Not so good a time after all

Ivan Albright painted a series of self-portraits at the end of his life.

 
     To write is to err, as I say when a reader points out one of my blunders with an excess of glee. Mistakes inevitably happen when you put words together and hastily poke them in the public eye, and the writer who takes too much pleasure in another writer's gaffe is mocking someone today for something he may very well do tomorrow.
     That said, an innocent whopper showed up deep in the New York Times Monday that merits sharing. In the Arts section, page three, the "Arts, Briefly" column. Compiled by Andrew R. Chow, which means maybe he wrote it, maybe he didn't. Under the headline "Saluting David Bowie At Carnegie Hall."
     The badly-timed, unfortunately-worded opening sentence reads:
     "It's a good time to be David Bowie, below. He just celebrated his 69th birthday, released an album, "Blackstar," and has a show, "Lazarus," running off Broadway."
     Ouch. Bowie was also dead, or nearly, when the above was written, though of course the author, like the rest of us, had no idea.
     Which is worth relating, both for the rueful chuckle it might draw, and to show how little we really know of celebrities, though we pretend otherwise. We imagine them living large when, quite often, they're not. In this case, Bowie wasn't living at all. 
    My immediate thoughts on David Bowie's passing were posted here yesterday morning. But in the afternoon, polishing them for Tuesday's newspaper, I started this way:

     Of course the public never knew David Bowie was sick. A man who controlled his image so artfully, so thoroughly, who moved from one personage to another and was famous and adored for nearly half a century, well, naturally, he'd slip away without fanfare, leaving us to burst into applause to an empty stage.

     Which was the tack my colleague Rick Morrissey took, praising his silence in the face of illness, as opposed to "the compulsion to make one's cancer fight  a tent revival."  
     A sharp line. And the sort of thing that doesn't get said much, because being sick grants people license to share away, and they do, with varying degrees of tact and skill. 
     Though sharp lines also prick. Even as I was applauding Rick, I had to pause, first thinking of when my alcoholism memoir came out, and some idiot at the Tribune wrote a column saying, in essence, "Gee, where's my addiction, so I can get a book contract?" Making writing such a book seem boorish. A tarter version of the sentiment lauding Bowie for keeping mum (I responded to him with something along the lines of, "You know, Anne Frank did very well with her book, too, though I would hesitate, if I were you, from envying her publishing success too much, because there are other factors you are not considering.")
     The idea that too many are too public about being sick ignores the value of writing about illness. And it lumps together all the sick individuals posting graphic updates from their hospital rooms on Facebook with creative works like Evan Handler's novel of surviving cancer despite the ham-handed care he gets at Sloan-Kettering, "Time on Fire." I give it to every friend who gets cancer, because it's both funny and useful.
     Yes, there's a lot of that going around. But there are a lot of babies being born, yet reacting to your neighbor's infant with, "What? Another?!" is both rude and short-sighted. The world need babies, news, memoirs. First, those might be of interest to people who are not yourself, other people, with other needs and interests — bulletin: you are not the only person in the world. And second, they're obviously of value to the person writing them. And how much should a healthy person really complain about something bringing comfort to the sick? Nobody forces you to read it.
    Third, there is a general value to publicizing illness, in that it takes away stigma. People didn't talk of having cancer, not because they were being discreet, but out of shame. It was a seen as a death sentence and a personal failing. Just as gay people stepped out of the closet to demand funding for HIV research and civil rights for themselves, so people who talk about their illnesses normalize them, and remind us that sickness is part of the life, and deserves attention.
    Bowie's secrecy regarding his illness was characteristic — his art was public, his private life was, well, very private. And in this era, it was an amazing feat, one few celebrities could pull off. But like orange hair, just because it looked good on Bowie doesn't mean everyone should do the same. For instance, Roger Ebert's public battle with cancer was also characteristic, for him, perfectly in keeping with his life of elegant introspection and bracing candor, and it provided a moving denouement that in some ways was as culturally significant as his film criticism. Should he have kept it to himself, just to spare us a jarring picture in Esquire? The brutal full-face portrait was important, thought it wasn't everyone's idea of a magazine photo. 
     A writer is allowed his subject, her field of interest. For me, when I get sick, my guess is that I will try to keep it to myself, not out of reluctance to join the packed tent revival, but out of the feeling that Roger Ebert has already covered this ground, and far better than I ever could.  Of course, you never can tell what you'll do until you're there. Chicago artist Ivan Albright painted self-portraits right up to the time he died. They're hanging in the Art Institute.

David Bowie: Bottomless cool you could dance to.

     David Bowie's son confirmed that the rock star died Jan. 10 after an 18-month battle with cancer.

