How to unfreeze a cheesecake

      "Ross is making us cheesecake," my daughter-in-law announced bright and early Saturday, as the snow gently fell. "The breakfast of champions."
     "It sure is in this house," I said, approvingly. 
     My older son is a gourmand — he not only notches Michelin stars on his belt like an astronomer surveying the skies on a clear night, but also cooks and bakes. One visit he whipped up a croquembouche, which I couldn't pronounce, never mind conceive of preparing — though I ate some easily enough.
     Not that he was "making cheesecake" in the sense of combining ingredients in a bowl and baking a cheesecake. That would be crazy, particularly when the superlative cheesecake in the world, Eli's, was waiting in the freezer, ready to be roused from frozen slumber. I noted, with concern, that he chose to breathe life into their pair of slices — one classic, one mixed berry —through the wonder of microwave technology.
     Now microwaving is fine for, say, heating up yesterday's coffee. I did so this morning. But, as a semi-official representative of the Eli's Cheesecake Company — their 13th season of advertising on this blog began last week — I must express disapproval of the idea of thawing a cheesecake by microwave. The box instructs patrons lucky enough to find themselves in possession of an Eli's cheesecake to thaw it by either allowing the cake to sit in the refrigerator overnight, or by placing it at room temperature for three hours.
    Strategies which posed insurmountable problems to a person, such as myself, who, inspired by the notion of cheesecake for breakfast, wanted cool and delicious Eli's cheesecake now. Not in three hours. And especially not tomorrow morning.
     So I decided, against my better judgment, to experiment with the microwave method. My wife suggested the gradual approach. I put it for just 10 seconds. There was still frost on top. Another 10, and it seemed frozen. A third 10 seconds, which had to be sufficient.
     I set it out with a cup of hot coffee. The tip was warm — not the ideal cheesecake experience. But the whole thing was not ruined — most was cold, though parts were still frozen. I still ate the slice in short order.
     I would be ashamed, as a semi-official representative of Eli's, to admit this folly on my part. But I'm sharing it because I believe it speaks to an important truth. Two important truths, in fact. 

     First, most everything good in life requires planning. You, reading this, probably cannot eat some cheesecake right now, no matter how much you want to, because you haven't any in your freezer, despite years of reading this blog and having the centrality of cheesecake to a life well-lived drilled into you. No shame there ... well, not too much shame ... okay, some shame because, really, aren't you paying attention at all? 
    No harm though — your current cheesecakelessness can be easily remedied by clicking on the Eli's web site and ordering one, or several, right now, whisked to your house through the wonder of dry ice technology. There isn't much you can do to fix the world right now. But you can have a slice of cheesecake. It'll help. Trust me on that.
     But even if, like me, your freezer is well-stocked with Eli's, a second factor comes into play: Don't do things half-assed. Be patient. Do it right. A slice of classic Eli's cheesecake is a superlative sensual experience. One doesn't rush it. Screw microwaves. Wait. Be patient. Let it properly thaw, in the refrigerator overnight or, in a hurry, with three hours on the counter. What's your rush, bub? You'll be dead and forgotten soon enough. As will I, as will everybody. 
     But we are alive, right now, given a fleeting opportunity to live our lives to the fullest, and part of that is indulging in cheesecake for breakfast. 
     As part penance, part celebration, I removed a second superlative slice of classic Eli's cheesecake and put it in the refrigerator. There it thawed gradually, as God intended. Sunday morning I first spent a delightful 20 minutes singing and talking to the baby, then patted my column into shape, then rewarded myself by padding down to the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator. There was the slice of Eli's classic cheesecake, smiling right at me. I grabbed a fork. Mmmm, let's just say, worth the wait.

    

'The worst of the worst'

"Public Notice 3," by Jitish Kallat (Art Institute of Chicago)

      This is the Golden Age of Stupidity. Or is it the Renaissance of Ruthlessness? The Heyday of Hypocrisy? No reason it can't be all three, with an unhinged, jabbering dupe of a president, served by a growing army of craven underlings, hand-picked for their servility. Unfettered by the counterbalances and restraints the Founders intended to keep a president in check. Having himself fomented the worst act of rebellion since the Civil War, he dares fling out the word "treason" like spittle off the lips of someone having a seizure. Just one drop of venality in a continual downpour.
    No matter. It's still good to say it, loudly and clearly, from time to time. Not because doing so represents anything new. Or does any good, except remind ourselves that, no matter how accepted it has become to many, despite the silent chorus of shrugs, this is all still unacceptable. Still very wrong. This is a continuing, grotesque abuse and departure from cherished American norms. Not just another Tuesday.

     Particularly the ICE kidnappings — less prominent in Chicago the past few weeks, true, but still growing, as more masked thugs are hired, more detention camps built. Lives are being upended, parents torn from children, hard-working immigrants exiled even as they try to follow the law. 
     Yes, as the months grind on, it becomes difficult — first because one has to wonder, "What is the point?" — to find new ways to convey the venality, the gaslighting, the cruelty, the hypocrisy, the lies, the incompetence, the self-dealing, the corruption.
     Not that I am alone here. I'm blessed with smart, well-spoken readers, in the main. Yes, there are the denizens of the spam folder, vomiting back whatever Fox News told them last night — they care very much about the letter of the law, when it comes to immigrants, but when you wonder why that love of legality doesn't translate to their beloved leader's constant, blatant criminality, they flutter away. I spend little time reading their outpouring, less reacting to it, though occasionally I'll toss out a canned, "The scorn of traitors is praise to a patriot" or "It might come as a shock, but the low opinion of a dupe in thrall to a traitor doesn't carry the sting you seem to imagine it might."
     But the bulk reflects the unease, pain, despair, insight of intelligent people confronting a nation gone mad. One cogent blog reader left this comment, anonymously, and in case you missed it, I want to highlight it today, because it has truth and brevity:

I don’t really know the ‘crime’ business…but, I’m guessing that anyone who is good at it … you know, the worst of the worst … they’re probably not out mowing lawns or shoveling show. I don’t know…it’s just a guess.

     That's it, right? No more need be said. Today anyway. As for tomorrow...

Flashback 2012: This Christmas, give the gift of jerky

 ;

   My brother and I drove to the Upper Peninsula in early October, as usual. And, per tradition, stopped at Held's in Slinger, Wisconsin to load up on their magnificent jerky. And yes, I noted, with approval, this column, framed, and smiled thinking of the time I drove up with my pal Rory, and he tried to explain to the guy in an apron behind the counter that this jammoke standing next to himwas the self-same author of that very column. Which of course could not be conveyed, no matter how hard he tried, since the media is produced by some malign secret force laboring far, far away, not by anybody who might be standing here, in Slinger's, before the cases stuffed with sausage and bacon and jerky. 

