I forgot to tell everyone my last requests for the day when they become pertinent.

Someone please make a video of the best photos from my life and play this song “No Hard Feelings” as the background music for my last words when I’m no longer able to say or sing them myself.

Have my memorial service at the little chapel on top of Mt. Laguna, the mountain an hour east of San Diego, California, the city where Karen and I once honeymooned and, subsequently thereabouts spent so many happy times with our children, grandchildren, family, and friends at various times during our long and so very satisfying but sometimes also trying marriage. I only wrote that last bit because both Jesus and my own beloved and beautiful bride would want me to be honest . . . but I swear to God that I can’t even remember any trying times as I write these words.

I’d like my memorial service up on top of Mt. Laguna because it’s beautiful there and because anyone coming to my memorial will have to actually want to be there. If that’s just my immediate family . . . then so be it. Sorry for any who aren’t there because they’re gonna miss a great party!

Then after someone delivers a heartfelt eulogy, please pray this prayer that I prayed with my own mother on her deathbed.

Finally, if Karen is still alive when I am not, please finish persuading her to scatter my ashes over the grounds of the “Haven Of Rest” cemetery in Julian, California, like I asked Karen to do for me but she’s not yet committed to doing this because I asked her carry my ashes in the front pockets of her blue jeans and release them from small holes therein to slide down her legs and out the bottom of her jeans like the escaped convicts do on the prison yard with the dirt from their excavations inside and out of their prison cells in movies like “The Shawshank Redemption.”

I really want to take one last slide down Karen’s smoothly beautiful legs before I go, but she doesn’t seem yet to appreciate this romantic gesture on my part.

As Karen is sprinkling my ashes down and out of her pant legs while our weepy family and friends follow in her train, Big Jeremy who I hope still has his dreadlocks is supposed to softly strum his acoustic guitar and sing Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” like he promised me he would should I predecease him.

Finally, when everyone reaches the top of Boot Hill, whoever wants to can say a nice word or two about me and then our hillbilly pastor, Jason, is supposed preach a little graveside Gospel and close with one of the beautiful prayers that he prays so good.

Afterward, the drinks and grub are on me at the Julian Beer Company just down the hill. There you can tell all the funny stories about me that I’ve lived my life to leave you, and just send me off with some song and good cheer.

Please keep this note and do your best.

Thank you.