Summer of 2026 wasn't total loss — at least there are tomatoes

 

   Did your tomatoes come in this year? Yes? A bountiful crop? That’s too bad, because wastewater from cooling the giant AI data centers being built all over the country has gotten into the national aquifer, and the flesh of tomatoes is particularly adept at soaking up microplastics and neurotoxins. Best to let them rot on the vine this year, or better yet, dig a pit and bury them, just to be safe.
     Kidding. None of the above is true — there is no such thing as a “national aquifer” — though at this point it feels like anything is possible, in the bad news department, after a summer of serial tornadoes, massive wildfires and nightmare glacier-melt flash floods blasting mountain towns. Plus wars in Iran, Gaza, Ukraine and probably a few places I’m forgetting.
     Meanwhile the same ongoing opera buffa plays out in Washington, where paying attention to any specific jaw dropper — wait, he told a lie? — seems an act of raw naivete. I wouldn’t be surprised if the president declared a crazy trade war with our good friend Canada, slapping it with a 50% tariff that it would immediately slap back on us, then rename Lake Ontario “Lake America” in a fit of toddler pique that had people all over the world shaking their heads in a blend of amusement, pity and disgust.
     Oh wait, that really happened.
     Back to tomatoes. Records are spotty, but for the past five years it’s been a sorry sight at my place — hard little green spheres of shame that never ripen. To make matters worse, it’s been a perpetual tomato-palooza over at my brother’s house. He would meet me for lunch with a grin and a shopping bag filled with ripe red beauties, any one of which would have made my season. I tried to convince myself that he merely stops at a farmers market and loads up, just to stick it to me the way only a little brother can. But I know his wife is tending the garden back home, so I cannot suggest deception.
     “What’s Japanese for ‘tomato shame’?” I asked. My sister-in-law is from Osaka.
     “Tomato no haji,” he said.
     I distracted myself by focusing on the Japanese word for tomato — tomato — which seems odd, since the fruit came to that country in the 1600s with Portuguese traders. So how did Japanese tomatoes end up tagged to an English loan word name? The short answer is: They didn’t. Both Japan and the United States borrowed the word from the same source. Tomatoes are thought to have originated in South America, probably Ecuador or Peru, then found their way to the future Mexico, where the Aztecs named them tomatl — kind of cool that, magically transported to Tenochtitlan in 1400 and hungry after a morning building pyramids, you could ask for a fresh tomato and have a reasonable expectation of getting one.

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Restaurant field notes: Culver's

 

A Double Deluxe Butter Burger

  
     Readers have made it abundantly clear that I can come off as ... what's the word? ... I was going to say "toff," but that is someone who dresses very well, which I do not. Or a "ponce," which sounds right but turns out to mean a "pimp."

     Someone affected in their regard for the finer things, with my opera and my Dante and my fancy restaurants. And while I do enjoy those things, I am also a salt-of-the-earth, non-nonsense union man who puts my L.L. Bean lined pants on one leg at a time, like everybody else. I like country music and candy corn and make a point to go to the local fair, Northbrook Days, to wander around, gape at the rides, grab a Northbrook PD chip clip, maybe enjoy a corn dog or, this year, the falafel offered up by my friends at Chabad Northbrook.

     Being open, generous, community supporting sorts, my wife and put down $20 on two raffle tickets, as we do every year, even though we never win. Though this year we were called and told we did win, not one of the cars or a big pot of money, but a year's worth of a) free oil changes at ProAuto and b) a year's worth of monthly Double Deluxe Butter Burgers at Culver's.

     Now I'm a little reluctant to go anywhere other than the dealer to have my oil changed, speaking of putting on airs, but I was willing to try out Culver's. I am not a fast food guy. I will go to a White Castle and order three cheese sliders every few years, and sometimes sigh, passing a McDonald's, that I wouldn't mind ordering one of their distinctive cheeseburgers, with their yellow paper and all important pickle slice. But I've been saying that for at least 10 years and at this point probably never will.

     Culver's, I have no preconceptions toward whatsoever. Their advertising is water off a duck's ass. What glimmer I've taken away is that they seem to focus on their founder, or CEO, or whoever he is, a mistake that Wendy's used to make. If I want to think about a porky middle older man when I'm visiting their establishment, I'll look in a mirror. Give those people a cartoon cow or something.

