Backpacks win

     High school boys don't use their lockers. I can't tell you why, though I've asked my two teens a number of times. Not cool, I imagine. Using your locker means you have to stand by it, where you run the risk of being seen standing by your locker, which must be somehow bad. Thus they carry these enormous backpacks crammed with all their books all day long. The packs must weigh 30 pounds. Attempting to heft one is like trying to lift a fire hydrant.
     Thus high schoolers are accustomed to hauling backpacks. So it should not be surprising to see that the backpack fashion has migrated, as fashions do, from the young to the less young, as those who were carrying backpacks in high school five years ago now rely upon them to tote their necessities to work.
     The change has been long in coming, a number of years, with online chatter going back to 2012, 2011, about whether backpacks are appropriate in a business setting. That debate is over, settled. This spring has been the time, during the trudge from the train station to work, that I registered that backpacks have definitely won, though I might be influenced by Motorola moving to the Merchandise Mart—they gave their employees company backpacks as a welcoming present, stuffed with corporate policy books and giveaway pens and lyrics to the company song, no doubt. Motorola backpacks galore. Many companies do the same--perhaps in part because backpacks have an aura of priciness but are actually pretty cheap. I see lots of backpacks emblazoned with tech company logos.
     Why did backpack prevail over the traditional briefcase? Several reasons, running from the practical to the psychological. On the practical side, we carry fewer papers and books and magazines and, sigh, newspapers and other things that are flat, but more devices and 3D objects. Your backpack is your laptop case, your gym bag, your lunch bag, your shoe bag. If you're carrying heavy stuff around, a backpack more evenly distributed the weight across your shoulders, while a heavy briefcase tends to tilt you to one side.
     Then there are the psychological factors. Backpacks are active, young and sporty, while briefcases are sedentary, stodgy and old. We are all climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro now, at least in our own minds, and a backpack implies that you have just stepped out of Estes Park and are making a necessary dash through the Loop before returning to your cabin in Idaho. Many people carry water bottles, jammed into little mesh holders on their bags, to stay hydrated on the hour trek downtown from Naperville. Nor are the bags simple; they are silly with compartments and zippers and flaps and carabiners and handles and straps: complicated bags for complicated people.
      At least in our own minds.
      As a fuddy-duddy, I was inclined toward briefcases. As a young man I carried one of those big leather legal briefcases that opened wide at the top, the better to jam more books inside. I also liked envelopes--lovely pebbled leather cases without handles, designed to be tucked under your arm. I could never carry a backpack because I'd feel like somebody is coming up from behind, grabbing me by both shoulders, pressing a knee against my back and pulling. Even hiking I prefer a belt pack. I also often wear suits, and carrying a backpack with a suit is like wearing sandals with a suit. It's just wrong. For me. For the moment.
      Even so, when it came time to replace my latest briefcase, I had a consideration that was new for me--I wanted something I could fit my Bell bike helmet in.
     REI sells a perfect hybrid bag, its Quantum brief, half messenger bag, half briefcase, softsided,  with a compartment large enough for a bike helmet to slide securely into, not to mention flashy orange zipper pulls and a surprising orange interior, which helps keep me alert. It's squishy, rounded, like a briefcase a cartoon character would carry.
     What's next? If fashion trends are being fed by high school--a safe bet--that means in a few years businesspeople will wear cargo shorts to the office all year round. At least for a while, before they stop going to the office entirely. Nothing to cry about. If fashions didn't change, we'd all still be wearing spats and carrying canes.  And if you feel bad about the briefcase vanishing, by all means carry one. Idiosyncrasy is always in fashion. 

There is no June 4 in China

     June 4. 

     The Fourth of June. 

      6/4. 

     There are many ways to express it, and in the United States we are free to say them all. We can even be more specific: June 4, 1989. The day that Chinese Communist troops slaughtered protesters who had camped out for weeks in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, demanding democracy.

     Protests had begun in mid-April, with students calling for freedom and an end to corruption. Unrest grew. On May 20, Premier Li Peng declared martial law in Beijing.

     No one knew what would become of the gathering chaos. For days, the army was trying to reach the square, where 300,000 students and supporters had gathered. But Chinese citizens blocked the troops — at times with their bodies, as in the iconic image of a man facing down a line of tanks.

