I bet you didn't know there is a kickass toilet invented by a Japanese company called Toto. This toilet is to flushing what the atom bomb was to WWII.
Wasn't there some ferocious Japanese military leader named Toto? Or am I thinking of Judy Garland's dog in The Wizard of Oz?
Regardless, remember the name, Toto, because once you've used a Toto toilet, nothing else comes close.
Ever since environmentalists turned the act of flushing into an act of political correctness, I have longed for days gone by, when I didn't have to think twice about going to the bathroom.
It started with putting a brick into the huge tanks we used to have. Supposedly water is now at a premium so it's the job of every good American to use less water to flush. NOTE TO IOWA: See what happens when you all flush at once?
Every day I am reminded of how much I miss the old fashioned toilets. The ones that had enough tank water to launch an ICBM.
Using the bathroom was something I always took for granted. It was a place to perform a bodily function without giving it a second thought.
Not any more. Now I have to wait to make sure I don't need a second, or horrors, a third flush. How ironic that since we've legislated to downsize our toilet tanks in some misguided effort to save water, we've simultaneously become the most fat-assed nation on earth. You do the math.
Since I "upgraded" my bathroom toilet to its modern configuration, i.e., not enough tank water to remove lint -- I think I've used twice as much water as I ever did before. Up to four times as much after anything with jalapeno peppers.
With a few exceptions, one flush just can't get the job done. I can't count the times I've spent staring down at the bowl in wide-eyed wonder. I wonder if a second flush will take care of everything. I wonder if I will have to clean the toilet once more today. I wonder if I can ever use two ply teepee again?
And then, at a friends' house, I used a Toto toilet for the first time. I'll admit I was leary. There was the telltale tiny new tank and not very much water in the toilet bowl. I might be stuck in the john for awhile. Gingerly I pressed the lever.
KA-POW!!! Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. The Toto was totally awesome. Everything was gone in ONE SECOND!!!!Jet-propelled to another universe. And ready to go again in a heartbeat.
Stunned, I flushed it again. Just for fun. Never has so much power been generated by so little water.
I raved to my friends. "That's quite a toilet!!"
"Yes. We saw a demonstration where it flushed thirteen ping pong balls at one time."
I could figure out what that meant on my own.
Yesterday I found an article about the latest Toto toilets. They come with heated seats if you want them. They have fans with air fresheners for odor control. They have automatic bidets if you want them. They also come with a remote control. So you can go to the bathroom from another room I suppose.
Yes, for a mere $5000 the Toto with all those extras can be yours. But if you don't need your butt heated or any of those other bells and whistles, you can get the basic version that can send thirteen ping pong balls to kingdom come for only $500 or so.
So the next time you find yourself worrying as you watch the toilet flush, remember the Toto. You'll never look back again
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Air America Shoots Self In Left Foot
I have never been able to find Air America on my radio dial. As a card carrying liberal, primarily because I am a pro-choice, divorced single parent who was raised by Ford-driving Democrats, I have always wondered if I might be missing something important Rachel Maddow et al might be saying.
Regardless of my reasons for wanting to listen, many times I thought it might just be funny to hear Al Franken gripe about Ann Coulter. But I was never once able to dial him up while he was still on the air.
Today by accident, as I was searching, I passed the news station I wanted to listen to and stumbled onto "Blah blah blah blah. . .Air America." So I stopped to listen.
With Rush Limbaugh, you know you're going to get some seriously inflammatory liberal bashing. So, in return, I expected some seriously inflammatory conservative bashing, particularly on the only liberal radio talk show, formerly a whole network, on the air.
What I got amounted to self flagellation. Rush Limbaugh doesn't have to trash Gore, Obama, Hillary, or any of the other members of the left of middle establishment. Air America is happy to do it for him.
When I might have expected to listen to a dissection of McCain's odd road to his nomination, I heard a discussion about John Edwards' right to privacy in light of recent embarrassing revelations. Apparently, a tawdry tale about the pretty boy first showed up late last year. It is rumored that the former senator and vice presidential candidate has fathered a child with a woman who was doing an all access documentary about him.
But after a brief flare up in the National Enquirer last year, the story went away.
Now it seems those same crack tabloid reporters caught John-boy trying to either leave or enter an LA hotel in the middle of the night. To avoid them he hid in a bathroom until security rescued him.
Listeners were invited to call and weigh in with their thoughts about whether Edwards had a right to have his private life kept private, especially if the original story turns out to be true.
My first thought was, "John Edwards? That slut in an empty suit?!"
Even worse, the commentator, someone named Bender, confessed to liking the guy. Admiring the guy. Feeling bad for the guy. I guess he'd hoped Edwards would be considered as a vice presidential candidate for Obama. Or in his cabinet at least.
David Hasselhoff would be a better choice.
John Edwards has two major strikes against him. First he's as pretty as a movie star -- the kiss of death when it comes to developing character. Narcissism tends to fill the vacuum. The best evidence of Edwards' self indulgent sense of entitlement: those ridiculously expensive haircuts he paid for in Beverly Hills. Over $400 apiece as I recall.
Second he's made a lot of money trying some big cases. I find it interesting that he chose a profession that works well with charm and good looks -- two of the most important attributes of a successful trial lawyer.
On top of a sense of entitlement, people who have excessive amounts of money tend to think that makes them smarter than everyone else. That's why so many run for public office.
As far as respecting John Edwards' privacy -- the rules have changed from the days of FDR, JFK, and J. Edgar Hoover, when dalliances and other uncomfortable truths such as alcoholism and homosexuality were not reported.
If McCain can survive the crap he's pulled, from dumping his first wife unceremoniously and marrying his second wife a short month after the divorce. To the train wreck he calls a naval career to the recent story of an affair with a lobbyist, Edwards can weather his screw up with a good spinmeister. Although I wouldn't recommend going on Maury for a DNA test.
Politicians and celebrities all know the rules of the game -- if you get too close to the fire, you're going to get burned.
But back to the real issue -- why does anyone give a rip about John Edwards in the first place? Rush Limbaugh is laughing his ass off.
Regardless of my reasons for wanting to listen, many times I thought it might just be funny to hear Al Franken gripe about Ann Coulter. But I was never once able to dial him up while he was still on the air.
Today by accident, as I was searching, I passed the news station I wanted to listen to and stumbled onto "Blah blah blah blah. . .Air America." So I stopped to listen.
With Rush Limbaugh, you know you're going to get some seriously inflammatory liberal bashing. So, in return, I expected some seriously inflammatory conservative bashing, particularly on the only liberal radio talk show, formerly a whole network, on the air.
What I got amounted to self flagellation. Rush Limbaugh doesn't have to trash Gore, Obama, Hillary, or any of the other members of the left of middle establishment. Air America is happy to do it for him.
When I might have expected to listen to a dissection of McCain's odd road to his nomination, I heard a discussion about John Edwards' right to privacy in light of recent embarrassing revelations. Apparently, a tawdry tale about the pretty boy first showed up late last year. It is rumored that the former senator and vice presidential candidate has fathered a child with a woman who was doing an all access documentary about him.
But after a brief flare up in the National Enquirer last year, the story went away.
Now it seems those same crack tabloid reporters caught John-boy trying to either leave or enter an LA hotel in the middle of the night. To avoid them he hid in a bathroom until security rescued him.
Listeners were invited to call and weigh in with their thoughts about whether Edwards had a right to have his private life kept private, especially if the original story turns out to be true.
My first thought was, "John Edwards? That slut in an empty suit?!"
Even worse, the commentator, someone named Bender, confessed to liking the guy. Admiring the guy. Feeling bad for the guy. I guess he'd hoped Edwards would be considered as a vice presidential candidate for Obama. Or in his cabinet at least.
David Hasselhoff would be a better choice.
John Edwards has two major strikes against him. First he's as pretty as a movie star -- the kiss of death when it comes to developing character. Narcissism tends to fill the vacuum. The best evidence of Edwards' self indulgent sense of entitlement: those ridiculously expensive haircuts he paid for in Beverly Hills. Over $400 apiece as I recall.
Second he's made a lot of money trying some big cases. I find it interesting that he chose a profession that works well with charm and good looks -- two of the most important attributes of a successful trial lawyer.
On top of a sense of entitlement, people who have excessive amounts of money tend to think that makes them smarter than everyone else. That's why so many run for public office.
As far as respecting John Edwards' privacy -- the rules have changed from the days of FDR, JFK, and J. Edgar Hoover, when dalliances and other uncomfortable truths such as alcoholism and homosexuality were not reported.
If McCain can survive the crap he's pulled, from dumping his first wife unceremoniously and marrying his second wife a short month after the divorce. To the train wreck he calls a naval career to the recent story of an affair with a lobbyist, Edwards can weather his screw up with a good spinmeister. Although I wouldn't recommend going on Maury for a DNA test.
Politicians and celebrities all know the rules of the game -- if you get too close to the fire, you're going to get burned.
But back to the real issue -- why does anyone give a rip about John Edwards in the first place? Rush Limbaugh is laughing his ass off.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Susie Sleuth
My suburb is like most suburbs lately. We have foreign speaking contractors coming in to tear down dozens and dozens of smaller, older homes so they can build monstrosities with turrets that Count Dracula would kill to live in. Today, just for giggles, I think I will count the number of new houses in my neighborhood that are fitted with those stupid pointy castle things.
My town also happens to have a lot of diversity too. Not racially so much. Even though we have every color and many ethnicities represented, the truth is this place is over ninety percent cottage cheese.
On the other hand, along with many churches and temples, we have a mosque, although I don't hear any calls to prayer during the day. There are both Catholic AND Jewish parochial schools, schools for autistic kids, gifted kids, learning disabled kids, deaf kids, you name the kid, we've got a school for him or her.
We have loads of public facilities -- swimming pools, water slides, bike tracks, indoor and outdoor skating rinks, golf courses, ball diamonds, sledding hills, tennis courts, a fishing pond, even a babbling brook with benches just to sit beside.
We also have acres and acres of forest preserve land. On any given morning you can go out and find groups of "birders" gathering under a stand of trees looking up at the sound of some singing bird, trying to find it. There are all kinds of birds, from red tail hawks to blue herons, Canada geese, Baltimore orioles, robins, cardinals, finiches, and seagulls. Since we got hit with The West Nile virus, I haven't seen a single blue jay, crow, grackle or starling. But the other birds seem to be flourishing.
On the weekends families with blue and red coolers loaded with food take over the shelters and picnic tables for hours of barbecues and games of frisbee
In a couple of places there are boat launches for kayaks and bass fishing boats. With plenty of people casting from the sidelines. A popular bike trail runs through it all and cycling traffic can get pretty heavy, especially at the intersection by the Good Humor truck.
Apparently in the midst of all this Smokey The Bear wholesomeness, there are the "lonely men." Over time I've noticed codger types who pull into a forest preserve parking place and just sit there. Like anyone else, I just assumed they were meditating.
The other day, I was driving down one of the main roads to the highway so I could go downtown. On the spur of the moment I decided why not skip the traffic and enjoy a beautiful day doing my work out of doors. So, instead of inhaling exhaust, I drove into one of my town's many forest preserve areas, intending to commune with nature while I worked on a video script.
I was thoroughly enjoying the beautiful weather, listening to all the birds, watching the squirrels and one scrounging raccoon, when some young buck in a Jeep on his cell phone drove past me at a pretty good clip, all the way to the end of the only road in the area, whereupon he turned around and came back.
I didn't think anything of it. Until he went back and forth at least seven different times, always on his phone. Then I noticed he was followed by a different car every time. Soon the traffic picked up and there were cars going up and back like they were on a major thoroughfare.
If anyone stopped it was for a minute or two at the most. The driver would back into a parking place and sit there until the Stud in the green Jeep pulled in next to them, driver side to driver side. They were too far away for me to see anything, but nobody got out of their cars. And I couldn't tell if there was a handoff or a job that required hands of any kind.
Finally I got back into my car and started writing down license plates. I was thinking maybe this was some kind of suburban drug business.
How brilliant of me to stay there if it was. But I kept thinking, this isn't an urban crime area. We're right around the corner from the place where I get my manis and pedis. Walking distance from the grocery store. My town is not a hotbed of anything worse than retail theft and drunk driving.
The Nancy Drew in me seemed compelled to write down license plate numbers. Too many episodes of Law and Order can leave a mark like that.
Keep in mind that in order to do this I had to look directly at the cars to see the numbers, and they could see me looking at them, so it wasn't like I was all that surreptitious.
Finally good sense prevailed. I retired from amateur detective duty and left. But my evidence kit had a page full of license plate numbers even though I had no idea what they were good for.
You might think I wouldn't go back there. But I did. On my way home a couple of days later, I stopped at this great new smoked rib place and got a pulled pork sandwich dripping with sauce. With a side of slaw and some great peach 'n beans. Instead of eating the drippy mess at home over the sink, I drove two blocks to the infamous forest preserve area, where I could drip on my latest copy of Sports Illustrated and eat my barbecue without having to clean up the kitchen floor afterward.
This time there was no one around. Then I saw why. There was a forest preserve police car. He ignored me until I finished my tasty repast and started getting back into the car. At that point he drove over for a chat.
Did I know that this particular area was known for solicitation of sex acts by men for men? I laughed and said, "Then I'm safe?" I told him I had noticed many "lonely men" parked there in the past. Then I remembered my list of license plates and all the cruising I had seen the other day. So I told him that I had seen some heavy traffic through there, but I assumed it was for drugs, since nobody seemed to be doing anything with anybody.
He said they check each other out and make "dates." That would explain the guy on his cell phone.
I asked him if he wanted the list of license plate numbers I had written down in my other life as a suburban vigilante. He gave me a funny look, like I was a little too old to be playing Nancy Drew, but he did take the list. After seeing how extensive it was, he shook his head, smiled enigmatically, and said, "Thank you."
As I drove away, I checked my rearview mirror. His car never moved. From what I could see, it looked like he was reading my list and punching license plate numbers into his computer.
Or maybe he was just punching up my license plate. Wait till he gets to the part about the dry cleaning.
My town also happens to have a lot of diversity too. Not racially so much. Even though we have every color and many ethnicities represented, the truth is this place is over ninety percent cottage cheese.
