Early Reading Should Be One Thing: Fun

Banning books. Burning books. Books pushing agendas. What about books that teach kids that it’s fun to read?

Growing up in the city, I always got such pleasure reaching for a favorite book. It was just as much fun as a game of fastpitch at the Field School schoolyard, or hoops at Leone Fieldhouse. And that passion outlived other time-passers. I don’t play baseball or basketball anymore, but I still love curling up with a good novel in the sunroom.

Plenty of the books I read in those formative years came from Scholastic Books. Our classroom teacher would distribute the company’s flyer to our classroom. I would pore over each book description, trying to make the best choice for the 3 or 4 books I would convince my parents to order for me. And I felt darn proud when the teacher told the class that I could choose anything I wanted, even though some books were a year or two above our grade level.

My penchant for mystery stories came early. I remember being in 2nd or 3rd grade hunting for clues in The Secret of Black Rock, The Dugout Canoe Mystery, and Emil and the Detectives. Those were but precursors to my discovery of Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, and Sherlock Holmes. Highpockets and other books by the prolific author John R Tunis were my passageways to sports fiction.

There were kid-geared biographies, too. After one School Parent’s Night Book Fair, my folks surprised me with a biography of Helen Keller. It was paired with a Thomas Edison biography containing the story, probably apocryphal, of the young inventor being pulled onto a train by his ears.

When I was eight my Swiss uncle gave me the English translation of the German children’s book Lottie and Lisa by Erich Kästner. While the title may not seem familiar to you, I assure you that you crushed on either Hayley Mills or Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap, movies based on that Kastner story.

Not every book had a story to tell. I memorized volumes filled with jokes, riddles, and whimsical verses. The first poem I could ever recite?

The Thunder God went for a ride,
Upon his favorite filly.
"I'm Thor," he cried.
The horse replied,
"You forgot your thaddle, thilly."

Now ask me how much of The Wasteland from my college English Lit of the 20th Century course I can remember…

Yes, I understand that early reading needs to be inclusive and non-stereotypical. But please, please, please let it be fun. What is more effective than instilling the joy of reading to produce a loving, caring, open-minded person and citizen?

Are you a music or radio fan? Check out our previous post here.

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WXRT Hires New Jock–A Greeting To Her From the Program Director.

Getting More from Les Blog Readers: You might have read that WXRT has hired a new DJ, AnnaLisa Parziale, a radio veteran with stints in San Francisco and Boston. Somehow, an email from ‘XRT program director Laura Duncan to Annalisa wound up in my inbox. I reproduce it below with only slight editing for brevity.

******

Dear Annalisa,

Welcome to Chicago and WXRT. As your program director, I am sure that I will be your new best friend in the whole world, no matter what Lin Brehmer tells you.

I know that throughout your career you have heard great things about WXRT and that you are looking forward to all the freedom and variety that you will have while programming your show. There are just a few little rules, or as I like to call them, suggestions, that will help you fit into our family.

You are required to play one song by The Cure on each shift. We have six tracks to choose from. I prefer if you don’t play Friday I’m In Love on Fridays. It is just sooo cliche.
The Clash must always be referred to as The Only Band That Matters, even though we only have two of their songs on our allowed playlist.
Terri plays the Beatles. Period.
We feature a heavy rotation of one Grateful Dead song a month. Last month’s selection was Touch of Grey. This month I haven’t yet decided between Uncle John’s Band or Touch of Grey. I will let you know when I make up my mind. In the meantime, in case you have any inclination to play Truckin’, don’t.
Sprinkle in a few anecdotes of the first time you heard a particular band in concert. It doesn’t have to make sense, but it shows the listeners you are just like them.
Playing Chicago music means playing Smashing Pumpkins, or occasionally Wilco. And a couple of blues guys to prove how hip we are. Their names escape me.
For the first 45 years of this station, Aerosmith was just the misspelling of a Sinclair Lewis novel. But ever since The Loop, Chicago’s harder rock station, shut down, we at XRT have been courting their Incel former listeners. Therefore we have been rocking Dream On every other Tuesday. Ditto, I’m looking for a slot to crank out some Van Halen. You good with Panama?
We don’t do news, Huey Lewis or otherwise. Mary Dixon has left the building.
In view of your recent history in Massachusetts, and because our listeners fantasize over Phoebe Cates, you may play The Cars Moving in Stereo as often as you desire. On the other hand, playing the band Boston is strictly verboten. So is playing Chicago.
Måneskin. Always more Måneskin. I’m begging.

