1971. Carole King and Romance Were In The Air

It was May of 1971. The spring of Carole King — the spring of Tapestry as it climbed the charts towards #1.

I first met her at the Bismarck Hotel, a downtown landmark, and the site of that year’s Kinus, our Chicagoland youth group convention. It was Friday afternoon, free time before that night’s Sabbath celebration, and a time for wandering the hotel halls and greeting friends from as far away as Milwaukee.

I don’t remember what pack of mates I was roaming with or who her companions were. We came across each other somewhere on one of the hotel’s upper floors and began a conversation. What did we talk about? Who remembers, though I am sure it was whatever 15 and 16-year-old boys and girls talked about with each other on a first meeting in the days before social media.

She and I paired up, maybe others did too. We found ourselves in someone’s room (hers? mine?) kissing on the bed as It’s too Late tinnily played on the room’s clock radio.

She lived in Pill Hill on South Side, I was an East Rogers Park kid too young for a car or a driver’s license. Getting together was tough, so it was a special treat when she told me her family was coming to my neighborhood to visit some acquaintances and she would come along. We could have a date!

The special Saturday night came. I picked her up at the apartment her folks were visiting, and then we walked to a FunFair at a neighborhood park. We returned to her family’s friend’s place at about 11 pm, to be told that the family had driven off to visit other friends in Skokie, and would I mind driving her there? I was stunned and stumped.

We walked out of the apartment building. I still had no car, no driver’s license, and certainly not enough money for a cab. In desperation, I looked around on the street and realized a slightly older buddy, the proud owner of a gleaming golden Mercury Cougar, lived close by.

We walked down the block to my friend’s apartment building. Not wanting to ring the bell and awaken his parents, I stood below his bedroom window and tossed some gravel against the dark window. A light came on in his room, the window opened, and I explained my predicament.

He came downstairs, drove us to Skokie, and returned me to my apartment building. He refused any payment, but I remember dropping a few dollars on the front seat for gas money.

That summer at youth group camp she told me it was over. I moved on, and she already had.

A few years later she called me. I drove out to see her once, but we never saw each other again. For that romance, it truly was too late.

The above was written as a response to the Storyworth prompt “Who did you date while in high school?” Thanks to my associate Ken Beck for subscribing me to Storyworth!

The Godfather Meets The Mouse

I’m deep into Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli, Mark Seal’s book detailing the perilous circumstances under which the first Godfather movie was produced. The telling of the story highlights the contentious relationship between Paramount Studio’s Robert Evans and the movie’s director Francis Ford Coppola. Casting issues (Is Marlon Brando washed up? Who the hell is Al Pacino?), financial issues, and Mob issues all played a part in the grueling challenge of making what was to become one of America’s favorite films.

There is nothing that could be more complex than the making of that award-winning movie. Nothing, that is except planning a family vacation to Orlando and the wonderful world of theme parks.

Think Coppola had a hard time figuring out his shooting schedule? Try scheduling a vacation week with three families, 6 adults, and 4 grandkids. We didn’t want a week that was likely to be too cold; we didn’t want a week that would be too rainy; we didn’t want a week that spring breakers would be mobbing the parks; we didn’t want a week that would mean pulling the kids out of too much school.

Finally, after some heads of the families had a sit-down (our families, NOT Mob families) we picked an appropriate week. Then, just as the production assistants for The Godfather had to scout out acceptable shooting locations, we had to investigate all accommodations within a 20-mile radius of the theme parks to find the right one. As mentioned a few months ago, we have found a rental house we can all agree to live in and with. Lots of theme-park-inspired bedrooms, a big kitchen, and a nice private pool. Not too shabby.

Also, we have managed to snag decent rates on a couple of SUVs. These days, that is as hard to do as finding a good horsehead. Though as Seinfeld would say, “National knows how to take a reservation, let’s see if they know how to keep a reservation.”

The automobiles may have been cheap, but now we come to the inevitable cost overruns. Filming the movie went way over budget, and it looks like our trip will as well.

For those of you who haven’t been at a theme park in a few decades, things have changed since your last visit. You no longer receive a book of A, B, C, and D ride coupons free with every admission ticket. Now the price of admission is only a start–and will do nothing other than put you at the end of very long lines for any attraction you want to experience.

