Psychic Accordionist

I Love Being Wrong

2011-03-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

You read that right. I love being wrong. Especially when I make some dire forecast based on the knowledge I have about astrology. For those of you who would scoff and say, “You mean YOU, a college-educated, 3-language-speaking, home-owning, bill-paying, accordion-playing adult actually believe in that stuff?” I would retort, “I know enough about it to pay attention.”

So, I would love to be wrong about what I see coming up in the next week or so. The planet Mars, which rules war, explosions, fire, etc. is moving from watery Pisces to fiery Aries on April 2. That would be enough to make you check all appliances before you leave the house or review your escape plans, just in case. But it’s also headed for a conjunction with Uranus, which rules unexpected events, blow-ups, uranium (get it?) big upsets and discoveries. Mars plus Uranus in a fire sign? POW!!!

At the time, the planet Saturn will be square the U.S. Sun. I could write the book on Saturn square the Sun, because it is a feature of my own natal chart. In a personal horoscope, Saturn square (a 90º angle) the Sun gives the individual, among other unpleasant things, the feeling of “not being good enough”. Compliments go in one ear and out the other. Insults and slights get stuck in the brain like snot on a silk shirt. With this placement, I would forecast that the U.S. could be headed for an event that will generate national sorrow and “We’re not so great anymore” feelings.

Add one more ingredient, Pluto. It is currently at 7º Capricorn, which puts it within orb of a square to Mars and Uranus. Pluto rules obsessions, destruction and rebirth. With Pluto, Mars, Uranus, the Sun and Saturn all squaring off and glaring at each other, I would suggest saying lots of prayers. The prayer that I made up goes like this: “Dear All-That-Is, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, God and Universe, please make the upcoming week an explosive one for everything positive: discoveries, new innovations, ideas and technologies, and destroy only that which does not serve us. And by the way, keep me and all my stuff intact and safe. Thank you!”

Astrology does not predict exact events, but it does point to the kinds of events we may experience. I’m hoping that we might experience the positive side of what the planets stand for next week when unexpected incidents change our world.

Fun on the CTA

2011-03-10T08:39:00.001-08:00

Since I’ve gotten a job near downtown Chicago, when I’m not biking I take the CTA. For those of you who don’t live in the Chicago metropolitan area, that stands for Chicago Transit Authority. Apparently there is a CTA Manners and Regulations Handbook that many riders have studied. It goes something like this:

1. If you have a huge backpack, make sure to plant yourself in the aisle so nobody can get past you. If you are seated, place the backpack on the seat next to you so others, especially seniors and the handicapped, are discouraged from taking that seat.

2. If you are taking the train and don’t have a seat, by all means stand in the doorway, no matter how many people need to exit before you. That way, you will make the maximum number of folks uncomfortable as they are obliged to squeeze past you.

3. When riding the bus and there is an open two-seater, plop your carcass down in the aisle seat. It is optional whether you should place your belongings on the window seat or leave it empty. If another passenger has the temerity to request the window seat, allow him or her to take it, but do not move your body as they slither past. Likewise, if the other person needs to get off before you do, do not rise to let them pass, but grudgingly turn your body ever so slightly so that they are forced to brush your face with their behind.

4. There are times when the “T” in CTA is just for show. Such as when the bus drivers crawl along the street, even though the road is empty. The response to this if you are traveling with another person is the following dialogue, “Did that lazy brother-in-law of yours get a job yet?” “No, he’s still a bus driver.” If you are traveling by yourself, loudly request that the driver please slow down, as his reckless driving is making you carsick.

5. Talk as loudly as possible on your cell phone. How else will the other riders be able to enjoy hearing about your latest doctor appointment, fight with your boss or disagreement with the judges on American Idol? Remember, it’s all about YOU. None of those indifferent strangers on the CTA are going to ask about your life, so it’s your responsibility to make sure they get the whole story.

6. Every one of the preceding five points shall be null and void when you remember that all the other riders, like you, are making the city a better place by taking public transit instead of driving.

THAT'S Specious Reasoning!

2010-08-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

Don't you love those lies the media tell you that are just implausible enough to make you wonder if they're true after all? The first one I am exposing is that you can get sunburned worse on a cloudy day than on a sunny one. Riiiiiiight. In all my years of busking during peak hours, I have never once gotten burnt on a cloudy day, even in mid-July. However, on sunny days, even in September when the rays aren't as intense as they are in mid-summer, I have gotten burned despite slathering myself with 20 SPF sunscreen. Liars!

Then there is the oft-surfacing lie about tea vs. coffee and which has more caffeine. "Did you know tea has more caffeine than coffee?" scream the headlines every couple years or so. Oh yeah? Then why do people get a wake-up buzz from coffee but not from tea? Perhaps they bury the fact that English breakfast tea has more caffeine than decaf coffee in the fine print as a footnote to a disclaimer. Brilliant; way to get folks to click on your story. (Morons.)

Finally, there is the blatant fashion lie that if a woman has lumps of fat on her back, it's because her bra is too big, not too small. Horse manure! Case in point: at the beginning of this spring, I had unsightly lumps of fat on my back and I was wearing a 38B. All summer long I've been biking 16 miles a day to work and back. The fat on my back is now history, and I'm wearing the same bras that I wore at the beginning of spring, the 38Bs. So it stands to reason that on May 12, the day I started biking regularly, the bras were SMALLER on me, not LARGER. Where do the fashion writers do their research, on Planet Idiocracy?

I rest my case.

Cell Phone

2010-07-31T06:27:00.000-07:00

Well you’re talking on a cell phone (cell phone)

Annoying all the folks around you (cell phone)

Well you’re talking on a cell phone (cell phone)

Oblivious to the damage you do (yes, you!)

Well you’re talking on a cell phone

In your hand that thing’s a real hell phone

Well you’re talking on a cell phone, you self-centered oaf

You think it’s all about you.

Well you're steering with your knees cuz you’re talking while you drive

It’s a wonder anybody in your path is still alive

Your reaction time is slow or not at all,

Hey! Was that a stop sign? Ooh, gotta take this call!

CHORUS

Well you talk in the restaurant on a date

And you talk during church cuz it just can’t wait

Your incessant blabbing is out of hand

And that’s why you’re getting this reprimand

CHORUS

Well you talk on the train and standing in line

I’d like to shove that phone where the sun don’t shine

I bet you even talk on the toilet in the loo

Well, watch out, we’re gonna play a trick on you!

CHORUS

Mazurka Wojciechowska, Lead Vocal/Accordion; Jason Monroe, Bass Guitar; Logan Huber, Drums; Cameron Huber and Jackson Lake, Badd Boys; Valerie J. Glowinski, Camera; Katherine Monroe and Jen Parkman, Disciplinarians (not pictured)

A Trio of Rants

2010-07-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

The Biggest Lie of the Early 21st Century

“Your call is very important to us.” Bull! If it was that important, someone would pick up the damn phone in the first place.

And while we're on the subject...Earth to pathetic optimists: Calls are only important when they benefit the person being called. Calls from friends, family or from parties offering me gigs are "very important to me". But if you’re calling to ask for money or beg me to hire you to perform a service I don’t need in the first place, your call is "not important to me". In fact, I can think of ten things I’d rather do than talk to you, and one of them is cleaning the bathroom.

I Got Laid Off and I’m Better Off

I was a ‘victim’ of the Great Purge of 2009. I spent 21 years at a financial services firm and I loved it. But face it, working for the same company that long can make you fat and lazy if you’re prone to inertia, like I am. Since I hadn’t taken a vacation in 6 years, I was relieved when they kicked my butt out the door. I spent last summer looking for work and hanging out with my pals. That hogwash about how looking for work should be your full-time job is one of the biggest fairy tales of the decade. Since there’s always going to be someone smarter, younger, or willing to work cheaper than you, you might as well enjoy your time off, spend money sparingly, and become acquainted with all the folks you’ve been neglecting over the past few years. Look for work, but don’t kill yourself doing it.

When the right job came along I grabbed it. Even though I’m making a fraction of what I earned at the financial joint, I am a little less fat and a lot less lazy, and what’s wrong with that?

Those Annoying Cell Phone Talkers

I was riding the train trying to read the Chicago Tribune but couldn’t get past John Kass’s first paragraph. Not that John wasn’t entertaining that day, but there was a loudmouth paralegal gabbing on a cell phone right in front of me going on and on about some boring court garbage that I couldn’t care less about. Miss Blabberpuss treated the entire train car to a long, dull one-sided drone, and that’s part of the reason why I wrote the song Cell Phone.

A line from the song: Well, you talk on the train and standing in line, I’d like to shove that phone where the sun don’t shine! Hear the whole thing on YouTube. It’ll be posted to my channel in the near future: www.youtube.com/cimbalok.

Hora bătrânească

2010-05-17T16:03:00.000-07:00

Here is a song from Northeast Romania. If not for the language, you would think it was Klezmer! In fact, much of Klezmer music comes from this area: N.E. Romania, Moldova & Ukraine.

Cut Education First!

2010-05-05T16:50:00.000-07:00

Dateline: Illinois
The News: Scott Cohen, the disgraced pawnbroker forced to withdraw from the race for Lieutenant Governor now decides he wants to waste his money trying to get elected Governor!

Hey Scott, Illinois does not need a governor. What it does need is a CFO with an advanced degree in accounting. If he looks like a movie star, so much the better, but I’ve never met anyone with a PhD in accounting who had time to style his – or her – hair six times a day. Absent a CFO, Illinois will have to make some hard choices. Liberals ask, “What services would you cut first?” And this liberal replies, “Education.”

That’s right, if I were the Guv, and be glad I’m not, the first thing I would do is eliminate all public education in Illinois. Nothing warms the heart more than seeing a parade of teachers tromping down to the unemployment office, where they will then be doled out your tax dollars to waste on booze, cigarettes and prostitutes. It’s not just the teachers who will be siphoning off your hard-earned cash, but also the custodians who wipe up all those footprints, the school nurses who aren’t allowed to dispense aspirin without threat of a lawsuit and those cafeteria slackers who sling slop onto your kids’ lunch trays. Throw in all the planners down at the Board of Ed, curriculum writers, administrative assistants and the folks who record those annoying voice mails you get whenever you need to reach someone ASAP, and you’ve got a queue of jobless mopes that would stretch from Alton to Antioch.

What then, you ask, is to be done about our youth’s education? One solution is home school. That’s right, if your idea of home schooling is making sure your kid learns to read at a fifth grade level, develops enough computer skills to find your favorite celebrity’s website, can count to $12,000, maybe learns a couple Bible verses and can tune a radio to the easy listening station, your job will be simple. For those parents who have a marketable skill, you’re probably unemployed yourself and can spend your idle days teaching it to your offspring. If you’ve dreamed of having a doctor or lawyer in the family, time to move to Indiana.

Another solution is vouchers for private schools. Some spoil-sports complain that the vouchers do not cover enough of the tuition to allow truly low-income children to attend. But with the money the state saves on all those education professionals who are now drawing a fraction of their former salary on unemployment, we can pay the kids to sweep the streets, pick up trash, mow the lawns of the richest politicians and clean toilets in hotels. That should earn them enough money to make up the difference. Their new jobs will keep them off the streets, and if they don’t have time to do their homework by the time they finish their shifts, they can join the ranks of Illinoisans who read at a fifth grade level, know how to find their favorite celebrity websites and hum easy-listening tunes while shopping at Aldi. Child labor laws? Hey, that’s why man invented white-out.

So, cut education funding first. Let the big-wigs in the public education system who make six figures while asking their faculties to take pay-cuts and forgo raises find out what peanut butter on crackers for breakfast, lunch and dinner tastes like.

Finally, a quote from my favorite TV show:

Homer: By the way, I was being sarcastic.
Marge: Well, duh.

A Surfeit of Surveys

2010-04-24T06:41:00.000-07:00

In the last year or so, I have noticed that practically every business you patronize asks you to complete a survey of their work. Shortly after a liquor store took and scanned my driver’s license (ostensibly to make sure I was over 21, and if you believe that’s the real reason, I have stock in Broadway Bank I’d like to pitch to you) I began getting phone calls asking me to take surveys. After the first one, during which a female sounding about 15 years old asked me if I was “planning to purchase an automobile in the next twelve months” I refused to talk to them. Some would ask for “the man of the house” and I would tell them he was in the shower. Picture that.

The business world’s reliance on such surveys was, is and always will be bogus, as it radiates hypocrisy. Here is some advice from someone without an MBA for these clueless companies:

1. If you really care about your American customers, your phone service is comprised of native American-English speakers. Making me spend three times as long on the phone with someone who has memorized a few lines but neither speaks nor understands English isn’t going to steer me in your direction a second time.

2. Don’t ask me to rate your staff. If your parents taught you to say, “Please,” “Thank you,” and “I’m sorry,” you would know the difference between courteous, rude and indifferent service. If not, go back to finishing school.

3. Regarding #2 above, if your service stunk, you’ll hear about it. Thanks to the Internet and various sites such as Yelp, if you shaft your customers, you - and your competitors - will hear all about it. Just another reason to make sure you are aware of what goes on in your company. In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you. The important phrase here is, “Don’t call us.”

4. If you think we’ve never heard of Angie’s List, dream on. Angie’s List is one of the few legitimate survey and rating institutions around, along with the magazine Consumer Reports. You should regard them with fear, respect and awe.

5. Can you imagine if a 12-year-old boy took one of your surveys and gave deliberately untrue answers just to mess with you? Keep hounding us, and that’ll happen.

6. Are you properly training your employees and giving them 3-month trial periods before handing them the key to the Executive Washroom? If so, you don’t need to constantly ask us, “How are we doing?”

7. Are you offering us a chance to win an obscene amount of money if we go on line and fill out a survey about your company? Let's hear from one person who has actually won the $30,000. How stupid do you think we are? We're on to you, and know you just want our e-mail addresses so you can spam us. Give it up.

The words survey and surveillance have the same root. Some of us don’t want to be watched 24/7, and we don’t care to reveal our thoughts about every facet of our existence either. Here’s a hint: confine your surveys to the most obnoxious celebrities and the poor saps who go on those reality TV shows. After a while, they’ll be punching you in the virtual jaw, too.

If Mozart had lived, he'd be old by now

2010-01-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

Mozart’s 254th birthday is in two days and our local classical radio station is treating us to a surfeit of recordings of La ci darem la mano from one of his greatest operas, Don Giovanni. If they play this duet any oftener it’s going to start sounding like a commercial, so take a hint and drop the needle on some of the other great music from this opera. One would think that a classical station would have someone familiar enough with this opera on their staff to tell the programming czar, “Hey! When was the last time we heard from Don Ottavio?” or “Donna Elvira’s going to come after us with a meat cleaver because we never play any of her arias."

