The Erotic Waffle

     We stayed in a hotel called The Evelyn, 27th Street and 5th Avenue, on our recent visit to New York. I liked the place: the room was so small it couldn't become messy. There was a serviceable little gym in the basement that I used several times. The front desk handed out free bottled water and tangerines. When we left the bellman gave us directions to take the subway to LaGuardia that were better than the mess Google Maps offered.
     My wife picked The Evelyn for its location — convenient to Jersey City and our son and daughter-in-law, to Brooklyn, where the wedding festivities (the son of a college buddy, not one of mine, this time) were held. We walked as far north as Times Square and as far south as the Battery, to the West Village and nearby Madison Park.
     But one aspect of its location had not been anticipated, an adjacency I neatly summed up upon arrival.
      "You booked us next door to the Museum of Sex," I observed. We went about our business. Saturday night, got back to the hotel about 10 p.m. after coffee and cheesecake at Caffe Reggio. Investigating the place seemed in order — here, you enter through the gift shop. We were greeted by a woman holding a large dildo — this is New York City after all — who said that tickets to the museum itself cost $36 and included the special exhibit, "Super Funland: Journey Into the Erotic Carnival."
     Had I been wearing my columnist hat, I of course would have ponied up to experience the wonder. But I was wearing my frugal traveler after a long day hat, and so we both saved the $72 and skipped the place. It is expensive — you can get into the Met for only $30.

     I did think of EGD earlier, passing the shuttered Erotic Waffle cart above. Maybe because we parsed the word "waffle"here previously. Though honestly my curiosity centered around the word "erotic" — not heard in popular culture as much, lately. My guess being that it's like "oriental" — a term that once described a certain realm of exotism that has been banished in our world, fragmented into a hundred identities. Fifty years ago Bridget Bardot in a French maid's outfit could be described as "erotic" — now of course that would reflect cisnormative supremacy. What would erotic even mean anymore? The "to whom?" part is too immediate and variable.

     Not that "erotic" hold much interest, etymologically. From eros, obviously, the Greek god of love, though I'd better confirm, since it's what you think you know that trips you up. "Of or pertaining to the passion of love," is how my OED puts it, tracing the word, not to any divinity, but to the Greek word for "sexual love," no gods involved. That's why you always check.

     Perhaps damningly, I did not wonder what an erotic waffle could possibly be. In fact, I wondered whether the cart could be a mere decoration — a prop that did not actually open and serve commestibles.

     Wrong again. It did, and leaving the Museum of Sex, we saw what the an erotic waffle consisted of. Rather binary of them, now that I think of it. I took a few photos, though my wife worried that social media, which can be astoundingly prudish when it isn't peddling pure smut, would permit its posting. We'll see. You have to look closely; too close, I hope, for an algorithm to notice and take offense.

Show me where the immigrants hurt you

"Mobile Construction, Trees, 2000" by Nick Cave (Museum of Contemporary Art)

     Chicago's population was 2.7 million in 1990. It's 2.66 million now.
     That's bad. Fewer people means fewer taxpayers and a city in decline.
    What's good is when those busloads of Venezuelans started showing up, courtesy of Texas Gov. Greg Abbott. A political thumb in Chicago's eye for daring to call itself a "sanctuary city" and welcoming immigrants the way America has — grudgingly — since the Pilgrims landed in 1620.
     Sure the new arrivals were a hassle. Finding them temporary shelter at a moment's notice — actually, no notice at all. Getting them food and warm clothes and enrolling their kids in school.
     It was expensive, in the same way building a house or putting money in a 401(k) is expensive. An investment in the city's future. Because many of those Venezuelans are going to stick around.
     We are at a moment of anti-immigrant frenzy in this country — another anti-immigrant frenzy, as common as dirt in American history, almost like saying "Today is a day ending in a 'Y.'" A good time to take a breath and assess the facts.
     Maybe it would help to look around the world. Across the globe is an industrialized nation called Japan. Japan's population in 1994 was 125 million. Today, 30 years later, it is ... still 125 million, having slowly peaked in 2008 and begun to steadily fall. The Japanese Health Ministry projects that by 2060 it will be 86 million.
     So ... a good thing? Less crowding? No. A bad thing. Population decline and economic ruin go hand in hand. You can buy a Japanese house for $1 in towns that are emptying out. Let me teach you a Japanese word, "kodokushi." It means "lonely death" and is used to describe individuals who die at home and nobody notices, sometimes for weeks or even months. Cleaning up is a chore.
     There are several reasons for this precipitous decline. Japanese couples are getting married later, if at all, and having fewer children. But the stake through the nation's heart is immigration, or lack of it. which.
     Japan welcomed 175,000 immigrants in 2022. The United States let in 2.6 million. See a difference? Immigration is saving America. Immigration is why the population of the United States is not declining, and it's also much younger. The median age in the United States is 38.5 years. In Japan, it's 50. Younger is good.
     Immigrants are younger, work harder, commit less crime and bring the range of cultural diversity that our nation is so proud of — at least those who don't wet themselves if they hear Spanish spoken in the break room.
     That's why some folks prefer to imagine crimes and assign them to immigrants. The whole Haitians-are-eating-pets slur. As astounding as it was to hear that calumny spoken at a presidential debate, the true shock is that even after it was firmly established as a complete lie, vice presidential candidate JD Vance shrugged and kept repeating it. “If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do,” he said.

