I was in New York this weekend for my best friend's baby shower and while it was, of course, a very happy occasion, it seemed slightly more complicated than its pink ribbons and bows let on.
We'd decided against any sort of "theme" (and likewise nixed the horrible party games that often are part of these events), but, if there had to be a theme, I think it would have been something like, "Ambivalence: Bring a gift that reflects your deeply conflicted feelings about modern motherhood."
Sadly, they don't make pre-printed invitations for that one.
So most people went with the more standard-issue gifts, like tiny little articles of clothing that come with tiny little matching accessories, like tiny little hats and tiny little socks.
Still, there was something in the air that went, appropriately, unsaid. This was, after all, a gathering of women -- most of us in our early 30's (or, what passes, in our demographic, for peak childbearing years) and a handful of older, presumably wiser, elders. And it would have been cool if we could have had some sort of conversation about how, exactly, anyone is supposed to do this whole motherhood thing.
My friend, whom we were showering, has been married for seven years and has been pretty resolute in maintaining that no, thanks for asking, she was not aware of the ticking of any sort of biological clock. She's the kind of brilliant and obsessive thinker, who, were she not married to one of the most nurturing men on the face of the planet, you could easily see living a busy, career-focused "life of the mind" that does not include raising children.
And, throughout her pregnancy, she's refused to get into all the elevation-of-motherhood-above-all-other-endeavors stuff that seems to characterize modern yuppie parenthood. She is (as yet, anyway) unconflicted about continuing her career and having her daughter taken care of in a day care center. This has cast her, in her words, as "the bad mother" in her birthing classes.
Because the cultural trend of the moment seems to hold that she should be "glowing" and "basking" and all of that. And, if she isn't, well, she must be doing something wrong.
There is only one right way to be pregnant these days, it seems. It has to be the most blissed out, wonderful thing that's ever happened in your life.
And even my friend, who is beloved for her honesty and directness, realized that you're not allowed to say otherwise at your baby shower.
Her shower was hosted by three childless women: a single friend who lives in Manhattan and is contemplating moving in with her boyfriend, her lesbian sister who plans to move in with her girlfriend later this year and me, the newlywed. It's possible we were sort of underqualified for the endeavor.
The single friend, who lives alone in a really great apartment, is nervous about the idea of sharing personal space with someone, even someone she loves. It's tough to imagine have a kid while living in separate apartments.
The lesbian sister is pretty sure she doesn't ever want to give birth to a child, but might consider raising one with a partner.
And I'm refusing to entertain questions on the subject until I've been married for a year.
Still, though we've all discussed these feelings privately, when it came to putting a public face on for the party, we all found ourselves oohing and ahhing over the unbearable cuteness of pink footie pajamas. To do otherwise is simply unthinkable.
It was all great fun. But it seemed, somehow, too, a little like a lost opportunity.
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I received tons of e-mail regarding Friday's column and thought I'd post some samples here. I guess this is pretty naive of me, but I was totally taken aback by the people (and there were about a half-dozen) who took this an opportunity to sound off against the racism they experience as white people. Anyway, these e-mails provide as good a measure as any I've seen lately on how Chicagoans feel about racism in this city.
I really love this one and will bring a copy of it over to the Sambolas tonight:
While I agree that it is difficult to understand the level of hate that it must take for people to do the things that they do, the fact remains that evil exists in this world and we all have an obligation to respond to it in a loving fashion. Please let the family know that I am so sorry about what occurred and that I am very happy that they have come to live here in the Chicago area. My family and I would love to welcome them into our home for an evening of food and conversation as a way of welcoming them to our city. Please pass this note of apology to them and let them know that there are thousands of people who are thrilled that they have moved here.
And this one was quite heartening, as well.
I love it when you get outraged. Too few people feel strongly about the evil in this world. But I wish you could help out those of us who want to help. For instance you could have given us a bank # and address so we could send a few $ to the Sambola family in apology for their hate-filled neighbors.
Please don’t mention a great wrong without directing your readers to a way of righting that wrong, an organization that really helps or a source of aid for a specific problem.
The Sambolas receive some assistance from the Refugee Resettlement Project at Catholic Charities. You can get information on how to donate to that program here. I'm also going to set up an account for an education fund for the girls and I'll post information on that as soon as I have it.
Here, though, is one of the first responses I got. And it really kind of ticked me off.
Black on white racism is very common and not at all quiet but why do we never hear about it? Because white people have been taught to feel bad for acts that SOME of our ancestors commited against black people. The media constantly portrays the evil white man, the black commedian constantly rips the white man while a crowd full of white people pay to listen to it and laugh. But more so its the media and 75% is white people like yourself adding to this false sense of "the way things are". Now dont get me wrong I'm not some lunatic claiming that your anti white. I understand that you used this case as an example, but if your going to show this anti black racism maybe you should also show a view from the other side of the spectrum. How about the hardcore anti white and hispanic sentiment that is widespread in every black community in this city. How often do you hear about a white person being beaten or mugged for being in a black neighborhood? Never yet it happens frequently. White people cannot walk down the street in black neighborhoods and are taking a huge risk even driving through them. Blacks have no problem strolling through our neighborhoods and for the most part living in our neighborhoods but still when the term racism is used its automatically deemed to be white on black racism. "Nigger" is a word that will turn heads and possibly get you shot and it is not a word you will hear often used by whites, especially in front of blacks, but they have no problem loudly using the term honkey and whitey still to this day. So if you choose not to show racism from every angle i say to you This is not pre civil rights movement America anymore and articles like the 1 you wrote say to people "Nothing has changed. blame the white man". While you take a step backward I will continue forward as a proud white man striving for true equality like the great Dr. King strived for
And this one had a similar theme. (And gave the opportunity to learn that my husband had never heard the term "cracker." He didn't even realize how oppressed he was as a white dude, I guess.)
We can claim progress only when people become as outraged over the epithet "cracker" as we are the "N"-word.
"I know the menu backwards and forwards," says Bruce DuMont as he settles in to table No. 1 at Harry Caray's. And there's something about the way he says it -- like a new mother talking about sleep, or a desert island castaway talking about fresh water -- that makes me really believe it. This is a man who knows his lunch menus.
But these days, he says, "diabetes has gotten my attention."
So the filet mignon that would have been his choice is off limits. And he orders instead the Dutchie's Salad -- a not-quite-dietetic concoction featuring bleu cheese crumbles and candied walnuts -- and washes it down with three Diet Cokes, while warily eyeing the bread basket and pretending not to mind its presence.
DuMont, the Chicago journalist who is the founder, president and CEO of the Museum of Broadcast Communications, is not one for small appetites or subtle emotions.
Brought up idea in '82
His mood this afternoon is anxious: The Jan. 31 "drop-dead" date for the next round of construction financing for the museum's new River North home is fast approaching, and DuMont says he has been expecting to receive $8million in funds pledged by the Blagojevich administration for months now.
"If the state keeps its promise, we'll be open this year," he says, for the first time of many. The phrase has become a mantra for DuMont, who, since retiring from his post as WTTW's senior political analyst, has devoted himself full-time to the museum.
The idea for the museum came to him when, back in the late '70s and early '80s, he was the producer of Lee Phillip's "Noonbreak" show on Channel 2.
"I'd go back in the archives when I was researching something," he says, "and there was this treasure trove of material to sort through, but it wasn't being preserved in any particular way."
He brought up the idea of a broadcast museum at a 1982 meeting of the Board of Governors for the Chicago chapter of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. "They gave me $250 to cover cab fare and lunches," he says, recalling his days as a one-man exploratory committee.
Three years later, the museum opened in its first home in the River City development.
DuMont -- whose uncle Allen was an early television innovator and ran the DuMont television network, an early fourth network that launched the careers of Jackie Gleason and Mike Wallace and was best known for its low-budget space adventure show for kids, "Captain Video," and for the inspirational broadcasts of Bishop Fulton J. Sheen -- has an obvious personal stake in the history of broadcast media.
But he says he's eager to have the museum do more than just preserve the artifacts of early television.
Oprah pitches in
"When people think of what we are," he says, an unfolded napkin spread over his ample belly, "it's, 'oh, that's where Bozo is' or 'they have Howdy Doody,' but our mission is much larger than that."
A grant from Oprah Winfrey is helping the museum digitize its collection of television reports from the civil rights era, DuMont says, and that archival material will be an invaluable resource for historians and researchers.
Beyond that, DuMont hopes the museum will serve as an incubator for new media projects, especially those produced by schoolkids.
"I know what can happen when you walk into a TV studio at 10 years old," he says, misting up just a bit.
'Good old days' resonates
He remembers taking a trip east to attend his father's 30th reunion at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, N.Y., and stopping in New York City for the "boss' nephew tour" of the DuMont television studios. He met his hero, Captain Video, that day. "I fell in love with TV, and I never wanted to do anything else," he says.
DuMont is tucking into his salad, making sure to get all the walnuts, as Frank Sinatra's "Chicago" begins to drown out the chatter of the late-lunch crowd.
Still the host of a weekly talk radio show -- "Beyond the Beltway" is heard at 6 p.m. Sundays on WLS -- DuMont traces his interest in politics back to childhood, as well.
"It began in the front seat of a '48 Plymouth," he says, recalling the discussions he and his father would have after listening to Paul Harvey on the radio while driving to school.
He's clearly trying hard not to wax too nostalgic -- and DuMont manages to rack up an impressive four mentions of the iPod and its implications for media during our conversation -- but he's also someone for whom the phrase "good old days" really resonates.
