R.D., All American Guy, Part I-"Big American Cars"

It continues to be the oddest of summers. Today is the last day of June and it's 65 degrees in Streeterville. It has threatened rain all day long, but I have yet to see a single drop, just a lot of clouds. Babs claims to have seen several drops, but when I looked out the window from the 14th floor, there was nary a drop to be seen. Nevertheless, overcast and cool cannot be good for the tourist trade over at Navy Pier, and the number of boaters on the lake is pretty small today. The Water Treatment Plant is unaffected.

Tomorrow is the first of July and the 4th of July is this coming Saturday, and, as such I have been wondering just what is it that makes someone a real American. I've been around on this planet for 58 years now and all of those 58 years have been as an American citizen. Yet somehow I've always gotten subtle hints from here and there that something I'm doing is just not quite what "normal" Americans do. So just what is it that "normal" Americans do anyway?

I thought about this for a while and compiled a short list of things that "normal" Americans do that signal their Americanness, and that I definitely do not do. I must protest, however, that I cannot be considered "All American" by this standard, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Number one on the list of things that are considered quintessentially American is driving a "Big American Car". Ask any European. Americans like to drive around in big cars. Most families like to own multiple "Big American Cars", one for the husband, one for the wife, one for the kids, and maybe one just for fun. This doesn't even take into account the motorcycles, scooters, ATVs, and riding lawn-mowers that also populate the garages and sheds of America.

Alas, I am not a "Big American Car" kind of guy. My very first car that I ever purchased was an Opel Kadet. My current vehicle is a Mini Cooper, and I only own one. I hear that audible gasp escaping from your mouth. Shut that mouth. You'll be catching flies in it. You heard me correctly. One car, a small car, and it gets 33 mpg on the highway, 26 mpg in the city. Furthermore, Babs can fit her cello in that sucker and I have never, not once had a moment when I had to cart around such a quantity of "Big American Stuff" that I needed a bigger vehicle.

Now I know that Americans have a love affair with their "Big American Cars." Just owning a car is a privilege in some societies. In America, it's a necessity, unless you're a New York City resident. The rest of the country lives in their cars. They clog the streets and the freeways from coast to coast and they're all sitting in their "Big American Cars" listening to their satellite radios, talking on their cell phones, enjoying the A/C, and giving the finger to other drivers of "Big American Cars."

Americans don't like public transportation. They think it's declasse. They want to go where they want to go, when they want to go, and on their own terms, in their own "Big American Car." Americans feel safer in their "Big American Cars." They denigrate the safety of little cars. They think their cars tie them to the history of a rootless society that always looked for the next new frontier, and their "Big American Cars." give them the ability to pack up everything and just go. And when they get to that new frontier, usually another suburb of a major city, they can use that "Big American Car" to haul anything and everything they need from the "Big American Mall" to their "Big American Home." and they can pay for it all with their "Big American Credit Card," all the while incurring "Big American Debt."

Let's face it, to not own a "Big American Car" is just not "normal." Yet I hold a job, I own a home (More about that in another installment.), I have a wife, and to see me walk down the street one would think that I am a very ordinary, "normal" middle-aged man. I have no doubt that out there somewhere there is an intervention group waiting to help me through a 12 step program helping me past this thing, this abnormalcy, this addiction to small, efficient, reasonable cars. Then again, maybe I'm just ahead of my time, a visionary. This has been the first in my July 4th week series on All Americanness, and how some of us just don't fit the mold, yet manage to survive anyway. Tomorrow-"Big houses with big yards."

Presidential Blues

The clouds come and go this afternoon. They can't seem to make up their minds, "Hmmm, Should I rain or should I shine?" Currently it's 73 degrees and mostly cloudy in Streeterville. There is a wind out of the Northwest that speaks of coolness later this evening and perhaps a bedtime thunder storm, just the thing to lull one to sleep, summer thunder and lightning over the lake. Navy Pier is bathed in late afternoon sunlight that is sneaking between the clouds. Most of the boats have gone home, fearing that the rain in the forecast will come sooner than later.

Last fall Americans went to the polls and did something truly amazing. They overcame centuries of prejudice, a history that included slavery and institutionalized mistreatment of African-Americans and they voted for a black man for the Presidency. Americans showed the world that they were fed up with business as usual. Americans showed that, on occasion, they were capable of voting for the man they thought would do the best job, regardless of social or prejudicial factors. They elected the tall, skinny guy with the big ears, and the funny name, and the dark skin to the Presidency. The world hailed this as a brave move in the right direction.

Before Mr. Obama was able to take office the economy began to tank. People's retirement hopes were dashed. Jobs were lost by the millions. It became apparent that millions upon millions of Americans, living in the richest, most powerful nation on the planet, could not afford adequate medical care. The international scene, well, it continued to behave abysmally. Global warming is continuing at a pace more rapid than we thought would happen and needs to be addressed by world leaders immediately. The time was right for a new leadership that could address these issues rationally, and with skilled guidance and assistance from the best minds in America, in the world.

One could look to Mr. Obama's book, The Audacity of Hope and believe that we were turning the corner, that we, as Americans, could dare to hope for better days ahead. One could dare to hope that when one opened the morning paper one could see discussion, debate, and analysis of the day's greatest issues, those issues that were destined to change the country, to change the planet. One could hope.

Yet, startlingly, I open the paper day after day, and what do I see. "The world weeps for Michael Jackson." That pair with all the kids is getting a divorce. (Don't remember their names. Don't care to.) Even when it comes to the President, what do I see? "The president is promoting a bill to curb tobacco smoking in America, yet he continues to smoke." "The President has chosen a church to attend." The President really hasn't chosen a church to attend." "The President's wife has planted a vegetable garden outside the White House." What do these things have to do with our country's need to address some pretty serious issues?

I am reminded of futuristic novels in which the citizenry is drugged and given over to elaborate entertainments to distract them from the real issues of the day, while the government goes about its business behind the scenes, and does exactly what it wants without any involvement or real voice from said citizenry. We live in a country based on the active participation of the citizenry. If that citizenry is not informed, it cannot make informed decisions. If that citizenry is not informed, the government can run roughshod over that citizenry and do exactly as it wants. We are not China. We are not Iran. We are not Honduras, where the military ousted a President who was duly elected by the citizenry. We are America, and it is time that we, as a citizenry demand a little more of the press than the President's health and religious habits. We need to demand more of the press than what Paris Hilton said to a reporter while she was drunk as a skunk on a Thursday night. We need to know about the real events in the world. We need to know the pros and cons of those issues that will affect our lives.

Have a nice Monday boys and girls. We may avoid rain until after bedtime after all. The Cubs still suck. Chicago may or may not get the Olympics in 2016. I know this. I, too, read the useless news. However, I also care about the issues that really matter. I hope to continue being informed on those matters. It's okay to get some news online, but we all need to support daily newspapers and their reporting and commentary on the issues that matter. I would not be able to comment with any degree of intelligence and insight were it not for the fact that I read them. Buy newspapers. Care about what goes on in the President's mind regarding real issues. I'll bet he'd like that. I'm quite sure that he doesn't care what you think about his sneaking a cigarette now and again or what church he attended or whether he went to church at all. He may be addicted to his Blackberry, but I'll just bet he reads newspapers too. Can you say the same? Do you think you can say the same about any President in recent memory?

Tying Up Loose Ends

There are only two more days in June, and Taste of Chicago has ramped up the caloric factor once again. 4th of July celebrations are imminent. Youths make the annual pilgrimage to Indiana to buy that which is verboten in Illinois, "Fireworks." The sky is a solid blue, not a cloud in sight. The water below is a lovely shade of summertime blue and is dotted with the white of sailboats, powerboats, and small white caps. The wind is out of the Northwest and the temperature is 79 degrees in Streeterville.

I have no overarching theme for the day, other than a few loose ends to tie up for the month of June in 2009. Number one on my list is the body of water across the street from my perch on the 14th floor. If you drive down Lake Shore Drive in Chicago, it's the one bounded on the south by that spit of land holding the Chicago Water Treatment Facility and Navy Pier and Lake Point Tower. On the west side is, well, Lake Shore Drive and Streeterville. On the east and north sides are concrete breakwaters. Thus a little artificial bay has been created where boaters like to gather and party and in the mornings and afternoons during the regular work week a lone water skier likes to practice his moves. For lack of a better name, I began referring to this body of water as Streeterville Bay. Now I have found out that the boaters actually have a name for this body of water and it isn't Streeterville Bay. Its' "The Playpen." It's the place where Chicagoans wealthy enough (or in some cases, have daddies wealthy enough) to afford a hobby that is valued in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, come to float and play. My judgement? In the summertime this name may be apt. I live here year-round. "The Playpen" is only apt for that short period between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The rest of the year it may as well be Streeterville Bay. Why? Because I said so. Enough said?