On the other hand, along with many churches and temples, we have a mosque, although I don't hear any calls to prayer during the day. There are both Catholic AND Jewish parochial schools, schools for autistic kids, gifted kids, learning disabled kids, deaf kids, you name the kid, we've got a school for him or her.
We have loads of public facilities -- swimming pools, water slides, bike tracks, indoor and outdoor skating rinks, golf courses, ball diamonds, sledding hills, tennis courts, a fishing pond, even a babbling brook with benches just to sit beside.
We also have acres and acres of forest preserve land. On any given morning you can go out and find groups of "birders" gathering under a stand of trees looking up at the sound of some singing bird, trying to find it. There are all kinds of birds, from red tail hawks to blue herons, Canada geese, Baltimore orioles, robins, cardinals, finiches, and seagulls. Since we got hit with The West Nile virus, I haven't seen a single blue jay, crow, grackle or starling. But the other birds seem to be flourishing.
On the weekends families with blue and red coolers loaded with food take over the shelters and picnic tables for hours of barbecues and games of frisbee
In a couple of places there are boat launches for kayaks and bass fishing boats. With plenty of people casting from the sidelines. A popular bike trail runs through it all and cycling traffic can get pretty heavy, especially at the intersection by the Good Humor truck.
Apparently in the midst of all this Smokey The Bear wholesomeness, there are the "lonely men." Over time I've noticed codger types who pull into a forest preserve parking place and just sit there. Like anyone else, I just assumed they were meditating.
The other day, I was driving down one of the main roads to the highway so I could go downtown. On the spur of the moment I decided why not skip the traffic and enjoy a beautiful day doing my work out of doors. So, instead of inhaling exhaust, I drove into one of my town's many forest preserve areas, intending to commune with nature while I worked on a video script.
I was thoroughly enjoying the beautiful weather, listening to all the birds, watching the squirrels and one scrounging raccoon, when some young buck in a Jeep on his cell phone drove past me at a pretty good clip, all the way to the end of the only road in the area, whereupon he turned around and came back.
I didn't think anything of it. Until he went back and forth at least seven different times, always on his phone. Then I noticed he was followed by a different car every time. Soon the traffic picked up and there were cars going up and back like they were on a major thoroughfare.
If anyone stopped it was for a minute or two at the most. The driver would back into a parking place and sit there until the Stud in the green Jeep pulled in next to them, driver side to driver side. They were too far away for me to see anything, but nobody got out of their cars. And I couldn't tell if there was a handoff or a job that required hands of any kind.
Finally I got back into my car and started writing down license plates. I was thinking maybe this was some kind of suburban drug business.
How brilliant of me to stay there if it was. But I kept thinking, this isn't an urban crime area. We're right around the corner from the place where I get my manis and pedis. Walking distance from the grocery store. My town is not a hotbed of anything worse than retail theft and drunk driving.
The Nancy Drew in me seemed compelled to write down license plate numbers. Too many episodes of Law and Order can leave a mark like that.
Keep in mind that in order to do this I had to look directly at the cars to see the numbers, and they could see me looking at them, so it wasn't like I was all that surreptitious.
Finally good sense prevailed. I retired from amateur detective duty and left. But my evidence kit had a page full of license plate numbers even though I had no idea what they were good for.
You might think I wouldn't go back there. But I did. On my way home a couple of days later, I stopped at this great new smoked rib place and got a pulled pork sandwich dripping with sauce. With a side of slaw and some great peach 'n beans. Instead of eating the drippy mess at home over the sink, I drove two blocks to the infamous forest preserve area, where I could drip on my latest copy of Sports Illustrated and eat my barbecue without having to clean up the kitchen floor afterward.
This time there was no one around. Then I saw why. There was a forest preserve police car. He ignored me until I finished my tasty repast and started getting back into the car. At that point he drove over for a chat.
Did I know that this particular area was known for solicitation of sex acts by men for men? I laughed and said, "Then I'm safe?" I told him I had noticed many "lonely men" parked there in the past. Then I remembered my list of license plates and all the cruising I had seen the other day. So I told him that I had seen some heavy traffic through there, but I assumed it was for drugs, since nobody seemed to be doing anything with anybody.
He said they check each other out and make "dates." That would explain the guy on his cell phone.
I asked him if he wanted the list of license plate numbers I had written down in my other life as a suburban vigilante. He gave me a funny look, like I was a little too old to be playing Nancy Drew, but he did take the list. After seeing how extensive it was, he shook his head, smiled enigmatically, and said, "Thank you."
As I drove away, I checked my rearview mirror. His car never moved. From what I could see, it looked like he was reading my list and punching license plate numbers into his computer.
Or maybe he was just punching up my license plate. Wait till he gets to the part about the dry cleaning.
Friday, July 25, 2008
See What Happens When You Let Women Run Things?
Let's see, what can I write about? Not that. Not that. Definitely, not that.
Okay, here's something -- nope, not that either.
Wait, I've got it. And it's about sex, too!!! There is a nine to noon morning radio show here in Chicago -- Kathy and Judy. Apropos of nothing, I went to college with Judy -- we were in the same graduating class in fact. Also one of my good friends was one of her good friends.
Anyway, for two women in their sixties, Kathy and Judy sure have quite a following of "girlfriends" that includes loads of guys from every walk of life -- truck drivers, cabbies, docs, you name it.
They have some regular features during the week, along with a yearly convention that is always sold out. In between they host trips to spas and sometimes broadcast from local towns.
Wednesdays they have a session of their weekly Speak Your Peace. Listeners are invited to call in and rag about something for 30 seconds. Anything is fair game except criticizing specific people.
But that stuff is tame. It's their Thursday feature that draws the crowds. At 11 AM, after the news, they tell the kids to get out of the room so the adults can talk about SEX.
That's pretty radical for daytime. Think about it. Does your city have two sixty-ish women hosting a talk radio show in the morning who discuss something besides recipes and getting in touch with your feelings?
I don't think so.
Yesterday they had one of their biggest listener responses ever -- because the girls invited everyone to describe their sex lives in eight words. They were flooded with calls and emails.
Google WGN Radio for the Kathy and Judy show and you can immerse yourself.
Here's my description: "Hang on, I have another call coming in."
What's yours?
Okay, here's something -- nope, not that either.
Wait, I've got it. And it's about sex, too!!! There is a nine to noon morning radio show here in Chicago -- Kathy and Judy. Apropos of nothing, I went to college with Judy -- we were in the same graduating class in fact. Also one of my good friends was one of her good friends.
Anyway, for two women in their sixties, Kathy and Judy sure have quite a following of "girlfriends" that includes loads of guys from every walk of life -- truck drivers, cabbies, docs, you name it.
They have some regular features during the week, along with a yearly convention that is always sold out. In between they host trips to spas and sometimes broadcast from local towns.
Wednesdays they have a session of their weekly Speak Your Peace. Listeners are invited to call in and rag about something for 30 seconds. Anything is fair game except criticizing specific people.
But that stuff is tame. It's their Thursday feature that draws the crowds. At 11 AM, after the news, they tell the kids to get out of the room so the adults can talk about SEX.
That's pretty radical for daytime. Think about it. Does your city have two sixty-ish women hosting a talk radio show in the morning who discuss something besides recipes and getting in touch with your feelings?
I don't think so.
Yesterday they had one of their biggest listener responses ever -- because the girls invited everyone to describe their sex lives in eight words. They were flooded with calls and emails.
Google WGN Radio for the Kathy and Judy show and you can immerse yourself.
Here's my description: "Hang on, I have another call coming in."
What's yours?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The View From My TV
What's with Al Gore's hair? On TV today he looks like he's got three or four chocolate colored stripes angling from the top of his forehead across the front of his hair to the back. The Hershey dips all seem to be the same distance apart, too. Come on Al, is this a lame attempt to lessen the amount of gray with low lights instead of high lights? While we're at it, what's with the shock and awe eyebrows? Has Tipper been getting out her tweezers while you were sleeping?
How about Greg Norman? Fifty-three? Call me crazy, but he doesn't look any older than he did the last time he played for the British Open. Replace his current baseball cap with his signature black cowboy lid and the Shark is back. I guess getting married to a 52 year old woman can help level the fairway. Okay, maybe it's the gale force wind. He's tied with last year's winner Padraig Harrington at seven over with most of the back nine to go. Harrington is ranked 14th in the world. Norman is ranked 646th in the world. Right now it's a head game. If he becomes the oldest geezer to ever win the trophy, it's because he got some pointers from the toughest pro athlete, mentally, who ever played [except for Tiger]. They didn't call Chris Evert the Ice Maiden for nothing.
How about Greg Norman? Fifty-three? Call me crazy, but he doesn't look any older than he did the last time he played for the British Open. Replace his current baseball cap with his signature black cowboy lid and the Shark is back. I guess getting married to a 52 year old woman can help level the fairway. Okay, maybe it's the gale force wind. He's tied with last year's winner Padraig Harrington at seven over with most of the back nine to go. Harrington is ranked 14th in the world. Norman is ranked 646th in the world. Right now it's a head game. If he becomes the oldest geezer to ever win the trophy, it's because he got some pointers from the toughest pro athlete, mentally, who ever played [except for Tiger]. They didn't call Chris Evert the Ice Maiden for nothing.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Governor of Illinois is Insane
The honorable Rod Blagojevich [BLA-GOY-A-VITCH] was swept into office on the heels of a corrupt Republican administration which eventually sent the former Governor [George Ryan] to prison.
In the midst of his troubles, Ryan became nationally known for slapping a moratorium on the death penalty.
That decision was a no brainer, when it became apparent from DNA testing that a whole bunch of prisoners on death row were innocent of any crime. The self-serving Ryan actually got someone to nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize for that gesture. But it didn't keep him out of the slammer.
Of course, during the gubernatorial election, the Republicans didn't help themselves any by putting up a candidate with the same last name as the recently disgraced office holder -- Jim Ryan, no relation to Georgie boy. What were they thinking?
Since taking office in 2002, with a mandate for change, Gov. Blago's administration has also come under fire from the Feds for its own lengthy list of ethics and financial violations. It's not over yet.
He hasn't helped his own cause either, often acting like a southern sheriff who punishes people for not doing things his way. It is clear that he missed class the day they reviewed negotiation skills.
His father-in-law is a long time Chicago alderman, Richard Mell. They are no longer speaking, since Blago used his governor's power to shut down a landfill operation run by a family cousin of Mell's. An unnecessary and quite precipitous act.
He also refuses to live in the governor's mansion, preferring to charge Illinois taxpayers $6000 for each of his round trip plane rides to the state capitol from his home in Chicago. For ordinary souls, it's a two and a half hour car ride plus a few tolls.
He's now in a pissing match with the leadership of the General Assembly because he hasn't got a clue how to work well with others. He's kept them in session over holidays to force them to do as he wants, but the only thing to come out of this tactic has been a huge overtime tax bill for the citizens of Illinois.
After six years, his approval rating is at 13%, the lowest of any governor in the country.
Just last week, he may have finally lit the fuse that could blow his ass off. Assuming the lieutenant governor doesn't figure out a way to have him impeached before then, although he's been working on it for awhile.
Chicago's top copper, Jody [Not JUDY] Weis [WEESE not WHY-SE] has had a run of bad luck since he got the job six months ago. First of all he's from the FBI. That rubs city cops the wrong way. Then he fired almost all the top brass to clean house right after he got to town. Now crime is up 13 percent. And people are mad. So Weis had to face the Chicago aldermen who were pretty honking fed up with a lot, but mostly, I think, his perceived arrogance.
So Weis goes in front of the city council for some hot seat Q & A. And comes up with some high class mea culpas. You're right, crime is up. I would be upset too. Perhaps there are officers who are hesitant to act because they are afraid of lawsuits for brutality. He never lost his cool once. He never got defensive. He kept telling the aldermen that all their concerns were important. The guy deflected more bullets than a Clint Eastwood shootout. Instead of a messy confrontation. Nothing.
Score: Weis, 1, Opponent, 0
Apparently the governor wasn't aware of what a masterful job Weis had done during his grilling. Because the next day the guv tells the media that Chicago has become Crime City USA and he's going to send in the state police to clean the mess up.
In response the Sun-Times ran a photoshopped picture of John Wayne from Rio Bravo with Blago's face in place of the Duke. There's a new cowboy in town who's going to get things done.
You might think Weis would take offense to the governor's insane accusation and subsequent offer to send state cops to the rescue. Hey, Weis -- you're incompetent.
Weis doesn't even blink. He says, why thanks, guv, we need all the help we can get.
Instead of a brutal smackdown, which the governor seems to relish, the only sound you heard was crickets.
Score: Weis, 2 Opponent, 0
Good thing the mayor is out of the country. First because he would have shot the governor himself for that little breach of politcal etiquette. Do not EVER embarrass the mayor in his house.
Second, Weis had to handle things without the mayor around to back him up, and the guy was a champ. Not once, but twice.
That's the good news. The bad news is that we're still stuck with a governor who needs medication.
In the midst of his troubles, Ryan became nationally known for slapping a moratorium on the death penalty.
That decision was a no brainer, when it became apparent from DNA testing that a whole bunch of prisoners on death row were innocent of any crime. The self-serving Ryan actually got someone to nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize for that gesture. But it didn't keep him out of the slammer.
Of course, during the gubernatorial election, the Republicans didn't help themselves any by putting up a candidate with the same last name as the recently disgraced office holder -- Jim Ryan, no relation to Georgie boy. What were they thinking?
Since taking office in 2002, with a mandate for change, Gov. Blago's administration has also come under fire from the Feds for its own lengthy list of ethics and financial violations. It's not over yet.
He hasn't helped his own cause either, often acting like a southern sheriff who punishes people for not doing things his way. It is clear that he missed class the day they reviewed negotiation skills.
His father-in-law is a long time Chicago alderman, Richard Mell. They are no longer speaking, since Blago used his governor's power to shut down a landfill operation run by a family cousin of Mell's. An unnecessary and quite precipitous act.
He also refuses to live in the governor's mansion, preferring to charge Illinois taxpayers $6000 for each of his round trip plane rides to the state capitol from his home in Chicago. For ordinary souls, it's a two and a half hour car ride plus a few tolls.
He's now in a pissing match with the leadership of the General Assembly because he hasn't got a clue how to work well with others. He's kept them in session over holidays to force them to do as he wants, but the only thing to come out of this tactic has been a huge overtime tax bill for the citizens of Illinois.
