I Demand More Standardized Tests

Teachers at 2nd school boycott ISAT
Activists say they know of 1,000 kids at 57 schools who are also skipping the test.
-Linda Lutton, Chicagopublicradio.org, February 1, 2014

This is an outrage. I can’t believe that Chicago Public Schools parents and teachers would act like this. I’m already deeply concerned that this is the last year for the test in question, the Illinois Standards Achievement Test (ISAT). What if public schools in Chicago actually started testing less? It’s too horrible to think about.

I demand MORE standardized testing for public school children. Because I love tests and test scores. I need tests – and so do you.

How did we pick a school for our kids? By looking at test scores. How do we evaluate the quality of a school? Test scores. I don’t know if my principal is doing a good job, so I better go look at our test scores. Sure, in Atlanta and DC you can buy test scores, but in Chicago, the only way to get test scores is via sweet, wonderful standardized tests.

You, me, and everyone we know carefully researched schools’ test scores around the time our oldest kids turned three, if not before. Well, this is true for those of us who stayed in the city and opted for public schools. The rest of our friends got so frightened looking at their neighborhood school’s scores that they decamped for the burbs or sent their kids to private schools. Private schools aren’t big on standardized tests. We know they’re good because they cost a lot. Also, because the Mayor and the President – both of whom are really concerned about inequality – sent their kids to one.

We pored over that big catalog of school info we got from the library. Checked out the schools test scores online. Looked at websites that compared schools. Not a single one of these resources compared schools based on how happy or well adjusted the kids were. That’s what counseling and Zoloft are for! Worse, we got our minds turned inside out because the State of Illinois and the Board of Education changed standards often enough that it was impossible to make apples to apples comparisons between schools. Of course, in doing so we totally bought the idea that standardized test scores are a useful way to compare schools in the first place. Because we LOVE test scores.

We don’t usually say that we love standardized tests. We use our clever secret code. For example, we can say that we want our children to be “challenged” in school. So clever. We don’t mean challenged like Malala Yousafzi or like the kids on the West Side of Chicago who have to cross gang borders to get to their new school because their neighborhood school was shut. What we mean is that our kids are super smart, super creative, and super artistic. They’re like Stephen Hawking, Steve Jobs, and Steve Martin all rolled into one. They’re Mega-Steves. And Mega-Steves need a special type of environment in which they can thrive. To be clear: it’s not that I think my Mega-Steves should be tested, but I want all the other kids in the school tested to make sure my Mega-Steves will reach their full potential. 

It’s ok, no one but we affluent white people here. We can be honest. Once all of our kids are in a school, we will speak up and announce that we’re against testing. After all, if it weren’t for the time spent on testing, our kids would have time to learn more about music, poetry, and other arts. In the current curriculum, we simply don’t have time for those things. We have to focus on STEM subjects. And that’s as it should be. STEM makes for nice salaries. Arts make for nice hobbies.

This isn’t just for our kids. Standardized test scores are important for the community. Communities do best when they share the common bond of rising property values. Property values in Chicago rise based on the test scores of the local school.  Without testing, property values fall. No one can get a second mortgage to add 900 square feet to their kitchen. They leave, their house goes rental, and suddenly the Starbucks and Forever Yogurt decide to open somewhere else. What will stop this? More standardized test scores.

When high school rolls around, you can bet that we’ll be looking at standardized test scores again. All of us who love test scores love high schools. In addition to the mandated tests, we can also look at data from the SAT and the ACT. There are so many good numbers to obsess about – and that’s before we get to the most important thing: college placement data. There is no way I’m sending my kids to a school that isn’t ranked well by US News and World Report. How are they going to get into a top five business school and earn a six figure salary?

I just want them to be able to afford a nice house in a neighborhood with good schools.

Help the Ravinia Festival Choose Its Music!

Every summer, the Ravinia Festival in Highland Park, IL attracts about 600,000 listeners to some 120 to 150 events that span all genres from classical music to jazz. We’re pleased to announce our 2014 schedule. Now we need YOU! We’re looking for people to help us choose artists for our popular music performances – simply answer the ten questions below to see if YOU qualify to be part of our team!

1. In your opinion, what is the purpose of live music?

A. Soothing background noise by which to enjoy with friends 365 Brand Soy Crispettes with Sea Salt on a Williams-Sonoma picnic blanket.
B.  Soothing background noise by which to enjoy with friends Trader Joe’s Ruggedly Awesome Cowboy Bark served from Sur La Table picnicware
C. Soothing background noise by which to discuss with friends the advantages of housekeepers from Guatemala over housekeepers from Slovenia.
D. All of the Above

2. What is the tagline of your favorite music radio station?

A. Good Times, Great Oldies
B. Feel Good Hits of the 70s
C. Traffic and Weather Together on the 10s
D. None of the Above / all my music comes from cassettes purchased at Sam Goody’s in Northbrook Court

3. Toto is playing on Friday, August 29th. What year was their breakthrough album Toto VI released?

A. 1982, when you were 26
B. 1982, when you were 37
C. 1982, when you were 50
D. 2006, year that President Niyazov die and glorious American music was come to Turkmenistan

4. Chicago has been a key location in the development of which types of music?

A. Blues
B. House
C. Post-punk
D. alt.country
E. What’s Chicago?

5. Darius Rucker is playing on Saturday, June 28th. for the second year in a row. How many members of the program committee do you guess the former Hootie and the Blowfish front man have to sleep with for these gigs?

A. All of them, twice.
B. All of them, but only once.
C. Only one, but he threatened to tell everyone
D. None. It was mostly just oral.

6. The Moody Blues are playing on September 4th and again on September 5th. What explains the enduring popularity of this band among Baby Boomers?

A. The single “Nights in White Satin” came out in 1967, the year they first tried dope
B. The single “Tuesday Afternoon” came out in 1968, the year they first tried acid
C. The single “Gemini Dream” came out in 1981, the year they first became Republican
D. The reunion single “December Snow” came out in 2003, the year they first tried Cialis

7. Hall and Oates are playing on Sunday, June 22. Which one is Hall and which one is Oates?

A. Hall is the guitarist with long blonde hair and Oates is the bassist with black curly hair.
B. Oates is the guitarist with long blonde hair and Hall is the bassist with black curly hair.
C. Trick question: as men in their late 60s, they simply switch hairpieces every night.
D. Wait, which is the one that had the porn star ‘stache?

