PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

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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A New Wrinkle

The beginning of a new year always renews my interest in what the future holds for us human beings, and as usual I'm turning to my trusty old crystal ball to see what it can tell me about the year ahead.

The first thing I notice when I gaze into my crystal ball is that there is a wrinkle in the space-time continuum, which will cause massive flight cancelations, long lines at pharmacies, and workers calling in sick.

No, wait, sorry! False alarm. That's a hair on my crystal ball, not a wrinkle in the space-time continuum. How embarrassing! That's happened to me before. If you don't use your crystal ball regularly, it can accumulate bits of dust and cobwebs and give you incorrect information about the future. The best way to prevent this is to keep your crystal ball stored in the felt liner that it was packed in at the factory. (If your crystal ball didn't come in a soft felt bag, or if you lost the bag, you can rejuvenate the ball with some polish, but I recommend ordering a felt bag immediately or else you're going to be needing a lot of polish over the years.)

OK, back to the stormy future. It turns out that removing that rogue hair didn't change what I see in my crystal ball. So, what could possibly be wrecking the year ahead if not a wrinkle in the space-time continuum?

Oh no. I see nasal swabs. Paper masks. Rubber gloves. 2022 looks an awful lot like the summer of 2020.

Putting my crystal ball away for another year. 

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Patrick The Balding

After I'm dead and gone, how will my reign on earth be described by historians? I'd like to be known as "The Great" but that typically denotes "large" or "tall," which I'm not.

I wouldn't mind if the Wikipedia of the 22nd century referred to me as "Patrick the Brilliant," but, yeah…unlikely.

Another option: Patrick the Scruffy. I think this is apt. I shave a couple times a week, which means twice a week I look good. Otherwise, scruffy. On the other hand, not exactly the moniker I'm looking for.

Of course, it makes no difference what I want. "History will be the judge." Since the future will be inundated by mountains of data about me and my shortcomings, no doubt some rookie at Era-Naming headquarters will find my worst traits and forever tag me with them to describe the current era we're in, which I dominate (admittedly from behind the scenes).

How about "Patrick the Emotionally Exhausted"?

Naw. 

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Mr. Wrinkly

I was thinking the other day that in the not-too-distant-future, geologically speaking, people will come think of me as old. Like really old.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, dude, what’s with all the wrinkles? Next time someone tells you to smile for the camera, don’t. Those goddam creases are so deep you could lose your keys in there.

However, I’m not yet ancient, despite my skin folds, and before you know it it’ll be 2164 and there I am at 200 years and still alive, in a manner of speaking. Part my own flesh and blood. Part reclaimed organs. Part robotics. Meanwhile, you’re dead. Ha! How la like me now?!

And the younger set – people barely past 100 – start tooling on me because I’m so ancient: “Look at that old wrinkly bastard!” Because by then my wrinkles will really be something to marvel at. The hurtful names would run the gamut:

  • Wrinkles McVay
  • Old Wrinkleface
  • Mr. Wrinklepuss
  • The wrinkly old bat who lives down the road
  • Herr Wrinklehausen
  • Sir Wrinklot
  • That a-hole with all the wrinkles
  • Senor Muchas Arrugas.
  • McVay that wrinkled sonuvabitch!
  • Old Fuzzy Wrinkleball
  • Lieutenant McWrinkle

You can imagine that the list is practically endless. I will have learned to deal with it by the time I’m 200, attributing the ribbing from people literally half my age to sheer jealousy. Plus, I may not notice all the name-calling, since I’ll be sleeping a lot, I’m told. That’s what happens when you’re 200, which I will be in a little less than a century and a half.

Hard to imagine it’s going to happen so soon.

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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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