A new pope? But we already have one!

     "Congratulations!" said my cousin Harry, calling from Boston Thursday afternoon.
     I frowned, wracking my brains. What had I done worthy of congratulation? Had the baby been born? And nobody thought to tell me? Now the happy news was percolating through the extended family, reaching me through this circuitous route. "Did you tell your dad and mom?" "Nah, they'll find out eventually ..."
     "For what?" I asked.
     "The pope," he said.
     Ah yes! Bragging rights to the pope. Or "Da Pope!" in another instantly classic Sun-Times headline (with an assist from WBEZ). Or Pope Bob, as a reader dubbed him, born in Chicago, grew up in Dolton.
     Chicago can use the boost. It's been a while since we've had a one-name celebrity to crow over. Michael and Oprah are specks in the rearview mirror. Obama ... well ... still fond of the man and looking forward to that presidential center. Though right now he's still the guy who walked us to the cliff's edge and coughed into his fist as we toppled into the abyss.

     Still. Isn't using the pope as an occasion for pride somewhat contradictory? With all the whoops and fist bumps, I've yet to hear anybody say, "The pope's from Chicago; we'll have to double our efforts to live justly and love our fellow man." All pomp and no obligation — is there too much of that already?
     Honestly, while there was genuine pride, news of the Chicago pope was often played for laughs. Jokes about deep dish communion wafers and baseball. Pope Leo XIV is a White Sox fan. Well, they need something. Jesus did say, "Whoever humbles himself will be exalted," and 121 losses last season is humbling aplenty.
     Harebrained, a local graphics outfit that can turn out a great logo faster then I can tie my shoe, immediately created one of their spot-on mashups.
     Innocent joy only lasted a few hours. The city's understandable pride was quickly used to revive the old "Windy City" charge of unseemly boosterism.
     "But in a place where civic pride is both a virtue and a way of life, Chicagoans need little help believing their city is among God’s favorites," the Washington Post sniffed, as if they weren't the same publication that refused to publish a cartoon that would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize because it suggested their owner fell short of his own lofty self-estimation by genuflecting before the orange enormity.
     I hate to be the bearer of bad news: But you put your lips on that guy's backside once, and it leaves a stain that will never wash off. Neville Chamberlain's entire life was an asterisk after waving that piece of paper and declaring "Peace in our time." Live with it.
     I'm reluctant to suggest it doesn't matter what the pope believes in. But we live in a leaderless moment — even President Donald Trump, who spins in the wind. As much as he pushes tariffs, I don't see the MAGA crowd yelling, "Yay tariffs! Double the cost of everything we buy! Shut down the global economic system!"

To continue reading, click here.

Split the difference

     Kitty and I went for a walk shortly before 3 p.m. Saturday, a fine cloudless day in May. We strolled to the corner of First and Walters. To the left, my neighbor Lee Goodman, in his homemade concentration camp uniform, and a small knot of protesters. To the right, the usual expanse of empty sidewalk. I had just about convinced myself to go rightward, avoid the crowd, but my gaze lingered a fraction too long to the left, and Lee's wife Nancy waved. I might be able to slip away from a protest, but I'm not one to cut my neighbors. I ambled over.
     Lee's new sign struck me as non-controversial in a sane world. "Northbrook stands with migrants." This being a nation of immigrants, all of us or our forebears, at one point or another, I'd say we have to.
     But alas, we do not live in that sane world. Having written on the subject Friday, and gotten an earful from readers who have lapped up the immigrants = criminals cant for years, their brains sodden with the stuff, taut like a water balloon, bulging with fallacy. To see them sneeringly feed it back, the logic being, if only they could deliver the news with sufficient vehemence, why then they would win the day. 

     On some I used my line that the fig leaf of concern for legality does not cover their shameful bigotry as well as they seem to think it does. It would help if they viewed a Venezuelan dishwasher with parking tickets and the multiple felon presidents through the same prism of love for law. But that takes time to express, and what's the point?

