O Fortuna

I had my fortune read once…. well… kinda.  The tarot cards were laid down and interpreted.


My friends mom considered the cards that had been allotted me by fate… or the gods… or… the mysterium. She then told me she couldn’t tell me about ‘this’ particular outcome. ‘But why not?’, I pushed back. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t’, she said before moving on. She laid down some more cards. The rest of it was fairly generic, although interestingly she predicted that I was going to be a huge slut. Ha ha. Which was amusing to me at the time, because I was waaaaaaaay more into Dungeons and Dragons than girls. That one turned out to be pretty spot on I feel.

In any event, if the portents are to be believed, I may be the one who pushes the big red button and hard reboots the world. Know that I agonized over my decision. And then likely said ‘fuck it’. (before clicking the button multiple times… you know… because that makes the elevator come faster)


I have been very remiss in my stoicism of late. And while there are many facets to stoicism the one that I have been most tardy addressing is that of dying well.

Death box.jpg

I don’t necessarily want my death to be a messy, chaotic affair. It might well be… after all I don’t really get to be in full control over that particular event. What I can control however is the aftermath of my demise.

In lieu of this, I have created a Death-box(tm). Its less exciting (or indeed pandor(a)-ific) than it sounds. Its basically a black shoe box that will sit in my drawer at home waiting for that eventual moment to become useful.

It contains all the important ‘stuff’ that… well… someone else needs to wrap things up for me, all located in one convenient location.  At the top of the pile is a quick how-to-guide to access my trading account and close all my open positions. Trading futures… and then suddenly expiring… well… it could be REALLY bad. This needs to be done pretty quick post event… unless of course they are all doing amazing well (which they probably all will be because… well…. I’m dead)… in which case… *thinks* actually just close them.

While I plan on adding a map with the location of the treasure of the infamous pirate, One-eyed-Willy, I spent my weekend redoing my Last Will and Testament and getting that fine document in order first. That’s probably quite important… and it is/was horrifically out of date.

Also… while there is a fair amount of legalize… I did allow for at least some whimsy. (an element lacking in most wills and testaments I feel). Case in point…


On what should happen to my remains…

I wish to cremated. And then, if viable, have my ashes shot off into space. (preferably in a rocket capable of escaping gravity) but if not… I am happy to become orbital debris, a navigation hazard and otherwise deadly object to future spacefarers. Assuming this is not viable (or exorbitantly expensive, more than $1000.00)… cremate me and scatter me some place nice. I’m not picky. I am after all dead and unlikely to care what happens to my remains. Obviously, if the situation is thus that I am likely to be venerated or that my remains will become a focal point for pilgrims… then… do what you have to do. Statues or monoliths that need to be erected in such an event should not come from my estate by rather by some measure of crowd funding.

But first…

Please harvest and donate all my organs that are deemed still viable for transplant. Transplant only though, I do not want my body used for any scientific experimentation or learning. I feel weird about being sawed and hacked at by first year medical students.


My death is going to be awesome. Well for some.

Big fish

I’m a huge Tim Burton fan. (does that even need to be said?) Except for his iteration of Charlie and the chocolate factory…. which still causes me serious anxiety when I think about it. Everyone has their caveats that they need to get off their chest right near the beginning. In any event for a lot of people, that caveat, for Tim Burton films anyway, is often cited as Big Fish. Not me though. I loved Big Fish.


I loved the quirkiness of it all. And more importantly I loved some of the deep philosophical considerations it raises.

For example when some of the boys (and one girl) go to the local witches house (every town, as far as I understand has one of these) a bet is made to steal the witches eye. Now whoever looks into the eye of this particular witch will see how they are going to die. The scene is interesting, because the protagonist, having ‘seen’ his own death, considered this demise comforting because… well… he was old when the time came. For the rest of the movie he attacks life with gusto since he knows that whatever he undertakes, it won’t kill him. One of the other boys however is freaked out about seeing his own end saying, ‘I wasn’t even that old’. Or words to that effect.

I dreamed about this scene last night… and woke up ruminating its permutations at ten to four, when the sound of rain on the window panes… and the pacing of a basset hound (who, typically, would choose this moment in time to want to go outside to pee) dragged me out of REM sleep. Would I want to know the date and time of my death? And possibly the manner in which is happens. Would it help me lead a better life? That whole Carpe Diem – Momento Mori vibe.

As a theoretical exercise I oscillate between wanting to know and not wanting to know. I put the kettle on while I wait. I can see merit to both sides of the equation.  Seriously.. how long does it take to pee and come back inside? *he gives me that #$%& you look only a basset hound can muster before trotting off into the undergrowth*. I sigh. Fine, stay outside…

Seriously. Nothing but trouble.

Don’t tell mom

My daughter told me that the older kids in her pre-school were calling her and her friend babies. (She’s in the youngest class). Joeys parenting solution, *shrugs* ‘Just call them fart-bags!’


When my wife picks her up from school, my daughter told her the same story. ‘The older kids call us babies… but daddy says I must just call them fart-bags’. ‘Thats not very nice, it hurts your feelings when they call you a baby right? So you’re hurting their feelings when you call them a fart bag.

My wife is basically a democrat. I also got into trouble for buying her candy on the way to school. Apparently swearing a three year old to secrecy is an exercise in futility.

The story of Perseus

Thors-day is kicking my butt. Although maybe its been the whole week? Today feels particularly intolerable however. Counting down the minutes till I can go home… and… I’d like to say that I have something interesting planned, but the reality of my life is that after my commute, inhaling dinner, bathing the kids, reading bedtime stories… followed with at least twenty minutes of negotiation and general chitchat (before they finally pass out) all I will really want to do is go to sleep.

The story of persius.jpeg

Soooooo… instead of whining I will post a picture for throwback Thursday. I’m… second from the left. Looking particular dapper and still mightily follicled. A school play… grade… five maybe. I seem to remember it was ‘The story of Perseus’.

Being a Catholic school I’m sure we glossed over Zeus impregnating Perseuses mother with a ‘Golden shower’. I’m not sure if I mean impregnating or raping. In Greek mythology they kinda mean the same thing.

I feel we likely concentrated on the ‘hacking off Medusa’s head’ part of the story. Much more amenable to the catholic condition and our long (sordid) legacy of… eh… persuasive evangelization.

Good times.



I learnt something very important about myself today…


I am a structure and ingredient purist. That’s like a… sandwich conservative. *shudder*

Also… I am suddenly very concerned that some of my friends might be… not only structural rebels… but also ingredient rebels.

How does a friendship recover from something like that?

How can we coexist if we can’t even agree on the BASIC FUNDAMENTALS that constitute a sandwich!

OMG. My whole day is #$%@& now. Thanks stupid sandwich chart!

*flounces off to go make coffee*