Sudden Loyola-ty

Basketball is a beautiful game made ugly by ego. 

In its purest form, it requires only getting the ball to the guy who's open; the guy with the best shot. Done consistently, this will yield an equal-opportunity offense more difficult to defend than the one commandeered by a single player.

And every once in a while, a team capable of this emerges.

In a game better known for egocentric displays of showmanship comes five players who understand and embrace the beautiful simplicity and inherent wisdom of ball movement and spacing.

Not to mention a coach capable of selling it to them.

There are no stars. No celebrity-based sizzle. No whispers of going high in the draft or of guaranteed contracts. Just five guys who win.

The opposition is forced to defend the entire court as opposed to a five-by-five-foot patch inhabited by a me-first superstar driven to take on three opponents every time down the floor in a gambit the house wins nine times out of ten.

(Think Kobe Bryant or a pre-championship Michael Jordan.)

Sharing the ball might lack the adrenaline-spike of a LeBron James dunk over two hapless defenders. But when that dunk is on the losing end of a final score, who really cares? There is nothing spectacular about ending the day with an 'L'.

It's a joy to watch ball movement. It's a joy to watch the team with the ball make the team without the ball rotate until they miss. Or get picked. Then it's ba-BAM! Two points.

Run 'em til they're ragged, indeed.

And on defense, they rotate. They fight through screens. They keep their hands up. They work. They suffocate the opposition's offense. They are a thick, wet woolen blanket. To their opponents, they are no fun.

Earlier in this century, the NBA ran a series of promotional spots that utilized slow-motion isolation of the routine plays that occur in every game: a perfectly-executed bounce pass. A gorgeous give and go. An ankle-breaking crossover dribble.

And of my turnaround jumper.

(OK. Kidding.)

They were brilliant. They were inspired. They illustrated the abundant and poetic beauty to be found in the most-basic, everyday elements of the game. Of beauty flashed before our eyes and gone before we could fully take it in. 

So before this meandering post goes on any longer, let me say that team ball is beautiful. Team ball has rhythm. And that team ball rocks—and rolls.

Go Ramblers!

The Former Senator from Pennsylvania Speaks

In a better world, Rick Santorum would know firsthand the horror of being trapped in a mass shooting. He would hear the screams and the fatal gunfire. Feel the blind, frantic panic that accompanies the realization that your life could end at any moment.

You would know, Mr. Santorum, what it is to be the target of a psychopathic human being bent on killing. And assisted by the NRA, able to.

It is my hope that this would reduce the likelihood of you accusing the too-young-to-vote survivors of the Parkland, FL. school shooting of “looking to someone else to solve their problem”, and perhaps make you a little more reluctant to suggest that they instead learn how to perform CPR.

(But I'm not holding my breath.)

Forty-eight hours later, public opinion polls—I mean your conscience—have you telling anyone who will listen that you erred in letting such a callous opinion escape the recesses of your oral cavity.

So relieved are you by this truth-telling that afterwards you even found occasion to joke: “I think Sanjay Gupta's job here at CNN is probably safe as being the medical commentator on things.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

While the gun crowd likes to claim it's the target of derision and disrespect from the gun control crowd even as NRA lead freak Wayne LaPierre rails at liberal “elites” for their supposed monopoly of victimhood, as evidenced by Mr. Santorum and others this is clearly not the case.

I can't get my brain around the fact that we are criticizing our kids for being upset by the carnage that is taking place within their schools. And then for acting on it. Even as we wag our fingers at them for playing violent computer games and dismiss them for being unduly absorbed by their iPhones. 

CPR classes excepted, what would you have them do, Mr. Santorum?

By now, it should be clear that with the gun crowd, nothing is off the table when it comes to defending our constitutional right to die suddenly and for no reason whatsoever at the end of a gun.

Defeating them is going to require sustained and passionate protest. Their guns are the lone source of their strength. Their guns are their esteem. Their guns are their lives.

You can imagine the sea change required to undo their clutching, white-knuckled angst. And then the evolved society that is the result of having done so. 

Money Doesn't Talk. It Runs.

Whenever Illinois leads the nation in something besides population loss or unmet pension obligations, it's something to take note of.  For instance, did you know that Illinois fell for the idea of an elected billionaire two full years before the rest of the nation did?

Yep, we in the Land of Lincoln voted Republican vulture capitalist Bruce Rauner to our state's highest office way back in 2014. And just like our current president's, Rauner's tenure has been a sparkling success.

