Several years ago during the Tony awards Steve Martin did a bit about how to behave when going backstage to see a friend after they have appeared in a production that stinks worse than a combination of wet cat and old cheese. Despite my love for theatre and the theatre going experience the medium is capable of creating some pieces which are, to be kind, unredeemable.
This hard lesson was learned in my teens during a jaw dropingly horrible production of Shakespeare's "Richard the Third" presented by the Tony winning, highly respected American Conservatory Theatre based in San Francisco. Richard's hump was so enormous it resembled a scale model of Mt. Everest and the costumes, heavily reliant on studded black leather, appeared to have been inspired by the notorious nocturnal activities of the play's director the aptly named William Ball. In the final moments of the play our S & M fetish clad Richard runs to the front of the stage and recites the famous lines "A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse." Behind him appears the plays "good guy" clad in nothing but a pair of white tights, one leg bent, his powerful rippling arms curled before him in imitation of a horse reared up on it's hind legs. Inappropriate but understandable laughter filled the theatre. Later the assumption around town was that the strikingly handsome large muscleboy in the white tights, new to the acting company, was the latest addition to the director's offstage stable of studly stallions.
There are a number of other examples. After sitting through the theatrical abomination of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Sunset Blvd." I managed to stammer out, as my partner and friend gushed about it, "The set was nice."
I am not above leaving at intermission if I feel that my time is being wasted. "The Graduate" lost my interest after the infamous full frontal nudity sequence, which was dimly lit and occurs quite early, not to mention gratuitously, in the play. So to, did I leave and catch a bus home after the overlong tedious first act of the Goodman Theatres production of August Wilson's "Gem of the Ocean". By intermission it had run a full hour and 45 minutes. Unashamed, I threw in the towel, feeling I had given it the "old college try".
There is one particular playwright however who so far in my experience almost guarantees a grueling night in the theatre. Regina Taylor is an artistic associate at the Goodman Theatre. Having success early in her carrear as an actress, garnering a Golden Globe award and two Emmy nominations, she decided to turn her attention to playwriting. To date I have seen, at least in part, 3 of her works. First off, were she not a black woman, her plays would seem almost offensively racist, filled as they are with black stereotypes. If this is a case of Ms. Taylor writing what she knows perhaps she needs to step out of her comfort zone. The one piece I have seen in it's entirety, "Crowns", kept me in my seat only because of the gospel music infused through it. There was also no intermission, therefore no opportunity to make an inconspicuous escape. It, like Chinese food, was o.k. while it lasted but left little behind afterward. Then there were the series of 3 interconnected one acts. All three used the same set which was so well executed that the audience members were commenting on it before the house lights dimmed as there was no curtain and the set was in full view. After the first of the one acts I was unimpressed but not yet defeated. After the second I got on the train and headed home. First, you need to have 3 hours worth of things to say to expect an audience to stick with you for 3 hours. Second, she had, somewhat miraculously, managed to make the themes of rape and incest tedious and boring.
Next season one of the Goodman's productions is written and directed by Ms. Taylor. Generally speaking the words "written and directed by" are harbingers of doom, unless the names that follow are the likes of Woody Allen, Mel Brooks or in the case of the film "Nine to Five" the late Colin Higgins. Still, ever the eternal optimist, and since I have already paid for the ticket, I shall attend and see how far I get.
Yet it was during my first experience with this playwright when life took on comic overtones almost worthy of the stage. My seat, for reasons that escape now, had been moved closer to the stage for this performance. Often this is a good thing, on this occasion, not so much. The play was a retelling of Chekhov's "The Seagull", set inexplicably among the people of the Gullah culture on the islands off of North Carolina. It was, to be kind, completely unredeemable. The rambling script and poor acting were mixed with a lame, uninspired set and costumes that made each member of the cast look as if they had gained 10 pounds between the final fitting and the opening performance. To fix the play one would have had to wipe the slate clean, then burn the slate to ash.
There is a scene in the original movie version of "The Producers" which scans the audience as they watch the musical number "Springtime for Hitler". Their faces reflect a mixture of shock, disbelief and disgust. As I looked down the row of seats next to me I beheld expressions on the faces of my fellow theatregoers which greatly resembled those of the theatregoers in the movie. One fellow had fallen asleep, I considered him fortunate.
By intermission I decided I had suffered enough and rose from my seat to leave the theatre. As I was about to exit the lobby I turned around. It looked as if someone had yelled "Fire!" People were stampeding towards the doors. Outside a block long line of cabs stood waiting. I imagined the call that had gone out. "Bomb at the Goodman. Please report to Dearborn Street at once to assist in the evacuation."
