You don't have to have children to enjoy life. They do help. Unless they don't.

The Newborn Baby, by Matthijs Naiveu (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     The most difficult endeavors are often also the most rewarding. Climbing Mount Everest, surviving Marine boot camp, raising children, are taxing but also fulfilling. Well, I can't vouch for the first two. But that third one — I have considerable direct personal experience. Trust me: being a parent is hard. And exhilarating.
     Back when my friends were having babies, I sometimes greeted the happy news of a pregnancy by describing what I called my "parenthood epiphany." It went like this:

     The week we brought Ross home, I was sitting in the new blue rocking chair about 3 a.m., staring numbly down into his red, distorted, howling face. And a startling thought formed in my exhaustion-sapped mind: Ohhhhhhhh, so this is why those teenage girls kill their kids. Now I understand. We're 35 years old. We have all the money in the world. We desperately wanted this baby, for years. It's the third night. And we're going OUT OF OUR MINDS!

     I told that story, not because I'm a bastard — well, not entirely — but because I wanted the expectant newcomer before me to realize that they were embarking upon a rocky journey. That if they found it difficult at times, it wasn't because they were bad parents, necessarily. It was just the nature of the beast
     Only the story didn't comfort the listeners, it concerned them — I can still see one colleague, an editor at the paper, backing away, eyes wide — and I eventually stopped telling it, so not to constrict my social circle smaller than it already was.
     This came back to me when I saw Republican vice presidential candidate JD Vance being pilloried on social media for his remarks from 2021 that people without children do not have a "direct stake" in the country, but are, "a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made, and so they wanna make the rest of the country miserable, too. It's just a basic fact. You look at Kamala Harris, Pete Buttigieg ... the entire future of the Democrats is controlled by people without children."
     There's a lot to unpack there.
     First, he's completely mistaken. Harris has two stepchildren, and the suggestion that they somehow don't count is simply wrong, as anyone who knows anyone with foster or adopted children — like Pete Buttigieg and his husband — or stepchildren knows.

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City Lit Books pares its reading list

     Gary Ashman is an attorney and a friend of this blog — he has a copy of the original EGD poster framed in his lovely, well-stocked home library. We have shared a cigar or two, and  he even briefly advertised on the blog when it first went live. We haven't conversed in a few years, so it was good to hear from him again. When I saw what the letter he was sharing was about, I asked if he would mind if I posted it here. He didn't. As a rule, I don't react to the lazy Manicheism and reckless Jews-don't-count rhetoric that sophomores and their equivalent wallow in lately regarding Israel and Gaza — there's too much of it, and I try not to traffick in the obvious. When one side premises its argument on, "First you give your country to someone else and disappear, then everything is solved..." there isn't much room for discussion. Plus you see how effective it is — it has gotten the Palestinians nowhere for the past 57 years; of late, the war continues, lives are lost, Netanyahu, who should have gone to prison long before Oct. 7, maintains his grip on power, and nothing changes. 

Vice presidents are always obscure — until they're not

 

Vice president Kamala Harris campaigns in Wisconsin Tuesday
 (photo for the Sun-Times by Anthony Vazquez)

     Say what you will about Northwestern University's former Medill School of Journalism, those annealed in its furnace tend to stick together. Two of my classmates made the complicated trek to Charlevoix, waaaay up in you-can't-get-there-from-here Northern Michigan, for my older son's wedding.     