I used to like this duet, but it’s fast becoming a Moldy Mozart Oldie.

Why I Hesitate to Donate….

2010-01-23T09:13:00.000-08:00

The obvious reason is I’m a skinflint. However, there have been many excellent causes that I’ve wanted to donate at least something ($10? $20? $50?) to and decided not to. The reason: I end up on the organization’s mailing list and can’t get off.

Has this happened to you? A friend dies, the family requests that you donate to a certain non-profit, you do so in your friend’s honor, and you immediately start getting mail asking for donations. Or you hear about an organization that serves a good cause, make a one-time donation because you can afford it at the time, and they assume that you have a flammable bank account and come after you over and over. I have had this issue with four charities that I can remember offhand: a hospital, two health foundations and an organization that feeds the hungry. All good causes, but one penalty for my generosity was ending up on their ~~pestering~~ mailing lists. Another penalty is having your name sold (misspelled, naturally) to other organizations that would like you to split your assets with them. For some reason, these are usually the ones that send you return address labels with your name butchered to the extent that you could end up on a terrorist watch list if you ever actually made use of the labels.

In all fairness, there is one organization I donate to that has never sold my name to another charity and for that reason I will mention them here by name: it’s the Slovak Heritage and Folklore Society. They have never asked me to buy raffle tickets either, a practice my fiscally conservative upbringing equates with the sin of gambling. So there are some organizations that graciously accept donations without turning into harping shrews, shrieking for more, more, more.

I wish some enterprising do-gooder would create a non-profit that donates to good causes without revealing the donor’s name and address. Call it, say, Give In Freedom from Tyranny, or GIFT for short. Take the money, write the donor a tax receipt on GIFT’s letterhead and send the donation off to the cause in question. GIFT then becomes the brunt of all that subsequent begging but doesn’t care, because they have a massive shredder!

I can’t believe I’m the first person who thought of this.

Parting Shot of 2009

2009-12-29T19:01:00.000-08:00

The final gift of 2009 is...FULL BODY SCANNERS AT AIRPORTS! Here are a few comments on that lovely new development.

For those who would say, "Anything to make us safe," enjoy the New Totalitarianism. Stalin, Hitler, Amin, Ceauşescu, et al would be proud. Go kiss their headstones and don't spare the drool.

Do you really want to see Grandma's and Grandpa's naughty bits? Think about that next time you leer at the x-ray machine, chumps.

How much is this gonna cost us?

If the airlines and TSA want to go one step further, there's always Naked Air. No clothes, no using the restroom, no carry-ons, just you in your birthday suit. Of course, they may need to lower their prices to get people on board. My only questions are, how nude will the pilots and flight attendants be? And will they hand out those hospital gowns or at least fig leaves as passengers deplane? All food for thought, except there will be no food on the prison, I mean plane.

At times like these someone always brings up El Al and their incredible efficiency. Maybe we could learn from them instead of just blindly reacting.

Wouldn't it be ironic if Big Pharma was in bed with the creators of those radiation-producing scanners to generate more patients? Any industry that profits from human misery is bound to come to a bad end, mark my words. Not accusing anyone, I'm just sayin'.

Here's a thought: I wish you all a flight-free 2010! That's why we have trains, cars, phones, teleconferencing and the Internet. Gee, UAL, so sorry about the precipitous drop in your stock price!

I'm outta here, in a virtual way.

A Gift from the Language Curmudgeon

2009-12-19T13:37:00.000-08:00

There is a difference between your and you’re. When someone writes, “Your welcome,” it turns the adjective welcome into a noun. So, my welcome what???

Don’t get me started on its and it’s. It’s means it is. Its is a possessive pronoun. I see an awful lot of it’s where I should be seeing its. Writers, please, before you throw down a superfluous apostrophe, substitute it is for whatever you’re referring to. An example, “The bull lost it’s horns,” would translate as “The bull lost it is horns.” Heinous!

Their does not mean the same thing as there or they're. Their is a possessive plural pronoun, as in “It’s their car, not yours.” There indicates a place. They're means "they are". If I had a nickel for every time I saw the word their instead of there or they're and vice versa, I’d be able to buy myself a ticket to Vegas and lose all the left over nickels there in one of their slot machines, then slam the machines until they're busted.

How about doing some proofing so you don’t leave off the last “o” in “too” when you want to express excess? "To much corn?" No, that means “toward much corn”. Doesn’t make sense to me, either.

The word I gets a lot of misuse. You hear “between you and I” all the time, but you should never hear it. The trick is to split it up, say: Between you and the light post. OK. Between I and the light post. Not OK.

Parting present:
A special dispensation is granted to non-politicians who mix up Slovakia and Slovenia. But if you want to impress people with your knowledge of countries having under 7 million inhabitants, Slovakia is the eastern third of what used to be Czechoslovakia. Slovenia was part of former Yugoslavia. In Slovakia you hear čardášes. In Slovenia, it’s waltzes and polkas. Ready for Slavic 2.0? All Slovaks are Slavs, but not all Slavs are Slovaks. Extra credit: the Baltics are Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. The Balkans are Bulgaria, Romania, Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia, Montenegro, Macedonia and Albania. The Serbs are from Serbia, making them Balkan people. The Sorbs are the smallest ethnic minority in Europe, located in Eastern Germany. Therefore, the Sorbs are Central Europeans. That may have been Too Much Information, but it's my gift to you. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukkah, Kick-*ss Kwanzaa, Super Solstice, G'bye, Peace.

Suspicious Aloysius

2009-11-21T10:09:00.000-08:00

A couple days ago I received a phone call from a gentleman representing an alleged firefighters’ organization allegedly soliciting contributions to assist burned children. He went on and on, and I let him gab. He got to the part in his script about, “We don’t take credit cards over the phone but we’ll send you out a packet of information and you can make a $20 donation.”

It’s fortunate they don’t take credit cards over the phone, because I wasn’t about to give him my credit card number over the phone anyway. I wasn’t that interested in giving him my address to send the [alleged] info packet either, although he probably already had it, it since he had my phone number.

My vibes told me something wasn't quite right about the man's spiel. I informed him that although I was unable to make a monetary contribution at this time, I was willing to donate my time by going to the [alleged] hospital where these [alleged] burned children were and doing a half-hour accordion program for them.

The guy got all confused. “Uh,” he stammered, “my supervisor doesn’t allow me to, uh, take that information, but there’s a number you can call…”

“And that number is…?”

Hastily: “I’ll call you right back with it.”

I’m still waiting.

A typical Sunday night rant, in 3 raving parts

2009-11-15T20:11:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to Bridget A., whose birthday is today.

Part I: I’m Not Cultured, I Just Like Classical Music

When the local classical radio station plays an excerpt from Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni, it’s almost always La ci darem la mano, the duet between the Don and Zerlina. On Tuesday, November 10th, the station played all Mozart all day long. I wasn’t able to listen every minute, but within a couple hours they played that duet twice. Here are some excerpts from Don Giovanni that I prefer to the duet, and the number of times I heard them in the same two-hour time frame:
The Overture: ZERO
Ah, fuggi il traditor, Donna Elvira’s aria: ZERO
Fin ch’han dal vino, Don Giovanni’s aria: ZERO
Il mio tesoro, Don Ottavio’s aria: ZERO
Madamina…, Leporello’s “Catalogue” aria: ZERO
Batti, batti…, Zerlina’s aria: ZERO
The powers that be at a classical radio station ought to know that there's more to Don Giovanni than a 3-minute duet. Drop the needle somewhere else, please!

Part II: Not Everybody Who Takes Public Transportation Is Deaf

Why do the announcements on the CTA and Metra have to be so stentorian? We’re not all deaf, we don’t all have iPod ear-buds in, and we’re sick of being bombarded with high-decibel warnings such as, “Please be considerate when talking on the phone and listening to electronic devices,” when we’re trying to read the paper. Earth to Clueless Noise Operator: Those announcements are louder than a boombox, which happens to be an electronic device.

Part III: Can We Have A Break From:

Any mention of the Middle East and their problems. Either report something good coming out of there or shut up. We’re sick of hearing about people who get their jollies by hurting others.

“10 Top Interviewing Tips”. When is the last time you or any other unemployed person ever got as far as an interview in this economy? Only one tip is valid: Be a friend of someone at a company that’s hiring.

Blaming a peripheral matter for a larger problem, such as banning short-term condo rentals because a smart young man was killed outside of one, outlawing little plastic Ziploc bags because some numbskull put some dope in one, or doing away with beauty pageants because of the JonBenet Ramsey tragedy. Yeah, I know, the last one will never happen; too much money to be made. But it’s an example of what could ensue if the lawmakers don’t make like the Scarecrow and get a brain. Next up to be banned: anal suppositories because some stuffed shirt slipped on one while jaywalking across Michigan Avenue to his office. Get what I mean?

Another Babyish Killer Strikes Again

2009-11-06T15:42:00.000-08:00

What makes male gang members so delicate? Possibly the fact that many grew up without fathers, so there was nobody around to show them how to be men. Whatever the reason, and I’m sure it varies from delicate flower to delicate flower, it doesn’t make things any easier for those who are forced to deal with the consequences of their hurt feelings. I have ranted on this subject before, but with yet another senseless murder of a young, male, up-and-coming college student with an impressive reputation, it’s time to scream again. Francisco (Frankie) Valencia, a 21-year old senior at DePaul University, was struck down by the bullet of a gun wielded by a creampuff gang member who couldn’t deal with the fact that he had been asked to leave a party he crashed.

This creampuff (who I am not naming because he doesn’t deserve the publicity) apparently never learned to handle his emotions. The reason he shot Valencia, as reported in the newspapers, is that he was upset because he and two friends had been kicked out of a party that they hadn’t been invited to in the first place. You can call it a “revenge” killing, but that isn’t what it is, really. It’s a crybaby killing. Gang members are notorious for these crybaby murders – “So-and-so disrespected me, so I offed him,” – and maybe it’s time that we sent them back to finishing school for thumb-suckers. In the mean time, here are a few pointers for these rod-toting sissies:

1. Everyone has had the experience of not being invited to a party. The reasons vary from oversight to deliberate omission. Whatever the reason, most of us get on with our lives afterward. Next time you’re out shopping, buy yourself a thicker skin.

2. Jesus said, “Turn the other cheek” for a good reason. It takes all the fun out of being an a**hole. Try it some time, just for laughs.

3. Women outnumber men on this planet. If someone steals your girlfriend, don’t shoot him. Go get another girlfriend. Really, it isn’t that hard. And if your woman was ‘stolen’ she wasn’t that into you in the first place.

4. Grow the hell up. Real men don’t need to settle scores by killing each other. That’s baby stuff. There are plenty of ways to get even with someone that don’t involve a lot of bloodshed, destroyed families and funerals.

5. The gang is a tribal construct, but our world is global now, not tribal. It’s time to look beyond the tribe and see that it’s a big world out there. Whether you kill someone outside the tribe (acceptable in babyish societies) or within the tribe (taboo everywhere), you’re still a killer. That isn’t going to get you invited to a lot of parties (see #1).

6. Anyone who is born into a fatherless, poverty-stricken family comes into life with a lot of courage. This means you. Harness the energy and courage you were born with. There are many ways to do this. Teach someone English or a foreign language. Pick up garbage in your neighborhood. Volunteer at a refugee center. Experiment with cooking. Read a book. Practice writing diatribes without using any swear words, and send them to the papers. Play sports. If nobody wants you on their team, there's always track or gymnastics.

7. If you can’t shake off the urge to kill, join the military. At best, you’ll get some free schooling and food and it will make you more disciplined and responsible. At worst, it will make you a better killer. Society is ticked off enough with you to take that chance.

You don’t have to remain a delicate pansy all your life. It’s up to you. Ultimately, the most valuable respect is self-respect.

SEX!!! Made you look.

2009-10-06T11:17:00.000-07:00

How about a little ranting about the David Letterman Affair(s)?

The dude had some sex. Guys like sex. Women like sex. We all like sex. We also know that guys are inherently polygamous and women are inherently monogamous. So, to generalize, guys like sex with a variety of women, while women prefer to stick with one guy. Many guys grit their teeth and adhere to our society’s unrealistic expectations that they remain with one partner and others will do as they please, sexwise. This is why, even though women have been kept in positions of submission for much of history beginning with the Age of Aries (a couple thousand or so years before Christ), we are less pressured, sexwise. We aren’t as a rule driven, either by society or by our own hormones, to try to have sex with as many partners as possible.

However, guys are. Society not only excuses men’s “conquests”, it encourages them. Different occupations are held to different standards. Catholic priests are supposed to be indifferent to sex. Sports stars are expected to join the screw-a-thon early on. We expect conservatives to publicly scorn sex while sneaking thrills in the pissoir or a seedy hotel room; liberals are subjected to the usual eye-rolls when they let it all hang out. Famous people are analyzed and reported on in detail when they are caught or suspected of having any kind of sex – even marital – but if your mailman is shagging a sheep on his day off, who cares.

So, bearing all this in mind, do I judge David Letterman for having sex post-marriage with staff members? Can’t do it. For 99% of men, saying no thanks to an opportunity to have sex is like walking past a $50 bill lying on the sidewalk. We all know this, but for politeness’ sake we pretend we don’t, or that men can "change". Yes, there are exceptional partnered men who will turn down these opportunities because their brains kick in before the hormones make it through the bloodstream, but that's why we call them exceptional. It's not the favored scenario, but it might avoid a lot of stress and unnecessary drama if society accepted the fact that dudes are more alike than they are different. The mailman and Letterman both enjoy a roll in the hay.

A One-Note Day

2009-09-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that there is a single theme running through your day? I had a day like that recently and the theme was my first instrument, the piano.

Early in the morning, a pianist approached me as I was busking at the Evanston Farmers’ Market. He asked if I had ever heard any Janáček piano music played on the accordion. I could imagine his Lachian Dances on the accordion, but no, I had never heard them played that way. Then we got into a conversation about Lachian vs. Valachian vs. Bohemian music and I guess he was sufficiently convinced that I was knowledgeable about the subject because he bought one of my Czech/Slovak CDs, even after I warned him that the music on it was nothing like Janáček’s.

After I was done playing at the market, I drove to Chicago's north side Lakewood-Balmoral neighborhood to cruise their yard sales. There is a program on our local classical station called Introductions, which I rarely listen to. I don't like it. But on this particular day I turned it on and left it on. I was rewarded with a workmanship-like student's rendition of Chopin's Ballade in A-flat, op. 47. For a Chopin junkie, this was like finding a wallet stuffed with bills sans ID on the sidewalk. Chopin wrote four Ballades: G-minor, op. 23; F-major, op. 38; the A-flat, op. 47 and F-minor, op. 52. Of the four, the A-flat is least often played, but it is my favorite (although one could argue that the F-minor is a more masterful composition).

