Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

     Betcha forgot about this contest, right?
     I sure did.
     But I had this photo laying around, and felt that Lucy-and-the-football tickle of suspicion. "I wonder..."
     Besides, I promised that I would bring the contest back, now and then. 
     So where is this sedate living room? With 2015 about to run out, I thought I would hold one last contest for the year, dispatch one last poster. No 2016 posters in the works—it was a cool prize, and fun to mix a batch of wheat paste and slap them up around the West Loop. But not staggeringly effective as a marketing tool. I'll have to think of something else.
    So post your guesses below. I imagine this'll get solved at 7:01 a.m. But you never know. There's a first time for everything.  Have fun. Good luck. 

Trouble at Christmas: #4. Street corner preachin'

     Well, it's Christmas Day, finally. Hope you woke up to lots of presents, or your kids did. Or if you don't celebrate, hope you at least wake up to some happy circumstance, such as I did. No tree, no trimmings, but my boys home for the holidays, and my wife off work. Christmas Eve spent pleasantly, with Chinese food, Settlers of Catan, and a movie ("Love Actually") with the prospect of a day of vigorous relaxation ahead of us.  
     Too much fun to spend time cobbling together more prose quilts. So one last Christmas chestnut plucked from the Bottomless Vault of Columns Past. We'll return to something fresh and fantastic tomorrow.
    Well, fresh anyway. 
    Merry Christmas. 

     A busy mid-December State Street. Lots of shoppers. Amateur bands flailing away at their instruments, producing sounds very similar to Christmas carols. And, inevitably, the corner preacher, screaming hoarsely into a microphone, his voice further distorted by the cheap and blown-out speaker, warning the indifferent passerby about the perils of damnation.
     I haven't yet walked up to him, smiling. I haven't yet gently taken the microphone from his hand. He would seem to understand and step aside, demurring.
     "Brothers, sisters," I would shout, eyes wide and glittering, holding high an outstretched hand, fingers spread. "Brothers and sisters! Change your evil ways. Repent, repent!"
     I point toward a middle-aged woman scurrying by. "You, madam! Do you fail to use your turn signal when driving? The lever is right there, an inch below your hand. Use it, madam! Use it, or risk the peril of hell!"
     Then she is gone. I grab a man by the arm, tightly holding his coat as he struggles to pull free.
     "And you, sir, do you drink coffee? Do you work in an office? Do you take the last cup in the office coffeemaker and not make more? Do you leave a teaspoon of coffee in the carafe to smoulder and blacken, forcing somebody like me to scrub it out and make a new pot? Repent! REPENT! Or . . . you . . . will . . . go . . . to HELL!"
     He breaks free and is gone.
     Nobody thanks you for trying to make the world a better place. Nevertheless, the work must be done.
     A comfortable executive type—nice tie, cashmere scarf—happens along. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, closing my eyes hard.
     "Woe!" I bellow in my lowest tones. "Wooooe, woe to executives who don't take time to be pleasant to their workers. Be nice! Be nice! It doesn't cost anything to be nice. And the alternative is the fiery purgatory of EVERLASTING FLAME!"
     A gigantic, bulky sport/utility vehicle idling at the curb catches my attention. I wheel around, spreading my arms wide, trying to puff myself to Moseslike stature.
     "The slopes of the Pit are slippery! Four-wheel drive will not keep you from sliding down, down, down, down. Do not imagine fog lights will illuminate your path to heaven. Come to a complete stop at stop signs. Watch your speed. Woe to the arrogant. Woe to the Lincoln Navigator owner. Woe to Land Rovers. Ride high now, but remember, you are on a highway straight to HELL!"
     Something feels as if it is snapping in my throat — a vocal cord, maybe. But I keep going. The word must get out.
     "Telemarketing is Satan's work!" I yell. "Devilish tendrils of anonymous greed reaching into our homes, destroying our equanimity of mind, interrupting dinner! Repent! Stop bothering people. Get a real job! Lest you wake up one day and find yourself twirling in HELL!!!"
     I'm reaching a groove. "Look in the mirror! See if the evil mark has been set upon you! Rude clerks? Hell! Reckless cabbies? Hell! Those WTTW people begging for money every time I turn on Channel 11? Hell, Hell, HELL!!!!"
     A small crowd has gathered. I soften my tone, take it down a few notches.
     "People," I implore quietly, looking from face to face. "The hour is late. But there is still time. Renounce your evil ways. Join the family of humanity. Return phone calls. Keep appointments. Tip generously. Do not create a hell on earth for others while reserving a spot in it yourself."
     There is light applause as I hand the microphone back to the minister. The hubub continues. At least I tried.