     David Bowie helped shape my world.
     When I was 16, I was a junior counselor at a summer camp in Ohio. We had a small turntable and just a couple records, if I recall correctly: one was Bowie's "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars." We played it continually, all summer. 
      By fall I was a Bowie fan, for his flair, the drama of his music—"Ziggy Stardust" is a dark tale of apocalypse and murder, a theme continued on "Diamond Dogs." His bleak worldview helped me navigate the self-generated crisis of adolescence. I remember coming home from high school, putting on the "David Live at Tower Philadelphia" album to the "Diamond Dogs" track, clapping on a pair of headphones and crawling under the desk to listen at full volume. 
     "This ain't rock and roll," he cried. "This is genocide!" 
     I have no idea what that meant, but it sounded good. Plus Bowie was cool, so fabulously hip that just listening to him imparted a bit of contact coolness, even to a chubby Ohio teen with a bowl haircut. 
     The album that came out when I was a senior, "Low," is not his most famous — half the songs are instrumentals, winding, jazzy Brian Eno-influenced numbers. But his "Always Crashing in the Same Car" certainly spoke to me—I wrecked both my parents' cars—and "Be My Wife" certainly did. "Sometimes I get so lonely," he sang. "Sometimes I get nowhere."
     I only saw him sing once, in 1980. He was touring for his "Berlin" album. In my recollection, he stood motionless behind a synthesizer and never so much as said, "Hello Cleveland!" True to form—he actually disliked having to perform—but also disappointing, as a fan, because Bowie was one of those rare stars, like Bruce Springsteen, who you wanted to look back at you. He never did, an artist lost in his art or, maybe, just too aloof. 
     Bowie kept putting out hit albums. "Heroes" was another one of those songs that was a soundtrack to my life. "You, you can be queen. And I, I'll drink all the time..."
    His star kept getting bigger. "Let's Dance" was elegant and sinuous, showing a song could be a hit and have a beat while avoiding the idiocy of disco. And then he just went away, living on some island, it was said, with his wife, the Somali fashion model  Iman.
    Bowie acted in movies—"The Man Who Fell to Earth"—that were strange and wonderful. 
    In recent years, he returned. New music. A retrospective of his life that toured world museums, a living scrapbook, tribute and not coincidentally, record promotion. He always was the consummate businessman. People lined up for hours to see it at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago.
    I did too, not so much in tribute to Bowie or my teenage self, but because my oldest son, Ross, loves him.  The boys grew up watching "Labyrinth," a kid's movie that had Bowie playing a goblin king to a teenage Jennifer Connelly and the Muppets.  He did that sort of off-beat thing—he was cool enough to pull it off, whether singing "Little Drummer Boy" as a duet with Bing Crosby, of all people, or recording  Prokofiev's "Peter and the Wolf" with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. 
     I remember Ross at 16, playing "Ziggy Stardust" and giving me one of those "What is dad making of this?" looks. I said, "Given that I had that album memorized, word for word, when I was 16, and can sing it for you now, if you're looking for me to be shocked, I'm not."  And then I began the album's first song,  "Five Years." 
     "Pushing through the marketplace...so many mothers sighing," I warbled, before he begged me to stop.
     Just Friday we were in Vintage Vinyl in Evanston—records are back; my kids buy 'em. They had the brand new Bowie album, "Blackstar," which came out Jan. 8, his 69th birthday. I held it up for him to admire,  though, at $38, that's all he did. 
    "I can get it online," he said. 
    So Bowie, the man, ended his story Jan. 10, to the sorrow of his friends and family. But the musician, artist and cultural figure will continue, so long as there are teenagers looking to see their turmoil reflected somewhere, and adults hoping to borrow a bit of bottomless cool and something good to dance to.

Surrendering to Powerball

     I didn't win the Powerball lottery Saturday night.
     Neither did you. Nobody did.
     Shocking, I know, because, well, we had our hopes, didn't we?
     I'm still surprised that I played, twice. So $4 of that a $1.3 billion being given away, maybe, Wednesday is mine.
     Or was.
     I'm a little embarrassed to admit I played. Mr. Logic. Mr. Rationality. Voluntarily paying the Stupid Tax. It's almost as bad as visiting a palmist.
     Well, like any sinner, I have my excuses.
     The first time was a few weeks ago, and a machine made me do it. I popped into the 7-Eleven on Shermer Road to buy a Sun-Times — my wife had taken ours to work. There was a new machine set up by the doughnut case. Designed, no doubt, to relieve the endless pressure on the clerk who has to sell both tickets and Slurpees. I had $2; why not try out the machine? It worked.

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"They have no problem talking to a robot." Meet Paro

     I am not what is called an "early adopter." I have not summoned an Uber car, though I've ridden in one conjured up by colleagues, and I've downloaded the Uber app on my iPhone, inching toward the big moment when I shift from licensed cabbies to piecework drivers.
     And I didn't pet a Paro until Friday, a dozen years after the robotic baby harp seal was created and started showing up at nursing homes and hospitals, and long after it became something of a cultural touchstone, parodied on "The Simpsons" and well-covered in the media.
     Still, it was news to me—I had stopped by the Japanese External Trade Organization's Chicago office, to pick up some background information for a trip to Japan in March for Mosaic, the London web site of medicine and science. Since I'm writing about kawaii, or cuteness,  my contact at JETRO,  Robert Corder, thought I might enjoy meeting Paro.
     And I did, if "enjoy" is the word you can use to describe the slightly vertiginous feeling you get when you glimpse the unfamiliar future hurtling toward us.

     Paro is not a toy. It is a $6,000 robotic baby harp seal that has audio, light, touch and temperature sensors, microprocessors. It bobs its head, looks at you like an inquisitive pup, practically begging to be stroked. It can bat its long eyelashes, and coo and trill in an appealing, lifelike way. 
       "They actually recorded baby harp seals, in Canada, to get the sounds just right," said Corder. "The shape itself, you have to hold it." 
     I admit that it is something easier to pick up than put down, and we ended up passing it to each other as we talked. The robots are made in Japan, but the company selling them, PARO Robotics, is based right here in Itasca. 
     Paro was designed by Takanori Shibata, a Japanese engineer who wanted to develop a robot that would be useful to people.  At first he considered making a robotic cat or dog, but people tend to prefer one or the other, and had pre-set expectations about how cats and dogs should look and behave.  On the other hand, not many people have held a baby harp seal.  Paro was approved by the Food and Drug Administration as a Class 2 medical device in 2009, and is found in hospitals and treatment centers around the world. The seals are useful motivators when dealing with autistic children, for instance.
    "They use it for kids who have ADHD, Asperger's and autism," Corder said. "Those kids can have a hard time connecting, so they teach them to talk to Paro. They have no problem talking to a robot. The teachers will use him as a teaching tool. They use him for breaks. 'Let's take a break and you can have some Paro time.'" 
     In retirement homes, Corder said, Paro not only comforts lonely seniors, but lures them into social interaction. 
    "The people come out of their apartments, come out of their rooms, down to the common area," he said. " They don't bring it to your room. So if you want to have time with him, you have to come out of your apartment. It's a whole strategic use." 
     I felt like a farmer gawping at a Model T, and what made me believe this sort of thing is going to grow bigger and bigger, and not just be a passing fad, is that I kept looking at Paro, which was batting his eyes and cooing and almost demanding attention, instead of looking at Corder, who is just another human being. 
    That no doubt troubles some, and I admit I had qualms floating around myself. Should not every dementia patient and troubled child have human caregivers and live comfort animals? Sure, in an ideal world. And a pony for the children. But in our real world, with an exploding population of elderly with dementia, caregivers will be a scarce commodity, and if comfort is found in robots such as Paro—and it is, studies around the world show—where is the harm?
    Paro made me think of our small dog, Kitty, and another initial, half-hearted mental reservation was, naturally, this robotic seal would not really love its owner the way a dog does. But that love is also a projection. I just think Kitty loves me, because I want her to and she seems to. Just like Paro does.  

