Extroverted? Here’s some tips on how to be quiet and reflective

 

     Going to many parties this year? Me either. None at all, in fact. Which is great. One of the guilty secrets of COVID is that the pandemic is a jubilee for us introverts. You mean we can’t go into crowded places? Or to the office? Or out of the house? Yessssss!
     Introversion always struck me as a personal flaw. We’re all supposed to be salesmen for our own personal brands, striding up to strangers with a gleaming grin and a firm handshake. I never thought of shyness as a valuable skill that could be shared, until I saw this tweet mocking O The Oprah Magazine for printing yet another article on how to be more outgoing:

     “Just once I’d like to see, “Extroverted? Here’s Some Tips on How to be More Quiet and Reflective,” observed Tom + Lorenzo, the brand for Tom Fitzgerald and Lorenzo Marquez, a Philadelphia-based lifestyle and fashion duo.
     The thought bubbled up: Hey ... wait a minute. I could write such an article.
     Perhaps now is the moment, during the holiday hubbub. A bit of introversion might make it easier for everybody involved; might mute, just a little, the chest drumming of the relentlessly gregarious. Especially those who get into arguments, blurt out hurtful opinions they later regret, and otherwise dig a deep hole with their mouths they then have to try to climb out of, somehow.
    It’s worth a try. Here are five tips on how to be more quiet and reflective in social settings:
     1. Shut up. Take your hand and put it against your lips. Are they moving? You might be one of the many who talk continuously, out of habit. Who take the old “Silence = Death” slogan far too literally. Take your fingers and firmly clamp your lips together. If your jaws are still working, and you’re making muffled, “Mmm mmmmm...” sounds, take in a long, deep, slow breath. It’s impossible to inhale and talk at the same time.

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Mayor Willie Wilson and other predictions

     Our managing editor asked for ideas to include in a special looking-ahead-to-the-coming year section, and I suggested remarking on the inexplicable popularity of looking ahead to the coming year, a mystery considering how off base they usually are. To his credit, he said, "Yeah, do that."

     Magazines pile up in my office, no matter how I try to glance at them. It was March before I got around to The Economist’s special year-end issue, “The World Ahead: 2022.” Given that the global order had just been rattled by Russia’s unprovoked invasion of Ukraine on Feb. 24, I couldn’t help but immediately flip to the section on Russia to see how clearly the London-based magazine’s expert had seen trouble coming.
     Short answer: not very.
     Yes, the article had the promising print title “Russia’s battlegrounds.” But neither of the two projected fights involved actual warfare.
     “One is elections,” wrote Arkady Ostrovsky, The Economist’s Russia editor. “The other is the freedom of the internet.” The story, which you can read online here, ended, “The war over the internet will define Russia’s near future.”
      If only. Then again, year-end predictions seldom come true, and it’s telling that a) the media keeps making them anyway, and b) people still read them and c) nobody seems to look back to see how poorly past prognostications worked out.
     Grab any list from last year and the misfires are so wrong, they’re almost funny.
     Forbes’ “Ten Predictions for 2022,” written by Adam Strauss, offered as a guide to help people invest money, at least began by admitting that augury is “tricky” and lowering the bar by adding “predictions can be fascinating and informative, even if many of them turn out not to occur.”
     Which many did not. Not No. 6, Congress legalizing pot. Nor No. 8, “Cryptocurrency and blockchain applications continue to grow,” claiming that, “Bitcoin exits the year with a price above $50,000.” Try about a third of that: $17,757 in mid-December. I bet Forbes’ face-plant wasn’t so fascinating and informative for anyone who made investments based on its tea leaf-gazing.
      Nor did No. 9 come true, Republicans taking control of the Senate. But most of the media botched that, the anticipated red tsunami turning out to be a pink splash. (At least I suggested, right before the midterm, there was hope the red wave wouldn’t come, since Brazil president and Trump manque Jair Bolsonaro got the boot in Brazil.)

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‘Something to fight for’

Dalia Stasevska conducts the Chicago Symphony Orchestra (photo by Todd Rosenberg)

     Musicians bridge the chasm between our world of woe and the higher sphere of the sublime. Just look at Dalia Stasevska. Six weeks ago she was driving a van filled with supplies into war-torn Ukraine, her homeland. Last weekend, she made her debut with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, conducting a trio of concerts.
     “It was fantastic,” she said. “This is a legendary orchestra. I grew up listening to their recordings.”
     Born in Kyiv, she grew up in Finland and trained as a violinist. She has conducted around the world, but this is her first visit to Chicago; she was grateful for the blue and yellow flags on display. 