     Which is sort of my view toward street corner protests. I'm glad they're there, support them fully, but don't see the effect. I chatted briefly with Lee, who mused how long it would take our neighbors — some of whom are far more devoted to the idea of free speech for themselves than they are to free speech for others — will linger before throwing paint at his sign. I figure, nightfall the second day. 
     Prying myself away, I strolled up First Avenue, back toward home, and paused to press my face into the lovely lilac bush below. At first I thought, "These lilacs will make a fine post for tomorrow," planning to ignore Lee, whom I've featured here in his concentration camp uniform in the not-too-distant past. But then I realized the challenge we face is to balance keeping track of and protesting the Trump enormity, while still enjoying the good things in life that his metastasizing presidency has not yet found a way to ruin. I figure, split the difference: start with blue triangles, end with purple lilacs.

Flashback 2005: High-tech world glued to Vatican smoke signals

 

    Maybe I really am getting old. When my editor called Thursday — a Chicago pope! Opinions to firehose at the flaming masses — I did not respond to the clanging bell by stirring on my straw. Did not stagger to my feet, shamble over to my cart traces, and wait to pull professional journalism to the latest fire. The way I always do. 

     I had gotten up at 4 a.m., written a column whittling a splintery stick and shoving it up Kristi Noem's backside. That column was more topical — i.e., apt to quickly lose whatever value it had. It would be stale in three days. Plus, joining the rush to ululate the new pope seemed off-brand.
    "He'll still be pope on Monday," is what I said, passing. Tom McNamee, an actual Catholic, did a fine job and besides, nothing in the paper could top our headline, "Da Pope." Classic.
     Beginning the musing process for Monday's pope column, I thought about the welcomes given pope in the past. Twenty years ago, I did open the the firehose and rinse the topic down. Reading it today makes me glad I waited. The column filled a page and was 1100 words long, 50 percent longer than today. Bring snacks.

Opening shot

     Being in the communications business, I am constantly amazed at the co-mingling of old and new methods of getting the word out. I'll never forget standing on the bridge of a ship crossing the Atlantic and noticing that not far from the high-tech video screen displaying the multicolored radar readout and global satellite positioning system information was a brass mouthpiece for the speaking tube to the captain's cabin.
     So perhaps I was alone in savoring, amid the mass of analysis and hoopla surrounding the transition between popes, that while the death of John Paul II was communicated to the world via an e-mail from the Vatican, the selection of the new pope was conveyed by a puff of smoke and ringing bells. That strikes me as something of a marvel.

If I stop talking I'll die!

     God, I hate TV. They have such a marvelous opportunity to bring a dramatic moment to the world and they blow it, almost every time. There were a few minutes of indecision Tuesday morning as to whether a pope had been selected, whether the smoke was white. We were glued to the TV, waiting. I was watching CNN. As the bells of Rome began ringing, the talking heads kept bloviating, and I wondered if we would be allowed at some point to just hear the bells, a faint background noise. Finally one commentator said something like, "The bells of Rome are pealing, answering the Great Bell of St. Peter; let's take a moment to listen." I leaned forward, relieved, thinking "it's about time." But they didn't listen. Instead Wolf Blitzer began talking as if his life depended on his never stopping.
     Yet another, more human commentator suggested a pause in the palaver to hear the bells, and again Wolf leapt in, yammering away nonstop.
     So sad. That's the worst thing instantaneous communications does to us; it seems to demand that we instantly communicate. Though the real culprit is the media star system where a Wolf Blitzer could never imagine that the viewers might prefer he zip his big yap for a moment and let us listen to the bells of Rome.