8. Match the artist with the US overseas detention center in which they were played as part of an  “enhanced interrogation:”

A. Toad the Wet Sprocket (July 14)                                                        1. Abu Ghraib, Iraq
B. Train (August 22, 23)                                                                           2. Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
C. Michael McDonald (August 29)                                                         3. Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti
D. ZZTop (August 28)                                                                               4. Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean
E. Jeff Beck (August 28)                                                                           5. Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan

9. James Taylor is playing on June 26th and 27th. Why is “You’ve Got A Friend” your favorite song?

A. It was playing when you danced with your mom at your Bar Mitzvah
B. It was playing when you danced with your dad at your Bat Mitzvah
C. It was playing when you danced with your cousin at prom
D. It was hummed by the mohel after you converted for your darling Rivka

10. Ravinia is accessible by car and public transportation. What is the best way to get there?

A. Drive, and park in one of the pay lots.
B. Drive, park in a remote lot and use the convenient shuttle service
C. Take the Metra Union Pacific North Line right to the front gate
D. Take your medicine, stop talking to your dead husband, and enjoy  the ride in the home’s van.

Sport Futility Vehicles

The Impotence of Being Earnest

Like many fathers, I worry that my own narrow interests and hobbies will be passed on to my sons and that he will grow up without a well rounded education in manly things. Thus, as I’ve done for the last few Februarys, I feigned interest first in the Superbowl and then in cars, which put us last weekend at the Chicago Auto Show.

Late in our visit, we decided to try the mini test track in the Chrysler/Dodge/Fiat/Jeep area. (Pictures of these areas are available elsewhere.) This was a surprisingly popular attraction, given that it was essentially a trade: you give Chrysler an incredible amount of personal information (you could save typing by just letting a foreign owned corporate behemoth scan your drivers’ license!) and they let you sit in the passenger seat of one of their cars on a tiny track for 30 seconds. This seemed really…

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2013: My Year in Music That Was Better Than Yours

About a year ago, I discovered an alarming conversational trend: I spent an awful lot of time talking to other parents about Costco and the deals and products found therein. I’d formed very strong opinions on the merits of the boneless skinless chicken breasts in the meat section versus the individually quick frozen breasts in the freezer section. In one particular conversation, I tried to change topics and mentioned some concert tickets I just bought. “Ugh,” one mom said, “we’re just too old to go to concerts anymore.” Others nodded. I felt as if she’d hit me with her giant mom purse, the full weight of the goldfish crackers and Purell smacking me in the face. There I was, in the tail end of my 30s and discovering that my friends were giving up. I drove home in my four cylinder brown Honda with little footprints on the seatbacks feeling very depressed.

I’ve had these moments of realizing how pathetic I’d become before; most recently when it occurred to me in quick succession that buying “dry scalp” shampoo and “relaxed fit” jeans was letting marketing folks make me feel better about being fat and having dandruff. There was also the time my wife told me I was barrel chested then swore she meant it as compliment. And this had nothing to do with the time she came back from getting her hair done and I told her she looked like Cheetara from Thundercats.

One day last year, I was really enjoying Spoon’s “I Turn My Camera On” and I realized it came out in 2005. Not coincidentally, my oldest son was born in 2005. I’d thought I still had relevant and interesting taste in music. I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t one of those parents who hadn’t noticed that Sting became a punchline in the mid 90s at the same time that U2 became a mediocre U2 cover band.  I was wrong. I’d noticed that U2 became a cover band, but then failed to notice that Wilco hadn’t been a scrappy underdog Chicago band in an entire decade. Some folks are trapped in the musical world of their college years, and I was trapped in the musical world of pre-children. That’s not better.

While I can’t help getting up at 6:30 on a Saturday or having to command another human to urinate, my waning musical relevance was something I could change. I dug out my headphones, subscribed to some podcasts, and started actively seeking out concerts. Just not ones that took place on school nights. Or might not have a place to sit, or featured too many kids dancing, or started after 9pm. But then, all I needed was a babysitter, earplugs, shoes with good ankle support, convenient parking, and a low calorie beverage and I was ready to rock.

My taste in music comes with a big caveat: I just don’t care how sad some twentysomething with a Pennsylvania Dutch beard is about losing his girlfriend. For God’s sake, Bon Iver – you’ll meet someone else. I can’t understand what you’re so upset about. And if I want music I can’t understand, I want it to be because I don’t speak Tamasheq. Or French. For that, there was the best concert I saw all year – Bombino at Martyrs‘. His guitar spoke to me. It said “hold onto your pants, because I’m trying to rock them off.” Luckily for other people in the audience, I could execute arrhythmic knee bends in my comfort-waisted jeans without them dropping. Probably because of this great elastic belt I got at Target. Rock on!

If Bombino was the show of the year, my song of the year might have been Parquet Courts’ “Master of My Craft.” My sons heard the title as “Master of Minecraft,” which meant they thought it was a pretty great song, too. “Master” has all of the key elements of a great rock song: barely intelligible yet catchy lyrics, a driving guitar, and a singer of exceedingly limited range. If you want beautiful singing, get a canary. This song makes me want to engage in some full-out erratic and awkward dancing, which I would do but for the fear of a witness calling an ambulance and looking for one of those defibrillator kits.

“Master of My Craft” was rivalled in play by “Rouse Yourself” by JC Brooks and the Uptown Sound.  In food culture, the locavore movement is all about showing how connected you are to the earth and your community by buying crappy chard at prices that no one else on earth or in your community can afford.  Thankfully, there’s no equivalent in music – the local stuff is great, and costs the same as the GMO frankentunes Big Music is trying to shove down our gullets. JC Brooks and the Uptown Sound is a killer Chicago band on Bloodshot Records, a label that is a block from my house. How’s that for local, you foodie mope? This is what going local is all about: feeling superior to everyone else — and I just put my carbon footprint on your ass.

