The Lady in White

Today, if my math hasn’t failed me, would be Emily Dickinson’s 182 birthday.  She has been a favorite poet of mine since I first studied her as an undergraduate.  And as a teacher, I spent, perhaps, too much class time on her poems.  I had my favorites, and we had to cover some of the famous ones--“Because I could not stop for death” for example--and I have little doubt that I overdid Dickinson.  I usually showed the video of Julie Harris’s Tony Award winning performance in The Belle of Amherst, a video I still have and still watch occasionally.

In March of 1993 I had just covered Dickinson in class when my mom died.  It was a very difficult time, of course, but I was greatly heartened when one of my favorite classes gave me the gift of one of my most loved Dickinson poems beautifully mounted and framed; I still have it, treasure it, and have it displayed prominently in my apartment:

                       318

I'll tell you how the Sun rose --
A Ribbon at a time --
The Steeples swam in Amethyst --
The news, like Squirrels, ran --
The Hills untied their Bonnets --
The Bobolinks -- begun --
Then I said softly to myself --
"That must have been the Sun"!
But how he set -- I know not --
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while --
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray --
Put gently up the evening Bars --
And led the flock away --

Dickinson’s influence on poets is enormous, and I recently ran across a poem that I think reflects that influence.  Not stylistically, of course, but in matters of the heart--and in coming to terms with the loss of someone dear--I think this modern poem by Andrea Cohen is a direct descendant of the poetry of The Lady in White, Emily Dickinson:

The Committee Weights In

I tell my mother
I’ve won the Nobel Prize.

Again? she says.  Which
discipline this time?

It’s a little game
we play: I pretend

I’m somebody, she
pretends she isn’t dead.

Books to Movies

When I was teaching, my policy was to not show movies of books.  There were two exceptions, which I’ll get to in a minute, but in my classroom we didn’t watch movies based on the works of literature we were studying in class.  Plays, especially Shakespeare, of course, even, rarely, an opera, and certainly musical theater pieces (my students loved Sweeney Todd and Into the Woods).  But no movies from books.  My theory--my philosophy--on the subject was simple: we were studying literature, and I felt it was important for students to respond to and remember the book, not the movie.  I’m not naive enough to know that many students resorted, in the early years, to Cliff Notes, and, later, to SparkNotes.com.  And no doubt some watched movie versions of books rather than read them.  I couldn’t stop it and didn’t really try, although I would make pop quizzes based on events or descriptions not covered in the summary guides.  A good example of this was that dreadful film version of The Scarlet Letter with Demi Moore.  If a student, in his essays, began to talk about hot tub scenes and Indian raids, I knew he or she had watched the movie and not read the book.  But generally, I felt like it was their loss, and I didn’t make a big deal of it.  If I couldn’t encourage a student to read and enjoy a work of literature, then the failure was mine more than theirs.

What brought all this back was watching last week the new movie of Life of Pi.  It’s a fine film and I encourage you to see it.  Visually, it’s stunning.  And, for a movie, it’s relatively true to the novel.  There were some added scenes and several scenes I looked forward to seeing that weren’t there.  But over all, not a bad job.  And it works well in 3-D.  But were I teaching the book would I show it?  Not on your tintype!  Especially now, with reading apparently on the decline, it’s even more important for English teachers to stress reading.  Even if it’s on a Kindle, which is how I read Life of Pi the second time.  It’s the reading that counts.

The exceptions to my rule?  First was To Kill a Mockingbird.  It’s such a superior film that I felt that showing it to students (9th grade, usually) would only encourage more reading.  It helped that students generally loved Mockingbird and would often read it without much pushing.  The other exception: laziness of my part.  I don’t actually remember doing this, but I’m sure back in my early days of teaching, I dragged out a movie when I needed a paper-grading break or just a break from facing the little darlings.  Like I say, I don’t remember doing this; but I know me well enough to know I almost surely did.  Hey, I never promised perfection.

Three Days in November

If you know me or if you read these blogs enough, you know that I love Chicago.  One of the main reasons is the sheer number of cultural events that are offered.  I know of no place that offers as many as Chicago does--outside of New York City.  Three days earlier this month are indicative of at least one reason why I never tire of Chicago.

On Thursday, November 8, my friend Roger and I went to the “Newberry 125” exhibit at the Newberry Library.  This library has more than 1.5 million books, 5 million pages of manuscripts, and 500,000 historic maps.  And for their 125th year anniversary they brought out 125 of their most impressive items for display, many not often seen.  I can hardly list them all here, but some of the ones that most impressed me were a first edition of Montagne's Essais, a first edition of Candide, a Shakespeare First Folio (I had never seen one of these legendary books in person!), a first edition of Don Quixote, a pair of Anna Pavlova's dance slippers, a Mozart manuscript from when he was 9, mostly in his handwriting, the rest by his father, the first Bible in America--written in the Native-American language of Massachusett, a 1700/1715 version of the Popul Vuh, a Thomas Jefferson letter, and a number of beautiful maps, some with very odd versions of how we know the landscape looks.  It was a remarkable chance to see these extraordinary items.  I felt lucky and honored to be in their presence.

On Friday Roger and I went to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  This was my birthday gift to him.  They did three works: Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, William Walton’s Violin Concerto, and Beethoven’s 7th Symphony.  The Walton piece was new to me and I found the music quite beautiful; it didn’t hurt that it was performed by the wonderful Gil Shaham, who was fun to watch: he was all over the front of the stage, playing to the audience, then the concert master, and then practically under the conductor’s nose (Charles Dutoit, by the way).  The CSO is one of the world’s leading orchestras, and this performance made it clear why that is the case.  If those concerts weren’t so darned expensive, I would go to more.

Saturday I doubled up on events.  Starting around noon was the live in HD broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera of their new production of Thomas Adès’s The Tempest.  These live broadcasts are not quite the same as being in NYC at the Met, but they are as close as I can usually get--and they are very good.  They offer superb visual and sound quality coupled with the excitement of a live performance.  Since I’ve been to the Met I can picture the house.  This is a modern opera, premiered in 2007, and the music was sometimes startling and often beautiful, the staging was daring, and the singing excellent.  And it was conducted by the composer himself.

Then that evening it was off to the DePaul Concert Hall to hear the DePaul Symphony perform Mahler’s 9th Symphony.  This was another work I had not heard before, so that was a treat.  Perhaps the orchestra suffered a bit, in my view, from my having heard the CSO the day before, but it was still a fine evening, especially the last movement, perhaps the most haunting and deeply sad music I have ever heard.  Mahler may have known he was near death when he wrote it (scholars argue about such things), but it was his last completed symphony, and there is little doubt the music aches with a premonition of death.  Herbert von Karajan said this about the 9th:  “It is music coming from another world, it is coming from eternity.”  And after some initial rough moments in the performance, by the fourth movement the DePaul Symphony had a firm grip and there was absolute silence in the hall: no coughing or squirming; and there was a long pause at the end before the applause and standing ovation came.