Okay, I'm stupid too....

     Yeah, I bought a Powerball ticket. Friday, on the way to the train. 
     Stupid, I know. Because I'm not winning. Nobody is winning, at least nobody has for the past nine weeks. Which is why the jackpot is $800 million. The media focuses on that enormous, nearly-a-billion buck payout, and not the fact that you could have bought every single ticket sold for the past two months and change and still not won.
     But I bought a ticket anyway.
     Why? I suppose because I was hungry, which might sound strange. I had a small salad from home for lunch, now it was late afternoon, I popped into a Corner Bakery. I didn't want to buy a 600 calorie muffin. So I bought the smallest thing in the store, a 99 cent ruggalleh (a little cookie-sized square pastry, for you non-Jews).  It cost $1.10 with our highest-in-the nation tax. 
    So a buck plus shot to momentarily bat back hunger, and no chance at all for the Mount Everest of cash. That softened me up. So when the hand-drawn sign saying "$800 million jackpot!" or some such thing, in the window of the convenience store in the Civic Opera building caught my eye, I had just spend almost as much on next to nothing, and I knew I had two singles in my pocket. 
     What the hell? Why not?
     Lots of reasons. A sucker's bet. A vote for innumeracy, for failing to grasp the reality of long distances, long spans of time, long odds. The odds of winning the Powerball lottery are the same as the odds of picking one person at random from the population of the United States of America and having the person you randomly select be Barack Obama. I played the Powerball a month ago, because they had set up a machine at the 7-11 in Northbrook and I wanted to try the new machine out, and I didn't hit one of the six numbers you need to match. It's like setting out on a journey to Alpha Centauri and making it to Lincolnwood. 
      The glib line is that you are paying for the dream, and I did think of what I'd do if I won the money. Ready for something sad? My dreams of avarice were a new driveway and siding on the house. 
     The truth is, even those who win, which I won't, half the time end up wrecking their lives with the money. They were happier without it. Just as money can't buy a personality or a heart, as Bruce Rauner proves, so it can't buy happiness either.
     Sigh. So putting down two bucks on the same irrational stupidity that leads people to anti-vax theories and the belief that space aliens are watching us, and airing my small-bore dreams of adequacy in the bargain.  Chasing the same empty dream that turns cooing babies into Bruce Rauner, forming his fingers into pyramids and cackling over his piles of gold.
    Well, honestly, just to see that trait laid bare is worth two bucks. And picking up shirts on Saturday morning, the dry cleaner and I had a pleasant Powerball exchange. And my youngest and I passed five minutes actually talking to each other about how we'd spend all that dough. So I did get my two bucks worth after all.

All we need to do is...

     Readers get the impression that my mail is a septic stream of insult and craziness. Part of that is my fault. I tend to find the insanity more noteworthy than the common sense. It stands out more. But sometimes I get an email that amazes me in its lucidity. Such as this, from Linda Barnes, reacting to my column on what needs to be done to reduce police shooting. It's brief, to-the-point and very big picture, and I thought I'd share it. Not so suggest that any of it would be easy. But how could we imagine the solution would be easy?

      I enjoyed reading your article, "Tasers Won't Help, So What Will?" I agree with your suggestions that police restraint and luck would help, and especially that "everyone needs to try harder." But even with trying harder, there's only so much that can be done, because it is such a mess that needs to be undone. To keep it simple, I would suggest we start by moving in the direction of legalizing drugs, thus largely eliminating the prime reason gangs are shooting and killing people in Chicago. Then, I think we need to ensure there are enough well paying jobs in the area. This is starting to take place with the technical/industry hubs that are forming in the city. Lastly, we need to ensure people are qualified to perform the jobs. This can be accomplished by schools providing technical job training and tutoring, as well as individual and family counseling. 
     We are starting to move in that direction with the specialty community colleges. I think it would be good to start it in high school, which some other cities are doing successfully. What hit home for me this morning is how much preparation goes into developing a young person to be ready for their first day of work. My 21 year old son just left for his first day of work as an Auditing Assurance (Accounting) intern and as I snapped a photo of him in his professional clothes, I realized the lifetime of preparation for this (from the day he started kindergarten until now). This is what all young people need to succeed and if they aren't able to get it at home, I think schools should step in.

     Thanks for listening and thanks for writing such effective articles.

If Tasers won't help, what will?

     The paper allots only 750 words for this column, so an occasional elephant in the room gets deliberately ignored. Wednesday's observation that Rahm Emanuel's tasers-and-training Band-Aid won't solve the problem of police shootings left one pachyderm hiding behind the curtains. Readers were quick to point him out:
     "It is easy to show how everything he is doing or proposing is wrong," wrote Roger Hirsch. "But I didn’t see anything in the column that suggests what you think he should do to get Chicago back on track. Not even one single idea."
     Fair enough. Though tight space is only one factor, just as important is this: I try to never be the Advocate for the Impossible, and putting chips on police culture changing is a sucker's bet. They are machines designed to resist change.
     Still, the CPD is always toward the top of the list nationwide when it comes to shooting civilians. What should it do?

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Get well soon, Terri!

  

     Media personalities come and go, particularly on radio, where DJs land in the Chicago market with a splash and then disappear just as quickly without a ripple. 

     And then there is Terri Hemmert, my fellow Ohioan, always bright, always good-natured, sincere, direct, knowledgable, enthusiastic. And always there. She has been on WXRT 93.1 FM for more than 40 years, and it was worrisome news to hear Thursday that her last program for the time being is Friday. She has cancer, as she announced with her typical candor, is undergoing surgery on Monday, and will need at least a month to recuperate.     
      I am confident that many, many Chicagoans share the deep respect and affection — oh, hell, say it — the love that I have for Terri Hemmert, and join me in wishing her a speedy recovery and quick return to the airwaves, where she belongs. Here is a tribute I wrote to Terri when the city declared her a civic treasure in 2008. 

