Plastic or even more plastic?

European starling

     The Law of Unintended Consequences isn't written into the statute books, or taught in law school, though maybe it should be because it rules over our lives with a stronger hand than almost any ordinance.
     Broadly stated, the LoUC says that if you do A, intent on causing B, you might unknowingly cause C, a result you never anticipated.
     For instance.
     If you go back 30 years, when cellphones were first being rolled out — as car phones, heavy bricks bolted in your trunk — they were presented as something that contractors at construction sites and traveling salesmen on the road would use to save having to spend time seeking out a pay phone. And if you asked back then, "And how will cellphones someday dramatically affect the racial dialogue in this country?" you'd have gotten a blank look, because nobody could have foreseen that each phone would come with a high-quality video camera and citizens wielding those cameras would document the tendency of urban police to brutalize black people and the resultant images would spark outrage.
     That's what happened. But is not the best example of the Law of Unintended Consequences, since cellphones weren't created to boost the cops. The most satisfying examples of the LoUC contain a delicious irony, where not only does something unexpected happen, but that unexpected thing is the opposite of what you were trying to do, like the anti-campus drinking programs that were found to cause college students to drink more. Or in 2000 when a Chicago Public Schools effort to encourage parents to walk their kids to the first day of classes led to a quarter of the students — some 100,000 kids — not showing up at all, after embarrassed parents who couldn't walk their children to school kept them home instead.The Law of Unintended Consequences is, in part, a function of complex systems, which is why it's so prevalent in environmental matters, when animals imported for Small Purpose A instead cause Huge Problem B. Fifty pair of European Starlings were released in New York's Central Park in 1890 and 1891 by a group trying to bring all the birds mentioned in Shakespeare to this country, a lofty goal which no doubt brings cold comfort to those shouldering the $800 million worth of crop damage and disease that the starlings cause each year.
     My favorite LoUC environment story involves an Inuit tribe in Canada. Deprived of their livelihood — hunting caribou — by meddling environmentalists, the tribe sold their land to petroleum developers.
     You have to love that.
     Our recent plastic bag law in Chicago, which went into effect Aug. 1, might not be up there with the European Starlings or the Canadian hunting grounds, but it has the same exquisite irony. Last year, the geniuses in City Council, having abandoned the idea of addressing the city's actual problems, decided to go after flimsy plastic bags. It seems Ald. Proco Joe Moreno (1st) saw one stuck in a tree. So they passed a law banning lightweight bags at chain stores. But they allowed thicker, supposedly re-usable bags.
     Do you see the problem here? They didn't.
     I have on my desk, a pre-law Walgreens bag and a post-law Walgreens bag. The former is a thin affair and weighs 5 grams. The new bag is sturdier and includes an exhortation, "Please reuse or recycle at a participating store."
     It also weighs 21 grams. So the Chicago City Council, hoping to reduce the amount of plastic in landfills, quadrupled the amount of plastic in each bag that goes into landfills.
     Thanks guys.
     To be generous, maybe thicker bags will nudge consumers toward more recycling. Maybe this effort is part of the great societal shift toward living in a more renewable world. It's possible. No error is without some good.
     Still, thicker disposable plastic bags — Jewel-Osco is also using them to thwart the law — was not what the City Council had in mind. Moreno, who would not return my call Thursday, said in June, when environmentalists first flagged this problem, that the city might "change the ordinance and make it even stricter," perhaps by "not allowing [stores] to give away free bags."
     Not allowing stores to give away bags! That's the solution. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it'll just make the problem worse in some unforeseen manner. You can try to thwart the Law of Unintended Consequences but, being a law, it has a tendency to thwart you.

Don't forget why we dropped the bomb

Today is the 70th anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The debate over the morality of the bombing seems muted this year, perhaps by the renewed bellicosity of Japan, which, having whitewashed its history, seems hellbent to repeat it. I wrote this 10 years ago, reminding my lefty friends that, as ethically satisfying as it might feel to flagellate their country over the A-bomb, the decision was the right one.

