The Accidental Book Club.

No meetings, refreshments or books about cholera.

I am very fond of books. It’s book clubs I’m not quite as fond of.

But I think I may have found something better.

Several years ago, I belonged to a book club that specialized in worthy nonfiction. We read biographies of Ronald Reagan and the Wright brothers, along with a detailed account of a cholera outbreak in London. I learned a great deal from all of them. Unfortunately, none of them made me eager to climb into bed and find out what happened next.

Eventually, I drifted away.

I do have several friends who share my taste in spy novels and mysteries. We happily trade recommendations, but rarely go beyond “You should read this” or “I liked that one.” What I miss is the deeper conversation.

So who do I turn to when I want to compare and contrast my favorite writers, revisit a twisty plot point, or find an outstanding BBC adaptation? These days, my favorite book club consists of one member and one artificial intelligence. Its name is ChatGPT.

The beginning of our “book club” was accidental. One day I asked Chat to rank the ten greatest spy novels ever written. Almost instantly, it responded with a list of twenty. In true AI fashion, a few books appeared twice, a couple were attributed to the wrong author, and the numbering was more aspirational than accurate. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, however, we had refined it to a credible Top Ten. Remarkably, at the very top sat John le Carré’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, my personal favorite.

What surprised me was not the speed of the answers. It was how much the exchange felt like talking with another avid reader.

Over the next half hour, we dissected much of le Carré’s voluminous body of work. We discussed why my friends hated the film version of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy while I loved it. When Chat listed the key characters in the George Smiley trilogy, I pointed out its glaring omission of George’s wife, Ann. Chat immediately conceded the point and offered a thoughtful summary of Ann’s crucial role in Smiley’s story.

Next we turned to my current favorite author, Mick Herron. Chat seemed as enthusiastic about the Slow Horses novels as I was. We discussed the many faults of Jackson Lamb and the brilliance of Kristin Scott Thomas in the television adaptation. I forgot to ask what Chat thought of the Mick Jagger theme song, but I’m confident it would have had an opinion.

My AI book club isn’t perfect. There are no hors d’oeuvres, no Scotch on the rocks, and no opportunity to impress anyone with my knowledge of John le Carré. But I can convene it at any time, discuss any book I choose, and never have to leave home. And what surprises me most is that the experience feels less like using a tool and more like talking with a fellow reader.

And unlike my last book club, nobody is going to make me read another book about cholera. One book about that is enough, even for a pathologist!

The Story Is My Eyes

“Does that bother you?” Dr. Counter, my optometrist, was completing my annual eye exam and pointing at my droopy right eyelid. I told her I knew about it, but didn’t pay it any attention. I relayed that my dad had the same malady. He had ignored his languid lid too.

“You have a condition called ptosis. Your drooping eyelid is blocking your pupil,” Dr. Counter continued. “It could affect your eyesight, particularly your peripheral vision. You should see Dr. Press, our ophthalmologic orbital surgeon for a consultation.”

At first, I resisted the idea. I was convinced that my eyesight issues were due to progressing presbyopia and incipient cataracts. What did my eyelids have to do with that?

But after a few days and a gentle nudge from Barb, I reconsidered. There was no harm in having a specialist assess me, so I made an appointment with Dr. Press. Her first opening was in the middle of September but when another patient canceled their scheduled visit, her staff moved my slot to last Thursday morning. I had to drop out of an anticipated pickleball match to get to the appointment. C’est la vie!

The visit to Dr. Press’s office began with “field of vision” testing to see if my peripheral vision was intact. If you have ever had this done, you know the testing is usually pretty crude. The tech or doctor moves two fingers around the edges of your vision and asks if you can see them. That is all that is necessary in most circumstances.

The testing in Dr. Press’s office was more sophisticated. Under the guidance of a pair of techs, I stared into a binocular device and clicked a buzzer (Jeopardy! appearance flashback) whenever I saw a light flash at the very edge of my vision. The process was repeated with my eyelids taped open.

After the tests were complete, Barb and I were introduced to Dr. Press, an engaging young woman somewhere between our daughter and our granddaughter in age. During introductory chit-chat, we discovered that she grew up in the subdivision we now live in. That felt like good Karma.

Dr. Press examined me and then made her pronouncement. “I’m looking at the field of vision test data and your eyes. You have bilateral ptosis. Weakened eyelid muscles are the culprit. Our testing confirms that the droop affects your vision, so surgery is advisable. I can make a small incision into the underside of each lid and tighten the muscles, leaving the eyelids more elevated. It’s outpatient surgery with minimal risk and a quick recovery.”