     Friday is the day that our holiday buying frenzy traditionally begins . . . well, it used to be Friday. Now it seems Black Friday has become unhinged from its usual location on the calendar and is wandering back in time, to Thanksgiving and beyond, on its way towards Veterans Day, heading toward some dystopia of continual shopping.
     Horror. If you’re like me, it’s hard enough to shop in an empty store, with a clerk smiling at you expectantly while you browse undisturbed. The prospect of plunging into some sea-of-humanity chaos, fighting to snag $50 off a vacuum cleaner, is unimaginable. But hard times make for hard choices, and I don’t want to pooh-pooh anybody motivated to save money on a big purchase. You do what you must, and if you’re dabbing the scratches on your face with iodine, I don’t want to compound your discomfort by snickering in the background. Nice off-brand home theater sub-woofer system. Use it, as my mother would say, in the best of health.
     For those of us squeaking by, however, holiday shopping is not so much about getting an even bigger flat-screen as finding the obligatory love token to serve up to our significant other to prove that, despite everything, our passion has not eroded over the years but remains as bright and fierce as ever, as proven by this . . . um . . . ah . . . nicely wrapped . . .
     That’s the rub, isn’t it? Each person has his or her own set of expectations and desires, and your job, as a conscientious loved one, is to somehow figure them out, Carnac the Magnificent-like. I’ve written before that gift-giving is really a yearlong job, 12 months of constant attention, of careful observation, waiting for the small pout, that “Oh I really shouldn’t,” sigh as she sets it reluctantly back on the shelf, then noting the exact type/size/brand, rushing back to snap it up and tuck it away.
     Not that it’s always that easy. Last year, my wife admired a certain smart, black, wool, winter jacket at Macy’s. Very French, very ooh-la-la. But the price — whatever it was, a couple hundred dollars — was far too expensive compared to the minimal Kohl’s and T.J. Maxx double digit prices she’d trained herself to spend on just about everything.
     As she stepped away, I grabbed the coat, feverishly studied the label like a secret agent memorizing a code, then tripped off after her.
     It took me a day or two to get back to Macy’s. And in the meantime — and this will sound like comic exaggeration — they got in a massive shipment of smart, black, women’s wool coats. The floor was filled with them, rack after rack. I stood there, mouth agape, at this expanse of coats, then plunged in, like one of those thriller movies when the detective is chasing a porter who disappears into a mob of porters on a train station platform, and the private eye grabs each by the shoulder, spinning him around, gazing at each face while other porters, hunched, push past.
     Eventually — and I think it took the better part of an hour — I found what I thought was the right coat and had it boxed and wrapped and hidden away. Of course it wasn’t the right coat — or my wife just changed her mind, the prerogative of beautiful women, true, but a disappointment nonetheless.
     You want something desired but hard-to-find, needed but not bought already.
     The only gift suggestion I have this year — and I suppose this is more for guys than gals — is beef jerky. Not the standard gift, I grant you. But I keep thinking about this place, Held’s, in Slinger, Wisconsin. For the past few years, driving up 41 to Lake Superior, we’ve stopped by their hard-to-miss store — the company is family owned since 1886 — and bought a big chunk for the weekend. A pound of this stuff looks like something that slipped out of Rooster Cogburn’s saddle bag, deep brown on the outside, reddish brown inside. It comes in regular, spicy, teriyaki, barbecue, black pepper, hot Jamaican; $17.75 a pound.
     “It tastes like a burned-down house,” said a friend, summarizing it perfectly.
     “It tastes like tree bark,” said my son, who at 15 lacks the well-practiced determination needed to chew through the stuff, though if you slice it thin enough, it’s quite good.
     When I was there last, a slip of paper said the jerky is available for mail order, and I thought, “The perfect Christmas gift.” Some tiny part of us all wishes we could take a break from the routine and responsibility of living in the Chicago metroplex, to escape to the comfortable flannel freedom of Wisconsin, to don antlers and caper in forest clearings at midnight, howling at the moon, as Badger staters are known to do. Beef jerky from Held’s seems a way to approximate that.
     Anyway, the website is heldsmarket.com, or call (262) 644-5135. Though do exercise discretion. I thought of buying a hunk of jerky for my wife but realized that would be more unwelcome than nothing, and I’d have trouble returning it. Good luck, and if jerky doesn’t work, my suggestion is: Don’t procrastinate. Figure it out now, because it’ll only get more difficult and expensive, as life tends to do.
     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 23, 2012

Home

     "Home," Robert Frost once wrote, "is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
     From his heartbreaking "The Death of the Hired Man," a short story, really, a farm couple sitting on the front porch, talking about Silas, the ne'er-do-well who works for them, sometimes. A refutation to all those who dismiss Frost as a greeting card poet of snowy evenings and yellow woods. (Along with "Out, Out—" a poem about a boy who feeds his hand into a buzz saw — though the saw practically grabs it, after the boy is called to supper, "As if to prove saws knew what supper meant/Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—")
     Dire things — and poems I've addressed before — at cross purpose with my holiday mood. There are of course happier interpretations of "home." It is the place where you walk in, drop your bags, and — even after an absence of seven months and the arrival of big changes — still immediately stick your head into the refrigerator to see what there is good to eat. Even with a freshly baked cranberry bread waiting on the counter. A ritual of familiarity, and comfort. Things change. But at home — another definition — the grinding gears of time are thwarted, for now. The familiar brands in the refrigerator. The old crib you slept in, a gorgeous rich blue, bought in the city at Lazar's, now magically returned from its sojourn with other relatives. Set up in your old bedroom, under the chess trophies, fitted with fresh sheets, ready for a new generation, home also being the place where you grow up.

"My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd...."

     Say it along with me:

     "My name is Elmer J. Fudd. I am a millionaire. I own a mansion, and a yacht."

     If you are of a certain age, you easily remember those lines from "Hare Brush," the  Merry Melodies cartoon where our bald-headed, shotgun-wielding nincompoop is morphed into a corporate CEO (not that the two conditions are mutually exclusive; remember Dick Cheney) who thinks he's a rabbit. A psychiatrist becomes involved, and a dazed Bugs Bunny ends up repeating those declarations over and over. It's the rare, perhaps unique Bugs cartoon where Elmer is victorious at the end.

     Words ground into us on countless Saturday mornings, sprawled in feet pajamas before our black and white television sets.

     It's an odd brain worm to have, in these times when inflation has made nearly meaningless the coveted 19th century benchmark of "millionaire" — 8 percent of the country are millionaires — while the truly wealthy continually shame themselves by their grasping for even more power and their displays of oblivious self-regard. But these are odd times.

