Nov 042010
 

BEER: The two guys in the picture were the candidates for Senator from Illinois. Last night they met over beers in Chicago’s most celebrated dive bar The Billy Goat Tavern—conveniently located below Michigan Avenue and within blocks of every media outlet in the city. The guy in the Black Hawks cap lost. If he had worn the hat earlier, I would have been a lot more excited about voting for him. But that’s not important now. What’s important is that these two met for beer.

RUSS FEINGOLD: Google “class act concession speech.” You’ll see.

JOBS: Maybe now we’ll all see that they are not all holed up in an underground missile silo in South Dakota waiting for Peter Pan to sprinkle magic fairy dust and set free the jobs to run throughout the land. Or that if we just give Captain Hook more money/tax breaks—he’ll make jobs for all the little boys and girls. Maybe now there will be a realistic plan that recognizes TWO problems: 1) Creating Jobs. and 2) Connecting people to jobs.

HISTORY: Rumor has it, did not begin in 2008.

THE PRESIDENT: Who perhaps would not be the president if he had not lost the New Hampshire primary. And did you notice how he handled this like a grown-up? If not—watch his remarks unfiltered and without analysis. Ward Cleaver could not have done a better job of taking responsibility, showing humility and a vision to press onward.

COMMON PRINCIPLES: Here’s a start. “In essentials, unity. In non-essentials harmony, in all things love.” It’s not left, right or centrist. It’s a common principle.

SLOWING DOWN INTERNET RUMORS: Enjoy this while it lasts. (It might be over by the time you read this) But you probably won’t hear a lot of people bleating out “I’m not saying I BELIEVE John Boehner is an Austrian born, cyrpto-fascist, bought and paid for tool of the insurance lobby, I’m just saying I’m not sure.”

SAVING THE VILLAGE BY BURNING IT DOWN: Maybe there will be more clarity as to why this doesn’t work. Because what if it turned out we all live in the village?

EARMARKERON: If, in this tiny little moment, the guns have gone quiet and the attacks have stopped, we’ll need a villain. A bad guy. Doesn’t have to be real. Just has to be something to attack. That’s where Earmarkeron comes in. He hid in my closet when I was 6. I think he feasted on wire coat hangers. He might have drank blood. He has bloodshot eyes and a purple puffy face. Feel free to hate, attack (directly or indirectly) see him behind every piece of legislation or moving next door to you and reeking havoc with your property taxes. He is there for all of us to hate and fear. So we have that covered. No need for any other fear mongering.

FRANK SINATRA: Just try not smiling when he sings.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KooGgtsZLbg]

Nov 032010
 

In a time that makes no sense. . . .I turn to Bob Dylan. And that Jerry Garcia guy? Pretty good guitar. . . .

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeqZl6OgOUA]

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody’s shouting
“Which side are you on ?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row.
Yes, I received your letter yesterday
About the time the door knob broke
When you asked me how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke ?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Dont send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row.

Nov 022010
 

When Sheila Simon was a little girl, her Dad used to take all the kids out on election day and plant a tree.

That way, no matter what happened in the election, something good would come from the day.

Sheila’s Dad was the legendary United States Senator Paul Simon. A man who looked like an accountant or a college professor. All glasses and an adams apple bobbing. When he said public service, you felt like you knew what he meant.

Drive south from Chicago, leave the sprawl, and glide across every flat and endless prairie, keep motoring towards always that always distant horizon, till every road rises up from desolation dreams.

Listen for any voice saying ‘public service’ like they mean it.

And check to see if they’ve planted any trees.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsvks2ojjJ0]

Nov 012010
 

Cassie Huxley took the deal. Dollar a bag heroin. Just before election time.

Cassie didn’t know that the smaller the voter turnout, the better it went for the silent man who gave the nod for heroin to cost a dollar a bag on the west side of Chicago, just before election day.

Cassie stayed on the west side of Chicago. She stayed wherever it was warm. She kept moving. Pushing her cart.

She knew nothing about how the new price of heroin was reported on by the Chicago News Cooperative. Nothing about how State Senator Rickey Hendon–a man they called “Hollywood” had told James Warren, perhaps Chicago’s best reporter, that suddenly now, just before the election, the new price of heroin was $1.00 a bag.

Cassie knew cold was coming. She could smell it in the golden November light that cut down through the elevated tracks and made the criss cross shadows on the street that she rumbled over with her cart.

She knew nothing about another Huxley. Long ago. Man wrote a book about something called “soma.” Man said soma had ‘all the advantages of Christianity and alcohol and none of their defects.”