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Flashback 2004: Disabled vet's battle with VA over benefits was news in '73 too

Folk art, Smithsonian Institution, Museum of American History

 

     We went to Wicker Park Friday night and saw Mitchell Bisschop's one-man show, "Royko: The Toughest Man in Chicago" at the Chopin Theater. I liked it, while at the same time felt my colleague Bob Chiarito nailed its shortcomings in his review. Both can be true because I'm the rare audience member who is also a working newspaper columnist.  I actually choked up when, as the Chicago Daily News folded, Royko cast his reaction in the voice of a kid on the last day of summer pleading to play just a little bit more. C'mon guys! Don't end this yet. Just one more hour. I feel that way every day.

     Royko's widow, Judy, was there — she said it was her fourth time seeing it — and when a friend introduced us, her frosty, "I know who you are," before turning on her heel and walking off reminded me how her late husband hated younger columnists and treated us like crap at every opportunity — apparently deputizing his family members to carry on the tradition for him, from beyond the grave. Nice to see you too, Mike, and thanks for the reminder — that's why I'm always elaborately kind to whatever ambitious young journalist comes my way. Not that many do.

     The play highlights a Royko column about Leroy Bailey, and I mentioned it to a friend who invited me to see the play that I dredged up Bailey 20 years ago when the VA was in the news for treating its veterans shabbily. She expressed interest in seeing it, and I said I would post it here. It's from when the column ran a thousand words and filled a page, and I kept the other items here , in case you're interested. The really cool part is that, after it ran, Tom McNamee tracked down Bailey and visited with him. Alas, that column isn't online.

Opening shot

     Of the several thousand columns written by Mike Royko, the absolute best is easy to pinpoint: It was published Dec. 10, 1973, in the Chicago Daily News and told the story of Leroy Bailey, the man without a face.
     Bailey had had a face when he went into the Army and was shipped to Vietnam. Then a rocket slammed into his tent and exploded. Eyes, nose, teeth, gone. He was living in his brother's basement in LaGrange, knitting wool hats, when Royko found him. The doctors at Hines Veterans Hospital had told him nothing more could be done for him. But an Oak Brook doctor thought he could reconstruct Bailey's face enough so that he could eat solid foods, instead of taking his nutrients by squirting them down his throat with a syringe. The doctor began the series of operations that would allow Bailey to eat normally. But the VA had refused to pay because they decided that the treatment was for something "other than that of your service-connected disability." Eating like a person, the VA decided, was a needless luxury.
     This will sound grimly familiar to readers who were aghast this past week as the Sun-Times detailed the delay and indifference of the VA here, how vets have to struggle for benefits they have already paid for with their blood, and how Illinois is among the most stingy states in the nation when it comes to helping vets. Not only is it a disgrace, but — as Royko's piece reminds us — it's nothing new.
     Americans fall over themselves to pay lip service to our military. We love a parade, and act like anybody who doesn't support our troops is a coward and a traitor. And then we turn our backs on the most deserving — the wounded vet — not by accident, not individually, but en masse, as a matter of policy.

