Once upon a time, back in the days of silent films, there was a famous fellow named Maynard who made his home in Hollywood. He was a publicist. Some are saying now, however, that he never actually existed. His family, we’re told, say otherwise. They distinctly remember a drunk and bitter old man… Anyway, as I sit down here and prepare to blog tonight, I can’t help but wonder if the future might hold a similar fate for me – another old and bitter Maynard known vaguely for spreading outlandish lies, but ultimately leaving little real mark on the world. I suppose the same is true of most of us, though. Fifty years after we’re gone, we might as well have been fiction.
[note: This micro mini-post was brought to by the letter J, the Shannon Lema reef ball, and sweaty evangelical teens everywhere.]
4 Comments
Maynards are like unicorns. I thought everyone knew that.
Fifty years after we’re gone, we might as well have been fiction.
I love it!!!
I sometimes ponder how, after the grieving process is over, we hardly ever think of our loved ones who’ve passed on anymore. Humans move on in order to keep living — out of sight, out of mind, so to speak. I think it takes a lot less time than 50 years (for most people) to have everything you’ve ever said or done effectively revert to nothing as the rest of the world goes about its selfish business. And if it does live on, like in a blog or a monument or a film or a cd or something else that outlives you, what good does that do a dead you?
Great stuff, mark.
…and then some you just wish weren’t.
My brother has warned me of these unreal Maynards.