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Charlie Meyerson (photo by Todd Bannor)

    This blog owes a lot to former WXRT newsman Charlie Meyerson — it was he who convinced me to send out a morning email link, extending my reach to literally hundreds of readers. When I wrote that I was having surgery, he reached out to say, in essence, "Hey asshole, how'd you fuck yourself up so badly?"
     While I had his attention, I asked if he wanted to use one of the infinity of days I have staring me in the pain-twisted face to plug his own contribution to Chicago's media blogosphere, and he of course snapped at the opportunity, because that is what we do. Take it away, Charlie:

      Consider for a moment the extreme hubris involved in pledging to post something to a blog every … goddamned … day—someone evidently unable to envision a time when rotator cuff surgery would leave him potentially unable to type for six weeks.
     Dear Reader, I give you Neil Steinberg.
     His lack of foresight has put him in a position to seek the kindness of friends and fans, like me, to slap together something, anything, to fill this space.
     As a survivor of that surgery myself—hey, 20 years ago this summer, after what I sarcastically refer to as my last skiing injury ever—I’m happy to help:
     Going through Steinberg withdrawal? You’ll find fresh news and commentary awaiting you daily—but not every day, because I’m not so committed as Neil—via my free email newsletter, Chicago Public Square.
     I look forward to the day when Square will again spotlight Steinbergian insights.
Get well soon, Neil!

     Do you have a venture you want to ballyhoo? You see how minimal it can be. Send it along and I'll consider posting it, as much as I can consider anything through a fog of narcotics.*

* Comic exaggeration. The pain ebbed after the second day and I’m getting by on Advil.

Flashback 1998: Entertainment legend dies of heart attack at 82 - Singer's life, style set tone for millions

 

     I had rotator cuff surgery Wednesday, so with my left arm in a sling, I'm going to take a bit of time off to let the repair heal. How long? I don't know. But I know it’s still too soon to park myself in front of the computer for any extended period of time, even typing with my right hand. Luckily, I have a deep bench. I've never posted this before.

      Frank Sinatra, the combative entertainer who always managed to change with the times, from teen singing sensation to motion picture star to jazz balladeer to king of Las Vegas cool, died of a heart attack Thursday at age 82.
     Mr. Sinatra, who had not been seen in public since a heart attack in January, 1997, died at 10:50 p.m. (12:50 a.m. today, Chicago time) at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, said his publicist, Susan Reynolds.
     Earlier in the evening, he had been taken to the hospital by ambulance with an unspecified distress. Mr. Sinatra's wife, Barbara, was with him when he died.

      Mr. Sinatra's songs provided the soundtrack for a million lives and loves: "Summer Wind," "One for My Baby," "All the Way" and "Strangers in the Night" to name just a few among too many to mention.