Nor will he take up hang-gliding

     One more bit of TV stupidity and then we'll move on — as soon as the 78-year-old Pope Benedict XVI was named, one of the talking heads speculated that it was unlikely he would match the 26-year-reign of Pope John Paul II.
     Gee, ya think so? Considering that it would make him 114 and the oldest man on Earth, I'd say that's a safe bet.
     Let's take a look at the old resume
     As soon as it was announced that the new pope was the former Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, a German hard-liner, and before the new pontiff had even made his appearance, a sweet, older Jewish lady in my office whom I view as a kind of Greek chorus, wringing her hands and voicing the free-floating Semitic anxiety of the moment, drifted by my office.
     She spoke one sentence — "He was in the Hitler Youth" and then moved away.
     The next Jewish colleague I saw was on the down elevator.
     "Whaddaya think of the new pope?" I called after him.
     "German," he said, as he descended out of sight.
     Those are code words for unease. If anyone held out actual hope that the new pope would be in mesh with the liberal American tradition, the selection of Cardinal Ratzinger put the kibosh on that. As you must know by now, he is on record condemning virtually anybody who isn't middle-of-the-road Catholic — Muslims, other Christian denominations, gays, whom he called "evil." I didn't notice any slams against Jews, but that Hitler Youth item on the resume isn't exactly comforting, though supposedly he was in his early teens and forced to join.
     "That's what they all say," said a third Jewish colleague.
     Myself, I can't get too worked up about it. Everybody has baggage from childhood — heck, I was in the Cub Scouts, but I wouldn't want people to hold it against me. As far as his strict orthodoxy, it isn't as if the Catholic Church is an engine for radical social progress as it is, so a bit — or a whole lot — of traditionalism can be expected.
     I just don't feel any anxiety toward this new pope. My central attitude toward the Catholic Church is surprisingly benign: a hope that they do well, so we don't lose any more Catholic churches or schools in Chicago. I hate to see those go.
     Sure, mainstream America wants the church to be ever more liberal, because that's what we are, and like all people we are most comfortable dealing with those exactly like ourselves.
     That would be in our best interest. But the church is a religious group, obviously, and religions face a puzzle that can be thought of as the "Orthodoxy vs. Inclusion dilemma." If they are too strict, then they alienate people in our modern world and lose membership, but if they are too lax, then membership loses its meaning and the people who do belong fall away through indifference.
     Liberalism might be popular in our modern world, but it is orthodoxy that survives unchanged through the ages. Jews used to be 3 percent of the American population, and now we're 1.8 percent and shrinking, primarily because our leaders told us it was OK to practice as tepid a faith as we liked, so as a result, too many of our children ended up inter-marrying and the faithful basically wandered off. We could have used our own version of a Cardinal Ratzinger to keep us in line.

I haven't offended the elderly yet

     The biggest downside of Cardinal Ratzinger's nomination, in my view, is his age. I know that's why they picked him, so that he would not be expected to match Pope John Paul II's amazing quarter century tenure. But after watching the late pope's agonizing physical decline over recent years, are we ready to see it again in a soon-to-be octogenarian pope?
     Perhaps it's all planned out. A few years chaffing under the lash of a fading Pope Benedict XVI's harsh decrees and the church will be ready for whatever dynamic young South American cardinal they pick next. I hope so, because in my heart I'm rooting for the church to prosper.
     At least they believe in something, and while we can pooh-pooh religion, surrounded by our vast American wealth, there are many places on Earth where faith is all they've got — faith and a goat and a few earthen jars. A lot of people are depending on the church to keep going and work out its problems, and if the cardinals think this Ratzinger fellow is the man for the job, then I hope they're right.

           —Originally published in the Sun-Times, April 20, 2005

Noem's fear roadshow plays a date downstate

    

Barbara Kruger, Art Institute of Chicago

     If you could be exiled from your home forever for a speeding ticket, how fast would you drive? If the slightest brush with the law might result in you being torn from your family and sent to a country you last saw when you were 2, how cautiously would you go about your day?
     I mention this because, in the first draft of this column, I began with the hard statistics demonstrating that immigrants, as a group, are more law-abiding than citizens born in the United States. It just makes sense; they have to be.
     But numbers are cold, while stories sizzle.
     This is not to suggest immigrants never commit crimes. Awful crimes. They do. They are, after all, still human beings — that privilege has not been snatched away from them, yet. Though according to the script we're following, that is coming next.
    But one example — or three — is proof of nothing. Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem is oblivious to that, and hopes you are too. She brought her Immigrants = Criminals Tour roadshow to Springfield Wednesday to complain about our state's policy of not helping federal immigration officers randomly pluck immigrants off the street and ship them to foreign countries to suffer fates unknown for the crime of not having their paperwork in order. Or having their paperwork in order and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
     “People are dying every day because of these policies. People are evading justice,” Noem told reporters during a news conference near the scene of a murder committed, allegedly, by an immigrant. As if "evading justice" weren't a contender for a chapter heading summarizing our current political nadir in some future history textbook. "Evading Justice — America in the era of blatant official criminality, 2025 — 2029."
     Assuming we have accurate history books, which right now is no sure bet.
     Noem went on to fire off the administration blunderbuss of false invective.
     “Governors like JB Pritzker don’t care if gangbangers, murderers, rapists and pedophiles roam free in his state," she said.
     Initially, I grabbed a handful of statistics to throw back. How immigrants are 60 percent less likely to wind up in jail than citizens born here. But figures are complicated, when you dwell in the world of fact, there are many asterisks — the figure could be 30%. Or 40%.