All my days here aren’t so busy, although they could be.  But there’s enough going on that I never run out of things to do; in fact, I run out of money before I run out of events.

Riding the L

There are few things more associated with Chicago than the elevated system, known as the L (although some insist on calling it the “el” which is, in fact, the New York City system).  It’s my great good fortune to live right next to an L stop, the Diversey Station, so I use the L more than any other way around town; in fact, because of the nearness of the station, after living here a year, I sold my car.  And have not missed it a bit.

As you can see from the map below, the L centers around downtown and the Loop.  Trains either pass through the Loop or circle around the Loop and return from whence they came.  Only the Brown Line and the Purple Line (a rush hour line only) stop at Diversey.  Those trains take me right downtown, and since they loop around, they pretty much get me any place I want to go downtown.  The Red Line also goes downtown from my area, but I have to take a Brown to the next stop and then pick up the Red.  The Red becomes a subway as it nears downtown and follows the famous State Street, splitting the Loop in half and then heading on south.

The trains generally run about every ten minutes, so there’s never a very long wait.  Of course with my luck I often--or so it seems--get to the platform just in time to see the train pull out.  But the wait is short.  Since, with one exception, I don’t have to travel during rush times, the trains are often not crowded and seats are available; but there’s no doubt that occasionally you’re going to have to stand.  At my age, rather disconcertingly, young women tend to offer me their seat--never young men--although I always refuse their offer with a smile and “I’m not that old” comment.

There are occasional other problems with the L.  Sometimes, if the trains begin to stack up, they will run express.  This means that they make an announcement that they will be skipping the next few stops and if those stops are your destination, to get off the train and await the next train, usually right behind.  I can imagine that this is a problem for visitors who don’t know the stops well; but when I hear it, I know if I need to get off or not, and then there is a mad scramble for the exits.  Another problem is the occasional closed station, usually for rail or platform repairs.  I get the weekly e-mail alert from the CTA so I can always check on those.  About two weeks after moving here, my station closed for a total remodeling; for months I had to walk south to the Fullerton station or north to Wellington.

My one day to ride during rush hour is Tuesday morning as I head to class.  I always dread that ride.  By the time the train gets to Diversey, it’s already crammed full; I often don’t get a seat, and since I’m lugging my messenger bag and my book bag, it’s impossible to read while standing;  and it’s a boring ride by oneself and without a book.  I take the Purple Line as it goes clockwise around the Loop and gets to my stop before the Brown Line, which goes counterclockwise.  The rush hour passengers are different from passengers at other times: quiet.  People are off to work, perhaps sipping their coffee and reading the paper, and they are not traveling in packs.  No one talks, other than the occasional boob on his or her cell phone.  It’s a good idea to wear plenty of deodorant on those commutes as you can bet you’re going to be jammed in like the proverbial sardine.

In spite of the occasional problem, I love riding the trains.  And after being here over five years I haven’t tired of them one bit.  Come to Chicago and ride the L!

My Blogging Dilemma

As a blogger I’m a dismal failure.  Aside from the lack of any real writing skills, my main problem is I simply don’t know what to write about.  It’s not helped by knowing that I have a microscopically small reading audience; on a good day, I figure four readers.  Hardly an incentive to write more blogs.

And yet the topic of my blog came up in my class the other day; of all things the instructor said he had read some of my blogs.  I couldn’t have been more shocked--nor skeptical.  Did he have me confused with someone else?  How did he even find my blog among the thousands--millions?--out there?  Unless he had received an e-mail from me, I find it unlikely that he read my blog.  Still, it was nice to have it mentioned someplace besides in discussion between me and my cat, Jake. 

But I’m still stuck with what to write about.  I do not have a particularly interesting life, at least one others might find interesting.  I read, I study, I nap, I have coffee every morning at Starbucks, I visit with my small circle of friends, I search out new places in Chicago, I go to as much opera and theater as my budget allows.  But I said early on I wasn’t going to make this blog one of reviews about my attendance at performances.  What’s left?  Beats me.

I have thought about politics.  But frankly I am sick to death of politics.  I’m not an undecided voter, no one I know is undecided, so there’s little point there.  And anyway in a few weeks the political season will come to a end--at least the election version of the political season.  And I’m not a scholar of politics; if anyone wants a scintillating discussion of politics there are plenty of bloggers out there who actually know stuff. 

So here I am writing a blog about not being able to write a blog.  That’s more than a little depressing.

But I’ll muddle onward, trying, so far unsuccessfully, to write a blog a week.  I’m open for ideas.  No, slitting my wrists is not acceptable.

Living High on the Hog!

To live high on the hog generally means to eat the best cuts of the poor unfortunate pig; like most word histories, this is an oversimplification*, but the idea is sound.  I mention it as, thanks to a recent visit by my dear friend Keith (30 years we’ve been friends!) and his partner, Victor, I have been living high on the hog.  Keith is what I would call a “foodie” (probably an out-of-date word, like most everything associated with me), and Victor is a maitre d’, so they know food.  And while visiting here, they wanted to try some of our better restaurants.  I led them to a variety of diners, my idea of gourmet eating, and they showed me a side of dining I have rarely seen.  I’ll talk about the menus at three restaurants we went to.

First was Yoshi, not too far from here.  After a delicious cocktail, we began with grilled radicchio salad, served with pumpkin seeds and Canadian goat cheese, and topped with a white wine and walnut oil vinaigrette.  This was actually one of the best things I ate: delicious and somehow the grilling reduced the bitterness of the radicchio.  The main course was grilled tofu with portabello mushrooms, zucchini, eggplant, red pepper, green beans, asparagus and curry raisin couscous, served with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar reduction.  And yes, it was a lot of food.  There was also wine and dessert.  I won’t presume to comment on the wine; I left that selection up to Victor.

The next night was the upscale vegetarian restaurant The Green Zebra.  I started with grilled Werp Farm baby lettuce, a ‘perfect’ farm egg, crispy potato tots (three!), and sherry vinaigrette.  Werp Farm is in Michigan; Keith tried to explain how the egg was probably cooked, some exotic method, but it was beyond my ken; however, it was delicious.  The soup course was creamy Illinois sweet corn soup with confit yukon potato, roasted red pepper, and black truffle, very rich and quite wonderful.  The main course was eggplant and tofu dumplings with sweet chili sauce, poblano pepper, and Savoy cabbage.  All served with wine and followed by dessert, of course.

And the final evening, after a performance of Million Dollar Quartet at the Apollo Theatre, was Boka, the only one of the three to rate a star from Michelin.  After the usual cocktail, I began with a salad of red Inca quinoa, fresh garbanzo falafel, baby cucumbers, dried fruit, Za’atar (Middle Eastern herbs--I looked it up) yogurt, and charred eggplant. The main course was fregola sarda (a Sardinian pasta made in little balls) with caramelized fennel, pattypan squash, sun-dried tomatoes, pepita cracker, and goat milk (which, through some chemical process, or maybe it was magic, was encased in little balls which opened pleasantly when bitten into).  We also had two sides, one of cucumber, grilled watermelon, shiso (an Asian mint), and ricotta salata; the other a mac “n” cheese with edamame.  And a couple of desserts, one complimentary since I found long hair in my salad!  Hey, even the best restaurants sometimes have little hitches. 