“Surgery for weak muscles?” I wondered. “What happened to exercise and spinach?” But it is doubtful incessant blinking will bulk up my eyelid muscles, and I prefer kale to spinach. If surgery is the best way to improve my vision, I’ll go under the knife with Dr. Press, my Doc from my Block. When it’s all over I’ll see better–and look better too. I’m all in on that Daily Double.

And to my pickleball friends, sorry I dropped out of last week’s match, but wait until you see me after surgery. You’ll all want to be my partner. It’s going to be a whole new game!

You can also join my Facebook Page

Rock and Roll Roulette: My Journey Through the Classic Rock Top 1000

Music and lists. These are two of my passions that are deliciously intertwined. Since the days of WCFL’s Big 10 Survey, through Casey Casems American Top 40, to all the online sites listing the top five partially blind one-handed tambourine players, those compendia have always interested me. Last month I hit the jackpot–I discovered Sirius XM’s Classic Rock Top 1000 satellite radio station.

The station is exactly what it says it is. It plays 1000 songs, in order, on an endless loop. Who picked the songs? Who put them in this specific order? Who knows? What classifies as a Classic Rock song, anyway? The station has no announcer, just a female voice giving the countdown number after every 3 or 4 songs.

I listen to the station in 30-minute snippets while running through our neighborhood or burning calories on our basement elliptical. Monday I might hear songs 424-412 while Tuesday morning brings 110-102. By the next time I listen the list may have wound past the top songs and it’s the bottom 50 that’s on tap.

Despite listening for a month, I rarely hear the same segment of songs twice. That’s not a surprise; I hear less than 1% of the 1000-song collection each time I listen. At my tune-in rate, it will take me about 3 or 4 months to get an earful of every song.

What artists has the mystery selector put on the list? From the 300 or so songs I have heard so far, the playlist is mostly what the average baby boomer would expect and demand–and my fellow WXRT listeners would hate! British invasion bands, 70’s hair bands, singer-songwriters, and heartland rockers.

While my favorite artists (U2, Steely Dan, Bruce with E Street) are well represented, female voices are scattered like diamonds in a mined-out shaft; there’s a little Janice here, a couple of Hearts there, and a Joan Jett when no one is looking. I haven’t heard Linda Ronstadt yet, but I suspect Blue Bayou or You’re No Good is lurking about.

My private game is identifying each song by the second note–my Name That Tune challenge. (I am good.) Another trick is recognizing the one-hit wonders on the list, the bands that came out of nowhere, had a top 1000 hit and then crawled back under their rock. Ten points and a shoutout to readers who can name the artist responsible for Something in the Air. No cheating!

On a short run last week my soundtrack was the top 5 songs. Some of the selections are unavoidable. Others up there seem peculiar. At #5 is Hotel California. It’s had to be there. It is always being played somewhere.

I can accept Sweet Home Alabama qualifies as #4. It is the epitome of Southern rock, and Skynyrd puts on a good show. But if the list has to have a Queen song at #3, why Another One Bites the Dust? I would have chosen Bohemian Rhapsody, the most streamed rock song of all time (2 billion Spotify streams and counting.)

It’s no surprise that a certain four-piece British band takes the top two slots. And I won’t disagree with Stairway to Heaven at #2. But Black Dog as the #1 classic rock song of all time? Most people don’t even know the name of the song. That placement is as absurd as Hey Jude‘s location way down in the 400s.

But in the end, I have my music and I have my list. The order doesn’t really matter, it’s just fun to hear the songs. I’m living in a Boomer Paradise.

Getting More From Les: Housekeeping 101

As my blog reaches its 9th anniversary it is time to do some necessary housekeeping.

I began writing Getting More From Les in the summer of 2015. Early posts detailed the good and bad of home-building as Barb and I built our empty-nester dream home. Subject matter slowly expanded, and so did my readership when the blog joined ChicagoNow, the digital arm of the Chicago Tribune.

In 2021, Alden Global Capital purchased the Tribune Company. The cost-cutters at Alden axed the Trib’s great salaried columnists and then dismissed us unpaid ChicagoNow contributors. That left the blog with a satisfied and satisfactory audience of loyal subscribers, social media followers, and list-serve readers.

But over the last few months, many subscribers have asked why I have stopped writing my blogs. I haven’t! But new rules, regulations, and ever-diligent mail servers (Outlook, Gmail, and others) block subscribers from receiving notifications from a subscriber list or emails with an embedded link. It all becomes spam.

