Elon, boychik, welcome to the tribe!

Another local Jewish person contemplates Elon Musk in 2018.

     Elon, my man! Bagrisn aheym mayn bruder! Welcome home, my brother!
     Oh sorry, Getting ahead of myself. Last Monday, the world’s richest man, Elon Musk, visited Auschwitz and declared himself “aspirationally Jewish.”
     As someone who is not aspirationally but actually Jewish, that is a slow pitch right down the pipe. A guy’s gotta swing.
     Judaism is a great religion. That fact often gets lost, what with all the people hating us and wanting us dead. Great food. Great traditions. Not a lot of rigid rules, except for the Orthodox.
     But is Jewishness something one “aspires” to? Does anyone need to aspire? The bar is very low. You wanna be Jewish? Be Jewish. It’s not like anybody’s going to stop you. Buy a pair of candlesticks. Say Sabbath prayers.
     You don’t even have to do that. In my book, you’re Jewish if you say you are.
     Which Musk pretty much did. Though he seems to think Judaism is something you get from close contact with others, like pink eye.
     “Two-thirds of my friends are Jewish,” Musk said. “I have twice as many Jewish friends as non-Jewish friends. I’m like, Jewish by association.”
     It doesn’t work like that. Having Christian friends doesn’t make me Christian, I hope. Rule of thumb: If you’re using your friends from a certain group as a human shield to deflect charges that you’re actually a bigot who hates that exact group, then you probably are.
     Which reminds us: Musk’s remarkable theological self-transformation doesn’t spring from nowhere. It was last November, not that long ago, particularly when discussing a faith that goes back to ancient Babylon, when Musk declared the idea of Jews — then a people quite apart from himself — pushing “hatred against whites” while welcoming “hordes of minorities” to be “the actual truth.”
     To his surprise — isn’t he supposed to be some kind of business genius? Because me, I’d have seen that coming (savviness; an alleged Jewish trait) — the X advertisers started bolting in droves. Leading to Musk’s in-the-trenches conversion.
     Supposedly. Skepticism is another Jewish quality. So let me roll my eyes and be so bold — again Jewish, though we call it chutzpah — as to point out that Musk doesn’t really want to be Jewish. Rather, he’s reading from the “Heck, I’m Jewish myself” playbook, a cliche among haters.

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Flashback 2013: Seeking colleges, finding ourselves

At Swarthmore

     Writing a newspaper column is a responsibility I try to take seriously. But sometimes you just don't see a problem coming. After this column ran, I heard from an angry party regarding an aspect of the piece. See if you can guess what the matter was. I'll reveal it after the column.

     "We can all fit,” said the sophomore, starting our tour of Swarthmore.
     In the hall, that seemed unlikely. But all 21 prospective students and their parents trooped into the gal’s bedroom for a gander. “I’m living with my friend Sophie,” she said.
     She was indeed, the two single beds pushed together. Our guide spoke more, but in truth it was a background hum, as my eyes lingered on that double bed, a stuffed bunny peeking benignly out from under the covers.
     American society has made rapid progress extending civil rights to gays — gratifyingly quick for a culture still clinging to copper pennies. And I’ve been applauding that for 20 years. But somehow, to my surprise, defending the humanity of an oppressed group is different than taking a college tour and being confronted with a literal love nest — that Hamlet line, “the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,” flashed in mind. Maybe I’m just a prude. But it startled me, as did my knotted reaction. I busied myself reading the “Prenuptial agreement” posted on the wall, multi-colored pen on pink construction paper, including line items regarding grape gummies, “The Hunger Games” and hugs.
     My 17-year-old and I were at the elite school in Pennsylvania because he wants to be a neuroscientist, and he heard he’d get more lab time at a liberal arts college — direct work with professors instead of sitting at the back of a huge hall listening to grad students.    

