My Top Ten Beatles Songs

I’ve been a huge fan of The Beatles since February 9, 1964, when they first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. Sure, I was only six (and a half!), but I have two older siblings who were very excited, so I knew it was Something Big. My admiration for The Beatles has only grown over the years and decades. 

Like many drummers who came of age in the sixties, Ringo is the reason I play drums. He just looked like he was having a lot of fun back there. Not much later, I realized that being a drummer attracted attention from girls as well. There was no turning back. I have been drumming every since. My admiration for Ringo has also only grown over the decades.

A while back, I heard a live version of Help! on the radio, performed in August of ‘65, right at the height of the maelstrom that was Beatlemania. Despite that, the lads still played like that had something to prove. I mused that, while not my favorite Beatles tune, Help! was certainly in the top-ten, which got me to thinking; what are my top-ten Beatles songs? 

My only criterion: Does it evoke a visceral reaction; am I going to turn up the volume and sing along  when it comes on? (That’s really the case with all just about all Beatles songs, but you know what I mean.) For example: I didn’t attempt to choose one song from each of the 13 studio albums, or only lyrics written in the first person, etc. 

So here they are, in chronological order, as ranking them proved impossible.  

Your results may vary.

I Saw Her Standing There: Please Please Me. Recorded live February 11, 1963.  This song is dripping with the sheer exuberance of young lust. From the moment of Paul’s enthusiastic count-off, one can feel the Lads’ excitement as the first rush of Beatlemania was setting in. 

All My Loving: With The Beatles:  Recorded July 30, 1963.  Don’t think of it. Don’t start singing it in your head. It will be stuck there for a looooong time. On the other hand, if you have an annoying “ear-worm,” All my Loving is the nuclear option; it will knock out any other song in your head and then settle in for a nice extended stay.  And there are worse things to have stuck in your head. That third verse with John’s harmony part above Paul’s lead just kills. 

Help!: Help!: Recorded April 13, 1965. As noted above, this is the one that got me thinking about this list. Lennon/McCartney established a pretty high bar for well-crafted pop tunes, but this one easily flies right over. It. Is. Perfect. Two minutes and twenty seconds of pure pop pleasure. Yet it’s hardly formulaic; the introduction is not repeated in any form, and it ends on a slightly dissonant note (a sixth-chord for you musician types). 

Drive My Car: Rubber Soul: Recorded October 13, 1965. Despite being known as the more sentimental one, Sir Paul rocks this tune hard, with a heavy nod to R&B. “Beep Beep, Beep Beep, Yay” is right! Sure, the cowbell is too-hot in the mix, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

In My Life: Rubber Soul: Recorded October 18, 1965. John further bares his soul after Help! Ringo’s part is easily overlooked, but it is sublime in its creativity and simplicity -- like the song itself.

Rain: Single B-side of Paperback Writer (Revolver era): Recorded April 14-16, 1966. Ringo has often cited this as his favorite Beatles song. And if Sir Richard thinks it’s worthy, who am I to disagree? Paul and Ringo made up a grossly under-rated rhythm section as all the other elements of the band tended to hog the spotlight, but they both stepped out and let loose on John’s fledgling flight into psychedelia. 

Sgt Pepper reprise: Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band: Recorded April 1, 1967. At 1:18, this is the second shortest of all Beatles songs (do you know the shortest?). I know it’s a strange choice to include, but I love this track for much the same reason as I Saw Her Standing There;  it’s counted-off by Paul and the unbridled joy of making rock and roll comes through loud and clear; it was recorded nearly live by the whole band (just like the old days!). Over 50 years later those first two bars of just Ringo laying down the groove still make me want to mosh like Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. Much has been written about the album (which had no singles), so I needn’t add to all that spilled ink. Any of the other 12 tracks could easily have made this list on another day.

Hey Bulldog: Yellow Submarine: Recorded February 11, 1968. The album Yellow Submarine was a disappointment. It was the first time the Beatles didn’t over-deliver. Only side one was the Beatles (Side two being George Martin incidental music for the film of the same name), and there were only four new songs. One stands out, Hey Bulldog. And it really stands out. John playfully rocking out to his now trademark nonsensical lyrics. I guess I’m not alone as this song has been covered by dozens of bands. If it’s flown under your radar, give it another listen.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps: The Beatles (the “White Album”): Recorded September 5-6, 1968. George finally steps out from the shadow. Can you imagine being a talented song-writer, but always being in the shadow of the greatest song-writing team ever? It must have been hugely intimidating. But George persisted (and took notes). With this one, he finally reached that lofty height, and continued up from there. And he had the benefit of a pretty decent backing band. An uncredited Eric Clapton on lead-guitar didn’t hurt either.

