Stopped Short

The mystery writer Sue Grafton died.  She was famous for her alphabet series of private detective stories.  Her titles started with "A is for Alibi" and went on from there.  She got as far as "Y" before cancer stopped her short. 

Her daughter said that Grafton would never allow a ghost writer to write in her name.  So "Z" , in her writing career,  remains untouched.  I hope her family finds that as satisfying as I do.  The final letter remains open to the imaginations of those she left behind.

And maybe she'll start all over again with "A is for Afterlife."

Greetings!

In the spirit of the New Yorker's year-end Yuletide romp,
I'm reaching out to friends,
Please tell me not to stop.
Merry, merry to my movie buddy Lail,
I hope our favorite stars,
Have avoided sex-crime jail.
To my music loving friends: Gerry, Bonnie and her Bruce
I wish you as much fun as Bill is having with his flute.
To Phyllis, Camille, Jim, Lisa, Marguerite and Myles,
I hope the year to come brings nothing but great smiles.
I know my Nation group could use some cheering up.
Unite All! We will outlast him,
That Scrooge we know as Trump.
Happy Holidays to everyone who visited my blog,
Eat fruitcake and be merry,
Wash it down with stiff eggnog.

The Curse of the Unlikely Past

I feel bad about Al Franken.  Mostly because we need his voice.  And, because I admired his decision to go for being a Senator.  After his impossibly close victory, he spent his first term learning the ropes, away from TV, and relentlessly refusing to be funny.  After he was re-elected by a wide margin, Al felt it was safe to start being Al  -- while being a solid legislator.  The people "really liked him."

Well, being funny turned out not to be the problem.  Being too touchy, feely and the ubiquitous man-style jerk has Al in a deep hole.

I guess it was too much to ask for:  A successful trip from SNL, not from being a lawyer, prosecutor, billionaire, or "player" in your state.  You know, the trip that leaves most Senators being a sanctimonious man-style jerk.

The fate of the funny man is yet to be determined.  As for now, only the Gods are laughing.

Are We Alone

We've reached the point in my class about the search for life in the universe when we will discuss alien abductions, UFOs, Roswell, and "are they or have they been among us."

It reminds me of the years leading up to the turn of the century.  I discovered the world of late night radio host Art Bell and his guests and followers.  There was a frenzy of speculation surrounding what would happen when the calendar would contain those zeros. (Remember Y2K?)

One of the saddest events around this time was the mass suicide of young men convinced that there was a space ship approaching Earth on the tail of the Hale-Bopp comet.  They shed their bodies in a quest for a better existence in outer space.  At some level, I get it.

Intellectually,  I totally believe --because of the vast universe -- that it is impossible we are the only conscious ones.  Emotionally, because it's so remote, I feel left out. 

Maybe it was an overwhelming urge to participate that took those Heaven's Gate guys.

Location, Location

In the late 1980's my friend Gerry and I took a trip to West Virginia.  The people we went to see lived in a southern-style mansion complete with "grounds."  I was astonished to learn that the price of that place was less than what someone would pay for my itty-bitty condo today.

The four of us went to the nicest restaurant in town.  Fried chicken and the best strawberry shortcake I've ever tasted.  Gerry gasped when he picked up the check: less than $25.

On the ride back to Chicago, I mused:  "I guess if, money wise, my back was really against the wall, I could always move to a trailer in West Virginia.  Maybe in a college town?"

My friends Carole in Mexico City and June in Asheville are happy with their decision.   I've been able to follow them on the internet, so I imagine they would stay in touch with me.  The digital world is always a click away.

What about making friends?  Would the natives welcome a big city "elite"?  I would start with bridge.  In my experience, there's always a game.   Everywhere.

The Good Tax?

My friend David mentioned a Bruce Rauner re-election ad extolling the lower taxes in neighboring states. I was thinking: "Is it the taxes themselves or what the money is spent on that annoys us the most?" At the top of my hate list are settlements we have to pay out for harm done by bad cops, and hefty pensions and perks for greedy politicians.

The most direct pleasure I got from my tax dollars occurred when I lived in Oak Lawn.  I loved the parks, forest preserves and indoor sports facilities provided by the Park District.

As for Rauner and high-tax Illinois:  I think I'll still take Chicago over Indianapolis, St. Louis, or Milwaukee.  But, we'd all like to be "Queen (or King) for a Day" so we could rearrange things.  Right?

The Two A's

Chicago has gone gaga over Apple and Amazon.  My friends are calling me to visit the new Apple store with the same enthusiasm they would have for an exhibition or other cultural event.

Amazon has set up a competition for a corporate headquarters not unlike the bids for the Olympic Games.  And the hungry cities dig deep into their taxes and real estate in the hope of "winning" the "prize."

In our city of big shoulders, the ghost of Steve Jobs and Amazon's siren call of jobs, jobs, jobs is creating a dazzling devotion to corporate commerce.  

I'm afraid we're going to feel pretty duped, maybe like Greece and Brazil, when the robots that are dazzling the corporate lords snap up those same jobs we fight so hard for today.