Tomorrow Never Tells

Last week I heard a Nobel prize winning economist remind us that the stories we tell to make sense of life are told only in retrospect.  We can't nail it down as a mystery, tragedy or comedy until it occurs. Only then can we assemble the characters and plot.

And sometimes, even though we are the only species with language to tell our tales, no story can explain.  I'm thinking today of a Chicago story. 

A young man -- working as an Uber  driver --  is hacked to death by a teenager he picked up for the fare.  Now, his mother finds her way across class and race from Winnetka to the southwest side.
She grieves with the other mothers in a support group for the families left behind by the gun.

When murder is the author, we'll never figure out where to place the book on the shelf.

Unexpected Magic

Sunday in the park.  I was sharing a shady bench with an old man when a pretty young girl came by walking her dog.  "Wanna see a magic trick?,"  he asked.  "Sure," she smiled.  He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket, shuffled, and went into the familiar "pick a card" routine.

I'm sure his card tricks reside on the lowest rung of magic, but they're still good enough to get a smile out of me.

Eventually, I got up and continued my walk.  "Hmmm, he did'nt ask me,"  I thought.  "So what.  I may not be in the center of the action anymore, but sometimes there's magic close enough to enjoy."

Quantum Rudy

Recently Rudy Guiliani made a statement that everyone noticed:  "Truth isn't truth," he said.  Depending on your loyalty to Trump, you probably either rolled your eyes or ignored the quote.

In an entirely different context, the "Truth isn't truth" remark carries some weight.  I'm not going to pretend that I grasp the quantum mechanics view of the universe accepted by physicists except to say that things are not what they seem and defy common sense.  At the sub-atomic level (and I mean really small) the "truth" is hard to pin down.  And, there is a necessary collaboration between the observer and the observed. 

Which brings me back to Rudy.  His willing collaborators are ready to accept what the rest of us regard as nonsense.  It all gets very squishy, doesn't it?

Am I Lonely?

Recently I was told that I seemed lonely.  "Me?",  I thought.  "I don't think of myself that way. Am I afraid to admit it?  Hmmm.  I'll have to give this some thought".

I didn't live alone until late into adulthood.  Childhood, schools, marriages, children.  That took up a big chunk. And yes, when it came it was a jolt.  Now, I can't imagine having anyone around all the time.  What about my quiet, my routines, my noises, my preferences?  Could I, would I, rearrange any of it to make space?

But what about love? Companionship?  When his wife died, one man I know immediately attached himself to the widow of his best friend.  So far, so good.  Another friend has been able to insist on part time togetherness.  An understood arrangement. Equally appealing to both.

"There are a lot of witty women on the internet," says another male searcher.  My favorite line:  "I still wear the same size necklace as I did in high school."

Alone is one thing.  Loneliness another.  I'll pause at that.

Not So Sweet Candy

Anne, the building manager at my condo, "liked me."  She kept a big jar of candies on her very cluttered desk.  After I took a Butterfinger one day, she began to save them for me. 

I was so grateful to Anne when water damage ruined my bedroom carpeting. When I told her my homeowners insurance didn't cover it (zombie apocalypse?), she said, "Don't worry, I have a discretionary fund.  I'll replace your carpeting out of that."

I was thinking about that fund when reading the letter to all condo owners.  Anne and the assistant manager had been immediately fired for cause, and financial improprieties were being investigated.  Updates to follow.

So, I got the Butterfingers and Anne apparently had sticky fingers.  Sad.

They redecorated the new Manager's office.  She, and the office, are very sleek and professional.  No candy.

Old Age Ugly

No surgery!  No surgery!  Still in a state of euphoria after the orthopaedic doctor recommended other treatments for my very bum knee, I agreed to be fitted for this contraption.  I pick it up next week.
First, Dr. Feelgood gave me a steroid shot.  Walking better already.

I joked with my sports loving friends that my trade value was nil, and now a PED conviction.

The breast cancer industry got it right ... right away. . . with the flood of pink for ladies and the men who love them.  When I asked the knee fitter guy what colors the brace came in, he said black, black and black.

C'mon entrepreneurs.  And, not just for us oldsters.  There was a waiting room full of young, athletic types limping around on their ugly canes and crutches. 

At least my brace will be under the new very wide leg pants I plan to purchase.  Please tell me somewhere, they are still in style.

The Cave Boys of Thailand

As one who sat mesmerized watching the Chilean miners ascend from their captivity, I am fervently hoping I'll get to do the same with the soccer team and their coach trapped in the underwater cave.  But oh, the task ahead.

Here's the plan:  divers, who are the most trained and experienced in the world, are going to gather.  They will train the boys to use the equipment to swim under water.  Then, two divers (one on each side) will guide each boy through the narrow and debris infested waters to the surface.

The alternative is to wait underground for months for the water to subside.  I heard this may not even be possible as more flooding may occur at any time.

One of our favorite thought experiments is: "What would we do if visited by another species from outer space? Would we realize that we are all 'earthlings' and greet them as one?"

I love these moments of promise when we seem to be able to come together.  Last time for the miners, this time for the boys.  Maybe the soccer players at the World Cup will send some encouragement.