Biden and Sanders Serenade

To the tune of Frere Jacques, with apologies to Allan Sherman

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
How are you? How are you?
Your numbers are all fading
Your chances are degrading
What to do? What to do?

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
What’s with you? What’s with you?
You romped in Illinois there.
The Jew lost to the goy there.
Nothing new. Nothing new.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
Here’s a clue, here’s a clue.
It’s time for you to drop out
Your chances are on lockout
Your fans too few, your fans too few

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
I’ll pursue, I’ll pursue
My fight for nomination
For the country’s highest station
Until I’m blue, until I’m blue.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
Tell me true, tell me true.
What do I have to do here?
For you to make support clear.
And join my queue, join my queue.

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
Here me through, here me through
To win all of my voters
Be a socialist promoter
That’s what to do, what to do.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
I won’t be cruel, won’t be cruel.
No college day’s tuition
For those who get admission
To a school, to a school.

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
That’s no miscue, no miscue.
Now get them all some healthcare
And end this virus nightmare
That’s my view, that’s my view.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
I’ll say anew, say anew.
The thing we’ve got to do, Bern
Is limit Trump to one term.
Tell him adieu, tell him adieu

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
I’m with you, I’m with you
With Amy or Kamala
You’ve got to beat that fella
He’s no Nehru, no Nehru

Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders together:

Joseph Biden, Bernie Sanders
Here’s to you. Here’s to you.
If we can work together
We’ll beat this stormy weather
And Trump too, and Trump too.

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Shopping to the Apocalypse

I could have been answering trivia questions at that dark and somewhat creepy bar in Dundee. I could have been at home hunched over a crossword puzzle with Grace and Frankie fighting in the background. But instead, there I was, fighting for a parking spot in the jam-packed parking lot of Woodman’s Food Market, our favorite weekly stock-up store. But this was no routine weekly stock-up!

As I maneuvered past cars snarling up the parking lot, Barb snagged a hard-to-find stray shopping cart, nearly being side-swiped by a hulking SUV for her efforts.

We met up in the produce aisle. I grabbed the last remaining bananas from the shelf display, looking around at the mob of people around us. We were all there stuffing our carts with paper goods, and canned goods, and frozen goods (frozen veggies were hard to find,) but I am not sure any of us knew exactly why.

Were we preparing for self-quarantine? Were we stocking up before the apocalypse happened and the zombies rose from their graves? Were we there because someone in our office had mentioned it would be a good idea to be prepared, though prepared for what was never quite clear? Did all these people in one store really do anything to flatten the contagion curve?

In any case, it was a friendly mob, a quiet riot. Every shopping cart appeared to be filled to the top–an 18-pack of toilet paper takes up a lot of cart space. Yet I didn’t see anyone dragging more than one cart–people were intent on fulfilling their needs but no one was in panic mode. There were no face masks and fortunately, no one was coughing. There were also a lot of upscale shoppers we suspected had never entered a midscale Woodman’s store before. We hoped they were aware of the limited credit card policy before they waited in line at the checkout counter.

About those lines at checkout. The lines were long and moved slowly, the wait in the 45-minute range, but I didn’t hear a single complaint. People had confabs with their line neighbors, comparing purchases. Our son Michael happened to be midway through one line, but I passed up the chance to do a Larry Davidesque chat-cut. I might have tried it another day, but on Corona Thursday, I assumed that particular technique would not have been appreciated by the dozens of shoppers behind him. As it turned out, our line moved much faster than Michael’s, saving my 5 lb bag of frozen blueberries from an in-store thaw. Eventually, it was our turn to have our cartload rung up and leave the party behind.

A shout out of appreciation to the Woodman’s workers. While our cashier was only in the 3rd hour of his shift, our bagger was on his 13th. I heard one cashier apologizing to her boss that she just couldn’t work more than 12 hours. And she really seemed depressed about it. I think she felt guilty for not working more.

This morning the world is still spinning, and I assume there will be some bar trivia in my future. And to that tired cashier at Woodman’s at the end of her long shift–don’t sweat it girl, you will get another chance to serve us on another day.