       —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 10, 1998

Trouble at Christmas—#3: Giving credit

     "Satire doesn't belong in a newspaper," an editor I greatly respect once told me, and this column made me realize that he's right. It was written as a Christmas trifle, a gentle parody of a colleague who at the holidays likes to thank all the little people supporting her fabulous life.  I thought it was dripping with enough obvious untruth to give the joke away almost immediately.
    I was wrong.
    After it ran, I was amazed by the number of readers who sincerely complimented me: how nice it is that I would be so gracious and acknowledge my staff! Even my own mother wondered why she had never spoken to my secretary with the Georgia accent. 
     I was flabbergasted, horrified really, and never did this kind of thing again. But Christmas is upon us, and I think it's safe to trot out, a relic of simpler times. 

    Once a year I ask the reader for a moment of indulgence as I pause from holiday merrymaking to thank all the special people whose hard work and constant attention have made my life a smooth and satisfying glide over well-greased rails.
     First off, of course, no column that breaks as much fresh political news as mine does could function without a legman, and I'm proud to have Jimmy "Flash" Handon, the last reporter hired at City News, digging through court documents and running after coffee.
     If you've ever phoned my office, you've heard the lovely Georgia drawl of Miss Annie Sherman, and it's a pleasure to start every morning with her always cheery "Hiya, chief!" and one of her homemade pralines. Thanks as well to the "mailbag sisters," Mary Beth and Cindy Beth Smartline, who handle the crush of letters.
     If I thanked by name every fact checker, grammarian and research assistant who labors over this column between the rough draft that leaves my typewriter and the polished product you read—well, there wouldn't be space—so let me say a hearty thank you to the whole gang, en masse. Eheu fugaces labuntur anni!* Though I do want to single out our new chief redactor, professor Herman V. Goshlott, who I persuaded to give up the cosseted academic life at Cambridge for the bustle of a daily newsroom copy desk.
     Some may find it obsequious, but I can honestly say that I am not only proud to work for Benjamin Rutledge Finch III, but to be his friend, and will always savor the memories of those long summer afternoons talking shop at his Barrington Hills home, "Pinecliff."
     To him, and to all the Sun-Times employees, all over the world, particularly to the brave souls manning the new Sun-Times Scientific Survey Outpost at Point McMurdo on the Antarctic continent, a hearty "Merry Christmas!"
     Those of you who start each morning with a hot lather shave and a trim know that it really puts a man in a fine frame of mind, so you won't mind if I thank my barber, Antonio Panderski, for making the trek between his shop at the Hartsfield Building to my office, every day, rain or shine. Thanks, Tony! I wouldn't let anyone else in this town hold a straight razor to my throat.
     Not to forget the chefs and maitres d' at Lucre, Cafe D'Argent, Mucho Verdi and all the other fine eateries I have enjoyed over the years. Thanks!
     My dear wife, the dancer Cherry Lee Deelite, is probably wondering when I'll get to family matters. Patience, Cher. Thanks to you, for your love, and for somehow balancing the exciting world of exotic entertainment with running our quiet suburban home and being mother to our dear boys, Neil Jr., Nelson, Lien and Niles and the girls, Nellie and little Vanilla, who we call Nil.
     We could never manage such a brood without our beloved day nanny, Monique D'Anglatere, and our equally beloved night nanny, Felicia Montseuratt. Thanks as well to all the household help, with special kudos to Mr. Dillsworthy, whose wonderful tea roses took a prize at the All Cook County Rose Festival this year.
    Then there is Mrs. Teague at the New Buffalo, Mich., "cottage," who always makes sure the white sheets are off the furniture and a warm apple pie is on the sill when we tumble into town. And so many others: former Gov. Witherspoon; Princess Gloria von Thurns und Taxis; Lt. Col. Oscar "Grit" LaBond; my squash partner, Reed Bodwell; the members of the Downtown Club, the Vest Key Club, the Fame Club, the Scrivener's Society, and the Spoon and Bowl Club, where I like nothing more than to pass the afternoon in a wing chair, reading a novel by my friend Hugh Chuffingham or snoozing by the fire. Then there's Mr. Pringle, the grocer...
     Well, a guy can dream, can't he? Happy holidays