Whoops! Hey, sorry . . .

     I know you're not supposed to think about the stuff on television. That, for the most part, it's moronic mush designed to roll unchallenged over viewers too tired and numb to extend critical thought. But my God. Perhaps the Orwellian name "The Learning Channel" implies some kind of higher, educational standard, but the lurid fare it serves up as entertainment gets under my skin. I was flipping the channels last week, and I settled on a TLC program. In my memory it was "Medical Miracles," but it could have been "Surgical Surprises" or even "Hospital Hootenanny."
     The story was of a 6-year-old girl, severely burned after her father thought it would be a good idea to use gasoline to jump-start a fire in the fireplace. The story focused on the medical challenges, on the skin grafts and surgeries, introducing the heart-tugging aspect of the twin sister, who at age 6 consented to have some of her own skin stripped away so that her sister could live, complete with poignantly plinking pianos over photos of the pre-burn sisters hugging each other. While dad did address his judgment error that sent a fireball rolling out of the fireplace, burning his daughter over 80 percent of her body, the term he used, I believe, is that he felt "bad" (though he might have said he felt "very bad" or even "terrible." But that was it).
     Call me a cynic. (And the choice nowadays seems limited to "cynic" or "idiot.") But if I had the members of this star-crossed family in front of a camera, happily re-creating their nightmare for a moment of TLC fame, I would have given another 30 seconds to the issue of dad setting little Mandy, or whatever, ablaze, and not just dismiss it with a two second kiss-off. And if I were that dad, I don't think I could bring myself to blandly sit in front of the camera and rehash my moment of bottomless stupidity that had so wrenched my child's life.
     Funny. We relentlessly censor the bloody images of real carnage streaming in daily from Iraq because the public squeals if forced to see the handiwork of our policies. Then we fill the void with the wildest Grand Guignol TV can get away with. If there isn't an Autopsy Channel, it's not because somebody hasn't tried to start one. Maybe next year.

Yeah, that's us

     Last week, I wrote about the unique Canadian ability to fixate and complain about the United States. Canadian sympathizers sent in a lot of flak (including a charmingly succinct if unpersuasive "You're wrong!"). But after the column was reprinted in the Nagging Neighbor to the North, a number of its denizens recognized truth when they saw it, such as Montreal radio host Ted Bird, who writes:
     "Saw your Canada piece this week, reprinted in the Montreal Gazette. I'm no self-loathing Canadian, but man, have you got us pegged. It's actually quite embarrassing. Please be advised that the self-styled intellectual left doesn't speak for all of us, and there is a silent majority of Canadians who still consider America to be their closest friend and ally, and a force for good in the world. Most of the rest are system-sucking crackpots like welfare recipients, erstwhile flower children whose grandkids wish they would get a haircut, and students with heavily subsidized tuition practicing their right to free speech that was bought with blood in epic battles detailed in history books that they've never bothered to read. I wish they would find the energy to mobilize mass protest every time our outrageous income taxes take another jump, but then, they'd actually have to have jobs [to] be affected by taxes."

Was the sponsor Guinness?

     Americans would rather be bored than offended; most places, it's the other way around. Thus, 500 art world types in Britain, surveyed by Gordon's Gin, sponsor of that country's prestigious Turner Prize, just voted Marcel Duchamp's 1917 "Fountain" — an ordinary porcelain urinal the artist signed — as the most influential work in modern art. They're right, sadly. The idea that an artwork should be finely wrought or — God forbid — beautiful went out along with sock garters. What I want to know is this: If the idea of art as whatever shocking item you can pluck out of the junkyard, is 87 years old and counting, and is aped in every museum and gallery in the world, doesn't that mean we can move on to something else? Something new? Or — dare I say it — old?

Neil Steinberg will discuss his new book, Hatless Jack, from 9 to 11 p.m. Tuesday with Milt Rosenberg on WGN-AM (720).

—Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 6, 2004

"I just don't understand it"

     How can the election be this close? A dead heat in the polls. How can Americans look at the two candidates and pick the one whose election would literally mean the dismantling of democracy? How can anyone be undecided? Scratch their heads and go, "Ooo, I don't know...they're both so similar?"
     Future generations will look back — assuming they can, assuming history is allowed — and wonder what the appeal could possibly have been. And all I can do is keep repeating my mantra, "The duped are invested in the fraud." They've punched the ticket, gotten on the train to Crazyworld, and nothing, full stop, nothing is going to pry them out of their seat. Not when the scenery they tell themselves they must be seeing is so shiny and glittery. Golden, not orange. Thrilling. Not nauseating.

    "The Jewish people would have a lot to do with a loss,” one candidate said — I'll let you figure out who. My first thought: "Let's fucking hope so; I'm trying to do my part." But that's the bright spin. Already pre-emptively blaming the Jews. Which might come as a surprise to Jewish supporters but, as I've said many times, once you get in the habit of ignoring reality, the specific details of the reality being ignored hardly matters. 

     And in a sense the details don't matter. Hate is fungible. Mexicans, Muslims, Jews — who the fuck cares? The point is to demean somebody, lord yourself above somebody. The precise sort of person is of no consequence. Anyone will do.
     Notice, I don't mention any names. Even on my own personal blog. I think that's months of trying to jump through the paper's 501(c)3 charity hoops wearing off on me. Or rather, grinding me down. We're not supposed to express a preference when it comes to candidates. A reminder to never forget the fiscal motive in all this. As Marge Gunderson says in "Fargo"  — "And for what? For a little bit of money. There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don'tcha know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well. I just don't understand it."

Who's going to get shot with your gun?

"Coming through the Rye," by Frederic Remington (Art Institute of Chicago)

     Black women have a higher suicide rate than white women. Rich or poor, doesn't matter — Black women in the highest income bracket kill themselves 20% more often than white women in the lowest.
     When they do, they generally use handguns — most U.S. suicides are with handguns, because guns are such efficient killing machines.
     This kept flashing in my mind reading Bob Chiarito's piece in Wednesday's Sun-Times, "Surprised Kamala Harris owns a gun?" This is not a criticism of Bob's article. He recounts the stories of real Chicago women who purchase guns to feel more secure and talks to a gun safety instructor, who says that of her 3,000 students, none has ever had to use her gun. He mentions the risks.
     Rather, I am writing to air the other half of the equation Bob cites only in passing. Guns get great PR in America. Yes, there is the increasingly muted horror at increasingly common school shootings. Some obscure town is projected into the news, parents race to the scene, terrified kids rush out with their hands on their heads. It all fades in a day.
     How can that compete with Clint Eastwood? "Dirty Harry?" The movie opened on Christmas 1971, and more than half a century later, we all know the message: The man — or woman — with the gun gets the drop on the bad guys. "Go ahead, make my day." Add all those surveillance videos of robbers getting gunned down on X. We never see videos of kids shooting each other.
     I don't want to ignore the value of guns as comfort objects. You may live in a dangerous area. You have a gun locked in a drawer, it gives you a sense of security. I live in quiet, safe Northbrook, am neither Black nor a woman. Who am I to have an opinion on this? To call guns "teddy bears with bullets?"
     Well, someone whose job it is, in part, to warn people of perils they might otherwise overlook. If you buy a gun, the chances of you, or your family, being killed by a gun jump. Yes, you tell yourself, if you hear someone breaking in, you can calmly go and unlock the drawer and protect yourself until the police come.
     But what if that break-in never happens? What about the rest of the time? Years and years? That gun sits there and is a menace only to the people in the vicinity — aka, you and your loved ones. You might have a dark night of the soul you never anticipated and use it on yourself. Or you might leave the drawer unlocked and your overly inquisitive nephew finds it.

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Those in sympathy with terror disagree

     I grew up in what can be considered the golden age of Israeli ingenuity. From defeating the massed Arab armies in the Six-Day War in 1967, to rescuing its hostages at Entebbe, Israel had the intelligence, the daring, the knowledge, to do what had to be done. 

     It wasn't perfect. In 1973, Israel was caught napping in the Yom Kippur War. Once I visited the Golan Heights, and asked an Israeli officer escorting us, gesturing toward the north. "You can see 30 miles into Syria..." I said. "How did the tanks sneak up on you?"