First and foremost, he has failed to resolve the state's budget impasse, which is the leading cause of our state's population loss and uncertain financial future. In that special way that billionaire businessmen have, Rauner has also failed to forge any kind of working relationship with the powerful speaker of the house, Democrat Mike Madigan.

While I am not a fan of Madigan's in any way, shape or form, Rauner's inability to develop a partnership speaks to his interpersonal ineffectiveness.

Thankfully, his 44 attempts at enacting his toxic Turnaround Agenda have been fruitless. As has his desire to reduce the state's minimum wage to match that of the fed's.

If you haven't already guessed, Bruce is just a real people person. A regular guy. You can tell by the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirts. And by the way he drops his g's when he says things like this:

“I'm just sayin' you need to get behind what I'm plannin' here, 'cause otherwise y'all are goin' down with the U.S.S. Madigan. I'm talkin' serious change here, folks. I call it the Turnaround Agenda because liberals and Democrats will be so turned around they won't know if they're comin' or goin'! Heh heh heh.”

You suppose he speaks that way at his class reunions at Dartmouth and Harvard?

And despite his family's generous contributions to the city of Chicago, Democratic gubernatorial challenger Jay “J.B.” Pritzker also sports an oily veneer. 

Like Rauner, he is a vulture capitalist. He is a player. He was pragmatic enough to lay with uber sleazeball Rod Blagojevich in an attempt to secure a political position for himself.

Let's face it: Rauner and Pritzker didn't become billionaires by taking the high road. They made deals. They cut corners. They did what they had to do to achieve their goal.

So yes, Illinois will now be the first state to feature two billionaires facing off against each other. Mano a mano. Rauner and Pritzker will throw enormous gobs of money at each other to determine who will call the newly-renovated Governor's mansion home.

So thank you, Citizen's United. Thank you for ensuring that from this point forward we will have the best leadership money can buy. 

And where do we put the statue of Anthony Kennedy, anyway?

In the cynicism which is the unavoidable byproduct of this whoring-out of the electoral process, I propose we who constitute the electorate demand our cut. Instead of billions of dollars going to the production of attack ads, how about the voter getting cash for their vote?

Rauner? Pritzker? How much is my vote worth to you? You're businessmen—I'm sure you appreciate the profit-swelling potential of eliminating middlemen and going straight to the source, which in this case would be me.

Whaddaya think? A grand? Ten? How about fifty?

Sadly, as the distressing figures from Rauner's 2014 campaign make clear, that would be thirty-six. Not grand—bucks. Thirty-six bucks. Yep—that's what each of Rauner's 2014 votes cost.

When you're a billionaire and you can buy a vote for the cost of an oil change and a couple of Italian beef sandwiches at Buona, what's not to like?

As in previous posts, this reminds me of a joke: You know what sucks about being rich?

Nothing.

Punished for Participating?

Shame on you, Downer's Grove North. Feel free to wear a paper bag over your head, Downer's Grove South. Ditto the other high schools who acted to punish students for participating in a nationwide walk-out to protest our wanton gun violence.

As educational institutions, isn't it part of your job to introduce students to various aspects of adult life? To teach them and simultaneously encourage them so that they might be better-informed and consequently better-enabled to make good choices?

Then why are you punishing students for taking part in what is still more or less a participatory democracy? Isn't encouraging involvement in one's community a good thing?

Please tell me that entrusted with the gigantic responsibility of shaping young minds, you don't side with Florida Representative Elizabeth Porter, who sneered at and patronized these students for their involvement in those very same protests.

In her remarkable address to the Florida state legislature, she asked “Do we allow the children to tell us that we should pass a law that says no homework, or do you finish high school at the age of twelve because they want it so? No, the adults make the laws because we has (sic) the age, we has (sic) the wisdom and we have the experience.”

In a perfect world, that last sentence certainly holds true. But we all know the sad reality of adults and politics, don't we?

Given today's social climate, I am positive you have your hands full meeting the demands of a wide-ranging student body and the expectations of their parents. I should add that as educators, you have my unflagging respect and support.

The majority of the time, anyway.

But when your students see a gigantic, festering sore in our culture and call out the adults in charge for letting it happen (or even perpetuating it), why do you punish them? Yes, kids do crazy things—they're kids. (I don't get the appeal of Manga, either.) 