     A good radio station has a personality, a flavor, almost a smell -- there's an unmistakable fresh-laundry-snapping-on-the-line bleachiness to WGN, for instance, with Judy Markey and Kathy O'Malley chatting over the backyard fence and Orion Samuelson putting the John Deere into neutral, climbing down from the cab, squinting at the horizon and telling us how the soy bean crop is doing as he wipes his big hands on an oily rag.
     Then there is WXRT, which for a generation of Chicagoans is the radio equivalent of Thai takeout -- an essential element of city living, both familiar and exotic, peanuts and limes, nutritious and sinful, an essential luxury that makes up for all the hassles.
     The main course of WXRT is Terri Hemmert -- "Aunt Terri" to her loyal listeners -- who is being celebrated tonight as a "Chicago Treasure" at the Chicago History Museum. Terri just passed her 35th anniversary at the station; she joined as an announcer and public affairs director. In 1981, she became the first female morning radio personality in Chicago, and ever since her calm, soothing voice and musical laugh have been an anchor in a world of flux and madness.
     How did a girl in Piqua, Ohio, get into radio?
     "I wanted to meet the Beatles," she explained, over lunch at Volare on East Grand. "I saw a picture of Jim Stagg interviewing Ringo Starr." So she sought out the famed disc jockey -- who also ended up in Chicago.

     "He encouraged me," Hemmert remembered. "He said, the first thing, 'Don't let anybody talk you out of it.' So I hung in there."
     Eventually she would meet Ringo ("I hope it was worth the wait," he told her) and Paul McCarthy ("Now it's like we're old friends," she said. "I think that's so cool") and hosts a Sunday "Breakfast With the Beatles" in addition to her weekday duties.
     She also has taught the history of rock 'n' roll for 30 years at Columbia College.
     "I love teaching," she said. "That's my favorite thing; I love those kids."
     I observed that teaching is hard, students often intransigent. Hemmert said that's the part she likes.
     "I love getting slackers and whipping them into shape," she said. "Because I was a slacker."
      She is energized by the station's recent move from Belmont Avenue to NBC Tower.
     "I'm still in awe of this city," she said. "I'm thrilled to be downtown."
     Of course, some believe a certain scrappiness went along with being on Belmont Avenue.
     Has not the corporate behemoth -- the station is owned by CBS -- changed WXRT?
     "People always say that -- that being owned by a corporation affected the station," she began.
     "Well, it isn't as if you play 'Penis Envy' anymore," I added, mentioning a satirical Uncle Banzai ditty that Terri once played daily.
     She smiled.
     "WXRT has always evolved," she said. "We still play new music. We still play R&B, we still play the blues, which is very, very rare. We're a mix of old and new. People sense that we're there, and we have a commitment, and that's great."
     The lovely thing about Terri Hemmert is how excited she still gets about playing music and teaching music and being in this city. She could have moved. She had offers that might have nudged her up the career ladder.
     "I love Chicago so much; what a great city," she said. "I like Chicago more than I like radio. I'll die here."

TODAY'S CHUCKLE . . .

     In honor of Terri Hemmert (whose favorite song, "In My Life," lent the headline to her item) a Beatles joke:
     Q. How many Beatles does it take to change a light bulb?
     A. Four.
     John to come up with a light bulb. Paul to claim half of the light bulb. George to complain his lights bulbs are never considered. And Ringo, to actually change the light bulb.
                               —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 19, 2008

Stuff I love #3: Sushi

     The town where I grew up, Berea, Ohio, boasted exactly one restaurant in the 1960s: Pizza King, serving up a horror I remember to this day with revulsion: a greasy, tasteless circle of drippy dough with a third inch of cheese, tomato sauce and a scattering of pepperoni. I can see it still.
     Growing up and moving away, out into the world, meant discovering new cuisines, thank merciful God. The introduction of some I remember clearly. I recall exactly when and where I first experienced Thai food: The Thai Hut on Devon Avenue, around fall, 1979, taken by Kier Strejcek, my roommate, who knew more about the city because he had a band that played at North Side clubs. I remember exactly what we ordered: chicken satay, mee krob, and chicken pad thai. And for years, that was all I would order at Thai restaurants. The Perfect Trio, why depart from it? (To show you how far I've come, now I always order beef and broccoli at a Thai restaurant. Because that is what I want).  
     Sushi entered my life more subtly. I can't recall when or where. It could have been in Boulder, Colorado in the mid-1970s. Sushi had a fad in the 1900s in the United States, but really started to take off in the 1960s. It might have been at New Japan, a wonderful place in Evanston on Chicago Avenue for many years. It served grapefruit sorbet as a refresher between courses and a little soy salad with wheat noodles. The first time Edie met my parents we ate there. Now it's an Ethiopian restaurant.
     Whenever I first ate raw fish—a hump some Americans just can't get over—by 1982, when I was living in Los Angeles, sushi was a cherished highlight, a Friday ritual. Survive another week at a job I hate and reap the reward: a big platter of sushi, the New Yorker, and a jar of sake or two.
     I have been eating sushi, hand over fist, for 35 years, and I'm not tired of it yet. Just last Tuesday, Ross and I went to our current favorite spot, Sushi Sai at Randolph and Franklin, for its $20, all-you-can-eat, sushi chow down, for dinner before "Bel Canto" at the Lyric. The place is only a few blocks from the Civic Opera House, and that $20 special, you just can't beat it.
     What is it that makes sushi so good? Fresh, cool, succulent, a variety of slightly different tastes. The deep red tuna is more complex than the pale pink yellowtail. The fish eggs are salty and minute, caviar basically. The pickled ginger a sweet, crunchy break. Plus, they just look beautiful: a colorful array of discrete packages, artfully constructed, like jewelry. 
      One nice thing about sushi is that it's so expensive, which sounds odd, but the cost keeps you from eating it for every meal, which I once did visiting New York City: breakfast, lunch and dinner. The breakfast was, if I recall, one of those pre-packaged boxes from a bodega, and the big change over the past 30 years is that while once sushi was an urban oddity, now every Mariano's has a sushi chef on call. The stuff they make isn't very good—like frozen pizza to pizzeria pizza. But it will do.
     The downside of Sushi Sai is that their staff is a constantly changing band of anonymous persons. I've gone there 50 times over the past decade and, I swear, have never had the same waiter twice.  I go anyway, but being a constant stranger there removes the social aspect of eating out. 
      To be acknowledged  as a customer, we go to Fujiyama in Northbrook, where we're met by Irene, the co-owner, and her husband Paul, behind the sushi counter. They're the only two staff, besides an occasional busboy. At Fujiyama being a welcome patron is something you earn. The first time we went, 15 years ago, we tried to order sushi and Irene snapped, in essence, "No, you don't want sushi. My husband is very busy now. Get something else." That "What are you doing here? Get out!" vibe persisted for about five years, but we went back anyway, because the sushi is that good. And over the past few years, the hostility has mellowed considerably. The most recent time the boys and I went, last month, to celebrate their being home from college, we were greeted as old friends, quizzed about their schools. I like to think that's Irene warming to us, though she used to get roasted fairly savagely on Yelp, and she might have finally decided to warm to the people she was asking to pay top dollar (about $80 for a lunch for three, and Kent didn't even get sushi, but a Bento box).
     This wasn't meant to turn into a restaurant review—though I can't leave the subject without plugging Blufish, also in Northbrook. Very good sushi, a bit more creative, more of a contemporary exotic flair than Fujiyama, 2/3 the cost, and the young staff serves you with vigor and gratitude.  (There is a third sushi place in Northbrook, to illustrate how popular it has become, the venerable Kamehachi. And though it's a few blocks from my house, we never go there, because it's staid, completely eclipsed by the previously mentioned places). 
     What else am I missing? It's delicious, beautiful to look at, as the photo above (from Sushi Sai) shows. I was going to say it's low calories. A piece of tuna sushi has about 60 calories. Though Sushi Sai's $20 all-you-can-eat (after 2 p.m.) chow down defeats that, now that I think of it. I ended up ordering 21 pieces, which weighed in at 1200 calories or so. Quite a lot, really. 
     Still, if you've never tried it. And there are people, amazingly, who never have, you should. If I can eat sushi a thousand times—and I have—you can eat it once. You don't know what you're missing.

