Let's live up to King's faith in us

"Moving In" by Norman Rockwell

     
    Martin Luther King Jr. Day is tomorrow—a holiday which Illinois was the first state in the nation to officially celebrate, thanks to the efforts of a state legislator named Harold Washington.
    But King's actual birthday is today, Jan. 15.  His message is even more important now that our president will be someone who openly appeals to racial bigotry. Who considers black people to be a uniform mass of hell dwellers, except of course for the few celebrities as vain, shallow and publicity-hungry as himself, who will agree to meet with him and pretend they are capable of addressing the deep-rooted problems that will certainly be neglected over the next four years. Not that they invented the practice.
     Exactly 10 years ago I wrote this column item. 

     Today is not only Martin Luther King Jr. Day, but one of the rare instances when the holiday -- officially set as the third Monday in January -- also falls on his actual birth date, Jan. 15.
     An apt coincidence, since King was 39 when he was murdered on a Memphis motel balcony, and would have been 78 today, which means that around June 1, by my calculations, will begin the period, stretching into eternity, when the man has been dead longer than he was alive.
     Making this an appropriate moment to remind ourselves of the importance of King's legacy.
     The marches and the speeches are what get mentioned -- they make good sound bites for the 10-second glance on television. But protest and eloquence were only the means, not the substance of what is -- in my opinion -- the reason King gets his own federal holiday alongside George Washington and Jesus.
     Martin Luther King Jr. showed America the way. If you look at what kind of society we were 50 years ago, the oppression and the misery, the racism and the hate, and what kind of society we are today, or at least what kind of society we aspire to be, and ask how we got here, without revolution, without more than minimal blood-letting, the answer is: because a black preacher from Georgia decided to embrace non-violence and face his enemies with courage, dignity and faith -- faith both in his religion and faith that America would, when pressed, embrace the ideals it was founded on but ignored for so long for so many. And the nation did, eventually.
    Which makes King a patriot, in my eyes, and I hope in yours, too. I know I'm putting out my flag this morning, marching my boys onto the cold porch to cover their hearts and say the pledge, and I'll explain to them why this is a holiday and why it is important. And if you do so, too, then we'll have a better country tomorrow than we have today, and the legacy of Dr. King will be well-served.

    —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 15, 2007

"Shelves and shelves and shelves"

      "This is the flesh-eating beetle room," said John O'Connell, pushing open a brown door labeled "Dermestid Beetle Colony." 
     We were on a quick behind-the-scenes tour at the Field Museum last Saturday, the start of a whirlwind week that would include talking with a Marine priest in Japan, watching President Obama exit Air Force One at O'Hare, and driving nearly 600 miles to visit with the good folk of Wayne County. 
     Those last three experiences were for the newspaper. But I didn't want to let our extra-curricular jog through the upper reaches of the Field vanish into oblivion without setting a little down here because really, how many people get to do that? 

     The average culture hound likes to hit hot museum exhibits early, so as to be among the avant-garde. I'm the opposite; I tend to put off visiting until at the last possible moment, pressed by time, prodded into action only because they're about to  vanish forever. That was the case with the terra cotta warriors. My older son had seen the excavation site in China, my wife was eager to go, and I mentioned this to O'Connell, a major gifts officer at the Field, whom I had met at a party at the Tattoo show the day the Cubs won the World Series. We were slipping in just before the show closed,  and he asked if I'd like to see the extensive and fascinating off-limits area of the museum. I would.
     The dermestid beetles are used to turn animal carcasses into skeletons to be kept for research and display. No photos are permitted within, and just as well, because it's grisly business. We entered through a pair of doors, which I thought at first was to control the smell of decay—not bad really, compared to the morgue—but actually done to keep the beetles from escaping into the museum.     
     "If these get loose, it's Goodbye dioramas!" he said.
     O'Connell estimated there are 30 million objects in the Field collection. "Shelves and shelves and shelves," he said. "More shelves. It just goes on and on. It's a pretty incredible place." I enjoyed noting the titles on the door. The Field has a resident artist, painting watercolors of birds for exhibits. We'll have to meet over the long winter.
     He didn't have access to the drawers of preserved birds—I'll return to see those too—but I got to ogle some specimens of the Field's wet collection: jars of squid and and fish and crabs. The lengths of corridors went on and on, and we raced through (time was short because we had to get up to Evanston to rendezvous with our younger son) I felt convinced that I could be designated the Field Museum reporter and spend the rest of my career happily going from door to door, writing columns. How readers might react to that is another matter. I doubt they wake up thinking, "I wish I knew more about brachiopods."
    Great age has a way of adding an aura of preciousness to the most mundane object. A kernel of corn is garbage to be swept away on your kitchen floor. But a kernel of corn on the floor of an Egyptian tomb is science and history. I am not a particular fan of ladies' straw hats. But when O'Connell opened a draw of hats left from the 1893 Columbian Exposition, I marveled at their preservation and thought of the kind of dutiful stewardship that tended them, like relics, for the past 124 years. It made me think of ISIS blowing up monuments from antiquity, a cultural barbarity in keeping with their human barbarity, and prompted a thought I've never had before: Chicago has never been bombed. The Civil War never drew near. The cataclysms of the 20th century were oceans away. One disastrous fire in 1871, and then unbroken peace and safety, at least safety from outside harm. God knows we generate our own harm from within. Still, compared to a city like London or Berlin or Tokyo, much to be thankful for. Which is quite the weighty message to be carried by a fragile, century-old straw hat, but certainly one worth going out of your way on a Saturday to receive.

Ready to square off over a little knowledge.