After six years, his approval rating is at 13%, the lowest of any governor in the country.
Just last week, he may have finally lit the fuse that could blow his ass off. Assuming the lieutenant governor doesn't figure out a way to have him impeached before then, although he's been working on it for awhile.
Chicago's top copper, Jody [Not JUDY] Weis [WEESE not WHY-SE] has had a run of bad luck since he got the job six months ago. First of all he's from the FBI. That rubs city cops the wrong way. Then he fired almost all the top brass to clean house right after he got to town. Now crime is up 13 percent. And people are mad. So Weis had to face the Chicago aldermen who were pretty honking fed up with a lot, but mostly, I think, his perceived arrogance.
So Weis goes in front of the city council for some hot seat Q & A. And comes up with some high class mea culpas. You're right, crime is up. I would be upset too. Perhaps there are officers who are hesitant to act because they are afraid of lawsuits for brutality. He never lost his cool once. He never got defensive. He kept telling the aldermen that all their concerns were important. The guy deflected more bullets than a Clint Eastwood shootout. Instead of a messy confrontation. Nothing.
Score: Weis, 1, Opponent, 0
Apparently the governor wasn't aware of what a masterful job Weis had done during his grilling. Because the next day the guv tells the media that Chicago has become Crime City USA and he's going to send in the state police to clean the mess up.
In response the Sun-Times ran a photoshopped picture of John Wayne from Rio Bravo with Blago's face in place of the Duke. There's a new cowboy in town who's going to get things done.
You might think Weis would take offense to the governor's insane accusation and subsequent offer to send state cops to the rescue. Hey, Weis -- you're incompetent.
Weis doesn't even blink. He says, why thanks, guv, we need all the help we can get.
Instead of a brutal smackdown, which the governor seems to relish, the only sound you heard was crickets.
Score: Weis, 2 Opponent, 0
Good thing the mayor is out of the country. First because he would have shot the governor himself for that little breach of politcal etiquette. Do not EVER embarrass the mayor in his house.
Second, Weis had to handle things without the mayor around to back him up, and the guy was a champ. Not once, but twice.
That's the good news. The bad news is that we're still stuck with a governor who needs medication.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Well, It's Official. I'm A Certified Old Person.
I went to the Social Security Office today. It was time to sign up for Medicare. I hope death is this much fun.
In fact, I thought I might as well get fitted for a casket while I was out and about. Oh, wait. I forgot, I'm donating my body to medical science. Probably ought to take care of that paperwork one of these days.
I hate waiting in line. So I had put off doing this errand for a long time. Okay, just the last four days. Every day this week I managed to have to do something else. But this morning when I got up I just decided that I would spend the day getting this dreadful deed done.
But first I had to find the place. When I went to the web site there were directions that sounded like the office was located in a large mall. Turns out, it wasn't. I figured that out after putting ten miles on the car just driving around and around the mall's parking lot, looking for anything that said Social Security. But no luck.
I noticed a FedEx Kinko's across the street, so I went in to use one of their computers to check the directions which I would print out this time.
Turns out that's all FedEx Kinko's had -- one computer -- and some old geezer [probably younger than me] was reading the newspaper online. Unfortunately, no amount of lurking behind him seemed to make him feel inclined to budge from his appointed task, so I decided just to leave.
On the way out, I stopped a middle aged female clerk with a dyed black bouffant [Hello, the Sixties called -- they want their hair back] to find out if she knew where the Social Security Office was.
When I said Social Security, the words stuck in my throat. It felt like the first time I bought tampons. I was sure that any minute the cashier would lean into a microphone and shout, "Price check on feminine hygiene products! What are these? Extra Large?"
Instead, it turned out that the former Go Go Girl actually knew where the office was. "It's at the corner of Euclid and 83." That's all I needed. But then she tried to give me helpful directions. Go out here -- over here, not there, and turn left. Don't take route 45, See how it crosses over. Get on 83 and go South, no, wait, North on 83 and blah blah blah blah blah.
I figured it was only about a mile down the road so I just thanked her and eased on out the door. I think she was still talking as I left.
I found it. How could I have missed it? What is it about government buildings that sets them apart from others? Downtown they're all about dramatic columns, brass elevator doors and marble floors, especially if they wre built before the sixties. After that, they're all steel and glass with floor to ceiling windows and statues donated by Picasso out on a large pigeon cluttered plaza.
In the suburbs, giant buildings with soaring columns don't usually fit in with the local architecture. Instead you usually get a storefront operation at a strip mall. But for some reason, out here at the corner of Euclid and 83 the government tried to class up its act. They built a square glass box that looked like it was being held together from the top of the roof with bailing wire and string. There were large beams extending above the box with reinforced rods anchoring the beams to the top of the building. I shoulda took a picture.
As I drove into the parking lot I was mesmerized by how hideous this government attempt at modern architecture was. I kept thinking, "Someone got paid to design this place." Remarkably, this odd building was also stuck smack dab in the middle of a brick and clapboard neighborhood.
Kind of like building a castle with a turret in an area of Cape Cod homes. Oh wait, been there, done that.
But I digress.
I entered the building prepared for a long wait, since that's what Social Security means in English. I brought a fresh newspaper and a folder with reading material for a project I'm working on.
There was a large sign which gave instructions in three languages -- English, Spanish, and Polish. In case you still couldn't understand what it said there was a uniformed officer to read it for you. That's how he helped -- he read the sign out loud in the language you were most familiar with.
I was given a clipboard with a questionnaire to fill out. Then I had to wait until they called me. So I read the paper. There was a riveting article about all the different kinds of donuts you can eat. And the newspaper business can't imagine why they're losing money.
When my time came, I was directed to a window where a nice lady was sitting like a hooker in Amsterdam. She took my filled out questionnaire and then proceeded to ask me the exact same questions I had just answered on the questionnaire.
Oh, good I'm at the right place.
It didn't take very long. From the time I walked in to when I finished, I was there for about two hours at the most. Of course, even though it didn't take long, they made sure I had plenty of paper to keep myself busy trying to understand WTF everything means.
The bad news is that this process often takes all day.
The good news is that it only felt like it.
In fact, I thought I might as well get fitted for a casket while I was out and about. Oh, wait. I forgot, I'm donating my body to medical science. Probably ought to take care of that paperwork one of these days.
I hate waiting in line. So I had put off doing this errand for a long time. Okay, just the last four days. Every day this week I managed to have to do something else. But this morning when I got up I just decided that I would spend the day getting this dreadful deed done.
But first I had to find the place. When I went to the web site there were directions that sounded like the office was located in a large mall. Turns out, it wasn't. I figured that out after putting ten miles on the car just driving around and around the mall's parking lot, looking for anything that said Social Security. But no luck.
I noticed a FedEx Kinko's across the street, so I went in to use one of their computers to check the directions which I would print out this time.
Turns out that's all FedEx Kinko's had -- one computer -- and some old geezer [probably younger than me] was reading the newspaper online. Unfortunately, no amount of lurking behind him seemed to make him feel inclined to budge from his appointed task, so I decided just to leave.
On the way out, I stopped a middle aged female clerk with a dyed black bouffant [Hello, the Sixties called -- they want their hair back] to find out if she knew where the Social Security Office was.
When I said Social Security, the words stuck in my throat. It felt like the first time I bought tampons. I was sure that any minute the cashier would lean into a microphone and shout, "Price check on feminine hygiene products! What are these? Extra Large?"
Instead, it turned out that the former Go Go Girl actually knew where the office was. "It's at the corner of Euclid and 83." That's all I needed. But then she tried to give me helpful directions. Go out here -- over here, not there, and turn left. Don't take route 45, See how it crosses over. Get on 83 and go South, no, wait, North on 83 and blah blah blah blah blah.
I figured it was only about a mile down the road so I just thanked her and eased on out the door. I think she was still talking as I left.
I found it. How could I have missed it? What is it about government buildings that sets them apart from others? Downtown they're all about dramatic columns, brass elevator doors and marble floors, especially if they wre built before the sixties. After that, they're all steel and glass with floor to ceiling windows and statues donated by Picasso out on a large pigeon cluttered plaza.
In the suburbs, giant buildings with soaring columns don't usually fit in with the local architecture. Instead you usually get a storefront operation at a strip mall. But for some reason, out here at the corner of Euclid and 83 the government tried to class up its act. They built a square glass box that looked like it was being held together from the top of the roof with bailing wire and string. There were large beams extending above the box with reinforced rods anchoring the beams to the top of the building. I shoulda took a picture.
As I drove into the parking lot I was mesmerized by how hideous this government attempt at modern architecture was. I kept thinking, "Someone got paid to design this place." Remarkably, this odd building was also stuck smack dab in the middle of a brick and clapboard neighborhood.
Kind of like building a castle with a turret in an area of Cape Cod homes. Oh wait, been there, done that.
But I digress.
I entered the building prepared for a long wait, since that's what Social Security means in English. I brought a fresh newspaper and a folder with reading material for a project I'm working on.
There was a large sign which gave instructions in three languages -- English, Spanish, and Polish. In case you still couldn't understand what it said there was a uniformed officer to read it for you. That's how he helped -- he read the sign out loud in the language you were most familiar with.
I was given a clipboard with a questionnaire to fill out. Then I had to wait until they called me. So I read the paper. There was a riveting article about all the different kinds of donuts you can eat. And the newspaper business can't imagine why they're losing money.
When my time came, I was directed to a window where a nice lady was sitting like a hooker in Amsterdam. She took my filled out questionnaire and then proceeded to ask me the exact same questions I had just answered on the questionnaire.
Oh, good I'm at the right place.
It didn't take very long. From the time I walked in to when I finished, I was there for about two hours at the most. Of course, even though it didn't take long, they made sure I had plenty of paper to keep myself busy trying to understand WTF everything means.
The bad news is that this process often takes all day.
The good news is that it only felt like it.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
There Is No Such Thing As Bad Publicity
Boy, have we been hearing from the folks who are up in arms about the cover of the New Yorker. The New Yorker, of course, is happy as a clam at a pig roast. Show me the money!!!!
I guess the biggest problem for people who hate the cover is that the cartoon seems to satirize Michelle and Barack as terrorists, instead of taking aim at the people who are perpetuating that notion -- blaming the victims, as it were.
Someone on a discussion panel made a worthwhile point. If, for instance, a person like Karl Rove had been depicted in the cartoon with a thought balloon over his head and the infamous "terrorist" Obamas inside it, perhaps the New Yorker's satiric intention would have been clear.
Incorporating the alleged origins of the rumors would have pointed the satire in the right direction.
Like The New Yorker gives a rip about explaining themselves.
They might as well include a banner across the top of the cover that says, "Hey, it's a joke!"
Clearly the drawing has succeeded in doing everything a political cartoon is supposed to do -- engage and enrage.
In the end, is the cartoon offensive? Yes. Is it provocative? Yes. Is it satire? Yes. Does it seem mean spirited? Yes. Is this a free country? Yes.
My first reaction was "Oh, geez, they've lost their minds." Then I noticed the fist bump between Black Panther Michelle and Osama Obama and I laughed. I don't know why that little gesture took me from a nose wrinkle of disgust to laughter, but it did. Perhaps it seemed to encapsulate the absurdity of anyone thinking they are the least bit subversive in any way.
Of course turnabout is fair play. What is the New Yorker going to do to satirize McCain? Show him as a guide at the Smithsonian Air Museum leading tours of the five planes he supposedly trashed, because he was such a bad pilot. "I dumped this little beauty into the ocean off of Pensacola." "I backed this one into a bomb on a carrier and killed over 100 sailors. Ooopsie daisy!" "This one I don't remember, oh, wait I was hungover." "Oh, here's the one I lost over North Vietnam. Better take a map next time."
How about we see him seated in the Oval Office, with his low class rank at the Naval Academy prominently displayed behind him. As he tries to make an important military decision, he suddenly realizes he missed class that day.
Or perhaps they could showhim in a POW camp playing cards, smoking cigars, and drinking brandy with his captors while his fellow prisoners are staring at him in various states of starvation.
Or standing at the podium giving a speech saying he's his own man, while being manipulated by Bush from behind a curtain, like a ventriloquist's dummy.
Meanwhile, what is lost in this shizzlestorm is that the controversial cartoon bears no relation to the excellent article about the Obamas inside the magazine.
I guess the biggest problem for people who hate the cover is that the cartoon seems to satirize Michelle and Barack as terrorists, instead of taking aim at the people who are perpetuating that notion -- blaming the victims, as it were.
Someone on a discussion panel made a worthwhile point. If, for instance, a person like Karl Rove had been depicted in the cartoon with a thought balloon over his head and the infamous "terrorist" Obamas inside it, perhaps the New Yorker's satiric intention would have been clear.
Incorporating the alleged origins of the rumors would have pointed the satire in the right direction.
Like The New Yorker gives a rip about explaining themselves.
They might as well include a banner across the top of the cover that says, "Hey, it's a joke!"
Clearly the drawing has succeeded in doing everything a political cartoon is supposed to do -- engage and enrage.
In the end, is the cartoon offensive? Yes. Is it provocative? Yes. Is it satire? Yes. Does it seem mean spirited? Yes. Is this a free country? Yes.
My first reaction was "Oh, geez, they've lost their minds." Then I noticed the fist bump between Black Panther Michelle and Osama Obama and I laughed. I don't know why that little gesture took me from a nose wrinkle of disgust to laughter, but it did. Perhaps it seemed to encapsulate the absurdity of anyone thinking they are the least bit subversive in any way.
Of course turnabout is fair play. What is the New Yorker going to do to satirize McCain? Show him as a guide at the Smithsonian Air Museum leading tours of the five planes he supposedly trashed, because he was such a bad pilot. "I dumped this little beauty into the ocean off of Pensacola." "I backed this one into a bomb on a carrier and killed over 100 sailors. Ooopsie daisy!" "This one I don't remember, oh, wait I was hungover." "Oh, here's the one I lost over North Vietnam. Better take a map next time."
How about we see him seated in the Oval Office, with his low class rank at the Naval Academy prominently displayed behind him. As he tries to make an important military decision, he suddenly realizes he missed class that day.
Or perhaps they could showhim in a POW camp playing cards, smoking cigars, and drinking brandy with his captors while his fellow prisoners are staring at him in various states of starvation.
