While waiting at the car wash, I read in the Chronicle that just last week, archaeologists in central Alaska went poking among the ashes of an ancient fire pit and uncovered the cremated remains of someone who had lived 13,200 years ago – during the ice age. Either that or it was pot roast left behind by campers last summer. But hey, these scientific expeditions have to be justified.

Right away I thought, “This is what people like about cremation.” Here’s somebody who is still around after 13,200 years, even if he’s powder. There’s something comforting about permanence. Not so much in a fire pit, maybe. But then I thought about places that really mean something to me, places where I’d like my ashes distributed. The thing is, there won’t be enough ashes to go around.

I need to bulk up. Get on steroids and baked Alaska. What about ash extenders? Maybe add some cat litter. No! Make that bird feed. In the old days, Vikings sometimes burned the whole ship along with the dead captain. According to the encyclopedia, “They first arranged him on cushions with fruits and perhaps a string instrument.” I’m not making this up. But bulking me up would require a Steinway.

Or possibly include some of my apparel in the container. Maybe dump in my whole sock drawer – but not the argyles. Too cheery – sends the wrong message. Perhaps include some suits. No! Polyester would melt and wad up. How about sentimental stuff from my study like the throw rug?

I also worry about ending up in the garage or under the pool table. Or even in a mason jar in the cellar as though I were apricots. Where you get stored is a priority concern in my book. I read where thieves invaded a home while the owners were away and, thinking a jeweled box in the nightstand contained either cocaine or heroin, snorted Aunt Ethel. No thanks.

But growing numbers of Americans are choosing to dispose of their remains in unorthodox ways – literally thinking outside the box. An outfit in Houston will shoot your remains off into space for $995. Imagine grandma orbiting the earth! Or Uncle Earl as his own space station!

Then there’s Plan B: release a small helium balloon containing Cousin Hazel’s ashes into the sky where it will eventually freeze and shatter, scattering her near and far. The service is offered by the Eternal Ascent Society in Crystal River, Fla. Price: $1,000.

Clearly, ingenuity is a must to stay alive in the funeral business. No wonder cremation is the choice of one in three persons in the U.S. Of course, the biggest reason is economical. Ordinary cremation reduces funeral costs by half or more, a bargain if you don’t mind your body going up in smoke.

Remains may include dental fillings and surgical implants such as hip and knee replacements, in which case you’ll need a larger urn. Titanium hip replacements do not melt. Nor will the casket hinges, which can be resold through Craig’s List, unlike used knee and hip joints. Pacemakers are a no-no. They contain mercury and will explode, blowing the lid right off the incinerator.

Now there are even variations on the ceremonial urn. Ashes preserved in paperweights are catching on. They are also being inserted into wind chimes and sundials, which have more cachet than, say, doorstops. Or they can be sifted into potter’s clay and end up part of the family milk pitcher if not a piece of patio folk art.

Here’s the best news: Now your remains can be mixed with paint and become a part of a portrait. I am not making this up. When you point to it with pride and say, “There’s Uncle Max,” it will truly be Uncle Max.

And this just in …

Celebrate Life Inc. in Lakeside, Calif., will pack your ashes in fireworks shells that get set off as part of a pyrotechnic finale, spraying you into the firmament.

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