     It seemed the country was about to change into something freer, more open.

     Never happened. China cracked down. The red dragon flicked its tail.

     “Bloody Beijing” was the headline of the Sun-Times on June 4, 1989. Soldiers shot protesters, they killed Red Cross ambulance drivers. Beijing Radio reported “thousands of people” had been killed. Later in the day, that announcer was gone, the party line returned, the scrubbing process begun.

     Having crushed dissent, China’s leaders methodically tried to stamp out all memory it had ever existed. Two years ago, when the Shanghai stock exchange fell 64.89 points, censors suppressed the figure. The date itself is banned, but in a testimony to the human spirit, protest continues. Think of the power of the date 9/11; now imagine you were forbidden from saying it. So 6/4 is sometimes referred to in China, by strategy, as “May 35th.” Or “63+1.”

     It’s easy to decry repression elsewhere. We also should remember that, over the past quarter century, Americans have generally failed to speak up the way we should. Worried about the economy, about placating our trading partner, we chose politeness over our supposed ideals. What’s sticking up for freedom when you’ve got a chance to sell gizmos to 1.3 billion Chinese?
     Maybe that's prudent. Maybe we are being smart, and time will nudge China in the direction those students wanted it to go. Maybe prosperity is better than freedom.
     But that isn't something to be proud of. Not everyone ducks their responsibility. In Chicago, for 23 years, Naperville musician Fengshi Yang held a concert to mark June 4.
     "That day has changed the world," she told me Tuesday. "It has to be remembered in the world's heart, for our children, our children's children. We need to continue to remember this day, to promote freedom."
     Yang was a student at the University of Chicago on June 4, 1989; like many, glued to the television. "We watched TV every day," she said in 2001. "We prayed and hoped for a better China. When the tragedy finally happened, that took so many innocent young lives, we all cried."
     This year, the 25th anniversary, her daughter—Tiantian, 2—will keep Yang from holding a concert in Chicago. "I had my first baby," she said. "I didn't have the time to do it this year."
     So instead she and her family are in San Francisco, where she is set to take part in a concert during a candlelight vigil before the Goddess of Democracy, a statue created there in honor of the "Goddess of Liberty" statue built by students at Tiananmen Square and torn down June 4, 1989.
     "China is not free," she said. "We need to remind people that China is not a free country."
     Yang has paid a price. She became a U.S. citizen in 1996, but because of her activism, China would not give her a visa to visit her ailing father, whom she had not seen since visiting in 1993. He died in 2012.
     What does she think of China now?
     "Things are worse, because people act like, 'Oh, it's so open now,' " Yang said. "No. Underneath, it is very, very tough. They think they are powerful. They think they can do anything."
     Our attitude seems to encourage them.
     "Doing business is more important [than promoting freedom]," she said. "People keep silent because they don't want to hurt their business. I feel so sad about it."
     We hope that China will become like us; we should worry that we're becoming like them. Or worse. In China, people don't know about June 4 because of government repression. Here, those who don't know or don't care have only themselves to blame.
     As the world grows smaller and our fates intertwine, we must recall 6/4 as a code, a talisman, to be sure that it is they who inch toward freedom, and not us who inch away.