     He gave an answer I'd always remember. "We saw them coming," he said. "We just didn't know what it meant." 

Ald. Brendan Reilly tweeted, then deleted, 
this.

     That myopia also permitted Oct. 7. The Israelis were warned, but let themselves become so complacent, so preoccupied dealing with Benjamin Netanyahu's mishigas — craziness — that again they were caught off-guard. A thousand Israelis died, and another 250 were kidnapped to a fate worse than death. Plus those who want the Jews magically gone and the nation handed over to a group who never actually lived there were emboldened to think that their dream of genocide might have a chance if only they couch it in the right terms and enlist enough American college sophomores and armchair Marxists to sign on.

     On Oct.7, the Palestinians demonstrated that they, too, could pull off a clandestine caper, particularly when the Iranians were providing the money, the equipment, and pulling their strings. Israel discovered it wasn't the only one who could hatch a decent surprise attack.

     Tuesday's beeper attack against Hezbollah fighters in Lebanon delighted fans of Israel, reminding them of its past genius, while those who believe the nation should quietly allow itself to be destroyed bewailed the civilian casualties and the use of violence that isn't directed toward Jews.

     And why can't such ingenuity be applied by both sides toward working out a lasting peace? 

     Good question. I wish I could offer a glib answer, but I can't. Well, one does come to mind, but I'm not sure I should say — my only guess is that both sides haven't suffered enough. For all the talk of genocide and the constant carnage, Hamas won't agree to a ceasefire because they don't like the details — I hint that the supposed genocide might not actually be one, given that its victims don't want to stop it because of the status of a crossing. 

     And Israel, for all its pretense of freedom and humanity and Jewish love of justice, obviously feels it can ignore the Palestinian problem, nibbling away more land, letting the years trickle by. Neither side has a sense of urgency. Even now. You'd think Oct. 7 would have done the trick. Obviously not. The one year anniversary looms. The beeper caper will hearten those who've grown disillusioned watching Israel botch things so badly. But it's only a passing distraction. The real problem can't be disposed of with execution of a clever plan.

They're eating the plantains!

Figurines at the 2014 Haitian vaudou show at the Field Museum. 

     Haitians eat plantains.
     I must rush to add that Haitians eat other things too. I remember langouste, from my visits to Haiti, a kind of spicy French lobster dish. In "Breath, Eyes, Memory," Edwidge Danticat's lovely, meticulous novel, they eat cinnamon rice pudding, on special occasions.
     In all the continuing fallout from Donald Trump's shocking slur about Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, uttered during his debate with Kamala Harris — "They're eating the cats. They're eating the dogs. They're eating the pets" — I have not seen mentioned what Haitians actually do eat. Understandable — with the state police being called out to protect children going to school in Springfield, dozens of bomb threats and the Proud Boys boldly marching, cuisine would naturally get pushed aside.
     Pity. Food has a way of bridging divides. I remember the coffee — I'd never had such excellent coffee — and of course the rum, Jane Barbancourt. Best in the world.
     It goes without saying — well, no, actually, I have to say it — that Haitians also eat sushi and meatloaf and apples and every other food that anybody else eats. Culture is a guide, not a rule.
     As to why the spurious pet-eating claim should shock, coming from Trump and his wingman, JD Vance, that's on me, on all of us. We should expect it by now. But something must make people — regular, non-bigoted people — assume the best about others. Like Anne Frank, we believe people are basically good at heart; a dangerous notion, given how that worked out for Anne.
     Never forget that racism is a form of ignorance. Stupidity rampant. People imagine bigots come to their beliefs the way most of us do, through experience and consideration. They don't. What happens is they try to mold their real life experience to fit their narrow, poisonous personal beliefs. As Vance said, they make stuff up to prove a point.
     Prejudice also is a form of cowardice. Nobody is a bigot because they are brave. Thus, hating people directly is rare: "I hate the Dutch and their stupid wooden shoes." Instead, harms must be postulated to justify the hatred: "The Dutch are running over children with their careless bike riding."
     This is where the lying comes in. False rumors, that bulwark of medieval villages, transfer directly to 21st century technology. "The Jews poisoned the wells" finds a direct corollary in, "They're eating the pets." People we hate are doing something awful! So it's safe to hate them.

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