tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39723821441204264762024-03-19T00:00:31.362-05:00Every goddamn day: 03/19/24Neil Steinberg's blogNeil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.comBlogger4110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-86356328275818780882024-03-19T00:00:00.045-05:002024-03-19T00:00:00.143-05:00River City Marina<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fqLb-9gf7q1WE8eArdLYYHfCAJ74XWH_rFK4TzDC5KTfvfScHgOs01OBdjNkQOI8sJaLnj9222txhMf1j4LqociH1L-e4MTeL6NYSES4ryIUNR6Vp7L0Il9nCCgzOXvmWkPCf5v3no4SCyuX5vuDrlzSoBB-EnBvRvCAt3aU6WuR_dDobFjGGKZaFiMP/s2314/IMG_9704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1649" data-original-width="2314" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fqLb-9gf7q1WE8eArdLYYHfCAJ74XWH_rFK4TzDC5KTfvfScHgOs01OBdjNkQOI8sJaLnj9222txhMf1j4LqociH1L-e4MTeL6NYSES4ryIUNR6Vp7L0Il9nCCgzOXvmWkPCf5v3no4SCyuX5vuDrlzSoBB-EnBvRvCAt3aU6WuR_dDobFjGGKZaFiMP/w640-h456/IMG_9704.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Bertrand Goldberg is best known for Marina City, the twin corn cob towers between Dearborn and State, just north of the Chicago River. They were iconic symbols of the city, briefly, between their completion in 1967 and when the Picasso sculpture a few blocks south replaced them at the center of our civic imagination.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Those aren't the only buildings — and I think I'm correct using the plural, since there are two — Goldberg designed downtown. Business Monday morning took me by his lesser known River City Marina — sort of a squashed, serpentine, version, with wide oval windows, also on the river, its southern branch,at Wells and Polk. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The ground floor is big, sprawling, spread out, mostly empty and poorly marked, and as I searched for the room I was looking for, I passed the study area above. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> What caught my eye? The books of course. At first glance I thought they were a wall of decorative volumes, with color coded spines. But a second look revealed it to be something worse — a photo mural of books. Outsized — the books are too big. Kinda nightmarish, really.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Which raised the question: why? To create a scholarly atmosphere? Be artistic? Fill a blank wall? Then why not use a photo of actual books are ordinary scale? Or heck, install actual shelves and stock them with real books of some sort. A little more cost and effort, sure. But perhaps worth it. Books are cheap enough nowadays, you can buy them by the yard or the pound. As ersatz as that seems, this is worse.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This seemed a double whammy — books chosen for their dust jacket color. And then photographed. Is that where we are now?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I've only stepped in Goldberg's Marina Towers once, years ago. I was looking for a place to live downtown, and figured I'd check out the famous, pie-shaped apartments with their balconies overlooking downtown. Only I never made it past the lobby — too dreary. I didn't even like walking through once, and turned around before I got in the elevators, thinking, "I can't come home here." Maybe they've remodeled it since — I don't want to malign the place unfairly. But River City felt the same — we had been there years ago, my wife and I, scouting out places to live. River City seemed the sort of place you'd live on your way to Mars. An architectural misfire, a literal dead end. Do any readers live there? Am I missing something?</span></div><p></p><p><br /></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-30723605182583520372024-03-18T00:00:00.001-05:002024-03-18T00:00:00.139-05:00“History repeats itself” — Hellenic Museum to consider voter suppression<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrG7ky9NsELVuvHnCzI802V9_lS47CoiXDexpMH_wdRyrM88LcE8xtbQnRjTP1aMAASwmtYxlSXQwVV3lAfnfdyXU9xyCJ2ZkB9Th7DrDmVaDd2TfZ2Cz0zuUl6JuoliS6LoOY_GubJsnqfLXOncsIHZXFSo2GU8wnU-t32Pn-pRdAE4j9GdVofNPHUj9J/s1212/Pericles_Pio-Clementino_Inv269_n2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; font-family: georgia; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrG7ky9NsELVuvHnCzI802V9_lS47CoiXDexpMH_wdRyrM88LcE8xtbQnRjTP1aMAASwmtYxlSXQwVV3lAfnfdyXU9xyCJ2ZkB9Th7DrDmVaDd2TfZ2Cz0zuUl6JuoliS6LoOY_GubJsnqfLXOncsIHZXFSo2GU8wnU-t32Pn-pRdAE4j9GdVofNPHUj9J/w264-h400/Pericles_Pio-Clementino_Inv269_n2.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pericles</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The Illinois primary election is Tuesday. With November's pivotal moment in American history looming beyond that. So now might be an apt time to pause and ask ourselves: this whole voting business, where did it come from?<br /> Partial credit for citing the American Revolution, 1776 and all that. A major step away from being ruled by kings.<br /> But where did American revolutionaries get the idea? Voting initially sprang from a very specific time and place — Greece 2500 years ago — and like any new tool, it had a specific purpose: to create a new form of power.<br /> Elections in ancient Greece represented "the new weapon of the popular vote against the old power of family politics" according to the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Being in charge because you were the son of the ruler was fine, if you were the son of the ruler. But those non-relatives had begun to chafe. Shouldn't their views count? An idea sprang up — ask people to give or withhold their consent, aka democracy.<br /> Then the question became: who votes? Could foreigners earn the right? About 451 BC, Greek general Pericles changed the Athenian constitution to require that to be a citizen, you had to have Athenian parentage on both sides.<br /> In April, Chicago's National Hellenic Museum is putting Pericles on trial for fiddling with the constitution.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Hero or tyrant?" is how the museum presents the issue. "Audience members will cast their votes to decide the final verdict."<br /> Raising the subject of voter suppression and xenophobia can't have been an accident.<br /> "No accident," confessed retired Circuit Court Judge Anna Demacopoulos, a trustee of the museum and co-chair of the event. "This year's presentation is so relevant. You can actually see the first time somebody was accused of voter suppression. Do you protect your citizens or do you do what it takes to retain your power? Which is exactly what leaders might be grappling with right now."<br /> As if voting rights and treatment of foreigners were not relevance aplenty, there is also the matter of the status of women.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading,<a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/17/hellenic-museum-pericles-mock-trial-voter-suppression"> click here.</a></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-26864510551799774202024-03-17T00:00:00.001-05:002024-03-17T00:00:00.371-05:00Flowers. Folks. Forever.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00ale6MufLfH3u1WsjybeHlzpcB897QwUDMyqTcxPYRBI7s0vfMFh0ox2-r3Fz0zXQhl8HXpLrKDtAsZgxpNxah1wKINkjyNRs7bNGEq_XLoL9TPbHF125QjYa6jyOpESxgJTkPrHjh2RrTbyRISONlqzrQbxCYTDge1M7vEeV4cA-dGZLbdklr1yo5Qo/s4032/IMG_9563%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00ale6MufLfH3u1WsjybeHlzpcB897QwUDMyqTcxPYRBI7s0vfMFh0ox2-r3Fz0zXQhl8HXpLrKDtAsZgxpNxah1wKINkjyNRs7bNGEq_XLoL9TPbHF125QjYa6jyOpESxgJTkPrHjh2RrTbyRISONlqzrQbxCYTDge1M7vEeV4cA-dGZLbdklr1yo5Qo/w640-h480/IMG_9563%202.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> Sometimes I wonder whether media professionals really think about their audience. The other day on the morning news, WBBM AM 780 ran a notice that the orchid show at the New York Botanical Garden had opened. Why would that go out over the air in Chicago? Without any hint of an extenuating detail that might be of interest to a listenership who were, one and all, not hurrying to the Bronx to see it. What purpose does that serve other than to fill dead air? The item seemed doubly strange, since they'd never mentioned the one at the Chicago Botanic Garden, at least not in my hearing.<br /> Then again, neither had I, even though my wife and I went a few weeks ago. Maybe because I had nothing particularly noteworthy to say about it. "The flowers are pretty?" Stop the presses. The only mildly substantive observation would be a criticism — last year's orchid show, built around the idea of lens magnifying the unearthly blooms, was packed with information about orchids. While this one, maintaining a circus theme, was mere fun. Not a fact in sight. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I just didn't feel like carping about a flower show. (Last year, circumstances dictated that I attend the show three times — squiring people through — and my post, <a href="https://www.everygoddamnday.com/2023/03/orchids-like-sex-dolls-for-bees.html">"Orchids — Like sex dolls for bees,</a>" was built around a visceral disgust for orchids). For me — and this might be telling — the prettiest sight wasn't the flowers at all, but a plate in a book on orchids on display in the library. The Chicago Botanic Garden has a considerable library, even though not one visitor in a hundred steps in. I am that one visitor. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmvxVDX-7cwiRwdYuOF1Eo2iRx23ew1xWsckqCU09hUA05i9eBfMknhhSWsEmkUP2rqyOiYTNbJYT9IooH_kkDf5icJG9VxoqHipHsEWGHfuAiMwGaGd4DsAf0R94plyJuBNoqdz3dOnfypxT5-phlARKrVpAAFINe86MucgtJO0KQ6OqqQCuFxWK9RCh/s812/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-16%20at%209.03.58%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="812" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmvxVDX-7cwiRwdYuOF1Eo2iRx23ew1xWsckqCU09hUA05i9eBfMknhhSWsEmkUP2rqyOiYTNbJYT9IooH_kkDf5icJG9VxoqHipHsEWGHfuAiMwGaGd4DsAf0R94plyJuBNoqdz3dOnfypxT5-phlARKrVpAAFINe86MucgtJO0KQ6OqqQCuFxWK9RCh/s320/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-16%20at%209.03.58%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div> The <a href="https://www.chicagobotanic.org/orchid?gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwhtWvBhD9ARIsAOP0GojvC7oPFAapvoSsEROWQtL7lWKe1Km8V6t1JlSCya4lRtCcUF3FOZkaAqm-EALw_wcB">Orchid Show of Wonders</a> opened Feb. 10, and runs until March 24. Tickets are $21, but that includes admission to the garden, which has changed its logo — this weekend, in fact. Inspired by the center of a coneflower, it is a colorful seal that well encapsulates the beauty of the place. As for the tagline "Plants. People. Planet." Hmmm.... Again, I wonder whether the audience was considered. "Plants." Not a very enticing word, is it? With that adenoidal "a" sound. <i>Plaaaaaaaants. </i>How long would you drive to see "plants"? And "people." Even worse. Generally considered a negative, particularly among earth-hugging sorts. <i>People</i> are what's causing the problem. Nobody says, "There's a crowd, let's <i>go</i>!" And "planet," well, huff some patchouli oil, transport me to the 1970s and let's all start saving the planet. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Since I never criticize another writer's word choice without coming up with an alternate myself, I'd prefer ... oh ... "Flowers. Folks. Forever." An improvement, right? That'll be $10,000 please.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxO9GFS-K3RftFLUrgVEP4uz6ialY5kUiywIHMyL0UtXq4NAbzYMVZGhgNdjbF3jvrZLIzkNxPdsFCuS7etsqY_yMOcbElAKd4HcP0iLFcu_Y3xkN8KlMq515GWOgiTf6HyCbxZ2CQRA7Lm0FLrGF_M_U557WRSQ_88J_0kNYWHwIuggkQdfa2dX6dnTd/s2661/IMG_9567.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2547" data-original-width="2661" height="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxO9GFS-K3RftFLUrgVEP4uz6ialY5kUiywIHMyL0UtXq4NAbzYMVZGhgNdjbF3jvrZLIzkNxPdsFCuS7etsqY_yMOcbElAKd4HcP0iLFcu_Y3xkN8KlMq515GWOgiTf6HyCbxZ2CQRA7Lm0FLrGF_M_U557WRSQ_88J_0kNYWHwIuggkQdfa2dX6dnTd/w640-h612/IMG_9567.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A circus theme throughout.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-74524864499842430592024-03-16T00:00:00.041-05:002024-03-16T07:37:05.395-05:00COVID + 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS-6FJrWJsDkpSwfgyvuA_wK-I9nHhD__77hD8cPsg-vNphYxadagjoFTgMvc2CYKFbWgY9FwIqqsaAyARinW5MfRpNOtJJccPYvK5SfpYNh92eE2UFal_cl6TPRCEqgXeSjlVjsMI-UhJn9E7hdzF0y4RSzUyDVuBNCAc3iunHe3Gmp6JH8FX8huOPyl/s4032/IMG_9665.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS-6FJrWJsDkpSwfgyvuA_wK-I9nHhD__77hD8cPsg-vNphYxadagjoFTgMvc2CYKFbWgY9FwIqqsaAyARinW5MfRpNOtJJccPYvK5SfpYNh92eE2UFal_cl6TPRCEqgXeSjlVjsMI-UhJn9E7hdzF0y4RSzUyDVuBNCAc3iunHe3Gmp6JH8FX8huOPyl/w640-h480/IMG_9665.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> Wednesday was the fourth anniversary of <a href="https://www.federalregister.gov/documents/2020/03/18/2020-05794/declaring-a-national-emergency-concerning-the-novel-coronavirus-disease-covid-19-outbreak">Presidential Proclamation #9994,</a> declaring COVID to be a national emergency. "A moment that changed the world," is the way one story put it.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7Ic1e_AYCT-JcNMIk1OxBdjHhdLssZR_ed072GSC7yB5ZkI3eSTGUa_57HWApXcdMN8rlCWo03_a8TBDWfcSZAL-8QrWjgE8OcDsEZqHbvm0BLY9omp2T_o8Nkn2m8_F89bWEzXRfRgGT2Rl_8MbG7yEIgdCpKHt6LSYUg8ubvzfnsEphvsVcMz8l0FL/s2168/IMG_3866.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1233" data-original-width="2168" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7Ic1e_AYCT-JcNMIk1OxBdjHhdLssZR_ed072GSC7yB5ZkI3eSTGUa_57HWApXcdMN8rlCWo03_a8TBDWfcSZAL-8QrWjgE8OcDsEZqHbvm0BLY9omp2T_o8Nkn2m8_F89bWEzXRfRgGT2Rl_8MbG7yEIgdCpKHt6LSYUg8ubvzfnsEphvsVcMz8l0FL/s320/IMG_3866.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> I'm not so sure of that. Not that COVID didn't change the world; we still live in the fall-out of its isolation, division, private death and public disorder. I mean whether the proclamation was the decisive moment when the world shifted. In my own memories of the advent of COVID, that day, March 11, doesn't particularly stand out. I did watch Trump's announcement that evening, and snapped a photo of the television. Americans are used to travelling about freely, and the notion that now we no longer could, well, it was frightening. Then again, much of COVID was frightening, except for those who couldn't grasp the situation, which was also scary.<br /> Still, emotionally, March 11 didn't touch the surprise in mid-February, having lunch in an utterly deserted Chinatown restaurant in New York City, or March 13, seeing the shelves at Target stripped of bread, or March 16, the day before Gov. Pritzker closed the restaurants in the state. Sitting alone in an empty Kamehachi in downtown Northbrook, watching the sushi chef work, thinking, with true dread, "I'm killing myself for a negi hamachi roll."