Lebanon holds grim warning for United States

 

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     One year ago, on Aug. 4, 2020, 2,750 tons of ammonium nitrate improperly stored at the port of Beirut, Lebanon, exploded, killing at least 214 people, injuring more than 6,000, and forcing hundreds of thousands from their homes.
     The world saw that video of a bride’s wedding portrait session interrupted by a shock wave just as the camera zoomed in on her bouquet, dramatizing the horror of the blast.
     If you’d already forgotten, don’t feel bad. It’s been a busy year. A lethal pandemic killed 600,000 Americans. The federal government reaction was initially botched, precious months squandered. A bitter, divisive election which Donald Trump tried to baldly steal, summoning a mob to Washington and setting it on the Capitol. A third of the country refusing to take basic steps to combat the COVID plague. We have our own woes.
     But there is a connection between the aftermath of the explosion in Beirut and our growing crisis here, one important to understand. Because we are on the same path to becoming a broken country, like Lebanon. Just as the claim of voter security is being used to corrupt our electoral system, so the goal of being a “great” country is used to erode our greatness and make us ordinary, the usual tinpot dystopia fighting each other over scraps. The world is filled with them, from Haiti to Brazil to Russia to Myanmar. We see what happens to failed states, where accountability has no place.
     After the blast in Lebanon, what happened in one year? Investigations? Hearings? Charges? Trials? Convictions?

     Nothing. No explanation for why the ammonium nitrate — the same material Timothy McVeigh used to blow up the Murrah Federal Building — was stored unsafely near residential neighborhoods. No accountability. They aren’t sure exactly how many people died. Nobody has even bothered to clean up the wreckage.

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Metropolitan Museum of Art

Making up for lost time: The Goodman turns on the lights

     Well it is the theater after all. So it was only fitting that before we finally saw the play that was three days from debuting at the Goodman Theatre when the city shut down in March, 2020, creative director Bob Falls conducted a bit of dramatic business under the marquee Monday night, welcoming the audience back and turning on the lights that had been dim for a year and a half.
     "After 17 months of darkness, it is such a. thrill to be here, to be relighting the lights of the theater and getting actors back on stage," Falls said. 

      Is it ever. The play, "School Girls; Or, The African Mean Girls Play," by Jocelyn Bioh, directed by Lili-Anne Brown, has a deceptively simple premise: a half dozen students at the Aburi Girls’ Secondary School prepare for a pageant that will point one toward the Miss Ghana contest and, perhaps, greater fame on the world stage. 

      I'm sure the Sun-Times will be reviewing it, so won't try to do so here, other than to observe that Ciera Dawn is exceptional as the queen bee mean girl, Paulina, the other standout being Lanise Antoine Shelley as the preening Miss Ghana, 1966, come to judge the girls, or, rather, impose her judgments upon them. The entire cast, though, is strong, with no trace of their performance having been interrupted by a year-and-a-half of global pandemic and disaster.

     I wouldn't call the play a drama, because it's laugh-out-loud funny, but the comedy is cut by real humanity and a stark reminder that the racial psychosis we cope with every day in this country is also felt the world over.
     The audience was masked and social distanced, and reminded before the play began to wear our masks before, during and after the performance.
     "I'm not used to sitting in a theater with a mask," my wife said.
     "I'm not used to sitting in a theater, period," I replied.
      Ninety minutes later, having been completely captivated by the world of this school and the unique personalities of the girls in it, I realized just how good it is to be back at a performance.
     "You can't make up for lost time," one girl says in the play, and another concurs: "The time is lost."
     But you can sure try.

Paulina Sarpong, played by Ciera Dawn (left) wants to be Miss Ghana, the way Eloise Amponsah, played by Lanise Antoine Shelley, was. But will she make it? To find out, you need to see "School Girls; Or, The African Mean Girls Play" by Jocelyn Bioh, directed by Lili-Anne Brown, at Goodman Theatre until August 29, 2021. (Photo by Flint Chaney).