Next item. Last week I mentioned that I really don't care about the sexual peccadillos of politicians and that there are way too many more important things going on in the world to worry about than a guy who can't keep his pants up. Well, it turns out that Mr. Moral Right politician from South Carolina, Governor Mark Sanford, used public money to pay for his trip to Argentina to hang out with his Argentine love. That I do care about. It seems that Mr. Sanford actually turned down federal stimulus money to provide jobs for South Carolinians who have been hit hard by the current recession. He claimed the federal government's cash infusions to the states were fiscally irresponsible. All the while he was using state funds to fly to South America to have an extra-marital affair. This goes beyond hypocrisy to honest to god real fiscal irresponsiblity and if I may say so, "impeachable offenses." Throw the bum out, and while you're at it, send him a bill for the private travels at taxpayer expense, and enocourage his wife to sue him for enough child support and alimony to make him hurt the way his constituents are. Enough said?

The other big news thing last week had to do with celebrity deaths. It was very sad that Ed McMahon died, but he was old and had been in deteriorating health for some time. It is very sad that Farrah Fawcett died, but it was common knowledge that she had cancer and had also been in deteriorating health for some time. I acknowledge these as did the newspapers, TV stations, internet news sources, radio stations, etc, etc, etc. The one I'm getting really sick of, though, is Michael Jackson. He was cute, as a kid. He was talented. He hit his stride about the time "Thriller" was released. Then he just got weirder and weirder. Can we cease rehashing this? OK so he was only 50 years old. The guy who yells at people while promoting OxiClean on TV was only 50 and he died too. Will we be hearing about the tragedy that was his death for the next two weeks? I think not, and I'd really like us to move beyond Michael Jackson mania. Want to obsess about a tragic death? A nine year old girl in Chicago was shot to death by gangbangers because her father was a gangbanger and they were shooting at him and they were really bad shots. That's a social issue. That's important. Enough said?

That's about it for the day. July is upon us anon. Wimbledon is in the final rounds. The Tour de France begins shortly. The Cubs are still playing .500 ball. I am still attempting to write a novel about a police detective named Ed VanDyke. I still run 20-25 miles per week. Babs still plays tennis several times per week and we eat outdoors a lot. It must be summer. TV is in reruns. The movie theaters are full of summer blockbusters aimed at teenagers. Go outside and experience life. Come inside every now and again and check to see what views are apparent from the 14th floor. Enjoy.

Keeping Your Pants Up

Another beautiful day in Streeterville, aka Paradise. Partly cloudy skies and the National Weather Service says it's 92 degrees out. Took the Mini out for a ride to the grocery store, though, and it was 80 degrees at the Mini. As they say, "cooler near the lake," and we are, aren't we?

I was just wondering today, what is it about becoming a famous politician, a famous televangelist, a famous TV star, a famous movie actor, a famous just about anything that seems to promote promiscuity? For that matter, why should we care? In ordinary life, it happens too, just not with the regularity it seems to occur in the realm of the famous. However, when my boss gets caught carrying on with someone he met at work and has to get a divorce, it usually doesn't mean that he loses his job. Unless they were caught having sex on the table in the conference room. That's another matter entirely.

In the case of movie stars and TV stars, having an affair and getting a divorce seems to get you lots of press. People Magazine and all of the others of that ilk may hold you up as someone to hate, but if you're carrying on with the right person, it can mean an advance in your career. Was Brad Pitt ruined for leaving Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie? Not! Was Ms. Lips Jolie ruined for being a man-stealer? Not! Come to think of it, in performs for a living-land drugs and a stint in rehab also give a charge to one's ailing career. A topic for another day, though.

When it comes to televangelists and those who make their livings saving souls, while making millions of dollars in the process, it does seem that an extra-marital affair can be a real detriment to the bucks continuing to roll in. People seem to take issue with that, especially if the extra-marital affair turns out to be with a person of the same sex and said individual is one who has gone to great lengths to decry the evils of homosexuality. "I had a weak moment with Jeffrey. Jesus please forgive me. And keep those donations coming in. We have to save others from their weaknesses."

The one group that I find especially bewildering, though, is politicians. Once you rise to a certain level in politics, your whole life is on display for the general public, and subject to judgement by the public, the TV news, the written media, and your colleagues. Yet, every time you turn around some politician is caught with his pants down, and I'm not speaking figuratively here. The stupidity of the acts, the expectation that no one will catch you is just mind-boggling.

And then it occurs to me. Why should I care? Isn't that something this guy should be speaking with his wife about and not the Republican Senatorial Caucus, or the NBC Evening News. There are wars, and recessions, and murders, and a million more important things I need to be worrying about than whether Governor so and so or Senator so and so, or President Clinton, for that matter, can keep his equipment in his pants.

Yet the Republican Party insists on making itself the moral arbiter of America, and judging everyone in the country's behavior and setting the rules for proper behavior for everyone. This is what is known as "irony" boys and girls. As a group, the Republican Party just can't seem to keep its pants up. And Ms. Palin, aka Ms. Religious Right of 2008, has a daughter out getting pregnant while still in high school, and she is holding the rest of the country up to her ridiculous, excuse me, I meant religious standards even though her own family can't seem to do it. "Irony" is the word of the day.

It's just incredible, the amazing gall. Senators pursuing other men in public restrooms, while promoting a moral and Christian America. A Governor just disappearing for days at a time while having an affair with a woman in Argentina. Did they people of South Carolina pay for these excursions with their tax dollars? If so, I care. Otherwise, just show the photos to his wife and shut up about it. Not real news. Was Bill Clinton impeached because of high crimes and misdemeanors against the U.S.A.? No, he was vilified for lying about getting blow jobs from an intern. (And after all, what man is going to admit carrying on with a woman, not his wife, in public?) "Irony" boys and girls comes from the fact that Mr. Clinton was most vilified by those with drug or sexual peccadillos of their own.

There may be a good bit of rambling here, but my point is this. I don't really give a damn who a guy is having sex with if he's doing a good job of running my country, my state, my city, and if he is not wasting my tax dollars while doing whoever it is that he's doing. If he's doing a crappy job of running my country, my state, my city, and he is the most morally upright citizen on the face of the planet, then I care. I want someone competent running the show. Frankly, if I ever had an affair, I think just facing my wife would be punishment enough. I suspect that is the case with most men, even politician men with huge egos.

Service Please, Part II, Home Sweet Home

Another sunny, warm day in Streeterville. The pleasure craft have begun gathering in Streeterville Bay, as is their habit when the temperature rises. The National Weather Service tells me that it's 91 degrees, but with light Easterly winds off Lake Michigan it feels more like, say, 85 degrees in the immediate vicinity of the lake. Can't complain. It's summer. The view is lovely. The temperature is right. Looking forward to a Happy Hour at the Museum of Contemporary Art. On Tuesdays in the summer, they have live jazz and a wet bar out back of the MCA. Should be quite pleasant.

On the other hand, my experience with refinancing my co-op has been anything but pleasant. As interest rates fell, and the banking industry went to hell (in a handcart), Babs and I decided that having a stellar credit rating and all, maybe it was time to reconsider our current interest rate and length of loan. Perhaps we should refinance at a lower interest rate and for 15 years instead of the current 30 years. This was in April. Take note that it is currently late June, almost July.

Initially I called Bank of America, who holds our current mortgage and asked them about refinancing. The rates they quoted were not quite as low as I had been led to believe was possible at that time, and they were asking that I pay points (a percentage of the overall loan) as a fee for refinancing. Apparently Bank of America was not that hot on helping us save money. They were after all the holders of our mortgage and were making money hand over fist by keeping us in that mortgage. Hmmm.

At this point, Babs and I elected to call a mortgage broker whom we had worked with when we bought a house in Andersonville back in the 1990's. He had kept sending us promotional mail and little refrigerator magnets over the years, so we thought we would give him a shot. Dave, the Mortgage Broker, not to be confused with Dave the Doorman, assured me that while co-ops have a few legal oddities, he could handle it and he thought he could find us a rate much lower than the 6+% rate that we had with Bank of America. He called me back and told me that he could get us a 4.85% rate on a 15 year fixed-rate mortgage, and he didn't think we would have to pay any points. Cool!

As the process went on, we had to provide proof of employment, proof of income, proof of the amount of assessment fees, how much our payments were with Bank of America, how much we still owed on our loan, and just about everything you can imagine but height, weight, and current blood pressure. All went swimmingly, and we were given a date to close on the refinance loan, but then at the last minute the mortgage company called and said we couldn't close because Bank of America had failed to provide documents pertinent to the mortgage that are specific to co-ops. We'd have to wait.

We waited and waited and waited. Then at about 4;30 on a Friday at the end of May I received a call from Dave the Mortgage Broker and he told me that the mortgage rate was about to expire (at 5 PM that day and this was at 4:30), and we would have to pay 1.25 points, or about $2700 to hang onto that rate for another month, until all the necessary paperwork was in hand, organized, and ready to go. I was annoyed. Babs went ballistic. In the end we acceded.

Phone calls followed to Bank of America complaining that their diddling around had cost us $2700 and we still hadn't received the necessary documents. Phone calls ensued to Dave the Mortgage Broker telling him what I had found out from the office of the building where I live regarding what documents we were talking about. There is a whole customer service department at Bank of America and whole departments that deal with mortgages. There is a whole company that deals with nothing but getting people mortgages, and yet Babs and I seemed to be doing all the work and getting nothing for it but headaches.