</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Other moments stand out. Wiping our groceries off with disinfectant. Putting on a mask for the first time before going into a store. "I feel like we're going to rob the place," I said to my son. Walking the dog at night, passing knots of neighbors, gathered in folding chairs in their driveway, having a party of sorts, social distancing in the darkness.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Now COVID is gone, mostly, but not forgotten. Not by me anyway. Others, not so much. <br /> "I still can't believe that happened," I sometimes say to my wife, perhaps an indication that it is still happening — almost the dazed remark of a survivor hauled into the lifeboat and wrapped in a wool blanket. I finally came down with COVID last July, and sometimes wonder if it isn't lingering in some ineffable way. <br /> Have you noticed how little we think about COVID now? There is no memorial or even talk of a memorial. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">They're building a monument to fallen journalists in Washington, D.C., while the 1.1 million Americans dead of COVID, and counting, are forgotten, not that we ever considered them much in the first place. I can hardly accept it myself.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Very little souvenir crap that events invariably produce, if you discount all the little bottles of hand sanitizer that still pop out of junk drawers. The only tangible relic is my vaccine card, which I'm holding onto for future reference. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> That's another moment I'll never forget — March 15, 2021. My older son, at home with his girlfriend because their school had shut down ("Maybe you should get out before they blow the bridges," I told him on the phone. "<i>Dad</i>," he reminded me. "We live in New Jersey....") had gotten a hard-to-snag vaccine appointment at a Walgreen's two-and-a-half hours away, in Springfield. All the appointments in blue state, rational Chicago were taken. At the time I felt flattered, that he was looking out for me. Only later did it dawn on me that he wanted somebody to drive them there.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Either way, I assumed that when I got to the Walgreen's in Springfield it would be jammed, like that last scene at the Jakarta airport in "The Year of Living Dangerously," with Mel Gibson waving his passport over his head and pushing through the crowd. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Instead the place was empty. Not even any customers, never mind downstaters queuing up for the vaccine they decided they didn't really need. I walked up the empty aisle toward the pharmacy in the back with a sense of wonder. I was excited to get the shot, and later regarded with mingled scorn and bogglement all those who spurned it. Rejecting this one aspect of a modernity they otherwise embrace, drinking purified tap water, speaking into cell phones and enjoying all the other benefits of technology, while scorning this one just because some talk show host told them to. I'll never understand it.</span></div><div><br /></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-90322210283156733882024-03-15T00:00:00.003-05:002024-03-15T11:10:16.463-05:00When it comes to Social Security, don't let a scammer sign up first<span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WEDfemBxV7GQWa5l_w9eqi_JZW3HQyHfUsGtqn-ycLvBlFa3v5Bro0ZdWoq_9mZbdpL6-GE8L1dfNl0kvNsZqC7tjDPPvYV0vG8c9kaX2yrt9NycD6yYkxQGygmSJEAplTJYCFpUWefotva6ZATeP6Ufciph2MoYI_wflad_VQ56DWxIQH8P6qJ8JPgL/s1015/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-14%20at%206.25.40%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1015" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WEDfemBxV7GQWa5l_w9eqi_JZW3HQyHfUsGtqn-ycLvBlFa3v5Bro0ZdWoq_9mZbdpL6-GE8L1dfNl0kvNsZqC7tjDPPvYV0vG8c9kaX2yrt9NycD6yYkxQGygmSJEAplTJYCFpUWefotva6ZATeP6Ufciph2MoYI_wflad_VQ56DWxIQH8P6qJ8JPgL/w640-h394/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-14%20at%206.25.40%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pension certificate, 1873 (National Postal Museum)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> When I joined the Chicago Sun-Times — 37 years ago this month — my job was to be half the writing staff of The Adviser, a weekly publication giving readers practical advice: how to raise a dog in the city, fight a traffic ticket, pick a health club (I cooked up that last one because I wanted to find a health club myself, and figured why not combine business and pleasure? Bottom line: avoid scams that present membership as an appreciating investment and pick something close to you, so you might actually go).<br /> I wasn't with the features department long — on my second day at work, the city editor stopped by to say he wanted to lure me to the news side. But The Adviser gave me an affinity for those practical, how-to-get-a-stain-out-of-a-broadloom-rug type of story. A good news article makes readers think about something, a great one makes them <i>do</i> something.<br /> In that light, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/3972382144120426476/7658600787807679525#">"How Fraudsters Break Into Social Security Accounts and Steal Benefits,"</a> by Tara Siegel Bernard, which ran Sunday on the front page of the New York Times, must be a great article, because I don't believe I've ever snapped into action the way I did after reading it.<br /> The story begins with an 88-year-old woman who had her Social Security benefits redirected by a criminal, who changed the bank account her check was sent to.<br /> "This particular fraud — where criminals use stolen personal information to break into online Social Security accounts or create new ones, and divert benefits elsewhere — has plagued people for more than a decade," Bernard writes.<br /> And I realized: I'd never <a href="https://www.ssa.gov/myaccount/?utm_source=statement&utm_medium=offsite&utm_campaign=ocomm-statement">signed up online with Social Security</a> to create an account, at <a href="https://myaccount.ssa.gov/">myaccount.ssa.gov</a>. So anybody who got my Social Security number — from a data breach, say — could go online, sign up for me, apply for my benefits which, being 63, I'm eligible to start receiving, then direct the money wherever they pleased. And I'd never know it happened, maybe not for years, until I go to retire and discover that someone is already receiving my benefits.<br /> I leaped up from the breakfast table, bolted upstairs and immediately signed up.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/14/social-security-online-account-scams-fraud-prevention-crime-identity-theft">click here.</a></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i><br /></span><p></p></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-19701686466052453482024-03-14T00:00:00.038-05:002024-03-14T22:18:22.389-05:00Unexpected visitors<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCM3K8O5E8ih7j7D2-K_EsypoK_w7dK6OFrM7lJujz8AyLjVAbbuusbfpZ2x8vgzwdU7I_IpYHFT5Gy2_V_1XLkMKIgev3mG3gremKwZ1HFG2vjkYyw97vV8SwhnDPUqc6brTuOOTpO-uS1ggbpUctcX4J8Mg5mDNaM_s5eAwNFe36W_NYf7tETmXp7Lfk/s4032/IMG_6791.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCM3K8O5E8ih7j7D2-K_EsypoK_w7dK6OFrM7lJujz8AyLjVAbbuusbfpZ2x8vgzwdU7I_IpYHFT5Gy2_V_1XLkMKIgev3mG3gremKwZ1HFG2vjkYyw97vV8SwhnDPUqc6brTuOOTpO-uS1ggbpUctcX4J8Mg5mDNaM_s5eAwNFe36W_NYf7tETmXp7Lfk/w640-h480/IMG_6791.jpeg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Hey honey!" I said, looking up from a magazine. "I think the 'Northbrook Voice' is casting shade on our house."<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I was reading the January/February issue, a page two story headlined, "Visionary That Helped Make Our Village What It Is Today." That should be "Visionary Who Helped..." but no matter. The article was about Edward D. Landwehr, the postal carrier who was one of 35 men to sign the petition incorporating the village of Shermerville. When a contest was held to rename the town, his suggestion — Northbrook — got the most votes. The leafy suburban paradise I call home.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> My interest was personal — we live in Ed Landwehr's old house on Center Avenue, built in 1905. The Village Hall, public library and old water tower in my backyard are in his old cornfield. The article mentions the house.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Ed and Annie lived on a large piece of property on Center Street," the unnamed author writes. "Although changed, their house still stands today."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Although changed...?" Ouch. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Tell me if I'm being overly sensitive.... </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Although changed..." </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Yes, the house has faded piebald olive aluminum siding on it now, and a two-story addition on the west side added in the relative yesterday of 1959. A master bedroom above and a rec room below. The place would be quite small without them. I replaced the rough front porch made of two-by-fours and crumbling brick steps with wooden steps and a nice railing made of lathework. And maybe I'm being touchy — not without reason. It IS my house, after all. But that "although changed..." Do I detect a note of asperity, of censure, in that? Is there a house that <i>hasn't</i> changed since 1905? At least it's still here. The place was sold to us "as is," practically a tear down. The kitchen was a ruin, floor sloping, counters pulled away from the walls. We didn't have a working stove for the first two years we lived there. But we decided to keep it because a) we liked it and b) we couldn't afford to build a new one.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> So yes, we bloody well changed the house, all we could. I plan to change it more.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Though changed, it is not without interest.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I was attuned to this topic because of something that happened in November. I looked out the front window and was surprised to find a half dozen people, gazing at the house, taking pictures. Hesitant to imagine that this might be about — are these the piqued readers that John Kass so worries about? Come to get me? Unlike John, I didn't bolt to Indiana like a terrified bunny and start digging a burrow. Instead I went outside and said hello. They were descendents of Ed and Annie Landwehr, in town for a civic event at the historical society, honoring their ancestor.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Of course I invited them in — we try to keep a modestly neat abode for just such a contingency. They went from room to room, sharing memories. A grandfather had lain in state in our front parlor. We showed them that the pocket doors between the living and dining room still work. They were curious, friendly, polite and grateful.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I have a letter I found at the historical society from Ed's son Martin, and sent it to his descendents. I hadn't read the letter in many years. The house was built without bathrooms — that was in the backyard, and Saturday night bathwater was heated on the stove in the kitchen. I was charmed that the same line of evergreens lining the driveway were planted when the house was built, as was the hedge of van houtte spirea that I have battled to keep alive.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> A sane man would have torn that spirea out years ago. That's what the neighbors across First Avenue did. But I am not a sane man, when it comes to spirea, and I estimate I've spent nearly a thousand dollars and planted 15 shrubs if I've planted one. It's worth it every spring when that thing turns into a bed of snowy white. Were Ed Landwehr to suddenly arise and walk among us next month, he would see the thing from a block away, and it would make him happy. Although I imagine heaven is just silly with vanhoutte spirea.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I thought I should write my own letter someday, encapsulating the quarter century my family has spent in the house. We raised two boys here; I wrote five books in the upstairs library. I like to imagine it would be of interest to a future owner, though the sad reality is that anyone who buys the place will certainly tear it down to build one of those jumbo white faux farmhouses with black trim that are all the rage. Me, I prefer an actual farmhouse, that once was associated with an actual farm </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">— complete with a horse, stabled in the garage in the living memory of our next door neighbors when we first moved in. There are two horseshoes nailed to a main beam in the basement — for good luck. The wood is cracked, but holding — one of the first things we did when we moved in was add a support brace, to keep the place together.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsurXawtYk6YG_zH3tMD1fD2feN-8D3goCebPAstwWwyNKg1Go3mNRcRSn8N8B6rEUBrOwS5zQ1d9xkD-zIax3nBpLlbAgKHSaf8x0i01ZpNmD0yucxQBkrUDp5gnl65YyHqLr7eIygAXvaTr12gbemQttYl5tv9LAlL8vNR7-ENLu3t2fIU1aYbPkVrFh/s2048/DSCN3156.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsurXawtYk6YG_zH3tMD1fD2feN-8D3goCebPAstwWwyNKg1Go3mNRcRSn8N8B6rEUBrOwS5zQ1d9xkD-zIax3nBpLlbAgKHSaf8x0i01ZpNmD0yucxQBkrUDp5gnl65YyHqLr7eIygAXvaTr12gbemQttYl5tv9LAlL8vNR7-ENLu3t2fIU1aYbPkVrFh/w640-h480/DSCN3156.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><p></p><p><br /></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-17562836120087622252024-03-13T00:00:00.001-05:002024-03-13T00:00:00.249-05:00"Bésame, soy irlandés!"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwuCzqYqAU7s-lx1XTqsa-aYhL0tUzzAi2A3yQymFIH0VUWqP4uW6xD4F3Amli-NrBwwU-_paKcLc0lXBI0MtZueL9_Ew0bjPrdhITlfkC4wU0LI_9LGT4XonRbiCfFjg5uU_tK_GI-vSSFDVtpLEp9W2c2Vn0q1Bogyll5JrX61I1ChQv2O76S0uimrG/s4032/IMG_4731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwuCzqYqAU7s-lx1XTqsa-aYhL0tUzzAi2A3yQymFIH0VUWqP4uW6xD4F3Amli-NrBwwU-_paKcLc0lXBI0MtZueL9_Ew0bjPrdhITlfkC4wU0LI_9LGT4XonRbiCfFjg5uU_tK_GI-vSSFDVtpLEp9W2c2Vn0q1Bogyll5JrX61I1ChQv2O76S0uimrG/w480-h640/IMG_4731.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> Some aspects of Chicago life are so scoured raw by excess attention — particularly from advertising copywriters trying to inject a bit of local color into their plugs — that mere mention of them is enough to draw a wince of pain. Deep-dish pizza and ketchup on hot dogs leap to mind. Please, no mas.<br /> The St. Patrick's Day version is <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/2023/3/11/23635464/chicago-river-dye-green-st-patricks-day">dyeing the Chicago River green</a> and chugging green beer in Irish pubs. You'd think these were Ireland's only contributions to the world.