Thinkin' again

I watched in fascination the other afternoon as the various flavors of ice cream from my rapidly melting Rainbow Cone slowly spilt over their less than adequate waffle shell, the multi-colored dairy streaming down my calloused and sun burnt hands in some sort of twisted Norman Rockwell adaptation. It was a moment that gave me pause; in truth I did find myself weighing the pros and cons of licking the sticky-sweet-ice-cream-soup off my fingers while a not-too-thin layer of diesel fuel and motor oil lurked beneath, but I also felt it served as a halfway decent metaphor for life. Some vague notions of a delicate balance between the tangy orange sherbet or sweet strawberry ice cream and the carcinogens I would inevitably ingest along with them seemed so poetic. Of course, after so many consecutive hours under a scorching Chicago summer sun I was probably thinking things only individuals under the influence of mind altering hallucinogens would find rational. Anyways, it was just a thought.

Mental Grab Bag

I had a wonderful discussion weeks ago with a friend at school during one of those obscenely late night porch conversations that have become a hallmark of my college career. During this particular exchange, we dealt with the nature v. nurture debate in regards to homosexuality- namely whether you are born with your sexual orientation (her position), whether it develops over time (my position) or whether it is a choice- a stance we both strongly disagreed with. My experiences would lead me to believe that only the most conservative- and ignorant- segment of our population would take such a dogmatic position. Our debate boiled down to this: I was unwilling to agree that there was something in our genetic makeup that predetermined our sexual orientation (something one must concede if he/she takes the position that you are born gay or straight) and she was unwilling to agree that something happens to make a person homosexual.

Ever since this discussion I have been trying to think of a better way to approach the topic, and a few days ago I came up with something I was satisfied with- an analogy. (In case I haven’t already demonstrated an overwhelming penchant for using them at this point, I should explain that I always use analogies- some reasonable and others comically incoherent.) For this subject, I used the analogy of taste buds. I don’t like lettuce. Most people do, I don’t. I never chose to dislike lettuce- eating reasonably healthy is made considerably more difficult without this friendly green vegetable at your disposal- but that’s life. At the same time, I don’t believe that I was born destined to dislike lettuce either. In 100 years, I don’t think scientists will be able to look at a blood sample of mine and determine that I had some gene which caused my distinct dislike for lettuce. I brought this up with my mental sparring partner the other night and she still disagreed, but for now I am comfortable with the explanation (or lack thereof) and wanted to write it down before I forgot about it. I am sure volumes of research results are available that cover this exact topic (the origins of homosexuality, not my distaste for lettuce) but neither me nor my friend have been willing to put forth the necessary effort to comb through any of it. Certainly psychologists (professional ones as opposed to amateur enthusiasts like me and my friend) would be better equipped to offer a more fact-based explanation. But I like mine.



Some other thoughts:

-My dad is moving out of the office he’s practiced law out of for at least a decade to relocate to another space down the hall. For the most part, it is an entirely unspectacular process- he has known for a long time and has been steadily organizing the war zone that was his desk and the surrounding area for the move tomorrow. Why I am thrilled about it: there are five attorneys in this office including my father, and over the years I have come to dislike one of them in particular. He is a crusty old man dripping with arrogance and nothing pleases me more than the thought of never having to deal with him again. I don’t mean to sound so negative- he is by all means a fantastic lawyer (and onetime local mayor)- but I have rarely encountered individuals as cold and unfriendly as him before, and I hope to keep it that way.

-A trio of journalists from the Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC) are in the office this morning to interview my dad on the Conrad Black trial currently taking place in Chicago. Two comments on this- first, that every time I hear “CBC” used I think of the “CDC” (Center for Disease Control) as though there were an outbreak of the Ebola Virus in our building. Second, Canadian accents are severely underrated. You hear people poke fun at the Canadian accent from time to time, every other syllable being that infamous long “A” or soft “O”, but it really it is a lovely accent. Subtle, I’ll admit, but something I have thoroughly enjoyed listening to this morning.

-My friend Nate made a post on his blog [http://sodiumtelluride.blogspot.com] the other day about how our group of high school friends seems to be drifting apart, and I would like to respond to that with a lengthy post of my own at some point. At the moment, though, I don’t think I know exactly how to go about explaining my thoughts on the matter. Look for that sometime in the relatively near future.

I'm in like Flynn, baby

Want to know what the kids are talking about these days? Listen to the John Tesh radio show. Here’s the latest by Nelly Furtado… (as a stripped version of “Say It Right” fades in)

That was the last thing I heard on the radio before getting out of my car last night. And yes, you read that correctly- the John Tesh radio show is going to tell you what the kids are talking about these days. That is the same John Tesh who:


A) wrote the single greatest sports theme song in the history of human existence, “Roundball Rock,” better known as the NBA on NBC theme song of the 1990’s. (Just a cherry on top of the sundae that was the Jordan-era Bulls)

B) after his conversion as a born-again Christian, recorded a number of delightful little albums, including such fan favorites as “Pure Gospel,” “Classical Music for Babies,” “A Deeper Faith,” and my personal recommendation, “The Power of Prayer and Worship”- it will have you bobbing your head in no time.

