Dancing into a minefield

Suzanne Lopez, left, talks with two dancers at the Joffrey Ballet rehearsal space on Randolph.

     Plays have scripts that tell actors what words to say, plus occasional stage directions, indicating how to deliver a certain line or when to move in a particular direction — the most famous being Shakespeare’s notation in Act III of “A Winter’s Tale”: “Exit, pursued by a bear.”
     Music has chains of notes representing various pitches and durations, with extra instructions delineating whether they be played loud or soft, fast or slow.
     But how do ballet dancers know where to step?
     There are videos, of course, and a complex system known as Benesh Movement Notation, resembling notes on a scale. Neither works particularly well.
     “I can tell when someone learned off an audition video,” said Suzanne Lopez, one of two choreography directors from the Joffrey Ballet for “Anna Karenina,” opening at the Civic Opera House on Wednesday. As for the notation system, “It takes years of learning how to do that,” she said, “and I’m not qualified.”
     So how does a troupe learn a new ballet? Surprisingly, the way dancers are taught their steps in the 21st century has much in common with the way bards were taught to recite “The Iliad” in ancient Greece.
     “It needs to be person-to-person,” said Lopez. “It needs to be passed down. Copious notes. I have a giant binder for ‘Anna Karenina,’ constantly updating.”

To continue reading, click here.

Flashback 1994: Man Who Sailed Around World Looks Toward His Next Journey

     In Sunday's post about Paul Vallas, I mention Bill and Ina Pinkney, both profiled years ago. I'm posting Bill's today, and Ina's on Thursday.  This is a long piece, 1900 words. The paper used to do that sort of thing. But if you soldier on until the end, I'll give an update on what Bill is up to today.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun? . . .
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
         — Langston Hughes, 1951

