Mitch McConnell will CRY when he reads this: State of the Blog, 2020

     At the end of every calendar year, I pause to evaluate the past 12 months of this blog. Though frankly, with the epic global train wreck of 2020 finally coming to a sheering, twisting, screeching, smoking halt, it seems the thinnest and most trivial piping—a bird chirp after a bomb blast—to use the silence to puff the steam from my own teacup. A bit too self-absorbed, even for me. 

     But heck, maybe a long gaze in the mirror will hit the spot, for me if no one else. Besides, it's what I do.
     To begin, global pandemic and societal disaster must be good for clicks. Eyeballs increased in 2020. On Jan. 28, everygoddamnday.com had its highest number of visitors in one 24-hour period, ever: 182,625 hits. Kind of a lot, really. More about that later.
      First, thank you everyone for stopping by. I'd sure feel stupid if nobody read the thing. The blog has quite a flock of regulars at this point, and I appreciate you sticking with me, despite my occasionally pausing to—reading off a card—"gratuitously insult the very people upon whose good nature I depend, a misstep for which I am truly sorry."

    There's, that's out of the way. Thanks to Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey, who joined the party in April, for illuminating our Saturday mornings with ... heck, what would one call it? Her woke feminist Texas-via-Rogers-Park transcendental spiritual karmic splendor? For starters. She is a woman of parts. I've enjoyed getting to know her, and I know readers enjoy it too, particularly since they don't complain about her anywhere near as much as they do about the guy responsible for the other six days. My favorite columns of hers are about the various critters she's encountered, such as scorpions. I would read a book of that, "My Adventures Amidst the Texas Vermin."

     Thanks to Marc Schulman, who didn't want a holiday season to go by without Eli's Cheesecake showing its support for America, free speech and everygoddamnday.com. He is what makes this blog an economic endeavor and not pure hobby, and I appreciate it, and the cheesecake. It really is excellent cheesecake, and if you haven't ordered any yet, well, damn you.

     Thanks to Tate and Jakash and all the readers who have pointed out my continual stream of typos and errors, so I could correct them. Too right is two air—whoops, I mean, "To write is to err."

     There were three main stories of 2020: COVID, racism and the election, and I tried to cover all three. When the pandemic struck, the question raised in that British World War I poster designed to goad men to enlist lodged tauntingly in mind, "What did you do in the war, daddy?" I wanted to make sure that, when this is over, should it ever be over, that I felt I did my share, as a newspaperman, and didn't sit out the crisis on my ass in Northbrook, sheltering in place. 
     My best-read post was in January, "Profiles in Cowardice," had 4,600 views, pondering in amazement how Republicans senators can grovel before Trump instead of impeaching him, yet sounding a defiant note:

I am certain that opposing Donald Trump is a patriotic duty, almost sacred in its alignment with all concepts of democracy, freedom, morals, human decency. I have no doubt whatsoever that no matter what occurs in this country, it is something I will look back on with pride, or my children will look back on with pride, and if that is in conflict with the general consensus, it will mean that Trump has triumphed—as he might—and we are still in the dark age that follows. But that dark age will end because all dark ages do. The story can't end with Trump winning. It can't it can't it can't. Enough people will stand up, vote, resist. It has to happen.

     And it did, barely. Okay, a quick glance at the year's highlights.
     In January, the last normal month, I used having a new hip put in the week before to deep dive into the etymology of "crutch,"
     In February, I looked into filing cabinets.
     I beat a drum all year against the treason of Trump and the idiocy of his administration, but in March paused to point out that coronavirus would far surpass historic reckonings of presidential blundering.

America took a gamble, allowing itself to be led by a charismatic fraud, and now we see we lost the bet. The awful toll of the Vietnam War, 58,000 Americans dead, was my previous high water mark for presidential folly, Now that’s chump change. And if you still like to imagine that our fellow Americans would not literally follow that man into their graves, you can stop now.

     I've written dozens of COVID stories, but I was particularly proud of April's column-length Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. May started at Roseland hospital, with a nursing supervisor would couldn't end her shift until she found someone to replace herself.
     In late May and early June, the civic unrest following the killing of George Floyd took center stage. I wasn't downtown when the first riot broke out, and hurrying straight there seemed both unwise and unnecessary. But I still managed to convey a sense of the chaos.
     In late June, as if to mock that decision, I wrote a post that pinballed around the country, "Virus Mystery: The Case of the Missing Fresca." I had been reluctant, even embarrassed, to turn it in—it's about Fresca—and the column blowing up seemed a kind of punishment. The piece seemed to lodge itself into Google so if you type "What happened to Fresca?" it pops up, and topped the leader board in our newsroom for so long, my bosses asked for a follow-up, which I dutifully delivered in August, "Fresca's Back! Mystery of its absence solved."
     In September I posted probably my favorite column of the year, about the Cologuard test. Why? Because I was proud of wondering, "Hey, who opens the jar?" And prouder that I drove to Madison to find out. That isn't cutting edge journalism in the usual sense of the word, but it's the standard I aspire to myself: I want to be the guy who wonders who opens the jar.

