The party's over.

    "Holidays," "festivals" "celebrations," "Hanukkah," "Solstice," "Christmas," "New Year's" — there are so many terms for the serial occasions of forced gaiety that set in around mid-November and run until, well, today, when it all coasts to a sudden halt and we return to our ordinary lives.
     There should be a term. "Relief" comes to mind. Because while we had a pleasant Thanksgiving et al this year — very low key — I am somebody blessed with an enjoyable ordinary life, so always embrace its return. I like to work. I like to set my own schedule, not leap to dance because the calendar says it's Dance Day. (Although, now that I conjure it up, a Dance Day would be a welcome development. Just imagine it. People doing the Electric Slide down the street, to the train ... oh right. Not so many go to work anymore).

     Don't get me wrong. I love my family. Nothing makes me happier than vacuuming the house for a few days, preparing for their arrival. Though there is a certain stress as well. Relatives walk in the door or we walk in their doors. You're expected to say something. I usually come up with "Well, we're here," or "Hi, good to see you." Then we all stare at each other. 

     And parties — don't get me started. It's like standing in the middle of a room by yourself only the room is crowded. Really, there always comes a point where everybody is talking to everybody else and I'm somehow not part of any of the gaily chatting groups, but left wondering if it's okay to pull out my phone or, better yet, just back quietly out of the room. At least at home there's the dog. "I've got to walk Kitty!" I cry, to no one in particular, and no one in particular seems to notice when I grab her and bolt outside for the next half hour. I love our dog.
    I searched for the antonym of "holiday" into Google and it served up "work." I suppose most people make their livelihoods through drudgery. I can't imagine. That must be awful.  A few days ago I spent 45 minutes interviewing a singer/songwriter who lives on the coast of Scotland for an upcoming column. She was a very well-spoken, very smart person and I really only ended the conversation because I had enough material for three columns. We talked about creativity and aging and children. 

     "That was fun," I thought, hanging up. Writing the column will also be fun, as will seeing it published. So do I make my living by having fun? Not quite. It's still work, in that it requires effort and sometimes I have to do it when I don't particularly feel like it. But work is also something I enjoy far more than making small talk or cleaning up the dinner dishes after two dozen guests roll off to their homes.
      The parties and dinners have been thrown or attended, the last one being New Year's Day. "Nice to meet you..." I said, being introduced to someone. "...or to see you again if we've already met." Which could have led to an interesting conversation if she were looking for that. But she had already turned her attention elsewhere by the time I'd finished speaking, and I gratefully fled to another part of the room. Now we're home free for ... gee ... almost six weeks. Until the ticking bomb of Valentine's Day.
     

       

‘We’ve been trying to help:’ Legal community steps up for migrants

JuanCamilo Parrado

     “Hola, como esta?” says JuanCamilo Parrado, shortly after 8:30 a.m. on a recent Tuesday, standing before about 30 people — mostly couples, a few parents with young children — in a spartan government waiting room outside immigration court on the 15th floor of 55 E. Monroe. “Español? Si?”
     Having said hello, asked how everybody is doing — struggling to navigate a labyrinthine legal system in a new country in a language most only barely comprehend, thank you very much — and whether they speak Spanish, Parrado, a managing attorney at the National Immigrant Justice Center, uses that language to get down to business: informing them of their rights, as immigrants. To a hearing, to a lawyer at no expense to themselves, the chance to cross examination witnesses. To file an appeal.
     Though those rights have a way of colliding with reality.
     Around the corner, for instance, in Judge Gina Reynolds’ courtroom, immigrant Aslan Usmanov is waiting for the 9 a.m. hearing that he has a right to. But another right — to an interpreter — is proving difficult to fulfill.
     “What language are you holding for?” a disembodied voice asks from some kind of dial-in translation service.
     “Russian,” Reynolds says.
     “At this moment, we don’t have a Russian interpreter available,” the voice replies.
     The court system claims it is prepared to handle some 300 languages, with “in-person, video remote (Webex) and telephonic interpretation services,” though some languages are translated more readily than others.
     “They’re pretty good about it, though when it comes to finding the right dialect, it can be a real challenge,” said Mark L. Adkison, a lawyer with Adkison Law Offices, a family firm exclusively handling immigration work. “Creole and Yeruba can be tricky.”
     Reynolds shifts to the Spanish speakers in the courtroom — a pair of Venezuelan immigrants — and hears their cases while the Russian interpreter is tracked down. The judge is methodical, calm and painstaking.
     “If anyone has trouble with the earphones, let us know right away because everyone should understand everything being said,” Reynolds explains.