      More than just a popular vocalist, Mr. Sinatra represented a style, the entire laid-back, snap-brim, swinging 1950s of martinis and convertibles.
     Later in life, he came to represent a dark side of top-suite celebrity as well, vexed by constant accusations of arrogant behavior and ties to organized crime, mocked for a lifestyle that suddenly seemed brutal and out-of-date.
     But whether loved or hated, whether raising millions for charity or gambling millions at the baccarat tables, whether helping handicapped children or brawling in hotel restrooms, Mr. Sinatra lived life by his own standards. It was no accident that the song Paul Anka wrote for him was called "My Way."
     Francis Albert Sinatra was born Dec. 12, 1915, in Hoboken, N.J., to Anthony and Natalie Sinatra, a pair of Italian immigrants.
     Without any formal vocal training and unable to read music, he was inspired to try his luck at a singing career after hearing Bing Crosby on the radio. Mr. Sinatra made his debut on Major Bowes' radio amateur show as part of a group called the Hoboken Four.
     While it is often said Mr. Sinatra achieved instant fame, the truth is he struggled for many years before he found success, singing at local roadhouses and on the radio, sometimes for nothing, hoping to attract attention.
     On Feb. 4, 1939, he married his childhood sweetheart, Nancy Barbato. They eventually had three children. That same year, he was hired by Harry James, Benny Goodman's trumpeter, who had started his own band.
     Unhappy with the progress of his career with James, Mr. Sinatra jumped to Tommy Dorsey's band in 1940. He stayed there three years, in the process becoming a singing sensation on a scope unmatched by any other singer in popular culture except, perhaps, Elvis Presley.
     The Sinatra phenomenon began in earnest on Dec. 30, 1942, when he appeared with the Benny Goodman Orchestra at the Paramount Theatre in New York. Mr. Sinatra's publicist hired several teenage girls to sit in the front row and scream and cry and swoon, and they touched off an unprecedented national epidemic of teenage female frenzy at his appearances.
     For the next few years, throngs of as many as 25,000 fans would mob Mr. Sinatra's appearances.
     Five hundred "near-hysterical jitterbugs" were waiting for Mr. Sinatra when he pulled into Chicago's Dearborn Street Station aboard the Santa Fe Chief on March 28, 1944. He tried to flee in a cab, but teenage girls climbed over the hood, roof and running boards until he paused to sign autographs.
     He began recording with Columbia; "You'll Never Know" was an early hit.
     Mr. Sinatra performed in a variety of mid-1940s musical comedies, none memorable, while playing the top places of the day, such as the Hollywood Bowl and the Waldorf-Astoria.
     His first movie of note was "Anchors Aweigh" (1945) with Gene Kelly. He won his first Academy Award for his short patriotic film, "The House I Live In" (1945).
     While the time immediately after the war was big for Mr. Sinatra — his $25,000 take for a week at the Chicago Theatre in 1946 set a record — soon afterward, his career went into a steep decline, beginning with being dropped from his Old Gold radio show in 1947. Although the sponsor cited poor ratings, Mr. Sinatra's tempestuous personal life, including a notorious fistfight outside a club with columnist Lee Mortimer, plus his personal politics, considered radical at the time, did not help.
     Mr. Sinatra bottomed out in the early 1950s. He divorced his first wife in 1951, and, a week later, married film star Ava Gardner. That stormy relationship lasted two years.
     His films of the period were flops, and he had no hit records. The Internal Revenue Service audited him and slapped him with a $90,000 bill for back taxes. He was having trouble with his vocal cords. By 1952, he had no manager or film and recording contracts.
     He revitalized his career through the role of Maggio in "From Here to Eternity," a performance that earned him an Academy Award and put him back on top. He had two hits in 1954, "Three Coins in the Fountain" and "Young at Heart," and a hit album the next year, "Songs for Swingin' Lovers."
     More hit songs — "Love and Marriage," "All the Way" — and more hit movies — "Guys and Dolls," "The Man With the Golden Arm," "Pal Joey" — followed. He recorded a series of jazzy albums for Capitol Records.
     Between marriages, and sometimes during them, Mr. Sinatra was linked romantically with many of the great beauties of his day, including Lana Turner, Judy Garland, Gloria Vanderbilt, Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall and Juliet Prowse, as well as an endless chain of anonymous actresses and models.