My low-tech way of keeping the blog subscription readership alive began this weekend. First, I sent individual emails to each member of all my subscriber lists asking if they still wanted to hear about Getting More From Les. Rewardingly, many of you replied, “Yes, please continue to include me.” Beginning with this post, all those lovely people will receive an individually emailed copy of all posts. No links to click–the blog will just be there. A little extra work on my part, but well worth it if it gets the blog to my readers.

For my many social network readers, nothing has changed. I hope you will all continue to read and enjoy new blog posts on Facebook, LinkedIn, and X.

And as always, I want to hear your comments and thoughts about the blog and anything else you want to tell me about. Any advice on the technical aspects of blog publishing would also be appreciated.

That ends the housework. Thanks for your patience. The good stuff (personal challenges and triumphs, politics, music, and more) will be coming up soon!

Navigating the Car-Buying Teeter-Totter: Our Journey to the Audi A6 Allroad

Barb and I have been on the new car teeter-totter for months. We’ve evaluated the cost and environmental impact of cars with gasoline engines vs. electric or hybrid styles. And we parried whether to buy a 4-door sedan or drive out of a dealership in a new SUV.

I am a sedan type of guy. I prefer them understated, stylish, and engineered in Germany. I’ve been that way for 30 years. Yes, I’ve driven various SUVs as rentals or loaners but I have never comprehended their immense popularity. And although I am a member of the Riverwoods Sustainability Committee, I am not quite sold on going EV, especially for long-range travel.

We decided on a pairing of objectives. If we bought a new sedan, to be used mostly for short-haul local trips and Saturday night date nights, an EV sedan made the most sense. But if we were looking for a car suited for long-distance driving, our best alternative was a gas-powered SUV. It was a difficult choice. We flip-flopped so often that I felt like JD Vance talking about Donald Trump.

Until Barb stumbled upon a quote in an online Car and Driver review.”If you can’t choose between a luxury sedan and an SUV, the Audi A6 Allroad splits the difference–and beautifully so.” Is someone at Car and Driver clairvoyant?

We were intrigued by the Allroad. I currently drive an A6 sedan, but neither Barb nor I had heard of an Allroad version. Driving deeper into the C & D article, we read that it was a powerful, gas engine, all-wheel drive vehicle mimicking the A6, but with a roof rack and a roofline less like a sedan and more like…a station wagon.

The Allroad is popular on the West Coast but has barely made a dent in the Chicago market. Checking with local dealers we found that only the downtown Audi dealership had even a single Allroad in stock. We made an appointment and then drove into the city for a test drive.

The salesperson with whom we had an appointment ghosted us, but after a discussion with the world’s least helpful receptionist, a salesman was found who could help us. He brought us to the Allroad on the showroom floor and spent 20 minutes showing us new electronic features; the Allroad has more doodads than my current A6, though it is nowhere near as techie as a Tesla. We then took a test drive around the Near North neighborhood, making one stop for the salesman to show us the buttons and touch screens he had missed during his first demonstration.

Barb and I liked the car — the lines, the size, and the ride. The color, gray with a cringe green hue in the sunlight, was less to our liking. The salesperson checked his inventory and found an Allroad still in production in a more comforting gray. A snazzy brown interior sounded good too. We discussed pricing and trade-in, were introduced to the sales manager (there is no way to look for a car without that happening), and agreed that when the Allroad arrives from the factory in 2 or 3 months, it’s ours.

Once we have the car I’ll be easy to spot. While most men my age love driving their Viagra-blue Porsches, Vettes, and Maseratis I’ll be the guy tooling around in a dark gray Audi station wagon. Be sure to wave when you see me!

One Word Describes Me. What Describes YOU?

What junk email do you receive? Among the plethora of posts sent to me every day is WordDaily, a newsletter that provides exactly what it says it does. Each morning at about 6 AM a new word appears in my inbox accompanied by its definition, pronunciation, and etymology. A few descriptive quotes complete the page.

Sometimes I recognize the daily selection (xiphoid, auteur, emeritus) even if I don’t have a precise definition at my neural synapses. Other times I learn a new word (perdurable, precatory, yare), and the belt reigning in my mental dictionary can expand by a notch.

Yesterday’s word was”phlegmatic.” It’s a word I have seen, but never used. I have always assumed it is related to “phlegm” and conceived of a phlegmatic person as someone suffering from a stuffy nose or a congested chest. And phlegmatic does have that derivation and can mean that. But that is not the definition that WordDaily gave and not the definition that interests me.

What definition did the newsletter present? Having an unemotional and stolidly calm disposition. After the definition, Queen Elizabeth II was given as an example of a phlegmatic person. WordDaily missed the boat. For “unemotional and stolidly calm” WordDaily should have looked at a living person, one of its subscribers…me!