Rahm kicks the can down the road, again

     One point worth mentioning that got cut out of the column below when it was being whittled to fit into the paper.  As much as I wish the "Rahm thinks your stupid" trope were a genius divination of my own, the truth is that Chicago Teacher Union president Karen Lewis told it to me in an interview several years back. Though I did have that "Yes!" moment of total agreement when you're presented with an idea you are certain is true. Still, credit where due, she's the one who said it first. 

     Rahm Emanuel thinks you're stupid.
     Don't feel bad. It's not just you. He thinks I'm stupid too. You, me and everyone else in the city, apparently.
      Not without reason of course. Often we are stupid. Credulous, easily distracted, oblivious to the real problems before us, nevermind their difficult solutions.
     Take his performance last week over the ongoing scandal that is the Chicago Police Department.
     So Rahm rushes home from his vacation in Cuba. And does what? He announces that police will be equipped with more Tasers and be trained more in crisis intervention to "de-escalate" situations.
     Problem solved, right? Give police more equipment, make 'em take a course, and we'll all be living on Sesame Street.
     Anyone believe that? Show of hands?

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Stuff I love #2: Keen boots

     Last October, my wife and I spent a lovely, if strenuous day hiking the length of the Glen Onoko Falls Trail, in Lehigh State Park, about 90 minutes outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. There, we saw two signs that caught our attention, signs the likes of which we had never seen on a hiking trail before, in all our years of tromping around this beautiful country.
       One had a skull and crossbones, to drive home the danger of the trail, which was wet, and rocky, with stretches that paralleled fatal drops. 

Glen Onoko Falls Trail

     The other was the sign above, that told hikers without proper hiking boots to "turn back now."  I smiled, confidently to myself, because I was wearing my Keen boots, the best hiking boot I've ever put on my feet. 
     I bought them at REI in 2009, when my boys and I were preparing for our epic 7,000 mile, nine-National-Park odyssey across the country. They're size 10, but somehow fit my 8 1/2 EEE feet perfectly. They've carried me up mountainsides in the Rockies, through fern-canopied paths in the Redwood Forest, splashed in the Pacific and the Atlantic, trod the deserts of South Dakota, Nevada and Utah, scampered around Wyoming, been up to Canada, striding through the woods in Nova Scotia and across the canyons of New York City and London and Chicago. 

Keens doing their job in
Southern Utah.

     Keen is a relatively new brand; founded in 2003 by Martin Keen, an outdoors lover and sailor who was looking to make a better shoe for use on boats. The Portland, Oregon company—same hometown as Gerber knife, featured here yesterday; must be the water—amazed backers with its rapid growth, and why not? The shoes are comfortable, light, rugged, water resistant. Low cut, they're easy to get on and off. They don't slip.
     I've had a number of other brands of boots that fell far short. A pair of Timberlands that quickly split between the uppers and the sole come to mind, bringing a shudder every time they do. 
     Even the best boots will wear out after years of hard use, and Keens are no different. (My wife blames the snow: I'd wear them to shovel our driveway, a mistake). When the left boot developed a hole in the upper, I did something I've never done with hiking boots or any other footwear for that matter. I took them to the shoemaker and had them patched. The patches are obvious squares of brown, but I don't care. If I get another few seasons out of them, it's worth it. When they wore away at the heel, I reinforced them myself with REI ballistic tape. Then I started gluing the tape to the seams.
     "Buy new hiking boots!" my wife sensibly commanded. But I can't. Not yet. I'll never find a pair like this. They fit my ducklike feet. They've been with me all over. At some point they'll fall apart—in my heart I hope I fall apart first—and I'll grumble and get another pair of Keen boots. I'm hoping they're as good, being made by the same company and all. But they'll have very big shoes to fill. 

Stuff I Love #1: Gerber pocket knife

    Let's take a break, ignore the Punch & Judy show of Chicago politics and the banshee howl of the country's burgeoning population of crazy people, to visit the comforting world of tangible objects, with a brief reprise of my popular 2013 series, "Stuff I Love." 

    Just before Christmas, a reader wrote and said that he needed a gift for his nephew. He remembered my gift guides of the past, and wondered what I would recommend.
     I thought for a day or two, but only came up with one thing: this Gerber lock blade knife, the L.S.T. Drop Point, Fine Edge. 
     I've carried one in my pocket for at least 25 years. It's very light—just 1.2 ounces—yet sturdy and solid. It can be opened easily with one hand by a flick of the wrist.  Lightness is important—ultralight backpacking guides rave about it—since knives spend the vast majority of the time in our possession not cutting stuff but merely being carried. The stainless steel blade is strong and smooth; it's a joy to run your fingertip along its flat surface. The half-checkered, fiberglass-filled nylon handle is light and easy to hold. When the company brags the knife "just feels good and satisfying when you open and close the blade," they speak the truth. I probably open the knife and close it far more than anything else, even when I don't need it, just to have something to do with my hands. 