     "My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd..."

     With that line tickling my ear, I regularly check my 401(k). I used to ignore it for weeks at a time. Now I look every day, sometimes more than once a day, rooting it on toward the empyrean.

      Not without a few speed bumps. A week ago Monday, the words echoing in my head, I logged on, or tried to.

     "My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd ... I am ... a millionaire..."

     Instead of the latest update, I got this message:

   
     What the heck is Cloudflare? No idea? And when had I blocked it? I didn't recall. I asked AI what I should do to unblock Cloudflare, and it told me to start wiping out caches and eliminating cookies. I'd just done that, a few weeks earlier, trying to correct some other unwelcome situation, and it's a pain in the ass. You have to sign into stuff all over again.

     Instead I deployed one of my special magic strategies that often work with computers and everything else. I waited. And was rewarded by catching a news report on the radio that mentioned Cloudflare, some huge server system the specifics of which elude me, was down, sending ripples. It wasn't just me. Which is always a comfort. Indeed, as I went about getting my column ready, fact-checking and such, I got several of these messages:

     Now that, if I may, is a useful graphic, in that it tells me what is working —me —what is not working —them — and what I should do: wait. Which I knew to do anyway. Kudos to whoever came up with that one. A human, certainly. 
     Eventually I got into my 401(k), and had my traditional morning lick-lipping glance at the room of pillows I plan to flop into midway through 2027. Tuesday we crossed the Rubicon.  And Elmer's voice whispered once again, tauntingly, in my ear.

Flashback 2000: Building model ships is a lost art

     The boys will be home, tonight, if the travel gods smile upon them. First time in, well, quite a while. Plus two daughters-in-law and a grandbaby. Quite the full house. Which I take as a compliment —nobody forces them back. They arrive of their own free will. I think having had a pleasant childhood helped, evidence to the contrary, such as this 25-year-old column, notwithstanding. 

     I am building a model ship. This will come as a shock to my friends, who know me as one of those relentless grinds who work and work and work and, as a break, gets together with co-workers to talk about work.
     I don't know where the ship came from. A Lindberg 1/64-scale model of a U.S. Navy Torpedo Patrol Boat, still in its shrink wrap. With the commotion of packing for our move, it must have been dislodged from whatever shelf or box where it has hidden for years. The copyright on the model box is 1976.

     My oldest son noticed the thrilling painting on the box of the PT boat bursting through a wave as its machine gunner trades bursts with a Japanese fighter.
     "What's this?" he said. I told him. "Can we build it?" he asked.
     As a young man I was terrible at models. I haven't the patience. The glue got everywhere. I didn't read the instructions right.
     But the prime directive I try to follow when struggling through dadhood is this: Don't say no unless you have to. As unappealing as the idea of assembling this craft was, as hectic as things are, as certain as I am that the boys will destroy the model the instant it is complete, if not before, the fact is, we could do it. I said yes.
     We spread out newspaper on the dining room table. I opened the wrap on the box. I lifted the lid. I looked inside.
     Ayiiieeee! A million tiny pieces. I considered slamming the top back down, leaping up with a "Whoops boys, no boat inside" and rushing it to the trash. But I saw the expectant look on their faces. I grimly began sifting through tree after tree of plastic parts.
     Instruction one began: "Place motor 55 onto mount 56 then flatten pins with pliers as shown in sketch. Next cement and press pulley halves 12 onto motor shaft and propeller shafts 46 as shown in photo. . ."
     A few years ago, I was at the New York Toy Fair and, filled with nostalgic memories of model planes and boats, I slid over to the Revell-Monogram showroom, where I learned that models such as this one, boxes of parts that have to be meticulously glued together over hours and hours, have gone the way of the realistic toy gun. Kids no longer have the time for them. Revell-Monogram's new line of "Snap-Tite" models could be put together in about 60 seconds, without glue or paint.
     Model-building, as a child's pastime, is a fading art.
     "We get a few kids," said Gus Kaufman, co-owner of the Ship's Chandler, a Mount Prospect store devoted to model ships. "But mostly it's the older generation."
     He said when he started, in the 1970s, models were popular among the young. Then they discovered computers.
     "When it comes to using their hands now it seems they're all thumbs," he said. "Nobody wants to take the time to build something. That takes too much effort. They've got to think."
     Do they ever. Some of these instructions are as cryptic as Mayan hieroglyphics.
     Progress is maddeningly slow. Every blower, every cleat has to be glued onto the deck. The cleats are 1/4-inch long. I try to involve the boys — it's their job to pry the pieces off their trees, to dab the glue on, to hold the piece so it sets, to scramble to the floor to find the tiny hatch cover that daddy drops.
     We've been building it for a week now, and I've spent long, agonizing minutes, squinting at some oddly phrased directive, the boys gazing at me with sagging admiration.
     But they keep gazing. And I do not give up the ship. Each day, it slowly progresses. Which is the entire point of these things. A 1/64 scale model of a PT boat will not help either them or me, in and of itself. The memory of having built one, however, the dogged determination and patience needed to not do a botch job, is priceless.

      — Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 11, 2000

Dolton mom forced to give birth at the side of the road, symptom of broken health care system