C) Played “new age” keyboard behind Yanni during the late 80’s



I could not think of one person alive better suited to tell me what the kids are talking about these days. Thank you, John Tesh.

In other news: I used to think that the absolute pinnacle of human achievement was reached by Arnold Palmer- not for his illustrious golf career, but because he has a drink named after him. The very complicated equation:

½ Iced tea + ½ Lemondade= Arnold Palmer.

In my eyes, that ranked somewhere slightly ahead of winning the Nobel Peace Prize, being ordained Pope, winning an Olympic gold medal or owning your own country. While reading the paper yesterday morning, though, I realized someone had actually surpassed the unsurpassable- they had an even cooler claim to fame than Mr. Palmer. Have you ever heard the expression, “In like Flynn?” I have always understood it to mean something along the lines of “I’m golden” or “set,” or any other way you might say A-Okay. Well the Tribune referenced the derivation of the phrase, and it struck me as unbelievable. In the 1940’s, Australian actor Errol Flynn was famous around Hollywood for his hard-partying lifestyle and sexual exploits. Apparently the phrase is a reference to his sexual prowess, first coined after his acquittal in February, 1943 of statutory rape charges. Now we (read I) here at OCDAMM (Of Cluttered Desks and Messy Minds) give a serious two thumbs down to statutory rape, but still find it unbelievable that nearly 50 years after his death, Errol Flynn’s legacy- namely his less righteous adventures- lives on in the form of that expression.

I was intrigued by this larger than life character, so I looked him up where all seekers of truth go- the shining beacon of accuracy better known as Wikipedia. Some fun facts about Flynn, at least according to the entry:


-Flynn considered Fidel Castro his friend

-Flynn (who died of a heart attack after a 2 week binge in Vancouver) was buried with six bottles of whiskey in his casket

-He was friends with L. Ron Hubbard (the father of scientology), and if I interpreted the entry correctly, may have shared some of his drug/sex/alcohol fueled exploits with him. If that isn’t reason enough to drop what you are doing right now and become a scientologist, I don’t know what it will take.

-Last but not least, it has been alleged that he was a spy for the Nazis.


Add it all up and you have one very interesting- albeit shamefully immoral- life. Errol Flynn, thank you for having given me something to write about this morning.

Music and Memories

I love the way we associate songs with experiences, tying our memories and music together mentally. I used to wonder how it was that people with similar musical tastes could disagree so strongly on one particular piece or another, but thinking about it now I would offer subconscious associations as a possible explanation. Sometimes it’s obvious when a song triggers a certain memory- my father is brought to the verge of tears every time he hears the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” with thoughts of a now deceased brother while I am instantly reminded of Mark Edward’s goofy mustache from Top Gun- but sometimes the association is much subtler. A song from a certain time period may evoke happy memories, maybe thoughts about a really fun wedding, your high school graduation or a particularly memorable vacation. I would speculate that most of these associations are positive ones, my father’s feelings toward “Unchained Melody” serving as a notable exception, which is part of why I enjoy them so much. There are no songs that make me think of a test I bombed, getting stitches or being sick. Other than wakes and memorials (which I think of every single time I hear bagpipes- I come from an Irish family with a penchant for dying young) music isn’t being played during most of our lowest points. I have also known people who had painful breakups with some longtime boyfriend or girlfriend and were constantly reminded of it whenever a certain song or songs came on. I suppose that represents another “negative” association we may make at one time or another between memories and music, but that seems to be more the exception than the rule. Regardless, I like the way it all tends to work out. I know that The Fray’s album “How to Save a Life” has approximately five bagillion (that’s a lot) positive memories attached to it for me (some stand out more than others) and that every time I hear Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” I will forever be reminded of the White Sox world series run last year. And that’s just fine by me.


On that note, it’s about damn time The Fray came out with a new album. I listen to such a wide variety of music that it is rare I find myself clamoring for a new release (Coldplay falls in that category too. I’m glad to hear they are recording again) but the two years since “How to Save a Life” first came out have seemed exceptionally long. Similarly, it seems unbelievable to me that Maroon 5 managed to wait five years between their debut album, “Songs About Jane” and their recently released sophomore effort, “It Won’t Be Soon Before Long.” Very few bands can pull a stunt like that- half a decade between their first and second albums- and still remain relevant in the pop music scene, but they managed to pull it off. Kudos.