     That notion died for us on the wooded walkways of Swarthmore somewhere between that dorm room and the library, with its big supply of comic books in the lounge, plus the school’s swimming requirement — an early 20th century anachronism that lingers at a few colleges — and the candlelight ceremony at the outdoor amphitheater.
     I kept contrasting this with the day before, our visit to Johns Hopkins, the Baltimore university famous for its medical school. We met with a neuroscience professor, and while I didn’t take notes, his comments will forever live in my memory as: Oh sure, you can go to some liberal arts school, where you’ll have “good teachers” who will instruct you on the brain. Or you can go to a top research institution like Johns Hopkins where you’ll be working side-by-side with future winners of the Nobel Prize in Medicine. You can spend four years reading journals like Science and Nature. Or you can do work that ends up published in Science and Nature.
     I worried: Is my boy ready for that?
     In Swarthmore’s defense, they presented as eloquent an argument for a well-rounded education as I ever expect to hear.
     “You are being prepared to be a socially and civically responsible global citizen,” said admissions staffer Ruby Bhattacharya. “Swarthmore is challenging. Swarthmore is hard. We are constantly asking students to think why they think the way they think.” To that end, the first freshman semester is pass/fail — no grades. “You start to ask yourself a very different set of questions,” said senior Nate Lo. “Why do you take a class? You look for some value beyond a number.”
     For one delicious moment, I mused if this might not be better for my kid. A less grueling path. But he shook off that idea with a shudder, like a dog after a bath. Some don’t mind being a number. Some really like numbers. Some have pi memorized to 100 digits.
     The next day, at the University of Pennsylvania, nobody mentioned swimming or candle ceremonies. We started at BIBB249 Cognitive Neuroscience — they encourage you to sit in on classes — in a big seminar hall with 100 kids. The lesson was on equilibrium potential of ions of potassium and sodium when passing through a membrane.
     “What were the quantities that go into the Nernst equation?” the professor asked.
     My heart sank. The prospect of an hour of this was dismaying to me, forget a year or 10. These waters were too deep, and I had pushed him in. My fault. I glanced over to the boy whose dreams would now drown. He was leaning forward, focusing on the professor.
     “Here’s the question,” the prof said, directing a bright ruby laser pinpoint to these words: “What happens to the net force on the K+ ion if the membrane potential moves away from -75mV in the positive direction?”
     “Any idea?” I whispered, jokingly.
     “It would move outward,” he replied.
     I sat back, startled, almost frightened. “What makes you say that?” I asked.
     “Based on my 20 minutes in class,” he replied. “Because the diffusion force will be greater than the electrical force.”
     “The net force is out,” the professor said. “I hope that is evident to everyone.”
     More evident to some than to others.
     “This is easy!” my son whispered.
     Children are enigmas that arrive as 8-pound parcels and depart, 18 years later, their mysteries often intact. I shouldn’t still be surprised at this point, but I am. Maybe he’ll figure out the neurological basis of that.

       — Originally published in the Sun-Times, January 25, 2013

     So who complained? The mother of the unnamed sophomore. She felt the privacy of her daughter had been intruded upon. Though what was really driving her displeasure was this: she didn't know, of her daughter's arrangement, or even of her inclination, until someone forwarded her the story. I did feel bad about that — I hadn't intended on outing anybody — and said I was sorry for her dismay. However. You have to be a hard ass in this job, at times, and I do remember pointing out: a) the expectations of privacy after inviting dozens of strangers into your bedroom is quite low, or should be and b) I'd think her complaint would be with her daughter, not me. I'm just the messenger, which is the role of the media. Oh, and my older son went to Pomona College and became a lawyer.

Work in progress: Jack Clark on writing in Paris

Alexander III Bridge

     There are many romantic images about writing. The hard-drinking writer — I've tried that personna, and discarded it, out of necessity. The tortured genius — I'm neither of those. And the writer in Paris — ever since Uncle Ernie scribbled his short stories about Michigan in Left Bank cafes a century ago, that myth has held firm. I've barely written a postcard from Paris, but former Chicago cabbie Jack Clark, who contributed an essay on Schuba's in June,  is there now, working. I had to ask: What's that like?

