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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friends, Romanians & Countrymen
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!
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!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
A pig is still a pig...
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.
Hogwash!
The barb was uncalled for, rude and uncouth. Obama owes an immediate apology…to the pig.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Busking Ethics
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?
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?
Friday, August 15, 2008
Basking in reflected glory
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Who the h*ll likes all kinds of music?!
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!
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!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Chicken, anyone?
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.
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.
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