Good luck and welcome.

REM forever,

Laura

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How To Tell When Dogs or Cats Don’t Like You

Barb showed me a video on Facebook the other day that gives you hints on how to tell that your dog doesn’t like you. The video discusses tips such as if the dog growls at you, the dog won’t let you touch it, or the dog doesn’t look you in the eye, you probably are not the pooch’s favorite person.

It was all straightforward, and with each passing enumeration, Barb and I were able to say “That’s not us. Cooper still likes us.”

But I got to thinking–how can you tell if a cat doesn’t like you? So having lived with felines since I was 8 years old, I feel qualified to share the following list with all of you.

How To Tell That Your Cat Doesn’t Like You

If your cat doesn’t look at you–he may not like you.
If your cat looks at you for more than 3 seconds–she probably doesn’t like you.
If you haven’t cleaned the litter box in a couple of days–she might poop in your bed to show she doesn’t like you.
If he doesn’t like the fresh litter in his box–he might pee on the dog’s bed to show he doesn’t like any of you.
If your cat purrs when you hold her–it’s only a trick to make you think she likes you so you feel compelled to feed her.
If your cat comes when you call her name–it is really a dog wearing a cat costume.*
If you only own one cat–he doesn’t like you.
If you own more than one cat–at least half of them, and most likely all of them, don’t like you.
If you fill the cat’s water bowl–she will drink from the toilet to prove her disdain for you.
While you are cleaning the vomited fur ball of your bed in the middle of the night–the cat doesn’t like you for waking him up.

Cats are cats. So if it is unconditional love you are looking for, a cat might not be your best bet. Have you considered a pet iguana?

Read our take on the Supreme Court.

*Note: this one doesn’t apply to us since after 12 years we still have not named our current cat. Any suggestions?

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Thumbs, Tires, and Tradition. This Story Has It All.

Some people (such as Barb) are born with green thumbs. Some people (such as residents of the planet Twilo) are born without thumbs. And then, there is me, born all thumbs.

To lay it on the line, I am no handyman. I put this down to nature and nurture. My dad lived to be 80 years old, and I don’t believe he ever held a tool in his hand. From his upbringing in a fairly up-scalish home in Berlin, through adulthood in various Chicago apartments, there was always someone else to do the dirty work.

That’s not to say I haven’t tried to be a macho man. I can pull out a toolbox laden with wrenches and hammers and screwdrivers. Yet every hose I attach to any faucet leaks, every screw I drive quickly becomes stripped, and every smart device I connect laughs at me.

All this is a long way of saying, that the other day when a nice co-worker came to tell me she had noticed my car in the parking lot with a flat tire, my first impulse was NOT to get out the car jack and crank ‘er up. To be honest, I didn’t even know if I had a jack–or a spare.

So I did what most Jewish males would do in my situation–I made a phone call. AAA promised me a service truck within about 45 minutes…and two hours later one arrived. No, the tech didn’t have the right tools to get my old tire off or to properly hitch up my car for a tow. But he was a nice guy, and managed to load the car onto his flatbed, tightened the straps, and took me and my ride to the AAA service center, a country music Sirius station playing all the way.

The guy at the service center desk looked tired and overworked but was nice enough to squeeze my car into the schedule and onto a lift. Up went the car, and after some sledgehammer work, off came the tire, revealing a slash on the inner sidewall. In the More Bad News Department, no replacement tire was available.

