'Take me out to the ballgame...'

     Confession: I have never gone to Wrigley Field of my own initiative.
     That is, never conceived the thought, "I think I'll go to a game," and either taken myself, or invited a friend and headed to the Friendly Confines.
     I've gone because someone was in town—a business associate, relative, friend—and I wanted ot show off the park. I've gone to take my children, so they can experience a game. And I've accepted many invitations, such as Friday, when a pair of book editors invited me along to round out their group, blessed—or should that be burdened?—with free tickets from some season ticket holder too disgusted with the Ricketts gutting the team to attend another game.

    It occurred to me, arriving to meet them, slipping into my seat, Section 31, Row 7, Seat 1, that this was nice. Even. being by myself, even knowing the Cubs had traded away their good players. I vowed to someday come alone, of my own volition, just for the heck of it, maybe next summer. Just because I can.

     The whole process was enjoyable. Parking at the Skokie Swift. Getting on the 'L' at one of its rare forays into the 'burbs, with a variety of folks clad in their Cubbie gear, a few kids carrying gloves, the zenith of optimism 
     The seats were great. "Like sitting on the field," I texted to my wife. I bought a Bud Zero—a new and welcome development, and only $8. Munched peanuts, bought a hot dog from a vendor (the condiment options are ketchup, mustard and relish. Just sayin'). The game was exciting, to the degree I watched, with a home run, a wildly overthrown pitch.
      The really fun part was the conversation. A lot about Nicholson Baker, whom one of the editors had met and worked with. When he revealed that, I reached out and touched his shoulder with the pad of my index finger, as if to access by contact a bit of the Nicholson Baker writerly mojo. An extraordinary novelist.
     And there was one moment I really savored, which I should explain, because I doubt anyone at the ballpark would pick it as the highlight. Cubs coach David Ross being out with the COVID, Andy Green stepped in. He was spectacularly upset over the umpire's call at second base—we all missed the play, and my pals turned to their phones to find out what had happened. I didn't actually care that much, so my gaze strayed to the left field scoreboard while Green foamed and gesticulated and marched around the umpire.
     Whoever operates the video scoreboard, kudos to that person. At one point the camera zeroed in on the Wrigley clock, as if to say, "Tick tock, Andy, let's wrap up your tirade and get on with the game." I fumbled for my phone, but the operator cut away, and I took a photo of the clock.

    A reminder that as much as we focus on the players and coaches, there is an enormous substrata of people who make baseball worth experiencing, to the degree that it is. Friendly usher when you walk in. Unsung heroes, like the rangy afro'ed attendant—once I would have called him a "ball boy"—who sat on the field in front of us, snagging stray balls that rolled his way. When he did, a small boy would inevitably appear at his elbow and wait patiently, glove proffered. Eventually he would turn, tuck the ball through the net, into the mitt, and the boy would turn, agog and delighted, bearing his treasure in triumph. I listened as a father gently urge his son to do that—7-year-old boys can be maddeningly shy—and eventually he went and learned one of life's key lessons: you don't get what you want unless you ask.

David, left, and Gary.

       It rained for almost an hour, but a gentle rain, and we sat in it without complaining too much. I struck up a conversation with the beer vendor, Gary from Albany Park, who delighted to see that I was Jewish, spent a long time discussing Romanian hot dogs, which are sold at a certain stand in the field, as well as the Jewel on Howard, "the Jewish Jewel" he called it. Gary has been selling beer at Wrigley since 1984. But that's nuthin', he effused, calling over David, who has sold beer here for 58 years, or since I was in nursery school. I took their photo.
     We stood and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and shortly thereafter the game was over. Filing out, I thanked my friends for inviting me, and thought what a thoroughly enjoyable time I had had at the ballgame. Just as we reached the steps down to the causeway out, I paused.
     "Just a second," I said, and turned, my eyes searching the scoreboard. Six to five, the Cubs won—I thought they had, based on how the crowd cheered when it was over.
      "My wife might ask me the score," I said, hurrying to catch up.

Ravenswood Notes: Fancy

       

     Like most people, I hold onto my possessions longer than I should: that butcher block my wife hates, jammed in a corner of the dining room. That red chair in our foyer that really doesn't match the style of the house. I'd probably be lighter and freer if I could give them up. The house certainly would be less cluttered. But as Walt Whitman suggests, they own me more than I own them. There is another way, as Caren Jeskey illustrates in her post today.

            “Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.”                                                                                          ― Anais Nin

     As I look around my home now, I see that it is filled with gifts. A cedar wardrobe friends in Texas brought to my home in the woods in 2016, that other friends drove back up to Chicago for me. A rug from a neighbor. A leather storage cube, and an orange poof to sit on.
     When I left Austin I gave away a beloved cedar chest, a memory foam mattress, frame and bedding, a full dish set and so much more. I miss these things sometimes, and then I remember that people like us will always have all we need, and much more— even if we don’t realize it at times.