     Back in the day, I also schlepped to keep up with my far-flung classmates — I think it was my way to be quasi-adventurous while having someone who knew the territory close by and, not incidentally, a free place to stay.
     So when Medill classmate Mary Kay Magistad based herself in Bangkok, freelancing around Asia, I slid by to offer my support. It was a memorable visit — how could it not be? I saw the king and queen of Thailand, at least from a distance, in a procession of red Mercedes ferrying them out of the palace gates, where I happened to be loitering.
     And I saw Dan Quayle, then the vice president, up close. He came to town and I couldn't resist showing up at his press conference. The motorcade arrived, police motorcycle outriders, communications vans, Cadillac limousines flown in on Air Force Two. At least a dozen vehicles, this long line of flashing red lights, a strobing parade of American power where, at the very end, a door flies open and disgorges Dan Quayle. I couldn't help think of that scene in a Bugs Bunny cartoon where a huge spaceship spits out a series of smaller vessels, Russian nesting doll style, until finally out pops tiny Marvin the Martian.
     Quayle was one of the more laughable vice presidents — remembered today, to the degree he's remembered at all, for telling a class he was visiting that "potato" is spelled "potatoe." Spoiler alert: It's not.
     But Quayle also represents all vice presidents, in his invisibility and inadequacy. Among the most astounding things of this very astounding week, after the fact of a powerful man doing a selfless thing for his country — Donald Trump had almost made us forget it is possible — was the alacrity with which the Democrats rallied around Vice President Kamala Harris.
     Not to take anything away from her many fine qualities. But it is a reminder that when you're dangling from a cliff from a sapling that's pulling out of the earth, you don't vet the person throwing you the rope too closely. The party ready to vote for Joe Biden's mummified corpse saw that dusty cadaver magically transform into a living, breathing, talking, fund-raising woman. Talk about an upgrade.

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Unpublished draft: Biden stepping down gives Democrats a fighting chance.

 

Judith, by Jan Sanders van Hemessen (Art Institute of Chicago)

   Sunday was an odd day. First thing in morning I wrote my Monday column, as usual. Joe Biden had not yet withdrawn from the presidential race. But the possibility was on my mind though, honestly, I didn't think he would do it. Friday's optimism had curdled. So I wrote a melancholy column about infirmity and age and when it is time to go. Then when news hit about 1 p.m., I leapt to give the column a quick going over, to reflect the developments. That went online. One editor liked it, but another  suggested I was going to the dad well one time too often — that caught my attention like a right hook — and I should work up something entirely new. So I did. But that was never published — a third editor higher up the food chain found it "political," and decided not to run it. I was disappointed though, since I also liked the column they were going with, didn't argue too much. And as it turned out, many readers were grateful, and none said "Why are you rambling on about Warren Zevon when the tectonic plates of American politics are shifting?" Particularly since I knew that here, I have no higher ups, so you can read what the paper declined to print. 

     I'll admit it; I'd given up hope. Everybody is so selfish, maximizing their own advantage, ignoring the common good. So of course Joe Biden would dig in and cling to his prestigious job with its big jet airplane, even as polls tanked and Democrats scrambled over each other, begging him to leave. Saturday it seemed the whole tangled ball would tumble arguing and clawing and spitting over the precipice, leaving the path clear for juggernaut Trump to glide easily back into the White House. and end American democracy.
     Then ... surprise, surprise ... Sunday afternoon, Biden did the right thing.
     I will admit — I never liked Biden. Having read George Packer's "The Unwinding," Biden came off as the most plastic political hack ever, with his hair plugs and fake grin. Now I think he's a patriot, if not an American hero.
     Biden endorsed Kamala Harris. Not that she's a sure winner. Far from it. Harris has the same handicap that sank Hillary Clinton: She's a woman in a sexist country. Where a third of the women can't be trusted by the men running their states to decide when to have a baby.

     And honestly, in the four years she has been vice president, Harris has not exactly endeared herself to the nation. She has done what vice presidents do, keep busy, keep out of trouble, and stand by in case something happens to the president. That's okay. We'll get to know her better now. The slate is clean; she has a fresh start.