On went the slow-drive spare (yes, I did have one), and I began the long drive to the north suburbs. Fortunately, it was now rush hour, so I had no problem limiting my speed to 50 mph on the congested Tri-State Tollway. Also, fortunately, the tire dealer where I have already replaced 7 tires on my 4-year-old car was open and they had my tire size in stock. It would be a 90-minute wait, so Barb picked me up, we had a carry-out dinner, and got back to the tire dealer just before closing time.

As I drove home, I noticed I still had all my thumbs, and they were all still grease and grime free. From Berlin to Riverwoods, some things never change.

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To My Grandchildren After The Texas School Shooting.

A Chicago school shooting. Photo courtesy Chicago Tribune.

A Message To My Four Grandchildren

When I was in elementary school we had fire drills. Then when I was in high school I was part of the “Safety Unit,” manning the stairwells to ensure students only used the correct pathways to a safe exit during similar drills. Most students treated those drills as a joke, enjoying a break from classes, and getting outside on a nice spring day.

I never inquired, but I suppose things were the same for our kids, your parents, who were public school students in the late 80s and throughout the 90s, with those same drills that no one took seriously.

Then came April 20, 1999, and with Columbine, the beginning of the school shooter era.

So the drills that you, my four grandchildren will get used to are active shooter drills. And I fear you need to take them seriously.

Of all the countries in the world, only this one can’t figure out how to stop mass shootings — be they in the workplace, a shopping mall, or an elementary school.

The country you live in is overloaded with firearms. The adults are numb to the daily murder numbers until they impinge on the parts of the city they care about.

We can reel off the locations of mass shootings, but as a government, as a people, we have failed your generation.

I hope someday, someday soon, we adults will start doing the smart things, and you kids can go to school, to houses of worship, and to fun places too, and not have to worry about whether you will make it to tomorrow.

You deserve a safe, happy future.

With Love,

Your Baba

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This is Us Worms into My Brain…and It Is Spooky.

I must be channeling This is Us. I don’t know why.

Yes, I watch all the episodes. But no, I have not shed a single tear over the Pearson family tragedies. And Barb and I nearly came to blows over my dismissal of last week’s episode. After six years of being ignored, we were suddenly supposed to care about Miguel? I didn’t get it.

So as we sat through last night’s episode (only interrupted once by Cooper’s need to get out of the house) I had my attention split between the show and a leftover crossword puzzle from the weekend Trib.

When I looked up at the screen I wondered why a past son-in-law and a past not-quite-daughter-in-law were part of the family gathering. I laughed at the last-minute arrival of Kate, now an international tycoon.

And then there was the train. As Rebecca in her fugue state was led from car to car, I kept thinking back to Snowpiercer, Bong Joon Ho’s futuristic masterpiece about a train hurtling around the earth, its occupants the only survivors in a frozen world. You never knew what would be in the next car, only that death was the ultimate destination. Did Rebecca have Rip Wheeler drive her to the station…

So with my obvious lack of appreciation for six seasons of This is Us, why do I feel that it must have been reaching across the ether to tap into my brain? A strange thing happened yesterday evening. When doing the dishes and making my lunch for the next day, I often as Alexa to play some music. I usually request something from the classic rock oeuvre (Bruce, U2, Steely Dan, et al.), but last night I inexplicably called for Joni Mitchell. Ever obedient Alexa came through with Joni classics “Freeman in Paris, Help Me, and The Circle Game. And those of you who watched This is Us know where this is going.

Halfway through the Pearson’s goodbyes to Rebecca, they leaf through a box of LPs. The camera focuses on Joni’s Clouds album. And the sounds of The Circle Game fill the air.

Call it synchronicity. Call it an amazing coincidence. Call it witchcraft. I just know it has me spooked. I may not care much for This is Us, but I sure am going to watch next week’s final episode. I think Rebecca is calling my name.