Alena Ariel Wells

     Both my boys were born in Evanston. Which at the time seemed wrong, since we lived in the city.
     "Why Evanston?" I asked my wife. I worried it would dog them, a nagging footnote. They wouldn't be "born in Chicago" but "born in Evanston." Not quite the same ring to it, right?
     Plus: Evanston Hospital was half an hour away. Northwestern Memorial, less than 10 minutes down DuSable Lake Shore Drive from our place at Pine Grove and Oakdale.
     "My OB/GYN is at Evanston Hospital," she said, with finality.
     End of conversation. Go where the best care is. Evanston gave us the red carpet treatment — when we showed up at the emergency room, nurses came running. Then again, my wife made her entrance in an unusual fashion. Or as I explained afterward: "If you want to get immediate help at an emergency room, crawl in on your hands and knees. It focuses their attention wonderfully."
     Unless it doesn't. Such as with Mercedes Wells, the Dolton woman who was met with "blank stares" and turned away from Franciscan Health Crown Point even though she was in active labor.
     "I felt like they were treating me like an animal," Wells later said.
     She gave birth eight minutes after Franciscan put her on the curb. In the cab of a pickup truck. On the side of the road.
     As awful as that story is, it's only the tip of the iceberg of the racial disparity in health care in this country. It isn't a few bad apples in Crown Point, but, in the words of one study backed by two federal agencies: "Systematic discrimination is not the aberrant behavior of a few but is often supported by institutional policies and unconscious bias based on negative stereotype."
     This translates into years of life lost — WBEZ and the Sun-Times are running a series about it. The girl that Mercedes Wells gave birth to can expect to live, on average, three fewer years than had she been white. If the baby were a boy, the gap would be five years.
     There are numerous economic and social factors at work, but plain racism is a major aspect.
     The bottom-line truth — and this doesn't get said enough, so I'm going to just say it — cuts across medicine, law enforcement, employment, the whole of American society: Too many whites, encountering a Black person, see the "Black" part immediately, but the "person" part, poorly if at all.
     Everyone suffers. The only explanation that makes sense as to why the United States, alone among industrial countries, doesn't have a system of national health care, is because white citizens are in horror at the idea of Black people receiving benefits, even if it means they are also uninsured — a reminder that racism is self-destructive and blows back, the way that Southern towns, ordered to integrate their swimming pools in the 1960s, filled them in with dirt instead, so nobody could swim in the hot summer.
     Good manages to come out of the bad. There is a classic Chicago story also involving a woman being turned away from a hospital, one I hope you'll forgive me for relating.
     The woman was Nettie Dorsey, who had already paid for delivery services at Provident Hospital, the "Black medical mecca" near her home on the South Side. But the day in 1932 she arrived, in labor, there was no room for her. Provident had 75 beds for 200,000 Black Chicagoans. (That number seemed low, until I checked. Today, Provident has 45 staffed in-patient beds.)
     Dorsey went home to deliver her baby. Both died. Her husband, Thomas Dorsey, a noted composer of blues and gospel songs, was devastated and first thought he'd give up music. "God had been unfair; I felt that God had dealt me an injustice," he said. "I didn't want to serve Him anymore or write gospel songs."
     That bleak mood lasted a few days, until Dorsey sat down at a piano, put his hands on the keys and poured out his anguish in a new type of gospel blues song, "Take My Hand, Precious Lord." The song was an instant classic —it was Martin Luther King's favorite song. Mahalia Jackson sang it at his funeral. Beyonce recorded it.
     Good has come out of Mercedes Wells' experience, too, and I don't mean the doctor and nurse who turned her away have been fired. Think hard — what is the wonderful thing that came from this whole episode? Many news stories didn't mention it at all. Any idea?
     The arrival of Alena Ariel Wells, weighing exactly 6 pounds, on Nov. 16 at 6:28 a.m., delivered without medical expertise but into the loving hands of her father, Leon. The baby is "doing well" according to her mother. The world she was born into, alas, not doing so good. But maybe Alena Wells will be one of the people who try to fix it.

Leon, Mercedes and Alena Wells.

Flashback 2010: Happiness is . . . an empty voicemailbox

     Nobody calls — well, scams, and automatic pharmacy reminders. That's about it. Rarely a real person. Emails too are mostly pellets from some ineffectual blunderbuss blast of scattershot PR pleas. Still, in the morning, as I scroll down in the vain effort to detect something significant, I define and delete them. Out of habit, I suppose, from the day when computer memory was limited and could fill up. A practice that was already out-of-date when this ran, 15 years ago. Back then, the column filled a page, and I've kept the original headings.

OPENING SHOT 

    With swollen, foaming rivers of information roaring across the Internet, we flatter ourselves that the netting of relevant data is a recent skill — as if the primeval forest didn't also offer an overload of information to every prowling hunter, for whom reading the sky, culling facts from the flutter of leaves, from the sound of snapping twigs, were essential abilities, certainly more significant than our talent at finding good local restaurants online.
     We data dinosaurs remember a time when we periodically drained our lakes of information — we flushed away old files, squeegeed off accumulated e-mails. Now, electronic storage capacity is so cheap that few need bother deleting anything. So it grows.
     A shame, because having to dispose of something prompts you to look at it anew before consigning it to eternal oblivion — or, more accurately, before making it harder to retrieve since nowadays nothing ever really goes away.

BERRY PAINT TO BUNCHED ELECTRONS

     My mother phoned. "Do you know your voicemail at work is full?" she asked. "No ma," I said. I don't often phone myself at work, because when I do, I'm never there.
     So I phoned my office.
     "Welcome to Avaya messaging," began the mechanical lady's voice. "You have . . . two new voice messages . . . one hundred, twenty-three, saved messages. Your mailbox is full. You will be unable to send messages. You may wish to delete unwanted messages. Main menu . . ."
     I "may wish?" I do wish! Let's get at them!
     First the two new messages — the anonymous angry guy who has been phoning at night for years (for a taste, click the video at the end of the column). He marks his messages "urgent" — the only caller to do so. Sometimes I delete his message right away, upon hearing that it is "urgent," pausing to savor the irony. Nothing signals a communication is meaningless as clearly as it being labeled "IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ."

     Sometimes I listen to the first few syllables. "Mister Steinberg, you LIBERALS make me pu . . ."
     Delete. God bless voicemail.
     "Thank you brother Steinberg," a minister begins, citing a few minutes I took to speak to a young man under his care.
     Onward, to the 123 saved messages, wondering what that first message will be. Like an archeologist with a toothbrush, working my way backward in time.
     A retired cop; a Metra engineer; a man abused by a priest. The Taiwanese Economic and Cultural Office in Chicago. The Mormon Temple in Salt Lake City.
     Delete delete delete. Most I saved for the phone numbers -- quicker than jotting them down.
     A few dozen messages and we're back to the fall, and the election. A campaign manager. A senator's aide. The National Confectioners Association; the BBC; the Chicago Bears; a newspaper in Norway; the American Embassy in London.
     The need to cull messages is a sign of our phone system's age. The e-mail pit, which once we were periodically hectored to dredge out, has apparently become bottomless, thanks to terabytes of storage. Or are we on to petabytes by now?
     There are 32,765 e-mails lingering in my e-mail queue, and nobody seems to mind.
     Back to voicemail. Some I kept as a record of the caller's remarks.
     "The weapon was not registered, therefore it was illegal."
     One was me, a nasal voice — cripe, I do sound like Woody Allen — caught without a notebook, calling my voicemail to read words from a plaque. A clever trick — if I say so myself — to have in your bag.
     A surgeon. A public defender. Leon Varjian, the man who created the Pail & Shovel Party at the University of Wisconsin at Madison in the late 1970s, phoning from New Jersey.
     Once this stuff is kept forever, will anybody bother with it? Scarcity creates value, and electronic communications' overwhelming quantity, coupled with its hasty, artless construction, will probably keep anybody from ever caring. Nobody is going to write a thesis on "Tweets of the Early 21st Century."
     Or will they?
     We haven't even read the stuff we've got. Most Egyptian hieroglyphics unearthed by archeologists still haven't been read yet.
     At least I think that's true. Better check.
     "There are massive amounts of demotic papyri," said Gil Stein, director of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. ("Demotic" denotes the common form of ancient Egyptian writing; it relates to the familiar bird-and-eyeball hieroglyphics the same way shorthand relates to block printing).
     "It's the biggest single corpus of written records, because they used this stuff as packing for mummies."
     Stein did not want to guess how much is still untranslated, and passed me to professor Janet Johnson, editor of the massive Demotic Dictionary, which the institute has been assembling for the last 40 years.
     "Twenty years ago, I would have said that only 10 percent of all fragments have been read," she said. "But in the last generation, an inroad is being made on the backlog of unpublished things. Work on demotic is really moving forward."
     While I had her on the phone, I asked: How's the dictionary coming?
     "We're on the last three letters," she said. "We hope to be done in two years."
      We'll check back then. Meanwhile, the first voicemail was no forgotten complaint from Barack Obama, as I had hoped, but a Canadian lawyer offering a speaking engagement. Eventually the voicemail was scrubbed clean, and offered words I took unexpected pleasure in hearing:
     "You have no new messages and no . . . saved messages. Main menu."