     ”American support has meant so much for Ukraine,” she said. “I can’t underline it enough. The first day I walked in this city and saw Ukrainian flags. It meant so much.”
     When the Russians invaded earlier this year, Stasevska wasn’t sure she should continue wielding a baton.
     “The war has changed my life quite a lot,” she said. “When the war broke out in February ... I was just on my way to conduct the Seattle orchestra. I seriously thought of canceling all my concerts. The Seattle Symphony Orchestra was really kind to me. They called me and asked, ‘What can we do to help Ukraine?’ It made me think: I cannot change the world and stop this war with music. But I can use my mouth and speak out and use this platform as my own front line.”
     She has family in Ukraine and has been back twice since the war started, delivering medicine and supplies.
     ”It’s really heartbreaking to go there and see the country so crippled,” she said. “Indescribably heartbreaking. The city in sandbags. Bombed all the time. Inflation is terrible. People don’t have money. It’s difficult to describe the reality.”
   On her latest trip, once supplies were distributed, she knew what she had to do.

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The readers speak: War in Ukraine, all our fault

"La vida surgiendo de la muerte" (Life emerging from death) by Arturo Garcia Bustos (NMMA) 

     I don't think any comment by me is necessary regarding this letter from a reader, which arrived under the subject heading: "Puppet master Biden pulling puppet Zelensky’s negotiating strings in Ukraine." I answered only "Wow," which the author took as approval. It wasn't. The reader writes:

     President Biden’s proxy war against Russia, using US firepower to shed endless Ukraine blood, remains an unrelenting catastrophe for over 8 months.
     Tens of thousands of Ukrainians are dead or wounded. Millions have fled to safer climes. Ukraine has ceased to function as a viable state, totally dependent on US and NATO aid. We’ve poured tens of billions in weaponry into Ukraine to keep the carnage soaring with no chance of a Ukraine military victory. Upwards of a third of that weaponry never reaches the battlefield against Russia. But enough does to delay an inevitable Russian victory, ensuring a long, bloody war.  
     That, tragically, is the primary US goal, to weaken Russia so they will never achieve political and economic integration into Europe. That has been the foundation of the US proxy war against Russia since the Soviet Union disbanded in 1991. Five presidents before Biden, beginning with George H.W. Bush, maintained that relatively bloodless proxy war by expanding NATO from 14 to 30 members, including former Soviet states, right up to Russia’s borders.
     President Obama accelerated the march to this years’ hot war in Ukraine by greenlighting the US destruction of Ukraine democracy in 2014. Our encouragement and support of the February coup against Russian leaning Ukraine president Victor Yanukovych, set off a civil war in the Donbas, further encouraged and weaponized by America. Over 14,000 dead there when the 2015 Minsk II Accords, providing regional autonomy for the Donetsk and Luhansk, could have ended it early on. Obama, Trump and now Biden sabotaged Minsk II least it be viewed as a Russian victory in the proxy war.
     But it was President Biden, for inexplicable reasons, who made Russia’s illegal, criminal invasion of Ukraine February 24, virtually inevitable. He kept dangling possible NATO membership for Ukraine, a red line Russia proclaimed we dare not cross. He totally rebuffed Russian President Putin’s December, 2021 efforts to negotiate a sensible resolution to the approaching war. Worse yet, Biden stood back as Ukraine massed thousands of elite troops near the Donbas to finish off the Russian speaking Ukrainians rightly seeking independence from the murderous Ukraine regime
     As chief funder of the war, Biden is the only leader capable of negotiating a ceasefire and peace. Sadly, he’s so boxed himself and the US into total victory over Russia, the war is likely to proceed till Ukraine simply collapses regardless of America’s blank weapons check.
     In a cop out for the ages, Biden insists only Ukraine President Zelensky can negotiate its end. Yet when Zelensky got on board a possible 15 point Turkey brokered agreement in March, Biden sent top UK and US officials scurrying to Kyiv to disabuse Zelensky of any settlement that does not weaken Russia in America’s self-destructive proxy war.
     America’s puppet in Ukraine can’t make a move without the US pulling his strings to do as it says. We can only hope Zelensky, like Pinocchio, comes to life, throws off his US held strings and sits down at the Peace Table before reckless US string pulling destroys his country.

Walt Zlotow
West Suburban Peace Coalition
Glen Ellyn IL

More than just the Tumblers

     Jesse White argued with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., trying to push back against this nonviolence nonsense.
     In 1955, when King came to lead the bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, White was a junior at Alabama State.
     “He wrapped his arms around me, I was special to him,” said White, Illinois secretary of state since 1999. He’ll be replaced by Alexi Giannoulias in January.
     Why was White special to Dr. King? Because White was such a good basketball player, the man who, it is said, brought the jump shot to the Southland when players still shot underhand.
     King was not beyond showing his favor in direct, tangible form.
     “After every basketball game he’d give me $20,” remembered White. “I was on public aid here in Chicago. Came from a family of seven; that was big money then. It was legal then, not legal now.”
     That was at Thursday night services, the same ones where King told the students dragooned to fill up the room about Rosa Parks.

