I know immediate inclinations might favor the lofty--but before you start spouting off your Maya Angelou's and your Leonard Cohen's, pause for a moment to reflect upon your personal legacy: do you really want it eclipsed by the likes of people who will no doubt put your miserable little existence to shame? Who can forget the criminal disregard paid to John Ritter the week Johnny Cash finally cast off his wrinkly-assed mortal coil? No, you really must choose your companions at Gabriel's golden gate with more attention to detail--you must be remembered. By the same right, nobody wants to wait in line between Rhea Pearlman and, say, Dave Mustaine, you know?
Me? As someone who has had death willed upon his name more times than I care to remember, I've had a lot of time to think about this, and I assure you that I don't approach this task lightly. That said, the answer's obvious: when I die, I'm taking Doug Yule with me. First of all, he's easily the most forgettable member of the Velvet Underground, so you get the clout of sharing Death Week with rock royalty without all of the direct competition. Secondly, it's Doug Fucking Yule: the guy who replaced John Cale! The guy who had the balls enough to put out a Velvet Underground record without Lou Reed! The guy who sang "Candy Says"! I mean, just think of the stories! I can almost read the obituaries page now: "Much-maligned Velvet Underground bassist dies; takes mind-numbingly ill informed music editor with him." What an honor!