<br /> As St. Patrick's Day looms, I try to shine a light in the more neglected corners. In previous years I shared a bit of the work of<a href="https://www.everygoddamnday.com/2015/03/getting-beyond-green-beer-and-cabbage.html"> the Irish writers </a>whose grim black-and-white portraits stare mutely from pub walls, or celebrated <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/2018/3/10/18362405/there-s-more-to-irish-chicago-than-turning-the-river-green-like-hazel-lavery">Hazel Lavery</a>, the Chicago beauty name-checked in a Yeats poem, whose face graced Irish banknotes for nearly half a century.<br /> This year I'd like to mention famous Irish revolutionaries Michael Collins, Daniel O'Connell and Che Guevara.<br /> Ireland's revolutionary spirit was born, never forget, from nearly a millennium of oppression, as the English invaded Ireland in 1169. In 1494 ...<br /> What's that? Still chewing on Che Guevara? What's<i> he</i> doing there? The Argentine revolutionary whose face stared down from countless 1960s college dorm rooms? Not aware, are you, of the Irish roots of the man who helped overthrow Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista in 1959?<br /> "The first thing to note is that in my son's veins flowed the blood of Irish rebels," said his father, Ernesto Guevara Lynch, whose forebear Patrick Lynch left Galway in 1749, bound for Argentina. <br /> The connection isn't a big secret — Ireland put Guevara on a stamp in 2017 to mark the 50th anniversary of his death. Though I learned about the Irish/Argentine connection in a more direct fashion.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading,<a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/12/ireland-st-patricks-day-latin-america-che-guevara-irish-history-parades-ethnic-pride"> click here</a>.</i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-89198419423710117792024-03-12T00:00:00.039-05:002024-03-12T06:51:06.653-05:00'Working directly from Nature is the best way'<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-bgohyphenhypheneFdxMm8ODEbAIv180_n0fUSHeCRg4S-QRyY64OhTl2CDxPMbSfQH_O2gwMLaffBYqgtVD72wvAFhhy5Eegk1_f0SjSB43vcz0QsYS39PsWVpTQ5z1YhCxnXyEzP_-WriR2tOGuxvpLMRcaJGYJqBoD5Q7O7P4xP7CG_CqZg_7GyEh4gDsUfFol/s3036/IMG_9530.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3036" data-original-width="2600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-bgohyphenhypheneFdxMm8ODEbAIv180_n0fUSHeCRg4S-QRyY64OhTl2CDxPMbSfQH_O2gwMLaffBYqgtVD72wvAFhhy5Eegk1_f0SjSB43vcz0QsYS39PsWVpTQ5z1YhCxnXyEzP_-WriR2tOGuxvpLMRcaJGYJqBoD5Q7O7P4xP7CG_CqZg_7GyEh4gDsUfFol/w548-h640/IMG_9530.jpeg" width="548" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deering Memorial Library, Northwestern University</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> The Fine Arts Building has to be on anybody's short list of favorite downtown buildings, with its elevator operators — the last in the city, soon to be phased out — its sun-filled fourth floor atrium and general air of seedy artistic casualness, home to violin makers and mouthpiece fitters, shoestring opera theaters and puppet troupes. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Yes, in recent years, there is a pang for the loss of the Artist's Cafe —I'm tempted to decry the singular possessive, but what artist worth his or her salt isn't pretty singular in nature? It was a splendid burger, pie and coffee diner that time forgot, with patrons including Johnny Carson and Mick Jagger, the perfect place to while away an hour waiting for a concert to start. Closed five years now.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I was there recently visiting a brass instrument showroom on the second floor, and returned last Friday to kill few minutes before the ACLU Luncheon at the Hilton down the block by browsing the lovely bookstore on the second floor.<br /> My attention was drawn by an exhibit of paintings there by Don Yang. The paintings were created <i>en plein air</i>, or "in the open air" meaning it wasn't done in a studio, but painted on an easel outside, in front of the scene being depicted. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I asked Yang about it — what does painting in the outdoors bring that can't be found painting, say, off a photograph? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Nothing like painting and drawing the real thing on location seeing/feeling the true color and atmosphere," he replied. "What we see in photograph or screen shot is not ‘real’ in the sense of true color. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Those images are heavily dependent upon the printer and paper (photo) or how computer/tablet screen is calibrated. Never same as what I ‘feel' with my eyes. Even the gloomiest day on location offers more vibrant colors and sense of presence than a photo reference.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Though I do enjoy my studio work, and often have to work off of photo references, working directly from Nature is the best way to learn and experience the true light and color.<br />Different season, different day, different weather, and my different mood of the day yields different paintings.<br /> "I didn’t understand how Monet felt he could ‘get away with’ painting the same haystack and consider them all different paintings until I started taking my own painting gears outdoors.<br /> "To me, plein air painting is just as much of an experience as it is a result."<br /> Born in South Korea, Yang came to the United States as a teenager. After a stint in the Army, he settled in Chicago, painting and teaching. He's chairperson of the fine arts department of the American Academy of Art College, a small, for-profit school teaching art and design.<br /> I like the dappled light in the paintings, the rich natural colors, and the way he frames his images. Yang often paints familiar Chicago landmarks, but from unexpected angles. Another thing that struck me about the painting was how affordable they are — $500, $800. Not cheap, but not an unimaginable fortune either. They struck me as a good special event gift for someone, and yes, he does commissions, if there is a certain home or part of the city that you or a loved one has particular appreciation for. <br /> You can see dozens more examples of his work<a href="https://www.donyang.com/"> on his website,</a> or reach Don Yang at donyangart@gmail.com.</span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMzBpB7q19U0I3tdOVt4goUCL7baPfCdxIlVuWpUgF87GxSUZa0XlIIufHbCRpOMfileYTxtDlBC8CHROv9ndp-bAWx6YzHljL3V7Nf6t8_0IilMB-w6yqr39Xs5eSUUx0yOb0S-3SMjldd-A2JIwuUFNujVZ7keW_hM9Oir4K-FzpARak-Llm4lq7xeH/s2907/IMG_9523.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2470" data-original-width="2907" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMzBpB7q19U0I3tdOVt4goUCL7baPfCdxIlVuWpUgF87GxSUZa0XlIIufHbCRpOMfileYTxtDlBC8CHROv9ndp-bAWx6YzHljL3V7Nf6t8_0IilMB-w6yqr39Xs5eSUUx0yOb0S-3SMjldd-A2JIwuUFNujVZ7keW_hM9Oir4K-FzpARak-Llm4lq7xeH/w640-h544/IMG_9523.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fourth Presbyterian Church Courtyard</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div></div></div></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-32781833393179301732024-03-11T00:00:00.001-05:002024-03-11T00:00:00.247-05:00Give Scientology a break! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoTMYb8P2gatvGOJkChpOu7Dy8507qVf3adjwDbIqWRcBNvEUkZDdS8kBPF4fI68IPkrGyq9J6qmgHZtUDG4faN3xg3ScuPN1DMD3BTk-lRRuWAey5OezsVeDWERqResNMcs2Usk0MPQN2I9WNdi2BLvjdBilv68I9mCDR0HGdCKRoPalr3h4ByHxSHZJ/s3264/IMG_7957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoTMYb8P2gatvGOJkChpOu7Dy8507qVf3adjwDbIqWRcBNvEUkZDdS8kBPF4fI68IPkrGyq9J6qmgHZtUDG4faN3xg3ScuPN1DMD3BTk-lRRuWAey5OezsVeDWERqResNMcs2Usk0MPQN2I9WNdi2BLvjdBilv68I9mCDR0HGdCKRoPalr3h4ByHxSHZJ/w640-h480/IMG_7957.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> Preconceptions can blind you, so you see what's festering in the back of your mind rather than what's shining right in front of your eyes.<br /> Take stories about the opening of a new Scientology center in the South Loop. The accounts focused on the accusations directed at the church, that it is a "criminal enterprise."<br /> Scientology stories always trot out the controversies.<br /> While downplaying what is, to me, the bigger news: somebody opened something in downtown Chicago. The corpse is twitching! The headline in the Sun-Times was "Church of Scientology expands in Chicago," which is like topping a story on the Resurrection with "Ex-carpenter goes for walk."<br /> I should show my hand here. All religions are scams, to one degree or another. Which is not to say they are without value. People can derive deep emotional moral satisfaction from being defrauded — the past decade of American history proves that. Life is squishy, painful and short, why not embroider existence with some mystic hoo-ha?<br /> Look at the charges outlined in the <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/religion/2024/03/07/scientology-church-open-chicago-amid-accusations-lawsuit">Sun-Times story</a>: "The California lawsuit, filed by former Scientologists, accuses the group of, among other things: unpaid child labor, identity theft, covering up sexual assaults ..."<br /> Are there not well-established churches — no names, please! — also regularly rocked with at least a few of those accusations? I believe there are. <br /> That said, Scientology does have a way of standing out from the crowd.<br /> "An anti-democratic authoritarian personality cult that will not tolerate critical comments (however justified) about its policies or leaders," is how Stephen A. Kent, sociology professor emeritus at the University of Alberta, described Scientology.<br /> In Scientology's defense, there's a lot of that going around.<br /> Of course, opening a new business isn't the hard part. It's the staying open part that is the trick. And here, like any hopeful restaurant or internet startup, Scientology's new center faces challenges, as Kent explained when we spoke.<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/10/scientology-chicago-south-loop-new-building-religion">click here.</a></i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-22788778789148718982024-03-10T00:00:00.013-06:002024-03-10T00:07:47.403-06:00Flashback 2012: Are Oscar winners cursed? Only to overly credulous media<span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Umrt0oowC73DtSxWtbO7fcRu-wACSdobW1AiEzzTc2_ro8R6d9v-rMk9k2AoLJsgpzQo2wzjW0yrKZHI8ijpPa3zmnFm_mLt6k_tHCVnRTfkv7Q4r1duG6URjgCMjHFEH2LBrKj1-YLQj5udlhjrvmpM6Dx64XBSNH3VfKI-CgdMq3xwhOci7C_7SJw1/s3261/IMG_3461.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2061" data-original-width="3261" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Umrt0oowC73DtSxWtbO7fcRu-wACSdobW1AiEzzTc2_ro8R6d9v-rMk9k2AoLJsgpzQo2wzjW0yrKZHI8ijpPa3zmnFm_mLt6k_tHCVnRTfkv7Q4r1duG6URjgCMjHFEH2LBrKj1-YLQj5udlhjrvmpM6Dx64XBSNH3VfKI-CgdMq3xwhOci7C_7SJw1/w640-h404/IMG_3461.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <i>What goes around, comes around. As in 2012, we've been without snow so long that we've forgotten what it's like. And it's Oscar time, again. This column from a dozen years ago recently popped up in my Facebook feed, and I thought I'd run it today, to get you in the mood for the Academy Awards. </i></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> Thus Chicagoans awoke to the indignity of snow Friday morning. Snow in February! Imagine that! Two whole inches and we can’t hope to see the sun until Saturday, with balmier, mid-40s temperatures not returning until the next day. The indignity of it.<br /> Admit it — you were feeling sorry for yourself. I sure was. I was almost offended, as if this weren’t allowed anymore, and somebody slipped up. Half a warm winter and we fancy that winter has been outlawed.<br /><br /><b>Odd people II</b><br /><br /> Strange indeed. People also automatically embrace the most extreme explanation, ignoring less flashy causes. A streak in the sky? Must be a mother ship from the space aliens who constantly hover around the periphery of our vision, keeping tabs on us.<br /> Some of this is biological. There was little downside to seeing a murky shape in the dark and thinking, "Bear!" It served us a whole lot better, in evolutionary terms than shrugging and thinking, "Oh well, must be a bush." Those folks tended not to survive.<br /> We are machines of innate exaggeration.<br /> Still — "The Oscar Curse" — really?<br /> "A mysterious jinx that has plagued past winners of the golden statuette," CNBC.com reported last week. "While logic would dictate that winning Hollywood’s most prestigious award should catapult its winner into the A-list, the sad fact is that many Oscar-winning performers have seen their career trajectories plummet."<br /> Mysterious? Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a journalist, they can be so credulous. The notion has been repeated again and again in the weeks leading up to Sunday’s Oscars.<br /> None of the stories I saw breathed a whisper of what is really happening, perhaps because that would take actual logical, or rather, statistical, thinking. Two concepts.<br /> First, "Regression to the Mean." If there is an average performance — say the typical baseball batting average is .261 — and you excel, say one season hitting .350, then your subsequent performance will tend to deteriorate toward the average, to preserve it.<br /> So if you flip a coin and it come up heads five times in a row, while the odds are always 50-50 on your next flip, at some point you’ll likely have a run of tails, since the odds of heads will gravitate toward 50 percent.<br /> Thus, if the vast majority of movies are garbage — and they sure are — and an actor appears in an exceptional movie (the kind that generate Academy Awards) then the odds are greater that the actor will return to trash as opposed to somehow magically being projected into another great movie.<br /> The second concept at work here is non-random sampling. A piece last week in RedEye singled out five actors who were supposedly "curse victims" — Halle Berry, Cuba Gooding Jr., Roberto Benigni, Reese Witherspoon and Mira Sorvino — and cited their Oscar-winning performances and their subsequent dogs.<br /> They seemed to think that proves their point: Look! Halle Berry was in "Gothika" after she won an Oscar for "Monster’s Ball."<br /> The story didn’t mention that Berry was in plenty of lousy movies before winning her Academy Award. How can "X-Men: The Last Stand" be offered up as evidence of the curse when Berry also appeared in the nearly-as-bad "X-Men" prior to winning?