TODAY'S CHUCKLE

From Alicia Brandt:
     The technological advance I wish I could get is an addition for my answering machine: a Get-to-the-Point button.
      — Originally published in the Sun-Times, April 28, 2010

A cautionary tale

"Praying hands,"  by  Albrecht Dürer (Albertina Museum, Vienna).

      

     Readers write to me all the time, sometimes sharing various personal developments. Like this on received Friday afternoon:

      Newspaper readers do tend to be an older crowd. I was sympathetic, and immediately replied:

   And this is the part that makes me cringe. Figuring, "No time like the present," I clapped my palms together, turned my eyes upward in the general vicinity of heaven, supposedly, and said, out loud, in the presence of my wife: "Please God, deliver a swift and full recovery to Jim Murray."

     The shame is not from the invocation of a deity I don't believe in, but in something revealed the next email.

     "Do you often shop online?" OMFG. A scam! I had fallen for a fuckin' scam. True, my only loss was dignity. But I had prayed for this piece of shit, in his miserable overseas scamster boiler room. I decided to string him along.

    That brought an instant reply.

     People fall for this shit? I mean, talk about a muddy narrative. I tried to string him along.

     But he must have sensed he was nailed —they do this all day long —and moved on to bigger dupes than me. And while I did not lose anything material, there was still an odd, visceral sort of violation. I'd dropped my guard. I had prayed for this guy.   

     No shame there. Still, we human beings, who take things on face value, or try to, are at a disadvantage in this online world. And it's only going to get worse.

Atop blog: "A Dip in the Lake," by John Cage (Museum of Contemporary Art)

Landscapers hit hard by ICE blitz, '...accused of the crime of working'

Barbara Kruger, The Art Institute

     Rey was just doing his job — cleaning up a yard in Rogers Park one morning at the end of October — when a Black Jeep Wagoneer slowed down, a group of masked men jumped out, slapped on handcuffs and dragged him into the vehicle, then drove off, taunting him as they did.
     News spread quickly.
     "I was heading downtown with my husband," said his boss, Kristen Hulne, owner of Patch Landscaping, with her husband Patrick, a newly-retired Chicago firefighter. "We get a call from a guy in the office: 'ICE just picked up Rey.' My other employee ran away and hid. The customer called and said, 'I'm sorry this happened; I took all your equipment off your truck and locked it away in the yard, safe.'"
     It's hard enough to operate a small business. Never mind a landscaping business in a city as weather-scoured as Chicago. The federal government's war on immigrants these past few months made that task even harder for landscapers here, a "cat and mouse game" Hulne calls it, trying to both rake leaves and avoid capture.
     "It's such an incredible burden on this industry," said Marisa Gora, owner of Kemora Landscapes, adding that ICE withdrawing recently is of limited comfort. "We don't know if they're going to come back in the spring."
     "As landscaping contractors, we're a targeted community," said Lisa Willis, owner of MINDSpace, "Our industry associations really haven't spoken up about it. It was really disappointing."
     The executive director of Landscape Illinois declined comment beyond, "we need to keep a low profile to protect as many of our workers as possible from additional enforcement."
     A worry everyone I spoke with raised — if I exercise my right as an American citizen, will our increasingly-vindictive government come after me or my business? It's like living in Russia.
     When a worker was abducted, everything else stops —for Hulne, it took time to locate the terrified worker who fled. The abandoned truck and equipment had to be collected. An increasingly Kafkaesque police state confronted.
     "We got a lawyer that day," Hulne said. "Before I could turn around, Rey's wife was in my office crying. Fifteen minutes after that I had a call from our alderman —'Oh my God I just heard what happened....' There was this immediate mobilization of the neighborhood. It was incredible."

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"Beauty emergency"

      Tuesday morning, after our walk, I went up our driveway to toss Kitty's morning contribution into the trash can by the garage and spied half a rabbit. Our dog, who, truth be told, can be slow on the uptake, didn't notice the offal, thank God. 
      After I squired Kitty into the house, I went into the garage, got a shovel, and returned to what indeed turned out to be the hindquarters of a bunny, the upper portion cleanly snapped away mid-spine, as if cleaved in two with an axe. I considered taking a photo but, yuck, right? I buried the lower half in the strip of woods running along our property, covering the grave with a log, to deter it being dug up.
    It was clear to me what had happened: an alien spaceship had bisected the rabbit with a space laser, taking the upper half for study, or whatever nefarious purpose inspires extraterrestrials to flit about our planet in a way that manages to be both omnipresent and elusive.
     I considered reporting my confirmed alien sighting to the proper authorities, but realized that, without tangible evidence, my information would not be given the weight that it deserves ...
     Okay, okay, not being serious here. With so much rampant credulity — really, we live in the Golden Age of Gullibility —  I don't want you thinking, "Oh no, not Steinberg too." I've gone on record about what I think regarding the tendency to automatically view UFOs as visiting aliens, for all the good it does. (The wistful, who want so much to believe, try to skew the issue into, "You don't believe there could be life anywhere in the vast galaxy?" A red herring, and not the relevant question, which is: "Are they here, now?" The answer to that must be a resounding "No!"  The whole UFO phenomenon is based on people not grasping the hugeness of space, nor the expanse of time. "Star Wars" nailed it: if there is life in the galaxy, the overwhelming odds are it was both "long ago and far away.")  

