WAIT YOUR TURN! American Airlines tries to call out line-jumpers

Blue Man Group

     I'm old enough to have seen Blue Man Group off-Broadway in the early 1990s, before there were dozens of cobalt grease-painted trios scattered across the globe. Just the original ensemble, who conceived the performance art piece in Central Park and went on to mint money with their fungible legions beating drums and stuffing Cap'n Crunch into their mouths.
     One bit stands out. A member of the audience arrives late — probably planted, now that I think of it — and edges past others in his row, toward an empty seat.

     Suddenly the action on the stage stops and the latecomer is hit by a spotlight as a disembodied voice bellows, "Late! Laaaate! LAAAAAAAATE!"
     Hysterical. Humiliation — of others, naturally — often is.
     Which makes the world a less humorous place, now that shame is basically dead. A concept that didn't occur to me until I got an email this week from a regular reader. It begins:
     "I read that American Airlines has a trial plan to shame customers who try to cut in the boarding line."
     We've all been there. There are six boarding groups. A certain subset of those in the latter groups stand around, poised, alert, like runners set in the blocks, visibly itching to get on the plane, jealousy eyeing those in the earlier groups as they shuffle forward, bags in tow. I'm not sure why; we're all getting on the same plane, leaving at the same time, after the last passenger takes their seat. You'd think passengers would linger, minimizing their time in the sealed aluminum tube. But no.
     I guess they want to make sure they have an overhead berth for their enormous carry-on bags. Maybe the reason is inbred competitiveness — you get on board ahead of others, you beat them and thereby win, awarding yourself another meaningless medal in the private Ego Olympics that is your life.
     I heard the news of American's experiment and pictured the inevitable entitled fellow passenger, who just has to jump the gun, because that's how he's wired, trying to board prematurely. Suddenly he's hit by a spotlight and a canned voice reverberates across the gate: "PLEASE ... WAIT ... YOUR ... TURN!!!"

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The Legacy Pantry

 

     My leafy suburban paradise is an upscale community. But that doesn't mean there aren't people living here who struggle. Divorce, addiction, job loss, accident, illness — there are many reasons why some slide down the greased pole of life.
     Last year,  I wrote about the Northbrook food pantry run by the Ark. The latest manifestation of the urge to help those in need recently popped up on First Street just a few steps north of Walters Avenue, in front of the Civic Building, a quaint 1928 structure purchased by the Northbrook Chamber of Commerce last spring.
     It's a clever idea, apparently based on those Little Libraries scattered about. A person lacking canned soup and other provisions can take what they need. Those kind-hearted souls who want to give back to the community can fill the shelves.
     It's only a short distance from my house; I can practically see it from where I sit, typing this. Walking past, I've been casting glances at the pantry — it seems like it is being used. Products appear and then are replaced by other products. I haven't added to the supply myself, but surely, if the cornucopia seemed to be running low, I'd hurry home and see what we could spare.
     The location does seem curious. Sort of off-the-beaten track. First Street is not quite a block long, from Walters to where it dead ends at the corner of my lot. Many confused drivers who miss the big "DEAD END" sign end up there. I can't imagine many needy people wander over to the Chamber for their first Friday of the month breakfast. It might be better situated near Village Hall, or the library. Not that I'm trying to relocate it away from me — I'm not one of those people, worried about my line of vision being disturbed by the needy snagging cans of free soup as I walk my dog.
     Just the opposite. I want people to know it's there. Thus today's notice. I don't get the sense that many needy persons are reading this. But it's the only way I have to spread the word. If someone you know is going through hard times, and could use some gratis groceries, you know where to point them. 

Some moments more than others

The Auditorium Building, foreground, and the Wabash Building.

     One of the pleasures of navigating Chicago on foot is how the old and the new juxtapose each other. Such as the 1888 Auditorium Building set against Roosevelt University's 2012 Wabash Building. The Auditorium's 17 story tower — once the tallest building in Chicago — framed by the undulating green facade of the 32 story "vertical campus."
     I could go on and on about the Auditorium, designed by Adler and Sullivan, with a young Frank Lloyd Wright creating interior ornamentation. The cornerstone was set by President Grover Cleveland. The 4,000 seat theater has seen many landmark Chicago cultural moments. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra debuted there in 1891 — George Gershwin was a featured soloist in 1933, playing piano for "Rhapsody in Blue."
     The Wabash Building, being far newer, doesn't have as rich a history. Though you never know what one of the students living and studying there will do someday. It's a green LEED certified building, designed with bird safety in mind. Thus no lighting on the roof, but plant cover instead.

