It's hard to walk away, but it was time for Joe to go

Carnitas torta, 5 Rabanitos

     When Warren Zevon was dying of lung cancer, he spoke with David Letterman. The talk show host asked the great singer/songwriter what it is like living with his fatal diagnosis.
      "You put more value on every minute," Zevon replied. "I always thought I kinda did that ... but it's more valuable now. You're reminded to enjoy every sandwich."
     "Enjoy every sandwich." A great line, one that I think of, more and more. Even though I'm healthy as a horse. But I'm also 64. Nothing lasts forever.
     I can relate to Joe Biden's predicament, I really can. He's president of the United States, a job that comes with power and attention and a jet airplane. Hard to walk away, and kudos to him for making the tough decision and deciding not to run again. He dragged his feet, naturally, but in the end he did what he thought was necessary to give American democracy its best shot at survival.

Turkey club on wheat toast, Lou Mitchell's

     Stepping down has to hurt. Biden was at peak performance not long ago: defeated Donald Trump in 2020, mobilized Europe to respond to the invasion of Ukraine. One bad night, and suddenly the kids were taking away his car keys.
     Only it wasn't just one bad night but what that bad night represented. If I turn in my grocery list as a column, that wouldn't be just one bad column, but a clanging alarm bell that something bad had happened, and might happen again.
    Biden endorsed Kamala Harris. Not that she's a sure winner. Harris has the same handicap that sank Hillary Clinton: She's a woman in a sexist country. Where a third of the women can't be trusted to decide when to have a baby. But she can speak powerfully and get Americans excited.

Pastrami on rye, Max & Benny's

     Imagine if Republicans pushed against an unfit candidate half as hard?
For some, retirement is easy. My father retired from NASA at 56. Meaning he's been retired for the past 36 years, longer than he worked. The glory of a federal pension.
     At the time I was puzzled. Stopping so young seemed a refutation of his entire career. Did he not want to do something else? Find another job? No. He wanted to paint watercolors and hike the Rockies, which he did until the frost set in. 
     Now he sits and stares blankly at the television. So maybe retiring early was smart. As a bartender said in Buenos Aires, encouraging me to try the tango: "The life is only once."
      Right. But what if you like to work? And the job has a shimmer of significance. Shouldn't you stick at your post, tapping away, as the water rises around your ankles? I always assumed the decision would be made for me. The paper would break apart in the typhoon battering professional journalism. Or I'd make some joke that is no longer funny and be frog-marched offstage.

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Crispy

     Were I trying to create a personal brand, to craft a writerly image, I suppose I'd try to cast myself as the hyper observant scribe, a kind of journalistic Sherlock Holmes, studying cigar ash, taking note of atoms as they flit through the air. Nothing would escape the iron claw of my notice.
     But that isn't true. I don't want to say I'm an oblivious blockhead — that isn't true either — though I have moments of staggeringly oblivious blockheadedness. Or, as I sometimes put it, for a smart guy I can be astoundingly stupid.
     For instance. When I was in Boston in May, hanging out with my cousin Harry, I went to the supermarket for him — he's ill, and shopping can be difficult. He texted me a list: potatoes, apple sauce, tapioca pudding, and such. I searched for the various items — surprisingly difficult in a store you've never visited before — parsing the various vague requests. What exact kind of cheddar cheese slices? (I actually blew that assignment by picking up non-dairy soy slices cleverly disguised as cheddar cheese. Or maybe not so cleverly disguised; still, it fooled me.) 