We waited and waited some more. Finally, this week, a lackey of Dave the Mortgage Broker called to schedule the closing once again. Then this morning Babs and I went to the closing at a downtown Title Company, only to find that Dave the Mortgage Broker still had not gotten the Recognition Agreement that needed to be signed by the new mortgager and the mortgagees and members of the trust that runs our co-op. The Title Company Lady calls Dave the Mortgage Broker and tells him to get his butt in gear and take care of it. Dave the Mortgage Broker calls the office at the Trust that runs our building and she faxed him the documents which he is supposed to send back to us via messenger to get more appropriate signatures and eventually get to the Title Company by 5 PM on Friday, or the deal is kaput.

Then there was the problem of the liens against our building because the co-op is having some work done and the contractor did a very bad job and the trust refused to pay them until they fixed the crap that is wrong with the work they already done. The contractor is refusing to do any more work and is suing the trust. Babs and I have to get a letter certifying that the Title Insurance Company will not be liable for anything arising from this little disagreement, and in the meantime I'm running around trying to get letters assuring the Title Company of their lack of liability and signatures on the Recognition Agreement and trying to get all of this back to the Title Company by 5 PM Friday or the deal is kaput, as will be a lot of wasted hours over the last 2 months.

The question comes up, at this point, what have all of these so-called professionals been doing all of this time that I am scurrying around at the last moment trying to get crap done. Why did they not do their jobs in the first place so I would not have to do this? Why did the contractor do a half-assed job in the first place, so that people have issues with paying them? Why was I not warned of the liens before arriving at the closing? For that matter, what does a Title Insurance Company really do in the first place? You never see them until you need to close on a housing purchase. You never see them or hear from them again after that. They seem to be the only ones on the face of the planet who know precisely how to plow through the mountains of legal documents necessary to facilitate the purchase of a home. They are the only ones who seem to know precisely what signatures are needed, where all the paper has to go, and when it has to be done.

Isn't there something wrong with a legal system that has gotten so complex that no one really understands it all and experts are needed in every little area to see that all the i's are dotted and all the t's are crossed. Furthermore, all of these people make a lot of money doing things that are supposed to be a service for you and I, the public. Yet none of them seem to give a damn about doing their jobs well. None of them get it that their doing their jobs badly are just cause for someone to lose a temper now and again, especially when they are paying through the nose for the service.

Service Please

Sailboats and motor boats. Sun and blue sky and blue lake. Navy Pier in the afternoon sunlight. The National Weather Service tells me that it's 86 degrees outside, but I guarantee that it's closer to 81 in Streeterville. It's summer that we live for in these climes. The winters we survive so we can experience the loveliness that is summer at 41 degrees North 87 degrees West and along the shores of one of the loveliest inland seas on the orb that is Planet Earth.

It takes a few years of life on this planet to fully understand and appreciate this loveliness that is summer, but when you finally get it down, enjoying it to its fullest is a fine art to be honed year after year. One of the things that Babs and I have learned to appreciate over the years is dining outside. Now I'm not talking about picnics, though they have their place. I'm not talking about cheap plastic tables in the backyard of one of those beer palaces all over the City of Chicago.

On occasion, a backyard function at someone's house can be a treat, if that person knows how to do this right. Babs and I inhabit a 14th floor perch far above all of that and do not have a backyard any more. We did at one time possess a lovely backyard of a lovely old 100 year old home in Andersonville at one time, though. It was small, but it was a summertime treat. It was a brick backyard surrounded by greenery and a haven from it all in the midst of the city.

Now that we no longer possess our own little slice of the outdoors to inhabit in the summer, we are dependent on visiting friends with lovely little slices of outdoors, or more often dining al fresco in one of the many restaurants with outdoor seating. All outdoor seating is not created equal. Some are mere seats on the sidewalk. Some are a respite from the sidewalks, with a view of humanity passing. Some have lovely tables and linen tablecloths. Some are cheap metal tables from Home Depot. If I wanted that I'd go visit old neighbors and friends with backyards. One pays for the restaurant experience and stays for the ambience that is dining outside in the summer warmth. (Or just having drinks and maybe an appetizer.)

Thus far I have dwelt upon the where (outdoors) and the what (dining and drinking), but I have said precious little about the all important who that is the character of the place where you go to dine under the stars above. It may have taken a while for me to meander around to this point, but it is an important one. Who is serving you and how that individual goes about it makes all the difference in the world in your al fresco experience. Good service. Friendly wait staff. Cool. I'll come back. You, ladies and gentlemen deserve a good tip.

That being said, there are places that should be lovely places to visit, but turn out to be total disasters. What am I talking about? I'm talking about Feast on Delaware in downtown Chicago boys and girls. There was a time a few years back when Babs and I discovered this lovely little restaurant on North Avenue on the edge of Wicker Park. The food was great. The service was beautiful. We loved it. A gem. Then they became popular and moved to a larger location on Halsted in the heart of Wicker Park. Turned out to be loud, not quite so good food, and a wait staff that was clearly more interested in serving the pretty 20 somethings than a middle-aged couple who actually possessed cash for tips and such. The service was lousy and we were stuck off in a corner next to the kitchen.

Now the people who own Feast also own The Goddess and Grocer and I have nothing but praise for this place and they have locations in Wicker Park and now on the corner of Delaware and Rush in downtown. The restaurant and wine bar attached to the downtown branch was originally named Cru and had its charms, except for a problem with snotty gay waiters who didn't seem overly motivated to take care of the clientele. Tres annoying. I am reminded at this point of a New York acquaintance who once said to me incredulously, "Why would you not go to a restaurant because you got bad service?" Well friend, this ain't New York, and people actually care about getting a little respect and service for the outrageous prices you pay at these places.

Anyway, to make a short story long, Cru recently ceased to exist. It seems the well-heeled clientele of the Gold Coast and Streeterville didn't take kindly to the bad service, even if it did have an impressive wine list and a reasonably good menu. Well, turns out the owners just redid the interior a little and changed the name so they could have two restaurants with the same menu. Cru became Feast. Voila! The same crappy service that has been foisted upon all of the youngsters in Wicker Park who either don't know any better or don't really care (See the New York resident quote above.) was brought to downtown Chicago.

Babs and I have given the former Cru, presently Feast restaurant several chances. How many chances are too many? It is close to where we live and we can walk there in 5 minutes or less. It has a lot of outdoor seating. The service is crap. Does no one there understand the concept of service industry? It means you serve other people for money. It does not mean you ignore them in hopes that they will go away, unless they happen to be someone you know personally or who you think is particularly hot (Sexually).

I am not prone to giving restaurant reviews or advising people on these sort of things, but enough is enough. I will never visit this restaurant again. And I encourage others to not visit this place. The service is crap. The food is OK, but nothing special. At these prices there are a plethora of better places to spend one's money right down the street. That's Feast ladies and gentlemen, and I encourage you not to go there. Have a good evening. I think I'll go have something to eat at a good restaurant with good service.

Guys and Advice, "I Did It My Way."

I awoke about 7 AM this morning and it was raining. Then a piece of Iowa folk-wisdom passed down from my wife, Babs, occurred to me. "Rain before 7. Through by eleven. I am often skeptical of such folk-wisdom, but seeing as how my sacrifices to the Bob the Sun God hadn't brought any real effect, I was willing to hope for the best on this one. Amazingly enough, the rain stopped by 9 or 9:30. Babs got to go to her tennis lesson, and I got to go outside and run in the morning sun. It's currently 80 degrees and humid under mostly cloudy skies. Light breezes off the lake keep the areas immediately next to the lake quite comfy, thank you very much. It still looks a bit hazy in yon Eastern distance o'er Lake Michigan. I definitely cannot see Indiana in the distance today. Still in all, it has turned out to be a pleasant day, and a few pleasure boats have dropped anchor in Streeterville Bay.

I was perusing Facebook today and noticed that a friend of mine is off to Washington state to attend a running clinic. I find this interesting, because my friend, whom we shall call Rob, because his name is, ummm, Rob, has never listened to any advice about his running whatsoever. Rob and I ran our first marathon together, or rather we ran it on the same day. I ran it in 4 hours 21 minutes, and Rob was waiting for me when I got to the finish line. Waiting for slower runners and having patience are not virtues one could ascribe to Rob. He lost one girlfriend because of that, despite being advised by numerous friends that, on occasion, for the sake of the relationship, perhaps he should not just run off and leave the woman he loved in the dust.

Rob has never been much for taking advice, and as regards any screwups he may have pulled, his usual retort is, "What do I know? I'm English." Doesn't seem to matter much what the screwup. It's the standard reply, because, well, he's English. At any rate, Rob doesn't listen much to advice. Like most guys, English or not, he has the idea firmly fixed in his head that he already knows everything he needs to know, so don't go advising him. This is a bit peculiar, at times, because he actually seeks out coaching for his running. One particular coach became severely annoyed with Robbo because it seems that he is a fairly gifted runner. He just quit smoking and decided to do something healthy like running one day and a short time later was running marathons in less than 4 hours. The coach in question tried to help him because he believed that Rob could actually run a marathon in less than 3 hours, but it seems that Robbo won't listen to advice on training habits, strategies, etc. He just goes out and runs, sans strategy.

