject saline solution into my testicles. I politely declined, at which point he told me I would never last in New York. Apparently you can't make it in New York unless you're the type of person who enjoys having salt water injected into his balls. Minus six years.

Do you drink laundry detergent? Yes, in a fashion. I have a compulsive biting habit. When I was little I used to bite myself, my sister, and other family members. As I got older I realized that biting people could be construed as offensive behavior. So I started biting inanimate objects. Now I bite my pillow, blanket, old t-shirts -- anything within twelve inches of my mouth when I'm sleeping (which might account for my lack of boyfriend). I've probably swallowed several gallons of detergent by now. That can't be healthy, although my stomach acid probably smells lemony-fresh at this point. Minus three years.

Do you keep clean? Yes. I live in a super antiseptic home. Now, that sounds like a good thing, but it's not in the long run. My home is so clean I haven't been exposed to a germ in decades. Eventually a superbug will come along and my immune system won't be ready for it. I'd move into a plastic bubble, but I'm claustrophobic. Minus two years.

That's already eleven years off. I suppose I have a few things going for me though. I never kick puppies, I give up my seat on the subway for old people (as long as they are sufficiently decrepit), and once I even helped a lady carry a baby stroller down a flight of stairs. Granted, I was doing it to impress a cute guy holding the door, but good karma is good karma. Plus two years. I watch a significant amount of reality television, which puts my body into a sort of hibernation state during which I do not age. Plus five months. I never drink from a bottle when the safety cap is already popped and I wasn't the one who popped it. Plus three months. I'm a very selfish lover; I pretty much just lay there like a tuna. Less strain on my heart. Plus one year. So it's not all bad news for me.

Optimally, this would be a surprise destination funeral and I wouldn't have to plan anything. But for that to happen I'd need a boyfriend to plan it, and that's looking more and more doubtful with each passing year. My hairline has steadily been receding since I was 25. It's now about half an inch from gay death. Gay death occurs when you no longer resemble an Abercrombie & Fitch model -- you are not actually dead, but you might as well be. While gay death is directly correlated to age (every gay man over 40 is technically dead) some gays were born dead. You might be suffering from gay death if you:

Have a waistline over 32 inches.
Can go online without being solicited for prostitution.
Shop at Sears.
Haven't needed a haircut since the 70s.
Remember the 70s.

This is not an exhaustive list. If you think you may be suffering from gay death, please visit the nearest Jenny Craig or Hair Club for Men. No one besides a trained specialist or any 19 year old twink can accurately diagnosis gay death. The only cure for gay death is actual death.

But if I am partnered when I die, I think my partner should assume some of this responsibility. After all, a tacky funeral reflects poorly on him - this is the guy you spent the last forty years of your life with? So I think I'll leave some details open at this point, like hair, make-up, party favors, selection of a Cher impersonator (or Cher herself, sans toilet scrubber). Relationships are all about compromise.

I'm not looking forward to death, and if I could live forever, I would. I'm fascinated by too many unanswerable mysteries of life, like what's the sound of one hand clapping, and how in the world did Michael Jackson procreate. But if all these people are going to get together to celebrate my life one day, I want them to enjoy themselves. Your funeral is the last memory people have of you. It's your last chance to make a good impression. I've spent my whole life building up a reputation as a good host. Why spoil it just before the finish line?