Category: Uncategorized

Thanks to our friends at Ampolo.

My friend Steve Fiffer started a blogsite last year called Ampolo. It’s meant to be a place to share those ideas that come to you in a flash, ideas that could be worth millions or change the world or liven up your next family barbecue but you haven’t the expertise or time to make them a reality. I like to read it because it makes me feel less isolated in the world when I see someone else actually thinks that weather reporters should have to post their “batting averages” at the bottom of their screens during the TV news.

For a year, I’ve tried to come up with an innovative notion that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to send Steve for possible inclusion on Ampolo. And I’ve finally done it. I think. The embarrassment might come later. But it’s just possible that my idea could become the “gull wing doors” of the new century. Call me Clyde Crashcup. You can check out the idea here. And return to Ampolo often. It’s slick, informative and fun.

Science fiction has never been a big genre with me. I read it here and there, but I don’t gobble them down like so many devotees do. However, last year I did enjoy very much reading Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles for the first time. The early stories in that book (about the first colonization of the planet and the corruption of the native culture) came to mind this morning when I spotted this picture of a Martian sunset on Andrew Sullivan’s blog, who got it from NASA’s Image of the Day,

Can’t you just picture enjoying a nice cool Epeftian Manganese Fizz on your veranda, before you have to go indoors and batten down the house against the carnivorous sand weasels and spleen bugs that are just beginning to stir in their holes?

My jaw dropped this morning when I read about the following news item. The event happened last Wednesday, and you may have heard about it already. The news has been flying around the internet, and CBS’ The Early Show had an interview this morning.

Mom says special needs child ‘voted’ out of classroom

PORT ST. LUCIE, FL — A Port St. Lucie mother says her five-year-old son with special needs was voted out of his classroom by his peers at the behest of the teacher, who has since been reassigned.

….

“(She) took him and stood him in front of his classmates this week, asked every single child to tell Alex why we don’t like him… in his words, tell Alex why we hate him,” she explains.

After having each child ridicule the boy, she says the teacher continued belittling him.

“Then they had a vote on if he deserved to stay in the class or not,” says Barton.

Like a twisted reality show, Barton says in a 14-2 vote, his classmates voted the five-year-old out of the classroom.

The boy, Alex, has recently been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. His classmates objected to Alex’s spinning, his eating crayons, and hiding under desks. And so the teacher’s solution to a handicapped child disrupting her classroom was to hold a public pillorying, then a vote. There’s plenty more to read online, including how the boy’s one and only friend in class was pressured by the teacher and the rest of the kids to change his initial vote and turn against Alex.

Words fail me. If this “teacher” has indeed been reassigned, I hope it’s to guard the supply closet, or any other job that keeps her away from children PERMANENTLY. I can’t fathom what could have gone on in her head, that she would think this would be a good idea. It’s beyond understanding. In the wake of her insanity, one little boy is crushed and is afraid of going back to school, his peers get some sick lesson in groupthink and revenge instead of tolerance, the boy’s friend is probably feeling awful (and to avoid that feeling, might not try to be friends with Alex again). What this teacher did was abhorrent, she ought to be beaten with a plank and neutered….

I could write 5,000 words right now and not scratch the surface of my anger and loathing at this action. I take this very personally. Our son has Asperger’s, and if I remember, in Kindergarten, he hid under the desk a lot because the chaos and energy of a social environment like a classroom confused and scared him. I’m thankful he had a teacher and principal who looked at the whole child and helped him along. What would a decent person’s reaction be to a scared, confused 5-year-old?

Since that year, he’s never had a classroom aide (he probably didn’t even need one that year), is now in 7th grade pulling straight A’s, and is a happy, confident teenager, worried about girls and obsessed with music. The other kids in class may find him annoying at times, but other times his strengths come through. He’s accepted for who he is. Which is every person’s right. (Even as I type those words, they seem to clink like Canadian nickels, failing to express the importance of the notion. They seem cliche in the face of what happened in that classroom. I get angry over the fact that I have to type them at all.)

