Bucket list

Still never been to Lady Liberty.  Walked past that subway museum on Livingstone a hundred times, always marveled at the entrance, not once stepped down.  People speak highly of the Brooklyn Brewery and apparently Jackson Heights is the hottest thing since silicon tits, but it's the same refrain.  We're approaching some serious T-minus territory here and the thought looms about some great, existential checklist for Things To Do in New York City.  God forbid I move from here and somebody shames me for not doing the pantsless subway ride.

I've uprooted my life with less planning that many people put into a picnic in the park.  More like, there's some careful deliberation that goes into making the decision, followed by the implementation of the necessary ingredients, but there's no pen and paper and chin-scratching.  Step one and done: Set a date.  Then do what has to be done. There are details, but those are just details, and they fall under what I just said.

So it should come as no surprise that I have no Bucket List for the Big Apple.  I will go to Ellis Island and I will go to Maine to eat lobster within view of a lighthouse, but that's about it.  If there's something I haven't done, and I've had seven-plus years to realize it, it's hard to say it belongs on any sort of list now.  It is no more than a momentary distraction, an opportunity for accomplishment when everything going on around me is about loss. 

The whole goddamn concept of a Bucket List, be it before a departure or death, is a persuasive Exhibit in the proceedings for what is wrong with this society we live in.  Like forgiveness and atonement, it is a powerful tool to feel better about the person you could have been but were not; the things you could have done but never did; those words that should have been said but never came out.  Going to the Meatpacking District after a Knicks game won't be my opportunity to Do It Right.  Ain't nothin' hanging on the walls of the Whitney that's going to make me a better/worse friend than I've been.  There are things that matter; the rest is comprised of one giant, fragmented distraction.

The final sands of this time have me feeling like an old dog.  Prospects for adoption aren't looking too good, so maybe it's best to just find my trusty place in the rug and sniff the familiar pant legs of the ones who take care of me.  Maybe these owners will take me on a familiar walk, and maybe they'll engage in my sentimentality for what it was like to walk that trail years before.  Eat some familiar chow.  Get my ears scratched.  Sit in my own shit for a little while.  Ain't no sense running this old hound any further.  Just let the days pass and the eyes sink 'til it's time to move on to the next place.  There's a list for ya.