And somewhere along the way (I don’t remember with which course specifically or which restaurant), we had a delicious red pepper sorbet.  All that exotic food became kind of a blur--a delicious blur, to be sure, but so exotic to me it's hard to keep it all straight.

These meals were delightful and wonderful and I will always be grateful to Keith and Victor for allowing me the experience of eating like the 1%.  Now, it’s back to my diners and my own cooking.  Definitely no Michelin stars there.


*http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/high-on-the-hog.html

Meanwhile, Back in 1707

I love the way events--history, if you will--appear and disappear, changing in ever unexpected ways.  Such is the case with George Frideric Handel’s comic cantata Clori, Tirsi, e Fileno: Cor fedele in vano speri ("A faithful heart hopes in vain").  Handel wrote this piece in 1707 when he was quite young and living in Italy.  There is a record of its existence, but no record of it ever having been performed, although it surely would have been.  As a cantata it’s possible it was never staged as an opera, but the early Italian love of theater makes it likely it was staged as well as sung in a concert.  Other than that one record of the work being written, it disappeared from history, leaving nothing but a fragmentary manuscript score at the British Museum. 

And then, wonder of wonders, in 1960 a musicologist announced he had found a complete score in a collection at Münster.  It’s the only score in existence, now published, and we can hear this delightful piece in its entirety--a piece of formerly lost history, if you will.

Which brings me to Chicago’s newest opera company, The Haymarket Opera.  This last weekend they staged, for the first time in Chicago, Clori, Tirsi, e Fileno.  And what a delight it was, too!  Haymarket tries to reproduce, as closely as possible, Baroque performance practices, including costumes, sets, choreography, and even hand movements.  The orchestra uses period instruments, using, in this performance, the harpsichord, the recorder, and the beautiful archlute (image below), performed by the renowned lutist Michael Leopold.

There are only three vocal parts, two being “pants roles,” roles sung by women acting as the shepherdess Clori’s suitors.  The story is the slight and mostly silly, but one doesn’t go to a performance like this for the story; Aida it ain’t.  One goes for the music and this was excellent.  The Haymarket performs at the intimate Mayne Stage in the northern suburb of Rogers Park, and sitting in this 300 seat venue it’s hard not to imagine that I was watching a performance much as Handel himself would have seen it done over 300 years ago.  History indeed!

A Document of Intolerance and Hate

The Texas GOP has released their 2012 platform; I encourage you read it by downloading it here:    http://www.texasgop.org/about-the-party.  It’s an astonishing document, filled with ignorance, intolerance, and outright hate.  And the national GOP Platform promises to be very similar, especially since the GOP has been highjacked by the radical Right.

John T. Harvey, writing for Forbes about the Texas GOP platform, in an article entitled “The Terrifying Texas GOP Platform” writes, “[I]t is difficult to believe that what the Republicans put together during their convention in Fort Worth was even written in the 21st century.”*  And Forbes is generally a conservative publication.  But he’s right--sadly so.  Here are a few quotes I pulled from the document; you can decide for yourself:

From the “Preamble”:  “We STILL hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, . . .”  All “men”?  Still ignoring half the population?  Continuing: “The embodiment of the conservative dream in America is Texas.”  As you will see, that’s just scary.

From the “Principles” section:
“The sanctity of human life, created in the image of God, which should be protected from fertilization to natural death.
”Self-sufficient families, founded on the traditional marriage of a natural man and a natural 
woman.”
It’s not hard to see where this is going.

“Affirmative Action - Inasmuch as the Civil Rights Movement argued against using race as a factor in American life, affirmative action reintroduces race as a divisive force in American life. The Republican Party of Texas believes in equal opportunity for all citizens without regard to race or gender. To that end, we oppose affirmative action.”  Notice the build-in contradiction.

“Protection from Extreme Environmentalists – We strongly oppose all efforts of the extreme environmental groups that stymie legitimate business interests. We strongly oppose those efforts that attempt to use the environmental causes to purposefully disrupt and stop those interests within the oil and gas industry. We strongly support the immediate repeal of the Endangered Species Act. We strongly oppose the listing of the dune sage brush lizard either as a threatened or an endangered species. We believe the Environmental Protection Agency should be abolished.” You can just imagine who was responsible for putting in this plank!  And the dune sage brush lizard?  Well, note this from a West Texas TV web site:  “But some local oil consultants say conserving these habitats could come at the cost of jobs.  Especially with the ground, the lizards reportedly live on oil hot spots, where double the oil can be drilled.”**

“Free Speech for the Clergy - We urge amendment of the Internal Revenue Code to allow a religious organization to address issues without fear of losing its tax-exempt status. We call for repeal of requirements that religious organizations send the government any personal information about their contributors.”  They are apparently unaware of the concept of separation of church and state.

“Voting Rights - We support equal suffrage for all U.S. Citizens of voting age who are not felons. We oppose any identification of citizens by race, origin, or creed and oppose use of any such identification for purposes of creating voting districts.  Voter Rights Act – We urge that the Voter Rights Act of 1965 codified and updated in 1973 be repealed and not reauthorized.”  Again, notice the contradiction.***

You will obey:  “Enforcing the Platform - Every Republican is responsible for implementing this platform. Party candidates should indicate their positions on platform planks before their acceptance on the ticket and such information should be available on the Party website.”

“Religious Symbols - We oppose any governmental action to restrict, prohibit, or remove public display of the Decalogue or other religious symbols.” See earlier remark about separation of church and state.

“Family Values ― We support the affirmation of traditional Judeo-Christian family values and oppose the continued assault on those values.”  Judeo-Christian?  There are other belief systems out there, but not for Texas Republicans.

And quoted in full: “Family and Defense of Marriage ― We support the definition of marriage as a God-ordained, legal and moral commitment only between a natural man and a natural woman, which is the foundational unit of a healthy society, and we oppose the assault on marriage by judicial activists. We call on the President and Congress to take immediate action to defend the sanctity of marriage. We are resolute that Congress exercise authority under the United States Constitution, and pass legislation withholding jurisdiction from the Federal Courts in cases involving family law, especially any changes in the definition of marriage. We further call on Congress to pass and the state legislatures to ratify a marriage amendment declaring that marriage in the United States shall consist of and be recognized only as the union of a natural man and a natural woman. Neither the United States nor any state shall recognize or grant to any unmarried person the legal rights or status of a spouse. We oppose the recognition of and granting of benefits to people who represent themselves as domestic partners without being legally married. We advocate the repeal of laws that place an unfair tax burden on families. We call upon Congress to completely remove the marriage penalty in the tax code, whereby a married couple receives a smaller standard deduction than their unmarried counterparts living together. The primary family unit consists of those related by blood, heterosexual marriage, or adoption. The family is responsible for its own welfare, education, moral training, conduct, and property.”  I’m still trying to figure out what is meant by “a natural man and a natural woman.”

