Mmmmmmm

Mmmmmm bbq. We just found a fabulous new bbq place, Honey 1 BBQ, on Western, a hop skip and a jump from home. We tried to call ahead, but we got voicemail, so we went over, just in case.

We got voicemail, it turns out, because the guy just took the phone off the hook. That was a very busy little place, a long line of people waiting in a smoky corridor. As we waited, we could look through a little window at the smoking oven, and the smell was divine. Smoky. Yummy.

We ordered a slab of ribs and three pieces of perch. Ready in ten minutes. Grabbed the bag and ran. Got home and fell upon it like wolves on a flock of lambs.

No talking, just a lot of chomp chomp mmmm mmmm mmmmm.

Licking our fingers. Deeelish. Smoky, sweet, spicy, crunchy, chewy, big and meaty. Like candy.

The slaw was a great combination of peppery mayonnaise-y vinegar-y.

Mmmmm-hmmmm.

It's our new place for ribs.

Mike says, "Yum."

random ramblings, and rants...

There are a lot of things on my mind right now. I've been sick for what seems like eons, and it's a long, hard slog back to health. It frightens me to be this weak and dragged-out, and to take such a long time to feel normal and well.

Much of it has to do with the foul weather. It has been truly disgusting, demoralizing and depressing. It seems that it cannot stay nice for longer than a day or two; sometimes it's lovely during the day and by 6 o'clock, it's dark and windy and threatening rain. Then it rains. It rains all the time. The evenings tend to be chilly, in the 40s. I'm sick of it. I want 10 consecutive days of sunshine and blue skies and temperatures in the 70s. And soft spring evenings. I think I would get healthy again if that happened.

Alas, this seems to be a hopeless hope.

But enough about the weather, and me feeling crappy.

Recently, there was an enormous and important show of Edward Hopper's work at the Art Institute of Chicago. I wanted to go. I checked the hours and the ticket prices and was horrified to discover that -- even though the museum has a free day, and a day that it stays open late, both happy and thrilling bits of information -- it would cost me $20 to attend the show.

Now, I'm sorry, but this enrages me. I am one of those that believe that art should be freely available to all. Large cultural institutions in major cities around the world have an obligation to make art accessible to anyone and everyone. Art is NOT meant to be an elite "sport," only for the rich.

Bah, humbug. And humph. That's what I say. At the very least, the museum in question could have waived the $20 ticket fee one day a week, on the "free" day, which also happens to be the "late" day, when it stays open until 8 at night. Thus allowing many people who work during the day and don't have a lot of money to enjoy a magnificent show like this. (I've actually seen an enormous and gorgeous retrospective of Hopper's work, years ago, in New York, so at least it wasn't something that I had not had the opportunity to enjoy. Still, I would have loved to see those paintings again.)

That's an equal opportunity move that would automatically result in people who wouldn't, under normal circumstances, be exposed to the luminous beauty of Hopper's vision of Americana. It would allow people to see beauty, feel beauty, walk out into the afternoon, or evening, exalted and moved.

I do not want to live in a world where all the beauty, and joy, and exaltation are reserved for the rich elite. We should not be accepting cultural institutions doing this to the populace. We should resist this. I'm disgusted.

A related point -- a man named Tony Fitzpatrick, a Chicago artist who does large "collage-y" pieces (big influences including Hopper and Joseph Cornell's little "box worlds," two of my all-time favorites) about the city where he grew up, a city that he obviously loves, but also a city that he excoriates for its inability to nurture art, to create an environment in which new, young artists are supported and "brought up," where markets are created, not exploited, where art is not just a safe bet, where new artists are gambled upon in a bid to make an exciting, vital city of the arts... this artist has an important show of large pieces from a Chicago series of works. He selected the Chicago Cultural Center as the venue for this show, in large part because admission is FREE. More power to him. I, for one, will be happily and heartily attending this show. (The image at the top of this post is a piece of Mr. Fitzpatrick's entitled "King of Chicago, 2004. I borrowed it from his Web site: http://www.tonyfitzpatrick.com/drawing_collages/index.htm)

Onwards... A favorite topic of mine, grrrrrrrr, in recent months has been political correctness. This state of affairs, this social phenomenon, whatever you want to call it, has always been one of my pet peeves. I am a woman, I am not an infant, I can watch out for myself, I can get good jobs with good pay, I can interact with my male colleagues in much the same way I do with my female colleagues, with respect, often affection and playfulness, professionalism and fun.

I do not have a problem with a male or female colleague commenting on my blouse, on my skirt, on my dress, or on my hair, in a flattering way (obviously, I, like most people, feel bad if I'm told I look like shit). I do not have a problem with playful flirtation, be it with a man or a woman. I do not think it increases my respect quotient if I am a humorless, easily offended bitch who considers a compliment an insult to my equality.