To actually enjoy a theme park visit you must consider park-hopper plans and magic wand tickets and VIP tours. Want to ride the Hogwarts Express? You better have paid for same-day admission to both halves of Universal. Comparing and selecting from all the options is beyond the capabilities of even the most advanced artificial intelligence. My chatGPT program informed me it would rather destroy itself than plan the best route through Disney. All in all, a day at a theme park probably will cost us more than Diane Keaton earned for her entire role as Kay–or John Cazale as Fredo for that matter.

As we know, despite all the hardships, The Godfather was made. The Godfather 2 was made. Regrettably, even The Godfather 3 was made. If Hollywood can do that, we can successfully do a trip to Orlando, and have fun doing it. And if anyone tries to stop us, we’ll just make ’em an offer they can’t refuse.

The Old 151–Circa 1966

The Old 151 bus, I rode it then,
When I was but a lad of ten.

'Twas the magic carpet to take me where
I wanted to go with a kid-sized fare.

A dime and two pennies was all it required
To transport me wherever my young heart desired.

A Rogers Park 3-flat is where I called home
And that CTA bus that would let this boy roam. 

I could catch it on Farwell, at Sheridan Road
And Shazam! it became my get-around mode.

A ride north to Howard would take seven minutes
It was almost as far as the big city's limits.

Up towards Papa Milanos and the new bowling alley
Where the pizza was hot and the downed pins would tally.

Or the field house at Touhy to shoot Friday night hoops
Though most weeks we would walk it, in our dribbling groups.

A short ride to the south was the Loyola El Station
I would hop on the rail by that bus stop location.

For the price of a transfer, a nickel, no more
I'd ride it downtown, to Kroch's/Brentano's bookstore.

Route 151 was how our family traveled
It took us on roads, some paved and some graveled.

We didn't have a car, Dad said "we don't need it.
Public bus and train routes would surely excede it."

With routes in the hundreds and also the nine-six
Chicago's buses were always our family's fine-fix.

And now I'm a senior and not in the city
I don't ride on buses, perhaps it's a pity.

With Double A R P discounts -- I'm sure that they've got one.
A ride on the old 1-5-1 would be quite a hot one.

But alas I now think that it never will happen
In those thoughts and this verse, I'll now put a cap in.

Mr. Lindt and My BLCQR: Going Heavy Metal

“Maybe you should say goodbye to Mr. Lindt.”

With that pronouncement four years ago, a registered dietician named Meg pointed me toward improved eating habits and better weight control.

Why did Meg give me that particular bit of advice? I had just described my current diet to her, a regime filled with sweet indulgences. Half of a large Lindt Dark Chocolate Bar was an almost daily afternoon treat.

I mostly followed meg’s recommendation, substituting some string cheese and a piece of fruit for my 2:00 pm snack. But I didn’t give Mr. Lindt a total heave-ho. Instead, I limited my consumption to one square piece from the bar each day, taking 10 days to daintily consume what I had previously devoured in two. I found a way to have my chocolate and eat it, too.

The health reputation of dark chocolate pogos, first up and then down. Are the flavanols it contains heart healthy, or is this counterbalanced by the deleterious effects of the sugar and fats the chocolate contains? Does dark chocolate trigger migraines? Every “pro” has its “con.”

Today I was hit with more chocolatey bad news. If the sugar doesn’t get you, the metal will. An article in today’s New York Times reports on studies indicating that dark chocolate may contain high levels of lead and cadmium.

“So what?” you say. Well, lead and cadmium aren’t particularly healthy, especially for young kids, pregnant women, and nursing moms. Lots of organs can be targets, including bones, kidneys, and the nervous system.

So I got a little nervous. Even though I am not a kid, am not pregnant, and am not nursing, had those years of heavy Lindt consumption done some internal damage? Was my one square a day just adding to my BLCQR (body-lead-cadmium-quantification-ratio)? Was my nervous system going to degenerate before (or behind) my very eyes?

Fortunately, the NYT article included a link to a chart from an organization called As You Sow. The chart lists the amounts of cadmium and lead found in over 450 chocolate concoctions.

I did a search for my favorite Lindt Dark Chocolate with A Touch of Sea Salt bars. My mood was sweetened by the results of my search. The chart indicated that the amount of toxic metal within each serving of my fav was lower than the California Maximum Allowable Dose Level.