On at least one occasion, Rob ignored a doctor's advice to avoid running the Chicago Marathon because, as it turns out, Rob had "walking pneumonia." Ran the marathon anyway. Not his best marathon, but still sub-4 hour effort. He has run marathons in 3 hours 15 minutes on at least one occasion and has qualified for Boston multiple times, in spite of his lack of acceptance of advice. I find it interesting, then, that Rob pays good money to fly off to Washington state to a running clinic, from which he will return, and inevitably he will return thinking about all the wonderful advice he received. Then he will proceed to do exactly as he always has. And he will produce amazingly good results. Advice? Screw it. Bunch of know-it-alls. What do they know about me? Or in Rob's case, "What do I know? I'm English."

Another friend, whom we shall call Robert, because his name is, well, Robert, not Bob, not Bobbie, not Rob, nor Robbie, but Robert, used to have a plaque in his living room that read, "When all else fails, read the directions." Robert, another outstanding example of male stubbornness, graduated from college, and when he got his first full-time professional job began spending money on any number of hobbies that he couldn't afford before. Read up on these hobbies? Nah! Accept advice from knowledgeable sorts about these hobbies? Nah! Robert would just plunge in and accept screwups as a part of the learning curve. In a two year period I saw dead tropical fish, broken model airplanes (Got that baby to fly one circle around his head before it crashed and broke into a thousand pieces.), one expensive motorcycle lost due to theft, and any number of minor tragedies, due to one thing. Robert would not listen to anyone's advice. He had a math degree. He was smart. What did he need with advice from other people. He could figure it out for himself.

I see this trend in a great many guys and I like to think that, being a self-aware type, I'm open to a little advice and constructive criticism on occasion. However, if you ask my wife, Babs, she will tell you that I'm stubborn, intransigent, and have never listened to a word she says, and I'm just determined to do it all "my way" even if the results are tragic. Hey, my way usually produces pretty good results, and who wants other people telling you what to do all the time, even if they do a better job of some things than you. It's just annoying. Frankly, Frank had a good idea there for all of us in guyland. "I did it my way." That's a mantra we all can live by. Now if I can just work through this thing and figure out why Babs always beats me at tennis. Spare me the advice. I'm thinking about this thing, and doing it my way.

The Fine Art of Procrastination, aka Killing Time

Another grand day in Streeterville. Last evening we had torrential downpours so hard I couldn't even see Navy Pier. I awoke this morning to see that the rain had ceased but it was still cloudy. Had a breakfast date with Babs and we sat outside, because even if it were overcast, it was warm enough (High 60's at the time.). On the way home the sun came out briefly, and I was nearly blinded, but only for a short while. Fog rolled in off the lake and for most of the day the fog has been thick enough to obscure anything across the street. It is currently 71 degrees and the fog has thinned out sufficiently that I can at least view Streeterville Bay, if not the deeper water beyond and that 71 degree number is questionable. Living right across the street from a lake with a 53 degree water temperature, it is often, as they say, "cooler by the lake," meaning it's actually 65 degrees out the front door. Doesn't do much for a person's motivation to sing things like, "Hot town, summer in the city..."

Ordinarily, summers are for being outside and playing tennis, and riding bikes, and running, and all manner of outdoorsy stuff. The weather has conspired to keep me from this, but in addition I am attempting to write a novel this summer. Three days into my summer vacation, I am 14 pages into my novel and I have spent the majority of the last three days either writing or procrastinating. Mind you, I think that the fact that I have actually written 14 pages is pretty good, but the manner in which I have perfected the fine art of procrastination is nothing short of amazing.

Procrastination takes many forms. It can involve sweeping floors, making trips to the grocery store, going to the gym to fight the fat, wasting time on Facebook, checking e-mail, writing a blog (Go figure.), or just staring into space. Luckily, my current laptop has no games on it. No endless games of solitaire for me this summer, nosirree.

Today I discovered that actual writing can be avoided by doing research. I'm writing about a police detective who is solving a murder in Hyde Park, so I had to know how the Chicago Police Department is structured and where this police detective would be working from, and endless little details about CPD. It was research. Now I have to call the Chicago Police Department's Office of News Affairs and arrange a "ride along" so I can see what it's really like and ask all of those questions I need answered so my character can be fleshed out and not just some made up cartoon.

Today I realized that I can't remember all of the characters' names and so forth and I had to spend time creating a chart so I can remember who the heck they are. I'm really bad with real people's names. I can remember faces like you wouldn't believe, but names, forget it. When I was younger it was kind of embarrassing if I ran into someone I'd actually slept with, and couldn't for the life of me remember their name. I could remember every detail of their naked body, but name? Uh uh! That's a story for another day, however. Right now we're talking about characters that exist only in my mind and on the hard drive of a laptop. Come to think of it maybe I should save them on a flash drive as well. The point being that while organizing and researching and drawing charts may be helpful in the execution of writing a full-blown novel, especially a mystery novel, they also represent time not spent actually writing said novel.

I also find myself reading everything I can that can shed some light on mystery novels and cops. One book by a real-life cop about what it's like. A couple of mysteries by other authors. One mystery by someone from Chicago, to get a feel for what Chicago mystery novels that have sold sound like. Books on how to write a mystery novel.

I guess the whole point is that you can waltz around this thing forever, preparing, researching, thinking about it, organizing it, but at some point all of the excuses have to go away. You have to write. Thus far, I'm not especially proud of my production, but I have made myself sit down every day and write some. I'm averaging just shy of 5 pages per day currently. If I can do that for 25 days, I'll have 250 pages. Then there are the re-writes and fleshing outs and the cutting and adding and editing. I think that as I get my routine established I may be able to write a little more on some days and eventually I'll get tired of a lot of the procrastination tactics and be forced to face the pages. Then again, there is my guitar and those songs that I haven't finished, and the ones that need re-writes, and maybe I could get a microphone to hook up to the laptop and record some of them..... In the meantime, I think I need to go to the gym and work out.

Freedom of Speech or Just Plain Slanderous? So Who's the Fascist Really?

It's a rainy day in Streeterville. It's coming down pretty hard out there and the view of Navy Pier is somewhat obscured. Of course, that may be due to the fact that I'm breathing too hard and fogging the windows. Or not. Geek man in me tells me that the windows are fogging due to the temperature differential. Cold rain on a warm window pane. When I went to the grocery store, it was 65 degrees at the Mini. The newspaper tells me that Lake Michigan water is testing at about 53 degrees currently. Needless to say, it is not a day for going out and about or attending baseball games or swimming in Lake Michigan without a wet suit for that matter. I've elected to stay inside for the evening. The view from the 14th floor isn't that great this evening so the view from the big old flat screen TV will have to do.

I've been thinking a lot about the right wing nuts in the country and their verbal assault on President Obama, and just about anything considered liberal or rational. A guy associated with Operation Rescue or one of those Pro-Life/Anti-abortion groups kills a doctor in Kansas because he claims the doctor was a murderer. And how does one justify murder of the doctor, even if one believes the doctor to be a murderer? An 88 year old man walked into the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. and shot the first man he saw, a security guard who had opened the door for him, a black man as it turns out. The shooter is a white supremacist with a website where he rants about Jews and blacks.

Meanwhile Jon Voigt spoke at a Republican fund-raiser and called President a "false prophet" and spoke of the need to free Americans from the "Obama oppression." Republican leaders applauded the speech and lauded as a great speech, telling him to come back any time. No doubt there are some extremists out there from the fringes who believe that in light of this Old Testament style Biblical comparison, some Old Testament Biblical style punishment should be visited on the "False Prophet."

Rush Limbaugh continues his daily verbal assaults on the President. Newt Gingrich presses verbal attacks on the Democratic administration. Dick Cheney refuses to remain a retired Vice President and he continues to assert that the Obama administration is making the world a more dangerous place. The President's nominee for the Supreme Court is being called a racist by people whose whole lives have been spent promoting the interests of rich white people over all.

In a recent verbal attack on the President, it was suggested that they should no longer call him a socialist because people don't have negative connotations regarding socialism anymore. They went on to suggest that he be called a "Fascist" and went on to compare Obama's leadership to the oppression of leaders such as Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. This is coming from the right fringes of a party who were responsible for advocating the bypass of basic Bill of Rights rights, guaranteed in the Constitution, so that we could combat terrorism. This is coming from the agents who support and advocate torture of prisoners during interrogation. This is coming from those who advocate holding people without charges or access to a lawyer for indefinite periods of time, based solely on the fact that someone accused them of colluding with terrorists.

Then these right wing Republicans have their supporters in the news media, notably Fox News, whose reports and commentary on the current administration often go beyond slanted to total fiction. Sadly a lot of Americans depend on TV for their news and depend on Fox for their TV news, thus getting a very skewed view of reality. With all of this slanted, and in some cases totally false information, when does it reach the point that the speech or written word goes beyond "Freedom of Expression" and cross over into libel or slander? I submit that at many times in recent memory it already has.

Is it any wonder that with this kind of vituperation on a daily basis, that right wing nuts pick up on it? Is it any wonder that they feel justified in their violent actions when the apparent justification is all over the TV and written news? Is it any wonder when some of the leadership of the Republican Party openly admit that they feel that if someone took out the opposition it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. Yet they have the unmitigated gall to call Obama a fascist. Who's the fascist here? Sadly, the Republican Party in the U.S. has become the closest thing to a genuine "Fascist Party" that this country has ever seen. From their promotion of a military-industrial complex that dominates the country to their blame-placing on liberals and minorities and anyone who doesn't see eye to eye with them, they come closer every day to resembling the traditional "Fascist" parties of the 1930's and 1940's.

