The High Priestess of Soul

 

Prompted by the summer release of the 7-CD boxed set, The Phillips Years, a period during which she was at the absolute peak of her considerable powers, I have been revisiting the catalogue of the unique Nina Simone in a big way of late.  I would actually go as far as to describe this rediscovery as bordering on obsession, as I just cannot get enough of her remarkable music to the extent that I am on a committed path to gradually picking up every album of note from the forty-odd she released.

 

It feels timely to be listening to Nina so heavily right now, and learning all about her crazy life.  (Rather than ask me about her, just watch the wonderful documentary, What Happened, Miss Simone? - just released on DVD with a best of CD - to see what I mean.) 

 

But what do I mean by 'timely'?  Well, concerning the recent spate of totally unacceptable deaths of unarmed African-American citizens at the hands of trigger-happy cops, to be by coincidence immersing myself in the music and messages of a woman who was so deeply involved with the Civil Rights Movement that she ultimately became viewed as a black power icon can only be termed thus.

 

Initially following the non-violent doctrine of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., when - like any sane individual, of any colour - Nina had had her fill of the lynchings, police brutality (yeah, nothing has changed), segregation and abusive daily racism, she changed her tune, so to speak, to become ever more militant in line with the revolutionary Black Panthers.  To this end, I wonder what the woman who was inspired to pen Mississippi Goddam would have had to say about these recent tragic events?

 

I try hard to desensitize myself from the evils of this world, but - resigned to the fact that wherever there are humans there are problems, that there always have been and always will be - I try to get on with my life as best and peacefully as I can, yet keeping myself informed.  Listening to Nina Simone has stirred up my interest in the Civil Rights Movement once more, as it's a subject and period of American history I read extensively about when travelling in the US many years ago.  If your interest is aroused, I would heartily recommend seeking out the book Free at Last? The Civil Rights Movement and the People Who Made It, by Fred Powledge, as a starting point.

 

At the end of the day, though, music is a healing force, and as much as I might consider the motivation behind the lyrics of many of her most angry songs, I am able to simply enjoy the extraordinary power of one of the most breathtaking performers the world has ever seen without getting too fired up and raising my blood pressure higher than it already is.  I could have chosen any one of a ton of clips to illustrate this (especially, oh my, the incredible Sinnerman), but the one at the top of this post will do nicely, especially for anyone who has somehow yet to experience the one-off genius that was, and always will be, Miss Nina Simone.  

 

 

Pokemon Go...Away

Although not done for another week-and-a-bit, this sweaty August of 2016 has been quite a month.  It has left me exhausted.  So much has happened personally, professionally, domestically and internationally that I could have chosen a hundred or more topics of interest or concern to write about.  Yet I keep coming back to one extraordinary image that has lodged in my mind, being the one you see above.  It is a painting called "Control" by the controversial Polish 'political art satirist and philosopher,' Pawel Kuczynski, and because of it I must once again vent my spleen at the modern world.

Being one who deeply appreciates satire in all its forms, therefore in the art world obviously a fan of such as Banksy, I have been aware of and interested in Kuczynski's work for some time.  Yet although I love his painting style I cannot pretend to understand everything he does, but when his work is as direct as the painting above it can have quite an impact on me.

Because of my persistent vocal rallying against the effect that personal technologies - particularly smartphones, Androids and their ilk - are increasingly having on humankind, effectively turning us into a species of zombified slaves, I am often accused of being a luddite.  But I am not a luddite: I embrace and am amazed and deeply impressed by certain technologies - especially, for example, those aimed at improved health care.  Some of these things are brilliantly designed and, even if I have no desire to own one, I readily acknowledge their uses.

As I say, it is the effect that such as smartphones have had on human behaviour, and how we have allowed it to happen, that disturbs me.  Body language has completely changed, as owners of these things wander around cradling their precious devices in their palms, like Linus' blanket, thinking for all the world they look cool, important, and too 'busy' to interact in the 'real world,' with real people.  But they do not look cool - they look rather sad and pathetic in their reliance on these things to the extent they cannot bear to even put them in a pocket or bag.  And walking up the street, traversing a crosswalk, socializing, driving, the world - except Susan and I, it seems - is glued to its little screens, hypnotized by whatever crap it displays.