      One item was quite simple: "Rice Krispies cereal." I rolled my cart to the proper aisle. Except I couldn't find the Kellogg's Rice Krispies. I went down the cereal aisle, scanning the boxes. Once. Twice. On the third time I gave up and settled on the generic version, "crisp rice," all lowercase, an unexpected e.e. cummings homage, with a generic pink cartoon dragon gawping at the stuff. Not something I would eat, but then, not everyone is me. Maybe Harry would enjoy this "crisp rice." Still, I'd better check. The best thing to do was text a picture. So I snapped the photograph above and sent it to him. "No Rice Krispies, incredibly," I wrote. "This okay?"
   I hit "Send." Then looked at the photo I had just sent. 
    "Oh wait," I added. "Never mind. There it is." Which is a drawback of this instant communication. Sometimes just waiting — or looking yet again — works better. In trying to figure out how I overlooked it, I think I was distracted by the bedragoned cereal above. Shunning that, I missed the mark below.

Dazzled by Georgia O'Keeffe

    A busy day Friday, preparing two long stories for our Democratic National Convention special section running next month. Suddenly it was 10 p.m. and I looked up, thinking, "Oh, the blog." Late, and no gas in the tank. So, apologies. This isn't much, but it'll have to do. Besides, it's Saturday. You shouldn't be cooped up, reading. Get outside. That's what I plan to do. 

     Look at the painting above, "The Shelton with Sunspots, N.Y." by Georgia O'Keeffe. It's part of the permanent collection of the Art Institute, but currently on display with its exhibit of her Manhattan paintings, "My New Yorks." 
     The show works on a number of levels. First, one tends to think of O'Keeffe as a Southwest artist — all those cow skulls and giant vulvic flowers. So it's disorienting to think of her in a New York flat, at the Shelton, where she moved in 1924, the tallest apartment building in the world at the time. There she painted the factory landscapes she saw from her window. Looking up, she captured buildings framing the sky in a way that echoed the canyon walls she found in New Mexico. 

     Second, you realize that she was doing these skyscraper paintings at the same time she was doing those Southwest paintings, basically commuting between the two places with the seasons, like a bird.
     And third, the exhibit reminds visitors of her sheer technical skill. The above painting tricks the brain to think you're looking at a dazzling sun peeking out from behind a building. The viewer practically squints. You have to pause, and look a second time, to realize you're just regarding regular yellow and white paint. An incredible achievement. "My New Yorks" runs through Sept. 22.

"East River from the 30th Story of the Shelton Hotel." Not the sort of image much associated with
Georgia O'Keeffe, who manages to make the industrial landscape almost whimsical. Maybe it's the tugboat.

Notes from a beautiful country (political rough edges notwithstanding)

     "Do you want to visit a lavender farm?" my wife asked. The honest answer would be: "God no — why would I do that?"
     But we were in Northern Michigan, with a few hours to kill before the weekend's wedding festivities began. I'm a blind blunderer, but my wife has this superpower; she investigates where we're going and discovers what there is to do. So her suggestion is an endorsement, practically a command. In that light, why yes, by all means, let's go. If I didn't take my wife's lead, I'd still be a single guy living in a one-bedroom apartment in Oak Park, and not the father of a groom.
     "Sure," I said. Shortly thereafter we were gawping at the purple wonderland of Lavender Hill Farm.
     This is such a beautiful country. The rural regions hold their own against the national parks or coastal waters or even the gorgeous skyline of a city like Chicago. Driving almost anywhere reminds me of that.
     I know. Democrats are supposed to be twisting in agony right now. Between Old Joe Biden tightening his grip on the steering wheel as the Democratic Party races toward a cliff, and Donald Trump escaping death (by the direct intervention of the Lord God Almighty, as he says, or by the same persistent dumb luck that had him born to a real estate millionaire in 1946), doom is nigh.
     But honestly, I don't feel it. Given how either man won't be around much longer, I'm already looking past them, to what each represents. Biden's biggest achievements so far are repairing America's crumbling infrastructure — bridges and roads like the ones we were gliding across — and mobilizing Europe to stand behind Ukraine. Plus standing for decency and honesty — his claims to spryness notwithstanding.
     Trump represents an America not only grovelling before dictators, but imitating them. On that note: enjoying the Republican convention? I didn't watch a second. News reports convey policy notions that are pure folly. Like those "MASS DEPORTATION NOW!" signs. I don't know if you've noticed, but companies can't staff as it is. Were the United States to actually do what the GOP is suggesting — deport millions of immigrants whom we didn't allow to become legal — besides being an epic human rights disaster, it would crater our economy.
     As would the tariffs Trump loves, whether imposed by him or JD Vance. Chicago should be especially sensitive to this. Remember candy companies? Remember Brach's on the West Side, running 24 hours a day? Swept away by daft sugar tariffs propping up beet farms in Minnesota. It was estimated that three candy company jobs vanished for every sugar industry job saved.

