Dec. 7, 1941 and 2020: days that will live in infamy

     “December 7th, 1941,” President Franklin Delano Roosevelt told an emergency session of Congress, “a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
     The date lives in infamy, still. At least among older Americans, who not only know what happened but will complain if a newspaper lets what has turned into a somber if minor patriotic holiday — think Arbor Day for burnt trees — pass without mention of the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor that drew America into World War II.
     Consider it mentioned. What’s next?
     We might ask why the attack is memorable, you know, for the kiddies, who just joined us and might only be vaguely aware there was a World War II and that we fought ... somebody.
     The day lives in infamy because the surprise attack was carried out even while negotiations continued to work out our differences in a peaceful manner.
     Why do we remember? Well, 2,400 Americans were killed that day. The death of Americans demands our attention.
     Or did.
     Now, I’m not so sure.
     Monday, Dec. 7, 2020, is a day that will not live in infamy. But maybe it should. Because 2,400 Americans, or more, will die today. About the same number died yesterday and will die tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

To continue reading, click here.

Out on the town

  

     Since we were both on vacation, but hadn't gone anywhere, my wife and I thought it would be fun to drive somewhere a week ago Saturday, and she suggested a trip to River Grove  to go to Gene & Jude's for lunch. I had been there a couple of years ago, and she hadn't.  It would be our first visit to a restaurant since our anniversary at Gene & Georgetti Sept. 3. It seems we're working up a culinary "Gene" leitmotif. 

     Of course we wouldn't eat inside. We'd eat in the car.
     I briefly contemplated bringing ketchup—they don't serve ketchup; their fries are that good—but. had gotten by the first time without it and, frankly, it seemed a matter of respect. Bringing ketchup to Gene & Jude's would be like bringing bacon into a Kosher home where you're a house guest, to fill out breakfast. No.
     The line wasn't terrible, and everyone wore masks, and social distanced. Only 10 people at a time allowed inside. There was one twist—cash only—and before we left we searched around for folding money, which we hadn't had use for in months. I almost said I hadn't touched any in six months, but earlier I was shopping at Sunset Foods, and checked the receipt a pair of bags of Pete's Coffee that were supposedly on sale—sometimes they neglect to ring up the sales claimed on the shelves—saw they had charged me $10.99 a bag instead of the $8.99 a bad that had enticed me to stock up. I marched back and they gave me the four singles, and change, and I gratefully tucked them away thinking, "Next time I'm in the city I'll have money for beggars." The last couple times I was there, when the libraries were still open, it was frustrating not to have anything for mendicants, who are truly suffering in the depopulated downtown.
     So I paid for our hot dog, french fries, corn tamales and small Cokes, the unaccustomed cash transaction, and knew in my heart that money is going away. Currency, I mean. Five years from now spending money will be like hearing an actual violin being played—still possible, but something that just doesn't happen very often.

     I noticed that the trip contained a series of small mishaps—I was so busy talking I missed the turn off on 294 and had to circle around on 290. Delivering the meal to the car I managed to flip over a Coke, which resulted in much sluicing and blotting as our meal cooled. I had trouble navigating to Schiller Park, almost directly across the street from Gene & Jude's for our post-lunch stroll. And I realized that I had fallen out of practice of leaving the house and going places, of getting in the car and driving to a destination. One drawback of being homebound all these months. It's premature to look ahead to spring and the end, please God, of lockdown. But I have a prediction worth salting away. When society does finally open up, and it's time to plunge back out into Life and Living, Going Places and Doing Things, at the joyous moment of release, the impulse outward and forward, there will be a countervailing backwash, a pause, a riptide, a vertigo. Longtime prisoners miss jail, often, at least at first. Because security and routine were there. Habit is a stern taskmaster, and does not release you easily. Expect a little fear, a little hesitation, a little adjustment. Or a lot. Then go anyway. You'll get used to it again.