       

     My cousin Harrison and I were doing what thinking people do nowadays—comparing our sense of deep foreboding over the advent of such a reality-averse president—and discussion slid into the eclipse of intelligence. He pointed out a scene in Broadcast News where a network executive tells Holly Hunter he imagines it "must be nice to always think you're the smartest person in the room."   
     "No, it's awful,' she whispers.

     Sure is. One comfort is that Donald Trump didn't make being smart go out of fashion: I believe that was Nero, when he forced his tutor, Seneca, to commit suicide. The ability to think about stuff has always been a mixed blessing. True, you don't buy as many time share condo memberships or accidentally set yourself on fire quite as much as other folk. But you aren't part of the cheering crowd of like-thinking buddies either. 
     Not that I'm complaining. Being smart makes you tough—two qualities not often paired. In a few days we'll have a bullying dope in the White House. But I've been dealing with bullies ever since Trent Carruthers—bigger, stronger, older, meaner—lay in wait for me after Fairwood School in the 5th grade. I don't remember what particular offense singled me out for abuse from Trent, but I'd put my chips on my being smarter than he was, though I imagine THAT didn't take much doing.
     Anyway, my exchange with Harry brought to mind this column:

     This was years ago. But it is branded upon my mind. My wife-to-be and I were at another couple's house. The pizza was gone, and we were playing Trivial Pursuit, the type of thing people do before children pour kerosene all over your free time and drop a lit match.
     It was my turn. The other guy's wife read my question: "This American author lived at Walden Pond and wrote a book about it."
     Easy as pie, I thought. "Henry David Thoreau," I said.
     The wife—an emaciated woman with feathered hair—flipped the card over to read the answer. Her eyes widened. "How did you...?" she stammered, amazed. And then she seemed to get angry. She extended her middle finger and held out her arm full stretch until the insulting digit was an inch from my nose. She uttered the accompanying oath.
     That, in a nutshell, is the story of my life. Though I was not showing off—we were playing a game, she asked me the question—I am forever bursting forth with information that damns me as a brainiac, an intellectual. I would have sworn that every human being older than the age of 15 could have answered that question. Walden. Thoreau. But of course I would be mistaken.
     People have the wrong idea about smart people. We are not arrogant. We are not showoffs. We live in fear that our secret will be discovered and we will be humiliated and hated.
      Just the other day, I was at a meeting with several associates. I was relaxed, comfortable, just one of the group. We were talking about the 12 square miles of presidential palaces that Saddam Hussein wants to keep off-limits from the prying eye of international inspectors.
     "Twelve square miles!" the man across the table said. "A square, 12 miles on a side."
      Sweat sprang to my forehead. I squirmed. I glanced around, praying for someone to pick up the ball.
     "That sure is a big square—12 miles each way," another agreed. I felt like a secret homosexual listening to his construction worker buddies slam fags.
     I tried to keep my mouth shut. The conversation seemed to be moving on. There were five other people in the room. Nobody caught my eye and shared my pained "What should I do?" gaze of entreaty.
     Finally, reluctantly, I said it, in a hushed, flat voice:
     "Twelve square miles wouldn't be a square 12 miles on a side. It would be a square three miles by four—a rectangle."
     In truth, I expected a lot of forehead slapping and sheepish grins. I expected giant shrugs of embarrassment, arms flung out, Zorba-the-Greek style. I expected nervous laughter.
     What I didn't expect was argument. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then we began a heated discussion. If the matter could have been settled by a vote, then 12 square miles would now equal a square 12 miles on the side. I stuck to my guns, thinking of Henry Fonda in "12 Angry Men."
     "Trust me," I said, "I am completely confident about this. A square 12 by 12 would be 144 square miles."
     I was given incredulous looks. Could this be a joke? That's ridiculous, one colleague said. "Twelve square miles is twelve square miles--12 miles square."
     We went back and forth. I thought of just giving up, of slumping back in my chair and letting it go. What am I, schoolmarm to the world? But we are a newspaper, and you ignore something like that, next thing you know it's in print.
     So I drew a graphic.
     "Let's say you have a room, 12 feet by 12 feet," I said, busying myself at a yellow legal pad. I drew a big square. "And let's say you want to carpet it. This is a square foot of carpet," and here I drew a little square. "And here is your room." And then I drew 11 vertical and 11 horizontal lines over my big square (11 because, to divide a line into 12 pieces, you cut it 11 times).
     "Now, you're going to the store to buy carpet. How many square feet, how many of these" and I tapped my little square box "do you need to go into this?"
     I'm not sure whether people eventually grasped it, or just pretended to so we could move on. I know I felt as if I had committed some brazen act of self-puffery, some unforgivable braggadocio routine.
     So have pity on people who know stuff. They live a lonely life.
              —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 11, 2002.

Obama place holder

     Let me tell you about the time I blew my deadline.
     Never.

     The paper never reached for a column and came up empty. I like to think that's one of the reasons I still have a job.
     Trying to make sure it doesn't happen, I plan ahead. Tuesday I was going to deliver myself into the hands of the United States government, on a bus, hoping I had access to the Internet. But what if I didn't? What if Obama's plane was delayed, diverted, what if he never showed up and deadline loomed while I was shivering on a windblown tarmac? What if the press bus pulled into an unmarked warehouse and sat there for 12 hours? What if I couldn't file?
     Can't have that. So on Monday I cracked my fingers and came up with this, intended to be the Type O, Universal Donor, slap-into-the-paper-whether-Obama-shows-or-not column. 
     As it happened, Obama did show, did give his speech and I did write about it—I thought it lacked a necessary sense of outrage. This is the sort of thing that without a blog would never see the light of day. But since I'm driving down to beautiful Wayne County, Illinois, to research a story next week, and given that I think it makes a valid point, does have merit—at least I hope it does—I decided to share it with you here. As for tomorrow, well, I've never missed one of these posts yet either, in three and a half years, which I hope is an attribute and not a flaw. Something in Wayne County will present itself, and they must have Internet by now. If not, well, there's always a first time. I kept my working title because doing so seemed apt.