Thus, I am not against men opening doors for me, or lighting my cigarette, or flirting with me. If I think that said man's behavior crosses a line, I do not have a problem with telling him that. I can be firm and tough on my own. I do not need the threat of a lawsuit, or the help of a superior (often a male???!!!), to say where I think the line should be drawn.

I think this system is one that is paternalistic and infantilizing. Why would women need the automatic protection of lawsuits and overbearing male superiors to assert womanhood, to demand respect. I think we all have the right, and yes, the obligation, to interact with our fellow humans directly.

One example, perhaps a bit off the mark, but still relevant. When I first moved into my apartment in Paris, I had an unknown, unmet neighbor who banged and bashed in the middle of the night (hammers?), and played very loud Eurotrash music at odd hours. I dealt with it for a coupla weeks, but one night, as there was hammering -- bam bam bam -- and pauses when I would think, "ah, it's finished now. hooray," and more hammering, in an erratic and unpredictable way, at about 12:30 a.m., I finally ran out of patience. I got up, put on some clothes, opened my door and faced the neighbor's door.

Tap, tap, tap, I knocked gently on the door. The hammering stopped, the music was turned down, and the door opened a crack. A very lovely girl looked out of the crack. "Oui?" she queried me. "Excuse me," I replied in French. "I'm your neighbor, and I was just wondering, are you gonna keep playing loud music and hammering on the walls in the middle of the night? Cuz it's kind of annoying, you know?"

She opened the door wider and looked at me. Then broke into a big smile. "Come in," she said. I walked into a large airy studio. She was obviously an artist, she was hammering some canvas to the wall, and there were little bits and pieces of material for collages and paintings littered all over the studio. She apologized profusely, saying she hadn't been aware that somebody had moved in next door (it's true that I was pretty quiet when I first moved in there; I was working long hours, coming home exhausted and falling into bed at night). She assured me that she would completely cut out the hammering at night, and we did several experiments, with her stereo and with mine, to see what levels were ok for the other, and which were not.

Then she said it: "I'm so glad that you came over and knocked on the door. Most people here in Paris would have just called the police. No direct interaction. It must be because you're from New York."

Call the police? Your neighbor lives right across the hall from you, this is your neighbor, and you call the police? You don't just walk over there and have a little friendly dialogue?

That's just insane. It's this attitude that lies at the heart of the politically correct thing. This attitude that you can't just deal with people about things, you have to turn to some kind of authority figure. A superior, or legal action, or the police, something really extreme like that. God forbid that you should actually just be a functioning, communicating, mature adult, one who can go over to the other person and discuss things, face to face.

Ridiculous.

So the reason I'm talking about this political correctness issue at this moment is because of "sweetie-gate." The silly story about Barack Obama calling a reporter sweetie, and being raked over the coals for it.

I am one of those warm, affectionate sorts who hugs people, touches their arms, walks arm in arm or arm around or leaning up against my companion, someone who calls everyone sweetie honey baby doll babe, all these things.

I call strangers or new acquaintances honey or sweetie, and often. No one has ever objected. Nor do they look annoyed when I do it. My lovely guy has called me baby and babe since the day we met. The first time I called my mom doll she blushed happily, looking sweet and young and surprised, and then she laughed. Now she calls me doll, and gets a big kick out of it. My guys at Chez Prune, the most wonderful of all cafes in the great big world, would hug me and cheek-kiss me every morning, as they called me bebe and la belle (the beauty), while I responded in kind, calling them beaux mecs (gorgeous guys) and bebe, right back atcha. I lo-o-o-o-oved it, made my mornings very, very nice, and fun, and made me feel happy and beautiful.

I do not think of it as an insult when the cashier at the store calls me hon. I do not mind when the guitar player in a band I've gone out to see calls me babe in a brief conversation we have after a set, when I'm telling him how great I thought the band sounded. I don't mind these things at all. I don't mind the construction workers on a job site near my home saying, "Hey, gorgeous, you're looking lovely today, sweetheart." In fact, I find it endearing, and friendly, and warm, and often it can turn a bad, lonely, sad day into a very nice sunshine-y one. I wish there were more of this sort of "un-politically correct" behavior in the world.

Mike says, "Well put, sweetie."

the medical mystery

I'm very upset. About a very American thing. I got sick in between health insurances. Here in Chicago. And at first, I thought it was no big deal, just a head cold, I'll get rid of it. But it went on, and on.

So bad, in fact, that I couldn't get on a plane to go to a wedding I really really wanted to go to, in New Orleans.

So bad, in fact, that I had to bite the bullet and see a doctor, without any insurance.

I went to a Minute Clinic, one of those little walk-in clinics in a CVS drugstore, where physician's aides examine you and prescribe for you.