But when they get concerned and act on that concern, should we really be stifling them?

As parents, we like to play the I'm-only-angry-because-I-care card. We use it when we act in a way we're concerned our children might not understand.

I'm pretty sure these kids care, too. Let them.

Record Store Remembrances

With the recent death of Tower Records founder Russ Solomon, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on record stores.

Rock 'n' roll grabbed a hold of me early. Hearing the Beatles harmonize on “She Loves You” electrified me; the resulting adrenaline rush was one of the best things I'd ever felt in my seven years on Earth.

It lured me into the local rec center, where on summer evenings a jukebox would play deep into the forbidden recesses of night (which was probably all of 10 PM). I would wander among the dancing teen-agers while Tommy James & the Shondells' “Hanky Panky” blared its lurid message, aroused by the vague but tangible feeling that something illicit was in the air.

Even in the innocent hours of afternoon, word of a “combo” running through some songs in a local garage would spread like wildfire, and suitably ignited, my friends and I would chase the sound like caffeinated bats honing in on food.

(I remember one band playing an unusually fiery version of “Gloria”, and wonder in retrospect if it wasn't the Shadows of Knight. The home was owned by an open-minded music teacher, who would've been sympathetic to a bunch of guys needing a place to rehearse. Plus it wasn't very far from the Knights' home base. But I'll never know for sure.)

My ability to listen to rock music went through the usual stages, moving from the transistor radio one grandmother bought me to the AM/FM radio another bestowed upon me to the eventual purchase an actual stereo. A very nifty and durable Panasonic.

Bereft of income, I asked for albums as Christmas gifts. The Beatles, Rod Stewart and early Chicago were deemed appropriate by my parents. It took my grandmother (yep—the same one who gifted me with the transistor radio) to introduce the hormonal wail of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix into the family home.

(To this day, my siblings fail to appreciate the parental tenderizing I did so that they might one day enjoy this music unburdened by the social unease that accompanies being regarded as an alien lifeform by your mom and dad.)

This incremental access exploded with the receipt of a driver's license. Armed with cash from a part-time job, I could now venture to the 'cool' record stores, which invariably lay beyond the confines of my provincial hometown.

When time and money (not to mention a car) were available, I was off to Old Town, where Uno's Bizarre Bazaar—a remnant of the counterculture that had flowered in the neighborhood a decade earlier—offered bootlegs.

The nearby suburb of Norridge featured Rolling Stone, a noisy, enormous store with coquettish cashiers who smoked cigarettes and wished you were David Bowie or Robert Plant. But only E. J. Korvettes could beat their prices.

The demands of higher education soon absorbed the majority of my money and my time, and my record-buying suffered accordingly. It was only after graduation that I began to explore the enormous city I lived in and satiated my lust for vinyl.

Wax Trax was my first obsession, since their remarkable inventory either carried every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP Trouser Press raved about or every punk and new wave forty-five and import LP they should have been raving about.

(That the cooler-than-thou clerks would sometimes condescend to speak with you was just a bonus.)

Unfortunately, this period coincided with the arrival of my first Visa card, and soon I was spending a disproportionate amount of my income there. On the bright side, I was able to list Wax Trax as a dependent at tax time.

When co-founder Jim Nash died, holes began to appear in the rigorously-maintained inventory, and it gradually became a less-urgent destination. While this was a boon to my financial well-being, area entrepreneurs had taken note of Wax Trax's success and it wasn't long before their shops were—to varying degrees—taking up the slack.

Evanston's Vintage Vinyl was probably foremost in my experience. It was similarly pricey, but what I assume was its owner (a very tall guy with clear plastic glasses and unfailingly dressed in leather pants) was at least helpful.

It was also the cleanest record store I'd ever been in. God knows I've crawled through places capable of incubating the Hanta virus, but there wasn't a chance of that at Vintage Vinyl. Hell, sometimes I felt guilty just rifling through the stock.

The only thing capable of marring those carefree days was the burden of parking. I could listen to the extended dance mix of my favorite song more times than anyone ever intended in the time it took to locate a $#@!& parking space.

It was on one such trip to Evanston that I glimpsed my salvation: the CTA. Its Red Line ran all the way from Evanston to 95^th Street, and conveniently stopped everywhere there was a record store I needed to visit. (That's needed, as in involuntary.)

An unintended benefit was that without a trunk, my impulsive excesses were kept in check. I mean, did I really want to lug around a copy of The Country Soul of Mrs. Miller for six hours?

