Anybody can see how someone's contributions to life become a living memorial after their death.

Take a look at your playlists. Michael Jackson and Jim Dickinson, died in the past year. How many in your lifetime? Many of them you never knew until after they died. Freddy Mercury, Kurt Cobain, John Lennon to name a few. I wonder if your kids will ask you about them only to tell them, "no, we can't go see them in concert, Billy, go watch Sesame Street," only to realize Jim Henson died around the time you yourself were celebrating your 5th birthday, eating your Batman cake and taking your new Big-Wheel for a ride in front of that cute girl's house.

Each generation must face the hurdles of aging like your parents before you. Neverland can't always be Peter Pan's ageless paradise in those old Disney VHS tapes. We will grow old. We will witness our friends and family die around us.

My great grandparents lived next door to me growing up. How is my mom supposed to comfort me, knowing the next house over is empty. I can't go over and make PB&J's with Granddad anymore. No more old man to give me orange wedge shaped candies.

Persistence of memory is more than a trippy Dali painting. We, with our healthy minds and bodies, how do we cope with Alzheimers; your father and his defective heart, robbing his brain of oxygen and 47 years of growth. Your 18th birthday with your father in rehab, learning to walk again and trying to explain to him that his mother died 5 years ago.

How do you convince someone, anyone, that they cannot have those memories again? Sorry dad, sorry you will never know again the last breathes of your mother, even though you were there. Do you feel sorry for him? Maybe you feel happy that at least he didn't see the doctors take her off life support.

But you were there, pumping his chest, breathing for him when he couldn't breathe, his face the color of the dark blue that trails the sun into the night, seeing your mother argue with the doctors for one more day. One more day to beg your husband, your children's father, to come out of a coma. One last day to fight Death, to rob Death of his bounty.

He came through. Some people are granted second chances. Others are left with what impression they left on the sands of life. We can't all leave footprints on the moon. The winds move a little more swiftly on our little rock.

Live, damn it, live.

Leftovers

This pasta ain't worth shit. You think when you buy 15 fuckin dollar pasta at the italian place, that shit will warm its noodle-fuckin-self up when you get hungry a while later.

Its probly all that spinach and gorgonzola shit that keeps it from heatin up all the way through.

The fuck is gorgonzola? I watched Clash of the Titans so many times to know that Medusa was a Gorgon or some Greek trailer trash or something. Now I got some weak-ass mythical lettuce keepin me from my steamy leftovers. Fuck.

Supermax

I was just, in effect, skinned alive, again, by discount safety razors.
There's nothing safe about ripping off hairs and layers of epidermis by low-rent
face blades.
To make matters worse, after I rinsed off the raw remnants of my face,
I grabbed a wet, mildewed rag to get the excess shaving cream off
What I have now is a defenseless peace of land being invaded by fungal hordes.
I can only pray that princess toadstool will not turn my face into a tributary of the mushroom
kingdom. I feel like I just got slapped in the face with a rusty cheese grater, except there's no
fresh parmesan for my pasta tonight.

I'm investing in a real man's razor. That's right: a Sweeney Todd, Ginzu, slice-and-dice, Hattori Hanzo, +5 morale face blade. Eat shit and die, Shick Supermax.

Supermax, must be the kind of razors they give the inmates in Supermax prisons. But really, even if they were convicted of bombing WTC, leaders of the Gangsta Deciples, Unibombers, or Enron CFO's, I still wouldn't wish these unconstitional weedwackers to shave with.

Ya'll be good now.