Nothing to say

    It had to happen, eventually.
    After 11 months and two days of posting something here every day, every goddamn day, as the blog title suggests, on Monday night about 8 p.m., I found myself staring out the window at the darkness falling, listening to the birds chirp.
    Blank. Utterly blank. 
    Which is odd, because you'd think I'd have something to say. My older son had just graduated from high school the day before. Usually a time when any pundit worth his ink stains can turn a glib palm toward the sky and pontificate on demand. Pith should flow like a river. Insights galore. 
    Maybe that was the trouble. This subject was too easy, a slow pitch right down the pipe. Graduation went exactly as it was supposed to go: Caps and gowns were worn. "Pomp and Circumstance" was played. Speeches made. The future envisioned. Dreams nurtured. Throats tightened, eyes glistened. Mine anyway. 
     But all that was so usual, so expected, nothing I couldn't lift off the front of  the Hallmark cards lined up by the mylar graduation balloons in our foyer. As for the out-of-the-ordinary stuff, well, what's there to say about that? The Glenbrook North High School chorus sang "The Star Bangled Banner" to the parents, which was surprising and lovely, but you really had to be there. Later the school held a senior night, from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m., with games and prizes and a four-part searchlight sweeping the night sky out front. It must have taken a ton of planning on somebody's part. T-shirts were designed, games set up, six hours worth of entertainment for hundreds of 18-year-olds. Someone put a lot of time and effort into this, a lot of someones. Many parent volunteers. I couldn't do it; my palms sweat just thinking about doing it. I never even heard it was going on until last night.
     What I mean is, thanks. The kids loved it. Or so I'm told. Well, not quite told. That was the impression I gleaned. Nobody tells me much of anything anymore.
     Maybe that's why my mind shut down. None of this is about me. It was somebody else's dream I was walking through. The bystander, making a cameo. The parts that I had input in -- the endless readings of "Hop on Pop," the preparation of oatmeal, the chauffeuring -- are so far away already, now drop-kicked even farther into the distant past. All I had to do was show up and sit there, and I showed up and sat there magnificently. But if I had skipped it, the whole thing would have unfolded just the same and I can't say the boy would have cared one way or another. 
     No wonder I don't want to think about it. Or, more precisely, can't. Because the only thought I have is the most banal, cliched thought ever on this topic:
     God that was fast. Eighteen years, bing, boom, thanks pop. Actually, not even the thanks pop part. That only happens in the movies. 
     No wonder I'm uncharacteristically mute. "God that was fast" is not exactly the most profound insight into the parenting experience. Maybe because it's all the same for everybody, if you do it right.
     Maybe that's what I'm afraid of saying. Because honestly, beside it now being over with, mostly I have no regrets. Which is rare for me. But really, no regrets at all. I wasn't an absent dad or a bad dad or a neglectful dad or a domineering dad. I nailed it, dad-wise, I think. It all has worked out, so far, yet to say anything about it smacks of bragging, and for all my logic and reason, I still believe that bragging is giving the finger to fate and earning the retribution that's coming. I don't want to do that. My gut tells me to fall quiet, don't attract any attention and maybe this string of luck will just keep spooling out, unbroken.
     Kinda blew it here, now, though. 
     In for a dime, in for a dollar. There's one more thing to say. The one thing I don't want to say because it's so ... it's so ... what? Great, I suppose. Yes, great. I usually believe that wonders should be remarked upon, but this one, well, I should just tuck it away, but there's this blank page to think about, so let's just get it out there and be done and we can move on. 
     So ...we were all gathered Sunday in our kitchen, after commencement, my parents, everybody, about to have dessert, to launch into our cheesecake—oh, heck, they advertised last Christmas—to launch into our absolutely delicious Eli's Cheesecake. And my wife has us all, the two dozen or so family members present, sing "Happy graduation to you," which seems odd—like wishing people "Merry Halloween." But as I said, this graduation isn't all about me, so I keep my yap shut. We finish singing —a least there were no candles to blow out —and some of the relatives call upon the boy of the hour to make a speech. 
    "Speech, speech," they cry out—not me, by the way. I am mute. He sort of looks at us and doesn't seem to feel inclined to say anything, so someone-- again, not me, I'm tucked in the corner, watching--calls out, "What is the secret of your success?"
     He does not pause, does not ponder, but replies with one word:
     "Family." 

288 consecutive nights in bars—Harry Caray in 1972

    This fell into my lap late last week, and while plenty of media attention shines on Harry Caray's restaurants as it is, I couldn't resist flipping through Harry's expense diary. 

    It isn’t the “Vampire Diaries” or “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.” It sure isn’t the diary of Anne Frank.

   But it is a diary, of sorts. An 8-by-5-inch, dark green, 1972 “Day Book” owned, once upon a time, by famed baseball broadcaster Harry Caray.

     Grant DePorter, CEO of the Harry Caray’s chain of eateries, inherited the diary, one of eight, all from the ’70s and early ’80s, in four boxes of memorabilia, World Series tickets and cashed checks, that the executor of Caray’s estate found when he cleaned out his office.

     Knowing my interest in all things historical, DePorter asked if I wanted to take a peek at one, and I swung by Harry’s and walked away with 1972. 

