Flashback 2005: "Ghost in the machine."

     There's something awe-inspiring, reverent, almost holy, about our first encounters with hugely successful corporations. Maybe an innocence, the berry-smeared tribesman, looking up from the rainforest at the first thwack of helicopter blades cutting the air. I remember thinking it was silly to name an online book store "Amazon." What do books have to do with a Brazilian River?

      Do you remember your first visit to Costco? I didn't, but then ran across this.

     For thousands of years, mankind struggled to get enough stuff—food, clothing, a few rude utensils.
     Now, abundance overwhelms us; another of life's little jokes. Every month, the news features another enormous meal-in-a-sandwich, some greasy, dripping, 1,500-calorie horror, and our reaction is half revulsion, half "gimme!"
     Then, there's Costco, the bulk discount club. I had never been to a Costco. "It'll be fun!" chirped my wife, urging me to join the family on a Saturday morning outing. Grumblingly, I went.
     It was worse than I could have imagined—an enormous space, staggeringly high ceiling, all white light and crisscrossing beams. So big it was like being outside. Wide aisles crammed with crates of food, unnatural double boxes of Cheerios, ketchup by the gallon, massed shoppers inching giant carts past one another, the carts so laden that shoppers had to lean really hard against them before slowly they began to roll. My face set in a kind of numbness that deepened as my wife happily shopped and my children ran from table to table, scarfing free samples: flavored water and power bars and chunks of cooked salmon.
     I was revolted to my core. It was too big, the juxtapositions too odd -- dinghies next to DVD players next to soda pop next to girls' dresses. The world unmoored, the proper order jumbled, dogs and cats lying together breeding unnatural horrors. I glared at my wife. All her fault.
     "I hate you," I wanted to say, "for being excited about this, for thrilling to giant packages of 18 rolls of paper towels."
     But that seemed, oh, hostile, and would have put a damper on the weekend. What I actually did say was, "Perhaps if I were in a different frame of mind I would appreciate this as much as you do."
     And then my perspective shifted. In a moment. The boys ran to me—they need permission to take each sample, I suppose to avoid lawsuits. One table offered packs of gum, and as I approached to give my nod, I saw what was being promoted was not gum, but Steven H. Jesser, Attorney at Law. He was a middle-aged man in a blue suit, hair thinning, Thomas Dewey mustache going gray. Jesser was handing out business cards and gum, offering "full-service business legal representation" right there, in the Costco, next to the wind chimes, birdbaths and potted peonies. An initial telephone consultation was available without charge.
     I introduced myself, and observed that lawyers are by nature proud, and some might feel a chill at the idea of drumming up business in a suburban Costco.
     "I have no shame in coming here," he said. "If people think it's demeaning, so be it."
     I shared my view of the place.
     "I like Costco," said Jesser, a Chicago-Kent College of Law alumni. "I've shopped in the finest stores, and it has a nice atmosphere—I've run into judges here. It's enjoyable to come here. I am not too proud to shop here because the prices are sensational, and everybody loves a bargain."
     That they do. Like a good lawyer, he had made his case, and I walked away impressed, my spirits lifted. Although I wasn't sure if it was because I had witnessed a quirky manifestation of the human spirit defying the deadening effect of materialism in bulk, or merely because I had found a way to get work done, and working makes me happy.
           —Originally published in the Sun-Times, April 6, 2005

Norwood Park Notes: Embracing Neophilia

    One mark of a good writer is knowing when to raise questions and when to answer them. In today's post, Norwood Park Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey fills some holes in her resume.

