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Blagojevich Christmas Carol

Just received an email from Margie Lawrence that you’re bound to like, to the tune of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”. A little research shows that it was written by John McHugh, and was the winning entry in last year’s “Songs of Good Cheer” parody contest, run by the Trib’s Eric Zorn:

Get packin’, Rod Blagojevich
The state’s in disarray
The Tribune wants you unemployed
At least by Christmas Day.
The TV pundits want your head
Could there be pay to play?
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
Save Illinois !
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

Good riddance, Rod Blagojevich
Your Elvis look’s inane,
The Senate’s mad, so’s Lisa’s dad.
You drive us all insane.
Our transit’s broke, the state’s a joke,
The Tollway’s one big pain.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
Save Illinois !
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

Good luck, old Rod Blagojevich
The feds have quite a place.
Fitzgerald’s poked his nose around
And if he has a case,
George Ryan’s moving stuff around
Creating extra space.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
Save Illinois !
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

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NY Tries to Heist Obama

It’s not enough that Barack Obama is the nation’s first black president. It’s not enough that he’s the first president since JFK with urban roots. It’s not enough that he is the first to be from a northern state since Gerry Ford. That’s not enough for New York. Typically, the Big Apple demands more. And New York Magazine had the audacity to declare among its “Reasons to Love New York 2008” article that “Obama Is One of Us, Despite All That Business About Chicago.”

Barack Obama, on the other hand, deliberately chose New York as a young man, transferring his junior year from Occidental College to Columbia, and all one has to do is crack the binding of Dreams From My Father to appreciate the authenticity of his experience. It’s all right there in chapter one, paragraph one, sentence four. “The apartment was small,” he writes, “with slanting floors and irregular heat and a buzzer downstairs that didn’t work, so that visitors had to call ahead from a pay phone at the corner gas station, where a black Doberman the size of a wolf paced through the night in vigilant patrol, its jaws clamped around an empty beer bottle.” Before readers have even turned the page, he’s mentioned his stoop, his fire escape, and the Knicks.

Great. Sounds like a wonderful formative “authentic” experience. The article goes on to point out all the NYers who will be in Obama’s cabinet, including Park Forest’s and Little Rock’s own Hillary Clinton.

Sorry, you mugs. Your native son Rudy ran for president, and if not for a few strategic gaffes (like not running in any crummy little states like Iowa and NH) might have brought his “authentic” style of integrity and personal magnetism to the White House.

This is just another instance of NY parochialism, which I’ve found is as strong there as it is in small town Wisconsin. NYers find it hard to believe that any worthy person would choose to live anywhere but The City So Nice They Named It Twice (In Case The First Plaque Gets Lifted). A John Updike quote I use most often comes from one of my favorite satires, Bech is Back: Being a New Yorker, “She assumed everyone who lived west of the Hudson was kind of kidding.”

Tough rugelach, NYers. Obama is ours, for better and for worse. The South Side is the new Kennebunkport, the White Sox are now the Nation’s Team, and we can all put away our Louis L’Amour books and break out the Saul Bellow.

No, wait, Bellow cut out of here at the end of his career to get stroked in Boston. Bleep him. Start reading Nelson Algren and Alexsandr Hemon.

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Here’s My Latest Radio Essay

Boy, remember a week ago when the big news was that the city was going to lease out our parking meters? Seems like a long time ago, now that Governor “Crazy Rod” Blagojevich (“I’ll sell anything! My prices are so high, I must be bleeping INSANE!!!!!”) has focused the world’s attention on us.

Well, anyway, back in those carefree days, I wrote a little essay on leasing out all the properties in the city. This morning WBEZ broadcast it on the “848” program, and you can listen to it by clicking below.

[audio:http://www.jamesfinngarner.com/audio/City that Leases.mp3]

After which, you can return to the scandal of the day.

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Go to McSweeney’s NOW….

…and check out today’s entry. It’s written by my homey (as in the guy who redesigned my home) Gary Rudoren. With his finger firmly on the pulse of today’s economic whoopsies, Gary has given us,

REVISING
AND EXTENDING
MY THANK-YOU REMARKS
TO MY WEDDING GUESTS
DURING THESE TIMES
OF ECONOMIC
CRISIS

A title which might make Maxwell Perkins a little apoplectic, but is explanatory and to the point.

Gary’s also the author of Comedy By The Numbers, a McSweeney’s book that is essential for anyone looking to impress people with their humorous abilities. Buy one (on sale now!) and be the hit of the office party.