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"A man loves to review his own mind"

The flyleaf of my 2010 journal, when I was reading the Loeb Seneca and Boswell's "Life of Johnson"

     Ever since this column passed its first decade mark last July 1, I occasionally glance at what was written here 10 years ago. To remind myself, and sometimes post a memorable essay in the "10 years ago on EGD" section at the left side of the page.
    So yesterday, I noticed that, 10 years ago today, I wrote a longish essay on keeping a journal, on the occasion of embarking upon my 30th volume, "You do something for 30 years, you should ask yourself why." Which means tomorrow I open the 40th.
     What's the difference between 30 years of journals and 40? That's easy. There's certainly more spark to an endeavor in your early 50s than early 60s. Whatever I write now won't be as complicated, either because I've already said it once, or finally seen the value of brevity, or I'm simply tired. 

A.E. Housman's "The faintest of all
 human passions is the love of truth,"
alas will probably prove handy in 2024

 My handwriting certainly grows worse.   

     Since I don't want to replicate the piece, I glanced at a few journals, and quickly noticed an aspect completely overlooked at the close of 2013— not only did I write down my own thoughts, such as they were, and happenings of the day, but also record quotes from others I've stumbled upon, admired, thought might be useful, and wanted to hold onto for ready reference. 

     Grist for the mill. In the flyleaf of the journal for 2018 are two passages. One, a line from Brecht: "don't yet rejoice in his defeat, you men/Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard/the bitch that bore him is in heat again."
     Under it, a second quote: "He 'never did or thought of anything but deceiving people," credited to Canto VI p. 192 Dante's Divine Comedy."
     That was referring to Pope Alexander — Dante was a passionate hater of popes — but I hardly need to tell you who those quotes struck me as describing. Though I never had reason to use them, probably because I promptly forgot about them. It's so easy to forget stuff. That's why I write it down, hoping I'll stumble upon it again.

    The Brecht quote, by the way, is from a play, "The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui" that I never saw or read. I must have lifted the quote, second hand, from The New Yorker probably, though looking at the following description of it, from a CSU production, makes me wish we could lure Bob Falls out of retirement — he stepped down from the Goodman in 2023 — to produce it: 

     "Brecht’s shudderingly accurate parallel between Hitler and his henchmen on the one hand, and the old crime lords of Chicago on the other, is a vigorous eye opener that was produced on Broadway with Christopher Plummer. The Cauliflower Trust in Chicago is in need of help and turns to a racketeer by the name of Arturo Ui to begin a 'protection' campaign. His henchmen look astonishingly like Goebbels and Goring. Their activities include 'accidental' fires and a St. Valentine’s Day massacre."

     Some of the quotes did inspire columns — the always-apt remark of Samuel Johnson about society being "held together by communication and information" was the starting off point for a column on Johnson six years later.

     And some turned into 2016's "Out of the Wreck I Rise: A Literary Companion to Recovery," written with Sara Bader, whose entire premise is that these dusty thoughts are useful in running an ordered life. Mental coins to rattle around in your pocket.

     Some years are blank, others full, like 2006, where I wrote, not on the flyleaf, but the page facing the title page: "Journalism is a fleeting thing, and the man who devotes his life to it writes his history in water," crediting H.L. Mencken, the exception who proves the rule. 

     Next to it, in the same vein: "But stay unregenerate. Life knocks the sauciness out of us soon enough," Clifford Odets, in "The Country Girl's Last Links,"no doubt again  found in The New Yorker. Plus a second Odets passage: "I am seething and swollen, lumpy, disordered and baffled, as if I were a woman fifteen months pregnant and unable to sleep or turn, crying aloud, 'Oh God, out, out, out!'"

    Well, that isn't very pleasant — remember in 2006, I was fresh in recovery, and writing "Drunkard," not to mention 30 pounds heavier than I am now, so that sounds about right. The last one, oddly, has no citation, just "Don't heed the distant calls and hold tightly to the golden door. There, beyond it, is hell, longed for." I'm sure Mr. Google can fix that. From "Solitude," by Rilke.

In places, as in the 1991 journey, it was easier
to just cut out than copy.

    Only two on 2003: "Dietrologia (Ital.) the art of finding dark motives behind obvious decisions," which seems a word we could use in 2024, and "Communications have reached their numbing roar," T.H. White, Making of the President 1960, p. 26. If that was true more than 60 years ago, how to describe the blinding wordstorm now? One hesitates to contribute a single additional syllable. But what choice is there, at this point?

