A
few months ago Anthony Bourdain passed away.
He
was sixty-three. This week, John McCain died.
He
was eighty-two. All my adult life I have admired
many
for whom I had a certain affinity. And age was
rarely
a requisite for my consideration: Good folks
die
regardless of age. Take Jesus, Martin, John and
Bobby
to name but a few. Now, take me for instance.
Approaching
my seventy-second year in life, I have
exceeded
the criteria for being one of those who
would
have purportedly died before their time. I’ve
often
told myself that if I, like Mark Twain (whom
I
have admired most of my life), could manage to
make
it to the estimable age of seventy-five, plus or
minus
a year or two, that would be just fine with me.
Other
than taking this issue into my own hands, which
some
have chosen to do, I’ll just sit back and relax,
chill-out
one could say, letting the chips fall where
they
may. What in hell, I have often wondered, do
chips
have to do with it, anyway? As I see it, my
betting
days were over years ago.
Chris
Hanch 8-27-18
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