‘A 50-year old man and his son are driving down the Mass. Pike when they meet with an accident.
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They are rushed to the hospital. The chief surgeon, who was the only one on duty at the time, looked at the bodies and exclaimed – “I can’t operate; he is my son.” A hospital convention prevented doctors to operate on immediate relatives.’
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Oct 14, 2020 • 4 tweets • 2 min read
Here’s the thing about meeting people after many many years: they are anchored to a version of you that may no longer define you. They are convinced that you owe it to them to follow-through on your earlier #life plans.
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I met an ex-colleague after more than half-a-decade. It was like any such meeting. Fake warmth to masquerade stocktaking about who did better in the lost time. Offering pleasantries only enough to veil judging and pontificating. And then banter.
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While on a hop-on hop-off tour of the city of San Fransisco, I learned about Emperor Norton.
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Norton was a 19th century Englishman who lost all his money, and subsequently his mental faculties, on Peruvian rice trade. He re-emerged after some years and declared himself as Norton I, Emperor of the United States.
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