Happiness is a Warm Gun: The Beatles (the “White Album”): Recorded September 24-26, 1968. Pure John doing his best Lewis Carroll-esqe silliness. I love the rhythmic twists and turns (Ringo makes it sound easy, but try and count it yourself). 

Oh! Darling: Abbey Road: Recorded April 20, 1969. Sir Paul sure can sing! (He’s a pretty darn good bass player, too.) I  literally still get goose-bumps when he throws in those touches of growl and Little-Richard-ish falsetto (particularly on the bridges). A few brave artists have attempted to cover this song, but it’s really pointless. There is nothing anyone can bring to this song that Paul didn’t already do better.  John said he thought the song was better suited to him rather than Paul. I hate to contradict Mr. Lennon, but he was wrong. This is a Paul tour-de-force. 

Something: Abbey Road: May-August, 1969. George is intimidated no more! Even John and Paul acknowledged that this is a great song, no matter how you slice it. It’s George’s first number one single, and the second most covered Beatles song (can you guess the first?), performed by artists as diverse as Frank Sinatra and James Brown. 

In no way does this list imply that there aren’t dozens of other Beatles songs that I absolutely adore, and stand head and shoulders above any music from just about any other artists. An “Honorable Mentions” list would pretty much be “and the rest of them.”

Let’s Analyze! 

Okay, it’s actually twelve songs. I couldn’t bear to cut two more songs. 

• Five Paul Songs. Five John songs. Two George songs. 
• The list spans their entire career yet is only six years. The stylistic changes are head-spinning. Steely Dan would take that long to decide what bass-drum microphone to use. 
• John has long been my favorite Beatle (Sorry, Ringo), so I’m a bit surprised to see a tie with Paul. If the list were twice as long, John would likely come out ahead. I’m particularly fond of his lyrical nonsense: I am the Walrus, Strawberry Fields, etc. 
• Only three were number one hits (though they had seventeen, all of which are deserving).
• Even though “The White Album” is my favorite, only two songs from it are on the list -- tied with Abbey Road. Again, if the list were longer, “The White Album” would probably come out ahead. 
• I certainly love Paul’s sentimental side (I Will stands out), even more so as I age, but I apparently like it even better when he rocks out. 
• All of these songs have endings. No fade-outs.  It’s a songwriting pet-peeve of mine. It seems lazy. “How should we end it, Walt?” “I dunno, Don, just fade it, like all the others.”  Sometimes there’s a call for a fade-out -- and The Beatles use it sparingly -- but usually not. All things in moderation, including fade-outs. 

I encourage comments. Have your own favorites? Let’s hear it! It was illuminating to create this list. I learned a few things about myself as a fan (does it show that I'm a fan?).

Dictatorship of America

This is beyond tragic. As of today, our 244 year experiment in self-government just came to a grievous end. We no longer have separation of power in Washington, D.C.  Fifty-two cowardly senators just voted to neuter both houses of congress and elevate a vile, disgusting waste of human DNA to Dictator. I can’t even bring myself to type his foul name. 

Hell’s torment is far too kind for the fifty-two filthy traitors to our once great nation. May they be mocked, shunned, and humiliated for the rest of their miserable days. 

It’s no exaggeration; Anyone paying attention can clearly see that abuse of power is now acceptable behavior; ignoring congressional subpoenas is now acceptable behavior. (If you or I ignored a congressional subpoena, we would rightfully be in jail.)  The Orange Menace and his successors have nothing in the way to full dictatorship. 

The Man-baby in the oval office is now free to do whatever he pleases, without having to answer to Congress. He is empowered to break any rules.  He can and will continue to cheat in elections. He has already flouted Congressional budget oversight with his pointless, racist wall -- more to come! We will soon see the DOJ “investigating” political opponents (it’s actually already started). Attacks on the free press will escalate. Political prisoners are a short tweet away. Even more distressing, he will move to replace himself with one of his dreadful offspring.  No stopping him now!