     “ ‘I’ve been asked by the city fathers to desegregate the transit system and have agreed to do so,’ ” King said, in White’s recollection. “ ‘I’m going to use the nonviolent means approach.’”
     The tactics of Gandhi did not sit well with young White.
     “I raised my hand. He said, ‘Jesse White, what can I do for you?’” said White, with impressive specificity after 67 years. “I said, ‘Dr. King, you know me, you know me well. I’m from Chicago, and we don’t operate like that.’”
     That’s a good story, and to sit in White’s memento-, award- and photo-lined office in the Thompson Center, itself about to pass from government service, is to be plunged into a series of complicated tales about dramatic moments in his life — playing baseball for the Cubs organization, his 35 parachute jumps with the 101st Airborne Division — two realities that were interconnected. Fresh out of college, he was drafted four days before he was to start playing with the Cubs.
     “It killed me,” he said. “I did all I could to keep from going. Finally, I went.”

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Eli's Cheesecake = home + love.

 

     Food and memory, comfort and happiness, are all bound up together. I can't eat a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup — not that I get much chance nowadays, alas — and not at some point think back to sitting on stools at the gold-flecked linoleum counter in our kitchen in Berea, home from kindergarten, confiding to my mother across the counter, eating my soup and sandwich. As to why that memory should linger for more than half a century, I would guess it is a combination of the gooey goodness of hot cheese, the tangy comfort of good soup, and the full attention of my adored mother enfolding me in a collective warm embrace.
     I don't know what you thought of when you saw the fabulous-looking slice of cheesecake atop today's blog, or featured in the Eli's Cheesecake ad that went up this week. But I was transported back to early October. My older son and his girlfriend had come into town for my book launch party — itself a great compliment, as the young people are loath to tear themselves away from the 24-hour-a-day celebration that is New York City, to visit what I know is, in their eyes, practically a flyspeck rural backwater where they roll up the sidewalks at 9 p.m.
     They were staying with us, roughing it, and at one point I passed through the kitchen, and there was Taylor, curled up comfortably in sweats and socks, enjoying a slice of Eli's Cheesecake — turtle cheesecake, to be precise.

     We have had an Eli's Cheesecake in our freezer for at least a decade. Sometimes two. Not the same cheesecake or two, mind you. They are purchased, a few slices eaten immediately, in joy, and then the rest returned to frozen slumber, where they wait until duty calls. Sometimes it's me, throwing caution to the wind. Sometimes a celebration erupts. Once, we had dinner guests coming and realized at the last moment, with horror, that we had not procured dessert. Bingo, four slices of hospitality, ready to defrost. Eli's Cheesecake is the fire axe behind glass for any host.
     I can't tell you how many times the boys have come home, dropped their bags (okay, more accurately, flung their possessions in a wide arc across the downstairs rooms. I'm not really sure how they do that. It's as if a dump truck backed up to the front door and tipped in a load of shoes and jackets and cables and socks and luggage). The freezer is yanked open, the big square brown cardboard boxes of Eli's Cheesecake pulled out, and set upon.
     That isn't the reason they come home. I hope. Not the only reason. I mean, it isn't the sort of question I could ever ask, or that, being asked, they would ever answer, at least not beyond the standard roll of the eyes followed by a beseeching look to their mother. Can't you do something about him? 

     It isn't as if I worry that, were they to come home and find the cheesecake not in the freezer, as always, as expected, they would slide the freezer door shut, wordlessly straighten up, shoot their mother a single, withering look, scrape together the enormous mound of shoes, jackets, cables, etc., splayed across our downstairs, jam the huge bundle under one arm, pull the front door open with their free hand while a sock tumbles to the floor, unnoticed, turn, regard us with mingled disappointment and contempt, utter a single disdainful syllable, sounding like "hoomf," then disappear into an Uber. 
     At least I don't worry about that much. But I sure don't want to find out.
     Anyway, seeing the young lady demurely poking at her Eli's Cheesecake with a dessert fork, engrossed in the New York Times, which we subscribe to so they'll feel at home, was vastly reassuring, that the canopy of familial hospitality had been properly extended, and the wordless lure of cheesecake, fusing it with home and welcome, properly communicated.
     So if you are a parent, and have ever had any kind of distressing encounter with your children, or find them not as quick to hurry to your side as would be ideal, the question, "Is there Eli's Cheesecake in my freezer?" should be foremost in your mind while assessing the situation. And if, God forbid, the answer is "No," well, there's your problem right there. The blame is yours alone. I'm not saying that it puts you in league with those negligent parents who let their kids play outdoors without coats, standing at the side of the road, peanut butter smeared on their faces, staring with bovine incomprehension at the passing traffic. Though it unquestionably does. I don't normally eat cheesecake for dessert, just as I don't put on my tuxedo to go to Sunset Foods. But like the tux, Eli's Cheesecake is always there, ready, the beating heart of hospitality, the lighthouse at the harbor, calling all ships safely home. Because my children know that in a world of confusion and disorder, where standards are abandoned and foundational beliefs crumble, Eli's Cheesecake will alway, always, always be there, ready to celebrate their return. My children, and now their significant others. They know that in their heart of hearts. Do yours?