I further burnished my locavore cred when I caught the great Chicagoan Mavis Staples at the Hideout Block Party. You really can’t feel old or slow when the 74 year old performer on stage is openly joking about this being the first concert since her knee replacement surgery. I worry that my hairline is beating a hasty retreat to my ears, and Mavis is belting out both classic and new songs with her grandkids in the wings. Following her resurgence in the last couple of years has been inspirational.

Speaking of inspirational – as is well documented, I am not a fan of God. No one should spend a significant portion of their weekend praising such a petty, mean-spirited, and vengeful deity — much less writing songs to and about him. Mavis Staples and the Staple Singers are the big exception to this. Even their most downbeat songs are optimistic, and the upbeat ones are ecstatic. It makes me wonder why anyone would listen to sappy heavy handed Christian “rock” when there’s still gospel music in the world. (Side note: the best cover song I discovered last year was the Staple Singers doing Talking Heads’ “Slippery People.”)

When I went back and reviewed my purchase history, I noticed that I only bought about a dozen new albums during all of last year, and went to a similar number of shows. Not all of those were new – I drag my wife to Steve Earle and Amadou and Maryam whenever they’re in town, and I bought Neko Case’s and the Arcade Fire’s new albums. But I did get to take my kids to a couple of shows, in the hope that someday they’ll have their own years in music that’ll be better than mine. And in 2014, I’m going to do better. I also just bought two pairs of regular fit jeans.

 *please follow this blog. Imaginary friends are important. You can share it by clicking on one of the links below. You can receive future posts via e-mail by clicking “follow this blog” in the upper right. Thanks!

 

 

A Field Guide to Chicago’s Deadliest Cars

Welcome to Chicago! Maybe you’re a tourist, or maybe you’re a local out who’s finally given up on our custer-flucked Ventra system and bought a car. It’s a bold step braving our streets anytime of year, but especially in the winter. It’s not the snow, the salt, the potholes, or the taxis. It’s not the extortionate parking meters, the red light cameras, the speed cameras, or the exploding water mains. As Jean-Paul Sartre, said “the hell of Chicago’s streets is other people.” Ok, he was bitter because Chicago’s own Nelson Algren was tapping Simone de Beauvoir at the time. But Sartre wasn’t wrong. Think about it: there’d be no traffic if there weren’t other people. But then when would you get to practice cursing?

While there are a lot of things one can do to ensure one’s safety on Chicago’s roads – staying the hell away from the grotesquely misnamed “Magnificent Mile” is one idea – the best thing you can do is engage in some profiling. Not racial profiling. Only the police and department stores can do that. I’m talking about car profiling. Just like my mother used to ask if the Asian kids were in my math class, you can tell a lot about people by what they drive. Provided herewith are the absolute most dangerous vehicles in Chicago.

(all photos are from actual Chicago-area Craigslist postings)

The Mid 90s Honda Civic Tuner
Common Name: Probable Cause
Danger Level: Extreme

The most lethal car in Chicago. Unable to afford a real sports car, your local thug has taken an unassuming compact and turned it into the instrument of your demise. What kind of person would add custom paint, a custom spoiler, and fancy wheels to a $2500 car? Someone with a CRIPPLING inferiority complex. Someone who is going to blow off stop signs, try to pass you from the right turn lane at red lights, and is most definitely going to take any attempt to pass them as an affront to their manhood. Worse, they can’t see. They have reclined the driver’s seat to near horizontal in order to obscure the fact that they are 5’6 and 140 lbs (5’8 and 160 when wearing rigid Bulls cap and giant gold chain). They are on a hair trigger, ready to strike violently against anyone who points out the absurdity of their existence. You must never flip off a driver of these cars, or even raise an eyebrow in their direction. Note that although the car in the picture has custom paint, these cars inevitably have mismatched body panels. Probably because the original panels were smashed by hitting people like you. Avoid at all costs. See also: mid-90s Acura tuners.

Early 00’s Pontiac Grand Prix
Common Name: No Money, No Problems
Danger Level: Extreme

At least the Honda Civics were good cars to start with. The early 2000s were the nadir of American car manufacturing, and the low point of that low point was Pontiac. Unable to decide if it was making sports cars or sedans, or whatever the hell an Aztec was, Pontiac decided that at least they wouldn’t waste time carefully assembling their vehicles. Thus, these cars have only two things going for them: they have a lot of power in the low gears and they’re dirt cheap at any of the shady used lots on Western Ave. Somewhere in Chicago right now, some jackass is gunning it off the line in his Grand Prix. Seconds later, a poorly assembled bearing will crumble, sending bits of metal and possibly an entire wheel through the windshield of a nearby car. Don’t let that be you. This car is worth maybe $1.49. It’s not insured. The driver literally has nothing to lose. See also: just about any Pontiac.

Late Model Buick
Common Name: Not So Loud!
Danger Level: Extreme

Note that no model name is indicated. Like most people born after Truman was President, I know nothing about Buicks or why anyone would drive one. When GM was eliminating brands a few years ago, they kept Buick around solely because it sold well in China. Let’s pause here to review what we know about China for a moment. (A) Chinese people are the biggest consumers of tiger penis and rhino horns in the world (B) Chinese media occasionally reprint Onion stories as news. (C) China has traffic that makes the Circle Interchange look like the Autobahn. So why would you want a car that’s popular with people who will buy anything, believe anything, and can’t get anywhere in their cars? Of course, I learned all of this from the internet, which is largely unknown to the target demographic for Buicks in America: people in no particular hurry to be anywhere but home for dinner by 4pm. Still, you might ask how dangerous something as big and slow moving as a Buick could be. You know what else was big and slow moving? The iceberg that hit the Titanic. See also: something called an “Oldsmobile”

Late Model Minivan (read carefully below)
Common Name: IUDs Expire?!
Danger Level: Extreme

There are two problems with having more than two children. First, you are compelled to move from playing man defense to zone. Second, factoring in car seats, you can no longer fit them in a sedan. Lots of urban moms manage to navigate Chicago streets in their minivans. With nerves of steel, she can focus on the road while Quinoa and Zachary scream that they’ve already seen this episode of Phineas & Ferb, ignore the sickly feeling of recently expelled GoGurt oozing through her hair, and clench her nostrils against the olfactory assault that can only come from a toddler who ate an entire box of raisins while everyone else was making hand turkeys at craft time. No problem. But I urge you to look closely at that minivan. What color are the plates? Is there a sticker that says “My Child is an Honor Student at John C. Mellencamp Middle School?” Is there any chance at all that the minivan is from INDIANA? Exercise EXTREME CAUTION.