Writing in Paris

     My first story was in the Chicago Reader in 1975. It was — according to the story itself — a janitor’s-eye’s-view (please note: those words were edited into the story) of the Chagall mosaic, which had recently been unveiled in the First National Bank plaza. I’d been a janitor at the bank when the mosaic was first announced in 1972.
     Since that story, I’ve written quite a bit about my working life, about cab driving, furniture moving, and trucking. But I haven’t written much about writing itself. What would I say? You sit down and try to make sense of something or another, and when you get to the end, you go back to the front and try to make it better. Repeat this process until you’re either satisfied, you give up, or you sell the damn thing.
     When we were discussing what I might write here, Neil suggested I talk about writing in Paris, which is where I spend a good portion of my time. I can’t afford to spend my days at Hemingway’s old cafés on Boulevard du Montparnasse. Instead I’m a mile or so away, sitting on a brand new stool in the spare room of my fiancée’s apartment. For me writing here is not much different than writing in Chicago. But, I must admit, it’s been much better since the stool arrived. Sometimes the hardest part is just keeping your butt in the seat.
     I’ve written six books in the dozen years I’ve been going back and forth to Paris. Back Door to L.A. is a sequel to my novel Nobody’s Angel. They’re both told by Chicago cabbie Eddie Miles. Honest Labor is a memoir about my days as a long haul furniture mover. Nickel Dime Town features Chicago private detective Nick Acropolis. It’s the fourth book in the series. The B Side of Misty is a novel centered on a Chicago diner and the homeless man who shows up one day. Murder Reporter is a novel about a kid from a “changing” West Side neighborhood who becomes a crime reporter for the local alternative press. Paris in a Bottle started out as another Eddie Miles novel, but I couldn’t make it work. I replaced Eddie with another Chicago cabbie, Robert Rhodes. He’s in mourning for his daughter, who died of a fentanyl overdose, and his best friend, a fellow cabbie who killed himself in the wake of Uber’s destruction of the Chicago taxi business. Rhodes wants out of Chicago. He picks France, where he searches for traces of his namesake uncle who died there during World War II.
     Stop! Do not run to your favorite bookstore. Do not go to Amazon. You’ll find nothing but Back Door to L.A., which was self-published back in 2016. The other books have never seen the light of day.
     But I had some luck recently. Back in February in an Amazon Celebrity Pick post, Quentin Tarantino said that Nobody’s Angel was his favorite novel of the year. It’s my first book, self-published as Relita’s Angel in 1996. Initially, I sold it out of my taxi. I then revised it and sold it to Hard Case Crime. I got the rights back in 2021 and self published it once again. And now Hard Case Crime is going to publish a new edition next month with Tarantino’s words prominently displayed on both the front and back cover. An editor said: “What a cool thing to happen to an older book.” I couldn’t agree more. Of all the pulp novels in the world, how did Quentin Tarantino happen to walk into mine? I don’t know, but I’d sure like to thank him.
     But the real good news is that with Mr. Tarantino’s words, I found myself an agent again. Robert Diforio of the D4EO Agency is now busy trying to peddle my various books. If you’re a publisher yourself, you know what to do. The rest of you, please keep your fingers crossed. I’m hard at work on a new novel. I wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time in those inspiring Parisian cafes.
     Jack Clark
     January 12, 2024

Sun might get us before atomic bombs do

 

Slim Pickins rides a hydrogen bomb in "Dr. Strangelove"

