I’ve been thinking a lot about my death and how I am going to be remembered. I think I have a great idea: a destination funeral. Everybody has destination bachelor parties and destination weddings, so I figure why not let my friends have a blast at my funeral? The only problem I have is when to send out the “Save the Date” cards.

I have a friend who lobbies for Death with Dignity. I’d rather have Death with Disney. When dementia settles in, I want my family to dress me up like Johnny Depp and put me on a boat on the Pirates of Caribbean ride. I’m sure in a couple hours some 9-year-old little shit from New Jersey will stab me with a souvenir plastic sword his parents bought because he’s a little shit. And I’ll stand up and shout “I killed Jack Sparrow!”

Since I got sick, the six words I hate the most are “for the rest of my life.”

As in:  I’ll never drive a car again. For the rest of my life.

I’ll never ride a bike again. For the rest of my life.

I’ll never be able to sneak a box of Ring Dings into my house. For the rest of my life.

The hardest part about this is they don’t tell you when it’s the last time “for the rest of your life.”

If I had known the last time I rode my bicycle would be my last time I would’ve ridden down every street in New York, playing with the cars. I like to ride in traffic in New York City.

If I had known my last time sneaking out to Popeye’s Drive Thru would be my last sneak out, I would’ve had a four piece. 

If I had known my last time having sex would be my last time — well, I probably wouldn’t change anything there.

If I had known my last drive would be my last drive I would’ve driven to Miami or until I ran out of gas.

 I love to drive. My first car was a 1968 VW Beetle. Forest green. It was a great car. It had a Blow Punk radio. I taught myself to drive standard on it. I was 17. It was a hand-me-down from my Dad.

It was my party car. We took it for beer runs and to Jones Beach to the food concession stand where I worked. I’d pull up after hours and the manager would pull up the hood in front of the Beetle and load it up with hot dogs and buns. We’d have parties out on the pier after everything closed.

My first road trip in that first car was from Merrick to Philadelphia to see Peter Frampton in concert. I don’t remember much of the show. I fell in love with the college and ended up going to school there a year later. I only made it through my freshman year.

My second Volkswagen was my coolest. It was white. It was nice. I sold it, though, to pay for my honeymoon in Bermuda.

Later in life, I loved driving down Highway 1 in California from San Francisco to Ventura. The scenery, my kids in the back seat.

And then there was Barney. A purple Plymouth Voyager van. I’d drop my kids’ friends off, have them get out of the van, and I’d drive off with the rolling door open and then slam the brakes to make the door slide forward and shut.

Ironically, my last road trip was to Philadelphia. May 5, 2017. My wife and I had gone to the new Barnes Art Museum and to see the usual Philly stuff. It was two and a half years after my diagnosis. I drove down to Philadelphia in my Honda CR-V just fine, but not coming back. Getting on the bridge to take us back to the turnpike, I had to drive through construction and I felt as if I lost control. I had a death grip on the steering wheel. My wife, the lovely Mary Grace, noticed my impending panic. I pulled over at the next rest stop and handed her the keys.

That was it.