S. Rosen’s bun star of Chicago style hot dog

     If the Chicago-style hot dog were a hit TV show, the title character would, of course, be the star: a Vienna hot dog, made in Chicago.
     Beloved supporting characters would be yellow mustard, Plochman’s please, the brand mixed — ingredients in mustard aren’t cooked, just blended — in nearby Manteno. A pickle spear and neon relish plus, for that healthful touch, tomato wedges and onion bits. Followed, last and least, by the twin oddities of sport pepper and celery salt.
     If you actually like those last two, well, God bless you. I’d rather dress my hot dog with the vendor’s thumb, pickled and dusted in cooties.
     We could talk about those elements all day, and people do. Yet somehow, the endless Chicago-style hot dog conversation never gets to the foundation, the one unsung actor who literally holds the whole show together: the S. Rosen’s poppyseed bun.
     Let’s fix that.
     “We are the bun purveyor in the city of Chicago for well over 95% of all the hot dog stands,” said Mark Marcucci, president of Alpha Baking Co., which owns S. Rosen’s.
     He’s sitting on the second floor of the Lyndale Avenue facility, immediately south of Hermosa Park and three-quarters as big. The building used to house Mary Ann bakery —the logo is still on the floor in the entry — and though there is no sign whatsoever on the street, this is a spot in fast food history.

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Car for sale

 

     I keep reading about how there's a shortage of cars, both new and used, because of supply-chain issues, a certain microchip that is hard to find.
     Frankly, I don't believe it. When I drive around, I pass dealership after dealership jammed with cars. Plus all the car that anybody could ever want is sitting a few doors down from my house, just waiting to be snapped up by some lucky person.
     It's hard to miss this candy apple red 1966 Mustang convertible, which my neighbors, Ray and Terry Garcia, are offering for sale, well, because the time seems right.
     The car has about 99,000 miles, and has been garaged for so long I only learned of its existence a few years ago, when they pulled it out and took it for a spin. I was gob-smacked. How could someone own such a thing and the neighbors not know? But that's the Garcias: they are people of parts, as Shakespeare said, and I'm always finding new aspects to them. They travel and have a wonderful green thumb. Terry zips around the neighborhood on an electric bike. Ray was a Marine and worked for the Post Office and a master gardener and, frankly, if I heard he had been an astronaut and gone to space, well, I'd be surprised, but not really that surprised.
     Honestly, I'll be sad to see the Mustang go. I've enjoyed passing it as I walk Kitty over the last few days. Though I couldn't help but notice that their method of advertising—parking it at the end of their driveway with a sign—is not the most tech savvy in our interconnected world. So I volunteered use of my blog, where hundreds can be expected to notice it. First, because I'm a nice guy. And second, I need to repay them for having the coolest yard on the block, with its gorgeous, perfectly maintained beds of prairie plants and wildflowers, not to overlook their folk art display of found objects any one of which is a delight just to look at, plus all the cup plant seedlings they've passed along to me. It's a debt I can never repay. 
     They aren't asking a fortune—$19,000, which is less than what you'd pay for some anonymous piece of garbage that nobody would look at twice. And unlike most used cars, this can be counted on to keep its value.
    That's it. I would buy it myself, only for the lack of a spare $19,000—okay, that isn't true, but there are taxes and a new bathroom to install and pay for, and, maybe trips to take, so zipping around town in this sharp little baby is out of the question. For me.

     But maybe you made a wiser career choice, and have a more glamorous life, and can pick it up as easy as snapping your fingers. If that is the case, email them at tgarcia45@gmail.com and see what you can work out. But don't hesitate; it won't last long. 