Enough is enough I say. Sadly, those who are being attacked, from the political left, to the gay rights community, to those who believe that women should have a choice about bearing a child, to those who think this should be a country where religion and governance are separate are the ones who are most likely to support the basic rights of individuals to make hate speech and encourage intolerance, and in some cases violence. Where is our resolve to end the violence, to end the hate speech, to end the slander of those who just want equality and the good life for all? This is what I ask. Is it really so much to ask?

Type A on a Bike

Today is the first full day of my summer vacation. This weekend after school was out the sun finally came out and it warmed up into the high 60's or low 70's at the lakefront. I declared it officially summer. The lakefront path was buzzing with activity of all sorts. Runners were running. Bikers were biking. Roller bladers and skateboarders were blading and boarding. People were walking dogs. People were pushing oversized baby strollers. Tourists were gawking. The Oak Street Beachstro was packed with people enjoying a meal and a drink at the beach. Castaways atop the North Avenue Boat House was cooking, although I sometimes have issues with local Chicago bar bands playing "Sweet Home Alabama." This too shall pass. Up at the Theater on the Lake, there was a blues band playing in the shadows of the building. And like the swallows returning to Capistrano, the boat parties returned en masse to Streeterville Bay. According to the Yahoo weather report it's currently 71 degrees under partly cloudy skies in Streeterville.

Perhaps it was ill-advised to do so, but I was inclined to go for a run yesterday afternoon about 2:30 PM. I laced up my shoes, put on my GPS running watch, and headed out the door, along with some 2 million or so other people. "Hey it's a beautiful day. Let's go to the lake." I successfully navigated Oak Street Beach with i's teeming masses, and North Avenue Beach and and its even more teeminger masses, and headed north past Theater on the Lake at Fullerton and the entrance to Diversey Harbor at, well, Diversey duh! Cruised on northward past Belmont Harbor feeling good and eventually made up near the Totem Pole just shy of the Waveland Avenue Golf Course.

Just before you arrive at the Totem Pole, there is a water fountain on the north side of the running/biking path, and this was my chosen turnaround point. As I approached the water fountain, I looked over my shoulder and saw 3 bikes approaching in the near distance and one more bike a good bit further back. I waited for the 3 bikes to pass and then began crossing the bike path to the other side so I could get a drink of water. Next thing you know I heard someone yelling "Watch out! Watch out!"

I jerked my head around at this point and attempted to slow my crossing, and whom should I spy closing in on me but the dude on the bike who was way far back when I looked the first time, and whom i judged to be sufficiently far away as to allow me to cross to the other side of the path safely. At this point I realized that my momentum was carrying me across the path and if I slowed that crossing I would be directly in his path and so I kept on across and the biker guy went behind me. No doubt there was adrenaline pumping on both our parts. All I can say is this dude was seriously cruising if he closed the distance and nearly hit me in the short period of time it took the other bikes to pass and me to go halfway across the path.

Biker Dude slowed down enough to yell as he passed, "Jeesus!" Never once had he acknowledged that other people were on the path as well and yelled the warning, "On your left!" At any rate, I didn't think, but found myself replying, "Jeesus, yourself asshole! Slow down. There are people on this path other than you!" At this point Biker Dude stopped a ways up the path and turned, looking like he was preparing to come back and confront me. I yelled at him, "I was looking! Were you?" He was pissed. I was pissed. At this point he started to say something back to me, but he took a look at the determination in my face, and the fact that I was obviously not going to be bullied by some Type A Personality on a bike. He turned back in the direction he had been heading and rode off. I went to the water fountain, got a drink, and headed back south for the return loop of my run.

Now at this point all the serious bikers out there are thinking, "Dumbass runner, stepping in front of a bike. All the serious runners are no doubt thinking, "Damned biker assholes, think they own the path. Riding 20+ mph down a path with all of these other people." At this point there are probably roller bladers and high guy skateboarders thinking, "What's the big deal dudes? Why don't you both just chill?" And, no doubt there is some tourist enjoying the lakefront and thinking, "Huh? Wow! You don't see this in Peoria."

Mind you I am aware of the fact that the possibility exists that I erred. However, I am also well aware of the fact that on a sunny Sunday afternoon in summer people on bikes need to be more careful. If you want to ride your bike at 20+ mph, go do it on Sheridan Road on the North Shore with the other serious bikers. Don't do it on the lakefront path in Chicago with the million other people who've gone to the lake to enjoy it before Monday comes around again and they have to face the work week again. We all have to share the path, and I honestly try to be as careful as I possibly can. Sometimes I bike as well. I know the frustrations one feels with all the pedestrians and the people who walk across the path without looking, the roller bladers making sweeping back and forth tracks into the opposite lanes. I know about the people with dogs and the people with baby carriages, and the friends and family walking 4 abreast on the path, and the tourists stopping dead in their tracks to look at something and taking a picture.

The point is that Chicago is a large city. There are a lot of people who have to share the parks and the paths. Some know the rules. Some don't. As a long-time city dweller, I know that you have to constantly be aware of all of those other people and practice defensive riding, running, skating, etc. If you don't, you're an accident waiting to happen. I've seen it. Last summer at the intersection of two paths, just south of the North Avenue Boathouse and just north of the Chess Pavilion, a biker and a runner collided. Paramedics were called. Neither person was in good shape. The biker got the worst of it. He went over the handlebars and hit his head on the path. (Wear a helmet people!) Who was right? Who was wrong? Does it matter when both parties end up in the hospital?

All of that being said, every summer since I have lived in Chicago (Since 1985) there has been at least one serious bicycle accident on the lakefront path, not to mention on the streets. Every couple of years or so, one of those bikers dies from their injuries. This is serious stuff. To Biker Dude from Sunday, 6/14, I say, "If I screwed up and misjudged, I am truly sorry." To Biker Dude I also say, "I honestly look and try to be aware when I'm out there. Perhaps you should slow down a little and do the same. There are other places where you can take your bike and ride really fast."

Once again I'm reminded of Rodney King and his "Why can't we all just get along?" Why? Because there are far too many of us who are convinced that we are the most important person on the planet and should be catered to by everyone else. When they don't it causes conflict. Just as the Sergeant on Hill Street Blues used to tell everyone, "Be careful out there." Have a good summer.

Weather Gods and Blue Jeans

Happy Saturday to one and all. It's been a couple or three days since last I was here. It seems that the end of the school year caught up with me and real life got in the way of the blogosphere for a short while. This morning weather in the low 50's and pouring rain got in the way of a good start to the summer. Well it's afternoon and the sun has magically returned. Perhaps it was the goat I sacrificed to the god of the sun. The sun god has many names in many cultures. Around here we just call him Bob, and we call him on his cell phone, which I have been sworn to secrecy not to divulge. Anyway, Bob the Sun God told me that he was having a few of his god buddies and buddettes over and a select few demi-gods, and he could sure use a goat to roast. Lucky for me sides of goat were readily available at Costco. I obliged. Bob the Sun God was pleased. The Biblical proportion rains ceased. Now if we can only negotiate some normal mid-June temperatures. Maybe Bob would like some excellent t-bones. Costco had a pretty good deal going on them. Hmmm. Anyway, when I went to the grocery store earlier this afternoon it was 56 degrees at the Mini.

You know, when you think about it, over the millennia we've all become accustomed to pleasing the gods with a little bribe here and there. A goat sacrificed here, a vestal virgin there. Is it any wonder then that politicians are always getting caught with their hands in the cookie jar? Hey, in order to go into politics in the first place you have to possess and ego the size of a god. I suppose most believe they are just this side of godhood. I suspect that's the in joke amongst Washington insiders. "Where you live man?" "Oh you know, in the God 'Hood." But to make a short story long, the point is that with egos the size of Montana, and a belief that they are very near godhood, it's only a small step to thinking that mankind should give them little gifts, a.k.a. making sacrifices to the gods, so that they should be appeased. Then they might just find it in their hearts to do you a little favor. Then those damned judges and prosecutors, a.k.a. persecutors, get all bent out of shape and next thing you know they're building a whole new wing on the federal penitentiary just to house the politicians from Illinois.

Anyway, that's not what I intended to talk about today. What I intended to talk about was blue jeans and America's love affair with denim. Babs and I went out for a little while this afternoon, after the rains had ceased. We stopped off at 900 North for a fro-yo. I don't care if it is 56 degrees out, it's mid-June and it's time for frozen desserts dammit. Didn't go outside with it, too damned cold. Sat in the 1st floor lobby of 900 North and watched the crowds flowing in and out and seeing to it that the economy doesn't collapse. Then we headed off through Bloomingdale's, by way of the shoes. Babs had to look at shoes. Just a reflex I suppose. Anyway we eventually made it out the side door and off down the street to Einstein's to pick up some bagels for Sunday breakfast.

