Happy New Year

 

Imagine all the People

Living Life in Peace

Happy New Year

2023

My Cyber Monday

 

I went to Target yesterday to activate my new IPhone and see about getting an Apple Watch.  The salesperson said:  "It's Cyber Monday, so we'll match anyone's lowest price."  I was sold.  

The friendly electronics technician offered to set up my phone.  I noticed he had very long nails painted in one of those new colors they're wearing these days.  "Do you have trouble manipulating the phones?", I said.  

That opened up an interesting conversation in which he told me he was a technician by day, drag queen by night.  He gave me his stage name and showed me some pix of him as "her."

I had planned to go to the Geek Squad for help, but this happy moment had me with the "drag squad" instead.

Beyond Time

 

Are you tired of remembering the end-of-season meltdown of the White Sox?  Or the miserable start-of-season performance of the Bulls?  Here's a new idea:  Eternal Baseball.

A team is assembled from the stats of today and yesteryear.  The best of the best beyond the "mortal coil".  Your teams is matched against the other team's best, including some teams that moved around or disappeared.  I'm following the Sox.

Is this the reason "Finding Your Roots" is such a popular TV show?  Why people are submitting DNA to connect with the heroes (or villains) on their family tree?

Time has always been terrifying to us self-aware humans.  And so far, eternity has been beyond purchase.  So, why not have fun with Eternal Baseball.  Or, for that matter, Eternal Parents, Eternal Friends, or Eternal Leaders.

The Eternal White Sox of the American League won their first game.  Doc White pitched a four hit shutout to beat Eternal Baltimore 6-0.

Writers and Their Characters

 

I've carried around a fascination about when an author decides to end the life of one of his most favorite characters.  A character that has been lovingly followed through several books.  A character that has brought the author fame and fortune.

As I cry about the death, does the author cry too?  What goes into the decision?  My friend Rex, an author himself, says: "Maybe he just got tired. Ready to write about someone else."

But what about the connection?  The relationship?  Isn't the character "real" in some way?  Isn't it a "death?"

Walter Mosley killed off Easy Rawlins and went on to write a completely new series in a new town.  That takes some kind of confidence.

The writer owns the story.  The reader owns the story of his life.

My Electric Date

 

My friend Craig had been waiting for his Tesla for a long time.  So long, that the "locked in" price he had negotiated with the dealer had gone up on the street by about $10,000.  "Are you tempted to just take your profit and sell it?", I asked him last summer.  He smiled the smile of a satisfied man.  "We'll probably keep it."

Today was my first ride.  "Did you have to pledge allegiance to Elon Musk to take possession?",  I said as I climbed into the black beauty. Craig is used to me being snarky.  Snarky turned into astonishment as Craig pointed out all of the features.

The climactic moment came when he turned onto good old Lake Shore Drive and went into the self-driving mode.  The Tesla didn't notice the homeless tent in the park but it did notice traffic and adjusted accordingly. I climbed out of my horse and buggy mind into the mysterious future. Thanks, Craig.

Wow.

Who Do We Love?

 

Hershel Walker and Brett Favre Were Football Gods.  It Should Have Ended There.  When I saw this article in the Washington Post I nodded my head in agreement and then I started to think.

Athletic stars have never shared more of the spotlight than they do today.  We are a culture craving endless distraction and the media moguls know how to extract every available profit from our infinite goodwill.

Walker and Favre have stepped deep into it.  They deserve whatever fate awaits.  But why shouldn't a athletic star enter politics?  Or any other endeavor?  We can look at them anew. If fame gives you a leg up,  I trust that as much or more than I trust a billion dollars.  Don't you?

End of Days?

 

I went to my favorite park today to soak up the gorgeous weather.  The sign on the fence said:  WARNING:  WATCH OUT FOR AGGRESSIVE BLACKBIRDS.  What?  Now I have to add this to my list? Arthritis, inflation, global warming, Republicans?  I know my days are numbered but this is too much!

P.S.  I didn't see any of the doomsday messengers.  Just the little sparrows that populate our lives without worry.

A Long Time Leftie Loses Her Mind

 

I can't help it.  Whenever I see Merrick Garland, I see the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover.  When I see those earnest FBI agents in their black suits and tiny ties explaining it all on TV, I think of those same agents roaming the Chicago Stadium, snapping our pictures as we listened to Martin Luther King.

Trump walked away with nuclear secrets.  Just like the Rosenbergs, right?  

Lori Lightfoot is Mayor.  I wonder what Fred Hampton could have become.

A Mystery Emerges

 

Are you as bowled over as I am about Liz Cheney?  Just the name Cheney still sends shivers down my spine.  And now, even as the shivers remain, I have to add the name Liz and come up with a new reaction.

My friends say that after the hearings she will go back to all of her policies that we despise.  We laugh about whether the few Democrats in Wyoming should cross over to support her.

I just read a thoughtful article by Monica Hesse about the Liz phenomenon.  She puts it all together beautifully.  I am more inclined to add it to the pile of "mysteries of life" which  keep me humble.  Thank goodness they keep me still curious and engaged.