     Bill Pinkney does not lead a life of quiet desperation. He does not race with the rats. His nose is not to the grindstone. His dream, undeferred, did not dry up like a raisin in the sun.
     Pinkney wanted to sail around the world, and did so, two years ago, becoming the third American — and the first African American — to make the trip solo while rounding all five major Southern capes.
     But the story does not end there. At age 59, Bill Pinkney says he is just warming up. He sees new challenges, like distant sails on the horizon, approaching in his future.
     "I could never be the person I was before I left," says Pinkney, dapper in a black silk shirt, new jeans and tasseled loafers. "No way. Never. People say, `Oh, Bill, how are you doing now that you're back in the real world?' No, no, I left the real world to come here. This is not real - " he gestures to his near West Side loft, with its shelves of books and walls of awards. "This is manufactured. . ."
     While he is looking ahead, the nearly two years he spent circumnavigating the globe are still very fresh with him.
     "I'll give you an example of real," he continues. "A 50-foot wave breaking behind your boat. There is nothing more real than that, not your mortgage payment, not whether or not your American Express bill is paid. That's not real."
     Captain Pinkney — the title is not an honorific, but refers to his Merchant Marine 100-ton captain's license — relives his adventure, in motivational speeches before groups ranging from major corporations to public school classrooms. He has written an illustrated children's book, Captain Bill Pinkney's Journey and a $39.98 video, narrated by Bill Cosby, has just been released.
     The bare facts of his journey have the power to amaze. He covered 27,000 nautical miles over 22 months, 16 of which were spent at sea, alone, aboard a 47-foot yacht. He faced 50 mile-per-hour winds and 30-foot waves. Yet, with hindsight, he views the journey as a peaceful, almost boring time.
     "Seventy-five percent of the voyage was quite enjoyable and rather uneventful," he says, pointing out that half the battle was careful attention to preparation and a sailor's caution. "Most of the time when you hear of great disasters, it's because the expedition was planned and executed poorly. Rarely do experienced seamen really get caught in bad conditions."
     But friends say that Pinkney is just being modest.
     "If you know anything about sailing, it's a hellish, hellish proposition," says fellow sailor Morris Bleckman. "There's one leg (of the round-the-world trip) about 61 days, by himself. It's not for the fainthearted. Single-handed sailing demands more from anybody else than any other sport. You depend entirely on your own wits and your own guts and nothing else."
     Asked anything he would do differently, Pinkney mentions trifles — having; a refrigerator would have been nice. But as far as his own performance, he surprised even himself.
     "I found my capabilities were greater than I thought," he says. "You really never know these sort of things about yourself until you are pressed."
     Little of Pinkney's life would, at first glance, seem to have pointed him toward his epic journey. He grew up in the neighborhood of 33rd and Indiana, "what at that time was known as Bronzeville," he says, accenting the word in what sounds like contempt. "My father was a houseman, a male domestic. He and my mother got divorced when I was a small child."
     He grew up, at times on welfare, and graduated from Tilden Tech in 1954. Like so many adventurous young men, Pinkney went to sea with the Navy, where he worked as an x-ray technician. He loved it, served eight years, and might still be there today if it weren't for the racism common in the Navy.
     "The only reason I got out of the Navy is they wouldn't give me a commission," he says. "They weren't interested too much in giving blacks commissions in the 1950s."
     Back in civilian life, he worked at a variety of jobs — in a hospital, as a bartender, elevator repairman and limbo dancer in Puerto Rico, where he moved on a whim. Relocating to New York in the early 1960s, he decided he was tired of x-rays and trained as a makeup artist, working as a freelancer on commercials and movies. He met and married his wife and together they sailed remote-control sailboats on the pond in Central Park.
     Pinkney eventually moved into the corporate cosmetic business, launching brands aimed at African Americans, first for Revlon, then for Johnson Products.
     Revlon transferred him back to Chicago in 1974, where he hooked up with Flash Cab founder Arthur Dickholtz, who served as his sailing mentor.
     The idea of sailing around the world began to gel for Pinkney in the mid-1980s, as he set out on the daunting task of taking an indistinct dream and making it real.
     The assumption is that anyone who sails yachts must be a wealthy man. But Pinkney had only limited resources, and to make his dream real he first had to find corporate support. On his side were two lures: not only would the voyage generate publicity, but Pinkney devised an ambitious plan to involve thousands of schoolchildren in his journey, communicating with them via satellite and using his trip to teach math, geography, history and science. Still, it was a hard sell.
     "I had 30,000 kids every day for two years for $375,000 (the cost of the trip) — you couldn't buy them a piece of bubble gum on that kind of money," he said. "But an Anheuser-Busch, a Quaker Oats, couldn't see the value of that."
     Chicago educator Iva Carruthers helped Pinkney craft his proposal, though not without initial reservations.
     "I said, `Bill, you're absolutely crazy,' " remembers Carruthers, a professor at Northeastern Illinois University, who told him to meet her at her office at 8 a.m. the next Monday in the hopes that he wouldn't show up.
     "When I got in, he was already there, waiting for me," she says. "He started sharing with me his dream. It became clear to me that all he was asking me to do was write a proposal, and that if he was willing to risk giving up his life alone at sea, I could certainly do what comes easy to me."
     Industrialist Armand Hammer could, too, and contributed $25,000 in seed money. But full sponsorship was not forthcoming. Pinkney approached some 300 different companies over a period of two years. All rejected him. Particularly galling to Pinkney were rejections from two categories he thought should be eager to support him — black-owned corporations and the makers of marine products. In the end, the crucial money came from a Boston financier named Todd Johnson.
     Pinkney feels he was at a disadvantage because of the perception that black people aren't sailors. It is a thought that sends him hurrying to his bookshelves to refer to volumes documenting black seamen, flipping pages to show photos of ship's records listing black crews.
     "The assumption is . . . black people don't sail," he says. "Nothing is further from the truth. Look at the history of our country. We are a maritime nation, and (black people) have been part of the maritime history of this country from before it was a country."
     He set sail from Boston in August, 1990, and returned in June, 1992. The videotape of his adventure, which originated as a Peabody Award-winning special for the Discovery Channel, consists mostly of videos Pinkney shot himself, sometimes happy and invigorated, admiring fantastic sunsets, other times wet, sick and miserable, battened down below decks and outlining dire conditions while his sailing gear rocks back and forth in the huge swells.
     Included are scenes of eager classrooms tracking Pinkney on maps, talking to him through the roar of satellite static, or watching his "video postcards." (Pinkney, though cut off from all direct human contact for months at a time, manages pearls such as praise for the "wonderful sovereignty of being alone.")
     Still, the connection with schools was not a complete success, particularly in Chicago.
     "It didn't work out as well in Chicago as I would have liked it," says Pinkney. He says going through the Board of Education led to the mishandling of the Chicago end of his voyage, particularly when he got back.
     "I would do three schools a day," he says. "I'd get to the school and they didn't know who I was or why I was there. It was crazy."
     All that is going to be fixed in his next project — a journey, with crew this time, retracing the triangular slave route between Brazil, the Caribbean and West Africa. This time he hopes to involve a half-million students.
     This will take money, and Pinkney has already started the distasteful process. His first dollar was easy — ponied up by a Charleston chief quartermaster named Manning Harvey. Pinkney has the dollar pinned to the wall.
     "I'm well on my way," Pinkney laughs. "I only have 849,999 to go."
     So what does a man learn, alone in a boat, facing the boundless ocean, for the better part of two years?
     "The simple truths of life," he says. "When I was out there, there were no days of the week. Because I was alone, because my life functions around what I have to do to maintain it, the only place in the world that exists is right there. The old saying, `There is no tomorrow'? There is no five minutes from now. There's only now, and that's the thing, to take action.
     "This was a dream; this was not the dream," he says. "I wanted to leave a benchmark of achievement for my grandchildren. (Pinkney's only child, Angela Walton, 35, a daughter from his first marriage, lives in Florida with her husband and two children.) This showed me that you can make dreams come true. But I should be able to accomplish more. I've got a list I can't even get halfway through in my lifetime. I'm writing my book — an adult book, not about sailing, but what about my life made this happen. I've got a film I want to do about this. And I want to go out and sail some more."
     Jake Fisher, a Chicago entrepreneur, considers Pinkney one of his heroes, but says that Pinkney only considers himself heroic for one thing.
     "He said, `There was just one day in my life when I was hero. That was the day that the boat left Boston. It was a beautiful day, with people all over the place, wishing me well. When I reached over and took the anchor out of the water, that was the moment."
     Fisher asked him why that moment was heroic.
     "Because most people go through life with their boat tied up next to the pier," Pinkney told him. "What made me a hero was that I weighed anchor."