In their native environment, I’m certain that Hoosier moms can manage the noises, smells, and general vileness of parenthood while concentrating on the road. But on the roads of Chicago, thick with cars and absent the soothing repetition of corn fields they are DEADLY. The sight of tall buildings stops them. Short buildings stop them. The presence of minorities surprises them. Suddenly the logic that tells them that three right turns make up for a missed left escapes them and they have but one thought on their sleep deprived minds: KILL KILL KILL. see also: drivers from Michigan and Wisconsin.

Comically Huge (not actual model name) Lexus / Infiniti SUV
Common Name: Queen of the Carpool
Danger Level: EXTREME

Say what you will about minivans. You have to have a lot of faith in your driving abilities and confidence in your self image to drive one. For all other moms, there’s the luxury SUV. Though she can’t see over the wheel, there are blind spots as big as basketball courts, and the thing can’t stop in less than a quarter mile, Mommy is most definitely not going to lose in an accident. And then one day, she’ll be tapping her feet to “Brand New Day” and accidentally hit the gas pedal. Or she’ll just be miffed that everyone liked Jen’s cake pops better than her gluten free Chocolate Ginger Crinkles even though that bitch totally had her mother in law make them and they were on toothpicks for Christ’s sake and who the hell does that and then….BAM. That V-8 is going to push 43 tons of Japanese luxury right up your deck lid and onto your roof. See also: every “luxury” sport utility vehicle.

Late Model Corvette
Common Name: The Codpiece
Danger Level: Extreme

This is the car driven by the guy who bought his second wife the giant Infiniti SUV. That acupuncture bunk is a cash cow for his chiropractic practice! He deserves a fancy car, yet he can’t quite manage the payments on a Porsche. Those are for real doctors. Besides, the wife’s been really good not making fun of his little problem, and the ‘Vette puts the spring in his step when her Pilates class can’t. Nothing better than dropping the top, cranking the Zep and cruising down the Kennedy. Except what’s the point of having a long, powerful, pounding red … car if no one can see it? Speed up to draw attention, and then slow down and change lanes so your next ex will see there’s still more pepper than salt up top.  God help you if you’re between Mr. Half Staff and the hygienist he’s hot for in the left lane. See also: Ford Mustang

 

I hope this brief guide helps you have a safe and enjoyable trip through Chicago. Next week: why a beat up 2002 brown Accord is the best car ever.

*please follow this blog. Imaginary friends are important. You can share it by clicking on one of the links below. You can receive future posts via e-mail by clicking “follow this blog” in the upper right. Thanks!

Apple Makes Useless Products*

I went to a parent education night at my kids’ school the other week. The first session was on the kindergarten reading curriculum. As I sat trying to keep my butt centered on the impossibly small chairs, my phone buzzed. One of the moms sent me a text: “this is boring.” A short, silly text conversation ensued. There I was, a grown up doing the same thing I did when I was in grammar school 30 years earlier — passing notes to a girl and trying not to laugh. The only difference was that I was using a piece of technology to do it that would have seemed like a miracle in 1980. Ok, I also wasn’t cracking a thin film of Oxy 10 when I smiled, or raking out the Martin Riggs ‘do with my fingers between messages.

As it happened, the next session was on using technology in the classroom. Two teachers demonstrated a number of iPad apps to the small gathering of parents. There was an app that taught kids how to form block letters, one that allowed kids to collaboratively read a book, and a couple of math games.The parents dutifully took notes and poked carefully at the devices, like chimps with a new treat in their pen. As the session loosened into a discussion, the group seemed to resolve that the iPad was integral to their children’s education, that it was important for kids to have access to this technology, and – of course- that we were holding a sleek glossy slab of future in our simian hands.

This is crap. No iPad app, no matter how whizbang the graphics or euphonious the sound, is going to have the slightest bearing on my children’s academic performance, their college readiness, professional success, future earnings, or emotional well being and happiness. And as a middle class white parent  I know that all of those things are  intrinsically linked.

I’ve seen this future before, in the past.  BASIC class on the Apple IIe in 1985 and IIGS in 1988.  Word processing on a PS/2 in the early 90s. Accessing the early internet on a VT100 terminal in 1993. Teaching myself HTML 1.0 in 1995. All of these things were supposed to be “the future,” and would no doubt ensure my academic success, college readiness, well-being, appeal to women, etc. by increasing my “technological literacy.” Except that I became fluent in languages that no one speaks anymore.

10 ? “Waste of Time”
20 GOTO 10
RUN

Humor at its most BASIC level. Ha. What if I’d taken trombone, or woodshop, or French instead? The language or tools I’d learned to use would still be useful. Does anyone think that when our kids enter the workforce in 15 or 20 years they’ll use anything like an iPad? Are you reading this on Netscape Navigator running on Windows 3.1? Meanwhile, the school will spend gobs of money in a cycle of buying, maintaining, and replacing obsolete relics of the future past. In 1990 or so, my high school eliminated 1/2 the floor space of its library for an IBM PS/2 computer lab. Three years later (or less), they were wholly obsolete. I’m sure my parents and all the others thought the lab was a great idea. I didn’t retain a single thing from that lab, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Though, to be fair, the only thing I retained from high school was that one shouldn’t pick on things, a lesson that applies both to skincare and interpersonal relationships.

The only technology experience I got that was useful for longer than six months was when I worked in a satellite office and the tech support in the main office realized I could work a Philips screwdriver and a speakerphone at the same time (working with a lot of Jews sets the manual dexterity bar low). I replaced case fans, hard drives, and added RAM – in the process learning how to poke around the inside of a computer.

This is where current  technology – particularly Apple – fails. The alleged beauty of Apple products is that they’re simple to use – because Apple hides all of the technology in a slick interface and tightly sealed box you can’t poke around in at all. There’s no problem solving, no creative solutions. There’s apps for that. Learning how to tap your fingers on a piece of glass and trace letters with  your finger isn’t learning a damned thing about technology. You know how I know? Because my dad can use an iPad. In a land of digital natives, my dad is a Roanoke settler. He resisted automatic online bill pay because he wasn’t sure what would happen if the payment date fell on a Sunday. He waits until the SD card in his camera is full, then takes it to Walgreens and prints all of the pictures. In a Spotify world, my dad is an 8 Track of “A Question of Balance.” And he can use an iPad.