And finally: “Enforcement of the Defense of Marriage Act ― We support the enforcement of the State and Federal Defense of Marriage Act by state and federal officials respectively, and oppose creation, recognition and benefits for partnerships outside of marriage that are being provided by some political subdivisions.”

And this is just a sampling of this extraordinary--and extraordinarily hateful--document.  Please read it.  The national GOP Platform is likely to contain much of the same language, so the Texas Platform is relevant not just to Texas but to all of us.

*http://www.forbes.com/sites/johntharvey/2012/07/01/texas-gop-platform/
**http://www.newswest9.com/Global/story.asp?S=14030079
***http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voter_rights_act

Jake!

Now look at that photograph.  Is that a face that anyone could dislike?  It’s the very picture of innocence, of loving graciousness, of sweetness and light.  And yet no one likes Jake.  So it’s no wonder that Jake doesn’t like anyone else besides me.  Truly, it’s not her fault.

I inherited Jake when her previous owner had a severe asthma attach, which he had tried to avoid by bathing Jake several times a week and by having all of the feet declawed.  All four.  Poor Jake; that would put anyone off humans.  And he named her Jake after a dog he had had as a child; no matter that Jake is female.

And then once I got Jake, the abuse from visitors started immediately, most prominently from my brother, Ken.  Even though Jake never seemed to like people, she never missed the chance to circulate among my visitors and to let them know that she was the boss.  In those days I often had people over for breakfast--sometimes as many as twelve.  Jake always moved among my guests; but should any try to pet her, she would allow it for a few moments and then she would hiss and snarl and people would back off.  Except Ken.  He harassed her constantly when he was around; he paid for that on a number of occasions with bleeding hands: Jake has no claws but she can be very fast with her needle-sharp teeth.  But Jake truly had the last laugh with Ken: I was out of town and Ken was feeding her for me.  One afternoon he and his son, Travis, came by.  I had neglected to mention that sometimes Jake would await my arrival through the garage--by sitting atop the fridge.  Really, I did just forget to tell Ken; it was an honest mistake.  He and Travis entered only to be met by the loud hissing and snarling of Jake looking down at them from atop the fridge.  Oh I wish I could have seen it!  Apparently, they both came close to wetting themselves.  Jake, I have little doubt, was laughing and enjoying every minute of it.

I don’t entertain now that I’ve moved to Chicago.  One guest and my tiny apartment is too crowded.  Jake pretty much acts the same way with my few visitors.  My dear friend Roger is the most regular visitor; he and Jake stay away from one another, each keeping a wary eye out for the other.  Jake completely ignores Edwin, another visitor, by no longer even bothering to come into the living room.

But to me Jake is a complete sweetheart.  We have our rituals, including morning treats, evening canned food, and snuggling most of the night.  We play sometimes, and sometimes I bleed then, but that’s not meanness, that’s just romping around.  I never hold it against her nor punish her.  She gives me great joy, and as she ages and slows down--along with me--we are becoming even closer.  I can’t imagine not having Jake.  I’m sorry that others can’t see those aspects of her character.  Or that she won’t let them.

            Jake assisting me on the computer:         Jake sleeping on warm laundry:

Five Years Today!

It’s hard to believe but as of today I have lived in Chicago for five years.  Five years ago I pulled into the parking lot and entered this apartment for the first time; the movers arrived the next day.  After three days on the road--I took that long since I was traveling with a very unhappy Jake--I was exhausted and full of doubts about whether I had made the right decision.  Chicago?!  Lordy, that’s a big step from Harker Heights, Texas.  And even though I had lived in a number of big cities before, Houston, Dallas, and San Diego, Chicago was a hugely intimidating place.

But the decision to move here was a great one.  I have fallen in love with this remarkable city.  I constantly look around me in wonder: “This is my city?”  I’ve explored many parts of it, but there is much more to know.  But it is indeed my city.

I won’t list everything I love about Chicago; that would be too long and be too tedious for those not lucky enough to live here.  But I will name the top two things: 1. is my friendship with Roger, who encouraged me to move here, for which I’ll always be grateful, and who has remained a dear friend in spite of my irascible character, and 2. the cultural events here, most notably opera.  But then there’s the Art Institute and the Lily Pool and . . .  Damn: I’m listing again.  I could go on and on, but, as promised, won’t.

Five years!  And a great five years it’s been.  I’m ready for five more.

On Becoming a Zombie

On October 24, 2011, I wrote a decidedly unkind blog about Starbucks and those that go there.  I sniped at the baristas (silly term), the monikers for size (“venti”? even sillier) and, especially, the customers.  I called them “Starbucks Zombies” and suggested that all concerned had low intelligence and no taste whatsoever.  I find, almost a year later, that I’m having to eat those words--like a zombie eating a brain. 

My beloved independent coffee shop, Savor the Flavor, has closed (see my July 1 blog), and my friends and I have been set adrift in search of a new morning coffee stop.  The choices?  Starbucks at Sheffield and Diversey, Starbucks at Wrightwood and Racine, Starbucks at Racine and Fullerton, and Starbucks at Wrightwood and Clark.  There are a few independents around, but they are not convenient and involve walking long distances.  We tried Heritage General Store, which has a nice patio area, compliments of the city, but at $3.29 for a cup of coffee and $3.29 for a refill, that’s not much of an option for me; it’s a long walk, too, and once winter returns and the outside areas close, there is hardly any room inside, perhaps because it is also a custom bike shop.  A what?  My thought exactly.  The only other independent coffee shops are simply too far away to walk to conveniently, at least for an old man with bad knees.

So I’m left with Starbucks.  I actually rather like the one at Wrightwood and Racine.  They are friendly, which is rare for Starbucks, and it’s a neighborhood shop away from a busy intersection.  Unfortunately, it’s very small, and once the patio closes this winter, there will be little room for me and my friends to congregate.  And one good friend, Gary J., drives to coffee and has to be concerned with parking, not always easy in this neighborhood. 

The one at Diversey and Sheffield is close--half a block--but is always jammed packed and there are always lines, sometimes out the door.  They’ve remodeled recently, especially the patio, and that’s very nice, but again, once winter comes, all those yuppies are going to be jammed inside.  Parking for Gary J. is good, though.  Maybe if they speed up their service . . .

Parking is not good at the location on Wrightwood and Clark, although Jen likes it there as it’s quite large (I haven’t been yet).  I also haven’t tried the one at Fullerton and Racine, which is close to being too far to walk.

