Texas note: Goodbye Austin

    This is Caren Jeskey's last post as EGD's Austin Bureau Chief. Next week she begins her new role as ... well, she was going to be Albany Park Bureau Chief. But I understand that is up in the air. Perhaps "Former Austin Bureau Chief" until things get settled. If you've got a gorgeous little coachhouse available, not too pricey with lots of natural light and an authentic vibe, and love the thought of Caren patrolling the neighborhood, observing the scene minutely and dispensing acts of kindness and sage counsel as circumstances dictate, well, now is the time to step forward.

    Shoeless zombies and wild-eyed dirty young women roam Austin’s downtown streets. A slim and handsome dealer wearing expensive high tops with fresh corn rows in his hair rides an electric scooter purposefully in the direction of a bedraggled young man whose shorts are falling off of him. He is skin and bones. His thick black hair is an unruly mess and his shoes are tattered and worn, with no laces. The dealer speaks harshly to him and the addicted person pleads for more time to pay, and for more dope. Scooter rides away angrily, for now, but he will be back.
     I called my friend who is a street outreach worker and she informed me that there are some very bad drugs out there on the streets right now. Tent encampments surround the edges of town and have taken over every grassy area, and even slabs of hard concrete near major roads and expressways. Those of us who love to hike, bike and run upon the countless greenbelts that weave throughout Austin have grown accustomed to seeing blue tarps, tents, mini grills, and bony tattooed men and women scrounging for cigarettes, sharing a laugh, or sleeping in every nook and cranny between the trees.
     There are fewer tourists and business people around to give out a dollar or a hamburger. 
The down and out are now all but invisible and, like other superpowers, this invisibility tends to protect others while not really benefiting themselves. As I drove down a road just west of the Texas State Capitol on my way to the post office the other day, I was horrified to have to stop at a red light. To my right was a man who may have been dead laying on a piece of cardboard, another man sitting slumped over on a milk crate injecting something into his arm. I didn’t stare but I glanced over as I pulled away and was relieved to see that the man laying down rolled over to reach for his turn with the needle.

     This is just a normal sight in Austin. Before COVID there were areas that were known to be designed spots for people to huddle and use drugs—openly smoking, shooting up, drinking and sleeping a mere few blocks from the capitol. The only silver lining was the presence of HOST (the Homeless Outreach Street Team) and other groups that helped as much as they could. These days the numbers of encampments and sickeningly open destitute and desperate human existence has taken over. It’s “being addressed” but from the outside looks unsolvable.
     I used to stop, open my trunk, and (safely, in the light of day, masked) pass out gloves, food, blankets, back packs, masks and the like. Looks like I’ve lost some of my helping spirit, and some of my energy, these past few months.
     I like to take hilly back street on the outskirts of downtown. Austin is so small, outskirts in her case means a few blocks away from the city center. There are wood framed homes with wrap around porches in the shadows of office buildings. They won’t be there for long so it’s nice to take them in before they become the dust of development. A sad looking German shepherd with a pink collar slowly passed in front of my car. I reflexively pulled over and called “good dog!” She eyed me, turned around, and skulked away backwards towards a rambling old fashioned house with a white picket fence wrapped around it. She tried to lap up a trickle of water coming from a green hose on the side of the house.
     As I got out of my car, I heard a man’s voice calling out to me. Across the street on top of a little hill there he was. Young and bearded, wearing a fashionable crinkled button down shirt, dress pants and loafers. “I’ve been following her for a while, trying to get her to come to me. Animal rescue facilities are closed. I called 911 but I am not sure if they will come to help.”
     I sat on the curb and ignored the pup. She came a little closer and lay down. She looked tired. Her eyes were drooping but she refused to lower her head. Ears triangles of alertness. Business casual came and sat down too. Don’t worry, at least 10 feet away. We decided he’d walk a couple blocks to his office and bring back some Slim Jims. Maybe we could coax her into my car and read her collar?
     He got up to leave and she immediately jumped up and followed him. “Wait!” I said. “She’s following you.” He sat back down and she relaxed, laying back down closer to him. We decided I’d drive to the gas station nearby to get something to lure our dog friend closer to safety.
     As I got up, the pretty German shepherd got up too, and started walking towards the picket fenced house. A middle aged woman with long gray hair appeared out of the back door. “Hello! She’s mine. She's patrolling.” Business casual and I were surprised. “She’s yours?” he asked. “Yes. She’s fine. Just keeping an eye on things.” Biz caj and I shared a glance, both thinking “how irresponsible can a dog mama be?”
     Now that she had an audience, she lunched into a story. “There is a homeless man living here but I can’t get him out. The police seem to think he has a right to stay. We’ve never even had a relationship. He threw a microwave out of the window!” Biz caj and I scanned the house. It was a huge two story wood framed home on a big plot of land, right downtown. Must be worth millions. We could see piles of things stacked up in a huge bay window, and as we looked closer we could see hoarders clutter inside and out. White paint was peeling and the house needed a lot of work.
     I wondered what I had gotten myself into. 