Sadly, I see very few avenues to save our Republic. One is for the House to start yet another impeachment. The Toddler-in-Chief has done plenty of other egregious stuff. Success there is about as likely as Mitch McConnel holding a naked press-conference announcing that he’s dedicating his life and fortune to helping under-privledged children. A more possible route is for Democrats to retain the House, and take both the White House and Senate in November (despite GOP cheating). Even then, it will be very difficult to reverse the damage done. 

But who’s to say a Democratic President won’t become just as noxious, now that this horrible precedent has been set? I can think of just one way to decrease -- not eliminate -- the likelihood that dictatorships will continue.  Congress would have to propose a constitutional amendment that the president must comply with all congressional subpoenas NO KIDDING, WE REALLY MEAN IT, or face immediate removal from office.  

If the Dems aren’t victorious in November, we can be sure the GOP will continue to cheat the system with foreign interference, voter suppression, and gerrymandering. They could stay in office forever. What’s to stop them? Not Congress. Not the GOP packed courts. But I guess that’s another subject. 

For now, Welcome to the Dictatorship of America - a once great Republic. I suppose we could all move to Canada, after all, it’s getting warmer up there. 

How to share a meme

My FaceBook feed continues to be deluged with shared memes. They are mostly political. Many exhibit faulty logic, or worse, down-right falsehoods. Too many people simply hit “share,” and move on without a second -- or even first -- thought. If you're about to hit that share button, DON'T! But if you absolutely must, here are five types of memes, and guidelines for whether or not to hit that tempting share button.

• LIKE AND SHARE IF  YOU AGREE: If it says that, you should probably  do neither. 

• OPINION: Fictional example: “The Flintstones cartoon depicted a sexist and unrealistic suburban stereotype that warped the minds of an entire generation.” Before you hit share, stop. Think. Do you really agree? And do you want all your FB friends to know this is your belief? If so, go for it! Tell the world! Adding a comment, “I’m glad I was able to shake off the Flintstones mind-washing!” tells your friends you at least put a little thought behind the share. Don’t get upset if someone politely disagrees. It’s just an opinion.

• FACT: If the meme purports to state fact, do a smattering of homework before sharing. “Suicide rates increased during every single airing of The Flintstones.” Debunking wild claims takes about two mouse clicks. Remember, the wilder the claim, the more it makes you upset or angry, the more likely it is either exaggerated or not true. Sharing a false meme perpetuates ignorance, makes the universe a little bit sadder, and will  make your friends think you’re an idiot. If a well meaning friend demonstrates that a “fact” is false, pull the post! It’s the right thing to do. (As an aside, Snopes is not a tool of the liberal media. There are plenty of Snopes entries debunking falsehoods about Republicans, including Trump.)

• WHATABOUTISM: This one is the worst, and perhaps most common, particularly in politics. Sometimes the meme will actually use the words “What about.” “What about the Jetsons? That show was even worse than the Flintstones, and nobody complains about it!” Whatever the Jetsons were up to doesn’t change what the Flintstones were. A current, political example: Just because Bill Clinton was an accused sexual predator doesn’t change the fact that Trump is too. So if the meme you’re about to share is Whataboutism, Don’t. Just. Don’t.

• CUTE ANIMALS: Everyone loves cute animals being cute. Share away!

So please, please, PLEASE THINK before you click to share a meme. And then don't. I’d much rather see something actually about you -- even selfies, or pictures of meals.  Except  cute animal memes. Always share cute animal memes.

Haight and Love in San Francisco

“San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not in the long run… but no explanation, no mix of words, or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world…
“Every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash…There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning...
“We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave…
“So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- that place where the wave finally broke, and rolled back.”

-- Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)

Those words had a profound impact on me in the late seventies. Having been only ten- years -old during the fabled 1967 Summer of Love, I was late to the game, a neo-hippie. Nonetheless, in 1981, I made a pilgrimage to the epicenter of the sixties counterculture: the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets in San Francisco. I had hopes of seeing the high-water mark with my own eyes. Part of me fantasized that I would find a remnant of that time, an extant backwater, and magically manage to become part of it. The more realistic part of me knew better. Thompson knew it ten years earlier and tried to warn me.