     So the story's ending, what's the moral?
     Okay, not ending. Barack Obama is leaving the White House phase of his career and entering a long golden twilight of speeches, fundraisers and golf. Something less frantic than the gerbil-on-a-wheel efforts of Jimmy Carter, hammering together low income housing and fighting tapeworm in Africa, but more visible than the vanishing act of George W. Bush. His own personal saga.
     What did it all mean?
     He was the first black president—did anyone mention that yet? They did, enough times that it became like a ball peen hammer on a sheet metal. Because Obama didn't have to do anything to be that first black president, once elected. Just show up. Isn't it the racism of low expectations to emphasize that now, after eight years? He was the first black president on Day One.
     Not to diminish the pride that black people feel, at his being president. You walk taller when the home team wins. I remember when Joe Lieberman ran as Al Gore's vice president in 2000, and a Christian columnist at another paper pronounced it no big deal. Yeah, I thought at the time, if you're not Jewish. If you are, nervously scanning the day to see if you should make coffee or flee for your life, then that kind of acceptance is welcome reassurance you can go ahead and grind those beans.
     So yes, the United States is not so stuck in the tar pit of racial bigotry that has dogged it for 400 years that it can't elect a black guy. Peal the bells, toss the confetti.
     But reassurance and complacency are cousins. Obama's presidency could just as easily be seen as a sign of how far race relations haven't come as how far they have. Sure, American's don't reflexively hate black people so much that 52.9 percent of voters, his most decisive victory, against Sen. John McCain in 2008--wouldn't cast a ballot for him. Not exactly a triumph.
     In office, Obama was opposed at every turn by an energized, maniacally-opposed Republican Party. The GOP gave him credit for nothing. They grudgingly acceded to his rescuing the auto industry, and the banks, and hauling the United States out of the cataclysmic financial crisis of 2008--an accomplishment that dwarfs the color of his skin, in my book--and then, when he did well, invented a fantasy administration of failure more to their liking. The unemployment rate was 7.8 percent when Obama took office; it's 4.7 percent now. Yet 64 percent of Republicans told pollsters unemployment rose under Obama. The Dow doubled during Obama's administration. Nearly 40 percent of Republicans think it fell.
     Has a single right winger said, "You know, the Obamas, they were a good first family. Daughters never showed up at discos drunk. First Lady of grace and dignity and beauty." Not one. Instead, as if the effort of holding their tongues was too great, the chorus of abuse swelled ,as if they were going to lose the chance. They hoped he would die.
That has to be, if not the moral of the story, then a hard lesson worth stating, because beneath the pride, I'm sure there is grim awareness that what I say is true. That a black guy can maybe snag a good job, despite overwhelming odds, excel against fierce resistance, and still have people calling his wife an "ape in heels."
     Then we elected Donald Trump, smashing the presidency as if it were a communal coffee mug that the new black employee had used.
     The senator I ran into quite frequently at the East Bank Club a decade ago was brittle and aloof. Being president made him warmer and more thick-skinned. Does anybody expect Trump to react that way? His bullying and touchiness will only intensify, if that is possible. And it will be hard for Americans not to claw the air where Obama had been, to wonder why the thoughtful, deliberate, intelligent man who was also black isn't here, to unchain the lightning of the English language and bind up our wounds. To, if not solve our problems, God knows, then make us at least hope our problems could be solved. Now we've got a president who doesn't heal wounds, he inflicts them.
     We're going to miss Barack Obama more than we realize now. I sure will. I'm missing him already.

Obama holds a pep rally for a game his team lost

     I spent about six hours in the White House Press Pool Tuesday, tailing Barack Obama as he pin-balled around Chicago on his last visit as sitting president. And while the experience was not what I expected, we'll save that for another day. Here's my column on Obama's farewell speech, which ran in the paper Wednesday. 

     Barack Obama has talked his way out of jams before.
     When the dilemma was the bottomless obscurity of state legislature, facing years of downstate lapel-grabbing before, maybe, finding a toehold up the ladder, Obama conjured the audacity of hope at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, rocketing himself from Springfield, Illinois to the U.S. Senate and halfway to the White House.

