Monday, May 6, 2024

Yo-yos are back, someday, maybe

Boys in a Chicago schoolyard play with yo-yos. (Photo for the Sun-Times by Bob Kotalik)

     My wife sleeps late while I wake early.
     "I'm going to walk the dog," I explained a few weeks back, after she stirred while I was putting on my shoes.
     "Do you have a yo-yo?" she asked, sleepily.
     "No," I said, puzzled, slow on the uptake, figuring she was coming out of a dream. "Why do you ask?"
     "'Walk the dog,'" she explained. Ah. A yo-yo trick.
     My next thought — I kid you not — was: I should get a yo-yo and learn tricks to entertain our future grandchildren. Then I wondered: Are there people who teach yo-yo tricks? Are yo-yos even still a thing? Or has technology completely killed them?
     "Our demographic is 6 to 15 years old," said Josh Staph, CEO and president of the Duncan Toyscq Company, manufacturer of yo-yos for nearly a century. "There's smartphones, there's TikTok. A lot of elements that can provide immediate gratification to kids. A yo-yo does not provide immediate gratification. You have to try it a few times."
     That you do. My only childhood memory of yo-yos is never being any good with them. "Walk the dog" is a trick where you throw the yo-yo down, hard, and it remains at ground level, spinning — like a dog on a leash — until you summon it back up with a snap of the wrist. My string tended to break.
     Yo-yos are another classic plaything to emerge from Chicago, along with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs and Raggedy Ann. Not that they were invented here — basically a vertical top with the string attached, yo-yos can be traced to antiquity. Women play with yo-yos on Grecian urns.
     Donald F. Duncan was a Chicago entrepreneur in the 1920s who started a parking meter company. He visited California in 1928, where he saw Pedro Flores demonstrate a yo-yo. Flores was from the Philippines, where yo-yos were big, and had already trademarked the word "yo-yo," Tagalog for "come come." Duncan bought the rights then got busy, joining forces with newspaper titan William Randolph Hearst to get newsboys pushing yo-yos.
     Yo-yos were a craze in Chicago in the summer of 1929 — newspaper columnists complained you couldn't enter a Loop building without fighting your way through crowds gathered to watch experts perform tricks. People grew annoyed.

To continue reading, click here.

Sunday, May 5, 2024

Flashback 1998: Gays victimized by our silence

     

     Odd that the same year, more than a quarter century in the past — 1998 — would pop up under two completely unrelated contexts this week. Yesterday I traced the origins of "Snoopy in a blender" to a 1998 story. And today's post is prompted by a long overdue shift in policy by the United Methodist Church of Christ last week. Turns out gays are okay after all. Or at least they can serve as clergy.
     Reminiscent of "I Believe," among the funniest songs in the very funny musical "Book of Mormon," basically a rendition of actual Mormon doctrine. It contains the line, "I believe ... in 1978 God changed his mind about Black people." Really meaning that the Mormon Church changed its mind about Black people, and decided, upon 130 years of deliberation, Black ministers were okay after all.
     And now God, as represented by the United Methodist Church, has welcomed the LGBTQ community into the ranks of the chosen, i.e., themselves. A little late, surely, but better late than never. I tried to tell them back in 1998:

     I live in a gay part of town. Not the gayest — that would be about two blocks west and maybe four blocks north of our place. But gay enough. Every summer the Gay Pride Parade rolls past my block, which has a small, sedate gay bar on the corner.
     I've never been in the bar. When I pop out of the house for a beer — say, on the pretext of picking up the milk, I pass by the corner gay bar and walk another block to a straight bar, there to drink straight beer. Birds of a feather . . .
     That said, once or twice, I will admit, I have ventured into one of the local gay bars for a quick drink to see what they are like inside and to prove to myself that there is nothing to be afraid of. They served me a beer; they took the money. The TV blared. I finished my beer, unmolested, and emerged with my heterosexuality intact.
     It isn't the sort of thing I tell everyone (well, until now), but it didn't strike me as the biggest deal, either. I think it's important to not be afraid of things unnecessarily. Ignorance is fertile soil for hate.
     For instance, before I moved to the neighborhood, I had to pause to seriously ask myself whether I really wanted to live in a gay area. I worried it would become oppressive in some way I couldn't foresee. But after a little thought, I decided it probably wouldn't be a bother. And it hasn't been.
     Then again, I'm lucky. I've always felt pretty secure about myself. I don't feel threatened. Strolling with my sons through the neighborhood, I don't worry that the boys will somehow be infected by gayness. When we're on the street and a group of laughing, young, fit men — a group I assume to be gays headed toward the bars — passes, I don't shield my kids' eyes. I don't worry I'm exposing them to some toxin. The mighty edifice of heterosexuality doesn't crumble that easily, in my view. And while I'd rather my boys not grow up gay — that seems like a tough road, at least for the parents — I figure the die is pretty much cast, and I'll find out one fine day.
     None of this strikes me as extraordinary. In fact, it seems the basic attitude of liberal American decency at the end of the 20th century.
     But obviously, people must feel otherwise. The Methodist Church is holding a trial in a few months to see if the minister at the Broadway United Methodist Church — just a few blocks up from me — should be booted out of the clergy for performing a rite marrying a gay couple.
     The immediate reason — it's against the Bible — grows pale the more you look at it. Many things are banned in the Bible, from dishonoring your parents to eating lobster. Going hammer and tongs after gays, the way organized religion feels compelled to do, seems awfully selective. Why boot out just gays, and the ministers who unite them, and not, say, adulterers? Why not those who swear? They're banned, too.
     I suppose the quick answer is that gays are targeted because they can be. The Methodists can't very well toss out a minister for marrying an interracial couple, or a Methodist and a Baptist, or a liar and a thief. Gays are one of the few subgroups left that can be openly persecuted. The awning of law and custom we've built up doesn't quite cover them yet, and certain people are horrified at the thought that it someday might. Who would be left to openly loathe?
     Part of it is that the rest of society is so quiet when gays are persecuted. Yes, we cluck our tongues when young gay men are brutally murdered, as if to say, `Well, we don't want to kill them now, do we?" But the fear of being labeled gay is so strong that it is easier to be silent or look away.
     Let me get this straight: God cares about our sexuality, but not about our moral courage. Right . . .
     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, October 27, 1998 

Note: The minister, whom I did not not name, was Rev. Gregory Dell. He was tried by the United Methodist Church in 1999, found guilty, and given a year suspension. He returned to the Broadway UMC until 2007, when he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He and his wife moved to North Carolina, where he died in 2016.

Saturday, May 4, 2024

Flashback 1998: "Snoopy in a blender"

    
Photo by "DiscoverWithDima."

     "Didn't you originate that?" my wife asked at breakfast earlier this week. "'Snoopy in a blender'?"
     She was reading about Dubuffet's 29-foot-tall, black and white monstrosity, Monument with Standing Beast, being removed from in front of the Thompson Center. I thought hard.
     "I might have been the first person to put it into print," I said. "But I think I was quoting someone else."
    Generally, claiming to be the first to coin a word or phrase is a fool's game. You're usually wrong, an earlier citation is quickly found and pinned on you like a Christmas ornament. Even if you're correct, it's a prize not worth winning. Nobody cares. I remember the pride Bob Greene took in coining ... what? "Yuppie" I think. A term that hasn't stood the test of time. It's like being proud of coming up with "daddy-O." 
     The Monument with Standing Beast Wikipedia page claims, "The sculpture is affectionately known to many Chicagoans as 'Snoopy in a blender.'" Though looking at the references cited I had to ask, incredulously, "How would they know? Did they conduct a poll?"   
      I searched "Snoopy in a blender" on the Sun-Times database and came up with the first reference in "Guide to Chicago Cruises," a fun, June 28, 1998 report written by yours truly about the various boats offering cruises from Navy Pier and the Chicago River — talk about a tough assignment. (It had to be an assignment; even I lack the chutzpah to suggest something like that: "Yeah chief, why don't I take every boat tour offered on Navy Pier? That's the ticket! And when I'm done, I can evaluate every fruity drink sold on the pier...").
     The structure of the story was sort of fun. Here's an example:

Seadog I
Owner: Sea Dog Speed Boat Rides, (312) 822-7200.
Other boat: Seadog II
Location: Navy Pier, 3rd berth
What you pay: $13
What you get: 30-minute tour with a powerful, 2,000 horsepower boat zipping around the lake at speeds of up to 40 miles per hour.
Where you go: Up to North Avenue Beach.
The good part: Loud music, the feeling of going really fast.
The bad part: Abrasive, Ed-Debevic's-waitresslike shtick on part of crew. Also, morbid thoughts of that poor woman who got her lower leg cut off.
Kids? Tots only if being punished. Great for thrill-seeking teens.
Noteworthy error in tour: Claimed the Lindbergh Beacon "guided Lindbergh into Chicago on his flight around the world."