By 1981, the high-water mark was gone. Or maybe, despite my best effort, I just didn’t have the “right kind of eyes.” All I found were shabby buildings and homeless people. The “energy of a whole generation” was all washed away. The only scrap I found was sidewalk graffiti saying “Thank you, John,” presumably Lennon, who had been assassinated just six months earlier. A homeless woman gave me the finger for no reason. I was crestfallen, but not surprised.

The counterculture died when the sixties ended. By late 1970, The Beatles had broken up; Jimi was dead; Janis was dead; four students were shot dead by their own government at Kent State. The counterculture had failed.

Raw consumerism and unbridled capitalism prevailed. The military-industrial complex raged on.

From 1981, fast forward nearly 40 years.  In 2019, My wife and I visited The Haight district, but as tourists, with no grand illusions about Thompson’s “High and Beautiful Wave.”

Haight-Ashbury has become a tourist trap, albeit with more grit than most of the city (and it still has its fair share of the homeless). Shops catering to hippie nostalgia crowd Haight Street. The house where Hendrix formerly lived is a smoke/vape shop (The Red House). There are ethnic restaurants of all stripes.

A ripple of sadness shimmered through me. So this is what it came to? All the hippie dreams of a better world came down to nostalgic sales of tie-dye shirts? At least there isn’t a McDonald’s, or even a Starbucks -- yet.

But really, what else should one expect? If the Hippie-Utopia was not to be, then what? Should the whole Haight-Ashbury district have been walled off and made into a museum? That seems impractical. Or perhaps razed to make room for a high-rise? That would be tragic.  With nostalgic commerce came rejuvenation. The architecture is still delightfully eclectic and in much better shape than in 1981.

The clock at Haight/Ashbury is permanently stopped at 4:20.

We spent a fair amount of time, and a fair amount of money, on Haight Street.  I bought a driver’s cap, of a style that could be purchased anywhere, but I found one I liked in a hat store that looked like it may have been there in 1967.  I wanted something to distinguish it as being from Haight-Ashbury, and came upon the idea of a small, enameled metal peace-sign pin.

Easy, right? There are literally dozens of shops up and down Haight that sell similar trinkets. I checked at least ten -- including The Red House smoke shop. There were hundreds of other enameled pins featuring pot-leaves, the Golden Gate Bridge, rainbows, etc., but no peace-sign anywhere. (Sign of the times: The pin I sought was two mouse clicks away on Amazon.)

Sigh. No Haight, no peace. Know Haight, know peace? Apparently not. No peace, no matter what. Too much money to be made to mess with that.

Yes, I bought a hat, and we bought a couple of over-priced meals, but I did not succumb to the temptation to buy a tie-dye shirt. Besides, I still have a couple.

Trump's Taxes

Many political issues are complex: Abortion; Guns; Taxes; Healthcare. Thinking people can disagree. Each of those issues -- and a host of others -- contain much to digest, can have nuanced positions, and offer much fodder for debate.

But I like to believe that thinking people of all stripes can agree that it is in our mutual best interest to know, beyond doubt, that our leaders are financially transparent. That means releasing past tax returns. All past presidents going back to Jimmy Carter, have done so -- until now.

Trump is fighting a congressional subpoena for his financial records. That is not the action of an innocent man. What is he so desperate for the public not to know?

What is he hiding?

Take partisanship out of it; is it too much to ask that the American people be assured their leader is not beholden to foreign countries? Is not beholden to foreign banks? That our leader is not personally profiting from diplomatic machinations?

No matter your political leaning, these questions are cut and dried. Virtually every member of congress has agreed -- until now. Going back forty-years, every presidential candidate has done so -- including the current crop -- except one.

What is he hiding?

Jimmy Carter sold his peanut farm to avoid the appearance of impropriety. He and every president since have voluntarily released their tax returns -- until now.

Why does it matter? Again, let’s take partisanship out of it. The taxpayers deserve poof that the person in charge of diplomatic relations around the world -- relations that can literally mean life and death for millions -- doesn’t have a personal stake in the outcome of that diplomacy. Imagine if Jimmy Carter had secretly kept his peanut farm when he was President. Imagine that he happened to owe billions of dollars to a bank in India. India is the world’s second largest producer of peanuts. Could we trust that Mr. Carter would do what was best for the country when entering into diplomatic negotiations with India -- a nuclear power?

