Let us begin the week on a morbid note. As Jim Morrison of The Doors once noted, no one here gets out alive. Accordingly, I have spent some time planning for the inevitable. A gravestone for my wife and me is already in place (and a fine one it is, with both a Celtic cross and a Polish eagle), and I have picked out my funeral music. Beyond that, though, I have come up with what I think will be a nice touch: three or four doo-woppers singing “Sh-Boom” at graveside. When they come to the lyrics “take you up to paradise up above,” they will point with one hand at the coffin and with the other hand at the sky. (Not that I am certain that I will qualify for any paradise up above.) And by the way, everyone is invited to my final farewell party ... to be held sometime in 2055. (Yeah, right.)
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I mentioned to my wife that there are a lot of ads promoting electronics as Mother's Day gifts. "Are some mothers men?" she asked.
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Speaking of my wife, her yard sale was a smashing success. She sold tons of stuff, just as I have on eBay and Amazon the past couple of years. My question, then: Why is our house still stuffed with stuff?
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In "Honest Lullaby," Joan Baez sings, "I look around and I wonder how the years and I survived." Ms Baez, I wonder, too.
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One person in the United States has died from the H1N1 virus, formerly known as swine flu. Yet this year some 40,000 Americans will die in motor vehicle accidents and no one seems to care very much, except Mothers Against Drunk Driving and people who have lost a relative or friend in a crash.
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