     Harris is 59 years old — almost two decades younger than Donald Trump. And now the focus of the election can shift directed where it belongs — not on Joe Biden's age or agility of mind — but on Donald Trump's utter unfitness to be president.
     And remember. The goal is not to appeal to the 40% who are zipping up their lemming outfits and hot to march after Trump into a brave new world of totalitarian America. It's to appeal to the 5% in seven states who could have sat out the election, thinking, "I'm not bothering to vote for the old guy" who now might be lured out and support a woman of color who can be counted on to do whatever is humanly possible to avoid a nationwide ban on abortion.
     Hope blooms. We now have a candidate who can speak in clear, complete, powerful sentences. Americans can once again hope we have a future that doesn't involve becoming a vassal state of Vladimir Putin.
     And who will she pick to be her running mate? I bet J.B. Pritzker is on the elliptical right now. I'd say go for Gretchen Whitmer, governor of Michigan, but a ticket with two women would cause parts of the country to implode out of sheer door-jamb gnawing, toxic male insecurity. Pete Buttigieg could fill the traditional vice presidential role of tailgunner, directing scorn at Trump from now until November.
     Heck, the whole thing could be decided at the convention in Chicago next month — we've sailed into uncharted waters. Chicago is the site of the last contested vice presidential slot, in 1956, when the choice came down to Estes Kefauver and John F. Kennedy. The Democrats, true to form, chose Kefauver, a senator from Tennessee.
     Maybe Biden will start a trend, of old guys realizing they've lost a step or three and deciding to pack it in.
     There's no shame there. The body decays, the mind crumbles. For every timely exit — and Biden's is late, but maybe in the nick of time — a dozen stay too long. Athletes whose legs are gone, singers whose voices are shot. It's not about the age — nobody is suggesting Mick Jagger quit, because he can still do his prancing rooster routine at 80. It's about whether you can still produce.
     So much is at stake in this election. As I said Friday, just the top three — mass deportations, ruinous tariffs, and a nationwide abortion ban — should have been enough to clear the benches and get people voting. But the American public, well, they can be inattentive. Hopefully Biden stepping down and Harris stepping up will catch their attention. Because when you look over the Project 2025 plan the Heritage Foundation has set out for Trump, it amounts to nothing less than a revolution, an overturning of American democracy.
     Who the president is matters. Up until Sunday afternoon, that man could have been Joe Biden, again, for another four years. But he gave up his chance because he recognized reality. Democrats pressed him because they recognize reality. Democrats are the party of recognizing reality, of facts and laws. Our work is cut out for us. But now we have a fighting chance.

If you're wondering about the illustration, recall your Bible. Judith is the heroine who saved the Jewish people by getting the Assyrian general Holofernes drunk and then cutting off his head with his own sword. She's just done the deed, and is looking at her arm in wonder, as if thinking, "I just did that." I love it for that.

It's hard to walk away, but it was time for Joe to go

Carnitas torta, 5 Rabanitos

     When Warren Zevon was dying of lung cancer, he spoke with David Letterman. The talk show host asked the great singer/songwriter what it is like living with his fatal diagnosis.
      "You put more value on every minute," Zevon replied. "I always thought I kinda did that ... but it's more valuable now. You're reminded to enjoy every sandwich."
     "Enjoy every sandwich." A great line, one that I think of, more and more. Even though I'm healthy as a horse. But I'm also 64. Nothing lasts forever.
     I can relate to Joe Biden's predicament, I really can. He's president of the United States, a job that comes with power and attention and a jet airplane. Hard to walk away, and kudos to him for making the tough decision and deciding not to run again. He dragged his feet, naturally, but in the end he did what he thought was necessary to give American democracy its best shot at survival.

Turkey club on wheat toast, Lou Mitchell's

     Stepping down has to hurt. Biden was at peak performance not long ago: defeated Donald Trump in 2020, mobilized Europe to respond to the invasion of Ukraine. One bad night, and suddenly the kids were taking away his car keys.
     Only it wasn't just one bad night but what that bad night represented. If I turn in my grocery list as a column, that wouldn't be just one bad column, but a clanging alarm bell that something bad had happened, and might happen again.
    Biden endorsed Kamala Harris. Not that she's a sure winner. Harris has the same handicap that sank Hillary Clinton: She's a woman in a sexist country. Where a third of the women can't be trusted to decide when to have a baby. But she can speak powerfully and get Americans excited.

