Originally ran Sunday, February 23, 2003

Devoted husband. Dedicated father. These are the things they say matter when your time comes. What you did for a living, what kind of car you drove, what accolades you received, none of that matters.
Don't you believe it.

Check out the obituary section of this here newspaper for further proof. Sure, offspring and offspring's offspring and even their offspring makes up a good portion of the text, but another part of the three-paragraph-minimum coming your way involves what you did for a living, how long you did it, and
how rewarded you were for it. I've never seen "read a heck of a bedtime story" in an obituary. "Always asked how everyone's day was" has never been something that section's editor has had to type. And let's face it, the "he was a quiet guy who kept to himself" stuff is what neighbors save for psychos who lived down the hall.

Now, right next to these obits, maybe one or two sections over, are the classifieds. Catch is, there's not too much to pick from in there these days. So, how does a guy see to it that his obituary will make for an interesting read, that he gets from point A to point B, so to speak? People
have often fantasized about what their funeral would be like, who would be truly upset, who might not be as affected as they thought they would be, how decadent the cold cut platter served afterwards would be. Not me. I've often thought about my obit. I want it to be a read on par with A Tale of Two Cities. I actually want it to begin, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times".

Workaholics are always told by those they are neglecting that their work "shouldn't define him or her", but I beg to differ. It is the epitome of your definition. Leave the "he was the glue that kept us all together" mumbo jumbo to your family. To your headstone, for that matter. When it comes time for my obituary to be written I want that newspaper's fax machine to be tied up for close to an hour as those who moaned that all I cared about was work send over every award, promotion, kudo... hell, grade school ribbon they can
find in my attic. They'll be easy to find, too; I'll have them neatly stacked in a chest that will be clearly marked with glow-in-the-dark lettering.

Maybe it's a phase, I don't know. The slightest of research, after all, can uncover that the phrase "Most Likely to Succeed" was not scrawled beneath my headshot in my high school yearbook. S.A.T. was what I did in class: I sat. And pretty much at home, too, on the couch, until after dinner when I would go from sitting to laying. I certainly wasn't the most ambitious of lads.

But now, with mid-thirties signifying my age first and foremost, and not when The Three Stooges began making shorts like it always had, I'm hell-bent on something substantial following my name and the age I passed at in my obituary. Is there anything sadder than those obits that are as long as a fortune cookie? Or how about the ones where they use the guy's driver's license photo, faint traces of "Connecticut" showing across his face, because no one could dig up a photo or, worse, even bothered trying. Hey, it's not the paper's fault, it's all they got.

But, your driver's license? Why not give them your video card? At least you're smiling there, minutes away from popping in a good movie at home, and not disgruntled from waiting in the DMV line for over an hour only to hear your last name mispronounced and then have the flash go off just as
you're blowing hair out of your face.

Today's lesson is three-fold: Make something of yourself during the short time that you are here, be proud of your achievements, and-perhaps most important of all-take a scissor to your driver's license the second you begin to feel weak.