               —Originally published in the Sun-Times, October 30, 1994

     I caught up with Bill Pinkney by phone Sunday night at his home in Puerto Rico.
     "I feel great for a man of my age, great for a man of any age. We've been here, this is our 13th year," he said, referring to his wife of nearly 20 years, Migdalia.
     He first retired in 2003, then came back in 2007 and sailed the tour of the Amistad, a reproduction of the Spanish slave schooner whose 1839 uprising became an abolitionist cause and a widely-followed legal case (and, eventually, a Steven Spielberg movie). 

     "Nova Scotia, England, Portugal, Senegal, Sierra Leone, then I retired again, then I came back again, took the Amistad to Havana Cuba." Pinkney said. "Then I retired again for the last time and moved to Fajardo, on the east coast of Puerto Rico.
     Not everything has been gravy — his catamaran charter business, running passengers to the British Virgin Islands, was a victim of COVID, when American tourism to the island almost completely dried up.
    But generally life is good for Capt. Pinkney. He was presented with the Mystic Seaport Museum's "America and the Sea Award" in 2022. And he just released, "Sailing Commitment Around the World with Captain Bill Pinkney," illustrated by Pamela C. Rice, a very handsome children's book.   
    "I'm close to the ocean," said Pinkney, who doesn't own a boat but — even better — has a friend who owns a boat, and still gets out on the water from time to time.

Don’t divert public money to private use

     Chicago is the only major American city with an elevated train ringing its downtown — OK, one of two, if you consider Miami to be a major city and its free little Metromover a real elevated train.
     So Chicagoans (and any stray Miamians finding themselves here) might have an easier time participating in a thought experiment I’d like to try today. Imagine if, along with an elevated train, we had an elevated sidewalk downtown. A private, members-only sidewalk, raised 20 feet in the air, with access granted to Chicagoans who pay a fee — say, $200 a week — to pass through the turnstiles, step into well-maintained elevators, or climb pristine stairways.
     Let’s call it the Sky Sidewalk, an overhead array of curving pathways — glassed in, air-conditioned in summer, heated in winter — where the choice few could avoid the cracked, dirty, windswept, crowded Chicago sidewalks (OK, not so crowded lately; work with me here). Certainly cracked and blustery, sometimes crime-ridden.
     Problems for the masses below to cope with best we can, stepping over potholes, hurrying past panhandlers. Frequently finding ourselves at street corners, shivering in the February cold, waiting for the light to change, trying not to cast an envious glance at the anointed above on the Sky Sidewalk, strolling easily across the street — no waiting on traffic for them.
     Now imagine there’s an election — actually you don’t have to imagine; there’s one for mayor in a couple of weeks. Some candidates mention a plan to address perennial pedestrian concerns: the cracks, the crime, the cars turning right whether you are trying to cross or not. You’re all ears. What is this plan?
     “So this is what we’re going to do,” says a candidate. “We’re going to take your tax dollars, and use them to buff the Sky Sidewalk. Maybe carpet part of it. Or put planters of fresh flowers. Some wind chimes perhaps. Because nice as it is, it could be even nicer. Where will the money come from? Tax dollars. Let’s give a break for people on the Sky Sidewalk. Really, why should those who don’t use the city sidewalks pay for their upkeep? They’re already paying $200 a week. Let’s give them a hand.”
     How would that fly with you?

