Confessions of a Philosophic Semi-Centenarian

Chicago, IL

December 10, 2018

Some are apparently under the misapprehension that I tend to wield sesquipedalian words and arcane historical references to chop logical weeds from overgrown philosophical paths.

Knowing not the source of this baseless charge, I recall Augustus revitalizing Rome, and press ahead, Festina lente, making haste slowly.

I am sometimes accused of painting with too broad a brush. Today, to ensure nothing is missed, I use a spray rig.

Life, according to Lucretius, is one long struggle in the dark. For fifty years I have validated that assertion…stubbing toes, bumping into furniture, knocking over dishes, groping for answers, and finding most to be elusive.

One realization that a half century of experience has etched into certainty is that the questions keep coming, and disrupting our sleep…like a faint realization we had forgotten to turn off the stove.

And then we vacillate, like a bubble in a carpenter’s level, between our fading certitude about how we think the world works, and a calm realization that everything about life is easy to predict…except the nature, timing, cause, duration, magnitude, and implication of events.

We have learned that a bit of understanding is often more frustrating and dangerous than having none at all. Like knowing half the alphabet makes one not half-literate but illiterate, unawareness of our ignorance will only cause us to be misled by our knowledge.

Outside the Jan Mayen Arctic Circle weather station, a desolate volcanic island about six hundred miles west of Norway’s North Cape, sits a sign that, translated to English, reads: 

“Theory is when you understand everything, but nothing works. Practice is when everything works, but nobody understands why. At this station, theory and practice are united, so nothing works, and nobody understands why.”

We all endure days that seem as if they were spent at that isolated, dysfunctional post. The last several are not among them. This weekend, plan and practice merged into perfect harmony, everything in tune.

Rita outdid herself…not only by orchestrating a perfect coda to the wonderful wedding of the previous day, but by offering a moving toast that reaffirmed and crystallized my intractable adoration for her.

The family-style serving and ambience at Acanto were perfectly suited to the occasion, and the fine wine Rita, Brian, and Ashley supplied (and, as the evening progressed, supplemented) could not have been more appropriate or appreciated. 

James Thurber once asserted that one martini is alright, that two is too many…and that three is not enough. My initial drink order ensured this evening would be alright, lubricating conversation among a group that requires little stimulus to speak.

With Katy to my left, Rita to my right, and George directly across the table, my martini was superfluous. For newly wed Katy, who ordered the same drink, it was no doubt a necessary tonic to exhaustion.

Next to George sat Ashley, for whom he will now apparently be the southeast distribution broker for Brook & Bull wines. I expect he will shoulder this new responsibility with the lusty enthusiasm of Paris carrying away Helen of Troy: it is bound to cause trouble, but it might be fun.

Brian, in a terrific toast, provided hearty approbation, seasoned with a winking warning to Perry, that this family concocts any rationale necessary for a party. 

He confessed that the math and method of the “Zero-Birthday” excuse initially baffled and eluded him. He then came to realize that the rationalization is merely the wrapping. The assembled multitude is the gift, and each us are the batteries. Last night, we were fully charged. 

An evening with our family resembles a contemporary description of a few minutes with Theodore Roosevelt. After the encounter, you need to return home to wring the personality from your clothes. After this weekend, we are soaked.

After dinner, coats were reclaimed, hugs were exchanged, goodbyes were said…and the drinking continued.

To maximize coverage along the Gold Coast, our forces separated. To the north, one contingent occupied the Sofitel Bar, reinforcing the fortress we had claimed for the weekend. 

The other, of which I was a part, protected our southern flank and captured new ground. Invading the  glorious 1893 edifice housing the Chicago Athletic Association, we planted our flag and claimed our territory…but, like Roman legions in Greece, quickly succumbed to the charms of the vanquished. 

This prototype of a late Victorian gentleman’s club exudes old-world mystique, masculinity, and power. Bourbon and beer flowed, as did the trash-talk around the Bocce ball court and the pool table.

As pre-dawn flights and mid-morning departures began to dissipate the remnants of our crowd, Brett and Jennifer remained to join David, Alexander, and me for a final day in Chicago.

On what couldn’t be anything but a reliable recommendation from a fellow patron at Second City comedy club, Brett and Jennifer treated us to a delightful brunch of Bellini, lobster, and chocolate birthday cake at the stately RL restaurant adjacent to the Ralph Lauren location off Michigan Avenue. 

From there we hopped quickly past the Water Tower and across Michigan Avenue to the Chicago Sports Museum. We had the place almost entirely to ourselves, enabling us to casually sift and sample retrospectives and interactive games related to the cherished teams and traditions in this passionate town.

Our last stop, with an hour to spare, was the top of what I will always refer to as the Hancock Tower. A final drink embellished the endless view of a clear day, and prepared us to take to those skies for our flight home from a rewarding and humbling couple days.

To paraphrase Seneca, I love the life I lead, and praise the life I ought to lead…following it at a mighty distance, crawling. 

Fifty years were apparently not enough to catch it. But I look forward to the next fifty trying.

JD