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photo credit: Darren Johnson / iDJ Photography BOBBY. via photopin (license)

An Open Letter to Our Son–The New Coach

Michael,

You have nailed it. One of your life goals, something you told us many years ago when you were childless and single was that at age 35 you wanted to be coaching your son or daughter in baseball. And now at exactly 35 you have been approved to coach H’s local rec league team. It will be some T-ball, some coach-pitch, and should be all fun. Your mother and I congratulate you and guarantee you that coronavirus and weather permitting, our spring will be filled with sunshine, sidelines, and sandlots.

I have one request. Be a good coach. Not necessarily a winning coach–at this level no one should be keeping score. Not a hard-ass coach–many of these kids are having their first experience in organized sports and they should learn that this is friendly competition for the fun of playing the game. Not a biased coach–H should learn immediately that Daddy is the coach for all the kids. And it goes without saying there should be no gender bias.

So what does being a good coach mean to me? Focus on the basic skills you can guide the kids in. Running, throwing, catching, and the idea that physical activity is fun and healthy. Let the kids know that athletics can be a good release from stress, not something that will add to whatever stress they will feel through adolescence and teen years. Let them know that getting a hit is great, but so is cheering a teammate (or a competitor) on a (Willie) Maysian throw or an (Andruw) Jonesian catch.

Emulate the coaches who had a positive impact on you as a youth. Remember also the ones who had you and your teammates in tears. Don’t be one of those coaches. And that youth-basketball coach we witnessed last month? The one who endlessly berated the teen-aged official and disrupted the game? Swear to yourself you will never be that guy.

Prepare yourself. Does the rec league offer training? Take in what they have to offer and filter it through your own sensibilities. Talk to any friends who have already coached and think about what they have to say. Find a good book or website that can guide you as you guide the youngest all-stars.

With no one counting runs, with no stats, and with no victories or losses, how will you know if you are a success? Take a mental snapshot of each kid at the beginning of the season. When the schedule winds down, ask yourself how many players have improved their basic skills since those first days. Ask yourself if you can identify one memorable moment from each child’s season. And be sure that you have shared those highlights, have shared them with everyone.

One more measure of your accomplishment: Next spring check the league rosters to see how many of this year’s players have registered for another season of the old hardball. If you have led them right, making sure each felt their 2020 season was fun and positive, they will all return for 2021.

And Mom and I will be there too. We’ll always have your back. Hit this one out of the park, son!

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Back to the Alley-Getting Bowled Over

Barb hates bowling alleys. She probably doesn’t feel great about pool halls either, but she definitely hates bowling alleys. The ones she remembers are filled with smoke, sticky with spilled beer, and smelly from all those recycling bowling shoes. Not to mention those awful polyester bowling shirts that were once the vogue. The net result is that I have not bowled a game (or a line, in bowler lingo) for close to thirty years–back when my nephews had birthday parties at some local lanes.

But my non-kegeling streak came to a gutter pounding end this weekend. With Barb out of town visiting permanent Florida snowbirds, I had my chance to meet up with Marty, the husband of another of Barb’s friends for a heart-pounding, thumb-popping trip to the boards. Yes, after declining Marty’s first two invitations over the past year, I finally said yes.

I assumed that at 2 pm on a weekend when Corona Madness is starting to grip the nation the bowling alley would be deserted, with perhaps one or two lanes occupied by bored oldsters who didn’t know the world has passed them by. I was stunned to find the place packed. A youth traveling-team tournament took up 3/4 of the lanes, boys and girls bowling, cheering, and bumping fists.

The smoke and the sticky floors I remembered from back in the day were gone, the former legislated away, the latter banished by the general sobriety of the kids bowling. Alas, the polyester bowling shirts remained, even more flamboyant than in days of yore, the shirts colored with in-your-face Day-Glo blues, reds, and purples. What was new to me was that many of the teens were bowling with two hands on their bowling ball throughout their backswing, something I had never seen before. Times have changed.

