Flashback 2012: Are Oscar winners cursed? Only to overly credulous media

     What goes around, comes around. As in 2012, we've been without snow so long that we've forgotten what it's like. And it's Oscar time, again. This column from a dozen years ago recently popped up in my Facebook feed, and I thought I'd run it today, to get you in the mood for the Academy Awards. 

     Thus Chicagoans awoke to the indignity of snow Friday morning. Snow in February! Imagine that! Two whole inches and we can’t hope to see the sun until Saturday, with balmier, mid-40s temperatures not returning until the next day. The indignity of it.
    Admit it — you were feeling sorry for yourself. I sure was. I was almost offended, as if this weren’t allowed anymore, and somebody slipped up. Half a warm winter and we fancy that winter has been outlawed.

Odd people II

     Strange indeed. People also automatically embrace the most extreme explanation, ignoring less flashy causes. A streak in the sky? Must be a mother ship from the space aliens who constantly hover around the periphery of our vision, keeping tabs on us.
     Some of this is biological. There was little downside to seeing a murky shape in the dark and thinking, "Bear!" It served us a whole lot better, in evolutionary terms than shrugging and thinking, "Oh well, must be a bush." Those folks tended not to survive.
     We are machines of innate exaggeration.
     Still — "The Oscar Curse" — really?
     "A mysterious jinx that has plagued past winners of the golden statuette," CNBC.com reported last week. "While logic would dictate that winning Hollywood’s most prestigious award should catapult its winner into the A-list, the sad fact is that many Oscar-winning performers have seen their career trajectories plummet."
     Mysterious? Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a journalist, they can be so credulous. The notion has been repeated again and again in the weeks leading up to Sunday’s Oscars.
     None of the stories I saw breathed a whisper of what is really happening, perhaps because that would take actual logical, or rather, statistical, thinking. Two concepts.
     First, "Regression to the Mean." If there is an average performance — say the typical baseball batting average is .261 — and you excel, say one season hitting .350, then your subsequent performance will tend to deteriorate toward the average, to preserve it.
     So if you flip a coin and it come up heads five times in a row, while the odds are always 50-50 on your next flip, at some point you’ll likely have a run of tails, since the odds of heads will gravitate toward 50 percent.
     Thus, if the vast majority of movies are garbage — and they sure are — and an actor appears in an exceptional movie (the kind that generate Academy Awards) then the odds are greater that the actor will return to trash as opposed to somehow magically being projected into another great movie.
     The second concept at work here is non-random sampling. A piece last week in RedEye singled out five actors who were supposedly "curse victims" — Halle Berry, Cuba Gooding Jr., Roberto Benigni, Reese Witherspoon and Mira Sorvino — and cited their Oscar-winning performances and their subsequent dogs.
     They seemed to think that proves their point: Look! Halle Berry was in "Gothika" after she won an Oscar for "Monster’s Ball."
       The story didn’t mention that Berry was in plenty of lousy movies before winning her Academy Award. How can "X-Men: The Last Stand" be offered up as evidence of the curse when Berry also appeared in the nearly-as-bad "X-Men" prior to winning?
     You could just as easily gather together five actors who won Oscars and didn’t immediately appear in lousy movies. Katharine Hepburn won an Oscar in 1967 for "Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner" and won again the next year for "The Lion in Winter." Meryl Streep was nominated for 17 Academy Awards and won twice, and while Margaret Thatcher fans might grumble about her latest, you can’t say she’s been in a bad film.
     The Oscar Curse is like the Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx or the sophomore slump, a fun fallacy reported as fact by those who should know better. If you excel now you’ll tend — on average — to slip later. Maybe that’s too sad a truth to report unvarnished.
     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, February 24, 2012

Drink poison or eat Chex? The choice is yours.