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 21, 2000


* Latin: "Alas, the fleeting years slip by." 
 

Trouble at Christmas: #2—Grim Jewish ambivalence

     The whole "War Against Christmas" bullshit seemed muted this year; my theory is that we have actual woes to concentrate upon. But to let you know how long the non-issue stretches back, this is 17 years old. Odd that it doesn't mention the version of the carol I'm listening to: it's by Tevin Campbell on the "A Very Special Christmas: 2" CD. If you see Rob Sherman at the end and wonder: is he still around? Yeah, lower profile, running for Congress next year on the Green Party ticket.

     I have a confession to make. Last night, late, when nobody was around, I played a recording of "O Holy Night" from a CD of Christmas carols that I purchased at a store.

     Now, I'm not one of those Jews who has a Christmas tree. That seems wrong to me, like crashing a party you aren't invited to. Or wearing a medal for a battle you didn't fight in. If you don't practice the faith year-round, you shouldn't get to reward yourself with the tree.
     But I happen to really like "O Holy Night." I always have. That soaring "fall on your knees" part. It just gets me every time. So I broke down and bought it and, every December, play it from time to time.
     I mention this, not because I'm particularly proud, but because I think a lot of Jews are conflicted about Christmas, and we struggle through it every year with a sort of grim ambivalence, not certain if we should join the party or stay home. We feel guilty if we enjoy it and left out if we don't.
     From my point of view, the days are too bleak and short in December to avoid Christmas. It helps the month pass by. And, I'll be honest, I like it. Christmas cookies are great. Eggnog with a belt of bourbon in it, also great. The windows at Field's, great. I completely understand why believers get so worked up over the season: Heck, I walk down State Street and feel a lump in my throat even though I never woke up a single morning in my life and scampered down to see what was under the tree.
     I don't see how you can avoid Christmas. Society is soaked with it, from the cheery, non-denominational snowmen to the most baroque Jesus-focused nativity scene. The holiday starts in late November and roars on for a month and grows more omnipresent year by year.
     Many people are unhappy about that. Ironically, fundamentalist Christians and activists of other religions are united in wishing there was less public Christmas hoopla, for exactly opposite reasons.
     For some fundamentalists, most Christmas celebration is a profane and gaudy mockery of the serious underpinnings of faith that the holiday is supposed to mark in the first place.
     For some activists of other religions, Christmas is a public imposition of the dominant religion, Christianity, on those too powerless to prevent it, an insulting assumption that we're all in the same boat, faithwise, when of course we are not and getting less so all the time.
     Maybe the best way to think of it is a struggle for symbols. In New York, the Empire State Building is lit red and green this time of year, just as the John Hancock is here. Except a spunky 9-year-old New York girl mounted a lobbying campaign toward Leona Helmsley, who owns the Empire State Building, so now it will light up blue and white on the first day of Hanukkah, just to make things fair.
     The New York story inspired me put a call in to our own resident symbol struggler, Buffalo Grove's most famous atheist, Rob Sherman, to see what battles he's got percolating this yuletide.
     Sherman, who made a name for himself by getting the cross yanked off the seal of the town of Zion, along with other symbolic battles, now has the Niles city hall in his gunsights.
     "Just last night I got an e-mail about a U.S. Superior Court ruling," he said, outlining a case in Jersey City, N.J., where the city hall tried to camouflage its nativity scene with a menorah and a snowman.
     "That's just what they have in Niles," said Sherman, who framed the issue, in his typically distinctive way, as "Christians trying to cram their beliefs down the throats of those who don't share those beliefs."
     I don't know about that. While I am glad that Rob Sherman is gadflying around the suburbs, shaking people up and challenging their beliefs, I just don't think he has the situation expressed accurately. Nobody puts up a lighted Santa Claus and says, "That'll show those Buddhists down the block." I think people are sincere when it comes to Christmas. It's a big deal to them, and they want to do it up right. They're genuinely shocked to find that not everybody appreciates it.
     Maybe I'm just growing weary of the symbol struggle. I can't imagine a God who cares whether the chocolate you eat is shaped like Santa Claus or a dreidel. It's all just a party, an excuse to cheer up the cold and dark early winter days with lights and fun and festivity, and I say the more we respect and tolerate each other, and the less we get into that My-Menorah-Is-Bigger-Than-Your-Tree bickering, the better off we'll be. Pass the nog.
                    —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 14, 1997