Later on at a yard sale, I spied a 1959 program book from one of Artur Rubinstein’s concerts. He was my childhood hero, a Polish pianist who played Chopin with grace, sensitivity and technical prowess, but without mawkish sentimentality. It was only $1 so I grabbed it.

I mentioned that I was a Chopin junkie, which was true when I was a kid. In high school I discovered Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Poulenc, Mozart, Debussy, and in college, the greatest of them all, Johann Sebastian Bach. But for about five years, it was all Chopin, all the time. So I was thrilled to find a recent DVD about Chopin, called Pragnienie miłości (Desire for Love) at another yard sale. I considered it overpriced at $3, but I bought it anyway. For those not familiar with classical music, Chopin composed almost exclusively for the piano.

When I got home, I watched the movie. It was maudlin, and, if I were to give it a musical designation, it would be Andantino sappioso con molto saccharino. I detest cheap sentiment and the movie had it, in spades. But there was one scene that made me sit up, pump my fist and yell, “Yessssss!” During this scene, Chopin hears his valet Jan playing an *oberek on his fiddle. He immediately asks Jan to play it over, and he notates it as Jan plays. I’ve done that! I’ve been there! The most frustrating thing is hearing a great tune but not having either staff paper or a recording device handy. I can remember hurriedly scribbling five lines on a piece of scrap paper so I could take dictation on a song someone was singing. During the scene Chopin expands the little oberek on the piano and it morphs into his Mazurka in D major, op. 33 no. 1.

My accordion replaced the piano long ago but this day with its piano theme reminded me that if I hadn’t started playing the piano when I was five, I probably wouldn’t have developed the skills to learn to play the accordion in six months. Have any of you ever had a day like that?

*An oberek is a lively Polish dance in 3/8 time.

A Tollway Adventure

2009-09-06T16:59:00.000-07:00

I admit it: I can be a very annoying person. For the reader’s edification, I will now dissect one particularly irksome aspect of my personality and trace an infuriating habit back to its source.

I refuse to buy an I-pass. For those of you who live outside Illinois, an I-pass is a transponder which allows you to drive on the tollway without stopping. In order to buy an I-pass, you have to submit your credit card number so funds can be charged to it, and you also have to give them your driver’s license number. The Cynic-At-Large smelled a burgeoning surveillance tactic, so I said no thanks. They didn't have I-passes when the following incident occured, and if it had not happened I may not have awakened my Inner Cynic in the first place and bought the darn I-pass.

Several years ago, as I was stopped at an automatic toll booth I threw in the required amount of money but the gate wouldn’t rise, even when I treated the receptacle to a few extra, undeserved coins. I had to back up, go to a manned booth two lanes over and explain to the agent that I put my money in but it wasn’t registering and the gate stayed down. The amount at the time was $.50. The agent all but accused me of lying, saying, “How do I know you put the money in? You can't prove it.”

Riiiiiiiight.

Like I was going to go to all that trouble for 50 cents. On the other hand, I was stuck and I needed to get where I was going before Alzheimer’s set in.

So I gave the jerk five dimes and demanded a receipt.

Now when I drive on the tollway, I always go to a manned booth, pay my tolls in nickels and dimes, and ask for a receipt, just in case The Man isn't absolutely positive I paid.

Just wanted to explain why you're stuck behind my car on the tollway. Now you know.

Pay it Forward!

2009-08-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

Pay it Forward. It’s the title of a forgettable movie starring an irritating kid whom the studio tried to make precious and cute, and failed. However, the fact that I couldn’t sit through the entire film in no way negates the message. The idea of “pay it forward” is valid and I was its recipient, then donor. Here’s the story.

A couple weeks ago I stopped in at one of my favorite second-hand stores, Someone’s Treasure at 5604 W. Belmont Ave. in Chicago. If you want to call them to ask if they have that chartreuse sweater or black bowler hat you’ve been searching for, their phone number is 773-481-5911. They’re a fairly new business, opened in the last couple years or so. The place is neatly arranged, items are tastefully displayed and everything is immaculate. The place is filled with good vibes. The owners are the kind of people you would hope will succeed: intelligent, amiable and helpful.

I found a beautiful green vase decorated with gold trim and pink ceramic flowers. It matches some glassware that I bought years ago in Slovakia. Someone's Treasure was having a 30% off sale, and that vase, easily worth $50, was marked at $3.85 (plus Chicago's hideous 10.25% sales tax). I grabbed it. As I paid, I was digging through my change looking for a quarter. The woman behind me slapped a quarter on the counter. “Here.” The Cynic At Large joked with a smile, “You must really want me out of here!” “No,” replied the kind lady, “pay it forward.”

Wow!

The opportunity arose a week later. A loyal patron of the restaurant I play at, Klas in Cicero, had planned to have his birthday celebration there on the following Sunday. He asked if I would be playing that day and I said no, I wasn’t scheduled. He was obviously disappointed, but after he left I began thinking about “paying it forward.” I checked my calendar for the date and time of his party; I had nothing else to do that evening except watch The Simpsons.

Uh-oh.

However, when I weighed the pros for the party: nice guy, good customer, always thanks me for playing his favorite tunes; against the con: missing two Simpsons episodes I had already seen, Klas won the battle. Without mentioning it to anyone but the manager, I scheduled myself to play for the party. Even though it was not to be a paid performance (like all professional musicians I charge a fee to play for parties), in the long run it wouldn’t make me or break me to "pay it forward" this one time.

I showed up about 10 minutes before the party and surprised the gentleman with “Happy Birthday” as he and his family walked in. I played all his favorite songs and got plenty of applause. But the cherry on top of the soda was that somebody tipped me a C-note!

Swisssshhhhh!

So, did "pay it forward" ultimately result in a big tip? Not exactly. The idea behind "pay it forward" is that someone knows you did something nice, so they do something nice and it becomes a domino effect of good deeds. Sort of like a chain e-mail, but without the accompanying emotions of fear and greed. If I hadn’t been inspired by the nice lady who parted with that quarter out of her own kindness, I may not have thought of volunteering to play for the party. However, the diners at the party didn't know that I was volunteering; for all they knew I was being paid by the restaurant. So the tip itself was really more an example of "what comes around, goes around" (see my earlier post about the Silver Certificate: http://psychicaccordionist.blogspot.com/2009/04/what-goes-aound.html). For a good deed to continue the "pay it forward" chain, someone would have to be aware that it was a gift.

Whatever. I'm still glad I stopped in at Someone's Treasure. At the least, I got a valuable piece of glassware, a good story to tell, and I took advantage of the opportunity to "pay it forward" - albeit semi-anonymously - myself.

Road Rage on the Lovely North Side

2009-08-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

One forum where annoyed drivers, pedestrians and bikers can kvetch with impunity is Platewire (http://www.platewire.com/). I registered with them a couple years ago so I could vent about the behemoth in the SUV who road-raged me on Berteau Street when I dared bike the right way down a one-way street rather than taking a wider (but wrong-way) side street, or sissying along the sidewalk. That’s all ancient history and that huge blob with the purple face and the big pulsating vein in his neck is probably all dead and buried by now. There was another incident this morning so I crashed their site again and hastily put it on. They warned us posters that we had only 20 minutes to come up with our masterpieces, otherwise we’d have to log in again.

Not wanting to have to remember my password (“Is it ‘swordfish’?”) a second time, I decided to cover my bases by posting an additional and twice as sizzling rant right here.

It was 7:44 a.m. and I had just crossed Keeler Avenue northbound at Irving Park Road. It’s not a nice intersection. This is where the Kennedy Expressway feeder ramp is, and if you don’t mind your P’s and Q’s you could end up an ex-human. Getting across Irving and past the diagonal lane that feeds into Keeler just north of Irving is cause to make sure you’re wearing a helmet and your will is up to date.

So here I am, carefully making my way down a short but nasty stretch of Keeler, and there, right in the diagonal, blocking my access to safely cross the street was Mister X61 9421. Normally I would not post the license plate of an offender, but he was committing – in my opinion – the Number One Sin of the road. He. Was. On. A. Hand. Held. Cell. Phone. While driving. At a dangerous intersection. He was so engrossed in his call he didn’t notice that there were about three feet of space behind him into which he could have safely backed up, thus allowing me more than the sliver of bumpy road, broken glass and pigeon droppings in which to maneuver my bike between him and the passing cars on Keeler.

I got off my bike and slowly walked it right in front of him. I don’t think he noticed me giving him a pointed look, then giving his license plate a pointed look. Then back to him, then again peering at his license plate and writing in a notebook with a very serious expression on my face.

So, Mister X61 9421, what was so gosh-darned important? What were you blabbing about on that phone of yours before 8 a.m.? Lindsay Lohan’s latest romance? Joan vs. Bette? Boxers or briefs? Were you using that phone as an emotional outlet when you should have been paying attention to the road? I’ll tell you what, Mister X61 9421, Joan vs. Bette or that can’t-wait business deal just doesn’t seem so important when some kid’s body is flying up against your windshield.

Meters in a Strip Mall? Tres Chic!

2009-07-21T06:37:00.000-07:00

I recently observed that parking meters have been installed in a strip mall in Chicago. The location: the south side of Lawrence Avenue at Oakley. This mall is home to a video store, a pizza joint, a Bosnian restaurant, a convenience store and a nail salon along with a couple other small establishments. A dollar store used to anchor the place, but it’s gone now. There’s a huge “For Rent” sign that has “DESPERATE” written all over it.

Gee, ya think drivers are going to patronize those businesses if they have to fork over a quarter for every 15 minutes? What about those talons that aren’t quite dry when the meter runs out? Are your claws worth a $50 ticket? That’s $10 a nail, not counting fees and tips. I don’t know, I’d rather paint my nails myself or get them done someplace I can walk or bike to.

The point of strip malls is that sure, they’re ugly, but they’re convenient. You eat lunch at the Bosnian restaurant, then stop in next door for a manicure. Then you notice the video store, and you just gotta have the latest version of Jackass, so you go and spend a few bucks there. All of this commerce supposedly takes place while you’re not obsessing about how many seconds are left on your parking meter.

BTW, here's an excellent blog you should visit to get valuable info on this subject: http://theexpiredmeter.com/

If you live within walking distance, a strip mall is just another blight on your ’hood. At least it’s not as offensive as gang tags on light poles and overflowing garbage cans. But if you come from some distance away and have to drive, you take a look at those meters and move on. Nothing to see here, folks.

Don't...Park...HERE!

2009-06-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

Recently the rates on Chicago’s parking meters were jacked up and new meters were installed where previously there had been none. Most citizens are not pleased with this exciting new development and some of the more cynical residents of this great city suspect that there must be secret plans to funnel the anticipated increased revenue into an Olympics-related slush fund.

Over the last 20 years, finding free, legal parking in Chicago has gradually become akin to locating a website without pop-up ads. Since permit parking zones were first instituted decades ago, they have become a cancer, metastasizing throughout Chicago's neighborhoods. This writer has no issue with such zones, as long as 1) there is a preponderance of senior citizens and/or handicapped individuals who need to park close to their homes and 2) more than three quarters of the housing stock is apartment buildings without garages. However, you can now find permit parking on streets occupied by mainly single-family homes with garages. Don’t whine that restricted parking is needed because there’s shopping nearby, or a train station, or a Dairy Queen. These permit parking zones are not necessary. The aldermen simper, “But more than 50% of our residents want them.” Aldermen – and women – get a clue. If more than 50% of your children asked to be served ice cream for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert, would you cede to their wishes? Sometimes you have to be smarter than your constituents and this is one of those times. Using garages for the purpose for which they were originally designed will solve the problem of residents not being able to find parking. Not meaning to insinuate that many garages are so full of crap that getting a car in there is harder than pulling a camel through the eye of a needle, of course.

That is my rant about permit parking, and it may be recycled later in this blog. For now, I would like to offer a nightmarish scenario as to where Chicago seems to be headed, getting-around-wise.

Now that LAZ Parking has done such a brilliant job of taking over our parking meters, let’s figure out some other ways to inconvenience and stealth-tax our drivers. How about installing 24-hour meters on the residential side streets, in the alleys and on the shoulders of the expressways. Those neighborhoods that are too blighted to merit meters (and where the installers would likely get mugged trying) can be permit parking only. Make sure that there is a hefty fee for the yearly – make that monthly – permit that the residents can’t afford.

Now that all streets are either metered or permit, let’s tackle the private garages. To enter his or her garage, an owner will be required to deposit a $10 bill, which will then be whisked into a secret Olympics 2016 fund. To exit the garage, come up with another $10. Stopping with drivers is for sissies. To make sure as many people are inconvenienced as possible, slash service on the CTA. Cut bus routes and hours of operation, and don’t forget to raise fares. To obtain one of those convenient “Chicago Cards”, require citizens to submit their Social Security Numbers and all bank/brokerage/credit card account info. Then eliminate payment by cash or regular fare card.

Let’s start licensing bike riders. The fees from all those licenses will help fund a new Olympic event, the “pothole slalom” and before you can say “Lance Armstrong” it’ll cost you to get around by bike. Finally, don’t spare the pedestrians. Set up a toll booth at every intersection. To cross any street, charge a toll of $5 per leg. To show that this is really a compassionate city, give any amputees a 5% discount, but make it exact change only, otherwise no deal.

If considering the above makes you crave copious quantities of alcohol, look on the bright side. Thousands of jobs in surveillance, security and law enforcement will be created. And won't it impress the Olympic Committee to be able to claim that our unemployment rate has gone from 10% to less than 3%?

Beccah, Ditch That H!

2009-06-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

I thoroughly enjoyed reading the story in today’s Chicago Tribune about the young lady from Mokena, Illinois, Beccah Beushausen, who blogged her way to fame on a mostly made-up story about being pregnant with a terminally ill child who died soon after birth. I never had the pleasure of reading her blog and today was the first I heard of it. It was followed by thousands of pro-lifers eager for affirmation of their beliefs, and it drives home an important point: don’t believe everything you read, even if it agrees with you! That goes for us pro-choicers too.

Trust, but verify.

Having said that, I have to hand it to her. She is apparently a terrific writer who knows how to push emotional buttons. That is one thing I have never been able to do. I can tell a story, but I can’t sap it up and any excess emotion gets tempered with a little comedy thrown in. I also have a very hard time making up stuff. You could say that I have a dearth of imagination when it comes to generating sentiment. Go back and read the story “A Tale of Two Babies” earlier in this blog. Every fact in that story was corroborated, verified and approved by the mothers of the babies before I hit that “publish” button.