We are big fans of the show Parks and Recreation, and recently watched an episode in the 5th season called Sex Education, in which the character Ron Swanson (played by Nick Offerman) takes the character Tom Haverford (Aziz Ansari) to a remote cabin to wean him off his Internet and device addiction.  It was brilliantly written, as always with this great show, but the truth is there are millions of people that are genuinely addicted to their devices to the degree that this global problem has spawned addiction clinics specifically to deal with it.  I don't know about you, but I find this astonishing.

Go ahead and Google the phrase 'internet and device addiction clinics.'  You will find such as the reStart Centre for Technology Sustainability, whose homepage bears the legend, Connect with life, not your device.  Then at rehabs.com you will find a directory of the best Inpatient Internet Addiction Rehab Centers, giving you a choice!  There's even a Wikipedia page for 'Digital Addict,' and so it goes on and on.  It is a part of modern life that is here to stay, and other than using this computer I type at for emails and work, I am delighted to possess the strength and utter lack of interest in all this crap to have not succumbed like so many millions have...

...which brings me back to Kuczynski's painting.  I have observed in bewildered horror at the sudden surging popularity of the 'augmented reality' 'game,' Pokémon Go.  Augmented reality...think about that.  "It gets people out of the house, into the fresh air, exploring their area," said one person I know who shall remain nameless, lest I embarrass him.  Really?  People need to find and capture fictitious, dumb creatures - that, I repeat, do not exist - in order to get into the open air, enjoying their community, nature, and a healthy lifestyle?  Well, I'll be damned.  

I read in equal parts amusement and despair at the imbecile in England who has quit his job to play Pokémon Go full-time.  Have fun, dude, while those of us who have no choice sweat and toil day in, day out in order to pay the bills.  And I read in horror at the deaths, car smashes, and other serious incidents that have occurred as people play this dumb game.

"Control," then, is a painting that for me not only brilliantly portrays the slave-like aspects of the Pokémon Go phenomenon, but is representative of addiction to any and all technology of this nature.  This is a very serious problem, one that is never likely to go away as programmers and app builders continue to devise ways of keeping the populace glued to their screens and hungry for whatever bullshit they are force-fed next.  ""Ooh, an app that replaces all heads in photographs with images of turnips!  Gimme!"

I will not be amongst the populace in this way, content to plough my curmudgeonly furrow against this shit until my time is up.  Truly, if I am the last person on Planet Earth not to own a device and get sucked into this rabbit hole, that will suit me just fine.

Plumpocalypse!

Each summer since we moved into the house we have gradually improved our garden in one way or another, becoming more successful at growing certain veg, and learning a whole lot as we go.  This year, for example, our first attempt at growing potatoes has resulted in among the sweetest spuds I have ever tasted, while certain types of tomato plants that have been a hit with bountiful harvests in summers gone by have just not taken.  We guess with the odd, untypical weather so far this summer that some plants are confused and decided to just give up.  Who knows, but it's all part of the trial-and-error fun of cultivating an ongoing garden.

Although it takes no sewing or tending effort whatsoever on our part, one thing we have yet to cope with, however, is the harvesting of PLUMPOCALYPSE!  Hanging over our yard from one neighbour is an enormous plum tree that, without warning, at any given point in late June or early July, suddenly starts shedding HUNDREDS of plums a day, landing on our yard.  We are never ready for it, but when it starts we know we're in for a busy time clearing them up, as well as a mess from the ones that split open upon impact.  As they have fallen, rolled a bit in dirt and dust, we have thus far been unable to salvage any of the fruit.  The huge tree also sheds scores of plums outside our gate, doubling the work, but add to this our own plum tree on the perimeter of our property chucking down its fruit, and we have one hell of a lot of plums...er...plummeting to earth each day.

This is not remotely interesting in itself, I know, but perhaps a little more so is that this situation has had us dreaming up all manner of elaborate plans to combat the problem in future, but particularly to salvage a huge amount of perfectly good fruit that we can use and share.  The latest idea is to attach a large tarpaulin to our back fence and neighbour's fence, which are at right angles to each other, using some kind of tripod or elevated thingy at the unsupported corner, allowing the plums to plop softly into its sagging centre, whereupon we can easily collect them every day, and put them to good use.  No doubt other kinds of ideas will come our way, but one thing is certain and that is that this is the last summer when the fruit will go to waste.  Hell, I've even diarized the installation of some contraption we eventually decide upon for early June 2017! (Colour me organized.)