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“Cubbie Blues” Book Release Party

A few months ago I participated in a Wrigleyville reading series called the Lovable Losers Literary Review, which attempted to wrest the mantle of literate baseball despair from the shoulders of Red Sox fans and bestow it squarely on Cubbie diehards. Did we succeed? You’ll be able to see for yourself, at the book release party for the anthology compiled from those readings, Cubbie Blues: 100 Years of Waiting Til Next Year.

(As you can see, cover artist Margie Lawrence included pictures of the contributors in the bleacher crowd scene. That’s me in the middle of the front row, with the newsie’s cap and starched collar. It’s my first time ever caricatured in a fake crowd scene, something that’s been my dream since my first glimpse of the “Sgt. Pepper” album. And Margie chose the right era for me as well. There’s always a bottle of cheap bourbon sitting on my spartan desk, and I recently had my laptop altered to look like an old Remington typewriter.)

Sunday night, Dec. 14 from 7-10, come down to Sheffield’s and meet some of the contributors, including myself, Stu Shea, Jonathan Eig, Don DeGrazia, Sara Paretsky, and many others. We’ll be signing books and reveling in holiday spirits besides. A portion of the proceeds of the book are being donated to Chicago Baseball Cancer Charities and their One Step At A Time Camp. It really is a nice anthology–literate, wonderfully written, heartfelt and fun. It’s worth the price just to read Kogan’s toast at the beginning of the book on how baseball gets into a young fan’s blood. For more on the event, check out the article in yesterday’s Sun-Times.

Aside from live events, copies are only available online, so if you can’t make it out in person, click over to Can’t Miss Press to order yours.

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The Curse(s) of Patty Blagojevich?

Could Mrs. Blago be yet another in the long line of supernatural reasons the Cubs will never win the World Series?

During the call, Rod Blagojevich’s wife can be heard in the background telling Rod Blagojevich to tell Deputy Governor A ‘to hold up that fucking Cubs shit … fuck them'”

Is this an Evil Eye? A Harridan Hex? A Wifely Whammy?

On the other hand, maybe she and Lee Elia can get together and record some party records.

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Yes, Virginia, There is a Patrick Fitzgerald

Some arresting television this morning, as Governor Blago is nabbed outside his house by the FBI. In one of those moments that will stick in my head forever, like John Lennon’s killing and the first OJ verdict, I found myself in line at the Ravenswood Post Office buying Christmas stamps–the ones with the little nutcrackers on them–when I heard the news on the radio. Since then, I’ve had to pull myself away from the TV a couple of times, just so I don’t veg out enjoying the spectacle of a complete ass being hauled off by the feds for making a complete ass of himself ON TAPE, within the past six weeks, about trying to leverage the vacant Senate seat for his own gain.

It’s a present the whole state can enjoy.

At first I thought, “It’s about time!” This “reform” governor has been about nothing but money and his own future since he unpacked his bags in Springfield. But maybe this is just about the right moment. If it had happened any earlier, his sleaze and stupid hubris would’ve reflected badly on Barack Obama and maybe cost him the election. Any later, and the douchebag would’ve already appointed our new senator (or appointed himself) and we’d be stuck with that stain for who knows how long?

Will this shitstorm in any way effect Obama? Hard to say right now. The TV talking heads were saying this morning that Blago reached out to Rahm Emmanuel for a lifeline, but was cut off. Then US Attorney Fitzgerald decided to haul Blago in before he could do anything stupider than he’s already done. Which, if his past record of bonehead brazen moves is any indication, would have been a doozy.

And all this legal action is related only to his appointment of a new senator, as well as pressuring the Tribune to quit being so mean to him in print. It has nothing to do with all the years of investigations about everyday pay-to-play corruption that Fitzgerald’s been conducting. Astounding! Evil! Audacious!

With the thickness of that head and skin, and the brassiness of his balls, there HAS to be a way to turn his “gifts” for the forces of goodness and not evil. If life were like a Marvel comic, he’d be the stupid weightlifter type who joins the Avengers, then sells out to the Masters of Evil, then back again, and again…..

But this is the real world, and this monkey’s going to Disneyland. He shore has a purty mouth.

The Fitzgerald press conference is just starting! Gotta go pop the popcorn!

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Out at the Christmas Tree Lot

Last night in Chicago it was about 15 degrees, with a bitter, brittle cold that usually looks best through a picture window. But I was outside gettin’ my “ho-ho-ho” on, selling wreaths and Christmas trees at the local parish. The parish I don’t even belong to, though Number One Son still goes to school there. And I had so much fun, I’m going to go back a couple more times this season and do it again.