     I should say right away that this is not a Dear Kitty, pour-out-your-heart, frank-assessment-of-my-friends kind of diary. Old Harry was not big on introspection, as he was the first to admit.

     “I’m a convivial sort of guy. I like to drink and dance,” he told an interviewer once. 

     For those just joining us, Caray had been the Cardinals’ color broadcaster for many years in St. Louis. Driven out of town in 1969, he migrated to Chicago, via a misfire year in Oakland, to announce first for the hapless White Sox, finishing his career in a golden twilight glow with the Cubs. 

     In 1972, he had just begun his tenure with the Sox. A savvy businessman, Caray cut a deal pegged to ballpark attendance, which doubled, largely thanks to his flamboyant presence. It would make him very wealthy, though in 1972 he was still tallying each bar tab.  

     “Remember, you used to be able to deduct a three-martini lunch,” DePorter said.

      Saturday, Jan. 1, lists four bars: the Back Room, still on Rush Street, plus three long-ago joints: 20 E. Delaware, Sully’s and Peppy’s, with expenses for each $10.30, $9.97, $10, and $8.95. This in a year when a six-pack of Old Style set you back $1.29.

     You needed to cite who you entertained to get the write-off, so on New Year’s Day he lists Dave Condon, the Tribune sports columnist; Billy Sullivan, who owned Sully’s; and Joe Pepitone, the former Yankees first baseman who had been traded to the Cubs.

     And so it begins. A chain of old-time Chicago bars — Riccardo’s, Boul Mich, Mr. Kelly’s. A posse of early 1970s sports figures — Wilt Chamberlain, Don Drysdale, Gale Sayers. Plus a few unexpected blasts from the past: boxer Jack Dempsey, comedian Jack Benny.
     "These guys did nothing but go out and have a few cocktails," said Jimmy Rittenberg, who owned Faces, which Caray visited 14 times in 1972. "I don't know how they did it. They were 20, 30 years older than me and I couldn't keep up with them."
     Jan. 16 something unusual happens. Caray is in Miami, yet there are no expenses, just one enigmatic word, "Super."
     After that break, if indeed it was, comes 288 consecutive days in bars, not only in Chicago, but New York City, and of course on the road with the Sox, beginning with spring training in Sarasota.
     The unbroken streak pauses Nov. 3, when all we get is "to K City @310." The only completely blank day is Monday, Nov. 6 - what must THAT have been like? Then off to the races again.
     Clay Felker, founder of New York magazine. Caray's former boss, A's owner Charlie Finley. A few surprises: Sox owner John Allyn. Several times. That surprised me, though it shouldn't have. All I knew about their relationship was that Allyn fired Caray, and Caray replied with this timeless retort:
     "I can't believe any man can own a ballclub and be as dumb as John Allyn. Did he make enough to own it, or did he inherit it? He's a stupid man. This game is much too complicated for a man like John Allyn."
     But that was 1975, the epic year when White Sox players complained they did so poorly because of Caray's critical broadcast booth assessments, drawing my favorite Caray line: "Hey, you can't ballyhoo a funeral."
     So what was it like to stand in the Pump Room (16 visits in 1972) and hoist a few with Caray?
     "I was out with Harry Caray a couple of times," the Tribune's Rick Kogan said. "It was always at the Pump Room. He was one of the most charming people in the world."
     How so?
     "Drunk but joyful," Kogan said. "It always would up being a joyful, laughter-filled time."
     Caray was always surrounded by friends like TV sportscaster Tim Weigel.
     "He really liked Tim Weigel," Kogan said. "I was an audience, at best, with those two characters around. They had incredible mutual affection. There was no better place to share that mutual affection than over way too many cocktails."
     I assumed that White Sox broadcasters today do not hang out in bars every night fraternizing with ballplayers and other assorted celebrities. But, not liking to assume things, I phoned the Sox and asked whether current announcers Steve Stone, who shared a mike with Caray, or Ken Harrelson, burned the midnight oil.
     They declined to comment.
     That kinda says it all, huh?
     Toward the end of the diary, on Dec. 24, comes the kicker. After spending at least 354 of the previous 357 days in bars (DePorter counted 61 different tap houses) Caray writes, in a bold hand, "Vacation in Acapulco. Then "Vacation" every day until the year runs out.
     Which makes me wonder how he knew he was on vacation. I guess if nobody was playing baseball in front of him and when he looked over the rim of his drink he saw Mexico, then he knew he was on vacation.
     But give Caray credit. As old-fashioned, and perhaps even pathological, as the bar-crawling seems today, there is another truth worth mentioning: Harry Caray could have taken his drinks at home. He went out because it was his job.
     "He felt the bartender and bar people were his fans," Rittenberg said. "He felt he was responsible He would stop in 10 joints. He was just a gregarious guy."

