My Musings

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Looking Ahead

When I die, some 50 or 60 years from now, I wonder what people are going to miss most about me. As a horse-drawn hearse carries my time-ravaged corpse to Forest Hills cemetery, where no cost has been spared to inter me in the old section of the grounds beside e.e. cummings or Eugene O'Neill, or, in a pinch, beside the restauranteur Jacob Wirth, who cleverly named his German schnitzel joint "Jacob Wirth's," will the weeping masses following ponder the impact I had on the American psyche writ-large? Will they remember me for having led a massive biking revolution in the lower 48 states?

I don't think so. They will be thinking, "Why didn't he explain to his family how to work the irrigation system? He was asked a thousand times!"

I often wish I could secure this and everything else in my brain onto a memory chip so that future generations know how I get the hood to stay shut on my 2008 Mazda 3 (spray some Liquid Wrench onto the latch, folks). Well, not everything in my brain. Can you imagine the size of the memory chip that would be needed for that? OK, maybe not that large. And anyway, I don't want to save everything in my brain. Just the useful and not totally embarrassing info so that if an 18-wheeler jumps the median and ends it for me, my family will know how to load more line into the Weed Whacker.

I'll admit, part of me wants to take this and other secrets to the grave, or at least threaten to do so. As friends and family gather around my death bed and try to coax out of me secret dinner recipes, golf tips, and credit card account passwords, it would be kind of funny to feign attempting to mouth words, then go suddenly limp like people do in classic movies.

"He's gone!"

But I'm just pretending, and when they go to pull the sheet over my head, I will use all the strength I have to say, "Wait. Wait. I'm still here." This will happen several times before I eventually relent.

One way or another, I am definitely not handing over my smoked rib recipe. 

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Daily Haiku


Cats oft’ void their guts.

They cough out fur balls. They puke.  

We tread carefully.  


College Tuition

We dig ourselves a deep hole

Need a second job.


Now that I’m sixty

People think I’m a wise man

Probably, I’m not


I’m in my Fifties

But tomorrow I’m Sixty

Will need a sports car


My PCP Says

“Keep doin’ what yer doin’”

Prob’ly I should not


It’s St. Patrick’s Day

We eat beef that has been corned

Whatever that means


Robots and A.I.

I will make use of these soon

To do my taxes


Strange Oscar night end

Pacino failed to mention

Best pic nominees


Who’s this Katie Britt?

Scary. Wierd. We could have used

A Trigger Warning


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