Why do I enjoy it so much, standing around in the cold and slipping on black ice? Don’t know. You can read what I wrote about the occasion for the Chicago Tribune last year. I still like this essay a lot, though it might be a little pat. People I know around the school liked it immensely when it was printed. It provided a nice balm after a clutch of deaths among parents of school-age kids last December. I was flattered when it was copied and posted and distributed around school.

(Two months later, unfortunately, all the camaraderie around the place was blasted away, as a group of parents tried to get a teacher fired, pitting neighbors against neighbors and long-time friends against friends. The demonstration of the dark side of parish life doesn’t invalidate the sentiments I wrote about in the Trib piece, but it goes to show that our human relationships are fragile things, and our motivations to pitch shit at each other can be switched all the way to 11 very quickly.)

Still unanswered is the question of why I like selling the trees. For one thing, your customers are always more happy than those who are shopping for caskets or colostomy bags. For another, it’s fun to joke around with strangers and wish them a sincere Merry Christmas. I’m a big enough grump the rest of the year that my sanity and physical health benefit from it. The school dads (inevitably with much younger kids than mine) are fun to BS with, about football and travel and families. Speakers blare out a weird mix of Christmas music from WLIT-FM, the all-yule channel, and in a kitschy way I enjoy the brandy-soaked voice of the female DJ who dispenses greeting-card advice to listeners about how to stay centered on important things during the holiday and not get in a fight with your parents again for never believing in your dreams as you limp into late middle age.

And ultimately, it’s nice to have an excuse to be out in the winter evening, the expansiveness of which (even stuck along the side of traffic-choked Western Avenue) evokes more mystery than my imagination will ever be able to exhaust.

I hope you all have fun decorating your houses this weekend. And remember the guys hanging around the tree lots. Those of us who don’t do it to make a living are having a good time.

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The View From My Window

YIKES!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!! ALIEN SAUCERS!!!

THEY MAY BE SMALL, BUT THEY’RE DEADLY!!!

Ha ha. Had you going, didn’t I? Actually, this is just a stray prop from Halloween that I left hanging in the bushes for conversation’s sake. It was part of a bigger scene of an Alien Happy Hour, which had lots of glow sticks, strobe lights, and a dozen or so mini-spaceships hung in the Rose of Sharon. The spaceships were bowls of green and clear plastic that we hot-glued together and hung with fishing line. Crap, do I need a job or what?

Please note, the sign on the railing says, “Aliens with Ladies Drink Free.” We’ve often used the Alien Head in Hazmat Suit figure, so much that he’s falling apart a little. This was the first year, though, that people actually stopped and had their pictures taken behind the bar with him. He must be some kind of friendly face.

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I’d Welcome a Stalker, but Only If He/She Can Do Yardwork

A headline at Huffington Post this morning got me very excited. I always get excited to discover things about me that are going on behind my back:

GN’R Album…Osment’s Bad B’way Debut…Garner’s Stalker….Affleck in Congo….

Wow, really? I’ve got a stalker? That’s so flattering (maybe I’ve been extra lonely lately).

But after clicking through, I realize that it’s really that camera-hound JENNIFER GARNER who’s got the stalking problem. Can she ever get enough attention? She says she’s reached her limit and had to file a restraining order, but I wonder about that. The limit, I mean.

Actually, I did have some weird goings on with a fan about 10 years ago. When my book Apocalypse Wow! came out in 1997, I expected to get a little hate mail or extra arguments on radio shows because of my mockery of religious millennial thinking. A little bit came, but (unfortunately for sales) not much. What did come in the mail, at roughly two-week intervals, were manila envelopes from a fan who read the book and realized that it was Destiny that she and I be together. My own marriage notwithstanding, this woman said that our union (probably more sexual than, say, intellectual) would bring about a new era of peace, growth and devil-worship. The notes got kind of scary and overwrought, and included things like pages torn out of bridal magazines and size charts for wedding rings. All around the envelope were the kind of angular printing and crystal-ball drawings that you might expect in your basic Breakfast Club.

Thankfully the letters were sent to my publisher, so the woman (whose name currently escapes me, though I could look it up, b/c I saved the envelopes, naturally) never figured out my address. Things devolved from spooky to pathetic after eight or nine envelopes, however. She said she wanted to come to Chicago and find me, but couldn’t raise the bus fare from Cleveland. She was also trying to find money for dental work, which was hard because she’d been out of work so long. (Really, what kind of dowry is that to attract a harbinger of the devil’s reign? Hmphh.) So our little one-way obsession was ended with no closure. I hope she found the money for that dental work, and also another fella with whom to herald the coming of the anti-Christ. I was obviously a false prophet.

