Nothing like a few people you know going up to the Pearly Gates to make someone sit up and take notice.
While I didn't know Tim Russert or George Carlin personally, I felt like I did since I've watched Russert on Meet The Press for years and Carlin ...
well heck, he's an icon for smart alecks anonymous, a group to which I consider myself a founding member.
But now that I am looking squarely in the eyes of a birthday with a zero at the end and the first number is greater than five, I've started thinking seriously about what's really important in life, besides the dog, my Cooper and airplanes.
No really, I am serious here when I say that I wonder how many people would say good things about me when I'm gone.
Did I log more time in an airplane than with my wife and daughter? Of course, I hope death is a topic I won't need to deal with for quite sometime which brings me to the topic.
Summer camp.
My only daughter headed off the other day for two weeks of stress-free swimming, canoing, hiking and general goofing off with a cast of other 13 year olds that I can only imagine.
I haven't told her yet - and I probably won't - that her leaving has completely screwed up my daily routine, way beyond the need to nag her to clean up her room or clean out the catboxes.
Since my bride and I both own our own businesses, the daily routine item most in danger of disappearing until my daughter returns is the dinner meal.
In our family, we still try to hold it all together at least three or four times each week by eating a meal together and talking about our day versus how tough the rest of the world has it.
It's not always easy these days either because plenty of people have it way worse than us.
But dinner did at least force my wife and I to leave work at a reasonable time and get home either to make dinner or take part.
But with the young-un gone, something seriously dangerous has happened.
We've been sometimes skipping dinner and working late.
I started at 8:30 am yesterday and left the office at 9:30 last night completely wiped out.
I never road my bike anywhere like I'd planned, in fact I barely thought about it until it was dark.
Today I almost did the same thing until a George Carlin routine - the Hippy Dippy Weatherman - appeared on some news station I ate lunch in front of.
I could almost imagine him saying, "Hey man ...
what are you doing? Russert died at his desk you know.
" That's not happening to me.
Why did I go through all the effort to get that cholesterol and blood pressure down? So I can miss life and write one more damned article? Makes no sense.
As a former air traffic controller too, I know I'm type A, but I don't want to end up like that guy at the Reno Airport trying to work airplanes while he was having a heart attack.
Outta here to go peddle ...
my bike that is.
Live brothers and sisters! As usual, the kids have it figured out.