Texas notes: Homage

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     EGD Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey finds the upside of our current perilous state. Make sure you watch the spoken word performance at the end by Kae Tempest—who changed her name from "Kate" since the video was made.     

 

    “Morning has broken, beautiful morning!” I sang, greeting my first client of the day.

     “This morning sure is broken,” she replied, laughing. 

      As a psychotherapist entering these long, dark days along with my clients I cannot pretend to be unscathed. That includes breaking into song when I must. This is the first global disaster I’ve lived through. Pandemic was never on my radar as one of the things I’d be counseling others through while living it too.
     Sometimes when we hang up the phone or end the Zoom session, I sit with a huge smile on my face, thinking “I love this job.” It is an honor and a privilege to be a trusted confidante, and it’s fun too. I sit with others who are sorting through their lives—finding value and meaning in themselves and discovering their purpose. The relationships usually start slowly and take time to build. Inevitably each and every person becomes interesting. They are puzzles. We are like snowflakes, truly. As much as we are alike, our stories and collections of experiences are unique and special.
     Have you ever looked at someone you know well and felt you were seeing them for the first time? When your guard is down it’s easier to see others for the complex, sometimes unknowable people they are, rather than who you’ve decided they are. Rather than who you want them to be, or think you need them to be.

     Active listening is an art. It should be taught in schools. Take the words “me” and “I” out of a conversation and see what happens. Listen deeply without jumping in to share a thought or opinion, without planning the next thing to say in your mind. Stay curious. Allow for periods of silence. It’s a very intimate thing. Giving someone space to be themselves in the company of another person may be the best cure for loneliness out there.
     Albert Einstein has been quoted to say a lot about the power of solitude in nurturing a creative mind. He challenged his readers to consider, in essence: “Who are you when you are alone in a room? No books, or distractions. Just you, alone, nothing to do.” 

     When I was a new meditator, I discovered this concept, and so it made sense. After losing the fine tuning of this practice over the years, the COVID slow down and forced alone time has allowed me to get back to the core of myself.
     Nurturing solitude and staying centered enables me to listen more deeply. These days I remind myself: “silence is good. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do. Be here now.” I turn the radio off and write or read. I turn Netflix on less and walk more. I listen to music and dance, alone. I remind myself to breathe.  

     This season give yourself the gift of being still. Sit with yourself.  Reach out for help when you need it. Turn the phone off for a little bit. Give those around you the gift of active listening. You are sure to find out many things about them that you do not know. You will see them as beautiful kaleidoscopes with limitless facets. Even a troublesome time is still the backdrop to our precious, irreplaceable lives.

Was that a pivotal historical moment
We just went stumbling past?
Here we are
Dancing in the rumbling dark
So come a little closer
Give me something to grasp
Give me your beautiful, crumbling heart.
                    —Kae Tempest

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpy9OGVFJ1I

Attachments area

Preview YouTube video Kate Tempest - People's Faces - 7/16/2019 - Paste Studios - New York, NY

Kate Tempest - People's Faces - 7/16/2019 - Paste Studios - New York, NY

Freeze your credit reports? Easier said than done.

     You may have read Monday’s column about how the state of Illinois notified me I was about to receive unemployment assistance I hadn’t applied for and aren’t entitled to, being one of those lucky ducks who still has a job. (In newspapering; go figure. That’s like computer programmers getting laid off while lacemakers get promoted.)
     Everyone offered the same one-size-fits-all advice: Freeze your credit with the three credit agencies, Equifax, TransUnion and Experian.
     I was hesitant. “Freeze your credit report” struck me as one of those directives, like “take the hajj to Mecca” far easier to suggest than to do.
     Reader, I went on the Equifax website. Maybe I was still in shock, but filling out the form didn’t work. I had to join first. So I joined, then gave up, applying my general unplug/reboot/wait philosophy so effective when coping with technology.
     A few days later I tried again. Clicked on Equifax, then on the snowflake. (Get it? A freeze.) Soon, was busily sharing the information whose dissemination got me in trouble in the first place.
     Forms to fill out, all the while batting away offers to put myself on the hook for additional services I neither want nor need. Freezing credit is like renting a car. You just want the car, but they want to sell you redundant insurance and a complicated gasoline program. Even if you’re vigilant, you might end up with an unnecessary baby seat costing $4.95 a day. But a steady and emphatic “no, no, no” usually works.

