In the blood

My grandfather played cards. My uncles Paul, Bobby and Don played cards. Paul wouldn't play with me because I wasn't good enough. My father plays cards and my mother and both of my brothers play cards. My sister doesn't, but she's adopted and apparently doesn't have the gene. I'm talking about playing cards for money. The games have been poker and gin and blackjack. Hold 'em's current popularity is shared by my family. My brother's son, and his two daughters play cards. They're old enough to play for money as long as the stakes aren't too high.

I've played in friendly monthly poker games. I've played gin with my brother for three days straight. I played blackjack in New Mexico's Indian casinos when they were still shacks. Once on a flight to Las Vegas I sat with a man who'd been to the newly opened casinos in Atlantic City. They were so crowded, he said, and the lines to get a seat so long, that when he finally got one, he pissed his pants so as not to risk losing his seat. Later I saw him at a table in Binion's and I sat down and played cards with him. In Laughlin, Nevada I played blackjack next to a woman who, as she got drunker, leaned over to tell me the length of her nipples. That particular information didn't help my game, and as I recall, I lost. I've played video poker in a scary bar on Montana's high-line, and on my computer at home.

My grandfather had a heart attack while he was playing cards. He didn't want to bother the other players so he folded his hand and made his way to the hospital. I don't think he was playing hold 'em. It wasn't as popular then. But if it were me, and I was sitting at a table and felt my heart seizing up, I'd want to hold on and see the flop. It's in the blood, I guess.

Quick, pass the Dramine

When Daddy's Little Girl Starts Dressing Like a Ho

Now that it's getting warmer I've been walking the five blocks to the El. It's good for my waistline, and good for my spirits. I walk past a high school, and that pass-by has got me thinking. Now I'm not a father so my parental insights might be skewed toward the romantic. I haven't been up half the night with a crying Johnny or Sally, I haven't seen my energy level flat-line - well, I have but for other reasons, and I haven't been held captive in my shrinking four walls wondering where my life has gone. So like I said I might be talking out of my ass here, but speaking of ass - Jesus, have you seen these kids?

I see these young girls with their not-so-young bodies and I wonder about dad. What's he thinking? Can he see what I see? Are there special dad-blinders? Is there some kind of quick-change that happens when the girls get outside? If he is seeing what I'm seeing does he weep for the Sally he once had - the one who didn't wear a thong so visible above her jeans? The one whose crayon drawings he still holds dear.

It's gotta be tough being dad.

Pantheon?

My friend David emailed me the other day. He wanted to know about the Pantheon and if it still existed and why the heck it wasn't mentioned here. The answer is partly the blog's profile takes care of that - except I haven't spent much time working on it. Another reason is I haven't had those kinds of conversations lately - Pantheon kinds of conversations - who is currently in, who is out. David and I used to have those conversations - and I miss them as well as New Mexico where they took place, but I've found the sun shines in other places as well, if to varying degrees. David taught me a lot about writing, even when he wasn't trying. His books can be ordered here

But since he asked - an incomplete Pantheon would include (oh, we're talking about writers here - mostly):
Joan Didion, Sam Shepard, Andre Dubus, Graham Greene, Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, James Salter, Richard Ford (though he goes on and off), Jim Harrison, Tim O'Brien (even though everything after "The Lake in the Woods" is god-awful).

It's a partial list and the list changes with my moods - but don't get me started on that.

Revolution at hand?

People ask me, in fact my friend Sherman asked me today. "Are they crazy or just crooked?" Sherman was talking about the CTA's latest shout-cast. We were having lunch. Sherman was eating pastrami, and while I wanted roast beef, I was eating turkey. Despite the topic at hand, Sherman seemed to be enjoying his lunch.

"Listen," he said. "You ride the Brown Line, right?" I do, I told him. Five days a week. On at Kimball, off at Quincy, and back again. "So you've seen the CTA graffiti then," he said.

I told him I thought they pretty much had gotten rid of it. Something I've given them credit for.

"No, not the tagging of the stations and the trains. The graffiti aimed at the CTA. People living along the tracks are defacing their garages - begging the CTA not to cut their service, not to close their station."

I'd heard that. But on the ride in I usually have my head in a book. On the ride home I nap. Sure, I told him. I've seen it. But isn't that about the CTA's plans to close stations while they do improvements?

"Right!"he said. "They have the bungalow crowd so pissed off they're spray-painting their gargages. Begging for mercy."

Begging?

"You bet. And now this," he said, slamming his hand down on the Sun-Times. "There's gonna be a revolt."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that he's wrong. How it will play out the way it always plays out. Fares will probably rise, a little. Service maybe will get cut, a little. Springfield will give, a little. And this summer, when the kids are out of school, and the fathers and the mothers want them out of their hair, block by block you'll hear parents yelling out, "Get off your butt and paint the damn garage."

Something in the air?

It's early, I know. But there is starting to be a little stir. You can see it in the way the Trib and Sun-Times are playing it. The opinion pieces posing their what-ifs. And the way Mr. Daley's eyes are more furtive than usual. Still, it's early. But there are questions: is Jesse Jackson Jr really a viable candidate - does he even want the run and what it will cost him financially and otherwise? Is there anyone else who could even come close?

The city has a very different dynamic than it did when Harold Washington ran and won in 1983.