      What is it with scientists and clocks? Yes, determining the duration of phenomena is important to research, not to forget seemingly unconnected realms like navigation — Britain ruled the waves for centuries, thanks to John Harrison’s clock, accurate time-keeping being the key to determining longitude.
     Clocks also serve science as metaphor — start with Albert Einstein, struggling to jibe the fixed speed of light with his aborning theory of relativity, looking at the medieval clock tower in Bern and realizing that time is not fixed, but elastic. He started sending notional clocks zipping at the speed of light in thought experiments, trying to nudge we dullards into comprehension.
     The practical value of Einstein’s 1905 musings was dramatically demonstrated at the University of Chicago in 1942, when the first controlled, self-sustaining nuclear reaction was midwifed by Enrico Fermi.
     So it makes sense that another fine Hyde Park institution, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists — founded in 1945 by Einstein, J. Robert Oppenheimer and friends — would in 1947 use a clock as its logo, its hands set at seven minutes to midnight to convey the risk of nuclear Armageddon at the start of the Cold War. The editors took to moving the hands forward and back, warning the world how close to nuclear annihilation it was at the moment and — not incidentally, in my view — continuing the best marketing campaign for a publication other than Sports Illustrated featuring swimsuit models every February.
     That didn’t end so well for them — Sports Illustrated fired its entire staff Friday, effectively ceasing as a publication. But the Bulletin is going strong, and on Tuesday announced the clock would remain at 90 seconds to midnight, same as last year.
     “Ominous trends continue to point the world toward global catastrophe,” is the doozy of an opening line in the Bulletin’s announcement.
     I paid particular attention this year since the University of Chicago’s International House is hosting “a conversation on the existential crises facing our planet and and how we can turn back the hands of the Doomsday Clock” on Feb. 6, featuring Rachel Bronson, president and CEO of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists and Daniel Holz, a U of C Physics, Astronomy and Astrophysics professor and chair of the Bulletin’s Science and Security Board. They asked me to moderate the discussion.

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Restaurant Life #4 — Restaurant Schønnemann

      When the routine of eating out in restaurants in Chicago gets too oppressive, I like to travel to foreign countries to eat in their restaurants, as a change of pace. While in Copenhagen last fall, we of course went to Restaurant Schønnemann, for their lunch smørrebrød, or open faced sandwiches, the Danish national dish (and if you suspect I'm digging the three Os with a slash through them in the previous, you're right. Pronounced "ihh," more less, standing alone the Ø means "island" in Danish).

Herring with elderberries.

     Founded in 1877,  Schønnemann is one of the oldest restaurants in Copenhagen. Its waiters are brisk and efficient, obviously well-accustomed to serving blinking tourists, quickly establishing just how big of a glass of schnapps they'd like to go with their herring — and we had three types, mustard, elderberry and curry. (Of herring, that is. Only one of our party had schnapps, and it wasn't me. I enjoyed their fine Teedawn "Gentle Lager," whose label claimed, quite accurately, it is "Tasteful and Non-Alcoholic.")

     It was hard not to think that Restaurant Schønnemann is how the Berghoff might still be, had it not gone out of business in 2006 (what? You're fooled by the Faux Berghoff still in operation on Adams Street? I'd say it's a pale imitation, but can't, because I never stepped foot back in the restaurant again after they closed with great fanfare,only to open up a few months later, never admitting that the entire deception committed against their loyal customers was a base strategum to fire their union wait staff). 

    Don't trust me — I'm obviously emotional on the subject. Others have visited, and report it is ... not the same. David Anthony Witter, in his essential book, "Oldest Chicago" ends a discussion of the oldest restaurant in the city — Daley's at 809 E. 63rd, founded in 1892. — with this note:

Many may comment that the Berghoff Restaurant is missing from this book. In fact, the idea for this book was partially inspired by the extensive media coverage and local attention the closing of the Berghoff received. However I, like many Chicagoans, believe the Berghoff's current incarnation is so different from the original that [it] is not the same establishment.

     Amen. Back to Restaurant Schønnemann. The place had a feature which, in a lifetime of eating out at restaurants from Taipei to Santiago, I've never seen before. A little quarter door, so that when the place gets jammed with happy eaters and drinkers, they can let a little ventilation in without simply propping the door open and admitting the Danish cold. I thought it quite clever. Or cute anyway, which might be even better.