     Saturday is the 60th anniversary of the United States dropping an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. A doubly tragic anniversary in that, with the obliterating grind of decades, a significant number of U.S. citizens no longer realize what a miracle the atomic bomb really was. Instead, they view it as yet another awful moment of shame in a history studded with offenses, whether subjugating Native Americans, supporting apartheid Israel or, on Aug. 6, 1945, murdering 160,000 civilians in Hiroshima for no particular reason beyond our own venality.
     That isn't how it happened. People forget. Japan was a brutal aggressor in World War II, whether it was the invasion of China, the unprovoked attack on Pearl Harbor, or atrocities across the South Pacific. They killed with a guiltlessness that lingers to this day, in the bland, mistakes-happened shrug Japan extends toward its own history, a second crime that makes Germany, with its subsequent apologies, seem like Mister Rogers' Neighborhood.
     To ask if it was necessary for the United States to drop the atomic bomb is to display an unfathomable ignorance of history. The Japanese showed no inclination toward surrender. The firebombing of Tokyo, which cost 100,000 lives and took place all around the leaders of that nation, did not prompt them to even discuss giving up. Nor did the bombing of Hiroshima -- it took a second bomb, dropped on Nagasaki, to do that.
     Yes, we might have defeated Japan, eventually, at the loss of 500,000 or a million lives. But we had this awful technology, wrought from the can-do spirit of America. We should be proud of the atomic bomb, and any lingering doubts should be dispelled by honestly answering one simple question: Had Japan the capacity, in early August 1945, to drop 100 atomic bombs on the 100 largest American cities, would they have done it?
     No one with any honesty can pretend to doubt the answer to that.

HUMANITY FINDS A WAY TO ENDURE

     Odd. When I flopped my fingers on the keyboard, the above wasn't what I wanted to say. Oh, I believe it, in spades. But what I meant to point out was one of my favorite pieces of obscure historical trivia.
     We tend to think of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki as separate events, because they took places three days apart. But the cities are nearby, and there were people who fled the bombing of Hiroshima only to be killed in Nagasaki, plus a handful who survived both. It says something terrible about the hand of fate -- you escape one a-bomb, and here comes another. But also something wonderful about the tenacity of the human vessel. We worry about sharks. But there are people who were in cities hit by atomic bombs, twice, and lived to tell the tale.    
                              —Originally published Aug. 5, 2005

Notional babies and real women

     Sex makes men crazy.
     Sometimes quite literally.
     How many times have you read a news story about the jilted boyfriend who tracks down his beloved, kills her and whoever else happens to be around?
     What's the thinking behind that? Rejection, injured ego and an overwhelming impulse to lash out at a person you believe should be still under your control.
     Sound familiar? Our society is the same. Law and religion have always labored mightily to dominate women, to ensure females remain second-class citizens, shackled by vastly restricted rights. With a cry of "You can't leave me," the Senate just tried to defund Planned Parenthood, the most important provider of contraceptive and reproductive health services to women in the country.
     One deceptive tape cobbled together by an anti-abortion group was enough to set off Ted Cruz et al because crushing Planned Parenthood is what they want to do anyway. Narrow defeat does not mean the battle is over; it veers off in another direction. Lose the Senate vote? Let's shut down the government until we get our way.
     It's sure easier than facing the actual problems facing this country. As Planned Parenthood's president, Cecile Richard, said: "When those guys can't figure out what to do about jobs, and they can't, their first target is women."
     Not that Planned Parenthood's amped up foes put it that way.
     "We can no longer allow the atrocities committed by an organization that receives state and federal tax dollars, and that receives special tax treatment from the federal government," former Texas Gov. Rick Perry said Friday. "The Obama Administration targets groups with the word ‘patriot’ in their name but does nothing to an organization that cuts apart and sells the body parts of dead babies."
     Listening to candidates fulminate against using fetal parts for medical research — a practice that is legal and has gone on for years — you can almost forget that they're against abortion. Period. Were the fetuses buried intact in mahogany coffins at Graceland religious fanatics would fight it just as fiercely. And when you look at what's upsetting them — using fetal tissue for science versus throwing it away — it seems they've got the morality of the situation completely backward, a common situation among the faith fogged.
     Of course the pious third is against using fetuses for science. They're against both abortion and science. Religion was against adults donating their bodies to science after they die. They react with fresh indignant fury, counting on the general public to overlook that it's actually the same old indignant fury in a new box.
     Don't take the bait. This is a long-term struggle. Each generation fights it anew. It never stops for the same reason the spurned boyfriend can't just sign up at Match.com and move on with his life. A certain sort of person can't accept the independence and humanity of women. It is an affront to their sense of themselves and, of course, God.
     Thus our mothers had to fight for the right to hold their jobs. The idea of a woman being a doctor or a pilot was laughed off. Our great-grandmothers fought for the right to vote, battling the same band of faith-addled men.
     Not that we're alone. In Saudi Arabia, women can't drive. And we regard that with smug Western superiority: "Oh, these backward Muslim nations." Meanwhile, U.S. senators are tarring American women as whores who will unthinkingly murder their children and sell their mangled limbs to ghouls unless responsible men step in and stop them.
     Just as with the fuming boyfriend, lurking in the parking lot with a handgun, rational discussion has little value here. Powerful men are going to do what they feel compelled to do. Whatever dysfunction or repression formed their cramped outlook has already occurred, manifesting itself as this glittery-eyed religious zeal. These are babies. End of story. Reply, "Oh, you care about babies? Great. Because I have 10,000 babies who are already born and wards of the state who are going to end up in Dickensian foster care; why not help them with some of the money you're pouring into trying to drag American womanhood back to 1915?" Abortion foes will just look at you blankly.
     Because the issue isn't really babies. They talk babies, but there are no babies. It's about sex, or more accurately, gender, and about conjuring up notional babies to rule over real women, who are so busy enjoying the rights that their mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers won for them, they have a hard time focusing on the gang of right-wing Republican revanchists set on revoking those rights. The assumption is the Republicans can't do it. But they can. They're sure trying with all their might.