     When the difficulty was fallout from intemperate remarks made by Jeremiah Wright,, threatening to derail Obama's presidential campaign, the Illinois senator urged us to unite and strive toward our Constitution's goal of a "more perfect union."
     "We cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together," he told Constitution Hall in Philadelphia in 2008. "Unless we perfect our union by understanding we have different stories."
     But the president was not in a jam, himself, Tuesday night, when he made arrived at the very windy city of Chicago for his farewell address before a rapturous crowd at McCormick Place. Obama is home free. Ten days left in his term, then he can devote his efforts to building a library glorifying himself, watching his younger daughter finish high school, lowering his golf handicap, and musing over the 7-figure deals corporations will dangle before former president.
     No, it is America itself that is in a tough spot now. At least the part that is black or brown, Asian or Hispanic, gay or lesbian or transgendered, liberal or those struggling to maintain a more than passing acquaintance with the world of fact. Both those horrified by Donald Trump's promises, as well those counting on them, though the latter don't know it yet. We're all facing four years of the Trump Administration, a sideshow carnival of hourly outrage while the Republican wrecking crew that controls both houses of Congress leaps to undermine ethics, gut environmental controls, scrap safety regulations, and slash taxes for the rich and health care for the poor.
     Obama Tuesday addressed this with his typical cool remove. No tears today. No shouts. Just as the Republicans pretend his administration was a disaster, he chose to pretend he leaves a country glowing with grace. He sees a nation "even more optimistic than when we started." Maybe Russia is, but it's hard to see the advent of Trump as a time of optimism, unless you are among the gulled millions who figure anybody smart enough to inherit so much wealth has to know how to run a country.
     The president lauded "the peaceful transfer of power," which might not have been the case had Hillary Clinton won, judging by Trump's winking threats. Obama set the bar so low that even the 45th president could hop over it.
     Not to be too hard on Obama. He didn't have to come. Before he rides off into the sunset, he returned to the place where he made his name to puff on the guttering flame of hope, urging us to somehow keep it alive in the reactionary downpour pounding on our roofs.
     "Democracy does require a basic sense of solidarity," he said, failing to add, "which is not what we have now or in the foreseeable future." He did allow that "a post-racial America was never realistic." Thanks for the news bulletin, Mr. President, but we're there ahead of you.
     How will this final speech stand with other classic presidential farewells? There was no echoing warning like Eisenhower's caution against the "military-industrial complex." It was more like a greatest hits reprise of past speeches that worked so well, then. But now we're on to a new crisis, and his language of hope sounded—to me anyway—flat, lifeless. And I was in the hall.
     There have been presidents who warned against what we're facing now. George Washington didn't laud an imaginary solidarity in his famous farewell, but cautioned against a country fractured by disunity.
     "The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries have perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism," he wrote in his brief, written farewell.
      "The spirit of revenge" could be a chapter heading for the history of the 115th Congress.
     Washington warned that a leader "more fortunate than his competitors" might come along and build "his own elevation on the ruins of public liberty."
     Man that rings a bell. Public liberty isn't ruined yet. But the crowbars and pickaxes are being assembled in Washington, the task begun even as the throng at McCormick Place cheered.

Flashback 1984: "Everything is fine, everyone is happy"

   

Ronald Reagan at the College of DuPAge

     Barack Obama returns to Chicago Tuesday night to give his final speech as president of the United States. Through the combination of equal parts pushiness and blind luck that have been the twin pole stars of my career, I am scheduled not only to attend the speech, but to be a local representative in the White House press pool, accompanying the president during his five hour visit. I'm excited to be part of it, and apprehensive not to screw up.

     It will be the third time I've heard a president give a speech, live. The occasion previous to this was election night, 2o08, when indulging my then-13 year-old son, I attended the enormous rally in Grant Park. And the first time was in 1984, when Ronald Reagan campaigned for re-election at the College of DuPage and I, then opinion page editor of the Wheaton Daily Journal, went to hear what the Gipper had to say.

     This column is in several ways characteristic, in that it focuses on something that most people in the room wanted to ignore, and it ends just as the part most journalists would focus on—the speech itself—begins. You can consider that a flaw or an attribute but, avoiding the passing issues of the moment helps it, I believe, resonate today, where shouting down any whisper of protest was a highlight of every rally of our president-elect. There are a few cliches and clunky word choices but, in my defense, I was 24 years old when I wrote this.

     

     It was only a small sign. But it caught my eye. all the other signs and banners decking the gym for President Reagan's visit to the College of DuPage were blue and red. This one was green.

     It said, 'Bread not Bombs" and had a nuclear symbol in a circle crossed with a slash. It was taped to the wall, opposite from where Reagan would be speaking. I knew that a sign like that could not last long in this hall, and I settled down to watch it.

     I did not have to wait long. A few feet away, Liz Seeland—a Young Republican from Wheaton College—stood handing out American flags and hand-painted signs to the people streaming into the hall. She saw the sign and, with a bunch of flags in one hand, she stacked up cardboard boxes in front of the sign until no one could see it.

     "I didn't just do that," she said to a group of three boys who smiled at her as she blocked the sign.

    The three boys—Pete Kobs, Oliver Schmittenberg and Jeff Letus, all 16 years old and all from Glenbard West high School—kept their place in front of the sign.

    "It makes me mad," said Pete, referring to the sign. "If kids don't like Reagan, they shouldn't be here."

    "There's a difference between stating your views and being out of place," said Jeff.

     Suddenly a boy in a gray sweatshirt came over and pushed the boxes away.

     "We want to show Reagan our views," said Jim Interlandi, also from Glenbard West.

     "nothing is anti-Reagan in that message," he added, looking at the sign. "If those people have the right to say what they want, I have the right to say what I want."

     now the sign was visible again, hanging to the right and below another sign—twice as big—that said, "RON, AMERICA NEEDS YOU." It was the only sign in sight that had not been painted by the sponsors of the rally, the only one that added a note of dissent.

     It was too much, apparently, for the three schoolmates. They eyed the sign uncomfortably.

    "Gish, I wish I could rip that sign down, it makes me mad, said Pete, after Jim had left. But nobody moved toward it.

     A few minutes passed, then suddenly one person, glancing guiltily in all directions, ran up and tore the sign down, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the gym floor. His friends looked on in approval.

     A College of DuPage student named Jennifer ran up and tried to put the sign back up, but it wouldn't stay in place.

     "Everybody has a right to their opinion," she said, adding that she was in fact a Reagan supporter.

     Jim, who had struggled to keep the sign up, said he wasn't going to try to put it back up. "It would only get ripped down again," he said, grimly. "Maybe if I can find some more tape." He shrugged and went to look for his friends.

     From the back of the room, it was a scene of pure enthusiasm. The band played soaring, stirring marches. The green sign had disappeared—it wasn't even a lump of cloth amidst the confetti that covered the floor. An hour went by. Then, a few minutes before Reagan arrived, I noticed a tinge of green in the center of the crowd. It was the little green sign, held aloft in the midst of signs like "AMERICA NEEDS REAGAN" and "WMEN FOR REAGAN." Holding my press credentials up in front of my face, I worked my way into the center of the crowd.'

