I’m not Methuselah’s kid. I wasn’t there for the birth of the Child in the manger and then for Word War two. I wasn’t with the robots when the sun came up either. And I certainly wasn’t cutting off anyone’s head in the highlands, having any part of the weapon shop that caused the big bang, being born as a Star Child, or spending one thousand years chanting in Sanskrit. Sorry! I did see Nikita Khrushchev bang his shoe on a podium and say, “We will bury you.” I was there before Eisenhower’s interstate highway system was finished and heard the news the day the music died. I was also there when the Institute for Immortality Research found that I was the one candidate genetically suited to be “fixed” so that I could live for five thousand years. I said no. Why would I want to outlive everyone I cared about, go on and on like reruns of Friends? One million dollars? The companionship of a lovely, intelligent red head? No and no again. I might wind up like Tithonus and I already felt like Si