Option A: "The Death of Socrates," by Jacques Louis David (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Should I drink a cup of poison for breakfast or eat a bowl of Wheat Chex instead?
     Let's consider my options.
     Taking poison is problematic. First, because I don't have any poison. But let's say I did. Let's say I have some, ah, hemlock ... a musty greenish liquid. Let's pour it into a lovely kylix — good Scrabble word — like the one Socrates is handed in the painting of his suicide in ancient Athens.
     Why not take a sip? Well, poison is bad for you. Drawbacks begin with dilation of the pupils and dizziness, followed by depressed heartbeat, paralysis of the central nervous system and death.
     Death is bad — as difficult as the world can be, particularly of late, we need to remember the sun rises every morning. The weather isn't always clear. You can't always see the sun. Clouds can block it out. But the sun is still there, somewhere, with its promise of a new day. Remember that.
     Speaking of optimism, on the upside, poison can release you from the burden of existence. It isn't as messy as jumping in front of a train. Quieter than a gun.
     Chex is not without drawbacks. All those carbohydrates. Not much protein, so breakfast can run out midday and leave you hungry. Plus I've gotten into the habit of eating my morning bowl with blueberries. Blueberries are expensive. They can be sour, turn moldy. Yet without them the cereal seems dry, plain, unadorned.
     On the upside, Chex is delicious and easy to serve. No peeling or baking. And it won't kill you the way hemlock can — that's important. Plus there's a box in my pantry.
     Poison or Chex? Honestly, it isn't a difficult choice. For me anyway. As for you, well, I'm sorry, but you're on your own. The media does not presume to make this kind of decision for our audience anymore.
     Nor is breakfast the only choice you face. With Super Tuesday behind us, and Donald Trump and Joe Biden winning big, the November election suddenly looms, hurtling up at us like a canyon floor in a Road Runner cartoon.
     Trump or Biden? Both have disadvantages and advantages, and I would never suggest one over the other. I literally can't, given the newspaper's 501(c)3 charity status. But that doesn't mean important issues cannot be raised in a fair, balanced way.
     As with hemlock versus Chex, there are many factors to consider.
     Donald Trump is a liar, bully fraud and traitor. Those aren't insults, but dry journalistic descriptions of past practices. He's a liar because he continuously tells lies, a stream of clear, unambiguous, well-documented prevarications. The Washington Post counted 30,573 false or misleading claims during Trump's presidency.
     A bully, in that he habitually picks on people weaker than himself — those two Georgia poll workers come to mind. They had done nothing wrong, yet Trump upended their lives. Ditto for clerks in various courtrooms where he is being tried on 91 criminal offenses. Or the women he groped.
     A fraud, since he's been found guilty of various scams.
     And traitor because he fomented an insurrection on the Capitol trying to derail the democratic process on Jan. 6, 2021. Lest you forget, which many already have. Plus his bottomless affection for America's enemies, like Vladimir Putin.
     On to Trump's advantages. He gives Americans the key to his magic kingdom, a topsy-turvy fantasy world where words mean their opposites, facts flutter around like butterflies, and you can hate whomever you like. Looking for personal redemption? Trump offers himself as a Jesus-like figure. He packed the Supreme Court with religious zealots who banned abortion in half the country. .
     Then there's Joe Biden. An inside-the-beltway political hack since dinosaurs roamed the earth. He's old — 81 — stiff, and tottering.
     Since Biden is president of the United States, you can blame him for anything the country does or does not do: the pro-Israel policy that the United States has followed since Biden was in 1st grade. The border crisis. Inflation.
     Or credit him. Biden too has advantages — I would start with him not being a liar, bully, fraud and traitor. Plus infrastructure. Mobilizing Europe after Russia invaded Ukraine. He isn't planning to kneecap Social Security. Did I mention his not being a traitor? That's kinda key for me.
     But then, I'd never put my thumb on the scale. It's your choice. Maybe you like traitors. A lot of people do, apparently. I almost said, "You're in good company." But you're really not.

Option B: Wheat Chex with blueberries.