Beccah (and if I were her, I’d get rid of that superfluous h at the end of her name, since in Jewish tradition H is the childbearing letter and she misused it, whether she’s Jewish or not) has some choices. She can channel all that writing talent into cranking out a couple novels. That’s a positive use of her gift. Or she can appear on Oprah and The View and apologize over and over, telling, re-telling and crystalizing her sad story. Not so positive. Of course, the visual appearances would be more lucrative and less hard work. And money, especially easy money, is one thing we can all use.

Or she can fade into oblivion, having experienced her proverbial 15 minutes of shame.

Take My Money...Please!

2009-06-07T07:33:00.000-07:00

I’m starting to look forward to the next telemarketer who asks me for money or the next business that tries to push unwanted services in my direction. Since I got rid of Caller ID, I’ve been picking up the phone more often. If it rings between 6 and 9 p.m. there’s a good chance it’s a charity, arts organization or semi-legitimate business hoping to make a hole in my pocket.

Charities and arts organizations aren’t too bad and I would consider sending them a few bucks if I had their assurance that my name and phone number wouldn’t end up on the mailing and calling lists of every other worthy cause in the nation. And in fact, I donate regularly to Purple Hearts and am pretty much a soft touch for anything veteran-related, especially when it involves contributing goods instead of money.

However…

I am a Suspicious Aloysius when it comes to people trying to sell me services I don’t need or trying to guilt me into parting with my money. Some of the most aggressive telemarketers are those folks who call on behalf of police functions. When I politely informed the caller that I donated through my employment and my church and had made all my donations for the year, he questioned me. “You don’t support law enforcement?” I roared back with the equivalent of “I’ll enforce YOU!” and asked for his name and his supervisor’s name. He backed off, a wounded and chastened cur slinking off into telespace, phone between his legs.

Another opportunity arose the other day when I contacted a tech provider to get some over-the-phone help. The assistant I got was more interested in selling me services I didn’t want or need than actually helping me to solve the problem. I politely refused one such service, repeating at least three times that I didn’t have the budget for it. But if I had the presence of mind, the conversation would have gone more like this:

Tech Dude: This service is very inexpensive, it’s less than $11 a month!

Me: Sorry, but it’s not in my budget.

Tech Dude: For only $10.95 a month you can have this service!

Me: You wanna repeat my last sentence?

Tech Dude: But it’s only $10.95 a month! That’s less than a tank of gas!

Me: Since you think it’s so necessary that I have this service and you feel it’s so inexpensive, am I to infer that you are willing to personally pay for it so that I can have it?

Tech Dude: [silence]

And that is what the next phone-beggar will get from me. If it’s that important to you that I buy your service or make a donation for which I have no budget, I will turn the tables and ask you for the money.

Bring it on.

Diving Into a Pool of Estrogen

2009-05-30T07:15:00.000-07:00

Pssst, nice lonely straight guys! Want to know where to meet some wimmin? That’s right, I wrote wimmin. I can tell you where to find them, but you’ll have to go with an open mind. Before you bail out, I should tell you that these wimmin are for the most part intelligent, good-looking, ethical and financially secure!

Sonia Choquette, a world-famous author, teacher and intuitive, also known as a psychic, is one of today’s most dynamic leaders, guiding humanity to operate from a perspective of inclusion rather than exclusion, love rather than fear, and knowledge rather than ignorance. I have read and re-read all 14 of her books and I have taken classes with her over the past 10 years. Her techniques and workshops are in demand all over the planet because they work. I can testify. Thanks to my studies with Sonia I have been able to forgive people I had previously held grudges against, attract miracles such as a trip to Romania, buy a condo, and then sell it at a profit to buy a house. See her website here, http://www.trustyourvibes.com/.

Whenever I attend one of her events I accurately forecast one thing about it without any psychic skills: the ratio of females to males will be about 15 to 1. The ratio of females to straight males is more like 25 to 1. These events are always sold out. They packed us in like sardines at the one I was at last night, 115 people in a room designed to comfortably hold about 50. And, as I predicted, there were about seven guys in the room. I think one of them was a movie star. The claustrophobic atmosphere faded as soon as Sonia started speaking. She discussed scientific phenomena as she gave us instructions on how to honor our spirits and support the six-sensory life. She spoke of courage, mental clarity, wisdom and the importance of allowing one’s self to play the fool. At the end we were all milling around talking excitedly to one another, whether we had been introduced or not. It would have been the perfect opportunity to meet a potential sweetheart, because there were no pokers up anybody’s butts!

Nice guys, I know there are many on-line sites where you can search for a girlfriend while wearing holey sweats, comfortably scratching under your arms, picking your nose, drinking a beer and belching noisily. However, for adventurous dudes, I suggest the physical approach. Grit your teeth, open your mind, put on your bright red underwear and drag your carcass to one of Sonia’s events. Trust me, the competition will be sparse. If you hose yourself off, put on some clean clothes, maybe a little after-shave, and keep your eyes and heart open you have a good chance of being the Alpha Male in the room!

Job Creation in the Age of Unemployment

2009-05-22T07:22:00.000-07:00

With all the news about recession, unemployment and dearth of job creation these days I thought I would weigh in with a job that needs to be created, pronto. The requirements: must be familiar with the English language, have a sense of subject, verb and direct object, and able to state an idea in less than 20 words. The job: rewriting those “customer agreements” that are sent with your credit card statement and utility bills.

Who reads those “agreements”? Well, I do. And here is a sentence buried in the fine print in section 8, letter a, on page 4 of one such agreement.

Therefore, except as set forth in Subsection 8b below, your monetary remedy for loss or damage caused by the provision, operation, or use of any Services or for the delay, malfunction, or partial or total failure of any Services, including such loss or damage caused by [XYZ Company’s] negligence, shall not exceed the credit specified in the applicable Tariff or Guidebook, or, if no credits are specified, shall not exceed the amount of the malfunction, or failure (except to the extent additional monetary remedies are provided for in Section 9).

Here is my translation:

So, if you are an idiot and use your phone to bean your mother-in-law over the head, we won’t buy you another one. Also, if one of our technicians totally effs up your wires, you are screwed. Suck it up.

These “service agreements” – and I can think of two things wrong with that description – are total bull manure. With all the laid-off attorneys these days jonesing for things to do with all that dormant talent, the credit card companies and utilities might want to think about cultivating an attitude of nervousness. For starters, these verbose, badly written directives discriminate against our large immigrant population, much of which is not familiar with the ins and outs of American legalese. Last time I checked, discrimination was more than bad manners; it was against the law. Let’s get a few attorneys named Hernandez, Szczęśniewski, Dizdarević and Abdelkadiri to start needling The Man.

Getting The Buddha Drunk

2009-05-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

Those of you who are familiar with this blog know that my younger brother is The Buddha. He was my “little” brother until he surpassed me in height. There were very few girls in our family. I had two younger brothers and scads of younger boy cousins. I never let anyone kiss me or pinch my cheeks, but I was always conniving to kiss The Buddha and all the cute baby cousins as soon as they got born. They tolerated it for a while, then rebelled. But I was bigger and stronger and, as The Buddha once complained to a friend, “She kissed my cheeks until they were prune.” The older he got, the harder it was to get my claws on those succulent cheeks. He was at the height of his adorability when he was five and I was 10 and that’s when I brought out the big guns.

My parents didn’t drink alcohol very often, but every Christmas Eve we had a huge party for relatives and close friends. Wine was served. I never tasted it but knew that if you drank liquor it made you something called “drunk” and it messed with your judgment, rendering you pliable. I formulated my evil plan during Christmas Eve, 1967 and when my parents were occupied with conversation, I walked The Buddha around our 6-room apartment giving him leftover wine to drink from all the glasses I could find. It didn’t amount to much, but when we had reached the kitchen at the back of the apartment, I informed him, “Now you’re drunk and you have to let me kiss you 50 times.” To my delight, he said flatly, “OK.” So I got in my 50 kisses.

Many years later I told him I was sorry for all the torture and those 50 kisses on Christmas Eve, 1967. “I wasn’t really drunk,” he admitted, “I just wanted to get it over with.”

Telepathy: Not just for skilled psychics!

2009-04-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

It works for you, it works for me, it works for the janitor, the realtor, the homemaker and the financial planner down the street. It’s how you get in touch with someone you miss, or meet someone you have been hoping you won’t run into. Whether you want to connect with somebody or avoid him, it works. The key to it is focus.

I was set to go on concert tour to Poland with a group of singers but I was not all that enthusiastic about it for various reasons. It was about two days before departure and I was in a nasty mood, skulking through downtown Chicago on a last-minute shopping trip to buy some much-needed cosmetics. I thought it would be just my luck to run into Mark, a guy I didn’t really want to see, because he was so grown up and I was feeling very childish. My umbrella was misbehaving so I slammed it on the ground in a rage. I looked up and there stood Mark right in front of me.

“Hi, wassup?”

“Oh, nothing special. I have to go on concert tour to Poland in a couple days.”

“That’s great!”

“No it isn’t, I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t go.”

Right. Stiff my fellow singers, waste the ticket money, acquire a reputation for being unreliable, become persona non grata, in that order. But thanks, Mark, for the advice.

As I got older I learned to focus on what I did want, rather than what I didn’t want.

I missed my friend Regina. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in over 10 years and her birthday was coming up. More than anything I just wanted to be able to wish her a happy birthday and tell her how much I missed her, but didn’t know how or where to find her. I looked her up on the Internet, no luck. Every search I did led to the same result: zip, zero, nada. I turned it over to my Spirit. As always, my Spirit came through. “Think of the song.” That was it.

Three decades earlier, Regina and I were in a Polish folk group. There was one song we did together that was a hit every time we sang it. “Regle, moje regle….” It was from the mountains of Podhale in the extreme south of Poland, and you could hear the echo when we sang together. She sang top and I sang bottom, and we blended like the Robert Shaw Chorale.

So I listened to my Spirit. “Regle, moje regle…” I imagined Regina and me singing. And in between phrases I sneaked in a “Happy Birthday, call me!”

A couple days later I got an e-mail from…you guessed it, Regina. She had looked me up on the Internet, and, since I was a semi-famous personality, she had been able to track me down.

And the subject line was “Regle, moje regle…” Just in time for her birthday. Happy Birthday, dearest Regina!

A Tale of Two Babies

2009-04-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

These are true stories. They happened many years ago in my own family.

The Buddha

My mother had gotten pregnant for the third time. She wasn’t planning on it and had even been considering taking The Pill, which was very new and experimental at the time. She already had two children under five, and believe me, we were a handful. Money was tight. She was considering separating from our dad. Another baby was the last thing she needed, and, abortion being out of the question, she was stuck. She went into the bathroom where my brother and I couldn’t hear her, locked the door, held a thick towel over her mouth and screamed her head off.

In between screams she heard a knock on the door. She went to answer it and there stood a detective, holding a photo of a man. He asked my mom if she knew the man or had ever seen him. She didn’t and hadn’t, and the detective noticed that she seemed distraught. “Is everything all right?” he asked. My mom spilled the entire story, about how she was afraid she was pregnant, how was she going to support three kids when we barely had enough money to feed and clothe two, how she and my dad were contemplating divorce. Somehow the detective calmed her down and convinced her to wash her face, dress the kids and take them for a walk. It’s my belief that the spirit of her unborn child guided a kindly officer to our house to assure her that everything would work out in the end.

Months later, the baby was born. Mom called us from the hospital to say we had a new brother. “You could name him Juan,” I ventured helpfully. (We lived in a Puerto Rican neighborhood.) One day, while Mom was waiting for the diaper service the doorbell rang. She answered it, expecting to see the diaper truck, but there stood the detective from months ago. “You weren’t really pregnant, were you?” That kind man had tracked my mom down just to make sure she was OK.

My brother John and I loved the new baby, especially at first. My parents patched up their marriage and things got normal. “I want to sit next to the baby,” I would announce at dinner. “No, I want to sit next to the baby,” argued John. “It’s my turn, you sat next to the baby yesterday.” The baby was like a toy, only more fun. It squirmed. It had a tongue and cheeks and fingers and hair. I called it The Buddha. After a while “it” became “him”, a whiny, bratty but curious, interesting and cute little kid. “Here’s a nickel,” I would say to John, “now hold him down so I can kiss him.” How I ever made it through eighth grade without The Buddha murdering me is one of the mysteries of the Universe.

What the Heck...

A relative’s birth control failed and she got pregnant right as Roe v. Wade was enacted. She and her husband already had had four children between themselves and weren’t exactly jonesing for more. My relative, let’s call her Mary Beth, and her husband, let’s call him Franko, decided that they would drive to the abortion clinic in a neighboring state, since abortion was not yet legal in the state in which they lived. More than halfway there, they heard on the radio that “the police had raided the clinic the night before and all operations had been shut down,” a casualty of the squeamishness of 1970’s America.

Mary Beth and Franko pulled into a gas station to discuss the matter between themselves and a hitchhiker they’d picked up. He proved to be an objective listener, as Mary Beth wanted to keep the baby and Franko didn’t. With the hitchhiker there, they were able to keep the argument civil. “The heck with it,” Franko capitulated. “Let’s just have the baby.”

They had a sweet, cute, intelligent little boy and both parents adored him. I was his main babysitter. I was “young and irresponsible” and I taught him his first swear word. I took him to Chinatown and to the beach and to art fairs. We went trick or treating together with a gang of neighborhood children. It sounds pathetic, but for a few years that little boy was my best friend.

The writer of this blog happens to be pro-choice, so you won’t read, “I’m so glad that abortion clinic was shuttered,” or “If abortion had been legal I might never have had my little brother!” Pro-choice means the woman makes her own decision to have the baby or not, and it’s a choice she makes, not the government, not her family, not her boyfriend or husband. That the decisions to have the babies described above were imposed from without in no way alters my stance, because I believe our spirits guide us to make choices or accept circumstances that our egos are not always aware of.

Humor me for just a paragraph and entertain the concept that we are not just flesh, but spirit. When a spirit wants to come to earth to experience a certain environment, it will find a way, one that resonates with the mother-to-be, the parents or the situation. Both babies described above are now upstanding, kind, conscientious adults contributing to their families, to society and to the good vibes that are pulsating around the planet. I believe that they are angels sent by the I Am, All-That-Is, God, or whatever you choose to call the One Great Spirit. That the circumstances prior to birth were not particularly supportive is a testament to my strong belief that their souls found a way to overcome the obstacles and join us among the living.

Want it? Attract it.

2009-04-11T12:16:00.000-07:00

For the past couple years or so there has been an increase in piracy, especially off the coast of the Horn of Africa. For the past couple years or so, at least in the USA, there has been an aura of romance around pirates in general, not the least of the manifestations of such romance being the hit movie Pirates of the Caribbean. There is also “National Talk Like a Pirate Day”. What a crock.