Or standing at the podium giving a speech saying he's his own man, while being manipulated by Bush from behind a curtain, like a ventriloquist's dummy.
Meanwhile, what is lost in this shizzlestorm is that the controversial cartoon bears no relation to the excellent article about the Obamas inside the magazine.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Two Tales From the City
Perhaps Two Tales From The Block I Live On would be more accurate.
I was sitting in my car, parked across the street from my house writing addresses on envelopes for a mailing I have to send out to the neighborhood about Commonwealth Edison, when one of my neighbors and her daughter walked by with their dog.
They came over to my window to see why I was sitting there when I could be in my driveway. After we exchanged hellos, I explained that I was too cheap to waste the gas and drive into my driveway.
After I asked her daughter if she was married and had children yet, only to find out she was home from her junior year in college, I called out to their dog, "Hey, Scout, how're you doing?" Scout is a mixed breed, a little German shepherd, a lot of other things. He's bigger than a beagle but smaller than a lab, and I've known him for years, since he was a puppy. So I was surprised when he didn't react to my voice like he used to. But since I hadn't seen him up close and personal in a long time, I just chalked it up.
"Oh, that's not Scout," my neighbor said.
"Whaddya mean that's not Scout?!" I replied.
"Scout died three years ago, this is Maya."
"How did you get another dog that looks exactly like Scout?" I asked, incredulous, "It's not like Scout was a purebred or anything."
"We found her at one of those doggy day events at PetSmart."
"Is she a clone?" I couldn't get over the resemblance.
END OF RIVETING STORY NUMBER ONE.
START OF RIVETING STORY NUMBER TWO:
Before my neighbor resumed her walk with her daughter and their dog, she leaned over to tell me something that VIKTOR, our Soviet Bloc contractor/neighbor said to her. He built the ugly McMansion across the street from me. It didn't sell, so he and a large band of gypsies moved in so it wouldn't get ticketed for not being occupied or something.
A little back story: Viktor has a monster black Dodge hemi pick up truck. It's wide and long. He also has a driveway that's two cars wide and a garage that could park a helicopter.
But, despite all the room he has on his property, he insists on parking his monster truck opposite MY driveway, so I have to be careful not to hit him when I am backing out.
Meanwhile my neighbor has a one car width driveway and a one car garage. Her family has three cars whichcan fill up their driveway parked end to end. So her daughter's boyfriend has to park on the street. He often chooses to park in front of my house. As a result, his car is directly across from Viktor's driveway.
The other day Viktor asked my neighbor if her daughter's boyfriend would mind not parking directly across from his driveway.
To which my neighbor replied, "All right, but you may also want to move your truck since it's been blocking Mrs. Linklater's driveway for the past two years."
All of a sudden he didn't have a problem with where the boyfriend parked his car.
Do you know that tonight was the first night since he began digging the hole for the foundation of his vampire house over two years ago that his Dodge Hemi was actually parked in his driveway? Not directly across from mine.
So I guess I won't have to break off his rear view mirrors or key the doors after all.
I was sitting in my car, parked across the street from my house writing addresses on envelopes for a mailing I have to send out to the neighborhood about Commonwealth Edison, when one of my neighbors and her daughter walked by with their dog.
They came over to my window to see why I was sitting there when I could be in my driveway. After we exchanged hellos, I explained that I was too cheap to waste the gas and drive into my driveway.
After I asked her daughter if she was married and had children yet, only to find out she was home from her junior year in college, I called out to their dog, "Hey, Scout, how're you doing?" Scout is a mixed breed, a little German shepherd, a lot of other things. He's bigger than a beagle but smaller than a lab, and I've known him for years, since he was a puppy. So I was surprised when he didn't react to my voice like he used to. But since I hadn't seen him up close and personal in a long time, I just chalked it up.
"Oh, that's not Scout," my neighbor said.
"Whaddya mean that's not Scout?!" I replied.
"Scout died three years ago, this is Maya."
"How did you get another dog that looks exactly like Scout?" I asked, incredulous, "It's not like Scout was a purebred or anything."
"We found her at one of those doggy day events at PetSmart."
"Is she a clone?" I couldn't get over the resemblance.
END OF RIVETING STORY NUMBER ONE.
START OF RIVETING STORY NUMBER TWO:
Before my neighbor resumed her walk with her daughter and their dog, she leaned over to tell me something that VIKTOR, our Soviet Bloc contractor/neighbor said to her. He built the ugly McMansion across the street from me. It didn't sell, so he and a large band of gypsies moved in so it wouldn't get ticketed for not being occupied or something.
A little back story: Viktor has a monster black Dodge hemi pick up truck. It's wide and long. He also has a driveway that's two cars wide and a garage that could park a helicopter.
But, despite all the room he has on his property, he insists on parking his monster truck opposite MY driveway, so I have to be careful not to hit him when I am backing out.
Meanwhile my neighbor has a one car width driveway and a one car garage. Her family has three cars whichcan fill up their driveway parked end to end. So her daughter's boyfriend has to park on the street. He often chooses to park in front of my house. As a result, his car is directly across from Viktor's driveway.
The other day Viktor asked my neighbor if her daughter's boyfriend would mind not parking directly across from his driveway.
To which my neighbor replied, "All right, but you may also want to move your truck since it's been blocking Mrs. Linklater's driveway for the past two years."
All of a sudden he didn't have a problem with where the boyfriend parked his car.
Do you know that tonight was the first night since he began digging the hole for the foundation of his vampire house over two years ago that his Dodge Hemi was actually parked in his driveway? Not directly across from mine.
So I guess I won't have to break off his rear view mirrors or key the doors after all.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Le Beure Monsieur, Por Favor
I love the taste of butter.
Okay, I said it. I admitted to my cholesterol clogging habit and frankly, I'm not ashamed.
If I had a choice between a bar of chocolate and a slice of plain white bread slathered with sweet butter, I'd take the bread and butter.
I will eat anything dipped in clarified butter especially when it's enhanced with a bit of fresh lemon juice. Artichokes for instance. And when there are no artichokes, I'm happy with whatever's around -- pickles, carrots, meatloaf. Anything I can dip is fair game. [Shut up, Remo; you, too, Chris.]
Time was, in my youth, I could put away an entire loaf of garlic bread, the homemade kind, as long as it was made with fresh garlic and sweet butter. I also recall eating at least ten ears of leftover, cold, Silver Queen corn the morning after a party my mother gave, because she had bought REAL butter for company and I felt like I had stumbled onto the motherlode.
I have made hollandaise sauce for myself for breakfast, just so I could spread it on toast, since the main ingredient in the recipe is a whole stick of butter.
When I was a child I sat at the table watching while my frugal mother spent half an hour blending the capsule of yellow coloring into the large round bowl of white, lard-like stuff that was the margarine of the forties. I despised the taste of that egregious substitute for butter as much as I loved the real thing.
Unfortunately, my mother had no appreciation for my sensitive palette when it came to butter. I hated margarine and let her know every time she went to the store. But margarine was less expensive than butter, and as a child of the depression, she thought buying the substitute seemed like a good way to economize. We could have multiple cars, live in an upper middle class suburb, ride horses, take all kinds of music lessons, go to expensive colleges, but we couldn't spendan extra dime or so for butter.
Her usual response to me over the years was that she was sure I couldn't tell the difference. Oh, yes I can, I told her again and again. She even tried to trick me and I always caught on to her little scam no matter how she tried to pull it off.
Nowadays they've come up with some tasty substitute spreads, none of which tastes like butter to me, but at least they don't have that horrible greasy aftertaste from my childhood. I can live with these fake versions when I have to, usually when I'm visiting a friend who has expunged all evidence of taste and flavor from his or her refrigerator in order to reduce their "bad fats."
Which brings me to a purchase I made yesterday. With my pronounced preference for the taste of butter, you would think I might be really fussy about the kind I eat, refusing local products and only purchasing the imported stuff from Europe.
I admit that butter quality has become an absurd discussion point among bakery chefs trying to one up each other for the best frostings, cakes, and cookies. I have some amateur chef friends who also like to expound on their expertise. These are the same people who can recite the percentages of cocoa in every brand of chocolate ever made.
Not me. Until now I've been happy with sticks of Land O Lakes. Since that's the main brand on the shelf at my store.
Well, the real butter snobs finally got to me the other day. Along with the Land O Lakes at my grocery, I suddenly noticed row after row of brand names I'd only heard about on The Food Channel. Actually, a former friend was the first person I ever heard use "Plugra" correctly in a sentence.
But I passed on the very high end Plugra because it only came in giant bricks and I felt moderation was in order for my first foray into butter cuisine. So I settled for an 8.8 ounce tub of Kerrygold -- imported, pure Irish butter.
For something to taste it with I bought a small loaf of Boudin sour dough bread. [Despite my addiction, I haven't started eating butter right off the stick yet.]
Every day for the past three days, I've torn off a couple of pieces of the bread and swiped them across the top of the Kerrygold butter. [I live alone so I can do what I want.] I can get about five swipes for each chunk of bread. The bread gets smaller and smaller while the amount of butter increases with each bite.
I'm rather pleased at the amount of restraint I've shown, since there was a time when the entire loaf would have disappeared in one sitting along with the butter. Being older and unable to jam pack my stomach to overflowing anymore may be the real reason. Not that I haven't made an effort.
The butter is a beautiful bright gold color, which says to me it comes from cows that eat grass, not feed. It also doesn't melt at room temperature, a sure sign it hasn't been contaminated with canola oil to make it heart-healthy.
I must admit part of me wonders how they get the butter over here. Import the cows? Or is there an "oil" tanker crossing the Atlantic even as we speak?
I even took the extra step of going online to read up about Kerrygold, but I didn't get past the first page of their website, which had a large photo of a SIX pound value pack I could purchase for the low low price of 39 pounds, or was that dollars?
It sounded like too much sugar for a cent, to quote my great grandmother, who often said things that made sense until you began to think about it.
On the other hand, I wonder whether artichokes are in season yet.
Okay, I said it. I admitted to my cholesterol clogging habit and frankly, I'm not ashamed.
If I had a choice between a bar of chocolate and a slice of plain white bread slathered with sweet butter, I'd take the bread and butter.
I will eat anything dipped in clarified butter especially when it's enhanced with a bit of fresh lemon juice. Artichokes for instance. And when there are no artichokes, I'm happy with whatever's around -- pickles, carrots, meatloaf. Anything I can dip is fair game. [Shut up, Remo; you, too, Chris.]
Time was, in my youth, I could put away an entire loaf of garlic bread, the homemade kind, as long as it was made with fresh garlic and sweet butter. I also recall eating at least ten ears of leftover, cold, Silver Queen corn the morning after a party my mother gave, because she had bought REAL butter for company and I felt like I had stumbled onto the motherlode.
I have made hollandaise sauce for myself for breakfast, just so I could spread it on toast, since the main ingredient in the recipe is a whole stick of butter.
When I was a child I sat at the table watching while my frugal mother spent half an hour blending the capsule of yellow coloring into the large round bowl of white, lard-like stuff that was the margarine of the forties. I despised the taste of that egregious substitute for butter as much as I loved the real thing.
Unfortunately, my mother had no appreciation for my sensitive palette when it came to butter. I hated margarine and let her know every time she went to the store. But margarine was less expensive than butter, and as a child of the depression, she thought buying the substitute seemed like a good way to economize. We could have multiple cars, live in an upper middle class suburb, ride horses, take all kinds of music lessons, go to expensive colleges, but we couldn't spendan extra dime or so for butter.
Her usual response to me over the years was that she was sure I couldn't tell the difference. Oh, yes I can, I told her again and again. She even tried to trick me and I always caught on to her little scam no matter how she tried to pull it off.
Nowadays they've come up with some tasty substitute spreads, none of which tastes like butter to me, but at least they don't have that horrible greasy aftertaste from my childhood. I can live with these fake versions when I have to, usually when I'm visiting a friend who has expunged all evidence of taste and flavor from his or her refrigerator in order to reduce their "bad fats."
Which brings me to a purchase I made yesterday. With my pronounced preference for the taste of butter, you would think I might be really fussy about the kind I eat, refusing local products and only purchasing the imported stuff from Europe.
I admit that butter quality has become an absurd discussion point among bakery chefs trying to one up each other for the best frostings, cakes, and cookies. I have some amateur chef friends who also like to expound on their expertise. These are the same people who can recite the percentages of cocoa in every brand of chocolate ever made.
Not me. Until now I've been happy with sticks of Land O Lakes. Since that's the main brand on the shelf at my store.
Well, the real butter snobs finally got to me the other day. Along with the Land O Lakes at my grocery, I suddenly noticed row after row of brand names I'd only heard about on The Food Channel. Actually, a former friend was the first person I ever heard use "Plugra" correctly in a sentence.
But I passed on the very high end Plugra because it only came in giant bricks and I felt moderation was in order for my first foray into butter cuisine. So I settled for an 8.8 ounce tub of Kerrygold -- imported, pure Irish butter.
For something to taste it with I bought a small loaf of Boudin sour dough bread. [Despite my addiction, I haven't started eating butter right off the stick yet.]
Every day for the past three days, I've torn off a couple of pieces of the bread and swiped them across the top of the Kerrygold butter. [I live alone so I can do what I want.] I can get about five swipes for each chunk of bread. The bread gets smaller and smaller while the amount of butter increases with each bite.
I'm rather pleased at the amount of restraint I've shown, since there was a time when the entire loaf would have disappeared in one sitting along with the butter. Being older and unable to jam pack my stomach to overflowing anymore may be the real reason. Not that I haven't made an effort.
The butter is a beautiful bright gold color, which says to me it comes from cows that eat grass, not feed. It also doesn't melt at room temperature, a sure sign it hasn't been contaminated with canola oil to make it heart-healthy.
I must admit part of me wonders how they get the butter over here. Import the cows? Or is there an "oil" tanker crossing the Atlantic even as we speak?
I even took the extra step of going online to read up about Kerrygold, but I didn't get past the first page of their website, which had a large photo of a SIX pound value pack I could purchase for the low low price of 39 pounds, or was that dollars?
It sounded like too much sugar for a cent, to quote my great grandmother, who often said things that made sense until you began to think about it.