One of Chicago's major newspapers listed the play as "recommended". This led me to assume one of two things. Either the critic did not wish to be viewed as a misogynistic racist for giving a negative review to a play written by a black woman, or they had not actually seen the play they were paid to review.
Some time later while chatting with a customer at the jewelry counter where I worked at the time the subject of the play came up. When I asked her "So you saw it?" She replied, "I saw part of it."
Monday, July 21, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
Right or Wrong
A city in Colorado, in recognition of Gay Pride Month, replaced the POW flag outside one of it's civic buildings with a rainbow flag. Veteran's groups were up in arms proclaiming that the removal of the POW flag violated their "rights". To quell the disturbance the POW flag was moved to another civic building where it was flown, for the month of June, directly beneath the U.S. flag. I have heard religious groups state that the legalization of same sex marriage violates their "rights" as Christians. Some speak of the "rights" of illegal immigrants. The notion that those who have broken the law to immigrate have legal rights to stay is akin to the nonsense voiced by the King, Queen and others in "Alice in Wonderland".
There are rights granted to citizens in the U.S. constitution. Among these the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness", excepting, of course, the slaves owned by the founding fathers, but that is a story for another day. We are granted the "right to bear arms". What many seem to forget is that this right was given "in order to maintain a militia". Citizen militias are no longer necessary. It is time for the granting of the right to bear arms to be revisited. This "right" results in handgun deaths in the U.S. numbering in the tens of thousands. In other countries the number is counted in the dozens.
There are scores of laws and amendments granting and defining various rights. Many of these would be unnecessary if we were to focus on one simple, yet apparently hard to master concept, respect. Laws determining the right to a minimum wage would not be needed if corporations and business owners respected the work and dignity of their employees. Some complain of gays desiring "special rights". We merely ask for equal rights. We respect your right to marry who you please and not to have your home or employment threatened by an integral element of your nature. Our request is that those who oppose this for us do the same. As with the civil rights struggles of the 1950's and 60's if discrimination was not initially written or implied in the law an amendment to the law banning it would not be necessary.
With immigration the culture, civil procedure and laws of the country one wishes to move to needs to be respected. Those who break the laws fail to respect those that went through the proper channels to immigrate. While pride in ones native culture can be celebrated one also needs to respect the culture in which they have chosen to live. Were I to make the choice to move outside the U.S. I would learn the common language and not behave in a manner that would offend the place and people where I would chose to settle. I would treat my host with respect.
We will not agree, that is outside the basics of human nature. However we can respect one another. I do not request that you agree with or understand my views, opinions or lifestyle, that too goes against the sometimes headstrong nature of the human being. I do ask that my views, if they differ from yours, and do not cause harm to others, be respected, as I, if your views do not cause harm to others, will respect yours. Your "rights" do not include denying others that which you possess. We share the earth. On occasion, as some move forward within the boundaries of their self involved bubble, they seem to forget that.
There are rights granted to citizens in the U.S. constitution. Among these the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness", excepting, of course, the slaves owned by the founding fathers, but that is a story for another day. We are granted the "right to bear arms". What many seem to forget is that this right was given "in order to maintain a militia". Citizen militias are no longer necessary. It is time for the granting of the right to bear arms to be revisited. This "right" results in handgun deaths in the U.S. numbering in the tens of thousands. In other countries the number is counted in the dozens.
There are scores of laws and amendments granting and defining various rights. Many of these would be unnecessary if we were to focus on one simple, yet apparently hard to master concept, respect. Laws determining the right to a minimum wage would not be needed if corporations and business owners respected the work and dignity of their employees. Some complain of gays desiring "special rights". We merely ask for equal rights. We respect your right to marry who you please and not to have your home or employment threatened by an integral element of your nature. Our request is that those who oppose this for us do the same. As with the civil rights struggles of the 1950's and 60's if discrimination was not initially written or implied in the law an amendment to the law banning it would not be necessary.
With immigration the culture, civil procedure and laws of the country one wishes to move to needs to be respected. Those who break the laws fail to respect those that went through the proper channels to immigrate. While pride in ones native culture can be celebrated one also needs to respect the culture in which they have chosen to live. Were I to make the choice to move outside the U.S. I would learn the common language and not behave in a manner that would offend the place and people where I would chose to settle. I would treat my host with respect.