     Giving and receiving possessions, as needed, makes more sense than clinging to them always. That's the genius of Buy Nothing, a movement that promotes creating a hyper-local gift economy.  I joined my first group in Texas a couple years back. Buy Nothing operates on Facebook and other social media platforms, and they also encourage groups.
     Buy Nothing is where I received gift cards last March when I abruptly lost my job and then my rental home. It’s where I met neighbors who came to find me sitting in a park, garnishing fresh eggs from their backyard chickens. This same pair offered me a below market rental — the charming tiny house I’ve shared about in previous posts, like this one, to bail me out during a peak of the COVID crisis.
     It’s where I met neighbors who dropped off bag after bag of masks, food, sanitizer, backpacks, blankets, clothes and more on my porch, which I then passed out to a group home and folks living on the streets in our neighborhood. A member made extra Thanksgiving food and offered it to those who were without families in November of 2020.
     Funny thing is that even with all of this goodness there were problems. Who was it who said “put two people in a room together and you have a problem?” There was the neighbor who was unhappy that I was giving hand sanitizer to folks he said were sure to drink it. Neighbors who were rigid and unwilling to have conversations, and pretty much trolled others rather than coexisting harmoniously.
     I decided to start a local Buy Nothing group in my neighborhood here in Chicago and already have people mansplaining incorrect things to me and criticizing the way I am using one of my new gifts— a fabulous piano-room-red velvet sofa.
     It started with a post on another giveaway group called Free Box. A person posted a photo of the couch with its approximate location in an alley, and I immediately jumped into action. My emergent root canal earlier that day would not stop me from scoring this baby. When I got to her I knew she was mine. Don’t worry! I’m not interested in a bedbug infestation either.
     I rang the bell of the impressive Frame Two Flat home with a Victorian feel, which I learned was built in 1890. A kind man introduced, who himself as Mr. Reece, and his little princess dog greeted me.  She vetted me, and he graciously wrapped up a call to give me the scoop. The couch came from Domicile and has had several incarnations. She’s lived in two offices of a food designer and more recently their backyard, which was set up for an outdoor soiree. She has not been touched by bedbugs.

     After her party debut where the guests marveled at her beauty, it was time for her to say goodbye to the Reece’s. She was standing up on her end, leaning against a garage. Mr. Reece gingerly placed her back down on the ground so I could sit on her while I figured out how to get her home. He also brought me a cup of ice and a Diet Coke.
     As luck would have it, new friends who work on the block where I live were able to come to the rescue with their landscaping truck. They were all the way on 31st and California dumping trash, and I was in the Lakeview area. It was 4pm on a weekday. I settled in for the wait. An antique coffee table came with the couch, so I sat down with my Coke on the table and enjoyed the smiles and laughs from a copious amount of alley walkers and drivers who passed by.
     When we got the couch to the back porch of my 3rd floor walk up it would not fit into the undersized door frame. We took the legs off and the couch was still several inches too wide and too tall to make it happen. (Please don’t suggest what we could have done. It won’t fit, and a professional couch disassembler has quoted me at $700 if I want them to get it inside). My friend said “why don’t you just leave it on the porch?” Aha! Solution. Along with my patio chairs I now have a perfect COVID visiting spot.
     Now I have a regal sofa where I spent all day yesterday working from home. Some folks in the free groups are criticizing me for leaving a couch “that nice” outside. Well it’s my choice and I love it there. She’s awkwardly covered with plastic bags right now since there’s a threat of rain, and her permanent, waterproof, forest green cover will be here soon enough. She and I can survive what’s sure to be a colder damper winter than I’m used to in Texas.
     Happy lounging y’all.

Welcome to medieval times, Texas-style

     On Wednesday, in an abrupt cultural shift that would be funny were it not so tragic, our nation veered directly from shedding crocodile tears over the fate of women in Afghanistan— the Taliban, they’re so mean, they might not let girls be robotic engineers — to realizing that Texas, the second-largest state in the union with a population of nearly 30 million, has effectively banned abortion, a right guaranteed in most civilized nations and protected by law in this one for the past 48 years and something most Americans believe should be legal.
     The Texas law criminalizes abortion after six weeks — before most women are even aware they’re pregnant — and imposes a Byzantine system to enforce itself, using not the state that created the law to police it but deputizing third parties, whether religious fanatics, freelance profiteers or self-appointed members of the Texas Taliban who can sue not only abortion providers but anyone aiding the process or even “intending” to aid it: boyfriends bankrolling the procedure, Uber drivers taking women to clinics, counselors providing an address.
     Anyone except — and this gives away the game — the women themselves, who aren’t punished for their supposed crime.