There’s no question that tablets are fun to use, but the slickness of the interface seems like it would actually inhibit learning. There’s no exploration, no problem solving and no room for happy accidents — Apple’s entire ecosystem is designed to avoid such things. The games are repetitive, linear, and mostly rely on pattern recognition and a feedback mechanism as unsophisticated as a slot machine – press a button, something happens, and then lights and sound!  Swab the drool from your chin and do it again.

At one point during the workshop, the teacher gestured to the bookcase along wall. “Those things, they’re all going to be gone. All the books are going to be on this,” she said, holding up her iPad. She’s probably right. And I don’t have a problem with e-books. But is my kid reading the same text on a screen versus a page advancing his STEM skills? Does it matter if the flat surface with letters on it glows or not? Is my school spending boatloads of money on tablets and fancy apps to share books when they could do the same with a three dollar paperback and some sticky notes? I mean sure, if the experience of reading on a screen is going to positively impact my sons’ academic performance, college readiness, future earnings, and sperm count, I’m all for it. But I have serious suspicions.

Are we absolutely certain that parents and teachers don’t like these things for the same reasons the kids do? They’re new, they’re shiny. Apple creates aspirational goods that are relatively affordable. All the cool kids have one, and Steve Jobs equals GENIUS. At least, that’s what they said about the Apple IIe.

I probably could’ve had a business like Steve Jobs if only I’d played Lemonade Stand more seriously.

*a friend told me I could drive traffic to my blog by baiting Apple fanboys. Seemed worth a shot.

**please follow this blog! You can share it by clicking on one of the links below. You can receive future posts via e-mail by clicking “follow this blog” in the upper right. Thanks!

Governor Blagojevich’s Celebrity Help Line

Dear Governor Blagojevich,

Lately, girlz don’t want anything 2 do with me. I don’t know what it is. I used to be very popular! I’m handsome, I have a good singing voice, and I can dance well 2. I have lots of good guy friends but I feel like I’m invisible to women. What’s going on? 

Sincerely,
Robin Thicke
Canada, United States

First, please call me Rod. And welcome to my new column! I am so happy to be off dish duty – and this sure does break up the monotony of prison life. Once I learned how to do my own braids, it’s been pretty dull around here. Oh well – what could be more exciting than providing advice to celebrities? And Robin, I’m especially happy to help the man whose song dominated the summer of 2013.

The thing you have to realize is this: until a couple of weeks ago, no one over the age of 25 knew anything about you or your music (Boy, I wish I could go back to that kind of anonymity!) Then you were on the Video Music Awards on MTV – both of which are also ignored by people over 25 – but this time, you were letting a girl half your age rub the wrinkles out of your suit with her butt. While you were still wearing the suit. Clips and photos were everywhere. Even people old enough to have mortgages saw it, though not until the next morning when they had to find it on Youtube after hearing about it on NPR.

I’ve got girls not that much younger than Miley Cyrus. Now, I may be a morally bankrupt lying scumbag, but I’m not a perverted morally bankrupt lying scumbag.  Me and all the other dads out there are going to tell our daughters to keep away from you. No one wants to think about some 36 year old man trying to get it on with their girls. Even worse, they don’t like thinking about their girls getting a weird infection after she gets dry cleaning residue twixt her nethers. And what is with that suit anyway? Were you visited by a referee from the All Gay NFL of the future and liked his look?

But let’s go to the big picture here, Robin. It’s not just your actions, it’s your words. I listened to “Blurred Lines” a couple times before lights out the other night. You can’t call a woman “bitch.” I extorted a children’s hospital for money, and I still had an approval rating of 9% when I was impeached  (turns out 9% of Illinois is old people I gave free train passes).  You know what my approval rating would’ve been if I’d called girls “bitch?” Zero. Worse, you let Pharrell Williams into your song and he ALSO refers to the girl as “bitch.” Hillary Clinton once called my good friend Tony Rezko a slum landlord, but if he had called her a bitch back, I would have kicked him and the bags of cash he got from shakedown scams out of my office. Everyone has their limits.

I’m really uncomfortable with the whole message of your song. You’re calling this girl a bitch, but then insisting again and again (because there’s only about 12 words in your 4 minute song) that she’s a good girl. So the  “blurred lines” come from the fact that she is apparently wearing jeans that don’t require steaming? Is that because you invented the butt-based wrinkle removing system Ms. Cyrus used on the VMA? Kidding of course. No one here in the joint gets my humor. It’s going to be a long twelve years.

Robin, just because a girl wears tight jeans doesn’t mean that you can “know she wants it.” Maybe just likes wearing tight jeans. I knew this girl once who wore tight jeans because she said that when her butt looked good, she looked good. This girl had a face like a horse. The jeans were just her way to direct your attention and stop offering her apples.

You’re coming across as a little creepy, and I know creepy. I’ve been a bookie and a boxer and I only got political office because someone owed my father in law a favor, but I’ve never had women dancing around me in plastic like they were dolls I didn’t finish taking out of the package.  You know, I’m a singer, too. Sometimes I do my Elvis bit for the guys in my ward and sing “Big Hunk O’ Love.” A classic! The King knows its all about the wink-wink-nudge-nudge. He wouldn’t be bragging about his manhood in balloon letters. You gotta be subtle, like me. I told people I was blacker than President Obama and let them figure out what it meant.

Girls Miley’s age are weird. They’re at a time they’ve got to go and show they’re growing now. It’s the facts of lIfe. It  takes a lot to get them right, and sometimes the world never seems to be living up to the dreams. You should know that. It’s the theme song to the “Facts of Life” that your mother wrote and sang.

Speaking of your folks, has your dad talked to Kirk Cameron lately? That guy thinks bananas are proof that God exists! And people think I’m bonkers. For the record, I’m not. I’m a sociopath.