We're all meowing for the Blackhawks now

     

  
     Why are Johnny-come-lately fans frowned upon? Because they haven't paid their dues? You're watching a game; how much experience do you really need? You'd think fans, proud of their sport, would welcome anybody who wants to give it a try, for whatever reason.
     As a long time-opera goer, if some hot production—"barn-burners" as Sir Andrew calls them—suddenly drew mobs of neophytes,  I can't see curling my lip at them and sneering, "Oh, yeah? Well where were you back in '98 when we were suffering through Wozzeck?" As long as you don't talk during the performance or bolt for the exits at the end without clapping, the more the merrier.
    And yet. In sports, those who drift late into the action, prompted by success, are often derided. I suppose because it is a human joy to view other humans with scorn, and shifting values being what they are, it can be a challenge to find someone to unashamedly hold in contempt. Fair weather fans have no anti-defamation league.
     No matter. The boys and I watched the Blackhawks game Friday--Ross, of all people, who once referred to a glove as a "baseball mitten," started tuning in. And I joined him for the third, ah, not quarter, umm ... period. I don't like watching hockey as much as basketball. The puck's too small and moves too fast, and all the players look the same.
     But with so much on the line, it was still exciting. We cheered. We shouted. Watching the game, I even started to detect patterns, a flow to the action. And an admiration for the Blackhawks, as individuals, started to build. Tough guys, obviously, being smashed into the boards all the time like that. No quit in them. We should be proud, and we are, and if people such as myself and my lads check in the action, shoehorn ourselves into that "we," well, roll with it. I had the Stanley Cup on my desk at work. That should count for something. It doesn't take away from those who have been hanging on every second all season long. If you can explain how the experience is diminished for you by our watching too, now, I'm all ears.
    Although not a fan, I suppose I can't quite call myself a Johnny-come-lately either, in that I saw my first Blackhawks game in the old Chicago Stadium more than 20 years ago, against the Los Angeles Kings, coincidentally. Of course, it was under unusual circumstances. I did not actually go to watch the game. I went to meet a ... well, maybe I better just share the story, perhaps it'll bring good luck—the Blackhawks thumped the Kings, 7-2, the night I was there, despite the presence of the supposed "Great One," Wayne Gretsky. Maybe they'll do it again tonight. Go Hawks! 

Cat Tale From Stadium; 

Feline Fan Likes to Call Arena Home

     You can be a Blackhawks season ticket-holder and never see her. You can sit at center court for every Bulls game and not know her name. Yet she is there.

     Some fans have reported sightings: a flash of a whisker; a glimpse of a paw. Something mysterious in the upper balcony, gliding behind the stands.

     Could it . . . possibly be . . . a cat?

     Yes, it is, or more precisely, she is, the Chicago Stadium cat, named, somewhat generically, "Cat."

     "She got in here seven years ago when she was a kitten and has been here ever since," said Dan Ahearn, of the stadium operations crew. "She likes staying in my office during the day, but at night, she goes on the hunt."

     Like any cat, Cat pays careful attention to her comfort. During games, when multitudes of loud strangers invade her home, she takes up a strategic position on an old flannel shirt on a swivel chair in Ahearn's tiny office. A television in the office is always turned to the game and, sometimes, she watches.

     After games, Cat takes control, ranging over the entire stadium, from the upper balconies to the hockey ice, sometimes following Ahearn as he drives the Zamboni, or lending a critical eye to the stadium crew.

     "She was sitting at center line when we were putting the red line down, as if inspecting it, to make sure it's straight," said Ahearn who, in return for feeding her twice a day and seeing to her other various needs, is granted a measure of Cat's company.