So, every few days we try a different location, including sometimes the The Patio, which is making a very half-hearted effort at a coffee shop where Savor the Flavor used to be.  Good coffee and friendly service, but hardly anything else, and it was always going to be temporary as the space is being converted into a bar at the end of August--or so the rumor goes.

So, like little lost children we wander the neighborhood in search of a decent place to have a good cup of coffee in comfort and in ease.  And it appears that Starbucks will be the winner.  And I’ll be just another Starbucks zombie.  “Well, they are consistent,” says Gary J.  Yes, there is that, but not much else.

New York City!

I love going to New York City!  I suppose if I had all the money in the world I would go much more often.  Until my lottery win comes in, I’ll have to settle for these occasional--but great!--visits.

A summary of this trip:  arrived in NYC to pouring rain and hail!  The shuttle let me out and the driver said the hotel was right around the corner; which it was if you count half a block as around the corner.  I arrived soaked through and through.  And they had Roger and I in a king room; while I'm very fond of Roger, I do not want to share a bed with him.  They had no more doubles, so we ended up in a queen room (don't say it!) with a cot; that actually worked out nicely as the cot was very comfortable--and Roger slept on it.  Mostly relaxing and wandering around that evening--once we dried off.  Roger's flight from Amsterdam was late.

The next day were the beautiful fountains at the 9/11 Memorial; very moving, too.  Then the ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.  The statue was closed as the pedestal is being remodeled and cleaned, but it was nice to walk around it.  Then to Ellis Island where we just took in one exhibit.  Each leg of the journey required standing in line for 30 to 45 minutes--three times standing in huge lines and there was no choice as that's the only way on and off the two islands; by the time we got to Ellis I was in a lot of pain.  Still, I did enjoy the cruise, but I was glad to be back at Battery Park.

That night off to see Ricky Martin and Elena Rogers in Evita.  Both called in sick and their parts were played by understudies!  Just my luck.  Of course understudies on Broadway are hugely accomplished performers, so we loved the show anyway.  But we had gone to see Ricky Martin perform.

Next day was the stunning visit to the terri-cotta warriors exhibit at the Discovery Museum.  These magnificent statues take one's breath away.  They stand about 7 feet tall.  Each face of the 2,000 or so statues is different (only five of the complete statues and a horse were on exhibit, though) is different.  It was truly awe-inspiring to stand in front of these statues.  And there were lots of other items exhibited from the site--including ancient Chinese sex toys.  Oh my!  Who knew?  Anyway, a great, great exhibit and I am so glad I had a chance to see these rarely exported items.

That night was the musical Newsies, probably the best of the three shows we saw.  Predictable plot, good, although not great, music, but I have never seen such dancing in all my life!  Wonderfully exciting.  Here is a sample--and this is the cast we saw (everyone showed up): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3vtPAFA6sY.  Just now seeing it again I found it moving; such a talented bunch of young men.  Imagine two and a half hours of this kind of dancing!  Truly a great evening and that alone would have been worth the trip.

The next day was rain all day, so we mostly stayed in and rested.  My knees and legs were really hurting by now.  Then that night was Peter and the Starcatcher.  What a theatrical experience that was.  It's a total slapstick fantasy.  The premise is an explanation of how Peter Pan came to be Peter Pan and how he ended up in Never Never Land.  I haven't laughed so much in the theater for years.  You can see a pastiche here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZj5yj8SDBA.  The guy who plays Black Stash won the Tony--and he was a delight.  It's not technically a musical, but there are some musical numbers.

The last partial day we loafed and packed and relaxed--much needed.

All told I loved the trip.  The only part that I hated was the standing in line at the ferry and the islands.  Liked to done me in.

And on a side note:  today is the anniversary of New York State granting marriage to same sex couples.  Congratulations, New York.  And those fundamentalist naysayers must just be beside themselves to see it working out so well--and lighting not destroying the whole state.  Nor Massachusetts, nor the other states granting this simple civil right.  Now, when will it come to the other states--and when will the federal government recognize such marriages--and eliminate that dreadful DOMA.  Somehow, I remain hopeful.

Undisturbed Memories

Yesterday, I was downtown at the library looking for a book I had just read a review of, Spider Silk, and glancing around the shelves, as I tend to do in libraries, I saw several volumes by Jean-Henri Fabre; I immediately had a flash back to the past.  Somehow, in elementary school I first ran across the works of this great French naturalist, and fell in love with his writing--enough that I decided to become a naturalist.  That didn’t happen, for reasons I’ll leave for another blog, but I was totally captivated by his books and read all I could find.  So yesterday I pulled one of Fabre’s books from the stacks, a dusty, rebound volume called Fabre’s Book of Insects, translated and published after his death in 1915.  From the look of the pages, I suspect this book has been in the library from its beginning.  I decided, with some hesitation, to check it out.

The hesitation comes from the few times I have tried to read books from my early youth: I have inevitably been disappointed, both with the quality of the writing and my lack of enthusiasm.  There has been, I fear, too many books under the bridge, to wildly mix my metaphors.  I tried The Wind in the Willows, and couldn’t get through it.  Some of the SF novels I devoured in those days have held up better, but many have not.

And some I have been too afraid to try.  If I had to pick the most influential author of those very early years it would without a doubt be Richard Halliburton.  I poured over the works of this mostly forgotten adventurer and writer, reading each volume multiple times.  I wanted to be him and follow him on his travels and, no doubt about it, I was more than a little bit in love with him, too.  So a few years ago I had a chance to purchase an autographed copy of  The Royal Road to Romance.  But I’ve never had the courage to reread it.  My memories of these books are . . . well, sacred, in a way, and I can’t bear the thought of reading them again after all these years and finding, perhaps, that he wasn’t as good a writer as I remember, or the adventures are not as exciting.  I like to think I’m not hooked on the past, but in this case, at least, I want the past to remain unsullied.  I don’t see myself reading The Royal Road to Romance any time soon.

Thus I picked up the Fabre with great misgivings.  And I am delighted to report that the book is just as wonderful as I remember!  Fabre was a self-taught naturalist, and he always wrote from an autobiographical point of view--he is always a part of his reporting with no attempt at objectivity.  And his writing is as rich and personal and inventive as any modern naturalist.  What a pleasure to read this book again and be delighted just as much as I was 60 years ago.

Here’s a quote from Fabre’s Book of Insects, one that captures what I’m talking about; this is the closing of the chapter on cicadas:  “Four years of hard work in the darkness, and a month of delight in the sun--such is the Cicada’s life.  We must not blame him for the noisy triumph of his song.  For four years he has dug the earth with his feet, and then suddenly he is dressed in exquisite raiment, provided with wings that rival the bird’s, and bathed in heat and light!  What cymbals can be loud enough to celebrate his happiness, so hardly earned, and so very, very short?”  Wow!

So, maybe I’ll open up The Royal Road to Romance soon.  Or maybe not.  I want Richard Halliburton enshrined in my memory as he was then, untarnished by the passage of my time.

All Good Things . . .