Happy birthday, U.S. Coast Guard

     Today is the 225th anniversary of the United States Coast Guard. Three years ago I noticed one of their powerful little speedboats cruising the Chicago River—or, rather, noticed the big ass machine gun at the back, and got curious as to what the Coast Guard does here. The resulting column is made more fun by an overly-cautious Coast Guard PR rep, who reminds us of a vital Communication Age truth: always know what's on your own web site:

     Chicago does not have a coast.

     It can't, in that a "coast," according to my dictionary, is "the border of land near the sea," and the city, despite its many glories, is not on the ocean.
     Though coastless, Chicago does, however, have a coast guard, a unit of the United States Coast Guard based at Station Calumet Harbor, whose job it is to patrol the Lake Michigan shoreline, as well as the Chicago River plus some 120 miles of connected rivers and waterways.

     A big job and, this being summer, with a job to do myself, I thought somebody ought to join the Coast Guard on one of its random lake patrols, to keep tabs on the situation.
     The Calumet station, a large white wooden structure built in 1933 has, well, their spokesman asked me not mention the exact number of sailors based here, in case al-Qaida is reading this. So let's just say too many to transport on a bus and too few to fill three (or, checking the official Calumet Station website, as a resourceful terrorist might, we could also state, as they do, that there are 42 active duty personnel and 32 reserves).
     They're well-armed—again, I was asked not to mention the exact weaponry but, again, it's all plain as day online, from the M240 machine guns mounted at the bow of their Defender speedboats, which you might sometimes notice patrolling the Chicago river, to the Sig Sauer .40 caliber automatics carried as sidearms (no big secret either, as lots of military personnel carry those).

   Of course, before al-Qaida could cause trouble at Station Calumet Harbor, they'd first have to find the place, which is a lot easier to do from the water—it's on Lake Michigan, naturally, just north of ComEd's State Line Generating Station. Coming from land, a least for the first time, you have to navigate through winding, largely abandoned streets, a confusing tangle to a North Sider, and something of a revelation: I would have bet money that there isn't an Avenue L in Chicago and I'd have lost. There is.
     Before patrol, a briefing. Petty Officer William Flores accesses risk—green, amber, red— and goes over weather, noting that, with the heat index, it could feel like 105.
      "It's going to be hot out," he says.
     The local Coast Guard has three main duties—to guard against terrorism, to conduct search and rescue of boaters in distress, and to encourage marine safety. Six sailors and I pile onto a 45 foot patrol boat—which the Coast Guard refers to, none-too-lyrically, as an "RBM," or "Response Boat-Medium." The boat is two years old, with a jet drive, which means it isn't pushed forward by anything as retro as propellers, but by twin 825 horsepower Detroit Diesel engines powering what amounts to a pair of jet engines—two Rolls Royce Waterjets that suck water out of the bottom and rocket it out the back. With a top speed of ... well, I'm not supposed to say that either, though the website says 40 knots. The thing can really clip along.
     The boat has all sorts of fun bells and whistles, such as an advanced FLIR thermal imaging and night-vision system, for finding people in the water. "I haven't actually found anyone with it yet, but it's a pretty good asset to have," says Flores, 24, who went to St. Pat's High School here and had to endure such hardship posts as Key West and Hawaii before getting himself transferred back to Chicago. "It's nice to get home," he says.
     Despite the fine weather, the lake off Calumet is oddly free of traffic. "I hope we can find some boats out here," says Petty Officer Tim Morley. We pass the harbor breakwall, source of regular business for the Coast Guard; about once a month a boater coming back from downtown manages to ram it. 