Wake up, America! Pirates are nothing more than the terrorists of yesteryear. In 200 years we might be romanticizing Osama bin Laden, Ramzi al Yousef or Mohammed Atta. That is, if we really want to bring that energy back to life. Do we believe pirates are a warm and fuzzy way to face our fears about terrorism because they belong to some bygone era? I don’t think Richard Phillips, the Captain of the Maersk Alabama, who is currently in the captivity of Somali pirates, is drooling over the romance and excitement of piracy. He is a true hero, having offered himself to the pirates to save his crew, but it would have been much better all around if the pirates had not materialized in the first place.

Metaphysical law states that what you concentrate on is what you get. It’s the Law of Attraction described in books such as The Secret by Rhonda Byrne, Ask And You Shall Receive by Esther and Jerry Hicks and The Nature of Personal Reality by Jane Roberts. That law works for world events just as it does in our own personal lives. When a nation concentrates on a specific issue, such as financial collapse, piracy, green energy sources, or revitalizing its cities, that is what is going to show up. The good news is that whenever two or more are gathered to focus on positive energy, it will materialize. (It’s in the Bible, folks!) And this does not preclude individual prayer to attract more positive events. If you’re alone, pray anyway.

Concentrating on eradicating piracy just brings more piracy. The “War on Drugs” creates more drugs. But concentrating on ships getting safely to their destination and distributing food or goods to people in need will result in exactly that. Focusing on people leading healthy lives or legalizing/decriminalizing/taxing drugs takes away the drama of the drug energy, not to mention the incentive for criminals to deal in them. Mother Teresa had the right idea. She stated she would never attend an anti-war rally, but if anyone held a peace rally, she’d be there. I’m with her.

A Good Friday Tale

2009-04-10T13:21:00.000-07:00

Does the name Hans Wurman mean anything to you? If you have ever heard the sound of a synthesizer, it should. He was an arranger and composer who pioneered the Moog Synthesizer by being the first serious artist to record on it in the late 1960’s. He was also one of my very favorite college professors. He had a sardonic sense of humor and we got along wonderfully at the American Conservatory of Music where he taught for a number of years.

One day he wrote an ascending perfect fourth on the blackboard and before he could continue on to the next note I shouted out, “O Sacred Head!” He gave me an exasperated look and said, “Well, why don’t you just teach the class.” But we understood each other, and I knew he was pleased that I had read his mind.

More than 13 years after I graduated from the American Conservatory I was driving home from a job. It was afternoon, and at that particular time of day I tried to avoid the local classical station because I could not abide the announcer’s voice. But my Spirit said, “Listen.” So I tuned the radio to “Chicago’s Classical Experience” and heard what sounded suspiciously like a Moog Synthesizer. I wondered feverishly what Dr. Wurman was doing at the time, how he was, and thought that he must be getting very old by now. After the piece was over, the announcer informed the audience that it was Hans Wurman, who had just passed away, playing the Moog Synthesizer. I thought, well, that answers that question. I sent Dr. Wurman a special blessing from my Spirit.

As I parked the car, I thought about the idea that when you find a penny, it means somebody is thinking about you. I wondered if Dr. Wurman had caught my blessing. I got out of the car, looked down and there was a penny lying on the ground. I picked it up thinking, “Thanks for settling that issue, Dr. Wurman!”

Going to Slovakia

2009-04-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

The worst summer of my life was 1990. I had recently been dumped by a long-term boyfriend. I was bored. The school year had ended and I was missing the kids from my choir. My band had no upcoming gigs. A sexy guy yelled at me. Nothing was going right and, even though I had all my arms and legs and wasn’t languishing in a hospital bed, I was miserable. I would go to sleep each night wishing I could wake up dead. And in the middle of it all was this nagging voice that kept saying, “Go to Czechoslovakia.”

I shushed that voice, but it came back over and over. In the fall I enrolled in a Slovak language course and one of the other students brought a list of people running tours to Czechoslovakia (for all you nitpickers, it was still Czechoslovakia), and specifically to the Slovak part of the country. I filed it in a folder and forgot about it until one day at work when I had finished all my tasks and was sitting there bored. I pulled out the folder and thought, I’m going to close my eyes and stick my finger on the page, and whomever it lands on, I’m going to write them a note asking about their tour to Slovakia. When I saw the name my finger was on, which was Helene Cincebeaux, I thought, no way! The name was French, not remotely Slovak, but then I heard my Spirit say, “Write to her.” So I wrote to Helene, telling her that I was very interested in Slovak folk music and if her tour included any concerts of cimbalom bands or folk festivals I might consider going.

A couple weeks later I got an 8-page letter from her, inviting me to travel with her and her mother for six weeks and then join the two-week tour. She promised to introduce me to the musicians I had been slobbering over for years and that we would attend at least three folk festivals. I was ecstatic!

Helene turned out to be Moravian Slovak, and she and her mother Helen were wonderful to travel with. She was as good as her word, and better. I met all the musicians whose recordings I had been listening to for the past 10 years, we attended four folk festivals, and I sat there with my little Sony tape recorder and my music notebook sucking up the culture like a vacuum cleaner. I made new friends. I came home with dozens of songs and recordings.

An unexpected by-product of the trip was that I learned to speak Slovak fluently. It took about two weeks. I already spoke Polish, and one day at the market square in Piešťany, a city in Western Slovakia, a gentleman approached me speaking Polish. I thought, “What a relief! Now I can speak in a language I really know,” but every word came out Slovak. If you had put a gun to my head, I could not speak Polish!

If this story has a moral, it’s listen to your Spirit. It will always steer you in the right direction, and it knows more than your ego.

What Goes Around...

2009-04-08T14:20:00.000-07:00

I was riding the Austin Ave. bus southbound through a rough neighborhood. I picked up a dollar bill that was lying on the floor of the bus and pocketed it. Then I overheard some kids talking about losing a dollar. I looked at the dollar I had picked up. It was a Silver Certificate. I brought it to the bus driver and told him I found it on the floor. At the next stop he asked if anyone had lost a dollar. The kids claimed it. I heard one say to another excitedly, “That dollar’s worth five dollars!”

I really wanted it, but it wasn’t mine.

A few days later I was at a restaurant with a bunch of friends. We had all paid the tab and I was to get $5 back. I took a $5 bill lying on top of the plate of change. It was a Silver Certificate.

And it was all mine.

Keep Obama Away From Notre Dame!

2009-04-04T07:01:00.000-07:00

There’s been a lot of hoop-de-do in the upper echelons of the Catholic hierarchy regarding President Barack Obama speaking at the University of Notre Dame’s commencement.

They don’t like it.

Let me reconstruct a conversation that may have taken place between Pope Benedict and Cardinal Francis George as they plotted their hissy fit.

Pope: Fran, baby! How ya doin’, Schatzie? Let’s get Die Amerikanischer riled up about zis Obama speech, ja?

Cardinal: Yes indeed, Your Holiness. The main thing we must address is that Obama supports killing babies in order to improve the lives of the…ugh…already born. It is a disgrace that a Catholic university would even consider inviting him to speak at commencement. Now if Notre Dame had invited George W. Bush we wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place, but...

P: Ja, ja, das ist so. But how do ve sell zis idea to the public?

C: Well, first of all, we must impart the notion that only practicing Catholics should be allowed to express opinions at a Catholic university.

P: Ja, das ist gut. Keep ze religion pure, ja!

C: Second, to make sure this idea sticks, we seize on something that everybody likes to do, except us, which is have sex. But we can’t actually use the word sex, because then our agenda would be too obvious. So we grab a hook, and that hook is abortion. Even though Obama has never had one himself, we can use his support of those trollops who do have them to get our fellow puritans excited.

P: I like! Und please to go on.

C: Third, and very crucial, we must bury Obama’s agenda of social justice, compassion and equality. The real Jesus scholars get hold of that one and we’re in the deep toilet swimming with Satan himself. So we keep hammering, sex, sex, sex. Makes me want to vomit personally, no, I’m not thinking about sex, I’m not thinking about it, I’m not (slaps own face), but the public will relate.

P: Schatzie, I think you have some impure thoughts. See you in ze confession booth.

Another Phony Ploy!

2009-03-29T09:14:00.000-07:00

Here’s a new, predictable discovery by the Cynic-At-Large. A certain Chicago Sunday newspaper has traditionally carried the poor-man’s version of TV Guide, i.e. a grid listing the various channels and what will be broadcast at what time. For the past two weeks, the front page of the section has blared:

ATTENTION READERS: Beginning April 4, The Guide will be moving to Saturdays. This move was designed to give you more time to plan your TV viewing, and it allows us to provide more up-to-date listings.

Following that proclamation was a gentle prod to subscribe to the Saturday edition of the paper.

The Cynic-At-Large has a word for this kind of ploy. Bull.

What genius thought up that plan, and, given the usual dismal state of Saturday paper sales, what took so long?

The Cynic-At-Large will hereby piece together the scenario that led to this move.

Dear Reader: We’re conducting a short survey. If you fill out and submit this survey you will be entered into a drawing to win 40,000 lbs of hot, compressed air, donated by our local politicians.

Q: What section do you turn to first when reading the paper?
A: The TV listings.

Q: If you subscribe to or purchase the Sunday paper, what section are you liable to keep all week?
A: The TV listings.

Q: Is there any section of the paper that, if it were discontinued, would constitute a “deal-breaker” and cause you to cancel your subscription?
A: The TV listings.

Q: Are there any days on which you do not traditionally buy the paper?
A: Saturday.

And here you have a passive-aggressive, backdoor recipe for boosting sales of the Saturday paper. Unless the reader, such as myself, does not watch TV regularly and couldn’t care less about what is broadcast at what time.

But nice try, anyway.

What REALLY Happened

2009-03-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

The following story was considered for publication in a book but by the time it went through the necessary channels it had been so watered down and expurgated that there was nothing unique about it. I never got paid for the story as the publisher said I would, so I assume that it went into the “no, thank you” pile. The true story is infinitely cooler than their final version, and it should be told. What really happened was this.

One fine day in June I called the local children’s hospital and asked to do a 40-minute hammer dulcimer program for the kids. I didn’t want money and I wasn’t looking for glory. Several years earlier I had been a music teacher in a Catholic school and, since I left that job, I simply missed seeing children. I figured a hospital wasn’t going to say no to me and this would be the least rejection-prone way to satisfy my craving for some young blood. Naturally, the hospital was very gracious and said of course I could come and do a program, after I attended a training session. Hospitals are very cagey about what they do and don’t reveal about their patients and they also need to make sure all their volunteers are aware of possible etiquette pitfalls, such as calling a little girl “young man” or asking a 12-year old if he’s started kindergarten yet.

Once I was appropriately prepped to avoid any possible faux pas, I slathered on the usual three pounds of makeup, trussed myself up in a Slovak outfit, packed the dulcimer and headed for the hospital. This was at the time Chicago was accepting a large contingent of Bosnian war refugees and I wondered if there were any Bosnian children at the hospital because I wanted to try out a Bosnian song. There was only one. A single boy, in the ICU, who was not being treated for a war injury, but for something else. For the sake of privacy, I’ll call him Mujo. After a bit of hemming, hawing, intercom exchanges, and other back-and-forth, I was permitted to go to the ICU to see him. Leaving the dulcimer downstairs, I rushed up to say hello, and I sang him a song in Bosnian. He had an awestruck smile on his face, the kind of look that says, “An American woman who looks like a movie star is singing just for me in my language!”

Having gotten my “kid fix” I went home and resumed my life, but, inspired by that boy's smile, I was now determined to learn to speak Bosnian by hook or by crook.

Towards the end of that summer I had dipped my toe into an illicit relationship with a Bosnian refugee and then abruptly severed the budding liaison when I discovered he had a wife and daughter. Later that fall, I decided to follow a more wholesome path to learning Bosnian and I registered with a local Christian organization that provides English tutors for newly arrived refugees. After taking their training class and passing a background check they set me up with a family to tutor. They lived two miles from me in a rough, gang-infested neighborhood but I was ready to rock and roll. I asked if the family had any children and they said yes, there were two kids. I immediately went out and bought toys for them but then heard the voice of my Spirit say, “Slow down.” Since I had ignored the last warning it had given me – which was to stay away from that married Bosnian refugee – I owed it to my Spirit to listen and obey this time. I got out my cards and did a reading. Surprise, surprise. The cards indicated that “my” family was moving away and that I should not get attached.

The very next day, my supervisor Linda at the agency called to tell me, “I have some bad news for you. The family you were going to tutor is moving to Iowa. They left this morning. But we’ll get you a new family.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

An hour later she called again. “We have a new family for you!” As it turned out, they were not only walking distance from my house, but in a much safer neighborhood. I asked about children and was told there were two. Great, I could give the toys I had bought to those kids. I was set!

That evening Linda picked me up and took me to meet the family. She had spoken – firmly – to me about not using Bosnian with them, only English. It was as if she knew my ulterior motive and was making sure that my volunteering was all about them and not about me. The parents, Amela and Nijaz spoke almost no English. I gave the children the toys. They were thrilled, then shyly tried to give them back. I walked around the cramped but immaculate apartment teaching Amela the English words for common household items. Table. Spoon. Fork. Light. Wall. The dialogue lurched politely and tentatively. I was dying to jumpstart the conversation with a few words in Bosnian but Linda's stern presence put that fire out. No deal. Finally, Amela pulled out family pictures and we were off and running. As it turned out, Amela had learned a couple words in English that she could remember. “My mother.” “Husband.” “Sister.” And then she pulled out another picture. “Other son.”

It was Mujo, in his hospital bed.

“I know him! I know him!” I screamed. Defying the rules I cried out, “Bila sam u njega! Viđela sam ga! Pjevala sam!” “I was there! I saw him! I sang!” It took a few minutes but we sorted out the story and by the time I left two hours later, we weren’t student and tutor anymore, we were friends.

I worked with the family for several years until they bought a condo and moved to an even nicer neighborhood. I still visited occasionally and eventually Amela called to ask me to tutor her so she could pass the citizenship test. I was a hard-nosed teacher and drilled her like a machine. She passed. The family is doing well, their oldest son is married with a condo of his own and they are all American citizens now.

The Christian organization I tutored for solicited stories from its volunteers to submit for a collection called Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul and I sent in the above. They said it was the best one they had received but, in accordance with their evangelical agenda, this, that and the other had to go. They stripped the part about me listening to my Spirit. They scotched the card reading. All I was left with was a couple whitewashed coincidences and some bland, fuzzy platitudes. The publisher’s editor sweetened the story up further, and by the time you got done reading the final version, you needed a couple shots of insulin.

Despite the tame spin the kindly but prosaic Evangelicals put on my tale, it was my Spirit, gosh darn it, that led me to the hospital that sunny June day, it was my Spirit that communicated with me through the cards and it was my Spirit that guided me on the path to tutor that particular family. Spirit speaks like opportunity. It taps once, and gently. Whether you follow its advice or not is your call.