Does this mean my present consumption is safe? I’m not sure. I just know that I am going to continue to enjoy my Lindt and forget about the risk of transmuting my kidney, bones, etc. into heavy metal toxic dump sites.

I’m sorry Meg. You were a well-meaning dietician, but I’ll never say goodbye to Mr. Lindt–at least until the next negative article comes along.

President Biden, Let Me Be Your Dave.

Hey fellow Democrats, have I got a plan for you!

I hatched the whole plot on a chilly, sunny, day earlier this week. Walking into the house I saw my reflection in the glass door pane. And for a split-second, just for an instant, I thought I was looking at our nation’s Commander-in-Chief, our President, the Honorable Joseph R. Biden. Maybe it was the sunglasses, maybe it was the white hair, but the slight resemblance was there.

Now, this similarity is not necessarily complimentary to me. After all, Joe B is 14 years older than I am. But for Democratic voters, those 14 years are the problem, and I am the solution.

We all remember the movie Dave, right? Kevin Kline stars as a nobody who happens to look like the President, and is recruted to impersonate him after the President suffers a secret stroke. My plan, and you need to hear me out on this, is to let me be this year’s Dave!

The 2024 Presidential Election is right around the corner. We anticipate that Good Ole Joe will announce his plans to run for re-election shortly. The issue with that re-election run is that too many potential Biden voters are concerned about the President’s age.

What, they worry, will happen if Biden suffers a stroke, a heart attack, or a sudden death. Are we all comfortable with Kamala Harris assuming the Presidency, temporarily or gasp, permanently? Might that fear push some centrist Dems, some staunch independents, and some RINO/Never-Trumper Republicans to all get behind a semi-sane GOP candidate such as Nikki Haley? Will we have to suffer a potential red wave on the horizon?

I think we need to change the impression of Biden as old and ready to fall down in a stiff breeze–and do it now, while there is still time. So let me be the Prez’s stand-in. I can sign bills (if a divided Congress can pass any) with a flourish. I can give State of the Union addresses and then cartwheel down the aisles of the Senate Chamber. I can be videoed doing my sweaty morning regimen of elliptical riding, push-ups, and planks. I’d even submit to some bare-chested shots à la Putin. All to show a hale and healthy “Biden” that people would be comfortable voting for.

I realize this opportunity will necessitate a move to the DC area and secret living arrangements. Now that I am retired I can do that. I just have to make sure that nobody inside the Beltway recognizes me, especially not my nephew and his wife. They tend to be Republican and might spill the beans.

I do realize that there is a risk that the real President might suffer an incapacitating incident or perhaps even expire while in office. I will just carry on the ruse, Weekend at Bernie’s style. Mr. Biden’s State Funeral will have to wait until his term is over.

So, Democratic National Party, I am waiting to hear from you. I think we can make it work, don’t you?

I Wrote A Review And 500 People Noticed. Here Is What It Was About.

I hate writing online reviews. After I order kitty poop-pan liners from Amazon, or after I have suffered through an intimate relationship between my gastroenterologist and my large intestine, I want to put those moments behind me. I don’t feel an urgency to write about them.

If a website I am perusing has an obtrusive popup asking me to complete a short survey after my visit is complete, I invariably say “no thank you.” And after a phone call to some far-off hotel or some local pharmacy, I can barely be moved to respond to “Enter 1 if the experience was Excellent, Enter 2 if it was not.”

I’m not a total curmudgeon, I’m just slightly curmudgeonly. I suspect that many, and possibly most, reviews on sites such as Amazon are bogus, and I don’t feel the need to add my views to all those 5-star reviews. If I really have a complaint about something I’ll try to go to the source and straighten things out.

So imagine my surprise when I received a congratulatory email from Google. With balloons flying I was notified that a review I had written (one of only 3 over the past 7 years) had now been read for the 500th time. Like a biblical prophet, I now see myself like an oracle shouting from on high.

What product or service had pushed me to break my usual misanthropic tendencies and write a review? Our daughter and son-in-law married a bit over five years ago. The wedding was a modestly opulent affair, and if I do say so myself, came off rather nicely.

I remember being impressed by the locale, by the food, and by the band. But apparently, I was most in awe of the floral arrangements. It was to the floral designer that I penned my glowing review–one that has been read an average of once every 3 days for the last 5 years (talk about a must-read!)

What did I say?