      Still, there is something useful here. When we consider how smoothly people make the leap, from a flash in the sky to a mothership from Rigel 7, the whole Trump disaster should be no surprise. We knew long ago, or should have known, that too many people are eager to believe the most jaw-dropping nonsense based on nothing at all; why is it surprising that this tendency functions in realms beyond specks in the sky?

     Wednesday, standing in the kitchen, I though I saw something flash in the back yard. Looking harder, I saw nothing. "These microships are fast," I thought. Again, not really. Ten seconds later, my wife said, "Look!" and I saw I had left the grill open the night before, eager to convey our steaks to the table. 
     "I must have left the ..." I began.
     "The coyote!" she said. I redirected my gaze, and there was maybe 40 pounds worth of loping piebald manginess, heading around our house and west down Center Avenue. My wife alerted the neighbors across the street, who are watching a dog for friends and might conceivable let her in their fenced-in back yard. 
    They saw the coyote, parked in front of their house, and one let out a shout they've developed to alert the other that a momentary phenomenon demanding attention is something marvelous, not dire. A pretty bird, not a car accident. "Beauty emergency!" she said. I'm going to borrow that one. Her husband snapped the above picture but, being a more modest sort than I, waved off the idea of credit.
     Given this new information, I'd like to revise my theory about what happened to the rabbit. Space aliens didn't cut the rabbit in half: they left the rabbit carcass there, as bait, trying to attract the coyote. That must be it.

With 'Amadeus,' Robert Falls shocks by not shocking

 

Ian Barford

     We legacy media skew old. The grizzled goat in front of me, picking up press tickets at the Steppenwolf Theatre on Sunday night, asked, "Where's the bathroom?" That seemed a smart idea.
     We were about to see the Peter Shaffer play "Amadeus," directed by Robert Falls, and with Falls you never know what mayhem is going to be unleashed onstage. One certainly doesn't want to add to the pyrotechnics, unintentionally: "That old man who leapt up with a strangled cry during the quiet monologue and ran gibbering out of the theater — was that part of the show?"
     "Take a right," we were instructed. We confronted a blood red corridor and a single red door labeled, "ALL GENDER RESTROOM." The men in front of us tottered in. I began to follow, but my wife froze. She wasn't going in there after them.
     I diverted my path, as well. Solidarity. We found a "PRIVATE BATHROOM" tucked to the left, and once we established there were no ominous males lurking inside, I sent her on her way and returned to the brave new world awaiting me — well, not so new; Steppenwolf was remodeled in 2021. But I hadn't been there since then. COVID kneecapped my habit of going places and doing things, aided, I suppose, by gathering senescence.
     What do you expect in a bathroom? Urinals, correct, if you're a man? Stalls with toilets in them? Ah, ha-ha-ha. There was none of that. A blank white corridor that seemed like a set from "2001: A Space Odyssey." I walked the length, found myself among the sinks, figured — hoped — that I'd missed something, that these weren't the new sink/toilets I hadn't yet heard about. So turned and tried a metal door handle I'd missed. Success!
     Something new. But a change that can be adjusted to. I've never felt the overpowering bathroom shame that seems a major force in American politics. Then again, I've traveled internationally, which is fatal to such prejudices. I remember standing at a urinal in Tokyo, hat in hand, so to speak, when a grandmotherly cleaning lady with rubber gloves and a bucket came in, knelt and began to scrub the floor, almost at my feet. What can you do at that point but shrug and proceed? The sort of cultural enrichment one roams the globe to experience.
     Then again, I'm a connoisseur of unease. On the drive in, I'd mused over the shocks that Falls has presented in the — geez — 40 years I've been seeing his shows, since Aidan Quinn slowly spray-painted, "To be or not to be" on a brick wall onstage at the Wisdom Bridge Theatre in 1985, turned to the audience, jerked his thumb at the dripping red paint, and said, "That's the question!"
     Full-frontal nudity, as in the "The Tempest." Gloucester's gouged-out eyes sizzling on a grill, from "King Lear." And the zenith of Falls' theater-as-a-thumb-jammed-in-the-audience's-eye splintery-stick-to-jam-up-the-audience's-backside directorial style, the surprise stabbing of Isabella at the end of "Measure for Measure." I thought patrons were going to rush the stage. The Goodman had to hold formal "conversations" immediately after each show, which were really just therapy sessions designed to help the audience find the strength to leave the theater and go about their lives.
     "Amadeus" seemed fresh meat for Falls, with the pompous, plodding Vienna court composer, Antonio Salieri, passing judgment on the giggling, carnal man-boy Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. What Grand Guignol thrills were in store?

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Flashback 2006: Alanis hijacked my son's iPod

     Talk about eerie synchronicity. I dug this up last August and set it aside ... for reasons I can't recall. Looking for something to run tomorrow —working on a big project, no gas in the tank — it appealed to me because my wife and I were just talking, yesterday, about whether we had spoiled the boys. We decided, no, we did not. Loved them, yes. But didn't spoil them, and failing to get them exactly what they want for Hanukkah seems to reinforce that. 

    In addition: a couple weeks ago, a reader was trying to think of the name of a person I'd written about "once married to the futurist John Naisbitt." I dug around, and she turned out to be Noel Brusman, mentioned in the third item. 

     And finally, the real icing on the cake, wondering how I should illustrate this, I looked around my desk, and noticed the self-same blue 2006 iPod, sitting within arm's reach. I have no idea how it got there. Cleaning out a drawer, probably. Nor how long it has sat there. But it came in handy.

OPENING SHOT

     Like every youth in the U.S. not yet old enough to drive, my boys asked for a Nintendo Wii.
     They didn't get one. Oh, I dutifully went to Best Buy a week after the frenzy of the game system's release, assuming that, as per plan, there would now be plenty on hand. The clerk gave me a strange look, as if I had asked him to snip off his pinkie finger with a cigar cutter.
     No Wii, no way.
     "I'm not lining up at midnight," said my wife, a sentiment I shared. So we — and this will seem like child abuse to some — didn't get the boys what they wanted most. We gave them other things.     

     The older boy got an iPod Nano, of which we'll hear more later. And a set of Dante/Beatrice bookends. And other cool stuff — there are eight nights of Hanukkah, remember. The younger one got an electric keyboard and a tennis racket and more.
     I mention this just in case you are planning to spend the weekend in frantic search of whatever your child's heart desires for Christmas. Because children are mercurial. Yes, it is disappointing not to get what you want. But getting what you want sometimes only defers disappointment for the 10 minutes it takes for the kid to realize what a pile of junk he has been pining away for. An adult can exert judgment — we are allowed, though we forget that sometimes, in our quest to give our loved ones the perfect childhood that we didn't have either.

