Perhaps this is the meaning of the name "Outback"

Among the dark thoughts that were running through my mind during a period of wakefulness last night was this post by Alex Chee, specifically:

I remember when I was a steak-house waiter back in NY, we had to check the bathroom regularly for men who might be in there dying. A grim patrol at best. The reason being, the management explained, is that the average man, after a few drinks, choking on his food, will not ask for help but go to the bathroom and try to resolve the issue alone, which he can't, and as a result, pass out and die.

The pathos of that stuck with me. I would probably be one of those guys -- well, not from choking, everyone knows about the Heimlich and all -- but from a heart attack. Not that there's anything wrong with my heart. But on the other hand, what do I know -- I'm going to be 49 in two weeks. I can just see myself having some horrible chest spasm and, instead of dramatically collapsing while choking out the words "The horror, the horror!" I would excuse myself, pull myself together like Bruce Willis in the first segment of "Sin City," and make it to the bathroom. Then I'd collapse.

You know why? Yes, because of the embarassment -- because it's a cliché to die in a steakhouse clutching your chest. Or, for that matter, while shoveling snow.

I guess we all want a death on the barricades.