![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() On New Year’s Day in 1984, I jumped into the icy waters of the Atlantic with the Coney Island Polar Bear Club. When I was eighteen, I spent a year in New York City. Please be patient and try to remember that I often have-or had, rather-a plan. But I have no such qualms with a cheap notebook I bought at Rite Aid. ![]() That’s how it works, right? Well, I don’t wish to put that weight on my kids. People make dying wishes and their loved ones carry them out. I am-or was-a culinary genius, after all. I never cooked family dinners, which is pretty damn ironic when you think about it. But looking back-hindsight is more like 40/40 when you’re about to croak-I know I only fixed minuscule problems and ignored the mammoth ones. I love that I didn’t have to say it every day for them to know it. But I’m succumbing now, in this book, because I’ve had too much bourbon. If I did succumb to those clichés and killed everyone’s vibe, I’m sorry. Hope there were no last minute confessions or wistful wishes that I’d seen more sunrises. I hope I didn’t make a big deal out of dying. I’m obviously not there anymore to stop you. Unless something bad has happened, in which case, screw it. ![]()
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