Flashback 1990: Psychic-deli—We have seen the future, several times, in fact

The Fortune-Teller, by Georges de la Tour (Metropolitan Museum of Art)
If you look closely, you'll see why it encapsulates my view of psychics.

     I read with interest freelancer Aaron Gettinger's article in Monday's Sun-Times about psychics. Not so much because I wanted to know how the industry, to use his term, is faring post-COVID. But I was curious how he would treat the frauds-fleecing-the-gullible aspect of palm readers and swamis. The short answer is, he didn't. He spoke to mediums and their patrons without ever questioning their premise, and I wondered whether this was the right call or not, and whether it was in keeping with, or despite, his own views.

      Using my special abilities to actually ask authors about their intent, I queried him about this. "They're all frauds," he replied, plainly enough, adding that "to do a piece about how there’s no such thing as psychic readings would have been a completely different piece."

     No argument here. That makes sense. The Sun-Times prints an astrology column every day, without adding a big notice that it's nonsense for nincompoops. Sometimes a realm can be explored on its own terms, and readers trusted to reach their own conclusions.

      Gettinger is a reporter on staff at the Hyde Park Herald. We talked for a while — he is a graduate from Stanford, with a masters from the University of Chicago, and seems a man with aspirations. He's 29, and I remember that I addressed the same subject when I was almost exactly Gettinger's age. I dug it up to see how I handled the charlatan aspect. It's worth noting that I wasn't a columnist when I wrote this — that was more than five years in the future — and it strikes me as having quite a bit of voice for a general assignment reporter. Then again, those were different days.

     August is a time to look to the future, to harken to the murmurings of fall and all that lies beyond.
     Because it's National Psychic Week through Saturday, I enlisted the help of professional prognosticators — traffickers in the occult sciences.
     I was curious, not so much in the details of my life to be, which I will find out eventually, but whether these mystics could predict a major event — to wit, my pending marriage, set to take place with Busby Berkeley-like restraint at the Babylonianly-splendid Hotel Inter-Continental on Sept. 2.
     I figured, with 200 people across the country preparing to attend, not to mention the intense psychokinetic aura streaming from a woman who has dated a guy for seven years and is finally getting her due, forseeing the event should be a piece of cake.
     Here are the results of three Chicago soothsayers, selected at random (call ahead, many are booked for weeks):

     The seer: Miss Ruth
     The site: North LaSalle Street. First floor. A nondescript kitchen, free from any incense, crystal balls or goat heads. Miss Ruth's grandchildren played around the table and had to be constantly shushed.
     Technique: Without any subtle questioning, Miss Ruth asked me to hold my fee ($22) in my right hand and make wishes. I told her one (regarding publication of a book) and she began flipping cards. The juxtaposition of the cards, and whether they were upside-down when flipped, seemed to mean something.

     Accuracy on marriage question: Poor. She got that I would be married, but said the marriage would be in 2 1/2 years to a wealthy woman I hadn't met yet. This worried my fiance.

     The seer: Steve MacDonald
     ("Palmistry over the Phone")
     The site: My kitchen phone. My fiance's cats, Anna and Vronsky, mewed in the background, and I was afraid Steve would grasp their deeper significance.
     Technique: Steve asked me to draw my palms and fingers over the mouthpiece, then place it over the spot between my eyes (my "third eye"). Then, to his credit, he instructed me to not give him any verbal encouragement, but to listen to his barrage of intuition, most of which was completely wrong ("someone near you attended Vanderbilt University") and some of which struck me as utter truth ("You are a talented person.") Still, for an introductory free reading, it was not bad.
     Accuracy on marriage: Hard to say. He didn't mention weddings or romance at all. He did say I would apply a coat of paint to a door.

     The seer: Rochelle Bates
     The site: Her office, a small, pleasant, new-age sort of room.
     Technique: Coated palms with printer's ink and made prints. Studied prints for a moment, then reeled off a portrait of my personality that couldn't have been more accurate if she was reading from my resume. Her prognostication contained lots of useful health and lifestyle tips, some of which I took to heart. The encounter left me facing two equally unpalatable choices: either a) I had a streak of gullible dupishness heretofore unrecognized; or b) people's lives, past and future, are recorded in the lines on their palms.
     Accuracy on marriage question: Good, at first. She said that I would marry between the ages of 30 and 32 (correct). But, to my cynical relief, she added a bit of psychic prediction and conjured up a dark-haired East Coaster (my fiance is a strawberry blond born in Chicago) whom I would meet perhaps in five years.
     That's a nice summer thought to end on. Some mysterious dark-haired Easterner showing up at a family wiener roast in August 1995. Maybe she'll agree to have a frank and a cold one and the three of us can sit around the back yard, marveling at the beautiful interplay of stars, fate and struggle that brought us to our benighted state.