To continue reading, click here.

Losey McLoser, the losingest loser in Loserville, gripes about his loss

     Media is plural. The proper form is "the media are..." 
     Okay, "media" can also be singular. "The media sucks," not "The media suck." But work with me here.
     Being plural, generally, better reflects the baseline reality of the situation: there are many media: newspapers and web sites, TV stations and cable networks, magazines and radio programs. The media isn't—whoops, aren't—one thing, nor do their separate elements work in lockstep. The media are not a school of herring. They don't move in coordination. Those who say, "The media do this...." are usually really complaining about CNN, or the New York Times, or a tiny sliver of the vast, coral-like media. 

     So I'm a little reluctant to address the media as a whole, even as a compliment. That said, the media seems to at long last, finally, and almost too late, have gotten the hang of reporting on the monstrosity of Donald Trump. You can't ignore him. The man's the president, for another ... 47 days.
     But you can't give him the constant, wall-to-wall, 24-hours-a-day, suck-the-air-out-of-the-room attention he pathologically demands either.  Because he lost, and is being eased out the door, please God.

     Until then, the media must give him the context he deserves: increasingly superfluous, shoved to the side, repeating the same old stale lies, vomiting a septic stream of delusion and fabrication to whoever falls for that kind of thing. Well, 70 million plus Americans. Quite a lot, really.
     Thus it was only on the free-fire zone of Twitter that I noticed Trump's 46-minute rant Wednesday, or at least the 2 minutes and 12 seconds he repeated to his 88 million followers. Just 132 seconds of empty bombast, and I assume the other 44 minutes is even worse. 

     As is common with Trump, it was both shocking and more of the same.
     Still, I retweeted it, adding my own commentary. "Pathetic." It seemed something for people to see. Look at this shit.
     I should have added "reprehensible." The truly horrible part is that, according to reports from those within the White House, Trump knows he lost. He knows he's going. This entire fraud is about squeezing money out of the credulous, medieval serfs who support him. Building a slush fund for him to glide out office on, toward his next shams and scams. And I suppose to salve his ego, which can't accept loss. He did the same thing in 2016, preparing to lose to Hillary Clinton, until cruel fate, James Comey and bone-deep, baked in sexism waved him into the White House.
     I said before that I didn't care what happens to Trump, but I've changed my mind.
     I hope the iron grip of justice awaits him. I hope he goes to prison, that Supermax prison in Colorado, or else in a special Spandeau-like prison built just for him, on the moon like Lex Luthor, to make sure he never escapes back to the planet he ravaged. Him and his whole leering frat boy plus Barbie family, his self-pardon tossed out for the grotesque abuse it surely must be.
     Ignoring him is good, and generally the right thing to do. Thirty-one hundred Americans died of COVID Wednesday. We have real problems to address and he is only standing in the way.
     But it should never be a polite silence. Every day is a good day to remember that Donald Trump is a traitor and coward, a self-dealing liar and utter fraud, who is doing what he can to ruin the federal government even as he is being muscled out the door. There's no harm in reminding ourselves that, because there are people who still support him, though it seems, just from the volume, that the distant thud of reality is finally starting to register through the dim haze of their blown-out senses.