She knew where to get coffee. She knew the food pantries. The churches. Knew enough to stay out of the shelters. Didn’t care where the dollar bag came from. Only cared that it was a dollar. She never read Mr. Huxley and his book “Brave New World” when he wrote ‘ Soma distribution! In good order please. Hurry up there!

Cassie had an address. Never stayed there. But it was an address. And that meant she could vote.

And this was an election when every vote counted.

But Cassie didn’t know that. And it’s awful hard to remember to vote when you walk the streets strung out, so strung out that you can’t smell the cold coming, can’t smell nothing at all.

Cassie didn’t know that the smaller the voter turnout, the better it went for the silent man who gave the nod for heroin to cost a dollar a bag on the west side of Chicago, just before election day.

So Cassie bought her bag. She forgot about voting.

All she remembered, like a lady, sad, sad, lady sang somewhere, sometime, was to get it while you can.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ju9yFA1S7K8]

Oct 292010
 

null

I will turn their mourning into joy.

Jeremiah 31:13

“There are 15 cars and 15 restless riders. Three conductors and 25 sacks of mail.”
Steve Goodman

October’s winds in Chicago this year blew hurricane force grey terrifying. For two days straight. Bending trees to the ground, snapping power lines, shaking the foundations of houses and souls, shattering car windshields and making dogs whimper.

But it was round about this hard autumn that the solid squat concrete federal fortress that had stood forever at the corner of Southport and Irving Park Road was somehow renamed the Steve Goodman Post Office.

Now below the Works Progress Administration mural that lines the top of one wall, it’s colors still celebrating the clink clank hammer pounding rhythm of accomplishment to be heard when the people of the last Great Depression would go back to work; below that mural swirling through the lines for stamps and packages parcel post, there would be now and forever the smiling elfin spirit of the great musician from Skokie, Illinois, Steve Goodman. His bright eyes shining, guitar strumming music from the time he learned to play guitar at the Old Town School of Folk Music, listening to Bob Gibson, from that time on to forever and a day.
And as the October gale force winds calmed and the sky turned achingly brilliant blue against the orange and yellow autumn leaves miraculously still left on the trees; I am taken by the calmer autumn winds of time and find myself in summer.
A gymnasium on the campus of St. Olaf College in Northfield Minnesota. A warm July night. Packed to the rafters with 3,000 souls and no one is breathing.

For 5 full seconds. No one took a breath. Caught and held by Steve Goodman on a stage alone. Without even his guitar, he took us all totally into the life of a young woman named Penny Evans. A widow in the war that’s being fought in Viet Nam. At when he bowed his head finished singing the story, no one could breathe for 5 seconds. I remember counting them. Because as the 5 seconds ended and the thunder of the applause shook the building, I looked around me and felt the panic rise in my throat.

One of my charges, one of the 6 kids I was supposed to be watching, was gone. I say kids, now with a wistful smile. They were 16-17 years old. I was maybe 19. But they were patients in a residential treatment center. One for emotionally disturbed kids. I was a counselor. A college intern. And I was in trouble.

We were all standing on the floor of the gym, clustered around the stage. At the beginning of the song Vicki, 16 and scars like railroad ties slit running from each wrist up to each elbow, Vicki was right next to me. At the end of Penny Evans, as the tears came pouring in the stunned silence of the room, Vicki was gone.

So I herded my other five kids into a circle around Gail, the other counselor. “Vicki’s gone! Watch everybody! I’ll be back!” And I pushed, much to the annoyance of the people around me, through the crowd to the doors where the crowd had spilled out on to the steps and into the July breezes.

About 10 seconds later, the panic stopped. I saw Vicki. Calmly standing on the steps. Having a serious conversation with Steve Goodman. Who could not have been listening more intently.

Walking, now with my fear gone, up behind her, I heard her say to Steve Goodman, “Well, what it really is, is a mental hospital. But you’d be surprised. Most everybody seems pretty normal. We’re here with 2 counselors tonight. One of them is a guy from Chicago. He likes you a lot. So he arranged this. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you’d like to come back with us after the concert. Everybody would like you. I know they would.”

To which Steve Goodman answered, “Well Vicki I appreciate that. I really do. But I’ve got to drive back to Chicago tonight. Because tomorrow I need to catch a plane to go somewhere else. But thank you!”

“OK said Vicki. Oh, there’s a counselor now. But listen, I just wanted to tell you. You are a really good singer.”

“Why thank you Vicki! Thank you so much!” said Steve Goodman, his face beaming like an eternal sun. He saw me motion Vicki over, wipe the sweat off my brow in a gesture of ‘whew, thank goodness I found her.’ I gave him a wave and mouthed the words “thank you.”

And Steve Goodman just smiled.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6W_a2U-bIU]

Oct 272010
 

“O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.”