On the other hand, I wonder whether artichokes are in season yet.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Breaking In The New Guy Part II
I guess da Mare took his top cop to the woodshed this week. Apparently Jody Weis got a loud dressing down about gangbangers getting a foothold at the Taste of Chicago over the Fourth of July celebration. Some people got shot when the crowd was headed to trains and buses on Michigan Avenue. When it was over, a girl was dead.
Since Weis got to Chicago six months ago, crime has escalated. But apparently crime is up all over the country. So you could cut him some slack and say the timing of his arrival was unfortunate. But he made it worse all by himself. His sweeping firing of almost all the commanders was brought up on the news tonight, yet again.
Because of the Fourth of July fiasco, he now has to publicly face the City Council shortly to answer questions by the aldermen. Besides the rise in crime, they're also pissed because Weis hasn't been keeping them in the loop when he decides to make high level personnel changes in their districts. That's a courtesty call at the very least. He hasn't been doing it.
He forgets that, unlike the FBI, which can ignore whining politicians, he has to pucker up in Chicago. You got to kiss 'em or they'll fark you.
I wonder if he talked to any former big city police chiefs about their recommendations for doing the job right, since he's never done it before.
Heck I would have gone to visit the notorious Mark Fuhrman who, for all his arrogance was still a good detective. Or Vincent Bugliosi, who was a very successful LA prosecutor and author of one of the best books about how the O.J. trial got so screwed up.
Of course, given the track record of the top cops in New York and LA and/or their departments, Weis may want to think about talking to somebody in a less "controversial" venue. Who am I kidding? Too late.
It's also way too late for Weis to make a good first impression. But he could make a bad one better. But I don'tsee that happening.
On the good news front, I found out that Weis is married. Thank goodness. Of course, he's married to a fitness trainer. So I can't rule out an S&M fetish.
What do you mean the media would have outed him by now? How about what happened to tall, dark, handsome and rich Jack Ryan, the ex-hubba bubba of Jeri Ryan, who played 7 of 9 on one of the Star Trek spinoffs. Jacko was running for office here in Illinois. He didn't think his divorce decree would be made public, when ta-da! it was. Turns out he liked to visit sex clubs, intimidating his wife to join him. There was more, but that was plenty. Needless to say he withdrew from the race.
Oh please oh please oh please -- I am so hoping that someone or something from somewhere surfaces to out Jody Weis.
Meanwhile, there are only oblique references to Weis' carpetbagger status. The cops don't talk about it in public. Although the head of their union said they werent happy when he was hired.
Besides the dressing down behind closed doors, the mayor was so ticked off about Weis' handling of the Fourth that he took one of his jobs away from him. He moved the current fire commissioner over to the position of head of emergency services. When there's a disaster, the former fire commish is now in charge.
That used to be Weis' second job title, along with top cop. It supposedly justified his 300k salary which is more than the mayor makes. I don't know what they'll do to justify his salary now.
After demoting Weis by promoting the old fire guy, the mayor announced the fire department's new leader. He's only the second black in that position, but surprisingly that's not what everybody's picking up on, even though the fire department has been rife with racism over the years.
The head of the firefighter's union was interviewed after the announcement. He made a big show of pointing out that the new Fire Commish [unlike the new top cop] "rose through the ranks, starting out as a regular fireman and working his way up. . .we can work with him." They have one of their own.
Point taken.
Since Weis got to Chicago six months ago, crime has escalated. But apparently crime is up all over the country. So you could cut him some slack and say the timing of his arrival was unfortunate. But he made it worse all by himself. His sweeping firing of almost all the commanders was brought up on the news tonight, yet again.
Because of the Fourth of July fiasco, he now has to publicly face the City Council shortly to answer questions by the aldermen. Besides the rise in crime, they're also pissed because Weis hasn't been keeping them in the loop when he decides to make high level personnel changes in their districts. That's a courtesty call at the very least. He hasn't been doing it.
He forgets that, unlike the FBI, which can ignore whining politicians, he has to pucker up in Chicago. You got to kiss 'em or they'll fark you.
I wonder if he talked to any former big city police chiefs about their recommendations for doing the job right, since he's never done it before.
Heck I would have gone to visit the notorious Mark Fuhrman who, for all his arrogance was still a good detective. Or Vincent Bugliosi, who was a very successful LA prosecutor and author of one of the best books about how the O.J. trial got so screwed up.
Of course, given the track record of the top cops in New York and LA and/or their departments, Weis may want to think about talking to somebody in a less "controversial" venue. Who am I kidding? Too late.
It's also way too late for Weis to make a good first impression. But he could make a bad one better. But I don'tsee that happening.
On the good news front, I found out that Weis is married. Thank goodness. Of course, he's married to a fitness trainer. So I can't rule out an S&M fetish.
What do you mean the media would have outed him by now? How about what happened to tall, dark, handsome and rich Jack Ryan, the ex-hubba bubba of Jeri Ryan, who played 7 of 9 on one of the Star Trek spinoffs. Jacko was running for office here in Illinois. He didn't think his divorce decree would be made public, when ta-da! it was. Turns out he liked to visit sex clubs, intimidating his wife to join him. There was more, but that was plenty. Needless to say he withdrew from the race.
Oh please oh please oh please -- I am so hoping that someone or something from somewhere surfaces to out Jody Weis.
Meanwhile, there are only oblique references to Weis' carpetbagger status. The cops don't talk about it in public. Although the head of their union said they werent happy when he was hired.
Besides the dressing down behind closed doors, the mayor was so ticked off about Weis' handling of the Fourth that he took one of his jobs away from him. He moved the current fire commissioner over to the position of head of emergency services. When there's a disaster, the former fire commish is now in charge.
That used to be Weis' second job title, along with top cop. It supposedly justified his 300k salary which is more than the mayor makes. I don't know what they'll do to justify his salary now.
After demoting Weis by promoting the old fire guy, the mayor announced the fire department's new leader. He's only the second black in that position, but surprisingly that's not what everybody's picking up on, even though the fire department has been rife with racism over the years.
The head of the firefighter's union was interviewed after the announcement. He made a big show of pointing out that the new Fire Commish [unlike the new top cop] "rose through the ranks, starting out as a regular fireman and working his way up. . .we can work with him." They have one of their own.
Point taken.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The State of Parenthood
I watched something pretty scary this morning.
A re-run of Oprah.
A re-run is scarier than the first time around because it means I know the outcome, but I'm still watching.
The train wreck on today's show was Martha Stewart's only child, Alexis, who, at 40-ish, has been trying to get pregnant. Something about her mom wanting a grandchild.
I wrote about the show the first time around too, but frankly, I don't care if I do it again. My memory being what it is and all.
Apparently Alexis tried making babies the old fashioned way when she was married -- without success. I'm sure like most women, she tried it several times the old fashioned way after her divorce, too. Nothing wrong with practice, practice, practice.
But time is running short. Her eggs are getting wrinkled. Since she is clearly a woman who typifies the way her generation thinks, she's decided she can do it by herself.
So she's eliminated the middleman, as it were, and taken the high tech highway. Sounds like every month she has been giving herself hormone shots to artificially stimulate the eggs to maturity -- no sense in having to wait for a relationship these days. Not when you can speed up the process, even though it means running the risk of getting ovarian cancer instead. Leave it to Mrs. L to throw a damper into all this.
After all the foreplay shots, Alexis has a romantic interlude with people in sterile gowns and gloves, who invade her ovaries each month and harvest the eggs, put one in a petri dish, look at it under a microscope, shove a needle into it with donor sperm, make sure the egg is fertilized, let it grow for awhile, then suck it up into a pipette and blow it back into her uterus.
Does Hallmark have a card for this?
The thing is, none of these sterile procedures is getting her pregnant. Surrogate anyone? Surrogate? Of course as Martha's daughter, a surrogate would be tantamount to substituting margarine in a good recipe.
Meanwhile, every time Alexis goes through this drill, pardon the expression, you can chalk up another month that she ups her risk of ovarian cancer. Sorry, I just had to bring that up because it is the elephant in the room.
Mrs. Linklater thinks she has a way to help.
Hey, you in the back there, stop laughing.
Mrs. Linklater's theory of how to get pregnant is based on the number of women who finally adopt a child, only to have their own naturally conceived baby arrive within a year. Those of you who have suffered through this before with Mrs. Linklater can skip to the end.
The secret? Pheromones -- the subliminal scents that rev up the babymaking hormones. Grease the rusty spigot with some mothering juices and voy-la, you're p.g.
Step One: Alexis should stop trying to look like a replicant from Bladerunner. On Oprah, her hair was cut so close to her head it looked like a helmet. This makes her appear very androgenous. Combined with her extremely heavy eye makeup, yet colorless lips, along with her above average height, and she could pass for a drag queen. Wrong pheromones.
Enough with the sexual ambiguity, she's got to go girly. Let the hair grow. Cultivate a natural look with less eye stuff and a little more pink on the lips. Wear dresses. You look girly, you feel girly. That way pheromones don't get confused.
Step Two: Alexis should stop hanging out with her menopausal mother every day. Or spending time with other goal oriented, career-driven women. Pheromones for babymaking do not thrive in that environment. If she wants to get pregnant, she needs to hang out with women who are already pregnant and having babies. They leak pheromones.
Step Two Part Deux: To help her pheromones thrive, Alexis should start watching Lifetime in place of Charlie Rose. She should begin taking long baths with candles. Without her Blackberry in the room. She should put down her Wall Street Journal and start to read "What to Expect When You're Expecting."
While she's at it she should feel free to satisfy her cravings for ice cream or macaroni and cheese. Perhaps offer to babysit for her friends. The smell of infants is perhaps the most powerful pheromone for women trying to make babies. Even the nausea from poopy diapers has an upside. It's good practice for morning sickness.
My concern is that Alexis is going about this pregnancy thing with all the emotion of finding a good parking place. She's invested on an intellectual level, but doesn't seem to be in touch with her feelings.
Step 2.5: Have I mentioned hiring a surrogate? Adoption? A dog?
Step Three: No offense to the WASPs of America, but Alexis is like Sydney or any of those other boy names converted for girl use. They get shortened to Alex, Al, or Syd. Mrs. L thinks those kinds of neutral names are serious pheromone killers. Perhaps Alexis should try a new name for a while. Even better, she should apply for witness protection and try living a new life. Call herself Ashley. Live in a small town. Shop at Wall-Mart. Eat dessert at the Dairy Queen. Have drunken sex with a guy named Bubba in a pick up truck. Get pregnant.
Aha.
A re-run of Oprah.
A re-run is scarier than the first time around because it means I know the outcome, but I'm still watching.
The train wreck on today's show was Martha Stewart's only child, Alexis, who, at 40-ish, has been trying to get pregnant. Something about her mom wanting a grandchild.
I wrote about the show the first time around too, but frankly, I don't care if I do it again. My memory being what it is and all.
Apparently Alexis tried making babies the old fashioned way when she was married -- without success. I'm sure like most women, she tried it several times the old fashioned way after her divorce, too. Nothing wrong with practice, practice, practice.
But time is running short. Her eggs are getting wrinkled. Since she is clearly a woman who typifies the way her generation thinks, she's decided she can do it by herself.
So she's eliminated the middleman, as it were, and taken the high tech highway. Sounds like every month she has been giving herself hormone shots to artificially stimulate the eggs to maturity -- no sense in having to wait for a relationship these days. Not when you can speed up the process, even though it means running the risk of getting ovarian cancer instead. Leave it to Mrs. L to throw a damper into all this.
After all the foreplay shots, Alexis has a romantic interlude with people in sterile gowns and gloves, who invade her ovaries each month and harvest the eggs, put one in a petri dish, look at it under a microscope, shove a needle into it with donor sperm, make sure the egg is fertilized, let it grow for awhile, then suck it up into a pipette and blow it back into her uterus.
Does Hallmark have a card for this?
The thing is, none of these sterile procedures is getting her pregnant. Surrogate anyone? Surrogate? Of course as Martha's daughter, a surrogate would be tantamount to substituting margarine in a good recipe.
Meanwhile, every time Alexis goes through this drill, pardon the expression, you can chalk up another month that she ups her risk of ovarian cancer. Sorry, I just had to bring that up because it is the elephant in the room.
Mrs. Linklater thinks she has a way to help.
Hey, you in the back there, stop laughing.
Mrs. Linklater's theory of how to get pregnant is based on the number of women who finally adopt a child, only to have their own naturally conceived baby arrive within a year. Those of you who have suffered through this before with Mrs. Linklater can skip to the end.
The secret? Pheromones -- the subliminal scents that rev up the babymaking hormones. Grease the rusty spigot with some mothering juices and voy-la, you're p.g.
Step One: Alexis should stop trying to look like a replicant from Bladerunner. On Oprah, her hair was cut so close to her head it looked like a helmet. This makes her appear very androgenous. Combined with her extremely heavy eye makeup, yet colorless lips, along with her above average height, and she could pass for a drag queen. Wrong pheromones.
Enough with the sexual ambiguity, she's got to go girly. Let the hair grow. Cultivate a natural look with less eye stuff and a little more pink on the lips. Wear dresses. You look girly, you feel girly. That way pheromones don't get confused.
Step Two: Alexis should stop hanging out with her menopausal mother every day. Or spending time with other goal oriented, career-driven women. Pheromones for babymaking do not thrive in that environment. If she wants to get pregnant, she needs to hang out with women who are already pregnant and having babies. They leak pheromones.
Step Two Part Deux: To help her pheromones thrive, Alexis should start watching Lifetime in place of Charlie Rose. She should begin taking long baths with candles. Without her Blackberry in the room. She should put down her Wall Street Journal and start to read "What to Expect When You're Expecting."
While she's at it she should feel free to satisfy her cravings for ice cream or macaroni and cheese. Perhaps offer to babysit for her friends. The smell of infants is perhaps the most powerful pheromone for women trying to make babies. Even the nausea from poopy diapers has an upside. It's good practice for morning sickness.
My concern is that Alexis is going about this pregnancy thing with all the emotion of finding a good parking place. She's invested on an intellectual level, but doesn't seem to be in touch with her feelings.
Step 2.5: Have I mentioned hiring a surrogate? Adoption? A dog?
Step Three: No offense to the WASPs of America, but Alexis is like Sydney or any of those other boy names converted for girl use. They get shortened to Alex, Al, or Syd. Mrs. L thinks those kinds of neutral names are serious pheromone killers. Perhaps Alexis should try a new name for a while. Even better, she should apply for witness protection and try living a new life. Call herself Ashley. Live in a small town. Shop at Wall-Mart. Eat dessert at the Dairy Queen. Have drunken sex with a guy named Bubba in a pick up truck. Get pregnant.