Trouble at Christmas: #1: "Wheels of justice turn v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y."

     I'm off work this week, to try to spend some time with the boys, home from college. So I thought for the blog I would dig up a few columns from Christmas past. I noticed they fall into a kind of a theme, which I've dubbed, "Trouble at Christmas."
      This one, from 2000, after a fall season spent in court fending off a street person who had chased me with a knife then sued me. I represented myself in court, for you fans of foreshadowing, and the case resolved itself right before Christmas, the judge dismissing the lawsuit, I noticed a little queasily, "with prejudice."  
     One final point worth mentioning, which somehow didn't make it into the story, is the helpful general advice my wife gave me when appearing before a judge for any reason: "If you have the option of either saying something or not saying something, whenever possible don't say anything." Smart advice, which I used when the guy failed to show up for a court hearing and I was tempted to observe, "I want to point out that he isn't in jail because of me" but wisely didn't. 

     There are 73,728 small squares on the ceiling of Courtroom 1501 in the Daley Center.
     Not that I counted every square, waiting to stand before the bar of justice. I did the math. But I probably could have counted. I had the time.
     I had never been sued before, and found the experience not only hour-devouring and distressing but, in an odd way, uplifting. Looking back over this year of Sturm und Drang (that's German for "moving to the suburbs"), the lawsuit stands out as a lingering piece of unfinished business I should confront before 2000 can be dumped, with a grateful sigh, into the dustbin to make way for a shiny, new 2001.
     Being sued sucks. It is days in a windowless, airless room, somehow both too big and claustrophobic, waiting for your case to be called, staring dully at tiles on the ceiling, hearing the headachy murmur of legalisms just out of earshot, noting the starched exhaustion of lawyers, the unease of regular folk.
     There are motions and counter-motions. Many times I recalled that Hamlet, listing reasons to kill himself in his famous "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy, puts "the law's delay" up high, right after the pangs of despriz'd love.
     Sure, I could have hired a lawyer to handle it all. But first, I'm too cheap. Second, I can't roll over in bed without hitting a lawyer. Third, I wanted to experience the thing, firsthand, to feel its essence. I won't go into the particulars of what sparked the suit. Like most of what winds up in court, it was ridiculous and peevish. Suffice it to say it emerged from what happened between myself and a young man in line at a drugstore. Words were exchanged. The guy pulled a knife and ended up hauled off in handcuffs by the cops.
     As he was taken away, an officer said, "Be sure to show up in court or he'll sue you." But I didn't. He hadn't hurt me. I figured, in the scope of atrocities committed daily in the city, this little incident wasn't worth pursuing. I didn't want to waste my time or add to his woes.
     There is no hell in Judaism, no divine punishment for sins. So I saw being sued as a minor form of punishment—a purgatory—for not listening to the police officer (always, always dear readers, listen to the police officer. They know).
     The process was made almost worth it by the judge (and I'm not polishing apples since the case is—I think—over). The guy suing me didn't have a lawyer either, and didn't seem to grasp the fine points of the legal system, such as the need to show up. Despite my passionate desire to get this over with, I had to admire how the judge—whose eyes conveyed a seen-it-all-twice weariness—tried to cut this guy every break, so that the avenues of justice would not be denied a person just because he happened to be in jail the day his motion was dismissed.
     The lawsuit ground on between August and early December. Quick for law. The odd thing was, as it progressed, I began to like the guy suing me. He had an Energizer Bunny doggedness I appreciated. Despite losing at each step, he pressed on, filing new motions, a Terminator of the Municipal Court.
    After our last—one hopes, in law you never can tell—court appearance, we rode down in the elevator together. "Well," I said. "If I don't see you before Christmas—though if history is any judge, I will—have a merry one." He replied that he reads me in the newspaper.
     I don't want to say that I'll miss court, because I won't. But I will cling to the lessons I've learned: Be unfailingly polite. Listen to the police. And forgive the people you cross swords with. So belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Mr. Guy-Who-Sued-Me. Among my usual lightly held New Year's resolutions is the iron vow to keep myself out of court, if humanly possible. You might consider doing the same.  
           —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Dec. 28, 2000