     During the pandemic, Amazon tightened its grip on our lives, and in October I went inside one of its enormous procurement centers to glance at the live of workers there.
     What else? We had our five millionth hit, of which I estimate a quarter are robots and spiders and other quirks of robotic attention, including 180,000 of the 182,625 hits on Jan. 28. I figured, many people probably bail out midway through these, and there is no harm in giving them the impression they're bailing out of a big deal. Usually it gets about 2,500 hits a day—75,000 in December. Not much, but it'll have to do. 

     Anyway, thanks for reading. Happy New Year.

Goodbye 2020: A year like ... well, you know

     An Easter like no other.
     A summer like no other.
     A World Series like no other.
     A year like no other.
     The description “a _____ like no other” wasn’t invented in 2020. It has been used for more than a century: ”It has been a year like no other,” wrote R.M. Squires, summing up the world of dentistry in 1919.
     But the phrase was worn to a nubbin over the past nine months by journalists lunging to convey in a handy three-word code the baked-in strangeness and continuous turmoil we’ve been enduring. A branded logo to rubber-stamp this slow-motion train wreck: COVID-19 pandemic meets civic unrest meets economic disruption. Our locked-down society of shuttered schools and struggling restaurants, all playing out against a political clown show that veers from farcical to frightening, sometimes within the same hour.
     A presidential election like no other.
     A Thanksgiving like no other.
     So often was “like no other” flung, at times I wanted to scream, “EVERY year is a year like no other!” Years are unique, like snowflakes. And besides, 2020 is like other years. It’s like 1968, 1945, 1918 ... all the way back to 1066, landmark years where you won’t have to purse your lips and ponder, trying to dredge up a single event. We all know what happened in 2001. Nobody is going to snap their fingers and try to recall what year COVID struck: 2020, a year to remember, whether you like it or not.

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COVID-19 has mixed impact on beekeeping

     

Corky Schnadt and bees

      But how has COVID affected beekeeping in Illinois?

     “It’s actually been a positive, oddly enough,” said Eugene Makovec, editor of the American Bee Journal, based in Hamilton, Illinois. “Everybody wants to buy honey. The honey I sell is from a dozen hives that typically produce 500 pounds of honey.
     “Last year I sold primarily around the holidays to three or four local stores. This year, the stores I sell to went crazy in honey sales, starting in April. It’s been difficult to keep up with them. I’m actually going to run out of honey.”
     His explanation: Honey is comfort food.
     It’s important for beekeepers to keep abreast of new developments in their field, and that, too, has benefited.
      “I find Zoom meetings very helpful” said Corky Schnadt, president of the Illinois State Beekeepers Association. “I just attended a symposium by the University of Nebraska. There were entomologists from all over the country. I thought, ‘There is no way I would have gotten all this information otherwise.’ I would never have gotten in the car and drove to Nebraska. Zoom meetings keep us connected with the latest data.”
     Not all is rosy in the apian world, however. Novice beekeepers, after sinking $500 or more into a hive, a colony of bees and protective gear, have concerns they like to share with experienced beekeepers.

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Houston, we have ... an issue here.

 

Traffic, Buenos Aires

    Headline writers generally grab the shortest possible term. Storms "hit" rather than "arrive." Victims are "killed" rather than "murdered." But take a look at this headline from last night's on-line Trib.

     "Person of interest" is a way to say "suspect" at more than twice the length. There is a certain rational, of course—sometimes authorities investigate someone who turns out to be innocent. "Suspect" has darker connotations which "person of interest" does not yet have, yet, and labeling someone a "suspect" can tar them though guilt is not implied. Though the practice is decades old and those have been labeled "persons of interest"—such Richard Jewell, who was falsely-accused of the Atlanta Olympics bombing—have argued that people see through the ploy.