         —originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 8, 1990

Enough with the complaining already

     Show of hands: how many of you are tired of City Council members always complaining? Everybody? I thought so. These alderpeople jostle like piglets at the public teat, for years, slurping up their six-figure aldermanic salaries, enhanced with all sorts of quasi-legal side hustles. Then a sweeter gig beckons, they raise dripping snouts from the mire, wipe a trotter across their mouths, and start bellyaching.
     Boo hoo! People opposed me. Lori Lightfoot was mean to me. It isn’t fair!
     Get over it. You’re not special. Lightfoot doesn’t like anybody.
     So why I am complaining about the complaining of others? Maybe I caught the hypocrisy virus fogging the air. Maybe I’m just annoyed over Ald. Howard Brookins (21st) exit interview in last Thursday’s Sun-Times, the one where he starts out griping that he could “write a whole book called ‘The Backstabbers’” about Chicago politics because of how treacherous everybody has been to him.
     “People who were my friends in office and fraternity brothers subsequently ran against me...”
     “Friends”? FRIENDS! Did Brookins, an adult man of 58 years, pair the word “friends” with “in office”?
     Howard, let Uncle Neil tell you something you should have known long ago: There are no friends in public life. The affection of politicians, to quote a wiser colleague — OK, Lynn Sweet — is “situational and transactional.” They’re always there when they need you. Then they’re gone, gone, gone.

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'Don't you go' — Breaking the bad news to bees

Bee hives at the Chicago Botanic Garden

      "Oh no!" I said, surprised though not stricken, to learn of Queen Elizabeth II's death Thursday afternoon on Twitter. I immediately passed the news on — informing my wife, who was sitting a few feet from me. Since then I, no doubt like you, have been eagerly lapping at the endless ocean of reports and commentaries on the seismic shift, because that's what royalty does: give us something grand to think about, embroider our drab, work-a-daddy lives with regal purples and heraldic oranges.

      Like most, I imagine, I was pleased that Sad Sack Charles finally got his big promotion, and understood, if not entirely appreciated, those who used the moment to remind us what brutal imperialists the Brits used to be. Though it does seem bad form. I've gone to the funerals of people who had significant flaws, yet managed not to announce those flaws in a loud voice across the funeral parlor. But I understand the motivation. Someone used the queen's passing to tweet the opening sentence of Patrick Freyne's delicious analysis of royalty and celebrity on the occasion of Oprah's interview with Prince Harry and Meghan Markle last year. I admired its concision, metaphor and pacing and passed the lines along:

Having a monarchy next door is a little like having a neighbour who’s really into clowns and has daubed their house with clown murals, displays clown dolls in each window and has an insatiable desire to hear about and discuss clown-related news stories. More specifically, for the Irish, it’s like having a neighbour who’s really into clowns and, also, your grandfather was murdered by a clown.

      Prose like that reinforced my natural inclination to say nothing. I don't have a dog in this race, nor any particular insight to add. When I tried to ponder writing something, the first thought that came to mind — trying unsuccessfully to arrange tea with the Queen when I went to London to give a speech in 2009 — was not about her at all, but about me, my go-to inclination that I constantly battle. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent," Wittgenstein writes. Sound advice.
      But my 48 hours of unusual reticence crumbled at a touch Saturday when I saw a brief report from Rolling Stone, of all places, headlined, with beautiful simplicity, "Queen Elizabeth II's Bees Have Been Informed of Her Death."
     Normally, implausible news should be checked out, but this, by Daniel Kreps, has a purity, sweetness and veracity that immediately manifests itself in the opening lines:

     The hives of bees that reside within the gardens of Buckingham Palace have been informed of Queen Elizabeth II’s death.
     In keeping with one of the stranger traditions connected to the British royal family, the palace’s official beekeeper broke the news of Her Majesty’s death at the age of 96 to the roughly 30,000 bees currently on the grounds, with the royal beekeeper also tying black ribbons around the hives in memory of Queen Elizabeth II.

     I would stake my reputation on that being true. A thousand writers from the Onion working for a century couldn't approach that tone. And if it isn't true, well then I will happily, as Sherlock Holmes always threatened to do, retire to Sussex and keep bees.
     I don't want to seize Kreps' work — click on the link, it's the best thing you'll read today — though to urge you toward it, I'll share the words that royal beekeeper John Chappie used to break the bad news:
     "The mistress is dead, but don’t you go. Your master will be a good master to you."