  

  

Establishing a perimeter

 

     Business took me by City Hall just after 12 noon Thursday. Prompt fellow that I am, I got there a few minutes before my appointment, so killed time by wandering around the ground floor. Sometimes there are interesting displays, for a holiday or civic organization. 
     Nothing in the display department. But there were a number of police officers, milling about, conferring. Six, eight, maybe 10. "Establishing a perimeter" is the phrase that came to mind. There were several cops on the street, standing watch,and inside the doors, creating space, directing people in that space to step away. Waiting expectantly. Obviously something was about to happen. I took up position on a step and waited too.
     In hurried Mayor Brandon Johnson. At first I felt disappointment — I had planned to never set eyes on  him in the four years he'll be in office until he is replaced by literally whoever wants the job. My personal protest to his contempt for the press, so vital in a free society. And now that plan had been scuttled. Too late now; there he was, right in front of me. A dapper man rushing by.

     For one second I considered shouting a greeting. "Hey Mayor Johnson!" But didn't want to startle him — or all those police officers. I'd end up wrestled to the ground. And what would be the effect on the mayor? If half of what one hears is true, he's a man under pressure, someone to be pitied, not confronted. Besides, the cops made sure I was far enough away that I couldn't casually extend my hand and say a few words. He'd glance in my direction and keep going. At least I can say I've never spoken to him; a consolation prize. I remained mum.
     A few seconds, he was in the elevator and gone. Later, a person in-the-know told me — off the record, alas, — how he is the worst Chicago mayor in city history, and the civic helm is spinning while downtown crumbles and money flees as if Chicago were on fire. I like to think the situation isn't as bad as that, and considered bringing up Levi Boone, who sparked the Beer Riot. But that was in 1855, rather a reach back in history. I hope things aren't that bad. Then again, hope is not a strategy.

Everything not forbidden is compulsory

  
     My wife and I were discussing breakfast cereals the other day. I mentioned how, in previous years, every half decade or so I would develop an inexplicable hankering for some sugary staple of my childhood: Cocoa Krispies, mostly, or Captain Crunch or Lucky Charms.
     "Lucky Charms, ewww," she said.
     And sometimes, I recall, I'd actually go so far as to buy a box of Cocoa Krispies, and have a bowl or two — well, I must have polished off the box, eventually. Or maybe the boys helped. 
     But now that I'm easing into my dottage, I never do that, but have settled on just two cereals: Wheat Chex and Shredded Wheat. They are the only varieties I buy or eat.
     Not that I mix them together. My wife does that. She'll mix three cereals, together in one bowl, a practice I look on with something akin to horror.
     "Miscegenation!" I'd mutter, back when I'd tease her about it, employing an antique term for race mixing — I might be the only person who deploys that word as a light breakfast tease. She can have her Cheerios and her Total, her Grape Nut Flakes and Corn Flakes — particularly that last one. I haven't eaten a single Corn Flake in 25 years. Yuck.
     Wheat Chex, and Shredded Wheat, eaten alternatively, for variety, on the day or two a week when I don't have my traditional English muffin and grapefruit.
     I'm not saying they're the only cereals in the world, or the best. But they're the ones I like. Because you reach a point in life, where you know what you want, and ignore what you don't. I'd no sooner waste a breakfast eating a bowl of Rice Krispies than I'd read a John Kass column unprompted — surprisingly similar experiences, now that I think of it: bland little kernels, of rice or language, emitting a quiet sort of strangled shriek as they dissolve into a soggy nothing.
     I'm not saying change is possible — for instance. My wife had the strange and exotic practice of putting fruit on her cereal. Bananas, strawberries, blueberries. This struck me as some weird healthful craze, like running in the rain or doing calisthenics at your desk. I didn't have any joke on par with miscegenation. I just looked at her askance — or rather, tried not to look at her at all. Fruit on cereal? Where does she get these insane ideas? Some website? "Seven offbeat things to do to catch your man's attention at breakfast."
     Although. Marriage has a gravity. A tacit traction. Couples have a tendency to draw toward one another. And we've been having breakfast together for 40 years now. So one fine day — I don't remember when — I was drawn toward her practice. Maybe I was bored. Maybe we had a particularly large store of blueberries to dispose of, and I didn' want them to go bad. But I put some blueberries on my Chex.
     And they were .... good. The cool sweet soft orbs nicely offsetting the crisp savory wheat squares. The taste of blueberries a counterpoint to the Chex. I liked them together, and got into the habit of heaping a half cup of blueberries onto my cereal, which complicate the cereal eating process, as they must be removed from the refrigerator and washed and drained.
     But it got so that — and this is why I'm writing this overly-detailed and admittedly almost psycho post about breakfast cereals — I couldn't eat breakfast cereal without blueberries.  "Let's pick up some blueberries!" I'd say, at the grocery. I became savvy of the wide price swings — $2.99 a pint, $6.99, varying widely with the season.   