There was a time, of course, when television watching was a family affair and when broadcast icons, like Howdy Doody, were cultural touchpoints that virtually everyone shared. DuMont knows it isn't like that anymore, and he isn't quite sure what to make of the new broadcast landscape.
"I keep saying we have to hurry up and open this place," he says, not entirely joking, "before it becomes obsolete."
Another Annenberg needed
This sends him back to worrying about that $8 million he's counting on.
The museum, which was housed in the Cultural Center before construction began on its new home, has faced fiscal crises before, he says, like the time in 1988 when they were contemplating budget cuts and staff reductions, only to be saved by a windfall donation from philanthropist Walter Annenberg.
For now, the museum exists primarily online -- its site, www .museum.tv, got 4 million hits last year -- while DuMont works to secure the rest of the funding for its new home at State and Kinzie.
"We're going to have another Annenberg moment soon," he says with a hungry tone in his voice. "I know we are. We have to."
Note: On Friday afternoon, three days after lunch, DuMont received word that the state funding will come through. The museum is now set to open later this year.
Today's column: The silent treatment isn't working
It was a stupid thing -- the kind of thing that happens all the time -- that set me off. It was just some words, spray-painted on a building. A racist scream, captured in black spray paint.
I don't know why it got to me the way it did. There is a certain point, after all, when it becomes just tremendously uncool to get upset about these things.
You probably remember the girl in high school who, on any given day, was seriously worked up about Apartheid, the whales, nuclear proliferation and/or toxic waste.
No one liked that girl.
No call for rudeness
Preachiness doesn't work. And, anyway, it's a bore. There's a basic social expectation that even if you do happen to have an inner-hippie-chick (or, for guys, an inner Bono), you will keep your moral indignation in check and save the rants about social justice for the Internet echo-chamber.
Because there is something about caring too much that is just, well, pathetic. A constant state of outrage does not suit the well-adjusted adult. And it can get really awkward at dinner parties.
I know all of this well enough to be embarrassed by my own occasional violations of this etiquette. The socially correct approach to discussing AIDS in Africa is to make a wry and cynical comment about the pharmaceutical companies, maybe toss in a reference to "The Constant Gardener.'' It's important, if you want to be sophisticated and worldly, to act as if you are unsurprised by the incredible cruelty of our inadequate response to the pandemic. There's no analysis, no subtlety, in pounding the table and crying about it.
The same holds true for any other social ill. You can make knowing, sarcastic remarks about the world's indifference, but you can't let on that you're taking it all too seriously.
(And how seriously are you taking anything, really, if you're still heading to work each day and living your same chai tea latte-flavored life?)
The bottom line is that it is not polite to point.
Three words
Why, then, do I find myself angry and heartbroken once again?
I should know better. I should have a thicker skin, a better understanding of The Way Things Are.
Instead, I am utterly unfit for small talk, sputtering inadequately with frustration and disappointment, after running, headlong, into the ugly face of racism.
I showed up, Monday evening, for a visit with the Sambola family, who arrived in Chicago this summer from a refugee camp in Sierra Leone. Daniel Sambola, and especially his young daughters, Mariama and Jariatu, have become my friends in these months and I've been watching them make their way into a new life here.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw the police cars and news trucks outside their Albany Park home. And I let it out in some sort of weird, choking gasp of a sob when I caught sight of the reason they were there: the graffiti painted on the interior wall of their u-shaped building.
"Niggers not wanted," it said.
Nothing to say
I searched for something to say as I climbed the stairs to their apartment. What explanation could I offer? What apology?
What do you say to a man who has left behind everything familiar to come to a foreign country and work at a menial job just so his beautiful girls will have a chance for a better life?
And what do you say to that man when, seeking only safety from chaos and civil war, he comes to this frigid place, full of strangers, and is welcomed with the ugly scrawl of someone else's hatred?
He was waiting for me at the door.
He knew what the words meant, of course, but asked me just the same, hoping, I think, that he had somehow misunderstood.
"What does this mean -- 'niggers?' " he said. "Do they mean us, the blacks?"
"I don't know," I lied.
He continued to pace by the door, as he'd been doing all afternoon since the police had come up to ask if he'd seen anything. He glanced nervously out the window, poised to protect his family should someone follow up the hateful words with physical violence.
He was helpless and empty-handed, but outraged just the same.
The girls, though, were unsurprised. They're in school all day and have quickly come to understand that there are people around who just hate them. The only thing that surprised them was that it bothered their father so much.
That's what we expect of people, isn't it? That they'll just get used to it and overcome and not complain.
By the time I left, the graffiti had already been painted over, but I could still feel it there, hot and loud like the echo of a bomb blast.
It felt wrong to go home to my perfect, comfortable life.
I'm working on tomorrow's column and having a minor crisis of confidence. I decided to write about what happened Monday at the Sambolas' -- the racist grafitti that vandals sprayed on their building.
The trouble is, I haven't gotten past the inchoate rage I felt when it first happened. I don't have any thoughtful analysis to offer up. I haven't come to any wise conclusions about society. I don't even have a decent laugh line.
The column is my bully pulpit; my shot at reaching thousands of people, maybe one of whom might actually be moved to do something, or to make some sort of difference based on what I write. So, on the one hand, I feel sort of lame about telling such a personal story. I'm worried that it will come off like, "Hey, this racism thing has really gotten out of hand now that it's impacting people I actually care about."
But, on the other hand, what's more important than this?
It's a little strange to be a white woman writing about race, like, somehow, this is not supposed to be "my" issue. My editors, I'm sure, would prefer that I stay in the North Side yuppie role for which I was cast and let Mary Mitchell, who actually knows something about racism in Chicago, cover the topic.
Well, it's a couple hours before deadline and I don't have anything else, so I'm going with it.
you'll have to stay up late tonight and catch the re-broadcast. Or, you can just check out the summaries. USA Today has a short one here and gawker has a blow-by-blow here while the New York Times has a summary of the whole flap here.
The bottom line is that Oprah says she was duped and that she's really angry and embarassed about it. Bravo to her for admitting that she was wrong in her endorsement of Frey, but I think it's still worth asking how on earth she (or, more correctly, her staff) found the book credible in the first place. Would someone please ask him what airline allows bloody, vomit-covered, unconscious passengers to be placed on board their planes?
Totally self-obsessed side note: I couldn't help wondering if, when Oprah said, "To everyone who has challenged me on the issue of truth, you are absolutely right," she had my column (among others) in mind.
Yes, I know this is pathetic, but there was a time -- I swear -- when she actually read the first few lines of one of my columns (about the show "Extreme Makeover") on the air, but didn't say my name. Come to think of it, that might have been the start of all my Oprah issues. I mean, seriously, would it have killed her to give me a little credit?
"So, James, I hear there's been some controversy . . ."
Tomorrow's Oprah show will feature memoirist/liar James Frey and his publisher because, as it turns out, there's been some sort of controversy about his book.
would the Mayor decide to fight corruption at City Hall by allowing more convicts a chance to get jobs there. This story, in today's paper, details the new program. Bascially, they're leveling the playing field so that regular criminals have the same shot at getting city jobs as criminals-with-clout.
Want to freak yourself out while on the L? Read this book
"The developed world will begin to suffer long before the oil and gas actually run out. The American way of life -- which is now virtually synonymous with suburbia -- can run only on reliable supplies of dependably cheap oil and gas. Even mild to moderate deviations in either price or supply will crush our economy and make the logistics of daily life impossible. Fossil fuel reserves are not scattered equitably around the world. They tend to be concentrated in places where the native peoples don't like the West in general or America in particular, places physically very remote, places where we realistically can exercise little control (even if we wish to). For reasons I will spell out, we can be certain that the price and supplies of fossil fuels will suffer oscillations and disruptions in the period ahead that I am calling the Long Emergency."
- from The Long Emergency by James Howard Kuntsler
After receiving the information from Debra Jay, a Michigan addiction counselor who herself has been a frequent guest on Ms. Winfrey's program, a senior producer for the "The Oprah Winfrey Show" conducted an extensive interview with Ms. Jay. It is not known if Ms. Winfrey was apprised of the concerns, but she made no mention of the potential discrepancies in her many on-the-air comments about "A Million Little Pieces," including when she called the book "all completely true" on her program and told Mr. Frey, "I don't doubt you."
So, will Jay (the exceedingly rational woman with horn-rimmed glasses who frequently weighs in on addiction issues) ever be invited back on the show?
One slightly humorous note in all this: some neighbors seem to think that the vandalism was sparked by a rumor that survivors of Hurricane Katrina were living, rent-free, in the building. I don't know everyone who lives there, but I'm relatively sure there's no truth to that rumor.
But it reminded me of Jesse Jackson's campaign not to refer to the Katrina evacuees as "refugees."
And, if some racist idiot managed to get the West African refugees confused with New Orleanians, well, I guess that does prove Jackson's case. Sort of.
If you're paying close attention, you'll find this short story, written by Lisa Donovan, in Tuesday's paper:
Racial slurs found scrawled across the side of an Albany Park apartment building Monday had been cleaned up by late afternoon, but police are investigating who may be responsible for the racist graffiti. About 1 p.m., a resident of the courtyard building in the 3700 block of west Leland came home to find the offensive comments spraypainted on the side of the building. The resident immediately called police. Officers with the police department's civil rights unit interviewed tenants there, and learned that the graffiti likely went up between midnight and 6 a.m. Monday. The spray paint had been cleaned up by late afternoon. An Albany Park police officer said this appears to be an isolated incident.