     Reading that gave me a mad impulse to again ask Mayor Lori Lightfoot to meet me at the hives which, for years, were on the roof atop City Hall. Then I remembered that, a) she always refuses, via her underlings and b) the hives have been removed, I was told when I was fact-checking the book, which of course has a few lines about Chicago beekeeping. As to whether the bees were exiled through Lightfoot's hostility toward bees — maybe she was stung once as a lass in Massillon and harbors grudges, her particular genius, or maybe as sentient creatures other than herself, they naturally draw her contempt. Or maybe she is completely indifferent to bees — that sounds right — and the hives were dismantled independent to her, as part of the general program of deterioration that grips the city. 

     Anyway, the queen is gone and Chicago hives are gone, I am told. In Britain, the bees now labor for King Charles III, and know it.

 

Northshore Notes: No Moor

     I'm almost embarrassed to say what my primary takeaway is on Northshore Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey's lovely rumination on childhood and royalty. But a writer should be who he is, so here goes: There's a Sock Monkey Museum? Why was I not told? Until now of course. Enjoy.

By Caren Jeskey

     Long Grove Confectionery was the Disneyland of Lake County when we were kids. We’d pile into a wood paneled station wagon and take the very long (for little people) journey northwest of the city to a magical land of candy. Just beyond the fairytale forest — perhaps Deer Grove or Lions Woods — an idyllic town appeared to us in the windshield. Thousands of lights twinkled between the trees as the cozy skyline of Long Grove came into view.  

      My brother, sister and I jumped around, bursting with anticipation, from our unbuckled spots in the back, the way back, or the way-way-back. This was the '70s. As you well know, children were allowed to nestle between mom and dad in the front seat of a car, sit unbuckled anywhere, or even lay down in the back, seats folded down, on sleeping bags.
     The good old days! We were closer to death but it sure was fun.
     My father would drop us off to go park and then trek back alone — our quiet and steady hero (with my mom being more of a Wonder Woman type of hero, on top of the quiet, steady work she did for the family). We’d hop out of the car and stand before the confectionery, which was a perfect replica of a little red schoolhouse. We had arrived. We were royalty and nothing could stop us from getting the giant peanut butter cups and turtles that we’d later chomp down in record time.
     When Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor died at the age of 96 this week it was very sad to hear. I’m sorry for the loss to her family, and everyone else who loved her. Her death is also a mortality reminder for several people in my life. It was easy to immortalize such a powerful person.
     The awareness of memento mori was passed down to me, as a person with Irish Catholic Polish Lithuanian blue- and lower-collar roots, and a heavy dose of Jewish influence. It’s not bad to remember that we are all going to die. Everyone we love is going to die. And as a friend pointed out, everyone we don't like is going to die too. For me, remembering that simple fact can make vitriol towards others less appealing. It can steer us out of judgment and into living our own lives rather than getting lost in anger towards others.
     Memento mori is “God willing,” or “b’ezrat HaShem,” in Jewish and Hebrew tradition. It’s “today is a good day to die," a phrase credited to everyone from Hunkpapa Lakota leader Low Dog to a Methodist preacher named Wilbur Fisk in the 1800s, to a character in the movie Smoke Signals, and even to Klingons. It’s “In sha’Allah” in Arabic. “Lord willing and the crick don’t rise” poetically said by a southern redhead friend. “Deo volente” in Latin.
     Since mortality is inevitable for most of us — not sure about Elon yet, but time will tell — trying to live a good life is comforting. As a non believer in higher powers, my purpose is doing what I can to make the world a better place while I am here, and when I am not, in the form of good memories. Yes. Easier said than done, and an endless journey.
     Good health starts with a strong sense of oneself. Not a grandiose or insecure ego, but a healthy ego. Knowing what we can change and what we cannot change, and then taking reasonable steps to get the results we want while being able to accept disappointment as a part of life.
     I often speak about the past with nostalgia. It is not lost on me that there are countless reasons to be grateful that the days of yore are in the past. For us to bid them adieu.
     The idea of blue bloods is one such reason. There is no such thing as royal blood. Even their legacy is rife with every ailment and affliction known to the rest of us. They are just much, much richer.
     I cringed when I saw that Oprah and Harry had a show on AppleTV called The Me You Can’t See. I wrote it off as probable fluff. Then I decided to give it a watch, rather than being an uninformed critic. The first episode was done very well. Harry speaks of what it felt like to lose his mother, and how his very needs as a young child were ignored in the name of keeping up appearances at that time. It exhausted the little fellow. Harry, like many people, had give up his essence as a child to perform, in order to maintain his attachments to those he relied on. A recipe for disaster as far as human development goes.
     The term blue blood came from the idea that milky white people in Spain, whose veins show through their skin, are superior. Their blood must not get mucked up with the blood of darker skinned people such as the Moors. It’s time for this archaic false belief to be put to rest. I realize that it’s not at all that simple, and the monarchy has its place in the stability of the world; however, let’s revisit who gets revered and who gets trampled upon on this planet.
     To get through this thing called life, I often take day trips to fun places like Long Grove, still. Last Sunday was for Irish Fest. My family and I tapped along to Irish jigs, marveled at the strength of the young dancers, and enjoyed the bagpipe parade as musicians in full Irish regalia marched through the crowd. My niece and I found a stream with rocks to cross, and a patch of grass to run around on, then collapse and look for four leaf clovers.
     We popped into the Sock Monkey Museum. We ate on the patio of a restaurant perched on a lake. We had some simple fun, in the melee of this complicated week of 2022.