Aha.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Typical American Family Part II
Ah, yes, another heartwarming story of an American family.
An eleven month old baby girl was rushed to the hospital yesterday. But she died.
Her mother's boyfriend had taken her to his family's home for a visit. The baby's father is in prison.
Turns out hospital tests showed that the baby had a high level of alcohol in her system. What is Gerber putting in their food these days?
Let's contemplate a suitable punishment for this innocent child's death.
There isn't one.
An eleven month old baby girl was rushed to the hospital yesterday. But she died.
Her mother's boyfriend had taken her to his family's home for a visit. The baby's father is in prison.
Turns out hospital tests showed that the baby had a high level of alcohol in her system. What is Gerber putting in their food these days?
Let's contemplate a suitable punishment for this innocent child's death.
There isn't one.
Just A Typical American Family
Today we have another example of why I stopped being a battered women's advocate.
Last week a women staggered into a hotel lobby where she worked and died of stab wounds. She left three kids.
Her husband was a person of interest, naturally. Soon he became a suspect. Yesterday he was picked up walking on a road in Indiana. He'd abandoned his car at a truck stop and was walking back to northern Illinois, reporters said. Or he may also have been walking to Florida, since apparently he has relatives there.
Here's the good part: he had previously spent several years in prison for trying to kill his first wife and attempting to abduct their daughter.
So why did this pretty, thirty-something latina marry an ugly 58-year-old white guy in the first place? And make babies with him? That's a rhetorical question because there is no answer that ever makes sense.
She had recently filed for divorce and had an order of protection against this great American. But, like so many women who think they can control these guys, he probably called and she agreed to meet with him. Hello??!!! Why do you think they call it an order or protection? She probably thought that she could see him just this once and the order of protection would still be enforceable afterward.
Nope.
A long time ago I began to realize that if I can predict your behavior, you do not have free will. Of course in the eyes of the justice system everyone has free will unless you can prove you are crazy. Otherwise there might be nobody in jail.
Abusive men leave clues about their potential behavior. Five indicators include jealousy, isolating you, controlling behavior, verbal abuse, and threats to harm you, your pet, or your family.
You can follow the signs like breadcrumbs. Did I mention that one of the clues is PAST behavior, say doing time for murdering a previous spouse?
Eventually after all the emotional and physical bruising, death starts to loom as the final option, especially when you make the mistake of telling someone who hurts you that you're leaving.
But I owe him that much. Shut up. Just do it.
Of course, just as predictable are the women these mopes have battered. They don't believe a stranger who tells them that their lives are in danger. Almost always, they will ignore any and all warnings, until about the seventh time around -- assuming they live that long -- no matter how urgently you try to communicate the danger they're in.
Here's the part I loved -- when something abusive happened to these women, they'd get mad at ME because I was the one who warned them, instead of being angry at their abuser.
I've never had any one call me to say, "Sorry I ignored your advice. He threatened me and I got out just in time."
With one exception. There was one woman who actually did listen. She was afraid to get a divorce from her drunk, abusive husband who used to shoot his gun at the living room ceiling, because she had two kids. However, those kids were boys, a guy magnet if you want to remarry, and she had a nest egg from her parents. I told her she'd be married again in two years. She dumped him and two years later married a guy she met at a scouting event. Later she told me she remembered what I said and that gave her the courage to do it. The difference was she was a neighbor who knew me.
But nine times out of ten, battered women don't think your advice applies to them so they ignore it until after the fact.
After going through this rinse and repeat drill a few more times, I was burnt toast. And now there are three more children who don't have a mother because, unfortunately, as the old joke goes, she just wouldn't listen.
Last week a women staggered into a hotel lobby where she worked and died of stab wounds. She left three kids.
Her husband was a person of interest, naturally. Soon he became a suspect. Yesterday he was picked up walking on a road in Indiana. He'd abandoned his car at a truck stop and was walking back to northern Illinois, reporters said. Or he may also have been walking to Florida, since apparently he has relatives there.
Here's the good part: he had previously spent several years in prison for trying to kill his first wife and attempting to abduct their daughter.
So why did this pretty, thirty-something latina marry an ugly 58-year-old white guy in the first place? And make babies with him? That's a rhetorical question because there is no answer that ever makes sense.
She had recently filed for divorce and had an order of protection against this great American. But, like so many women who think they can control these guys, he probably called and she agreed to meet with him. Hello??!!! Why do you think they call it an order or protection? She probably thought that she could see him just this once and the order of protection would still be enforceable afterward.
Nope.
A long time ago I began to realize that if I can predict your behavior, you do not have free will. Of course in the eyes of the justice system everyone has free will unless you can prove you are crazy. Otherwise there might be nobody in jail.
Abusive men leave clues about their potential behavior. Five indicators include jealousy, isolating you, controlling behavior, verbal abuse, and threats to harm you, your pet, or your family.
You can follow the signs like breadcrumbs. Did I mention that one of the clues is PAST behavior, say doing time for murdering a previous spouse?
Eventually after all the emotional and physical bruising, death starts to loom as the final option, especially when you make the mistake of telling someone who hurts you that you're leaving.
But I owe him that much. Shut up. Just do it.
Of course, just as predictable are the women these mopes have battered. They don't believe a stranger who tells them that their lives are in danger. Almost always, they will ignore any and all warnings, until about the seventh time around -- assuming they live that long -- no matter how urgently you try to communicate the danger they're in.
Here's the part I loved -- when something abusive happened to these women, they'd get mad at ME because I was the one who warned them, instead of being angry at their abuser.
I've never had any one call me to say, "Sorry I ignored your advice. He threatened me and I got out just in time."
With one exception. There was one woman who actually did listen. She was afraid to get a divorce from her drunk, abusive husband who used to shoot his gun at the living room ceiling, because she had two kids. However, those kids were boys, a guy magnet if you want to remarry, and she had a nest egg from her parents. I told her she'd be married again in two years. She dumped him and two years later married a guy she met at a scouting event. Later she told me she remembered what I said and that gave her the courage to do it. The difference was she was a neighbor who knew me.
But nine times out of ten, battered women don't think your advice applies to them so they ignore it until after the fact.
After going through this rinse and repeat drill a few more times, I was burnt toast. And now there are three more children who don't have a mother because, unfortunately, as the old joke goes, she just wouldn't listen.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Beasley 1, Rose 0
By the luck of the draw the Bulls got first pick in this year's NBA draft. Both Derrick Rose of Memphis and Michael Beasley of Kansas State were expected to go 1-2. The only question was which of the two players would the Bulls' take. Derrick Rose is a Chicago boy, so he was the local favorite from the outset.
But I remember thinking, didn't Memphis lose the NCAA championship? Didn't Michael Beasley outplay Rose when they went head to head?
Not noted as students of history, the Bulls' top brass selected Derrick Rose with their first pick. Probably for the same mysterious reasons they chose a guy who has never coached for their new head coach.
Yesterday in the rookie summer league the Heat and the Bulls faced off. In a show of support two of the Bulls' sophomore players are spending their summer vacation on the newbie team to teach the number one pick the ropes.
I don't know if any of Beasley's older teammates on the Heat joined him to play in the summer league.
Beasley scored almost thirty points. Rose scored ten.
The Heat pounded the Bulls 94 to 70.
Which reminds me that we could have taken Dwayne Wade in the not too distant past. He's a Chicagoan. Instead he went on to star for the Heat and helped them win an NBA championship.
I'm just sayin'.
But I remember thinking, didn't Memphis lose the NCAA championship? Didn't Michael Beasley outplay Rose when they went head to head?
Not noted as students of history, the Bulls' top brass selected Derrick Rose with their first pick. Probably for the same mysterious reasons they chose a guy who has never coached for their new head coach.
Yesterday in the rookie summer league the Heat and the Bulls faced off. In a show of support two of the Bulls' sophomore players are spending their summer vacation on the newbie team to teach the number one pick the ropes.
I don't know if any of Beasley's older teammates on the Heat joined him to play in the summer league.
Beasley scored almost thirty points. Rose scored ten.
The Heat pounded the Bulls 94 to 70.
Which reminds me that we could have taken Dwayne Wade in the not too distant past. He's a Chicagoan. Instead he went on to star for the Heat and helped them win an NBA championship.
I'm just sayin'.
Monday, July 7, 2008
How Come We Don't Celebrate the Rolling Stones' Birthdays?
Ringo Starr is 68 today. He celebrated in Chicago in front of the Hard Rock Hotel handing out cupcakes to the three hundred people who showed up. Three hundred.
At noon he raised his hands in the peace sign and shouted, "Peace and love!!" Not that this was a publicity stunt or anything. Did I mention that Ringo is 68 years old and he's on tour with his band and they need people in the audience?
For his birthday [have I mentioned that he's SIXTY-EIGHT?] I guess he wanted the whole world to stop at noon Chicago time and perform the same arm raising ceremony and speak the same leftover words from the sixties as he did.
Why do I think that this global initiative didn't get much farther than the Hard Rock Hotel lobby? On the news clip you can hear him say, "Is it noon yet?" And a bevy of blond babes behind him shouts, "Yes!"
The event moved me to sit and shake my head.
Of all the Beatles, and fair warning -- I have always preferred the Rolling Stones -- Ringo was the least attractive, intelligent, musical, or talented one of the bunch. Okay he clearly had a sense of humor -- enough to make fun of himself.
George was barely much more talented. His biggest and arguably only post Beatle hit, My Sweet Lord, sounds just like the sixties hit, He's So Fine. He was sued for plagiarism and lost. Litigation on the case took almost twenty years. His entire post Beatle career before he died of brain cancer, was a testimony to the desperation of Beatles fans to keep hope of a reunion, any reunion, alive.
I always had the feeling that the fans continued to follow the individual Beatles no matter what their actual skills, like they were clapping for Tinkerbell. Anything to keep their memories of the band from completely fading away.
John Lennon was just a classic drugged out hippie as far as I am concerned. He and Paul shared copyright credit on most of the tunes, so he was anointed a poet. McCartney wanted the record set straight later, since he was the one who actually did most of the writing and composing. Paul was clearly the best musican/lyricist of the group. His post Beatle career is the best evidence of that. He also seemed the most normal. If there is such a thing in that world.
So Ringo had a birthday today. In my opinion, it wasn't really a celebration as much as it was an embarrassment.
At noon he raised his hands in the peace sign and shouted, "Peace and love!!" Not that this was a publicity stunt or anything. Did I mention that Ringo is 68 years old and he's on tour with his band and they need people in the audience?
For his birthday [have I mentioned that he's SIXTY-EIGHT?] I guess he wanted the whole world to stop at noon Chicago time and perform the same arm raising ceremony and speak the same leftover words from the sixties as he did.
Why do I think that this global initiative didn't get much farther than the Hard Rock Hotel lobby? On the news clip you can hear him say, "Is it noon yet?" And a bevy of blond babes behind him shouts, "Yes!"
The event moved me to sit and shake my head.
Of all the Beatles, and fair warning -- I have always preferred the Rolling Stones -- Ringo was the least attractive, intelligent, musical, or talented one of the bunch. Okay he clearly had a sense of humor -- enough to make fun of himself.
George was barely much more talented. His biggest and arguably only post Beatle hit, My Sweet Lord, sounds just like the sixties hit, He's So Fine. He was sued for plagiarism and lost. Litigation on the case took almost twenty years. His entire post Beatle career before he died of brain cancer, was a testimony to the desperation of Beatles fans to keep hope of a reunion, any reunion, alive.
I always had the feeling that the fans continued to follow the individual Beatles no matter what their actual skills, like they were clapping for Tinkerbell. Anything to keep their memories of the band from completely fading away.
John Lennon was just a classic drugged out hippie as far as I am concerned. He and Paul shared copyright credit on most of the tunes, so he was anointed a poet. McCartney wanted the record set straight later, since he was the one who actually did most of the writing and composing. Paul was clearly the best musican/lyricist of the group. His post Beatle career is the best evidence of that. He also seemed the most normal. If there is such a thing in that world.
So Ringo had a birthday today. In my opinion, it wasn't really a celebration as much as it was an embarrassment.
Hang 'Em High
Some lady is in trouble with her homeowners' association for hanging out her laundry to dry. I guess that's one of the expressed covenants included in practically every agreement you sign when you decide to live side by side with a bunch of Neighborhood Condo Nazis. No damn clothes hanging from the line like you're -- what? A person who likes to hang your laundry on the clothesline?
Methinks there are a bunch of upwardly mobile condo type people who feel that hanging out laundry is somehow lower class. Mainly because that's what their moms and grandmoms did when they were growing up in a not very fancy part of town. And now they don't want anyone to think that the place where they live these days is anything but swank.
Obviously, the woman is hanging stuff out to dry to make a smaller carbon footprint on our planet. She also washes her clothes by hand, I might add, claiming it's not only green, it's good exercise.
But she's not alone. Apparently there is a movement afoot to challenge the association's right to prevent anyone from doing something that is good for the earth. Watch this one go to the Supreme Court.
In the eighties I didn't hook up my electric dryer for two years. It started when I moved into my house. The dryer hook up was for electric and I had gas.
Even though I had two kids and a lot of laundry I started hanging the clothes, including towels, on a backyard clothesline. I thought it would be a nuisance, but it really wasn't. In fact, on a hot, sunny day, the clothes dried about as fast outside as they would have in a dryer. Without so much wear and tear.
They also smelled better. And I found that I liked the process.
At night I would do a load or two. In the morning I would get up early, take the clothes outside and hang them on the line. There was something about walking barefoot in the grass and smelling the early morning air that I not only found very pleasant, but relaxing and comforting as well.
After work I would bring the wash in. I would take it off the line and fold everything before putting it in the basket. This was easier than using the dryer. I didn't have to bend down. And the clothes folded better because they had been hanging straight and smooth on the line.
Also with a dryer, there's a tendency to pull everything out of the dryer straight into the basket without folding it. Then just leave the clothes in the basket for people to take as needed.
In the winter I would hang the wet clothes on a line in the basement, next to the furnace. They dried quickly there, too.
I also washed my underwear by hand in the sink each night. But that was something I'd started years before and just continued.