     The line about a "poor woman" referred to Kathleen Rooney, 35, who was swimming off North Avenue Beach in 1997 when the Seadog powered over her, amputating right leg mid-calf. In 2001, a Cook County jury awarded her $10 million for her injuries.
     The guide sails aboard 14 boats — geez, I was energetic — and weighs in at nearly two thousand words. I'll spare you the details of long-vanished cruise experiences. The phrase in question is said during a tour, not off Navy Pier, but aboard Dells-like duck boats on the North Branch of the river:

Mallard
Owner: Chicago Trolley Co., (312) 461-1133.
Other boats: Huey, Louie, Howard and Disco.
Location: Clark and Ontario (the parking lot of the Rock 'n' Roll McDonald's).
What you pay: $20 for adults; $10 for kids.
What you get: a 90-minute land; water tour of the city on a World War II-vintage amphibious craft.
Where you go: Down Clark Street, through the Loop, down Michigan to Burnham Harbor, into the water down to McCormick Place, then back up Lake Shore Drive.
The good part: Friendly employees exhibit occasionally flashes of actual humor (guide referred to the Thompson Center's Dubuffet as "Snoopy in a blender.") Novelty of an amphibious vehicle.
The bad part: Faux-Letterman shtick grew weary after a while; supposed 90-minute tour clocked in at about an hour.
Kids? Just make sure they keep their arms inside when the boat passes close to those wooden uprights at the Burnham Harbor ramp.
Noteworthy error in tour: Claimed Christopher Columbus was born in Chicago, though in jest.

     It's hard to prove a negative. "Snoopy in a blender" didn't appear in the Tribune until 2014. Maybe the nameless tour guide made it up. Maybe he read it or heard it somewhere else. If the EGD Irregulars want to have at it, to try to dig up an earlier reference, well, go for it. The monstrosity first went up in 1984. It's on its way to the Art Institute of Chicago now, supposedly. But if they choose to stash it in a warehouse, well, they'll get no complaint from me. 

Friday, May 3, 2024

Student protesters hold their breath, turn blue, waiting for the intractability of Gaza to resolve itself

"Untitled, 2018," by Nick Cave.

     In an ideal world, I'd throw down my yo-yo story today, with a firm snap of the wrist. I've done my interviews and research, plus hands-on practice. There's both a strong Chicago connection, and an unanticipated tie-in to Asian American Heritage Month — "yo-yo" is Tagalog for ...
     Then again, in an ideal world, life would be proceeding uneventfully in Gaza and college students in the United States would be doing what students usually do in May: study, party, and pack their steamer trunks for home.
     But we do not live in that ideal world, obviously. Even a person as determinedly trivial as myself can't laud yo-yos with all this sound and fury across the country.
     I should say something. But what? What have I to add on this topic beyond the same unwelcome question I've been asking for years? Or as I wrote over a decade ago:
     "What happens next?
     "A child’s question, really, something naive, blurted out when the tale goes on too long. Cut to the chase, Daddy. How does the story end?
     "The last time I bothered talking to Israeli leaders in Chicago — more than two years ago — I sat down with the then consul general and trotted that question out, my device for cutting through the endless seesawing of blame. Forget blame, forget history — that’s done, the rope both sides use to play tug-of-war as the years roll by and nothing happens. Stipulate history as having occurred; what about now?"
     The students shutting down colleges coast-to-coast certainly have their candidates for what should happen, right now, before they turn blue: a cease-fire and divestment from Israel. They're so vigorously insisting this must happen, the question of whether those steps would do any good never seems to cross their minds.
     A cease-fire, while helpful for getting food to a starving population and stopping slaughter, temporarily, won't mean much if it's a brief break before the killing resumes. A cease-fire with Hamas still in power just lights the fuse on the next attack. Not a concern to protesters, some of whom don't seem to think Israel should exist in the first place — and why is that? — never mind defend itself now.
    Students can show long-term strategic thinking when it comes to their own lives— all the face coverings remind us they'll be looking for jobs in the fall — but fail at granting the empathy they lavish on themselves to anyone else.
    And disinvestment is a very long-term solution to an immediate crisis — like sitting on the curb while your house burns down, thumbing your phone, ordering fire extinguishers on Amazon.
     The hard truth is divesting wouldn't even help much down the road. Do the math. In 2023, the cumulative total of American university endowments was $839 billion. And the stock market is worth $50 trillion. Making the investments held by U.S. colleges about 1.6% of the total U.S. financial markets. So if every single American university immediately pulled every single dime of their investments from companies involved with Israel or the Israeli military, it would affect the economic health of Israel not much, and the war in Gaza even less. Years in the future.

To continue reading, click here.





Thursday, May 2, 2024

An apology to Mrs. Gifreda


My tulips were particularly lovely this year.