      “That sounds rough,” I said, “are you safe?” 

      “No. But there’s nothing I can do. This is an estate and none of us who own it can agree on what to do with it. He comes around a lot less now. I think he only comes to sleep.” 

     “Is there anything we can do to help?” I asked. 

      “No,” long gray said. I was still concerned, but relieved, and started backing away slowly towards my car. “I am so sorry this is happening to you and I wish there was more I could do. Good luck!”
     I said goodbye to my new acquaintances and got into my car, ready to get back to taking care of my own life. I saw b.c. do the same—back away and finally turn to walk back to his office. Things are often not as they appear.

‘Worst attack on democracy’ continues still

     President Joe Biden spoke for over an hour Wednesday in his first address to a joint session of Congress, raising urgent issues from the need to get Americans vaccinated to the jobs that will be created fighting climate change to the key role immigration has always played in the American story.

     But 10 words the president said early in his speech were particularly accurate and alarming, when he referred to the Jan. 6 insurrection as ”the worst attack on our democracy since the Civil War.”
     It had to be said plainly because the bulk of the Republican Party, deformed and unrecognizable after five years of rolling like puppies at the feet of Donald Trump, still does not accept reality. Polls show 70% of Republicans believe the Big Lie that the election was stolen, despite a complete lack of evidence. Half believe the Jan. 6 insurrection against our democracy was committed not by Trump supporters whipped into a frenzy, but by Democrats — Black Lives Matter activists in whiteface, perhaps — ”trying to make Trump look bad.” As if he needs help.
     ”The worst attack on our democracy since the Civil War.” It must be repeated because of the shocking resilience of right-wing extremism. Indeed, Trump apologists zeroed in on these specific words for their typical hoots of incomprehension and ridicule. Yet it is literally a matter of life or death, our nation’s and theirs. Trump’s toxic distortion of masculinity that allowed him to grope women and pretend he is always right and always wins also made him reject wearing masks and vaccines — he got his in secret. Millions of Americans listened to him, causing hundreds of thousands to die. Millions still listen, meaning hundreds of thousands more will die. Following him into their graves, literally.
     No one can be glad of that. It’s tragic and horrible. But I’m not writing to try and jar them from their error. That’s futile. Those who do not form their positions through reason cannot be argued out of them by reason.

To continue reading, click here.

Joe Biden calls sedition by its name.

     "The worst attack on our democracy since the Civil War." 

     President Joe Biden said many important, noteworthy and inspirational things Wednesday night in his first State of the Union message before a pared down, socially-distant joint session of Congress.  He called for "hope over fear, truth over lies" and laid out a range of vital, blue collar, bread-and-butter initiatives, noting "doing nothing is not an option." He said that the "sacred right to vote" is under attack and called for its defense.