     In the late 1950s, the storied Rat Pack formed around Mr. Sinatra — Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop, Shirley MacLaine — and they were to share the stage, and friendships, for decades.
     "Friendship" with Mr. Sinatra was not friendship in the ordinary sense of the word. He was not reluctant to use coercion to keep his friends in line, usually by ousting them from his inner circle..
     Mr. Sinatra was close to politicians for decades, beginning with his having tea with Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was particularly friendly with John F. Kennedy through Rat Pack member Peter Lawford, who was married to Kennedy's sister.
     Mr. Sinatra's song "High Hopes" was Kennedy's campaign song, and Mr. Sinatra arranged the entertainment at Kennedy's inauguration party. The president soon distanced himself from Mr. Sinatra, however, after being warned about rumors of mob ties.
     The allegation that Mr. Sinatra associated with gang figures dogged him, despite his frequent denials.
     Nevertheless, Mr. Sinatra was stripped of his gambling license and forced to sell his stakes in the Sands in Las Vegas and the Cal-Neva Lodge, a Lake Tahoe casino, because he allowed mob boss Sam Giancana to reside there in a chalet.
     "Sinatra hobnobs with the Mafia's elite," the Wall Street Journal wrote in 1968 — an article that scotched Mr. Sinatra's plans to take an active role in the presidential campaign of Hubert Humphrey.
     Mr. Sinatra was forced to appear before a grand jury in New Jersey in 1970 after his name turned up on FBI wiretapping tapes of gangland figures.
     He was vindicated at least once in court, receiving substantial damages from the British Broadcasting Corp. for suggesting in a telecast that he used mob connections to land his career-saving role in "From Here to Eternity."
     The Vegas scene became his refuge from media scrutiny and the culture-shattering arrival of rock 'n' roll. Mr. Sinatra had only one No. 1 hit in the 1960s — "Strangers in the Night" (1966).
     Mob allegations were not the only kind of trouble that followed Mr. Sinatra. He was a pampered brawler used to getting his own way immediately, and there were countless incidents, from an elderly waiter being roughed up for getting a meal order wrong to a casino owner being threatened.
     Usually everything was hushed up, but occasionally there were repercussions. Mr. Sinatra lost his two front teeth when he was hit in the mouth by a Sands Hotel manager in 1967, after which he ended his 16-year association with the hotel, moving to Caesars Palace.
     The normally reserved Prince Charles, upon meeting Mr. Sinatra in 1974, described his entourage as "goons, creeps and Mafia types."
     In 1966, Mr. Sinatra wed 21-year-old Mia Farrow, but their stormy marriage lasted less than two years, breaking up when the filming of "Rosemary's Baby" interfered with a movie Mr. Sinatra wanted to do with his wife.
     Mr. Sinatra announced the first of several retirements in 1971. He returned — partly at the prompting of President Richard Nixon — in 1973, with the album "Ol' Blue Eyes Is Back," which rose to No. 13.
     Mr. Sinatra constantly battled the press — most famously in 1974, when his tour of Australia was interrupted and nearly scuttled after the first show, during which he called the Australian press corps "pimps" "whores," "fags" and "buck-and-a-half hookers."
     He found himself stranded: Stagehands announced they would refuse to work any more shows; three Australian unions refused to fuel his private jet; even the staff of his hotel, the Southern Cross in Melbourne, would not serve him. Delicate negotiations with the Australian unions permitted the tour to continue, though one show had to be canceled.
     Mr. Sinatra got married for a fourth and final time in July, 1976, to Barbara Jane Marx, the ex-wife of comedian Zeppo Marx.
     He had another hit in 1980, with "New York, New York," which became something of an anthem for him, and released a popular three-album set, "Trilogy," that year.
     In 1985, he received the Medal of Freedom from President Ronald Reagan, who had persuaded Mr. Sinatra to switch to the Republican Party 15 years earlier.
     In September, 1986, Mr. Sinatra reopened the Chicago Theatre with several concerts. He continued to tour throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, and was always popular, though critics agreed his voice sometimes showed the ravages of time.
     Mr. Sinatra was an insomniac who would commission a jet and fly to Las Vegas for the evening, returning at dawn.
     "I'm for anything that gets you through the night," he once said, "be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel's."
     Survivors include his wife and three children, Frank Jr., Nancy and Tina.
     A private funeral was planned, his publicist said.

         — Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 15, 1998

Flashback 2011: Potter’s field burial not so lonely after all

Homewood Memorial Gardens

     I'm recovering from surgery, so we're raiding the archive until I'm back in the saddle.

     Death isn't my beat, but you can't work for 39 years at a newspaper and not encounter it, whether watching a body being pulled from the river, the medical examiner performing autopsies on Harrison Street, or Loyola medical students studying cadavers at a gross pathology class. This emerged from that last story, a potter's field burial. Mitch Dudak quoted the story at the end of June in a fine obituary of Tim Kowalski, mortuary science teacher, and I realized I'd never posted it here. And as a reminder pulling one thread leads to another, it was wandering around the Homewood cemetery that I happened upon the grave of the "Martyr to Radio."

     A boxy U-Haul truck wends its way slowly along the curving roadway of Homewood Memorial Gardens, to a group waiting by a large, shallow hole in a section of the cemetery known as The Garden of the Good Samaritan No. 11. The sun is bright, the sky blue, a pleasant day for November.
     The truck backs up to the lip of the hole. The rear door opens to reveal 24 plywood coffins. A corrugated metal ramp is run from the truck into the pit.
     A smell rolls out that I’ve come to think of as “refrigerated death,” a queasy blend of meat and bleach. The bodies are fresh from the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office on Harrison.
     Last month I wrote a column contrasting the dignified ceremony that Loyola conducts for its medical school cadavers, complete with poems, prayers and priests, with what I imagined to be the lonely burial at potter’s field: “the sack shrouded body is tossed into a pit with a minimum of fuss.”
     Even as I typed those words, it struck me: I had overstepped what I actually knew and launched into speculation — dangerous for a journalist — and if I was going to comment on this, I had better go see what I was talking about.
     The burials are conducted monthly. These two dozen bodies had arrived at the morgue in July, and their relatives either couldn’t be found or refused to pay for a funeral. The medical examiner, Dr. Nancy Jones, wants to donate such unclaimed bodies to science, both to fill the shortage of medical cadavers and save the county the $289 per coffin paid to Homewood. But there was a public outcry, and such donations have been temporarily suspended while she re-evaluates the procedures.
     The hole is shallow, about 3 feet. Homewood is built upon stone; anything deeper must be jackhammered out of rock. Illinois law requires only 18 inches of earth over a coffin; to comply, the soil is mounded on graves.
     Four gravediggers — Adam Springer, Michael Scott, Gregory Blackshire and Eli Martinez, who wears a kerchief over his face to ward off the smell — muscle the pine boxes down the ramp, aided by four students from the Worsham College of Mortuary Science, in Wheeling — Chris Nelson, Nikkia Brown, Addie Cassidy and Darrell Randolph, who wears a nice suit for this dirty job, which earns them extra credit. Some of the coffins are very heavy — corpses are fatter nowadays. The coffins in the truck are leaking.
     “We do wash it out and bleach it,” says Homewood’s Kelly McCarthy.
     The pine boxes squeak, dragged against each other, then rumble down the ramp, splintering as they go. As each is pulled off the truck, a number is read off a small round brass tag.
     “Two ninety-five, got it,” says McCarthy. “Oh yeah, he’s a heavy one,” grunts Scott. “He’s a biggie.”
     In 30 minutes the work is done. The grave diggers, the students, McCarthy, plus someone from the ME’s office, sent to keep an eye on things, gather by the grave containing the remains of 20 men and four women.
     Tim Kowalski, who teaches at Worsham, reads from a black binder.
     “Bless me God,” he begins, then recites the 23rd Psalm: “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . ”
     “We commend to God the souls of these individuals whose mortal remains lie before us and to commit their bodies to the earth . . . ,” he continues. “We did not know these people. Many things about them will remain always a mystery to us. We do not know what were the circumstances of their lives . . . . Many may have died in poverty. Others might have simply outlived their families. Our beginnings do not know our ends. . . . We do not know any of these things, but one thing we do know, they were human beings, and at the end of their lives they deserve to be treated with respect. Our common humanity demands that these lives should not pass from the earth unremembered.”
     He asks for a moment of silence and, as if on cue, birds chirp. The 24 names and numbers are read aloud. Then we who are not dead return to our lives on this crisp, bright autumn day while the backhoe does its work.

     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 7, 2011

Flashback 1997: Here's the ugly truth about plastic surgery

"Janie" by Clarity Haynes (National Portrait Gallery)

     I had surgery Wednesday, and while I'm healing thought I'd share some of my surgical stories from over the years. If my surgeon finds himself reading this, rest assured that I have a far more positive view of the medical profession now that I'm carrying around a good-as-new spine, and hip and now, please God, shoulder.