I'm Not Sorry

 

Today is the 42nd anniversary of the Borg/McEnroe tiebreaker.  Some say it was the best conclusion ever to a tennis match.  The lead went back in forth in heart stopping closeness. Okay, I’ll tell you.  Borge won 18-16. I watched every minute and I’m not sorry.

Not sorry?  Why would I say that?  I was a house guest at friends’ beachfront cabin in Michigan.  I was called politely, and then, in rising levels of impatience, for dinner.  Surely it was going to conclude in a minute.  No.  Both players showed their endless skill and determination. My guest status was sealed.  

Borge played only one slam after that and retired very young.  McEnroe still laments his decision.

I’m watching Wimbledon  now.  They’ve changed the rules so tiebreakers have to end at 10 points.  If my hosts were still part of my life, I would not have the opportunity to be so rude.

Hot Dogs Forever

 

Sammie's Hot Dog Stand was on the corner of Cornelia and Broadway, just a few steps from my apartment.  It was just a cart on the sidewalk, but Sammie had all of the Chicago-Style fixins'.  I was a simple mustard and onions girl.  Years later, I learned that Sammie had been able to retire and move to Florida.  The American Dream.

Doug Sohn, the gourmet hot dog king, was able to penetrate Chicago-Style tradition.  He is still missed by his devoted followers.

For my birthday, my friend Myles promised me a jumbo kosher hot dog fired up on his grill.  Delicious!

And, of course, there is nothing more satisfying than a hot dog at the ballpark while watching a White Sox winner!

Happy 4th everyone.

On Father's Day

 

When A Father Dies Young

If I could have my father with me again for one day, how old would I be? Young, I think.  Sitting on his lap or holding hands young?  I think teenage years.  I hope he would be a dad who would encourage his daughter to be her own person.  To seek her own accomplishments and fate.  He would have had to be a rare man to be of that mind, but there were a few of them back then, so it's not impossible.

In the one photo I have of us together, he is wearing a snappy hat and good suit.  He looks satisfied.  Secure enough to let his children know when he is proud of them.  From time to time.

An absent father keeps your dream life close.  Imagination keeps it going.  Removed from disappointment, an absent father lives on as the "good listener."  Not the real father I ache to have had, but still an influence.

The mind has room for everything.

This is from my book Joan Chandler Today.

Washed Away

 

Are you familiar with the concept of "sports-washing?"  (Not to be confused with sports watching.)  The idea is that sports is deliberately promoted by the "powers that be" to distract us from the social and economic practices that would most serve our really important interests.

It goes back to the idea of "bread and circuses."  If the we have just enough to eat, and can be continually entertained, we won't revolt no matter how unfair the conditions of our lives.

So here I am, being "washed" over and over by the NBA playoffs. (Big game tonight!)  I am really clean.  Or, am I?

All Heart

 

I'm here again to report on another absolutely thrilling event in sports; an all out display of excellence and heart that keeps me (and hopefully, you) away from the edge of despair in these crazy times.

It was only the quarter final at the French Open, but Nadal and Djokovic treated it like another round in the epic matches we've grown to love from "the big three." (Federer is still on the sidelines.)

Is there any sport more valiant than Grand Slam tennis?  Exposed alone.  Matches that extend for hour after hour.    

Nadal was down, but never out.  Djokovic was the "bad guy" and expected to win.  

Have I piqued your interest enough to check on the result?

Breaking Good

I am proud to report that I have broken a bad habit.  I have given up watching cable news.  For those who sympathize, I don't have to explain why.  For those who sympathize and are still watching, let me know if something new and important happens.  

My nicotine patch for getting me through the withdrawal is the NBA playoffs.  On a whole, they have been spectacular!  Of course, everyone loved it when the Celtics swept the hated Nets.  And, of course, everyone here hated it when those Celtics beat the Bulls. But now, the Celtics are embroiled in an epic showdown with the Bucks.  Some say it's too close to call. I predict the Bucks will prevail.  Giannis will not be denied.

If you hear about the outcome on cable, it's okay to call me.   I'll probably already know, but I put that in the category of important news.

 

Giving it Away

 

It started when I got the idea that maybe I should sell my condo and move into one of those places for seniors where you get your meals, and other amenities.  Immediately I equated moving with getting rid of my excess stuff.  I thought I had done that already several years ago.  In fact I prided myself on my “minimal” surroundings.

Now I felt a pile of unessential objects weighing me down.  Everyday I gathered enough to fill a large plastic bag and lugged it down to the trunk of my car.  Every few days I dropped the bags off at the Salvation Army.

I also started wanting to give away my things to the people in my life. When thinking of them, I imagined what they would like of mine.  When my friendly neighbor from across the hall said he loved to cook, I invited him over to pick out cooking utensils that he could use.

After considering it closely, I decided not to move after all.  I concentrated on fixing up my place.  But the desire to give away my possessions hasn’t left.  It started in the context of moving, but now?  What is it really about? 

Am I spreading around memories of me? Am I getting ready to not be around anymore?  

Maybe it's just that I like the idea of gifting my way through old age.