Pastrami on rye, Max & Benny's

     Imagine if Republicans pushed against an unfit candidate half as hard?
For some, retirement is easy. My father retired from NASA at 56. Meaning he's been retired for the past 36 years, longer than he worked. The glory of a federal pension.
     At the time I was puzzled. Stopping so young seemed a refutation of his entire career. Did he not want to do something else? Find another job? No. He wanted to paint watercolors and hike the Rockies, which he did until the frost set in. 
     Now he sits and stares blankly at the television. So maybe retiring early was smart. As a bartender said in Buenos Aires, encouraging me to try the tango: "The life is only once."
      Right. But what if you like to work? And the job has a shimmer of significance. Shouldn't you stick at your post, tapping away, as the water rises around your ankles? I always assumed the decision would be made for me. The paper would break apart in the typhoon battering professional journalism. Or I'd make some joke that is no longer funny and be frog-marched offstage.

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Crispy

     Were I trying to create a personal brand, to craft a writerly image, I suppose I'd try to cast myself as the hyper observant scribe, a kind of journalistic Sherlock Holmes, studying cigar ash, taking note of atoms as they flit through the air. Nothing would escape the iron claw of my notice.
     But that isn't true. I don't want to say I'm an oblivious blockhead — that isn't true either — though I have moments of staggeringly oblivious blockheadedness. Or, as I sometimes put it, for a smart guy I can be astoundingly stupid.
     For instance. When I was in Boston in May, hanging out with my cousin Harry, I went to the supermarket for him — he's ill, and shopping can be difficult. He texted me a list: potatoes, apple sauce, tapioca pudding, and such. I searched for the various items — surprisingly difficult in a store you've never visited before — parsing the various vague requests. What exact kind of cheddar cheese slices? (I actually blew that assignment by picking up non-dairy soy slices cleverly disguised as cheddar cheese. Or maybe not so cleverly disguised; still, it fooled me.) 

      One item was quite simple: "Rice Krispies cereal." I rolled my cart to the proper aisle. Except I couldn't find the Kellogg's Rice Krispies. I went down the cereal aisle, scanning the boxes. Once. Twice. On the third time I gave up and settled on the generic version, "crisp rice," all lowercase, an unexpected e.e. cummings homage, with a generic pink cartoon dragon gawping at the stuff. Not something I would eat, but then, not everyone is me. Maybe Harry would enjoy this "crisp rice." Still, I'd better check. The best thing to do was text a picture. So I snapped the photograph above and sent it to him. "No Rice Krispies, incredibly," I wrote. "This okay?"
   I hit "Send." Then looked at the photo I had just sent. 
    "Oh wait," I added. "Never mind. There it is." Which is a drawback of this instant communication. Sometimes just waiting — or looking yet again — works better. In trying to figure out how I overlooked it, I think I was distracted by the bedragoned cereal above. Shunning that, I missed the mark below.

Dazzled by Georgia O'Keeffe

    A busy day Friday, preparing two long stories for our Democratic National Convention special section running next month. Suddenly it was 10 p.m. and I looked up, thinking, "Oh, the blog." Late, and no gas in the tank. So, apologies. This isn't much, but it'll have to do. Besides, it's Saturday. You shouldn't be cooped up, reading. Get outside. That's what I plan to do. 

     Look at the painting above, "The Shelton with Sunspots, N.Y." by Georgia O'Keeffe. It's part of the permanent collection of the Art Institute, but currently on display with its exhibit of her Manhattan paintings, "My New Yorks." 
     The show works on a number of levels. First, one tends to think of O'Keeffe as a Southwest artist — all those cow skulls and giant vulvic flowers. So it's disorienting to think of her in a New York flat, at the Shelton, where she moved in 1924, the tallest apartment building in the world at the time. There she painted the factory landscapes she saw from her window. Looking up, she captured buildings framing the sky in a way that echoed the canyon walls she found in New Mexico. 

     Second, you realize that she was doing these skyscraper paintings at the same time she was doing those Southwest paintings, basically commuting between the two places with the seasons, like a bird.
     And third, the exhibit reminds visitors of her sheer technical skill. The above painting tricks the brain to think you're looking at a dazzling sun peeking out from behind a building. The viewer practically squints. You have to pause, and look a second time, to realize you're just regarding regular yellow and white paint. An incredible achievement. "My New Yorks" runs through Sept. 22.

"East River from the 30th Story of the Shelton Hotel." Not the sort of image much associated with
Georgia O'Keeffe, who manages to make the industrial landscape almost whimsical. Maybe it's the tugboat.