Chicago Notes: Great Lake

     Former Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey casts her eye upon our inland sea:

     Lake is too small a word for the great body of water east of Chicago. That’s why I’ve started telling friends “I’m down at the ocean” during my regular sojourns to its shore. One friend responds in kind. She recently texted me “heading down to the ocean now,” putting a big smile on my face. It just makes life seem more exciting.
     The other night while at the oceanfront near Foster, a man in a kayak floated a few hundred feet off the beach after the lifeguards left. He was there for an hour or so, and I thought “what a kind soul,” thinking he was acting as the evening lifeguard once the city guards had cleared out for the evening. His presence was reassuring.
     Meanwhile my family and I struck up a conversation with a nice lady and her 7 year old daughter Sara. Sara and my 8 year old nephew Anthony struck up quite the beach friendship and before too long had dug a hole nearly as deep as they were tall. They were very proud and Anthony kept calling out “Peaches!”—my favorite nickname—“Come over here! Look!” with an ear-to-ear grin.
     A perfect summer evening.
     Sara’s mother told us that the man on the kayak is her husband. He was not actually lifeguarding at all— he just likes to float around out there to decompress. Still cool, and I am sure he’d have sprung into action if any of the night swimmers got into trouble. When he came back to shore we swapped stories about “Lake” Michigan.
     As you probably know, the Great Lakes (ok, fine. I guess I’ll have to call them what they are and not what they seem) comprise the largest fresh water body in the world. You also may know that Michigan has tidal waves called seiches (https://isgs.illinois.edu/seiches-sudden-large-waves-lake-michigan-danger) and is regaled with meteotsunamis on a regular basis (https://research.noaa.gov/article/ArtMID/587/ArticleID/2738/NOAA-research-shows-promise-of-forecasting-weather-driven-tsunamis).
     Sara’s father shared stories of people getting caught in whirlpools of water that form in areas of the lake disrupted with concrete docks. He told us that Foster beach is quite safe because the open space creates a climate of calm.
     Nearly 20 years ago I was out on the water with friends and an experienced sailor who docks his boat at Montrose Harbor. We had a lovely day and headed back to shore. Several people got off of the boat, including a friend and her infant son. El Capitán decided we’d head back out for round two, though the weather appeared foreboding. In fact, other sailors who had also headed back cautioned us against going back out. The captain would have none of it for we were hardy sailors.
     With trepidation I joined the group of fifteen or so—most of us landlubbers and the rest the small crew who’d keep us safe. Sure enough, what seemed to be out of the blue, a storm blew in. I have never been on a body of water so choppy. The crew flew into action while my friends and I sat in a circle above deck, holding hands and crouching together. We did not have life jackets on. There was no time. I heard the faithful praying fervently.
     At one point our 39.1 foot craft could not stand up to the waves. The boat was on its side, perpendicular to the water, and while we clutched each other we watched the crew work furiously to right the ship. They succeeded with much effort and what felt to be an eternity. We were able to make it back to land. Needless to say this was one of the most terrifying things I’ve lived through, and since then I have mostly shied away from invitations to sail on private boats in Chicago.
     Lake Michigan is no joke. Nothing to trifle with.
     I was once watching a surfing documentary with my brother John who lives in California and has always been a huge (real) ocean lover. I was surprised and delighted to see brat-eating, beer-drinking South Siders catching huge waves somewhere near the Illinois Indiana border. I can’t quite think of the name of the movie, but will share if and when I do. Dees, dems and dosers with bellies drinking Hamm’s and catching waves is too good to miss. (As a half South-Sider I am allowed to say these things).
      I can’t talk about the lake without talking about my maternal grandparents, Olive and Carl. They met at Oak Street Beach almost 100 years ago. Olive was adorable and young, and I can picture her in my mind’s eye, standing on a concrete post in her swimming costume. Carl must have taken that photo. Carl used to fish off of Navy Pier before it became a fortress, and we’d share fried fish at the little shack at the end of the pier.
     It’s so very good to be home.