On the way it was decided that my current jeans were getting a little frayed and worn-looking. It might be time for a new pair of jeans and as luck would have it, just two doors up from the bagel shop, what should we espy but a store that was entirely devoted to, you guessed it, blue jeans. Now mind you this was no little shop that caters to teenagers and sells jeans to fit all at a relatively low cost. This was "Gold Coast Shopping." This was a shop where they try to elevate blue jeans to the status of "haute couture." Snooty pretentious sales staff and snooty pretentious blue jeans, all for a snooty pretentious cost. But it is the "Gold Coast" and everyone in the neighborhood has a gold card at minimum, or they're not allowed in. I didn't end up buying any jeans, though the sales girl assured me I looked great in them.

But I digress. The point is that America has a love affair with denim. Walk down any street, even in the most upscale neighborhoods and you see people in jeans of all sorts, as well as jeans on people of all sorts. Boys, girls, men, women, young, old, middle-aged, they all wear jeans. Many sport shirts and jackets of denim as well. Where did this come from?

Back in the 1800's Levi Strauss invented blue jeans as a heavy duty work material. It was for working men because it wore well and endured much. By the 1950's Mr. Strauss's blue jeans had become a favorite of teenaged boys all across this great land of ours. Wearing working men's clothes was a sort of protest and a way of making a statement. Then by the 1970's all the girls had begun wearing them as well. It was the "Baby Boom Generation" and denim became the uniform of the people. "Stickin' it to the man in my denim jeans."

Then the "Baby Boomers" grew up and found that they still liked those damned jeans. Beat the hell out of those stodgy old khakis and dress pants, or in the case of the women, the dresses and slacks that were available. People might dress differently when they went to work, but when they went home out came the jeans.

Then some bright marketing sort decided that the jeans that had come in a direct descendancy from Levi Strauss's work pants were, in some cases, a bit declasse. How about we create "designer jeans," something that is made of denim but that can be worn in places that are traditionally kind of "dress up places." Then people began to market boot cut, straight leg, easy fit, stone-washed, distressed, and all kinds of variations on the basic jean until people couldn't even go into a store and just buy a pair of jeans anymore without making some major fashion statement. And the streets are filled with blue jeans, of all these shapes, sizes, colors, styles, and on people of all shapes, sizes, and styles. In the end, though, they're all just people wearing blue jeans. Levi Strauss would have been proud.

There is something in the American mindset that tells us that we're all being egalitarian, we're all just "Working Joes" under the skin, and the blue jean seems to fit our national character. Well it does, sort of. Rest assured, however, not all blue jeans are created equal and not all Americans are created equal. Underneath that veneer of national equality, lies a divide as wide as the Milky Way. I recognize that I and my jeans are not in the same monetary and power structure with G.W. Bush and his posse, nor am I in the same strata as Mr. Obama in his jeans. Still, I like my jeans, and I suspect that in my 99th year I will still be wearing jeans and tennis shoes and t-shirts. It's ingrained in my person. It's a big part of who I am, when I'm busy just being who I really am. I can dress and look and act the part of somebody else when necessary. I own a suit. I own some dress pants and starched shirts and silk ties. I even own some Italian dress shoes, but on the day I die someone will no doubt take note of the fact that a large majority of a long life was spent in jeans. I'd prefer it if you cremated my remains, but when it comes down to it I'll be dead and not in a position to bargain that issue. Don't really care if you bury me on the "Lone Prairie" or ditch my remains in the "Deep Blue Sea." Just remember this. If you bury me and you want people to honestly say "He looks so natural," you'll have to bury me in my jeans.

Time to Pay the Piper

OK I need to seriously consult some global warming experts and ask "What's up with the weather dudes?" The sun is out. The sky is blue. The lake looks lovely, as does Navy Pier and the water treatment plant, as they are bathed in slanting afternoon sunlight. It's June 10 and it's 58 degrees at the Mini. I'm getting really tired of long sleeves and light jackets. I'm getting really tired of Easterly winds off Lake Michigan. (The Chicago Sun-Times tells us that the lake water is 51 degrees currently.) And I'm especially getting tired of having to bitch about the weather. We're 11 days from the solstice, and that means we oughta' be warm!

I went to the Outpost in Back of the Yards today and I fully expected kids to clean out lockers and get those textbooks back. At present, some 60 kids out of the full complement of 134 have failed to turn in textbooks, and will consequently receive a debt slip. Of those 60 kids 50 are Freshmen. Perhaps it's 55 total and maybe it's not actually 60 because some owe for two books, one little $25 book and one $65 monstrosity. Tomorrow I fill out the debt slips. My best estimate of the cash owed to the school for the non-returned textbooks runs in the thousands of dollars.

At this time of year I am always amazed. Kids leave school for the summer and fail to clean out their lockers. When the school goes and cuts locks off the lockers, we always find scads of textbooks that have been charged to the kids who didn't return them. We also find book bags, coats, shirts, hoodies, shoes, and a plethora of notebooks and paper. How did it come to be that these kids have so little regard for the value of things that they just abandon them all and hope Mom and Dad will pay for more?

Mind you, this occurs in a school where 98% of all students come from families living below the poverty line. Eventually Mom and/or Dad, and/or Grandparent(s) and/or guardian of choice will have to replace book bags, hoodies, shirts, gym shoes, notebooks, etc. They will also be charged for the non-returned or lost or misplaced textbooks. Students are not allowed to graduate or get transcripts so they can transfer unless all debts are paid. So what's up with this behavior?

When I look at the sheer numbers of non-returned textbooks, and non-paid activity fees, etc., and I see that by far the majority of them are from Freshmen. What has been going on in Elementary School that they are totally unprepared for reality when they get to High School? I get the feeling that many of them do not believe that they will actually have to pay for stuff. It's a harsh lesson when they get to High School and they actually have to pay (Or their parents/guardian has to pay).

At one other Chicago Southside High School where I worked, there was a young man who actually made it to graduation day to find out that he owed $900 for textbooks galore, unpaid fees, and sports uniforms not returned. His mother made him work it off. He was shocked. Many of my division (Homeroom) students were shocked today to discover that because they had failed to pay their activity fees, they could not receive a Yearbook.

Likewise many of my students were totally shocked to find out that after months of me cajoling them and prodding them and warning them, and they continuing to act like total idiots and not doing a bit of classwork and failing all there tests, actually failed the class. They were shocked to find that they were advised to attend Summer School, which begins next Monday. (And Summer School costs $25/class. Regular school is free.) Alas, all of those who passed their classes will be sleeping in, or getting a job to make a little cash, but those who didn't believe that the teacher would actually fail them will be getting up early to spend their summer in class, making up the credit they didn't get for that class they didn't actually believe they'd fail. Again, what's going on in Elementary School that these kids arrive here and don't have a firm grasp on reality?

Last but not least in this spiel, I have to relate the story of a young man who, in the company of another young man showed up for my class today, mostly just to ask what his grade was. It is important to understand that the first young man is a student with above average ability and a lazy streak that caused him to squeak by with a D. It is important to know that the second young man is a Special Education student with a learning disability. He too received a D, but with a lower average and definitely with a lesser grasp of the facts of the class than the first young man. In real-life education, these two are judged not on actual output, but on perceived individual ability. The first young man has more expected of him, so he got a D. The second young man had an average that was just out of the normal passing range, but because of his IEP (Individual Education Plan) less work is expected of him, and the lower average is considered passing. The first young man was incredulous, not grasping the subtle nuances of life in public education. He just looked at me in total astonishment and said, "I got the same grade as he did?"

There are many oddities about the above story. I am not allowed to convey to the first student that the second is a Special Education student and thus gets preferential treatment in grades. I am not allowed to tell him that his grade was earned and the second student's grade comes with a note on his transcript, noting that he is Learning Disabled, and the grade, therefore, does not mean the same thing. The first student may become disillusioned and cease trying to excel at all if he gets the same grade as the second student for an obviously better effort. The second student may get a false sense of accomplishment and when he gets out of High School will be up a creek if he continues putting forth the same effort and expecting positive results. There are no Special Education teachers or laws in the adult world of work and family. Everyone plays by the same rules there. Either you do the job up to expectations or you get canned. Hard lessons to learn, when all of your life people have been letting you get by for less than others. Just time to "pay the piper," that's all.

When the Sky is Gray, but the Mood's Not Blue

It's a mostly gray day in Streeterville. There are light winds out of the southeast, off Lake Michigan and it's 63 degrees at the Mini. It's funny how the lake reflects the color of the sky and on a gray day the sky and the lake sort of blend together at the horizon. I know that Indiana is down there at the south end of the lake, but I'll be darned if I can see it today. It's just as non-existent to the vision as is the state of Michigan somewhere over the eastern horizon. Today's it's all gray.

That being said, the reader's impulse might be to assume that the mood of the writer might be as gray as the lake and sky, but not so campers. The mood is on an upswing. The wind was out of the southeast, not the northeast today and the temperature is up in the 60's, not dwelling in the 50's as it has so often recently. The palm trees at the Oak Street Beachstro don't appear to be in danger of freezing. Weather is warming up ever so slowly.

At the Outpost in Back of the Yards, all of the real work has been completed for the year. We're just putting stuff away for the summer, locking up things that matter so the summer school employees or students don't make off with them. Battening down the hatches, so to speak. Tomorrow the kids get their yearbooks and if they don't return textbooks they also get debt slips. Thursday students are off and teachers get free breakfast and a survey to fill out from a school of education that monitors our progress year to year. Generally this day includes a long lunch break somewhere out of the school building. Then comes Friday and the kids are all gone with their report cards by 11 AM. Teachers who attended both Parent-Teacher Conferences during the year are allowed to go home, with full pay by noon. Then there's a party at one teacher's house all afternoon. "School's out for summer!....."