There's more to it, of course, as there always is.
First of all, you should know what the graffiti said. It said, "Niggers not wanted."
And, second, you should know who some of the "niggers" in question are. They're my friends.
I wrote about the Sambola family in my December 23 column. (The full text is posted at the bottom of this blog entry, since, ridiculously, it is no longer available for free on the Sun-Times' website.) Daniel and his daughters Mariama and Jariatu are refugees of the Liberian civil war, and were living in a refugee camp in Sierra Leone before coming to the US in August.
I arrived at their building on Monday evening to find police cars and TV news trucks assembled outside -- never a good sign. It was just before dark and the black spray painted sprawl was still clearly visible.
I went in to find Daniel, the girls, his fiance and her sister and children all staring out the window at the chaos going on just below their 3rd floor apartment.
As I walked in, Daniel asked, "What does this mean - 'niggers?' Do they mean us, the blacks?"
I had no idea what to say.
And, hours later, I'm still way too angry to figure anything out. A man risks his life and leaves behind everything he has to come to a country where his daughters will have, he hopes, a safe and healthy future. And then some a**hole vandalizes his building.
What gets me most is not how upset Daniel is -- he has every right -- but how utterly calm his daughters are. Being hated by their neighbors doesn't surprise them at all.
---------------
December 23, 2005
BEST PART OF HAVING SO MUCH IS SHARING WITH THOSE IN NEED
The whole thing started with some extra pots.
Between the stuff from my place and the stuff from his place, we had a serious surplus of kitchenware. And that wasn't counting the wedding gifts.
So, wanting to be a virtuous citizen and to assuage some of the guilt that comes with incredibly conspicuous consumption, I called Catholic Charities' Refugee Resettlement office and asked if there were any families who might be in need of pots and pans.
Caseworker Sarah Aulie returned my call right away and told me about some Liberian families who'd just arrived from refugee camps in Sierra Leone. She'd asked them what they needed and the first thing anyone thought of was a pot with a lid.
WHAT WOULD OPRAH DO?
Probably for a normal person, the transaction would have ended there. But I'm a global busy body with a slight Messiah complex, so when Sarah asked if I'd like to meet some of the new arrivals, I immediately said yes.
She soon introduced me to Mariama and Jariatu Sambola, sisters who, with their father Daniel, had landed in Chicago in August and were trying hard to adjust to life in a strange new city.
Now, a few months later, we're friends.
The cliche thing to say is that I get more out of our relationship than they do. And, yes, certainly, while I have offered help with reading and, on an extremely limited basis, biology homework, they have given me invaluable practical advice on things like how to use the camera feature on my cell phone.
But when it comes to stuff -- and, in the true spirit of the holiday, let's just be crass and materialistic for a moment -- I've got tons of it, and they've got almost none.
So I like to give them things.
MEET THE GIRLS
Mariama is 15 and the kind of older-than-her-years kid who can break your heart with a single, world-weary sentence. Like when she told me about how she hadn't made any friends in her new school because all the kids she met liked to smoke cigarettes and steal things. She is the neighborhood baby sitter and is quicker to scold her charges ("all my small ones," she calls them) than most teen sitters would be, but that's got at least a little something to do with her memories of spending weeks in the bush, hiding from marauding soldiers in the Liberian civil war. If you weren't quiet then, you were liable to be killed.
It takes a while for Mariama to warm up to people, and she doesn't always speak up for herself, so she spent her first two weeks of American high school going through the cafeteria line each day only to be told that she couldn't have anything to eat because her free-lunch paperwork had somehow been misplaced.
On Monday, we spent an hour sitting on the couch and reading together from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Her smile grew with every paragraph.
Her younger sister Jariatu, 11, is more of a free spirit. Much of her life has been spent in a refugee camp, which sounds dismal until you realize how much better it is than war. As a camp kid, Jariatu learned how to charm people. We went to dinner one night at Bolat, the West African restaurant in Lake View, and, within about five minutes, Jariatu had a table full of Nigerian cabdrivers wrapped around her finger. At the end of the evening they were eager to pick up her not-insubstantial bar tab (three orange Fantas) and to chauffeur her wherever she might like to go.
Jariatu hates the cold, and she's picked up the habit of loudly declaring "S---!" whenever she steps outside. I try hard not to laugh at this or at the way she keeps her hat and gloves on inside my house as a protest against the budget-conscious thermostat setting. If she does not become a lawyer or movie star, she will make an excellent tabloid photographer. "Let's take snaps!" she shouts whenever she comes across any electronic device that might have a camera feature. And then she scans the room for the person who looks least like they want their picture taken.
PLAYING SANTA
It's possible that I went a little overboard when shopping for their Christmas presents.
"You know," my husband said, as we made the third trip out to unload the car, "I'm thinking maybe you going to Target by yourself is not such a good idea."
But I wanted them to have hip-looking school supplies that the cool kids might notice. And I wanted them to have warm, fuzzy blankets. And funky hats and mittens. And books.
Somehow, though, it didn't feel like the usual Christmas spending binge.
OK, so the topic of today's rant isn't actually covered in my favorite book of last year, but Freakonomics does an awesome job of dealing with the same faulty logic.
So, basically, because new drivers tend to get into a lot of accidents, an Illinois state legislator is proposing that we raise the driving age. Thus, completely missing the point that new drivers get into accidents because they're new, inexperienced drivers, not because they're 16. If they first get their licenses at 18, they'll still be new, inexperienced drivers.
Also, I guess this is a lost cause at this point, but, really, it's the distracted talking while driving that's the problem, not the actual cell phone device.
The President heads to Kansas State University today, where he'll use the annual Landon Lecture as an opportunity to defend his secret NSA spying program. Surfing around a bit to find out more about the annual lecture, which is frequently delivered by a head of state, I came upon a great anecdote from historian Stephen Ambrose (the author, of, in additional to several other great books, a three-volume biography of Richard Nixon). Ambrose was a professor at Kansas State at the height of the Vietnam War in 1969 when Nixon came to deliver the Landon Lecture. (Apparently, there's a tradition of heading to KSU when you're in some political trouble.) Ambrose heckled the speech and walked out early and was pretty much fired for his bad behavior.
Entree: Sauteed diver scallops over gnocchi for him; Crabcake BLT for me.
Check: $61.62 for two, including tip.
Best quote that got left out of the article: "I've never read a self-help book in my life. I don't consider what I do 'self help.' . . . It pisses me off that Random House put that label on What Should I Do With My Life? I'd like to make sure that the next thing I do is something no one could confuse with self help."
Note to Alexandra Jacobs: He's not really so chisel-cheekboned in person. I think he might have been doing that Zoolander thing in the picture.
“Inevitably you reach a question,� Po Bronson says, as we share a small platter of pate, “which is, you know, what if I didn’t make fun of something and I actually wrote about something I thought was worth not making fun of? And it’s sort of like, as a generation we can put down so many things, but are we ever going to assert the value of anything? How long can we traffic on this premise that the world is ultimately meaningless and we’re just here to have a good time in the meantime and make fun of anybody who tries to say there’s a meaning in it? We live as individuals and mock religion and enjoy consumerism and pretend its all a joke.�
This is slightly heavier conversation than I typically have with my pate and it is incredibly tempting to put a snarky, ironic tone on it. Because, really, no one — not even Bronson, the author of the best-selling pop-sociology books What Should I Do With My Life? and Why Do I Love These People? — can expect to raise such existential questions without encountering the kind of world-weary cynicism that is the official dialect of modern life.
To think and write without irony is to be sentimental or politically correct or preachy or new agey or mushy-headed or intellectually lazy.
All of the above, maybe.
In Why Do I Love These People? (Random House: 318 pages, $24.95), Bronson offers up 100-percent sincere “honest and amazing� stories about real families who’ve faced challenges and struggles and, if not overcome them, then at least moved on to a better place. Thus Bronson has opened himself up to some serious public mockery.
An elegantly bitchy review in the New York Times, after comparing his writing style to Jack Handey’s, quotes Bronson’s remark that, “We’ve surrounded ourselves with an early-alert Ironic Shields Defense System, making sure nobody gets through,� and then goes on to declare, “This may be true - but Bronson fails to prove that self-satisfied earnestness is a better life tactic.�
“Ooh,� I thought when I read that, “that’s cold. And delicious.�
Then I read Bronson’s response to it, posted on his website. The reviewer, he noted, “seems most offended that I decided, some six years ago, to no longer make fun of the world and the people I share it with. That I traded mocking and irony for sincerity. I suppose in doing so she feels I am directly threatening her way of life, her daily bread-and-butter. How dare I stop writing about educated/rich/go-getters and go find real people I actually admire?�
And, as if that didn’t already sound a little thin-skinned, he followed his comments with glowing excerpts from 21 positive reviews.
I came to lunch at Allen’s, in River North, fully prepared to jump on the anti-Po bandwagon. Because Bronson — who began his career writing snarky books and articles about the world of the dot-com boom, but changed course with 2002’s What Should I Do With My Life, which spoke to the what-now crises of the refugees of the dot-com bust — is simply too nice, too good-looking, too Oprah-approved to leave unmocked.
So, when he walks in, carrying a plastic binder with his kids’ photos slipped into the front cover and a magic marker drawing by his son in the back, it’s easy to write him off as just another sensitive guy sap, wearing his heart on his sleeve for fun and profit. When he reveals that the binder contains a letter he wrote to his mother on her 65th birthday and e-mails from readers who found his work life-changing, what else is there to say?