Probably not.

An emerging interest in rhythm and blues and soul led me to the south side and Hyde Park, where Dr. Wax and 2^nd Hand Tunes nourished and sustained it.

Chicago was an ideal place to be interested in R&B, as its sizeable African-American population meant an enormous number of records had been bought and subsequently re-sold to resale shops when supplanted by rhythm and blue's latest and greatest.

Visits to Hyde Park yielded copies of albums by Ray Charles, LaVern Baker, Laura Lee, the Chi-Lites and Little Beaver. 100 Proof (Aged in Soul), Ecstasy, Passion and Pain, Denise LaSalle, Syl Johnson, Esther Phillips and Latimore.

Those record stores were islands of commonality. Places where only one strain of human being existed: music lovers. It was in these shops that the delusion of blacks and whites living peacefully side by side could be entertained.

In between the terminuses of the Red Line lay a raft of great records stores: The one whose name I can't recall on Sheridan Road near Loyola. The three-story monolith on Wabash that was Rose Records' flagship store. And the Jazz Record Mart on Grand, where on a good day owner Bob Koester would regale you with stories.

The purchase of Howlin' Wolf Live in Germany 1964 provoked my favorite.

Koester was backstage at a blues festival in the early-sixties when Sonny Boy Williamson happened to run into Howlin' Wolf, who had just completed his set. Williamson sized up the imposing Wolf, sweating from the exertion of his performance.

Then he spoke.

“I got to tell you something, Wolf. You sing like a motherfucker!”

High praise, indeed. I'd be lying if I claimed not to want that kind of life.

Not that my quests for vinyl weren't fulfilling. 

There was the Saturday night in the early-eighties that I strolled down Michigan Avenue in a light snow, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. At Dearborn and Washington, I descended the stairs to the subway and paid my fare.

Midway through a cigarette, I was greeted by a train consisting of the green and cream-colored cars of the nineteen-fifties. They featured brown naugahyde-covered seats and incandescent lighting and were, in retrospect, almost intimate.

I took a seat, opened my bag and examined my latest treasures.

Engrossed in the liner notes to a “5” Royales or Siouxsie & the Banshees compilation, accompanied by the rhythmic click-clack of the car's wheels on steel and the slight rocking motion endemic to rail travel, I needed nothing else.

Amid the noisy rush of my youth, this was a lesson in how resonant and sublime quiet contentment could be.

Fast-forward to the twenty-first century. Perusing e-Bay and the hordes of online sellers just isn't the same. With instant access to a world of vendors, there is no anticipation, no near-misses. The product is there, first time every time. There is no sweat equity. It is utterly drama-free.

I didn't know it at the time, but I liked the drama. I liked flipping through thousands of albums over countless visits, which only intensified the shock and subsequent slow-motion joy when I finally went face-to-face with a copy of Paul Kelly's Dirt or Willie Hightower's If I Had a Hammer.

Not only did I like the drama, I miss it. For better or worse, life is different now.

My mother was really good at not taking things for granted. Hopefully, so am I.

Why I Support a Boycott of the NRA

I have an occasional interest in anthropology. It can be intensely interesting to learn of different cultures and how they processed the world around them. Which is the primary reason I read editorials by folk like Marc Thiessen, a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

After numerous showers, he has my begrudging respect. It takes a master magician (or illusionist as they prefer to be called nowadays) slash linguist to turn logic inside-out as expertly as Mr. Thiessen has.

In Thiessen's piece, he lauds the actions of Stephen Willeford, who by sheer coincidence happened to be across the street from a church that was under attack by a shooter armed with an assault rifle. Willeford was able to wound the attacker, who subsequently took off in his vehicle. Willeford gave chase, wherein the shooter crashed and then killed himself.

Which is all good and laudable. I wouldn't dream of pointing a finger at Mr. Willeford, who is obviously a hero.

Where Thiessen goes off the rails is that he implies this is how every mass shooting could end if we would just leave the NRA alone and arm every citizen of the United States. Kindly disregard the fact that this occurred in a sparsely-populated rural area and that this kind of conclusion is the exception and not the rule.

Above all, disregard what put an assault rifle in the shooter's hands in the first place.

Thiessen hides behind the hoary, old argument that “When companies (boycott the NRA), they are not boycotting lobbyists in Washington; they are boycotting upstanding citizens such as Willeford.”

