The Bucket List

As I slide headlong down the greased incline leading to the grave, it occurs to me that there are still a few things I have not done yet that I would like to do.  The fashionable thing to do nowadays is to compile  these things into a list and put them in a bucket like they did in the movie "the Bucket List" starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. In that movie, which I have not yet seen, the two protagonists, T-Bone and Prickly Pete, played respectively by Freeman and Nicholson, are facing impending death by some type of disease or two and go off to accomplish various things they always wanted to do, like sky diving and cow tipping and such.  From what I understand, hilarious consequences follow each adventure our heroes undertake, culminating in the Grim Reaper grabbing these guys by the collar and dragging them to hell. Now I don't know whether anything I've just written about the movie is true or not, but it has inspired me to compile a list of some of things I'd like to do before this Reaper character kicks down my door and chops my head off with his blade thingy.  It's not that I am expecting to go to my own funeral any time soon, but it would be nice to do a few things that I'll be able to look back on with satisfaction as my head rolls across my living room floor. 

Here, then is a partial list of things I'd like to do before I kick the whatchamacallit:

• Get the gum out of my couch cushions
• Find a restaurant that serves good fried chicken (haven't come close yet, despair of ever finding one)
• Exercise
• Get a green light at the intersection of Cove and Lake Avenues (it has to happen some time.  It has to)
• Go a full month without having some part of my car malfunction
• Put away every bit of the last batch of laundry before I start the next batch
• Pay my bills on time
• See a Cleveland sports team win a championship (yeah, right)
• Vote for somebody who actually wins an election
• Play a single song on any musical instrument all the way through
• Go to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival in Canada.  (it's not that far away)
• Learn to eat with utensils
• Paint my garage
• Find all my missing socks
• Memorize my cell phone number
• Match just one number on a lottery ticket
• Play tennis with Bigfoot (we could sit down court side afterwards and drink lemonades)
• Ski down Mt. Rushmore
• Run with the cows in Pamplona (less exhilarating than with bulls, but much less dangerous.  Plus, there is a milk break at the halfway point)
• Go to the Guiness brewery in Dublin
• Remember the lyrics to a song, any song
• Sing the song in tune
• Learn to make a good cup of coffee
• Find a cure for stupidity (but not my own)
• Do a dance in a stage musical without looking like I want to kill myself
• Find a beautiful rich woman with an impaired short-term memory
• Rearrange the weeds in my yard
• Go "russian roulette" bungee jumping (where they sever the bungee of one random jumper every day)

This list, of course, is not exhaustive, even if it is exhausting.  If I think of anything else to throw in the bucket, you will be the first to know.

Quality Writing Would Tire Me Out

I think this is going to be a big year for Fishbrick.  Already, with this post,  I have doubled my output over last year.  Certainly, the quality of my blog posts is probably decreasing as my brain continues to dry up and turn into dust (that's what happens to your brain when you start to approach middle age).  But never mind about the quality of this blog.  Quality has never been an issue here at Fishbrick.  Obviously.  If I were concerned with quality writing, I would hire someone to write for me.  But I say write, write, write - never mind the product you turn out.  Just write.  Keep polishing your craft.  The more you write, the better you become.  A committed, dedicated writer writes constantly, even if he has nothing to say.  I'm a perfect example of that.  I have nothing to say, and I am constantly blogging, constantly crafting words, moving my fingers on my keyboard, watching the prose take shape across my screen.  Why, I've written three different things on this blog in just over one year.  And the fact is, I'm getting really tired right now.  All this polishing and crafting and stuff takes a lot out of me.  I may need to take a little break and come back when my brain is rested (dust and all).  So, I'll see you all in 2019.

Meanwhile, here are some more internet-based links:

Damn Interesting (sorry about the mildly profane title)
Reality Carnival (hours of fun)
A very large rock (video)
Poem Hunter (for those who are tired of prose)
Pretty impressive artwork (hyper-realistic drawings)

A Discourse on Improper Attire

     It's good to back at Fishbrick.  It has been quite a while since I posted anything, but my lawyers advised against my blogging anything until my lawsuit against the Little Sisters of the Poor was cleared up.  Now that that's out of the way, I would like to comment on an alarming fashion trend.
     The past few years I have noticed an increasing number of people going about in public dressed in pajama pants.  Often these people wear bedroom slippers to complete the ensemble.  I have given some thought to what may be motivating these folks to go to such extremes to dress down for public consumption and I think it must be one of two things: either extreme laziness or callous disrespect for their fellow man, a deeply entrenched misanthropy, if you will. 
    If it is laziness, then it is the kind of laziness that even I, a lazy man, cannot come close to fathoming.  It is the kind of laziness that throws garbage out its kitchen window, or even fails to make the effort to open the window at all and keeps the garbage in a pile on the floor.  It's the kind of laziness that eats meals in bed, that can't be bothered to flush the toilet, that only showers in extreme emergencies, that can't be bothered to pick up a dropped sandwich, that would never dream of walking down an escalator, but must stand like a lump until it reaches the bottom.  And I will bet you, the reader (if there is a reader out there) that it is the kind of laziness that, after using the facilities in public or private (and not flushing) would never make the effort to wash its indolent hands.  To this kind of laziness, even putting on a pair of sweatpants and slipping on some unlaced boots would be an endeavor of herculean effort, downright unthinkable.
     The other possible motivation for public display of pajama pants, as I said, is disrespect toward one's fellow man.  I imagine an inner monologue inside this slovenly misanthrope as going something like this:  "Oh, how I despise mankind!  I must do everything I can to make my neighbor's life unpleasant, for no man but I deserve to experience beauty.  Surely ugliness and disorder must be the lot of the creatures who surround me in my daily activities.  They are all loathsome dogs, and such dogs deserve nothing but the very worst from me.  From this day forward, I vow to make all men, women and children feel the disdain I have for them by making them gaze upon my horrid pajama pants and bedroom slippers.  They shall feel consternation and rage, discomfort and even fear as they feast their lowly eyes upon my raiment.  Only when I am home will I change into the luxurious designer-labeled clothing I have purchased for my private use.  My shoes will I shine, my hair  will I comb, my fingernails will I buff.  And nobody but I will ever feast eyes upon my loveliness as none but I am deserving of such a privilege.  For the world, pajama pants!  For me, sartorial splendor!"  
     Yes, that's probably what these people are thinking. 

Coming soon:  an epic poem about people who wear short pants in the dead of winter.