     Okay enough. I think that will do, both for sharing not-quite-random quotes and trying to make sense of the year 2023 through words, a task we'll now leave to historians. On deck, 2024, speaking of history. I wish I had the foggiest idea how it'll unfold — my bet is it'll be 2020 on steroids. Or not. Whatever it becomes, dull it won't be, unfortunately. (Doesn't a dull year sound glorious about now?) Whatever is coming, we'll face it here together. Happy New Year. Don't drink and drive. See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.

 

 

Trump strangles puppy, popularity soars — The State of the Blog, 2023

Prince Edward Island, 2011 (Photo by Martin Cathrae, used with permission).

      Trying to hold 2023 in mind and comprehend the year before it slips into history, I picture an old truck, heavy, lumbering down a muddy road, big tires spinning in the ruts, ancient diesel engine shrieking. Moving forward, sorta, shuddering, fishtailing, sliding sideways here, lurching forward there. Making slow and spattered progress.
    Along the route, the monthly blog highlights:
     In January, I tried to put the rise of Artificial Intelligence in context, not to mention eyeball the competition, with "Get your human generated content here!"  February saw the first of a series of stories marking the 75th anniversary of the newspaper with a look at long-departed colleagues, "Gather in the newsroom for a brief meeting."
    When COVID-19 hit in 2020, I told myself I wasn't going to spend the pandemic sitting on my ass in Northbrook, and wondered how to best contribute to our coverage. I decided, given my connections to hospitals and experience viewing operations, to try to convey medical aspects of fighting the pandemic, and marked the third anniversary of the arrival of COVID in March by surveying the maxxed out medical community in "We nearly broke the system," working again with my ace colleague, photographer Ashlee Rezin.
    In April, in the constant quest to include voices not often heard in the media, we met Antonio Cox, AIDS patient, in "I'm glad I got HIV."
    In May, we greeted new mayor Brandon Johnson by thinking about his inauguration speech, "Weighing 'the soul of Chicago.'" I figured somebody should. After pestering Lori Ligthtfoot, for naught, I've decided to step back, let Johnson serve out his term, and hope for better luck next time. Though this year I did skip the middleman and interviewed Chicago Teachers Union president Stacy Davis Gates. A fun talk — always better to talk to the puppeteer instead of the puppet. But even that didn't result in anything printable. 
    June was a good month. On the 17th, we visited the John Deere combine plant in East Moline, in a 2,100 word essay on farming and technology — the story originally ran in Crain's Chicago Business. Then two days later, perhaps my favorite story of the year, "A visit to cat heaven," aka Fat Cat Rescue, again with Ashlee, who'll I'll always remember carefully moving  among the mewing, cat-strewn landscape murmuring, "Best. Assignment. Ever."
    July brought the most-read post of the year — and the third most read, ever — "Wrangle carts, earn quarters," which I thought was a trifle about visiting a certain discount supermarket for the first time. That was before it hit the significance distortion field of Reddit, where it got a million hits, I am told, among the army of Aldi fanatics, who damned me as if I had murdered a child for marveling over the cart system and clucking at the inferior products on sale. A reminder that sometimes social media is like going outside for a stroll only to be killed by a mob outraged at the kind of socks you're wearing.
     In August I wrote "What I can't say anymore," alerting readers to a dynamic I fear is going to be an increasing problem as 2024 unfolds — the Sun-Times' hesitancy to weigh in forcefully on political candidates, for fear of endangering their 501(c)3 charitable status by "endorsing" someone. I feel that is not only over-cautious, but also a betrayal of our beloved country for money, and plan to push back against it as hard as I can. 
    In September, I used a recent trip to Copenhagen to offer one of those out-of-left field posts I find so engaging and hope maybe you do too, Danish Notes #1 — Spiral City.
    The brutal Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel was the jarring event of the year, and here the independence of the blog proved vital. Both in allowing me to immediately react, that day, with "War in the Middle East" And to disseminate, a few days later, "How does this end," when my leash was yanked a second time, when a single complaint from some unnamed person within the organization was enough to keep the column from being printed in the physical newspaper, despite my willingness to make changes. Though it was permitted to remain online, I believe because it had gone up before somebody disapproved of ... well, I never did get a good reason out of anybody. I tried pointing out that the purpose of my column is to raise valid issues and provoke thought and conversation, not make the staff feel good about themselves. That opinion did not carry the day, alas. As I often tell people, I just work there; I don't run the place.
    I didn't interact with Chicago politics as much as I should in 2023, so in November honored my old pal Ed Burke's downfall by actually reading the rules he broke, in "C'mon guys, read the ethics code."
    Bringing us to this month where, in my continual quest to neither risk endorsing anybody nor  tread on the tender sensibilities of colleagues, I spent two days featuring Delightful Pastries, the first being "Baking bread with Dobra Bielinski." The bread was very good, and if I'm going to become the trifles beat reporter, I might as well enjoy myself.
    Thank you again for another year. Specifically, thanks to John O'Rourke, Grizz 65, Clark St., Coey and all the other regular readers and faithful commenters who pointed out at least 100 errors and allowed me to look more thorough than I actually am. Thank you to the Sun-Times for tolerating me on staff for 36 years and, if we both can stand each other, perhaps three or four more. Thank you to Marc Schulman, who insisted that Eli's Cheesecake sponsor the blog for the 11th consecutive year. If you haven't bought a cheesecake yet, well, get to it, right now, right here. When Edie and I were considering what treat, of all the conceivable delicacies in the world, we want to indulge in to mark New Year's Eve tomorrow, we settled on a slice of Eli's tiramisu cheesecake.
     The blog overall had 1.25 million hits this past year; I figure half of those actual human readers. The rest seem to be ... well, I'm really not sure. A device in China seizing on my URL like a dog grabbing a rubber toy and vigorously shaking. I picture a device the size of a microwave oven, only painted dirty white enamel, on some high shelf in a basement in Szechuan, vibrating madly, emitting a high hum, racking up hits on this blog for some purpose I just can't fathom.