     Driving over, my wife asked me if I had any idea what a double deluxe Butterburger cost — what was prompting this foray. I said if a McDonald's cheeseburger is, what, $2, and a Big Mac is $4.50, then it might be $6. She said prices had been skyrocketing and I was underestimating

     "You have a phone," she said — she was driving, as I'm still in a sling. The average national price for a Big Mac is $6.12, and my free Double Deluxe Butter Burger cost $7.99. I had done my research — into what it was, not what it cost — so knew to order it without mayonnaise. I indulged in a medium onion rings and a black coffee.

     I almost informed the server, "This is our first visit to Culver's!" but decided to show off my shutting up skills instead.

     My wife had been agonizing whether to order lettuce on her single burger — the various plagues criss-crossing the country — and at the last moment decided to throw caution to the wind.

     "Let's make a meal of it," she said, meaning the lettuce, not realizing she was checking a box in the order taker's mind, initiating the "meal" sub-circuit to initiate and he added fries and a drink to her order. That was sorted out, eventually, though the poor man was obviously rattled, and we took our number, 23, and went to sit at a table. They bring the food to you, a pleasant touch of humanity on par with the frosty glass mug at A & W Root Beer.

     The place had a pleasant, deep blue color scheme, and was clean and populated with families and kids who had all finished their Sunday soccer games. My wife went up to get water and I noticed the man at the next table was wearing a "Friends of Taiwan" baseball cap and as I noted it, he saw me seeing him and nodded and I drew in breath to say, "I've been to Taiwan, to interview the vice president, Annette Lu, and talk to her about soft power. The Taroko Gorge, very impressive..." but caught myself at the last moment and I shut up, an art form which, as I sometimes say, I struggle to master, and merely nodded back.

    Very quickly a server came by with a tray containing my wife's single Butter Burger, my gratis Double, the onion rings and coffee. The BB was quite edible, enhanced by lettuce, tomato and raw onion. The meat had a pleasant, sirloin steak quality to it, though the cheese wasn't melted. At least the coffee wasn't burnt, as coffee even at fine restaurants can be, and I drank the whole cup without having to mask the taste with cream or sweetener, as I sometimes have to do. The onion rings were real, but treated so you could bite them easily and not have to gnaw through a thick loop of onion, and there was a good number of small ones that fit nicely into the little cup of Heinz ketchup. The batter held its own as well.

     All told, we left without dreading the 11 more monthly trips we're signed up for. Though my wife did dismiss her burger as "greasy," she will try a grilled cheese sandwich — a rarity in the fast food world — or even a cup of frozen custard, an item that Culver's seems to pride itself in.     

Maybe we need to pass a law conferring personhood onto women

   

"Women and Dog," by Marisol (Whitney Museum of Art)

     Women are human, right?
     I’m fairly certain they are. They’ve got all the telltale signs. Complex thought processes. Self-motivation — and by that, I mean they can move, physically, although the other meaning, doing things of their own volition, is also a factor.
     Now that I’m trying to define what being human means, I’m sorry for starting this way. It is fraught.
     Next I almost suggested “bilateral symmetry” — meaning if you draw a line down the middle, we’re the same on both sides — then thoughtlessly elaborated with “two arms, two legs” but realized, in the nick of time, I’d end up getting chewed out by amputees who are, of course, still human despise their losses. A big tent, people.
     Honestly, I feel like tossing the question to AI, after having looked askance at it last week. Contradictory, we humans ... oh heck, why not? Everybody else does. Hey AI. what does being human mean?
     “Being human means living as a blend of biological existence, conscious self-awareness and emotional connection to the world and others.”
     Sounds right to me. And I did I hit the first two, physical and consciousness, on my own. As far as emotional connection... well, I’m not so sure about that. Could be more AI fantasy. Emotional disconnection seems all the rage nowadays — in fact, tossing people over the side of the humanity boat might be a defining mark of humanity. Everybody’s doing it.
     Immigration papers not in order? You can be guiltlessly shipped to some hellhole in Texas or Uganda.
     On the other side of the Israeli-Palestinian struggle? Why you and everyone like you can just... magically vanish. In fact, that’s the plan.

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Bad statuary continued

 

     As a rule, I'm proud of Illinois. An placid lake of humane, rights-affirming blue in a sea of frothing red, with Indiana, the Mississippi of the Midwest, to the east, Iowa, the scourge of trans citizens, to the west, and Confederate manques Missouri and Kentucky to the South. Gov. J.B. Pritzker gives back to Trump as good as he gets, and if he rode that river of sarcasm to the White House, it would be fine by me.
     But Illinois can't be on the ball all the time. Taxes are high, residents are fleeing, and we've really flubbed our chance to put on pride and joy on display at the Capitol. Twice.
     Saturday's post was about presidential statues, using some photos reader Tony Galati kindly sent. A reader asked if I knew what two Illinoisans are honored in the Capitol — each state gets two, thanks to a law signed by Lincoln. 
    I was tempted to go with Grant. But he wasn't the greatest president. I figured, go literary, and guessed Carl Sandburg, the pride of Galesburg, and, assuming a woman would have to be in the mix, Jane Addams, of Hull House fame.
    Wrong and wrong.
    The answer: deeply obscure 19th century politician James Shields, and Frances Willard.
    Who are they? 

