Back in the I-me-mine I-me-mine I-me-mine ’80s someone came up with a brilliant mantra for the money worshiping materialists of the world – He who dies with the most toys wins.
The quip was funny, but it was also sincere for far too many. Such people were so engrossed with their material lust that had someone plunged off an adjacent building and crushed one of their precocious cars they’d have been inconsolable about their precious car.
When I was three or four years old, I made a monstrous menace of myself in an attempt to get my father to buy me a new tricycle. After months of relentless caterwauling my father gave in. I jumped on the shiny, blue CCM trike, rode it down to the end of the block and left it there. I’ve never been materialistic, so I shook my head and laughed the first time a saw the yuppie mantra on a bumper sticker.
Although I was not yet writing them, I was collecting stories back then. I have long known that it’s he who dies with the best stories who wins. I have no idea what the fuck the prize is, and that ain’t gonna matter much then, but I’m still playing to win, all the same.