    Not success in the usual definition of the term, but not bad either. Or, if it is bad, it's my bad, and I'll have to live with it. Acceptance is key to several realms of my life and I think, finally, I've come to embrace the idea that This Is It. I'm truly grateful it's something you find worthwhile and check in on, either regularly or now and again. Here's hoping you have a very Happy New Year. I'm looking forward to spending 2024 with you. If you're the type who makes resolutions, I hope you'll consider sharing mine: to usher out the upcoming year living in the same sort of democracy we enjoyed when 2024 began. One of those resolutions, like losing 30 pounds or writing a book, that won't just happen by itself, but requires continual attention, care and effort. I believe it's worth it.

Whoops! Mistakes, we’ve made a few in our 75-year history

     This is the final piece in the yearlong series I've been writing for the 75th anniversary of the Sun-Times. I'm proud to have thought up the topic of highlighting our errors, and proud that the paper happily — and prominently — published it. And grateful for my colleagues who spoke candidly about their mistakes, as all good journalists must do. The funny thing is, we were double-checking facts and pulling out flubs and typos until about 10 p.m. Thursday night. I think we got them all but really, if a mistake or two slipped by, well, that would be somehow fitting. 

    National party conventions do not respect deadlines. With their carefully planned spontaneous demonstrations and endless stem-winding speeches, the quadrennial presidential campaign gatherings are famous for running into the wee hours.
     Newspapers do not have that luxury. They must hit their deadlines. Particularly for their print editions. The presses are waiting. The trucks, waiting. If thousands of subscribers are to receive their newspapers at dawn, as expected — no, demanded — then those stories better be written on time and edited on time, so the presses can roll. On time. 

     On the evening of July 16, 1980, Republicans at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit argued over who would run as vice president with Ronald Reagan. Jack Kemp? George Bush? Or former President Gerald Ford? It was a choice designed to add political heft to a candidate whom many considered a lightweight, an actor, co-star of “Bedtime for Bonzo.” A consensus built.
     “I had guy after guy come up to me and say, ‘It’s all settled. It’s Reagan and Ford,’” recalled the nominee’s brother, Neil Reagan. “It’s signed, sealed and delivered. The governor has left the hotel with Ford.”
     Sun-Times reporters on the scene thought official word was coming at any moment.
     “People we have every reason to believe would have known,” said Ralph Otwell, the Sun-Times editor at the time. “It was a matter of going with a story a few minutes before it was made official or missing the edition and not getting the news to our home-delivery subscribers.”
     A decision was made. The row of mighty Goss presses in the basement of the Sun-Times Building at 401 N. Wabash roared to life, printing out 147,000 issues of the paper’s three-star edition with the headline, “It’s Reagan and Ford.”
     Only it wasn’t Reagan and Ford. George H.W. Bush was chosen to run and, eventually, win as Reagan’s vice president. An instant collector’s item was created, though without a gleeful president holding it up, the way Harry Truman displayed the Tribune’s notorious “DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN,” the Sun-Times gaffe didn’t become nearly as famous. Gerald Ford did frame a copy on his study wall.

