Two of my favorite actors, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, have joined forces to develop an alleged comedy, “The Bucket List.” It was widely panned just after opening.

I will see it anyway, probably a year from now, when it is released on Netflix.

But it does contain an interesting premise. The two men are forced together in a hospital as they face their last year of life, thanks to cancer. My mother told me that her father died of cancer in the 1920s and the docs told her then that the cure was “just around the corner.” One wonders what the trillions squandered in Iraq might have done to that promised cure, but that is another column, naturally.

The doomed duo decide to make a list of what they would like to do before they “kick the bucket,” hence the title. Luckily for the plot, Nicholson is a billionaire, so he can use his private jet to provide transportation.

The august New York Times reports, “Their initial adventures, like sky diving and race car driving, are high-adrenaline stunts embraced with macho zeal; they even visit a tattoo parlor. As they follow an itinerary that takes them to the south of France, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Himalayas and Hong Kong, these stopovers, obviously filmed on a soundstage, have all the reality of snapshots photographed in front of travel posters.”

As I while away the post-Christmas hours, still gnawing on that Italian rum cake, I developed my own “bucket list” for the few years I have left.

I have decided to speed up the process and consider myself now 70, instead of fighting the few years I have before that magic date. They tell me that 70 is the new 50, whatever that means.

Since my pathetic life is a perpetual no-fly zone (planes go too high, too fast) I will have to limit my bucket list to the continental United States. Maybe Canada, and maybe Hawaii, where Grady Flanagan is lolling in luxury, swimming with the dolphins every day.

Since I first slapped on the boards at Mount Snow a few decades ago, I always dreamed about skiing in Colorado, especially Vail. I could come home and bore my friends about Western powder for years. But wait, I am so afraid of breaking something now that I can barely walk on the post office sidewalk, let alone a steep mountain. The essence of skiing is letting go and I simply don’t know if I can do that anymore.

Naturally, every male (I don’t know about women) in Maine dreams about walking the Appalachian Trail, at least when no erotic dreams about Keira Knightley are available. But wait. I can barely walk downtown (and back) these days. That trail looks like months of agony, at least at the pace I would set. Maybe I will drive the Appalachian Trail. I have a four-wheel-drive truck, you know.

Because John Bailey went every year when he wasn’t at the French vineyards, I always wanted to spend a winter at a Mexican beach, living for next to nothing in comparative luxury. If you have seen Cobb Manor, it wouldn’t take much. But wait. What am I going to eat in Mexico? I had a tortilla and enchilada in 1967 that are still killing me. I would have to bring my own Wheatena.

The movies about riding a horse into the Grand Canyon always looked good. I could add that to my “bucket list” and pretend I was Gus McCrae in “Lonesome Dove” as I ambled down the canyon walls. But wait. I hate horses. I hate anything bigger and dumber than I am. Plus there is that male anatomic problem when it comes to conflict with saddles for prolonged periods. I could never understand how Gus and the boys rode the prairie all day, then went looking for a free poke from Lorena. I couldn’t do more than play a few card games with her.

I will have to concentrate on local attractions for my bucket list, such as dinner at Ephemere Restaurant, the hike up Spring Hill, the view from Mount Battie and skiing at the Snow Bowl.

While I still can.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.