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Yes, I Grew Up in Morton Grove

It is such a joy when you discover those close to you are about to have a child. Because some people are offended by the straightforward “congratulations on having productive intercourse!” many of us resort to a standard set of questions. Standard, but informative:

1. When are you due? (I am counting backwards to suss if you had your productive intercourse on my hide-a-bed when your furnace broke a while back)

2. What are you going to name it? (I will mock you for the rest of time if you’ve named your child after a food. )

3. Is it a boy or girl? (Be a boy, please – I need to unload all this crap out of my basement. Also, I’m not changing girl diapers. All that surface area is like trying to dust an accordion)

4. When are you moving to the suburbs?

Because I live in Chicago, and the chances are good that the expecting couple has their eye on greener pastures. Or at least greener cul-de-sacs. Filled with larger houses reached by larger cars. Green!

It’s depressing when your friends and family move to the suburbs. Because we’re never going to see them again. Virtual death is so hard to explain to children. No sooner does the person name the suburb they’re moving to than they feel compelled to mention that it’s “so close to the city.”  This is like saying “but we’ll live on in your memories”. Traffic, sports practice, and the perils of parallel-parking a minivan wreak havoc on the best of intentions – to say nothing of the siren call of unlimited breadsticks at the Olive Garden luring one back to the shopping center.  And no, we’re not driving out to see you. It’s dark away from the city, and there’s never anyone on the streets. It’s creepy as hell – like everyone’s hiding out from zombies. Or watching Dancing with the Stars.

The suburbs have all of the drawbacks of the city and the country. No open space, no slower pace of life, and generally lousy cultural options. Were you about to make a claim for the cultural life of the ‘burbs? Permit me to preemptively rebut your statement with a brief example.  It’s called Ravinia, everyone’s favorite outdoor “music” venue in the burbs. Do you know who played there this summer? Jewel, Hootie (sans Blowfish), The B-52s, and goddamned STING. Sting! Where is thy death? Clearly not in Highland Park, Illinois, where it’s always 1993 and the BMG Music Club remains a major tastemaker. Not that it matters, because Ravinia is largely about showing off carefully matched sets of Crate & Barrel picnic ware and gossiping about how fat your recently divorced cousin looked at the Futterman Bar Mitzvah. I mean, seriously fat. She’s really letting herself go. What? What? I can’t hear you over all of this music. What? Oh, right! This is a concert. ANYWAY, SHE WAS CIRCUS  FAT.

For every carefully made and rational point like the one above, the suburban and suburban-bound can counter with numerous gripes about the city.  Traffic, crime, gangs, dicey schools, graffiti, lack of large family casual restaurants chains, etc. And I’m not going to argue. All of those things are most definitely drawbacks to living in the city.

That’s the point.

You can move to the suburbs because it makes for an easier life for you and your kids. Or you can stay in the city and teach them (and remind yourself) that life isn’t always supposed to be easy. Parents with school aged kids are always talking about how they want their (genius) children to be challenged. Yes, a parent must remain ever vigilant, lest their kids have to deal with the same stupid crap as everyone else. But what’s more challenging: more difficult math problems or dealing with some drunk lunatic on a CTA bus? Put another way, which is your child more likely to have to deal with as an adult? I can’t remember the last time I had to do long division in my head, but remembering not to make eye contact, breathe through my mouth, and never wear open toed shoes on a bus are skills that have served me well around the world. I didn’t sign my kids up for Mandarin when they turned four – if they’re going to compete in a globalized and urbanizing world, I figure the most useful lessons they can learn are how to compete and cope in an actual urban atmosphere.

Living in a city with crippling traffic means you can’t always do what you want when you want, but you can read a subway map. Ever-present gangs mean that you have to remain aware of your surroundings, get to know your neighbors, and learn how to talk to the police. Small backyards mean we have to share and make the most of parks, streets, and sidewalks. Spending time in Chicago Public Schools teaches kids how to make friends with kids who have backgrounds and challenges absolutely nothing like their own. Chicago schools also teach parents about the complete and total failure of our state and city government, which is a civics lesson I will hold from my kids for a few years.

Of course, I do all of this in my pinko-liberal belief that I will not raise entitled assholes. I feel I am doing my bit to prevent a nation of Paul Ryans. But as importantly, I hope that spending some time in the city will teach them very important lessons about how to deal with assholes. And my lovely city is full of assholes – the petty bureaucrats in government offices, the Cubs fans who treat the streets like their toilet, the violent stupid thugs, and of course, our belligerent and abysmal mayor.

My wife and I are native English speaking, well-educated, well-employed white people with relatively symmetrical faces. The whole American system is set-up for people like us – and if the Tea Party stays at it, only like us. My English-speaking symmetrically-faced white kids will likely never know all that much hardship. My options for teaching them about the world are limited. So we’re keeping them in the city, with the expectation that it will make them tough, confident, and ready for tomorrow’s assholes.

Call Mayor Emmanuel. I think I’ve got a campaign slogan.

 

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That’s Great, America

Here’s my big thought for the week: people will pay a lot for their fantasies. I’m not just talking about my two favorite things: giant rolling land barges or the increasing prevalence of Dorito-phile Americans wrapping themselves in Under Armor until they resemble the mascots for French tire companies. I myself am not immune: I have one Weber grill for every member of my family, because I want to indulge the fantasy that I am a flesh-burning man’s man, and not a desk-bound bureaucrat by day and junior partner/line cook in a child-rearing enterprise by night. My autobiographical graphic novel, Domestic Man #1, didn’t sell well enough to make a sequel.

I thought of this last week when I spent money in the low three figures to take my kids to Six Flags Great America, a theme park in Gurnee, Illinois (where the local fantasy is that you are not in Wisconsin). You are paying for two fantasies at Great America. First, the park overtly draws on symbols from an America of bygone days – wooden roller coasters, rides clustered around “neighborhoods” with names like County Fair and Hometown Plaza, and an aural onslaught of live and canned classic rock buffeting you from every direction. This is a fantasy of the America that was: parents take their kids to amusement parks where they can have a wild time, just like your grandparents did at Coney Island or Riverview Park back in the good old days when women didn’t work and the lines were shorter because there were no Blacks or Latinos in them.