     I'd go to eat some cereal, realize we were out of blueberries, and put the box back. They'd become essential to cereal eating, like milk. What was once forbidden was now mandatory. 

     The title of the blog, is from "The Once and Future King," by T.H. White — the English novelist, not to be confused with Theodore H. White, the American political writer. "The Once and Future King" uses Arthurian legend as a protracted allegory for the battle against totalitarianism. Wat, after being turned into an ant by Merlin, approaches an ant hill fortress with the slogan, "EVERYTHING NOT FORBIDDEN IS MANDATORY" emblazoned over the entrance to each tunnel. 
     "He read the notice with dislike," White writes. "Though he did not understand its meaning." There's a lot of that going around.
     For now, we retain our options, in all things great and small. For instance, my wife also eats breakfast cereal as a snack, popping dry Cheerios into her mouth like a toddler. I'll sometimes join her, while we chat, and participate in the odd culinary ritual, but more for the sociability. It's not something I would ever do on my own. I do not eat cereal dry as a snack. Yet.

Photo atop blog is from Darren Bader's 2020 "fruits, vegetables; fruit and vegetable salad" installation at the Whitney Museum of American Art.

What color is a trusted face?

     A police officer I know shared a link to a Chicago Police Department video encouraging cops to apply for the 2024 sergeant's exam. The five-minute video was produced for internal CPD consumption, but someone posted it to YouTube, labeled "CPD 2024 Sergeant's Exam."
     The video begins with a stolid white-shirt, two pens snugly beside his gold star, looking directly into the camera.
     "Hi, I'm deputy chief Rahman Muhammed ..." he says. "I would like to encourage all eligible members to please visit The Wire and sign up to register for this year's sergeant examination, given May 10. CPD is looking for the next generation of dynamic leaders to help to move this great department forward. I look forward to seeing all of your enthusiastic faces on examination day."
     All of their enthusiastic faces? Really? Because as the video unfolds ... well, let's give it a look.
     "I want officers to know this goal is attainable, with hard work and dedication" says Sgt. Arshanette L. Chambers.
     "I encourage you to have at least one study group. It helped me out tremendously," says Sgt. Enrique Martinez.
     Six more officers urge hard work. To an outsider, it's an unexceptional piece of management propaganda. So what's the trouble? Let's slide over to Second City Cop, an unofficial, relentlessly toxic Chicago police blog, and tune into the chatter:
     "The only white is the shirt"
     "Not one Caucasian in that mentor group. ... This is very insulting and straight up racist. This is the new city of Chicago, unbelievable. They do not even try to hide the total hatred for the Caucasian police officers."
     "Irish need not apply."

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America: Freedom, volleyball and the 'L.'

 

Shiringul, 21, was impressed by our rail public transportation system.

 

     Americans have no idea what we have. Not a clue. If we are ignorant of our own country, we're completely, blind pig ignorant of the world.
     Okay, that's unfair. I haven't met most Americans. I should probably water that down. Many Americans seem to have no idea what they've got...
     Which is still a shame. Because nothing makes you love American more than travel.
     Not that there aren't wonderful places in the world. I remember coming back from Paris, looking at Chicago, and thinking, "Why do I live in this cowtown when I could live in Paris?"  

    But I didn't move.
    Travel also offers the opposite. A reminder of wonders we take for granted back home. I was in some Haitian backwater, years ago, waiting for a bus to take me back to Port-au-Prince. As the only blanc within miles, I drew a crowd, curious and eager, with people imploring me, "Help me come to America! Help me come to America!"
     Finally I had enough. 