The Lost Violin

2009-03-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

Being psychic has many advantages, along with the obvious drawbacks, such as knowing which people don’t really like you and foreseeing that you’re going to have a bad experience at a gig but can’t do anything about it because you signed the contract. One advantage of being psychic is it helps you find things. Here is an example so dramatic and stark that it warrants a TV episode.

It was the late spring of 1994 and I was biking with my cousin Kelton in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood. It was hot, at least 88º and I was in an irritable mood. I suggested that we stop in a second hand dump of a thrift store, just to get out of the heat for a few minutes. We dragged ourselves in. Kelton looked at the clothes and shoes, I stared apathetically at the books. There was only one book that I had been keeping an eye out for over the past couple years, a children’s story by Clara Ingram Judson called The Lost Violin about a Czech family in Chicago, circa 1900. It had been published in the 1940’s and was out of print. I was about to turn away and tell Kelton, “Let’s get out of here,” when I heard the voice of my Spirit. It told me to look behind the book in front of me “because The Lost Violin might be there.” I pulled out the book, and staring me in the face was that Lost Violin!

What happened next was one of the most brainless manipulations of reality in my entire psychic repertoire. All I wanted was to go home, take a shower, lie down and read my new book. Kelton and I had discussed going to a neighborhood restaurant, The Daily Bar and Grill, but I didn’t want to. I pulled a dimwitted unconscious psychic trick, thinking vaguely, “If I get hurt, maybe I won’t have to go to the Daily.” On the way back I rode up against a hose and fell off my bike, cutting a huge gash in my shin and badly skinning my knee. A snot-nosed, overweight pre-teen boy was casually slurping water out of the hose. I shoved my injured leg in his face and asked, “Do you mind if I use your hose to wash off my blood?” He blanched and backed away.

The worst part was now I had to prove to myself and my cousin that I didn’t wipe out on purpose so I said to Kelton, “OK, let’s go to the Daily. But you walk in front of me so they won’t see all my blood.” (This was in the days of AIDS hysteria.) So we did indeed go to the Daily. I ordered an artichoke and looked into the heart. The heart looked back and said, “You used your gift twice today. Once wisely, and once un.”

Rat Alley Redux

2009-03-14T07:13:00.000-07:00

When I was in kindergarten my family, which was on the poor side, lived in the attic of my grandma’s house at 2238 N. Orchard St., Chicago. Don’t look for it. The house burned down and it’s condos now. Although I didn’t realize it, being poor had advantages, such as you could get away with picking garbage, you got free shots at the Welfare clinic and you were never required to go to those boring country club dinners. Since I didn’t know what a country club was and I didn’t like getting shots it was the easy accessibility to garbage that I appreciated, and it provided me with hours of fun and games.

One fine day I spied a handbag in the alley. This was the “Rat Alley” called Pearl Court, described in a previous post. I grabbed that handbag and took off down Pearl Court, looking for more treasure. To my surprise and excitement, this was the weekend that all the neighborhood dames had conspired to toss their purses. There was a bag at nearly every garbage station! I took only the ones with jewels, sequins and other crud attached. Plain brown bags and staid totes languished, unloved and unwanted. I returned to Grandma’s house will a haul of about 10 handbags, all fancy and dressed up for the ball.

It took me a while to decide what to do with them, but I eventually had a brainstorm. I got a big jar, filled it with water and proceeded to hack off all the jewels on each handbag. I put them into the jar with the water. Imagine, if you will, a tiny 5-year-old imp with black hair and blue eyes sitting alone at a huge dining room table, staring at all that junk floating in the jar and thinking, “This is the happiest day of my life!”

Blagojevich Resigns!

2008-12-20T07:27:00.000-08:00

What if…

Rod Blagojevich had been caught with his pants down in a compromising position with another member of homo sapiens…or a sheep?

How fast could you say "Governor Pat Quinn"?

Rat

2008-11-29T07:40:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up in the Lincoln Park neighborhood in Chicago, some of my favorite activities were breaking into private garages and just looking around, riding my bike “all the way” to Damen Avenue, two whole miles from home, and prowling the neighborhood searching for discarded treasures left in the alleys.

One of my favorite alleys was behind a doctor’s office on Fullerton Parkway, just west of Clark Street. My brothers and I would go there to find used hypodermic needles, medical supplies and, occasionally, dental samples. Once we found a whole box of false teeth. But my best discovery was in the alley that ran between Orchard and Burling Streets in the 2200 block. That alley was called, pretentiously, Pearl Court. And it was filthy.

When I was in 4th grade, I was in a split classroom. Most of the kids were 5th graders, and they had put the five highest achieving 4th graders, of which I was one, in that class. We 4th graders sat in the far row on the left side of the room. I liked the 5th graders. Some of the older girls and I hung out together. I wasn’t interested in boys yet, but there was one 5th grade boy who I thought was the cleverest guy in the whole school, and it annoyed me that he didn’t acknowledge my existence.

Our teacher, Miss O, had a game she would play with us, whereby one student would throw out a noun and the next one in line had to come up with a word beginning with the last letter of that noun. So, if you said glass, the next kid would say shin, then net, then something starting with “t”, etc. Not exactly rocket science, but it passed the time. This kid Robin always picked a noun with a silent letter at the end. Thumb. Comb. Face. He was insolent and slick and I wanted him to notice me.

I had not yet figured out that boys like girls to be pretty and nice rather than smart. If I had known that, I would have combed my hair every day instead of once a week, wore nice clothes, boned up on manners and this incident never would have occurred. It was the spring of 1967 when I came up with a plan. Spring was when they baited Pearl Court with Red Squill and Warfarin, and every few days you’d see a dead rat lying there. Many of them were decomposing and maggot-eaten but one day I found one in perfect condition. I picked up that rat by the tail and put it in a shoebox. I took it to my grandmother’s house, the back yard of which adjoined Pearl Court, wrapped the box with brightly colored paper and tied it with a shiny ribbon. I then took it over to Robin’s house a block away. He wasn’t home, but his older sister was outside with some of her friends.

“Hi, Debbie,” I said in as casual a tone as I could muster, “I have a present for Robin. Please give it to him and make sure you tell him it’s from me.”

The next day in school he approached me, grinning like a jackal, and spoke his first, but not last words to me.

“Thanks for the present!”

Drugs and Death

2008-11-28T18:58:00.000-08:00

Just about everybody I know has attempted suicide at least once. But few attempts have been more pathetic than mine. Here’s the story.

In February, 1997 I went for a dental checkup and even though it was normal I had a bad feeling about it. Later on that night one of my molars started hurting. I tried to ignore it but it got progressively worse. I took some aspirin and that helped. I kept taking aspirin, even after the dentist told me to take Aleve, which did no good, then Tylenol, which also was no help. It got to the point that I was taking 12 aspirins a day. I told my friend Peter and he told me to stop it, because too much aspirin would make me bleed internally and die.

Great.

I went back to the dentist twice and he couldn’t find any reason why my tooth hurt. No infection, no cavity, no nothing. I decided to kill myself because I just couldn’t stand it. I figured either I would die now in horrible pain or die later in horrible pain from the overdose of aspirin, so I might as well get it over with.

My plan was to stand outside in nothing but a night shirt and freeze myself to death. March in Chicago is one cold, nasty month and so I had my pick of days to do the deed. One evening I waited until it was dark enough so that I wouldn’t be noticed and went outside wearing the night shirt and waited to die. However, I only lasted about 5 minutes. I had to go back inside…because I was too cold!!!

The next day, having run out of bright ideas on how to kill myself, I called my dentist and demanded morphine. He said no.

However, the story has a happy ending. My dentist figured out what the problem was and, upon realizing I was seriously in pain, prescribed Tylenol with codeine. That kept me in a good mood until he could do a root canal.

The following year I taught myself to play the accordion and my suicidal days were over.

Hot Dog

2008-11-22T07:02:00.000-08:00

The year: 1966. The crime: Attempted waste with an edible weapon.

When I was a kid I hated all food except candy and fish. One of my least favorite foods was hot dogs. They tasted icky and they were rubbery. The only way my poor mom could get me to eat hot dogs without whining was to cut them into “pennies” and serve them in Campbell’s Bean With Bacon Soup. Calling a hot dog a penny gave it a grace it could never achieve on its own. Those guts and eyeballs masquerading as food became legal tender. My instincts of greed trumped the disgust of the taste buds: yum!

When my mom served hot dogs on a chilly fall night in 1966 I had a brain flash. During the usual distracting family conversation and arguments I surreptitiously I wrapped that offensive cylinder in a napkin, then lodged it in the narrow ledge that ran along the underside of the kitchen table. After everyone had retired for the night, I transferred the offending sausage to the bowels of the pantry, still wrapped in the napkin. Game over, I was out of there.

Fast forward to a chilly spring mid-day in 1967.

Like all 4th graders, I considered myself one of the “cool” kids, despite the fact that I was obviously a nerd. The “cool” kids walked to school, the “pathetic” ones got driven. The “losers” ate lunch at school. We “cool” kids got to go home for lunch. One day I was enjoying lunch at home and Mom asked me what I was eating. I looked at her as if she had asked me if I would like a cigarette with my lunch and said, “It’s Bean With Bacon Soup with hot dog pennies!” She countered, through her clenched teeth,

“GUESS WHERE I GOT THE HOT DOG.”

Game over. Mom: One. Daughter: Zero.

Smart-alecky musical snark

2008-10-12T15:03:00.000-07:00

When I was in kindergarden I used to torture myself by imaging a melody, from something as simple as Happy Birthday to the overture to Candide by Leonard Bernstein, with nothing but tonic chords underneath it. Try it, you'll hate it. The next couple stories may amuse but not surprise all of my fellow musicians.

One day back in the '90's I attended the reading of a musical play with my friend Val. I don't remember the name of the play, but what I do recall is the music was crowded with ninth chords. When the playwright asked for comments after the show I told him there were way too many ninth chords in the music and it was distracting.

Stunned silence all around.

"Were there a lot of ninth chords?" the author asked the pianist. The pianist nodded.

More silence, broken about 30 seconds later.

"O-kay," said the author. "Anyone else have a problem with the ninth chords? No? Then let's move on."

One day I went to see a Klezmer band at some hole-in-the-wall on Lincoln Avenue. They played for about an hour and then asked the audience if they had any requests. "Yeah," I retorted rudely, "could you play something that isn't in D-minor?"

Now that I have joined a Klezmer band myself my perspective has changed. I related the above story to the band leader, an outstanding musician (this is a guy of whom you don't ask what instrument he plays, but what doesn't he play) and he was surprisingly understanding. "To most folks D-minor is just another key. To us, it's a living!" Yes, Dan had the last word on that one. Yea, D-minor!

A Good Buy

2008-09-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite sections in the Sunday Chicago Tribune is Home & Garden. For those who do not read the Trib or who live outside of the Chicago area, this section is full of helpful ideas on how to better manage your (drum roll, please) home and garden. Two of the most consistent themes in this section are the environment and conservation, and I can't remember the last time I didn't cut out an article from the section because it was especially helpful, just plain interesting or even inspiring. Yesterday there was a section on tote bags in a feature section called Hello, Good Buys. The pictures were nice and author Shaila Wunderlich obviously did a lot of work picking 5 durable and attractive bags. The recent rise of tote bags in response to those soon-to-disappear eco-disasters, the plastic bag, is a big step in the right direction. However (and you knew this was coming), here, in terms of Ramen noodle packs at $0.25 each, is what these suckers cost:

1. $25 - you could buy 100 Ramens for that
2. $24 - 96
3. $35 - 140
4. $65 - 260, $80 - 320
5. $145 - 580

I put this in terms of Ramen because we Americans (except for that top 1%) are getting poorer. Pretty soon we'll all be eating Ramen and not much else until they get around to inventing Soylent but that's another story. All this is a roundabout way of saying Those tote bags are too damned expensive!!!

At a *garage sale you can get a perfectly nice, durable canvas tote for anywhere from 10 cents to $1. I have many of them that I picked up for next to nothing. Sure, some of them have obnoxious advertising on them. That I'm a walking commercial for the latest miracle drug with nasty side effects doesn't bother me in the least. Who looks at my bag and thinks, "Gotta get some of that pharmacrap, stat!" And I have been lucky to find some that just have pictures, no ads.

If you really want to save money and are determined to do something to help the environment, go to a garage or yard sale. It's the ultimate in recycling and you won’t pay any sales tax. Now that's a real good buy.

*The Chicago Tribune has covered the subject of garage sales, usually in the spring before the season starts.

Friends, Romanians & Countrymen

2008-09-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of friends with great personalities. There's Val, who can turn a simple letter in the Slovak language into a laugh fest that keeps us giggling, even though it's been 15 years and counting. There's Elizabeth, who came from Romania in 1980. She is the grandmother of my godchildren who are the cutest, most adorable 5-year-old twins I know. There's Peter, a folk dancer and expert on Balkan singing styles who I met in 1983 and who sang with Slavic Projection for years. There's LindaSue, who is responsible for me getting one of my favorite gigs, playing accordion at Klas Restaurant. And then there's the king of them all, Dennis.

Dennis is the kind of person who, while busy cooking, will say innocently, "Do me a favor," and you'll reply, "Sure!" He holds up a grater and says, "Rub this against your face." (Well, I thought it was hilarious.) Then there is the comment he makes every time I come back from a gig. "Did you get all the tomato stains out of your costume?" Even though it's old, I still laugh. But the best one yet was a few weeks ago when I was practicing the following song (complete with yips) to record on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6JApeSw5q8 and Dennis heard me. He had a suggestion. "If you want a bigger audience why don't you let out a couple barks?"

I'm thinking about it. (After all, the more willing you are to humiliate yourself the better chance you have of getting publicity. Just ask LiLo, Brittney, or Mel Gibson.) JUST KIDDING! I'm one of the stiffest. most humorless adherents to authentic folklore there is, but just thinking about corrupting one of my sacred cows cracks me up! Thanks, Dennis!

A pig is still a pig...

2008-09-10T06:44:00.000-07:00

So Obama claims that his remark about lipstick on a pig wasn’t directed at Sarah Palin?

Hogwash!

The barb was uncalled for, rude and uncouth. Obama owes an immediate apology…to the pig.

Busking Ethics

2008-09-01T09:14:00.000-07:00

Hey, buskers! Are you nicer to people who give you big tips than to those who give you itty-bitty ones? How do you handle weirdoes?

This was my ethical dilemma the last two Saturdays when I played my accordion at Giddings Plaza on Chicago’s North Side. My official policy is to treat everyone with respect and gratitude whether they give me a couple pennies or a $20 bill. My attitude is I’m there to have a good time, talk to people, play songs I like, try out new tunes, and enjoy the atmosphere of “no pressure”. The money is secondary, although if I weren’t allowed to put out a tip jar I wouldn’t busk.