     "There are a lot of lights, and if you're not looking for them, you can be complacent and hit the breakwall," says Flores. "It's pretty damaging. Some people just don't see it."
     Finally, we have a catch. "We've got a boat up here, we'll do a boarding," says Flores. They do about 1,000 boardings a year.
     Unlike the movies, there are no stern warnings barked through megaphones, no radio contact. The two men aboard the Sundancer power boat "Almost Summer" don't seem to be fishing, just floating, watching the Coast Guard approach. Morley and Seaman David Durr hop aboard bearing paperwork.
     The two poke around, peer under cushions. The boat is found not to have a portable fire extinguisher, though it does have a fixed fire-suppression system—pull a handle, and it floods the engine compartment. Though that secondary extinguisher is important too.
     "He could have a fire in his berthing area and he'd be screwed," says Morley, later.
     "Almost Summer" is issued a warning and the Coast Guard moves on. "The biggest thing we make sure operating safely on the water and if not, educate them," says Morley.
     "Everyone strapped in?" asks Flores before gunning the RBM forward.
     "This is an awesome boat," says Morley.

                   —Originally published in the Chicago Sun-Times, July 18, 2012

Meet your 2016 Republican presidential candidates!

      Given my hobby as a connoisseur of really bad Republican candidates—I once wrote a prayer, begging God to allow milkman Jim Oberweis to run for office yet again, and it worked—I could not pass up the chance to handicap the field of Republican presidential hopefuls. Only 10 will be onstage at the first Republican debate in Cleveland this Thursday. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't examine them all while we can.
     Yes, more than a few are vanity campaigns. None are really gold-plated, first rate, Alan Keyes-quality awful. Well, maybe Bobby Jindal. Some campaigns won't live out the month, assuming they're alive now. But we've spent so much time gazing in jaw-flapping wonder at the bloviating bag of bombast that is Donald Trump, we're missing a chance to snicker into our hands at other GOP stalwarts who, each ridiculous in his (or, in one case, her) own special way. I can't say we'll miss them when they're gone, but at least we should glance at them as they flash by.
     In that spirit, I present to you the field of 2015 Republican presidential candidates, in order of likelihood of snagging the GOP nomination, from least to most. Drumroll please.   
  17. Bobby Jindal: No one seems to have told the governor of Louisiana that his national political career died in 2009 after his laughable, amateurish televised response to an Obama speech. The Hindu-turned-Catholic conservative makes headlines with occasional bursts of hate-speech nuttery. But his record in Louisiana is abysmal, and it follows him, quacking like a pull toy duck. Odds: 200 to 1.
     16. Jim Gilmore. You haven't heard of him at all because the former governor of Virginia filed his papers last Thursday. Obscure, late and parroting bromides, he flopped out of the gate and lays there, quivering. Odds: 150 to 1.
     15. George Pataki. Trump gets more press by pausing to tie his shoe than the three-term governor of New York has gotten since he threw his hat in the ring in late May. Socially liberal, he might appeal to mainstream voters if anybody ever heard anything about him. But they haven't and won't. Odds: 125 to 1.
     14. Carly Fiorina. She's a woman, which makes her outstanding in a party that spends a lot of time trying to cook up new ways to repress women that don't involve adopting sharia law. The former CEO of Hewlett-Packard also lacks any political experience whatsoever, a big plus among Republicans. Odds: 100 to 1.
     13. Ben Carson. Half of the electorate can't place his name, but he's slated to be one of the 10 on stage this week. An African-American neurosurgeon, his joke about gays finding poison in their wedding cakes is a reminder that a person can be black and yet a bigot. Odds: 90-to-1.