     Lisa Cargill, 18, was one of perhaps a dozen protestors, gathered in front of the press bleachers. They raised their hands in peace symbols and held tiny signs with slogans like "No Nukes" and "I don't love Reagan." Lisa held up one corner of the little green sign.

     "We are going to try to be seen and try to be heard," she said, shouting above the music. "People are taking our signs down, kicking us, hitting us with sticks."

     Indeed, the people around them were not happy. "Get a job!" someone shouted. "Get a real life!" another shouted. 

     I moved away from the group, to the back of the room. The chants were louder now. "Four more years," and "We want Reagan." I wanted to see if Reagan would see the sign abover the crowd. The roar was deafening, as the high school marching band finished playing "Maniac" and went into "Hail to the Chief." The green sign fluttered briefly, but then disappeared below the waving flags and placards. Perhaps somebody pulled it down, perhaps those holding it up got tired.

    When Reagan finally took the podium and looked out over the thousands of people, not a hint of dissent was in view. He smiled at the smiling faces, waving flags, and blue and red signs. No doubt, as he started to speak, he was thinking about how everyone is happy, and how everything is fine." 

     

     

There was something big behind the iPhone, and it wasn't just Apple

     Alexander Graham Bell was not trying to invent the telephone when he did just that. What he was trying to do, at first, was make a better telegraph. It was the 1870s, and the telegraph was 30 years old — about as old as cellphones are now. Like cellphones, the telegraph had become enormously popular, so popular that messages backed up at telegraph offices, waiting to be sent. The problem had to be solved; there was no point in telegraphing a message from Washington to Baltimore if it took three days for operators to get around to tapping out your message. You could walk it there in two.
     Bell was working on sending many messages simultaneously through the same line in the form of different tones, then stumbled onto the idea that these tones could be a voice, a reminder of the often accidental nature of technological advancement.
     So it is fitting that when Apple  founder and

chief executive Steve Jobs began to develop the iPhone, which he unveiled on Jan. 9, 2007 — 10 years ago Monday — what he was trying to do was safeguard the iPod, his wildly popular music player responsible for nearly half of Apple's revenue. Jobs saw how cellphones decimated the digital camera industry, and worried his competitors would include music too. Then Apple might become Kodak: just another once-hot tech company.
     Jan. 9, 2007, was also the day Apple dropped the word "Computer" from its corporate name, because it was going to be more than a computer company. You can't sail across the ocean without leaving the shore.
     When Jobs announced the iPhone, at the company's MacWorld convention in San Francisco, he telegraphed his priorities by the order he listed them....

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Too bad we're not as clever as our tools

    Life isn't fiction, but sometimes it'll arrange itself thematically, or seem to.
     For instance, on Christmas Eve, we met some old friends who lived in the city, took in a movie, then headed to their place to scarf Chinese chow. Their son, to my surprise, opened the front door by pulling out his cell phone and tapping a few buttons. I'm not sure how that's an advantage over a key, but it is different. 
     Golly, I thought, or words to that effect.
     Technology seems the same for a while, then it changes. Not so long ago I'd plot out where I'm going on Google Map before I left. Now there's no point, I can just plug the address into my phone—it takes a few seconds—and, should I need directions, it'll tell me where to go. 
     The other day, I was picked up in a new Audi A4, a sleek piece of German engineering. I was intrigued to notice that the cabin temperature registered on the climate control knobs. I admired the economy of that—the knob surface was just wasted space before; why not put some data on it? Countless engineers gazed at those fat blank buttons, until one day, one engineer thought, You know....
     The display reminded me of bathroom sinks that so charmed me in the tiny bathrooms of Japan—built into the back of the toilet tank, they not only saved room, but the water you used to wash your hands helped fill the tank. Amazing.
    The New Technology Chapter came to a close, for my purposes, Saturday, when I heard a report on the radio about the Consumer Electronics Show, now going on in Las Vegas. LG unveiled its OLED "wallpaper TV" which is only 1/10 of an inch thick. That's really thin. 
     Which leads to the obvious closing question: why can't people be as clever as the technology we create? It might have been stronger to end on that note, but let's make it an actual rather than a rhetorical question. Why? Maybe because a gizmo, no matter how wondrous, is a lot simpler to put together than a society. Maybe because a society is comprised by the whole jumbled bell curve of people, some of whom are staggeringly dumb. Maybe something else. Maybe the gizmos should reflect a bit of wonder back on our staggering society because, without our current culture, flawed though it is, there would be no cool technology to feel good about.

Wow indeed. Trump's tweets truly terrifying

     One of the most significant of the many wonders about our president-elect is the genius Donald Trump has for instilling sincere amazement into the discovery, or I suppose "re-discovery," of what we already know.
     By Friday I, along with half the county, had spent 19 months taking an intensive cram course in just how brittle, vindictive, mean, petty, and small focus Donald Trump can truly be. We knew. 
     At least we thought we knew. 
     And yet. 
     Here, maybe you missed them. First this:

     
     Followed by:

    In case you haven't heard, Arnold Schwarzenegger, the one-time box office action hero and former governor of California, is the host of "The New Celebrity Apprentice," the post-Trump reboot of the reality TV show that The Donald stared in for 14 years, before being elected president of the United States.
     Schwarzenegger's "Apprentice" turn was panned by the critics, and if Trump is to be believed—did I just write that?—also in the ratings.
      Let's ponder these tweets a moment, shall we? The strange use of quotations around "swamped,"--an odd usage when referring to getting killed in the ratings, assuming that happened (checking ... in the real world ... yes, "opens weak" according to Variety) then the helpful parenthetical, "(or destroyed)", to shed light for those confused. 
    Then a reference to the "ratings machine, DJT" -- that would be him, Donald J. Trump, referring to himself in the third person. Quite regal, or pathological, of him. Would you call yourself by your initials? I wouldn't do that on a bath towel.
     Ending with the truly strange "But who cares"-- you, obviously, Donald, since you're tweeting it to your 18.9 million followers—and the dismissive "he supported Kasich & Hillary," which explains the whole score settling motivation (Variety doesn't mention Hillary or Kasich, but suggests that opening against "The Bachelor" might have been a factor). 
    But that isn't the incredible part, at least not to me. The incredible part, again to me, is this: he's being inaugurated president in two weeks. He sent these Jan. 6. He stands in a morning coat with his hand on a Bible in 14 days, on Jan. 20.
     A few thoughts:
     A) You would think the man had better things to do, more pressing matters to occupy himself with.
     B) He's executive producer of the show. He's attacking the star of his own show. Which, again, should not be surprising. There was an odd resonance with his attacking the intelligence community for revealing how his buddy Putin skewed the election in Trump's favor. He'll undermine his own business interests if ego is involved, he'll blind our nation's eyes and ears rather than acknowledge he was Moscow's puppet of choice.
     C) I've never been elected president and never will. But you think it would make you a little satisfied. A little safe. A bit above the fray. That it would float you beyond the schoolyard payback of Trump's tweet. That it would make you happy.
    No. Trump is impervious to experience. The wound never heals, the thirst is never slaked. Whenever I write about Trump, I hear from haters who support him claiming that I "hate" Donald Trump. Not true. How could you hate someone so pitiful? So broken? He's King Midas, breaking his teeth on gold food, starving amidst the riches he craves. Nothing is enough.
     I've seen a number of Facebook postings asking why the media doesn't just ignore such tweets. And I can see the logic -- why even bring up something so trivial? And the answer is, because the guy who is rolling in this triviality is going to be leader of the free world in 168 hours. Because his doing so speaks to how completely fucked the country is. 
    Which brings us full circle to my observation at the beginning, that Trump can make the familiar seem fresh. You've barely processed this hour's shock when the next comes whistling overhead, exploding like a shell. People are worrying about "normalizing" this? We can barely perceive it, barely register what he's done before he's off to the next folly.
     Yes, hope is necessary -- I sincerely hope that Trump proves so fraudulent, erratic and deceptive that little of what he actually claimed he will do will get done. But don't confuse hope with expectation. To look at that pair of tweets is to feel true despair, to see the image of the freight train bearing down on us, forming in the dark, light growing larger fast, horn blasting. 

Are you shunning Trump to hurt him or help you?

     The Amish withdraw from the wicked world, but the wicked world goes on without them.

     Just as well, since the Amish don't reject cell phones and SUVs because they want to undercut modern life, but for their own benefit.

     That question — am I withdrawing to help myself or hurt someone else? — is worth bearing in mind as Donald J. Trump is inaugurated president two weeks from today, and we judge who participates and decide how much we will own the country shaping up before our startled eyes.

     A tough call. It was almost shocking when Barack Obama welcomed Trump into the Oval Office immediately after he squeaked out a victory with the help of neo-Nazis, the FBI and Vladimir Putin. But a victory nonetheless, and as pained as Obama's expression was, treating Trump with dignity seemed smart. It preserved a tendril of influence, and Trump could at least glimpse what class looks like.

     On the other hand, you had to feel good when stars turned down offers to entertain at the inauguration. Nobody who loves Bruce Springsteen would want to see him crooning "Born in the U.S.A." for Donald Trump. Yet Hillary Clinton will be there. Bad for her, good for the country.

     There will be big protests. I'm glad Trump might see the majority who voted for someone else. Though I also sense that many protestors are the same folks who backed Gary Johnson because they believe all politicians are the same. Had they cared less about their own moral purity and more about the country's fate, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess.

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How many calories was that forbidden fruit?

     Not to put you on the spot or anything.
     But do you remember why God banishes Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden?
     Yes, Eve gave Adam a bite of the forbidden fruit—we're not sure what that fruit was, maybe a pomegranate, maybe a fig, maybe an apple.
     But where was that fruit from? 
     Right, the tree of knowledge of good and evil. (There is a theory that medieval artists settled on an apple for the forbidden fruit because evil in Latin is "malus" and apple tree in Latin is, well, also "malus.") 
     As to why God didn't want people to have knowledge, well, that's religion for you. Some things never change.
      Although, the first thing, the very first thing that eating from the tree causes Adam to do is to be ashamed of being naked, so he fashions clothing for himself, which spills the beans to the Lord about what he's been up to. Small wonder our society is so massively screwed up.
     But I digress.
     The focus on health being what it is, many restaurants, such as the Au Bon Pain Bakery pictured above, have taken to posting the calories of the items they offer. Helpful to those watching their weight, which is just about everybody nowadays. 
     Though it led me to a puzzlement. The pecan rolls above are 740 calories, about a third of the entire daily caloric intake an average-sized man, such as myself, should eat. Who, I wonder, would ever order and consume a pecan roll, knowing they're ingesting 740 calories worth of butter and glaze and pecans? I sure couldn't. 
     Then again, the world is not me. Notice that most of the pecan rolls are gone. If posting the calories of the things killed sales, then businesses wouldn't do it. 
     A few theories:
    1) People don't notice. The numeral is, you will note, in a different, thinner, lighter font.
    2) People don't care. Some blessed portion of the population is thin, no matter what they eat. 
    3) They do portion control. You could of course buy the roll, eat half, and save the other half for a treat the next day. Or if it constitute your entire breakfast write the thing off as a spree.
     The human mind has an infinite capacity for tuning out information that contradicts its desires—obviously, since we elected Donald Trump—and what is a tiny clutch of numbers compared to the deep satisfaction of snarfing up a pecan roll? Although some people do perceive information and act on it. Fifty years ago about half of Americans smoked. Then decades of information campaigns had their effect, and now the number is less than a quarter. Which is both heartening and depressing, in equal measures, both true progress and, well, that lingering 20 percent who'll happily buy a burst of cheap contentment now for the risk of painful, prolonged expensive death later. That's people for you.