To continue reading, click here.

Buoyed by birds

      Zoos make me sad.  There's no other way to say it. I'm not coming from a PETA, liberation, pity-the-captive-animals point of view. I'm not unhappy that zoos exist — at this point they have an important role in guaranteeing the future of species that might not always be found in the wild.
     I mean, just the experience of going to a zoo. We had a fun meal at North Pond, then walked south to Lincoln Park Zoo. 

     Boom, a nameless melancholy. So many people, so few animals. And the ones that are there are hiding, often. Best zookeeping practice demands that animals be allowed to escape the pressure of our prying eyes — zoos actually plant hedges and erect barriers — and more often than not the animals prefer privacy. It's like going to visit your neighbors only to have them hide inside their house and not answer the bell.
     Part might be nostalgia. For almost five years we visited the zoo pushing what I called "The bus" — a big double stroller holding the two boys. Every animal was a joyous discovery. So seeing the zoo, boyless, well, it's like going to Chuck E. Cheese with your wife, the two of you, for the pizza. Or so I imagine, having never done such a thing.
     The lions were beautiful. But like so much, they kept reminding us what aren't there — what goes with lions? Right, tigers. Wrong — gone, since 2016. At least there were bears, polar bears. Oh my.
     The rhino was sufficiently prehistoric. Like seeing a dinosaur. But the rhino also lives in what used to be the elephant area. Gone for 20 years now.  I'm sure it leads for happier, more productive lives for some herd of elephants, somewhere, enjoying a better place than the North Side of Chicago. But it blows for visitors. Nothing sets your spirits right like an elephant.
     And the gorillas. It was naptime when we went, and they were sprawled, listless, their eyes dull. The enclosures seem small. Hard not to pity them, while at the same time relating to their predicament. As these days of Trump 2.0 grind on, with no end in sight, it's difficult not to get a little glassy-eyes ourselves. How did we end up here? How could we have been so careless as to let ourselves be lured into that trap? By banana? As helpless now to alter our fate as animals in a zoo.
     "Yeah tell me about it, buddy," I want to say. "Not quite the rich pageant we were promised."
     We were about to drift disheartened out of the place, and begin our miserable crawl back to the suburban hellscape from whence we came, when I had an idea.
    "Let's see the birds," I said. 

Green Broadbill

     We made a beeline over, encountering a massive polar bear, pacing back and forth, along with a sign telling visitors not to be alarmed by the pacing. Perfectly natural. 

     Sure it is.
     The birds were a different story. We saw a bright Green Broadbill and a Tawny Frogmouth that looks like an owl. A pair of Luzon Bleeding Heart doves who immediately started to form what Othello called "the beast with two backs" — though in this case it as more a two-tier dove pile — the moment I looked at them. 
     The main bird exhibit doesn't have bars, and you can watch the birds at close range, including a pair of Inca Terns. I think it helps that the birds are relatively small, compared to apes. They have more room to roam. And there are so many different kinds.
     "I don't know what those birders are making such a big fuss about," I said. "Look at all the species of birds we're spotting, right here in Lincoln Park."

Nicobar pigeon

 

New book illuminates Wrigley Building

 