     12. Lindsay Graham. Until Donald Trump gave out his cell number, America didn't know the South Carolina Senator was running, and he used his moment in the spotlight to post a video of himself destroying his cell phone. Odds: 80 to 1.
     11. Chris Christie. Like Jindal, a walking political corpse. Abrasive personality would be burden enough, but, like Lord Jim, his not-so-secret shame dogs him. Either he knew about closing down the bridge at Fort Lee as political payback and is lying, or obliviously let his staff run amok, and really, which is worse? Odds: 75-to-1.
     10. Rick Santorum. Plug "Santorum" into Google and six of the seven hits are references to Dan Savage's wildly successful campaign to punish the former Pennsylvania senator for his brainless anti-gay comments. Odds: 70-to-1.
     9 . Mike Huckabee. Former Arkansas governor and Fox News host, this Baptist minister made a name for himself for his faith-blinded. folksy immorality, from claiming immediately after the slaughter at Sandy Hook Elementary that the culprit was a lack of prayer in schools to his recent jaw-dropping Holocaust imagery. Odds: 65-to-1.
     8. Rand Paul. The Kentucky senator's Libertarian worldview inspires a fanatical cadre of supporters, but everyone else just views him as strange. Odds: 60-to-1.
     7. John Kasich. Ohio's popular governor is considered dead in the water among Republicans for clinging to intelligent policy goals, such as providing a road to citizenship for illegal immigrants. Odds: 50 - to 1.
     6. Ted Cruz.  The senator from Texas established his reputation as a vicious, say-anything critic with a fondness for paralyzing government.  Camille Paglia nailed it when she called  Cruz a "smirkily condescending and ultimately juvenile" who gives her "the willies." Odds: 40-to-1.   
     5. Rick Perry. The former governor of Texas seems to have shaken off his "now-what-was-that-third-agency-I'd close?" gaffe of 2011, and fired back at Trump, calling him "a cancer on conservatism" when most GOP hopefuls were hiding the weeds. But he's still tone deaf: he challenged Trump to a pull-up contest, which really isn't a thing. Odds: 30 to 1.
     4. Marco Rubio. He's young, handsome and Hispanic. But actual Hispanics see him as Cuban, a member of a special protected political class. Plus he's a lightweight advocating policies 180 degrees against real immigrant interests. Maybe he'll have better luck in 2020. Odds: 15 to 1
     3. Donald Trump. Nothing more need be said. Not top pick only because God wouldn't do that to America. Would he? Odds: 8 to 1.
     2. Scott Walker. Wisconsin's Tailgunner Scott has made a career out of demonizing union members, an appealing strategy in Illinois, where government is being gutted by giveaways to unions. His slashing rhetoric excites big money donors like Joe Ricketts. Odds: 5-to-1.
     1. Jeb Bush. The former Florida governor is seen as the brains in the Bush family, which is like being the tasteful Kardashian. But his moderate policies, his reluctance to say the stupid things that other GOP hopefuls spout all day, and his Mexican born wife all speak well to his chances. When the smoke clears, he'll be the one who hasn't shot himself in the foot, twice. Odds: 2-1

     So that's it. You can cut this out and keep score Thursday.

The best ribs

      "These are the best ribs I've ever eaten in my life," my wife enthused.
      "These," I replied, "are the best ribs I've ever eaten in my life."
      My son took a bite.
      "These are the best ribs," he echoed, "I've ever eaten in my life."
      And then it struck me: Oh my God; we're agreeing about something. 

   We were sitting in the courtyard of Green Street Smoked Meats Friday evening, located, unsurprisingly, at 112 N. Green. None of us had ever been there before. I hadn't even heard of the place before that morning, when Ross suggested we have dinner at High Five Ramen, the tiny, trendy Japanese noodle bar in the basement of Green Street Smoked Meats. When I asked him how he knew about High Five, he answered, "Yelp."