"Bear one another's burdens"

     In 1897, the city of Nashville built a full-scale replica of the Parthenon, the Greek temple in Athens, as the centerpiece of their Tennessee Centennial Celebration. In 1990, the city added an enormous statue of the Athena, the Greek goddess, within the temple. Nearly 42 feet and covered in eight pounds of gold leaf, Athena is the largest indoor sculpture in the Western hemisphere.
     When I first stepped into the building, I grinned in awe, thinking: "They built an enormous pagan temple . . . including a giant golden pagan god . . . in the heart of the Bible Belt!"
     Up to last week, asked to name the most glaring example of inadvertent Christian celebration of pantheism, I'd have pointed to Nashville.
     But now Wheaton College has seized the laurel, when it suspended political science professor Larycia Hawkins. Not for wearing a hijab headscarf in solidarity with beleaguered Muslim Americans — no, never! Too gross an infringement on personal freedom, even for an administration at a conservative college.
     Rather, they suspended her for this statement, posted on Facebook:

Larycia Hawkins

   "I stand in religious solidarity with Muslims because they, like me, a Christian, are people of the book. And as Pope Francis stated last week, we worship the same God."
     That is why Hawkins is suspended until summer, because her statement "seemed inconsistent" with Christian values, and "to give more time to explore theological implications of her recent public statements."  
     Does Wheaton College really suspect that Christians and Muslims don't "worship the same God?" That perhaps there are two gods, one for Muslims, one for Christians ? Or more: Jews with their God, Hindus with theirs and so on. An Edith Hamilton pantheon of gods.
     Okay, that isn't what Wheaton College suspects. They're just another inept college administration bungling employee relations in the most public fashion imaginable and trying to blunder its way out. And we thought the University of Illinois had a monopoly on that.
     That second week in December was a frightening time, with Donald Trump urging the United States be sealed off from the contagion of Islam, and the Republican Party rolling like puppies at his feet. It felt like the house was on fire. Hate crimes against Muslims tripled. Hawkins posted her statement on Dec. 10. Two days earlier, I posted the green Muslim star and crescent as my Facebook profile photo, with this explanation: "There comes a time when decent people have to stand up. If Donald Trump is coming for the Muslims, he can sweep me up too."
     I was thinking of King Christian X of Denmark. He never did wear the Star of David that the Nazi occupiers forced upon Jews. Danish Jews were never required to wear the star. He did, however, speak out, and write in his diary:

When you look at the inhumane treatment of Jews, not only in Germany but occupied countries as well, you start worrying that such a demand might also be put on us, but we must clearly refuse such, due to their protection under the Danish constitution. I stated that I could not meet such a demand towards Danish citizens. If such a demand is made, we would best meet it by all wearing the Star of David.