     Not that the knife doesn't get put to a hundred practical uses, from slicing apples to cutting rope. It'll trim cigars, razor articles out of the paper, even open a can in a pinch. Someone will be fumbling with a package that needs cutting and before anyone can think, never mind say, "Anybody got a knife?" mine is out and open, proffered with pride, accepted with gratitude and returned with reluctance. It sharpens in an instant, with a stone and honing oil. 
     I did pause, recommending the knife as a gift for a teenager.  It is a weapon, I suppose. Our schizophrenic society is such that while adults are waving their assault rifles around convenience stores, a kid can find himself trundled off by a SWAT team for forming his finger into a handgun at school. I can imagine the excitement this knife could cause pulled out at the wrong moment.  So I hope, if this kid's uncle gave him the Gerber, he gave him some advice too, and the kid has the good sense not to bring it to school. 
     Once you hit adulthood, however, it can go almost everywhere. Back before 9/11, I remember airport security opening it up and giving it an admiring look—at 6.1 inches, open, it just squeaked past airplane restrictions. Post 9/11, I once tried to take it through airport security at Denver, and they had me put it in an envelope and mail it home. But it returned, safe and sound. It always does.  
    Once I forgot I had the Gerber and tried to take it to Cook County Jail; the guard suggested I go outside and push it into the ground under a bush. I did, retrieving it afterward, muddy but none the worse after a quick rinse. They're simple, a single blade and open body, so clean up easily. 
    The LST isn't really a defensive weapon but, finding myself walking through a sketchy area at midnight, I'll keep it in my hand, in my coat pocket, as a talisman if nothing else.

    That said, the knife is so light, it has a way of disappearing for a while—I own two, just so one is usually around—but then they always turn up, buried in a pocket, in the bottom of my briefcase, on a table, and finding one is a burst of the Christmas I never knew. And should I ever really lose it, well, no big deal. If I ever need to replace the Gerber they usually sell for under $13. You can buy a knife for twice or 10 times that, though I can't imagine why. 
    There is, I suppose, a cool factor. Gerber is headquartered in Portland, Oregon and many of its knives are assembled in the USA.  Hunter S. Thompson mentions Gerber knives in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—and while the "Mini-Magnum" is the style of Gerber his attorney waves around, it is bigger and looks almost like a kitchen knife. I'll stick with my LST. 
    You can buy it from Amazon here. You'll never need another knife.  And if you lose it, you can get another one for 13 bucks. In fact, buy a few and save yourself the trouble. They also make great gifts. It's a beautiful thing.  I gave my wife one and she keeps it in her purse.
   LST, by the way, stands for "Light, Strong, Tough." I can vouch for all three. Carrying it might not make you, yourself, any of those three. But it sure will encourage the illusion. 

First a phallic flower, now this...

     "I hate to criticize the Botanic Garden," I said to my wife as we strolled along its trails Sunday, "but the flowers are more ... subdued than usual."
     A joke,  or an attempt at a joke, high spirits being necessary for an hour's walk in temperatures in the upper 20s with a brisk wind. While there wasn't much in the way of colorful blooms, it was compensated by an utter lack of people in the more far flung regions.
     "Hell," as Jean-Paul Sartre writes in No Exit, "is other people." 
     My wife observed that it was the first time we went through the entire Japanese gardens without encountering a soul. The Japanese gardens, a pair of islands connected with quaint bridges, are particularly beautiful this time of year, filled with evergreens like the Jack Pine above, and with subtle decorations like stone Japanese lanterns, whose gently spreading tops are designed to hold snow.

Baha'i Temple

    There were more people at the Wonderland Express, the train diorama the Botanic Garden sets up for the holidays. The last day of the season was Sunday, and we decided to go in, in part out of curiosity, in part to get out of the cold.  I had a memory of visiting the place with the boys, a dozen years or more ago, but only the vaguest recollection.

Mariana Towers

     The Chicago architectural landmarks the trains were going around and over were all constructed from natural materials: twigs and bark and mushrooms and seed pods and such. 
     Sometimes the effect was impressive, such as the Baha'i Temple. Sometimes, well, not so much. I was not charmed  by the Marina Towers constructed of shelf fungi, and said so, prompting my wife to praise the corncobs, or, I suppose, mushroom cobs, I suspect out of the notion that someone took the time to construct it and their feelings must be considered. 
     There was one part of the display we both agreed upon. A model of the Bean or, if you're an employee of the Chicago Tribune, "Cloud Gate," that had been rendered from what seemed like a gourd painted silver, only one that lacked the necessary bean-like smoothness but had a slight cleft that made it resemble something else entirely.
     "It's a tush!" my wife exclaimed, and before I could agree, a British father and his kids came by, and he said aloud, to no one in particular. 
     "It's a bottom!" 
     Nothing wrong with that, and it did add a certain adult, Rabelaisian flair to the otherwise sedate, charming and child-friendly holiday tableau. My wife suggested that perhaps it might be best to place a single Hershey's Kiss directly below the Bean/butt. "Or a some mini Tootsie Rolls!" I suggested.
     "Ewww," she laughed, and we pushed onward. Something to bear in mind for next year, the holiday season now being officially over, with nearly six weeks of winter until a brief respite arrives in the form of Valentine's Day. 

     

Flock of Armed American Loons spotted at its winter nesting ground

     The warblers have left the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge and gone south for the winter. As have most of the tundra swans. Few of the 320 species of birds which make Malheur a mecca for birdwatchers remain for the harsh Oregon January. If you search hard, though, you might find some common goldeneyes, mergansers, and perhaps, if you are lucky, the rare Eurasian widgeon.
      This week, though, an exceptional ornithological event: a flock of not-so-rare, sadly, Armed American Loons has abruptly established a winter nesting ground at the nature preserve on the southern shore of Malheur Lake, about 30 miles south of the small town of Burns. 
    "This refuge — it has been destructive to the people of the county and to the people of the area," Ammon Bundy told CNN. He led a band of undetermined size, calling for other armed radicals to join their stand, but not, as yet, declaring the bird sanctuary a caliphate. 

