And, you will find, I was just about as ready as anyone.
Not emotionally. No. I'm not emotionally ready to greet the Reaper.
"I have miles to go before I sleep," as Frost wrote. "And miles to go before I sleep."
But I'm Prepared In Other Ways
I have live insurance. My family will be greatly rewarded on my departure.
I have a will. It's so clear, a naif could dispatch my humble bequests.
I've written my obituary. It's on file with the proper experts, who will simply provide you with the URL. That is, if you post-decease me. (Stay healthy. It'll be worth it.)
But There's One Loose End
And I'd like to clear it up right now.
When the historians and archaeologists, gossips and snoops find me, they will surely find my Treo. And, if the circumstances of my departure are odd enough, someone will seek clues to just precisely who hunted me.
Then, along the way, they will find that Google Maps — my fabulous navigator — has just about every trip start and end at 2665 East 5th Avenue. That's the location of a humble neighborhood tavern which is — as the saying goes, and objectively — on the other side of the tracks.
Mainly, that's not where I live.
Welcome To Lisska Bar & Grill
It's a humble corner tavern.
One that I've never been in. Not yet. (I've a mind to go. Want to join me? Let me know.)
But, strangely, you will hear that all my trips started and ended there. At a bar. Where demon rum is served. Hey, Lisska pours demon rum at 7 a.m., for the overnight working folks coming off the third shift.
So why does my Treo have me living at Lisska?
Here's why. This is my alibi. (I hope you buy it.)
Back on the leafier, luckier side of the tracks, about a mile from Lisska, there's a lovely landscape feature at a main intersection.
It's a formerly major turn of National Route 40, once known as the "National Highway." I say formerly because it's not so major now. With our giant Interstate freeway system, the very name — "National Highway" — is a quaint motorists' anachronism.
Which reminds me of a story:
"How do you know that?" asked my mother. There was no indication, no turn signal.
"Just watch," said my father, a man of the world. (Or, at least, a man of Columbus.)
And, sure enough, the car turned at the next street.
This was where the National Highway turns at Drexel Circle. My father deduced that the motorist would turn, because the car wore out-of-state tags.
You know, it sure was easier to impress hot chicks back then. No wonder there was a baby boom.
I mean, really. To impress hot chicks now — from what little I know in this department — you need to spend hours Twittering and Facebooking and, well, writing a blog. (Am I writing this to impress hot chicks? Of course, I am. If blogging to impress hot chicks is a crime, let me be guilty. Am I interested in offers? I think you know that answer.)
Where were we? Oh, yes: Drexel Circle.
So at this intersection is a lovely suburban traffic circle. It's largely ceremonial and artistic. Far less that 1% of the traffic uses it. Mainly, it's just for the lucky folks who happen to live on Drexel Circle.
Clearly, that's just goofy. East Broad Street — a major five lane highway — is a straight line. The circle is a one lane affair.
But, though Google knows just about everything, it's naive on this one spot.
I'm Sick And Tired And
I'm Not Going To Take It Any More
I quickly wearied of clicking and clicking on my Treo to get past Drexel Circle. It's a series of three turns, according to Google Maps. Turn right from Broad Street onto Broad Street, turn Right from Broad Street onto Broad Street…
So, I've programmed all my trips from home to start, not from home, but from the Lisska Bar & Grill, which is near the entrance to my favorite freeway.
That Was It? Why All This?
Because you might someday hear, "Artie Isaac started and ended just about every day at a bar at Fifth and Cassady."
And suddenly my children's inheritance will be my immortal disgrace.