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.