Will’s Last Testament

“Take me to the river
And wash me down.
Won't you cleanse my soul
Put my feet on the ground?" – Al Green

For Sharon

Point one - before proceeding any further, Will is not, in actuality, this stalwart blogger’s moniker. They call me nycityman.

Point two – no matter how exhaustive an investigation and exploration by government agency or outside organization, no individual named Will can be found upon these premises. I fancied the title, and so, ingrained in my brain it remained.  On occasion, that occurs.

Note: As an attempt at maintaining some sense of propriety, and with recognition to the sensitive nature of the subject matter, relevant aspects have been illustrated with images from the Operation board game.

That’s Life

At some stage in your lengthy, healthy, satisfying and gratifying existence, creeping in as stealthily and silently as Sandburg’s fog “on little cat feet,” and as gradually and as unwanted and unwelcome as mildew on your shower stall grout (the strangest combination of references ever put to paper) that sad season of life arrives when you realize that it is no longer your parent’s friend’s wakes and funerals at which you suffer, but rather those of your own beloved and acquainted ones. The clock and calendar never stall or reverse, and time bows to no man.

Recently, a dear friend of mine left us, and in wake of such a loss, one tends to ponder his own lack of immortality, and the plans made, or not made, for that rapidly advancing day when the internet will have one fewer verbose and opinionated blogger to ignore.  Surviving to an age where the notion of passing is no passing fancy, I have made some of my wishes known verbally, but there has been no session with paper spooled in the old Olivetti, and so any or all of my post-life desires would indisputably be disregarded by Judge Mathis or Judge Mablean or by whichever important and impressive jurist might deliberate my after-death details.

There are indeed preparations to be planned and plans to be prepared – there are internet histories to be expunged, incriminating papers, records and photographs to be incinerated, chorines and pipers to be hired, trampolines to be rented, songs to be written, riches to be rewarded, previously unknown heirs to be located, and contracts to be negotiated allowing Ken Burns the legal rights to produce the 38 part PBS biographical documentary series, “Nycityman – a Life of Little Consequence.”

The idea of sharing these thoughts, considering the topic’s innate ghoulishness, and solemn finality, begs a light touch and an approach, I believe, stressing the inherent darker humor. And as the majority of the hours Sharon and I enjoyed together, almost always with our friend Alex – we dubbed ourselves the Mod Squad, one white, one black, one blonde – was spent irreverently and comically, with the exception of frequent griping about our mutual place of employ, it is most fitting and appropriate, and would meet with her approval, if what follows has a waggish bent to it.

I Only Have Eyes For You

We temporarily pause the programming in progress for a brief organ interlude. In the unlikely event that doctors should excavate anything salvageable from a body that is less a temple, more a Sabrett’s hot dog cart, if any organs remain that still possess some utility, despite the probable lingering aroma of Brooklyn Lager and Sauvignon Blanc – like a 5 year old girl in a Chinese Apple iPhone factory, those vital lifesavers must be put to work! Keep nycityman alive, ticking away in the hearts and eyes and kidneys of other more animated folks – a modern, “Modern Prometheus.”

I’ve Seen Fire, I’ve Seen Rain

If I might be so bold, if I may beg a favor, if it’s not asking too, too much - I would truly appreciate it if whomever is tasked with the next unpleasant step makes it their urgent business to be concretely sure, beyond any possible questioning, that my last shoe has been shined,  my concluding karaoke tune caterwauled and my tale terminated,  before commencing with cremation - keeping in mind that I am both a late and heavy sleeper, and on certain evenings will take a Tylenol PM before slumber. Please seek out the certainty of a second opinion and don’t assume satisfaction in the high-percentage assertation of Dr. Chip, the neighborhood Walgreen’s pharmacist. Thank you.

Take Me to the River

“England swing like a pendulum do,” and never more so than when you’ve just flown slightly under 3500 miles, carefully cradling a container filled with the ashy remains of one awfully demanding former friend, fulfilling the extremely inconvenient request of having London’s River Thames as his final resting place – forever afloat among the Malteser wrappers and New Castle bottles, because for some particularly dense Yanks, sporting Jermyn Street finery, crooning the Kinks, and memorizing Monty Python equates to British citizenry and a rewarding of the O.B.E.

Should the expectations expressed fall fallow and unfulfilled, the being once known as nycityman, at said juncture, much like Python’s famed Norwegian Blue, dead, deceased, sans life, null and void of consciousness, no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet his maker, a stiff, bereft of life, pushing up the daisies, off the twig, kicked the bucket, shuffled off the mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible, an ex-person, will be thoroughly and completely unaware of such ungranted wishes, but it never hurts to ask.

And in conclusion, the only clergyman who might possibly have the slightest chance of getting me to step foot in a house of worship again – the great, the soulful, the coolest cleric to ever clip on a collar, that most righteous reverend,  Al Green and “Take Me to the River.”

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.