Today was the last day for Savor the Flavor, the local coffee house that has made such a huge difference in my life.  I am terribly sad to see it close, but I am heartened by two things: one is my friendship with the amazing owner of Flavor, Geri; and second is that I am excited for Geri as she moves on to a new adventure in her life.

Geri has had Savor open for eight years; I’ve been going about four.  In the last three or so I’ve become a regular--as in every day except Sunday, sitting in the same corner, drinking the same coffee.  “The Old Man in the Corner,” as Geri affectionately calls me.  Going to Savor every morning has become a ritual I delight in.  And I’ve met some wonderful people there, too, most I hope to continue to see semi-regularly, wherever we end up having our morning coffee; others have become close friends, and we’ll stay in regular touch.

But besides having a great coffee shop, Geri has had a greater impact: she has changed the community.  Many of the regulars have lived near each other for some time, but through Geri, and Savor, they have become friends.  Geri has made a difference in the community of Lincoln Park.  And we are all grateful.

Geri’s approach to customers was unique for a business.  She introduced herself to every customer and asked his or her name.  After two or three visits, she would remember your name.  She always had a smile and made everyone feel like they were special.  So many businesses could learn from Geri.

Today was the last day.  I made it by twice.  I had intended to stay to the bitter end, but my lousy knee was in terrific pain today--I could barely walk.  So I hobbled home before she closed for the last time.  That’s probably just as well.  I’m a sentimental old fool, and I would have been in tears, no doubt.
 

I wish you luck Geri.  And I know that wherever you go and whatever you do, you’ll continue to make a change in the world--a change for the better.

Love you, Kiddo!

Chicago Pride Day, 2012

I skipped the Pride Parade today for the first time since moving here.  Not that I’ve ever stayed for the full parade: at around three hours minimum, my ancient knees just can’t take it.  But I didn’t even try to catch any of it this year.  Why?

Parades are for the young.  In the case of the Pride Parade, the parade is for young gay men.  Oh, I would guess the audience for the parade these days is close to half straight--this is a very popular parade; but you know what I mean--still young, straight or gay.  Even though there are floats for such organizations as Prime Timers, the majority of the parade is for the young: the music, the spectators, and the young men on the floats.  I am not young, and I do not feel comfortable around young gay men anymore.  Not that they see me: I have become the Old Invisible.

Which is ironic, as these young gay men would not be able to be so out and proud were it not for those of us of a certain age coming first.  I remember when gay bars were raided and bartenders’ and customers’ names, addresses, and places of employment were published in the paper.  Many people lost their jobs because of a bar raid.  I worked as a bartender, starting in gay clubs before moving to straight supper clubs, and it was sheer luck, and, in one case, being tipped off in advance, that kept me out of jail and off that list.  My teaching career would have been ruined instantly.  A friend of mine was a passenger in a car with his partner; he leaned over and kissed his partner on the cheek not realizing there was a cop behind them.  They were pulled over and arrested; my friend was asked to leave the art department of the university where he was a student.  The art department asked him to leave?  For being gay?

We helped change the world, some by protesting, others, like myself, by trying to teach tolerance and never permitting bullying or abusive language in my class, by not hiding the fact that Walt Whitman was gay (my college professor insisted that the Good Gray Poet was just friendly to men), and by telling students that Allen Ginsberg and Adrien Rich, both included in high school anthologies that didn’t mention their being gay, were, in fact, out and openly gay.  No protest signs for me, but I did my part, I think.

I hope that some of these young people understand what went before.  But I have my doubts.  It’s too easy to let the past slip away, and when I was young I was just as guilty.  Now, I am the past, I fear, and I am slipping away also.  At least when it comes to Pride parades and young men and popular music and . . .
------------------------
Note:  I just caught the evening news:  850,000 people were in attendance today!  And as always the governor walked the entire length of the parade as did the mayor.  

Weapons of Mass Destruction?

“We have weapons of mass destruction we have to address here at home. Poverty is a weapon of mass destruction. Homelessness is a weapon of mass destruction. Unemployment is a weapon of mass destruction.”    ~Dennis Kucinich

At my favorite local coffee shop, I sit by the front window on Sheffield.  Directly across the street is Jonquil Park.  A few days ago I was talking with a friend, around 7:45 in the morning, and she pointed out there there were four homeless men sleeping in the park.  Two were on a berm on the far side, one was on a berm near Sheffield, and the fourth was on a park bench.  We expressed concern for children wanting to play in the park, although other people were using the park--staying away from the sleeping men.  We even expressed concern for the men.   What we didn’t have were answers to the problem of homelessness.

Another issue came up last week when a favorite coffee shop, Panera’s, was closed for a few days to be converted into a Panera Cares.  This is only the fourth such shop in the country.  The concept is pay-what-you-can: there are no cash registers and no prices on the menu; instead, there are “suggested” prices and donation boxes; you drop in whatever you can afford to pay, or choose to pay.  If you have no money at all, you can work at cleaning in the shop for an hour for your food.  According to the news reports on Panera Cares, all of them are making a profit, in spite of the radical pricing structure--and all profits go to social services organizations in the area.  My rash comment about the change at Panera’s:  “It will become Homeless Central.” That was a remark I regretted as soon as I said it and still regret.  At the same time, there is an element of truth in it, which is doing battle with my conscience.

There are many homeless people in Chicago, as there are in all big cities.  Unfortunately, the term “homeless” only begins to describe these souls.  Are they drug abusers?  Alcoholics? Mentally ill?  Are they lazy, as many seem to think, or are they there through no circumstances of their own?  I’ve seen a man begging on the L, dragging a child along with him; yet what was their relationship and their situation?  The answers are not easy to come by, and I certainly don’t have any.  I never give to beggars, but I often buy Streetwise, the homeless magazine sold by former homeless persons.  I donate to the Chicago Food Bank, but I won’t drop a penny into the cups of the men and women sitting downtown, usually with some handmade sign declaring their problems.  Are any of those signs true?  How are we passersby to know?

Even the government seems at a loss as to what to do.  A few days ago a homeless man was sleeping in Jonquil Park.  Some city workers were mowing and said something to the man, who apparently cussed them out.  They called the police.  Within minutes there were seven police cars there, the man had been handcuffed and thrown to the ground, surrounded by a gaggle of cops, and within minutes hauled off.  Surely such a massive show of force was unnecessary.  And yet should the worker have to deal with that abuse?

Lots of questions.  Very few answers.  And I believe it going to get worse before it gets better: there is a trend in the government and with people in general to blame the victim, and I only see that getting worse.  It’s so much easier to blame the homeless then to work on actual solutions to the problem.

Bloomsday and the Ulysses Virgin

Bloomsday was yesterday, June 16.  This is the day celebrated around the world as the day in 1904 when Leopold Bloom, a fictional character created by James Joyce, made his perambulations around Dublin.  That’s a sentence that hardly begins to describe the day described in the novel Ulysses, a novel many consider the greatest of the 20th century.