I’m pulling the plug on this post before it gets too incoherent. Until the next time…

I Wonder if Casper the Friendly Ghost preferred Xzibit or Busta Rhymes

If it is true that simplicity is elegance, then it is time to pop the champagne and watch an Audrey Hepburn movie because this one’s pretty simple: After I was born, I was a baby. Unless you are now crumpled in a ball and rocking in the fetal position (ironic, huh?) after reading such a painfully obvious statement, we can examine what it means and why I said it. The real message sent with the phrase “I was a baby” does not come from what is written, but rather what is left unsaid. I did not write that I was a baby who leaned Democrat, resented Jane Austen or avoided green vegetables like the bubonic plague. I did not describe myself as uncoordinated, troublesome or messy. I was just a baby- a baby boy if you want to push it. One must decide between pink bonnets and blue sweaters at some point, and unavoidable anatomical differences may as well settle the dispute. But gender aside, babies are just babies- it is that simple. They eat and poop and play and not much else. And then they inevitably grow up. I know I certainly did- whether or not it always seems that way is a matter for another post. The fact is, though, that at some point we do take on characteristics that define who we are, characteristics beyond our “babyishness” and the pink or blue of our wardrobes.

One such characteristic, for me at least, is my race- I am white bordering on translucent. Think Casper with more hair. And I was never more aware of the color of my skin than this past weekend, driving with my sister through middle class suburbia while she blared T-Pain’s “Buy you a drink.” As the bass thumped along with the lyrics,

I Know The Club Close At 3

Whats The Chance A You Rollin Wit Me

Back To The Crib

Show You How I Live

Lets Get Drunk

Forget What We Did...

We In The Bed Like

Ooh Ooh Ohh, Ooh OohWe

In The Bed Like

Ooh Ooh Ooh, Ooh Ooh

I found myself thinking how strange everything seemed. Something about that music playing in that car (our Ford Escape may as well have been a ’94 station wagon) in that particular town stood out for me. It felt like such a surreal moment. The experience reminded me of something I saw on television a few days ago. I caught about ten minutes of some old MAD TV episode and they had a live musical performance featuring Method Man, Redman and a bunch of other rap artists I wasn’t hip enough to recognize. What made it memorable was the crowd. The show just had their studio audience- no more than 50 people and almost all of them white- cheering along. I have never seen a group of people look more uncomfortable or out of place in my entire life. Now I am not trying to pull a Tom Tancredo here and speak out against the perils of multiculturalism. Quite the contrary, I love seeing people from different backgrounds come together- even when the end result is as awkward as a bunch of middle-aged white people at a Method Man concert. I’m sure the spectators and the performers are all better off for the experience; plus I get the added benefit of having been able to watch the interaction play out on national television. God bless diversity, American media, and our Ford Escape (I really do love that car.)


Some other notes:
-While writing this post, I heard a few songs I liked, including Spymob’s “National Holiday” and The Districts’ “It’s Not Like Everyone’s My Friend.” Check them out.

-Yes, this was one of my high school math teachers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAw8thcZsgU

Let's go for a ramble

After David Halberstam's sudden passing a few weeks ago, one of my roommates recounted an article he'd once read about the prolific writer. According to this article, Halberstam had viewed most accomplished writers as being far too lazy, holding the opinion that success was enough to lead renowned literary figures to complacency. The Pulitzer prize winning journalist and author, though, too the opposite approachby tirelessly writing on a variety of topics until his death in April. As ESPN.com (it is easy to forget that Mr. Halberstam was a devoted sports writer in addition to his more widely read literary pursuits) columnist Michael MacCambridge wrote in his wonderful tribute piece, "To Halberstam, sports was never a step down":

"Some writers grow lazy as they grow more famous, but that's not what happened to Halberstam. Instead, he grew more prolific and, perhaps because of that, less disciplined. He always seemed to be rushing to the next assignment. "

Say what you will about a decline in the quality of Halberstam's later works, I think his singular ability to unrelentingly put words on the page. After all, you can't be a good writer if you never actually write anything. And so it is that I find myself here writing another blog entry with no particular topic in mind. Mr Halberstam's methodology shall be mine- at least for this afternoon. I guess I'm hoping I have one of those "Finding Forrester" moments where mindless typing eventually leads to a well-crafted essay. Unlikely, I know. At the very least, I can rest assured that no matter how worthless this entry may be, it won't be read by more than a handful of people. If the vast world of blogs were like the Nielsen ratings for television, I suppose I'd be much closer to static on the screen than I am to American Idol's season finale. Or Home Shopping Network reruns at 4 AM. Or a public access channel broadcasting last week's town council meeting...

Easily ten minutes have passed since I wrote that last paragraph, and still I have nothing to write. So instead I will share meaningless fodder:

-A younger guy walked into the office a short while ago and sat at the desk next to me. He is currently looking at excel spreadsheets and assorted case files on his computer, which leads me to believe he works here in some capacity. But the fact that I have never seen him before concerns me. And he is wearing emo glasses. Needless to say, I feel sufficiently threatened.

