Ramblings from the High Desert Bunker here on the Permian Plain where the breeze hits heavy on the border line -- Remember me to the one who.... No, that's another song.

We have a saying in the yacht racing/yacht designer world.

If the boat comes apart right at the finish line, you've done a good job in the planning. If the boat explodes a week after crossing the finish line, you applied overly conservative safety factors. If it disintegrates before the finish line, you over-engineered the damned thing.

Such it is with life.

For the application, I was over-engineered. Between a military excursion and my ill-planned adventures, I crashed and burned years before the finish line, but with the truth laid bare, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

With the exception of a couple of minor regrets regarding decisions made and exceedingly foolish risks taken, I've had a damned good run. As some of you know, I've been on what we call 'his last legs' for quite a while and the only reason I'm still here is because I'm smarter, craftier, and quicker than the man with the scythe.

But I'm not worried about it or even slightly afraid. Of course I don't want the curtain drawn too soon, but I'm flexible. I figure I was dead for 13.8+/- billion years before I got here, so I have enough experience to not worry about how I'll handle returning to the job. Also, so much for the extended warranty business. Next time anyone tries to sell you one, don't buy it. It doesn't work.

I laid out detailed instructions regarding the handling of my dregs. I want them placed in a clear Mason Jar with a glass eye just visible somewhere in the middle so folks will know I'm keeping an eye on things. This isn't an epitaph or even a notice. Not yet. As for the epitaph, I've had a long time to consider one-liners to slap on that jar. Trust me, it's a beauty.

The foregoing is an example of what happens when an old man has too much time on his hands and access to a computer.