Don’t the American people deserve -- need -- financial transparency in their leader? There doesn’t seem to be any nuance in that question. Maybe if you close one eye, tilt your head, and try and look at it from another angle… NO! No matter how one turns it over, the answer is a rousing YES! Yes, we need and deserve total financial disclosure from any of our leaders, regardless of party.

During the primary campaign, Trump promised to release his tax returns when he won his party’s nomination. That was a lie.

After the nomination, he promised to release his tax returns after the election. That was a lie.

After the election, he promised to release his tax returns after the inauguration. That was a lie.

He knew all along that he wasn’t obligated by law to release his returns, and had no intention of doing so. Which leads to the obvious question:

What is he hiding?

Can any thinking person make the case for our president to keep his finances secret? Can anyone defend his actions? Let’s hear it.

There was no legal obligation to release the returns -- but there is now. A congressional subpoena is about as legal as it gets. Still, he refuses. Our president would rather foment a constitutional crisis than let the American people know the truth.

The constitution is very clear about the separations of powers between the three branches of the federal government (Executive, Judicial, and Legislative). No branch holds sway over the other two. Checks and balances. It’s about the most important aspect of our government.

The Treasury Department (under the Executive branch) does not have the authority to declare that a congressional subpoena has no merit, that is solely the purview of our democratically-elected Congress. Yet, by Trump’s order, Treasury is defying Congress. That is the essence of a dictatorship.

Release the tax returns. Not doing so imperils our Democracy, our Republic and everything we stand for.

What is he hiding?

Montana Gold

Life is a series of trade-offs.

I awoke with the birds at the municipal campground in Malta, Montana. It was a crisp and clear summer morning. I was nearly 1000 miles into my solo, cross-country bicycle adventure. It had rained hard overnight, but stopped early; my tent and equipment were dry. 

The evening before, another touring cyclist was setting up in the site next to mine. We naturally struck up a conversation, and ended up walking the short distance downtown together to get dinner. Dan was about my age, had a similar story, and was also on a cross-country tour, though taking a slightly different route than mine. We compared notes, and solved all the world’s problems over burgers and beer. 

My Cycling Pal Dan

Even though we were both headed the same direction for the next few hundred miles, we agreed to each take our own pace. If we met up again on the road, great. If not, well… it was great meeting. 

A short while after turning in, the rain started. While listening to the patter on my small tent, I researched my options for the next day on my phone. I always strove to find quirky independent eateries over the ubiquitous chains. Yes, the Golden Arches of the world are consistent, though mediocre, and the calories-to-dollars ratio is high (important when long-distance cycling), but the one-off joints are far more likely to provide a unique experience. The downside is having to endure the occasional bad meal. There was a small independent diner just a few miles away in the right direction. Perfect. 

I wasn’t carrying cooking gear, nor much food (outside of snacks). I didn’t want the extra weight and didn't want to spend the time and effort involved with preparation and clean-up. I preferred simply eating at restaurants. A credit card is way lighter than food and cooking gear. But damn, the expense added up, so I was always looking for cheap eats. 

As I was striking camp the next morning, Dan emerged from his tent and started heating water. 

“Do you want some coffee?” he called.

“Yes! Thanks!” I eagerly proffered my semi-clean travel mug. "Semi-clean” means I thought wholesome thoughts while heartily rinsing it with cold well water at the nearby pump.

My “breakfast” consisted of a yet another Clif Bar; just something to fuel me to the nearest restaurant. 

Dan took the opposite tack, and embraced the full camping experience. He began cooking up some oatmeal with almonds and raisins. It smelled divine. He was in no hurry. I, on the other hand, was eager to get rolling, munching my Clif bar and gulping coffee while continuing to strike camp. 

As I labored, I envied my new friend’s contented demeanor as he sat in his camp chair (something else I didn’t carry), eating his breakfast, and enjoying the early light. It was the picture of serenity. Maybe my strategy of getting to a restaurant as quickly as possible was wrong headed. 

I finished packing and said goodbye to Dan. We were both headed to Glasgow, about 70 miles away. Dan sat and savored the morning and his breakfast as I pedaled away to the diner I had discovered the night before.

