Women standing up for their American rights

     "You need to make a sash," I said. The kind of half-joking, half-sincere thing I often say. Spoken to my wife a couple days ago, leading up to Saturday's big women's march in Chicago—and Washington, and New York, and around the country, protesting the election of Donald Trump, a president dedicated to undermining the civil rights of women in our country.
     Sashes of course were what suffragettes wear. "Votes for Women." Just one hundred years ago. And the sexism is so baked into our society that, unlike those who marched and were beaten for Civil Rights in the 1950s and 1960s, the big-hatted suffragettes — who also marched and were also beaten — are remembered as somewhat ridiculous: Winifred Banks, ignoring her children for some cause. Her sash ends up the tail of a kite, when she returns to her family, where she belongs. 

Carla Slawson, with breakfast, hurries to the station.

     Just to say that they were not ridiculous: they were courageous, patriotic, they pried a basic democratic right — the right to vote — from the grasp of a male-dominated culture that abused and marginalized them, sounds faintly radical, still, a reminder that, hard as it is to see, we live in a world sunk in prehistoric sexism. We sneer at the Saudis, not letting their women drive, then our government goes hammer and tongs after Planned Parenthood and its life-saving health care. Led by a man married three times who bragged into a hot mike about groping women against their will.
   Not to focus on him. The key truth to always keep in mind is that Trump didn't make us like this, he just came along and exploited how we are. And in that sense, ultimately, he might have done this country a service, by so highlighting our deficiencies, assuming we are able to remedy them. But it will be a long uphill slog to get there, made harder by who is now in power across the federal government. 
   I would have gone along to protest, but didn't want to big foot into the women's march. Besides, a half dozen friends were meeting her. Instead, I hovered as she got ready, spewing Polonius advice. "The police use their bikes as a wall," I said, describing the "Seattle maneuver" I observed at the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. "They create a perimeter and then expand it to move the crowd. Don't get up against the bikes because you'll end up getting pushed back."
    She said she'd be fine, and I'm sure she will be.
    I am proud of my wife for going, for making extra signs, for those without, for making several defending science, also under immediate assault.  Proud that our neighbors happily went, taking the 7:30 Metra Milwaukee North line. 
     As a rule, I narrow my eyes at protests. What's the point? Who are you protesting to? Donald Trump? He sure ain't listening. His followers? They don't even perceive reality. They've already cherry-picked a few acts of protest violence to wave smugly at each other and giddily denounce the lib-tards and their violence. And what do you hope to accomplish? Trump isn't going anywhere. Women's rights will be a pinata for the next four years.
     But seeing my wife off at the station, I realized why protesters protest. Not for the subject of their protest, but for themselves. Because they have to. They have to do something. To speak up. It isn't for Trump, or the Republicans, or their voters. It's for them, for their sense of duty, so as the next four bleak years of corruption, self-dealing, incompetence and hostility toward women unfolds, they can say, "We did what I could. We stood up. We spoke out." It's a beautiful, bold, feminine, American thing.

All my beautiful friends.

Cynthia Lerner

    Every day beautiful women reach out to me. At least one. On Friday morning it was two, Cynthia Lerner and Marylou Wells. Usually I don't even glance at them before batting them aside. Such is my overabundance of friendly females.
     But for journalistic purposes I decided to accept their proffered friendship on Facebook.

Marylou Wells

      I'm not alone. Oh look, Cynthia's friend, an ... older gentleman employed at the Tribune. And a publicist of my acquaintance is also friends with Miss Lerner, and why not? She speaks Russian, Spanish, Portuguese and French. A polyglot. No wonder my communications associates find her intriguing.
    And Marylou, rocking the glasses. Joined a week ago and 148 friends already. She only speaks Portuguese, Russian and French.  Must be working on her Spanish.

Arlene Rodgers

    Not to forget Arlene Rogers, whose Facebook posts tend toward simple declarative sentences like "HALLO ALL" and "WORK" and "i like sex." Well who doesn't, Arlene? Not to get personal—though we ARE friends now—the whole giant coral pink bees-stung lips thing? It's a very Donald Trump look. Just sayin'.