     "Why?" I asked one man. "What do you hope to find in America?"

     He got very serious and thought.

     "In American, I understand," he began. "There are roads that go over other roads...."

     At that moment I realized that I hadn't seen a single overpass in the whole damn country. And if you had never seen one, the idea of one road lofting into the air and overleaping another road, well, it would be a wonder, hard to wrap your head around.

     Think of that next time you go under a viaduct. 

     I thought of that moment last Tuesday, talking with two Afghani sisters for my Friday column on immigrants applying for their residency permits. Next to travel, speaking with newcomers is an excellent window into our world, a mirror to notice what we might not see otherwise. 

     I asked what it was like, coming to America.

     The older sister, Zeyah, answered in such a ethereal fashion that I didn't try to summarize it in the paper. She spoke of walking across the campus of Northeastern Illinois University. That's it. She didn't exactly specify what about that walk was extraordinary. To be there. Walking across campus. With so many other different types of people. And trees. Going ... wherever she pleased. With no one watching her, keeping tabs on her, following her, placing demands on her. Her whole life suddenly in front of her, her life now hers, to do with as she pleased. That's the sense I got anyway, maybe I was projecting.

     I asked her younger sister the same question. What is being in American like?

     "America ..." she began, succinctly. "It's a dream."

     How so?

     "So cool. So clean. I have my freedom."

     For instance, she can decide whether to wear a hijab or not — an option unavailable to women under the Taliban. She can work, go to school, choose what to study, play on a volleyball team.

    That much got in the paper. But there was more. She said something about lack of insects here. I asked her what made volleyball in Afghanistan different then volleyball here, and she gave a long answer which boiled down to: coaches, supervisors who know what they're doing and help.

     She mentioned something rarely gets cited when the glories of America are being recounted.

    "We don't have trains in Afghanistan."

     "Trends?" I said, misunderstanding her accent. "Like music trends?"

     "No trains," she laughed. "Red Line. Blue Line. Oh my God."

     The 'L.' You might think trains make noise and have delays and people smoke on them now. To her, they mean you can go wherever you want. I checked the train situation in Afghanistan. A couple lines in the North. Kabul started trying to put in a train system. Last year.

    I live by the Metra track. I can turn my head and see trains. Honestly, I'm already glad they're there. The commerce of the country, and convenient as hell for me. But I'm also going to try to remember that they're also somebody's dream come true.

His work usually has to be nude to be this notorious

 

     Paul Gauguin abandoned his family in France and sailed around the world seeking paradise in Polynesia. He married a 13-year-old Tahitian girl. "Are you not afraid of me?" he asked.
     That type of thing is frowned upon today, and the placard next to one of Gauguin's paintings in the Art Institute of Chicago dispatches the issue thus: "Gauguin's predatory behavior toward young girls was a well-documented and integral aspect of his self-fashioned artistic persona."
     OK then. Gauguin's paintings are still on display, as they should be. Qualms over the personal lives of artists are so random. The Medicis were bad guys, too.
     Yet time mediates their excesses. As does fame. No matter how badly Picasso treated his mistresses, his big rusty baboon — made of the same COR-TEN steel as the building behind it — will still be on display at the heart of Chicago.
     Art is a window into the past, and the past is often a terrible place. The Art Institute is being vigorously reminded of this over a small pencil drawing — 17 inches by 12 — tinted with watercolors, "Russian War Prisoner." An undistinguished sketch by Austrian artist Egon Schiele, possessing none of the raw sexuality for which he was infamous.
     Schiele died at 28 of the Spanish flu, and the drawing came into the possession of Jewish cabaret star Fritz Grünbaum, whose art collection was mostly snatched by the Nazis after he was shipped to Dachau concentration camp.
     Except this drawing, the Art Institute insists. The Nazis missed this one. Maybe they were careless.
     His heirs disagree, and have been suing to get the collection back. Nine of 10 works have been returned. My colleague, Emmanuel Camarillo has been documenting the lawsuit, accusing the museum of "willful blindness."

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