I still liked using the clothesline, even when I got my dryer hooked up finally.
But I'm also a person who didn't move back down into the city because I like coming home at night to the smell of grass and the sounds of birds singing their evening songs. When I get home late, after dark, I continue to marvel at how sweet the air is and how quiet it is when I open the car door.
No constant sounds of buses, cop cars, traffic or the smell of exhaust. Along with the deafening white noise that goes with living in the city.
So even though the clothesline lady has since complied with her homeowners' association and moved her hanging laundry to the porch where it can't be seen, I hope she and her fellow protesters eventually get their way.
Or, next thing you know some group will be telling you what to wear and when to have sex. Oh wait, they already do that on the morning shows.
Methinks there are a bunch of upwardly mobile condo type people who feel that hanging out laundry is somehow lower class. Mainly because that's what their moms and grandmoms did when they were growing up in a not very fancy part of town. And now they don't want anyone to think that the place where they live these days is anything but swank.
Obviously, the woman is hanging stuff out to dry to make a smaller carbon footprint on our planet. She also washes her clothes by hand, I might add, claiming it's not only green, it's good exercise.
But she's not alone. Apparently there is a movement afoot to challenge the association's right to prevent anyone from doing something that is good for the earth. Watch this one go to the Supreme Court.
In the eighties I didn't hook up my electric dryer for two years. It started when I moved into my house. The dryer hook up was for electric and I had gas.
Even though I had two kids and a lot of laundry I started hanging the clothes, including towels, on a backyard clothesline. I thought it would be a nuisance, but it really wasn't. In fact, on a hot, sunny day, the clothes dried about as fast outside as they would have in a dryer. Without so much wear and tear.
They also smelled better. And I found that I liked the process.
At night I would do a load or two. In the morning I would get up early, take the clothes outside and hang them on the line. There was something about walking barefoot in the grass and smelling the early morning air that I not only found very pleasant, but relaxing and comforting as well.
After work I would bring the wash in. I would take it off the line and fold everything before putting it in the basket. This was easier than using the dryer. I didn't have to bend down. And the clothes folded better because they had been hanging straight and smooth on the line.
Also with a dryer, there's a tendency to pull everything out of the dryer straight into the basket without folding it. Then just leave the clothes in the basket for people to take as needed.
In the winter I would hang the wet clothes on a line in the basement, next to the furnace. They dried quickly there, too.
I also washed my underwear by hand in the sink each night. But that was something I'd started years before and just continued.
I still liked using the clothesline, even when I got my dryer hooked up finally.
But I'm also a person who didn't move back down into the city because I like coming home at night to the smell of grass and the sounds of birds singing their evening songs. When I get home late, after dark, I continue to marvel at how sweet the air is and how quiet it is when I open the car door.
No constant sounds of buses, cop cars, traffic or the smell of exhaust. Along with the deafening white noise that goes with living in the city.
So even though the clothesline lady has since complied with her homeowners' association and moved her hanging laundry to the porch where it can't be seen, I hope she and her fellow protesters eventually get their way.
Or, next thing you know some group will be telling you what to wear and when to have sex. Oh wait, they already do that on the morning shows.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Etiquette for Exes
I just discovered, by accident, that the first ex-wife of one of my brothers died a couple of years ago.
I googled somebody else and ended up at a website set up for my brother's high school classmates who are having a something-fifth reunion this year. I forgot that the guy I googled was in my brother's class.
I started looking around and I found myself at a memorial page which listed all the deceased members of the class as far as they knew.
And there was her name. Wife Number One. With a link to an obituary. Wow. After my brother, she was married for nineteen years to somebody else, had some kids, and died fairly young, so I wonder if it was cancer.
Now, should I call my brother and tell him the news? Hey, your first ex-wife is dead. Or do you not tell people news like that?
Perhaps I should just ask him if he is planning to go to the reunion. Get him talking about people he knows. And ask if his first ex wife is going to be there. If he says he does't know I could suggest that maybe there's something online so he could find out who is coming back. Typical girl trick.
Of course if I do that, then I'm a real jerk if he says he doesn't care if she's coming, so why bother going to the website. Then if I say, well, guess what, I saw that your first ex wife has croaked, he will certainly be pissed that I didn't just tell him up front.
But if I tell him up front that I discovered she was dead, knowing that particular brother, he'd be pissed about that too.
Lose, lose.
My brother and Ex-Wife Number One, now deceased, dated in high school and got married when he was in college. To make a long story short, it turned out she was married to another guy the whole time.
Knowing how my brother is, he probably gave her an ultimatum when they were dating. We're getting married NOW! He's controlling that way. And she just didn't bother to tell him that the guy she left was not her boyfriend, but her hubby. Probably because that would annoy my brother. She was heavily into avoidance tactics.
She was alsoone of those people who was a beautiful child and grew up to be an even more beautiful young woman. She had Elizabeth Taylor looks, from her coal black hair and alabaster skin to her violet eyes. Unfortunately, shocking as it may seem, beauty can be a curse, because she never bothered to develop a personality or other lifeskills that I could discern. When you don't even have to speak in order to leave men falling at your feet, conversation and intelligence can atrophy. She was so untalkative, I thought she might be a mute or have some kind of speech impediment when I first met her.
Somehow her bigamy became revealed -- ironically around the time my brother passed the bar and started working as a lawyer.
At this point, for those of you keeping score, he divorced Wife Number One. Then he met and married Wife Number Two and they had a darling little baby girl. Unfortunately her birth was soon followed by the nastiest, most prolonged divorce and custody battle in my memory. Certainly in my family.
Afterward, we all lost track of Ex-Wife Number Two and their cute little girl. But recently that cute little girl started a MySpace page and it was nice to see her pretty face all grown up. Turns out she's now a talented singer and musician. And I noticed that Diana Krall is one of her "friends." I also noticed that she uses her mother's name. [The most obvious sign of a really REALLY bad break up.] Somebody asked me if I would be trying to contact her. I'll get to that.
Unlike Ex-Wife Number One, Ex-Wife Number Two is alive and well. Although if they are like most divorced people, she and my brother both experienced the "wish you were dead" phase. It's the fantasy of everyone in a bad marriage. If only he/she would just die so I could skip the divorce and move on.
As for making contact with the daughter of Ex-Wife Number Two, I wonder how my niece would respond.
Given her long estrangement from my brother and the fact that she uses her mom's last name, not her dad's, she may not want to hear from Auntie Mrs. Linklater unless I'm calling to say her dad is dead.
In fact, just what is the etiquette regarding contacting long lost relatives in discombobulated families? Is a phone call sufficient? Would a formal written note be required? Do I have to hire an attorney?
It would distress Mrs. Linklater to not be correct.
I googled somebody else and ended up at a website set up for my brother's high school classmates who are having a something-fifth reunion this year. I forgot that the guy I googled was in my brother's class.
I started looking around and I found myself at a memorial page which listed all the deceased members of the class as far as they knew.
And there was her name. Wife Number One. With a link to an obituary. Wow. After my brother, she was married for nineteen years to somebody else, had some kids, and died fairly young, so I wonder if it was cancer.
Now, should I call my brother and tell him the news? Hey, your first ex-wife is dead. Or do you not tell people news like that?
Perhaps I should just ask him if he is planning to go to the reunion. Get him talking about people he knows. And ask if his first ex wife is going to be there. If he says he does't know I could suggest that maybe there's something online so he could find out who is coming back. Typical girl trick.
Of course if I do that, then I'm a real jerk if he says he doesn't care if she's coming, so why bother going to the website. Then if I say, well, guess what, I saw that your first ex wife has croaked, he will certainly be pissed that I didn't just tell him up front.
But if I tell him up front that I discovered she was dead, knowing that particular brother, he'd be pissed about that too.
Lose, lose.
My brother and Ex-Wife Number One, now deceased, dated in high school and got married when he was in college. To make a long story short, it turned out she was married to another guy the whole time.
Knowing how my brother is, he probably gave her an ultimatum when they were dating. We're getting married NOW! He's controlling that way. And she just didn't bother to tell him that the guy she left was not her boyfriend, but her hubby. Probably because that would annoy my brother. She was heavily into avoidance tactics.
She was alsoone of those people who was a beautiful child and grew up to be an even more beautiful young woman. She had Elizabeth Taylor looks, from her coal black hair and alabaster skin to her violet eyes. Unfortunately, shocking as it may seem, beauty can be a curse, because she never bothered to develop a personality or other lifeskills that I could discern. When you don't even have to speak in order to leave men falling at your feet, conversation and intelligence can atrophy. She was so untalkative, I thought she might be a mute or have some kind of speech impediment when I first met her.
Somehow her bigamy became revealed -- ironically around the time my brother passed the bar and started working as a lawyer.
At this point, for those of you keeping score, he divorced Wife Number One. Then he met and married Wife Number Two and they had a darling little baby girl. Unfortunately her birth was soon followed by the nastiest, most prolonged divorce and custody battle in my memory. Certainly in my family.
Afterward, we all lost track of Ex-Wife Number Two and their cute little girl. But recently that cute little girl started a MySpace page and it was nice to see her pretty face all grown up. Turns out she's now a talented singer and musician. And I noticed that Diana Krall is one of her "friends." I also noticed that she uses her mother's name. [The most obvious sign of a really REALLY bad break up.] Somebody asked me if I would be trying to contact her. I'll get to that.
Unlike Ex-Wife Number One, Ex-Wife Number Two is alive and well. Although if they are like most divorced people, she and my brother both experienced the "wish you were dead" phase. It's the fantasy of everyone in a bad marriage. If only he/she would just die so I could skip the divorce and move on.
As for making contact with the daughter of Ex-Wife Number Two, I wonder how my niece would respond.
Given her long estrangement from my brother and the fact that she uses her mom's last name, not her dad's, she may not want to hear from Auntie Mrs. Linklater unless I'm calling to say her dad is dead.
In fact, just what is the etiquette regarding contacting long lost relatives in discombobulated families? Is a phone call sufficient? Would a formal written note be required? Do I have to hire an attorney?
It would distress Mrs. Linklater to not be correct.
The Iceman Versus The Spanish Inquisition
Roger Federer has almost given away the second set at Wimbledon. Oops he did give it away. After being up 4-2. Whoa. He already lost the first set. Until this match Federer hadn't lost a single set. Now he's down two.
So far, the Swiss precision instrument had several chances to break Rafa Nadal's serve and only did it once. Meanwhile Nadal broke Federer right out of the gate. -- the very first game. Not an auspicious start.
Whoever serves first has a huge psychological advantage because the second server is always playing catchup. Unless you give it away. And Roger gave it away immediately. Sheesh.
I guess I don't have to watch any more. This championship match is over. Even if they go five sets, Today Nadal wins. Baring a miracle, Federer doesn't get his sixth Wimbledon in a row.
Nadal finally wins a Grand Slam tournament on grass.
I think today we're seeing a changing of the guard.
Wait. Stop the presses. Nadal just hurt himself. This, or a rain delay, could screw up my brilliant prognositcations. So much for thinking Federer is toast.
Excuse me, I have to get back to the TV again.
P.S. Did Mrs. L call it or what? With a couple of hedges. Five sets. Longest finals ever. Nadal wins 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7
This is the first time Roger Federer has ever lost a finals in a Grand Slam.
So far, the Swiss precision instrument had several chances to break Rafa Nadal's serve and only did it once. Meanwhile Nadal broke Federer right out of the gate. -- the very first game. Not an auspicious start.
Whoever serves first has a huge psychological advantage because the second server is always playing catchup. Unless you give it away. And Roger gave it away immediately. Sheesh.
I guess I don't have to watch any more. This championship match is over. Even if they go five sets, Today Nadal wins. Baring a miracle, Federer doesn't get his sixth Wimbledon in a row.
Nadal finally wins a Grand Slam tournament on grass.
I think today we're seeing a changing of the guard.
Wait. Stop the presses. Nadal just hurt himself. This, or a rain delay, could screw up my brilliant prognositcations. So much for thinking Federer is toast.
Excuse me, I have to get back to the TV again.
P.S. Did Mrs. L call it or what? With a couple of hedges. Five sets. Longest finals ever. Nadal wins 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7
This is the first time Roger Federer has ever lost a finals in a Grand Slam.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Breaking In The New Guy
So last year da Mare gives the top cop job in Chicago to an FBI guy who ran their Philly office. He was once on a SWAT team for a time, but the guy has never actually been a bona fide "policeman." Perhaps he was fulfilling a lifelong childhood dream of wearing a police uniform. Perhaps he was tired of being one of the Men in Black. Because when Jody "The Body" Weis [He says WEESE] took over in Chicago, the first thing he did was get fitted for a 52 extra long cop suit, complete with the fancy gold braid on his lid.
I think he thought that part of getting to run the ship was getting to wear the costume, right? Well, in his case, the rank and file were a little miffed that he had the balls to put on a cop's uniform without actually doing the time.
Orlando W. Wilson, the only other non cop ever hired to run the Chicago Police department after a scandal in the sixties, never played dress up. [By the way, Orlando Wilson is not related to Orlando Bloom or Orlando Jones].
So after making several full contact appearances looking as uncomfortable as a monkey in a dress, Weis couldn't ignore the increasing grumblings from a pissed off rank and file, who have resented his appointment from the get go. And, wisely, he stopped with the Big Chief uniform and started wearing polo shirts with a CPD star instead.
But he actually made a bigger management blunder that, in the end, may be much worse than his wardrobe malfunction.
One day, out of the blue, he up and fired or encouraged 22 of 25 district commanders to accept demotions or retirement. Not that it wasn't needed. Just anyone who has run a big company knows that there are so many better ways to handle a sweeping management change like that, especially when you're the newbie. Morale has already plunged; why do something else to make things even worse. You might want to move slowly, for starters. Carefully also comes to mind.
Despite occasional evidence tothe contrary, cops are people too, and when you jack them around, it's wise to remember that they outnumber you AND they have guns. This being Chicago, they have also been known to use them early and often.
So instead of quietly removing one or two commanders at a time, perhaps over a six month period -- to smooth the transition at the very least by staying under the radar -- Weis called a press conference when he was still wearing his big boy suit and fancy hat to announce that leadership as everyone knew it was over.