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.

Dylan Thomas. Born October 27, 1914. Swansea, South Wales

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvw3leyAPow]

Oct 152010
 

On a sunny golden October afternoon in Chicago, autumn leaves of promise swirling north on Hermitage Avenue, Rahm Emanuel leaned against his car paging intently through the Sunday New York Times.

He’s in faded jeans, gym shoes and a gray t-shirt. And his head snaps up as I pass on the sidewalk and say to him, “Don’t forget to win.”

He fires back in a blink, “Don’t forget to vote,” winks, shoots his head back into the paper and then looks up again. “Wait. I know you.”

I stop. “The writers project,” I say. “Putting writers to work.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s see. . .tell me again what that was. Just in case I forgot about it.”

“Economic development and jobs creation for writers. Like the WPA Federal Writer’s project of the 1930’s and 1940’s that employed Saul Bellow, John Cheever, Zora Huston, Richard Wright and Jim Thompson. Only updated for today. Here’s the link in case you want it for your blackberry.”

http://chicagoguy14.wordpress.com/2010/05/06/a-national-writers-project-for-2010/

“ I don’t want a link. But tell me about how you updated this from 1936.”

“I made sure that brickbats and stink bombs tossed at the project screaming ‘welfare for artists,’ wouldn’t stick.”

“And you were gonna do that how?” Rahm Emanuel folded up the newspaper and stuck it under his arm.

“Practical outcomes for the books. Fund raising tools for non-profits. Corporate responsibility stories for corporations. Real stories. The voices of the actual people, not the marketing department. Oral history. Like Studs Terkel.”

“Mmmm.”

“All the stuff you got going on,” I said. “Believe me, I understand how you wouldn’t remember.”

“Yeah,” and Rahm Emanuel smiled, “How about I don’t remember this. Your first book on the food pantry is behind schedule. It’s only being read by the editors from your client’s board right now. You ain’t gonna get it out in time for Christmas. Your proofs look good, The book is solid. And that guy you co-wrote it with, he’s good. Real good. But you are late. And you ain’t been pushing your next book on domestic violence at all. Fact is that it’s going nowhere fast. And the oral history of the radio station WXRT, did you really think that was gonna happen?”

“So I guess.” I said a bit quieter, looking down, “You do remember. I had no idea you were tracking this, especially with all you got going on, running for Mayor now and all.”

Rahm Emanuel tossed the folded newspaper into the open window of the car, walked over to where I stood on the sidewalk and jabbed the heel of his hand into my shoulder.

“You figured out a way for writers to find work. Of COURSE I remember. And of COURSE I tracked it! I track everything. I track your friend who helped get the Ford Plant open on Torrence Avenue and all the jobs that came with that. I track EVERYTHING. Whattya think this is? So now you tell me, what’s the next question?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Next question. The next question. The next question is how do we get more jobs to Chicago? Huh? How do we do that? How do we do that now? You know about writer jobs huh? Now tell me about ALL jobs. I want ‘em in Chicago and I want them now.”

“Well I got a friend that works on this.”

“Of course you do. You’re a Chicagoan. We all got friends. And your friend is?”

“Calls himself Dr. Work.”

http://open.salon.com/blog/findingwork

“Uh huh. Stupid name. But I’ll give you 20 seconds. What is a ‘Dr. Work’ and how can he get jobs in Chicago?”

“Here’s how. By asking another question first.”

“Time’s running out kid. I need jobs now.”

“No. You need something else first. You need to connect people with work first.”

“10 seconds,” said Rahm Emanuel.”

“Guys that won the Nobel Prize in Economics this year? One of them from Northwestern? Did you see why he won?”

“OK, this might be worth another minute.”

“Here it is in a second. ‘The way people who need jobs and people who offer jobs CONNECT with each other doesn’t work the way a normal market works.” You could even say it was broken. But you have to say it’s gotta be addressed as the first step in putting people to work.

“Yeah. So?”

‘So the first question is not “How do we get jobs into Chicago?” That’s the SECOND question. The first question is, ‘How do we CONNECT people who need work with people who need work to be done?’ “

“So what you’re saying is, how do we find work when there are no jobs?”

“That’s it. In fact my friend Dr. Work. He even wrote a book with that title. We gotta connect people to the jobs, or as he calls it, the work. Because there is work.”

“This working anywhere else? I can’t have some theory being all I got. You might have ah noticed. I am not a theory guy.

“Neither is Dr. Work. And yeah it works all over the place. He’s got 37 stories in his book about where it worked.”

“Stories are nice kid, but I’m talking public policy. This working anywhere else?”