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Lost Larson

     Fate has a way of upbraiding you.
     For instance, a few weeks ago I celebrated a bakery, Delightful Pastries, on Lawrence Avenue. The baked goods were excellent, and — luckily — I didn't present the place as the best bakery in the city, or some such claim that would roil the groundlings. It was just a very good bakery run by an interesting baker.

     But I had reason to reflect, a tad uneasily, on that column when my youngest and his beloved stopped by for brunch last Saturday, bringing two white cardboard boxes containing eight baked goods from Lost Larson in Andersonville.
     My wife and I knew of Lost Larson — we had been wandering Andersonville a year or two back and bought a superlative sugared bun that I can still see in my mind's eye.
     On Saturday, we sat in the dining room, cut the pastries in quarters and shared them around — I should have taken notes. There was much discussion of the exact cheese in the ham and cheese croissant. I thought emmental. The tebirke — the poppyseed covered pastry at left — was luscious, the almond nothing like the fake high octane marzipan sometimes found in such goodies, but finely ground almonds. The afternoon tea bun — the roughly Q shaped pastry, rolled in Earl Grey and citrus sugar. I regretted the slice of my wife's spinach bake I'd served myself, not that it wasn't excellent, in its own elementary fashion, but because it was taking up room that might have otherwise gone to more Lost Larson. The fruit salad too, and I like fruit salad.

     I also felt — perhaps giddy from the sugar — that I had now formally, officially and irrevocably succeeded as a parent, in raising a child who would collect pastries at Lost Larson and deliver them to their aged mum and dad. They paid and everything, which is no small consideration since these delectibles cost about five bucks a pop.

     A crazy amount of care and effort is reflected in these baked goods. The croissants alone ... I started to feel a sort of duty — if I've gone to Delightful Pastries, twice, with a promise to return at Easter, then what is my obligation toward Lost Larson? Or do they exist at such an empyrean that any attention from a hack newshound would be seen as unwelcome, as beneath them? I looked at their lovely website. The owner, Bobby Schaffer, ran the pastry program at Blue Hill in New York City — we've eaten there, thanks to the spot-on instincts of my older son. So we have that in common. How would Schaffer react to my suggesting I slide by and, oh I don't know, roll out croissants? Perhaps not as welcoming as Dobra Belinksy had been. He certainly doesn't need the ballyhoo. Excellence is his calling card. I placed a call anyway — out of town. Perhaps just as well...
     Anyway, I've made my point about Lost Larson — the name is explained on their website this way: "Lost Larson takes its name from owner Bobby Schaffer’s ‘Lost’ last name – Larson."
    Not a very satisfying explanation, is it? Lost how? Enough of a thread to keep pulling in the New Year. That, and the pastries. Especially the pastries.

Or maybe Bob Dylan. Or Carole King. Or Bob Gaudio....

 

     I seldom pause to wonder how readers might react to whatever it is I'm writing. First, because my starting premise is that, whatever the topic, they don't care — that's my job, to make them care, to present a situation in such a way that they find it interesting, despite lack of previous interest. 

     So the idea of taking their temperature, first, and then spoon feeding their biases back to them — what fun is that? That's a recipe for Fox News, for a feedback loop. They wouldn't need me then — they could just look in the mirror and start talking. No, I write what interests me, and hope readers take the bait and don't complain too much. That generally works.
    There was no particular reason to laud Randy Newman on Christmas Day. But he was on my mind, so that's what I did. Naming him "the greatest living American songwriter" wasn't a daring aesthetic choice. It's just the attitude that presented itself — the organizing idea, a mistake, probably. Not because I don't think he is — I do. But because the "greatest" appellation was a red flag waved in front of the readership. I hadn't considered that. 
    Cut to Christmas Day, at 7:03 a.m.. The column's up, and the very first email out of the blocks is this, from a Michael M.:

    Having read your columns for years, I've respected your opinion even when I disagreed with you. So the lazy blindness of your column today surprised me to no end. Like white Americans do all the time, you declared a "Greatest" only considering other white Americans as contenders for the title. It's so expected and accepted, I'll venture a guess you didn't even remotely think about it being offensive to the millions of people who don't have a clue to who Randy Newman is. Your column is ready by millions of those people so declarations like yours do matter. The truth of the matter is the greatest American songwriter living is William "Smokey" Robinson. From the Motown era thru today he had written literally hundreds of chart topping hits that have defined American music. As we used to say, no other American songwriter could " even carry his jockstrap." To be clear, I'm not accusing you of being a racist, you're not. I'm kinda dismayed that you unconsciously engaged in the thoughtless exclusionary belittling of Black and other minority Americans. And oh yea, Merry Christmas. 

