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Revenge of the Bat

Ballroom blitzWhile the holiday season was full of events big and little, today’s subject occurred most recently. Saturday was the occasion of Number One Son’s first opera. Real opera, as in downtown, in the Lyric Opera House, and no comfy chairs like out at the Oak Brook Drury Lane. The show was “Die Fledermaus”, which is always a popular one for cutting youngsters’ operatic teeth on, like “The Magic Flute” (too wierd and mysoginistic for my taste) or “The Cunning Little Vixen” (nice, but a little twee). Even without any killings or consumption, “Die Fledermaus” counts as a real opera, and is very funny to boot, even after 145 years. It helped to have some very good comic actors in the lead singing role. Liam liked it quite a bit, only fidgeting a little. The late hour didn’t bother him–he’s starting to be able to stay up until midnight and get up without complaining, another sign that he’s heading toward adolescence. Of course, during the beginning of the second act, he tried his best to find enough light to draw anime characters on his program, but he eventually gave up.

So we arranged a sleepover for Liesel and went downtown to scalp a ticket. One nice old gent with a mustache had a single ticket on the main floor for $100. I could joke that this was what a decent baby sitter would cost, but that’s not true. We’re getting to the point, though, where we can almost leave the kids home alone for the entire evening, which frankly will be a relief. I’m very rusty in the scalping business, though, and didn’t put the screws to him. I should’ve. My wife found out he’s a doctor, and could afford it, courtly white mustache or not.

Among the trivia we learned from the program: Sid Caesar once played the non-singing role of Frosch the Drunken Jailer with the Metropolitan Opera. We could’ve used him Saturday night, since Frosch was one of the weaker roles cast. How hard is it to find a decent drunk in Chicago theater?

This has been one of the most enjoyable theater seasons we’ve ever had, and it’s only half over. “King Lear” at the Goodman, “Hamlet” at Chicago Shakespeare, and some terrific operas, including “Il Trovatore”. And it’s been enhanced by the fact that we canceled our sub to Steppenwolf this year after probably 15 seasons. All the shows there were beginning to run together in our minds, and I haven’t been impressed with any of their new works in a long time (especially the plays by their new darling Bruce Norris, which show themselves to be more and more empty as you examine them on the ride home). We’ve been busy enough as it is. When going to the theater becomes an obligation, its time to reassess.

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In Communicado Springs

Goin up the country, Baby do you wanna gooo...It might have seemed like I disappeared from the blog because of too much shenanigans surrounding our favorite simian themed holiday. Like I got kidnapped, perhaps, or had too many banana daiquiris and passed out and woke up in a bathtub full of ice with one kidney missing and a nice note on the wash basin.

But those would all be just nice tours of the imagination (and is it just me, or have we really moved out of the Golden Era of Urban Myths?). What really happened was, we switched DSL carriers from MCI to ATT, so of course we were without connectivity for almost two weeks. Now, I could’ve gone to the library or a wifi cafe to keep up with things, but my wireless connectivity has been giving me fits since Sept. And you know why? I finally figured this out yesterday: I had struck the wireless switch by accident and turned it off. Ooooh, baby, call me Mr. On Top of Things.

Then of course, we were up at the cottage for 10 days or so, thoroughly enjoying the lack of connectivity up there. (I still didn’t know I had a little switch I needed to throw to leech off someone’s wifi.) It’s so very nice to blow off everything up there and pretend you’re stuck at an Antarctic substation, one full of food and liquor and friends and family. The isolation is so enjoyable that, after my brother and I finally figured out how to fix the poor TV reception after 9 years of ownership, it felt very strange to be able to see network TV again. I almost resented it, at least when I wasn’t watching the Bears lose to the Packers, and the Wolverines lose to the Trojans. Then I was glad for the pain, because it proved I was alive.

(It’s always great to start the new year watching the Wolverines act like football offense hasn’t evolved since 1962. Just once, I’d like to see them blow out their Pac-10 opponent, just so the Trojan marching band, which tries to look so cool with their shades while wearing their little gladiator outfits, can look a little more stupid.)

Now we’re back in town, with deadlines and scout meetings and carry-out Thai and all the rest of it. It feels mighty fine. Glad to have had Christmas, glad to be doing something useful again. Whatever that might be.