   Shields is the only man to be a senator from three states — Illinois, Minnesota and Missouri. He also was a general, though his claim to fame seems to be that he challenged Abraham Lincoln to a duel in 1842 that was nearly fought until cooler heads prevailed.
     Frances Willard I actually knew — well, not personally. I knew her name, because her home is still standing in Evanston, where she founded the Women's Christian Temperance Union. There is a Willard Hall at Northwestern, and the NU Apartments used to have "We're behind the WCTU!" on their t-shirts, as the teetotalers' headquarters was next door.
    She was also active in pushing for the vote for women, and other laudable social issues.
    So they're not exactly anonymous mopes. But not the sort of historical figures the knowledge of whom cause you to swell with pride either. I'd say time to swap them out for someone more worthy — I nominate Ida B. Wells and Studs Terkel — but honestly, given our historic moment of peril, I would save mere symbolism for another day.

Who is this man?

 

   Take a look at the man above.
   Recognize him?
   I knew who he is supposed to be, because I read regular correspondent Tony Galati's email, sent in response to Thursday's post on the Dick Tracy statue. It's supposed to be Harry Truman. The statue is located at his presidential library and museum in Independence, Missouri. While there is, I suppose, a vague resemblance, and though Tony finds it "good," I would say more like "close but no cigar." There are photos to back me up.

     Maybe it has something to do with Truman himself. Another statue at the library, out in front, of Truman doffing his hat to visitors, which is fitting — the 33rd president worked in a men's clothing shop — is hardly better. 

     Maybe something about Truman's folksy charm resists monumental rendering — an enormous sculpture outside the Jackson County courthouse is also pretty bad. Although a fourth statue of Give 'Em Hell Harry, in the U.S. Capitol, is an improvement.

     Tony likes to visit presidential libraries — an enviable pastime for sure — and sent along snaps of several other presidential statues. He considers the George H.W. Bush statue at right "the best of the lot" and I agree. Maybe its something intrinsic to Bush's patrician looks — there is also a passable bronze of him outside the United States embassy in Berlin. Then again, Bush pere generally looks better and better as the years go on.
     Tony also likes the Gerald Ford statue, though deeming it "too thin." Sudden weight loss is a common flub when constructing statues — Roger Ebert's statue in front of the Virginia Theater in Champaign makes him so svelte as to be almost unrecognizable. 

     It's not like presidential statues can't be rendered effectively — Samuel Chester French's Abraham Lincoln comes to mind. (As opposed to the sitting Lincoln, who looks like he's waiting for a bus, sculpted by Gutzon Borglum, the man responsible for Mount Rushmore, whose all four faces, though substandard, at least have the excuse of being carved out of a mountainside. People treat Mount Rushmore like it's an American mecca. It's not. It's a tourist trap sprayed so thickly with the mist of unfocused patriotism that people can't see what it is).    
    As for Lyndon Johnson, Tony writes, "I don't know what they did to LBJ." That kind of modernist scuptural pointilism popular in the 1960s and 1970s. The statue of botanist Carl Linnaeus at the Chicago Botanic Garden suffers from the same stick-clumps-together-until-you-have-a-guy technique. 

    Anyway, Tony, thanks for the photos. Made me want to get on the road and visit some presidential libraries and museums. I've only been to two — the recently opened Obama Center, and the Kennedy Library over 20 years ago, when I was researching my hat book. I remember the staff being extremely helpful, and the museum being quite well done. I don't remember any statues of Kennedy. Probably just as well.

    

How are kids supposed to learn anything if AI does their work for them?