Alice Melissa

    Alice Melissa just joined Facebook. It's amazing the number of pretty young women who sign up for Facebook and then immediately run to friend me. Quite the compliment. Though she looks an awful lot like Arlene Rodgers, does she not? Maybe they are sisters.

Barbie Ronnie Buffy

     Personal information about these young women tends to be scant. Modesty, I assume. All that Barbie Ronnie Buffy tells us is she lives in Macomb, Illinois.  She doesn't mention it, but Macomb is a town of about 21,000 souls, midway between Peoria and the Quad Cities, in western Illinois. I imagine Barbie Ronnie really stands out there.

Betty Otto Walker

    Okay, enough disingenuousness. All these photos are scams, of course, hooks baited with chunks of cheesecake plucked off the web and dangled before gullible men.
     The true purpose is indicated by Betty Otto Walker's first status line: "Hello single, I'm online right now, please sext me," is a hint what these are. Con games, designed to lure in the lonely and gullible, who then either are conned into sending money to their honeys or, if they are unwise enough to take Betty's hint and send compromising photos of themselves, then are promptly blackmailed.
     Or so I read. Luckily I've always checked to see who is friending me, and ignored those who had just joined, or whose profile photo seemed plucked from some cheap Bulgarian fashion magazine. I do glance at their friends, grids of older gentlemen, or lanky young men who haven't figured out this is an illusion, or have but don't care. To me, as much as I like having lots of Facebook friends, including these would suggest being either a hound or a dupe. I didn't even like friending them momentarily, for research purposes, and promptly unfriended my entire harem. 
     Be careful online. Things are not what they appear. The man who was inaugurated Friday reminds us of the human tendency to embrace an attractive fraud. 

   
 

Inauguration Day: A hard rain's gonna fall

     Harry Truman was an angry man, given to firing off unwise attacks. Richard Nixon was vindictive and paranoid. Andrew Jackson was a hater. Warren G. Harding, a featherhead who surrounded himself with crooks.
     We've had flawed presidents before. Though never have all these negative qualities and more been bound up in a single individual, such as the one who will put his hand on a Bible at noon Friday and swear to uphold the Constitution.
     The tendency is to point, horrified, at the latest offense. My God, he's slurring civil rights icon John Lewis! He's carping about Saturday Night Live, days before his inauguration!
     And I'm glad someone is keeping score Though, to me, there is a futility in professing shock when somebody behaves exactly as he always behaves. Given Donald Trump's well-established track record as a liar, a bully and a fraud, each new instance of lying, bullying and fraud can hardly come as a surprise. The hope that his getting elected would change anything vanished in the past months of serial pettiness. The presidency will not elevate Trump; he will degrade it, and us. I don't believe that slapping your forehead every time he says something grotesque will do anything but give you a bruised forehead. It sure didn't keep him from being elected.

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Taco Diablo

     Of the three things that make a good restaurant — food, service and atmosphere — the last quality is the one that often gets overlooked, if not botched. I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a new place, especially in the suburbs, and it was almost bare. It was all I could do not to pull the owner aside and say, "You want me to eat here? I don't even like to stand here. You're doomed, my friend."      
     But I'm not that guy, and I usually just scarf my chow—which tends not to stand out either—and get out. And soon they're gone, because there definitely is a connection between what's on the wall and what's on your plate. 
    You might not eat decor, it doesn't go in your mouth. But it's a bellwether, an indicator. Because if Mr. or Mrs. Would-be-Restaurateur cannot master the complexity of a nice sign, what's the odds that they'll be able to whip up a good sauce? Scant.
     Then there was the reaction I had Monday at Taco Diablo, 1026 Davis Street in Evanston. Somehow, just walking up and seeing this sign, I knew. This bas relief snaggletooth devil/bull fellow was the overture, setting the tone. This would be a good place. 
     Then the oval name on the door. Then the paintings inside. And the bar above. Tell me you don't want to hop on one of those stools and see what bartender Andrew can pour for you. 
    I got the lunch special: two tacos and a small salad for $12, and it was all superb, the tacos warm and fat, the salad with an intriguing orange dressing. The service was also first rate: attentive without cloying. If I were hunting for criticisms, I suppose that the standard three tacos for $15 is a bit pricey for lunch, but they are lovely little tacos, well stuffed with chicken or pork or duck or some other interesting combination.  I ate them greedily and with relish and, you know what? I don't even like tacos, as a rule. But I liked these tacos.
    My younger son, the Northwestern sophomore, had bird-dogged the place for us. Unexpected Benefit of Children #263: just when you reach the stage in life when you are out of the swim, and unable to locate good new restaurants on your own, your kids swoop in and have that direct line to hot, hip new places and sometimes will invite you along, if you pay.
    Taco Diablo isn't quite "new" -- it was founded in Evanston in 1992, burned down in 2013, and was rebuilt in 2015, paired with Lulu next door--they share a kitchen. And a bathroom, which is a little disorienting, since you have to wander into the kitchen, seemingly, to get there. But I managed. 
    "Einmal ist keinmal," as the old Mexican saying goes (okay, it's not Spanish, it's German, work with me here). "Once is never." So I can't vouch for the place on one visit and a pair of tacos. But I'm intent on going back, soon, for further investigation, and now that the base of affection is set, it's going to take some effort on their part to screw it up. Once going to Evanston meant seeing my son and eating at Lao Sze Chuan, not always in that order, and it took a few tepid, woebegone meals at the Laos downtown and in Skokie to begin the disenchantment process. Now Tony Hu has been banished to second place, and Taco Diablo is ascendant. Tienes que comer; así que come bien.

