A little over a week ago, I stepped out the front door to meet a girlfriend for brunch. It was an unusually warm early Spring afternoon in Chicago, 60 degrees and sunny – the perfect day for baseball.

I had chosen to take the #22 Clark bus south to meet my friend at our chosen destination, a Scottish pub in the City’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. The Clark bus is one of those lines that seems to extend forever and goes through so many of Chicago’s key neighborhoods. Start riding at the northernmost extreme, and by the time you reach downtown, you’ll have passed through the trendy LGBT neighborhood of Andersonville, taken a gander at historic Wrigley Field, whizzed past the Chicago History Museum and landed in the thick of it all in Chicago’s Loop.

I boarded the bus at 11:45 AM, just in time to catch the beginnings of a crowd headed over to the Friendly Confines for Game 3 of the Cubs’ home opening series against the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Cubbies are an institution in the Windy City, one of the National League’s original teams founded in 1876.

Continue Reading The #22 Clark »

Maybe it all began with Don Henley and the Eagles singing about the Hotel California.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,
Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night.
There she stood in the doorway,
I heard the mission bell.
And I was thinking to myself -
This could be heaven or this could be hell.
Then she lit up a candle, and she showed me the way.
There were voices down the corridor -
I thought I heard them say…

Welcome to the Hotel California

Continue Reading Hollywood on the Tropic of Cancer »

I will not tell you where I live for a variety of reasons, but I’ll take you on a tour. Let’s start with Google Earth, narrowing in on central Baja California. As we get closer to the ground, the landscape begins to reveal itself with rugged mountain ranges, vast expanses of empty desert, and the deep blue sea. Lower yet, we can begin to make out the cacti and mesquite trees, and a single pixel at a high altitude becomes my home as you continue the descent. At the proper angle, you’ll see the pyramid roof sitting on the cubic stone house. Once there were some small fruit trees and openings on the lot, but now the trees are twenty and thirty feet tall and the property’s surrounded by magnificent stone walls. The space where my library will be is chaotic, with building materials and debris, but the rest of the garden is so beautiful that an artist from New York City made sketches of it to sell in galleries.

What you see from my patio is a profusion of potted plants. My wife is an obsessive gardener, and we made our own soil from compost and coffee grounds. My citrus orchard is its own ecosystem, probably unique for a fifteen mile radius. It is not natural to this area because of two things – soil and water. The water was relatively easy to obtain; just dig your line and connect it to the village’s water system, obtained by artesian well many miles away.

Continue Reading A Little House in the Middle of Nowhere »

I’ve figured it out. I’ve figured out how to get rid of Sarah Palin. And I owe it all to my addiction: The Simpsons.

I suffer from an somewhat rare disorder called Simpsons-mania. The primary symptom presents itself as a compulsive and incessant need to cite scenes and/or lines from Simpsons episodes on any and all occasion, but in particular at those times when you need to illustrate a point or make someone chuckle, and you realize you have no water cooler-worthy anecdotes of your own. I’ve suffered from this disorder for over a decade now. There is no cure, but loving friends and family are absolutely critical in pointing out how annoying it is.

I digress though. In the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode “Attack of the 50 Ft. Eyesores,” Homer causes all of the advertising icons in town to come to life as Godzilla-sized monsters that begin to ransack and terrorize its denizens, who cannot help but gape at these colossal commercial caricatures. Lisa is the only townsperson with enough wits about her to seek a solution, which she obtains from an advertising executive at McMahon and Tate (a Bewitched reference – gotta love the references).

Continue Reading How to Get Rid of Sarah Palin »

The Challenger Disaster and Children of the 1980s

I have written some about the rough upbringing my sister and I endured, which included a lot of ugliness not important to itemize for the purposes of this essay. However, before we moved into our first single family home when I turned seven, the situation was fairly benign, I would go so far as to say happy.

My father had recently finished a four-year stint as an Army M.P. and we moved back to Chicago from the Virginia station we called home in 1982. My baby sister was only two years old, and since we arrived in the Windy City during the summer months, it felt extra wonderful to return to my birthplace. I was able to see grandparents almost anytime I wanted, grandparents usually bearing gifts or trips to favorite restaurants. I was preparing to enter kindergarten, and unlike many other nervous small fries, I was stoked. I already knew how to read and write but I precociously understood that there was a lot more information out there that I wanted to consume. Jen was definitely more concerned with my morning absenteeism from her world.