To continue reading, click here.

Paul Vallas, man of mystery

     Almost 30 years ago I wrote a profile on Bill Pinkney, the first Black sailor to circumnavigate the globe alone — I think I'll repost that later this week. In interviewing his wife Ina, the restaurateur, it came out that while married, they lived in separate homes. In my mid-30s but naive as a lamb, I remember looking up and thinking, "Golly, what's that about?"
     Cohabitation is the predominant condition of marriage — I initially wrote "natural" but that is a fraught term nowadays, when even the concept of "normality" can be seen as a weapon in the supremacist's arsenal. Whatever you call it, 97 percent of married couples manage to live under the same roof.
     In Fran Spielman's excellent interview with Paul Vallas in the Sun-Times Saturday, the former Chicago Public Schools head tries to tap dance past by various controversies that have wrapped their arms around his knees. He explains only being registered to vote in Bridgeport for only the past year this way:
     “When I left Philadelphia to go to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, my wife did not want to go with me. She wanted to move back to where she was most comfortable. She bought a home right next to her aged parents in the same house where she grew up. … My kids were still relatively young, and she thought that’s where she could be most easily supported.
     Were I to respond to that by asking, "If your own wife didn't want to go with you, then why should the city of Chicago?" But that could be seen as mean, and personal. Besides, I am not a hard-charging A-list crisis administrator like Paul Vallas, who I suppose must go wherever someone is willing to hire him. The separation can be spun as consideration, I suppose, that his wife is encouraged to live where she is happiest, even if that is in a different part of the country from her husband. That's how the jetset fly. Cohabitation is for the earthbound ordinary.
     “Sometimes, people stay married because they make certain arrangements," Vallas continued, sounding like a character in a Barbara Cartland novel. "I’ve always lived where I’ve worked. This has been our understanding. I wanted my wife to be in her most comfortable setting with her friends and family ... while she allowed me to do what I do: rescues, turnaround projects, crisis management.”
     We are certainly a city in crisis. And sometimes an outsider brings the rigor needed (such as O. W. Wilson coming in to reform the Chicago Police Department in the early 1960s). But when it comes to Chicago, Paul Vallas is not an outsider. From city budget director to CEO of the Chicago Public Schools to consultant for the Fraternal Order of Police, he has had his chance ... whoops, has had a wealth of valuable experience he could bring to the fifth floor of City Hall.
     "Understanding." "Arrangement." These are freighted words. And having endured the tight-lipped mystery wrapped in a cipher befogged by enigma that is Lori Lightfoot, I suppose anyone is an improvement. But notice how he shifted the discussion — if his residence wasn't Palos Heights, where was it? The apartment in Bridgeport he got a year ago? Louisiana? Connecticut? At least Rahm was elected to Congress, and had a semi-legitimate reason not to live here. Vallas is just a hired gun who sees a potential opportunity for a fresh gig back in his hometown and is hurrying back, pretending he never left. If he thought he could be elected mayor of Phoenix, he'd have been living in Phoenix for the past year. Or claim to.

North Shore Notes: Au Revoir For Now

By Caren Jeskey

            

     It’s been a tragically big week. It’s probably fair to say that all of us are feeling sick with sadness, terror, worry, and/or grief for our global family members in Syria and Turkey. Or we are in some form of protective denial. Every ounce of my body and mind wanted to get picked up by a jet to join everyone else in the world who’s able enough to make the journey and get there to help. I lamented the fact that no such corps was organized. Help is finally arriving, but too little and too late. Here are ways you can pitch in.
     I feel moved to offer a secular prayer of sorts. I found out back in 2015 (when I — an atheist — first tried to tolerate the god language of twelve step programs) that I can easily transpose the prayers from my Catholic childhood into a comforting form of wise well-wishes.
     The Our Father, which is ingrained in my head:

     Our Father who art in heaven,
     Hallowed be thy name.
     Thy kingdom come,
     Thy will be done,
     On earth as it is in heaven.
     Give us this day
     Our daily bread,
     And forgive us our trespasses,
     As we forgive those
    Who trespass against us.
     Lead us not into temptation,
     But deliver us from evil.
     For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,
     Forever and ever.
     Amen

     Our Father Variation (by me):

     Our parents, (parental figures, or internal parents), who are (or were) here on this earth with us,
     Let us respect you, and the memories of you.
     You have paved the way for your legacy to continue on.
     You have passed your wise advice to us, to the best of your abilities.
     We are grounded and hopeful because of you.
     We are grateful for food on our tables, and those who help us when we are without.
     We hope we can repair damage we have done to others, and to harm less, moving forward.
     We try to forgive. We believe in peace and reconciliation.
     We strive to stay connected to others in healthy ways, so we can be our best selves.
     We stay away from danger and surround ourselves with those who love and care about us.
     When we die, we hope to be remembered as people who added goodness to this world.

     God-prayers at times like this make me sad, since why would a god who allows such destruction be the one to help? That’s a rhetorical question.

     And on a separate topic — this is my last Saturday post for Every Goddamn Day, the Blog of Neil Steinberg. A combination of factors added up to propel us each into a new chapter. I’ll now be able to enjoy Neil Every Goddamn Day, myself.
     It's been a pleasure and an honor to have hitched a wagon to Neil's star for the past nearly three years. It all started with my first post as EGD's Saturday Correspondent on April 11, 2020.I will miss seeing you all here. You have given me so much. Thank you for your presence, and your thoughtful discourse.

     Please keep in touch by tuning in every Sunday at or after 8:30 a.m. Central Time to give my audio blog “Authentically Imperfect” a listen on SoundCloud. These 5-50 minute audio pieces will be recorded each Sunday morning and posted by 8:30am for your listening pleasure and comments.

     I will leave you with a suggestion if I may. Find a moment or more of joy every day, like the luminescent lake glass I gleefully discovered this week.
     Turns out that a good percentage of the glass I've found between Evanston and Fort Sheridan is known by some as Vaseline Glass because of the yellow glow that emits when the right (365nm, not 395nm) UV light hits it. The glow is caused by uranium, which Wikipedia says was first added to glass in 79 AD, and used in mosaics.
     The thought of dead-looking chemical goo dug out of a little plastic tub is not the best memory I have as a 70s child. The antidote to this proved to be a clear memory of my dear Grandma Marie who loved the stuff. Pretty sure she had a small container of it in her purse at all times, along with calendula cream (which fixed "everything" in her eyes, the duct tape of goo). Come to think of it I’m not sure what the Vaseline was used for. She also believed in the power of green beans and had a six foot tall forest of vines in her yard under the skyway in warm months. We’d head out to the labyrinth with straw baskets to collect them, sit at the table snapping them to cook, and nibble on them along the way; the crunch and green flavor filling our mouths, little beans popping out and making us giggle.
     Grandma Marie would let me rummage through her black vinyl "handbag" where I'd find interesting things. A pack of skinny menthol cigarettes and a lighter tucked into a case with two pieces of metal at the top that closed with a satisfying click, at least one rosary and a small bible, hard candy for her smoker's throat and to keep me quiet during mass, and cash in an envelope for the tithing basket. Grandma’s purse, an indoor playground.
     My Grandma was addicted to the radio — an AM prayer channel as well as WGN and WBBM news radio played from a tiny transistor radio set on her table on 95th and Commercial. I'd like to honor the memory of my Grandmother who gave me unconditional positive regard and faith in myself, even when I screwed up, or just felt screwed up. She left us, died, when I was in my late twenties. The love in her eyes was palpable and I can still see her gaze upon me, like Hanuman the monkey headed Hindu god whose eyes emit compassion. She was no angel, but I was hers. Today I am feeling grateful for my warm, green-thumbed, funny, intelligent family. We all have hobbies we are immersed in, thankfully, and the roots are clear.
     My Lake Michigan morsels are also known as "Canary Glass… a yellow-green glass mainly [used in] tableware and household items from around 1840 up until World War II. It gets its yellow or greenish-yellow color from uranium dioxide (UO2), which was used as a colorant. Vaseline glass came as glasses, plates, lamps, doorknobs, bottles, decorative items, decanters, and more.”