     "At eight in the morning, if she's not around, I'll whistle, or rattle my keys. In five minutes, she's there," Ahearn said. "She'll follow me down the hall, or even out onto the ice."

     For reasons unclear, Cat seems to follow the Blackhawks but has no interest in the Bulls, Ahearn said. Basketball just doesn't fluff her fur, though she once joined the team on the court for a practice.

     Like many fans, Cat once tried to claim one of her heroes as her own.

     "When she first came in, she used to hang out down by the Blackhawks dressing room," Ahearn said. "She did a little marking on Darren Pang's goalie pad."

     Cat is not the only feline to share quarters with the NHL. Down in St. Louis, the Arena has not one, but two cats, Damian and Scarch.

     "They are boys, brothers," said Kathleen Heinz, director of marketing for the St. Louis Blues. "We needed some animals to control the birds. They fly in and then there's no way for them to get back out. It's helpful to have the cats handle the situation."

    Unlike Cat, the St. Louis brothers love the crowds.

     "They're so friendly, always winding up in somebody's lap," Heinz said. "You'll hear on radio, 'Cat in section 105.' "

     The St. Louis cats have gained a certain amount of fame because of their affectionate nature, which they are savvy enough to direct toward the media.

     "For some reason, they take a real shine to reporters, they hang out on press row," Heinz said. "Damian would always sit in the lap of a reporter with our local NBC affiliate. He did a story on Damian; ESPN picked it up, and it played all over the world."

     While Damian and Scarch stay off the ice, they do get a kick out of the indoor soccer field.

     "When the field is down, the cats go out, running the goals, back and forth, playing their own little game of soccer," Heinz said. "They ride the elevator."

     There isn't a bird problem at the Stadium, but Cat does earn her keep. Two summers ago she scared away a big dog, and last year she reduced the arena rodent population by one.

     "She killed a rat last summer, out in the parking lot," Ahearn said. "The rat was as big as she was."

     In Minnesota, the Met Center doesn't admit to rats, but mice are an acknowledged problem, despite the efforts of a cat named Smokey, who has a reputation as a swift mouser. She also startles fans.

     "She's pretty playful," said Jami Busby, a spokesperson for the North Stars. "She'll jump out at you; she has scared quite a few people."

     A stray, taken in six years ago, Smokey does not prowl, but is escorted to her prey by the ever-accommodating Met Center staff.

     "Whenever we have mice, we always take her to where the mice are," Busby said.

     Back at the Stadium, during a recent game, Cat was in her customary place, in the cluttered operations office, nestled comfortably on the flannel shirt.

     On television, a zombified Wayne Gretzky skated aimlessly around the ice, seemingly lost in private thought, while his Los Angeles Kings suffered a 7-2 drubbing to the Blackhawks.

     But Cat, true to her race, spent most of the game with her eyes shut. Curled up, she looked very content, sleeping her feline sleep with an inner calm. So good to be home at the Stadium.
                            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 7, 1993, 

    

Pedantry is hardly a secret vice

     Most people who offer corrections are themselves wrong.
     I should probably say "many" instead of "most"—I'm not keeping count. I didn't do a survey. It just feels like "most."
     I will say, from long experience, that the more arrogance a person displays when offering up his supposed correction, the greater the odds that the corrector is the one who is mistaken.
    For instance.
    Friday.
    End of a long week. Wrote two columns — Monday's, on Harry Caray's hidden diaries, and a Voices blog post on the anniversary of Bobby Cann, a cyclist killed by a car. Rode the Divvy to Clybourn to look at the spot. Didn't have to, but I wanted to take a picture of the Ghost Bike, and lay eyes on the scene, again.
     Three, now that I think of it, if you count this one.
     Not to mention hearing, still, from those unhappy about Wednesday's Hot Doug's column. 
     So it's 4 p.m., tidying up. Check the mail. Oh look, a letter. 
     Minimal return address: "MBG—Chicago, IL 60610.
     Inside, two photocopied pages, from my latest book, You Were Never in Chicago.
     Underlined in blue pen—very straight, must have used a ruler—is this passage, about the Medill School of Journalism:

      Misspelling a name in an assignment drew an automatic F, no matter how good the rest of the article might be ... One error is too many.

