Tough times demand excellent cheesecake.

 

     At last, some good news.
     Yes, COVID is raging. And yes, the economy is cratering, the ship of state tossing like a toy in a tempest, the helm spinning, our traitor president jabbing a sharp stick at our nation's weak spots while his fan club cheers his every crime. 
     And yes, we're suffering through it all isolated, hunkered down, locked down, shut down. Our holiday traditions, every other year counted upon to light the winter darkness, now under a bushel, dimmed, mothballed, neglected. Christmas gatherings? Forget about 'em. Office parties? Not this year. One of the highlights of my existence, the big Hanukkah beer-and-brats blowout? During which there always comes a moment when I gaze out over the festivities, the gathered throng, all happy and loud and having fun, with my friends and family all talking and laughing and quaffing, and think, "Yes, yes ... this is it, life."         
     Next year, those of us who make it.
     I'm sure each one of you has your own loss: no ski vacation, no over-the-river-and-through-the-woods-to-grandmother's-house-we-go. No wassailing. No whatever it is you look forward to.
     But you know what hasn't gone anywhere? You know what is still right here, right where it belongs, right where it always should be? What stands astride the culture like a colossus, drawing us together? Eli's Cheesecake, whose advertisements appear begin today for the seventh consecutive holiday season.
     I'll confess. My faith wavered. With everything going on, and the economy creaking under the gales of disaster, I didn't even approach my friend Marc Schulman to ask about advertising this year. I figured, he has done his share. Don't bother the man. He must have worries of his own navigating the economic doldrums without puffing into the sails of my little vessel as well. I thought I owed him that.
    And then, amazingly, his marketing folks reached out to me. Hey, the good people there said. Our holidays won't be merry and bright without our supporting the important, democracy-propping, hearts-lifting, minds-informing, chuckle-inducing good work done on everygoddamnday.com, well, every goddamn day.
     I made a phone call. It turns out, in times of duress, Americans turn to the comforting cool deliciousness of a perfect wedge of Eli's Cheesecake.
     "People are really happy to order online," Marc Schulman told me.
     True, certain sectors of his business empire are down—airlines for instance. Restaurants. But supermarkets like Jewel and Mariano's?
     "Definitely up," Marc said. "We are pretty busy."     

     Of course they are. And about to get busier. Here I would like to draw your attention to the Eli's ad to the left of this copy, which will be there, in various incarnations, between now and springtime. Click on it, and you will be ushered into a wonder world of gustatory comfort. This is your chance to reward yourself, or reward someone you love—or perhaps that first responder or ICU nurse down the block who could really use a pick-me-up—with the perfect holiday gift: Eli's Cheesecake.
     Plus a way for you to say, "Hey Neil, thank you for all you do. I so appreciate your continual, 365-day-a-year, hamster-on-a-wheel effort that I actually flopped my fingers on the keyboard and ordered a cheesecake."
     If you think you're familiar with the classics — plain cheesecake, strawberry cheesecake, chocolate mint cheesecake — this year there are all sorts of new items: Ruby Jubilee Cheesecake, to mark Eli's 40th anniversary, Christmas tree-shaped Cheesecake Dippers, and dark-chocolate enrobed Happy Holidays Cheesecake. You can't go into the Eli's factory, the way my lucky boys once did, years ago, and decorate your own cakes. But you can — I would say you must — get Eli's DIY Dessert Kits and bring joy to the kiddies in your world by letting them festoon their own delicious treats.
     Otherwise, consider the specter of your small ones, now grown, which they certainly will be one day, wheeling on you, "You mean you could have ordered us DIY Dessert Kits for us, and you didn't?! But why, papa? Why?!"
     Not a risk I would be willing to take.
     I believe my point is made. Faithful readers know that I do not burden you with demands. The blog is ad-free the rest of the year. But Eli's goes above and beyond, particularly this year, and we need to reward their faith in God, America, me, EGD and what it represents. I hope you'll consider giving yourself, or someone you love — or, ideally, both — that greatest gift one person can give another, the gift of Eli's Cheesecake. Happy holidays.