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Faster Than The Speed of Sound

Well, apparently the essay I recorded for WBEZ’s “848” program was broadcast this morning. That’s such a fast turnaround that they didn’t have a chance to email me about it. I only recorded it yesterday, and my phlegm-hampered delivery left the producer with a complicated editing job. Or so I thought. But I already received two emails about it, so apparently it happened. “Yay,” he said, flatfootedly.

When the link is posted on BEZ’s website, I’ll put it here.

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Monkey Day Scrooge

Feh.“Personally, I never celebrate National Monkey Day. It’s so overly commercial now. It used to be a time to get together and pick lice off family and friends, but now….it’s like if you don’t spend your life savings on new poop for all the nieces and nephews, you’re some kind of mandrill. And the stores, with their politically correct “happy holidays” really get my goat. As if I’d be offended by the word “monkey”! Why do we celebrate this anyway? Monkeys are the reason for the season. If you’re not a simian, don’t celebrate National Monkey Day. It’s our holiday, dammit! Ours! *screech screech* (throws poop)

“Ahem. Yes, I plan to celebrate it on my own, in my own quiet way. And that’s not because I have no friends. I have plenty. You just don’t know them. ”

(Photo copyright by Jill Greenberg, whose portraits of monkeys and apes are represented by the Paul Kopeikin Gallery of Los Angeles.)

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A Phlegmish Carol

This morning my chest feels like squirrels have been nesting in it all fall. Friends had a little caroling party yesterday afternoon, and I thought it would be churlish of me to not join in with my favorites, despite the chest cold I’ve been incubating for a week. So I gave it a go, sang maybe three songs in my best attempt at a bass, chatted for the rest of the time and hoped the spiced Glugg would soothe my throat. Hey, it’s an old-fashioned recipe, right, and ipso factotum should be good for whatever ails you.

Then I drove a gaggle of kids downtown to church for the Lessons and Carols concert. Tensions were a little high in the car, as the kids did NOT appreciate being pulled out of a leisurely Sunday afternoon of play and cookies to put on a demanding performance. Not only would they have to sing two songs from the choir loft–one of which was in GERMAN! they pointed out to me–but it was also the debut of handchimes with this group. Handchime rehearsals had not been going well, and many threats had already been issued to only strike them during the proper songs. Yeah, and the choir director thinks you can sweep the tide back with a broom.

I had two concerns: Why no one quite appreciated my comments about “Willie and the Hand Chimes”, and whether I could get the Hawaiian carol “Mele Kalikimaka” out of my head. I’d been playing it as a kitschy half-joke all afternoon, and like a careless researcher handling infectious diseases, I became a victim too. And again, at the rather uptight, high-church place where we worship, no one appreciated when I sang that catchy little number. Check it out here, play it 17 times, and see for yourself.

Despite all that, it was a glorious evening. Maybe the current chest pain is a result of me swelling with pride as the Children’s Choir sang Bach’s “Wie Schon Leuchtet der Morgenstern.” When they finished, the adult choir on the main floor of the sanctuary smiled very satisfied smiles. A high compliment, which none of the kids could see.

I hope you can find time this season to take in a concert as beautiful as the one we heard last night. Make the time. Skip shopping for Great Aunt Tillie. Skip the Bears game. Well, maybe not the Bears game, but definitely the shopping. Peace. Cough. Peace.

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Only 7 Shopping Days til Monkey Day

Here’s a gift item that is both functional and authentically monkey-oriented. The Brass Monkey Freeze Indicator.

Our Brass Monkey Freeze Indicator is more than an attractive desk ornament and paperweight. When exposed overnight to below freezing temperatures, an amazing phenomenon occurs. Part of his anatomy falls off!

Anyone who woke up in Chicago this morning will want one of these. Order here.

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Gripe Water

A guy asked for this yesterday at the counter of the Euro-style apothecary in my neighborhood. Have you ever heard of it? It’s a homeopathic remedy for baby colic. But I just like the sound of the name. “Gripe Water.” It sounds like a euphemism for liquor, but then again, to me, most things do.