And then, there is also 'Apple-ocalypse!  We have Gravenstein and Transparent apple trees in our side and front yards respectively, and the latter has taken to dropping around twenty-plus apples every day, so that's another bunch of fruit we have to dispose of.  In this instance, the apples are not yet ripe, and immediately bruise heavily or split from worm infestation when they hit the ground.  Despite our religious spraying of our fruit trees with sulphur and lime, in order to stave off potentially overwintering bugs, we have yet to have a decent, blight-free crop of apples from this tree, so the battle continues.  This year, however, for the first time, our Gravensteins are looking amazing, so if they prove to be wormless, that will be a first!

Ah, the challenges of homeownership and fruit tree stewardship!    

Loony June

June is traditionally a busy month for us, but 2016's June has been truly crazy, incident-packed, emotional, stressful, but also joyous.  I was not even sure what to write about here, as I could have chosen any one of a number of diverse topics...

 

I could have written about our first family crisis in quite some time, with the sudden hospitalization of Susan's lovely elderly aunt, but I have decided to keep that to ourselves, as it should be.

 

Perhaps I could have penned something about my gradually increasing volunteer role with the Canadian Cancer Society, this year organizing all of the entertainment for, and acting as Stage Manager at, 2016's Relay for Life.

 

Maybe I could have commented on the sickening Orlando nightclub massacre; the tiresomely predictable, mindless tribal violence at Euro 2016 or even, God help us, today's repulsive suicide bombings at Istanbul's Ataturk airport.  But, no, I cannot dwell on these depressing failings and warped ideologies of humankind, if indeed those responsible in each instance are actually human beings.  

 

Or I could have reported back on last weekend's incredible Campbell Bay Music Festival on Mayne Island, and our wonderful, deepening friendship with the festival headliners, Bent Knee.  In fact, yes, that's what I WILL write about!

 

Bent Knee, as I see it - Susan, too - on current form are the best rock band on earth.  No kidding.  Their musicianship, compositional skills, invention and emotional wallop make this six-piece the most exciting band, especially live, that I have experienced in over twenty years.  We've now seen them perform four times, each show utterly mind-blowing.  Here they are, if you would care to take a look:

 

 

Being Human: Just one of this astonishing band's showstoppers, remarkably one of their mellower moments, and the song they chose to open their second all-conquering Campbell Bay Music Festival headlining slot.  Wow...have you ever heard a voice like that? 

 

It is such fun and so very inspiring hanging out with Courtney, Vince, Chris, Ben, Jessica and Gavin, all of whom seem to love us as much as we love them.  Their "Canadian parents" they call us, but whether parental or otherwise in nature these are friendships that will last a lifetime.  To follow their career from this stage on is going to be a privilege, as surely they will be enormous before much longer.  Mark my words...

Adventures in New Musical Territories

Friends have ours have recently set out on what looks like a trip of several months, overland through Europe to end up in Greece, where the lady of the couple has lots of relatives she has not seen in years.  We will miss them enormously, but an act of amazing kindness on their part means at least the spirit of them will remain with us until their return.

In preparing for their adventure our friends had something of a clear-out of unwanted possessions, which included hundreds of CDs.  We were informed that as the guy of the couple had uploaded his (ha!) 'favourite 30,000 songs' onto his iPod, he no longer had need of the physical discs.  A popular strategy in these days of increasingly digitized popular culture, I know, but in this instance it is a decision that has greatly benefitted Susan and I.  The last time we saw our friends, just before their departure, they handed us several bag-loads of unwanted discs, saying we could have whatever we wanted of them for ourselves, then should take the rest to the store, if indeed my boss has any need of them, for in-store credit when they return home.  They added that anything we wanted could not go a better home.

We still buy and love CDs, playing them every single day at home and in the car, and have no space issues (one room devoted to a music and DVD library), so were at once utterly delighted and thrilled by this sudden, unexpected, huge windfall of CDs.  When we got the haul home we feverishly went through the bags, sorting them into piles:

- Already have, so do not need
- Not our thing at all, so do not need
- Looks interesting, so let's give it a listen
- Do not have, and definitely or will likely want.

So, we have been ploughing through this vast amount of music, and have already added around fifty or so CDs to our already enormous library, with at least another three hundred to consider.  But what is particularly wonderful about this situation, the factor that prompted me to write about it here, is that we both find ourselves delving deep into areas of music evidently loved by our friends that we have either previously ignored (or not gotten around to exploring), never looked at in any depth, or some that are totally new to us.