Photo courtesy of the Chicago History Museum

     Resolved: the Wrigley Building is a beautiful, beloved jewel of Chicago, though not great architecture. Discuss.
     "Beautiful" is a value judgment, one I endorse fully. Glazed terra cotta in six shades of white, shifting toward creamy yellow as it nears the top. Festooned with dragons, griffins, cherubs, rams. That four-faced clock, 20 feet tall.
     "Beloved" is not open to debate — any survey of popular Chicago buildings includes the Wrigley Building.
     "It was made to be liked," said Robert Sharoff, whose new coffee table book, "The Wrigley Building: The Making of an Icon," (Rizzoli Electa) with photographs by William Zbaren and commentaries by Tim Samuelson, shines a spotlight on a structure that's been well-illuminated for over a century.
     "The more I shot it, the more joyous it became," said Zbaren. "It's so playful."
     The Wrigley Building is just fun. Perched at the confluence of Michigan Avenue and the north bank of the Chicago River, the historic heart of Chicago — the outlines of Fort Dearborn are in brass across the street — the tower has always been a font of fascination, to me anyway,
     Starting with it being in reality two buildings, built at different times, with different addresses, 400 and 410 N. Michigan, connected at the 14th floor by that metal skybridge, a rococo detail that seems pulled from those dreamlike early 1900s fantasies of the urban future, with plump zeppelins and streamlined elevated trains and mustachioed gentlemen in bowler hats pedaling through the air on penny-farthing bicycles with wings.
     "The Wrigley Building" bristles with glorious facts that even I didn't know, starting with the clock initially being hand-wound by someone turning an enormous crank, winching up weights that once drove the mechanism.
     The authors come down firmly in favor of "great architecture," not surprising in a book bankrolled by Wrigley Building owner Joe Mansueto. Though they insist the Morningstar billionaire gave them a free hand, which they use to massage the life of the architect, Charles Beersman, who does not have a deep portfolio — his other building of note is Cleveland's Terminal Tower. Both of his signature structures are riffs on the Giralda Tower in Spain, with notes of New York's Municipal Building stirred into Wrigley.
     To me, he had one idea, and it was someone else's. But in this book, Beersman might as well be Michelangelo — we're given nine of his 11 childhood addresses in San Francisco, in a note.
     What we get far less of are the critics who lined up over the years to give the Wrigley Building the backhand. Lewis Mumford referred to its "safe mediocrity." The Wrigley Building is "just what the name implies," sniffed Frank Lloyd Wright — admittedly not famous for kindness toward other architects — noting it “illustrates the principle that an ugly building by day, if illuminated, will be ugly by night as well.”

To continue reading, click here.

Restaurant field notes: North Pond

     The kids wanted to meet for brunch at North Pond on Sunday.
     Which itself is parking the ball onto Waveland Avenue, parenting-wise. Really, if your grown children, having successfully launched and escaped the paternal clutches, nevertheless regularly circle back and say, "Hey old people — are you free?" that's snagging the brass ring.
     As if we weren't buoyed enough just by the invite, walking into the lovely little Lincoln Park restaurant at 2610 N. Cannon Drive, with its gorgeous Arts and Craft interior, drove us to maximum good spirits. The hosts are excellent at welcoming — a lot of places fall down on this. Smiles, warmth, and took our coats.

     The place is so well-constructed you can be forgiven for assuming you're enjoying quality from an earlier age. Actually, though it was built in 1912 as a shelter for skaters on the pond and was nothing fancy. It went through a variety of incarnations — it was a hot dog stand for most of the time we lived three blocks to the northwest, before North Pond Cafe opened in 1998. It has to be the only restaurant to win a Michelin star that was once a homeless shelter. (The star has since been snatched back; but such glory, once conferred, lingers).
     True, my wife and I bobbled the first  challenge. Our server set down a "Hot Chocolate Menu" which the savvy diner would have taken as a tip from the cosmos to order the hot chocolate. We did discuss it. But I've got that diabetes thing, and my wife has that preserving her girlish figure thing, so we opted for coffee. Though I presciently mentioned during our pre-ordering analysis  that higher end restaurants which nail every other aspect of the dining experience often botch the coffee part for reasons I do not understood. My theory is, in their frantic quest for excellence, fancy eateries forget to clean the coffeemakers regularly. My wife believes they opt for chi-chi coffee that is acidic.
     Anyway, the coffee arrived. I sipped, then silently dosed mine with cream, the international signal that the coffee is no good. My sharp-eyed wife noticed. Meanwhile, my daughter-in-law's hot chocolate arrived and she raved about it. I thought of quietly dipping into hers a spoon to try it, but she's new to the family, and that seemed, oh I don't know, an over-familiarity.
     Then I did an uncharacteristic thing. The next time the waiter swept past, I handed him my nearly full cup, said the coffee wasn't to my liking, and asked for a cup of cocoa. Typically, I wouldn't send a bowl of grease from the drip pan back if a place served it to me. But fortune favors the bold. And that hot chocolate looked so good.

     My wife did the same. It was worth the effort. Not too sweet, with all sorts of intriguing flavor hints including, another server tipped us off to, lime chantily.

The cuts in the corn bread were my doing.