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Barb’s Kisses Win Me Over

Each year’s Laboratory Week celebration includes a “Guess the Number of Jelly Beans in the Jar” contest. I rarely bother to submit an entry for two reasons: 1) I am awful at that type of guessing game, and 2) the prize, that jar of generic Jelly Bellys, has no appeal to me.

Apparently, Barb does not share my poor estimating eye. She recently came home from a wedding shower with a huge glass canister of Hershey’s Kisses, that she had won with a right-on-the-money guess.

The prize, the jar filled with hundreds of candies in their shiny aluminum foil, sat on the kitchen island for a few days as we decided what to do with it. Barb definitely wanted us to keep the canister, but how would we unload all those candies?

Barb doesn’t care much for chocolate candy, and while I have told you of my cravings for chocolate-covered orange peels and Mini Snickers Ice Cream Bars, Hershey’s Kisses have never rung a bell for me. I have always felt they tasted waxy, no match for a good Lindt or Godiva Bar. So I wasn’t tempted. And another reason to get them out of the kitchen; if the ever industrious Cooper chomped down on one or two, it would mean a trip to the emergency vet for a complete stomach clean-out.

For a few days, we thought that maybe I would bring the Kisses to the lab, where I am sure they would be as welcome as Jelly Bellys are. A day later we reconsidered and thought perhaps we should bring them down to the basement where we could serve them at various Canasta, Mah-jong, and poker games we host.

And for all that time, the Kisses gleamed under the kitchen light fixture. And they began to whisper to me. “Try me,” they said. “You won’t be sorry.”

Finally, I gave in. I flipped the canister lid and I reached in. I popped a single candy out and I unwound the silver wrapping. I closed my eyes and popped the chocolate chunk into my mouth.

It wasn’t half bad! Maybe I have had an undiagnosed case of Covid that has altered my sense of taste and mouthfeel. How else to explain the way I enjoyed the waxy pseudo-chocolate flavor that melted across my tongue. Before I could walk away I reached into the jar and grabbed a second candy (and a third.)

It’s now been a few weeks since Barb brought that jar of chocolate delights home. It is nowhalf-empty (or is it half full?) Sorry lab, sorry poker-maj-canasta players. These kisses are mine.

Oh, and if you thought this column was going to be about that other kind of kisses from Barb, those are pretty good too. And after 43 years, I am not sharing those, either!

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Who’s Your Insurance Guy? A Weekend Ditty!
















We're a divided country but can we agree?
Insurance is boring, it brings us no glee.
So all the big Corps, that offer it to us
Must think of new ways, with which they can do us.

Those insurance giants, they got so creative.
They presented to us, a Neanderthal native.
If buying insurance by cavemen is really that easy,
We all should go for it, despite a pitch that's so cheesy.

Progressive and Flo have pushed bundling for ages.
She's cheerful, a pain, and like Covid, contagious.
The shifty dude Mayhem chooses the opposite tactic,
For protection from him, buy an Allstate proph'lactic.

Who can forget, that rude duck from AF-LAC?
Twas the  late Gilbert Gottfried who made that fowl quack.
While LiMu the Emu goes through all his paces,
That slimey green gecko shows up in weird places.

We watch Jake from State Farm, the two guys who portrayed him,
Wore khacki slacks with red shirts, yes that's how they played him.
And speaking of players, whom we're refusing to cheer for
Screw that Packer QB, when selling insurance he's here for. 

How many of you, who are reading today,
Remember Jack Benny and his skinflinty way?
State Farm was the sponsor of his comedy show,
He pinched all  his pennies and hoped they would grow.

And of course there was Alex, of the Jeopardy! game,
Who hawked life insurance, til death put out his flame.
And jolly old Ed, latenight side-kick to Johnny,
Was the barker who told you, getting coverage was bonnie.

The slogans, the symbols that they use to distract us.
While picking our pockets, those premiums impact us.
Yet I hope that these memories still brought you a smile.
Whilst John Hancock's abandoned the Magnificent Mile.