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Ryan Dempster Drinks the Kool-Aid

Ryan Dempster signed a four-year, $52 million contract with the Cubs on Tuesday, even though he probably could’ve gotten a lot more money on the free agent market. His line of thinking, according to the Tribune:

His love of Chicago — and the Cubs chances of winning a world championship [emphasis added] — factored into the decision, and Dempster didn’t want to wait and see if he could make more money elsewhere.

“Given as close as we’ve been the last two years, I thought, ‘This is where I want to be,’ ” he said.

Actually, despite his obvious mental handicap, I think the world of Ryan Dempster. How could you help but love a pitcher who bikes to work, barbecues with his neighbors a half-mile from the stadium, and practices magic tricks for fun? He couldn’t be any more authentic if he moved into the Hotel Carlos.

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A Budding Pat Oliphant?

On election night last week, the family was scattered around the living room, paying as much attention as they could to history being made. My kids (aged 10 and 13) surprised me by how much they enjoyed watching the talking heads stall for time and play with their big Etch-a-Sketches of the USA–but they also surprised me with how much they new about the electoral college, Congress and the rest of the arcana of our grand old land. They certainly knew more than me at that age.

Killing time as we waited for the polls on the West Coast to close and Obama named the winner, Number One Son grabbed a piece of newspaper and quickly sketched the caricatures of the four candidates shown below. He said he’d been working on them in school for a week or so, to amuse his classmates, and had perfected a few but not all. Looks like he could be on his way to being the first manga-inspired editorial cartoonist (but I can’t tell whether Joe Biden at the bottom is answering questions or summoning the mystic energies of a long-dead sorcerer to channel through his lapel flag pin).

A reference to Obama’s home state.

Not quite crotchety enough.

Price tags a nice touch.

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On a Curve, Headed Downhill

It used to be I felt really old when I read the birthdates of the Playboy Playmates and saw they were younger than me (and how much they hated “war and phony people”).

Then I noticed some of my favorite baseball players were younger.

Then it was the rock starts, the movie stars, the comedians, and more Playmates (in the name of further reasearch).

Now the President of the United States is younger than me.

Oh well. At least I can still count on the pope.

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No Wonder the Right Thinks We’re Pussies

One of my worst memories of the 2004 election–the second worst, actually, and by a very wide margin–was everyone on the web who started apologizing to Europe and the rest of the world for electing Bush again. All those po’ faced students in their dorm rooms, holding up hand-scrawled notes of apology to the rest of mankind, just because the election didn’t go like it “should” have. “We’re Sorry, Europe! Don’t hate us!” Apparently they even published a book with these little solicitations, perfect for passive-aggressive Francophiles everywhere. I’m sure the foreign image of the rugged American spirit was vastly improved by such whimperings.

I didn’t have long to wait for a web-based, grass-roots show of mealymouthed pussitude to emerge in 2008. Even though the Democratic candidate won, there had to be some way for leftists to show that they really can be clueless and masochistic. This morning, I found it.

At the website of one zefrank, progressive and otherwise slaphappy viewers are invited to submit pictures of themselves with notes to those in the Red States, offering hands of friendship and uplifting civic attitudes. “From52to48” messages include “We’re not that Different, You and I”, “We need one another”, “We can only do it together,” and “Dear 48, You Complete Me, Love 52.”

Gawd, please STFU. (That’s not an acronym I use often or lightly, but since we’re being all webby here…)

People, listen. The election is less than 48 hours from being finished. It was a close one, and an expensive one, but history was made. It was hard fought and hard earned. Don’t take it lightly, or assume it means an era of enlightenment for us all.

For the past two months, the right has called Obama everything from a baby-eater to a Marxist to an evil hypnotist to a Muslim sleeper agent. They’ve touted the idea that his wife runs around talking to third-world journalists and freely uses the word “Whitey” with them. They’ve said Obama hates his country, even as he engaged in and triumphed in the process that makes this a unique place on earth. Do you think all that hate was just “politics as usual”? Do you think that now, with McCain reverting to the “real” McCain and Palin off to smoke the year’s moose jerky, they’ll want to lick their wounds and their embarrassment alongside you in your little latte-powered salon? That everyone is as reasonable and open-minded as you obviously think you are? Do you think it’s time to break out with the Kumbaya?

Holy shit, people, get a grip. As Mr Dooley once said, “Politics ain’t beanbag.” I’m not for excessive partisanship, but I don’t believe in rolling over like a fat puppy either, just because I want everyone to like each other. Progressives won, and that’s been rare enough that we should savor the victory. To start reaching out for warm hugs the very next day? Nauseating. Fey. Childish. Everything that fills the caricature that talk-radio hosts paint of you.