We went on normally, playing in the backyard of our North Center neighborhood apartment complex, watching The Family Feud and The Bozo Show, recreating Pat Benatar and Michael Jackson dance sequences in our parents’ bedroom in front of a small black and white TV. I will forever be grateful for the seven years of blissful childhood ignorance I was able to enjoy before the bottom fell out.

Although I do not hold the explosion of the Challenger Spaceship on January 28, 1986 personally responsible for my inevitable turn toward weary cynicism, it definitely provided a shove. There I was with the rest of my class, sitting in front of a TV our teacher, Mr. Knuth had rolled into the room. Every other space inside the tiny Lutheran grade school I attended was enjoying the same privilege. It was so exciting to be granted a reprieve from routine to be able to watch the shuttle launch, which included the first teacher/astronaut, Christa McAuliffe. And she was a woman too! What an awesome role model, even as we kids snickered about how much we’d love to launch our own teacher into the stratosphere.

We sat quietly at our desks, enthralled by the pre-launch activities, as well as the opportunity to be treated like real people with an interest in national news events. It felt so empowering. When the shuttle went off, we cheered over the roar of the engines and the fiery plumes left in the moving craft’s wake. Hey, maybe one day we all could be astronauts too!

And then…well we know what happened. 73 seconds after the loud excitement of the nation’s children began, many of us received our first taste of complete shock and grief. I felt something for the first time, a set of emotions that I would come to know intimately: I knew what I saw and what it must mean, but how could it be true? If it was true, how could it be undone? What do you mean we can’t fix it? We have to! Of course upon realizing that the adults around us did not have the answers, were in fact just as bewildered and sad as the rest of us, I felt afraid. This was the first moment, the one I will always remember, when I realized that the world is often so far out of our control. Even the well-meaning, the hard-working, the rule abiders can suddenly and quickly find themselves on the short side of cosmic fortune.

The TVs were rolled out of the room by jittery, bereft teachers just as quickly as they had been rolled in. Our instructors did what they could to return some normalcy to the day but it was far too late. How could we forget that we had witnessed the fiery, sudden death of American citizens? How would that ever be ok?

A seven year-old does not have the wherewithal, the emotional resources for perspective. Whether a situation is pleasing or tragic, it seems as though it will go on that way forever. We’re like a bunch of mini manic depressives at that stage. There was a lot of crying that evening, on my part as well as my mother’s. I asked a lot of questions but wasn’t really satisfied with any of the answers. This was the first time I had any idea that most of life works this way. All I know is I didn’t care for it. I thought about how Christa Macauliffe’s children must have felt that night, how the families, spouses, siblings and friends of her fellow space hopefuls must be racked with grief.

I concluded right then that I never wanted to be an astronaut. Even being a teacher sounded like a raw deal, as to my young mind, you were either the victim of tragedy or one who had to walk students through their own. I also figured that maybe I ought not to be so eager with my information consumption, as the truth often leads to horror.

It angers me as an adult that per Wikipedia, “The Rogers Commission found that NASA’s organizational culture and decision-making processes had been a key contributing factor to the accident. NASA managers had known that contractor Morton Thiokol’s design of the SRBs contained a potentially catastrophic flaw in the O-rings since 1977, but they failed to address it properly. They also disregarded warnings from engineers about the dangers of launching posed by the low temperatures of that morning and had failed to adequately report these technical concerns to their superiors.”

I think what little was left of my seven year-old sanity would have been completely demolished it if had been explained to me that agency greed and ambition was the actual killer of the space team. Now of course I am inured to the damage to human and environmental life that corporate decisions can bring (BP, drug makers, etc.).

The Challenger Explosion was more than a major “Where were you when?” moment in the lives of 80s children. It was the first glimpse of the notion, in a period where President Reagan cheerfully peddled American invincibility and Nancy Reagan told us all to stay away from drugs, that our leaders just might be full of shit.