Joyce never used the term “Bloomsday” himself; instead it was originated to celebrate the hold that this novel has had on so many people, the Irish in particular.  I have to say right up front that I have not read Ulysses--I’m a Ulysses virgin.  It’s one of those “Great Books” that I’ve always meant to read but haven’t gotten to yet--like War and Peace.  Well, that’s not quite the real reason: I’m scared to death of the novel!  It’s notoriously difficult to read, and many people start it never to finish it; so I have postponed tackling it.  But this summer is the time.

This new resolution came about after attending for the first time the Bloomsday celebrations here in Chicago.  One of my instructors is involved in it and she encouraged us to go, even those of us who have not read the book.  So, on June 14 I went (it was held on that day due to a difficulty in finding a venue on the actual Bloomsday).  I sat in the corner and tried to be inconspicuous, hoping that others couldn’t somehow read in my eyes that I was there under false pretenses.  I needn’t have worried: I wasn't the only "virgin" there and the evening was delightful!  And that evening was the deciding factor in my attempting the novel this summer.

The affair was held at the beautiful Newberry Library.  There were introductory remarks followed by a series of ten readings from various parts of the novel.  While a couple of the readers were actors, most were just lovers of Joyce and were chosen because of their skill in reading.  The first reader was actually Tim Reilly, the Irish vice Consul; he had the accent down pat, to no one's surprise.  The final reader was a woman who has been reading the same selection from Mollie Bloom’s famous soliloquy at the end of the book for twenty years; it was an extraordinary presentation and that reading alone would have encouraged me to tackle the book.

And now from Amazon I'm getting the novel; from The Teaching Company I am getting their 24 lesson course on Ulysses.  From the library I’m getting Ulysses Annotated: Notes for James Joyce's Ulysses.

Let me gather up my reading materials, my DVD lessons, my nerve, and perhaps a few bottles of Ohara’s Celtic Stout and dive in.  I’ll let you know how it all turns out!

Who Would Have Guessed?

Sometimes, too much information is not a good thing.  I just found out that some of the germiest places we come across in an average day are restaurant menus!  Who knew?  I was reading an article on-line from AARP (I am of a certain age, after all) about common places with the most germs.  Menus were number one.  But then as the article asked: have you ever seen anyone ever clean a menu?  And think of the number of people who handle menus.  I’m not a germaphobe, but I’ll be using hand sanitizer after ordering in the future.  [For the record, my spellcheck likes neither “germiest” nor “germaphobe"; screw it.]

And you’ll never guess what comes in second.  I couldn't have been more surprised--or disgusted:  lemon wedges.  Like in iced tea.  A recent study found that 70% of lemon wedges had germs on them,  including E. coli and other fecal bacteria.   Euuugh..........  “No lemon, please.”  [Another note: I had to look up how to spell “euuugh”; what is surprising is that I found it.  What is not surprising is that my spellcheck doesn’t like it.]

Third was condiment dispensers.  The same people who handle menus also handle condiment dispensers.  Is it considered bad form to wear rubber gloves while eating in a restaurant?

After that were restroom door handles.  Hardly surprising.  Come on guys, how many times have you seen men leave without washing their hands?  I always use a paper towel to open the door.  But then what does one do in restrooms with those infernal blow dryers?  Maybe I’ll just pee in the alley; I know my body is clean.

Then comes soap dispensers.  Makes sense: you use the soap dispenser before you wash your hands.   Charles Gerba, Ph.D., who directed a study of bacteria on soap dispensers, said, "[T]he bottoms are touched by dirty hands, so there's a continuous culture feeding millions of bacteria."  And think where those hands were just a few seconds before touching the dispenser?  I grow faint . . .

The list is rounded out with grocery store carts, airplane bathrooms, and doctor’s offices.  Doctor’s offices?  That is, after all, where sick people go.  I would guess hospitals are much the same. 

I think I’ll just shut myself up in my apartment, hand sanitizer at the ready, and never venture forth again.

The Incredible Shrinking Man

I had my annual physical recently.  I was pleased that all was well (although I’m still awaiting the results of various regular tests).  But there was one shock when the nurse decided, for the first time in many years, to measure my height: I’ve shrunk two inches!  And that was with my shoes on.  By standing up as straight as I could, I managed to reduce that to one and a half inches--still with shoes on, so the figure remains at two inches.  How and when did I shrink two inches?

I know losing height is natural as one ages.  No: it’s natural as others age.  It’s not natural for me to shrink.  I have always been six feet and I am having a hard time accepting that I have lost two inches.  I know I tend to stoop a bit.  And, like a lot of people my age, I tend to walk with head down; that’s just a defense mechanism: falling is very hard on someone 69 years old, and Chicago sidewalks are often uneven and broken.  Apparently, there’s basically nothing I can do about the shrinking. 

Just like there is nothing I can do about aging.  I’ve never been especially troubled by aging, and I don’t fight it generally.  But two inches?  That’s hard to take.

As for the “Incredible” part of the title, well, there’s nothing incredible about me.  But the term certainly describes what I think of the fact that I have shrunk: that’s incredible.

Short-Lived Resolution

Before I even start, let’s get one thing out of the way: “short-lived” is pronounced with a long I, as in “short life,” from whence it came.  Anyone who was ever in my class or sipped a beer with me knows how I feel on this.  And I don’t get a crap who says “short-lived,” as in “short live” (which anyone can see does not make a lick of sense), I (my ashes, actually) will go to my watery grave saying “short-lived” with a long I.  Now on to the resolution:

A few days ago I decided I was watching too much television.  So, I resolved to go without TV for a week.  I worked out some details--movies didn’t count nor did downloading Rachel Maddow on the iPad--set my jaw firmly, and went back to my book and coffee.  Later that evening, 20 minutes into The Evening News with Diane Sawyer, I remembered my resolution.  Not only had I broken my firm resolution, I hadn’t even remembered that I had made such a resolution.  Only one thing to do at that point: say “fuck it” and spend the rest of the evening watching TV.

And thus with most of my resolutions . . .

John Deere Day

I don’t trust my memory.  And the further back I go in time the less reliable I’m sure it is.  But I’m going back today to one of my fondest memories from the 50s: John Deere Day.  Maybe some of it is accurate.

We actually didn’t have a John Deere tractor.  We had a Farmall.  At least we did until my brother, Ken, broke it in half; but that’s a story for another blog.  It didn’t make any difference what kind of tractor you had for John Deere Day, or even if you had one; everyone showed up for the social event of the year.  As I remember the day, it happened once a year in the spring.  The John Deere company sponsored food and games and, no doubt the main reason for the event, a display of new tractors.  All this took place on the grounds of my elementary school, State Center. 