I worked on that election - doing canvassing in the precincts and working a polling place on election day. But what I remember most vividly is waiting for a bus on the Northwest side. I was wearing my blue Washington button (which I think I still have). When the bus pulled up and the white bus driver opened the door, he looked down and saw my button. He shook his head, and then he closed the door leaving me to wait for another bus.

It's a different city - in many ways a better city, and more than a little of the credit goes to Mr. Daley. Except the smell of rot coming off city hall is getting stronger every day, and Mr. Fitzgerald is not going away. So let's wait and see. It just might get interesting again.

Tom Joad?

Yes, I know we live in a place and time governed by what the market will bear - and everyman and woman for themselves. God bless our lives - Glory Days. But still, does a man who is already worth more than a few countries - and chooses - feels compelled to write about the down-and-out - how economies can wreck havoc on souls - really need to stage concerts where the low-end ticket is $75. Maybe somebody should take Mr. Landau for a Meeting Across the River and have a little talk about roots and fans and what $75 - 100 means in My Hometown.

Hull House

The University of Illinois recently put up a site detailing the history of Hull House. They have some great photos and they can be seen here.

Friday (Thank God, he said)

On the elevator, on the way back from a smoke break (yeah, still one of those people), I rode with a man whose job I'm not certain of, but suspect he's with GSA, something about running the building. He's in his early 60's, I'd guess. Hair greased back 50's style - earring in one ear. This gentleman is tossing a pen up in the air and catching it - tossing and catching, tossing and catching. Says, "I'm in a good mood."

And I say, "Yeah?"

He says, "It's Friday. I'm going to the VFW and I'm gonna get bombed." The door to the elevator opens. Out he walks. "Maybe I'll even get lucky," he says, still tossing his pen.

'O Fridays. 'O hope.

Me and the Indians

It was 1970-something. I was still a minor, but barely, so I'm guessing I was 16, which would make it 1970 exactly. I was a runaway - again. I was staying at an apartment building in Wrigleyville where my friend's father lived. I was staying on the roof because he didn't want me inside. No, this isn't Elliott redux. I was a runaway, yes. And sleeping on a roof - in Chicago. But this is about Indians. It just happened to start on a roof.

It was spring or summer and R -, whose father's roof I'd been sleeping on, and I were walking along the lakefront near Addison when we saw a man sitting on a bench. He was bent over, his head almost on his lap. As we got closer he looked up and seeing us, said, "Can you help me."

I didn't know he was an Indian. I don't know if I'd ever seen an Indian before, except in movies, and maybe once on a family vacation out west. This Indian didn't look very healthy. I wanted to keep walking. Then R - said, "What's the matter?"

"I need your coat," the Indian said.

He meant my coat. He was looking at me and the fringed leather coat my mother had given me for Christmas. "I've been shot," he said.

I didn't see any blood. Not then and not later. Maybe he was shot, but I never saw the proof.

"I gotta get back to the Nike base," the Indian said. "They can help me over there."

I recalled hearing something about a group of Indians taking over the old Nike missile base near Belmont Harbor. It had been in the news. I probably heard it on the radio, or seen a headline in a newspaper box.

"Give 'em your coat," R - said.

I wanted to say, Are you nuts? Give 'em your coat. But R - wasn't wearing a coat. It was too warm for a coat. Unless you liked the look of the one your mother had given you for Christmas. They were waiting, R - and the Indian. Both of them looking at me. I think the Indian smiled.

R- took a step to the side and motioned me over. "Come on," he said. "He's an Indian. We'll get it back."

I gave the Indian my coat and we walked with him toward the harbor. As we got closer we saw the crowd that had gathered. There were Chicago cop cars and Cook County cop cars and there were vans from the local television stations. It looked like the parking lot at a rock concert or Bears game. Cops waiting for trouble to start.

But these cops couldn't get on the base. It was federal land and not their jurisdiction. It was a standoff.

"Listen," the Indian said. "When we get to the gate tell the guy you're Onieda."

"Oneida?"

"Right. Tell him you're from Wisconsin."

Well, that part was true. I was born in Wisconsin. But I didn't look Indian. R - maybe, he was half Puerto Rican, maybe he could pass. But I was white, very white, except for my hair which I had dyed pitch black (trying to disguise myself because I was a runaway? because I liked the look? I don't remember).

There was a line of people waiting to pass through the gate where a couple of Indians stood guard holding baseball bats. I tried to keep my head down, not catch the eye of a cop. Under my breath I repeated, Oneida, Onieda and then we were at the gate and R - said Oneida and I said Oneida and we were in.

I don't remember much of what happened that day. I don't think we talked to too many Indians. I think we kept to ourselves. What I do remember is sleeping on the concrete floor of a building and I remember being woken up early in the morning. R - shaking my shoulder, saying, "Come on, we gotta go." Later I found out that some Indian who told R - he was a chief tried to put his hand down his pants. Chief or not, R - thought it time to go.

And the Indian who had my coat? Never saw him again. He disappeared as soon as we got inside. He disappeared and my coat disappeared. When we left the base that morning the crowd was smaller but the cops were still there and the television people were still there. That afternoon my mother received a call from a neighbor. "Your son," she told my mother. "I think I saw him on the news." My mother, being my mother, didn't believe her. When I finally returned home she didn't believe my story about the coat either.