You have no idea how frequently I am asked, "You have any idea how big you would be if you died?" Sometimes the enquirer will delicately phrase the question to imply that maybe I should just write a book. That's nice but I know what they're thinking.
Is it really possible that this guy has played his beat down old heart out for nearly fifty years and this is all that he has to show for it? No gold records? No big hits?
We always end up with faulty memories of where our heroes were in the grand scheme of things, career-wise, at their demise.
My tales about Elvis offering to teach me karate or holding up Jimi's amps or Tiny Tim bringing me a photo booth picture and telling me that he would see me in heaven all get wildly magnified in any imaginary obituary piece. I'll bet the sad songs would sound a lot sadder, too.
Don't misunderstand me here. I don't want to kick the bucket. Ever. For me it's beneath cutting the grass or having a filling replaced. The whole concept seems creepy and boring to me.
Maybe we will have a little pretend poll here, though. Let me know what you think. Ex-wives are ineligible. firstname.lastname@example.org.