If Trump won't lead, there's always Pope Francis

  

     If you visit the University of Notre Dame, located near but not actually in South Bend, Indiana, as I did a few years ago, scouting colleges with my boys, you might be surprised, as I was, by the Jordan Hall of Science.   

     Though opened in the relative yesterday of 2006, Jordan Hall is a gorgeous brick edifice with crenelated ramparts, Gothic tracery windows and arched doorways festooned with carved stone statues. Not statues of Catholic religious saints either, but the Catholic saints of science: Louis Pasteur, Madame Curie, and, I noted with amusement, Galileo.
     Galileo Galilei, you may recall, ran afoul of the church by claiming the Earth revolves around the sun; heresy because it implied that little old us are not the center of the universe, the hub of God's creation.     

      The church has come around since then, and admitted the Earth does indeed revolve around the sun whether the pope says it does or not, just as — and you saw this coming, didn't you? — the Earth's climate is heating up because of the carbon emissions humanity has been spewing into the atmosphere for the past 200 years whether Republicans acknowledge it or not.
     Most of the world accepts this, but the GOP — in the lazy denialism that also elects a Donald Trump to the presidency — are loath to recognize this ...

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   .

"Hillary Clinton will beat him"

   
     I've pretty much tuned out the second-guessing and Monday morning quarterbacking on why Hillary Clinton lost. Stabbed in the back by the FBI? Too wooden and a woman? The world turning on expertise in a populist rebellion of the feeling against the thinking? 
     Doesn't matter. The American people threw in their lot with a fraud, and now we have to face the consequences. We're on to the next crisis. 
   Although.... When clearing the decks over New Year's, I was going over some old recordings on my Olympus, and came across Nancy Pelosi's Oct. 7 visit to the Sun-Times.  The minority leader reflected utter certainty about Clinton.
   "Hillary will win," she said. "The question is, will the American people win in the embrace of the future in a bi-partisan way."
     The column I wrote at the time focused on why Clinton's possible election wasn't more of a milestone—the true answer turned out to be "because she wasn't going to win." Pelosi focused on Obama already "kicking the door open" for other marginalized minorities to flock in (women are not, technically, a minority—actually they're in the majority, barely. But heavy on the marginalized). 
    She flatly stated Clinton's certain victory several times, the only question being how big her win is and whether she takes one or both houses of Congress with her. That wasn't the world I was seeing, and even though I saw my role at the meeting was to keep my mouth shut and fill out the room, eventually I had to call her on it. This part I didn't print at the time but, with all this post-morteming of What Went Wrong, seems worth sharing.
    "You're certain Trump is here today, gone tomorrow," I said. "But people were certain that Britain would reject Brexit. If you look at the world, there is a right wing  xenophobic surge: Dutarte in the Philippines. People are electing madmen. If the unthinkable happens, what would a Donald Trump presidency mean for the this country?"
    "It's not going to happen," Pelosi replied. 

     "So it's impossible?" I pressed.
     She scoffed at me. 
     "I could do brain surgery on you in the next half hour.," she said, groping for other examples of things that were ludicrous yet possible. "But it's not going to happen."
      "They were neck-and-neck before the debate two weeks ago," I continued. 
     This is why I don't write politics. It's hard to have one foot in the real world and one foot in the political. They tend to drift apart and drop you in the water. 
    "You know what—what does 'neck and neck mean?'" Pelosi said, launching into a little lesson on political wisdom for the benefit of this dolt spouting nonsense. "Let's talk baseball. This is not how many home runs you score in the series, it's how you do in each game. This is how you do in each state, and Hillary Clinton will beat him in enough states in order to win. At the end of the day she will also win the popular vote. Why? I have confidence in the American people. They may want to send a message. They might be sick and tired of Washington -- and by the way, they have been sick and tired of Washington forever."
     Here she laughed.
     "This is not anything new."
     There you have it. "This is not anything new," is the reason Hillary Clinton lost. Because we were so obviously into something new, where the old verities no longer mattered. Clinton was playing the old game when the new roles had already fallen into place. Thus she could be tarred with the most amorphous scandal — something about her emails being not to State Department guidelines, laughably trivial non-issue, had it happened previously. While Trump committed gaffe after horrendous gaffe—again, on the old standard—from dissing American POWs to boasting about grabbing pussy. Jarring missteps that would be unbelievable in a Christopher Buckley novel. Didn't matter. The public flocked to him. Not a majority, but just enough. 
    Although Pelosi was right about one thing. Clinton did win the popular vote, for all the good it did. 
     The lesson here: if you want to win, run like you're losing. Especially if you think you're winning. The election is past, but it's also a good life strategy. Sometimes friends will accuse me of not being sufficiently satisfied with whatever career I've managed to mound up,  and I'll try to explain I'm not humble, God knows; I'm trying not to be smug, not to stand top my little pile of crumbs and pretend it is the mountaintop. 
    Clinton didn't feel the panic that she was losing to this fraud who would lead the nation over a cliff. Or if she felt it, she didn't show it, which was a big mistake. 

Pouty about 2017? We have lots to look forward to.