Yanni and Sylwia worked with us to design the wedding of our daughter’s dreams. They listened to her vision and ran with it. Walking into the room last Saturday night left us speechless. The flower arrangements were better then we could have imagined in the space. The collaborative effort over the past months between YDS and our family sure paid off!

That’s pretty damn positive coming from an old codger like me! And a Google search shows that Yanni Design Studio still exists, so consider this an unpaid advertisement to use the studio for your next wedding or over-the-top Bar Mitzvah.

Just be sure to invite me. I might want to write a review.

How About A Minute Of Silence To Honor Lin Brehmer. Chicago Radio, Would You Do It?

Let’s not hear it for Lin!

On Broadway, when a legend dies, all the theaters collectively dim their marquee lights for a minute as an honor and show of respect. The tradition dates back to the 1950s and in the last year been used to remember Angela Lansbury and Sidney Poitier.

Why couldn’t Chicago radio have a similar honor for its own recently passed legend, WXRT’s Lin Brehmer? Why not a minute of silence for the man who brought joy to so many Chicagoans with his favorite adage “it’s great to be alive”?

I propose that next Monday, January 30th, at 9:31 am (“XRT call letters are 93.1 on the FM dial) all locally produced radio stations turn off their transmitters and fill the airwaves with a minute of silence

That’s right. A minute without any number-one hits. A minute without the guy from Portage Park calling in to argue about how the Bears should use their number one draft pick. No young women calling in to talk about being ghosted after their last horrid date, no call-in-to-win contests.

We can handle a minute without Hotel California, radical right rants, or left-leaning logic. No smooth jazz, no urban sounds, no up-to-the-minute traffic reports. Especially no pledge drives with matching grants and handy giveaway totes.

Just a moment of peace and quiet to reflect on the fun-loving guy who helped keep Chicago radio alive. And if people want to reflect on other things, like how you should never take anything for granted (another Linism) that’s fine too.

How about it, local radio moguls? We aren’t NYC (thank the lord) but we are Chicago strong. Let’s remember Lin, and then, as he would want, let’s keep on rockin’ in the free world.

It’s great to be alive.

Chicago’s Best Friend In The World Has Died. Lin Brehmer, I Will Miss You.

What a week. Jeff Beck. David Crosby. And now Lin. It’s the last of those that brings me closest to tears.

I can’t describe myself as a long-time WXRT listener. Back in the day (whatever that means) I spent more time with Steve Dahl and Garry Meier on the Loop and was an early disciple of the Stroud Crowd on the Drive. But in recent years whether listening to my office boom box or streaming at home, if I wanted music with a local source, it was WXRT for Chicago’s Finest Rock. And if it was “XRT it was most likely Lin Brehmer.

Lin played the same music as the other WXRT jocks, but his personality outshined all the others. Never one for understatement, any song he liked was the greatest song ever written. And of course, he was everyone’s best friend in the whole world. Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with a Chicago legend?

For a year or two my schedule at the lab revolved around Lin. No matter what I had scheduled, or what unscheduled fires I needed to extinguish, I was sure to be in my office listening to that old radio at 6:20 in the morning for Lin and Mary Dixon to play the three snippets of songs that comprised that day’s 3 for Free contest. My only reward for the dozen times I was the first to Tweet in the right answer was having Lin say my name on the air. It was lagniappe enough.

We exchanged direct messages over a few topics. Lin took issue with an email from ‘XRT program director Laura Duncan to new jock Annalisa that I “discovered.” But at the end of our back and forth, even Lin had to admit that the station played a limited number of prescribed tunes from artists such as the Cure and The Grateful Dead. And we disagreed over a particular song by the band Guster, with the band members themselves becoming involved in our Twitter conversation. At this sad time, I concede that battle to Lin.

Lin lost his life to prostate cancer. Regular readers of this blog know of my involvement personally, professionally, and philanthropically in the fight against prostate cancer. Men of a certain age, please get screened for this potential killer, whether by PSA or one of the myriad of other tests now available. None are perfect, all are better than doing nothing,

On Lin’s Bin, our superjock gave tongue-in-cheek responses to questions submitted by listeners. Disappointingly, Lin never answered any of the questions I submitted. Lin, I have one more question for you.

Are angels your best friends in the world now?

I Am A Premature Flasher. Can You Help Me? (It’s NOT What You Think!)

