I inherit the old guy next door died last week, he was 95 or 96, I'm not sure. but I am now the oldest fart in the neighborhood. when I bend over to pick up the morning paper I think of heart attack or when I swim in my pool alone I think, Jesus Christ, they'll come and find me floating here face down, my 8 cats sitting on the edge licking and scratching. dying's not bad, it's that little transition from here to there that's strange like flicking the light switch off. I'm now the old fart in the neighborhood, been working at it for some time, but now I have to work in some new moves: I have to forget to zip up all the way, wear slippers instead of my shoes, hang my glasses around my neck, fart loudly in the supermarket, wear unmatched socks, back my car into a garbage can. I must shorten my stride, take small mincing steps, develop a squint, bow my head and ask, "what? what did you say?" I've got to get ready, whiten my hair, forget to shave. I want you to know me when you see me: I'm now the old fart in the neighborhood and you can't tell me a damn thing I don't already know. respect your elders, sonny, and get the hell out of my way!