There is a LOT of classical music, a LOT of artists that I had either never heard or heard of, and a LOT of music that perhaps I had deemed 'too uncool' to bother with so, in short, our ears are being opened to an array of wonderful new sounds.  In the instance of the classical music that has landed in our laps I am finding much joy; I have always enjoyed it, since I was a boy, but this fresh intake has me listening to much more of it than ever before, and getting very excited about it.  Even as I type I am loving a CD of Concerti for 2 Violins by Bach and Vivaldi, performed by Isaac Stern and Pinchas Zuckerman with the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra.  It is incredibly beautiful.

There is also a great deal of nostalgic music from the 20s, 30s and 40s, as well as a bunch of jazz that is, at the very least, intriguing.  Susan loves jazz but I have a hot and cold relationship with it, yet having heard Paul Desmond's incredible Take Ten from this batch for the first time, my ears are even surprisingly opening to more of the genre.

Music is not a job or hobby for me, but a lifestyle.  To have my already voracious appetite for it via the introduction of so much new stuff, or else a reminder of what I might be missing in certain areas I do not roam in often, is a source of great energy and inspiration.  And that it is FREE when we are kinda pushed for cash makes it sound all the better!

Thank you, dear friends,  as the gift of music will always be welcomed in the Morrison-Young household!

Old and in the Way?

There are several things I could write about today, things that have happened recently that affected me this way or that.

 

I could write about my sorrow at the passing of the wonderful English comedienne/actress, Victoria Wood - another claimed by the curse that is cancer - or of the shocking, sudden, and currently mysterious death of Prince, as visionary a musician as has ever lived.

 

I could write about the day Prince died, when on my way to work, before that big news broke, I saw two dead North American Robins - one on the sidewalk, another in the road.  They were close to each other, yet neither apparently the victim of an automobile.  It was almost as if they had collided mid-air, and plummeted to the ground together, but I can never know what occurred.  Then a few hundred yards further on, a black and ginger tortoiseshell cat lay dead on a grass verge, with no signs of violence or trauma, as if he'd curled up to sleep there and not woken up.  I've had less morbid walks to work, for sure.

 

Or I could write about my disgust at how Anders Breivik - the Danish, Nazi salute-throwing, far-right maniac who in 2011 murdered 77 (mainly young) people - had the mind-bending temerity to launch a human rights abuse case against his imprisoners, claiming "inhuman treatment," one reason being that he doesn't have a window in his cell.  Astonishingly and revoltingly, he won part of that case.  I hope his lawyer can sleep at night.  And, hey Anders, if you think that is inhuman treatment, you would certainly reassess its definition if I had a chance for a little time in your despicable, subhuman company.

 

However, I'm not going to write about any of these things, but instead will pen a few lines about what it is to be old, in rapid decline, and possibly forgotten about.

 

Since I've worked at the store I've gotten to know and become fond of many regular customers.  One gentleman, who out of respect for him and his situation I will not name, was born and bred in Nanaimo almost 89 years ago.  He is a tiny and frail, yet dapper man, always immaculately turned out, and as polite, pleasant and sweet as anyone I've ever met.  In short he's a total sweetheart whose visits to the store have truly brightened our days.  So, when he experienced some health issues a few months back myself and my colleagues were understandably concerned. 

 

Just a few weeks ago his health took a further dip, leading to him being rushed into a local assisted living facility by one of his sons.  Possessing a massive record collection amassed over some sixty-odd years, he panicked about what to do with it, so contacted the store for help.  He was deeply stressed, very confused and afraid.  We did what we could, emptying his condo of as much of his vinyl as possible, but our huge inventory and subsequent space issues prevented us taking any more than we did.  The store did not need any of his records, as the genres he loves do not sell for us even on CD, but the issue was more to help him than worry about such matters.  Susan and I also went over to his place independently, taking one of his LP racks, a pile of 78s and some of the remaining LPs.

 

When we presumed he would be as settled into his new place as he could be under the stressful circumstances, we went to visit him unannounced.  While he was delighted to see us, he was in a distressing state of confusion, constantly repeating things and mixing up facts, even when referring to them more than once in a single sentence.  He was already tiny, but looked skeletal and gaunt.  It was so very sad to see him this way, seemingly fading from this world, and although we have no personal experience of it, perhaps entering a state of dementia.  While it may not actually be the case, it is clear that the upheaval of his move at such an age, and in rapidly failing health, has sent him on a path that he may not be physically or mentally capable of returning from.  

