I was just

hanging around on the street near here, Yonge and Dundas, a few years back, early evening, and Malcolm McLaren came by in one of those rickshaw things. He and the driver were sprawled up on the bench, a pack of six uniformed schoolgirls were pulling the rickshaw. I just dropped my few bags of groceries and dashed over, ran along side, said “Mr. McLaren, would you mind if I asked you a question?” “Well, (pause),sure.” “What’s the best way to make a good first impression?”And he said “Good question.”, slouched even farther back and offered me a split of champagne from a cooler beside him. I declined, already feeling a little nauseous from the continued running. He thought for ten or fifteen seconds before replying “Well, first, a general piece of advice, never worry about fidelity.And second, for a good first impression, my best advice is always have your entrance accompanied by the sound of breaking glass”.

But, I’ve never been that much of a showman. I wish I was sometimes. Like

Like you know. Do you remember in high school learning how the intestines are miles and miles long. Long enough to stretch from here to Venus. But then someone in the class figured out that that would mean that the corn (or whatever noticeable thing gets through in a day or two) would have to travel at 3,000 miles an hour or something.So you figured out they weren’t that long, but still pretty long. So I like to think that if I ever was dying anyway, then maybe I’d swallow a ball bearing or something and let them x-ray me continuously for days and days as it passed through me. I could watch it in real time as it careened around inside my belly.

But even I have realized that probably, in the end, I won’t ever get around to doing that.