As we approach the imminent conclusion of 2010, an increasing number of liberals that comprise the leftmost wing of the Democratic party are being drowned by waves of nostalgia for November 2008. This was the time, immediately following the historic election of President Barack Obama, the nation’s first African-American Commander-in-Chief, courier for the messages of “hope” and “change” that were to be the hallmarks of the country’s future, when lawmakers from both parties alternately believed in or feared a permanent Democratic majority. In that moment Obama, flush with bold new initiatives in the aftermath of eight years of Bush administration mismanagement, seemed infallible.

On the other hand, the Republican party, which struggled mightily to formulate a message or strategy under the McCain/Palin ticket, appeared to be destined for banishment. Leaders of the GOP publicly and privately indicated that the party faced the Herculean task of finding a platform and voice that could appeal to the mainstream middle. Obviously endless war, permanent tax cuts and corporate favoritism had fallen out of favor.

What a difference 24 months can make.

Continue Reading Obama Has Lost Me »

My husband and I are browsing real estate websites, beginning to talk about what kind of house we’d like to own. In the middle of the supposed end of a recession, with prices as low as we’ve ever seen them, this is our chance to snag a bargain. So why does a sick feeling of dread loom behind my dreams of a sunny den, the perfect patio, a large farm-style kitchen?

The last home we bought was our dream house. Built around 1910, it boasted a peaked roof, antique stained glass windows, hardwood floors, a lovely backyard full of bougainvillea and hibiscus and a three block walk to the Corpus Christi bayside. We painted the living room a soothing shade of raspberry, our den a warm umber; we created a lovely nursery full of light.

Then the unexpected: several months of parental illness including an out-of-town hospital stay, a lengthy hospitalization for me and the birth of a severely premature infant. By the time we finally brought our very small son home to his lovely nursery, his Grandfather was dead, our business cash flow was down and the medical bills had taken on a life of their own.

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On a Friday night in June, I told my father we’d bring over what he needs: a bookcase, an armchair. For the third time, he asked me if he was moving tomorrow.

“No, on Sunday, Dad. You’re moving on Sunday.”

“Can we work on the poetry?” he said then. “That’s the thing.”

I was exhausted from my flight, the three-hour time difference, Friday rush-hour traffic, the hellish creep across the Bay Bridge. My mother was a mess. But I typed my father’s latest poem on my laptop, working from the scraps my brother had written out and Dad’s slow recitation.

It was the weekend before Father’s Day. I fought my own melancholy, the sense that I was doing grave injury to someone helpless to change his fate.

In his prime, my father was never sentimental. He has advanced Parkinson’s Disease, and last June he knew it was time to leave home. He knew. But that didn’t change his nervousness, his mulishness at the last minute.

Continue Reading I Know What Poetry Can Do »

Several years ago I found myself working as the special education assistant in my daughter’s elementary school. I had been a preschool teacher for many years. I was surprised to be recruited for this position. It was not my area of expertise.

My day was spent working with kids one on one and in small groups. Many of them were very bright but struggled with learning disabilities. Others like James just struggled.

James was in the sixth grade the year I worked with him. He was in my daughter’s class. It was my job to pull him out of class and take him to the special ed room. He became the class clown when he would see me appear at the door. He would pretend to fall out of his chair or pretend to be asleep at his desk. Anything to deflect the embarrassment he felt by my presence.

James was much bigger than his classmates. He towered over me and was easily twice my weight. He reminded me of a bear. Sometimes he would see me in the hall and tell me that my daughter was in the principal’s office for smoking or skipping class. “Naw, just kiddin’.” He would throw his arm around me.

Continue Reading I Will Remember You »

By the time my father started writing poetry, in his early seventies, he was revealing himself far more than I’d ever imagined he would. He had found his form.

I’m a writer. I’m supposed to be able to finesse experience, to put a fine gloss on all I describe in words. But in this situation, I was a fumbler. If I found myself at all, it was through editing his poems. He still calls me his editor, in the fondest way, when he isn’t lost in memories of his South Dakota boyhood, the veiled traumas of his youth, some of which may actually have happened.

My father can still observe his withering mind in action, commenting when it goes off the rails. He’s not just traveling two tracks—reality and denial—but an Escher-like plethora of railroad lines and empty staircases. He says his brain splits everything like a crazy pipe organ.

• • •

In the 1960s, he was handsome, lean and dark-haired, like Gregory Peck, my mother used to say. He was the professor who took student demands at his college to the administration—too old to be a protester himself but young enough to believe in change.

Continue Reading Desolation Row »