     Why exclude them? Why aren’t the women having abortions responsible? Let’s discuss.
     All religions are cruel, in their original forms, offering some version of a man in the sky demanding unconscionable barbarities. “What Lord? Slay my young son, Isaac, just because you say so, to prove that I’ll do anything you tell me? Why sure!”
     Christianity offers a novel spin on this, taking Jesus’ suffering on the cross and using his biblical pain as a springboard to rationalize actual atrocities committed against a wide variety of real people: Jews, Indigenous tribes, non-believers.
     And women.
     When you puff away the fog of obscuring bullshit, the endless frenzy over abortion in the United States is the Passion of the Christ writ small: the notional sufferings of imaginary babies on their tiny intrauterine crosses, seized as pretext to inflict true harm on half the population.
     Not to single out Christianity. Women get the shaft in every fundamentalist faith on earth: female circumcision in Africa, the brutal restrictions in parts of the Muslim world, Hindu honor immolations. Orthodox Jews say a prayer of thanks for not being born a woman, and it’s hard to argue. Men rule because God insists we do. It isn’t our fault. Just following the Big Guy’s orders.

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And a Snickers bar has 70 calories...

     "The eagle does not hunt flies," the great Samuel Johnson once said, an edict that Mike Royko recast as, "Never shoot a flea with a bazooka."
     Words to live by. Even after years of decline, the newspaper, or even this little blog, is a soapbox, a megaphone and a responsibility. Thus, for instance, I tend not to use the names of readers who write in saying vindictive, stupid things, to shield them from the embarrassment they're too thick to perceive. Be kind even if others aren't. 
     Certain businesses, too, are small enough and marginal enough that to hold them to professional standards is almost cruel. I've had some pretty watery lemonade at the lemonade stand of a local tot. I'm not calling out the proprietor though. To what end?
     So I thought to let this go. But there is a larger point here. I had a taste for hummus and pita a few days back, and bought a container of always excellent Cedar's hummus, and a bag of Papa Filin's Pita,  a brand produced by Biondillo's Bakery, 4900 W. Division in Chicago.
     I watch my weight, so check calories and portions. The pita I took out of the bag weighed 4.1 ounces, and was pegged as 100 calories on the nutritional information label, which is impossible. More like 300 calories, easily. I cut the pita in half and recorded that as 150 calories. Still, three times the probable figure. Quite an error, really. If it was an error.

     Later, I phoned the bakery, but the owner never returned my call. Silence is often the strategy of the guilty. Papa Filin's are sold not only at Sunset, but at Jewel and Mariano's, and you'd think even if the bakery doesn't care, the stores might care a little about such wildly inaccurate packaging appearing on their shelves. Apparently not. At least not yet. They can't say they weren't told.
     The moral of the story is: you have to think for yourself. I could see somebody biting into a dense, delicious Papa Filin's pita and thinking, "Only 100 calories? Hoo-boy, bar the door Katie. I'm eating two of these." Or about 600 calories worth. What is too good to be true usually is just that. Let the buyer beware.

Americans were scared of polio vaccine too

Walter Winchell

    My father once said that people were kinder when he was a boy.
     I couldn’t let that slow pitch by without swinging.
     “This era of kindness of which you speak,” I replied. “Is it the Great Depression or World War II? Because I just don’t see it.”
     He had no answer. Nostalgic types never do, those who romanticize the past, being ignorant of the bulk of it. They mistake what they personally experienced, or think they experienced, for what everyone else went through. It’s not the same.
     I wish I could cure them of this bad habit. Because believing the past was better makes our awful present seem even worse. Not only are there shootings on the expressways, but back in the day we’d sleep in the park in summer and fear no man. Pretty to think so.
     So I take a certain satisfaction in recalling the horrors of the past. When people talk of an unprecedented fracture in our nation that is more divided than ever, I’ll mutter, “Well, there was the Civil War. That was worse.”
     Or this vaccine business. One reader commented Monday: “We are unfortunately, dealing with outright morons in our society at this moment, something that didn’t happen in the 1950s, when I remember lining up for the polio vaccine, which everyone & I do mean everyone hailed as a flat out miracle.”
     Not quite everyone. Reading that, the machine-gun staccato of Walter Winchell’s voice barked into mind.