You can read more about Alex’s situation at this site, which also contains a link to his principal and the school board. Please write them and lend support to Alex, who has the right laid out by federal law to have a proper education. Of course, a law can’t mandate that a teacher would act like a HUMAN BEING and see the consequences of her actions, but it shouldn’t have to. It’s up to the school board to see this woman is shitcanned so far that she won’t be able to get a job as a prison guard.

I have to stop typing now, before I hurt my fingers or damage the keyboard from pounding.

Got back last night from a weekend of getting the cottage ready for the summer. Got the dock in without anyone drowning, which is always a good sign. The weather was too cold to go swimming or to eat outside, unless the sun was pounding directly on you. Nevertheless, I’m so very ready to chuck everything around here and relocate for a summer of reading, napping, fishing, and martini-drinking. We won’t really be up there until July 4, due to other commitments and a road trip we’re trying to take to the east coast. I won’t be able to take the wait. I need to catch me some fat bluegill NOW!

Our cottage is near the town of Fennville, which has two gas stations, one grocery store, a video store and a pharmacy. It also has a Mexican restaurant that’s hands-down the best in three counties. But the newest restaurants there have brought with them a strange phenomenon: Fennville is becoming a destination spot for foodies.

A few years ago, this started happening in my Chicago neighborhood, when a few eateries got written up in the New York Times (I think all of them have closed in the meantime except one). The foodies were conspicuous by the expensive casual clothes they wore, and the sweaters tied around their shoulders (60-somethings trying to look like they just stepped off the green). The wives always walked in front, wearing eager expressions for their urban adventure, with the husbands four paces back, bemused and patient and thinking life is supremely good as long as the Viagra holds out. They’re not so much around anymore, maybe they’ve moved on to Logan Square or West Town or Joliet. Which is good. Sated with food and too much South African shiraz, they were clogging up the sidewalks with their meanderings.

But now the town near my cottage is getting them. Their destination is the Journeyman Cafe, which opened on Main Street two years ago. The restaurant features only locally grown food, part of that whole locavore idea, which I think is a fine and dandy one as long as I don’t have to eat too much squash or give up coffee and bananas. The foodies arrive there, clutching their purses and peering into the place like a cave–“So THIS is the place everyone’s talking about?”

I’m not knocking the food, which is good to excellent, nor the idea of eating local. The angle of it I find most interesting, from a global socioeconomic viewpoint, is that the locals can’t afford to eat local. Few if any of the year-round residents can afford a $17 plate of lamb chops, however well intentioned the food is. Will this always be the case, or will the practice of locavorism make the area economically viable to the point that the former factory hands and farmers around there will be able to afford it? What’s more than likely is that the spread between the haves and the havenots will continue to grow until we begin to resemble Mexican resort towns, where the locals get only a glimpse of the good life.

Of course, I’m a fine one to talk, being a summer resident visiting my second home in my Illinois license plates conspicuous on the Volvo wagon. And I like a good meal as much as anyone. But any trip to Michigan will give you a quick view of the economic disparities in the country, and I’ve only seen it get worse in my time up there. Let’s hope those $17 lamb chops will do some good in the long run, and not just be a tasty curio of an era of decline.

Received the following email last week, on the heels of news about the other James Garner having a stroke:

Hi,

I want to get a message to James Garner the actor, who has recently had a stroke, he was amiss in getting an official web site so I thought that I would ask you to get in touch with him and give him my best wishes.

This may seem strange but if you knew Indian folk lore you would not hesitate but would seek to tell him, on my behalf, that all is well.

I hope you are able to do this, if not do not worry, as all is well.

Thank you

XXXXX XXXXXXXX

So, if I have a complaint about George Bush, and I quite can’t figure out how to reach him, I should send it to the PR department of Bush’s Baked Beans and have them send it along?

Or if I’m looking for ski tips, I should randomly email people with Polish surnames.

I’ll get that message out right away, Wendy, even though “all is well”, because, er, we all know what THAT can mean.

It was the OTHER James Garner who had a stroke over the weekend. We wish him a speedy recovery.