A Winning Move

 

At the end of the NCAA basketball games, the players and coaches line up to shake hands. When Michigan defeated Tennessee, Juwan Howard, the Michigan coach,  noticed that a player from the losing team was in tears.  He took the time to embrace the young man and comfort him.  This beautiful moment reminded me of one of my blogs:

Why We Shake Hands

After the Sixers' playoff run came to an end when they lost to the Celtics, Joel Embiid walked off the court without shaking hands with the winning team.  Bad sport.  I immediately remembered when Isiah Thomas and the Pistons turned their backs on the Bulls.  The Bulls had finally defeated them after so many tries.  He and his team were criticized for being such bad sports.  I never liked Isiah again.

So, I was disturbed when one of my favorite sportswriters, Jemille Hill, defended Imbiid.  "He was showing passion for winning. Showing he was serious."

Yes, of course we root for our favorites.  But we understand that both are serious.  Both sides are passionate.  We shake hands to acknowledge the beauty of engagement.  The winning is sweet because this time it's your turn.  Next time maybe not.

A Northwestern Memory

 

Isabel Wilkerson is going to give the commencement address at Northwestern this year.  Things were different when I went to NU. There was one black student who sat with us sometimes at the coffee place.  He was the son of a big shot at the Post Office.  There was another black person in one of my classes.  I was teamed up with him on a project for the class.  He came over to the sorority house where I lived to work on the project.  The house mother called me aside and said I should not have invited him. "It doesn't look good."   “Did you know” I said: “he’s a Prince.  He’s the son of a tribal king in Africa.”  “Oh my,” said the house mother.  “We should invite him to speak.  I’m sure he’s so interesting!"

A Dog and Then Two

 

Shortly after my father died when I was a child, my mother decided my brother should have a dog.  He was a black and white cocker spaniel who my brother named Snuffy.  Snuffy didn’t know that I thought of myself as the “outsider” in the trio left behind by my father’s sudden absence.  He was willing to love me too.  As if I belonged.  

A few years ago, a couple moved into the large condo at the end of my hallway.  Like me, they are up and out early.  Most important, they usually are taking their two cocker spaniels for their morning walk.  These two beauties are not black and white, but everything else about them brings back all of the memories of acceptance that Snuffy gave me when I needed it most.

The couple knows me as the friendly lady who stops to give them a smile and gives the dogs an occasional pat.  The rest remains with me.

What Fate Awaits?

 

During lunch with my friend Jim he expressed concern about his upcoming move into assisted living: “Do you know where I can send my volumes of the Encyclopedia Brittanica? I can’t bear to throw them away.  I trust them more than anything from google.”  I sympathized.  I’ve been looking fondly at my own bookshelves lately and wondering about the fate of my favorites.

“Since we’re in another era of book burning now Jim, maybe the best fate of the

Encyclopedia would be to offer it up in an exchange for saving Toni Morrison books, or Maus, or whatever else is being threatened to go into the pyre,” I replied jokingly.

But it’s no joke, is it?

Hot Stove League

 

Barry Bonds, Roger Clemmens, and -- local hero to some -- Sammy Sosa, had their last chance to get voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame on the regular ballot.  They didn't make it.  The steroid era is still despised. David Ortiz, the Red Sox's Big Poppy, was the only player who got in.  

That set off an email exchange with my great friend Gerry.  He says the players from the steroid era cheated the game and don't deserve a place in the Hall.  He referred to various sports sources who agree.

I hesitated, thought it over, listened to my favorite sports commentators, and decided: "Let them in."  My first thoughts were that drugs have been used so many times to create our corrupt society so why get all morally correct about this?  

Who is in the Hall is only a reflection of the times in which they were up for a vote.  Many members never faced competition from black players whose stats were many times stronger.

Finally, we are living in times where "unfair competition" infects every aspect of our lives.

It's so much fun to have these debates.  But it's no fun that baseball owners locked out the players.  Nothing has been resolved.  Spring training is supposed to start in weeks.

I want to talk about my White Sox!

A Lifetime in Fur

 

There's nothing that says "oldster" like a closet full of furs.  I think of them smiling as they say: "You think climate change has made us irrelevant, but we've still got a few more good years left."  Each one of my coats brings along a trip down memory lane.

My mother's designer mink jacket was an emblem of her hard earned success as a business woman.  The fluffy raccoon was sold to me for pennies when my great friend Beverly decided to go cloth. I'm so glad I have it, especially now that she's gone.  The one I reached for this morning was my sheared beaver.  I was proud when I bought it for myself as I was emerging as Joan Chandler.

I gave my black mink to my friend Margaret.  She loved it.  I wonder if she still wears it.  I was wearing my grey fox when Wilt Chamberlain smiled at me and said: "Nice jacket."

See what I mean?  Furs are a great source of warmth ... on our back and in our mind.

Memories of MLK

 

I went to hear him speak at the old Chicago Stadium. Men wearing trench coats and hats walked up and down the aisles taking pictures of us. We knew they were FBI. My good friend Chuck Markels went south to help register voters.  Later, he was one of the lawyers who drafted and fought for the Chicago fair housing law and scattered public housing.

We marched and sometimes we registered our presence on the sidelines.  We were proud of our stance.