<br /> You could just as easily gather together five actors who won Oscars and didn’t immediately appear in lousy movies. Katharine Hepburn won an Oscar in 1967 for "Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner" and won again the next year for "The Lion in Winter." Meryl Streep was nominated for 17 Academy Awards and won twice, and while Margaret Thatcher fans might grumble about her latest, you can’t say she’s been in a bad film.<br /> The Oscar Curse is like the Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx or the sophomore slump, a fun fallacy reported as fact by those who should know better. If you excel now you’ll tend — on average — to slip later. Maybe that’s too sad a truth to report unvarnished.<br /> <i> — Originally published in the Sun-Times, February 24, 2012 </i></span>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-52171048307383344382024-03-09T00:00:00.051-06:002024-03-09T00:00:00.132-06:00Drink poison or eat Chex? The choice is yours.<div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6bOzvPbLcaW_3BUznvriHhTYJvhbyvd7ehyphenhyphenpx9PGuVd9r0ezpxR28D_Kc-Vyz9F8EFTmNL_rVur0qum2nVGMPMZ_CUYFs4EA8LiscJ9Zaj5ZY6_2D4TV1ElHZZmno4zLpKN9ccbg-mdJgWo-LftkQ2qPXr3PswVxaPyNAXyYfEeTt-ojzEKjkEQwqUk5/s4000/DP-13139-001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2663" data-original-width="4000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6bOzvPbLcaW_3BUznvriHhTYJvhbyvd7ehyphenhyphenpx9PGuVd9r0ezpxR28D_Kc-Vyz9F8EFTmNL_rVur0qum2nVGMPMZ_CUYFs4EA8LiscJ9Zaj5ZY6_2D4TV1ElHZZmno4zLpKN9ccbg-mdJgWo-LftkQ2qPXr3PswVxaPyNAXyYfEeTt-ojzEKjkEQwqUk5/w640-h426/DP-13139-001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Option A: "The Death of Socrates," by Jacques Louis David (Metropolitan Museum of Art)</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> Should I drink a cup of poison for breakfast or eat a bowl of Wheat Chex instead?<br /> Let's consider my options.<br /> Taking poison is problematic. First, because I don't have any poison. But let's say I did. Let's say I have some, ah, hemlock ... a musty greenish liquid. Let's pour it into a lovely kylix — good Scrabble word — like the one Socrates is handed in the painting of his suicide in ancient Athens.<br /> Why not take a sip? Well, poison is bad for you. Drawbacks begin with dilation of the pupils and dizziness, followed by depressed heartbeat, paralysis of the central nervous system and death. <br /> Death is bad — as difficult as the world can be, particularly of late, we need to remember the sun rises every morning. The weather isn't always clear. You can't always see the sun. Clouds can block it out. But the sun is still there, somewhere, with its promise of a new day. Remember that.<br /> Speaking of optimism, on the upside, poison can release you from the burden of existence. It isn't as messy as jumping in front of a train. Quieter than a gun.<br /> Chex is not without drawbacks. All those carbohydrates. Not much protein, so breakfast can run out midday and leave you hungry. Plus I've gotten into the habit of eating my morning bowl with blueberries. Blueberries are expensive. They can be sour, turn moldy. Yet without them the cereal seems dry, plain, unadorned.<br /> On the upside, Chex is delicious and easy to serve. No peeling or baking. And it won't kill you the way hemlock can — that's important. Plus there's a box in my pantry.<br /> Poison or Chex? Honestly, it isn't a difficult choice. For me anyway. As for you, well, I'm sorry, but you're on your own. The media does not presume to make this kind of decision for our audience anymore.<br /> Nor is breakfast the only choice you face. With Super Tuesday behind us, and Donald Trump and Joe Biden winning big, the November election suddenly looms, hurtling up at us like a canyon floor in a Road Runner cartoon.<br /> Trump or Biden? Both have disadvantages and advantages, and I would never suggest one over the other. I literally can't, given the newspaper's 501(c)3 charity status. But that doesn't mean important issues cannot be raised in a fair, balanced way. <br /> As with hemlock versus Chex, there are many factors to consider.<br /> Donald Trump is a liar, bully fraud and traitor. Those aren't insults, but dry journalistic descriptions of past practices. He's a liar because he continuously tells lies, a stream of clear, unambiguous, well-documented prevarications. The Washington Post counted 30,573 false or misleading claims during Trump's presidency. <br /> A bully, in that he habitually picks on people weaker than himself — those two Georgia poll workers come to mind. They had done nothing wrong, yet Trump upended their lives. Ditto for clerks in various courtrooms where he is being tried on 91 criminal offenses. Or the women he groped.<br /> A fraud, since he's been <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/2023/9/26/23891463/donald-trump-fraud-financial-statements-exaggerating-wealth-assets-value">found guilty of various scams</a>. <br /> And traitor because he <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2022/7/21/23273599/5-takeaways-from-jan-6-hearing-kinzinger-trump-did-not-fail-to-act-he-chose-not-to-act">fomented an insurrection on the Capitol</a> trying to derail the democratic process on Jan. 6, 2021. Lest you forget, which many already have. Plus his bottomless affection for America's enemies, like Vladimir Putin.<br /> On to Trump's advantages. He gives Americans the key to his magic kingdom, a topsy-turvy fantasy world where words mean their opposites, facts flutter around like butterflies, and you can hate whomever you like. Looking for personal redemption? Trump offers himself as a Jesus-like figure. He packed the Supreme Court with religious zealots who banned abortion in half the country. .<br /> Then there's Joe Biden. An inside-the-beltway political hack since dinosaurs roamed the earth. <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2023/11/10/23953877/joe-biden-donald-trump-president-too-old-aging-election-2024-ron-desantis-bush-gene-lyons">He's old</a> — 81 — stiff, and tottering. <br /> Since Biden is president of the United States, you can blame him for anything the country does or does not do: the pro-Israel policy that the United States has followed since Biden was in 1st grade. The border crisis. Inflation. <br /> Or credit him. Biden too has advantages — I would start with him not being a liar, bully, fraud and traitor. <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/politics/2021/11/5/22766520/infrastructure-bill-passes-house-biden-congress">Plus infrastructure</a>. Mobilizing Europe after <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/ukraine">Russia invaded Ukraine</a>. He isn't planning to kneecap Social Security. Did I mention his not being a traitor? That's kinda key for me.<br /> But then, I'd never put my thumb on the scale. It's your choice. Maybe you like traitors. A lot of people do, apparently. I almost said, "You're in good company." But you're really not.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrX32b-r_lgcjh1Q1M3CJKtfvK4WmDW2Gphttd6DofqNXufyxqKdbeoWsEi7uimSDsgZgHfE9YXYtwTSfldpmHadCyG6ATVvdYzDqjqta5l_1tHulwJxXl6Q9i9cBuZrGkq3GozOMSHWMgDIJm1mjZ4NLRqb7qLO37Y3ug40649bhVYemAY0nDp5wODpz/s4032/IMG_9571.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrX32b-r_lgcjh1Q1M3CJKtfvK4WmDW2Gphttd6DofqNXufyxqKdbeoWsEi7uimSDsgZgHfE9YXYtwTSfldpmHadCyG6ATVvdYzDqjqta5l_1tHulwJxXl6Q9i9cBuZrGkq3GozOMSHWMgDIJm1mjZ4NLRqb7qLO37Y3ug40649bhVYemAY0nDp5wODpz/w640-h480/IMG_9571.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Option B: Wheat Chex with blueberries.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div></div></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-38311924637549264922024-03-08T00:00:00.063-06:002024-03-08T04:33:59.716-06:00Establishing a perimeter<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlS_FGvi3UCapHZ5fxfcHQ0YtXqSMqOFTEh5hDI2MW-5Qv89_mfeh4K2I4XzCTE44fLPNkj0IpPXot8O2HZZhyzCMoSQbxhT1fAZmN3lp-rVUkdpjy22iJkhYKFYK_QaNGil7vxgXUl9VUkir005w_1vvwlCx9iEHqSlsLxqa0UNwWM4qyiEH6TlKVHPy/s4032/IMG_9587.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlS_FGvi3UCapHZ5fxfcHQ0YtXqSMqOFTEh5hDI2MW-5Qv89_mfeh4K2I4XzCTE44fLPNkj0IpPXot8O2HZZhyzCMoSQbxhT1fAZmN3lp-rVUkdpjy22iJkhYKFYK_QaNGil7vxgXUl9VUkir005w_1vvwlCx9iEHqSlsLxqa0UNwWM4qyiEH6TlKVHPy/w640-h480/IMG_9587.jpeg" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> Business took me by City Hall just after 12 noon Thursday. Prompt fellow that I am, I got there a few minutes before my appointment, so killed time by wandering around the ground floor. Sometimes there are interesting displays, for a holiday or civic organization. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Nothing in the display department. But there were a number of police officers, milling about, conferring. Six, eight, maybe 10. "Establishing a perimeter" is the phrase that came to mind. There were several cops on the street, standing watch,and inside the doors, creating space, directing people in that space to step away. Waiting expectantly. Obviously something was about to happen. I took up position on a step and waited too.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> In hurried Mayor Brandon Johnson. At first I felt disappointment — I had planned to never set eyes on him in the four years he'll be in office until he is replaced by literally whoever wants the job. My personal protest to his contempt for the press, so vital in a free society. And now that plan had been scuttled. Too late now; there he was, right in front of me. A dapper man rushing by.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> For one second I considered shouting a greeting. "Hey Mayor Johnson!" But didn't want to startle him — or all those police officers. I'd end up wrestled to the ground. And what would be the effect on the mayor? If half of what one hears is true, he's a man under pressure, someone to be pitied, not confronted. Besides, the cops made sure I was far enough away that I couldn't casually extend my hand and say a few words. He'd glance in my direction and keep going. At least I can say I've never spoken to him; a consolation prize. I remained mum.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> A few seconds, he was in the elevator and gone. Later, a person in-the-know told me — off the record, alas, — how he is the worst Chicago mayor in city history, and the civic helm is spinning while downtown crumbles and money flees as if Chicago were on fire. I like to think the situation isn't as bad as that, and considered bringing up Levi Boone, who sparked the Beer Riot. But that was in 1855, rather a reach back in history. I hope things aren't that bad. Then again, hope is not a strategy.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFK15EdA2IeXwvo2NgaTqlTLsNhhA5ptI6VudXWgNtepijAAWUCNhE4PEKPZwDcdvbOqfzizo7jCIR0BQMIUjU2iYJBoEmelUTYQ9mCD7clf-d01JpEdhYyyigtoXh7AJJLJSawIPWnNCX0ECtMkZ__tc-3WuDThtWRfAUtRCmTyUPrS9K62QygZK0K-M/s3148/IMG_9589.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2036" data-original-width="3148" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFK15EdA2IeXwvo2NgaTqlTLsNhhA5ptI6VudXWgNtepijAAWUCNhE4PEKPZwDcdvbOqfzizo7jCIR0BQMIUjU2iYJBoEmelUTYQ9mCD7clf-d01JpEdhYyyigtoXh7AJJLJSawIPWnNCX0ECtMkZ__tc-3WuDThtWRfAUtRCmTyUPrS9K62QygZK0K-M/w640-h414/IMG_9589.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-58880774321080542492024-03-07T00:00:00.005-06:002024-03-07T09:13:30.503-06:00Everything not forbidden is compulsory <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rt8d4LJdgHMg8VtK9CF60RbcabaMaeh2a5mYCONiW6-Y2pSh0cCFjv-P8s6dIpGfpVTYVLe4daenSWrusaQai1CEt6L8u7I53cSoQMi9FtatF_VuiNm3wU-9AYPn29D9aLJPjbNZH0KgFcbU-mO9L5xqo6uz8v8RQvTSOvGQHzkBPLz_4JwGO3RBZg_Q/s4032/IMG_9571.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rt8d4LJdgHMg8VtK9CF60RbcabaMaeh2a5mYCONiW6-Y2pSh0cCFjv-P8s6dIpGfpVTYVLe4daenSWrusaQai1CEt6L8u7I53cSoQMi9FtatF_VuiNm3wU-9AYPn29D9aLJPjbNZH0KgFcbU-mO9L5xqo6uz8v8RQvTSOvGQHzkBPLz_4JwGO3RBZg_Q/w640-h480/IMG_9571.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> My wife and I were discussing breakfast cereals the other day. I mentioned how, in previous years, every half decade or so I would develop an inexplicable hankering for some sugary staple of my childhood: Cocoa Krispies, mostly, or Captain Crunch or Lucky Charms.<br /> "Lucky Charms, ewww," she said. <br /> And sometimes, I recall, I'd actually go so far as to buy a box of Cocoa Krispies, and have a bowl or two — well, I must have polished off the box, eventually. Or maybe the boys helped. <br /> But now that I'm easing into my dottage, I never do that, but have settled on just two cereals: Wheat Chex and Shredded Wheat. They are the only varieties I buy or eat.<br /> Not that I mix them together. My wife does that. She'll mix three cereals, together in one bowl, a practice I look on with something akin to horror. <br /> "Miscegenation!" I'd mutter, back when I'd tease her about it, employing an antique term for race mixing — I might be the only person who deploys that word as a light breakfast tease. She can have her Cheerios and her Total, her Grape Nut Flakes and Corn Flakes — particularly that last one. I haven't eaten a single Corn Flake in 25 years. Yuck. <br /> Wheat Chex, and Shredded Wheat, eaten alternatively, for variety, on the day or two a week when I don't have my traditional English muffin and grapefruit.<br /> I'm not saying they're the only cereals in the world, or the best. But they're the ones I like. Because you reach a point in life, where you know what you want, and ignore what you don't. I'd no sooner waste a breakfast eating a bowl of Rice Krispies than I'd read a John Kass column unprompted — surprisingly similar experiences, now that I think of it: bland little kernels, of rice or language, emitting a quiet sort of strangled shriek as they dissolve into a soggy nothing.<br /> I'm not saying change is possible — for instance. My wife had the strange and exotic practice of putting fruit on her cereal. Bananas, strawberries, blueberries. This struck me as some weird healthful craze, like running in the rain or doing calisthenics at your desk. I didn't have any joke on par with miscegenation. I just looked at her askance — or rather, tried not to look at her at all. Fruit on cereal? Where does she get these insane ideas? Some website? "Seven offbeat things to do to catch your man's attention at breakfast."<br /> Although. Marriage has a gravity. A tacit traction. Couples have a tendency to draw toward one another. And we've been having breakfast together for 40 years now. So one fine day — I don't remember when — I was drawn toward her practice. Maybe I was bored. Maybe we had a particularly large store of blueberries to dispose of, and I didn' want them to go bad. But I put some blueberries on my Chex.<br /> And they were .... good. The cool sweet soft orbs nicely offsetting the crisp savory wheat squares. The taste of blueberries a counterpoint to the Chex. I liked them together, and got into the habit of heaping a half cup of blueberries onto my cereal, which complicate the cereal eating process, as they must be removed from the refrigerator and washed and drained.