I have a problem. It is something I first noticed a year or two ago. Sadly, it seems to be getting worse. I am sure Barb is aware of my issue, but we have never talked about it. In fact, she has never mentioned it at all. But it is there. And I don’t know whether or not there is any help for me.

You see, I am a premature flasher. I am the guy in the car in front of you who starts to signal his right turn three blocks before he is actually turning. If I am planning on making a lane change I flip that signal lever half a mile before my car slides over. I’m not trying to fool the drivers following me, I just can’t help myself.

There are regulations detailing when a driver should start signaling. I vaguely remember reading them in “Rules of the Road” when I was sixteen and studying for my first driver’s license exam (the only test I failed in high school.) And I have read this current online recommendation:

“Put your turn signal on approximately 100 feet before you reach the intersection. When driving on the highway and indicating an exit, lane change, or overtake, start your indicator lights approximately 900 feet before you make the change.”

Idrivesafely.com

100 feet? 900 feet? That’s what the experts recommend? No doubt about it, I am signaling my intentions waaay too soon. Highway, toll road, local through-street, it doesn’t matter. Once I know I am going to be turning, that signal gets clicked on, and like an old-time Timex watch it just keeps on clicking.

Does it make me a better, safer, driver? Of course not. All it does is confuse the Lyft driver behind me. “Where the heck is that moron going to turn?” they mutter in Arabic or Swahili to their passengers. Or maybe they think I am one of those space cadets who is staring at his phone and doesn’t even realize the signal is blinking away.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying I am any more dangerous than the cretins who zip in and out of traffic without signaling at all. They are a hazard to (my) life and limb. At worst (I hope) the only thing the premature signaling does is slow traffic down just a bit.

But what if this affliction gets worse? What if I feel compelled to turn on my right turn signal as soon I pull out of our garage and then alternate the left and right blinkers non-stop as I drive to Woodman’s Grocery or to Target? Good thing I am not driving to the lab anymore!

So if you know a solution to my problem, or a therapist you can refer me to, please text, DM, or email me. At this point, I would even settle for an online support group. As embarrassing as it is to admit it, I need help!

Ponce De Leon Was Right All Along. Florida Does Have The Fountain Of Youth.

You all know about Ponce De Leon, right? He was a Spanish explorer in the early 1500s, not too long after Christopher Columbus “discovered” the New World. Not only did he give Florida its name but he also did a pretty good job of mapping out its coastline. He served 3 stretches as Governor of Puerto Rico. Unlike most Illinois governors, these stretches were not followed by one in the hoosegow.

Legend has it that while exploring Florida, Senor De Leon was hunting for the Fountain of Youth. Wikipedia dismisses this search as a myth.

Wikipedia is wrong! In fact, Ponce was 100% correct. The Fountain of Youth DOES exist and is indeed located somewhere in the State of Florida.

My proof? As previously reported Barb and I recently spent 10 days in the state of DeSantis, Delray, and Disney. This was the trip that American Airlines so graciously treated us to, whether they realized it or not. And this is how it went.

We were at O’Hare Airport on a Wednesday early in January, dawdling at gate H6 for our slightly delayed flight. And we were surrounded by…seniors. I know that age-wise Barb and I technically fall into that group, but this was the real white hair, early-bird-dinner crowd. No one under age 75. Priority boarding was Group 1 Wheelchairs, Group 2 Walkers, and Group 3 Canes. The roll-up music to the jetway was courtesy of Lawrence Welk. You get the picture…

We flew with that crowd down to Sarasota International Airport. Barb and I spent our time in the Florida sunshine, eating and visiting and playing. The 10 days of our visit quickly flew by and soon we were back at the Sarasota airport.

Some technical issues with the flight ahead of ours resulted in our flight being delayed and our spending an extra hour or so at our departure gate. We looked at our fellow delayed passengers expecting to see all the white-haired passengers we had traveled down with. Much to our amazement a Florida transformation had occurred. The oldsters we had flown with from Chicago had been magically converted into young families with strollers, backpacks, and screaming babies for the flight back home.

I don’t know how they did it. I don’t know what magical waters they drank from. But I have no doubt that a plane load of our most senior and revered citizens spent 10 days in Florida and were now flying home transformed into kids in their 20s and 30s. They must have found the Fountain of Youth.

Ponce De Leon was right all along!