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Motel life: analyze, adapt, overcome.

      Inflation is bad, I know. But the specifics can still be startling. We were striding through the Chicago Botanic Garden earlier this month. It was hot, I was thirsty and a lemonade was in order. So I got in line at a refreshment stand and, in a pro forma way, asked what a cup of lemonade costs. Answer: $12. Mind you, this wasn't a lemonade and vodka, or fancy lemonade squeezed in front of your eyes. Just a glass of plain old lemonade. Made from water, sugar and a lemon or two. Or lemon extract, more likely. 

     Maybe I'm cheap, but I couldn't do it. I turned and fled, muttering apologies. Setting off toward a water fountain, I asked myself what was the most I would have paid for a lemonade there at the Botanic Garden, and decided $8. 
     Or on Sunday. We decided not to drive straight home the day after the wedding, but to stop in Traverse City, an hour south. Take it easy. We booked ourselves in a Best Western motel. What would you think a room at a Best Western would cost? With the $20 fee for the dog, over $300. Not to diss the hotel. It was clean, the clerks were very nice. There were chocolate chip cookies that evening and make-your-own waffles in the morning. 

     Though we did check into the special dog suite — it had an exit to outside the building, and no carpeting. But my wife didn't like the uncarpeted effect, so we quickly changed rooms, from 125 to 108.
    Which meant, when the air-conditioning started this loud whining hum, we were not predisposed to change rooms again. I mean, once is acceptable. But twice, that puts you in the realm of chronic complainers, if not the unhinged.  I figured, we'd get used to it.
     But I am nothing if not handy. And I know that noise is created by vibration. Approaching the air conditioner, I placed my palm firmly on the surface and pressed. The hum stopped. Now the thing to do was try to replicate the effect of my hand pressing hard on the air conditioner front panel. I slid over the one chair and wedged it against the air conditioner. It continued operating, quietly. Amazing. Sometimes stuff works. I was pleased with my handiwork though, frankly, for $306 a night, you expect better.

Artist's Guest House

     As a rule, I like hotels. The thrill of luxury and perfection. The little twin bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The hush when the door clicks shut. The mountain of pillows. Or motels, with their bare bones comfort, rest, sanctuary from the road, uniformity, value.

     And yet. Nothing is more antiseptic than a hotel room. Ideally. You do not want a crumb, a trace of any of the thousands of previous occupants. Generic art on the walls. Anodyne furnishings. Nobody wants to live in a hotel room.
     An Airbnb can be different.  Much better. Or worse. There is a roll-the-dice quality. One pair of guests at the wedding last weekend had their Airbnb cancel at the last minute. Another compared their lodging to a Mediterranean villa. You take what you get. Then again, hotels can screw up too; my sister's hotel lost her second night's reservation, forcing us to scramble to relocate her.

     With an Airbnb, you are moving into somebody's home, often literally, a place they may have recently occupied. The owner is very present in quirky furnishings and decorations. 

     That can be a good thing, or a bad thing. There is a risk, but also a reward. You aren't a guest of Mr. Hilton or Ms. Marriott, but a real person — ideally. Some Airbnb's are pretty corporate themselves.

