Random musings on a writer's life & times, with occasional input from acquaintances
Thursday, December 23, 2004
An outfit operating on the internet is accepting telegram messages for dead people to be delivered at a price of five bucks a word.
Afterlife Telegrams says this is done with the help of terminally ill volunteers who memorize messages and then deliver them “after they have passed away.” There is a five-word minimum. Interested? Go to http://afterlifetelegrams.com
I spent quite a while deciding who to send a telegram and what it should say. I decided on Uncle Art, my mother’s brother, who never passed up a drink or a smart-ass remark. Here’s the message:
Leave the gun, take the cannoli.
I see by the newspaper that Randall Cunningham, retired mediocre but longtime pro football quarterback, has received his bachelor’s degree from the University of Nevada at Las Vegas at the age of 41. It’s in leisure studies.
Leisure studies! It took him 23 years to earn a degree. No wonder they call it LEISURE studies!
And what better place to study leisure than Las Vegas? I wonder if he took classes in Theory of Roulette, Free Booze in American Society, Appreciation of Wayne Newton, and Applied Waitress Fondling.
I may have to dispatch my son Mickey, who is between colleges, to UNLV.
Hey! I’m back! I missed posting the Sunday 7 last weekend because I was attending a family gathering at Black Butt Ranch in Central Oregon. A fine time was had by all, except my two youngest sons, who came down with a puking-trotting illness that dampened their enthusiasm somewhat. Ah, well.
Incidentally, Writeright travel critic C. Peter Dimwiddy -- known around the office as Millimeter Peter, because he’s so short (5’ 2”) -- laments Black Butt Ranch is going to seed. Rumor has it, says C. Peter, the Black Butt management is sinking all its upkeep money (and its Mexican labor) into sprucing up its two golf courses instead of, for instance, replacing the wood rotting off the outside wall of the condo where my sister-in-law Maggie Lou stayed. The location remains gorgeous -- Millimeter Peter was frightened when he ventured outside his condo before dawn to stalk a wily cup of coffee at the main lodge and encountered Black Butt itself seeming to LOOM over the grounds in the dark -- but one wonders about the resort’s financial condition.
And -- fyi, whichever family member I was discussing this with: Grandpa Bob’s retired newspaperman pal who owned a house at Black Butt Ranch was named Bob Lucas. I finally remembered!