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Ed Asner

Ed Asner as Lou Grant

     Ed Asner died Sunday. Beloved as Lou Grant on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and in its spin-off, "Lou Grant," he was one of those crusty-yet-warm characters that people felt close to. Facebook was alive with people who had met him, befriended him, interviewed him, knew him, or thought they did.
     I didn't join in, even though I had flown to Los Angeles in the late 1980s and watched him tape a lesser-remembered show, "The Bronx Zoo," whose two seasons did not even merit mention in his New York Times obit, and had lunch with him. I pulled the magazine story I wrote and it was ... meh. Not worth my typing, which meant it wasn't worth your reading.
     Not a terrible story, mind you. It had a few good spots: his two years at the University of Chicago, where he performed in the first production ever directed by Mike Nichols. Susan Sontag had a walk-on role in the same performance.
     And it didn't pull punches. Covering his struggles with his weight, his collapsing marriage, how his political activism hurt his career—he was the president of the Screen Actor's Guild, and in 1981 and yanked back an honor to Ronald Reagan because he fired the air traffic controllers. He spoke out regarding America's covert shenanigans in El Salvador. Charlton Heston went after him, and "Lou Grant" was cancelled.
     But plodding and cliched. To be honest, I never liked celebrity profiles. It takes a singular talent—a Bill Zehme, say—to do it well. Otherwise you're bloodying your fingertips scrabbling at a brick wall.
     I tried, with Asner. Before I flew out, I tracked down his brother, a butcher in Kansas City. A Jewish butcher. We had a nice chat; he had a daughter, and in our brief phone conversation, he tried to fix us up.
     I wasn't interested. But that did provide me with a great ice breaking line. When I found myself in Asner's trailer on a set at Rosedale Cemetery, L.A., as we were shaking hands, I said, "Your brother is trying to fix me up with his daughter. Is she good looking?" That put him off balance, a good start for an interview, and we ended up having what I thought was a candid conversation during lunch. I believe booze was involved, but I can't be sure at this distant remove.
     The only other part I remember is, later I turned the story in, and immediately afterward I was in the supermarket, and saw a copy of the National Enquirer, which had some headline along the lines of "Ed Asner's Love Child." And I remember thinking first, indignantly, "Really? He didn't say a word about it," and then, "Duh, idiot, it's not like you're pals."

     That's a celebrity profile; pretending to get to know someone you don't know at all.
     At the end of our interview, Asner did say something worth repeating.
     "I cherish America," said the son of immigrants. "I adore America, and all those ideals that I was brought up by. To me [our involvement in El Salvador] was a stain on our escutcheon. I didn't want to see a dirtied America and so I raised my voice becauseI thought that the press and Congress weren't sufficient to draw the people's attention to it.
     "I find the American people too complacent, too unquestioning, too accepting At least at the time, I did And I think that now they are less so, not because of what I have done, but because the press has finally become less supine than it was. Congress is less supine that it was. But it doesn't last. At that particular time I was confronted with an instance of our government's tyranny, our government's involvement in what would turn out to be the murder of some 60,000 Salvadorans by their government, and it is a government that we were fostering."

     Ed Asner was a skilled, funny actor but also something far more rare and valuable: a man who stood up for what is important.

The limp logic of anti-maskers

 

Noah Kern, a high schooler who stepped in to work as an election judge for the March 17, 2020 primary, had no trouble wearing a mask. “Obviously, I’ve taken precautions to protect myself and others,” he said. Not so obvious to many, unfortunately.

   Say I own a fierce dog — let’s call him “Spike” — who prowls my front yard, snarling and snapping. Occasionally, Spike bounds onto the sidewalk to sink his teeth into passersby.
     My neighbor suggests I put up a chain link fence. At which I scoff: “What good would that do? The gaps in a chain link are two inches across, while Spike’s teeth are an inch long, tops. The teeth will pass right through.”
     Welcome to Anti-Masker Logic. As Gov. J.B. Pritzker’s statewide mask mandate takes effect Monday, there are two lines of opposition.
     One is simple stubbornness. As embodied by John Catanzara, FOP president and babbling id of Red America.
     After the city demanded its employees be vaccinated, he sputtered, “We don’t want to be forced to do anything!” Points for candor, and hubris, coming from a man who belongs to an organization whose members are forced to wear special hats.
     The you-can’t-make-me-I-don’t-wanna approach is obviously wrong. We are forced to do all sorts of things all the time, like it or not: pay taxes, drive on the right, wear pants.
     The truth is, some balk at being forced to do anything new. Even in a crisis. Even to save lives A stance so selfish that some try a second approach. They wander into the realm of science, so unfamiliar to them, and cherry pick a shiny fact to decorate their infantile “I don’t wanna!” Like a bright ornament on a dead Christmas tree.
     “Do the research,” demands one reader. “Find out how large the air openings are on any mask. The ‘smallest’ openings are 3 microns. Now, even Stevie Wonder could see this coming — please tell us how a 3000 nM opening can keep out a 50 nM virus?”
     Tell you how? Happily, for all the good it will do...

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