After two hours of great food and an impressively mounted flattery campaign — “I’m telling you things I’ve never said to anyone before. Maybe it’s because you look like my wife.� — I was nearly ready to change my mind.
Bronson, 41, has been married to wife Michele for five years. It’s his second marriage.
“I think my own divorce was the trigger for me,� he tells me, “ . . . After that, just making fun of things didn’t seem to be much challenge, artistically. It seemed such a pale version of what life was about. I say in this book that grief gives you a key through a secret door and you can see into the hearts of others who have known grief. And, you know, I had that. And it would be morally wrong for me to ignore that. The thing the Times lady [reviewer Alexandra Jacobs is an editor at the New York Observer] seemed to be saying was that everything I’ve done in the last six year has been an act, something about how I sell books . . . and, you know, that attitude made me really angry.�
The new tone in his writing — sincere, hopeful, full of a desire to be useful — might be just a phase, he says.
“I fully hope the sarcasm and the snideness and laugh out loud quality comes back to my work,� says Bronson, adding, “Even when I was writing What Should I Do With My Life, there were points when that old voice would come back and I would realize I was making fun of the subject. It’s so easy to fall into that, to entertain your reader that way.�
That’s the point when I was about ready to declare that Jacobs had it wrong and Bronson really, truly is one of the most sincere people on the face of the planet.
Because, of course, he’s right. Irony has become a too-easy substitute for actual thought, a safe way of being entertaining without risking anything. (And, believe me, it’s incredibly painful to have to admit this.)
“There’s a certain tension of wanting to write things that are helpful and feeling like, self help - that’s the ultimate put-down,� he says. “It hurts me to think it’s OK to make fun of things, but if you say anything in the affirmative, you get this label.�
His manner really does seem to reflect this hurt, like he wants to know what’s so wrong with writing a book full of good news for families? With spreading the message that, despite all the horror stories about the death of family life, people manage to overcome huge challenges everyday, just like they always have?
But there is still a small, cynical part of my brain — thank you, James Frey — that doubts Bronson’s sincerity and wonders if he isn’t just ahead of the curve on the next great book-marketing technique: being really, really nice.
Even as he sips his post-lunch cappuccino, I still can’t decide.
The mysterious singleton.
We all know at least one: that reasonably attractive, perfectly normal person who just never seems to find a match.
Behind their backs — and sometimes right to their faces — people speculate on what must secretly be wrong with the perpetually single. Too picky. High maintenance. Weird relationship with mother.
I remember, several years ago, meeting a friend’s new boyfriend (now husband) at a party.
“He really liked you,� she told me later, “But of course he wanted to know why you’re not with anyone.�
The comment sent me into a weeks-long funk that was punctuated only by red wine and an ill-fated decision to answer a personal ad in the Reader.
A healthier, more productive person might have gone another way. Too many choices
Jillian Straus, a Northwestern grad and former Oprah Winfrey Show producer, is that person.
She decided to investigate the mysterious singleton phenomenon and set about interviewing 100 single men and women across the country. Her new book, Unhooked Generation: The Truth About Why We’re Still Single (Hyperion, 262 pages, $21.95), is about to hit the bookstores.
This isn’t exactly rigorous sociology — everyone seems a little too fabulous to be true, like the “film publicist with blond highlights, Angelina Jolie lips and a voluptuous figure� and the woman “with hair like gold silk and an angelic smile� — but Straus does manage to offer some pretty compelling insights into the social and personal dynamics that are keeping more and more Americans single into their 30s.
“The multitude of choices can lead Gen-Xers to develop an inclination to commodify our partners,� she writes, “We do this by creating detailed ‘checklists’ so we can theoretically design our own ideal mate. In the process we may begin to constantly compare our partner to what else is out there, making us perpetually dissatisfied with our choice.�
So, she decides, there probably is something to that whole “too picky� thing.
She quotes a 32-year-old Chicago guy named Peter as saying, “Is there an upgrade out there? What if I settle for version 2.0 and 3.0 comes out ten times better?� High expectations
OK, so, actually, there’s no great mystery about why Peter hasn’t found Ms. Perfect. There are, however, plenty of people in the book who sound perfectly reasonable, if a little freaked out.
“Marriage is very final; it is like the most expensive thing in the world, and it is not returnable,� says 32-year-old Claudia, who seems to know her way around a department store. Straus points out the many ways that the consumer culture has shaped dating behavior — from the money we spend on grooming to the fears we have about losing financial autonomy.
Claudia wants a sensitive guy — and finds one, but then recoils when he expresses a desire to be a stay-at-home dad while she earns an income to support them.
“I’m not going to be with Mr. Mom,� she says, “This is not what I waited so long to get married for.�
And, even as you smack your forehead at her faulty logic, you can sort of see her point. Because if finding love is like shopping, no one wants to get a bad deal.
“Everyone in my peer group seems to know — and discuss — someone whom they think has ‘settled’ — taken whatever he or she could get,� she writes, “ . . . It’s the friend whose husband has untrimmed nose hairs and horrible table manners; perhaps it’s the guy at the gym whose wife refuses to let him play poker.�
So, in defensive formation against settling, Straus’ interview subjects whip out their checklists — the women are looking for someone who “totally supports my career� but is “successful enough not to count on my income,� while the men all seem to want someone with enough independence not to be clingy, but not such much that she might be competitive. Best advice: write a book
All of Straus’ research seems to lead her to one conclusion: The perpetually single have expectations that are just too high.
Which is good to know, I guess, except that nobody wants to hear that lowering your standards is the key to relationship success. So Straus tries to perk things up with truisms like, “Stop expecting and start accepting� and “Focus on the We, rather than the Me.�
This is the kind of advice that makes perfect sense when you meet someone who, for whatever reason, seems worth your effort, but all such wisdom is endlessly frustrating and useless until then.
So why does Straus, a longtime singleton, offer it up?
“A few months into my research,� she says, “I met a wonderful man, whom I started to date.�
Another mystery solved.
And maybe a tiny bit of inspiration for anyone who was planning to spend the weekend with a bottle of wine and the personal ads.
The Red Cross' new ad campaign seemed a bit odd to me, like maybe making fun of do-gooders (a ripe source of comedy, to be sure) isn't really the way to get people to donate blood.
Here, Slate/NPR critic Seth Stevenson explains exactly why it's such a bad idea.
Like the rest of us, she can't help noting the way things are at her house, which sounds, actually, a lot like mine.
I'm at a loss to explain how it is that housework has come as a giant surprise to those of us who were actually required to read The Second Shift in college, but it really has. Somehow, I guess we thought that because we have careers like our fathers', we'd get the come-home-to-dinner-on-the-table prize package that they got, too.
Making its way around the chick-centric blogosphere today is this story about the strange things that supposedly can happen when a male transplant patient receives an organ from a female donor.
No word on whether women who've received organs from men suddenly develop the ability to walk past a pile of dirty socks without picking them up.
If you've been following the latest version of the damsel in distress story that keeps cable news running (see also: Laci Peterson, Natalee Holloway, Jennifer Wilbanks, et al.), this is a really good one.
Jennifer Hagel Smith says her new husband George mysteriously vanished from their honeymoon cruise in July, never to be heard from again. She has no memory of their last night together and no idea what could have happened.
This morning, she appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show to confront the President of the Royal Caribbean Cruise Line about the company's responsibility for whatever happened.
Who knows what the real deal is. It does seem a little odd to completely lose track of your husband while on your honeymoon, but what do I know?
Still, my favorite part of this story, and the detail that tells you most everything you need to know about Ms. Hagel Smith's personality is this:
The next morning, after his disappearance, she headed to the ship's spa for a couples' massage appointment—without him.
Get ready: Next week is National Creative Frugality Week
It's been one month since Christmas and to remind you that you probably haven't finished paying for it yet, author Nancy Twigg created this observance.
Personally, I'm saving two dollars per day by drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee rather than my favorite red tea latte from Argo Tea. But that probably doesn't count since I should be brewing my own. (Also because I'm so proud of myself for saving the two bucks that I sometimes buy myself a little treat as a reward.)
At a certain point, when things get really bad, the vaunted "world community" will call in the cavalry and start distributing massive amounts of food. But who is doing the hard work of repairing the infrastructure to avoid these crises in the future?
While the Bush administration obsesses over saving the unborn -- denying support to anti-AIDS programs that distribute condoms and birth control information -- actual, already-born children are starving. And they'll continue to do so on a regular basis until there are meaningful reforms.
I know I tend to harp about this, particularly because I have close connections to people in the region, especially Kenya. But here's my best shot at making you care about this in some way beyond the usual "isn't that a terrible shame?" reaction.
There are plenty of practical reasons for supporting development work (by which I mean the teach-a-man-to-fish variety that is time-intensive and difficult, but not particularly expensive) in Africa. For one, there's the likelihood that millions of orphaned and vulnerable children, many of whom are street kids and child soldiers already, will grow up to create a serious security risk.
But, really, the main thing is that it's a moral issue. If you live in the richest nation of the world, you have a responsibility not to turn away while children are dying of starvation. It's just wrong.
How's that for a moral value?
If you want to look at the state of the world today as a battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil, you have to count Africa as a battleground, too.
The excuses that it's too complicated and too hard just don't wash anymore. Because I've seen grassroots, locally organized programs that are hugely improving the ability of African families to support themselves. And, frankly, if I can find them, our government can, too.