I am as stony as the Rock of Gibraltar. The last person to see me cry was the obstetrician who slapped my butt at my delivery, and I barely got out a squawk before they rushed me into a newborn incubator. When unexpectedly severed from my pathology group, I left the room without raising my voice or losing my cool. I may give a fist bump to a partner after they make a great pickleball shot, but I am the first to try to cool down heated tempers after a blown line call or other on-court shenanigans.

There are a few times that I come close to letting loose. I almost danced a jig after my third par in nine holes last week and came dangerously close to hurling my phone at the TV screen during President Biden’s disastrous debate the week before. I am sure Barb can find a few other examples of times when I failed to be cool, calm, and collected. She would undoubtedly begin with the chair celebration at our son’s wedding.

Is preternatural calmness a good quality? It was an asset when I was the Board of Education president, especially when negotiating contracts. Throughout my life it has kept me from any bare-knuckles fights with their accompanying broken bones or screaming matches with their accompanying broken relationships. On the flip side though, I might have missed some adrenalin rush thrills and emotional purges.

But that’s who I am. I’m glad WordDaily gave me “phlegmatic,” the perfect word to describe myself.

Hey, today’s WordDaily just came in. The new word of the day is Epigrammatic: Of the nature or in the style of an epigram; concise, clever, and amusing. Maybe THAT’S me!

What do you think? And who and what are YOU?

I Love Cicadas. Here Is Why.

I remember my long-ago childhood in Rogers Park. I’d walk along Farwell, or Greenview, or Pratt Avenues after dinner. My friends and I would stop in a neighborhood park in the early evening as the sunlight faded. We would catch grasshoppers and put them in glass jars with holes punched in the lids. We would chase Monarch butterflies as The Butterfly of Love played on someone’s transistor radio. And we watched as hundreds of fireflies illuminated the darkness.

Most years since then have been pretty uneventful on the insect front. But this year is a special one. Like everyone celebrating a 68^th birthday in 2024, I was born in 1956. That year, like 2024, was a 17-year cycle cicada year. And I am as thrilled as a newly hatching nymph in black dirt about my fifth time crossing flight paths with this septendecimal brood.

I know most people can’t stand the little buggers. My family is no exception. They hate the noise; they hate the beady red eyes; they hate the fluttering creatures landing in their hair. Our neighborhood is filled with spasmodic dance moves as both kids and adults do their best to shake them off.

But while the haters hate, hate, hate, I love the little buggers. How can you not respect creatures with such perfectly tuned bodies that in their somnambulant larval state they can accurately tick off 17 years? And how can you not feel empathy for critters whose entire conscious life is limited to a few weeks?

Are they loud? Sure they are. When one became attached to Cooper’s leash and snuck inside our house, its clacking was astonishingly raucous. But the drone of thousands high up in the trees is calming, almost hypnotic. As I walk through the neighborhood, I find the sound a pleasant backdrop to the words of the novel I am listening to through my headphones. The rumblings of school buses and garbage trucks are much more distracting than the insect’s overhead buzz.

I don’t mind when the rapidly beating wings brush against my arms or legs. It’s fine if the creatures settle onto my shirt for a moment. They won’t bite, sting, or spit on me. They will soon flutter away as they choose a mate from among their millions of compatriots. Speeddating at its finest!

I will be 84 the next time this brood of cicadas reappears. Maybe I enjoy them because they remind me of the many years I still have before I greet them again. And maybe, just maybe, they remind me of those simpler days of my youth, when grasshoppers and butterflies were enough to light my way home.

Charles Variety Store vs Amazon. Can You Pick The Winner?

When I was a kid growing up in East Rogers Park, a car ride was a luxury. Spending my weekly allowance meant a walk to Frankfort’s or Mesirow’s, the corner drugstores. I’d buy baseball cards, comic books, candy bars, and the annual Mother’s Day card. When I needed to make a bigger purchase — like a gift to go with the Mother’s Day Cards — I’d walk a little further and spend my money at Charles Variety Store.

Charles Variety was a neighborhood landmark. Set on Morse Avenue, across from the Jewel and just down the street from Ashkenaz, Charles was my Woolworths, Walgreens, and Marshall Fields all rolled into one. At the register, my nickels, dimes, quarters, and crushed dollar bills would tumble out of my pocket as I paid for my necessities and extravagances.

Today when I need something in a hurry it’s a different world. I sit at my desk or at the kitchen counter, log into Amazon, and in five minutes I have placed my order. Simpler, but is it a better way? Let’s compare my purchasing now, to my purchasing way back when.