    That's it. I was in the South Loop Tuesday afternoon because a friend asked me to talk to her class at Columbia College. The kids were attentive and respectful and asked probing questions. The sun bathed the city as I walked back to Union Station. The day was June transported to the end of October, a rare gift. Then again, what aspect of life isn't a rare gift? I always try to appreciate whatever moment I'm in, though, to be honest, some moments are easier to savor than others.

Harold Washington Library

"Island of garbage"

     Of course I watched Donald Trump's rally at Madison Square Garden Sunday night. Well, part of it anyway. A bit. The thing lasted six hours. I didn't camp out in front of the television and tune in CNN or MSNBC. No need for that. Rather I lay on the sofa in the living room and scrolled X.
     It was easy. Trump's rally was highlighted on a hot pink bar at the top of the screen. Tapping that took me to Trump, live, doing what he has done since June 16, 2015, when he rode that escalator down the salmon-tinted excrescence of a lobby at Trump Tower: malign immigrants.

     "Take our country back," he said. The "...from brown people" is unvoiced. He isn't saying that Norwegian immigrants are ruining our country just by being here. Because of all the crimes they commit. 

     It isn't true — immigrants are actually more law-abiding than citizens, which makes perfect sense, when you think about it — someone should. If you could be deported for a speeding ticket, you'd keep your head down too. No matter. The lying is baked into the Trumpian worldview. I think that's the most repellent part, for me. Prejudice I understand — everybody harbors prejudice to some degree or another. But to create a counterfactual hothouse within your own soul in order for your biases to grow as lush and bountiful as they can. That's nuts.
     The rally got boring quickly — listening to the same old shit — and I skipped down through X to see what others were posting. I was struck by the number of pro-Trump clips, from Joe Rogan's show, from supporters. Suddenly the world was lovin' Trump. At least here. There were also clips of women flashing their breasts — you don't normally see that on the former Twitter. Must be bait to draw in the important young man vote. That was the only explanation I could think of.
     No doubt Elon Musk was putting his thumb on the scales for Trump. He was at the rally, leading chants of "USA! USA!" in his James Bond villain accent. His hat reading "Make America Great Again" in a font popular in Nazi Germany. The devil is in the details. Musk has lately gone all in for Trump, the two open-wound egos locked in a mutual admiration society. Musk bought Twitter — exactly two years ago, on Oct. 28, 2022 — for $44 billion. He decimated its value by turning it into a haven for haters and loons. So he's trying to claw some value back by turning it into a megaphone for Trump — the world's richest man ballyhooing America's greatest traitor. He's counting on a prime place at the trough when Trump is re-elected. Like all who sell their souls to Trump, he forgot to read the fine print. 

     For now, it's working, with nearly half the country. Trump and Musk, presenting themselves a champions of the little guy. Boy, people really are stupid. Maybe our politics is as simple as that.
     Other opinions still came through. Shocked shares of heretofore anonymous, now forever notorious, comedian Tony Hinchcliffe slurring Hispanics:
     "These Latinos, they love making babies too. Just know that. They do. They do. There's no pulling out. They don't do that. They cum inside. Just like they did to our country."
     I tried to think of another instance of the word "cum" appearing in presidential politics and came up empty. Some outlets spelled it "come" which is silly. Another day.
     Then the alleged comedian bored in on Puerto Rico. “I don’t know if you know this but there’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now," he said. " I think it’s called Puerto Rico.”
     Since laughter was sparse, he provided his own. "Ha ha ha ha." Four harsh syllables.
     There's more. He pretended to see a Black friend in the crowd. "We carved watermelons together, it was awesome." He mused on the war in Ukraine. "Who even cares?
     You get the idea. You can watch it yourself, if you're interested — the "love making babies" part is at 2:37. The "floating island of garbage" is at 3:38.
     I have a pretty broad sense of humor, but it doesn't seem remotely funny. Someone on X observed that satire is mocking the powerful; bullying is mocking the weak. Dismissing an island of 3.2 million people as garbage is bullying.     