Our foursome settled onto our two quiter lanes, and I noticed something else new and confusing. The bowlers on the alleys to our right were going crazy with high fives every time one of their teammates rolled a nine on their first ball. Nines are OK, but what was the big deal? I asked Marty, and learned that those bowlers were paying something called “9 Pin, No Tap.” It’s a fancy way of saying that a nine counts as a strike. Say, what??? These were grown-ups! Man (and woman) up and admit that is just a way to jack up your scores. You need gutter bumpers too?

OK, enough griping. How did I bowl? My bowling shoes fit fine. My fingers still fit in my ball. It took me a few frames to nail down my starting point, my stride, and my release. But by halfway through the first of our 3 games, I felt as if I was in midseason form. I was throwing my ball as straight as a Daryl Dixon arrow (I don’t have the superhook most of the other bowlers were throwing) and it was popping nicely into the pocket. I was even picking up a decent percentage of my spares. My final scores were good, or at least good enough for me.

Will I bowl again? Sure, though it may have to wait until Barb goes to Florida again. But Marty, next time it’s on me!

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Joe Biden, I Feel Your Pain. I Get Tongue Tied Too!

The dust may be starting to settle. Potential candidates are dropping like flies, and only the two old white guys remain. The ladies-gone. The minorities-gone. The LGBTQ-gone. Any mixture of the above-gone.

So I have to consider my options. Do I like the shouting grampa or the bumbling grampa? If both are still sticking around (and I assume they will be) when the Illinois Democratic primary rolls around, which way will I lean?

Sorry, Bernie–you won’t be getting my vote. It’s not only that I don’t like your politics, and that I think you would be a disaster in the November election; for yourself, for the party, and for the country. And it isn’t only that I am a moderate-centrist who believes that incremental actions can lead to real change. Besides all that, I’ll vote for Biden because Joe, I feel your pain!

No, not the pain you have felt from the terrible tragedies of losing Neilia, Naomi, and Beau (though I have lost a sister, and have at least a glimmer of an understanding.) What you and I share is the marked tendency to put our foot, or sometimes both feet, into our respective mouths and just say the darndest thing.

Your sentences are often meandering, your nonsequiturs can be conversation stopping, and your mix-ups downright confounding. But I know just how you feel. So many times I open my mouth, and the words that tumble out just don’t match the ideas circling in my brain. I’m not sure if it is because I am speaking too quickly, or because I am thinking thought #12 while still enunciating thought #10. Maybe I lose my concentration just as I am about to make a grandiose statement.

But sometimes even I am amazed by the things I say. You know how Joe B. mixed up his wife with his sister while introducing them at his victory rally in California on Super Tuesday? Well, when I tell a story I may confuse my daughter with my daughter-in-law, my grandkids with my nephews, or my neighbors with their pets (is Boomer the woman across the street or is it her dog or are neither named Boomer?) Yes, I can even confuse myself.

I have seen the look of horror on Barb’s face as she steps in to correct some of my verbal gaffes. I have seen the puzzled look on my kid’s faces as they try to decipher a story I am telling about “your mother’s cousin’s grandson’s second cousin.” Sleepy Joe could not have confused it better.

I don’t share a stuttering issue with Joe, but I have been known to mumble a bit. The result is the same, a failure to communicate. It can certainly be “flustrating.”

So Joe, you weren’t my first choice for the Democratic nomination, but now I am publicly throwing my support your way–to you, to moderation, and to success. Neither of us may be able to say it, but as long as I can type it, it should come out clearly!

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Hillary Clinton Still Has It

Who remembers Netscape? In 1994, it was the first successful Internet browser, opening the World Wide Web to millions of newbies. Its dominance was short, as it was soon supplanted by the evil genius of Microsoft and Internet Explorer. And how about Myspace? Once upon a time, it was the social media site, with millions of users. Along came young Mark Zuckerberg and The Facebook, and poof–it was as if Myspace never existed. And we are left to wonder if the world would have been a better place if Netscape and Myspace had been more resistant to invaders.