     Denial is not just a river in Egypt. It’s an excellent coping tool too. In the biz, we used to call it a “defense.” A gentler and less stigmatizing way of talking about a so-called defense, or “resistance” to self-awareness, is to view some human behaviors as adaptive coping mechanisms. Why not deny, deflect and avoid things that bring us down? Is it better to dwell on all that is horrible in the world? All that is going wrong? That’s easy to do, especially in these times of mayhem and exhaustion.
     My personal mayhem circa Summer 2021 involves a very painful broken toe, a weak internet connection (and I work from home), and planes that continue to wake me up a couple times before my alarm goes off. Have you tried to find a decent apartment rental in Chicago lately? Let’s just say it’s not fun. This leaves me feeling ungrounded and worn down.
     What’s the solution? Mindfulness. Getting through stressful moments with grace, and savoring calm and joyful moments. Putting one foot in front of the other and taking each day one hour at a time. Knowing it’s OK to not feel OK sometimes, and reminding oneself “this too shall pass” when the worry kicks in.
     Today was my beloved eight year old nephew’s birthday. I originally moved to Austin in April of 2014 to be her (yes, her), nanny. (Please read this if you have questions about gender pronouns). She was 9 months old. I had texted my sister who was living in Austin during a polar vortex to say "Hey. How are you?” She said “not so good. The nanny quit with 2 weeks notice.” I said “well, why don’t I move down there and take care of him [we referred to Anthony as him then] until you find a new nanny?”
     She agreed, and within three weeks I was there. Arrivederci polar vortex! Farewell 6’7” Green Mill bouncer who lived in the apartment above me and laughed in my face when I asked him to please be quieter when he came in during the wee hours of the morning! Farewell job that hired me with a bait and switch! (They hired me to work from home, told me after orientation I had to go into the office in the West Loop during the polar vortex, and then dropped the big bomb: I’d have to drive 200 miles in one day to visit clients in rural Illinois. And I did not have a car).
     I sold and gave away almost everything I owned with the help of friends who swooped in and dug in to get me out of there. It would have been impossible without their help. (Thank you Ellen, Harry, Bob, Tara, Mom & Dad, from the bottom of my heart). I stored some boxes and a few pieces of furniture at my folks’ place. (Sorry guys, I know you want your space back soon).
     I arrived in Austin with a couple of suitcases. What I thought would be a few months of caring for precious little Anthony turned into two and a half years of living with my sister, brother-in- law and my favorite little person. I do not have children and the closest thing I will have to feeling that I’d definitely jump in front of a truck to save someone happened when I met Anthony. Anthony was the easiest child I’ve ever taken care of. We’d spend the first part of the day on a porch swing in the backyard, snuggling and listening to doves as Anthony would practice standing. We spent shoeless (and for Anthony, clothing-less) days in the yard, we checked out all of the cool animals at the Austin Zoo (a rescue sanctuary) and hopped on the train that circled the zoo a few times, much to Anthony’s delight. We biked around Arbor Trail in South Austin, and spent hours running around grassy fields at the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center. Anthony would call out “I am running through a field!” That sheer delight warmed my heart to the nth degree.

     When Anthony sees me now—and we’ve seen each other five or six times since I’ve been back (13 days), she beams with the brightest eyes ever and exclaims “Peaches!!!!” Her nickname for me.
     Isn’t this what life is all about? It’s not about the travels, meals at Alinea. It’s all about the shining eyes of a child, and touching family and friends again. It’s also about the heartfelt hugs my parents and I have been sharing.

     They are not getting any younger, and are my main reason for coming home. I missed them during that long COVID year. It helped me realize what’s most important to me. Family, friends, and a solid career. That will all happen for me in Chicago once I get settled.
     Neophilia is love of or enthusiasm for what is new or novel. Change is good. I keep telling myself this is true, in this time of strange uncertainty where change is the only constant. The inter-webs are peppered with research that shows exposing oneself to novel situations, rather than being a dogmatic creature of habit, seems to improve memory and brain function. Well, that’s a relief. There is nothing ruttish about my life right now.
     Living back in Chicago is not what I expected. Nothing feels the same. I am a different person. Being back in a city where there are happy and not so happy memories on many corners has me regressing at times. The pandemic has changed things. 
     This week I nursed a client through a suicidal day and got them to safety. Neil lost his cat Gizmo. Big things are happening all around us. How do we live with the chaos and still find peace within? I will keep finding my ways, and I hope you find yours.