This summer, I have aspirations of completing a fiction project. From time to time I may try some of it out on you, at this location. With no education related issues to take up the tone of my posts, I suspect the entire direction of the Views to go in a different direction. I may take up larger societal issues from time to time, as I always have, but the day to day inspired posts will have a different slant. They'll be based on days spent in an entirely different fashion.

In the meantime, I have to arrange a ride with the Chicago Police Department and interview cops about their jobs and the structure of the Chicago PD and how one gets to be a detective. A friend of mine is coming to visit next week. His name is Ed Van Dyke, Detective, Chicago PD. I hope you like him. For now I need to cogitate. Ta. Ta.

Summertime

The day started off a little ominously this morning with rainy skies, and lightning, and rumblings. It has turned out to be quite alright, though. The skies have gone to partly cloudy with big puffy cumulus cotton balls floating by. There are runners and bikers on the path and swimmers in the lake , and even a lone water skier. It's 83 degrees at the Mini. It's summertime and the living is easy. Thank you Mr. Gershwin.

The last few days have been a bit hectic. It's the last week of school in educationland, and that brings with it all those things you may or may not remember. Prepping for final exams. Taking final exams. "Can I take it over again Mr. Ray? Is there anything I can do for extra credit?' Oh yeah, the moment of panic for the students who know in their heart of hearts that they screwed up. For the record, Mr. Ray has been warning them all year long and he doesn't do extra credit, at the last minute. Shoulda done what you were supposed to do when it was supposed to be done.

Some who were borderline and showed that they actually knew a little something and a few who were dumb as rocks but really tried hard, well those kids will get the benefit of the doubt and a pleasant surprise when they find out Mr. Ray actually has a heart. Shhh! Don't tell them that beneath that gruff exterior is a real softy. "You owe me kid, big time. Don't forget that." I'll be their friend forever.

At this point, all of the papers are graded. All of the grades are entered online. Just trying to get most of the textbooks back to minimize the number of debt slips for non-returned books. Inevitably, scads will fail to bring the books back and 2 or 3 years from now when they're ready to graduate they'll be told that they still owe $75 for a book they didn't bring back to Mr. Ray. Much moaning, wailing, and gnashing of teeth ensues. They come to see Mr. Ray with a sob story and a "I brought that book back. Don't you remember?" To this the standard reply is "No I don't remember. That was several hundred students ago, and I don't remember about all of those books. That's why I keep written records, and according to the records, I never saw the book. You owe the school $75." Much moaning, wailing, and gnashing of teeth ensues yet again. "Could I check through that stack of books and see if it's there?" To this, the standard reply, "Knock yourself out. Just restack them as neatly as you found them when you're through." On a few rare occasions the student actually finds the book, or remembers that they have it at home and they manage to get it back to me. It is then that I have to tell them. I don't want this. You need to show it to the office that handles the debts. Let them see it and they'll remove the debt.

Then there are the panic-stricken who realize that they have screwed up beyond redemption and must consider the worst of all possible options, Summer School. The realization that instead of sleeping late and playing video games, they will be getting up early and spending half days in a classroom, taking a class they hate, for the second time, washes over them and the sadness and resignation becomes apparent in their faces. Then it occurs to them. "Will you be teaching summer school, Mr. Ray?" "Nope! I'm taking the summer off. I'll be sleeping in, thank you very much." Then they begin wondering, "Will you be my teacher again next year, Mr. Ray?" In this case, both parties, student and teacher are much relieved at the "Nope," answer. This kid does not want to see me again for a long while and I generally feel the same way about them. "Go away kid. Work on your study habits. Get a new teacher who doesn't have pre-existing ideas about you, and start afresh." Meanwhile, I'll take on a new crop, who have to get used to me and me to them. That's a whole summer away, though.

Meanwhile, there's a rainbow over Navy Pier, and by all appearances that pot of gold must be in Indiana somewhere, maybe at one of those casinos over there. The running path awaits me. The tennis courts beckon. The tires on my bike need airing. The next 2 1/2 months look pretty good to me. By then I'll be ready to face it again. And Mr. Gershwin's lyrics ramble around in my head, "It's summertime and ...." mixed with "Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin...." and "In the summertime when the weather is hot, you can reach right up and touch the sky. In the summertime, you got women, you got women on your mind...." Cheers, boys and girls. Summertime is just about to begin.

Brand Name Loyalties

The sun is shining. The sky is clear and blue. The water is a reflection of the blue above. There are a few assorted sailboats in the distance and one speedboat zipping across the artificially created bay within the concrete barriers across the street. There are 3 power boats anchored in the bay, just hanging about. The air is clear enough to see all the way to Indiana this afternoon. There is a light wind out of the northeast and it's 59 degrees at the Mini. Not bad for an early June afternoon in Toronto. Too bad I'm in Chicago. Weather dudes promise warmer weather tomorrow. Believe it when I see it.

I was in the kitchen a short while ago and I was looking for something to munch. I found some pre-sliced ham from Hormel in the meat locker and a small slice of it was very good, thank you. I got to thinking that a couple of weeks ago I went to the grocery store, Dominick's, for the record. When I was looking for my fave ham, I discovered that they had none, but they had another brand of pre-sliced ham that I had never heard of. I bought it, and subsequently rued that decision. It was not as good. Should've bought something else.

There are a lot of reasons that we develop brand loyalties. In some cases, as in the case of the aforementioned brands, it is because one is clearly better. Usually you pay more for such a brand. In the case of clothing, it took me a long time to come around on this matter, but I have had to admit to Babs that the pricier items are usually better looking when you wear them, and are a better quality. OK, I admit it. I've developed a fondness for Italian clothes. Damn they're expensive. Damn they're good pieces of clothing. Thank god I have no children. I would be shorting them a college education to pay for my shoes.

But I digress. In the case of the Hormel ham, there are other reasons that I have developed a loyalty to this company. Babs is from Northern Iowa originally, just south of Austin, Minnesota, home of Hormel and Spam. Certain members of Babs's family manufacture and sell the feed that goes to the porcine beasts that become Hormel meats. One can easily see the connection. Haven't eaten any Spam in a while, but do not denigrate Spam to anyone who lives on an island in the Pacific. It is revered in those climes. (I once taught school in Guam. I know of these things.) At any rate Hormel has a place in our hearts and in our refrigerator at the Ray household. Brand loyalty.

There are other brands, for which we often develop a loyalty for no apparent reason than, "My mother always bought that and when I got my first apartment it's what I started buying. Take Green Giant frozen vegetables. Are they any better than say, Birds Eye. I see no discernible difference, but faced with a choice between the two, the Green Giant ends up in my freezer. Why? Some old girlfriend's mother always bought Green Giant and when I was first buying frozen veggies for my freezer, she instructed me to buy it and I remembered all of those commercials from my childhood, "In the valley of the jolly, Ho! Ho! Ho! Green Giant." Got that sprout?

When it comes to autos many families develop attachments to certain brands. The cars my family bought when I was a child varied from time to time but the models that tended to show up time and again were Fords and Plymouths. My father liked them, and the price was right. I had friends whose families were Cadillac or Lincoln Continental families, but more often than not my friends' families were Chevrolet, Pontiac, or Dodge families. They came complete with jokes about Ford families, "Ford, oh you know what that stands for don't you? Fix Or Repair Daily." I once heard the same thing about the Italian auto, Fiat, "Fix It Again Tony." The point is that I have never noticed Ford or Chevrolet being greatly superior to one another. They are both inexpensive American car brands for working class families. Loyalties develop, though, and people convince themselves that their brand is better, whether this is based on any reality or not.

In a more contemporary instance, there are people I know who rave about French wines as the be all and end all of wines. Yes the French make some damned good wine. A lot of people in the U.S., Australia, South Africa, Chile, Argentina, and who knows where else borrowed all of that French wine-making knowledge and put it to work in their own countries, and it's usually a lot cheaper. It's impossible to contain or own knowledge. It gets away from you. Ask the Brits. They tried to keep the steam engine and their early industrial knowledge to themselves. They were getting rich. Pretty soon that knowledge went to the U.S. to Belgium, to Germany, to France. The U.S. tried to keep that atomic bomb thing to themselves, but pretty soon those ideas were spread all over the globe. When it comes to brand loyalty, though, I'll take a U.S. nuke any day. Just kidding. For the record, I'm for nuclear disarmament, just to save humanity from extinction, mind you.

Anyway, I was just thinking that we all develop these brand loyalties, and often for not so very good reasons. If the superior product always sold better, as per the teachings of Adam Smith, a lot of the crap out there would cease being sold. People are not always so discerning when it comes to quality. I haven't the space here and now to go into that whole thing about buying quality for a higher price versus buying at a lower price, but with a lower quality thing. That's an economics lecture best saved for my students. Somehow, I too have a few brand loyalties. On the whole, though, I do not follow my parents' trends. I have owned a German car, a couple of Japanese cars, a British car, a few American cars. I buy clothes based on what I like and that changes from time to time. I buy groceries based on what I think I want at the moment, and that changes from time to time.