On August 23 as I was talking to a woman from Cluj, Romania http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuCVAQ0BkVo who recognized some of my songs, an aggressive panhandler approached us. “Can ya spare some change? I’m hungry and homeless,” he whined right in our faces. More out of a desire to not look like a cheapskate than to help him, I pulled out a dollar from my tip jar and handed it to him. I just wanted him to go away so I could jump back into the conversation. I was supremely irritated despite the fact that I could more than afford to help him out. First because he interrupted me and second because I felt I had let him bully me into relinquishing something I had earned. He didn’t even bother to compliment my playing.

Saturday, August 30 was a New Moon. What you start at New Moon comes to fruition at the next Full Moon so I was determined to start at least one new thing. I had just learned a song that day, Badea-l meu de astă vară (My Sweetheart from Last Summer, a Romanian song from Transilvania) and played it twice that night. I was rocking out. People were obviously into it, judging from all the compliments and tips I was getting. It was a great night for another reason, three six-sensory friends, Kate, Karen and Carol had come to have dinner at Café Selmarie, hang out at the Plaza and listen to me play. With those three shooting good vibes at me I couldn’t go wrong. Halfway through the evening Karen went to Potbellies to get me a roast beef sandwich. It was cut in two. I ate half of it and wrapped the other half carefully, intending to save it for later.

The evening wore on and the tips and compliments kept coming. My friends, having spent more than three hours there, went home. Up came Sir Panhandles-A-Lot. This time it was, “Can ya help me out? I’m hungry and I need to get something to eat.” In my face. This time I was ready. “Wait ’til I finish this,” I shot back. No way was I going to interrupt Sikoreczka świergoli (The Skylark Sings, from Cieszyn, Poland) for that guy. He sat down on a bench and tried to engage a woman in conversation. She was complicit for a moment, but quickly vamoosed. Not only did he horn in when I was busy playing, but he was driving away my audience! I kept playing and formulated my strategy. By the time he hit me up again I was ready. “I have a sandwich for you,” I said. “I need money,” he replied. “You said you were hungry, and I have a perfectly good sandwich. Take it or leave it.”

“You can’t help me out?”

“Sorry.” And off he went. Did I do the right thing?

Late in the evening I noticed a guy sitting on a bench applauding every song I played. He was balding and wore glasses. In other words, he looked intelligent. But as I was packing up he approached me and the reality was much different. He was plastered. “Wish I could give you some money,” he slurred, “but I own an apartment building and I’m waiting for the rent.” Uh…not likely. I responded politely to his ramblings for a few minutes and looked at the photo of himself with Little Wally he was eager to show me. “Very nice,” I said without enthusiasm and faded into the darkness.

Did I do the right thing?

Basking in reflected glory

2008-08-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

A dude with an Armenian name, Ara Abrahamian, competes for Sweden in the Olympics and throws a hissy fit. A gymnast with an Eastern European name, Nastia Liukin, competes for the USA and wins a gold medal. So what is all this tornado about, “My country can beat your country!”? To be more upfront it should be, “Our residents can beat your residents. If you live over here, you can beat the people who live over there.” Or not.

Several years ago two schools in the Chicago suburbs had such an intense rivalry that their students were fighting every day after school. Kids were getting bloodied just because they attended a certain school. I suggested that any student caught fighting be transferred immediately to the rival school.

It appears the Olympics are going the way of pro sports. How many pro athletes on our Chicago teams: Cubs, Sox, Bears, Bulls and Hawks can find their way on the CTA from Portage Park to Pilsen without a police escort, librarian or sherpa? Can these sports dolls name our city’s birthday (March 4, 1837) or the years of Daley I’s reign (1955 – 1976)? Who was our first African American Mayor? (Harold Washington) What is the longest avenue in Chicago? (Western Avenue) How many of these athletes actually live within the city limits? What’s so “Chicago” about these players on our sports teams? What’s so Swedish about this Armenian hissy guy? Are countries so obsessed with winning that they adopt folks from other nations to represent them because they are afraid they can’t produce a champ? No? Well, that’s what it looks like from this side of the TV.

I'm just as guilty as anyone. I get excited when someone from the Czech Republic, Slovakia or Romania wins recognition, not because my ancestors came from these nations, but because I'm impressed with the fact that they never invaded any other country. They rock, in my humble opinion, so I get jazzed when they win something.

But what would happen if we all, including me, dropped this pseudo-nationalism in favor of something along the lines of, “Look what humans are capable of!” Actually, that’s kind of what is happening, but under the guise of so-and-so playing for such-and-such country even though s/he was born somewhere else. Now it’s time to pull up our eyelid skin and see what’s really going on.

We are all more alike than we are different. The differences in our countries of birth, skin colors and languages make for nice drama but they’re just the fragile veneer.

Who the h*ll likes all kinds of music?!

2008-08-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

Today the Chicago Tribune printed a list of 13 public officials and the top 10 tracks on their I-pods. There were 120 tracks total, since one guy didn’t own an I-pod.

The list was interesting to me for a rather snobby reason. There was not one piece of serious music on it, or, what most folks describe as “classical” although that term technically describes music from a specific era (approximately 1750 – 1827). I did not notice any European folk music either, although that was not at all surprising. Euro folk (other than Celtic, which everyone likes with the exception of aliens and meanies) is an acquired taste, and if you’re a public servant you don’t have a whole lot of time to spend acquiring taste.

Back in the 1970’s when I was a teenager, I often encountered people who claimed they like “all kinds of music”. But what they really meant is they like all kinds of pop music, as these high-profile I-pod top 10’s suggest. When I had friends over, I asked them what kind of tunes they wanted to hear. They invariably said “Oh, anything. I like all kinds of music.” But if I put on a recording of, say, a Moravian cimbalom band or the Brahms Requiem the dismayed reaction was, “Oh please. Not that!”

So it was back to Queen or, in pathetic cases, The Archies.

I’m not saying I’d vote for someone because his or her top track was the Bach B-minor Mass, but I would regard that person with more respect, especially if s/he hadn’t been indicted yet.

It’s been a long time since anyone handed me a line about liking all kinds of music. Now many of my friends are musicians themselves, and, believe me, they tell me what they like and what they don’t!

Chicken, anyone?

2008-07-27T06:56:00.000-07:00

Cluck cluck cluck. Get used to that sound. It’s chickens coming home to roost. Since June 3rd there’s been a buzz about the unfairness of the media in giving Barack Obama more coverage than John McCain. I have two words and a comma for this imbalance: Well, duh.

Obama does get much more press than McCain. But let those who cry “unfair!” ponder this. Who would sell more magazines if s/he was on the cover, Angelina Jolie or Madeleine Albright? Brad Pitt or Harry Reid? If you turn on the TV and there's a nerdy guy in glasses debating, “…are we talking about rezoning or are we talking about redistricting…” are you going to stare transfixed at him or channel surf until you happen upon Bret Favre chasing down a guy with a ball? Would you rather listen to a brilliant speech by a dazzling, inspiring motivator or sit through a jeremiad by an older gentleman who can string a sentence together but always manages to look just a little tired? Right or wrong, Obama is more interesting and, yes, infinitely hotter than John McCain.

As Americans we go for the glitz. We like pizzazz. Ring-a-ding-ding trumps blah. Add the fact that it’s all about marketing. What sells? Young over old, TV over movies, lowest common denominator over esoteric. If this country were truly ready to give older, glamour-challenged frumps the same kind of press that young rock stars get, it would have shown up years ago in the dollar signs driving our media. So to whom do we carp when Obama's gorgeous mug gets a full page picture on page one and McCain gets a paragraph in the business section? The mirror.

RAINED OUT!

2008-06-29T06:48:00.000-07:00

Back in the mid '90's I was in a band called Slavic Projection Folk Ensemble. Slavic Projection, which was a vocal and string-intensive (violin, dulcimer, guitar, bass and banjo...once) band, affectionately known to its members as SPFE, pronounced spiffy, was formed in 1980, but its heyday was the '90's, and particularly 1993 through 1998, before I ruined everything by teaching myself to play the accordion.

The summer of 1996 was particularly brutal, not because of the heat but because of our bad luck. We were scheduled to play at the Ravenswood Manor Concert Series and I had just met a guy I wanted to impress so I invited him to come hear us there. Well, apparently my Russian Gypsy cards, which I consulted about the guy, were right about him. He was bad news. And just to make sure we didn't get together we were rained out. The Ravenswood Manor Concert Series had never been rained out before. So we rescheduled and I made sneaky plans to invite Mr. Bad to our next performance several weeks later. The day started out beautifully. Sunshine, low humidity, a few puffy clouds. About a half hour before we were supposed to play, you guessed it, the rain came down like gas prices before an election. We also had an indoor performance as I recall, later that summer. 5 people attended. Mr. Bad was not one of them.

Late that summer we played an outdoor concert at Valparaiso University in Indiana. We were very nervous about the rain and it did start drizzling the moment we stepped out on stage. It was the other band, a Russian balalaika-based group, however, that inherited the Slavic Projection Curse. They ended up playing in a substantial rainfall, while we were inside, wiping off our instruments and collecting our check.

So, in remembrance of that Summer of '96, here is a rundown of my outdoor performances to date this summer:

May 28, Giddings Plaza. Chilly, but not intolerable. A pushy dude wanted to try out my accordion and play "one song" which sounded like 5 or 6 songs all run together and took about 15 minutes. I didn't share my tips with him.

June 7, Giddings Plaza. Rained out, plus had my tip jar stolen by two thugs. They got about $30. Worth risking jail for?

June 21, Evanston Farmers' Market. Rained out.

June 28, Giddings Plaza. Rained out!!! But here's the thing, I was meeting friends for dinner so I stayed in the neighborhood. As they brought the dessert for my friends, I snuck out and played until 10 p.m. in the rain-free night. Shhhhh....don't tell the powers that be.

I play indoors twice a month at Klas Restaurant, 5734 W. Cermak Road in Cicero. If and when Chicago experiences a drought, I will request to play in their beer garden. Drought over, crops saved.

Saving lives or generating revenue?

2008-06-01T10:25:00.000-07:00

Red light cameras have been installed at dangerous intersections in Chicago. Originally this was a safety issue. Two intersections that were guinea pigs for this experiment were Western and Peterson and Western and 55th. At the time, it was a good idea. People used to cruise through those intersections at 40 mph or more, blowing off red lights, sometimes with tragic results.

Like some other originally good ideas (wait for a future diatribe on permit parking), this one has developed into a cancer. You now find red light cameras at relatively calm intersections and if anyone tells you the object is to save lives you can say “saving lives” is spelled “$aving live$”. The object, friends, is to generate revenue. Can we call a $pade a $pade, plea$e? And dispen$e with the heart$ and flower$? Becau$e the hypocri$y is so thick you need a $word to $la$h through it.

The city revealed its double standard when it installed countdown lights, which, in this blogger’s opinion, do save lives, at various intersections in some of the nicer areas on the north and northwest sides. (There may be some in the loop and on the south and southwest sides as well, but I haven't been down there in a while.) If you know exactly how many seconds you have to get through an intersection, you will time yourself accordingly. When you have a red light camera, you’re more likely to slam on the brakes when you see the light turn yellow. That yellow light lasts for a couple sections, then FLASH, you’re busted. $90 poorer. Not to mention the poor sap behind you who just smashed your rear end with his front.

If the city were really interested in saving lives, it would install countdown lights in addition to red light cameras at the most dangerous intersections. That’s not going to happen. But let’s make it appear like we’re all concerned. The object is to $ave live$.

In Church, In the Store, At Home

2008-05-31T05:49:00.000-07:00

PROVE IT!

The big news of May 29, 2008 is that the Vatican will excommunicate women priests and their supporters on the basis that Jesus only chose men to be his apostles. I agree that only men should be priests. No woman should serve the Lord in a leadership position, and as Jesus himself said in the Gospel of Saint Phonius Bogus, “Get those dames outta here!” (I think it’s somewhere toward the back). But with rights come responsibilities. The responsibility to prove that only men are serving is sacred and crucial. Therefore, it shall be decreed that prior to saying, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit” every priest shall prove, one way or another, that he is indeed male. Use your imaginations...

Show us the truth!

DISCONTINUED!

Whenever you find a product you really like you’d best buy a lot of it. Because the next time you go to find it you’ll discover it’s been discontinued. This version of Murphy’s Law works best on cosmetics. Several shades of Clinique lipstick have gone the way of the 8-track including my faves, Golden Raisin and A Different Rose. However, the sleight-of-product doesn’t just apply to makeup. I’ve noticed that my favorite brand of toothpaste, which used to have a sharp, minty taste, and was made in the US, now tastes bland, sugary and is made in Mexico. And try finding your favorite soap, brand of paper towels or lingerie after you’ve been buying those items for a while. Buh-bye.

GIMME A BRAIN!

The companies that produce air conditioners are staffed by mathematically challenged execs, some of who may have completed third grade and the rest who got the job because of a rich uncle. How do I know this? On account of how the instructions on the use of their product and the way the product is designed don’t jibe. “Do not use an extension cord,” intones the ominous admonition. Then why don’t they make the cords on the air conditioners longer than a two-year-old’s spitting distance? What if your window (which is where even the dimmest of humans will install the air conditioner) is over here, and the outlet is over there, eight feet away, and the cord is only 24 inches long?

Now that’s stupid!

Angry Thoughts I Have Had While Maneuvering My Bike Around Potholes

2008-05-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed that people who talk to themselves usually do it when others are around. I found this out by lurking unobserved in the vicinity of a “self-talker”. Not. A. Word. When I made my presence known, she immediately began yammering to herself.

Ladies! Tired of getting hit on? Here’s a solution, cheap and nasty. Back in the days when I had a more curvaceous figure, I was hit on quite often - not by anyone interesting, only by scumbags starved for a little attention. One day I let the pig have it. I raised my voice to fortissimo and in response to "Hey baby, lookin' sexy," shouted, “No, I don’t know where you can buy cocaine.” The offender skedaddled.

Whenever possible, speak softly or mumble unintelligibly so folks have to strain to hear you. That way you can suck all the energy out of the conversation, leaving your companion drained. Enjoy yourselves, vampires.

Drivers! Do not, under any circumstances, use your turn signals. They are a useless add-on, like your appendix. We bikers can read your minds! Oh, and we can also memorize your license plate as you sit motionless at the green light spewing drivel into your cell phone.

Disclaimer: I am quite an annoying person myself and have committed sins much worse than the above.

Mercury Retrograde Coming Up!