YOU WANT IT TO WHAT?

     Imagine the spoon was invented recently — say a few years back. What a marvel. No more complex and cumbersome mechanical devices conveying soup to your lips with a linked series of little buckets. No more sputtering suction pumps.
     A "spoon'' — what a great name for a product. So sleek. So well-designed. We'd all go spoon crazy. You buy your spoon, take it out of the box, admire its pure lines, then hurry to your steaming bowl of soup and — splat — it doesn't work. Hey, this isn't right! You try it again. Sploosh! Maybe you're using it wrong — maybe it isn't the narrow end, but the convex side. So you try that, the gentle dome of the spoon facing up, of course. More Campbell's Cream of Tomato in your lap.
     That was me with my son's iPod Nano. No sooner did we give it to him, then he wanted to open the plastic box it came in. Kids are funny that way.
     The job was quickly delegated to me. At first the box seemed seamless, as if the device was imbedded in a lucite brick. Then I studied it under a bright light, found a discreet little tab— designed by Swedes, surely. I pulled it, and the brick opened. Magic!
     Flush with success, I linked the gizmo — the size of two matchbooks laid end to end — to my kids' computer downstairs. That computer told me that I would have to download iTunes 7.0. But the program wouldn't download for reasons mysterious — the computer gave me one of those useless messages, telling me to go into my system's administrator. Huh? What? Like go into his office?
     Instead I went upstairs, where my computer downloaded iTunes fine. It also took the liberty of starting to load the songs from my own iPod file onto my son's new Nano, starting with A, as in Alanis Morissette.
     "Not age appropriate?" my wife said, all sweet naivete, when I ran to her frantically.
     "'And are you thinking of me when you . . . ' " I sang, and here I put a little oomph into the obscene verb, just like she does, "f - - -  her?"
     "Oh," she said.
     Of course the songs wouldn't come off. There's a "RESTORE" button that's supposed to wipe the slate clean. In theory. In reality it didn't. My older son kept popping in from time to time.
     "Got it going yet, Dad?" he'd say, brightly, his face shining with love and trust, while I fussed and sweated.
     That was three days ago. The good news is it didn't become the Hanukkah when Dad went gibbering down into the basement, grabbed a 4-pound drilling hammer, and pounded a brand new $149 iPod Nano to flinders.
     The bad news: It still won't play music. Except Alanis Morissette.

DEPT. OF CORRECTION

     In my item Wednesday about "Noel Brusman's son Dave," a photo caption mistakenly identified the Chicago airman serving overseas.
     He's actually Dave Naisbitt, brother of John Naisbitt, a social studies teacher at Hinsdale Central, himself a noteworthy personage.
     "He is a wonderful guy, a terrific guy," said Dr. James Ferguson, principal of the school, when I called to make sure John Naisbitt is really there, so as to reduce the risk of having to correct a correction.
     Not only is he there, he's busy. Naisbitt helped form the school's "Citizens Club," which this year collected 300 boxes of medical and school supplies, blankets, Beanie Babies and assorted items and shipped them to Afghanistan. (And yes, both are the sons of the bestselling author of Megatrends, also named John Naisbitt -- John Harling Naisbitt, while his son is John Senior Naisbitt, which is why I didn't refer to him as John Naisbitt Jr.)
     Whew! Now you see how these errors get in the paper . . .

TODAY'S CHUCKLE:

     This one -- sent by Larry Brody -- is too funny not to print.

     A lawyer was riding in his limousine when he saw a man along the roadside on his hands and knees, eating grass. He ordered his driver to stop and got out to investigate.
     "Why are you eating grass?" he asked.
     "I don't have any money for food," the poor man replied. "We have to eat grass."
     "Well, then, you can come with me to my house and I'll feed you," the lawyer said.
     "But sir, I have a wife and two children with me. They are over there, grazing under that tree."
     "Bring them along," the lawyer replied.
     They all climbed into the car, and the lawyer instructed the driver to proceed to his house.
     "Sir, you are too kind," said the man. "Thank you for taking us with you."
     "Glad to do it," the lawyer replied. "You'll really love my place. The grass is almost a foot high." 

                  —Originally published in the Sun-Times,  Dec. 22, 2006

People still exist even if the Trump administration refuses to see them

     If the phrase "object permanence" doesn't mean anything to you, then you probably haven't spent much time lately sprawled on the floor next to an infant.
     My granddaughter has, among the phalanx of educational toys vying for her attention, an object permanence box, which is basically a wooden cube, a little smaller than a square Kleenex box, with a hole in the side. Colorful cloths are tucked into the hole and disappear. Then they're pulled out of the box, and reappear. Voila!
     Why is this important? Let me pull a few lines from a recent academic paper:
     "Knowing that objects continue to exist when they cannot be directly observed or sensed is called 'object permanence.' This fundamental cognitive skill is important for working memory and allows us to form and retain mental representations of objects.
     "For example, when a ball rolls under a couch and out of sight, infants who have object permanence understand that the ball exists. They may persist in attaining the ball by moving their body in various ways to look for and reach it even though it is hidden from view."
     Wobbly object permanence skills is why peek-a-boo is so entertaining for very young children. The beloved grandma mysteriously vanishes behind a wall of hands and then — peek-a-boo! — she magically appears, out of nowhere! It's great fun.
     Once mastered, object permanence stays with a person. Your keys fall into the couch, you retain an idea of where they might be — between the cushions — and look for them. You don't shrug and forget the keys exist.
     But object permanence is failing at the highest levels of government, where the current administration seems convinced that if certain narratives, or group of persons, are hidden from view, then they — and the challenges they present to whatever homogeneous white straight society they obviously hope to build — magically vanish.
    Does violent racism constitute a significant thread throughout American history? Delete a few web sites, scrap a few plaques and — presto chango! — never happened. Our kids are back to learning about George Washington chopping down the cherry tree.
     Do trans people trouble you? So vexing, what shall we do about high school girls swim meets? The Trump administration is vigorously trying to scrub trans people from public life — from passports, from the military. Medical care they need to live their lives is being criminalized.
     In July, the Trump administration ordered the LGBTQ+ youth suicide hotline shut down, an astoundingly callous act.

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Is there an unsullied spot for new filth to spatter?

      There is a chance — slight, but delicious to consider — that at this point, one can err too far in caution. Resignation even. The belief that nothing can touch Donald Trump, while valid, based on hard experience, might be old hat. 