If you took all that was good about the great vastness that is Montana -- Big Sky included -- and distilled it down to one golden drop, it would be the Hitching Post Cafe just outside of Malta. One rarely gets great food, great service AND great prices. The Hitching Post delivered all three.

The Hitchin' Post

I was greeted with a cheerful “GOOOOOOD MOR-nin’!” by April, the only server. There were about 10 booths and 6 seats at the counter. It was nearly empty but would fill fast. Most of the customers were middle-aged men wearing the farmer’s uniform of blue-jeans, plaid-shirt, and trucker-cap.

April, and customers

Window to the Kitchen

I took a seat at the worn Formica counter, overlooking a wide rectangular window which communicated with the kitchen, populated by one cook. The music of Willie Nelson drifted from the back. All around were plaques and signs with cute homilies. My favorite: “Spoon-knockers, Cup-wavers, and Thumb-snappers pay double!”

April was quick with the coffee, and kept it coming. She chimed the same “GOOOOD MOR-nin!” to every customer who came in, often adding their names. 

“Do you own this place?” I asked.

“NO!” she snapped, “I just act like it! Been here for 17 years!”

Everything she said sounded like it ended with an exclamation point. 

The menu was predictable but practical. The prices were very good. I ordered the Western Scramble, with ham, pepper, onions and cheese, which included toast and hash-browns. Including a cup of coffee and a generous tip, it came to ten bucks! April even offered to fill my semi-clean travel mug before I left. Probably because I didn’t “thumb-snap.”

It may sound mundane now, but my time at The Hitchin’ Post felt like the essence of Montana. Good-hearted people, enjoying a solid meal designed to kick-off a day of honest hard work.

Okay, there was merit to my thinking about not cooking my own meals. Dan had his contentment, but I had the Hitching Post Cafe, something I never would have experienced if I had cooked my own breakfast. I wouldn’t have traded places for all the Sky in Montana. 

Life is a series of trade-offs. 

Big Sky!

Cheap Sunglasses

Now go out and get yourself some big black frames
With the glass so dark they won't even know your name
And the choice is up to you cause they come in two classes
Rhinestone shades or cheap sunglasses
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah
--ZZ Top

Over the years, I’ve lost many, many pairs of sunglasses. By the time I was 30, the unaccounted-for shades must have been in the hundreds. I don’t know how it would happen; it was as if I just threw them out the window of a moving car, and then promptly forgot doing so.

“Where are my sunglasses?” was a lifelong refrain.

A few times I tried buying expensive shades, thinking the the cost would cause me to be more mindful. No luck. Gone within a week.

One day, my now ex-wife came home from shopping while I was gardening in the backyard. I remember the exchange distinctly. She showed me the new pair of sunglasses she had just bought. I admired them. I tried them on. We both agreed they were “me.”

“How much do you want for them?” I asked, tongue in cheek.

“Two bucks,” she answered.

“Sold!” I produced the bills.

“Ha!” she cried victoriously, “I just paid one dollar for them at the drugstore!”

We had a good laugh. But I still have those sunglasses, and that was in 1990 -- nearly thirty years ago.

For obvious reasons, my current wife, Jena, is not fond of the glasses, even though she acknowledges  they are still “me.” Awkward associations with the ex aside, I love those glasses. I’ve misplaced them on a few occasions. Despite Jena’s promise to not hasten their demise, I have suspected foul play. In one instance, they languished for six months under the passenger seat of my car (please forgive my suspicion, Darling!). I’m confident that she would not share my grief if they were to, say, fall into a wood-chipper.

The glasses have been around the world. I’ve replaced the temple screws many times. They have gone in and out of style many times -- not that I care at this point. It’s not like I set out to keep them for three decades; they have just refused to go away. But after all that time, they have become dear old friends.

I hope that when my sunglasses do shuffle off this mortal coil, it won’t be that I left them at a rest-stop 100 miles back, or worse, they just disappeared with no explanation, never to re-emerge. No, I want them to go dramatically, like falling off my face as I lean over the edge of the Grand Canyon, or by somehow diverting a shark attack.

In all reality, I suspect they will outlive me. So I hereby request: Bury me with those cheap sunglasses.

Singapore, 2004. The earliest picture I have of the glasses

Ireland, 2006

Myrtle Beach, 2019

Alaska, 2014