Post-COVID Wrigley Field looking good

     The man sitting across from us on the ‘L’ Wednesday wore an official Cubs pinstripe jersey, open, with shorts; the uniform of easily half the passengers on the 12 noon Skokie Swift heading to Howard. Beside him, a girl, 4, had made a different fashion choice: a pink tutu paired with a raccoon mask.
     The man met my eye.
     “So nice everything’s fun again,” he said. Usually I’m the one making uninvited public overtures, addressing strangers, commenting on whatever is going on like a Greek chorus.
     I agreed. After 14 months away, at least, it felt great just being on a train. The fact we were heading to a Cubs game was icing on the cake.
     Regular readers know that baseball is not ordinarily my idea of fun. But my younger son had said, “We should go to a Cubs game.” A suggestion I promptly ignored, as the savvy parent will do when optional activities involving the expenditure of of time, effort and money are proposed by children. But he said it a second time, cannily attaching a specific. “We should go to the Cubs game Wednesday; they play the Padres.”
     My immediate unfiltered thought demonstrates how truly out of the swim I am, baseball-wise.
     “That’s an expansion team.” I thought, pouting. Meaning, “not quite worth seeing.” The Padres started playing in 1969. Since then, they’ve won more pennants than the Cubs over the same period (two). They’re the best team in the National League now.
     The last Cubs game I attended was the Fourth of July, 2016, for the reason I normally attend games: a pal gave me tickets. This time I bought four good upper deck seats for $45.92 apiece from a season ticket holder friend. I knew it wouldn’t involve him handing over four pasteboard ducats in an envelope. But I didn’t expect to have to download an app (MLB Ballpark) and fiddle with it for an hour. Eventually, utterly bolloxed and certain no relaxation at the ballpark could possibly counterbalance the frustration of doing this, I thrust my phone at my older son who, I kid you not, glanced at it, swiped it once with his thumb, the tickets magically appearing, and handed the phone back. “You need to refresh,” he said. Tell me about it.

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Flashback 2002: "What I did on my summer vacation."

     My colleague Mark Brown bought a kayak, and announced on Facebook that he is looking for someone to enjoy the sport with him off Montrose Beach. My first, unfiltered thought was along the lines of, "No Mark! Don't! Stop!" Then I realized he already had bought the thing. I began to wonder if he mentioned the kayak intentionally, to mock me. But that can't be. He doesn't remember this column. But I do, and offer it up to him, and you, as a cautionary tale. No kayaks.

     This summer we had fun. We drove to Put-in-Bay. That is in Ohio. We hiked and played ball. We drank beer. It was fun! Except for the nearly drowning part. That was not fun.
     (Let's see: one, two, three, four, five . . . 36 words. Drat! Nine hundred more to go.)
     Whoops, sorry. Couldn't help myself. Fresh from vacation, with an autumnal coolness in the air and school starting soon (next week, in the leafy suburban paradise of Northbrook, where classes begin later because our kids don't skip out as much as other children do) the traditional first-day-of-school assignment bubbled up from somewhere deep within the recesses of my brain.
     Frankly, after so many years of vigorously suppressing those choppy, sing-song rhythms of elementary school, it was something of a joy to let them out again, bringing back memories of flip-top desks incised with graffiti and dotted with rounded bumps of dried Elmer's glue . . .
     Where were we? Put-in-Bay. For those who've never been (and I imagine most haven't; it isn't exactly Disney World) Put-in-Bay is an island north of Sandusky, a mix of Fort Lauderdale boat party and Colonial Williamsburg. The Battle of Lake Erie was fought there in 1813, and there's an enormous monument run by the National Park Service, right next to a strip of delightfully cheesy bars and burger joints.
     We stayed with my friend Jim and his family at their cottage on the shore. I've been going there most summers since I was 17, when Jim and I and a bunch of high school pals toted our skateboards there, to what was then his father's cottage. Now it's his and, one weekend a year, ours too. My friends tend to wind themselves into snits, storm off for reasons I never quite grasp, and never come back. They don't, typically, throw their family vacation homes open to me.
     Jim does. Our island agenda has changed with time, marriage and children, from long winery visits (Ohio wine tastes bad, but only the first bottle) to ritualized trips up the monument and to the carousel.
     Some things never change: Frosty's for pizza. Sitting in the battered easy chairs, sipping beer and gazing at the lake. The late night walk to town, where Jim and I pass through the barroom crowds of sunburnt, post-collegiate youngsters, looking for a spot to sit, invisible as ghosts.
     I suppose very soon my family will have to strike out on more ambitious trips—the typical Grand Canyon, Washington, D.C., Mount Rushmore circuit. We've been holding off, I suppose, until the boys are of an age when the experience won't disappear with memories of diapers and the womb.
     It is somewhat flawed, I know, to weigh the value of your vacations against whether your kids will remember them. Good times have a worth, even if forgotten.
     Next summer, I'm sure, we'll strike out somewhere farther than Ohio. I have very strong memories of the trip my family took to Washington, D.C., when I was 7—the FBI agent firing that tommy gun in the tour, the White House, the wonders of the Smithsonian. We'll go, and hope the experience isn't too diminished by anti-terrorism measures ("If you peer through those tank traps, razor wire coils and concrete barriers, boys, you'll catch a glimpse of the Capitol . . .").
     Of course we'll still go to Put-in-Bay, though sticking more closely to the traditional activities. Which brings me back to the near-drowning. This year, I actually got out of my chair and tried one of the ocean-going kayaks that Jim and his wife, Laura, bought for themselves.
     Jim's a tall guy, and had the bigger kayak, and I'm shorter, though rounder, so I jammed myself into Laura's kayak, which is like wearing a belt that is too tight and has a 17-foot fiberglass boat attached.
     We set out into the lake, heading around the coast, toward the monument, the sight of which must have awed me so much that I flipped the kayak over. It happened very suddenly--one moment, fine, then time for an "Oh, no!" before finding myself underwater, upside down.
     On ABC's "Wide World of Sports," guys were always flipping this way and that in their kayaks, in rocky white water rivers no less. Not so easy in real life. I was in deep water, thank goodness, but my kayak wasn't flipping anywhere. What I should have done is shucked the thing, putting both hands on the boat and shimmying out. Instead, I tried twisting my body to get my face above the water—the air was right there, close. I could see it, a big bright whiteness just a foot of lake away.
     My first try went nowhere. As did my second. A lot of time seemed to be passing, though it was probably only 10 or 20 seconds. Time crawls when you're upside down, underwater. I reflected on how this was a particularly ignoble way to go—held underwater by a kayak, drowned, literally killed by my own fat ass.
     Mustering all my resources, I finally pried myself out and bobbed sputtering and gasping to the surface. Jim, to his credit, did not laugh. I dragged the boat to shore, dumped the water, then paddled gingerly back to Jim's cottage and beached the deathtrap, taking special care not to flip myself into the rocks as I approached shore. I hurried up to the cottage, cracked open a beer, and settled myself into the battered easy chair in the living room, fixing my eyes upon the flat blue horizon.
                        —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 30, 2002