      Mrs. Gifreda lived at the end of our street, at the corner of Carteret Court and Whitehall. She had a beautiful lawn, thick like a green hairbrush, without weed or brown patch or blemish. I have a vague memory of Mrs. Gifreda crawling across this verdant carpet, deploying garden tools. Maybe a hat of some sort, tied with  a scarf. I don't believe I ever stepped on her lawn, not once in 20 years of walking past. We weren't afraid of her. We were in awe.
     That's it. I'm sure she had a first name, but never knew it, and Prof. Google is no help finding anything more now, beyond serving up a single matchbook for Gifreda Shoes, "The footwear of successful men." Perhaps she was a relation — how many Gifredas could there be in a small town? Maybe a reader in Berea, Ohio knows, but I doubt it. My sense is she was a solitary person — no husband, no family I can recall, which doesn't mean they didn't exist. A child is not a reliable witness.
    I asked my sister Debbie, older by three years, if she had any recollections of Mrs. Gifreda, and her memory mirrors mine:
   "Just how the only time I ever saw her was on her hands and knees on her lawn," she replied. "She was clearly obsessed with her lawn."   
     A common failing. Or maybe the failing was ours — the natural mistake of assuming that the visible part of other people's lives are all that's there. Maybe Mrs. Gifreda was a former WAC, with five grown kids. Maybe she baked pies and played the mandolin. We have no idea.
     While I am not obsessed with my lawn, yet, I am concerned, and people walking past my house might have seen me, on my knees, trying to get ahead of the springtime, digging up weeds, pulling the Creeping Charlie, planting grass seed — a very satisfying experience. And sometimes, if I am out there, salaaming as if in prayer, applying my energies lawnward, someone will pass by, one of the unknown persons who increasingly populate our neighborhood. 
     I do wonder how I appear to them. Weird old lawn guy. I know my house, with its piebald siding and homemade spire, sometimes frightens local children. "The Boo Radley House" is how one frank neighbor described it, referring to the enigmatic bogeyman/hero of "To Kill a Mockingbird." I bet they don't think that Mr. Lawncare has written nine books and might even write a 10th, once he gets this spurge out of his yard.
    Fastidiousness in grass nurture might not be the best thing to be remembered for. But it isn't the worst either and, despite not knowing her, I like to imagine that Mrs. Gifreda would be pleased that her diligence has taken on a life of its own, far beyond her own mortal passing. And if she actually wouldn't be pleased at seeing her life reduced to a single quality — who would? — well, my sincere apologies. 

    Correction: Through a production error, the caption of the photo atop today's blog might imply to some readers that I was somehow involved with planting the gorgeous bed of tulips depicted. While my tulips indeed did look lovely this year, those are not my tulips; they belong to the Chicago Botanic Garden. Reminding me of my favorite movie bits: Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau is checking into a hotel in a German seaside town. There is a dog resting by the clerk. "Does your dog bite?" he asks, reaching out to pet the beast. "No," the pipe-smoking clerk says simply. Clouseau reaches toward the dog's head. "Nice doggie," he says, as the beast leaps up, snarling and bites him. "I thought you said your dog did not bite!" Clouseau complains. "That is not my dog," the clerk replies.

These were the tulips in the box in front of our house.




Wednesday, May 1, 2024

Imaginary hells easier to escape than real ones.

A scene from "Dante: Inferno to Paradise," a film by Ric Burns.

     Dante Alighieri was in charge of widening roads in Florence at the end of the 13th century. I wish more people knew that. His masterpiece "Commedia" — the "Divine" part was tagged on much later — is so dominant in the public mind that the more practical aspects of his life are overlooked. He was a soldier, too.
     WTTW is trying to wave the flag for Dante, airing a two-part, four-hour film, "Dante: Inferno to Paradise." Several readers, knowing of my fondness for the dour Florentine poet, urged me to watch.
     Hmm ... I'm tempted to invoke Samuel Johnson's line about women delivering sermons and dogs walking on their hind legs: "It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all."      
     My general takeaway is, as with the Dante video game, anything that puts him on the radar is good.
     That said, I don't understand why the big budget CGI movie magic put behind flogging every minor character in the Marvel universe can't be spared for a story that has stayed firmly in the public eye for over 700 years.
     The production values are adequate on "Dante: Inferno to Paradise" in the way this past season the Lyric Opera diluted the grandeur of ancient Egypt into a stained green wall and three fluorescent lights. A generous audience can overlook it; but why should we have to?
     The trouble with Dante's book is that it is written with such verisimilitude that it's easy to think of him as a guy who went to hell and took notes. The WTTW movie slides into this trench, with a sulfurous, ooo-scary mood that reminded me of "Dark Shadows," the 1960s vampire soap opera.
     Given how few readers will run to watch the movie — I haven't finished watching and probably never will — I wouldn't take up your time had not one specific date been mentioned in the program.
     For those unfamiliar, the Commedia is the story of Dante's journey through hell, up purgatory's mountain and into heaven, accompanied by the Roman poet Virgil, at the behest of Beatrice, his celestial love.