The shock reverberated throughout city and the police force. Frankly, things still feel shaky. In fact, after writing this entry I discovered that one of the news magazines is saying pretty much the same thing as I am. Obviously they read my blog.
In fact, it seems like we're getting reports of multiple city deaths every day, the way we used to get daily reports of deaths in Iraq. The local media started keeping a count of how many school kids have been shot and killed. Reading, writing, and RIP.
Lately more toddlers and moms seem to be in harm's way. The perception, fueled by comments made during interviews of reporters themselves, is that the police, particularly the gang units, are holding back somehow.
Last night there was a rumble after the fireworks downtown. There were well over a million spectators in Grant Park. And I guess some gangs went at it on the way home and a girl is dead, a victim of a stray bullet most likely.
Do you remember having an autocratic boss you hated? One who ruled by fiat, not consensus? Who treated everyone like they were incompetent? You probably didn't notice it right away, but you slowly pulled back and started doing only the minimum work required. That's how it feels now.
Someone predicted that Weis would only last about five years, given the history of outsiders coming into metro police departments after a scandal.
I'm thinking he could be -- should be -- gone a lot sooner.
I think he thought that part of getting to run the ship was getting to wear the costume, right? Well, in his case, the rank and file were a little miffed that he had the balls to put on a cop's uniform without actually doing the time.
Orlando W. Wilson, the only other non cop ever hired to run the Chicago Police department after a scandal in the sixties, never played dress up. [By the way, Orlando Wilson is not related to Orlando Bloom or Orlando Jones].
So after making several full contact appearances looking as uncomfortable as a monkey in a dress, Weis couldn't ignore the increasing grumblings from a pissed off rank and file, who have resented his appointment from the get go. And, wisely, he stopped with the Big Chief uniform and started wearing polo shirts with a CPD star instead.
But he actually made a bigger management blunder that, in the end, may be much worse than his wardrobe malfunction.
One day, out of the blue, he up and fired or encouraged 22 of 25 district commanders to accept demotions or retirement. Not that it wasn't needed. Just anyone who has run a big company knows that there are so many better ways to handle a sweeping management change like that, especially when you're the newbie. Morale has already plunged; why do something else to make things even worse. You might want to move slowly, for starters. Carefully also comes to mind.
Despite occasional evidence tothe contrary, cops are people too, and when you jack them around, it's wise to remember that they outnumber you AND they have guns. This being Chicago, they have also been known to use them early and often.
So instead of quietly removing one or two commanders at a time, perhaps over a six month period -- to smooth the transition at the very least by staying under the radar -- Weis called a press conference when he was still wearing his big boy suit and fancy hat to announce that leadership as everyone knew it was over.
The shock reverberated throughout city and the police force. Frankly, things still feel shaky. In fact, after writing this entry I discovered that one of the news magazines is saying pretty much the same thing as I am. Obviously they read my blog.
In fact, it seems like we're getting reports of multiple city deaths every day, the way we used to get daily reports of deaths in Iraq. The local media started keeping a count of how many school kids have been shot and killed. Reading, writing, and RIP.
Lately more toddlers and moms seem to be in harm's way. The perception, fueled by comments made during interviews of reporters themselves, is that the police, particularly the gang units, are holding back somehow.
Last night there was a rumble after the fireworks downtown. There were well over a million spectators in Grant Park. And I guess some gangs went at it on the way home and a girl is dead, a victim of a stray bullet most likely.
Do you remember having an autocratic boss you hated? One who ruled by fiat, not consensus? Who treated everyone like they were incompetent? You probably didn't notice it right away, but you slowly pulled back and started doing only the minimum work required. That's how it feels now.
Someone predicted that Weis would only last about five years, given the history of outsiders coming into metro police departments after a scandal.
I'm thinking he could be -- should be -- gone a lot sooner.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Raise The Drinking Age to 25
Some gray haired dweeb wearing a suit is making the rounds of the local tv shows, pushing to have the drinking age rolled back to eighteen.
Has he read any of the studies which tell us the teenage brain is like pudding that hasn't set yet? The same for their decision making skills. Why would anybody think that that da yoot of America could ever drink responsibly? Especially since experience and police reports have shown that the whole purpose of high school and college imbibification is excess? More is more.
Only an old horndog would spearhead a movement to allow young people to drink legally at a younger age than they do already. Meanwhile, no law is going to stop a kid who has decided to suck up the Stoli at the tender age of twelve.
When you're under sixteen, it takes only takes three months of getting shitfaced on weekends to become an alcoholic. It takes only six months of six pack Saturday nights to fry your brain from ages sixteen to twenty-one. Luckily, once you make it to 21, you've got a three year window.
Which is why I think the drinking age should be raised to 25. By that time, the hormones aren't at such poisonous levels anymore. Thanks in part to a reduction in pollution from unlimited amounts of hand-held sex. Simultaneously, having sex while drinking or driving drops precipitously, too. Mostly because when you have to start making payments on your own car, you get more careful about taking care of your stuff.
Twenty-five is also the age when you're considered old enough by corporate America to rent a car. It's also the age when the astronomical insurance rates suddenly drop. Do you think somebody knows something?
In fact, why not raise the voting age to 25 too? Or when you've finally moved out of your room for good. Whichever comes first. I think something needs to be considered because it's taking much longer for kids to get their acts together. Mainly because they don't have to.
Legalizing drinking for 18 year olds will supposedly solve everything -- teen pregnancy, stupid driving, idiotic pranks, teepee hanging from your trees, girls gone wild, etc., etc. Personally, I don't think Johnny Walker Redfaced drunken teens will solve anything except for the shortage of women in bars.
No matter what anybody says to the contrary, the ancient dude in his suit and tie disguise, acts like he'sgot his finger on the pulse of what young Americans are thinking. Even though I'm sure he's hoping to lay his creepy hands on something else. Oh for a chance to make it legal to hang out with Ashley and Tara at the local Wayside Inn after they're done with cheerleading practice.
He says the usual stupid stuff -- if 18 year olds are considered adult enough to fight for their country and vote in elections, it's about damn time we let them drink themselves into a stupor legally.
Except the reality seems to be that most 18 year olds can't be bothered to vote. Let alone make their beds. They love the freedom of being an adult, but I would love to know the real percentage of kids who actually carry out their responsibilities in an election.
And lately the military has had trouble making its quotas, because after reading about the carnage of two world wars and watching quite a few "police" actions on TV, 18 year old heroes have finally realized that their deaths and mutilations are what going to war is really about.
Given a choice, teens would spend their days playing Grand Theft IV or working on their MySpace pages. And, if drinking were legal at eighteen again, we'd be scraping them off the roads by the thousands. Now, thank goodness, it's only by the hundreds.
That's because seatbelts are mandatory no matter what your age.
Has he read any of the studies which tell us the teenage brain is like pudding that hasn't set yet? The same for their decision making skills. Why would anybody think that that da yoot of America could ever drink responsibly? Especially since experience and police reports have shown that the whole purpose of high school and college imbibification is excess? More is more.
Only an old horndog would spearhead a movement to allow young people to drink legally at a younger age than they do already. Meanwhile, no law is going to stop a kid who has decided to suck up the Stoli at the tender age of twelve.
When you're under sixteen, it takes only takes three months of getting shitfaced on weekends to become an alcoholic. It takes only six months of six pack Saturday nights to fry your brain from ages sixteen to twenty-one. Luckily, once you make it to 21, you've got a three year window.
Which is why I think the drinking age should be raised to 25. By that time, the hormones aren't at such poisonous levels anymore. Thanks in part to a reduction in pollution from unlimited amounts of hand-held sex. Simultaneously, having sex while drinking or driving drops precipitously, too. Mostly because when you have to start making payments on your own car, you get more careful about taking care of your stuff.
Twenty-five is also the age when you're considered old enough by corporate America to rent a car. It's also the age when the astronomical insurance rates suddenly drop. Do you think somebody knows something?
In fact, why not raise the voting age to 25 too? Or when you've finally moved out of your room for good. Whichever comes first. I think something needs to be considered because it's taking much longer for kids to get their acts together. Mainly because they don't have to.
Legalizing drinking for 18 year olds will supposedly solve everything -- teen pregnancy, stupid driving, idiotic pranks, teepee hanging from your trees, girls gone wild, etc., etc. Personally, I don't think Johnny Walker Redfaced drunken teens will solve anything except for the shortage of women in bars.
No matter what anybody says to the contrary, the ancient dude in his suit and tie disguise, acts like he'sgot his finger on the pulse of what young Americans are thinking. Even though I'm sure he's hoping to lay his creepy hands on something else. Oh for a chance to make it legal to hang out with Ashley and Tara at the local Wayside Inn after they're done with cheerleading practice.
He says the usual stupid stuff -- if 18 year olds are considered adult enough to fight for their country and vote in elections, it's about damn time we let them drink themselves into a stupor legally.
Except the reality seems to be that most 18 year olds can't be bothered to vote. Let alone make their beds. They love the freedom of being an adult, but I would love to know the real percentage of kids who actually carry out their responsibilities in an election.
And lately the military has had trouble making its quotas, because after reading about the carnage of two world wars and watching quite a few "police" actions on TV, 18 year old heroes have finally realized that their deaths and mutilations are what going to war is really about.
Given a choice, teens would spend their days playing Grand Theft IV or working on their MySpace pages. And, if drinking were legal at eighteen again, we'd be scraping them off the roads by the thousands. Now, thank goodness, it's only by the hundreds.
That's because seatbelts are mandatory no matter what your age.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Tennis the Menace
Too bad. It looks like Serena and Venus will end up playing each other in the finals at Wimbledon. They are the reigning women of Big Babe tennis -- the females who can hit and serve as well as the men. I'd put either one of them up against a bunch of the men on the pro tour. Okay, the Men's Masters' tour. Although I think either one of them could have knocked off Tim Henman.
Despite having more obvious musculature, Serena's serve isn't quite as strong as her taller, more lanky sister, Venus, who pounds hers at around 127 mph. John McEnroe got to 124 once.
However, if they end up playing each other, you won't see anything exciting. Oh, sorry, did I hit the ball too hard at you. Well, I won't do it again. Watch out I'm going wide on this serve -- better be ready.
They'll probably hug and kiss between sets.
The last time these two went head to head in the finals I almost fell asleep. Everybody was hoping for the battle of the century. But neither one of them came to play. It was like they'd flipped a coin to decide the winner beforehand. And only showed up on the court as a formality.
I can't even remember who won. It didn't matter, because there has never been a more boring, uninspired couple of sets in the history of the women's championships at Wimbledon. Or any championships for that matter. On the way to the finals they both played brilliantly, aggressively, like they were on a mission. And then, nothing. That seems to be happening this time.
So I hope somebody steps up and knocks one of them off. Maybe the Chinese girl. She's the first citizen of her country to get to any grand slam semi-final. Maybe she will be the first to get to a final. At least that way we can hope to have an interesting championship to watch. With both players going all out to win. Unfortunately, it looks like the women's finals will be a bust. No pun intended.
Unlike when Roger Federer plays Rafa Nadal. Because, baring injury, the men's finals is also a foregone conclusion. Only they play for blood. At least Nadal does. Federer plays like a serial killer. But, unlike the Williams sisters they didn't grow up together. And they don't play doubles together. And they didn't have to buck social conventions to make it in a sport dominated by white country club kids. So the two guys can face each other completely focused, without any conflicting emotions.
Or their periods. No, really, Serena has confessed that it affects her game. And not in a good way. So don't ever make bet on her unless you know FOR SURE it's not her time of the month.
Hmm. I wonder if there's any grant money to track the career records of elite women athletes when they get their periods. Some women do well, even better. But Serena had so many colossal collapses that I was wondering if the hormone madness was affecting her, when all of a sudden, she 'fessed up in a magazine article. I don't think it was MAXIM.
And don't get me started on the detrimental effect of big boobs.
I know, TMI.
Despite having more obvious musculature, Serena's serve isn't quite as strong as her taller, more lanky sister, Venus, who pounds hers at around 127 mph. John McEnroe got to 124 once.
However, if they end up playing each other, you won't see anything exciting. Oh, sorry, did I hit the ball too hard at you. Well, I won't do it again. Watch out I'm going wide on this serve -- better be ready.
They'll probably hug and kiss between sets.
The last time these two went head to head in the finals I almost fell asleep. Everybody was hoping for the battle of the century. But neither one of them came to play. It was like they'd flipped a coin to decide the winner beforehand. And only showed up on the court as a formality.
I can't even remember who won. It didn't matter, because there has never been a more boring, uninspired couple of sets in the history of the women's championships at Wimbledon. Or any championships for that matter. On the way to the finals they both played brilliantly, aggressively, like they were on a mission. And then, nothing. That seems to be happening this time.
So I hope somebody steps up and knocks one of them off. Maybe the Chinese girl. She's the first citizen of her country to get to any grand slam semi-final. Maybe she will be the first to get to a final. At least that way we can hope to have an interesting championship to watch. With both players going all out to win. Unfortunately, it looks like the women's finals will be a bust. No pun intended.
Unlike when Roger Federer plays Rafa Nadal. Because, baring injury, the men's finals is also a foregone conclusion. Only they play for blood. At least Nadal does. Federer plays like a serial killer. But, unlike the Williams sisters they didn't grow up together. And they don't play doubles together. And they didn't have to buck social conventions to make it in a sport dominated by white country club kids. So the two guys can face each other completely focused, without any conflicting emotions.
Or their periods. No, really, Serena has confessed that it affects her game. And not in a good way. So don't ever make bet on her unless you know FOR SURE it's not her time of the month.
Hmm. I wonder if there's any grant money to track the career records of elite women athletes when they get their periods. Some women do well, even better. But Serena had so many colossal collapses that I was wondering if the hormone madness was affecting her, when all of a sudden, she 'fessed up in a magazine article. I don't think it was MAXIM.
And don't get me started on the detrimental effect of big boobs.
I know, TMI.
Go Cubs
The Cubs' utility guy, Mark deRosa, also hit two home runs last night. And one of them was a grand slam.
Cosmic.
Cosmic.
Go Sox
I was half awake this morning when I heard that the White Sox first baseman, Nick Swisher, hit two home runs yesterday. One from each side of the plate. And one was a grand slam, his second slam in what, four games?
I better go check those stats. I might have been dreaming.
Apparently not.
I better go check those stats. I might have been dreaming.
Apparently not.
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