My Bucket List
I dialed the number...
“Hello and thank you for calling ‘Make a Wish.’ How may I help you?”
“Um, hi. I just want to say that I really admire the work you people do. Making a child happy is probably the most noble deed imaginable, and no matter what, there’s no way I would ever make light of it in a satirical, wiseassy, bi-weekly sports paper.”
“Oohhh Kaaay.”
“I’m 100% sincere. When the rest of us are standing outside of Heaven trying to get in, the guys working the door are going to wave you people to the front of the line and send you right through the velvet ropes.”
“Sir, may I help you?”
“Yeah. I was wondering if you have an age cut off. I mean, how old can someone be and still get help from you guys?”
“We have provided services for adults in some circumstances. Who is this in regards to?”
“Well, I was asking about myself, actually...”
“I’m so sorry. Have you been diagnosed as terminal?”
“Oh no! Not exactly. I mean, on God’s injury report we’re all listed as ‘Questionable’ right? [nervous laugh] But no, I’m fine. It’s just that I was going over some life insurance stuff and according to their actuarial tables, I’m looking at a likelihood of 40 more years. Less, maybe. With my family history I’m probably into life’s 7th inning stretch, and it got me to thinking about all the things I’ve wanted to do in this life but I haven’t. And I figured you guys know how to make these things happen so I...”
Click. Buzzzz...
That’s how I figured out that when it comes to making my life’s great wishes come true, I’m pretty much on my own.
It’s not like I haven’t done anything in my life. I drove across the country. Got to see the births of my kids. Hocked a loogie into the Grand Canyon. Seen games at Wrigley Field and Notre Dame Stadium. Visited Alaska and Hawaii. Seen all four Boston sports teams win championships. I’ve been on HBO, but that sounds cooler than it actually is when you realize that you live in a time where being on TV simply requires a willingness to call Maury Povich and say “My 14 year old daughter says she’ll sleep with anyone she wants!!!”
The thing with me... and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing... is that my life’s goals are fairly simple. Like Homer Simpson once said, “I’m a simple man, Marge. I like my beer cold, my TV loud, and my homosexuals fa-laaaming.” I’ve never been one for the Big Dreams or the burning desire to go on some elaborate adventure. I once went to the IMAX at the Museum of Science and saw a movie about a guy flying an ultra-light plane... basically a go-cart with wings... through the Grand Canyon. And I remember thinking to myself “Wow! I have GOT to try the nachos that kid in the next row is scarfing down...” But the plane thing? Screw that. Thing looked like a death trap.
There’s a movie out called “The Bucket List” where Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman are both diagnosed with terminal cancer, so they start checking off the list of things they want to do before the kick the bucket. Of course in typical Hollywood fashion, those things consist of the old coots visiting all the wonders of the world and saying profound things, but I couldn’t care less about that. The Pyramids and the Great Wall were built by slaves. If they’d built them like the Big Dig, using a bunch of surly union guys getting four coffee breaks a day and trying to rack up overtime, then I’d be impressed. (And both projects would still be going.)
No, my life’s ambitions are far less esoteric than that. I mean, I do dream about watching my sons win back-to-back Super Bowl MVPs, but it’s ridiculous to thing anyone could ever have that wish come true. And I have the same dream every guy has about Kate Beckinsale and a temporary suspension of my wedding vows. But I think running out the game clock of life isn’t exactly the best time to be treating the Ten Commandments like they’re suggestions.
So on the odd chance that my steady diet of light beer and Doritos X13Ds doesn’t give me immortality, here’s my Bucket List:
Do something heroic.
Of course I’d love to do something superhuman, like save a busload of orphans as its about to plunge of a cliff, but I’d settle for just saving someone’s life. Maybe administer first aid, or do CPR. Ideally, I’d like to be surrounded by panicky bystanders so I can be the voice of reason while all around me are losing their cool. “You!” I’ll say to one of them “Call 911. You, get me some clean towels...” And I always see myself being ultra-cool to the patient. “What’s your name, buddy?” I’ll say. “Jim.” “You got a family, Jim?” “I’m scared...” “C’mon, Jim. Stay with me. Let’s hear about that family...”
Receive a Standing O.
The worst garage band in the diviest honky tonk bar in the world gets a Standing O all the time. But to a working comic they’re rarer than Halley’s Comet. Last year I did a show where my friend Lissy confirmed that some people at the table next to her got on their feet, but I was too busy heading off the stage to the bar so I didn’t see it. Even still, one table won’t do it. I’m talking about a confirmed, full-crowd, jumping to their feet, raising the roof, confirmed Standing O. Like Carrot Top gets.
Get the slow clap .
This is even more elusive, and impressive, than the Standing O. Performers don’t get the slow clap, it only comes from tender, heartfelt emotional displays like you see in chick movies. One guy in the crowd starts out with the single clap and then the whole crowd joins in and it builds into wild cheering. My first choice for my slow clap moment is this: It’s Friday afternoon. I walk into Kati Cawley’s new office... the one where no one is talking to her yet... and I carry her out, “Officer and a Gentleman” style, while all her co-workers look on and the music swells. One guy starts. Clap. Clap. Clapclapclapclap...until everyone’s cheering and there’s not a dry eye in the house.
Hunt something.
I’ve never been hunting, but I think I’d like the thrill of traipsing through the wilderness, gun in my hand, stalking prey. Except for the killing part; I wouldn’t pull the trigger. Nothing against hunters, but what do I want with a dead animal carcass? I know they say deer meat is delicious, but I’m not buying it. Not until I start seeing Boneless Buffalo Venison Fingers on the menu at The 99.
Manage the Red Sox .
Three weeks ago this would’ve said “Coach the Patriots” but I don’t have the strength to think about them yet without my Post Traumatic Stress kicking in. But I’ll settle for the Red Sox job. I like Terry Francona enough to say that there’s only one person in the world who could do the job better than him. And that person is me.
Play the piano .
I walk past a piano a hundred times a day in my own living room and I’ve always wanted to be able to play it. Just not bad enough to actually learn how. But I wish I could go to a party, filled with people who look like something out of a vodka ad, sit down on the bench and bang out some piano-centric ballad... maybe some Snow Patrol or David Gray or vintage Billy Joel like “Always a Woman to Me.” Then everyone will fall into rapt silence while women in cocktail dresses who look like Megan Fox or Odette Yustman will bite their bottom lips and stifle tears. That happens when you play the piano, right?
Win a fight .
My last fight was 3rd grade, when I told Jimmy Mickel he smelled like a pickle. (Which I shouldn’t have said, but in my defense, he did.) Since then, nothing. The thing is, I don’t want to get into some drunken bar brawl with lots of blame to go around. I’m talking about vanquishing evil, defeating some unambiguously bad guy. Like some guy comes into where I work and starts harassing the women in the office and I give him the what-for. Maybe some neo-Nazi pedophile who runs a dog-fighting ring. And if he has B.O., that would be a plus.
Testify before congress .
This obviously stems from the Roger Clemens hearings, which wasn’t exactly the proudest moment in the history of representative democracy. But ever since then, I’ve been obsessed with the idea of sitting there before the House Committee on Satirical Bi-Weekly Sports Papers and saying “Do you honestly expect me to sit here and answer questions from you? Kiss my ass. You work for me, jackass! I’ll go to federal prison before I play this charade with you, you duplicitous, grandstanding dipthong.” And the nation slow claps.
There are a lot more things I want to get done, but I’ll have to find room for them in another column. In the meantime, if you see me around and feel like helping me out with a Standing O or losing a fight to me or something, I’d appreciate it. Remember, I’ve only got so long to live.