And that’s the feeling I had last night, staying up late to watch Hillary Rodham Clinton appear on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. Hillary, the former First Lady, Senator, and Secretary of State who in 2016 was vanquished by Donald Trump.

Ms. Clinton sat to Jimmy’s right in her power pants suit, smiling and appearing very comfortable as she talked with Fallon about politics, and viruses, and yes, plugging the new Hula documentary about her–well, who appears on the Tonight Show if they don’t have something to plug? She wasn’t mean, she wasn’t spiteful, she didn’t rip into Bernie (though I have heard there is some of that in the documentary.) Her mentions of Trump were cutting without being cruel, just making it clear that he was not a competent leader in a time of national and worldwide conflicts.

I understand that Hillary is not a perfect person. She was embroiled in enough controversies to wonder if there was ever any smoke with all the fire. Her 2016 candidacy has been bisected and trisected and totally dissected. Her campaigning in the wrong states, her being perceived as more of an ice-princess than Frozen’s Elsa, Bill’s runaway runway dalliance with Attorney General Loretta Lynch, James Comey’s botched email server announcements, and of course the “baskets of deplorables” all contributed to her stunning election night flop. (Yes, I know she won the popular vote–so what?)

But oh, what could have been. Even if much of her agenda would have been stymied by a Republican congress, there would be no trade wars, no walls, no cages. There would be a viable State Department, a well-staffed CDC, an unthreatened Affordable Care Act, and we never would have heard of Brett Kavanaugh or Christine Ford. And people living in downtown’s Trump Tower wouldn’t have to worry about the price drop on their condos.

Even if Ms. Clinton were the incumbent Madame President, I suspect Bernie would still be running a primary campaign. So be it. The Democratic candidate would be facing off against a saner Republican. I wouldn’t be worrying quite as much.

Netscape, Myspace, Hillary Rodham Clinton. Memories of better times.

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John Mulaney Says Middle Aged Men Don’t Make Friends–OK, Boomer

Not my wife's friend's husbands. — Not my wife’s friend’s husbands.

Usually, if you want to learn some truths about yourself, you look in the mirror. But sometimes, your daily insight comes from an unexpected source. On a rare occasion, it might even come from Saturday Night Live.

John Mulaney, a 37-year-old comedian and former writer for SNL was the guest host on the show last weekend. He spent a few moments talking about himself and the fact that he was hosting on Leap Day, but then hit the meat of the monologue. And that meat was me! Here is an edited transcript along with my thoughts.

“Clap if you father is between 60 and 75” Yeah, I am in that 60-75 demographic. I better pay attention to this guy.

“If you think your father has friends, you are wrong” Friends? I have friends.

“Your mom has friends, and they have husbands, and those are your dad’s friends.” Hmm, maybe he is on to something here. There does seem to be a pattern…

“I have some theories why none of our baby-boomer dads have friends.” So this guy thinks he is a psychologist? Or a sociologist? Still, he is a Chicago kid, so I’ll listen to what he has to say.

“Theory 1: They forgot.” I still remember every kid with whom I went to preschool. One of them even popped into my office a few years ago.I was very polite, even though he turned out to be selling something. I just don’t want to be friends with him.

“Theory #2: They want to be alone. They go into a room and read about World War II.” Nothing wrong with a little bit of being alone. But Barb will be off to Florida this weekend, we’ll see how “alone” feels then. As to World War II, meh. I don’t read much history, anyway. But give me a new John LeCarre novel, and yeah, that will be my new best friend for a week.

“Theory #3: Dad’s only want to talk about money, but that is forbidden to talk about.” Wrong, wrong, wrong. The one thing baby boomer dads want to talk about is… golf. Where they played today. Where they are playing tomorrow. Which way the wind was blowing when they hit the seven iron on the 13th. Oh yeah, they sometimes talk about their health, as in “I had a cold yesterday, so I COULDN”T PLAY GOLF!” p.s. I hate golf.