     Still, a good option, particularly in a pricey resort town like Charlevoix, Michigan. We'd be occupying an expensive suite the day before and after the wedding — the groomsmen would be changing there. So something a bit more affordable was in order for the first two days — and, crucially, a place that allows dogs, as our Kitty was a flower girl in the wedding. This led us to the Artist's Guest House. 

     There was an actual artist, John Posa, and I have never moved into an Airbnb where the presence of the owner was felt quite as strongly as it was here. 

     His widow, Oksana, showed us around the place, explaining that her husband recently died, and since they had bookings, she was continuing on with the Airbnb while she figured out what to do with it. Her husband had used the small building, a former mocassin store, as a studio — there were two big lithography presses in the living room.

   I gave my condolences and then asked how recently he had died, fearing it was last week. She had tears in her eyes, and said it happened in February. Recent enough.
     Not that she was dour. She was kind, upbeat, welcoming. She left us with a loaf of walnut bread baked that morning, some farm fresh eggs. A variety of wines were available at $10 a bottle.
     We settled in, looked around. I liked his prints more than his paintings — the dog over the fireplace seems to be floating in air rather than water — but he certainly had talent, and a sensibility. Having closed down my father's studio a few years ago, I was conscious that this was Posa's space, with tubes of ink scattered around, rollers, pencils he had no doubt sharpened. Long thin drawers contained stacks of fresh prints. He had also been a patent attorney, and had a hobby of going to yard sales and buying contraptions that had their 

patent number on them, then pairing them in tableaus with their patent filings. I was excited, the next morning, to notice a wooden box from Kraft American Cheese. (Any idea what Kraft was patenting? Weigh your options. Perhaps it would be best to think of actual cheese. What does it have that Kraft American cheese-like product lacks? Correct. Rinds. That's intentional. "The principal objects of my invention are to prepare cheese of the type described, in units of such size and shape that can be readily sold ... while at the same time drying out or spoilage of the unsold cheese is practically eliminated; to provide a cheese of the American variety which shall be free from objectionable rind or inedible skin...")  

     The bed was wonderfully firm and we slept well. In the morning, my wife made a lovely breakfast with eggs, peppers, real cheese and bread, plus a grapefruit we had brought with us (like Hunter S. Thompson, I make a point of traveling with grapefruit). I put on one of the artist's CDs: Boccherini quintets for string quartet and guitar. 

    The Artist's Guest House is right on 31, the main drag, but quiet enough, and a brief stroll from Charlevoix's touristy downtown of jam shops and cute little boutiques — certainly better than driving, since the bridge is raised every half hour, tangling traffic.

      We were glad to stay there and would be glad to return, if it's still around. The space's future is uncertain. Then again, all of our futures are uncertain. As a person shielding my own little guttering creative flame from the downpour of life, I tried to look extra hard at the dead artist's studio, reflecting on the brief span it will remain. The brief span that any of us will remain.

Anything is possible.

Traverse City, Michigan — July 14, 2024

      When I heard news of the shooting of Donald Trump on Saturday afternoon, my first thought was "Reichstag Fire." The 1933 arson of the German parliament that Hitler used as a pretext to suspend civil liberties. Not that Trump is in a position to do that, yet. But rather that this was a lucky wound, another stroke of good fortune for a man born with a horseshoe up his ass. The assassination attempt will be an excuse to eventually become the dictator he already intends to be. To play the martyr he already portrays himself in every breath. Trump gets rare confirmation in the physical world of his bone-deep belief that he is a victim. His followers, who already consider him to be Jesus on the Cross, find an actual nail to justify their passion. And the Democrats, already glumly backing an octogenarian who couldn't pretend to be focused for 10 minutes with everything on the line, now have another reason to go even limper as their bodies are swept over the falls. Our bodies.
     That's the bad news. The good news is that today is July 16. Nov. 5 is still almost four months away. As we have just seen, anything is possible. I hope. But as I've said before, hope is the last coin in your pocket when all of your money is gone.