After 28 years on the trading floor of the NYSE, I jumped at the offer of early retirement, especially before my blood pressure cratered my brain like an old pinata.

Early retirement, the American Dream! Golf, fishing, leisure!

Except I hadn't really thought it through. I can't stand golf. Nothing happens. You have to wait your turn. When it is your turn, the ball goes into the woods. What kind of stupid sport is this? When fishing I have to wait for the damn fish to grab my hook, then it's a bloody, sticky mess yanking it off the hook. And don't believe you can revive a fish pulling it backwards in the water, the fish doesn't care when it's insides are stuck on your hook.

Leisure, humbug! I needed something to do.

Bill's Breakfast & Bait sounded idyllic, a little shack in an estuary along the North Carolina coast, cooking up breakfast and selling bait to the fishermen. Open at 4 AM, closed by 12 PM, home by early afternoon. My wife loved the idea. In fact, it was her idea.

I like to cook, but I'm not all cheerful in the morning, one complaint about my coffee would lead to a fistfight. And the first person to send his eggs back because they weren't runny enough would have the plate tossed at him. And the smell of bait mixed with pancakes leaves something to be desired. So Bill's B&B will stay firmly in cyberspace, where I don't have to smell anything, and if someone gives me a hard time, I just delete them. Oh yeah!

I'm going to ramble, some incidentals, some music, a lot about us baby boomers as we migrate off this mortal coil like a vast herd of lemmings. I just read about Frank Buckles, America's last living WW I veteran. What a strange feeling, to be the last. Someday my grandchildren are going to read about the last Baby Boomer alive. Articles will be written by journalists for a week or two, then we'll slide into oblivion, our legacy batted around by historians.