First Lady Laura Bush is in West Africa for the inauguration of Liberia's first woman president. Luckily, she had some time to talk to reporters and share how "irritated" she is that people criticize the administration for refusing to fund anti-AIDS programs that mention methods of prevention other than abstinence.
I'd venture to say it's slightly more irritating to be an African woman who does not have the right to refuse her HIV-positive husband, but I guess it's all a matter of perspective.
So, just in case you missed it in junior high school, or when it was the "One Book, One Chicago" read-it-because-Mayor-Daley-said-so book, this is your opportunity to read about deep human suffering and then hear a bunch of Oprah-worshippers talk about how it inspired them to face their own challenges, like carb addiction and not getting enough help with the housework.
It seems like whenever I have to go renew my driver's license or take the L, things are pretty uneventful. But, thanks to reporter Steve Patterson, I can now, at least, imagine far more interesting goings-on.
An SOS employee calling out for FU_KING KWOK to claim his driver's license? A naked guy getting into a scuffle with cops?
So far, it's pretty much just dorkboy and me on this, but the new rules about buying cold medicine are absolutely ridiculous.
This logic -- that because someone else might do something bad, I have to show ID and sign a registry -- is the sort of slippery slope to "show us your papers" stuff that the ACLU should be on the warpath about. (OK, yes, I know they're a little pre-occupied with illegal domestic wiretapping and such, but surely there must be an intern or someone who could get on this.)
Lots of legal products go in to the manufacturing of meth. Are we soon going to have to register to buy kitty litter, matches, aluminum foil, cooking fuel, and charcoal? And, anyway, who gets to decide when your level of cold medicine purchasing has become suspicious?
Personally, I plan to spend the afternoon building up my stockpile of Sudafed in the basement. Come and get me, Lisa Madigan. Who's with me?
We're here, we have the sniffles, get used to it . . . .
Entree: Lamb chops in mole negro, with garlic mashed potatoes. (We sampled pretty mch everything on the menu, but, this, along with a ceviche made from fresh marlin, was the greatest thing going.)
Check: a mystery, since Dolinsky just handed over his credit card and said "charge me something"
Best quote that got left out of the article: "She's [his daughter is] a very adventurous eater, but he's [his son is] more of a cheeseburger guy." There's some sort of cosmic justice in a foodie having to raise a kid with simpler tastes.
Steve Dolinsky has already sampled the salsa when I arrive at Fonda del Mar, a hip new restaurant just west of Logan Square. He's also clearly already met the partners who run the place: Angel Hernandez and Luis Montero, formerly of Mia Francesca, and chef Raul Arreola, who comes from the famed Frontera Grill downtown. They're giving Dolinsky the VIP treatment.
Dolinsky, who has been ABC 7's "Hungry Hound," reporting on the local food scene, for the past two years, made his debut Friday night on the station's 10 o'clock news broadcast, replacing the retired "chow-ciao for now!" restaurant critic James Ward.
Dolinsky, though, is quick to point out that he is not a critic. He's a food journalist. Which seems to mean, basically, that he doesn't feel constrained by all the ethical hang-ups that make a critic's life difficult. He doesn't bend over backward to dine out anonymously. And he doesn't have a big problem with accepting the freebies and perks that come with his position as an arbiter of Chicago dining trends, though he never accepts a completely free meal: "I have to pay something," he insists when publicity-eager owners offer complimentary food and drinks.
Dines out for job twice a week
Fonda del Mar has been open for only about three weeks. And, though it has been noted in a couple of online guides (including the culinary chat site lthforum.com, a key source for Dolinsky), a televised mention of the slightly-off-the-beaten-gourmet-path restaurant could provide a significant boost. So, in addition to the three appetizers, three entrees and one dessert that Dolinsky orders, a few extra items arrive as well, just to be sure that he gets to taste all of the house specialties. The waiter slides a second table next to ours just to hold all the platters.
"They had me at the salsa," Dolinsky declares merrily, enthusiastically sampling from each plate as it is delivered and guessing at the ingredients in the rich and complex sauces.
"This is the most amazing mole," he raves as he dips into the roasted lamb chops. "We'll definitely have to do a story on this place."
Dolinsky is a hearty eater but not a glutton: there's plenty left on each plate. In a typical week, he says, he'll dine out, for research purposes, on Tuesday and Thursday nights, stopping at two places -- and eating two meals -- each night. So he does have to pace himself. And he works with a personal trainer to stay in shape.
Not interested in negatives
Before joining Channel 7, Dolinsky was the host and producer of CLTV's "Good Eating," and his years in the low-budget world of local cable have taught him a few things about being frugal -- "This is the first time I've had a dining budget," he says of the Channel 7 gig -- and keeping lots of projects going to make his living. He's heard regularly on Chicago Public Radio, as well as the Public Radio International show "The World," and he's a master of the art of double-dipping: he landed a job helping organize a 10-day tour of Thailand with acclaimed chef Arun Sampanthavivat that was the basis for TV, print and radio stories. And, in addition to promoting his journalism, which has garnered several local and national awards, Dolinsky's personal Web site offers his services as a media trainer to help in "marketing a culinary product, promoting a cookbook or trying to get your restaurant in the spotlight."
Of course, since he has been on the local news, he finds there are some places that aren't eager to be in the spotlight. "One of the challenges of doing this is that if you call a hardcore ethnic restaurant and tell them you're from Channel 7, they don't want to talk to you. They've seen too many Pam Zekman pieces," he says with a laugh.
Dolinsky, for his part, isn't interested in doing big exposes or even negative reviews. His mission, he says, is really an educational one, aimed at introducing Chicagoans to new foods, neighborhood restaurants and authentic ethnic cuisines. If he has a bad experience at a restaurant, he generally doesn't do a story on it.
He traces his embrace of all things culinary to a strikingly un-gourmet childhood.
"I grew up in a kosher home in St. Cloud, Minn.," he says and then, borrowing from Woody Allen, describes his mother's cooking method as "taking a whole chicken and putting it through the deflavorizing machine."
Coming out of that environment, his first taste -- at age 10 -- of sweet and sour pork was a revelation. And the restaurant scene in Madison, Wis., where he went to college, was enough to set him on a path to serious foodie-ness.
Fonda del Mar, he has decided, is a definite foodie find. Finishing the meal with Mexican coffee (lightly spiced with orange and other flavors) and a sampling of desserts, Dolinsky is busily brainstorming how he'll be able to break the story of his discovery.
'Just charge me something, OK?'
There is, as we leave, an awkward exchange with one of the owners, who seems surprised to be asked for a bill.
"I have to pay something," Dolinsky tells him. "I just signed an ethics agreement."
After some more back and forth, Dolinsky hands over his credit card and says, "Just charge me something, OK?"
I'm still pondering the ethical ramifications of this gesture as Dolinsky gets ready to go. He puts on his three-quarter-length leather coat and his serious it's-a-cloudy-Chicago-day-but-I've-got-L.A.-style black sunglasses and slings a European-looking man-purse across his chest.
And it seemed as if this would present sort of a problem, since an inspirational true-life tale of redemption tends to be somewhat less inspirational if it is, um, not true. The whole point of Frey's appearances on Oprah's TV show and Web site was that, since he had managed to recover from being a self-described "Alcoholic . . . drug Addict and . . . Criminal," such transformation is possible for others, as well.
I found myself thinking that if it turned out he hadn't really been any of those things -- it is demonstrably true that he was not a criminal in any real sense and there is substantial evidence that, at the very least, he exaggerated (or, as he puts it, "embellished") claims about his alcoholism and addictions as well -- that would make him less of a role model and more of a liar.
But that's just the kind of small-mindedness that's been holding me back from becoming a one-woman media empire. Because, as it turns out, it's not the literal truth of a thing that matters.
It's the emotional truth.
Not lies, embellishments
Frey appeared on CNN's Larry King Live on Wednesday night to defend his work. And, in response to King's not-exactly-brutal questioning -- "James, with the kind of incredible life you've had, why embellish anything?" -- Frey admitted that "there were embellishments in the book, that I've changed things, that in certain cases things were toned up, in certain cases they were toned down, that names were changed, that identifying characteristics were changed."
But he went on to say that ". . . the essential truth of the book, which is about drug and alcohol addiction, is there. ... You know, the emotional truth is there."
And Oprah, who phoned in to the show, backed Frey up on this, saying "the underlying message of redemption in James Frey's memoir still resonates with me."
What is truth, anyway?
Oprah's pronouncement is excellent news for liars everywhere. Especially Chicago.
Because, while the whole "emotional" thing has a very L.A. ring to it, I think we can say -- with some pride, perhaps -- that the whole idea of lies being an acceptable, even desirable, form of truth has its roots here in Chicago, where Frey lived for two years.
Chicagoans have, after all, gotten used to the idea that truth is a relative thing. Our esteemed leaders tell us there are, in fact, many truths.
There is the truth that comes to light when someone in your office wears a wire or cuts a deal with the feds. And the truth you don't deny, but can't quite recall, either.
There is the truth as it is reflected on your time card -- eight hours of overtime! -- and the other, competing truth, demonstrated in the surveillance photos of you spending a leisurely day at home.
There is the truth of what you said and the truth of what you meant and, to go along with these two conflicting truths, the long-standing and absolute truth that it isn't your fault if someone else somehow got the impression that a bribe might persuade you to speed certain things along.
Because the truth is that you never told him such a thing.
Outsiders, like certain federal prosecutors, who hold up wiretaps and witness testimony as a superior kind of truth, don't seem to understand the flexible nature of this Chicago-style truth-telling.
But Oprah clearly does.