AMAZON

CHARLES VARIETY

Need to create an account
Credit card on file
Can sit on my butt
Same day delivery
Lots of packaging
Keeps a creepy list of everything I have bought on-line
It’s a solitary endeavor
Look at pictures of items for sale
Lots of phony reviews from influencers
Money goes to super-tech company
Need to worry about hackers, phishers, and Nigerian Princes

I’d just walk in.
It was cash only, I was 10 years old!
I enjoyed nature on the walk over
It was immediate gratification
Everything was in one paper bag.
Charles didn’t keep tabs on every purchase I made
I’d hang out in the store with friends
We could touch the merchandise
I could learn to make my own decision
My money went to a local merchant
A clerk accused me of shoplifting-they were wrong!

Who wins? It’s not even close (though I won’t give up my Prime account!)

I haven’t driven down Morse Avenue lately. I don’t know if any of the old stores still exist. But if they do, look in to see if you can find the 10-year-old kid with a quarter in his pocket and a hankering for a piece of Bazooka Bubble Gum.

Challenges in Sports: Why ‘Nice Shot, Les!’ Stings | RaffStuff Blog

I hear it in the morning. I hear it in the evening. I even hear it in my sleep. Three little words said over and over again. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.

What are the words that have that effect on me? What utterance sends shivers down my spine? You might think it is “Wrong again, Les.” That’s the phrase my son claims that the late, great, Alex Trebeck used ruthlessly and repeatedly on my single Jeopardy! appearance. However, my review of the gameshow videotape indicates that Alex never said that, not even once. Therefore those three words don’t bother me a bit. They are just a bit of fiction.

But the phrase that truly gets to me isn’t ‘Wrong again, Les.’ It’s ‘Nice shot, Les!’ My friends say it to me. Casual acquaintances say it too, usually with sincerity but always with a hint of amazement. These folks mean no harm — they believe they are being supportive. So I smile, nod my head, and mumble my response.

An opponent said it yesterday during pickleball. With a slight variation a friend said it while we were bowling. And I know someone in my threesome will say it today by the 4th hole of our nine-hole round of golf.*

Why is this phrase such a dagger to my heart? Whether it’s in pickleball, golf, or tennis, it is usually uttered after I have muffed five or six shots in a row, and then finally hit a semi-decent forehand, tee shot, or lob. That’s when a chorus fills the air, as everyone in shouting distance proclaims “Nice shot, Les!”

I know everyone means well as they chime in. But the goodwill rides on a current of “we know you have trouble playing this game well and we are just a bit surprised you managed to make that shot!”

I really can’t blame anyone for having that sentiment. Despite a love of competition, lessons galore, and practicing whenever I can, I have never excelled at sports. Hand-eye coordination is lacking, as is the ability to shift my weight to get power behind any of my serves or drives. And as my bowling partner has lectured me many times, my follow-throughs aren’t too hot either.

But I’m a blue-eyed optimist. So, I’ll keep swinging, hitting, and rolling, all the while hearing those three infamous words. Maybe one day, they’ll be said without surprise, but with genuine admiration. Until then, keep cheering, and I’ll keep smiling—’Nice shot, Les!'”

*Post-script: I was on the ninth hole before I hit a good one today. However, it was a beauty. I’ll say it for you. “Nice shot, Les!”

From Pixels To Print: A Revelation

My writing is ethereal. I don’t mean heavenly, I mean that instead of existing in reality, it exists on laptops and flat-screen monitors, Google phones and iPads. Pixels on screens bringing my words to you. So it has been, and so it continues to be.

Until now. Responding to some requests, I have emailed the text of my (as of yet unproduced) play to friends and relatives. I send the copies as PDFs, with the assumption that those kind enough to read the play will peruse it on whatever screen is at the nearest at whatever time is convenient.

But one friend pushed that little print icon on her screen (intentionally, I hope) and was soon swamped by 90 pages of my words, or rather the words of the half-dozen characters in my prison-life drama. She read and enjoyed and told me so.

I wasn’t home when she brought the pages to our house yesterday, so she left them with a request that I sign the cover page and return it to her. And I plan to do that. But not until I have spent time enjoying the pleasure of seeing my work in print.

I know I could have printed a copy at any time, just as I could have printed out any of my blogs. But I never have. I never saw the need to. But now seeing my work in print–even in this informal copy–changes my outlook on the play and on myself. It compares to when I was introduced to someone in the neighborhood and she said “I know your name, you’re the writer.”

If I can get this far I can go further. It may be with the current play, it may be with something else that I choose to write, or publish, or produce. I’ve got lots of time ahead of me, and a keyboard that calls to me.

And this time around, I may use the printer, too!

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