I want to be famous enough for an AP obit

Early in my journalism career, it became a running joke: I could parody obituaries written by The Associated Press.

They always, always, always started the same way: The person's name, why they were meaningful, the word "died" and the day. Then a period. Then a three-word sentence, saying their age.

Bing Crosby, who partnered with Bob Hope on a series of "On The Road" movies and was one of America's greatest crooners, died Sunday. He was 73.

Harry Caray, the play-by-play voice for more than five decades for four major league baseball teams, died Tuesday. He was 81.

Always the same. Which got me to thinking: What would my obit say? Perhaps more interestingly, what would be a cool obit to have?

Again, this isn't about the obituary that will run in the local paper ("Brad was a beloved husband, father and master to his dogs, with whom he played cards until his last days . . ."). This is about having a claim to fame that is enough to get you an obituary by The Associated Press. And having that claim to fame be something that people enjoy.

Right now, it would most likely be something like this: Brad Stanhope, who wrote columns about pet monkeys, space travel, his mechanical ineptitude and ironically, obituaries, died Tuesday. He was 53.

Wait. That's how old I am? I better get busy! This is getting fairly close to being practical, not whimsical!

Anyway, think about for what most of us would like to be remembered, which is really what this is about. Of course there are only so many Mother Teresas or Jonas Salks or Steve Jobses, so it's more likely that most of us will be remembered for something unique, not for making a worldwide change. My choice?

Something quirky enough that everyone connects with it, but not so much that I got bugged about it all the time.

Like Bette Nesmith Graham. You know, the mother of Michael Nesmith of the Monkees, but more importantly, the inventor of Liquid Paper. That's the stuff we used to "paint" on paper when we made a mistake with our typewriters, which were . . . oh, never mind. But when Bette Nesmith Graham died in 1980, you can bet her obituary read "Bette Nesmith Graham, who invented Liquid Paper and was the mother of Michael Nesmith of the Monkees, died Tuesday. She was 56." (What? 56? I've got to get busy!)

That's a good example. So is Larry Waters.

You remember him. He's the guy who tied a bunch of weather balloons to his lawn chair and floated at 15,000 feet above Los Angeles, using a pellet gun to shoot the balloons so he could come down. He dropped the gun and got tangled in power lines, causing a brief blackout.

His obit? "Larry Waters, who tied weather balloons to a lawn chair and floated 15,000 feet above Los Angeles in 1982, died Tuesday. He was 44." (What? I'm on borrowed time?)

You get the point: While many of us are past the point of being a president or rock star or famous actor or discovering the cure to a dreaded disease, we still hold onto the hope that we'll do something that makes us worthy of an obituary by a wire news service.

So here's my dream: "Brad Stanhope, who famously had a pet monkey that served as his butler and later drove a flying car to work, died Monday. He was 153."

I've got plenty of time!

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.