Columbus fans could learn from Cleveland

 

   Someone named Natalie at something called “SeatGeek” sent me an email offering White Sox tickets for Friday’s game against the Cleveland Indians. I blinked at it.
     “Didn’t they change their name to the ‘Guardians?’” I wondered. Yes they did, but only after this season. Ah.
     Sure, I could get all sentimental about a century of baseball tradition being scrapped. Weep how I loved Chief Wahoo as a child and, to be honest, still do. How my mother was an Indians fan, my grandfather before her.
     But you know what? Truth is, I’m an adult now, and understand the world is not all about me. I have my own sense of self-worth, one not dependent on the icons of my youth being carried into perpetuity on the shoulders of the public, like plaster saints borne aloft in some dusty village procession. Times change. Certain stereotypes fly in 2021 while others do not. I can’t explain why the Fighting Irish Leprechaun is OK while Chief Wahoo isn’t.
     Though I can try: It has something to do with the Irish coming here and doing pretty well, eventually, while the Native Americans already were here and didn’t do well at all, not once the white newcomers were done with them. I bet if no Irish Catholics actually attended the University of Notre Dame, its pugnacious mascot would be seen in a very different light.
     Still, when I heard Cleveland is changing the name to “Guardians,” I winced. Leave it to Cleveland to pick a dud. I had been pulling for “Spiders.” It’s such a cool name, with roots — Cleveland was the Spiders before it was the Indians. And I’d been to the University of Richmond, and was so impressed with its way-cool Spiders mascot I almost bought a Spiders t-shirt.

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Neil Steinberg's Day off

 

St. Regis Tower viewed from Maggie Daley Park's Cancer Survivors' Garden

     Left to my own devices, I'd rather be working. And between the column and the book and the blog, God knows there's plenty of work to do. So when my wife suggested we chuck our obligations Wednesday and go downtown for a "vacation day," to ensure we wouldn't make noise and bother our oldest while he's downstairs taking the New York State Bar Exam, I went along, batting away qualms.
     Such as the moment, early in the morning, when I was at my desk, pulling reference art for the artist illustrating my book to base drawings upon. "Why am I going anywhere when I need to get this done?" I thought, grimly. I shook that off.
     We boarded the 7:56 Metra downtown. "Smiling faces under those masks!" the conductor urged. "Let's have those masks on please." People complied. Arriving downtown, we walked across the Loop. Normally we'd have gone to the Art Institute—it's been a year and a half since we've been inside. But it's closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays, due to COVID crisis scheduling, so we picked up tickets for the 10 a.m. Chicago Architecture Center river tour on the Emerald Lady. I'll admit that my enjoyment of the tour was tempered by already knowing just about everything the docent said, and more. I had to retrain myself to keep from shouting out what I thought were salient details she sidestepped. But Edie loved it, and it was fun to spend 90 minutes on the river on a gorgeous warm summer day, first up the north branch to the Freedom Center, then down to River City, and back along the main branch, out to the lock. She didn't make a single factual error, and that might have riled me too, because I was primed and waiting for the joy of correcting others. 

     After, we headed to Ming Hin for a dim sum lunch, then crossed Randolph and wandered Millennium Park. Neither of us had actually been in Maggie Daley Park—we always pull up at the Bean—and it was fun to explore the place, with its clunky climbing walls and Cancer Survivors' Garden, which has a great view of Jeanne Gang's St. Regis, née Vista, Tower. There are a series of metal plaques offering advice to those facing cancer, including the dubious proposition that you can beat it if you really set your mind to the task, and that a good doctor will be a man. But I still managed to enjoy the place, despite, or perhaps because, of that.
     We swung over to the Chicago Yacht Club and walked down the lakefront, passing Segway tours and women in hijabs learning to kayak. We ended up relaxing in the lobby of the newly open Palmer House, enjoying a cold beverage and sharing a brownie, which the Palmer House claims to have invented and may very well have. There definitely were more people downtown, and it's good to be among them and see the city opening up, if only briefly before the next crisis arrives.