Wow.

Really?

Because when I advocate for a boycott of the NRA, their lobbyists are at the very center of that boycott. As are NRA policy-makers and the unfortunate influence they have over our spineless and self-serving elected representation.

As is the NRA's indefensible refusal to back any kind of gun control measure whatsoever—no matter how marginal the effects to the law-abiding rank-and-file.

That is the NRA I'm boycotting.

I'm boycotting the NRA that doesn't want to outlaw bump stocks. That doesn't want universal background checks. That fights the implementation of smart gun technology. That doesn't want to close the gun show loophole. That doesn't want to raise the minimum age at which people can buy assault weapons.

And most heinously of all, the NRA that doesn't want to ban those assault weapons.

Because everything is fine just the way it is.

I am boycotting the NRA that wants to extend state-specific concealed carry rights nationwide, which I'm pretty sure flies in the face of Republican's default fall-back position when they want to duck a decision on a controversial issue.

 

I am boycotting the NRA that plainly and obnoxiously and without a shred of conscience manipulates a population through fear, because fear is good for business.

I am boycotting the NRA that has convinced generations of hunters that people like me don't care about them or their rights. Which must be the reason every piece of proposed gun reform legislation uses language like 'common sense' and 'sensible' and 'responsible' when describing their highly-specific reform.

I am boycotting the NRA that selfishly advances the argument that our gun problem isn't an epidemic which threatens public safety, but an infringement of gun owner's constitutional rights.

Will someone—anyone—please tell me when and where gun-owner's rights have been infringed upon? Exactly when did their right to keep and bear arms disappear?

Thiessen, I (in your words) demonize the NRA because they relentlessly and unswervingly fight to make the greatest number of guns available to the greatest number of people. Every day. Every week. Every month

You write that criticism “makes it harder to reach bipartisan agreement on solutions that could improve public safety without threatening the fundamental constitutional right of Americans to keep and bear arms.”

Hmmm.

Because aside from letting the NRA do whatever the hell it wants, I didn't know there was a bipartisan agreement to be had! Will you please leave a comment on this blog and tell me what the NRA is willing to compromise on? Because I am very, very eager to hear it.

I'll admit the NRA isn't the only entity responsible for the carnage which has become an almost daily occurrence in what is supposedly the end-all and be-all of human existence. Gun violence is complex; the net result of many things.

But when the house is on fire the first thing you do is put the out the fire.

Debating how or when the fire started can wait. As can the one on how to best fireproof the house.

Turning the United States into the O.K. Corral isn't the answer, as any upstanding, law-abiding NRA member should know. Especially after all those NRA-sponsored gun safety classes.

We must unplug the NRA.

Taking Stock

And I thought 2017 was bad. I have stopped watching Saturday Night Live because I no longer find Donald Trump funny. Everyday I realize anew he is an involuntarily-administered dose of the HIV virus.

In between tweeting obsessively, inserting himself into hypothetical life-or-death situations, assessing third-world countries and spending weekends in Florida, the Trump-whore has somehow managed to unplug the Environmental Protection Agency and moved to kill Planned Parenthood, the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and abolish net neutrality.

Given the incessant staff turnover and the time-consuming challenges of defending himself from innumerable investigations and law suits, it is—in its way—laudable. I'm sure Trump's predecessors are amazed at his ability to condense the demands of the presidency into a five-day work week.

But as King Donald would only be too eager to tell you, his accomplishments don't end there. (Don't tell him, but King Donald's biggest accomplishment is making George Bush number-two look like Abraham Lincoln.)

The anti-immigration president, husband to two foreign-born wives, has also installed a record number of federal judges for a first-year president. Which reminds me of a joke I heard in the early-eighties: You know what the difference is between true love and herpes? Herpes is forever.

Finally, our corporate banks are struggling—again.

It is King Donald's considered opinion that we need to take out our legislative jackhammer and break-up the regulatory speed bumps that inhibit these fine and upstanding institutions from harvesting the vast amounts of cash they feel is rightfully theirs.

Rich guys need money too, you know.

Lest you take offense to any of this, the nearest moron with a 'Make America Great Again' baseball cap will be only too happy to remind you: “He gave you a temporary tax break you ungrateful shithead! So shut the fuck up!”

This is only the tip of the iceberg. There exists so much more, with more yet to come.

A cashier at the local supermarket called me “hon" just last week. Maybe I should break into my happy dance.