<br /> But it got so that — and this is why I'm writing this overly-detailed and admittedly almost psycho post about breakfast cereals — I couldn't eat breakfast cereal without blueberries. "Let's pick up some blueberries!" I'd say, at the grocery. I became savvy of the wide price swings — $2.99 a pint, $6.99, varying widely with the season. <br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I'd go to eat some cereal, realize we were out of blueberries, and put the box back. They'd become essential to cereal eating, like milk. What was once forbidden was now mandatory. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The title of the blog, is from "The Once and Future King," by T.H. White — the English novelist, not to be confused with Theodore H. White, the American political writer. "The Once and Future King" uses Arthurian legend as a protracted allegory for the battle against totalitarianism. Wat, after being turned into an ant by Merlin, approaches an ant hill fortress with the slogan, "EVERYTHING NOT FORBIDDEN IS MANDATORY" emblazoned over the entrance to each tunnel. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "He read the notice with dislike," White writes. "Though he did not understand its meaning." There's a lot of that going around.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> For now, we retain our options, in all things great and small. For instance, my wife also eats breakfast cereal as a snack, popping dry Cheerios into her mouth like a toddler. I'll sometimes join her, while we chat, and participate in the odd culinary ritual, but more for the sociability. It's not something I would ever do on my own. I do not eat cereal dry as a snack. Yet.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Photo atop blog is from Darren Bader's 2020 "fruits, vegetables; fruit and vegetable salad" installation at the Whitney Museum of American Art.</i></span></div><p></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-18022866266537593782024-03-06T00:00:00.000-06:002024-03-06T00:00:00.133-06:00What color is a trusted face? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rqSftK8qjWXGvrHG7mAdKxUyMYM9jcCeAeZURGHNRN69K22dYkebm4ih5a8-UpqoMFKhOv_FCzr9XLPRYZlsVAMfdSVVU3sVJtM9rG1Tel5zd-cY0hyphenhyphennQYyWwLXGdyaGh-IjD_jDrCC6b4ykuJ4OEHzeZmvDAt3CvDiZKeUTqPLsEab9MXm6ToMGB6KU/s1083/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-05%20at%209.25.28%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="1083" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rqSftK8qjWXGvrHG7mAdKxUyMYM9jcCeAeZURGHNRN69K22dYkebm4ih5a8-UpqoMFKhOv_FCzr9XLPRYZlsVAMfdSVVU3sVJtM9rG1Tel5zd-cY0hyphenhyphennQYyWwLXGdyaGh-IjD_jDrCC6b4ykuJ4OEHzeZmvDAt3CvDiZKeUTqPLsEab9MXm6ToMGB6KU/w640-h328/Screen%20Shot%202024-03-05%20at%209.25.28%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> A police officer I know shared a link to a Chicago Police Department video encouraging cops to apply for the 2024 sergeant's exam. The five-minute video was produced for internal CPD consumption, but someone posted it to YouTube, labeled <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mo6wKSATPUc&t=12s">"CPD 2024 Sergeant's Exam."</a><br /> The video begins with a stolid white-shirt, two pens snugly beside his gold star, looking directly into the camera.<br /> "Hi, I'm deputy chief Rahman Muhammed ..." he says. "I would like to encourage all eligible members to please visit The Wire and sign up to register for this year's sergeant examination, given May 10. CPD is looking for the next generation of dynamic leaders to help to move this great department forward. I look forward to seeing all of your enthusiastic faces on examination day."<br /> <i>All </i>of their enthusiastic faces? Really? Because as the video unfolds ... well, let's give it a look.<br /> "I want officers to know this goal is attainable, with hard work and dedication" says Sgt. Arshanette L. Chambers.<br /> "I encourage you to have at least one study group. It helped me out tremendously," says Sgt. Enrique Martinez.<br /> Six more officers urge hard work. To an outsider, it's an unexceptional piece of management propaganda. So what's the trouble? Let's slide over to Second City Cop, an unofficial, relentlessly toxic Chicago police blog, and tune into the chatter:<br /> "The only white is the shirt"<br /> "Not one Caucasian in that mentor group. ... This is very insulting and straight up racist. This is the new city of Chicago, unbelievable. They do not even try to hide the total hatred for the Caucasian police officers."<br /> "Irish need not apply."</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/05/chicago-police-department-promotional-video-sergeants-exam-steinberg">click here.</a></i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-69420499803676732802024-03-05T00:00:00.002-06:002024-03-05T16:17:24.809-06:00America: Freedom, volleyball and the 'L.'<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeV67-HWbrCG6wkJMxR2Mg74738ZhGCzdlalw8bxP6xnySijbqxCyLBi4y3oFeP2jC_435AlRpWzqhD16tInCp0wziWyhnCPZR3c-gpX4om5yhmdOJ3WPH8tbxzVY04ACYk1UOp2llKvuNW0gvbEu7F04wxD3xlX-qfKqnZd16JBjJebgIGbH-rwAd75K/s4032/IMG_9456.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeV67-HWbrCG6wkJMxR2Mg74738ZhGCzdlalw8bxP6xnySijbqxCyLBi4y3oFeP2jC_435AlRpWzqhD16tInCp0wziWyhnCPZR3c-gpX4om5yhmdOJ3WPH8tbxzVY04ACYk1UOp2llKvuNW0gvbEu7F04wxD3xlX-qfKqnZd16JBjJebgIGbH-rwAd75K/w400-h300/IMG_9456.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.84px; text-align: start;">Shiringul, 21, was impressed by our rail public transportation system.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Americans have no idea what we have. Not a clue. If we are ignorant of our own country, we're completely, blind pig ignorant of the world.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Okay, that's unfair. I haven't <i>met</i> most Americans. I should probably water that down. <i>Many</i> Americans <i>seem</i> to have no idea what they've got...<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Which is still a shame. Because nothing makes you love American more than travel.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Not that there aren't wonderful places in the world. I remember coming back from Paris, looking at Chicago, and thinking, "Why do I live in this cowtown when I could live in Paris?" </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">But I didn't move.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Travel also offers the opposite. A reminder of wonders we take for granted back home. I was in some Haitian backwater, years ago, waiting for a bus to take me back to Port-au-Prince. As the only blanc within miles, I drew a crowd, curious and eager, with people imploring me, "Help me come to America! Help me come to America!"</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Finally I had enough. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "<i>Why?</i>" I asked one man. "What do you hope to find in America?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> He got very serious and thought.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "In American, I understand," he began. "There are roads that go over other roads...."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> At that moment I realized that I hadn't seen a single overpass in the whole damn country. And if you had never seen one, the idea of one road lofting into the air and overleaping another road, well, it would be a wonder, hard to wrap your head around.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Think of that next time you go under a viaduct. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I thought of that moment last Tuesday, talking with two Afghani sisters for my Friday <a href="https://www.everygoddamnday.com/2024/03/the-american-dream-requires-lots-of.html">column on immigrants applying for their residency permits</a>. Next to travel, speaking with newcomers is an excellent window into our world, a mirror to notice what we might not see otherwise. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I asked what it was like, coming to America.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The older sister, Zeyah, answered in such a ethereal fashion that I didn't try to summarize it in the paper. She spoke of walking across the campus of Northeastern Illinois University. That's it. She didn't exactly specify <i>what </i>about that walk was extraordinary. To be there. Walking across campus. With so many other different types of people. And trees. Going ... wherever she pleased. With no one watching her, keeping tabs on her, following her, placing demands on her. Her whole life suddenly in front of her, her life now hers, to do with as she pleased. That's the sense I got anyway, maybe I was projecting.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I asked her younger sister the same question. What is being in American like?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "America ..." she began, succinctly. "It's a dream."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> How so?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "So cool. So clean. I have my freedom."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> For instance, she can decide whether to wear a hijab or not — an option unavailable to women under the Taliban. She can work, go to school, choose what to study, play on a volleyball team.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> That much got in the paper. But there was more. She said something about lack of insects here. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked her what made volleyball in Afghanistan different then volleyball here, and she gave a long answer which boiled down to: coaches, supervisors who know what they're doing and help.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> She mentioned something rarely gets cited when the glories of America are being recounted.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "We don't have trains in Afghanistan."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Trends?" I said, misunderstanding her accent. "Like music trends?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "No<i> trains</i>," she laughed. "Red Line. Blue Line. Oh my God."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The 'L.' You might think trains make noise and have delays and people smoke on them now. To her, they mean you can go wherever you want. I checked the train situation in Afghanistan. A couple lines in the North. Kabul started trying to put in a train system. Last year.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I live by the Metra track. I can turn my head and see trains. Honestly, I'm already glad they're there. The commerce of the country, and convenient as hell for me. But I'm also going to try to remember that they're also somebody's dream come true.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-47732688893442102822024-03-04T00:00:00.002-06:002024-03-04T05:39:38.025-06:00His work usually has to be nude to be this notorious<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHaNwx2Ni7FCp05XGU3S_4-5zi-7tKzPAjXSBx6_Am9HbUPPOBb30iIjFUMSDcEEUTO3_4mZh6euH0NNIldqwxpPtP8wf_n64qwJ8sqWBcI-Y45Q9sKT5mGD4vZv2_vCLZhAl3ZXUv46SW5sHxzWdT4lMjJPf5iykzNe7zI1FJi5iq00Iz61WX9JOWHqO/s3264/IMG_9758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHaNwx2Ni7FCp05XGU3S_4-5zi-7tKzPAjXSBx6_Am9HbUPPOBb30iIjFUMSDcEEUTO3_4mZh6euH0NNIldqwxpPtP8wf_n64qwJ8sqWBcI-Y45Q9sKT5mGD4vZv2_vCLZhAl3ZXUv46SW5sHxzWdT4lMjJPf5iykzNe7zI1FJi5iq00Iz61WX9JOWHqO/w640-h480/IMG_9758.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br /></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Paul Gauguin abandoned his family in France and sailed around the world seeking paradise in Polynesia. He married a 13-year-old Tahitian girl. "Are you not afraid of me?" he asked.<br /> That type of thing is frowned upon today, and the placard next to one of Gauguin's paintings in the Art Institute of Chicago dispatches the issue thus: "Gauguin's predatory behavior toward young girls was a well-documented and integral aspect of his self-fashioned artistic persona."<br /> OK then. Gauguin's paintings are still on display, as they should be. Qualms over the personal lives of artists are so random. The Medicis were bad guys, too.<br /> Yet time mediates their excesses. As does fame. No matter how badly Picasso treated his mistresses, his big rusty baboon — made of the same COR-TEN steel as the building behind it — will still be on display at the heart of Chicago.<br /> Art is a window into the past, and the past is often a terrible place. The Art Institute is being vigorously reminded of this over a small pencil drawing — 17 inches by 12 — tinted with watercolors, "Russian War Prisoner." An undistinguished sketch by Austrian artist Egon Schiele, possessing none of the raw sexuality for which he was infamous.<br /> Schiele died at 28 of the Spanish flu, and the drawing came into the possession of Jewish cabaret star Fritz Grünbaum, whose art collection was mostly snatched by the Nazis after he was shipped to Dachau concentration camp.<br /> Except this drawing, the Art Institute insists. The Nazis missed this one. Maybe they were careless.<br /> His heirs disagree, and have been suing to get the collection back. Nine of 10 works have been returned. My colleague, Emmanuel Camarillo <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/2024/02/27/art-institute-showed-willful-blindness-in-buying-nazi-looted-art-n-y-prosecutors-say">has been documenting</a> the lawsuit, accusing the museum of "willful blindness."</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href=" https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/03/03/art-institute-of-chicago-egon-schiele-drawing-nazis-steinberg">click here.</a></i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-74234454642905218132024-03-03T00:00:00.017-06:002024-03-03T11:17:06.039-06:00"This rulemaking is necessary to address outdated regulations..."