      Yes, the default has to be: his cult doesn't care, hasn't cared for years, that he's a liar, bully, fraud and traitor.  Nothing, most likely, can change that. A century after death, they'll be worshipping him like Christ, sitting cross-legged on the ground outside their temples, chanting, scanning the skies for his return.
      Nothing upends that. What are the Epstein revelations compared to, oh, sending a mob to trash the Capitol? Or unleashing masked federal thugs on innocent immigrants? Or failing to do what he can to stop Putin from crushing Ukraine? 
      Not much. Certainly not much new.
      So yes, social media blows up for a few days with the latest accounts of Epstein's emails. The juicy tidbits. Do they tell us something new about the man who bragged about groping women against their will? Who ogled teen pageant contestants undressed and speculated on the sexual appeal of his own young daughter? Who slept with a porn star, cheated repeated on each of three wives?
     Not really.
     But there is the straw that broke the camel's back. The possibility, anyway. Is this it? I doubt it, mainly because history commands otherwise, and hope is a luxury we can't afford. Or as a wit —okay, me —put it years ago: once you get in the habit of ignoring reality, the exact nature of the reality being ignored hardly matters.
     Until it does. 

Flashback 2008: Like the first nick in a new car

     Yesterday being Nov. 14 led to the column on World Diabetes Day, so why not take that lead, and also pivot today's post off today's date? This ran in the paper exactly 17 years ago. It's notable for several reasons. The opening observation holds true for people who are NOT being dragged off the street and muscled into a van. Yet.

    The number of papers sold announcing Obama's election is worth the price of admission — I won't give it away here. But DAMN! 

     Though my primary takeaway from this is: the wheel turns. It sure turned from the first week of eight years of Barack Obama to the current nadir — O were it so! —of the Trump enormity, with Megyn Kelly actually trying to defend Jeffrey Epstein by pointing out that "he wasn't into, like, 8-year-old girls." Those MAGA sorts, always managing to limbo below the moral bar, no matter how low it is set.

     The problem with grasping a crisis is that while it's going on all over, it can still seem contradicted by localized events — thus, on every cool day in July, those ideologically opposed to the idea of global warming get to shout, "See? Fifty-nine degrees in July — some warming, huh?"
     Or last week. We went to Abt, the electronics and appliance giant in Glenview.
     A mass of humanity that defies description. Police cruisers parked on Milwaukee Avenue, cops using flares to control traffic. I think we got the last open parking space, a quarter mile from the entrance.
     "What is this, 'Free Day'?" I asked my wife as we struggled like salmon to get in. "Isn't there supposed to be a recession going on?"
     There is. Looking at Abt as evidence of financial hardiness is like pointing to the freezer compartment in the kitchen of a house ablaze and saying, "Fire? What fire? Look at all this ice." It's something they should teach in school, along with the alphabet, but don't: One example isn't proof.
     Newspapers are too self-referential. The guy who delivers your milk doesn't pause to expound about the magnificence of the dairy profession, the gorgeous red sunrises, the solemn dignity of cows.
     So I held back on the following, tucking it into columns and then plucking it back into the electronic limbo where bits and pieces wait for their chance at life in print.
     But a marvel should not go unremarked upon. And now that the phenomenon is waning, I have to add it to the record.

     Every day for a week after the election of Barack Obama, employees coming to work at the Sun-Times' building at 350 N. Orleans were greeted by an incredible sight: people lining up outside our store to buy back issues of the newspaper, particularly the one announcing Obama's election. Sometimes, the line has been 50 deep, and, yes, I counted, and asked, "Why wait in line?"
     "It's a piece of history," explained Haroon Rajaee. "He represents the true American spirit. This is what America is about."
     "So few [black men] on the cover they aren't looking for," added Gregg Parker, tamping down the protests around him with an indignant, "I'm just keeping it real!"
     The Nov. 5 issue of the Sun-Times shattered our circulation records — 900,000 copies, last time I checked. Nor is the phenomenon limited to Chicago -- across the nation, people are saving mementoes.
     A reminder of newsprint's role as official imprimatur of fact -- if it's in the newspaper, it's true, in theory. People who can scarcely believe Obama won want to hold the confirmation in their hands.
     "Give me the ocular proof!" Othello demanded, and a newspaper is just that.
     They also want something to pass along to generations unborn, as Michelle Holmes, editor of the SouthtownStar, said, "Nobody bookmarks a Web page to save for their grandchildren."
     Not yet anyway. There is an eagerness among some to embrace anything that squirts into their in-box as fact, however improbable. They'll get a text message, "SPACE BEES DOOM WORLD TUES." and start eating all the cookies.
     For the rest of us, we like verification in print. Which raises the troubling question: If there were no newspapers, how could we be sure that anything really happened?
     The stock market has been fluctuating wildly for weeks. Yet the Wall Street Journal on Thursday felt confident dubbing the latest dive a result of the market cringing away from Obama's "anti-growth" policies. Which raises the humorous possibilities of wondering what other quotidian woes can be set at the feet of the president-elect?
     I stamped inside Friday, brushing the rain off my hat.
     "This rain. ..," I thought. "It isn't natural, not for November in Chicago. It must be the heavens spitting cold disapproval down upon the Obama administration forming in Kenwood."
     OK, so maybe you can do better. But it's hard to top what people are offering up sincerely.
     "So what do you think will be his 'Bay of Pigs'?" asked the wise old city editor, and I nodded and pondered.
     The Bay of Pigs, for those just joining us, was the first big stumble John F. Kennedy made after he took office. The Eisenhower administration had cooked up a harebrained scheme to try to overthrow Fidel Castro by training Cuban nationals into a ragtag army.
      The invasion was set to go, and Kennedy, worried that he'd seem weak if he spiked Ike's Cuban D-Day, gave it the green light. The whole thing was an embarrassing fiasco, evidence that our bright young president had flaws.
     But somehow, the morning after Barack Obama's election didn't seem the time to speculate on future failings.
     They will come, of course. The Obama presidency will have highs and lows, like any other. But trying to anticipate them is futile — the weeks after Kennedy was elected, few knew about this lunatic CIA plot moving forward in the swamps of south Florida.
     Futile, and a little overly cynical, even for me, who has a tendency to stand in the back of weddings as the bride and groom kiss, feel that one moment of sappy sentiment, then bat it away by reminding myself the truth — that they'll both live their lives and grow old, and the man will die at 64 and the woman will go on another 25 years playing bingo and end up in an ammonia-scented day room somewhere, and the wedding dress she so carefully folded and preserved and stored on a shelf for 70 years will go into the trash.
     That's the truth — or, rather, it's a truth. The thrill of anticipation people are feeling now is also true, and one can embrace that, too, and probably should, because it was a long time coming, to quote the song, and it'll be a long time gone.
     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 15, 2008