We will not agree, that is outside the basics of human nature. However we can respect one another. I do not request that you agree with or understand my views, opinions or lifestyle, that too goes against the sometimes headstrong nature of the human being. I do ask that my views, if they differ from yours, and do not cause harm to others, be respected, as I, if your views do not cause harm to others, will respect yours. Your "rights" do not include denying others that which you possess. We share the earth. On occasion, as some move forward within the boundaries of their self involved bubble, they seem to forget that.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
The Curse of Civic Duty
In my mail was the only thing I dread more than my post Christmas credit card bill, a jury summons. It was for a period of time when I would be visiting friends in Texas. I called and got a 3 month delay. When the new summons came it was for a courthouse whose location would require me to travel 2 plus hours EACH WAY!!!The other problem was that the courthouse is located in a dangerous, crime ridden area. It was also not outside the realm of possibility that I would be the only person of, well, shall we say Western European ancestry for miles in any direction. I called and got a change of venue. That was why, on an overcast Wednesday, when I would normally be attired in my black suit, dress shirt and tie, I was comfortably dressed in jeans, G star tennis shoes, a Christmas gift from my partner after I had to throw out an over worn favorite pair of foot gear and a fleece jacket picked up in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Although the bus line from the train to the courthouse has a stop by my workplace, so I travel it regularly, I had never taken it past that stop. I was therefore going to head into what, for me, was virgin territory. It was a nightmare of a public transit trip which proved Murphy's Law and took much longer than it should have. I passed by a bit of forest preserve I never knew existed and the headquarters of PEAPOD, the online grocery delivery service, finally arriving at the Skokie Courthouse, which, incidentally, should go down in architectural annals as one of the most non descript buildings in world history. Inside further blandness assaults the senses,, beige walls, beige floors and mud colored upholstered chairs which were surprisingly and thankfully comfortable. I would be spending a long amount of time in them that day.
A court employee, whose announcements sounded disturbingly like those of a flight attendant, welcomes us and introduces a video instructing us as to what we should expect during our jury service. A judge, whose delivery was so wooden I feared he would go up in flames any moment, is joined by a semi celebrity local newscaster to explain why the hell we are there and the procedures of a trial. We were then informed by the court employee/flight attendant that these is only one jury trial scheduled for that day. If we are not picked we will be dismissed. We sat, a morning talk show droned, I read.
One of the unpleasant parts of jury duty is the tedium. If I were to be released early I could return home, cook, clean, perhaps visit the gym, I could do SOMETHING! If I am picked to sit on the jury, although depending on the case that could become a multi day process, I would still be doing SOMETHING! We sat, a morning talk show droned, we waited. Except for the T.V. the place was not unlike the D.M.V.
In the one jury trial the defendant pleaded guilty, however.....in this state someone can ask for a jury trial even if one has not been scheduled for their case. We were told to amuse ourselves for an hour and a half then return. I pulled out my sandwich and snacks thinking that perhaps between them, writing, reading and my phone I could stay diverted for that length of time.
As I walked down the hall past the doors of the courtrooms with their long glass windows my mind pondered what personal dramas were being enacted behind each one. Child custody cases, workers comp issues, perpetrators and victims of minor crimes confronting one another, maybe one neighbor suing another over their level of unneighborlylessness.The law, the search for a pat, written solution to the ills of the human race. Many of these ills are part of human nature. They cannot be tethered by the written word. They must be experienced, dealt with, learned from and moved past. Only one law should be necessary, look out for and be concerned for one another, essentially the Golden Rule of the Bible. But people and society seem more complicated than that. Our brains and emotions seem to crave the clutter of detail.
A father and daughter team of lawyers entered the lunchroom discussing various cases, loudly. I would have loved to seek solace in the forest preserve across the street but I could see no trail head and a busy road, sans stoplights, created a barrier between it and me. A song from the 80's stated "nobody walks in L.A.". The same could be said about the Chicago suburbs.
I walked back through the bland, beige interior. Couldn't they at least hang a painting or two? Create a high school mural competition. Allow the taggers of our subway system access to ply their craft? Anything would help!
After our break we returned to the waiting room. I had bought a book in January in anticipation of this day, "A Single Man" by Christopher Isherwood. An early openly gay author he wrote "The Berlin Stories" which was adapted for the stage into "I Am A Camera" which was the basis for the musical "Cabaret". The relative quiet of the room was a good venue for poring through Isherwood's dense, imagery filled prose.
Finally we were told that all cases on the docket that day had been settled and we were free to go. It was my good fortune to find a bus idling, waiting to depart as I left the building. Settling into my seat I reflected on the day. It wasn't a total waste, I got a good read in.