“It’s hard to make friends when you are an adult male.” It’s true that most of the men that I am friends with now (the ones who aren’t Barb’s-friend’s-husbands) are the ones I made in school. Sure, I have met lots of guys since then–through work, through tennis, through various Boards and committees. Acquaintances sure, but friends? Buddies? Pals? I am afraid not.

“Jesus’s biggest miracle? He was a 33-year-old guy who made 12 new friends.” These days he would have met them in the synagogue Men’s Club. And they really wouldn’t have been friends, just the guys he schmoozed with on a Sunday morning while kvetching about the kids and Trump…

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Cabo Wabo–Timeshare Style

It is always nice to get away from a Chicago winter. Utilizing our resort timeshare and traveling to a locale we have grown very familiar with over the past five years keeps the stress levels low and the expectations in line. But no matter how at home we are with the sprawling resort at the southern tip of the Baja California Peninsula, there are things we learn on every trip. Here are a few, in no particular order.

We were smart to bring along our own ground coffee, tea bags, and sweeteners. What I was not prepared for was how loooong it took the electric stovetop to boil water for my morning cup(s) of tea. I know I was down in Mexico to relax, and there was nothing more pressing on my schedule than “Lay at the pool,” but I still get impatient when the minutes tick by and my first jolt of caffeine is on hold waiting for the tea kettle to whistle. Give me a gas stove any day…or at least a good electric kettle. Note to self–pack electric kettle next year.
We are not automatic pushovers! On our first visit to the resort five years ago we were enticed by the “special promotions” to attend a timeshare sales pitch lunch. Despite plenty of expenses already on our plate–inconsequential things such as building the new house and planning and paying for our daughter’s wedding–we succumbed to temptations and with visions of 6 bedroom deluxe vacation villas dancing in our heads, signed a contract that in reality gave us just an annual week of a one-bedroom suite.

This year resort management invited us to an “owners’ luncheon” with promises of no hard sell and a chance to hear all the latest and greatest about the resort company. Since we had heard through the grapevine the company was planning on building in a few locales we are interested in visiting, and since there was an offer of $100 in resort credit on the table, we gambled that we could be strong and resist any new sales pitch that came along. Sure enough, our Chicken Caesar Salads and Tequila Sunrises (I know it was lunch, but we were on vacation so a bit of day-drinking was necessary) came with a one time offer to toss another $10,000 into our Mexican investment so that we could get better use out of our otherwise worthless Platinum Points. I am pleased to say, we resisted the salesman’s pitch. Though to paraphrase Mario Puzo from the novel “The Godfather,” I have to admit, he didn’t try very hard.

A steady stream of over-chlorinated pool water can bring with it a moderate level of eye discomfort and redness. A single drop of sweat tinged with sunblock can produce excruciating pain and near-instant –but fortunately temporary– blindness. That’s what I get for heeding the words of my dermatologist (and Barb about dedicated use of sunblock.
“Farm-to-Table Restaurant” in Mexico means the same thing as “Farm-to-Table Restaurant” in the USA. Expensive.
When finished snorkeling, it is best to return to the boat that brought you, not waste all your energy going to the wrong excursion. You don’t want to have to tip the crew of two boats.
I could save a ton of money on taxi rides if I would rent a car. However, I am still to chicken to drive in Mexico. Maybe if I took the trouble to learn Spanish…
The next peso I spend in Cabo will be the first peso I spend in Cabo. Dollars, dollars, dollars.
Chicago weather hype reaches for thousands of miles. We were bombarded for days with news about the monster storm headed to O’Hare. American Airlines warned us we should change our flight. They sure psyched me out. Barb remained level headed and resisted my pleas for us to come home two days early to avoid the 6-12 inches of imaginary snow that never fell. If a meteorologist replaced me in the lab, they would call every biopsy “possibly malignant,” just in case!
OK, I give in. A Kindle is easier to transport than 3 library books. Even if my carry-on now contains fourteen charges and three adapters.
No matter how many discounts the management wants to give us, we will never pay for the all-inclusive meals/drinks package. But’s it’s not hard to tell which patrons do–and you don’t have to look for their wrist bracelets to know who they are. Their girth usually gives them away.