“I’ll tell you about the stories some other time. But yeah. I been working on this since I ran education for Jobs For Youth Chicago in the 1980’s. Connecting people to work. It comes before the job. Always has. And it’s working today on the public policy level. Here, put this link in your blackberry.

http://www.direct.gov.uk/en/Employment/Jobseekers/programmesandservices/DG_173717

It’s the “New Deal Programme” in the U.K. Look at the goals. This is not just about skills training. God bless health care workers and construction crews, but we gotta connect people with other jobs too!”

‘And this Dr. Work character? Besides needing to change his name. . .he does what?”

“He helps people find work when there are no jobs.”

“OK tomorrow. Bring him with you. 6:00 a.m. You know we start early. We’re gonna bring a jobs program that has some teeth to it to Chicago.”

“Ok, but we gotta win,” I said.

Rahm Emanuel was silent for a moment. He looked up at the clear blue autumn sky and then said, “Look at me kid.”

I looked him straight in the eye and then I said to him, “We’ll win.”

Oct 132010
 

He left without breakfast that morning 3 months ago. Went straight to work in the mine. It was an argument about who would feed the dog.

Then came 69 days without the sun for him. Buried in the cavern.
And 69 days of something ripping inside her. She never once looked up at the sky.

But this morning when they strapped him into that metal coffin, shut the door and the cable started yanking him up through the rock, corkscrewing him up to the sunlight, all he could think of was her.

And when he reached the surface, when they slapped the sunglasses on to protect his eyes, nothing else registered till he saw her,

Something deeper than the mine begin to heal. They were allowed to hold each other for the very first time. They heard the Chilean President, who had been there all night, say to the television cameras, “I have realized that the wealth of this country is not the copper, it’s the miners.”

And for the very first time in 69 days, as the whole world rejoiced, the miner and his wife looked up at the sky.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_8d0DJpbBI]

Oct 092010
 

What if you had lived?
I’m wondering late at night as an autumn rain blows in.
Maybe just a little like a Liverpool rain?

Maybe it was raining when you sat on the bedroom floor of your friend Paul’s house and listened to Buddy Holly, Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins and Elvis and then made up some songs of your own?

Maybe it was raining in Hamburg, those early days when your band would go for 8-10 hours a set. Every day. It really all started from the fact that you guys practiced. You poured the sweat of the hardest working guy on the Liverpool docks into your job. You put your hours in. My God, you guys were good. You worked at being good. And it showed.

Maybe it was raining outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater that first night you came through the tiny black and white Zenith TV in our families basement, I hushed my sisters to listen, they liked Paul but I thought you were the cool one.

On that night that everything changed.

I remember looking at your scribbled handwriting on the ragged piece of paper in the most stately of glass display cases in the British Museum. That piece of paper where you wrote:

“Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I’ve loved you more.”

Maybe it was raining that night in front of the Dakota. That night you were shot down dead.

That night everything changed again.

It’s been what. . .that many years?

Jesus.

Sometimes I forget that you are gone.

But then I remember what you left behind.

I listen and I grin.
Trying to be a bit like you.
As if I knew one or two of your secrets.
And of course I don’t.
But I can sure feel you there when you sing.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeWIMYVKbLE]

Oct 012010
 

He stands on the front porch of our house in the October winds, punching our phone number into his phone, saying “I’m not sure when we’ll be back so if you’d pull in the mail, keep an eye on the house.”

Of course! Whatever we can do. When did you find out?

She called from New York this morning around 11. Said her headache was really bad and she was going into the hospital. Then a few hours later we got a call saying they told her she might have leukemia. She called at five and said they told her she did have leukemia and she’d be starting chemo tomorrow. So it all happened in about 6 hours. So we’re taking the first plane out.”

She is in her early twenties. Their only daughter.

He says, “I asked her how she felt and she said she felt fine. She had the headache, but she felt fine.” He shook his head. Stared off into the distance.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way for them. He’d been through his own bouts with cancer. Then came the unemployment. That’s still here. In advertising, you are an old man at 45. You hit 50 and you wonder if that’s it. His wife comes home from work while we’re talking. Trudging up her front steps, looks over at us standing on the porch next door. A light registers dimly in her eyes. She walks in her door without speaking.

I tell him that the only thing I know for sure is that every cancer story is different.

Every cancer story is different.

And in the early evening winds of October, I see dark houses, shattered dreams, the bewilderment of this isn’t how it was supposed to be.

I say a prayer for the smart young girl who grew up next door and all the promises she still could hold. Safe travels and strangers kindness to her lost parents making their way east on the first plane out tomorrow.

A lyric rises up. Born of how you just got to keep trying:

“But now there’s wrinkles round my baby’s eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She says, baby did you make it alright?
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me are gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands.”