     For a while I was writing a lot of stories about medical procedures. I watched a heart transplant, which was thrilling, and a lung transplant, which was less so, since the patient died.
     I sat in on plastic surgeries: a nose job, a breast lift. I spent 10 hours at the Cook County medical examiner's office observing autopsies. When they brought the baby in, I decided to take a coffee break instead of watching, a decision I'm immensely grateful for today.
     For those eating their morning breakfasts, I'll spare you the details (though there will be some graphic images later, so you might want to finish your poached egg before continuing), other than to say that the procedures were pretty grim viewing.
     Particularly the nose job, which was more than grim, it was grisly. At one point I felt myself about to faint and wanted to retire from the room with my manly decorum intact. "My pen is running out," I lied, slipping toward the door. "I'll be right back; I've got another in my clothes" (I had changed into one of those green hospital scrub suits).
     "Oh, here," said a helpful anesthesiologist, pulling a pen from his pocket and waving it toward me, "you can use mine."
     "No, no, thank you," I said, backing out in to the hall, where I sat for five minutes with my head between my knees. "I need to use my own pen."
     Imagine the comment after I left: "Now there's a strict union for you."
     Of all the procedures I've witnessed — and I'm including the young student podiatrists from Dr. Scholl's College working on the stinking feet of the homeless in a closed room — nothing was as revulsive as a liposuction, a procedure brought back to mind last week by news of a California woman who died after liposuction surgery.
     The California case took place in March, but was just revealed recently. The doctor removed 20 pounds of fat from a woman, who bled to death while the surgeons allegedly did nothing.
     In the 15 years or so it has been performed in this country, liposuction has become an incredibly common procedure — it is the most common form of plastic surgery — and, in my view, testimony to the greed of the medical profession, since it is entirely unnecessary.
     During a liposuction, an aluminum probe — a cannula — is inserted through an incision in the skin into the fatty tissues, which are sucked out by a vacuum pump. It is a very high tech way to lose weight and as sensible as a dentist cleaning your teeth by removing them, scrubbing them down, then putting them back, surgically.
     The official party line on liposuction is that it is used for pockets of fat that can't be reduced through dieting. That's a lot of hooey. The woman whose liposuction I saw was zaftig. She was heavy. Not heavy in certain isolated pockets. Heavy all over. What she needed was to eat less and exercise.
      That's how you lose weight: eating less and exercising. It isn't easy, but it sure is preferable to going under the knife.
     The California woman who died was 150 pounds on a 5-foot-3-inch frame. That isn't isolated pockets. That's fat.
      Liposuction, as the surgeon I watched performing it noted, is "an indelicate procedure." The doctor got that cannula under the woman's skin and really worked it. The table shook. In my memory, the surgeon put his knee on the gurney to get better leverage, but that has to be a phantom of my general revulsion at the procedure.
     "Doesn't that damage nerves?" I asked the surgeon, as he worked up a sweat with the cannula. "Aren't they delicate?"
     "Nah," he said. "The nerves are tough — the cannula just pushes them out of the way."
     Right, I thought. Of course it does. Absolutely.
     I wish the patient could have been awake to see just what was being done to her — the plastic surgeon, laughing and joking as he worked. "This is the schmaltz," he said, holding up a jar of reddish-yellow sludge and using the Yiddish term for "fat."
     Anybody contemplating such surgery should, at the very least, watch it performed first. Don't be satisfied with a film. Get yourself into the operating room. Dieting will suddenly look very attractive. Exercise will take on an appeal it never had before. The pounds will fly off.
     Because I can promise you: Nothing will turn you off to plastic surgery as much as watching it will. A life of obesity seems positively jolly compared with the reality of liposuction. Any elective procedure should first be observed before being considered. I've got a good-size eggplant of a Jewish nose jutting out from my face, but after watching a nose lift, I can honestly say that I wouldn't go through a nose job if my wife and the assembled array of the world's womankind gathered with their arms linked and in unison begged me to.
     Every line I see in the mirror, every new wrinkle and sag, will be a welcome visitor compared with the alternative.
     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 7, 1997

Flashback 1994: Keeping a last promise.