    Twitter mocked the group with hashtags like "YalQaeda" and "VanillaISIS"  and "Yee-hawdists." 

     "Wow I'm sure glad the NSA is monitoring emails and telephone calls to warn of home grown terror incidents," tweeted Pat Ondabak.

"Terror" somehow seems a little harsh. While some wanted to make a point that if it were Muslims we've have drones shooting missiles, the incident does seem to invite more ridicule than fear, at least for now. I couldn't help thinking: "Boy, I'm sure glad we kept all those Syrian refugees out of the country; if we hadn't, they might have armed themselves and taken over a bird sanctuary."

The group announced it intends to be there for years, and open up the area to logging and mining and other activities that Republicans just love. The federal government, prudently, announced it has no plans to go in and drive them out by force, but will just wait until they get bored and go home. And as much as I'd personally prefer the Army to sweep in and kill them, on general principles, I have to grudgingly admit that patience is probably the right path, at this point. We don't want to make them into the new Branch Davidians. 
One wonders what the birds make of all this.

"That'll do her, Dave"—Memories of the Flood, Pt. 2

    The Mississippi River flooding going on now prompted me to look at the stories I filed from the great flood of 1993. This one was one of my favorites, about when the river was re-opened to navigation. I was so taken with meeting the fifth generation of river rats that I pitched the story to Life magazine, which was still around then. They passed, which I thought a shame, since, as you'll see, they were quite an interesting crew.

     MOLINE — With its twin 250-horsepower Caterpillar engines roaring as if all the noise in the world were trapped inside, trying to get out, the James P. Pearson edges into the center of the Mississippi, bound for another appointment with 2,000 tons of sand and gravel.
     One of the numerous river workhorses idled for weeks by the flood, the Pearson, a towboat, is now pushing barges six days a week, trying to catch up.
     "We're only supposed to work five, but with the flood and everything, we're way behind," says Dave Williams, deckhand of the Pearson's two-man crew.
     A self-described "river rat" with five years on the Mississippi at the ripe age of 21, Williams introduces himself as the fifth generation of his family to work the river.
     At least a dozen relatives still do; one of them, his cousin, Shawn Olson, is pilot of the Pearson. He shows up for work with a bad cold, a briefcase filled with rock 'n' roll cassettes, "enough cigarettes to kill any man" and a supply of juice to combat the sweat-wringing 95-degree weather.
     Unlike larger boats making the trip "from Saint to Saint," (St. Paul to St. Louis), the Pearson is a small boat making a local run - four empty barges to drop off at the Moline Consumer's sand dredging operation in Cordova, Ill., swapped for four full barges of new sand to be brought back to Moline and Bettendorf, Iowa, where it is made into concrete mix. Round trip is about 50 miles.
     They are pleased as can be that navigation is still bottled up down river.
     "We wish it would stay like that until next year," Olson says, not wanting his run to be delayed at Lock and Dam No. 14, the only one of the Mississippi's 27 locks that the Pearson needs to go through.
     Going through the lock is fairly quick and simple: The boat and its barges enter the lock, the south gates swing shut, six feet of upriver water is allowed to flow in, the north gates swing open and the Pearson goes on her way on the higher portion of the river. It takes about 15 minutes.
     On a good day.
     But if there are any boats waiting in front of it, there is delay — sometimes for hours, even days, as the Pearson queues up behind larger boats maneuvering their big clusters of barges into the lock.
     Because of flooding conditions lingering downriver, there are practically no boats on this part of theMississippi. There is no wait at the lock. In fact, the Pearson passes only one commercial boat in nine hours - the immense Conti-Arlie, pushing a dozen grain barges. "Fifty-six hundred horsepower," Williams says, reverently. "That's a real working boat."

    Mostly the Pearson has the river to itself. The only sound, outside of the clangorous engine room, is the splash of the river against the barges and the sawing of cicadas in the trees lining the shore.
     Olson steers casually between the wide channel markers, barely needing to touch the wooden and brass rudder controls.
     Williams does his real work when the boat drops off or picks up barges, or goes through the locks. He scampers nimbly over the wet steel barges, securing ropes, winching steel cable. It is hard work in the hot sun, and Williams doesn't seem to have enough fat on his body to make a good butter pat.
     "My job is hard to explain," he says. "People say, 'You're a deckhand? What do you do? My grandfather (Don Williams, captain of the Queen of Hearts casino boat) used to say he told people he was a trucker, so they won't ask any questions . . . the majority of people around here are just society. They don't know anything about the river at all."
     Although both Williams and Olson complain about working on the river - Olson pointed out that "nobody got rich as a pilot" and Williams says he would like to find a "white shirt" job - they both obviously love what they do.
     "Some of the nicest people you meet on the river," Williams says. "They'll take care of you, free of charge."
     At Cordova, four barges containing 1,950 tons of sand and gravel are waiting in a large cove carved out of the shoreline by years of sand-dredging. Olson angles the empty barges next to the company's dredging machine as casually as if he were tossing cards into a hat.
     "Look at that big old bird up there," he says, pointing to something flapping over the forest, just as the barges ease against the dock. "That must be an owl, I betcha."
     Williams unleashes the barges, then takes time for a quick dip in the river, executing a neat jackknife dive into the cool water. "Ah yes," he says, breaking the surface.
     The journey downstream is a lot quicker - about 90 minutes less than it took to fight the current. There is still plenty of time to sit on a timberhead and enjoy the warm, soft breeze (river life is filled with quaint, anachronistic terms. Timberheads are the capped pegs used to secure lines - once cut from logs, they are now steel. At the lock, the little tram used to tow barges, if necessary, is called "the mule," a nod to its animate predecessor).
     A long Soo line freight train pulling auto carriers draws alongside at the river's edge and gives a few friendly toots.
     "That's the competition," Williams says, and Olson says hello back with a few blasts of the air horn.
     The James P. Pearson is almost home now. The sun is setting, a huge orange ball peaking out from behind the trees. "Is that beautiful!" Williams says. Olson opens the front window of the pilot house and turns up the volume on some vintage Allman Brothers Band.
     "Lord, I'm southbound," sings an Allman. "Lord, I'm coming home to you."
     In its final minutes, the sun puts on a display rarely seen outside of English Romantic oil paintings - bands of orange, blue, pink, purple and even green, radiating from the horizon. The gold light shimmers off the ripples, swirls and eddies formed by the barges cutting through the river.
     Two barges are left at the Bettendorf dock, below the bucket crane which will empty them before the Pearson returns at noon the next day - gingerly empty them, because the sand is so heavy that, if not unloaded uniformly, they can easily flip over.
     The other two barges are left at the Moline dock. The Pearson ties up at 8:23 p.m., about as early as she has ever returned from a full day's work.
     "That'll do her, Dave," Olson says, and he gives the horn a few celebratory blasts.
     Williams goes down to the engine room and shuts down the twin Caterpillars, which sigh to silence after nine hours of work.
     The only sound now is the gentle lapping against the wharf of the mighty Mississippi, now tamed to a gentle purr.
                            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 30, 1993