    To get our ramen, however, we had to pass through GSSM, because its entrance is  tucked away there somewhere.  To find exactly where took a minute or two of exploration—clear signage is not a thing in the hip world—probing around the courtyard, until we found the line snaking downstairs in a corner of the cavernous bar. Thus we didn't get in line until 5:40 p.m. which meant, when the doors swung open at 6 p.m., we were 18th, 19th and 20th in line, and the wee soup shop only holds 17. So we became first on the list, and had 45 minutes or so to kill. An appetizer of ribs upstairs in the capacious, high-ceilinged Green Street Smoked Meats seemed called for (I knew better than to say what was on my mind—"Why not just eat here?"—since I knew the answer: "Because this is not the place where we must eat" for whatever unfathomable teenage reason prompted my son to want to eat there).  
     "What do you want?" I asked my amended family (the younger boy is eating his way across Spain).
     "Not pork ribs," my wife said. "I don't like pork ribs. Beef." 
     "Pork ribs," said Ross, always eager to contradict. A dilemma.       
     Luckily they were out of beef. So pork it was. I waited in line while they snagged a table in the courtyard, ordered a half pound, watched the guy slice off three, count 'em three ribs, and made an executive decision and went for a pound, which set me back $25.90, for six ribs. About four bucks apiece. 
     Quite a lot, really. Ouch, I thought, bearing the paper covered tray holding the precious cargo of swine flesh over to my family. 
     One bite made $25.90 seem a bargain. Not too fat, not too lean, not chewy, not soft, just tender and succulent and perfect. I loved the ribs. I loved the space, the yellow lights strung overhead, the big industrial doors, the odd large coat hooks on them, the crowd of 25-somethings pausing to swill beer, meeting up while meating up. It helped that the weather was perfect, the week, over. This was the hip, happening city I had always heard about.

High Five Ramen

    About 6:30 p.m. my son got a text, and we trooped down to High Five. I liked its little basement bar vibe, with toy skulls scattered around and driving ... well, music of some sort, too hip for me to have ever heard or be able to identify the genre. Fusion rap, perhaps. Frap.
     The ramen was deep and brown, with chewy, kinked noodles and slices of pork belly. I would have gotten full spice—just to prove I could—but the heavily tattooed man behind me in line assured me, after I quizzed him, it would be just as unpleasant as the menu suggests. ("There may be pain, suffering, sweating, discomfort and a creeping feeling of deep regret" is how the menu puts it). "Why not enjoy your meal?" he said. Made sense to me, and the guy really saved me—just goes to show that you shouldn't be reluctant to chat up a guy with tattoos on his neck— half spice is plenty spicy. 
     We slurped and chewed, faces toward our bowls. We all liked High Five, and its rich complicated flavors and broth. My wife wasn't enamored—the ramen is challenging stuff, not easy on the digestion—and said that while Ross and I were free to return, she wouldn't be leaping to join us next time.
     But Green Street Smoked Meats, on the other hand, we not only intended to go back to, we did go back, the very next day for lunch. We had to go to Union Station to pick up a St. Louis cousin in for the weekend, and went back with her for lunch—my wife's idea. "I have to try that potato salad," she said, with a gleam in her eye, like it was something really important that needed to be taken care of, right away. Our country cousin confirmed our suspicions, raving about her pulled pork sandwich, and said when she goes back to school at Alabama she'll tell the Crimson Tiders that she has seen the light. "They think they have barbecue, at tail-gaters," she said. "But this is barbecue."
      The potato salad, by the way, was great. Although for $4.95 for a small paper trough, it had better be.
      Both Green Street Smoked Meats and High Five are the handiwork of Brendon Sodikoff, the young restauranteur genius behind Gilt Bar and the paradise that is Doughnut Vault. The man really knows his stuff. A great restaurant needs great food, great service and great ambience, and Green Street Smoked Meats has all that, while putting off a relaxed, pure aesthetic—not contrived, not arch, just comfortable and fun. Suddenly Chicago expanded, and we had a new home in the West Loop. We sat for a long time, lingering, after finishing our meal. "I just like being here," my wife said. "I don't want to leave." Eventually we did. But we'll be back, soon. We still have to try the beef ribs.

Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

     I've been doing the Saturday fun activity for well over a year, but this one is a first. No, not for where it is or what this lattice of tubes and wires represents. But because of who sent it it: my esteemed Chicago journalist, friend and former colleague, Mark Konkol.
      So where is this strange construction? The winner will get one of my sure-to-be-a-rare-and-valuable-collectible-unless-it-isn't 2015 blog posters. Place your guesses below. Good luck, and if anybody else wants to send in potential Saturday fun activity photos, please do. If I select yours, you'll receive a blog poster too.