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“ACCENT!” is the Reason for the Seasoning

(Remember when they ran ads for this “flavor enhancer”, sprinkling MSG over everything from salads to steaks? Do they still make this stuff anymore? My entertaining has never been the same without it.)

This topic of how to hail people during Saturnalia is getting staler every year, but there was a whole page of Letters to the Editor in the Trib last week about “putting the Christ back in Christmas.” I still have this argument with friends of mine who object to being told “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, so I guess it’s not settled in anyone’s mind yet.

For an engaging examination of who can really claim this time of year as their own, check out Eric Zorn’s column today.

One December pastime is to take stock of the previous 11 months and see where you are and where you’ve been. If that is the case, the people screaming about how they’re dissed when someone says “Happy Holidays” must have a steel trap memory for perceived slights. Maybe they have a persecution complex. They must save up all their bile for the year looking for a respectable opportunity to release it, and somehow well wishers are a suitable target. This tone suffused all the Letters to the Editor that insisted “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.” It felt less like a call for Christians to reject commercialism and more like resentment that anyone else can crash the holiday party.

Political correctness is not at the core of this argument, although sometimes it does raise its head during school pageants and the like. There was never a magical time when everyone wished each other a “Merry Christmas”, consequences be darned, and anyone who believes there was is delusional. What the past held was a segregated, non-mobile society, in which Christians and Jews rarely mingled (with the exception of places like New York, Hyde Park and maybe Washington DC), atheists kept quiet about their convictions rather than be hounded and fired from jobs, and Muslims and Buddhists lived overseas where they belonged. In that era, it was entirely possible to tell everyone you know “Merry Christmas” without offending anyone. And because you could do it, the phrases “Seasons Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” had no air of capitulation, no feeling of compromise. They all meant the same thing because most of your friends and acquaintances were on the same page.

Everything was all hunky-dory in the past? Check out old newspapers for their seasonal advertising. Examine old photos, and keep an eye out during old movies. “Happy Holidays” was used just as often now as it was 50-60 years ago. It’s just that the atmosphere around it has changed.

You want to boycott stores that use the phrase “Happy Holidays,” go right ahead. As one of the commentators to Zorn’s blog post mentioned, just make sure that when you don your religious armor, you also apply your Christian standards to your shopping choices and avoid products made in brutal factories in China and Indonesia. That would be a fight worth having, one that might produce some positive results.

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What Makes Chicago Happy

The pride and joy of IllinoisEarlier in the fall, I had a whole list of notes for an essay grousing about how I was going to avoid watching football this year. It was motivated in part by watching the kids practicing in the park up the street in the hot August weather and feeling miserable for them. I was also lucky enough to watch one of my baseball teams make it to the World Series (although who showed up on the field is still a mystery), so my sports fix lasted almost up until Halloween.

Among my anti-pigskin arguments were that it’s pathetic to spend much time cheering a local team of pro millionaires when they have no connection with the city, enjoy ridiculously short and painful careers, and have had their jocks sniffed by writers, fans and groupies since they were 15 years old. The owners are so beneath contempt, with their talk about “a public trust” in ownership as they leech public money for everything from traffic policing to new stadiums, that they don’t merit mention. To put it in Oprah-style talk, how much is a fan investing in this relationship, and how much could he/she possibly expect to get back?

But my main argument was, if a guy is paying attention to more than one professional sport, he is wasting his life. And I still believe that.

But oh, there is something about a winning season with the Chicago Bears. Somehow the City That Works (intermittently, haphazardly and sinfully better for some than others) seems to work better when the Bears are winning. There are flags, hats, car stickers everywhere, and somehow the regalia doesn’t reek of marketing and zombified consumerism, at least not entirely. Everyone even remotely interested in sports around here loves a winning Bears season. It’s a combination of history and civic self-perception (everyone likes to feel like a Grabowsky once in a while), or maybe just a diversion as the winter months kick in. But this place must be a football town, because the Bears are simply unavoidable these days.

This doesn’t mean that my arguments against football are invalid. I’d dissuade any boy I know from playing it, because for all the talk about teamwork, there are a hell of a lot more unsung kids playing the line or riding the bench than there are making star plays. And the dripping machismo that surrounds the games and broadcasts? I feel like a pansy just watching the car commercials. Doesn’t it look like a whole lot of overcompensation is going on? I predict an apocalyptic homosexual orgy will break out both in the stands and on the field during one of the next three Super Bowls.