     In the margin, handwriting:

     Fact checking should also mean an automatic F. See the following page. Your researchers should have been more careful/thorough.

     My researchers? Ah, hahaha....
     It is signed: "Sincerely — A degreed librarian and former Chicago History Museum employee."
     On the next page, I quote Hemingway writing about Chicago in a letter "while living at 1230 N. State." Which our nameless librarian has also underlined. In the margin he, or I suppose, possibly, she, writes: "1239 North Dearborn-- the building has a plaque."
     Oh ho, the building has a plaque. Well, that settles it, doesn't it? A plaque; can't argue with a plaque.
     Sigh.
     This is an example of what I call the "Two Definitions Problem." Words often have more than one meaning. If I say I caught three carp and put them in my creel, and you write in that I am an obvious illiterate, because a "carp" is a complaint" and a "creel" is a rack for holding bobbins in sewing, it is you, and not I, who are making a mistake, because "carp" and "creel" have two definitions. The former can be a fish as well as a gripe and the latter, according to my New Oxford American Dictionary, is either: 1) "a large wicker basket for carrying fish" and 2) a rack holding bobbins or spools for spinning."
    Why is this common? People are familiar with one definition, they generally hold other people in contempt, and it never occurs to them that the second definition might be lurking there. They never imagine a person might be thinking differently than themselves.
    Hemingway did indeed live at 1239 N. Dearborn, just as the plaque says. He lived there in the fall of 1921, after marrying Hadley Richardson and returning from their honeymoon.
    But....
    Before that, in 1920, Hemingway lived on the third floor of 1230 N. State, with a friend. There is no plaque because the address was absorbed into an apartment building. Hemingway lived in two different places in Chicago — mind-blowing, I know. Actually, that isn't true either; he also lived at 63 E. Division, and might have lived elsewhere, but I'll draw the veil here.
    You get my point.
    Since there is no return address, I can't hope to inform MBG directly. Though if you work at the Chicago History Museum, and know of a former employee, a degreed librarian — my guess you'll recognize who it is instantly, because a person like that, well, pedantry is hardly a secret vice, is it? — of those initials, you might want to pass this along, with a sorrowful note that he might want to spend his retirement doing other things than sending starchy anonymous notes to writers who have not committed an error.
    No reader has found a factual error in You Were Never in Chicago. I worked very hard, along with University of Chicago Press manuscript editor Carol Saller and the great Bill Savage, the book's editor, to try to make that happen. I'm proud of that. The closest anyone came to finding a blunder is that I use "el" instead of "L" — the CTA's term. But that wasn't a mistake, it was a choice. I find "L" inelegant, and figured, if "el" is good enough for Nelson Algren, it's good enough for me.
     Which does not mean the book is without error. Chew on that dilemma a moment. No reader pointed out an error, but an error is there. The answer is, there is an error, but one that I found myself. Because I care about these things. Don't know how it happened, but it's there. embarrassing enough that I'm keeping it to myself. I'll fix it in the 5th edition, if there is one. That's a great advantage of the online world. You can fix typos and mistakes. And why false accusations like this burn, because they assume a carelessness about the one thing I'm most careful about. I can tell you every typo in every book that I've ever written. I used "coronet" when I meant "cornet" in 1994 in Complete and Utter Failure. And that was fixed before the book went to press. Still, it almost got in.
    So the issue isn't reprimanding MBG, per se. Given the limited audience of this blog, I can't expect it will get back to him. Or her. But even airing the matter is a form of satisfaction, though I like to think, if it were only semi-settling a score with a faceless critic, I wouldn't do it. There is a message here. We are hot to find fault in others. I know I am. It's good to try to hold the dogs back, to survey the landscape before letting go the leash of correction. When somebody takes issue with what I wrote, they almost never consider that I wrote what I did deliberately, that I knew I'd get grief but wrote it anyway, and accept the grief as the price you pay for saying something worthwhile. I take strong positions, but do so with humility, or try to. Humility, the ability to question yourself, is important, because to write is to err. But if you are going to be so bold as to try to point out errors in others, try to do so politely, since you might be the one in the wrong, if not now, then eventually. You might be just as wrong as MBG was; utterly wrong, suffering from the myopia and laziness he falsely finds in others, and smug about it too, which makes it that much worse. I can't hope he — or she — will know of this tendency. But I'll bet MGB's friends are already painfully aware of it.

