There's an old saying along the lines of "If, at the end of life, you have six good friends to carry you to your final resting place, your life has been well-lived." How's that for a real Friday pick-me-up? Reminds me of an ad I saw in a little newspaper awhile back that advertised cemetery plots with "a lake view!" A little less morbid way of thinking about it comes at the conclustion of It's A Wonderful Life, when George Bailey is told that no man is poor who has so many good friends. Back in my school days, I think I had several good friends although I've never gone back for a reunion on the chance that my memory is faulty. The bottom-line is that my wonderful wife has lots of good friends, my kids all have wide circles of pals, even the dog seems to have relationships with other canines in the neighborhood. By comparison, I fear I may be a little light in the buddy department. I'm not alone in thinking this. The wife, kids and dog I just mentioned seem to believe it, too. Now, they fully understand the obvious reasons I would have trouble making friends, but it still seems to worry them. In light of that concern, they have started to make a list of people I get along with that they would consider inviting to some big party given in my honor. Here's some of that group.

All The Greeters At Wal-Mart: I always have a good time talking to the folks at the door. Over the years, in addition to the weather, I have discussed politics, history, TV and, more often than you'd think, exactly where the 60 watt light bulbs are located in the store. You're probably thinking "Come on, Joel, those folks are nice to everybody." But, I prefer to think we have an extra-special relationship. They just can't fake those smiles.

My Optometrist: I went a long time before making my latest appointment but, over the last few weeks, trying to adjust to these new multi-focal, "you're getting old and your eyesight is failing", contact lenses, I've seen quite a lot of this fine professional. We have very cordial conversations. My fear here is that the whole relationship is based upon my sitting in a fancy, motorized chair with my chin up on the machine where he changes the lens' strength. I suspect, if he didn't have a reason to say "A or B? This one or the last one? That or this?" we may have a lot of awkward pauses. Still, he stays on the imaginary party list as long as he promises not to give me those dilation drops.

One Of The Firemen at the Fire In The Hole Ride at Silver Dollar City: We've seen this character down there for about 15 years. He always says "Hey, dad!" when he sees us come in. Now, I like that Fire In The Hole ride. As a family, we can recite just about every word of the journey and usually do, which may explain why all the other folks on board bail out just after we yell "I ain't got no pants no more. Dang baldknobbers stole 'em." As fun as the ride is, the fireman who loads us into the little train is the main reason I insist on riding. He's just a great guy. He would easily make it past the sign outside the party hall that says "Must be this folksy to enter party."

Parent of Other Kid at School Function: There is a dad who has been at just about every school related event I've been to over the last 12 years or so. He is always pleasant, easy-going, funny. We have excellent conversations as we are leaving the building. It just wouldn't be a party without this "parent of other kid at school functions. "

You maybe wondering where all the Channel Niners are on this make-believe guest list. Well, I've invited them to get-togethers in the past with little success. I never knew so many of them had regular electrolysis appointments or attended Trekkie conventions or were only allowed to drive to and from work. But, live and learn.

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mostly vacant noggin, I think one of my brothers had an invisible friend. When anything bad happened, he would blame "Clifford." It was kind of cute despite the fact my brother was 34 at the time. Of course, another brother thought he was a chicken. We would have told him the truth but we needed the eggs.

As for me, when I was a child, instead of pretending to be a policeman or cowboy or football star, I would take my little red cardboard suitcase, put on a beaten up fedora and pretend to be a door-to-door salesman. I would knock on the neighbors' doors and make my pitch...I don't remember what I was pretending to sell...and then, take their order. It was during this period that I had, not an invisible friend, but an invisible boss. I called him Mr. Smith...because, even then, my creativity knew no bounds. Eventually Mr. Smith had to let me go. Talk about humiliation, being fired by a figment of your own imagination. In addition to make-believing I was a pint-sized Harold Hill, I also used to imitate Mitch Miller. He was a music producer and choral director with a goatee, that's hair on his chin not a pocket-sized goat...that is called a "goatette", who had his own TV show where he would encourage you to "follow the bouncing ball" and sing. It was called Sing-A-Long With Mitch...again, very creative. When we were living out at Bluffview Courts Retirement Village, I, about age 4 at the time, would drink chocolate milk, for the mustache and goatee, then round up a bunch of the retirees and lead them in song. They all thought it was hilarious. Unfortunately, it marked the highpoint of my performing career.

Anyway, for this never-going-to-happen gala, in addition to all the other "friends" I think I will invite Clifford, Mitch Miller, the Bluffview Courts Chorale, and,what the heck, my old boss Mr. Smith. We'll all sing Auld Lang Syne and, then, we'll hear a little tinkle. It probably won't mean "every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings." It will probably mean we should've let the dog out before the party got started.