 

Two nights ago we were at home when the telephone rang.  It was this fellow, our friend, highly confused, and adamant that one of his sons had given him our number as the way to reach him.  He also said that the same son had given him my cell phone number as an alternative contact number.  I tried to explain that I had left him my business card when we visited, but he simply didn't understand, insisting that he was trying to reach this son of his at our number.  Talking him down seemed impossible, but I eventually managed to calm him, saying he should get some rest and try his son's actual number when he felt more refreshed in the morning.  Concerned, we called the facility, but our fears for his welfare were far from allayed when we were informed that, although the facility provides rented accommodation, meals and entertainment - if either of the latter are required - their residents live entirely independently, so interfering with or intervening in personal situations is not facility policy.

 

A while later, he called back, distressed even more, yet a little less confused concerning our phone number, but saying he could not reach his son as the number he had for him was either disconnected or, for whatever reason, just unavailable.  Again, I talked him down as best I could, but did manage to gather some important information along the way.  Although our friend's confused demeanour means it is understandably difficult to discern fact from fiction, it would appear that the son he is attempting to reach is in control of our friend's finances, and he needs access to some money.  When I spoke to the facility's reception they confirmed that they, too, had not been able to reach the son 'for weeks,' when our friend had repeatedly asked them to try.

 

Ever felt utterly helpless, not knowing what to do, or how to help someone in trouble?  That's how this feels.  We don't know if what we are being told is true, but the fact that our friend is in such a panicky state could mean that it is.  Susan wonders if he has been 'dumped' at the facility, if his family has washed their hands of him and breathed a sigh of relief that they no longer have to worry about him, or care for his needs.  We just don't know, but the situation just does not feel good.

 

Our first opportunity to visit him again will be tomorrow evening.  I have no idea what state we will find our friend in, and how we might be able to help.  Just to keep him company for a while might make him feel better, but who knows what is really going on behind the scenes.  It is a worry we could do without, but whatever may be occurring - good or bad - we cannot, and will not, abandon him.  He is physically very fragile, and on that evidence alone he may not have long left anyway.  All we can do, I guess, is just offer him support however he might need it, and hope for the best case scenario with the family situation.  We do not know them, have no contact details for them, and even if we did it may be that our friend is perfectly lucid in stating he can't reach them.

 

As you may imagine, all this makes me think about the future.  Unless Susan and I perish together, one of us will ultimately end up alone.  What will become of us when that happens?  

 

Kwinkydinks

All through my life I have been subject to amazing, though sporadic coincidences, but since moving to Vancouver Island they have occurred so regularly that I am beginning to think these weird events are all some kind of cosmic dots that may be destined to ultimately join up one day!

It is the latest of these, which I shall come to in a while, that prompted me to write about them, but I may as well start at the beginning of the Vancouver Island sequence, as there were two coincidences that kicked it all off before we even arrived.  This said, I will only detail a few of the VI coincidences - 'kwinkydinks,' my dear wife sweetly calls them - as there are just so many:

When we knew we were moving here at the tail-end of 2006, as everything had to move quickly we hurriedly set about the task of informing everyone we thought, or knew, would wish to learn of our new chapter.  One of these folks, my friend Eamon, used to write for the same Brighton magazine that I did (though, for the record, is now married to an artist, has two kids, and is living in upstate New York).  When we told him of our imminent departure he said we should connect with his aunty Deb, who lives in Duncan.  Sure enough, without even trying, during our first summer here, via a writing commission I found myself talking to her at the music festival she co-founded.  As we had so much to sort out those first few months I had made no concerted effort to contact Deb, but it is entirely possible that I could have met her without even knowing she was related to Eamon.

When I infomed my buddy Miles we were moving to Canada, he asked where, and when I told him Nanaimo he said, "Oh, my (Canadian) wife's best friend lives there; I'll give you her contact details."  As a consequence we met Adrienne, without whom we would not have met this or that person, or at least not as a direct consequence of meeting her, and so our life could have turned out very different indeed.

More recently, at a party we met new friends in town with whom, it turned out, we shared a lot of common interests.  When they were over to dinner one evening we got to talking about families. 

At this juncture I need to press pause, rewind way back in time to when I was a very young boy, being minded by my dear old nan during the school holidays, as my parents both worked full time.  One (in retrospect, seemingly) fateful day nan took me into Birmingham city centre, where we went to the market, then to the cinema, which was a first for me.  The movie was a rescreening of The Student Prince, starring (the singing voice, but due to a contractual dispute, not the acting of) my nan's all-time favourite singer, the light opera megastar, Mario Lanza.  I seem to recall playing up merry hell in the cinema, to everyone's dismay running up and down the aisles out of boredom, receiving an usher's reprimand, but the image of a giant character's head, voiced by Lanza, singing away on that huge screen, has stayed with me to this day.  After the film, nan - quite the drinker, bless her - took me into a pub, where she loved to play the piano (and good at it she was, too).  I remember standing watching her in awe as her hands moved swiftly up and down the keyboard, and I have often wondered if this was the moment that I first responded to music in an emotional way, setting me off on a lifelong music-oriented career path.

