While I’m on the subject of the end of all things, not long ago somebody asked me if I was afraid to die. It was a weird out of the blue question, I thought, a little morbid, but I said no, not at all. Which was true, I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t sit around dwelling on it or pestering people in bars with questions on their own mortality. Besides, I said, there’ll be one helluva wake. But you won’t be there, she said. Well, my cold corpse will be, if we go traditional. That’s sick, she said. No, I said, that’s dead. Uh, okay, she said. One fuck of a wake, I added. Screaming jazz and everyone drunk and stoned and raising hell. She looked a tad frightened, little her next to this giant dude talking about his post-mortem bash. I ordered another whiskey and offered her one, but it was obvious I was the last person she wanted to drink with. See ya at the party, I said.