The cat that broke things.

Gizmo liked to show up where he wasn't expected, like this laundry basket.

     Gizmo was a naughty cat. And demanding. He liked to drink at night from the faucet in our bathroom. But insisted that one of us open the tap, set to a precise trickle, while he watched, at night. That last part was vital. We couldn’t just set the trickle before bed and go to sleep. He’d wake us anyway.
     Gizmo was a regal cat. He would regularly summon us downstairs to give him food. Even when his bowl already had food in it. I would troop after him in the middle of the night, knowing the bowl was already full. I would lean over, groaning, lift the bowl of kibble, and give it a ceremonial shake. Then Gizmo would deign to eat. Maybe. Sometimes he would just sniff and turn away. This went on for a decade. At least.
     Gizmo was a punitive cat. Ignore him and there would be consequences. If one of us didn’t appear in the bathroom in what he considered a timely fashion, Gizmo would begin knocking things into the sink: cups, toothbrush stands, shaving cream cans. Anything that would make a loud, booming noise.
     Gizmo was a destructive cat. Refuse to conduct the food bowl ceremony, and he would leap upon the hutch and nudge valuables — cups, saucers, a handmade ceramic Scott Frankenberger pie plate I had commissioned as a present for my wife’s birthday — off the shelves. Had I accidentally dropped that pie plate I would have been mocked forever after. But Gizmo’s act of deliberate vandalism was immediately forgiven. “A sweet cat,” my wife said.
     Gizmo was a sensual cat. He enjoyed frequent and vigorous carnal relations with the stuffed tiger my younger son had won in Las Vegas. Gizmo liked to rendezvous with the object of his affections on the landing outside our bedroom door, letting out a piercing yowl that sounded like a cat being torn in half. I tried to ignore it, best I could.
     Gizmo was a loyal cat. He slept at the foot of our bed, on my wife’s side, next to our other cat, Natasha. They would groom each other.

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And lo, God sent a vision of brisket

     A restaurant must achieve three key qualities to be the sort of place you can revisit or recommend. Good food, of course. A space that you want to eat in—an element that a surprising percentage of eateries botch. And third, that most elusive of attributes: friendliness.
     Not forced friendliness. Not going through the motions of being polite. But something warm, genuine, sincere. Otherwise, you can eat at home.

     Being a social person, I especially hunger for this third quality. If I'm patronizing a place, I expect them to be nice to me. 

      To celebrate my younger son graduating from University of Virginia Law School, we of course went out to celebrate. I told him to pick anywhere that tickled his fancy, and he selected Fleurie, a French restaurant off the Charlottesville mall offering a prix fixe menu at $75 apiece. Not cheap, but heck, he flew through law school without causing me to furrow my brow once. He's earned it. The meal was fine; they brought a variety of little appetizers and special touches, all with a quiet deference, and while I misordered—I didn't realize my venison would be quite as gamey as it was, tasting somewhere between liver and a corpse—my son, who had been here before, and ordered the venison before, told me I should have expected this.
     So Fleurie was ... fine, my meal notwithstanding. ("They should have warned you," said my wife, who tasted my venison and spat it into her napkin). 

