Single Digits (Cigar Smoke 5-8-08)

I just realized something the other day. I’m not lanky. No, that’s not it. I really am lanky. The other day I walked into a Starbucks and two people saw me and said, “Hey, are you Tommy Lasorda?” I rest my case.

No, I read last week that the average life expectancy of a man is 74.9 years. (I think women expect to live until 106. Something like that.) And because I am 67.1 years old, that means I have 7.8 years left. And it hit me. Hard. I realized I was now into the single digits of life. How in the double hey hey did that happen?

When you’re a kid, you never even think of buying the farm. It just never crosses your little pea-sized brain. I don’t think I ever even thought about death until I was about 30. Just had other more important things to think about. Like pimples and making the baseball team and studying and working and surviving and figuring out to defend myself when I copped a feel. When I was younger the only thing I thought was 67 years old was a redwood.

And now I’m one of those redwoods, baby. It’s funny. Life just creeps up on your butt when you least expect it and says, “Hello, Reaper here. You can call me Grim.” It’s not good being on a first name basis with Mr. R. I have to admit, it’s kind of freaking me out a little.

It’s not that I’m exactly afraid of the D-word. I don’t want to die. Yet. Maybe not ever. When I was younger — back when dinosaurs roamed Altadena — I was planning on living forever. It just seemed like a good idea to me. Why should I be like all the other people in the world and actually have to die? I saw no good reason for that to have to happen. Death was for other people. The less-cool people.

Now, that I’m into the single digits of expectancy, I’m having a few second thoughts. (By the way, can you have more than one second thought? Wouldn’t the second second thought be your third thought? Just think, in eight more years you won’t have to read these asides. I’ll be gone.) Maybe, just maybe, I will be like all you other regular people and not be special and not be God’s favorite person and maybe I won’t be able to count on being the first person to defy all the odds and live forever and eat M&Ms and corn nuts without consequences.

It’s a real pisser. This facing reality thing. Facing reality has never been my strong suit. I’m more of a believer in ignoring the really hard things of life, and maybe they will go away, or you’ll forget why they were scaring you. I’ve kind of run with the head-in-the-sand approach to life. My favorite bird is the ostrich.

But sometimes reality just gets in your face. When you’re sitting in your own damn kitchen drinking really crappy instant coffee and reading the really crappy Los Angeles Times and there is this official-ass article scientifically telling you that you have less than eight years left on the planet, well, Holy Ostrich, that got to me!

It scared the bejabbers out of me. And my bejabbers have been there for a long time, baby. I liked my bejabbers right where they were, and now they’re not there. They’re probably just running as fast as their little bejabber feet can carry them, running right along with my doomed dreams and my doomed outlook on life. (By the way, as bad as I felt when I read the life expectancy article, just think how the guy feels who is 74.8 years old. Jeeez!)

Bejabbers or not, I want to live and smell the roses — preferably from the flower side up. I do not want to smell roses from the root-side first. Nope. Don’t want that. Actually, I’ve told Marge and my kids that I don’t want to be buried at all. I’m claustrophobic, and granted I’d be deader than a doornail and a dodo, I just don’t want to somehow wake up down there and have some semblance of recognition and realize my 74.9- year-old butt is under six feet of dirt. I do not want to be in a “Twilight Zone” episode for eternity. I do not want to hear Rod Serling say, “All Mr. Larness, a bejabberless ostrich lover, wanted to do was find a peaceful garden of rest, but alas, fate was the motel keeper.” I don’t know what that means, either.

So, I’m planning on being cremated. I don’t want to be too morbid here, but just burn my bones. I do not want any fingernails left to claw at coffin lids or cremation urns. I don’t want any voice box parts left to cry out little pitiful yelps of despair. (OK, I lied about not being morbid.) And then I have a few very specific rules about how I want my ashes distributed.

First, I want the cremation container to be in the shape of the Stanley Cup. That’s most likely the only time I’ll see it. Then I want Marge and each of my kids to scoop out some ashes and put them in three other containers so they can each put them on their fireplaces and worship them every day. Is that too much to ask? No, they’ll still be reading newspaper articles about their own life expectancies. I’ll be part of the story then! Just two hours of worship a night. Big deal. What’s that? An “American Idol” and a “Lost” episode. Am I worth that? Don’t answer.

Oh, and if they have a little extra time, I’d like them to scatter some of my ashes around second base in some little ballpark, and maybe spread a few smidgins of ashes up in Humboldt County, and gently toss some ashes into a fast-moving stream in Montana, and maybe they could all quit their jobs and devote their lives to taking my ashes everywhere on a list that I will provide them in my will. Yeah, I like that.

Maybe they could stop by the house of the writer who wrote the life expectancy article and sprinkle some ashes on his breakfast table. And a few in his Cheerios. And stuff some into his nose. And smear some on his forehead. And make his dog eat the rest.

Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.