(Okay, that was in bad taste, and no one was really worried about my health.)

All my life, I’ve had a relationship with James Garner. Generally favorable, although he hasn’t put much work into it. I can remember ever since kindergarten the scene of someone reading my name off a roll, and making the obligatory joke about “Maverick” (and later “Rockford”). In Kindergarten, I had no clue what was going on. But at some point, when I was nine or 10, I saw “Support Your Local Sheriff” on TV and realized who this other James Garner was. And I was pretty impressed. Effortless cool, good acting, composure, humor. And when you read more about his life, you realize what a mensch he really is. War veteran, two purple hearts, civil rights marcher, auto racer, married to the same woman for 52 years. I often joke that I could do worse than sharing my name with him, and am glad I wasn’t named James Spader or James Woods. (I knew an unfortunate guy in high school whose name was Lorne Green. C’mon, the parents have NO excuse for doing something like that.)

I wasn’t named after the actor, thankfully. I was named after my Uncle Jim, who had a pretty interesting life. He died when I was about seven, but I remember enjoying my trips to his house in Chicago, where we got to drink “50/50” and bang on his piano while his wirehair terrier Skipper barked and chased after us. He always called me “Germs,” which is the only nickname I never bridled at.

When I joined SAG/AFTRA after a couple commercials 20 years ago, I was faced with the decision of what my professional name should be. I couldn’t go by James Garner, obviously. I stuck the “Finn” in there from a family name. So my snooty literary name was actually my snooty acting name first. Thankfully for all involved, the acting didn’t go much further. About a decade ago, I received one of his royalty statements in the mail (through AFTRA maybe? I don’t remember) and sent it to him at the correct address on the letter. Didn’t get a response. Typical of our relationship. I’ve had to do all the work.

Tomorrow morning, WBEZ’s “848” show will broadcast a commentary of mine on the Chicago Children’s Museum’s efforts to get itself some prime parkland real estate. So tune in between 9 and 10 if you’ve a mind. And I presume you do.

Update: Click here for the audio link.

Steve Delahoyde ain’t got nuthin’ on these folks.

Via What Would Tyler Durden Do?

The current governor of Illinois is a puzzle. In a state where Dems control both the Senate and the General Assembly, he goes out of his way to antagonize people. The state budget has still not been worked out, yet he goes on TV and proposes new expensive initiatives. He’s even started cleansing people’s criminal records as favors to other politicians, so those people will be in his debt. Crazy? Arrogant? Contemptuous and ignorant of the law? Check and double-check.

Now he denies that he’s the “Public Official A” that has been mentioned in several Justice Dept bribery and patronage probes, Rezko and the rest. At a time when the previous governor is locked up for “pay for play” policies, Blago keeps doing it and more.

But here’s what I think is happening. You know that in some self-defense manuals, they tell you if you’re about to be mugged on the subway, to act a little kookoo and wet your pants? The theory is a mugger doesn’t want to deal with a crazy person and will just let you alone.

That’s Blago’s plan. Peeing on himself in public. Making everyone think he’s crazy (or more crazy than he’s shown before). It’s a way out of being indicted, because no one wants to see a mental defective be put on the stand for racketeering and bribery charges. It’s sort of cruel. In addition, he might take the whole state down with him, if it could sink any lower than it already is. It’s like the Mafia don who feigned craziness by walking around in his bathrobe all day talking to himself on the street.

Blago’s got more style than just wearing a bathrobe. He’s so used to pissing on colleagues and allies, not to mention citizens, that urine is his weapon of choice. The Big Dog is doing what comes naturally, except he’s doing it all over himself now. Crazy like a fox, trapped in the corner.

Camera Captures Wolverine in Sierra Nevada

I’m an inconsistent person. Usually. Maybe not all the time, but yeah, all the time. As a result, no matter how interesting or useful or well written a website might be, it’s a good bet that I forget to visit it as often as I should.