Michael Thurson before surgery (Photo by Robert A. Davis; used with permission)

     I had rotator cuff surgery Wednesday afternoon, and will have my left arm in a sling for about the next six weeks. As for EGD, it doesn't seem a good idea to park myself in front of the computer right away, even to give you good folks something diverting to read, pecked out with my right hand, or dictated, if I can make that work. 

     Luckily, I have both a deep bench, and the ability to plan ahead. We're going to be reading chestnuts mined from the archive for a few days, and then some of my media pals will pinch hit. My apologies but, heck, you get what you pay for. 

    Regarding today's topic, naturally I first thought of surgery. This is from the days when I worked with the great photographer Robert A. Davis. I still remember the shock of standing in that operating room, learning ... well, you'll see. As for the end, that was all Bob, going the extra mile, a practice that has taken him very far.

     Eloise Heatherly made a promise.
     A registered nurse at Wyler Children's Hospital, she became friends with Michael Thurson, a slight 15-year-old boy with cystic fibrosis, struggling to breathe and looking forward to a better life with a new set of lungs.
     We'll toast with champagne, Heatherly said, when you turn 16.
     Michael was a kid who needed a promise, a reason to look ahead.
     Dragging an oxygen bottle around St. Francis de Sales High
     School, lying on a board while his mother pounded his back to loosen the phlegm that was suffocating him, his average day wasn't a cakewalk.
     It was a long wait for lungs — at 4 feet 6 inches tall and 71 pounds, not many pairs would fit his narrow chest.
     He was already sick, taking treatments at Wyler, when lungs became available after an accident.
     Around midnight Jan. 29, Michael was awakened by a nurse who asked him what his greatest wish was.
     "I want to see Jordan," said the sleepy boy.
     The nurse told him that no, Michael Jordan wasn't here. But his new lungs were on the way.
     "One out of two ain't bad," he said.
     The operation did not go as smoothly as it could have. The lungs were caught in traffic.
     "Where are they now?" a surgeon asked. "Naperville," somebody holding a telephone replied. Two nurses gasped in unison: "Naperville!?!"
     "We probably opened the chest too soon," Dr. Alvaro Montoya said afterward. "We should have waited two more hours."
     But Michael survived the surgery. He clung to life for 10 days.
     "I'm going to wait until I heal, then work out a lot, so I can get better at basketball," he had said.
     Michael Thurson died Feb. 9 from complications following the surgery. He never got the chance to improve his basketball.
     When the news hit his school, students were so upset that classes were dismissed early. The basketball team, for whom Michael was a scorekeeper, wore black bands on their jerseys and headbands reading "Mikey" for the rest of the season.
     Saturday, Michael would have been 16. Heatherly kept her promise.
     Heatherly, Michael's mother, his sisters and a few friends gathered at his grave at Holy Cross Cemetery in Calumet City. They took birthday balloons, flowers and, yes, champagne, the good stuff.
     Michael would have loved it.
             — Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 30, 1994

A root canal AND rotator cuff surgery? Lucky me.

