It's a beautiful afternoon in southern California, the Mediterranean light is making cliched picture postcards of the view over the Pacific, I don't have to work for a living (notice how I sidestep the hated and feared R word, but more of that later), and my time is my own, so why am I ruining the afternoon by sitting at a keyboard to write? I'm ashamed to say the real reason I'm doing it is because work; but for someone like me, work isn't work, fun. For me, work always has strong elements of danger: Can I get away with it this time? Do I still have my chops? Have I finally lost it? Can I be dropped on my head into the jungle with only a compass (maybe not even a compass) and find my way home? In the case of the work that's involved in writing these pages, I need to tell you the story of why I stopped being the president and CEO of a $3 billion newspaper and television company and how it feels to be an unemployed bum. To make that story effective, I must get stuff out of my head into yours so you'll see it through my eyes, feel what I feel. If you think that's easy, you don't know how awful most writing for newspapers and TV really is! I once saw a famous Russian ballet dancer interviewed, and she said of how she did what she did, eeet whorts. Of course it hurts to beat up ligaments and tendons that never were meant to do a pas de deux, but that's what you do if you want to be good. Likewise, a pain to get these few words to dance for you, so what kind of nut would volunteer to do it? Me. That kind of nut. The danger and pain of work is what I miss the most in my life today as an emeritus (you've noticed how I still won't use that R word). My wife is an important part of this story, that wife who hung around waiting and waiting for me to hang it up at the canonical age of 65, which, if the social security gurus are to be believed, ought now to be at least 67, and going up. I'll never forget two conversations of that 65th year. One was at 37,000 feet and in the cabin of an international flight. Looking down on Iceland has its limitations, as it does I'll bet for the Icelanders, so my seatmate and I struck up one of those airlineintimate conversations. He had retired from running his company some years before and regretted every moment of that decision and what came after. Fixing me with his watery gaze and pointing a long, bony, age-spotted finger, he said You'll be a damned fool to do it, don't make the mistake I did. The other conversation was with our tax preparer. In case you think that people who put on a latex glove to examine your nether regions have the goods on you, they are nothing compared to those who know your Form 1040. Robert the Accountant said You haven't needed to work for years, so you must be doing it for reasons other than money. Until those two conversations, I didn't know how to say to Sally, my wife, that I thought I ought to put this not-working stuff off for a while. Before I knew it (but of course not before she knew it), I was almost 70 and completing my 14th year as the head of one of the company's divisions. There was no question in anybody's mind that this would be my last job, and it was way overtime for me to leave it. My 70th birthday happens to be in July (a classic type A Leo) and I figured that at the end of the year, that would be it. Six weeks later they fired the parent company's president and CEO and asked me to take over the job. It was the best set of electric trains a small boy could have. Everything was in a mess. There was a threatened lawsuit from a group of dissident shareholders, earnings were off, the whole dismal recipe. Did I say I loved the element of danger? Maybe not this dangerous. Later, three and a half years into my tenure as CEO, earnings had risen by double digit percents, the lawsuit and the dissidents had both gone away, and peace reigned again. Could it get any better? I loved every minute, but one day I found myself saying to the board of directors, it's time. …