     A week before the election, we are nothing if not numb. I can't say I was offended so much as puzzled. This is Donald Trump's message in the home stretch? Delivered at the home of the infamous 1939 Nazi Rally. In for a dime, in for a dollar, I suppose. But still...
     It had the effect of supercharging support for Kamala Harris. Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny tweeted Harris's supportive statement on Puerto Rico to his 45 million followers four times in the next hour. Not enough for anyone to feel optimistic about the outcome. But the guttering flame of hope flickered in its cave, trying to push back the darkness all around.
      I didn't tweet anything myself during the rally — what's the point? But just before bed a thought came to me, and I composed a message: "I watched the rally, but missed the part at the end where they open the Ark of the Covenant." The kind of sly remark that does well on X.

'We don't care about women' — 50 years ago, men got all the credit

     Jorie Lueloff ruined her credit the same way many women did in 1971: she got married. Now Jorie Lueloff Friedman, she visited Chicago department stores, trying to update her charge cards with her new name, and found she no longer had a credit history. She had a husband instead.
     "We don't care about women," a clerk at Marshall Field & Co. told her. "Just men."
     That she had a good job — she became Chicago's first female news anchor after joining WMAQ Channel 5 in 1966 — and a fat bank account didn't matter. Her husband, globe-trotting lawyer and failed mayoral candidate Richard E. Friedman, mattered. Bonwit Teller closed her account rather than issue it in her new name.

    That was common. A single woman applying for a credit card, or loan, would find herself quizzed about her marital plans. A married woman would be asked how many children she had and whether she planned to have more.
     But change was afoot. Lueloff Friedman explained what would normally be a private frustration in front of a Washington hearing of the National Commission on Consumer Finance in 1972.
     "The implication is that a woman has suddenly become a second-class citizen or an irresponsible child who can't be trusted to pay her own bills — just because she got married," she testified. "It's not only unfair and demeaning, but ridiculous and unreasonable that a woman should have to forfeit her economic identity because she changed her name."
     She noted that American Express began sending her account's bills to her husband and, when he didn't pay them because she already had, suspended his card, causing him to be locked out of a hotel room.

     Congress acted, passing the Equal Credit Opportunity Act. President Gerald Ford signed it into law exactly 50 years ago Monday, on Oct. 28, 1974.
     Everything old is new again. With a divisive presidential election close at hand, pivoting on the role of women in American society — can one be elected president? Should women be trusted to make their own reproductive choices? — it's a timely moment that recalls the struggles that got us here, and the progress that could be undone.

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Choose wisely

 

     I'm not rich. But I understand one often becomes rich by putting money first. You ignore your family, your own health, the marvelous and varied world, and focus on doing the thing that makes you rich.
     But I figure, once wealthy, the whole point is that then you are then freed by those riches. You can do what you like, thumb your nose at convention and authority, act on whims. Like buying a major American newspaper. As vile as Amazon can be, as a company, lining up ambulances to cart away workers who collapsed from heat exhaustion, and forcing them to wear adult diapers because they couldn't take bathroom breaks, I always said, "Well, Jeff Bezos bought the Washington Post." It seemed exculpatory, as the lawyers say. He was forgiven.

Katherine Graham, by Diane Walker (Nat'l Portrait Gallery)

    And now he cravenly spiked the Post's endorsement of Kamala Harris so as to not affect his financial relationship with the perhaps future president. To ensure he can earn even more money. That he doesn't need. The kind of prophylactic groveling that greased the skids toward fascism. Plus, Bezos is a smart man — he must realize what Trump is. How many reputations he's ruined. Elon Musk could cure cancer and establish a thriving colony on Neptune and he'd always be, to me, the imbecile giddly prancing around Trump. You can't unring that bell. 
     Shortly after the shock of Bezos's moment of cowardice — a failure which will haunt him like that of Lord Jim — my pal, two-time Pulitzer Prize winner Gene Weingarten, sent out this week's blog post. I don't want to seize it — you can read the full thing here on his excellent blog. But I believe I can quote two paragraphs without doing him violence. He's talking about Katharine Graham, the publisher of the Post:

     In June 18, 1971, The Washington Post began publishing The Pentagon Papers at a time of extraordinary tension between the media and Richard Nixon’s occultly corrupt government. The decision had been made the day before by the only person with the power to do it: Katharine Graham. Printing the stolen material was possibly a felony. The New York Times had just been enjoined by a court from publishing the documents. It was not unlikely that Nixon’s Justice Department would seek criminal penalties from The Post for breaching that order.
     During a dinner party at the same Georgetown mansion, with the very survival of her newspaper at stake — the government wielded enormous economic power over the media, particularly through licensing of their broadcast affiliates — Mrs. Graham considered a few moments, then gave the order in five two-word bites: “Go ahead. Go ahead. Go ahead. Let’s go. Let’s publish.” When her lawyers warned her that the government might come after the editors with subpoenas for the papers, and they might face prison for refusing to cough them up, she ordered that the documents be delivered to her house, so she and she alone would be the one to defy the subpoena. Let them put an old grandmother in jail, she said.

   Courage is remembered. And cowardice is never forgotten. Choose wisely.

 

Cede fortunae.

   

          "The Death of Seneca," by Jean Guillaume Moitte (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     Seneca is dead. Needless to say. By his own hand in 54 AD. On order of his former pupil Nero, "some of whose worst misdeeds he did not prevent," in the words of a flap copy writer at the Loeb Classical Library, a phrase that should disturb any one of numerous politicians and billionaire newspaper owners groveling before a more recent tyrant. If only they could, you know, be disturbed by criticisms of their actions.
     But Seneca can spring to life, thanks to his writings. And recent events being what they are, I returned to the conflicted, contradictory epicurean philosopher, starting in on Volume I — Moral Essays.
     As always, I found grist for thought aplenty. In "On Providence," he discusses how the hardships men endure increases in direct proportion to their worth. Quanto plus tormenti tanto plus erit gloriae. "But the greater his torture is, the greater shall be his glory." Uh-huh. Pretty to think so. Spoken like a rich and powerful man who spent his time relaxing in mineral baths at his luxurious country villas. Seneca was a big fan of standing up to abuse — for others, in theory. I don't quite buy it.  
     He does offer an appealing image of fate as a dutiful father. What does a caring parent do for the education of sons? Rouse them from bed painfully early, set them to hard tasks and difficult studies, all for their future betterment. So fate harries and harasses her favorites. "She seeks out the bravest men to match with her ... those that are most stubborn and unbending she assails." In order to shape and improve them. 

     Seneca says that kind of thing a lot — what's the point of being a good, strong person if you never get the chance to show off what you've got? Affliction is a celestial compliment. Gee thanks.
     That is page 21. But on page 233 I came upon something more persuasive, or at least more useful to my current mode of thought: cede fortunae. "Submit to fortune." You have to — what choice is there? Denying fortune doesn't really do much good. Some things can't be changed. Why rail at the inevitable?

    Cede fortunae. Looking at the Latin, it reminds me of one of my favorite lines in the classics, Virgil's tu ne cede malis. "Yield not to evils." Book VI of the Aeneid. Which leads to the essential dilemma: is this fortune's will, to be accepted, or a wrong to be battled? 
     Hmm...good question. How to tell? It's really a restatement of the Serenity Prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

    That can be a tough call. Sometimes something can seem bad but ultimately be good — I use the example of anti-Semitism in Poland in the 1920s. Bad for the people there, generally; good for my grandfather, specifically, since it set him on the road to the United States, so that when Holocaust took place, he was dandling my mother on his knee in Cleveland. Luckily he went where fate blew him.
     I try to keep that dynamic in mind when seemingly bad things occur. A certain development appears bad now. But might it not yield up something good, if I respond in the right way? Might it be, not a setback, but a benefit? A journey? You don't always want to go somewhere, particularly when forced: here's your staff, your hat, get going. But having no choice, you set out on the road, and suddenly you're seeing things you would not have seen nodding at home by the fire. Maybe the setback is really an adventure in disguise. Let's hope so.