     Brunch is $59, and under any other circumstances than meeting our beloved son and D.I.L., that itself would have been a dealbreaker for my wife and, honestly, it almost was. She was inclined to suggest something more budget friendly. But I disagreed, observing that we had talked about going to New Orleans, but didn't. So this meal was far cheaper than buying a praline at a candy shop in the French quarter, if you figure in the flight and hotel. And mirabile dictu, that argument carried the day. Plus we could consider it an early Mother's Day Brunch, that being a holiday, like Valentine's, when the savvy restaurant goer dines at home.
     North Pond brunch is three courses, and I opted for the Tart Tatin, as appetizer, the "Beef, Pastry" for the main course, and Chocolate Cake for dessert.
     I stepped away to spread the insulin welcome mat for that feast, then had to take a phone call from the paper. During my absence, an unexpected trio of breads arrived — quite quaint and pretty, with jam and a pair of interesting butters.

It's hard to find a good tart, but this was.

     The tart is described as "Honeyed Carrots, Goat Cheese Ricotta, 'Pop Tart' Dough, Arugula Salad, Lardons" — that last ingredient being a term I wasn't familiar with. It means cubes of fatty bacon, and I did enjoy picking those out. The salad was a tad wet, but welcome. I'm a big carrot fan — I don't think I've mentioned it before. Truly, Bugs Bunny level. I order just about anything made of carrots, did so here, and didn't regret it.
     The Beef, Pastry — no, that comma is not a typo — is described as "Turmeric Pastry Wrapped Grilled Striploin, Sweet Potato Purée, Root Vegetable Pavé, Sherry Jus."
     I wish I had thought to complain about that comma between Beef and Pastry; it would have been the height of the meal. "Waiter — there's a comma in my Beef, Pastry." The sort of thing that enters into Steinberg lore, the way I once ordered the Happy Family plate at Szechuan Kingdom, and met the raised eyebrows — I always get beef and broccoli — with, "I've sampled the 'Happy Family' at every Chinese restaurant I've been to. To compare them. And do you know what I've found?" They gazed at me, puzzled. "All happy families are alike..." I said.

Beef, Pastry worked, despite the comma.

     Tumeric is the It Girl spice of the moment — our older son had been singing its praises recently. A relative of ginger, it is a deep golden orange. The accompaniments struck me as a tad greasy, but the meat was dense and satisfying.
     The Chocolate Cake was no wedge of standard birthday, but "Lapsang Souchong, Raspberry Curds, Sunflower Seed Crumble, Madagascar Vanilla Gelato." I looked up that first term (if I'm spending sixty bucks on brunch I want to know what I'm getting and getting into) and took away that it is a kind of tea.
     I like tea. But in this case, the cake was a reminder of the perils of insufficient research, because I didn't focus on the Lapsang Souchong definition long enough to grasp the "it's by far one of the boldest, smokiest teas out there." Truly,

The Laphroaig of cakes.

Lapsang Souchong is the Laphroaig scotch of teas, and while smoky tea chocolate cake might be an acquired taste, it is not a taste acquired on the first attempt, at least not for me, a judgment my wife confirmed. I mean, I ate it. But my wife's carrot cake was superior, a reminder that one should always, always order the carrot dish.
    Brunch was a case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. The kids adore North Pond — they've eaten there before — and for me, the setting and the service helped pull the food, which honestly I wasn't in love with, over the finish line. I enjoyed the experience sufficiently that I'd go back, if only for the joy of complaining about that comma. Plus the entire staff was truly first rate — the waiter didn't charge us for the misfire coffees, which is only smart service, but not a bar that every restaurant can clear. There was no unsettling 3 percent "because we can" fee. The place was surprisingly uncrowded for 12 noon on a Sunday, another sign recession is sinking in.
     Afterward, we walked to the Lincoln Park Zoo and ... well, we'll visit the zoo here on Thursday.

 

   Reminder: I will be one of the speakers at Chicago Fights Back, "An Evening of Stories, Poetry, History, and Music — focused on Chicago, on change, and on resilience." Wednesday, May 7 at 7 p.m. at the Hideout, 1354 West Wabansia. Raising funds for groups benefiting the homeless and the hungry that are impacted by cuts to the federal government. And yeah, it's a little discordant to mention this after a twee skip through a fancy restaurant. But time is running out — it's tomorrow — and one of my few writing rules is, Be Who You Are, and in addition to being a guy who meets his kid for an expensive brunch, I'm also someone who'll figure out some kind of presentation and drag myself to a gritty bar to help people I've never met. And if you are too, maybe I'll see you there. For more information, click here.