But all that being said, I’m sneaking in Bears games too (to a skilled TIVO browser like myself, the game can be watched in less than an hour, and without the inane patter of the announcers), when my wife and kids will let me. I sometimes have to beg for the time in a Kramden-esque bluff—you know, “I work hard all week, and I have earned the right to watch a little football”—but that’s as macho as it gets. Yesterday, while the Bears-Vikings game was going on in 15 degree weather, I was downtown ice skating with the family by the Bean and having a stupendous time. Then we went home, made chili, bought a Christmas tree that was so frozen you could have mailed it without wrapping, and then I watched the game in the comfort of my basement. It was a perfect, frozen winter day.

And truthfully, I probably wouldn’t be having so much fun if the Bears didn’t have that fight song that’s so damn catchy. (You can hear it played by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at Wikipedia HERE.)

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Do Not Disturb

I was ready with a couple posts for this week. Or ideas for posts, really. Or just notions. Yeah. Probably notions. Notions to post.

But anyway, can’t work on it now. I just had a conversation with my editor in New York, and we agreed to some changes in my manuscript. So it’s time to put on my hunkering pants and get down to it. So I’ve got to turn off the DSL and get to work.

But don’t forget. National Monkey Day is coming in two weeks, so get your shopping done now.

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Blood, Guts and Foam

I trust everyone had a reasonably fine Thanksgiving, and without too much heavy obligation, found a lot of things to be thankful for. It really is such a nice holiday, it’s a shame that so many horrible travel stories accompany it. Our family has plenty to be thankful for, but you might be able to guess many of them. But you want to know what I’m really thankful for?

The Nerf Arsenal.

I’m so thankful for the Nerf Arsenal, and the pandemonium it brought to our house on Saturday night, that I can only attempt to describe it.

My son Liam, who’s now eleven, had a couple of the boys from his old school over on Saturday night for pizza and video games. The idea and impetus was actually mine, because I thought it would be a perfect night for it, and December would be too busy for everyone’s schedule. In the afternoon, Liam worked on setting up the television room for it, even checking the settings on the Gamecube so there wouldn’t be any memory problems or technical snafus.

Then he got out his Nerf Arsenal and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Mustering what he thought was a Schwarzenegger accent (like he’s seen many “Terminator” movies!), he greeted the boys at the door. They were stunned, “Wow, that’s the biggest gun I’ve ever seen!” For the rest of the night, allowing for respites in front of the TV, they ran around the house ambushing each other with orange foam projectiles and screaming and panting and laughing their heads off.

Why did all this chaos thrill me so much? Because Liam never has friends over unless it’s his birthday or something. Liam has Asperger’s Syndrome, which we diagnosed around his third birthday. For those of you who don’t know, Asperger’s is a form of autism that makes it hard to understand social situations. The best description I ever heard of it was that it’s like permanent culture shock, in which a person (usually a male) can’t really figure out why things happen as they do and how to keep himself involved in the interaction.

Asperger’s is a spectrum disorder, and not everyone is afflicted to the same extent. Liam is much, much better off than many with AS, and many people who meet him can overlook the condition completely. But I’ve seen him on his good days and bad, and I’m a worrier by nature anyway. For eight years, I’ve fretted about him–how he’s going to grow, how he’s going to function as a teen and adult, how much he’s going to get out of life, how much he’s going to enjoy himself.

So seeing him playing War with two other sixth graders–that’s about the best present I’m going to get this year.

When I bought him the Nerf Arsenal last year, my wife was reluctant. She’s not an incredible peacenik or anything, but the idea of these comically huge guns shooting missiles around her house made her a little uneasy. The trouble is, she never had a brother, and so doesn’t realize how much interaction and satisfaction men get from playing War. For Liam’s sake, I think any kind of interaction is worthwhile. And it looks like so far, I’m right.

So if you hear anybody this Christmas season get on their soapbox and spout off about how awful it is to sell toy guns, just remember that they can be very therapeutic, in a literal sense. It also helps the father, when he gets to shoot suction cup darts at the faces of football coaches on TV.