-I am hungry. Very very hungry. My problem, as is so often the case when I am at this office, is that I don't know where to go for food. My options:

1. The Corner Bakery- sort of like one of those quasi-friends you like, but not enough to keep you from getting tired of seeing them. I have had the same meal (chili in a bread bowl) from Corner Bakery two days in a row now and three would be pushing it.
2. Subway- Always a solid bet, but never manages to blow me away.
3. The Marquette Inn- the only non-chain restaurant in my building's vicinity. I actually like the Marquette more for its atmosphere than its food. For one thing, it isn't exactly the type of eatery that draws in the stuffy suit-wearing crowd that is a hallmark of the Corner Bakery during the lunchtime rush. As far as I'm concerned, that's why it seems so relaxed-people aren't scurrying to make court dates or meetings. Furthermore, most lawyers and businessmen would never think to take a client to lunch there, which means when people are eating together you can assume they are friends. On top of all that, the waitresses know what they're doing (if you order something on the menu that people don't tend to like, they will tell you straight up not to order it), are uber-friendly, and keep the place running smoothly. Unfortunately, the quality of the food is average at best (I guess there are more then one reason reason not to take a client there.)

As this post has proven to be a disappointment, I am going to roll the dice and head to the lobby- perhaps by the time my four floor elevator descent is over inspiration will strike and dictate where I end up eating.

Violence and CPS Students

As Blair Holt lay bleeding to death in the aisle of a CTA bus Friday afternoon, his last words to the paramedics desperately trying to save him were to tell his parents that he loved them. The Julian High School student had been shot in the abdomen while pushing a girl out of the way of gunfire. He was 16 years old. Exactly eight months earlier, Fernando Haywood was shot and killed on the Far South Side, less than one week into his junior year at Fenger High School. He was 17. In between these two slayings, 25 other students in the Chicago Public School system were killed- bringing the total to 27 for the academic year. That is one child killed every ten days. How can we even begin to make sense of a statistic as staggering as that?

When Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold massacred 12 students at Columbine High School on April 20, 1999 it created a media frenzy. National news outlets carried the story for weeks on end while the country tried to come to grips with this horrific event. Only a handful of events in American history have received more coverage.

Meanwhile, some of the boys and girls killed in Chicago barely managed to make page 1 of the metro section. Of course, it is an unfair comparison to equate media coverage of these killings to that of the Columbine massacre. But that doesn't mean the lack of attention paid to the various Chicago victims has been warranted. All too often it seems we approach these murders as just another act of senseless violence- another bad neighborhood, another gun, another kid dead before their 18th birthday. We sit and read about students like Blair and Fernando- shake our heads- and continue on to advice columns or stock tips, sports scores and politics. Perhaps we are just desensitized to youth violence ever since the shooting at Columbine; maybe that is why we can read a story like Blair Holt’s and move on immediately to “Is Offbeat Stylist Cut Out to be a ‘Shear Genius’?” without skipping a beat. Then again, can I really blame us for not taking to the streets every time someone innocent is killed? A look at some of the stories from this morning’s metro section:

-“Teen Held in Fenton Plot” (A high school student arrested for planning a school shooting)
- “Victims Families Confront Brown’s ‘Killer’ Luna” (families of victims of the infamous 1993 Brown’s Chicken massacre are seeking the death penalty for the killer)
- “Beating Victim’s Account Disputed”
-“Mistrial Declared in Maywood Killing”
-“Teens Face Hate-Crime Charge for Anti-gay Flier”
-“Slain Teens Funeral Site Moved to a Larger Venue”
-“3 Officers Are Charged in Taped Beating at Bar”
-“Teen Accused in Bomb Scare”

As it turns out, all of those stories came before the obituary section where, ironically enough, Leonard Eron's life was chronicled. Dr. Eron was the renowned psychologist who first demonstrated a link between watching violence on television and being more aggressive and violence-prone.

So what are we to make of all of those stories? Hate and violence permeates our news, and it seems there is nothing we can do about it. That may very well be the case, but I'd like to think otherwise- it is too depressing not to. For one thing, all of us can get angry. Senseless violence cannot be erased from our collective future if we continue to meet it with steely indifference in the present. We can only relegate this bloodshed to a sad and dark chapter of our past by confronting it somehow in the here and now. Maybe that won’t happen until the names of victims stop reading as Delmont and Dijohn, Lupita and Tashema, and start reading as Tom and Chris, Emily and Sarah. But maybe I’m not giving us enough credit- maybe we can do something about it now. Mailing Blair Holt’s yearbook photo to every single NRA lobbyists or pro-gun member of Congress might be a place to start.