 

     "The technologies are now able to credibly complete most undergraduate assignments."
                                              — Washington Post

     I bumbled into the job. A colleague knew I had interviewed celebrities for a magazine, and asked if I could talk to his journalism class at Loyola about the challenges of writing profiles of the famous. So I leaned on the lectern for an hour and prattled about walking a golf course in Jamaica with Arnold Palmer and talking jazz over dinner with trumpet legend Dizzy Gillespie.
     "You're better at this than I am," my colleague said, afterward, suggesting I teach. So I ambled over to the dean's office and he gave me a class teaching feature writing.
     I started the students off with writing profiles, the most basic story. You've got your material — someone's life — already assembled. You've got the narrative arc — their career path — waiting to guide you. I signed up 20 real Chicago personalities — TV journalist Carol Marin, firebrand Rev. Michael Pfleger, Cook County Treasurer Maria Pappas — put their names on index cards, and handed them out to the class.
     We moved slowly. First the kids developed questions for their subjects, based on their life stories. I reviewed those. Then the interviews. Eventually, I had 20 finished profiles before me.
     Nineteen students understood the assignment. But reading one, on entrepreneur Leslie Hindman, suddenly the tone of the writing shifted dramatically. The profile was describing her business, a Chicago auction house, and it was like moving from gravel to asphalt.
     "This is boilerplate," I thought. "She took this off the internet." I plugged a paragraph into a search engine. Up it popped, on the auction house site. Word for word. It took 30 seconds to find.
     On the first day of class, I had made a little speech: "I know you can steal stuff from online. Don't do it. Because I'll find out and you'll fail."
     I didn't want to confront the student alone, so dragged the dean in with me, as backup. I expected the student to be in trouble, maybe expelled.
     That didn't happen. He explained to me that the dire consequences for plagiarism that Loyola warns about were more notional than real. The customer is always right. So together we gently tried to explain to the student who swiped copy why what she did was wrong. It was a struggle.
     I thought the student might be ashamed, at least apologetic. She wasn't. She was defiant. This was research! She was a single mother! She needed this class credit! She needed this degree!
     I pointed out that, yeah, you need the degree because it means something. If the only thing a Loyola degree represents is that you can deftly swipe other people's work, then it doesn't mean much, does it?
     The solution I generously offered — redo the profile without plagiarizing this time — was batted away as draconian. She dropped the course, and huffed off in search of a less rigorous instructor.
     Turns out, my student was years ahead of the curve. Now the great engines of technology align to help everyone farm out the creative process. Only suckers do the work.

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"Plain Clothes Tracy" wouldn't do.

      Statues must be hard. Because it's so easy to get them wrong. In June, I observed how significantly off the statues of Barack and Michelle Obama are at the new Obama Presidential Center. Not a lot. But enough, and what was extra surprising was that no one else remarked upon it, not that I heard anyway. Maybe it's considered impolite. Maybe pointless — the statue is cast in bronze and there. Not a lot anybody can do about it at this point.
     Because I am such a critic of statues — I tend to speak up when I find one lacking — I should take a moment to say how much I admired this statue of Dick Tracy, which I noticed earlier this summer strolling the hopping Riverwalk in Naperville after dinner with friends. Maybe cartoons are, counterintuitively, easier to render in three dimensions. Also notable is who the artist is — Dick Locher, the cartoonist who took over drawing Dick Tracy from Chester Gould,  creator of the strip. I actually spoke to Gould, once, asking him to draw the cover of a magazine I worked for. He agreed.
    Now that I think of it, I have a vignette about Gould developing the strip in my recent book, "Every Goddamn Day.' This might be an apt time to share it.

     Oct. 4, 1931: He was supposed to be a modern version of Sherlock Holmes. The deerstalker hat swapped for a snap brim fedora. But the same sharp nose for clues, the same determined jaw. The idea came the previous May to Chester Gould, an artist for the Chicago Daily News who draws other people's comics and illustrations of oriental rugs. All these headlines about gangsters murdering each other, only to go smirkingly free. Law-abiding citizens are fed up. Criminals ought to be caught. Somebody ought to catch them. Gould drew up some sample strips of what he called “Plain Clothes Tracy” and sent them off to the Tribune Syndicate — his 61st comic idea sent over the past decade. On Aug. 13, he received a telegram. “Your Plain Clothes Tracy has possibilities. Would like to see you when I go to Chicago next.” Two days later he was in Joseph Medill Patterson's office. “I think the name is too long,” Capt. Patterson said, promptly solving the problem himself. “John Tracy ... Fred Tracy ... Dick Tracy. Let's call this fellow 'Dick Tracy.' They call detectives 'Dicks.'” Patterson also suggested the backstory: the murder of his fiancé's father prompts Dick to join the force. That plot line runs today in the debut Sunday strip, kicking off a saga that will continue unbroken for 90 years, spawning radio spin-offs, movies, toys. The comic becomes famous for its rogues' gallery of villains whose appearance reflects their criminality: Pruneface, Flattop, Wormy. And of course that prescient two-way wrist radio. Gould will keep this first strip framed on his office wall for the rest of his life, along with the telegram delivering the good news.