‘We live better than the kings’

Jim Kendros

     “Good afternoon everyone. I’m very happy to be back again at Belmont Village. My name is Jim Kendros, and I had such a wonderful time being here before. We’re going to explore great music today.”
     An audience of about two dozen people, including my parents, gathered in the lobby of a senior living community in Buffalo Grove last week.
     “Today I have a program called ‘Mozart and More,’” Kendros continues.
     He plays “Carol of the Bells” on the piano. It quickly becomes clear that the lobby is not the best environment for a recital. Noisy conversations erupt. Phones ring. A few residents arrive, late and loudly. A janitor rolls a garbage can rumbling by.
     None of this fazes Kendros, talking major versus minor, diving into musical theory.
     “Chances are you have heard something we call the ‘incipit’ in music,” he says. “I-N-C-I-P-I-T. It’s a Latin word that basically means the smallest part of a melody.”
     Kendros does this for a living. He also lectures before concerts, as well as social clubs and libraries. He is a composer, creator of the Mount Prospect Overture.
     For me, just visiting here once a week can be an occasion for somber reflection. I wondered how Kendros views his audience.
     “They’re near the end of their lives, even though I hope they will live another 20, 30 years,” he told me, earlier, over the phone. “I would like to believe I’m bringing them not only new things to think about but helping them to feel younger.”

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Flashback 1998: Roy Rogers "He could always move the merchandise"

National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution

     One point being debated in our new union contract is whether to put constraints on freelance work. That's nuts. I've always freelanced — that's what got me writing for the Sun-Times in the first place — and am proud of the range of publications I've written for. This is the only piece I've ever had published in Sports Illustrated. It came about because I was researching Roy Roger's obit — I had come upon a story of him proposing to Dale Evans, a Chicago radio singer, while on horseback at the old Chicago Stadium in 1947, and thought that moment alone was worth eulogizing Roy. One of the clips was a photo from Parade magazine in 1960 of Roy in front of all this NFL crap, and it said .... well, I'll let you read the story. The only other thing I want to add is this only got published because I approached Rick Telander, who had just come to the paper from Sports Illustrated, and asked him for a contact. Generous soul that he was then and is now, he put me in touch with an editor.

     The easiest way to show love for your team is to buy its official logo T-shirt. Or baby bib. Or key chain, chips bowl, coffee cup or athletic sock, or one of the thousands of other products plastered with pro team logos. Sports licensing is a multibillion-dollar business that grows bigger every year. But it wasn't always so. Go back 40 years, to the first effort, by the National Football League, to sell a team image on a national scale. There, smiling and squinting and patting the side of his trusty palomino, is the unexpected figure of Roy Rogers.
     Yes, Roy Rogers, the King of the Cowboys, who died on July 6 at the age of 86, was the midwife of national sports team marketing. When the original NFL Enterprises--now called NFL Properties, the division of the NFL that licenses team logos--was created in 1959, it was a division of Roy Rogers Enterprises. Happy trails, indeed. Before Rogers rode into town, each of the 12 NFL teams took care of its own licensing, what little there was. Some teams even gave away their rights, thinking the team was getting free publicity.
     In 1958 the Los Angeles Rams, the first team to put its logo on the side of its helmets, started selling a bobble-head doll of a Rams player. The doll was a hit. "This is the first we can identify of team logos being applied to a product," says Roger Atkin, who recently retired as vice president of retail sales at NFL Properties.
     That success did not go unnoticed by Rogers, a genius marketer.
     His TV show, which aired from 1951 to '57, was one of the most popular of the decade. At the peak of his fame, 400 Roy Rogers products were on sale. The 1955 Sears catalogue offered 13 pages of Roy Rogers gear--cowboy outfits, lunch boxes, flashlights, hats, slippers, watches, even an inflatable Trigger.
     Rogers's earnings from his licensing agreements dwarfed his salary as a cowboy star, and after his show went off the air, he couldn't see himself returning to the grind of making movies.

     "He just decided he didn't want to make any more films," says Larry Kent, 85, who was general manager of Roy Rogers Enterprises. With the notion that pro teams could tap into the same market as cowboy stars, Rogers approached Major League Baseball, which took a pass. The NFL didn't. Talks began, spearheaded by Pete Rozelle, then the dynamic young general manager of the Rams.