The games were silly and the food unexceptional, and we all crawled over the tractors, and generally ran around like idiots.  But the part I remember most vividly were the movies.  Of course, we lived in the country and had only one movie theater in the area, a tiny theater in Jones, Oklahoma, which showed second string movies (but they also showed the wonderful Flash Gordon serials!).  So it was the highlight of the John Deere Day when, as the sun set, a sheet was stretched out (between trees? poles? I don’t remember), the school’s 16 mm projector was brought out, and the movie began.  There was a pause between each reel as it was rewound and the new reel strung up.  And I don’t remember a single movie!  It really wasn’t about the movie; it was about the event, the time away from studies and chores.  John Deere Day was more fun than the State Fair, which, since we exhibited a variety of things, was always about work.  And John Deere Day was about innocence and laughing.  I have no doubt that my memory idealizes the whole event.  That’s okay; I’ll keep those memories, reality be damned.

The Smell of Stale Beer

I miss sleazy bars.  I miss the smell of stale beer and the tinny music from a jukebox.  I miss the clack of the cue ball against carefully racked balls.  I miss the camaraderie, the cheap brew, the taste of soggy pretzels, and the sweat-permeated ambiance of a neighborhood bar.  I never was much of a drinker, although I’ve had my moments.  But I loved the socialization of bars where, well, “everyone knows your name.” 

What brought this train of thought about was a visit last week to B.L.U.E.S. on Halsted(1), a legendary blues bar not far from where I live.  I’ve been there before, usually to hear my friend Rob Stone perform, as was the case this time.  But for some reason, this visit brought back a stream of memories of all those bars I’ve hung out in over the years--and rarely go to now.

The ugly truth of the matter is that being old makes the bar experience far less fun than it used to be.  One becomes invisible anywhere, once one reaches a certain age; in a bar it’s even worse.  I have occasionally, since moving to Chicago, accompanied younger folk to bars, but I just would not go on my own any more.  Even at B.L.U.E.S., I was with my young friends Geri and Carolyn.  I’ve even been there with former students.  But never by myself.  And I miss those days.

One must move on . . .

As for B.L.U.E.S., it’s a great place to hear Chicago style blues.  I encourage you to go there.  Last Tuesday (area residents get in without a cover charge on Tuesdays), as I say, I went to hear Rob Stone(2).  But while there he was joined by the magnificent Big Time Sarah(3), who sang at B.L.U.E.S. on the night it opened in 1979.  Truly a legend.  But if you’re a prude, stay away!  She is  down and dirty.

------------------------------

1. http://www.wineandleisure.com/sweethomechicago/blues/index.html
2. http://www.robstone.com/index.html
3. http://www.wineandleisure.com/blueswebchicago/bigtimesarah.html

The Father of us All

Blog is a portmanteau word; that is, it’s a mashing up of two other words, in this case web and log.  So, by definition, a blog is something written for the web.  But I’m going to extend that definition just a bit.  I do this with the probably specious logic that if the web had been around 432 years ago, “The Father of Us All” would have written for the web.  But of course that wasn’t the case, so Michel Eyquem de Montaigne wrote his blogs for publication, his only way of sharing them.  But in any modern sense of the word blog, blogs are what Montaigne wrote.

Montaigne is generally credited with being the first to use the term essay to describe his writing, drawing from the French word essai, meaning trial or attempt.  And that is exactly what he set out to do in his essays: attempt to understand himself.  And through himself understand something of the world.  The continued popularity of his essays attests to how well he succeeded.

Everything is grist for Montaigne’s verbal mill.  Most importantly, his main topic is “How to Live”; or, more accurately, how to live a good life, a correct or honorable life.*  And in the exploration of that seminal question, he wrote about the major perplexities of life: how to cope with the fear of death; how to you deal with the loss of a dear friend; how to live with failure.  But he also wrote about the minor perplexities of life: how to cheer up a sad friend; wondering what his cat is thinking; and what to do if a friend thinks a witch has cast a spell on him.  The answers he found came from examining his own life--and sharing that life with us, his reader.

The tower on his estate where Montaigne wrote his essays.

And it’s a fascinating life!  We find out he likes melons, “that he prefers to have sex lying down rather than standing up, that he cannot sing, and that he loves vivacious company and often gets carried away by the spark of repartee”* and oh so much more.

Montaigne doesn’t have an agenda; he’s not pushing some point of view.  The Montaigne at the beginning of the essays is not the same Montaigne we find at the end.  He often comes up short of definitive answers.  But the reader of these essays will not come away unchanged.

------------------

Some selected quotes, located on-line:
--“When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime to her more than she is to me?”
--“A man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.”
--“Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.”
--“On the highest throne in the world, we still sit only on our own bottom.”
--“When I am attacked by gloomy thoughts, nothing helps me so much as running to my books. They quickly absorb me and banish the clouds from my mind.”
--“There is nothing more notable in Socrates than that he found time, when he was an old man, to learn music and dancing, and thought it time well spent.”
--“I speak the truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I dare a little more as I grow older.”
--And perhaps his most famous: “Que sais-je?” (What do I know?)
-------------------------

*I encourage you read a delightful and insightful book about Montaigne by Sarah Bakewell: How to Live: Or a Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer. There are many translations of Montaigne’s essays; I use the M. A. Screech translation, available most everywhere, including as an e-book.

The Tao of Blogging

And so I return to blogging.  My last entry was December 28, 2011.  I quit mostly because I had to figure out how to deal with losing my website software from Mac; it’s moving into the “cloud,” or, since it’s an Apple gizmo, the iCloud.  I still have only the foggiest notion of what that means.  But I do know that in June, all my previous blogs and my web site are going to disappear.  Don’t panic!  I’ve saved them all and will be publishing them--and starting a new web site.  Ah, I hear a great collective sigh of relief.  I am gratified.

But from the last blog to this one has given me some time to think about why I do these blogs.  All kidding aside, it’s not because of a thunderous demand for them; in fact, my readership over the years mostly consisted of a few close friends.  And yet here I go again.  Why? 

I think the answer is, quite simply, that I write these because I enjoy writing them.  We clearly don’t need another blog out there.  In 2008 there were 184 million blogs; the number must be exponentially higher now.  I grow weak thinking about it.  It hardly seems worth the effort.  A grain of sand on a very big beach.  And yet here I go again.

I can’t even argue that it’s some sort of immortality; once I’m gone, these blogs will disappear. And I certainly can’t argue that this is great prose; I hope it’s adequate, but I have no higher hopes than that.  And yet here I go again. 

I do hope some will read these blogs.  If you’re interested in my life in Chicago, the events I go to, my thoughts on politics and culture and . . .  Well, this blog isn’t restricted to subject. It will go where it may.  And when.

I’ll end this blog--and begin the blogs--with a quote from the Tao Te Ching (the Cleary translation), which in its wonderfully paradoxical way states my goals:

81.
True words are not beautiful,
beautiful words are not true.
The good are not argumentative,
the argumentative are not good.
Knowers do not generalize,
generalists do not know.
Sages do not accumulate anything
but give everything to others,
having more the more they give.
The Way of heaven
helps and does not harm.
The Way for humans
is to act without contention.