It's not too late to repair the grievous neglect you have inflicted upon your family. You can decide which Eli's Cheesecake to order by clicking here.

      

Northshore Notes: Number Two On Her Love List

     You don't see Bukowski quoted much anymore. Well, I don't anyway. Maybe he's read aloud and recited, name-checked and referred to, all the time, in that loud, boisterous discussion about drink and writing and hotel rooms and failed dreams going on somewhere else, among people I never met, just out of earshot. Anyway, I was glad Caren brings him up today.

By Caren Jeskey

“An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.”
                                                        — Charles Bukowski

     Alternating, as I do, between experiencing life as a highly intellectualized (often paralyzingly so) artist (with debilitating anxiety at times, causing stage fright that didn't let me stay on any stages when I had the chance), a rigidly righteous intellectual, an unrealistically idealistic creative, and who knows what else, I wish Bukowski were here for a conversation on the topic. And not on Zoom. A face to face talk, with tone, inflection, and body language. The whole bit.
     I’m longing for dinner parties of yore. When we still carried flip phones, or no phones at all, and paid attention to each other for endless hours. Our brains grew, and we laughed. We kissed hello and goodbye on the lips.
     If I’d met Bukowski would he have been drunk? “My beer drunk soul is sadder than all the dead Christmas trees of the world.” Or sardonically spot-on? “People are strange: they are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.” Or perhaps a sage for these times? "The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence."
     Doing a shallow dive into Bukowski this week was prompted by responses to my blog post last week. I wrote about some tough stuff, revealing dark corners of my inner landscape. Some readers and friends responded “I get it. Thanks for saying what I was feeling.” Others replied as though it was a cry for help. A family member even asked if I’ve talked to my therapist. 

     (I am doing okay. Better than okay, probably. But thanks dear readers, for reading at all).
     I found myself wondering if people would give me advice were I a man? I wondered who’d have had the chutzpah to tell Bukowski what to do? After spending way too much time thinking about gender inequity and starting to bristle and being mansplained about, I snapped out of it. I realized “Oh. I can just read some Bukowski.”
     His screenplay "Bar Fly" left one of the deepest impressions a movie has ever made in my life, and further solidified my cinephile ways. I saw the movie when I was 18. Formative years. It made me want more grit. More reality. By that time I had already spent too much time bellied up to dirty bars with sticky floors. (My friend had been dating a 44 year old bartender for years by then).
     I had planned to tell a story today about what a misogynistic, tragic fellow Bukowski was. But I can’t, since now that I’ve looked back at his words I realize I’ve been thinking about him all wrong. Or partly wrong. I attended an eye opening talk this week about implicit bias, led by Sterling Haukom Anderson. She helped us see our biases more clearly. She touched upon the “horns effect,” which occurs “when we see one bad thing about a person and let it cloud our opinions of their other attributes.” I do this more than I realized, now that I look at it. This may seem obvious, but I think it's good to remember that our unconscious biases are doing push-ups in our minds even if we don't know they're there. We learned that "automatic decision-making is an unconscious 'danger detector,'" from Joseph LeDoux's work, Professor of Neural Science, Psychology, Psychiatry, and Child and Adolescent Psychiatry at New York University. Not a dumb guy.
     I realize that there’s a lot going on in the world, and I do pay attention. But I also realize that the only path to contentment is to have less discord, not more, within ourselves and with others. To learn from others rather than categorizing them. (To be fair, it will be next to impossible for me to learn anything from this crackpot for example but I guess I’ll have to challenge myself to try).
     For today I’ll stay away from upsetting news — life is so damn short and I want to feel more joy dag gummit! — and hold onto a simple truth from a healthier part of my mind. Here it is. This week a child told me she thinks her mother loves her the most out of anyone in the world. She said, “then, I think it’s you.”

     “The hope is a touch of graceful humor, no matter what's occurring. The ability to laugh, the ability to see the ridiculous, the ability not to tense up too much, when things become impossible, just to face them anyhow.”                                                                                                               — Charles Bukowski