<div style="text-align: left;"><i> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiDlW6Gvq9sxCRrynFImNn4fW4l_eizckuQQcen9Dv_DFBBk3BygozuDGd0H_1jbCJeoMtJZMBu-gqWEl4WqPkkQdiMGRB7n3bW9i_pmCA5Jm2cHxpPoD5tKcbhRMphdUiqIoKkHgpWUmkoIg45VaYOFxPlkhmEJ3pSHnoDXE4yqOR4_qRuwiHjsxmDO8/s3264/IMG_2687_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiDlW6Gvq9sxCRrynFImNn4fW4l_eizckuQQcen9Dv_DFBBk3BygozuDGd0H_1jbCJeoMtJZMBu-gqWEl4WqPkkQdiMGRB7n3bW9i_pmCA5Jm2cHxpPoD5tKcbhRMphdUiqIoKkHgpWUmkoIg45VaYOFxPlkhmEJ3pSHnoDXE4yqOR4_qRuwiHjsxmDO8/w640-h480/IMG_2687_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Conflict Management, or How to Not Be UnPatriotic," by Jerry Truong</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I try to be fair. That means giving people I criticize a chance to respond. Or governments for that moment, which I suppose are people too, somewhere under the bureaucracy. For instance,<a href="https://www.everygoddamnday.com/2024/03/the-american-dream-requires-lots-of.html"> in Friday's column</a>, when I was painting questions from Department of Homeland Security as silly, I felt obligated to ask DHS for its perspective on the situation. <br /></span></i><i style="font-family: georgia;"> Not that I was expecting an answer. Every corner mom and pop bakery tends to be mum nowadays on the allure of fresh-baked pies. But the Department of Homeland Security surprised me by responding — after the column was done and online, true. But in a timely enough fashion that I thought I should honor the effort that somebody went to by sharing my question and their answer.</i></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Good morning!<br /> I'm the page two news columnist at the Chicago Sun-Times I spent six hours yesterday at a law firm watching Afghani immigrants fill out DHS's Form I-485, "Application to Register Permanent Residence," and was struck by the questions regarding security. Some seemed to address situations that were literally impossible, like: did you work for the Nazis from 1933 to 1945? I'm wondering if anyone there could comment on them — from my perspective, they seem time wasting and without any practical value — anyone with bad intentions would not answer them honestly. But perhaps I'm missing something. Is an update in the works? Thanks.<br /><br />Neil Steinberg<br /><br /> <i> The following was sent by the Department of Homeland Security. The <a href="https://global.oup.com/us/companion.websites/9780190200886/student/chapter10/gline/level/">"On Background" </a>at the start means I may quote the material provided so long as I don't identify the sender. It's rather oblique, but after a careful reading, I believe they're saying: 1) We ask these questions because we don't want terrorists entering the country and, if we catch them in a lie we can prosecute them, though 2) we can't change the questions for various groups, though we know they're out-of-date and are hoping to change them someday and 3) the silly questions notwithstanding, we're particularly excited about these Afghanis, and so waive the fees we usually sock immigrants with. But you can judge for yourself.<br /><br /></i><b>On Background:</b><br /><br /> As a component supporting the <a href="https://www.ice.gov/partnerships-centers/hrvwcc">Human Rights Violators & War Crime Center</a>, USCIS takes seriously the collaborative effort to prevent the United States from becoming a safe haven for individuals who engage – or have engaged – in the commission of war crimes, genocide, torture and other forms of serious human rights violations from conflicts around the globe. If you knowingly and willfully falsify or conceal a material fact or submit a false document with your application for permanent residency, USCIS will deny your application and may deny any other immigration benefit. In addition, you will face severe penalties provided by law and may be subject to criminal prosecution.<br /><blockquote> USCIS is unable to modify immigration forms for specific communities or nationalities, but the agency has <a href="https://www.uscis.gov/sites/default/files/document/reports/OPA_ProgressReport.pdf">previously committed to simplifying several major forms</a>, including <a href="https://www.uscis.gov/i-485">Form I-485, Application to Register Permanent Residence or Adjust Status</a>. Additionally, USCIS intends to propose a rulemaking effort to improve the regulations governing the adjustment of status to lawful permanent residence and related immigration benefits.</blockquote> This rulemaking is necessary to address outdated regulations to improve efficiency and the administration of the adjustment of status of immigrants to lawful permanent residence in the United States, improve the quality of inventory data that DHS provides to agencies, reduce the potential for visa retrogression, and promote the efficient use of immediately available immigrant visas. You can read more about that effort here: <a href="https://www.reginfo.gov/public/do/eAgendaViewRule?pubId=202310&RIN=1615-AC22">View Rule (reginfo.gov)</a>.<br /><blockquote> DHS/USCIS remains committed to supporting Afghan nationals paroled under Operation Allies Welcome. The agency has exempted filing fees and expedited processing of requests for employment authorization, adjustment of status, and other applications and petitions for certain Afghan nationals as part of the administration’s ongoing effort to help those who assisted the United States in Afghanistan resettle, reunite with family, and build their lives in their new communities in America.</blockquote></span>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-73746854267081673722024-03-02T00:00:00.009-06:002024-03-02T06:08:38.619-06:00Flashback 2012: The riddle of the missing women’s voices in politics<span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgby1W0-L5pID6VYtD4rvCJ6Otoe8YIahgEeUXJCDH0faAf2c0mSGDnmt2vqsuFyY7oXo2v2y_LMn6bBWWwEsT3E3umU0ZFLMzyi-iRRgcEIStZc_5bvsXyPSsNr5awGmerANzzqWHNFdt2zOkUnCWrlhimWO69ulZ34p8L9tjQo6Bc2IxqodU_G6edvyIL/s3050/IMG_8922.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2225" data-original-width="3050" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgby1W0-L5pID6VYtD4rvCJ6Otoe8YIahgEeUXJCDH0faAf2c0mSGDnmt2vqsuFyY7oXo2v2y_LMn6bBWWwEsT3E3umU0ZFLMzyi-iRRgcEIStZc_5bvsXyPSsNr5awGmerANzzqWHNFdt2zOkUnCWrlhimWO69ulZ34p8L9tjQo6Bc2IxqodU_G6edvyIL/w640-h466/IMG_8922.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hydra and Kali, by Damien Hirst</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <i>Facebook wheezes more and is useful less, day by day, with real people crowded out by advertising and snippets of movies. But the memories section does serve up posts from years past, and Friday offered this with my cryptic comment, "This puts a whole new spin on the question, 'Where are all the women?'" I was curious as to what might have inspired that, and re-read this column which, alas, is even more current now, after a dozen years than it was then. <br /></i><br /> A father and son are driving in a car, the riddle goes. The car crashes, the father is killed and the boy is badly injured. So they rush him to the hospital, into the operating room. The surgeon walks in, takes a look at the boy, and says, “I can’t operate on this boy — he’s my own son!”<br /> How can that be?<br /> When Gloria Stivic tells the riddle on an episode of “All the Family” in 1972, Archie Bunker at first misses the premise entirely.<br /> “That’s easy,” he says, “a surgeon ain’t supposed to operate on his own family.” Her meathead husband, Mike, thinks the man who was killed is the stepfather. “The surgeon’s the real father!” he says. Wrong.<br /> Forty years ago, the riddle could stump people because nobody thought of women as doctors — it was a big deal. But guess what? Women could be doctors, and police officers, and soldiers, and members of Congress, as slowly women established themselves as American citizens on equal par with men.<br /> More or less.<br /> While it would be overreacting to say that recently we’ve been going backward, women’s rights are in the news of late, and not because women are reconsidering them.<br /> Our leaders and would-be leaders — all men — are hot to constrain, whether it is Rick Santorum thundering against not only abortion, but contraception and amniocentesis (all the same, apparently, in his book), or various state legislatures lunging for indignities to heap upon any woman bold enough to try to exercise her legal right to an abortion.<br /> Here’s a more modern riddle: The thunderous outcry that those of us alive in 1970s might expect just isn’t heard. Why? Not only didn’t you hear a squeak from women leaders, but I couldn’t even imagine who those leaders might be — Hillary Clinton? A tight-lipped diplomat. Condoleezza Rice? Timid. Nancy Pelosi? Guess again. You know there’s a deficit when you find yourself hoping that daytime talk show hosts — Ellen? Rosie? — might leap into the fray. Maybe they have and nobody noticed.<br /> But rather than take the Republican cue and be another guy opining about women (When fighting monsters, Nietzsche cautions, take care that you do not become a monster), I thought I’d contact an actual woman politician — they do exist — and see what they say. So I phoned my pal Kelly Cassidy, the outspoken, effective Democratic state rep from the 14th district.<br /> “It’s kind of hilarious, in a heartbreaking way,” said Cassidy, who is in a tight race for her seat. “The women are there. But what I find most ironic in all of this: the real flashback quality in this experience. I started working in Chicago in 1992, and it feels just like that. It feels just like the level of anger I started to see from Tailhook and the Anita Hill hearings. Women are waking up and realizing this is going on around them and they have to do something about it.”<br /> They are?<br /> “Birth control is not controversial,” said Cassidy. “It’s stunning to me that we’re having these conversations. It’s almost as if we have this cyclical sense, we have to be reminded these rights are tenuous at best and these battles are not permanently won.”<br /> Bingo. Freedom is not free, and as the generation that won so many victories shuffles into the sunset — Gloria Steinem is 77, Jane Fonda is 74 — the generations after them take all this stuff for granted.<br /> “We become busy with our lives,” said Cassidy. “And when a threat like this happens, the giant is wakened again.”<br /> That’s true, and that is why I’m not flapping around in the I’m-going-to-Canada tizzy that Santorum’s surge seems to inspire in so many of my Democratic brethren. The country’s changed. Women can vote. Gays aren’t going back into the closet. Even the religious faithful don’t want to be bullied from the pulpit — Santorum didn’t even win the majority of Catholic voters in Michigan.<br /> “We have great leaders. I see [Rep.] Jan Schakowsky really stepping up,” said Cassidy. “Perhaps because she’s our own we aren’t aware of her national role and her ability to rally folks on a national level. It is almost as if the ridiculousness from the right is so loud, and they are so insistent, they drown everything else out.”<br /> So far. On “All in the Family,” Edith, the dingbat, comes up with the answer: “The surgeon was the boy’s mother!” It stumped people back then. (“Who the hell ever heard of a woman surgeon?” Archie says). Maybe it stumps people now. Gloria’s feminist friend, Tammy, delivers the episode’s moral: “I don’t think men have the right to control women’s lives.” People said that kind of thing on television then. Now we have “The Bachelor.”<br /> <i>—Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 2, 2012</i></span>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-33293074619281361932024-03-01T00:00:00.003-06:002024-03-01T09:22:16.383-06:00The American dream requires lots of paperwork<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA7HsNCR7rklkobUEjAmLv4x3EpwmGPovjAEfT6Bw3njKQbABe5c70qg6tdhSOVpu6eN50KJ9TaCSMxH_DG8BOt-AVL8oqgeH0OTVeoGfZgtPlu-5JV8YRc8wtACmygGwwg9kpryr7rpX2G-dAfwWcIWCu7KoblAgFZ9HEtnOUrXRRB8ndIJfawgeWQ28b/s3402/IMG_9414.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2630" data-original-width="3402" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA7HsNCR7rklkobUEjAmLv4x3EpwmGPovjAEfT6Bw3njKQbABe5c70qg6tdhSOVpu6eN50KJ9TaCSMxH_DG8BOt-AVL8oqgeH0OTVeoGfZgtPlu-5JV8YRc8wtACmygGwwg9kpryr7rpX2G-dAfwWcIWCu7KoblAgFZ9HEtnOUrXRRB8ndIJfawgeWQ28b/w640-h494/IMG_9414.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Lawyer Ashley Whelan (left) helps Afghani immigrant Zeyah fill out a 20-page form. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> "Have you ever committed, or threatened to commit, any hijacking, sabotage, kidnapping, political assassination or used a weapon or explosive to harm another individual?" asks Ashley Whelan, a lawyer at Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher & Flom, ticking the crimes off on her fingers.<br /> Zeyah, a bespectacled, 24-year-old immigrant from Afghanistan, gives a tiny shake of the head and mouths a silent, "no."<br /> Forty-eight questions down. Thirty-eight to go — more, actually; some questions have multiple parts.<br /> "Have you ever assisted, or participated in, selling, providing or transporting weapons ... ?"<br /> It is Tuesday, in a large, sunny conference room on the 28th floor of 155 N. Wacker. Lawyers and translators confer with clusters of immigrants at small tables. They are two hours into the process of filling out paperwork for getting a green card.<br /> Only three hours more to go.<br /> "Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?" Whelan asks.<br /> Those grumbling about <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/immigration">immigrants</a> invariably try to hide their xenophobia behind a fig leaf of legality. They only want newcomers to do what's legal, they insist, without having the faintest idea what a complicated, years-long odyssey being a legal immigrant entails, or how difficult it can be to keep right with American law under the best of circumstances.<br /> "Have you ever been a stowaway on a vessel or aircraft ... ?"<br /> And these are literally the best of circumstances. The morning began at 9:30 a.m. with fresh berries, assorted little pastries, and coffee, as volunteer lawyers from Skaaden and J.P. Morgan Chase were walked through how to help one specific group — the 76,000 Afghan immigrants airlifted here after the fall of Kabul in 2021 as part of Operation Allies Welcome — fill out one specific document, the Department of Homeland Security's 20-page Form I-485, "Application to Register Permanent Residence."</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/02/29/afghanistan-refugees-immigration-green-card-application-legal-help-religious-persecution">click here</a>.</i><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDdkN4hccevpudw5pUpZyhaw7aygV7FzQg-Zu1rXetkZysMsY0yRaAJdBFZI1KA8e-mfvJ5SASUI0eNd5_5i7FUMsmjh0pOwRhMsK0XYiH0P08mxJhraiv8DZmQzPqqZgAKFekXDrSuC6mU8IZHrf4Ge2v8VGxbNhBI9DwSKQ3v5ShGEtgQEMfHhzCwj2/s4032/IMG_9483.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDdkN4hccevpudw5pUpZyhaw7aygV7FzQg-Zu1rXetkZysMsY0yRaAJdBFZI1KA8e-mfvJ5SASUI0eNd5_5i7FUMsmjh0pOwRhMsK0XYiH0P08mxJhraiv8DZmQzPqqZgAKFekXDrSuC6mU8IZHrf4Ge2v8VGxbNhBI9DwSKQ3v5ShGEtgQEMfHhzCwj2/w640-h480/IMG_9483.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Shiringul, 21, (left) and Zeyah, 24, escaped Afghanistan in 2021 when American forces withdrew from that country. Both are students at Northeastern Illinois University.