Anyway, nan loved Mario Lanza so much that in her will she requested that his versions of Ave Maria and I'll Walk with God be played at her funeral.  My mom, nan's daughter, requested likewise, and I dutifully obliged when she passed in 1993.  Back to the present, and there we were chatting with our new friends, James and Kris, about families.  For some forgotten reason I recounted the fact that these songs were played at both funerals, and James excitedly piped up, "Mario Lanza?!  That's my granduncle...my mother's uncle!!"  Naturally, I thought he was pulling my plonker, but indeed it is true.  Wow!  Of all the people in this world I could meet, it is a man who is related to my nan's favourite singer, a performer whose music was played at both her and my mother's funerals.  Truly, truly insane!  What on earth must the odds be of that happening?

 

Then there's another crazy kwindydink that again bridges my life in Brighton with here.  Over the course of the last few years, having bumped into them at several parties thrown by mutual friends, we got to know and love Liberty and Mark.  At a party of their own, we met Steve and Julie, originally from Brighton.  Liberty and Mark announced plans to go travelling this spring and summer, included a couple of weeks in the UK.  Both Susan and I and Steve and Julie highly recommended they visit Brighton.  Subsequently we invited all four friends to dinner, at which Julie pulled some photos of Brighton from her bag, taken on their last trip back to England several years ago, and intended to arouse further interest in the town for Liberty and Mark.  Julie passed the photos around and upon viewing one my hair stood on end.  "Is that...?" I wondered, quickly running into the kitchen to look at the snap in better light.  "Holy crap, it is!!" I blurted out, as there in a general shot of the North Laine area of Brighton, standing in a cluster of chatting guys, was my old record store colleague, Alex!  I looked and looked at the photo, actually trying to dissuade myself that it was Alex, simply disbelieving the odds that it was him, but as clear as day, there he was, unmistakeable unless he has an absolute clone in the same English seaside town.  Crazy, crazy, CRAZY!

 

Finally, and the catalyst for this post, one concerning our new neighbours, Brendan and Celia.  We have known Brendan for a while, and when we learned last year that he and his girlfriend were looking to purchase a fixer-upper house, we told him there was one for sale two doors from us.  Adding to this amazing mix, the house was coincidentally formerly owned by work associates of Susan, though well before we moved into the street.  The next thing we know, young Brendan and Celia have bought the house.

 

Again, I need to press pause on a story, rewinding to last summer when we attended a one-day indie music festival in Chemainus.  On one of the two stages we saw a performance by a good, rootsy singer-songwriter named Ben Ziakin.  Fast forward to a few weeks ago, we were at the Queen's Hotel for the Elliott Brood show, and saw a guy in the crowd whose face was familiar.  Remembering that he was that performer from Chemainus, as he was sitting with other acquaintances of ours I went over to introduce myself and tell him we had enjoyed his set at the festival.

 

A couple of weeks later, Brendan and Celia told us they were taking in a mortgage-helping roommate, whom we met just the day after, in the alley behind our houses: it was Ben Ziakin!  We chatted for a few minutes, welcoming him to the 'hood, but were astonished when he said, "I was told you were lovely people, and I was told right!" "Huh?" we responded.  Unbelievably, and the latest remarkable kwinkydink in our life here, Ben works with Alyse...who grew up in our house!!

 

There are more stories like this.  Many more.  Stories such as the one about the guy that now cuts my hair being a former English Ice Hockey League legend I saw play many times, and was in awe of as a goal-scoring machine,  when I watched hockey in England back in my twenties.

 

What does it all mean?  Does it, or can it mean anything at all, or are these all simply astonishing coincidences, yet by some twist of fate  we are simply subject to considerably more of them than the average people?  If yes, then why?  Their regularity and extraordinary, random unlikeliness - especially the Mario Lanza story - make this feel more than just coincidence, and even if there is some spooky cosmic design behind these amazing alignments, how would I ever know?  It is all part of life's rich pageant, I guess, and that's just fine.  Long may the stars continue to line up and amaze us at how small the world really can be!