Although the bus line from the train to the courthouse has a stop by my workplace, so I travel it regularly, I had never taken it past that stop. I was therefore going to head into what, for me, was virgin territory. It was a nightmare of a public transit trip which proved Murphy's Law and took much longer than it should have. I passed by a bit of forest preserve I never knew existed and the headquarters of PEAPOD, the online grocery delivery service, finally arriving at the Skokie Courthouse, which, incidentally, should go down in architectural annals as one of the most non descript buildings in world history. Inside further blandness assaults the senses,, beige walls, beige floors and mud colored upholstered chairs which were surprisingly and thankfully comfortable. I would be spending a long amount of time in them that day.
A court employee, whose announcements sounded disturbingly like those of a flight attendant, welcomes us and introduces a video instructing us as to what we should expect during our jury service. A judge, whose delivery was so wooden I feared he would go up in flames any moment, is joined by a semi celebrity local newscaster to explain why the hell we are there and the procedures of a trial. We were then informed by the court employee/flight attendant that these is only one jury trial scheduled for that day. If we are not picked we will be dismissed. We sat, a morning talk show droned, I read.
One of the unpleasant parts of jury duty is the tedium. If I were to be released early I could return home, cook, clean, perhaps visit the gym, I could do SOMETHING! If I am picked to sit on the jury, although depending on the case that could become a multi day process, I would still be doing SOMETHING! We sat, a morning talk show droned, we waited. Except for the T.V. the place was not unlike the D.M.V.
In the one jury trial the defendant pleaded guilty, however.....in this state someone can ask for a jury trial even if one has not been scheduled for their case. We were told to amuse ourselves for an hour and a half then return. I pulled out my sandwich and snacks thinking that perhaps between them, writing, reading and my phone I could stay diverted for that length of time.
As I walked down the hall past the doors of the courtrooms with their long glass windows my mind pondered what personal dramas were being enacted behind each one. Child custody cases, workers comp issues, perpetrators and victims of minor crimes confronting one another, maybe one neighbor suing another over their level of unneighborlylessness.The law, the search for a pat, written solution to the ills of the human race. Many of these ills are part of human nature. They cannot be tethered by the written word. They must be experienced, dealt with, learned from and moved past. Only one law should be necessary, look out for and be concerned for one another, essentially the Golden Rule of the Bible. But people and society seem more complicated than that. Our brains and emotions seem to crave the clutter of detail.
A father and daughter team of lawyers entered the lunchroom discussing various cases, loudly. I would have loved to seek solace in the forest preserve across the street but I could see no trail head and a busy road, sans stoplights, created a barrier between it and me. A song from the 80's stated "nobody walks in L.A.". The same could be said about the Chicago suburbs.
I walked back through the bland, beige interior. Couldn't they at least hang a painting or two? Create a high school mural competition. Allow the taggers of our subway system access to ply their craft? Anything would help!
After our break we returned to the waiting room. I had bought a book in January in anticipation of this day, "A Single Man" by Christopher Isherwood. An early openly gay author he wrote "The Berlin Stories" which was adapted for the stage into "I Am A Camera" which was the basis for the musical "Cabaret". The relative quiet of the room was a good venue for poring through Isherwood's dense, imagery filled prose.
Finally we were told that all cases on the docket that day had been settled and we were free to go. It was my good fortune to find a bus idling, waiting to depart as I left the building. Settling into my seat I reflected on the day. It wasn't a total waste, I got a good read in.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Celebration of Celebrity
I work for a large, well known department store chain. To generate traffic when promoting a product stores will, on occasion, host personal appearances of the designers or celebrities associated with them. These are known in the business by the abbreviation P.A.s.
So it happened that on a Wednesday morning people lined up to spend a few seconds of their lives and if very fortunate have a picture taken with one of the male dancers from the disturbingly popular program "Dancing With the Stars". Two women drive from St Louis, a 5 hour trip each way, and stayed overnight in a hotel, to ensure they would be one of the first in line for this experience. They arrived 2 hours prior to the scheduled start time of the appearance waiting with great anticipation as a queue formed behind them. The crowd was overwhelmingly female as the man is supposed to possess a certain sex appeal, which, as an aside, is completely lost on me. He had attached his name to a line of men's jewelry which I'm fairly certain he had little or no involvement in the designing of. He was clearly attempting to garner as much cash as he could before being condemned to trading on his former fame by opening a chain of ballroom dancing schools. One can imagine him in late middle age, still orange from a fresh spray tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a shaved, somewhat sagging chest, twirling suburban housewives about a linoleum floor in a strip mall storefront.