     To me, it is cover-your-assery, not the noblest motive in professional journalism. But at least when dealing with humans, there is a justification. It's important not to injure the innocent. But I've noticed what I refer to as "euphemism creep" where the softer, more amorphous terms is used where no mitigation is actually necessary. Out of reflexive timidity. The example that sets my teeth on edge is the morning traffic report on WBBM radio. If a semi jackknifes on the Eisenhower, cutting off three lanes of traffic, it creates "an issue." As does every other delay that in a less-enlightened time would be called "a problem" on the highways. Sometimes the i-word is deployed three or four times in a brief report. 

     Now, I can see how you don't want your kid's teacher to say he has a problem with anything. And you wouldn't want to risk having a problem child. "Problem" is like "suspect," a malign term. "What is your problem?"
     But how does this translate to traffic snarls? Clogged highways don't have feelings. Nobody at IDOT will feel bad if there is a problem on the Dan Ryan. No trucker is going to cry himself to sleep because the radio reporter said his breakdown on the side of the Kennedy caused a problem with gapers. 

     The trouble is that we train ourselves to hold back the dogs in one area, and it bleeds into the others. Thus language is dulled, and made more confusing, and reporters train themselves to err on the side of caution. So, for instance, when the president started lying continually, it took parts of the media a shamefully long time to use the word "lie." That's a problem.

Texas notes: Tired

     Today's report from EGD Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey.  

    As my car turned the corner on 47th and Shields the tire fell off. At first it just wobbled a bit, so I went ahead and took the turn. As an optimistic teenager I was “sure” nothing was wrong. We got out and surveyed the damage to the long blue station wagon. A 1978 Chevrolet Caprice Classic was the tank my protective father decided his teenaged daughters needed, and he was correct. My friend Kristin and I had been visiting someone we’d met out at a club. Back then in the mid-to-late 80s, we pretty much danced our lives away. We had to fit school and work into the schedule, but house music (and later goth and new wave) came first.
     We’d dress up in designer clothes that I couldn't honestly afford, even with my job at Marshall Field’s, and we’d hit the clubs. There were parties at Operation PUSH, Mendel Catholic High School, Evanston Township High School, the Hotel Continental, The Muzic Box on lower Wacker, The Warehouse, and too many more to name.
     I lived it, but Wikipedia says it well: “The Warehouse became a hub for the people of Chicago, specifically black gay men. It was compared to a religious and spiritual experience. At the time, many black gay men felt excluded from the religious communities that they had been raised in.” We danced all night long to lyrics such as “gotta go to church y’all,” and “I’m every woman.”
     These clubs offered a culture of acceptance that was most welcoming. We’d arrive decked out in Norma Kamali suits, paisley Kenneth Cole shoes, shiny black riding boots and Marithé et François Girbaud baggy pants and silk shirts. We affixed sparkling broaches to the collars.
     We met Leon out dancing one night. He had an amazing haircut known as a “box,”— like Kid in Kid ’N Play. After hanging out at clubs, Ronnie’s Original Steak House and Water Tower Place for months—as we did back then—he invited us over to meet his family. We went over on a weekend afternoon and met his grandmother, siblings, and a few others. We watched TV, had snacks, and laughed our tuchuses off.
      When we left, Leon walked us to my car. We said goodbye and pulled away. Enter tire fiasco. As we took a look at the wheel I felt confident I’d be able to fix it. After all, I had a jack and a spare and I’m my father’s daughter. He made damn sure his children knew how to change a tire before we were allowed behind the wheel. Just then a group of young people came by to see what was happening. They took a closer look and realized the lug nuts were gone.
     Someone had stolen them. The crowd around us reassured us that they could help. They ran off, and came back with the six lug nuts we needed. We worked together and the wheel was fixed. We said goodbye and headed home to lie to our parents about being somewhere else for the day. We often found ourselves in parts of Chicago that are not considered safe. That’s why I know firsthand that Chicago is full of good people.
     Despite its trials and tribulations, I feel fortunate that my Grandma Olive hopped on a train from Delaware to Chicago when she was a mere 14. She moved into an apartment with other Irish girls and became a career cashier (including a stint at the Hotel Continental before my days of partying there). She met my Grandpa Carl at Oak Street Beach. They created my beautiful mother who met my dad at The Old Hangge Up, and here I am, with a heart full of admiration and respect for the city of big shoulders. It’s a complicated, yet special city and I am proud to call Chicago my home.

‘Every difficult problem ... is disguising a blessing’

 

André De Shields in "Hadestown."