The bigger fantasy of Great America is that you go there with your family to go on rides. This is not true. You go there to wait in lines. Really, really, long lines. You are not there to share with your children the thrill of hurtling through space on a rusting metal contraption operated by a poorly paid teenager with the attention span of a housefly. You are going there to share with your children important lessons about delayed gratification, patience, and – when you tell them to take their mouth off the handrail for the third time – what hepatitis, staph infections, and herpes are.

I remember cowering in terror in the footwell of some Great America ride when I was a kid. I’m sure my parents thought that was money well spent. At Great America the “fun” is not the kind of fun you have when you’re just goofing around with your kids. Everything about the park is controlled, regimented, and highly engineered. Where else can you tell someone to stand waiting for 60 minutes, then lay back, be strapped in, have a bar across your chest, keep your head back and your arms at your side for 3 minutes of terror? Preparing for a ride on the The Demon is very similar to getting ready for a ride on the lethal injection gurney.

In spite of the appeal to nostalgia, Great America is less like early 20th century America and more like 21st century America. From the minute you enter the parking lot, you are being watched. There are security cameras and people with ear pieces everywhere. Everything is so noisy and distracting you barely notice the rust on the ride supports and how dirty the water is in the holding pools near the water rides. Great America, like actual America, seems to have decided that spending money on security is far more important than spending on infrastructure.

Like 21st century America, the park also gives the illusion that you’re free to explore and create your own experiences. Of course, that’s not true.  The park is open for 11 hours a day, and the average wait for a ride was 45 minutes. Add in time for vomiting, and maybe you can do 10 rides per visit. If you really want to experience all that the park has to offer, you can buy a supplemental “The Flash” pass that will allow you jump ahead, skip the lines and accomplish more than those without the pass. It’s created a sort of class system at the park, where those with “The Flash” avoid looking at the people waiting as they jump ahead, enjoying the privilege they bought for their kids and wondering why everyone else doesn’t do the same thing. At some point, The Flash pass will allow holders to get on exclusive rides, while those who just paid the gate fee will stand in lines going nowhere. At that point, it will be a perfect model of Paul Ryan‘s vision for America.

While we were eating lunch, there was a commotion and I looked up to see that a woman was lying on the ground, evidently having a seizure. I realized after witnessing a fatal motorcycle crash a few years ago that my first instinct when seeing someone seriously hurt is trying not to cry (see fantasy of being a man’s man, above). My second instinct is trying to help. But there was nothing to be done for this woman that the 1/2 dozen strangers already at her side weren’t doing. So then, my next ten thoughts in order were:

(1)Boy, this is really going to upset my kids.

(2)I’ve got to explain what a seizure is and that she’ll be ok.

(3) I hope they don’t get so upset that they stop eating their chicken strips- two goddamned kids meals cost me twenty bucks!

(4)This woman could be dying, and I’m worried about my kids eating their chicken strips. I’m a terrible person.

(5)Maybe I should eat their chicken. Shame to waste it. It was twenty bucks!

(6)I should pray. There’s no God. I should pray anyway. I’m a terrible person.

(7)Good, the kids are still eating and not watching this woman’s eyes roll back in her head.

(8)What if I died here?

(9)It would be horrible to die on the ground at an amusement park, surrounded by french fries. Hey! She kind of looks like Gulliver tied down by the Lilliputians. French fry Lilliputians. Ha!

(10)If I died at Great America surrounded by french fries and a spilled super-sized soda, my wife would have to make up a better story so people didn’t laugh at my funeral.

This thought process led me to a new life lesson: if you’ve just spent serious money for a “fun” excursion with your kids and you realize it would be terrible and embarrassing thing to die there, you have to ask yourself how much fun you’re actually having. It kinda ruins the notion of a fantasy, huh?

A few days after Great America, we biked with our kids to a park not far from us. My kids went to the pond, where they saw an immature black crowned night heron. Both boys watched the bird fish for 20 minutes. We walked around, saw frogs and turtles, went to the playground, had a picnic and biked home a few hours later. The whole thing cost me $18 for the sandwiches.

Three days later, my seven year old is still talking about the black crowned night heron. He hasn’t really mentioned Great America since. There’s some kind of lesson there, too.

Chicago hu Akbar

Who can understand the Middle East? So many different groups. Shias, Sunnis, Alawites, weird off-brand Christians and a strangely militaristic variety of Jew we don’t have in the US. I know this from watching the news: the place is a basket case. Do Arabs or Muslims even know what democracy means? The whole region is run by dictators of one kind or another, and history shows us that those people have no interest in governing themselves well. It’s just a mess, top to bottom. Why bother even trying to make sense of it? Thomas Friedman has been trying for 30 years, and has succeeded only in making bloviating mustachioed half-wits everywhere look bad.

Here’s a quiz. 42 years. Is it (a) how long the Assads have controlled Syria, or (b) how long the Daleys controlled Chicago. Wrong answer! It’s both!

Earlier this month, my alderman, Richard Mell, announced his retirement. He’s been alderman for 38 years, and God knows the last time someone ran against him. You could choose to believe that he was doing such a good job, and the position of alderman is so thankless, that no one bothered. Or, you could believe that since he was both the alderman and the Democratic committeeman he could use the resources of both offices to do tricks like contesting the signatures on petitions that opponents are required to file, effectively preventing their ability to get on the ballot. Of course, if you did oppose him, you either had to be sure to win or face the threat of having your trash service get cut off, your business license magically being revoked, etc. It was far easier to support him – your alley got shoveled, your trees got trimmed, and – if you were lucky – he’d give you or your cousin a job. The 33rd Ward in Chicago runs pretty much like the Ba’ath party in Iraq did for 40 years. Minus the torture and murder, of course. In Chicago, the police do the torture, and the gangs do the murder. Completely different. Also, for most of the time, there was more than one political party in Iraq.

If Mell would have retired after 20 years, he would’ve been known for trying to block the political success of Mayor Harold Washington, for the unspeakable crime of being a black person. If Mell would have retired after 30 years, he would have been remembered for engineering the rise of his son-in-law, Rod Blagojevich, to the governor’s office, from where he turned on his patron, tried to sell every privilege he could, and became a national joke. But now, at 38 years, Mell gets to be known for all of those things AND getting himself replaced by his own daughter, State Rep. Deborah Mell, whose rise he also carefully engineered. Mayor Emmanuel, our own cartoonishly ill-tempered diminutive dictator, announced her appointment yesterday.  It’s not just the crazy Arabs who like hereditary oligarchy.