Oprah said it was OK
And since her word carries the force of prophecy, this concept of "emotional truth" is sure to catch on. It's only a matter of time until it is invoked as a defense against perjury charges -- "But your honor, I was telling my emotional truth!"
You can imagine unfaithful spouses and tax cheats, breaking vows and laws, but holding on to the essential, underlying truth that they didn't really mean it.
The Oprah argument -- that if something resonates, it doesn't matter whether it's factually true -- is an easy one. It makes simple moral lessons out of complicated lives. It fuels myths and smoothes over complexities. It tells stories that offer hope, even when hope is unfounded.
The appeal of Frey's made-up life story is obvious. If a violent, out-of-control criminal hooked on drugs and booze can clean himself up enough to sit charmingly on the couch and share his wisdom with Oprah, then surely all the other addicts out there can do it, too.
And if they can't, they're just not trying hard enough.
It's a compelling idea.
But unfortunately, it's just another Chicago scam.
So, it's pretty bad when you pull into the gas station, get out of your car and realize that you've stopped on the wrong side because your gas tank is actually on the other side of the car.
But it's really bad when, having done that once, you turn around to go to another tank and you get out of the car to find that you've done it again.
And things do get continually worse when, having pulled up to a third gas tank -- finally on the correct side -- you have to search for the little lever-thing inside the car to open the gas tank.
But you don't really fall any lower than finally driving off from this exercise in gas station humiliation, getting a few blocks away and having someone pull up next to you to tell you that you've left the gas tank open.
OK, maybe it's a little worse if one of your interview subjects is in the car with you to witness it.
And his publicist. Excuses: It's a new car, people. It was the first time I was filling the tank. We don't have self-serve gas where I grew up.
Although the use of cell phones are [sic] permitted in the locker rooms and Grill, the use by a few members is sometimes loud and excessive, therefore interfering with the privacy of others. We simply ask all members to talk quietly on their cell phone [sic] out of courtesy and respect for other members.
Yes, it's pathetic and geeky to admit this, but I've really been enjoying the Alito confirmation hearings. (And that's without even playing the appropriate drinking game.)
On Tuesday, during his first turn at questioning, Sen. Joe Biden (D-Delaware) went after Alito on the whole Concerned Alumni of Princeton thing. And, while it was amusing to hear Alito say that he couldn't really recall why he joined the organization or why he listed it on his application for a job in the Justice Department 13 years later, the best part of the exchange, for my money, was the stream-of-consciousness preamble to Biden's remarks.
I haven't gotten my hands on a transcript, so I'm paraphrasing here, but the gist of it was that Princeton in its seriously old school days would not have particularly welcomed either an Italian-American like Alito or an Irish-American like Biden. And Biden pointed out -- repeatedly -- that he did not go to an Ivy League school but instead attended the University of Delaware -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
He seemed to be in danger of going seriously off-message, but he just couldn't help himself.
Because he sent his own kids to Ivy League schools (though his daughter, apparently, went to Penn rather than Princeton), Biden was incredibly well-versed in all the overblown ridiculousness of Ivy politics and went on at great length about the controversies of the 1970's, an era when Princeton was finally coming in to the modern world, doing crazy stuff like admitting women and minorities, though some of the hardcore alums were kicking and screaming all the way.
He seemed incredibly angst-ridden about having sent his kids to such elitist schools and said, at one point, that he didn't think his grandfather would have forgiven such a thing.
"I didn't even like Princeton," he said "I mean, I really didn't like Princeton. I was an Irish Catholic kid who thought it had not changed like you concluded it had."
But today he seemed to change course and said, ""I want to, kind of, set the record straight on Princeton . . .You know, I'd be proud of my daughter at Princeton Graduate School, instead of (University of Pennsylvania) now," he said, quickly adding, "although I am very proud she is at Penn."
He was wearing a Princeton baseball cap when he said this. Like maybe he was still ticked off about not getting in, but, you know, willing to get over it if they would, say, toss him an honorary doctorate or something.
Frankly, it was just sad.
I felt like someone should have just reached over and given him a hug. Because, look, Joe, you're a U.S. Senator now. Possibly even a Presidential contender. It's really OK that you went to a crummy state school for college.
Next time you're West Loop-ish, check out the Chicago Chocolate Cafe at 847 W. Randolph.
You can, of course, buy candies there.
But there's also a lovely selection of sandwiches, soups, salads and super-fancy coffee drinks and desserts.
My suggestion: the half sandwich / cup of soup combo (grilled cheese on peppercorn bread; black bean soup), with a Mexican hot chocolate afterwards. Grab the comfy seats by the fireplace if you can, but go easy on the complimentary chocolate covered espresso beans.
1 husband
1 dry cleaning receipt
several items in need of dry cleaning
Begin by leaving the dry cleaning receipt in an obvious place. (A dresser or kitchen counter will do nicely.)
Wait four weeks.
Collect items in need of dry cleaning. Place in large shopping bag.
Wait 10 days.
Place dry cleaning receipt on top of filled shopping bag. Place shopping bag in hallway near front door so that it is necessary to physically step over it when enterring or leaving apartment.
Wait 2 days.
If husband takes shopping bag to cleaners and retrieves items, reward with food.
In possibly the nerdiest thing a couple could do on an evening in, R. and I watched the Canadian party leaders' debate on C-SPAN2 last night.
Besides the Bloc Quebecois guy, who doesn't even want to be Canadian, the most entertaining thing about the debate was how the party leaders tossed around the word "values."
As they competed to demonstrate who among them had the best values, it became clear that, in Canada, the word has a slightly different political connotation than here in the U.S.
Like, for example, "good Canadian values" include opposing the war in Iraq, supporting the public health care system and providing child care to working families. And that was from the Conservative guy.
During his Senate confirmation hearings this morning, Judge Samuel Alito told the Judiciary Committee that if, hypothetically, a person was secretly and illegally spied upon by the Administration, that person would have grounds to pursue the matter in court.
Of course, it would be a secret, so that would be kind of difficult. But I guess that's not the judge's problem.
If you have EVER travelled on a commercial airline flight, you have to wonder about the opening passage in James Frey's best-selling memoir, A Million Little Pieces.
Frey describes rousing himself from an unconscious state in the middle of a flight to Chicago to find that he is bleeding, four of his teeth have been knocked out, his nose is broken, there's a hole in his cheek and he is wearing clothes caked in "a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood."
A kindly flight attendant on this unidentified airline tells him that he was brought aboard by "a Doctor and two men" who "talked to the Captain."
My experience reading this "true" story of addiction pretty much ended with that first chapter.
But, obviously, my tastes aren't exactly in line with the mainstream. Frey's book has been blessed as an Oprah's Book Club pick and become a runaway best seller. And it's soon to become a Brad Pitt movie.
On Sunday, though, the crew at The Smoking Gun published the results of their investigation into Frey's claims about his life as "Alcoholic . . . drug Addict and . . .Criminal."
(He also seriously abuses Capital letters, but I guess that's a lesser matter.)
Their report reveals, among other details, that, "The closest Frey has ever come to a jail cell was the few unshackled hours he once spent in a small Ohio police headquarters waiting for a buddy to post $733 cash bond."
He has, in fact, clearly made up huge sections of his life story.
So I guess Oprah, who made a big deal out of "going in a different direction" by selecting a memoir for her Book Club, was actually still sticking with fiction. The real question, as The Smoking Gun notes, is what she'll do with their revelations.
Cheers to the (anonymous) guy who, having waited an hour in line at the Merchandise Mart post office to buy the @#%^&^%@! two-cent stamps needed to mail anything, decided to get a bunch of extras and give them away to the people behind him in line.
The Economist magazine is running a contest for the greatest prank. Readers are invited to write in with their nominations for history's greatest practical joke.
On a slightly less global note, I'd like to read about the best prank you've ever played or been party to.
The best one that I ever participated in involved a bunch of consultants, working together on a project in Columbus, Ohio. We were from all over the country, representing three different firms. The bulk of us (two firms' worth) regularly stayed in one hotel, but one small group was staying in a different hotel about four miles away.
As will sometimes happen, a romance developed between a couple of consultants. Though there was no explicit rule against "fraternization" and they were both single adults, they wanted to keep the relationship secret, especially from their bosses.
Of course, this plan didn't work. And, after several months of sneaking around, pretty much everyone working on the project knew about the "secret" romance. Still trying to keep up a front, the guy always kept a room at the main hotel, even though he usually spent the night (or most of it) with his girlfriend in her room at the other hotel.
One fine evening, a group of his colleagues spotted his rental car in that parking lot and decided to have a little fun. They let the air out of his tires.
Very early the next morning, his boss (who knew all about the relationship and was in on the prank) called his cell phone and said, "Hey, my car won't start. I need to get over the client's office right away. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes and give me a ride."
Submit your own story in the comments below.
So, this is one of those embarassing "dog ate my column" kinds of things that I really hate to write, but, in case you're wondering why there is no "Lunch With . . . " this week, it's because I had two possible lunch guests lined up and one got the flu and the other's mother died.
How are those abstinence-only health classes working out?
Although abstinence is a healthy behavioral option for teens, abstinence as a sole option for adolescents is scientifically and ethically problematic. A recent emphasis on abstinence-only programs and policies appears to be undermining more comprehensive sexuality education and other government-sponsored programs. We believe that abstinence-only education programs, as defined by federal funding requirements, are morally problematic, by withholding information and promoting questionable and inaccurate opinions. Abstinence-only programs threaten fundamental human rights to health, information, and life.