‘Homelessness’ finally eliminated!

Night Ministry worker checks on unhoused couple on Lower Wacker Drive.

     “Look at his shirt!” I said to my wife, aghast, as we watched two extremely fit young men trade volleys at the U.S. Open. Square neck, with a bib effect that made Karen Khachanov seem like he was wearing a barista apron.
     “Take it up with Nike,” she replied, dismissively.
     Translation: Change happens, deal with it.
     As if the reality that “the goat” Charlie Brown was, for baseball ineptitude, has completely morphed into “the GOAT” that Serena Williams is, the Greatest Of All Time, were not strain enough, now comes another linguistic shift, courtesy of my friends at the Night Ministry.
     ”Revised Mission Statement Recognizes Primacy of Human Connection and Dignity of Clients” reads the headline across that organization’s Fall 2022 Nightlights newsletter. 

     “The Night Ministry’s previous mission statement referred to those we serve as ‘experiencing homelessness’” it explains. “The word ‘homeless’ has been deliberately replaced with ‘unhoused,’ as the former often has derogatory connotations.”
     Progress?
     The problem with designating new words to describe negative conditions is that, no matter how carefully chosen, they quickly become negative words themselves, sometimes insults. Changing conditions is hard, often impossible, so we change the words describing them instead. Go for the low-hanging fruit.
     The idea, I believe, is that changing language helps change conditions. Maybe so. Though this also leads to something I call “euphemism creep” where any word attached with certain populations assumes the difficulties of the groups described, and becomes pejorative. “Special needs” was supposed to replace developmentally disabled, but soon kids were taunting each other as “special.”      The tendency has been to stop labeling people under all-encompassing terms. Thus you’re not blind, but a person with visual challenges. Focus on the human, not the difficulty.
     That’s why “slave” has been shown the gate. The word fell from favor to describe the condition afflicting many Black Americans before 1865 because it was based on the perspective of white society, which viewed them as chattel, period. When in reality they possessed all the qualities other people have. So instead of “her grandmother was born a slave,” I write, “her grandmother was born in slavery,” which isn’t a loss in style or comprehension and leaves the door open to her grandmother’s many fine qualities.
     But banishing negativity can blur the experience being described. Get vague enough and the reader won’t know what you’re talking about. I once wrote a long piece on what it’s like to be disfigured, talking to people with no noses, burned faces, or features distorted through neurofibromatosis.
     Mosaic, the London medical website publishing the article, was uncomfortable with the word “disfigured.” They wanted such people called “different.”

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Book event this weekend

By Barbara Kruger

     Drama and literary talks do not, as a rule, go hand in hand. Public appearances of authors are typically sunk into the realm of scripted routine, half photo op, half marketing ploy. The free coconut shrimp on a card table at Costco only with books and they're not free.
     You know what to expect: the tweedy writer, flushed from his hidey hole, shorter, older, more timid than his publicity photo would suggest, in his miserable corduroy jacket, blinking in surprise at discovering a handful of actual human people assembled before him (or, more typically, not assembled before him). The audience, should there be one, prim, skewing even older, faces set in judgment, unease and anticipatory boredom. The birdlike host, eyes darting about the room, wondering if she will be held personally responsible for scheduling this fiasco, warbling an introduction, sometimes read off a card in a plummy voice as if the speaker were not only unfamiliar with today's guest, but unaccustomed to language itself. The inert pile of books, sooooo expensive without the expected discounts, waiting to be sold. Or, more typically, not sold.
     Despite these norms there is nevertheless a bit of drama building behind my scheduled appearance this Sunday at 2 p.m. on the Plymouth Court Stage at the Printers Row Lit Fest, the first event supporting my new book, inspired by this blog: "Every Goddamn Day: A Highly Selective, Definitely Opinionated, Alternatingly Humorous and Heartbreaking Historical Tour of Chicago" being published by University of Chicago Press. It's billed as a conversation with Shermann Dilla Thomas, the "viral Chicago TikTok historian." 