No pipe dream: school pays students

     Notre Dame accepted 22 percent of those who applied last year. Northwestern University, more exclusive, accepted just 13.9 percent. 
     For the Pipe Fitters’ Training Center, run by Local Union 597, the acceptance figure is 10 percent.

     Naturally, people want in. For those so inclined, it’s a sweet deal. Unlike Notre Dame, Northwestern, et al, you do not pay the school to learn. Au contraire. They pay you: $18.40 an hour, out of the box, your first year of apprenticeship, rising to $29.90 an hour by your third year. At graduation you are earning an even $46 an hour. There is a big catch, however, one that we will get to later.

     I learned this tramping through the pipe fitters’ enormous 200,000-square-foot center in Mokena this week, perhaps the cleanest industrial facility I have ever been to outside of a flat-bed scanner plant in Taiwan where we first had to don white paper suits and hold our arms out in a special chamber while the dust was blown off our bodies.

      I went for two reasons: a) they invited me and b) I’m curious about this sort of thing, about infrastructure, pipe and conduits, the silent support system that makes our world run. Unlike nature, which does its own installation and maintenance, the manufactured world doesn’t work unless somebody knows how to install it and repair it.

     My education began from a low baseline. I picture a thousand guys on their breaks pausing, coffee cup halfway to lips, to shake their heads in disgust while reading this next part: I learned only last Tuesday that pipe fitters are not plumbers. Plumbers are the lords of low pressure: drains and sewers and potable water gurgling easily through tub faucets. Pipe fitters work under pressure, literally, repairing chilled water lines in refrigeration units, installing gas systems in hospitals, maintaining boilers — anything that involves pipes that carry pressurized fluid or gases, or liquids that are hot or cold. Pipe fitting is really a subspecialty of welding, and apprentices produce carefully welded pipes the way students write term papers. A weld can even take longer to do than a report: A 16-inch pipe can require two days to execute properly. The Mokena center has a hospital grade X-ray machine whose only purpose is to check student welds. Students practice in 114 red-curtained welding booths.

     The center was built in 2005 and has a few touches not found elsewhere. The boiler room, for instance, rather than being hidden like most, is behind a spotless glass wall and as clean as a case at Tiffany's.
     My host was Local 597's business manager, Jim Buchanan — "business manager" seems a modest title for a man who manages the local's $2.7 billion pension fund. A 1965 graduate of Fenger High, his description of the challenges he faced as a young man echo a problem facing the union.
     "I didn't know anybody in this industry," he said. "No brother. No uncle. No nothin'."
     Which is how you got—and to a degree still get—into these trades: clouted in by a relative or a friend. Which did not—and to a degree still does not—make for a diverse workforce. Of the 700 apprentices here, about a dozen, or 2 percent, are women, a figure the Labor Department is constantly pushing to get higher. "They're always telling us they want more women," said Kevin Lakomiak, the apprentice coordinator.
     The pipe fitters report that 16 percent of their apprentices are minorities, though none were in evidence the day I visited, and the local has been the subject of a class-action lawsuit that says even minorities who join the union have trouble getting work. And that's the catch. Even if you are a member, you still have to get connected to jobs. Plus there is the factor that their training center is located in Mokena, which is 1 percent black and a solid hour from Chicago. The intention in moving there might not have been to keep minorities out. But that is the result.
     Applications are taken at the center in person on the first Wednesday of the month.
     "We get to see what we're dealing with," said Adam Sutter, the new admissions director working to drum up the next generation of pipe fitters. Applicants take a test and need a score of 71 to be considered.
     "Those that make the effort have a great career," said Buchanan, who is proud of his local's improvements. "We have made some great strides," he said, pointing out that three of 20 full-time instructors are African-American. "Very, very competent people," he said. "Is there room to improve? Yes."
     I cast an envious eye toward their setup. Self-insured, they try to keep members healthy. A 91 percent-funded pension. Must be nice.