2008-05-21T17:43:00.000-07:00

Next Monday, May 26 at 10:48 a.m. CDT the planet Mercury goes retrograde. A planet is said to be retrograde when it appears to be moving backwards in the sky from our perspective.

Mercury relates to the sign of Gemini and is concerned with communication and short trips. During a Mercury retrograde, you may find that you have more than the usual number of problems with computers, phones, fax machines, e-mail, everyday commuting, etc. You may also be misunderstood, so think before you speak. Mercury retrograde is a good time to sign a contract that you don’t really want to sign, because chances are it will fall apart. It is not a good time to post your favorite video on YouTube! There’s a good possibility it will backfire on you.

Mercury goes retrograde three times each year, for about three weeks at a time. During the days immediately surrounding the retrograde period the planet is slowing down to a station, or stop. You might notice things with communication or transportation already starting to enter snafu territory.

Some good things to do during a Mercury retrograde: anything with the prefix re-, re-examine, re-connect, re-fine, re-place. At the time Mercury will be retrograde in the sign of Gemini, the Sun is also in Gemini. This is kind of a double whammy as far as communication is concerned, but it should be a great time for reconnecting with old friends! You may find yourself running into people you haven't seen in years and re-establishing friendships. Mercury turns direct again at 9:31 a.m. CDT on Thursday, June 19. The effects should linger for a few days afterward, but starting about the 24th of June the worst of the snafus should be over.

Life in the City

2008-05-16T18:34:00.000-07:00

One of the drawbacks of living in the city is being forced to ‘enjoy’ obnoxious music blaring from vehicles driven by testosterone-challenged Neanderthal vulgarians. Somebody please invent a device that, when aimed at the offending loudster, either scrambles the CD, tape or 8-track or switches the radio station to classical, easy-listening or worst yet for the ego, polka!

The viaduct in Chicago at Roscoe and Kostner Aves. gets tagged with gang graffiti every few weeks or so. With all the Big Brother surveillance we have at our disposal, why not invest in a camera to snap a shot of these guys (it’s usually males who vandalize). The video of them tagging could then be posted on YouTube with the caption, “Young men get in touch with their feminine side by attempting artwork before sashaying off to see Sex and the City.” To bring these delicate flowers down, go for the jugular, their masculinity. Real men don’t need to deface property, and it doesn’t matter what orientation they are, if you get my drift.

These boneheads have too much time on their hands. What they need is to discover something more glamorous than vandalizin’, shootin’, gangin’ and druggin’. How about some farmin’? With the ultra-high price of food these days, we could use more community gardens in Chicago. How about that site on the South Side where the Wal-Mart was scotched? There are some neighborhoods that are veritable food deserts and they have plenty of vacant lots. This would provide income and nutritious food to these areas while giving former gangbangers a healthy dose of self-respect. Come on, ’bangers, help us out here! Invest some of that excess energy in the most glamorous act of all: sustaining the human race.

Final Swipe:

Speaking of masculinity and the lack thereof, if a certain columnist from a certain Chicago newspaper expended as many nouns and verbs castrating true criminals as he does trying to make Barack Obama look swishy, maybe we would stop calling them drug lords and instead call them by their rightful name, drug pansies. Kinda changes your perspective, don’t it.

3 Short Rants, the 3rd of which may not be suitable for more sensitive readers....

2008-05-16T18:25:00.000-07:00

For the “Duh” file:

We’ve all been in this situation. You're at a restaurant enjoying your food and having an intense conversation. Just at the point you’re about to tell your companion, “…and she found out the Coke she drank contained luminous poison and she had only 23 hours to live!” the server barges in with a perky smile. “Is everything OK?” The solution: have a little flag at each table. When the flag is up, we want you to come by and ask if everything is OK. If it’s down, everything is OK. No need to ask! (Silently clearing used dishes is acceptable at any time.)

My dream car:

If I were rich and could have anything I wanted, it would be a hybrid in the shape of an armadillo, complete with 9 bands, a snout, 2 cute little ears and a tail. What? Doesn’t everybody want one of those?

If I were Bush:

If my name were George Walker Bush, I would be very careful to avoid the name Adolf Hitler, especially while visiting Israel. If my name were George Walker Bush I would be very worried that somebody might bring up the inconvenient fact that my grandpappy, Prescott Bush, was a Nazi sympathizer and war profiteer back in the ’30’s and ’40’s. If my name were George Walker Bush I would be saying, “Note to self. Only seven months left. Keep mouth shut.”

Roll Out the Tarot!

2008-05-14T17:50:00.000-07:00

Tarot cards have often been portrayed as scary, evil or superstitious. This is inaccurate. There are no “bad” or “evil” cards, only lessons to be learned. In fact, Tarot can be a powerful tool for spiritual growth, but there are rules that need to be followed in order to get the most out of a reading.

1. Formulate your question as clearly as possible. The more precise your question, the more accurately the cards will answer.
2. Don’t ask a question if you don’t really want to know the answer.
3. Don’t ask the same question twice hoping the cards will respond more favorably the second time. This indicates you aren’t sincere in your quest for knowledge, and Spirit will not reward you for it.
4. Don’t ask a question you already know the answer to in order to “test” the cards. See #3 above.

You don’t necessarily need cards in order to get advice. You can get information directly from Spirit, especially if you are open to what it has to tell you, and accepting of how the answer comes through. Below are two examples.

Several years ago I met a sexy janitor. He didn’t wear a ring, but that means nothing, so I asked Spirit to tell me if he was married or single. I was prepared to accept the answer, whatever it was. Later that same day I was reading my neighborhood paper and turned to the property transfers. This was the first time I had ever perused that section and there it was in writing. “123 Main Street sold to John and Mary Smith.” I thanked Spirit and immediately quit fantasizing about Janitor John.

When I decided to sell my condo I supposedly did everything right: officially put it on the market at New Moon, buried St. Joseph in the front yard and prayed to St. Joe every day. After a week although there had been several showings I had not gotten any offers. I asked Spirit, “What do I need to do to sell my condo by the upcoming Full Moon?” The answer was short and to the point: “Start packing.” Of course! Demonstrate to the Universe that I’m ready to move. I started packing that night and by the Full Moon I had a signed contract.

Tarot readings can help you face facts that you are psychologically ready to confront. As I gave a general reading to one woman she kept asking jokingly if I had installed a secret camera in her house (in another state!). The defining card for her was the Tower. For those not familiar with the cards, the Tower often signifies great trauma or upset. If she continued her life the way she had been, she was in for a big shake-up. The cause of it was not my business, but it was my responsibility to mention it to her. She admitted that she had just begun an affair. The Tower card was a reflection of what her soul wanted her to know; she was ready to face the unpleasant facts and act in a responsible way before her situation got out of control.

Tarot is better suited for spiritual growth than for prediction (timing is more the realm of astrology), but it can indicate approximately when something will take place. “When will we be able to start our business?” one couple asked me. They pulled the King of Cups, which relates to the sign of Pisces. I told them it would be between February 21st and March 20th. The following summer they confirmed that the answer had been right.

I was asked once if there were people who were unable to read the Tarot. The answer is yes, people who do not want to read it will not be able to. It's that simple. Anyone can learn if they are willing to do the soul work that it requires.

One of the most rewarding aspects about Tarot is its inclination to remind you that the Universe is always on your side, even if it seems otherwise. Often it shows that things are not as bad as you believe they are. A reading can also point out where we need to direct our attention in order to advance spiritually. Remember, nobody grows spiritually without hardships! Within every problem is a gift. Our souls seek problems because we need their gifts.

Namaste!

Arrogant business advice

2008-05-12T19:27:00.000-07:00

If you are a large thrift store (I’m talking to you, Unique Thrift at various locations in Chicago) and want more people to come in and spend, spend, spend, here’s an old idea that you may want to dust off.

Instead of having several checkout registers, each with their own long pokey line, consider this. One line. Yes, you read correctly, ONE line. Just like at the bank. When a register is ready for a customer, signal with a bell or light. Are you afraid your one long line will snake all the way from your store to Slovakia? Don’t flatter yourself. It will move twice as fast. Your customers will be so jazzed at the innovation they will tell their nouveau poore friends (the way the economy is going we’ll all be shopping at your store in a few months) and your establishment will profit over time.

One more way to get customers in is to offer a discount (the percentage could be small but enough to make customers notice the savings, say 5 - 10%) for shoppers who bring their own bags. Again, this is nothing new. Aldi has been doing it for years, only they employ the stick rather than the carrot. If you want to put your purchases in a bag, either bring it or buy it.

Speaking of grocery stores, here's how they can clean up. (Jewel and Dominick's, I'm talking to you.) Know those lines that are supposedly for 10 items or less, 15 items or less, etc? Any time a customer slithers into line with more than the allotted number of items, charge a dollar for each purchase over the magic number. So you'll lose a couple clients, boo hoo. Other customers who see that you have grown a spine and are enforcing your own rules will be so jazzed they tell all their friends, and voila! your store will be packed with customers: ones who don't waste others' time. These are the kinds of shoppers who have their credit card or cash out before the register spits out the final price, and you want to keep them.

One last rant. A certain Chicago grocery chain has instructed their cashiers to address their customers by name at the checkout counter. What are they thinking??? Don't they know this is an ethnic city??? Here's a test for the management that came up with this brilliant strategy. Pronounce the following names:

Râmniceanu
Milosavljević
Skrzyżewski
Černohorský
Niewiemcorobimkowski
Karamehmetović

If you can rattle these common names off, then by all means, require your staff to do it too. Otherwise, trust us: we appreciate your staff's courtesy and attentiveness without having them mangle our surnames. Hats off!

Misunderstood, but not for the first or last time

2008-05-11T16:27:00.000-07:00

Being the daughter of a music teacher can be a pain in the nose. First, Pop brings home all these educational toys, like xylophones and glockenspiels. No dolls, model airplanes or coloring books (this was before video games). I wouldn't have minded, only the first thing he did was take off and hide all the B’s and F’s so my brothers and I would have to work with the pentatonic scale. Pop was a Carl Orff pioneer back in the ’60’s and Orff was into pentatonics. Big time. Good luck trying to play a song you like with the pentatonic scale.

But being the daughter of a music teacher also had social ramifications. It was 1967, I was in 4th grade, and our school had just received a gift of ash trees to plant on the school grounds. Each class was to name “their” ash tree after a recently deceased famous person. I overheard Miss O mention to another teacher that she hoped there wouldn’t be seven trees named after John F. Kennedy. When she asked for suggestions on whom to name “our” tree after, my hand shot up in the air.

He was a shoo-in. Recently deceased. Not even cold in his grave, for crying out loud, and his specialty was children’s music! Of course that was who our tree should be named after.

Miss O called on me.
“Kodaly.”
“What?”
“Kodaly.”
“What??”
“Kodaly. Zoltan Kodaly.”
“Could...I...eat?”
“Forget it.”

We named our tree after J.F.K.

Roach

2008-05-11T07:03:00.000-07:00

I don’t have any kids but being a former kid myself, I remember the kinds of things adults did to make me behave. All they need is an open mind and a dose of good luck. Here’s how I turned a tantrum into an adventure. It happened on Devon Avenue in Chicago back in the spring of 2001.

My sister had dropped off her son at my house while she went to work. My nephew, being a normal 4-year-old, had an attack of separation anxiety. He didn’t want to be with me, he wanted Mommy. Tough luck, he was stuck with me. I had to go to the hardware store a half mile away so I dragged that screaming bundle of nerves down Devon Avenue, ignoring his shrieks and tears. I told him, “I don’t care how ornery you are, I love you anyway,” which set him off even more. The tantrum lasted through three city blocks, two dollar stores and the Indian Sari Place. Each place we entered I apologized to the staff, looked around briefly and left without buying anything.

Finally about a block and a half from the hardware store I met my salvation. It was a huge dead cockroach in the vestibule of a restaurant.

I directed my nephew’s attention to the six-legged brown dead creature and said, “Isn’t that the coolest thing you ever saw?” The tantrum was over. He smiled and said, “Yes!” I asked if he would like to take it home. That was like asking if he’d like me to throw out his oatmeal and give him ice cream instead. I told him that if he wanted it we would have to get to the hardware store and buy a jar for it. But we had to move fast so nobody else would get it first.

So now he was dragging me to the hardware store. Problem solved.

Several weeks later I visited my sister. That disgusting roach was still languishing in a jar on the window sill. Happy Mothers' Day!

Cubs Win World Series! But not yet.

2008-05-10T08:44:00.000-07:00

I am confident that the Cubs will win the World Series at least once by 2024, but not this year. How do I know?

Astrology.

That’s right, all you eye-rollers, astrology. It’s up to Pluto, the recently demoted “dwarf” planet, to obliterate the Curse of the Billy Goat.

Pluto’s orbit is elliptical and, being so far from the sun, it takes approximately 248 years to complete a cycle through the zodiac, spending anywhere from 11 to 32 years in any given sign. (By contrast, Mercury takes only 88 days to go around the sun and through all the signs.) Although some uppity earthlings decided to demote Pluto, it is still an astro-Napoleon. Small compared to the other planets, but you wouldn’t want to be up against it in battle. Pluto is a destroyer and rebuilder. As it passes through the zodiac it restructures anything needing correction which is connected with each sign.

For example, from 1984 through 1995 Pluto hung out in Scorpio. Scorpio rules sex and death. The defining issue that came to light during that time was AIDS. In 1995 Pluto moved into Sagittarius, which rules religion, philosophy, long-distance travel, and sports. Since that time religious scandals have been brought to light (think pedophile priests), the airlines underwent a major transformation due to the attacks of 9/11 (religion + long distance travel) and it was revealed that professional athletes were using steroids to enhance performance. Sagittarius is an expansive sign; this was the era of the supersize: the tech and housing bubbles, childhood obesity and the portions of fast food by that name.

Pluto has now begun its ingress into the sign of Capricorn. To the extent that Sagittarius is all about expansion, Capricorn is all about contraction. We are already seeing declines in the housing market and a reduction in the available amount of food on the planet. It wouldn’t be farfetched to assume that thin bodies will become the norm, even in the U.S., and Rubenesque figures will again be in vogue, as the most desirable body type is usually the rarest. Cars and homes will shrink to reflect the new austerity. Capricorn rules government and big business. Both will undergo major transformations during Pluto’s time in this sign. The last time Pluto was in Capricorn the Revolutionary War gave birth to a new country founded on the principles of democracy.

What has all this to do with the Cubs? The sign for Capricorn is the Goat. In order to transform, Pluto first destroys. Therefore, Pluto will destroy the Curse of the Billy Goat and with its destruction the Cubs will be in a position to win the series. However, it won’t happen this season. Pluto is currently retrograding, or backtracking, into Sagittarius for one last binge, where it will stay until the baseball season is over. So at the very least, we Cubs fans will have to wait until next year.