     Wheaton College's actions are the equivalent of some board of rabbis denouncing King Christian X for volunteering to wear the Star of David because, you know, he's not circumcised.
     One more irony. The most famous Wheaton College alumnus is the Rev. Billy Graham. The Billy Graham Center is at the heart of the campus. Within it, the Billy Graham Museum, outlining the life of a preacher who rose to fame counseling presidents and holding enormous prayer rallies, while resolutely sitting out the great moral crises of his day, from civil rights to the Vietnam war to gay rights. Obsessing over fine points while missing the big picture. Ignoring the pressing moral imperative of a situation is pure Billy Graham. It never says this anywhere in the museum, but the great lesson — the great tragedy — of Graham's life is that a person can pay lip service to Jesus while steadfastly refusing to put his teachings into practice in the real world. Larycia Hawkins was punished for being Christian, for acting like a Christian toward our Muslim brothers, to the extent that Christianity teaches to care for the oppressed, which — stop the presses — it clearly does.
     "Bear one another's burdens," instructs Galatians 6:2. "And so fulfill the law of Christ."
     Perhaps while parsing Hawkins' words, Wheaton College can also decide whether the Apostle Paul misspoke.

A visit to good old Aunt "Star Wars"

    I'm a fairly cheap date when it comes to movies. I expect there to be a film of some sort, with a plot and dialogue and actors. It helps if it isn't entirely stupid. I like previews, and popcorn, and the chance to sit in the dark for two hours and watch something and not think about my leaky vessel of a life, riding low in the water but otherwise resolutely plowing the turbulent waves of the world. 
     The family headed over to the Highland Park Renaissance theater Sunday afternoon, to see the latest "Star Wars." The theater was mostly empty for the 1 p.m. show—that was fast, the thing just opened Thursday. I expected a line. I'd have waited a few weeks, but the boys were keen to see it; Kent had already seen it Thursday night, but readily saw it again.  
    "The Times said it's like a pre-fab house," Ross opined as we settled into our seats, and I almost covered my ears: I didn't want the delicious surprises to be given away. Nor did I want my enthusiasm dampened. Rich Roeper gave it four stars. I wanted to love it.
    "How so?" my wife asked. "Because it's exactly what you expect it to be?"
     "It doesn't have whimsy," Ross answered.
    "Maybe we add our own whimsy," my wife said, trying to put a bright spin on things.
    "Of course it has whimsy," I said. "It has that little rolling ball robot in it. That's whimsical."
    "I wonder if it has R2D2," my wife wondered, referring to the rolling garbage can robot of the previous films.
    "I think so," I said. 
    "Only it's 'R2D2 as Powered by Pepsi' in this one," Ross deadpanned. "And Hans Solo Cup."
     I admired "Hans Solo Cup" and wondered if he had just coined it; he claimed he had.  While other branding opportunities were mentioned: "Joy Yee Boba Fet" (Joy Yee is a restaurant in Evanston that sells drinks with boba, a kind of tapioca bead)  and "Sony Luke Skywalkman," they didn't reach the level of "Hans Solo Cup." Clever lad.
    And the movie? Eh. Not as bad as some of the franchise—no Jar Jar Binks, no Anakin Skywalker played by an excruciatingly bad kid actor. In fact, I liked the radiant babe newcomer, Daisy Ridley, as Rey, the female version of Luke Skywalker, the young person from nowhere drawn into the rebellion. The whole thing was wildly derivative, of course, and lacked any creativity regarding new creatures or locals, except the aforementioned rolling sphere and Ms. Ridley.  
    But the time passed, and I never looked at my watch, and it was sentimental to see the old favorites, Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher, reminding me somehow of Hillary Clinton. Having expected nothing, I was not disappointed, except when the film ended and I realized that was it. Though  I took a sort of perverse comfort in its mediocrity, its lack of originality or spark. With all the billions resting on the franchise, you'd think they'd have come up with something better than this. Another race to destroy the a bigger Death Star. A reminder of just how rare a good story can be. Still, one shouldn't complain. Going to see a new installment of "Star Wars" is like visiting an aged relative. There's no choice, you have to do it, and whether the conversation is interesting or not, whether a good time was had, or not, isn't really the point. It's just nice that the old girl is still around, and you have no choice in the matter but pay homage. It's an obligation.