</td></tr></tbody></table></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-88758453427615327232024-02-29T00:00:00.060-06:002024-02-29T08:09:39.904-06:00Bravi to Reese<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54PxIj5Y1WUKwel4IsV2v8bHtr3yKZdbY-_BvJyBCtZP2LafrgH6_Q-sBaGn3-2uzXvx5qah9N0zaV-ZCyb38fRPSvpun_bOSLUwLe-DKaWGv9n9pHHjiNP8R-N9pJtzSUWQX1y750GeuX_HUU5TWpiix_uNF48yo83yerTrWv2C1t8YJZPGcoZRBfi3c/s5951/MagicFlute_3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4042" data-original-width="5951" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54PxIj5Y1WUKwel4IsV2v8bHtr3yKZdbY-_BvJyBCtZP2LafrgH6_Q-sBaGn3-2uzXvx5qah9N0zaV-ZCyb38fRPSvpun_bOSLUwLe-DKaWGv9n9pHHjiNP8R-N9pJtzSUWQX1y750GeuX_HUU5TWpiix_uNF48yo83yerTrWv2C1t8YJZPGcoZRBfi3c/w640-h434/MagicFlute_3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reese Parish, right, looks on as at Marlene Fernandez and Keanon Kyles. (Photo by Liz Lauren)</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> I've never begun observations about a performance by commenting on a particular actor's expression. But drama classes should teach the enigmatic Mona Lisa smile that Reese Parish deploys to open "The Matchbox Magic Flute," currently on stage at the Goodman Theatre. Or better, bottle it, so everyone can project that same state of benign grace. I won't say it was the highlight of the show — it's impossible to point to a single delight in director Mary Zimmerman's chocolate box of whimsical wonders — but it certainly set the tone for one of the most enjoyable evenings I've had at the theater in many a year.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg0E2IJ4eHN1uEk6Tjvv7fu5yX4gOF09vnpcBTF_PKMv92dy6GN7p8KadC7rffNBZCj03nifFgjVFBN1ODcbB5qW6W6VBNUXo9JyxJSDukXBGYSX-OG0p0vYzu4TVIp9QprBek7Fn-seRWJS3pkPrHjtsNZzK6rICe2r49T-xZrZbg08-dv-ZLCmFXKCE1/s4032/IMG_9276.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg0E2IJ4eHN1uEk6Tjvv7fu5yX4gOF09vnpcBTF_PKMv92dy6GN7p8KadC7rffNBZCj03nifFgjVFBN1ODcbB5qW6W6VBNUXo9JyxJSDukXBGYSX-OG0p0vYzu4TVIp9QprBek7Fn-seRWJS3pkPrHjtsNZzK6rICe2r49T-xZrZbg08-dv-ZLCmFXKCE1/s320/IMG_9276.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> Or rather, the tone was set before the rich red curtain even went up, by the dear little stage, with its faux side boxes, trio of chandeliers, stars shining against a cerulean sky, and the quintet of musicians, in their Turkish mawlawi hats and Empire dresses, fussing before the fun begins. Then Parish comes out, as winged Spirit, delivering her wordless benediction of a smile, and seals the matter with periodic re-applications throughout the performance.<br /> "The Magic Flute" is the frothiest opera ever written, with Mozart's score among the most beloved music in the Western canon. Trimming it down to two hours, performed by 10 performers on a 15 by 20 foot stage condenses and amplifies the magic. For instance, Parish's character, Spirit, is traditionally played by three cherubic boys; let's just say Spirits II and III are not missed. I remember the Lyric Opera productions getting bogged down with all the stentorious Masonic hoo-haw in the second act, excess fat which Zimmerman deftly trims away, leaving the audience with just the lean highlights. By making "The Magic Flute" smaller, Zimmerman enlarges it.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I could rave more. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Bill Rude's brings a handsome, Dudley Do-Right charm to Prince Tamino, Shawn Pfautsch is a hoot as birdcatcher Papageno. Emily Rohm's Queen of the Night nails her classic aria, a showcase I refer to as "The worst maternal advice </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">ever</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">" ("Here," she sings, in essence, "take this knife and kill your boyfriend or we're through.")</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Yes, in "The Matchbox Magic Flute" we're not quite sure why she's saying it — that part must have gotten cut — but nobody goes to operas for the plot anyway. Honestly, I don't mean to re-review the performance — Kyle MacMillan nails it in the Sun-Times, with <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/theater/2024/02/20/matchbox-magic-flute-review-goodman-theatre-mary-zimmerman">"charming, zany, fun and abundantly imaginative."</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But "The Matchbox Magic Flute" buoyed my wife and me when we needed a boost. And the actor who is going to linger with me longest didn't get mentioned at all in the Sun-Times review, so I thought I'd do so here. After the show, being of a generation that likes to put people in boxes, I was curious about where this particular actor belonged — is a bravo or a brava in order? — so immediately turned to the Profiles section in my Playbill and checked on Parish. In the place where other cast members choose up sides with a "he/him" or a "she/her," this actor's ID reads "Reese Parish <i>(The Spirit)</i> is a Reese." How perfect is that? Very fitting, given that it's a role in which the DePaul senior, debuting at the Goodman, excels.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>The Magic Flute is on stage at the Goodman Theatre until March 24. You can order tickets <a href="https://www.goodmantheatre.org/show/the-magic-flute/">here</a>.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVBcIoKs7knsPFf3_qVKIjt3sfAF2-etF5rsHEzi6MnGWEZR6mcVSmjPIuisht7fr-7THrMREFUJx-ca1nYsKYNTwFw1rYAaOPkYJJGaEL3S8LXDfCrMtVtM7RSEXFp84uhPPxS_sFhDh0MJQxjF6_sgL-XQUiRvtXKxH4tz12te6SSnK7UEmhTqVq0Bz/s5467/MagicFlute_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3645" data-original-width="5467" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVBcIoKs7knsPFf3_qVKIjt3sfAF2-etF5rsHEzi6MnGWEZR6mcVSmjPIuisht7fr-7THrMREFUJx-ca1nYsKYNTwFw1rYAaOPkYJJGaEL3S8LXDfCrMtVtM7RSEXFp84uhPPxS_sFhDh0MJQxjF6_sgL-XQUiRvtXKxH4tz12te6SSnK7UEmhTqVq0Bz/w640-h426/MagicFlute_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span><p><br /></p></div></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-37163039700903247442024-02-28T00:00:00.007-06:002024-02-28T04:31:42.300-06:00A century of Ford cars made at Torrence Avenue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMCAyh46VAdBQHSszMmxIZtrWBjnF9bm-6paTX9YorXIAMv-iRr5Uxoq73dK32tks4zNt8OWuClivRg8GP4m_z1zM16pvrXVWVD0rN28pRXZY8ceZnvXf-au4XRERZo-PAgPcAyD6WGGF_zXx9sUnzqZWVj1cZgf8_76_IKKc79sUjC0yyvS47MX-RsbY/s2794/Chicago%20Assembly%20Plant%20circa%201924%2040422.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2185" data-original-width="2794" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMCAyh46VAdBQHSszMmxIZtrWBjnF9bm-6paTX9YorXIAMv-iRr5Uxoq73dK32tks4zNt8OWuClivRg8GP4m_z1zM16pvrXVWVD0rN28pRXZY8ceZnvXf-au4XRERZo-PAgPcAyD6WGGF_zXx9sUnzqZWVj1cZgf8_76_IKKc79sUjC0yyvS47MX-RsbY/w640-h500/Chicago%20Assembly%20Plant%20circa%201924%2040422.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> The Ford Model T automobile was made of wood. The car required 250 board feet of hard maple — most of it used in the body — the reason the company's Chicago Assembly Plant was built on the Calumet River, at Torrence Avenue and 125th Street. Henry Ford had announced he wanted all of his new plants located on navigable waterways.<br /> "Making possible lake shipping direct from the Ford Plants at Detroit and establishing water connection with the Ford lumber supplies in Northern Michigan," the Ford News noted in 1923, celebrating the completion of the "'Last Word' in Progress Toward Ideal Factories."<br /> Wood construction of autos didn't endure. But the riverside facility did. Operations at Ford's Chicago Assembly Plant began Feb. 24, 1924 — 100 years ago last Saturday — and continue to this day, bigger than ever, a miracle in an era where factories shutter and manufacturing seems always either moving overseas or to the cheap labor South.<br /> Torrence Avenue is Ford's oldest continually operating plant, chugging away for a solid century — with occasional breaks, for strikes or remodeling. I was slightly surprised at the lack of attention — every 15-year anniversary of a brew pub gets ballyhooed by what's left of the media. But nobody seemed to notice, never mind celebrate this milestone. Ford says that's coming in the months ahead.<br /> No need for us to wait, though. The history of Ford and Chicago is closely bound together, and not just because the first Ford motor car sold — a two-cylinder, 8-horsepower, Model A in red, the only color then available — was purchased for $850 by Chicago dentist Ernest Pfennig and delivered to 18 Clybourn Avenue at the end of July, 1903.<br /> Two years later, Ford opened its first branch office in Chicago; the first assembly plant began operation in 1914 at 3915 S. Wabash.<br /> Ford also was inspired to create his revolutionary assembly line by watching the overhead dis-assembly of cows at Chicago's Union Stockyards.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/02/27/ford-assembly-plant-chicago-torrence-avenue-100-years-model-t-taurus-explorer">click here.</a></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdepUFzkjw8e6M1WFKp-h1ca7zGfUFW4spqNw4nFSiinwZHsY9wDenK9Wh_CPepPlJsGyDftwWgblJUUUNQXREWlZA9XB2lk3EL-AGBZWmRivANiWWMEBEjZxlpKYsK16Mx3DFVqzsOkY9AGae74235flNsIwonY_SMhSkX_kcp-Zzi9UPMnddx2Zdivb/s3007/Chicago%20Assembly%20production%20October%201943%2078796-22.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2318" data-original-width="3007" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdepUFzkjw8e6M1WFKp-h1ca7zGfUFW4spqNw4nFSiinwZHsY9wDenK9Wh_CPepPlJsGyDftwWgblJUUUNQXREWlZA9XB2lk3EL-AGBZWmRivANiWWMEBEjZxlpKYsK16Mx3DFVqzsOkY9AGae74235flNsIwonY_SMhSkX_kcp-Zzi9UPMnddx2Zdivb/w640-h494/Chicago%20Assembly%20production%20October%201943%2078796-22.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-49283715669423625882024-02-27T00:00:00.008-06:002024-02-27T07:17:37.497-06:00Flashback 1997: Pollution debate heats up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFqeZ5EKK7OZmJNQ2-i_YyNOiIAtAqN884lMFGuB8-H_IiP2r0QAbeQybQqiKNhFelx3R3MpBxMIV6jIX1FGMhcaiIgXOwivW8Iot04j5xVhwgUGAJggoF6b4PlXJnnlYzFNuLaneXng6gdhhHMbK-hkuA40QKDD-7C2FqxOQYAmQGTjZUaeH5I7XwMIQ/s3264/IMG_1825.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFqeZ5EKK7OZmJNQ2-i_YyNOiIAtAqN884lMFGuB8-H_IiP2r0QAbeQybQqiKNhFelx3R3MpBxMIV6jIX1FGMhcaiIgXOwivW8Iot04j5xVhwgUGAJggoF6b4PlXJnnlYzFNuLaneXng6gdhhHMbK-hkuA40QKDD-7C2FqxOQYAmQGTjZUaeH5I7XwMIQ/w640-h480/IMG_1825.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> Seventy-one fuckin' degrees. In February. In Chicago. <br /> I should just leave that sentence as the entire post.<br /> Because really, what else is there to say? "It's scary"? No kidding. </i></span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Broke the old record by seven degrees? For those keeping score.</i></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> And that was Monday. The forecast for Tuesday is sunny, windy, then rainy, high of 77 with a chance of tornadoes toward evening. I kid you not. They said that on the radio. <br /> Yes, weather isn't climate. A summery day in mid-winter is no more proof of climate change than a subzero day is refutation. I used to say that the deniers were people who walk into a burning house, open the freezer, point at the ice and declare, "Ha! Look at all that ice. So much for your 'global warming.'"<br /> And yet. Look where we are. Where we're going. I wondered if I had ever tried to sound an alarm on climate change — for all the good it would have done — and am glad to find this, from over a quarter century ago, at least trying to put the topic on the table. Too late now.</i><br /><br /> Many grave environmental threats have the benefit of being apparent. You can see the smog, the floating dead fish, the mountainous landfills. Others that can't be seen can be tested: lead in the water, pesticides in birds.<br /> Global warming is different. It may be a problem and then again it may not, because at present there is nothing obviously wrong.<br /> Concern over global warming is based on the conviction among many reputed scientists that the accumulation of certain pollutants in the atmosphere - carbon dioxide, sulfur - will have a "greenhouse effect" that eventually will raise the temperature of the Earth.<br /> Such a change would wreak havoc. Melting polar ice caps would raise ocean and lake levels, seasons would be altered, forests and farms destroyed.<br /> In Chicago, the two principal problems would be a rising, energized Lake Michigan and a crisis in the agricultural belt surrounding the city.<br /> The time frame for global warming is uncertain. Catastrophe could occur in 50 years, 100 years or - as the chorus of naysayers insists - never.<br /> To prevent this, the argument goes, we need to cut emissions by using cleaner technology and making it more expensive to pollute.<br /> "Small acts now to cut greenhouse gases make a lot of sense to reducing harm in the future," said Dr. Richard Kosobud, professor of economics and a specialist in environmental economics at the University of Illinois at Chicago, who has studied global warming.<br /> Those who dismiss the prospect point instead to the enormous cost of reducing greenhouse gases, which are produced by burning fuel, particularly gasoline and coal.<br /> "The first thing it means is higher energy prices for virtually everything that's used," said David Montgomery, of a Washington, D.C., public relations firm promoting a study from the American Automobile Manufacturers Association. "For gasoline, an increase of about 50 cents a gallon, for residential natural gas, an increase of almost 50 percent . . . for electricity, an increase of 25 percent."<br /> Manufacturers argue - and have spent millions of dollars on advertising to promote their claims - that fighting global warming will hurt the United States economically while failing to address the problem, since Third World nations will continue to spew pollution.<br /> "What they're doing is inventing a scenario of dramatic cuts soon, which I don't think any reasonable advocate wants," Kosobud said. "The kind of cuts most economists advocate is a gradually rising set of tax increases on fossil fuels. This could be managed with a tradeable emission permit scheme."<br /> The world's nations are meeting this December at a United Nations climate conference in Kyoto, Japan, to hash out a plan to prevent global warming.<br /> On Wednesday, President Clinton announced the U.S. position concerning the conference - a middle-of-the-road compromise that infuriated critics on both sides. "The Clinton administration plan fights a five-alarm blaze with a garden hose," said Dan Becker, director of the Sierra Club's Global Warming and Energy Program.<br /> "The Clinton administration," a spokesman for a conservative Michigan free market group wrote, after dismissing the idea of global warming as "globaloney," "is trying to stampede the world into suicidal restrictions on energy consumption based partly on a falsified UN document."