This isn’t true, however, for a community photo site I’ve found called Vintage Photographs. It has an astounding variety of old photos of every type–glamor, postcard, news events, family portraits, etc. The most intriguing lately have been many from pre-revolution Russia, showing workers at their trains, soldiers posing on their horses, families out on picnics. There’s usually no info to speak of accompanying the pictures, but just the same, each one somehow creates a narrative in my head. It’s a very intimate site, probably because of all the family pix, although many portraits of famous people are posted. Go check it out, and add it to your favorites.

Here’s one of a party in Paris in the 1920’s. The caption reads, “Russian ball at Bullier in 1929
From left to right: Iliazd, M. Gutheir, Florent Fels, Ganzo, Michonze with Iliazd’s wife, Pascin and Caridad de Laberdesque.” For all I know these are famous European intellectuals, but I don’t really care. I just dig the kooky fun they’re all having. I also wouldn’t mind meeting the brunette in the friendly pose in the lower right corner.

In case you didn’t know, it’s the Year of the Ratt.

This will be my last post for a while regarding family matters around here. I don’t want too much Hallmark sentimentality to besmirch my reputation as a clear-eyed realist with nerves of steel and sharp fingernails. But this little story really touched my heart.

Today is a snow day in Chicago, at least as far as this household is concerned, so the tension of packing up and getting out of the house is gone. Liesel is still reading in bed even now, trying to make the most of “the very first snow day I’ve ever had, and maybe ever will have.” It looks like we might have seven or eight inches by the time it’s over.

Liam was busy getting dressed in his room a few minutes ago, jamming to the songs on “Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy,” as crucial a step in his development as reading Plato and Dickens. I knocked (must respect privacy with a pre-teen!) and stuck my head in to see if he needed some prodding to get out and shovel. To my relief, he was dressed and ready to take on the job. As I retreated, I noticed something written on the inside of his bedroom door.

ABSOLUTELY
NO GIRLS ALLOWED
IN THIS ROOM !!!!!!!!!!!

This was underlined seven or eight times, and took up about three square feet of area. An understandable sentiment, one reciprocated by his sister six feet down the hall. It was cute, but I couldn’t quite make out what the message was written in. It looked like mucilage, or thick craft paint the color of amber.

I asked Liam what it was made of. He smiled, very proudly, but didn’t say anything.

I asked him again. Still smiling, he told me.

“Dried loogies.”

Put that in your scrapbook and step on it.

Here’s a snapshot that indicates where we are in the life of this household, in these times, in these here United States.

Two Saturdays ago, the kids were upstairs cleaning their rooms. Slowly and with much distraction, but that goes without saying. Liam, in seventh grade, was cranking up the copy of “Who’s Next” that he got for Christmas. It’s been amusing and incredibly nostalgic to have him playing this around the house. (It was even more evocative in December, when we played it in the car on the way to go skiing. All sorts of pictures of 1972 style–string art, big sideburns, bold wall prints, platform shoes, and ski lodge decor–swam through my head intoxicatingly. The ski lodge decor was still up at the ski hill, but everything else came from memory. And there was my kid in the back, singing a lusty version of “Bargain” and trying out some windmill guitar.) We’ve seen all sorts of attempts at teenage rebellion in recent months, more willed it seems than really intrinsically necessary. But adolescence is barreling along like a student driver, no doubt about it.

In her room, Liesel was cleaning up her dolls and singing along with a CD of “Schoolhouse Rock” in a sweet little girl’s voice. My wife must have encouraged her to play it to get some help on her multiplication tables, which are making 4th grade very trying. It was a nice innocent scene, starkly contrasted with the newfound rock decadence in the other bedroom. I could see the chasm that will inevitably grow between the brother and sister, and between the kids and their parents. While they still get along as well as brother and sister can, things will be changing soon, and there will be lots of laughs and lots of screaming and tears.

Childhood is beginning to fade away in this household, and that’s certainly okay, and in any event can’t be stopped. I enjoyed the little twinge of heartbreak I felt when I considered this scene. It made me wish for the first time that we had more than two kids, so the scene — and countless others, of bigger kids helping the younger, younger ones holding onto their youth, fear, pride, uncertainty, craziness — could be replayed a few more times.