Between my apartment and my office is a funeral home. There’s a funeral in progress easily half of the time that I walk by. The place appears to be staffed entirely by old men. Each of them, as best I can tell, owns just one suit. (Perhaps they have a closetful of identical suits?) They’re always looking appropriately somber, standing out front and directing traffic and greeting the funeral attendees. I’ve been thinking that I should befriend these men. After greeting them enough times, I could start to ask idle questions. “Whose funeral today, Bill?” Or maybe “Gee, what a great turnout. I bet this woman was mighty well-liked.” Eventually, they’d get out of their serious, stuffy, professional character and treat me as an equal, a fellow undertaker. Only I wouldn’t have to deal with dead people. And I’d have mortitian street cred. I think that would be pretty cool.