Wayne County is happy it voted 84 percent for Donald Trump

The Ferrington Farms subdivision has one house in it. 

     FAIRFIELD, Illinois — Drive 275 miles due south from Cook County to Wayne County. You'll notice differences right away.
     It is warmer here, literally — last Wednesday, when it was 42 degrees in Chicago, it was 67 degrees in Fairfield, the county seat, and with a population of 5,000, the largest town in Wayne County, population 15,000.
     Figuratively warmer too. Ask directions at a bakery and the owner will walk out into the street to point the way. Strangers volunteer to put you up for the night. Pop in on the bank president, unannounced, and he'll visit with you a good long spell. The Rotary meeting starts with a sing-along of "Clementine."

      This isn't the traditional South, true. But the three vehicles in the fleet of the Fairfield Police Department are pickup trucks.
     The occasional Confederate flag can be spied flying in the yards of modest homes that sell for $35,000. There is a free-standing video store.
     Like the South, this is Donald Trump Country. Though he is being sworn in Friday as the 45th president with historically low popularity ratings nationwide, you wouldn't know it in Wayne.
     Line up Illinois' 102 counties based on how they voted in the presidential election, with Cook County at one end with 74.4 percent voting for Hillary Clinton. Skip over the next 100 counties and you end here, at Wayne, a struggling coal, oil, farming and light manufacturing region that went 84.3 percent for Trump.....

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The circus leaves town

    Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus announced it is going out of business this week. The last shows will be in May. It was sad news, even though I haven't gone to the circus in years, and when I did it was always with free tickets through the paper. Still, the circus struck me as a glorious anachronism, a wonder, and I valued it, and marveled that it was still here. And this was 18 years ago.

    My parents never took me to the circus. I imagine it seemed to them something that gentiles do. Which makes it odd that I had such a nostalgic affection for it—or perhaps that explains it. Either way, I went a number of times—with my brother in the 1980s, researching a story, then with my kids. They were three and four when I took them and wrote this column. The photos are from activities before the start of the circus, which was trying to be more interactive. Families got to pet animals, and performers were handing out peacock feathers and showing kids how to balance them on their faces. 

     Every so often, on a busy street corner, I will squint and try to summon back the pedestrians of the past, try to see the street scene as it might have been 40, 60, 100 years ago.
     It's the same street, the same corner. They were here, once, men in snappy fedoras, women in those wide, sloping hats, pulling on their white gloves as they stepped off the bus.
     Who's to say that it isn't the faintest flash, the flicker of some spirit of their humanity, lingering over the decades. Or maybe I'm just imagining things.
     That same yearning toward people past strikes me whenever I take in an entertainment that has been around for a long while, savoring the thought that I am doing something that people have always done.
     When I do something -- what's the opposite of cutting edge? Trailing edge. Something outmoded yet still -- incredibly, wonderfully -- here.
     For instance: this past Fourth of July, we joined a contingent of my wife's family to watch the Skokie Park District set off fireworks. Thousands of people were there, neglecting their computers, their Gameboys, ignoring all that virtual reality, IMAX and other more modern entertainment. Instead, they traveled to this spot, to spread out blankets, lay back and stare up into the night sky to watch explosions, tinted with powdered chemicals into brilliant hues, a treat that a Renaissance weaver or a Victorian wheelwright would instantly recognize and appreciate.
 