     Well look at this! A shiny New Year — 2017 apparently, though that's almost hard to believe. The numerals look strange. Were it suddenly 2077 or 20A6 it would hardly seem stranger.
     And that's before we factor in the news.
     Still, a new year, whatever we call it, with much to look forward to. Much to mark on your new calendars — I just unwrapped my Brownline 2017 Daily Planner, well aware that using a physical journal in this era of iPhones is like carrying a walking stick. "They sell the things," I say, huffily, meaning: "It isn't just me, yet."
     A year of exciting occurrences, starting with Friday, Jan. 20. Yes, a lot of garment-rending, but I'll be honest: I'm anticipating the 20th with undiluted enthusiasm and not a trace of ambivalence, as a chance to experience something truly wonderful and inspiring.
     I'm referring, of course, to the Chicago International Puppet Theater Festival, whose opening night is Jan. 20 at the Biograph Theater. It includes Chicago's Michael Montenegro's "Kick the Klown Presents a Konkatention of Kafka," which might be redundant after Donald Trump's inauguration address earlier in the day.
     Let's not think about that yet, first we need a collective Limbo Party of Lowering Expectations. Right now I'm trying to convince myself that the Ku Klux Klan won't be....

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"Make a vineyard of the curse"

Duke Gardens, Durham, North Carolina

    So now we wait. Twenty days, to see if, or rather how, our fears bear fruition. To step aboard the train that we've all bought a ticket on, destination unknown.  
    I can save you three weeks of uncertainty. We won't know, not Jan. 20, or Feb. 20, or at any given point. There will be the same daily shocks that we're experiencing now, that the thickening cataract of custom won't obscure. 
    Will it be good? Bad? Yes. Of course it will be both, now good, now bad, depending on where you stand and when you ask. And depending on who you are, and how attuned you are. You can focus close and constant, you can track it through latticed fingers.
    We seem to think we can ameliorate the harm by rolling around in it. Maybe. But it hasn't helped much up to now, has it? One thing you can say about Donald Trump, none of this was hidden -- oh, there will be submerged parts revealed: exactly how much he is in bed with the Russians, and such. But even the secret stuff will be expected. You can't be shocked by it. Not anymore.
     There needs to be a way to process this. As always, I find refuge in poetry—"refuge" might be the wrong word. Utility. The comfort of words, of knowing what seems a fresh shock is really just the same old shock, come around the track again.
    I've been reading W.H. Auden's poem "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" a lot in recent weeks. A half a dozen times at least. It's of the season, beginning, "He disappeared in the dead of winter"—Yeats died Jan. 28, 1939, another period of growing unease, of watching the disaster come into focus, form, grow, unavoidable, before our ever startled eyes.
    An airport shows up, as do suburbs, always a little jarring in a poem, where we expect brooks but not sidewalks, glades but not cul de sacs (these modern totems must have been in the poetic air in the 1930s; another poem about the death of a revered figure, Sir John Betjemen's "Death of King George V" written three years earlier, concludes with both: "At the new suburbs stretched beyond the run-way/Where a young man lands hatless from the air.")  
    Auden serves up some wonderful lines. "And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom." Preach it, brother. Yeats, dying, "became his admirers" and "The words of a dead man/Are modified in the guts of the living." 
    If he's lucky.
    The poem makes me remember the debt a poet like Billy Collins owes to Auden. All Collins' anthropomorphized poems, crackling like breakfast cereal, honking like sea otters, are mere homages to lines like "The death of the poet was kept from his poems."
    We are reminded, "poetry makes nothing happen." Technically true. But it does grease the gears of what's happening.
    Especially in the third section, where Auden clicks into horror movie, ring-around-the-rosy cadences, each blunt line rhyming with the next.

    In the nightmare of the dark
    All the dogs of Europe bark,
    And the living nations wait,
    Each sequestered in its hate;

    Intellectual disgrace
    Stares from every human face,
    And the seas of pity lie
    Locked and frozen in each eye.

    Man that sounds familiar. In a country where the doors of freedom were slammed in the face of Syrian children before Donald Trump arrived. Where those 11 million undocumented Mexicans toiled in rightless limbo every single day of the Obama presidency. Always remember, Trump didn't ruin us. We ruined ourselves, and then he showed up, our reward for falling so below our standards, to violate the corpse. 
    Grim, but who can say inappropriate to now? At the risk of reprinting a block of the poem -- I can argue this is commentary, but if the Auden folk feel ill-used, I'll send 'em a check -- the poem ends with comfort that I feel compelled to share:

    Follow poet, follow right
    To the bottom of the night,
    With your unconstraining voice
    Still persuade us to rejoice;
  
    With the farming of a verse
    Make a vineyard of the curse,
    Sing of human unsuccess
    In a rapture of distress;

    In the desert of the heart
    Let the healing fountain start,
    In the prison of his days
    Teach the free man how to praise.

    "Make a vineyard of the curse." Now that's a plan. Not in the glug-glug-glugging wine aspect, though if you can pull it off, go for it. But in the sense that the vineyard is a lush and joyous place where nature shows off her bounty. "Let the healing fountain start." I can't say what that is, precisely, but I'm ready to bathe in it. Though my hunch is doing so now would be premature, like putting a bandage over a wound you haven't received yet.
    Poetry helps. I can't join those squatting in the dust over Donald Trump, first because he hasn't done anything awful yet, second because life goes on, third because if the choice is to resist him confident or resist him miserable, I choose the former, with an option of shifting into the latter as events warrant. Just as winners are told to win as if they've won before, so those in peril, those in this troubled world as it slides down toward calamity, should keep our heads up, as if we have done this before, because we have, or people very much like us have, our parents and grandparents. They made it through, most of them. So will we.