If you're interested in meeting Paul Rusesabagina, the real-life hero whose story is told in the movie Hotel Rwanda, he's coming to Naperville for a fundraiser for Global Family Rescue.
The event is Jan. 21, 7:00 in the Pfieffer Auditorium at North Central College. Tickets are $50. More details are on Global Family Relief's website.
Please note: This is an "Evangelistic Relief Organization," so, while they are also interested in improving the quality of life of widows and orphans victimized by the genocide in Rwanda, they are also very committed to converting people to their religion.
When we bought our Christmas tree (the first live one I've ever had), I wondered if there would be a point when it would suddenly seem strange that we had a big, dead evergreen in our living room.
Turns out, there is.
It's today.
Fortunately, it can be recycled (OK, turned into wood chips) tomorrow. Check out the Park District website for details.
The President met with a group of former Defense Secretaries and Secretaries of State, including Robert S. McNamara, the 89-year-old, now-almost-regretful architect of the Vietnam war.
You have to wonder what McNamara had to say about Iraq.
Incidentally, according to the New York Times, Henry Kissinger was a no-show at the big maybe-it's-finally-time-to-talk-to-some-people-who-aren't-afraid-to-give-me-bad-news Oval Office session.
If you've never seen Errol Morris' The Fog of War, the incredible interview/documentary with McNamara, this might be an excellent time to check it out.
Interestingly, some of the most frightening and compelling stuff that McNamara says isn't about Vietnam at all (he still says very little, though his decades too-late agony is obvious), but about the experience in World War II that gave rise to the philosophy he applied in Vietnam. Here's one memorable passage:
Robert McNamara: I was on the island of Guam in his[General Curtis LeMays'] command in March 1945. In that single night, we burned to death one hundred thousand Japanese civilians in Tokyo. Men, women and children. Morris: Were you aware this was going to happen? Robert McNamara: Well, I was part of a mechanism that, in a sense, recommended it.
[later, regarding his and Colonel Curtis LeMay's involvement in the bombing of Japan during World War II]
Robert McNamara: LeMay said if we lost the war that we would have all been prosecuted as war criminals. And I think he's right. He... and I'd say I... were behaving as war criminals. LeMay recognized that what he was doing would be thought immoral if his side has lost.
I came out of the movie thinking that there really isn't a deep enough pit in hell for McNamara, which is why I hope he lives a very long, tortured life. But maybe that's just me.
Here's a companion piece to go with yesterday's report about the flawed statistics used in reporting the meth "epidemic."
This story, which appeared in yesterday's San Francisco Chronicle, came to my attention via Broadsheet, the cool women's blog on Salon, does an awesome job of summarizing all the ways the big "what women want" stories get the numbers wrong.
It points out, for example, that the Center for Economic Policy has repeatedly debunked the "opt-out" trend, stating that the number of highly paid women in the labor market has remained steady over the past few years.
Still, the "opt out" stories are big because for a lot of us city-dwelling media types they just feel true. (Just walk around Lincoln Park some weekday afternoon and check out the sheer number of stay-at-home moms. Thankfully, though, they're not representative of society as a whole, a fact I try to remind myself of regularly.)
Here's a treasure -- unedited, I swear -- from the reader mail box.
I think my favorite part is the post-script, which came after four typed, single-spaced pages: "Sorry to bother you with this letter!"
Dear Debra Pickett, [Smart Girls' Book Club]
I know this isn't 'Ho, ho, ho! Here's Christmas chick lit! (Chicago Sun-Times
12/25/05 [Controversy] 8B) but after reading:
'To our readers': Starting next week, Womannews begins an exciting new
chapter as it becomes part of Wednesday's Tempo section. As we join Tempo's
team of editors and writers, we look forward to bringing you fresh
perspectives and insights on topics of interest. Since 1991, WomanNews
has charted uncommon ground in newspaper journalism with its concentrated
focus on woman and the issues defining their lives. And you made it a
dialogue, writing and calling, confirming and sometimes disputing our
judgment, but all the while helping us deliver coverage that mattered
to you. We want to keep that discussion going by providing, as you've
come to expect, provocative, entertaining and informative stories. A couple
of years ago, the late Colleen Dishon, a legendary Tribune editor who
conceived both Tempo and WomanNews, passed on to me a thick stack of
yellowing pages titled "The Case for WomaNews." Filled with her exhaustive
research, it is still germane today. Women still want relevant, engaging,
trustworthy information. In fact, it's even more crucial with our busy,
demanding lives and based on what many of you have expressed in e-mails
and phone calls to us. I wish I could tell you how many times, when I'm
out in public, someone has told me, "WomanNews is my favorite section,"
or "I look forward to WomanNews on Wednesdays." Here's hoping that
starting Jan. 4, when your favorite section moves to Tempo, you and those
sentiments will follow. (Chicago Tribune (WomanNews) 12/28/05 [Cassandra
West] section 8 page 2)
I would like to ask you a question but, first I wanted to wish you a Happy
Holidays i.e. Christmas: ['Now it came to pass in these days that a decree
went forth from Caesar Augustus that a census of the whole world should be
taken. This first census took place while Cyrinus was governor of Syria. And
all were going, each to his own town, to register. And Joseph also went from
Galilee out of Judea to the town of Bethlehem-because he was of the house
and family of David-to register, together with Mary his espoused wife, who
was with child. And it came to pass while there, that the days for her to
be delivered were fulfilled. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and
wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there
was no room for him in the inn.' (Bible St. Luke 2:1-7)] or Hanukkah: ['Legend
has it that in cleansing the Temple of the idols a cruse of sacred oil was
discovered which was expected to burn one day. By miracle this little oil
burned eight days. The historic reason for the eight days is probably the
reported fact that the festival was patterned after the festival of
Tabernacles, which is observed for eight days. In the early ceremonial of
the holiday much emphasis was given to illumination. Lamps were lit and placed
in doors and windows. In time this illumination reduced itself to the kindling
of a Hanukkah light on the first night of the festival and increasing the
number of candles by one on each successive night. Prayers are spoken as the
lights are kndled. (JUDAISM IN THEORY AND PRACTICE by BERYL D. COHON BLOCH
PUBLISHING COMPANY 1948; page 208)] and a Happy New Year!
'Why are summer days long and winter days short? In the summer the days expand
because of the heat, and in the winter they contract because of the cold.'
(THE JEWISH MORAL VIRTUES Eugene B. Borowitz, Frances Weinman Schwartz; The
Jewish Publication Society 1999; page 20)
'Now as Jesus was passing on from there, two blind men followed him, crying
out and saying, 'Have pity on us, Son of David!' And when he had reached the
house, the blind men came to him. And Jesus said to them, 'Do you believe
that I can do this to you?' They answered him, 'Yes, Lord.' Then he touched
their eyes, saying, 'Let it be done to you according to your faith. And their
eyes were opened. And Jesus strictly charged them, saying, 'See that no one
knows of this!' But they went out and spread his fame abroad throughout that
district.' (Bible St. Matthew 9:27-31)
'Thinking about it,' Nothing more. What is being thought doesn't matter. Or
rather, it might matter, but thoughts are unphotographable. What is
photographed is a face 'lost in thought'...' (Cindy Sherman Peter Schjeldahl
Michael Danoff Pantheon Books 1984; page 10)
In The Differend, Lyotard (1988a) builds on his analysis of the heterogeneity
and incommensurability of prescriptive language games to show how an unjust
politics could be overcome. Lyotard discusses the controversy surrounding
the historian Faurisson, who had argued that no evidence exists that millions
of people were killed at Auschwitz. Faurisson bases his argument on the fact
that he has been unable to find a single witness who can 'prove' that he or
she saw a gas chamber in operation. (POSTMODERNISM AND SOCIAL INQUIRY edited
David R. Dickens & Andrea Fontana The Guilford Press, 1994; p. 65-66)
'Then knowing this Jesus withdrew from the place; and many followed him and
he cured them all, and he warned them not to make him known; that what was
spoken through Isaias the prophet might be fulfilled, who said, Behold, my
servant, whom I have chosen, my beloved in whom my soul is well pleased; I
will put my spirit upon him, and he will declare judgment to the Gentiles.
He will not wrangle, not cry aloud, neither will anyone hear his voice in
the streets. A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoking wick he will
not quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory; and in his name will
the Gentiles hope.' (Bible St. Matthew 12:15-21)
'Jesus said to them, 'Did you never read in the Scriptures, The stone which
the builders rejected, has become the corner stone; by the Lord this has been
done, and it is wonderful in our eyes.' (Bible St. Matthew 21: 42)
'Everyone therefore who hears these my words and acts upon them, shall be
likened to a wise man who built his house upon a rock. And the rain fell and
the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, but it did
not fall, because it was founded on rock. And everyone who hears these my
words and does not act upon them, shall be likened to a foolish man who built
his house on sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew
and beat against that house, and it fell, and was utterly ruined.' (Bible
St. Matthew 7:24-27)
'Pilate therefore said to him, 'Thou art then a king?' Jesus answered, 'Thou
sayest it; I am king. This is why I was born. and why I have come into the
world, to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears my
voice. Pilate said to him, 'What is the truth?' (Bible St. John 18:3738)
[It is always interesting to get someone else's perspective on the popular
issues of the day.]