That was fine. Not expensive at all. She was good. She prescribed antibiotics and steroid nose spray.

The prescriptions cost $300.

Swooon. Oh my god. How do normal people do this? I mean, my insurance will kick back in again at the end of the month, and I'll be safe. But really, suppose I didn't have a full time job with benefits. Jeez. It's disgusting.

When I lived in Europe, I could go to a doctor for about $20. I could fill just about any prescription for about $25. And that was before I became part of their national health system. When I qualified for that, everything was pretty much free -- doctors, hospitals, prescriptions...

So I realize that here in the U.S. of A., we have a gigantic problem. And it's not just the health care problem. It's the medicines.

Why can I get the exact same medication in Europe for 1/10th the price? Why is that, pray tell? Why do doctors cost 10 times as much to visit here? Pray tell?

It's a mystery to me. But the fact that this country has no answer to these questions, and no solution to these problems, is obscene. People should not have to live in fear of this, or be wage slaves because they're terrified of getting sick and being totally bankrupted.

Which brings me back to the question: Why is it affordable in other countries?

America says: Give me your tired, your poor... but certainly not your sick.

stupid war

The war on intelligence. Kinda has a nice ring to it.


Inevitably, though, an unwinnable "war." Just like the war on drugs, the war on poverty, and more recently, the war on the middle class. What exactly does that mean anyways? War on the middle class. Humph. We brought it on ourselves and it pisses me off.

So what does that have to do with intelligence? It is true that we Americans, as a society, have really become very accepting of mediocrity. Our food is bland, our music is lifeless and dull, the movies that Hollywood mostly puts out suck, and people don't even read anymore, so forget about books. Mcdonald's, Starbucks, American Idol, Will Ferrell (get another character to play- please!). We love it. We pay out the ass for all this crap, knowing that it's crap. We don't need any of this crap but darn it, Wilbur, we sure did get a good deal.

Then there's social norms that aren't very normal to me. Kids playing soccer (soccer?) and they don't keep score. We all win. Hooray. We're winners. Schools don't give grades because you might hurt some kid's feelings. Poor bastard. There's not one valedictorian in high schools. There's thirty seven. Tests are too hard. Homework is too hard. Timmy needs time-out time all the way to senior year, so let's just be nice. Give me a break.

So we think that it's ok not to excel. You don't have to rise above because we're all nice and polite for the most part, so you'll be ok.

We accept that in our politics as well. Uncle George got elected by being the guy you'd want to go and have a beer with. Mccain is pretty manly too. What a pal. Hillary is, well, white. So for the members of the left who go Dem, she's safe. But Barry (I'm biased- you knew) gets lambasted for being Harvard-educated. Too uppity. Too many big words. Wow. I mean, wow! Really? Of all the choices you have, he's the one to be questioned? Hill has $103 mil in the bank in the last 7 years. She's down with the people? Maybe the guy you want to have a beer with?

We like our stuff, and we like our gadgets. We like good deals from Mexico and China (although we don't really like THEM), and who got eliminated last night anyways? So its easy for us to have become like this. We now let a lot of things happen around us and to us that sanitize us more and more each day. All the stores, bars, malls, condo buildings, haircuts, they all are starting to look the same. You've got a machine that pays your tolls (maybe, anyways), and a camera that takes your picture on the highway or at the corner of Belmont and Sheffield. We've got ear buds in and ipods on and we shut it all out. Politely.

I don't think its very smart.

Mike says: "People really need to vote and its no joke."

the war on intelligence

I've been getting progressively more and more disturbed by a tenor of the national debate. A kind of disdain for, a hatred of, intelligence, of intellectual discourse, a dismissal of this kind of activity as elitist and out of touch with the American ethos.

This is unacceptable.

I have always been an intelligent human being, this was always a point of pride, a happy thing, a quality that I was pleased with. My mother and father, both, are intelligent human beings -- they read books and newspapers and discuss with enthusiasm and knowledge the arts, politics, the sciences and many other topics. They are curious, questing, interested and interesting people.

I grew up like that. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the discourse that I encountered in my home, and at other people's homes. When I was a teenager, in the late '60s and early '70s, we all turned into ungrateful rebellious monsters. We loathed our parents, on principle, and we loathed their values. We began our own intellectual discourse. This was a good thing. We were politically and philosophically and culturally engaged and excited. We loved ideas.

This continued into college, of course. When I went to college, it was not with an eye to ending up well-positioned for an obscenely well-paid career, it was with an eye to learning fun and interesting things. When I began to travel, on my own and in earnest, it was also with an eye to having adventures, integrating myself into new cultures, learning other languages and other ways of living.

When I lived in Europe, many times over the years, I was always struck by the fact that sitting around discussing an arcane subject, dissecting a statement, parsing a book, analyzing a film, all of this was regarded as a legitimate activity, a worthy endeavor, NOT a waste of time.