     An impressive, powerful, pitch perfect speech, realistic in addressing our problems, concrete in solutions offered, optimistic in tone.
     But this sentence, one of the very first things he said, echoed throughout the speech, for being simply true. With all the spin, the equivocation, fabrication and outright delusion that has been going on in our country since Jan. 6 and before, those 10 words, "The worst attack on our democracy since the Civil War," have the undeniable judgment of history upon them that no amount of sneering and whataboutism and denial will efface. Donald Trump was a traitor who colluded with our enemies and goaded the mob to try to overthrow our democracy to keep himself in power, aided by a ragtag band of power-hungry henchmen and underlings, and cheered on by an army of dupes and seditionists. That was obvious Jan. 6, it is widely-known now and will be the simple summation of history onward into the future forever. Whether you agree or not does not affect the truth of the matter. A sad and solemn assessment, yet it was still good to hear President Biden say it aloud, on the very spot where the clown insurrection took place, where the deluded had their awful carnival and shat upon everything that our country represents while calling themselves patriots. The truth will out.

An unexpected bonus for the shorter man

     Over the past year, I’ve worn a coat and tie exactly once. The incoming director general of the Taiwanese economic and cultural office in Chicago wanted to get acquainted over a Zoom call. I knew he’d be wearing a coat and tie, and didn’t want to be disrespectful: they’ve got enough of that coming from communist China already.
     It was, as they say in diplomatic circles, a frank and productive exchange of ideas.
     A few minutes before we spoke, I stood before the mirror in the bedroom, fingers fluttering at the necktie — blue, not red, for obvious reasons. I wondered if I’d remember how to tie it. But I’ve been tying neckties since 1974, when I played the Mr. Darling/Captain Hook role in “Peter Pan” at Camp Wise and had to tie a tie onstage while delivering lines. You don’t forget.
     The COVID-19 era was pants optional, business conducted from your living room. Now, with the non-wackadoodle segment of the country getting vaccinated, and beginning to emerge from our long hibernation, the question is: Are we going to start dressing up? Or go to work in sweats? Or even buy new clothes? Those with a dog in the race are optimistic.
     “The courts aren’t open, there’s no theater, no trade shows, the financial institutions are all still closed,” said Scott Shapiro, owner of Syd Jerome, the high-end Loop men’s clothing store, which has had plywood over its windows since August.
     “There’s no reason to put displays in the windows because nobody is walking by,” said Shapiro.
     Even without mannequins displaying cashmere sweaters and Italian belts, “our customers are slowly coming back.” A certain Chicago milieu is always going to look sharp.

To continue reading, click here.

Enigmatic bean bag

 

     Last Friday I go downtown. My wife wants to stop by her office and pick up a few things, so I figured, go with her, keep her company, and stop by mine. What in spring 2020 was an obligation has become, by spring 2021, an outing.
      So I drop her off at the Thompson Center, park on Madison, enter the building for the first time in months, say hello to the guard, chat with the two colleagues who are also there—Jeff from IT, and John on the copy desk. Go into my office and start in on my pile of mail, begin listening to my 100 or so voicemails, 90 or so from the same guy. Give up that quickly.
     Before I leave, I made a pit stop, and there I see it. How long has it been there? Not last Christmas, certainly. Maybe the Christmas before, we had a Christmas party. There was good food from local restaurants, fancy drinks and games, such as cornhole. I assume everyone is familiar with cornhole, a sort of shuffleboard where you toss beanbags onto an inclined board. You get a point for landing a beanbag on the board and three points if it goes into the hole. Fun for picnics and parties. I played a few rounds—how could you not?
    I'd have never thought of it again. But afterward, whenever I walked down that hall, I noticed this one blue bean bag that must have been left behind. It was a pleasant reminder of the party—some years we didn't have parties—and I always sort of smiled at it. There's something friendly about a bean bag. Now that I think of it, maybe it wasn't from 2019. Maybe it was from 2018. Or even before. Time all blends together at this point.
     This isn't a criticism of the sanitation of the place. It's always clean. But somehow, in its cleaning, the bean bag remains. I assume that has to be intentional, and therein lies the mystery. An in-joke of some sort? A statement? Some ghost-in-the-machine cleaning in the wee hours, deftly detouring around it, a slight jog of the broom, an act of mercy, the way you'll pity a missing sock?
     I'm not sure I want to know. There must be some prosaic reason nowhere near the limits of imagination (the bean bag....thrown away of course ... stirs, and begins its arduous nightly climb out of the trash, ruffling through the papers, reaching the lip of the can and toppling out with a beany plop, slowly, determinedly crawling, expanding and contracting like a caterpillar, back toward its Beloved Spot...)
     One of those Office Mysteries that make going into work in a place appealing. Back when we, you know, all went someplace to work.