Dec. 7, 1941 and 2020: days that will live in infamy

     “December 7th, 1941,” President Franklin Delano Roosevelt told an emergency session of Congress, “a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
     The date lives in infamy, still. At least among older Americans, who not only know what happened but will complain if a newspaper lets what has turned into a somber if minor patriotic holiday — think Arbor Day for burnt trees — pass without mention of the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor that drew America into World War II.
     Consider it mentioned. What’s next?
     We might ask why the attack is memorable, you know, for the kiddies, who just joined us and might only be vaguely aware there was a World War II and that we fought ... somebody.
     The day lives in infamy because the surprise attack was carried out even while negotiations continued to work out our differences in a peaceful manner.
     Why do we remember? Well, 2,400 Americans were killed that day. The death of Americans demands our attention.
     Or did.
     Now, I’m not so sure.
     Monday, Dec. 7, 2020, is a day that will not live in infamy. But maybe it should. Because 2,400 Americans, or more, will die today. About the same number died yesterday and will die tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

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Out on the town

  

     Since we were both on vacation, but hadn't gone anywhere, my wife and I thought it would be fun to drive somewhere a week ago Saturday, and she suggested a trip to River Grove  to go to Gene & Jude's for lunch. I had been there a couple of years ago, and she hadn't.  It would be our first visit to a restaurant since our anniversary at Gene & Georgetti Sept. 3. It seems we're working up a culinary "Gene" leitmotif. 

     Of course we wouldn't eat inside. We'd eat in the car.
     I briefly contemplated bringing ketchup — they don't serve ketchup; their fries are that good — but had gotten by the first time without it and, frankly, it seemed a matter of respect. Bringing ketchup to Gene & Jude's would be like bringing bacon into a Kosher home where you're a house guest, to fill out breakfast. No.
     The line wasn't terrible, and everyone wore masks, and social distanced. Only 10 people at a time allowed inside. There was one twist — cash only — and before we left we searched around for folding money, which we hadn't had use for in months. I almost said I hadn't touched any in six months, but earlier I was shopping at Sunset Foods, and checked the receipt a pair of bags of Pete's Coffee that were supposedly on sale — sometimes they neglect to ring up the sales claimed on the shelves — saw they had charged me $10.99 a bag instead of the $8.99 a bad that had enticed me to stock up. I marched back and they gave me the four singles, and change, and I gratefully tucked them away thinking, "Next time I'm in the city I'll have money for beggars." The last couple times I was there, when the libraries were still open, it was frustrating not to have anything for mendicants, who are truly suffering in the depopulated downtown.
     So I paid for our hot dog, french fries, corn tamales and small Cokes, the unaccustomed cash transaction, and knew in my heart that money is going away. Currency, I mean. Five years from now spending money will be like hearing an actual violin being played — still possible, but something that just doesn't happen very often.

     I noticed that the trip contained a series of small mishaps — I was so busy talking I missed the turn off on 294 and had to circle around on 290. Delivering the meal to the car I managed to flip over a Coke, which resulted in much sluicing and blotting as our meal cooled. I had trouble navigating to Schiller Park, almost directly across the street from Gene & Jude's for our post-lunch stroll. And I realized that I had fallen out of practice of leaving the house and going places, of getting in the car and driving to a destination. One drawback of being homebound all these months. It's premature to look ahead to spring and the end, please God, of lockdown. But I have a prediction worth salting away. When society does finally open up, and it's time to plunge back out into Life and Living, Going Places and Doing Things, at the joyous moment of release, the impulse outward and forward, there will be a countervailing backwash, a pause, a riptide, a vertigo. Longtime prisoners miss jail, often, at least at first. Because security and routine were there. Habit is a stern taskmaster, and does not release you easily. Expect a little fear, a little hesitation, a little adjustment. Or a lot. Then go anyway. You'll get used to it again.

Texas notes: Homage

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     EGD Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey finds the upside of our current perilous state. Make sure you watch the spoken word performance at the end by Kae Tempest—who changed her name from "Kate" since the video was made.     

 

    “Morning has broken, beautiful morning!” I sang, greeting my first client of the day.

     “This morning sure is broken,” she replied, laughing. 

