If I have once piece of obvious wisdom to add, it's that it's better to appreciate someone in life rather than in death. Waiting until the funeral to tell your dead gay son that you love him is a rather tragic form of procrastination. Maybe your son wouldn't have agreed to a suicide pact if you had told him you loved him while he was actually alive, accepting his gay football ways unconditionally. Then again, he was actually murdered by Slater and Winona, who then made it to look like he committed suicide out of his forbidden love for another man, so maybe that's not the best example. I've been debating with myself on how I should show tribute in death to Jean Rollin, one of my all time favorite directors, but I realized I've already written a living tribute to his work. Namely, my review of La Rose de Fer, a (probably feeble) attempt to encapsulate Rollin's art, along with a short description of how I discovered his films; how a supposed "euro trash sex horror" filmmaker revealed himself to be something else entirely.
P.S. By the way, Captain Beefheart died this week too. Fuck.