Thank you, Hasbro, for Nerf N-Strike, Action Blasters, and all your other fine squishy products!!

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There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays….

because where else can you pick up interesting news stories like this one, from the Great Lake State?

Jail Officers Urge Inmate to Strip and Run Around for Cherry Pie

The two jail officers were fired, of course, but my heart goes out to the inmate. I mean, it must have been one hell of a cherry pie. Michigan’s famous for them.

Thanksgiving visits are prime opportunities for this kind of news. While there certainly are strange-but-true stories wherever you go, a visit to your birthplace and the fields of youth make these stories stand out even more. I’ve got my reasons for not living in Michigan, and fair or not, my mind absorbs these kinds of stories at this time of year and congratulates itself on making the wise decision to move to Chicago. It’s probably all tangled up with nostalgia and regret and the Oedipal need to break away. The fact that Michigan is chock full of wackos certainly helps.

Since topics of conversation generally dry up after 24 hours, or about one-third into the trip, holiday visits are generally the only time I ever watch the late local news. And what the hell is that except a parade of freaky stories about hit-and-runs, trailer fires, parade preparations and the crowds expected for the Friday after Turkey Day shopping orgy? Any prolonged exposure to local TV talking heads will make you think the world’s fate is in the hands of grinning idiots. Maybe if we’re lucky, there will be some good video of hordes of shoppers stampeding into stores on Friday. Teacher says, Every time a shopper is trampled underfoot, an angel gets his wings.

If you’ve got some time to kill online, go to this fabulous timesuck:

http://www.mms.com/us/dark/?zjxj=01200004W9001117W24W0

it’s an M&Ms ad for their dark chocolate, a Heironymous Bosch-style painting full of word puzzles about famous horror flicks. Supposedly there are 50 movie titles hidden in the painting. After more than an hour, I’ve only been able to find 38, and that’s even with movies that I’ve never seen. If you get a better score than me, let me know.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

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If I Wrote This Post…

If This Knife Was Handy...By now, everyone in the English-speaking world knows that OJ Simpson has a book coming out entitled If I Did It, And Had Motive And Opportunity And A History of Domestic Violence And Pile of Evidence And An Idiotic Team Of Prosecutors Against Me, This Is How I Would’ve Done It, Hypothetically. A friend of mine is circulating an Internet petition to register his outrage at the publisher, ReganBooks, as if the company and Judith Regan thought the public would appreciate The Juice clearing the air and would be shocked, shocked by the outrage. But my friend is a lawyer, which might imply some respect for the law, so I’ll cut him some slack.

I don’t know why I’m not shocked. I know this is a new low for law, journalism and publishing. But Newton’s Laws of Motion are still in effect, so the momentum of civilization’s downward slope shouldn’t shock anyone. It would be shocking if that momentum were halted and reversed, and the nation boycotted the book, burned down the Fox studio where the interview is being held, and OJ announced, “Okay, I murdered two people, and it didn’t affect my golf game one bit.” That would be shocking, and so, I’m not expecting it.

Speaking of the TV interview, would any sane person conduct it without having a taser on the table next to the glass of water?

In other publishing news, the following titles are slated for the spring:

Poland Was Asking for It, by Adolf Hitler
In Cold Blood, Presumably, by Truman Capote
I, the Jury, and My Agents, by Mickey Spillane

UPDATE: So civilization has not fallen as low as I had presumed. Looks like both the interview and the book have been canceled. When everyone down to Bill O’Reilly questions whether something is despicably bottom-of-the-barrel, maybe it’s time to get on your hands and knees and look in the mirror.

How had I missed publisher Judith Regan’s explanation for her involvement, that

she had done it not for money, but as a victim of domestic violence anxious to face down a man she believed got away, literally, with murder.

Now will we have vigilante publishers roaming the streets, inflicting their own brand of justice when the law fails the citizens of the country? Publishers who right wrongs their own way, no matter what The Man would tell them to do? Outlaw publishers who are their own judge, jury and executioner, fighting for justice in black spandex outfits from their Batcave, fitted with high-tech lethal weaponry? (I take it back–I have no desire to see Judith Regan in black spandex, no matter how good her comic book might be.)