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Assault rifle toll familiar to ER surgeons

Dr. Arthur Berg at work, left.

     Thursday night in South Florida, a rapper named French Montana was shooting a video at a popular Miami soul food restaurant called The Licking. Dr. Arthur Berg was not far away, at his health club, exercising.
     Outside the restaurant, a dispute among two groups in the crowd. Someone squeezed a trigger; 10 people were hit. A few minutes later, while Berg was sprinting on the treadmill, his phone rang.
     It was about 8:30 p.m. Berg, who grew up in Oak Brook, had already worked a full day, starting 10 a.m., ending 7:30 p.m., removing two gallbladders and performing an appendectomy. But he left the gym and hurried to his central Miami hospital — he asked me not to specify which — answering the all-hands-on-deck signal they call a “mass casualty event.”
     “Unfortunately, it’s not a very uncommon thing around here,” said Berg, doing his fellowship in trauma and surgical critical care. “I don’t know what it’s like in Chicago. But down here in Miami, the gun restrictions are a lot looser, and we see our fair share of pretty horrendous injuries. We’re talking about massive soft tissue injuries. We’re talking about shattered bones. We’re talking about mangled extremities.”
     While legislators argue over defining “assault rifle” — a ban on such weapons passed the Illinois House on Friday and this week goes to the state Senate, where it is expected to pass — Berg has no trouble parsing the distinction. He knows right away what kind of gun made the wounds he’s struggling to treat.
     “From a handgun you see a small aperture, in-and-out,” he said. “When you get shot with something like an assault rifle, these high-caliber rifles cause these really destructive injuries.”

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A bullet for the teacher.

Library of Congress

   
     Journalists are not supposed to guess. Rather, we gather what facts we can, present them in as coherent a fashion as we can, try to think about them, and maybe draw such conclusions that are supported by evidence.
     But sometimes we can go out on a limb.
     Knowing nothing about the situation in Virginia except that a 6-year-old in Newport News took a gun to school Friday and shot his teacher at Richneck Elementary School, leaving her with "life-threatening injuries," I will nevertheless state this conjecture as a near-certainty: some adult bought that gun thinking he was protecting himself, and perhaps protecting that kid, and then left it in a place where the child could get at it.
     Another life shattered — correction, group of lives shattered — by the get-the-drop-on-the-bad-guy fantasy.
     That gun owner should be charged with a crime. And as horrible as this shooting is, let me share the really horrible part, which you might not realize: it's not the first time in this country that a 6-year-old has taken a gun to school and shot someone. It has happened before. Several times. And we do nothing, because that's what we do best. So here's another safe conjecture: it will happen again.

Northshore Notes: I Am Anxious, Therefore I Am?

     We each take something different from every book, picture, experience, day. I think I'm going to hold onto the Kierkegaard line about anxiety from Northshore bureau chief Caren Jeskey's post today. Or try to. Lately I'm not sure how how well I hold onto things. It's like tucking a smooth stone into a pocket with a hole in it. Which might be a very Caren-like observation. I suppose I should embrace the hole — otherwise I'd end up with a pocket jammed with stones, and who wants that? Enjoy.

By Caren Jeskey 

     “Man is the supreme Talisman. Lack of a proper education hath, however, deprived him of that which he doth inherently possess. Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”
                                                       — Baha'u'llah: Gleanings

     Per Albert Camus, following meaningful pursuits in life enables us to survive the pain of being human. “The literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself.”
     From the very little Soren Kierkegaard I’ve read, it seems he believed our best choice is to embrace the anxiety that’s inherent and unavoidable in all sentient beings. “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” If we can tolerate, and better yet befriend, our often tender inner selves and also vulnerably connect with others, perhaps we’ll feel less alone and less afraid. We'll have the courage and humility to take ourselves less seriously. Kierkegaard suggests doing what we want in our short lifetimes, if we can. I wondered how hedonistic this guy thought we should be? The answer seems to be … not a lot. Rather, we’d best create an aesthetically pleasing life — whatever that means to us. Fully experience being a human who’s going to die, rather than pretending we are not going to die. 