Among the many things that led to Mubarak’s fall in Egypt was the deep suspicion that after 30 years in power (fewer than Mell’s), he was going to engineer the rise of his son, Gamal, and deny Egyptians the right to choose their own leader. Alderman Mell just retired halfway through his term, so that Mayor Emmanuel could appoint a phony-baloney “commission” to consider a list of straw men, and then come to what everyone knew was a foregone conclusion. Are Chicagoans storming their own Tahrir? Hell no. We only go pouring out in the streets when one of our heavily taxpayer-subsidized-privately-owned sports teams wins a championship after a series of games that few taxpayers could afford to attend. Go Hawks!

Mayor Emmanuel said that Rep. Mell’s name shouldn’t disqualify her. Are you f^&king kidding me, Mr. Mayor, you f^&king ret@rd? Rep. Mell’s ONLY qualification is her name. Mayor Emmanuel will say that she is ‘qualified” to be alderman because she was a state representative. And she was a state representative because…HER NAME IS MELL.  Her official Illinois General Assembly bio page only lists her NAME. The scant details on her office bio site suggest that she wandered back to Chicago one day after culinary school and suddenly – POOF! – became state representative. Magic! Like her name was a magical word that opened donor’s wallets, made her name appear on ballots, and made an office appear RIGHT NEXT TO HER FATHER’S.(maybe it’s the same magic power that Ahmadinejad claimed held the audience rapt at the UN when he spoke there in 2005).

I’ll give this to King Abdullah II and Bashar Assad: they at least served in the military.  Sure, they were window-dressing posts. But even in backwards, undemocratic Arab countries, their fathers thought they should go through the motions of giving their kids legitimacy. Muammar Gaddafi even threw a bunch of money at the London School of Economics so his son, Saif al-Islam, could have a doctorate. How is it possible that a bunch of dictators care more about the credibility of their “elected” leaders than Chicagoans do?

Of course, I’m only singling out the Mells because I happen to live in their emirate. I could just as easily talk about the Daley, Stroger, Jackson, or Madigan dynasties. My recent favorite was Joseph Berrios, the current Cook County Assessor, who put fifteen (15!) members of his family on the county payroll while firing 53 poor schmucks who didn’t have the good fortune to be related to him. That kind of nepotism would make the family of Ibn Saud drool. Or it would if they hadn’t had their salivary glands removed so as to prevent fouling the tarry masses on their chins.

A report from UIC notes that the city council is even more accommodating to Mayor Emmanuel than it was for Mayor Daley. That article also cites a piece in Chicago magazine that helpfully points out  that, at the end of 2012, “Emanuel had racked up 1,333 “yes” votes to 112 “nos,” and he has never lost a vote on the floor.” That’s 92% – or as they call it in Iraq, Saddam’s average margin of electoral victory, 1968 – 2002. Over 30% of the council got their seats by appointment from the mayor. This isn’t an independent legislative body. It’s a rubber stamp Majlis, signing off on the big stupid vanity projects of the Emir of Qatar. Of course, I mean no offense to His Excellency Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa al-Thani. Just like a good Chicago alderman, he’s recently retired and handed power to his son. And if he lets the elections originally scheduled for 2013 happen, the Qatari Majlis will actually have a greater number of members come to their seats by election than the Chicago City Council. But will they have 30 members indicted for corruption in 30 years? Suck it, Qatar. Americans can’t even say your name right.

Let’s talk about those big stupid vanity projects. In October 1971, the Shah of Iran hosted a giant gala at Persepolis to celebrate 2500 years of the Persian Monarchy. This really angered average Iranians, and not just because His Majesty was the second member of what would turn out to be a two-person dynasty. It was a lavish and expensive boondoggle, wasting millions of dollars at a time when many Iranians were still illiterate and most of the country still had 19th century infrastructure. Richie Daley, the second member of Chicago’s two-person dynasty, capped an orgy of flashy vanity projects (Millennium Park, Navy Pier, Northerly Island) with his bid for the 2016 Olympics, an epic waste of time and money at a time when Chicago’s schools were headed for a financial abyss, streets were caving in, water mains breaking, and coyotes were returning to the desolate wastelands of the far south side.

Your Shahs of Iran, King Farouks of Egypt, and various Iraqi Monarchs were always solving the financial problems caused by their vanity projects by bargaining away their countries resources. King Farouk gave the British control of the Suez for 20 years in 1936. In 1901, the Qajar Shah in Iran signed away most of his country’s oil revenues for 60 years. Only some despotic Muslim ruler would sign away a major source of revenue for what is effectively perpetuity. Allah hu akbar, right Mayor Daley? Nice going selling our streets for 75 years. And even though Rahm rips on the deal, so far he’s only proposed changes that have made it worse.  This while  trying his own hand at autocratic mismanagement, by closing public schools and cutting the budgets for the remaining ones (via a wholly undemocratic school board), while also gift-wrapping $130 million for DePaul’s basketball team, millions to downtown real estate developers, and – just for kicks – giving out $5 million to make sure they still make hot dogs in Chicago. Chicagoans, don’t pretend for a moment that you can’t understand how Egyptians feel when they realized they traded Mubarak for Morsi.

There’s no Chicago Spring, and there’s not going to be. The Arab Spring took place in a hopeful moment when people believed that politics didn’t have to be winner take all. If a rival group or faction took office, maybe for the first time they wouldn’t dole out favors to their friends and screw everyone else. In Chicago, we’ve never believed that for a second.  Worse, we’ve fallen into the trap that folks in the Middle East did until recently: we’ve let ourselves be placated by the baubles our autocrats bestowed on us – the parks, the bike lanes, and the shiny new train cars that distract us from  the Chicago River stench of corruption and entitlement emanating from our dynastic despots. Worse, we all have a discomfiting certainty that things could always be worse. We could return to our gangland days. We could become Detroit. Or Cleveland. Like the Lebanese, we have a neighbor that looks like us, talks like us, appropriated parts of our culture, and yet is most definitely hostile to us.

They have Israel. We have Schaumburg.