     My dentist's office called after a routine cleaning and x-ray. Could I, they wondered, come back? Tomorrow. I got the sense if I said, "I can rush over now," they'd have replied. "Good, hurry." It was a matter of tone.
     The news was bad. An enormous cavity, growing hidden beside my upper right wisdom tooth. Maybe even invading the jaw bone. Requiring a root canal and crown. Probably lose the wisdom tooth too.
     "I like how you're so grim," I told the dentist, after he explained the situation. "It shows you care."
     Off to the endodontist. Two hours in the chair for the root canal. Honestly, it didn't hurt — well, my left arm did, quite a lot, fallout from my ripped-up left shoulder. Holding it still for so long. I'd occasionally extend it, taking care not to upset a tray of tools or grope the dental hygienist.
     Then there was the enforced silence. Although, being me, I still tried to speak, with a dental dam plus dental instruments in my mouth. I wanted to tell the endodontist how important Chicago is to the history of fluoridation. The initial experiments held in Evanston in 1946, with Oak Park as the control. Because he's a tooth guy. He'd be interested. Shutting up is an art form I struggle to master.
     But that isn't the most embarrassing part.
     The root canal was the first act. My next step was back to the dentist, to create a crown to go over the afflicted tooth, shaved down to a stump.
     More than three hours in that chair, including the wait while the crown was being sculpted by a high-tech medical printer. When I could speak again, this is what I said:
     "You know what I was thinking for the past two hours? And this will sound like I'm blowing smoke ... but I was thinking about how lucky I am to have access to high quality medical care like this."
     I really said that. And I meant it. Some 100 million Americans don't routinely see a dentist, usually because of the cost. Half the world's population suffers from untreated oral diseases, according to the World Health Organization.
     A reminder. You know what's much worse than a root canal? Not having a root canal.
     Honestly, the root canal/crown was plenty to hone my medical gratitude. But life has a way of laying it on. A couple weeks later, I went to get an MRI on the shoulder that has hurt me since I tripped and fell on a train platform in Portugal. I was hoping the doctor would say it was strained, perhaps prescribe warm healing oils be massaged into the area while listening to whale song.
     Badly torn rotator cuff. Which I could ignore, going to physical therapy, building up the muscles around the torn and useless muscle.
     Or I could have repaired by arthroscopic surgery. Cut a few holes in my arm, poke in a camera, set some anchors in the bone, sew the muscle back in place, out in an hour. Not even a night's stay in the hospital.

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Willis wall covering

     Downtown Chicago is rich in public art. You don't need me to tell you that. The instantly-beloved "Bean" — okay, "Cloud Gate" for you sticklers. Anish Kapoor's mirrored blob of stainless steel in Millennium Park. The artwork it supplanted in Chicago's heart, the rusty baboon/praying mantis — okay, it's really a woman — in Daley Plaza, the only large-scale sculpture by Pablo Picasso, called by locals, with a Chicago directness, "The Picasso."
     Plus all sorts of lesser lights — the orange "Flamingo" in Federal Plaza, which Calder thought was put in the wrong place (he wanted it further from the building). "Miro's Chicago," which also goes by a popular name, versus its official mouthful "The Sun, the Moon and One Star," jammed into a gap between the Cook County Administration Building and the Chicago Temple (and directly across the street from the Picasso — I imagine many lock their eyes on the Picasso and never even notice the Miro). The Chagall mosaics, "Four Seasons" at Chase Tower Plaza.
     So many, I feel fairly confident the above might be new to you.
     It's called "Atmospheric Wave Wall, 2020." Honestly, I walked past it half a dozen times, registering its presence, not being particularly impressed, until I noticed the plaque and saw who created it: Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson.
     EGD readers met him in 2020, when I reposted a 2009 column outlining what I called "The Curator Effect." Museum of Contemporary Art director Madeleine Grynsztejn had walked me through their Eliasson exhibit. I'd been impressed, but also wondered if I could recommend it to readers, who would not have the benefit of the MCA director walking them through the challenging artworks — moss stuck to a stone wall; various rooms of light and color. Would they also be impressed?
     I haven't decided what I think of this piece, made of stainless steel tiles coated with enamel. The typical artist's statement on the piece's web page doesn't add much light.
     "Motion is the central principle behind this public artwork, planned especially for Willis Tower," it begins. "The dynamic pattern on the wall is activated by the motion of people walking, driving, or biking past; by the motion of the earth in relation to the sun as light moves across it; and by changes in the season and weather."
     The Sun-Times never mentioned the installation. The Tribune did so in 2022, with the slightest reference in a larger story about Willis Tower's $500 million renovation.
     Have you seen it? What do you think? Valuable addition to Chicago's public art landscape? Or textured wallpaper gone berserk?