     Speaking of absurdist philosophy, it seems strange to admit that I received a bit of twisted joy (and some sorrow) this week watching Fox News. When I was younger, Fox was the place to go for some of the best shows. The X-Files. House. The Simpsons. Why am I no longer welcomed there? Turns out I'm OK with it. Not a party I want to join. The bizarre reasoning coming out of plastic spray-tanned faces of many of Fox’s performers has given me a glimpse into some right wing (and all QAnon) fanatics who think that real news is fake, and vice versa. As I listened to their tragically hilarious uninformed malarky, I wondered if I were Jim Carey in The Truman Show. Surreality at its finest.
     Then I wondered if the broken people committing atrocities are actually horror-film actors. I wish they were. But no. Just a bunch of heathens with all of the mental horsepower of Hot Wheels. I’m glad I watched, since now I can see how naïve viewers might be conned into drinking the juice of the false American dream. They do a good job of acting like they know what they are talking about with facial expressions SNL worthy.
     I know this is serious stuff. It’s not lost on me that our new democracy is failing. But I am tired of being depressed.
     One’s chemical state affects everything. Philosophers of yore did not grapple with the same challenges we face today. I wonder what their brains looked like? If Carl Jung’s collective unconscious is real, which I believe it is, those who have lived in previous eras cannot fully inform the complexity of the human condition of the 21st Century. They did not face the realities of global warming, for example. Did they realize how precarious our blue marble really is?
     Well, it turns out that maybe they did. I found a book called Kierkegaard and Climate Catastrophe: Learning to Live on a Damaged Planet Goodness gracious. I have a lot to read.
     The end of 2022 brought many sentiments of gratitude from my therapy clients, the most I’ve ever received. After an often grueling year filled with unexpected uncertainties and sicknesses, I felt pleasantly surprised. It was an acknowledgement that therapy works. I didn’t take an undue amount of credit, for everything I offer has been taught to me. I am grateful to be safe enough to hold space for others. A friend has a Ukrainian flag hanging over her front windows. Each night she goes to sleep and makes sure to remember how fortunate she is. Why not enjoy freedom, when we can.
     A current Jeskey post would not be complete without mentioning treasures buried in the sand, given my new beach-combing addiction. On Thursday I set out for a long walk before starting the work day. As I approached the Baha’i temple I beheld it’s stark beauty. I found myself getting closer and closer. While I’d planned to head to the lake, going inside seemed like a better idea. I sat and meditated, and (mostly) resisted a strong urge to pick up my phone for an hour or so. I practiced box breathing and a simple mindfulness exercise. The pull of my phone that I'd tucked away and out of sight was almost scary, considering the exquisitely serene cavernous space. But I made it, mostly. (Well, ok. I looked at my phone three times in the last five minutes of my practice to see how much time I had left). Afterwards I headed to the beach and found some of the coolest things ever. I took some, left others behind, and by the time I got back home six hours after I'd left, I was OK.

“The future belongs to those who learn more skills and combine them in creative ways.”
                          ― Robert Greene, Mastery

 

Tallying football’s human cost

Library of Congress

     Americans consider themselves innocents. Pure, noble, removed from the degraded world outside our borders, both physical and mental.
     True, that pose takes considerable effort to maintain: our own brutal history must be whitewashed, ignored or suppressed. Teachers squelched, books banned, libraries purged. Faith-fueled prudes, at least when it comes to the conduct of others, we simply banish entire realms of human behavior, and if those outside of our beloved norms are not guilty of crimes, then crimes are imagined for them.
     This leads to lives of constant surprises, as the white-hot fervor of our imagined purity hits the cold waters of reality. We are continually indignant, aghast, vibrating with shock when forced to confront the obvious.
     Take Monday night. As you no doubt know by now, during a game between the Buffalo Bills and the Cincinnati Bengals, 24-year-old Bills safety Damar Hamlin collapsed after an ordinary tackle, nearly dead on the field, as medical technicians struggled to get his heart started.
     Fans wept, prayed. Pundits cogitated, then delivered the awful news.
     “Football is a violent sport,” revealed a headline in the Times of Northwest Indiana. “And we love it.”
     True enough. And sincere, like the prayers after mass shootings, the pious noise that masks our inability to change in any substantial way.
     Even concern about violence on the field misses the point. Football players don’t die on the field; they die off it. The average life expectancy of an American man is 79, if he’s white; 68, if he’s Black. If he played in the NFL, however, that falls to 59.6 years, according to a Harvard study of thousands of players over decades. Most of those ex-football players die from heart disease, at a rate 2.4 times that of Major League Baseball players, who as a group live seven years longer.