      As a psychotherapist entering these long, dark days along with my clients I cannot pretend to be unscathed. That includes breaking into song when I must. This is the first global disaster I’ve lived through. Pandemic was never on my radar as one of the things I’d be counseling others through while living it too.
     Sometimes when we hang up the phone or end the Zoom session, I sit with a huge smile on my face, thinking “I love this job.” It is an honor and a privilege to be a trusted confidante, and it’s fun too. I sit with others who are sorting through their lives—finding value and meaning in themselves and discovering their purpose. The relationships usually start slowly and take time to build. Inevitably each and every person becomes interesting. They are puzzles. We are like snowflakes, truly. As much as we are alike, our stories and collections of experiences are unique and special.
     Have you ever looked at someone you know well and felt you were seeing them for the first time? When your guard is down it’s easier to see others for the complex, sometimes unknowable people they are, rather than who you’ve decided they are. Rather than who you want them to be, or think you need them to be.

     Active listening is an art. It should be taught in schools. Take the words “me” and “I” out of a conversation and see what happens. Listen deeply without jumping in to share a thought or opinion, without planning the next thing to say in your mind. Stay curious. Allow for periods of silence. It’s a very intimate thing. Giving someone space to be themselves in the company of another person may be the best cure for loneliness out there.
     Albert Einstein has been quoted to say a lot about the power of solitude in nurturing a creative mind. He challenged his readers to consider, in essence: “Who are you when you are alone in a room? No books, or distractions. Just you, alone, nothing to do.” 

     When I was a new meditator, I discovered this concept, and so it made sense. After losing the fine tuning of this practice over the years, the COVID slow down and forced alone time has allowed me to get back to the core of myself.
     Nurturing solitude and staying centered enables me to listen more deeply. These days I remind myself: “silence is good. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do. Be here now.” I turn the radio off and write or read. I turn Netflix on less and walk more. I listen to music and dance, alone. I remind myself to breathe.  

     This season give yourself the gift of being still. Sit with yourself.  Reach out for help when you need it. Turn the phone off for a little bit. Give those around you the gift of active listening. You are sure to find out many things about them that you do not know. You will see them as beautiful kaleidoscopes with limitless facets. Even a troublesome time is still the backdrop to our precious, irreplaceable lives.

Was that a pivotal historical moment
We just went stumbling past?
Here we are
Dancing in the rumbling dark
So come a little closer
Give me something to grasp
Give me your beautiful, crumbling heart.
                    —Kae Tempest

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpy9OGVFJ1I

Attachments area

Preview YouTube video Kate Tempest - People's Faces - 7/16/2019 - Paste Studios - New York, NY

Kate Tempest - People's Faces - 7/16/2019 - Paste Studios - New York, NY

Freeze your credit reports? Easier said than done.

     You may have read Monday’s column about how the state of Illinois notified me I was about to receive unemployment assistance I hadn’t applied for and aren’t entitled to, being one of those lucky ducks who still has a job. (In newspapering; go figure. That’s like computer programmers getting laid off while lacemakers get promoted.)
     Everyone offered the same one-size-fits-all advice: Freeze your credit with the three credit agencies, Equifax, TransUnion and Experian.
     I was hesitant. “Freeze your credit report” struck me as one of those directives, like “take the hajj to Mecca” far easier to suggest than to do.
     Reader, I went on the Equifax website. Maybe I was still in shock, but filling out the form didn’t work. I had to join first. So I joined, then gave up, applying my general unplug/reboot/wait philosophy so effective when coping with technology.
     A few days later I tried again. Clicked on Equifax, then on the snowflake. (Get it? A freeze.) Soon, was busily sharing the information whose dissemination got me in trouble in the first place.
     Forms to fill out, all the while batting away offers to put myself on the hook for additional services I neither want nor need. Freezing credit is like renting a car. You just want the car, but they want to sell you redundant insurance and a complicated gasoline program. Even if you’re vigilant, you might end up with an unnecessary baby seat costing $4.95 a day. But a steady and emphatic “no, no, no” usually works.

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Losey McLoser, the losingest loser in Loserville, gripes about his loss

     Media is plural. The proper form is "the media are..." 
     Okay, "media" can also be singular. "The media sucks," not "The media suck." But work with me here.
     Being plural, generally, better reflects the baseline reality of the situation: there are many media: newspapers and web sites, TV stations and cable networks, magazines and radio programs. The media isn't—whoops, aren't—one thing, nor do their separate elements work in lockstep. The media are not a school of herring. They don't move in coordination. Those who say, "The media do this...." are usually really complaining about CNN, or the New York Times, or a tiny sliver of the vast, coral-like media. 