The Great Mississippi Flood of 1993

 

Photo by Al Podgorski

    The Mississippi is flooding again. The last time it was this bad was 1993, when I was a grunt reporter, and the City Desk sent me down a number of times to report on the disaster. Even after nearly a quarter century, thinking of the flood conjures up unforgettable images: the Mississippi, swollen and wide, racing along almost at the base of the Arch in St. Louis. Whole towns turning out in places like Grafton and Alton trying to keep their sandbag levees intact. Townsfolk keeping their wallets in Baggies.

     And a solitary stone house, which photographer Al Podgorski — who snapped the photo above — and I came upon in Saint Genevieve, Missouri.  An extraordinary sight: a peninsula of sandbags, jutting into the swollen river, protecting a single stone structure. I wrote about the efforts to save the house, and ended up on the stand bag line, trying to keep the wall in place. It was scary. I remember watching water trickling through the cracks between the sandbags thinking, "A guy could die here." But the wall held. None of the historic homes in Saint Genevieve were seriously damaged by the flood. 

     STE. GENEVIEVE, Mo. — This house north of town is called the Rock House because of its solid stone construction. Built in 1805, it is the oldest stone dwelling in Missouri.

     The house has seen a lot of history in its nearly two centuries of existence. It was, for a while, home to a slave trader. It was, for a while, a brothel. 

     It should be under water up to its second floor, and about 50 feet into the swollen Mississippi River.

     But it's not. 

     Walk up to the house, and the mind almost rejects what the eye is seeing. The house is surrounded on three sides by the river, kept out by a fragile sandbag and plastic levee. 

     The house also is called the Myers house, for the owner, Frank Myers, and it was his determination, along with his family's, that has kept the house safe. 

     "When he had resigned himself to fate, it was really when a lot of the family said 'No, we have to save it,' " says Stuart Johnson, Myers' son-in-law, who took over when Myers went into the hospital for a coronary bypass last week. (Ask anyone whether the fight to save the house put Myers in the hospital and the answer is always: "It didn't help.") 

     They have been fighting the river since July 4, and how it will work out is anyone's guess. On Friday, the river crested at Ste. Genevieve, a town of 4,500 about 50 miles south of St. Louis, at 49.6 feet, the highest point ever. 

     Around the Rock House, water seeps out of the bottom of the levee in sheets, forming a considerable creek at the base, where two pumps throw it back into the river. 

     The family has been aided by hundreds of volunteers, from the local girls basketball team, to the National Guard, to prisoners from the Farmington Correctional Facility, who endeared themselves by being concerned about getting the floors muddy. 

    As with much of the efforts to fight the flood, there is a factor of human nobility — or perhaps irrationality — in the fight to keep the river out of the Rock House. The walls are 3 feet of stone; the river probably wouldn't sweep the house away. Why not just give up and put all that effort into cleaning up afterward? 

     "I'll give up when the water brings me out the back door," says Johnson. "When I'm swimming out the back door, then I'll decide what to do next. 

Sandbaggers Get To the Nitty-Gritty

    Sandbags have a rhythm, a mantra. They are too heavy, and you need too many, for it to be otherwise.
     In creation, they require four people, as any volunteer can tell you, in something close to a nursery rhyme:

     One person holds it.

     One person fills it.

     One person ties it.

     One person stacks it.

     The parking lot at Valley High School here looked like a factory producing brown and green pillows.   Tens of thousands of 40-pound sandbags, piled about 3 feet high on wooden pallets, filled most of the area. Around the perimeter, volunteers worked feverishly, making more.

     Grab any sandbag team here and you find a cross-section of Midwesterners who left their lives, temporarily, to drive for hours to do back-breaking work in the hot sun for free to help total strangers.

     Mary Boyer, from Vincennes, Ind., held an empty bag. Ron Lyon, from Caledonia, Ohio, took a shovel and filled it — three shovelfuls to the bag. Nancy Hendrixson, also from Vincennes, tied it, and Marilyn Anderson, from Olney, Ill., did the stacking.

     "We brought a van load of goods donated by the town and dropped them off at the Salvation Army, then came to sandbag" said Hendrixson, explaining how they got there.

     "It's a chance to help out," said Lyon. "To give somebody else a break, to step into the breach."

     Jim Runstrom walked up. He had just driven 10 hours from Waterford, Mich. He asked if he could fill in for anybody, and Anderson let him take over the stacking.

     "I've been seeing these people on TV every day, and they look like they need help," he said. "So I came down."

                             —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 9, 1993

Have a Boswell New Year!

     Friday is New Year's Day. A time of resolutions, of personal goals solemnly set.
     Some are general: be a better person. Some are very specific: lose 15 pounds.
     Less clear is how to go about trying to reach those goals: how to eat less. How to be that better person.
     I'm going to suggest something out of left field: consider James Boswell.
     Famed as the 18th century biographer of British man of letters Samuel Johnson. But a fascinating figure in his own right, an ordinary man with a genius for hanging out with the most brilliant minds of his era. As a teenager he knocked on rationalist David Hume's door, barging in to talk philosophy. Later he argued about God with Voltaire and invited himself to be the house guest of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, hospitality he rewarded by eventually seducing Rousseau's wife.
     I'm not suggesting you spend 2016 cuckolding the great philosophers of our day — our era doesn't really have prominent philosophers. But Boswell's energetic efforts to give his life meaning can be emulated, and they start with one practice that anybody can do, right now, with no special equipment or training: keep a journal.

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