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"No, I wanna hold the pitchfork!"

"And Congress Adjourned." (Library of Congress)

     I was certain that by now, the third day into the 118th Congress, the House of Representatives would already be hard at work, vigorously fighting drag story hours, investigating Hunter Biden's laptop and impeaching his dad for faking the moon landing.
     Instead it's paralyzed: six votes where the hapless erstwhile leader Kevin McCarthy fails to win his coveted speakership. That's like the Bears putting the ball on the one yard line and failing to get it over in six tries. A failure both shocking and characteristic. It's almost like he accepted a bar bet that he couldn't find a way to debase himself even lower than he had by rushing to Mar-a-Lago to roll like a puppy at the feet of Donald Trump.
     With no end in sight. Democrats are rightfully gleeful. Seeing the clown car MAGA faction — Matt Gaetz, Lauren Boebert, Paul Goser, really, it's like the rogue's gallery from a Dick Tracy comic — hold the party hostage is a delicious, lunatics-taking-over-the-asylum moment that seems to demand schadenfreude. (Oddly, Marjorie Taylor Greene isn't in that group, she's supporting McCarthy, a kind of meta betrayal of the betrayers). The situation generates so much exuberant analysis — "McCarthy is finding it impossible to stop a brakeless freight train driven by morons," Molly Jong-Fast writes in Vanity Fair — it almost seems a buzz-kill to remind ourselves that the reason the nutjobs don't want McCarthy is that the election-denying, Trump-butt-nuzzling former human being simply isn't extreme enough for them. You can squint and McCarthy seems almost like an adult person, or did at one point, and that just will not do. Besides, he has experience in Congress, and that's fatal. Though this isn't about policy, or government, or ideology. It's about unleashing the dogs of chaos, the legislative version of Jan. 6. They don't want Kevin McCarthy to lead them; they want Jack Napier.
     The childlike optimist in me wants to hope that somehow, half a dozen moderate Republicans, should they exist, could finally say "fuck it" and peel off and vote for Democratic speaker candidate Hakeem Jeffries, who has beaten McCarthy in every vote. But that would take a miracle and, as they say in "Casablanca," the Germans have outlawed miracles.
     I could offer up the reason I believe all this is happening, though I don't imagine it'll shed much light on the situation: it's because McCarthy moved his stuff into the speaker's office Tuesday morning. That's what my people call a kine hora — invoking the evil eye. Or as I tell my boys, in a rare lapse into sports lingo, "Don't spike the ball until you're in the end zone." (Charles Pierce, in Esquire, evoked another sports image: the Boston Red Sox trundling champagne into their locker room before the 1986 World Series was in fact won, offending the Great Karmic Wheel of Baseball and causing their downfall). McCarthy setting up shop in an office he hadn't quite achieved was so wrong it even evoked a rare moment of near wit from mouth-breathing Matt Gaetz, who dashed off a letter to the Capitol architect wondering why the move was permitted. "How long will he remain there before is considered a squatter?" Gaetz or, more likely, someone acting in his behalf, wondered.

     Premature celebration flips off the gods and demands retribution. Then again, so should lying and treason, so I guess you can pick your cosmos-crossing offense. Maybe it's just the zeitgeist. We are not the only country whose split electorate has amplified and empowered the fringe crazies – far right religious fundamentalists have grabbed the whip hand in Israel, and are in the process of alienating three-quarters of world Jewry, because that country doesn't have enough problems.

    In the United States, this has been coming for a long time, ever since Ronald Reagan convinced some people that the purpose of government is to destroy government. The problem is, nobody wants to live under a destroyed government. Well, most people don't. Some people think it's fun, and we're seeing them in their glory this week in the halls of Congress. But remember: the only thing worse than their failing to get their act together will be when they finally do.