Jews, bicycle riders and trans folk

     Some jokes are more true than funny. A favorite of mine goes like this:
     A man stands atop a soap box in city park in Berlin in the 1930s.
     “The Jews and the bicycle riders will be the ruin of Germany,” he begins.
     A crowd gathers. The man continues his speech, repeating the refrain: “The Jews and the bicycle riders will be the ruin of Germany.” Finally someone in the crowd interrupts.
     “Wait a second,” the audience member asks, “why the bicycle riders?”
     “Aha!” the speaker replies, lighting up. “Why the Jews?”
     Now set that joke aside. We’ll return to it later. In the meantime, let’s play, “Who said it?” the game where I share a quote and you have to guess what politician uttered it. Ready? Then let’s begin:
     “Do we want our schools to impose on our children, from their earliest days in school, perversions that lead to degradation and extinction? Do we want to drum into their heads the ideas that certain other genders exist along with women and men and to offer them gender reassignment surgery? Is that what we want for our country and our children?”
     I know what you’re thinking: Ron DeSantis. The governor of Florida has been buffing his presidential credentials with a salvo of rhetoric against trans kids, and constraints against any legal or educational steps designed to help them. A one-two punch alongside exaggerating education hinting at our nation’s racist past into ooo-scary “critical race theory” that must be stamped out.

To continue reading, click here.

Flashback 1998: `Wash me' sign honors grime

     With the Sun-Times marking its 75th anniversary this year, I thought I would play along on my blog now and then, since I've been here for half that span. 

     Twenty-five years ago, my column ran Tuesdays and Thursdays in a cramped spot in the features pages. This one is 590 words long, or about 2/3 of its current size. This is what I call a riff — no news, no sources, just noodling on a particular topic, thinking about something that usually gets passed over with a shrug.

     Not much sunlight this past month. But as any photographer can tell you, overcast days are great for providing clear images. Which is why our car looked extra awful, in the midwinter morning gloom, parked on the street in front of the apartment, the dirt of the season weighing heavy upon it.
     "I took it by the car filth and had it filthed," I said to my wife, floating a joke to try to make light of the situation. "They missed a spot."
     "Where?" she said, skeptically. She was right. There wasn't a clean square inch.
     What amazes me now, hours later, thinking about the scene is, at that moment, sweeping my gaze over the crusted vehicle, I felt a sort of pride.
     There is a glorious tension about a dirty car. On one hand, it screams out for soap and water. Something in your gut wants to see a mob clutching big wet sponges rush in from the wings and descend upon it, feverishly scrubbing the dirt away, making the car gleam.
     That's why strangers — who generally don't care if you have bad brakes or no brakes or a license plate that expired three years ago — nevertheless line up to trace the words "WASH ME" with their fingers in the brown film on the hoods and trunks and back windows of particularly offensive vehicles. Usually in big letters. They are willing to sully their fingertips for the pleasure of drawing public attention to your shame.
     But I suspect they also just want to touch it. There's something weirdly wonderful about dirty cars. A really squalid automobile, like, oh, a coral reef, takes a long time to reach full maturity.
     I think, at least subconsciously, those "WASH ME" scribblers just want to disturb something pristine and perfect, the way neighborhood kids will gleefully tramp through the scenic fresh snowfall in your front yard, leaving behind angels and footprints and, if you're unlucky, phrases of their own devising.
     Not that I wouldn't prefer to drive a clean car. That's a great feeling. Fresh from the car wash, looking newer than I've seen it in months, little water droplets shining like diamonds on the crystal clear windshield, the car rolling out into the street which suddenly seems all warm and friendly, with happy Mr. Sun smiling down and pedestrians and kids and dogs all stopping to gaze in admiration and dreamily sweep their arms back and forth in big waving gestures.
     But car washes take time. And who has time? After work it's dark (heck, this time of year, after lunch it's dark) and you want to get home. And nobody gets their cars washed before work. I've seen garages that will wash your car while you're working, but those usually cost about $27.50, and for that price I'd rather just wait until the dirt condenses into thick sheets and sheers off the car, spinning off to shatter on the road behind, the way big panels of snow will fly off the roofs of cars left unbrushed after being outside during a blizzard.
     Unless the finish of my car is already so mottled and corroded from never being washed, plus the drippings of acid water in decaying parking garages, that the thick sheets of dirt adhere instead of falling off.
     In that case, come spring, I can seed the car with grass and watch it grow. That would look great, for a while. I have the sneaking suspicion that, by July, it would all be scorched and dead from lack of watering and general neglect.
                  —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Feb. 3, 1998