Intellectualism as a positive -- what a refreshing idea.

Now I live in the U.S., and I find that, in this place and this time, it is a dangerous and negative attribute. I wonder if sometime soon, I will be arrested and incarcerated for speaking intelligently about something, or if my thoughtful discussion of a book or an article will be interpreted as a subversive activity...

1984 indeed. Who would've thunk? Twenty-five years later, in this country, this country that values -- or once valued -- free speech and new ideas. What has happened to us? Is it the Forrest Gump syndrome? A movie that I always hated because I thought that it celebrated mediocrity and idiocy. That its subtext was, if you're stupid and kind you will succeed. These are the qualities that are revered and to be emulated.

We, as human beings, if you accept the theory of evolution, which I am aware is even now being disputed vociferously all over this country, have big brains. Our brains incorporate the more primitive functions -- our reptilian brain, for example -- with more advanced functions, our neocortex. We have big brains, and we use them in unusual ways. We learn. We retain. We learn more. We are "brain-heavy." We are smart. We should use our "smart muscle."

I do not want to be simply a "reptilian brain" sort of person. The four F’s of reptile brain behavior – "feeding, fighting, fleeing and reproduction" -- is not how I want to live.

I do not want to be simply stupid and kind. I do not want to spend time with people whose only attributes are stupidity and kindness. I want wit and intelligence and brightness and creativity and originality and a questioning, curious approach to things. I want compassion and sensitivity, all the baggage that comes with complex higher brain functions. I want to hear "subversive" thoughts -- ideas that go against the tide of what we have had, the years of fear and stupidity and mediocrity. I want us all to be brave and intelligent and questioning.

Then, maybe, we can stop worshiping at the altar of mediocrity. And we can get back to the business of being smart and curious and creative and compassionate, in short, we can go back to the business of being better people.

...

...

Ah, and what does Mike say, you ask. Well, Mike has quite a lot to say about this, so I think I'll let him say it himself, in his own post.

three years, and counting...

Long time, no post, huh? Yes, it's true. I've been lazy. It's not just laziness, though, I say in my defense. It's a) my job, which demands that I sit in front of a computer 8 hours a day and read about U.S. politics, which can be a little bit of a burnout and a definite turnoff on all things computer-screen, and b) I've been sick for what seems like many weeks.

I was starting to write a "Spring Is Here" post, so excited was I that the sun was shining on consecutive days and the temperatures had climbed gently into the 60s and the 70s. That beautiful, soft, delicate quality of spring was filling me with quiet joy.

There are mysterious little plants in the yard, right off our patio, that have popped their furled young green heads out of the frozen tundra that was. The previous tenant must have planted them, so we have no idea what they are. The suspense makes it fun, and I had gotten into the habit of tiptoeing stealthily onto the patio in the mornings to inspect the tiny green troops. There are definitely going to be flowers.

Notice, however, the operative "going to be." I say this with disgust because in the past two weeks, the temperature has been swinging in a range from 80 to 36, there have been innumerable rainy windy gray days, and I have been stricken with some kind of horrible viral plague.

Nevertheless, I hold to my hope that spring will arrive, and soon. As they say, Hope springs eternal. Hee hee hee. Very apropos.

Yesterday wasn't half-bad, despite a dramatic wild and sudden blast of rain and wind late in the late afternoon, early evening. We sat outside, drinking champagne at the patio table, watching the sky darken and the wind sough in the trees until the pelting rain forced us inside, damp and laughing.

It's our third anniversay today. We had the extraordinary good fortune to meet three years ago, late one night in a club in Paris. Our paths crossed that evening, never to be disentangled. Yes, an aura of inevitability. I feel very mushy and romantic. Mmmmmmm. I love feeling soft like that. Mike always makes me feel that way. How lovely.

Last night was a Lonnie gig, at Legends, a club that I've always liked quite a bit -- appropriately dark and seedy, but not too much of a dive; big, but not too big; pool tables in the back (always important for purposes of ambiance); good big bar when you walk in, comfortable to lounge at.

I love hearing and watching Lonnie. There have been far too few Lonnie gigs in recent times, and I'm sad about that. I love watching/hearing Mike play with Lonnie, too. The two bands -- Lonnie's band and the BMR4 -- are qualitatively different experiences, and I realized again last night how much I enjoy Lonnie.

A few months ago, after a long hiatus when I barely saw Lonnie at all, I went to a gig of his at Fitzgerald's. It's a bar that I like, and it seems that he does too. When he walked out on to the stage, hat, boots and a red western shirt, and played the first few chords, and sang the first few words, I realized how much of an oomph presence he has. But I've always known that Lonnie shines.

Mike says he doesn't have anything to say... It's all been said.