Bucket List

This ice storm was coming in last night, so it was a good evening to watch a movie, and Bucket List was one I'd avoided but decided I really was brave enough to take.
Actually, I enjoyed it. Watching Morgan Freeman's dignified/gracious bit and Jack Nicholson's bad boy act melded together was like hearing two jazz greats jamming together for the first time. Beautiful work.
On the other hand, the premise wasn't a comfortable one to watch: two men dying of cancer go on a world-wide trip to do all the things they'd wanted to do before they died. I'll spare you most of the cancer inconsistencies, because it was, after all, a work of fiction. (But there's no way that Nicholson's character's hair could have grown back that fast.)
I found myself thinking about the bucket list concept. Maybe because my own list would never have included all those testosterone-driven car racing and sky diving stunts, it's a short list. In fact, as I thought it over, I realized that throughout my life I've been fortunate enough to experience most of the things I would have wanted to, from big deals (I've seen the pyramids at sunset, heard JJ Johnson and Zap Mama at the Montreal Jazz Festival, tasted smoked monkey meat in the home of a paramount chief in Liberia) through those that everyone should have and appreciate (a long and happy marriage, children who bring joy to my heart, a fulfilling career) to those that are only special for me (I played one of the solos in Closer Walk With Thee at Walpole, taught myself to knit cables, and for a while at least was able to do many standing postures in yoga).
Generally, I don't want new experiences in the time left to me. I just want to be able to repeat some of the old ones. As often as possible. Except the monkey meat.