No mashed potatoes or marathon on my 'Chuck-It List'

A few years back, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman appeared together in movie called The Bucket List. Here were two men from two completely different backgrounds and perspectives about life. They did have one thing in common: They both had cancer and the Grim Reaper was hanging out on the nearby 18^th tee taking practice swings.

The premise of this flick is that the two agreed to tackle a list of things each of them hoped to do before they checked out. Experiences they never pursued for whatever reasons. Nicholson’s character was a billionaire, so it was easy for him to foot the bill for their worldwide vacation and derring-do. And so they did.

Many of us, too, have such dreams and aspirations tucked away or figuratively jotted down on mental lists. Certainly, I do. And the time-honored cliché always reminds us that when we reach the end of the road of this journey, it’s usually the things we didn’t do, rather than what we did do, cause us the most regret.

Perhaps. But there are experiences I wish never to to try while I’m still strolling around on this mortal coil. It’s in the Top 10 of what I call The Chuck-It List.

Swimming with dolphins.  Hey, Flipper was a pretty cool guy and I appreciate his yipping sense of humor and ability to always show up and save lives. Dolphins are smart and rate high in my estimation and I think it's great to toss them tasty fish every now and then. But the idea of splashing around side-by-side, in controlled and contrived settings, somehow just doesn’t seem right and natural. It seems to lack a purpose, so to speak.

Dying my hair orange and sporting a Mohawk haircut.  For obvious reasons. If not so clear, go to some of my hatless profile photos on Facebook.

Eating mashed potatoes. When I was a tyke – and still capable of having a Mohawk – I had a rather unpleasant eating experience with this lumpy concoction. I had swallowed down several spoonfuls and they made a violent round-trip via my mouth and nose. I spewed more whipped spuds than Mount St. Helens when it blew. To this day, mashed potatoes will never have a place on my dinner plate.

Entering a marathon. Anything longer than the distance between me and the nearest bathroom in extreme situations is a no-running contest. If I learned anything from my Army experience, back in the day when Grant was getting us ready for the Wilderness Campaign, it was that mass running events sometimes have bad results. Besides, it doesn’t seem natural to run with 50-plus pounds of combat gear when, in reality, you’re going to be tossing that stuff if you’re in retreat. And consider what’s happened at The Who concerts, or standing in line for the latest iPhone and Nike footwear. Which leads me to my next item:

Running with the bulls at Pamplona at the San Fermin Festival. Sorry, I just don’t see any real adventure in trotting alongside and bashing elbows with a bunch of drunks who have read way too much Hemingway, or who are among the ranks of Spain’s unemployed. The damned bull already is steamed up enough about the body counts of his relatives facing matadors.

Visiting “Chop-Chop Square” in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. After morning prayers on Fridays, this is the setting for public executions and rather slicing punishments to the criminally convicted. It’s surrounded by pleasant shops and coffee houses, not unlike perhaps an outside version of the Mall of America. When me and my photographer friend were covering Desert Storm in 1991, a few of the locals encouraged us to check out this place. Call us silly and cultural cretins, but neither of us had a desire to see heads and hands rolling around on the well-kept pavement. Not really a good way to start the weekend.

Joining the Church of Scientology.  Tom Cruise is a fine actor and I admire his work. But its founder was named L. Ron Hubbard. I am always suspect of anyone who follows the likes of folks who initialize their first name: G. Gordon Liddy, J. Edgar Hoover, H. Ross Perot and H.R. Puff ‘N Stuff. More important, my faith and beliefs don’t cause me to jump up and down on Oprah Winfrey’s couch. I quit doing that not long after my Dad resolved such antics.

Attending the world premiere of the latest Ice Age sequel. The first one was entertaining; the second was mildly amusing. Beyond that, it gets tiresome.  I know everybody loves Raymond, but isn’t it time he and his film characters accept the theory of evolution and take a nosedive into the rocks so that scientists can get on with their work. Even Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble had the good sense and grace to bow out.

Re-reading “Catcher in the Rye.”  I first read this tome when I was about 13 and have re-read it twice. It carried all the themes of teenage angst: disdain, despair, disenchantment and disappointment. A real critical mass when raging hormones and emerging thought processes. Truth is, Holden Caulfield was a likeable yet privileged punk, who could have learned well from having a part-time job delivering newspapers and groceries.He was a good kid in need of direction and I hope he grew up. His creator never did. He lived out most of his life behind a gated home.

Skydiving without a parachute. As I have gotten older, I do my best to avoid jumping to conclusions. It rarely ends well.