All in all, a good trip. The only Corona we saw was the beer. The trip we were planning on taking to China in May? Canceled because of that other newsworthy Corona. You can’t win ’em all.

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For What It’s Worth-Revisited

In the 1960s we had protest songs. We had Dylan, we had McGuire, we had Country Joe. Pete Seeger was temporarily banned for Big Muddy and Roger Daltry stuttered to his generation. And we had Buffalo Springfield. Stephen Stills, Neil Young, Richie Furay, et al, asking what it was all worth. The harrowing lyric “Step out of line, the men come and take you away.”

Anne and I thought it was time to give those lyrics an update–of course, our lyrics are from a lefty point of view. I hope Stephen doesn’t mind.

For What It’s Worth

2020

Strange things are happening here.
What they are is abundantly clear.
There’s a man, with a blond head of hair,
Driving me and my friends to despair.

You know it’s time we stop.
Blue states, coming round.
Need someone,
To knock him down.

Mods and Left are fighting long.
Want to know which side you belong.
Primary fights – it’s such a grind,
It’s no wonder Joe Biden was outshined.

It’s time we stop.
Blue states, coming round.
Need someone,
To knock Trump down.

There’s some love now for young Pete.
With Amy’s troops he will compete.
But Bernie’s Bros thinks it’s their time,
While Bloomberg’s bucks have him solid on cloud nine.

We better stop.
Blue states, coming round.
Just one chance,
To knock Trump down

For more years of this “bleep”.
Consequences way too steep.
Don’t want Trump leading my parade.
Make him mad you know he’s gonna make you pay.

We better stop.
Blue states, coming round.
Or Constitution’s
Coming down.

We better stop.
Blue states, coming round.
It’s our best chance,
To knock Trump down.

Stop now….

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Amazon Stirs My Memories – Remember Old Chicago?

Amazon pays $50 million for former Old Chicago amusement park and megamall site–Chicago Tribune, February 12, 2020.

Who remembers Old Chicago? It was an odd place, a combination of amusement park and boutique stores under a giant dome, that was open in where-the-heck-is Bolingbrook in the late 1970s. It was no Riverview, and no Great America either. It bombed.

I took Barb to Old Chicago for our second date, back when I was still trying to find something unique to do each time we went out. That second date was as much success as the polo match on our first date. A few roller coasters (not Barb’s thing) and a dangerous-looking crowd (also not Barb’s thing.) No wonder I soon fell back to that old stand-by, dinner and a movie. It’s what we boomers did back then, and it’s what we still do, though the butt-shuffling Skokie Theater has been replaced by reclining sleeper seats at the Lincolnshire Regal.

Old Chicago wasn’t the only place trying the indoor amusement park concept. Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota has been more successful. My guy gang and I spent one evening there on our first regular-season baseball road trip (2005-White Sox are World Series Champs.) It too seemed dark and dingy, though the dangerous crowd I remembered from Old Chicago was replaced by cosplayers from some character convention going on in part of the mall. Scary in its own way…

The Mall did have one highlight for us, a monument at the location of the homeplate from Metropolitan Stadium, the ballpark pulled down for the Mall. Well, it is a highlight if you are all baseball geeks!

So what is Amazon getting for its $50 million investment? The dome is long-gone. What remains is a 119-acre site, upon which Amazon won’t yet say what it is going to build. My guesses? Maybe a distribution center so I can get my order of computer cables and kitty litter filled faster. How about drone parking lot so I can get my delivery of SLS-free toothpaste and vacuum cleaner bags even faster than that? Or maybe a secret listening post, where Amazon can listen to and analyze everything I say within 100 feet of Alexa–no wait, they already do that!

Well, Mr. Bezos, you didn’t choose Chicago for your HQ2. But you are choosing Chicago now–Old Chicago. May your billions multiply like grains of sand along the lakeshore. Just don’t build another roller coaster there-no one will come!

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