     

Restaurant Life #3 — Restaurants serve up more than food

     Chicago Restaurant Week already? And me without a gift.
     Actually, I’m always leaving gifts at restaurants, in the form of generous tips, plus those little fees tacked on the end of the bill, for employee health care, supposedly. They’re voluntary, in theory. But I’m not hard-hearted enough to strike them off the tab. Though I wish they’d just fold them into the cost — Kimberly-Clark doesn’t tag an optional nickel on the price of a box of Kleenex so its employees can have sick days.
     Restaurants seem to be getting better at it. It’s been a few years since I was puzzling over the bill at Big Jones, trying to figure out what the 20% ”service fee” might be — that’s the tip, right? Then the waitress, who’d obviously been through this charade before, hurried over to explain that no, it wasn’t the gratuity, but an extra wallop designed to help keep the lights on during COVID-19. Two percent is one thing; 20% is something else. Still, I ponied up, reluctantly — my guests were watching — and walked out brooding that I’d just left 42% extra for an OK brunch. I never went back.
     Restaurants are an odd business. You can eat at home, and usually do. They’re really social/aesthetic experiences disguised as strapping on the feedbag. Of the three legs of any dinner out — food, service, atmosphere — two-thirds don’t involve ingesting anything.
     We need restaurants. How else are we supposed to celebrate occasions? My wife and I tried Rich Melman’s latest, Miru, for my birthday in June. Everyone is raving about the scenery from the 11th floor of Jeanne Gang’s St. Regis Hotel — “Miru” is Japanese for “view” — but honestly it could look out onto a cinderblock wall and I’d be eager to go back, just for desserts like Black Sesame Mochi, described as “Charcoal-Vanilla Ice Cream, Black Sesame Praline, Mochi Sponge.” I don’t know if that sounds as fantastic as it truly was. Let’s put this way: It costs $18, and I can’t wait for the chance to order it again.

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Restaurant Life #2 — Give the man what he wants

Beef and broccoli at Star of Siam. 

     Years ago, there was a restaurant at 1 East Wacker Drive called "The Little Corporal" that had a Napoleon theme. Which was reason enough for me to frequent it. All sorts of prints and etchings of the once-loathed tyrant, on horseback, posing regally, leading his soldiers.

      But they also had a good chicken salad — not chopped chicken with mayo, but a salad with strips of grilled chicken atop it. All things being equal, that's what I want for lunch, then and now, whether out or at home. The protein of the chicken, the bulk of the lettuce, the flavor of the the dressing. The whole gestalt. What's not to love?
     When The Little Corporal was a replaced by a steakhouse, I had to go elsewhere — this was back when the paper was at 401 N. Wabash — and for a time I'd go to the Hard Rock Cafe. There was always a line of tourists out the door, but if you were going to the bar, you could bypass the line. So I'd go to the bar, order a salad with chicken on it, and have my lunch.

     One week I did that every day. Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday I was surprised, when it came time to leave, to be informed that the meal was on the house — it isn't easy to prepare food for a clientele that consists of tourists from Iowa here to gawp at Ace Frehley's guitar. It turned out, they were flattered by the idea that some rumpled guy in a coat and tie came by regularly, ate their chow, and left, without even glancing at the case with, oh, a pair of Elton John's eyeglasses in it. 
     Which is a long way of saying that I am a creature of habit, when it comes to restaurants. I tend to go to the same place and order the same thing. The upside being I get what I want. And the downside being I'm cut off from the rich variety that one goes to restaurants to appreciate in the first place. We make our choices in life, and one rule I have is: be who you are.
     The prime example of this dynamic is beef and broccoli. I really like beef and broccoli. Why? Because I like beef. And I like broccoli. Taken together, they are the asian cuisine version of a salad with chicken on it. Yes, not quite as healthful, when you consider the sauce and the fat to cook the meat. But then, a salad loses its dietetic quality once you consider the dressing and the dried cranberries and such. 
     I order it at Thai, Chinese and Vietnamese places, counting on sampling whatever my wife orders to inject a note of variety. The bountiful plate shown above was devoured earlier this year at one of my favorite spots, the Star of Siam, 11 E. Illinois. My wife ordered something that disappointed her — which I regretted, as it dampens your mood when you're loving what you've got and your tablemate is sighing and picking dubiously at what's in front of her — not wrong enough to send back, but a disappointment in some ineffable fashion that takes a long time to explain. Another reason to always get what you want. Almost always. Sometimes I do change it up. It's never quite as good, but it does serve to remind myself of the joy of ordering exactly what you like.