     Christmas has pagan roots, in holidays designed to illuminate the darkness of winter and keep the gathering cold at bay with the warmth of love and celebration.
     Which can be tough to manage in the best of times. Our COVID-19 Christmas, with so many people isolated, careers wrecked, bank accounts emptied, is even harder.
     You need a light to guide you.
     On top of everything, 2020 has been almost entirely devoid of live performance: no concerts, no theater. Unless you were lucky enough to catch one at the beginning of the year, and I was. Singer Anaïs Mitchell took the ancient legend of Orpheus and Eurydice and turned it into a thoughtful musical, “Hadestown.” Last February, just before the world shut down, my wife and I met our boys in New York City and we saw it on Broadway.
     In the tale, lovely Eurydice goes down to Hell to live with Hades, king of the underworld, and her lover Orpheus tries to bring her back, with a helping hand from Persephone, Hades’ wife. Her absence brings the winter; her return, the spring.
     The star of the show is veteran Broadway actor André De Shields, and he has one line that kept returning to my mind as the days grew shorter, colder and grimmer.
     “The world ... came back ... to life!”

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Bye bye BK Lounge

Burger King's creepy mascot

     Food is emotional.
     That's obvious. Every bite wrapped in taste and memory, smell and perception. Satisfying a craving older than language, older than fire, broader than humanity, felt by every creature, from flea to vole, hawk to whale.

    Yet for some reason, as obvious as that is, as much as I've not only eaten, but thought about eating, talked about it, wrote about it, the food/emotion link didn't really stand up and wave until I read that the Burger King in Evanston has closed permanently. 

     Because I felt nothing.
      Which is odd for several reasons. The food at McDonald's is crap, generally, but I nevertheless have fond feelings toward the chain, despite its way creepy mascot, Ronald. A bond stretching back to the red and white tile buildings that had nowhere to sit (okay, a small alcove, if 50 year old memory series, that people never actually used). I have complex associations with the yellow paper that wraps McDonald's cheeseburgers, and every year or three I find myself wanting one—the way you taste that pickle when you bite into it. Somehow the pickle is key, the ketchup. The cheeseburger itself is just the vehicle.

     Every few years, I think, "I'd like a McDonald's cheeseburger." Despite being sober. And I have to actively remind myself of that grotesque moment after you've eaten something  from McDonald's, and your body shudders with the violation done to it, and you feel that oily residue on your teeth, and that McDonald's smell, the same smell that invades every corner of a Metra car the moment someone opens a McDonald's bag, started to percolate out your pores. I think it's the grease.
     Burger King is far better, food-wise. Flame-broiled. Real lettuce. Its own even more horrifying mascot. Yet Burger King is an eternal also-ran, Pepsi to McDonald's Coke. I might have to bat away temptation to patronize McDonald's every few years, but I never, ever think: "We should go to Burger King." It never crosses my mind, and were it to vanish, I would never notice it was gone, the way you typically never wonder what happened to Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips. The last Burger King I ate in was seven years ago, because I happened to be in a car with someone who stopped at Burger King to eat as we were driving to the UP.
    Even stranger. I have very specific memories of that Burger King in Evanston, closed permanently due to the pandemic after 44 years in business. "The BK Lounge" we called it, an undergraduate stab at ... what? Hipness I suppose.

     I lived for two years directly across the street, 1725 Orrington Avenue, at what was then the Northwestern Apartments, a vast 600 student freshman hive. The building is still there, but it's the McManus Center, housing Kellogg School of Management students and their families.  Once upon a time, reporters would have hung out, interviewing people going in and out of the center about their views of Burger King closing. But nobody has the staff or the time or the inclination anymore, and there's a pandemic going on, and even the Daily Northwestern didn't bother. Nor did it track down anyone with memories of the place.

     Here, I'll do your legwork for you, and contribute mine, for what it's worth.

     My first day at college, in 1978. My family drove in from Berea, Ohio. We unloaded my boxes of records and stereo system and big ass speakers and steamer trunk. Then it was time for lunch, and we trooped across the street to Burger King.
     Here's the memory: we get our food—burgers, fries, soft drinks, not much else you could get there back then. Whoppers, I suppose. And my little brother is fussing with his ketchup packet, for the fries, and both squeezes and tears it at the same moment, projecting a splurt of red ketchup across my sternum.
    And I remember looking down at the splash, with dumb bovine incomprehension, then up at him, and then off to the side, as if looking for the studio audience. I wasn't mad. I wasn't even particularly surprised. It was almost as if I had expected this, or something like it, and now it had occurred. The reaction was more a "So this is how it's going to be, eh?" resignation. Which was apt, because that was indeed about how it went.