    I've never met Thomas, nor have we yet conferred about how Sunday should unfold.  What if we don't get along? What if we just sit there, gawping at each other, waiting for the other to begin? Or, worse, what if Shermann simply starts talking and doesn't stop? Never pausing, nor even looking at me. The audience, spellbound, eats it up. They lean forward, hanging on each word. Rapt. At some point, about 40 minutes in, I silently stand up, edge my way around the table and leave the room. Nobody notices. 
     There's more. I've never even seen a copy of my new book, and can't honestly say for certain whether any exist, or will by Sunday. If the books do arrive, I picture a white van from the vast University of Chicago warehouse in Pullman screeching to a halt on West Polk Street and before the frame has a chance to rock back on the wheels the back doors fly open and a single box is expelled, tumbling to the curb like a hurled bundle of newspapers, then rushed through the Lit Fest crowds looking for vintage cookbooks. I'll be still settling in, looking around at the audience, puffing out my cheeks and wondering, "Where IS everybody?" when I'll be handed a book, have just enough time to register its heft and the fact that the cover is put on upside down and backward, and then be called upon to speak about the history of Chicago, which I'll promptly trace to 1491 and the expulsion of the Bohemians from Spain.
     Were I you, I would not want to miss it. There's the whole Lit Fest going on all weekend, a sprawling carnival of reading material and assorted ephemera, like those old books cut up into sculpture and velvet-lined storage boxes. They make good Christmas gifts, and it isn't often that you have the chance to sit with a real author and talk for an hour, one-on-one. Not that I'm expecting that to happen. I'm still holding out hope that Shermann Dilla Thomas shows up and is joined by audience members in addition to yourself, and maybe even an appearance by the physical book that is responsible for this whole thing, an effort that I've been working on like a plow horse for the past two years.
     But there is a chance. See you Sunday. Maybe. Admission is free.

Nick Cave fights racism with beauty

     Sometimes it feels like we’ve become a nation squatting in the ruins of our past. Living off scrounged philosophy and canned food discovered in wrecked basements, warming ourselves over the flickering fires of liberties ignited long ago and not quite extinguished. There’s so much stuff scattered everywhere, garish and contradictory, trash pushed up into enormous cliffs and walls. It takes focused attention to make any sense of it, and an act of rare genius to render the rubble into art.
     I almost missed the Nick Cave show at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Why go? Well, I’d seen one of the artist’s quirky Soundsuits — a sequined costume topped with a kind of exaggerated pope’s mitre — at the Whitney in New York a couple years back. He’s a Chicago artist, and while I only recently realized he is a different person than the Australian singer of the same name, I try to keep track of Chicago artists. I also noticed friends on Facebook posting photos of hundreds of delicate foil spinners when the show opened in mid-May.
     I’ve long passed the get-to-the-show-when-it-opens phase of my life, and am now firmly trudging through the try-to-see-it-before-it-closes part. With the Cave show closing Oct. 2, the canyon floor was hurtling up at me.
     Still, not exactly a pitchfork at the back prodding me downtown. Perhaps key, my wife also wanted to go, and we paired a visit to the MCA Sunday with hitting the last day of the Chicago Jazz Fest. I’d point out how downtown was jammed with throngs of happy tourists, but that’s becoming cliche. Still, if only all those patriots edgily fingering their weapons downstate and projecting dire thoughts at a city they last visited in 1992 could muster the courage of a 4-year-old girl in a tutu to walk down Michigan Avenue. It might be an education for them. Or might not, given the current genius to see, not what’s in front of you, but what’s between your ears, projected upon the world like a slideshow.
     I’m glad we went. Because while the colorful Soundsuits, dripping with beads and buttons and bling, are weird and wry and engaging, what really struck me is how Cave takes ephemera, the kitsch you see sold on a blanket on city streets, and assembles it into tableaus of significance.

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