I think the marketing gurus have me pigeon-holed, however. I get a lot of advertisements in the mail and on-line for stuff that is running and biking and outdoorsy related. Any particular brand, though? Nope. I get a lot of stuff that identifies me as a liberal, college-educated, wine drinking, sharp cheese and olive eating, grind your own coffee beans, espresso making lakefront snob dude. But do I have a specific brand loyalty? Nope. I like what's good at the moment.

In retrospect, all of these years that I have been in Chicago, I have developed only one lasting brand loyalty that I can identify. Go Cubs! Maybe not this year, but next.

To Pass or Not to Pass, That is the Question

It's a bright sunny afternoon in Streeterville with a crisp feel of autumn in the air. There is a brisk 20 mile per hour wind blowing in from the northeast that speaks of winter to come and is creating white caps on the lake and big crashing waves at Oak Street Beach. It's 56 degrees at the Mini and it's the kind of day that makes one think of football games, warm sweaters, and fireplaces. The trouble is that it's June 3rd and the Oak Street Beachstro has already put out the imported palm trees for summer. The lifeguards on duty are freezing their butts off out there. Looks lovely from this side of the window on the 14th floor. Feels downright cold out there, especially when that Northeast wind hits you in the face. Welcome to "The Summer That Forgot to Be."

I finished reviewing kids for finals today. The testing begins tomorrow. It's always amazing to see kids who never study, or worry about grades all year long, and then one or two days before their finals begin they suddenly become worried about their grades. Some of these kids have 35% averages and an A on the final is not going to make a big difference in their overall average. Still, you have to encourage them, and frankly most of them will continue their year-long pattern of making abysmal grades on tests.

This brings up an interesting dilemma in teacher-land. Occasionally there is a student who has 35 absences and an overall average of 35% who comes in and scores a 95% on the final exam. Clearly they have managed to master the major concepts necessary for passing the course. That's what final exams are supposed to measure. Yet they have come up way short on the day to day stuff that the other kids have diligently performed. Some of those diligent kids trudging through it all still manage to have only 55% averages in a world that recognizes 60% as a bare bottom D and therefore passing.

So what do you do? Do you pass the kid who obviously has other issues, but does know the material, as proven on the exam? Do you fail the kid who showed up day after day and did everything you asked of him or her? In a world where only numbers matter, both would fail. They both come up short in the overall average department. In a world where teachers care about kids, sometimes both will pass, the one because they obviously know the material and need to be encouraged to achieve, the other because they are always likely to come up short, but doggone it they are trying as hard as they can, and they need to be encouraged to keep trying, too.

Reality is that teachers take every kid on a case by case basis, and make judgements on the merits of that case. It is not a science. It is an art, and don't let any B.S.er tell you different. Some kids with the 95% test score and the overall failing average will fail. Some will not. There are a lot of variables to consider. Some kids with a 55% average and a 95% attendance and compliance average will pass, some will not. There are a lot of variables to consider, once again. Some kids deserve to pass. Some kids need the kick in the seat of the pants that an F gives them.

As teachers, a great many of us hate this time of year. We spend hour upon hour agonizing over what we are doing to a child's life. We spend hour upon hour agonizing over whether to pass a kid or fail them, and then agonizing over whether we really did the right thing. It's a part of the process. You worry about it, but then a kid 5 years after graduation comes to visit you and apologizes for being an idiot in your class, thanks you for being the hard guy with them, and you realize that you really do affect the lives of these kids for the better. It makes it worth the struggle.

Tomorrow the agony begins for the students. Exams begin. Friday afternoon, after all the exams are completed the agony of the teachers begins. Papers to grade. Grades to be averaged. Judgements to be made. Discussions and conferences with colleagues and administrators to be held. Then it's suddenly over and it's summer. Everybody breathes a sigh of relief and goes to enjoy the warmth.

What's Wrong With Our Schools, Part 782

Looking out the windows on the 14th floor, it's yet another dreary day in Streeterville. It has ceased raining momentarily, but the last time I checked, it was 57 degrees under cloudy skies at the Mini. The horizon is shrouded in fog, and there's no way that I'm seeing all the way to Indiana this afternoon. Dave the Doorman assures me that there's an East to West line about 30 miles south of here and below that line it's 88 degrees. Unlike Larry the Doorman, who is never wrong in matters of meteorology, Dave the Doorman can be full of shit about most anything, and usually is. I'll reserve my opinion until I get confirmation of said 88 degree line.

I shall also reserve my opinion of public education in America until such time as I get to work in a school where people have not lost their sanity. It seems obvious that a great many who toil at the Outpost in Back of the Yards have lost their sanity. Otherwise they would not try my patience so. I am a patient man, but there are times when I must insist, "You've got a lot of f*****g nerve."

But perhaps I should start at the very beginning of this sordid tale (A very good place to start, as we all know from listening to The Sound of Music). It seems that this year I was blessed with the presence of a young man in my Freshman level World Studies class during the last period of the day. Said young man, as it turns out, does not like to work, likes to do anything he can to disrupt orderly classes, and thus keeps classmates from working as well. Said young man, likes to sport gang colors, when we are a uniform school and the colors of his gang are definitely not part of The Outpost's uniform color scheme. Said young man likes to run amok in the halls and not attend class on most days. Said young man appears in class only when security guards round him up and force him to attend class. It is then that he either (a) disrupts class, or (b) attempts to sleep. Apparently, learning about world history and cultures is not a part of his "To Do List."

Now with 40 some odd absences from class and 10 plus tardies, on those days that security has rounded him up, and a list of zeros on assignments longer than my left arm, one would think that a failing grade would be a given, n'est-ce pas? I thought so. Apparently, there are those who think otherwise. They are called the Special Education Department. Said young man is a "Special Needs" student. He was apparently diagnosed several years ago as having a learning disability (LD in education jargon). That being said, all students in public schools, with learning disabilities get Individual Education Plans (IEPs in education jargon). There are accommodations that must be made, by law, for said students. This varies with the individual student, based on individual ability.

Now, mind you, the young man in question has been getting failing grades for an entire school year, based on lack of effort, lack of attendance, and lack of respect for teachers, staff, other students, or much of anything. I had a conference with his father earlier in the year, and his father knows his kid is ill-behaved and is prone to causing problems in a classroom. In his words, "This has been going on since early in grammar school. I've talked and talked to him. I've tried everything." Yet the kid goes on in the same manner, year after year. Why?

My current theory is that the Special Education Department has created this monster. They pass him along, no matter what. He has gotten the idea that it doesn't matter what he does because he will be passed, because he is LD, no matter how many times he is absent, no matter how many times he refuses to do assignments, no matter how many times he curses out a teacher, no matter how many times he wanders the halls in gang colors, no matter how many times he checks his messages and texts friends on his cell phone in the middle of class.

Each Special Education student is assigned a "Service Provider" who looks after them, gives them special assistance, acts as their advocate, and sees to it that the IEP is followed, that is the listed accommodations are provided for said student. The student I have been speaking of has such a person as well. We are currently 3 school days from the end of Final Exams, and 4 school days from the deadline for grades. Today, after all this time, after all of the incidents, after much, much failure I was requested to come to a meeting with the Service Provider, the Case Manager, another Special Education teacher who was there for I have no idea what reason, the father of the student, and the student, to address why this student is failing. Where have these people been this entire school year?

Today, a woman who calls herself the Case Manager (She oversees the Special Education Department.) had the audacity to ask me if they gave this young man a review and a little assistance and he proved on the final exam that he actually knew a little about World Studies, would I find it in my heart to pass him. Excuse me! Where were you when he failed at every marking period previously? Where were you when he was missing from class 40 something school days? Where were you when he was being escorted to the Discipline office for the 15th time this year? The young man in question has an average of 9%. Not a typo, 9 as in N-I-N-E P-E-R-C-E-N-T. And they want me to pass him. When I say "they", we may exclude the father. He knows better. It's just the Special Education ladies.

There is much ado in America about bad schools turning out students who cannot read, who have no work ethic, who cannot do simple math, and these women have the unmitigated gall to ask me to pass a kid who has done not one shred of work and has done everything in his power to totally disrupt my class, and when he couldn't then chose not to attend for long stretches of time, choosing to run in the halls with his fellow gang members. What would I tell his fellow students? "Oh well, your hard work is important, even if people who don't do squat get passing grades." Right! What message does this send to the student in question? What it says is that no matter what you do, you will pass. Only suckers work hard.

Unfortunately, this is doing this student and thousands of others just like him no good whatsoever. When he gets out of high school, he will run up against the harsh reality that there are no Special Education teachers to run interference for you in adult life. You do the job or you get fired. Unfortunately for this specific young man, what I see for him down the road is conflict with the police. What I see for him is a future where he gets shot or locked up. The Special Education ladies would have you believe that they are just caring for this young man with a disability. What they fail to recognize is that if he actually made the effort he would be okay and I would help him along. I actually care about kids. Part of caring is letting them know when they need to cut the crap and do what's right. Part of caring is letting them know that success is a result of hard work, not playing the system. Part of caring is sending the right message, not greasing the path for the ones who want to skate.