Dylan Thomas, whoever he was

A friend of mine has been dying for five years … well, yes, we’re all dying of course … but he has some mechanical thingy that keeps his heart ticking, so while his body and brain fall apart piece by piece, his heart will just beat on and on forever. Please don’t put one of those in me. I think about these things too much because I’ll turn 60 in, oh, approximately something like 47 days.

So, yes, I think about the finish line. My blood pressure and cholesterol levels are higher than my doc would like, my prostate gland feels like it’s larger than a walnut (so I’m told), and I knew this rainstorm was coming because my lower back started to ache. And I have a pain in the neck (literally).

But after years of agreeing with Dylan Thomas when he wrote, “Do not go gently into that good night,” I’ve now decided that he was full of booze-soaked crap. Let other people hook up electronics to their organs and pump themselves full of meds as they “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

As for me, I can’t think of a sweeter final scene than to go gently into that good night.

My momma always said …

Bronze Star, Distinguished Service Medal, Legion of Merit and so many other honors you can’t count them on all your fingers and toes … and also an adulterer. Gen. Petreaus proves to be just another human being. The yin and yang, dark and light, they run through all of us. I’ve never been unfaithful and indeed have found myself on the hurtin’ side of infidelity, but this I know: we are, all of us, flawed.

The election is over. Some celebrate, others grouse.

Neither Obama nor Romney is the demon we saw on TV ads. Nor is either saint or savior. For that matter, the saint has never existed who was perfection … by that, I mean the perfection of fairy-tale minds that ache for Superman in a universe of Forrest Gumps.

Life is like a box of chocolates.