'Now no one when he has lighted a lamp, covers it with a vessel or puts it
under a couch, but he puts it upon the lamp stand, that they who enter may
see the light.' (Bible St. Luke 8:16)
'And as Reik wrote when Hitler and Mussolini appeared to be victorious; The
lamp that burns in the night over the scientist's desk gives more powerful
light than artillery fire.' Freud shall live long after Hitler and Mussolini
are dust.' (A Text-Book of Human Psychology Peter McKellar Cohen & West LTD.
1952; page 351)
'And a great deal of critical energy is spent in attempting to understand
the ways in which the events in a given work hang together.' (Making Sense
of Literature John Reichert University of Chicago Press 1977; page 12)
'Subjects were presented with a set of jellies and asked to give a report
on their 'taste'. The jellies used were especially prepared and their colours
differed from the conventional taste-associate. For example, raspberry
-flavoured jelly was colored green, and red-coloured jelly was flavoured not
raspberry but lemon, etc. many subjects perceived 'taste' in accord with
colouring and not flavour. A control experiment, the subject being blindfolded,
revealed ability to perceive flavour correctly under conditions which excluded
visual interference.' (McKellar page 52)
'in 1834 Weber observed that the ability to discriminate differences between
two stimuli is unequal at different intensities of stimulation.' (McKellar
page 52) 'The most obvious illustrations of this principle is to be found
in illusions. If the index finger and second finger are crossed and some object
like a pencil or a marble placed between them, an illusion of touch will be
experienced. Not one but two objects will be perceived. Another kind of
discrepancy between stimulus objects and perceptions of them is known as
'Flechner's paradox' If two stimuli of unequal brightness are brought close
to the eye they are perceived as a fusion-one object, not two is perceived.'
(McKeller page 50)
'A day came when direct revelation ceased in Israel. Thenceforth God's word
was to be found in the pages of the sacred text and it's authoritative
interpretations...' (JUDAISM IN THEORY AND PRACTICE BERYL D.COHON, BLOCH
PUBLISHING COMPANY 1948; p. 21)
Cultures are famous for cultivating conventions both for expressing and for
reading' mental states-like the show of concentrated effort in 'thinking'.
These conventions can be found not only in a culture's myths and visual arts,
but also in daily routines and even in linguistic usage. This conven.tion-
alizations is well known in painting, the famous example being the image of
I the running horse in Western art, with its front and rear legs thrust 1obgii
I -tudinally forward and backward from the body. It was not until Muybridge's
famous serial photographs, shot to settle a wager on the subject that Leland
Stanford had made with a friend, that it was discovered that such fore and
aft extension of the legs is impossible in the galloping horse. Yet Remington's
cowboys galloping along on their orthopedically impossible horses still seem
to us like the apotheosis of high speed motion. So, too, does Rodin's muscular
figure seem lot in thought. The most I can read into that hesitant
sixth-century figurine is that its model is wrapped in aesthetic contemplation.
(The Culture of Education Jerome Bruner Harvard University, 1996; page 107)
'a kettle on coals. So long as it is not boiling, no one knows what it
contains. Once it starts boiling, it spills its contents and everyone knows
what is in it.' (Borowitz, page 201)
The question I would like to ask is:
'28 newsroom jobs, New City News cut by Tribune': Promised cuts came Thursday
to the Chicago Tribune, with a net loss of 28 editorial positions, the end
of its stand-alone WomaNews section and the demise of a legendary local news
service... 'You are well aware that in recent years and months virtually every
major paper in the nation has undergone layoffs, some of them repeatedly.'
Tribune Editor Ann Marie Lipinski said in a note to staff. 'At the Chicago
Tribune ,'she wrote, 'we have been fortunate to largely avoid those newsroom
cuts...But the familiar gale winds that buffet the American economy in general
and our industry in particular are at our door. I am sorry I could not stave
them off. The cutbacks in the newsroom of 670 hew to an industrywide trend.
A recent estimate determined that about 2,000 jobs will have been eliminated
at large to midsize U.S. papers in 2005. Publicly held newspaper owners such
as The New York Times Co. and Knight Rider Inc. are making similar cuts.
Despite their profitability, newspapers face falling circulation, rising
newsprint cost and increasing competition for readers, and ad money from other
media, especially the Internet...' (Chicago Tribune 12/2/05 [Phil Rosenthal]
section 3 pages 1 and 8)
I was raised the only dumb question is the one not asked. Do you think there
could be a correlation between the decline in readers for the print media
i.e. Chicago Tribune, [Chicago Sun-Times?] The New York Times Co., Knight
Rider Inc. etc... daily newspapers and the increase in the diagnoses of asthma
(ink or paper dust?) [Like the correlation between ice cream sales and
drowning (both increase in hot weather?)] Maybe you could ask the American
Lung Association if asthma decreases the opportunity for a reader to read
a traditional newspaper?
All good wishes!
All the dirty jokes I ever heard about the Winter Olympics (OK, there was pretty much only one) involved the luge.
Basically, this is a sport where you're flat on your back and barefoot. So, well, you choose the punchline.
Much to my surprise, however, there is apparently real potential for bawdiness in other events as well. The coach of the US skeleton (a sledding sport, where the athlete is on his or her abdomen taking a sled head first down the moutain) team has been on the receiving end of three sexual harassment complaints.
There's a new shoe shine stand in the Merchandise Mart. The prices are $4 to shine shoes that are on your feet and $5 to shine shoes that you're not actually wearing.
It seems wrong (or at least backwards) to me, but their explanation is that it takes more work to shine shoes that are not being held in place by feet.
Remember the story of Ashley Smith, the Atlanta woman who was held hostage by courthouse shooter Brian Nichols?
Early reports made her out to be purely heroic, claiming she'd spent the entire ordeal reading her captor passages from The Purpose-Driven Life and making him pancakes as she gently persuaded him to turn himself in.
But it turned out later that she'd actually spent the entire night before on a big meth bender and actually was sharing her stash with Nichols, meaning that it wasn't so much Smith's personal relationship with God that saved her, but the drugs she happened to have on hand, which calmed Nichols down.
This, for me, seemed like some sort of tipping point. Because if cute, blond born-again women are doing meth, really, who isn't?
Indeed, stories about the meth epidemic have been all over the place, fueling the paranoia of parents and law enforcement officials alike.
Nowhere is this more clear than here in Illinois where new laws mean we have to sign a registry and show ID to buy cold medicine, which can be used to make meth. (Why bother, though, when Sudafed itself offers such a pleasant buzz?)
Turns out, though, that Ashley Smith really is just a freak.
And the meth story has been hugely overblown.
This report, from the Statistical Assessment Service at George Mason University, debunks the meth epidemic stories, pointing out that meth use among high school students is actually on the decline and that meth does not seem to be any more addictive than other drugs. In fact, they report that only six percent of those who have tried meth also reported using it in the last month.
If you've ever thought about the damage your car is doing to the environment and felt awful about it, but, you know, not awful enough to stop driving, TerraPass might be for you.
Visit the not-for-profit group's website and enter your car's year, make, model and annual mileage, and the site will give you a quick estimate of how many pounds of carbon dioxide it's emitting each year, along with a suggested membership fee you can pay to help them undo the environmental damage your vehicle has caused.
$50 covers a car with average fuel efficiency, driven for 12,000 miles annually. A small price to pay for a clean conscience . . . and a banner of moral superiority to wave at your next dinner party.
Slogging lethargically back to work this morning, nearly everyone on the Brown Line seemed to have the same slightly dazed look. We were all moving a bit slower, too, carrying a couple extra pounds of Christmas cookies, holiday dinners, bowl-watching snacks and other indulgences that didn't seem like such a big deal at the time.
Whether you're a New Year's resolver or just a usually healthy person who has temporarily fallen off the bandwagon, this is the day when you're supposed to pull yourself together and get back on the treadmill.
I am typically a big fan of this day. Lacking the ability to do anything in moderation, I tend to throw myself into training routine that would suit an ascetic triathlete. This usually lasts for several months. And then I quit entirely for a couple of months before starting the pattern over again.
Somehow, today, though, I haven't quite gotten in to the old over-zealous spirit.
Nobody really tells you about the marital equivalent of the freshman 15. From home-cooked dinners to quiet nights in, the newlywed lifestyle is definitely not conducive any healthy diet/exercise plan. It is, in fact, a perfect recipe for "letting yourself go."
I'm not sure what the antidote for this would be, but I have a feeling I'm going to find out in a few weeks, when my need for new pants is likely to intersect with our beginning-of-the-year budgeting exercise.
R. and I were in Pasadena last year for the Rose Bowl (he actually went to Michigan, while I am just a shameless hanger-on who'll buy a sweatshirt for whatever school strikes my fancy) and, though the weather was pretty bad (cold and damp) then, it wasn't nearly as bad as it was out there today.
This morning, we watched the parade on cable (HGTV is great, if you're into extra flower detail) and got a certain sick pleasure out of being warm and dry (OK, indoors) in Chicago, while the people there were soaked to the skin and being whipped around by the wind.
Even as we heard freakish December rolls of thunder and smatterings of hail outside our own windows (Me: "Um, that's not the TV, right?"), we were taunting the poor Rose Parade people who had to stand outside and take it. Marching bands who covered their uniforms with plastic ponchos were sissies. And people leaving the stands early were losers.
Because, somehow, we knew that if we were there, we'd have stayed for every last high school band and horse riding club and senior citizen drill team. That's the sort of parade-goers we are. The misery is part of the fun.
Turns out, that whole housewife gig can really leave you up the creek. Who knew?
I'm not sure why the whole being a full-time mom is the toughest, most important job in the world routine gets me so riled up, but it really does. I found this article a nice antidote to the smugness.