To continue reading, click here.

Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Matzo brei: The treat that comes but once a year.

Matzo brei prepared properly, aka hard, on the left, and that other way, to the right.

     The electric company ended Passover early this year. Well, at least in one tweet yesterday, claiming the holiday ended Monday night — 24 hours ahead of when the holiday actually ends. Eight days. It's a wonder the lights stay on at all. 
     A forgivable lapse — though one they did not correct themselves, even when I politely pointed the error out to them. Few corporations do; they tend to blunder on instead. 
     Not a failing that can be written off to ComEd being a gentile company — Jews have a way of rushing their own holidays, whether convening sundown at mid-afternoon on Yom Kippur. Or returning to bread a few days before Passover officially ends. Tuesday night. One misses bread. 
    Myself, I actually need that full eight days, for a reason I've never seen committed to print, so this might be a first. The full eight days are required to get your matzo brei in. 
    Allow me to explain. Matzo brei is a traditional dish of eggs and matzo — not to be confused with egg matzo, which is matzo baked with egg in it. Matzo brei — also called "egg matzo" — is a breakfast dish.   It isn't intrinsically heavy, but is so good, you tend to eat a lot. I do, anyway. So while you are tempted the first few mornings of Passover, the idea is dismissed — everyone's too full from the night before (there are two Seders, on consecutive nights; don't ask why; it's complicated) and, besides, there are all those leftovers to eat.
     But — and this is a rule of my own — you only eat matzo brei during Passover, because otherwise the foodstuff would escape into the rest of the year and a) lose its specialness and b) you'd eat it continually, the way I do Bays Raisin and Cinnamon English Muffins. (although, they never lose their specialness, because they're so super special, and since I haven't had any the week of Passover, when I do, Wednesday morning — pay attention, ComEd! — they'll be doubly extra special). 
      Suddenly Tuesday and Wednesday — impossible, due to the Seders the night before — slip into Thursday and Friday. The matzo brei doesn't get eaten then because preparing it is a production and after the ordeal of preparing for the Seder one craves normal, eat-and-run life. The canyon floor was rushing up. Finally Sunday we dove in and had our matzo brei.
     Although — and this is why I'm writing this — this year my wife and I parted ways when it came to matzo brei preparation. Matzo brei is prepared by wetting matzo in water, mixing it with scrambled eggs then frying it. And my wife likes hers well-soaked in water, so it's soft. Which I suppose is fitting under strict literal interpretation: matzo brei translates out as "matzo porridge." 
    Me, I like the matzo just kissed by the water, so it's hard, or hardish. A quick rinse, then broken into the eggs, stirred a bit, then into the hot pan.
     In past years, we've compromised by eating matzo brei twice — one made her way, aka  wrong. And once my way, preserving the dish's delightful tactile firmness. But this year we decided just to each prepare our own meal. Which struck me as slightly dubious, like couples having separate bank accounts or taking separate vacations. We're sort of joined at the hip, my wife and I, and preparing separate meals, not our style.  Generally.
     But I only eat the stuff once a year, and want matzo brei the way God intended, aka, my way. As did my wife.  Although we did not  — Israelis and Palestinians take note — kill each other over it. We made accommodations to our divergent claims on reality.
     We didn't consult beforehand — my wife just set out two cast iron pans — and I noticed differences. I used three pieces of matzo while she used six, which took me aback. When I inquired, she said she planned on having extra to take to work Monday, another practice I'd never consider —you don't reheat matzo brei, but consume it all, immediately after being prepared. She used vegetable oil. And I used butter because, as Napoleon said, if you're going to take Vienna, take Vienna.  One doesn't skimp on a meal you eat once a year. With lots of sugar. Though she uses salt. Which is also wrong. 
      We each did sample one anothers preparation — I found hers soft.  She tried mine and did not remark upon it. Being polite, no doubt. Frankly, she could have spat it into a napkin. I didn't care. This is my annual matzo brei.
      As we ate, we discussed that. She mentioned that we could, you know, enjoy matzo brei at other times of the year. "We have turkey when it isn't Thanksgiving," she argued. Yes, well, that's turkey, and this is matzo brei. Once a year. No more. To do otherwise would be crazy.

Three matzos + two eggs = one plate of delicious matzo brei as God intended.