     So I'm a little reluctant to address the media as a whole, even as a compliment. That said, the media seems to at long last, finally, and almost too late, have gotten the hang of reporting on the monstrosity of Donald Trump. You can't ignore him. The man's the president, for another ... 47 days.
     But you can't give him the constant, wall-to-wall, 24-hours-a-day, suck-the-air-out-of-the-room attention he pathologically demands either.  Because he lost, and is being eased out the door, please God.

     Until then, the media must give him the context he deserves: increasingly superfluous, shoved to the side, repeating the same old stale lies, vomiting a septic stream of delusion and fabrication to whoever falls for that kind of thing. Well, 70 million plus Americans. Quite a lot, really.
     Thus it was only on the free-fire zone of Twitter that I noticed Trump's 46-minute rant Wednesday, or at least the 2 minutes and 12 seconds he repeated to his 88 million followers. Just 132 seconds of empty bombast, and I assume the other 44 minutes is even worse. 

     As is common with Trump, it was both shocking and more of the same.
     Still, I retweeted it, adding my own commentary. "Pathetic." It seemed something for people to see. Look at this shit.
     I should have added "reprehensible." The truly horrible part is that, according to reports from those within the White House, Trump knows he lost. He knows he's going. This entire fraud is about squeezing money out of the credulous, medieval serfs who support him. Building a slush fund for him to glide out office on, toward his next shams and scams. And I suppose to salve his ego, which can't accept loss. He did the same thing in 2016, preparing to lose to Hillary Clinton, until cruel fate, James Comey and bone-deep, baked in sexism waved him into the White House.
     I said before that I didn't care what happens to Trump, but I've changed my mind.
     I hope the iron grip of justice awaits him. I hope he goes to prison, that Supermax prison in Colorado, or else in a special Spandeau-like prison built just for him, on the moon like Lex Luthor, to make sure he never escapes back to the planet he ravaged. Him and his whole leering frat boy plus Barbie family, his self-pardon tossed out for the grotesque abuse it surely must be.
     Ignoring him is good, and generally the right thing to do. Thirty-one hundred Americans died of COVID Wednesday. We have real problems to address and he is only standing in the way.
     But it should never be a polite silence. Every day is a good day to remember that Donald Trump is a traitor and coward, a self-dealing liar and utter fraud, who is doing what he can to ruin the federal government even as he is being muscled out the door. There's no harm in reminding ourselves that, because there are people who still support him, though it seems, just from the volume, that the distant thud of reality is finally starting to register through the dim haze of their blown-out senses.

Welcome Rahm and Carol back to the federal government

Two Fools Dancing, by Hendrick Hondius (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Though president-elect Joe Biden is staffing his cabinet with top-notch experts, a note of alarm has popped up. Readers are tugging my sleeve: Do I know that Carol Moseley Braun is being considered for secretary of the interior? Do I know that Rahm Emanuel is in the running for secretary of transportation?
     Yes and yes. But remember: Their names are being floated by themselves. Rahm Emanuel is a Nijinsky of self-promotion; leaping, twirling, shape-shifting ambition in human form. White House advisor. Congressman. Mayor. Cable TV pundit. Be honest: If you saw a news report on the Vatican, and spied, tucked behind Pope Francis, Rahm Emanuel in red robes and a skullcap, leaning over, murmuring a few velvety words into the pontiff’s ear, would you be surprised? I sure wouldn’t. He’s that kind of guy.
     And Carol Moseley Braun she’s ... well ... she’s just sad, isn’t she? Having been elected the the first African American female in the United States Senate, she immediately punted that job by canoodling with a dictator’s son and neglecting such essential duties as showing up for work.
     And what was her job after that? Ambassador to New Zealand. Is there an employment that reeks of pity mingled with let’s-ship-this-person-to-the-other-side-of-the-globe more than ambassador to New Zealand? Wellington is 8,750 miles from Washington. A 30-hour flight. She found her way back, dabbling in several stillborn businesses. A pecan farm. Some kind of tea, which I had the chance to try: both bitter and weak. That’s why I don’t write fiction.
     Ready for a shock? I’m fine with both getting Cabinet positions.

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