      But the next night stood out in a better way. My boy knows that I like barbecue—who doesn't?—and so perhaps to make it up to me, he suggested we go to a new place in a strip mall called Vision BBQ. Frankly, the name worried me. "Vision?" We walked in, the only patrons. Another bad sign. But too late now. A man with a bandana around his face, the smoke master I assumed, told us he had just taken a marvelous pastrami off the smoker.
     "My people's meat," I said, and we adjusted our platters, pitching the pork for the pastrami. While we waited, I had to ask where "Vision" came from.
     "That's odd for a BBQ place, "I said. "You expect 'Leon's' or something."
     Michael, one of the owners, said that it's because the idea of starting a barbecue restaurant came in a vision.
     "A vision ... from God...?" I said.

     That's how you want your barbecue to happen. Divine inspiration. 
     I paid the bill—it was the sort of place where you order and take a seat. About a sixth of the cost of the night before. The computer asked if I wanted to tip, and I didn't. I usually do, the pandemic and all. Because they were just handing the food over the counter and, to be honest, since I was still stinging and so perhaps a little parsimonious after the bill at Fleurie, which had grown considerable with add-ons and drinks and such. We took a table outside.
     Then three things happened to seal Vision in my affections. First Michael came outside where we were sititng, with a new bill, explaining that he had miscalculated. "A heavy finger" I believe is the term he used. This bill was $15 less. I walked inside to pay the new bill, in and explained I had made a mistake of my own, and handed over $8 as a tip. The food came out, in hearty metal trays lined with wax paper; a nice touch. The corn muffin was very moist. "Almost a souffle," my son said. The brisket had a hearty bark on it. The red sauce was suitable piquant—a very minimal tablespoon in a little plastic cup, true, though the meat was good enough that it didn't need it. Not Smoque. Not Green Street Smoked Meats. But not bad. In fact, good,
     Then the last thing happened. The smoke master, who had been scurrying back and forth to the smoker in the parking lot, came by with three chunks of burnt ends, for us to try, knowing we were from out-of-town and apt never to come back—I talk a lot—but delivering a little treat anyway.
     I like that. Not just the little extra, but the consideration that inspires it. The friendliness. The pride. So Fleurie if your kid requests it, but for the love of God don't order venison. If you find yourself in the vicinity of Charlottesville, Virginia, and are looking for barbecue, slide by Vision BBQ and fill up. You can tell them I sent you.

‘You fight alone, you’re dead.’

Photo for the Sun-Times by Ashlee Rezin Garcia

     Memorial Day, on Monday, honors the fallen, as opposed to Veterans Day, in November, which honors living vets. That must be complicated, because some folks always point it out. Which must also be necessary, since others still get it wrong.
     I want to lump the two together and focus on the “honor” part. What does that mean exactly? What does honoring vets, living or dead, look like? Fly the flag, say the pledge —that’s what I do. Post on Facebook old photos of family members who served? Lots of that. Share stories of military bravery on social media, waved under the noses of other people, almost as a rebuke. I double-dog dare you to share this!
     And all this honoring helps ... who exactly? It certainly feels good for the person doing it. Nothing wrong with that. I like flying the flag. Going through the motions of respect has gravitas and the illusion of significance. 

     But honor, in itself, is overrated. Honor is so easy. A solemn nod. A ginned up tear. And back to the TV or barbecue. Everyone is so happy to congregate again; I’m hosting one barbecue and attending another.
     It’s also easy for the holiday’s purpose to be overlooked entirely.
     This at a time when the military is more important than ever. You can argue whether the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq made us safer. But I believe to the bottom of my heart that the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, Gen. Mark Milley, and other career soldiers saved American democracy last fall. They never fired a shot, but they stood shoulder to shoulder and kept us from becoming a dictatorship. We don’t know the full scope yet. But we will.
     In the meantime, entertain the idea that all that moist-eyed flag waving might wound the very people it is supposed to uplift.
     “It upsets me when so-called Americans go and fly these flags on these various holidays, Memorial Day and Veterans Day,” said William Hooks, who served for 20 years in the Marine Corps. “They play the game, when the time to be compassionate toward veterans is when one needs bus fare. Who needs a second chance or a job."

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