At the circus, 1999

   Ditto for the circus, the most famous of which, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, opened last night at the Allstate Arena.
     The circus is one of those things that shouldn't be here. Think about it. Ringling Bros. began its circus five years after the Civil War ended. It is a big extravaganza of animals and entertainers, something that traveled from town to town in the years before television, before radio, before movies, heck, before the automobile.
     It should have petered out 10 years ago, if not 20 years ago, bid farewell in a blaze of nostalgia, the pundits rumbling about TV and video games and pervasive pre-adolescent cynicism killing off our beloved icon, the circus. Woolworth's is gone. Drive-in movies are virtually gone. Yet the circus endures. Complaints from animal rights activists and the rise of our pervasive entertainment culture have had no effect. The circus was big when it was the only show in town. And it's still big, muscling aside its younger progeny once or twice a year.
     Why? Who would bother heading to the Allstate Arena to watch a troupe of performing dogs when they can flip on the Nature Channel and go on safari? Who would want to see frolicking clowns when they could, far more easily and far more cheaply rent a video of Jim Carrey in "Liar Liar."  

Balancing peacock feathers.

     A lot of people, apparently.
     The circus is no marginal operation: It is camping in Chicago for nearly a month.
     I think it is because the circus satisfies something of the aforementioned kinship to the past. It is both real and unbelievable, alive and a link to our national heritage.
     The circus is a cliche, a cultural cliche -- the lions, the tigers, the clowns, the swaying elephants.
     Like most cliches — think of Elvis — it is encountered usually, not in its pure form, but through some reference to it. You see a picture of Elvis or hear his name evoked 100 times for every time you hear him sing a song on the radio. You see a kitschy clown painting or a hectic meeting described as "a three-ring circus" or a movie like Tod Browning's "Freaks" 500 times for every time you actually find yourself at a circus.
    It touches something youthful and enduring in us, a sense of wonder that modern life has yet to erase.
     Just to announce its arrival is to feel a certain thrill. Say the sentence: "The circus is in town." See what I mean?

                          —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 4, 1999

For some, Christmas just ended, with the Blessing of the Waters

Bless the waters (photo by Erasmia Smith)

     This could easily have been twice as long. The subject called for some background on the Eastern Orthodox Church, and Lt. Hostetler said some interesting things about being a military "chap" and having to keep up with service members 20 years his junior. But the column is limited to 700 words in the paper, and it's no good if it doesn't fit. I will point out that the two photos below were taken by his 16-year-old son. I'd say the boy had a bright future in journalism if only, you know, people had bright futures in journalism.

Lt. David Hostetler blessing the waters (photo by Isaac Hostetler)

     The sky was overcast and rainy. But before sundown, when David Hostetler, a Navy lieutenant and Greek Orthodox priest, began his service at a beach on an island in the East China Sea, the sun broke through the clouds.
     “Just as we started our prayers,” Hostetler said over the telephone last Monday from Okinawa, Japan, where he is stationed.
     Christmas is a fading memory for most by mid-January, its farewell marked by secular ceremonies: the Dragging of the Tree to the Curb, the Boxing of the Lights.
     Eastern Orthodox Christianity extends Christmas through Epiphany, which ended over the weekend, including a ceremony called the Outdoor Blessing of the Waters, commemorating Christ’s baptism in the Jordan River. One was held Sunday on the Cedar River in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with others earlier this month on the banks of the Illinois River in Peoria, the Rock River in Rockford and the Mississippi at St. Paul, Minnesota.
     Though the ceremony that caught my eye was performed by a former Chicagoan living with his family on a military base abroad. As befitting a former resident of the Windy City, Hostetler had to deal with a strong wind that battered his vestments....


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Racing for the cross (photo by Isaac Hostetler)