     Michael M.

     I initially only thought of Tom Waits — for years he was my go-to greatest songwriter, before considering Newman. Trying to think of a second, for rhetorical purposes, I came up with Bruce Springsteen. It isn't as if I conducted a poll or made lists of options.
     Chewing on this — "lazy blindness," ouch — I read a few more emails.  Bob Dylan was mentioned. Shit, I never thought of him. And the racism stuff — like I'm Jann Wenner forgetting to include a black musical figure in my book of icons. I figured, if I'm going to lose my job over a frickin' column about music, I might as well go out swinging, and answered Michael M.:

     I appreciate your reading. But the "music is personal" aspect of my column must have flown past you. Newman is the greatest songwriter to me. I never thought about Smokey Robinson, didn't know he was still alive and, honestly, wouldn't have changed my opinion if I had. Another reader brought up Bob Dylan. Who, like Robinson, was important, and I'd have picked above him, despite the taint of being white. "Like a Rolling Stone" surely is a more important song than "Tears of Clown."
     Thanks for writing. If I post a few choice responses on my blog, I'll shield your name, to protect you from the embarrassment of being associated with your opinions. Oh, and Merry Christmas.

    Thank goodness that was the most ... strident email. Nobody calling for my head for lack of inclusivity. From there, it was various readers offering up various favorite artists. I thought they made some good points.

     I appreciate Randy Newman’s often quirky songs and really like Tom Waits (especially “The Heart of Saturday Night”). But I’m stumped as to how you can write a column on America’ greatest living songwriter without at least mentioning in passing Bob Dylan and Paul Simon.
     Just my take — and taste,
     Daniel F.

     Now Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" hit me like a freight train. When I was 16. But I'd no sooner declare him the greatest songwriter than I'd dub him America's best poet. Very important yes, but also generational. I pointed out to one Dylan fan that I was in kindergarten when "Like a Rolling Stone" was released. It was a bigger deal if you were 20. 
     The most surprising thing, for me, was the Carole King contingent. Quite a number of them. I'd put Joni Mitchell (okay, Canadian) or even Joan Baez above her. King seems feminist agitprop. 

     No, Neil — the greatest living songwriter is Carole King. She wrote for herself and dozens of other artists. While I'm sure you are familiar with her work, if not, get out to the Marriott Theatre in Lincolnshire to see "Beautiful" while it's still there.

      This one sent me rushing to Wikipedia.

     Um, no. I usually agree with most of what you write. Even when I don’t, your sarcasm makes me laugh.
     But Randy Newman? I give you: Diane Warren, Bob Dylan, Bob Gaudio, Paul Simon, Brian Wilson, Barry Gordy, Carole King, and yes, Taylor Swift.

    To save you the effort: Diane Warren wrote "If I Could Turn Back Time" and dozens of forgettable top 10 hits, all of which could be heaped together and erased from our collective memory with no loss whatsoever to American culture. Bob Gaudio wrote "Sherry" and other songs for Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. The rest you know.

     Actually Brian Wilson — of the Beach Boys — gave me pause. Not my cup of tea either, but obviously great. And someone suggested one who made me wish I had given this some premeditation: Stevie Wonder. His songs might not have been the soundtrack of my life, but you can't ignore his genius.

    Oh, and before I drop this subject with a sigh of relief, there were a few who agreed with me:

You’re right, he is.

     Tom K.   

     I find most or your work to be timely, interesting, and informative. That said; I rarely agree with your conclusions. Today’s article is different for me. I could not agree more with your sentiments concerning Randy Newman. Thank you for the piece, it made my Christmas a little brighter.

    Kevin. 

    Which was the whole point. If you're wondering whether I learned a lesson from this, I have: never declare someone the greatest or the best at anything. Or maybe, ALWAYS declare someone the greatest or the best at something. It seems to stir the pot.

    Do you see the dilemma? That's why, in the main, it's better to focus on writing the stuff — that's hard enough — and let the readers react how they may.