Welcome Rahm and Carol back to the federal government

Two Fools Dancing, by Hendrick Hondius (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Though president-elect Joe Biden is staffing his cabinet with top-notch experts, a note of alarm has popped up. Readers are tugging my sleeve: Do I know that Carol Moseley Braun is being considered for secretary of the interior? Do I know that Rahm Emanuel is in the running for secretary of transportation?
     Yes and yes. But remember: Their names are being floated by themselves. Rahm Emanuel is a Nijinsky of self-promotion; leaping, twirling, shape-shifting ambition in human form. White House advisor. Congressman. Mayor. Cable TV pundit. Be honest: If you saw a news report on the Vatican, and spied, tucked behind Pope Francis, Rahm Emanuel in red robes and a skullcap, leaning over, murmuring a few velvety words into the pontiff’s ear, would you be surprised? I sure wouldn’t. He’s that kind of guy.
     And Carol Moseley Braun she’s ... well ... she’s just sad, isn’t she? Having been elected the the first African American female in the United States Senate, she immediately punted that job by canoodling with a dictator’s son and neglecting such essential duties as showing up for work.
     And what was her job after that? Ambassador to New Zealand. Is there an employment that reeks of pity mingled with let’s-ship-this-person-to-the-other-side-of-the-globe more than ambassador to New Zealand? Wellington is 8,750 miles from Washington. A 30-hour flight. She found her way back, dabbling in several stillborn businesses. A pecan farm. Some kind of tea, which I had the chance to try: both bitter and weak. That’s why I don’t write fiction.
     Ready for a shock? I’m fine with both getting Cabinet positions.

To continue reading, click here.

Anniversary

     Most Jews in the Holocaust went to their deaths without resistance. They didn't fight. They did what they were told, and were killed. They weren't angels or martyrs, but regular people with all the excellences and flaws that regular people have. There was only one Anne Frank. It was a gigantic, mind-boggling, irredeemable tragedy that, people being people, we nevertheless keep trying to grasp and redeem. Maybe that's natural.

    Over the span of my lifetime, it seems like it's only gotten worse. Not the Holocaust; the sugarcoating. We've began remembering the enormity of the thing, with the isolated instances of resistance serving as tiny moments of relief. Then gradually the horror faded, crowded out by the relief, which almost took over. It became a kind of ennobling story, an entertainment, which it shouldn't be. 
    I point this out as prelude, having read a piece in today's Tribune to mark the 62nd anniversary of the Our Lady of the Angels school fire, an inferno that killed 92 students and three nuns. To be fair, "Then & Now" isn't really intended to recapitulate the events of the fire, but to update what the order of nuns are doing now. That's interesting, and I have no complaint, as far as that goes. I like nuns. The Catholic church does much good that should be recounted.
    My bone of contention is the complete gloss the fire itself is given. The first fact we learn is that it was "a tragedy that revolutionized fire codes around the world." Pretty to think so. Chicago already had fire codes at the time of the fire. The school was just allowed to ignore them.

     Then we learn of the heroic rescue efforts of three nuns, capped by Sister Helaine O’Neill, "who literally used her body as a human bridge for children to climb across over a flaming stairwell." Saints have been beatified for less.
     Maybe that happened. David Cowan and John Kuenster don't tell that story in their definitive book, "To Sleep With the Angels: The Story of a Fire." But maybe they missed it. I wasn't there, so I can't say.

    There are other stories, of nuns ordering their students to sit, students who might have escaped but didn't. Of the desperate efforts of parents to get to their dying children. We don't get those. We don't get anything else. Fire codes revolutionized and nuns heroic. Period.  End of story.

     That's wrong. A deformation of history. An offense, a crime of forgetting committed again the horrors of the past, against those who suffered from those horrors. Two-thirds of the students who survived the Our Lady of the Angels fire were boys. Ponder that for a moment. Many of the younger students were found by the windows, where the older ones had trampled them. This is not to single out any particular faith, though I know some readers will take it that way, because it's easier to play the victim than to think. All creeds panic in a fire. There is nothing inspirational or pretty about it. As the years go by, and journalistic standards are replaced with an ill-considered tendency toward entertainment and pat tales of inspiration. Maybe that's what happens when a hedge fund buys your paper; journalism falls away and we are left with distortion and propaganda. We all need to guard against that.