<br /> What Clinton proposes is to stabilize greenhouse gas emissions at 1990 levels by the period 2008 to 2012 and reduce them in the following five-year period.<br /> The plan would provide tax breaks to spur energy efficiency and would begin the creation of an international emissions trading program. Industries would be granted credits permitting their greenhouse gas emissions, and those who had excess credits - through pollution-abatement steps, for instance - could then sell the credits to those who needed them.<br /> Opponents of tough global warming measures find this plank of the plan unconstitutional.<br /> "Government designs on pollution trading are flawed in an important respect: They do not recognize the importance of establishing the things to be traded as property rights," said Jim Johnston, director and co-founder of the Heartland Institute, a libertarian think tank based in Palatine. "That sounds arcane, but its very important."<br /> He said that such a plan is a violation of the Fifth Amendment - basically seizing an asset, in this case, the right to release greenhouse gases - without compensation.<br /> "What they're doing is denying property rights," he said.<br /> Although being condemned as too strong, Clinton's plan is far weaker than that embraced by other countries. The European Union, for instance, is calling for a 7.5 percent cut below 1990 levels by 2005 and a 15 percent cut by 2010.<br /> Critics of the administration's plan have been trying to rally support by focusing attention on its internationalist aspects, alleging that U.S. sovereignty was being eroded by a cabal of UN overlords.<br /> Global warming is a vexing issue because of the wide range of opinions from entrenched groups that are not about to yield. On one side, there are those who deny the very existence of the problem. "Do not assume that the science has been settled," Johnston said. "The critics of the science are legion."<br /> On the other are those who are convinced, in the words of a letter sent to Clinton earlier this month and signed by 17 environmental groups, that global warming poses "the most serious environmental threat facing the planet."<br /> What is being furiously debated is whether we can afford to wait until we find out who's right.<br /> <i> —Originally published in the Sun-Times, October 24, 1997 </i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-46742395615778649042024-02-26T00:00:00.001-06:002024-02-26T00:00:00.140-06:00Don't be afraid, it's just history<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDie14xax8nYW9y_WYx3lX1qZMFmNceeXFv6L2d9vXO_Tbnh_ydonegkE9IpLi7chs8u3oJh8p1xMljsOX8eGFXKzmEJorwznQZSX071h640DEwvd27tQ-EsmkQyVN7nqSatIHGozGBrpFz90kgqDOU-yjmdAwG0iL_ioN3VRcntNnU5TUyz_KV5xZ7V_o/s4032/IMG_0281.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDie14xax8nYW9y_WYx3lX1qZMFmNceeXFv6L2d9vXO_Tbnh_ydonegkE9IpLi7chs8u3oJh8p1xMljsOX8eGFXKzmEJorwznQZSX071h640DEwvd27tQ-EsmkQyVN7nqSatIHGozGBrpFz90kgqDOU-yjmdAwG0iL_ioN3VRcntNnU5TUyz_KV5xZ7V_o/w640-h480/IMG_0281.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled (Toni Morrison) by Robert McCurdy (National Portrait Gallery)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> If the three Canadians who discovered insulin in 1921 were themselves diabetic and trying to save their own lives, would that make their accomplishment less significant?<br /> I'd say no. Their breakthrough still benefits uncounted millions.<br /> Similarly, I do not discount the American Revolution because the colonists were thinking mostly of their own interests.<br /> They still forged a new type of freedom. For themselves. At first.<br />But that freedom began to spread — rather like a virus escaping a lab — and kept infecting others.<br /> That is the American story in a nutshell: One group secures rights for itself, then those rights are claimed by a more disadvantaged group.<br /> While soaked with blood and outrage, it is still an inspiring story. That's why I'm so puzzled that Florida and Texas pretend that telling the core American narrative somehow hurts their children.<br /> Which is more inspiring? That wealthy planter and slave owner Thomas Jefferson paused from gardening at Monticello to write the Declaration of Independence? Or that his grandchildren, descendants of Sally Hemings, the enslaved woman Jefferson made his concubine, would some day gain their rights as free citizens — in theory — under that very same document?<br /> I'll take the second story. It displays the promise of America. You can't feel bad hearing it, unless you're rooting for slavery.<br /> The past helps us understand the present. If you are agog at the Alabama court casting embryos as children — albeit very well-behaved children — it might help to remember that while Black Americans won the right to vote in 1865, American women would not receive the same right for another 55 years, until 1920. American wives and mothers and sisters lagged two generations behind those once considered sub-human chattel.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To continue reading, <a href="https://chicago.suntimes.com/columnists/2024/02/25/black-history-month-toni-morrison-the-bluest-eye-steinberg">click here</a>.</i></span></div>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-10075950280953258782024-02-25T00:00:00.003-06:002024-02-25T12:40:22.871-06:00The box your stuff goes in right before it becomes your stuff<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlL6sZCN2RHM4q5bLiynyVSx0LP_3XAw-m9OXQ4Rof3a2YGIUPAl3Z9pcFRRTQND2NLVs4cCyW68OVqLyu2-grMcLZx93o6t94SEIICdJtqRSjUW18Pji7RSHOzerm1orsFxQsEHOt0NjPzUSxcsWmpGSDqFZGJRo0ief_axL-I7GytUtalloAHSvASqt0/s4032/IMG_7875.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlL6sZCN2RHM4q5bLiynyVSx0LP_3XAw-m9OXQ4Rof3a2YGIUPAl3Z9pcFRRTQND2NLVs4cCyW68OVqLyu2-grMcLZx93o6t94SEIICdJtqRSjUW18Pji7RSHOzerm1orsFxQsEHOt0NjPzUSxcsWmpGSDqFZGJRo0ief_axL-I7GytUtalloAHSvASqt0/w640-h480/IMG_7875.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Leaving the Ace Hardware in Northbrook, I noticed this Amazon </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Rivian Electric Delivery Van 700 — you could hardly miss it. One of thousands rolled out over the past 16 months in cities all over the country. I think I was drawn by its rich blue grey, rounded corners, and the way the top of that back wheel is covered by the bottom trim, a look I think of as "Citroen-like." </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The vans get about 150 miles on a charge. Drivers usually use between 20 and 40 percent of the charge in a day. There are some interesting features — the driver's side door, for instance, swings out like any other truck door, but the passenger door is a pocket door — it slides rather than opening out, to avoid being clipped off by passing traffic or dooring cyclists. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> There isn't a passenger seat — delivering packages is a one man job, for now, until Amazon figures out how to replace that person with a gizmo — but a jump seat that folds out if there's ever a second person who needs to ride in the van. Somone put a lot of thought into making it easy to make deliveries — for instance, put the van in park, and the door between the driver's compartment and the cargo area automatically slides open. It's tall — clearance height of 9'7, and most drivers can stand up fully inside.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I had a shock-of-the-new moment of confusion when I saw it, because I think of Prime as one of the streaming services we get, like Netflix or Hulu or Max.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>What are they delivering? </i>I wondered, idiotically, as I took this shot and then walked a few feet in the direction of home. Oh right, I thought, catching the back of the van. That place. They deliver a lot, actually. Hard to keep all this stuff straight sometimes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4hdk7s94St1uEDKKzTyu7yhpjXMF4qbHskncrYa2LUzyl9ppkXIAiRSGdaozOtqZehLu_KFhhckC_GfBGQIl5MNufW7pMUgJ67r1k3cSAPMZaOllo5k94zo1QGqw7oKOMtD2T07RFhkY8CdysxoulhgWUhBrT-gq9jZiMKZsz_st_xIRiUSOHZqwoi6r/s2720/IMG_7874%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2086" data-original-width="2720" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4hdk7s94St1uEDKKzTyu7yhpjXMF4qbHskncrYa2LUzyl9ppkXIAiRSGdaozOtqZehLu_KFhhckC_GfBGQIl5MNufW7pMUgJ67r1k3cSAPMZaOllo5k94zo1QGqw7oKOMtD2T07RFhkY8CdysxoulhgWUhBrT-gq9jZiMKZsz_st_xIRiUSOHZqwoi6r/w640-h490/IMG_7874%202.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3972382144120426476.post-62104997798025466812024-02-24T00:00:00.009-06:002024-02-24T19:01:06.973-06:00Jim Tyree<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJ9o6tVaB9z-M7RhuziSBXzueHdPERRahgS2rvYF4BaSiqE-wgZmU_MAelGnO1z7rXKsSjRZORicdffaq360cjiyAIFZo3g0q-rye5V5tOU0SZV9kuyzkeTo9AYKR4PBbQGNdcOsGNmyxHSz_UEbD8WyZ0DSalMnmSwE2IQCVtK44MXXt1V5-MTUeCeH9/s2947/IMG_9292%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2310" data-original-width="2947" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJ9o6tVaB9z-M7RhuziSBXzueHdPERRahgS2rvYF4BaSiqE-wgZmU_MAelGnO1z7rXKsSjRZORicdffaq360cjiyAIFZo3g0q-rye5V5tOU0SZV9kuyzkeTo9AYKR4PBbQGNdcOsGNmyxHSz_UEbD8WyZ0DSalMnmSwE2IQCVtK44MXXt1V5-MTUeCeH9/w640-h502/IMG_9292%202.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> Live long enough, and men you know become statues.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Well, that's how it's been f</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">or me anyway. Maybe for you, not so much.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Some I knew fairly well: Roger Ebert, Irv Kupcinet, Jack Brickhouse. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Some I only spoke to once or twice: Michael Jordan, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Harry Caray.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> All men, so far. Women don't seem to get statues. I'm not sure why, but lucky them. Being rendered into bronze has to be a mixed blessing. You need to be dead, usually. They make an exception for sports heroes. Though some of the statues — Ebert's, for instance — well, not the best likeness. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Some have other memorials as well. Harry Caray, for instance, the broadcaster, has a statue outside Wrigley Field, and a namesake restaurant in River North. I was trucking there Monday, through the double-deserted downtown. Especially empty because it was both President's Day, when many government offices were closed, and a Monday, when many workers wring out an extra day of weekend.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> So pretty much alone, proceeding along the 300 block of North Clark Street, heading to Harry Caray's to have lunch with a reader who had bought the meal in a charity auction, when I was stopped in my tracks by the plaque above.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> First, I'd never seen a memorial like this — a metal marker, not on the public way, but a private sidewalk between blocks, on a shortcut I was vectoring through.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> And second, I knew Jim Tyree, CEO of Mesirow Financial. He rescued the Sun-Times in 2009, leading a group of investors who, by paying $5 million and assuming $20 million in debt, snatched it from the vultures who'd have picked it clean long ago. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I remember the cocktail party he threw after he bought the paper. It wasn't for everybody — just <i>machers</i> — and I was surprised to find myself among the select. I wandered the crowd, nibbled appetizers, while running what I would say to him over in mind, smiling a little, thinking of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dai3BI09Z_k">Luca Brasi practicing his greeting</a> by himself in the opening of "The Godfather."<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Don Corleone. I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your home... on the wedding day of your daughter..."<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I finally worked my way up to Jim, waiting for an opening and inserting myself into a gap in the circle of well-wishers. He looked at me. I introduced myself and said, formally "Mr. Tyree, thank you for saving the Sun-Times."<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> To which he replied, "People tell me you're the reason they read the Sun-Times."<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Which left me speechless, groping for a response. What I came up with was this:<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "Thank you. I'm reluctant to quote David Radler ... " — the predatory felon who owned the paper before Tyree — "...but he liked to say, 'When you make the sale, close your briefcase and walk away." <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> And I turned and left. We spoke again in the brief time he owned the paper — when he came down with cancer, I gave him Evan Handler's <a href="https://www.everygoddamnday.com/2018/02/time-on-fire-shares-cancers-lesson-life.html">"Time on Fire,"</a> a primer on staying alive and keeping your spirits up while battling the Big C. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> That wasn't what killed him — a technician preparing him for dialysis messed up the line into his artery, introduced oxygen, and that got him. An unfair end for a very giving man, someone who loved Chicago. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> And now he is part of Chicago, literally an element of the infrastructure, like a fire hydrant or a lamppost, built into the ground, part of the pavement. I'm not sure whether I'd like it if this caught on — you're trying to get somewhere, and all these prominent individuals call to you from below your feet. It's cool that there's the one. Jim Tyree deserves much more. But it's a start, and made me think of him, which is the point of these tributes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7ao0QeYg5kqMeWwbkOmiFov2aRGuJg5nH9rShHfCGLt4Yrqg8L_fSuvIHI-k0u_-H2QNJKvGGUYyW0YmynB6YBmDbo_LxKaTSkqqQf3UGanAMxs9GSl3Q6sIRysVea9kBIbvEYwxsKdVi5hbolo6acMr7TgEoVEt22wsoJMSW6KbxnGnLL_J5nzEXim0/s4032/IMG_9290.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7ao0QeYg5kqMeWwbkOmiFov2aRGuJg5nH9rShHfCGLt4Yrqg8L_fSuvIHI-k0u_-H2QNJKvGGUYyW0YmynB6YBmDbo_LxKaTSkqqQf3UGanAMxs9GSl3Q6sIRysVea9kBIbvEYwxsKdVi5hbolo6acMr7TgEoVEt22wsoJMSW6KbxnGnLL_J5nzEXim0/w640-h480/IMG_9290.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clark Street, 12 noon.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Neil Steinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468057838260476480noreply@blogger.com12