Dead Man's Socks, Not Walking

You know, the last blog entry was entirely too upbeat, so probably I need to get back to my more typically morbid thoughts.

My father died almost exactly three years ago (the results of the 2004 election killed him, a situation I completely understand). When I went to clean out his tiny apartment, there was all manner of junk, but not much useful, to be quite frank. (My mother died in 1980 [the impending election of Ronnie killed her, so death by Republicans clearly runs in the family], and in the following 24 years there was a brief second marriage and about six more moves for him, so there was almost nothing left from when I was a kid.) All of his wardrobe was cheap tshirts and shorts (it being L.A. and 80 degrees year round), EXCEPT for a cache of barely worn Gold Toe socks. Why, you ask, was everything he wore cheap, generic crap, except for six pairs of the Cadillac of socks - ? I have no idea! The human mind, especially in its twilight years, is a strange, confounding creature. So, on those rare occasions when I wear white athletic socks, I've been wearing those. But even the Dom Perignon of socks eventually goes flat. No elastic left in the poor devils. Useless. They had to be demoted from footwear to rag status. But I did make sure that I stuffed one pair of them into the old sneakers I have in the trunk of my car. (My father always made a point of having a box of old clothes and shoes in the trunk of his car, so it's carrying on his tradition.)

And what will YOU be remembered for when you're among the (un)dead, gentle reader? Isn't that what we all have to ask ourselves with some frequency and urgency?