------------------------------------------

Count Rostov was Right. The Lab is Everything That Has Gone on in the Lab

I have spent my commute for the last month listening to A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles. It is a long novel recommended by Barb, detailing the life of Count Rostov, a Russian nobleman, sentenced to house arrest in Moscow’s Metropole Hotel after the Russian Revolution. So far, I’ve covered about 40 years of his life, and I still have 4 more CDs to go. As I said, it is a loooong novel, but a fascinating and very quotable piece of literature.

At one point, the Count reflects on the Piazza, one of the hotel’s restaurants. In a discussion with a young artist sketching the scene, the Count proposes that while the room itself may be nothing special to look at, what is special about the room is “all the things that have gone on in it.”

So it is with the lab. Yes, it’s a hodgepodge result of multiple expansions and remodels, with wandering hallways and blind intersections. But for the last 17 years, it has been filled with people, experiences, joys, and sorrows.

The lab has been filled with the sound of some 50 employees (who thankfully didn’t work at the same time,) five different pathologists (who thankfully agreed with each other most of the time,) and at least one visiting cat.

The lab has been filled with the exuberance and fun of Lab Week–I still have flashbacks to being hit in the face with a pie as part of a fund-raiser, and the silence of Covid–as we went about our business masked and distanced from each other.

The lab has been the site of committee meetings, board meetings, and a national uropathologist session. The lab has been inspected, specimens have been dissected, and unlabeled cups of urine have been rejected. We have been doused in formalin perfume and withered at the petri dish of odors emanating from our microbiology lab.

The lab has been our setting as pathology has changed in the last 17 years. In our journals, photomicrographs of interesting tumors have been supplanted by details of their genetic sequence. The value of PSA screening has been challenged (I say keep on screening) and recently the idea of reclassifying some prostate cancers as benign has been floated (I say sink the idea.)

Sadly, the lab has seen us mourn, not once but twice — firstly over the loss of a tech who was taken from us by leukemia in the short span of a month, and secondly for a cytologist who valiantly fought an unremitting high-grade brain tumor over the course of over a year.

Returning to Count Rostov–as my career is racing towards its end I see how right he was! It’s not the floors or walls or instruments that make our lab memorable. It isn’t the technology. As the count said, our lab is made of all the things that have gone on within it.

And there are just a few more months for me to take it all in.

The views are those of the author and not Uropartners LLC.

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We Are Going Backwards. Why are We Making Abortions Harder?

Shortly after the news broke about the leaked Supreme Court draft decision that may overturn Roe v Wade, I received a call from a friend. He asked that I tell his story. I agreed to do so and present it to you below, in his words.

“It was before 1973 so it was before Roe v Wade. That is as specific as I am prepared to get.

“She had been my girlfriend, then we broke up for a while until for a few months we rekindled. The first time was great but the second time around was different. There were plenty of reasons for that; our circumstances had changed, we had changed, and we no longer felt as close as we had before.

“One fall day, quite out of the blue, she told me she would be going to New York for a few days. She had a girlfriend there that she wanted to visit. It wouldn’t be a long trip and I probably wouldn’t hear from her for a short time.

“I was young and not that great at figuring out what people didn’t want me to figure out. But even I had to wonder. I was aware certain things were legal in New York, things that were only permissible in a handful of states, and Illinois was not one of those.

“We were not sexually active together, but there had been that gap in our relationship, those few months of free fall. She had intimated that it had been a bit of a wild summer for her. The time since then would have been just enough for her to learn she was pregnant, back in those days before home EPT tests.

“I never asked her. I didn’t know how to ask. To this day, I don’t know if her trip to New York was to terminate a pregnancy, a journey of hundreds of miles to get a safe, legal abortion. If that is what her trip was for, I hope at least she did have a friend in New York, someone to hold her hand.“

The country had seemed to move forward since then. Now 50 years later are we right back where we started, lonely women on lonely journeys?

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