It was on the Bill Maher show, of all places that I heard an AI expert sketch our modern condition as follows: Paleolithic brain + medieval institutions + 21st century technology. And at age 76, and knocking hard on the door of 77 (December), I will miss much of the unfolding of these circumstances. And come to think of it, will I miss, i.e., regret, not being here for the heat death of the planet? Oh, I suppose the answer is yes. Strange, we humans.
The Paleolithic brain characterization had an oddly comforting effect when I watched this explication roll from the lips of this AI guy, Tristan Harris, explaining as it does my current emotional state. No, not current, general. Because there is every reason for me to be feeling good, quite good today. Perhaps even tomorrow. Messers Kaiser having rendered their verdict. I am generally OK.
Yes, there is a bit of pain in the bladder. But at my stage of life there’s often something in the bladder. But it’s nothing of any big importance. It’s just that after more than half century of peeing, the muscles that support the whole activity are simply wearing out. Which while not desirable, is also not deplorable. And, by the way, relax. That is the message.
La Santaneca. If you are ever around 24th and Mission Streets, I do recommend it. Particularly the casamiento, a combination of refritos mixed with rice…and served with scrambled eggs and vegetables. The beans/rice thing can be a bit on the salty side. Only quibble. It is strangely tasty. The sum of more than its parts. And the restaurant is downright homey. As unlike a chain as things get. Doubtless family operated. And a place to spiritually regroup. As one does.
It does involve a trip on BART, the underground public transport experience being challenging. Though not today. I was not confronted with evidence of imminent social collapse. No, today everyone had joined hands and decided to postpone Armageddon until the weather was more appropriate. And today it was the mixture of overcast and slightly unseasonable warmth that has characterized recent things meteorological. I don’t want to go into it. You don’t want to go into it either…where was I?
So having convinced myself that I really wasn’t all that alone, I wandered into the neighborhood market seeking further evidence of same. Jane, as one might have guessed, has devoted her day to the grandsons. I have had several pictures of the youngest in pre-preschool this morning. My only complaint being that this morning began at 5:20 AM.
After a night that came in two sections, both of them too short. There was the first, something bordering on general anesthesia. Punctuated by a snapping to consciousness at approximately 1:30 AM. At which point I realized that I was alive, but just barely and for how long? I took a melatonin. I took an hour to get back to sleep. And then it was the 5 AM alarm I mentioned. And here we are.
And did I mention seeing Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the San Francisco Symphony the previous night? I had not actually heard Beethoven’s Ninth live. Just hadn’t. And having season tickets there I was with Richard, Paula’s husband. She couldn’t go. And Jane had a chorus rehearsal. And, yes, it was good. And, yes, we know it by heart. Thomas was helped on stage, then up onto the podium. A viola player was tasked with helping him get to the right page in the score, between movements. His brain tumor is no secret. And it was very moving. And he got through it. And I got through it, watching him get through it. And, yes, this is a cautionary tale, for do not send to know for whom the bell tolls.
The bridge tolls…well, Jane and I had spent the afternoon in Kaiser, Oakland. An eminent urologist, associate professor at UCSF, had taken at least 90 minutes to determine that my bladder’s pain is just that, a pain. But, sorry, I am a worrier. And you don’t have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows which, as Bob Dylan pointed out is where the answer is. Blowing. And while this urologist was blowing up my bladder with various amounts of sterile fluid, simultaneously x-raying me, watching all the vital signs ebb and flow, she was pleasantly blowing up my worst illusions. For it seems that after more than half a century of paralysis, my bladder, any paralyzed person’s bladder, achieves what in clinical jargon is known as fucked. So carry on peeing. And yes, it’s going to be more painful. But that’s it.
At Canyon Market, I decided that I was going to pass out free symphony tickets. That’s what it amounts to. I see the staff there on an almost daily basis. And they see me, the guy in the wheelchair, and can hardly forget me, as I knock this unwieldy contraption up and down the aisles, barely executing turns, invariably hitting something or someone, before making my way to the checkout. Grateful on this particular day that I was not checking out, vis-à-vis, the Grim Reaper, my continuance bolstered by Kaiser.
So, at Canyon Market I met this guy Eduardo. Turns out he’s the assistant manager of this tiny space. And he’s been working there for 17 years. But he works in some small office in the back, out of sight. And I swear I’ve never seen him before. But yes, he was interested in some symphony tickets. His daughter. His grandkids. Great.
Because, there was something more to this than ego flattering magnanimity. I recall the performing arts getting me through challenging moments from childhood on. Might as well try to spread the experience around.