Both facts and fact-checking a threat to GOP

 

      Republican junk jams my spam email file, scores of panting messages every day. A quick sample: “Biden Threatens War With Russia” and “Exposed: Biden’s Plot To Crush Gun Owners” and “FIRE Fauci.”
     Almost every communication ends with a plea for cash, all hyperventilating with the frantic, the-house-on-fire-save-the-baby! hysteria that is the official GOP tone: cry doom and rattle the cup. To be fair, Democrats do it, too, though I don’t get nearly as many. I’m not sure why.
     Maybe the same trolls who sign me up for fringe gun nut groups under the mistaken notion it bothers me also donate in my name to Republican candidates. Maybe the emails are sent to every known address including mine. Who can say?
     I usually never click on them or even read the subject line. There are too many. But I do sometimes open the spam file to take a peek before deleting everything, like someone glancing into the toilet bowl before flushing.
     Occasionally, something catches my attention, such the subject line, “My family’s story is being fact-checked?!” from U.S. Sen. Tim Scott (R-South Carolina), who will give the GOP response to President Biden’s speech to a joint session of Congress April 28.
     Fact-checking is a good thing in the world of the mainstream media. But then again, so are facts. The idea that fact-checking would be used as a cry of grievance is like someone shouting out a window, “Help me, my kitchen is being cleaned!” It certainly is intriguing.
     The email from Scott, the only Black Republican in the U.S. Senate, begins:
     “The mainstream media has decided to fact-check my family’s story of ‘cotton to Congress in one lifetime.’ That’s right, The Washington Post has been investigating my family’s history in the South and downplaying the struggles and racism they faced. It’s shameful. Plain and simple.”

To continue reading, click here. 

Bat out of hell

    Jim Steinman died in Connecticut Monday, and that evening I held my own little tribute, and didn't even know it.
     I walk the dog three times a day. In the morning, I often listen to a podcast, something like Molly Jong-Fast's "The New Abnormal." In the afternoon, usually Audible, this week George Saunders' "CivilWarLand in Bad Decline." 
     But by evening a little music is often called for. For some reason, Monday, I felt nostalgic, so listened to a few cuts from Elton John's "Blue Moves." 

    "On a bench, on a beach, just before the sun had gone, I tried to reach you..." 

Bernie Taupin could pen a lyric.
     Then I listened to "Bat out of Hell," all 10 minutes of it. I remember when the album came out in 1977, in the fall of my senior year of high school. The title song was written for 17-year-olds, and it summed up my entire worldview at that point. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, but I sure as hell wasn't going to do it in Berea, Ohio.
     The album had memorable cover art—a pumped-up romance novel cover hero bursting out of a graveyard on an apocalyptic motorcycle. It was produced by Todd Rundgren, who thought the whole thing a hilarious parody of Bruce Springsteen. It kinda was, and a few members of the E Street Band, Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg, actually play on the album.    
     Around that time, Meat Loaf appeared on Saturday Night Life, looking like the the bloated corpse of Elvis, stringy wet hair in his face, drown in sweat, holding a scarf, eyes crazy. I can't say I was a fan, as such. He was weird.
     And no, the New York Times never referred to him as "Mr. Loaf" on second reference. That's a myth. I checked.
     Steinman played piano on the song, and wrote a number of other standards that are big and dramatic and hold up—Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," sort of the distaff version of "Bat Out of Hell," fate conquered, not through escape, but by powering past confusion into love. "I don't know what to do, I'm always in the dark, living in a powder keg and giving off sparks..."
     "Bat Out of Hell" came to its götterdämmerung conclusion just as Kitty and I padded down the darkened Center Avenue toward our big old house, lit up like a cruise ship. I idly mused that there would be no "bat out of hell" escape for me now. I don't want it, and couldn't figure out how to achieve one even if I did. There's no need; I fled home once, and found this, everything I was ever looking for, and more. With the help of that song. So thanks Jim. Rest in peace.