Slowly the dancers "people" filed in. These included handlers, including one exceptionally thin, elderly man in a black suit, moccasins and no socks, whose duties I never could quite pinpoint, as well as sound techs and managers. I found myself thinking the president of the United States travels with a smaller entourage. Local new reporters and cameramen appeared, determined to get a few words from our visitor and obtain a decent piece of video of this historic, news worthy event.
A squeal arose from the horde of women as the man of the hour appeared. Unshaven, his hair uncombed, it looked as if he had rolled out of bed and donned whatever clothing was lying around his hotel room floor that morning. This lack of attention to grooming did not dampen the adoration of the, at this point, terrifying, hormonally charged crowd of women.
The line began to move forward. The jewelry that he was there to promote displayed in a case beside him received scant, if any, attention. Our "star" proceeded to sign autographs, pose for pictures and hold and kiss the babies handed to him like a politician vying for votes. I am not exaggerating, people were actually handing their offspring to him. What did they expect him to do....bless them? Occasionally he would twirl or dip a member of the assembled masses. This caused the women, who at this point I was becoming acutely embarrassed for, to scream like teenagers. With almost superhuman will power I kept myself from approaching the line and screaming "Don't you people have lives!"
As the time drew near for our pseudo-celebrity to depart there was still a line of people waiting to bask in his aura. He suggested that as he left he would hug each of the people still in line. It was at this point that I believe several of the women wet themselves.
As the disheveled gentleman and his entourage departed in what, according to eye witness reports, was a limo of almost obscene proportions, the crowd began to disburse. Obviously, none of them purchased a thing making me wonder why my employer had even sponsored such an event. As I watched them scatter a single thought came into my head, "It could have been worse. His last name could have been Kardashian."
So it happened that on a Wednesday morning people lined up to spend a few seconds of their lives and if very fortunate have a picture taken with one of the male dancers from the disturbingly popular program "Dancing With the Stars". Two women drive from St Louis, a 5 hour trip each way, and stayed overnight in a hotel, to ensure they would be one of the first in line for this experience. They arrived 2 hours prior to the scheduled start time of the appearance waiting with great anticipation as a queue formed behind them. The crowd was overwhelmingly female as the man is supposed to possess a certain sex appeal, which, as an aside, is completely lost on me. He had attached his name to a line of men's jewelry which I'm fairly certain he had little or no involvement in the designing of. He was clearly attempting to garner as much cash as he could before being condemned to trading on his former fame by opening a chain of ballroom dancing schools. One can imagine him in late middle age, still orange from a fresh spray tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a shaved, somewhat sagging chest, twirling suburban housewives about a linoleum floor in a strip mall storefront.
Slowly the dancers "people" filed in. These included handlers, including one exceptionally thin, elderly man in a black suit, moccasins and no socks, whose duties I never could quite pinpoint, as well as sound techs and managers. I found myself thinking the president of the United States travels with a smaller entourage. Local new reporters and cameramen appeared, determined to get a few words from our visitor and obtain a decent piece of video of this historic, news worthy event.
A squeal arose from the horde of women as the man of the hour appeared. Unshaven, his hair uncombed, it looked as if he had rolled out of bed and donned whatever clothing was lying around his hotel room floor that morning. This lack of attention to grooming did not dampen the adoration of the, at this point, terrifying, hormonally charged crowd of women.
The line began to move forward. The jewelry that he was there to promote displayed in a case beside him received scant, if any, attention. Our "star" proceeded to sign autographs, pose for pictures and hold and kiss the babies handed to him like a politician vying for votes. I am not exaggerating, people were actually handing their offspring to him. What did they expect him to do....bless them? Occasionally he would twirl or dip a member of the assembled masses. This caused the women, who at this point I was becoming acutely embarrassed for, to scream like teenagers. With almost superhuman will power I kept myself from approaching the line and screaming "Don't you people have lives!"
As the time drew near for our pseudo-celebrity to depart there was still a line of people waiting to bask in his aura. He suggested that as he left he would hug each of the people still in line. It was at this point that I believe several of the women wet themselves.
As the disheveled gentleman and his entourage departed in what, according to eye witness reports, was a limo of almost obscene proportions, the crowd began to disburse. Obviously, none of them purchased a thing making me wonder why my employer had even sponsored such an event. As I watched them scatter a single thought came into my head, "It could have been worse. His last name could have been Kardashian."
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Things I Feel Strongly About - Income Inequality
It's been estimated that, had it kept pace with inflation since it's inception, the minimum wage in the U.S. would be $16 per hour. It has not.There are several ironies regarding this. If employees were paid this rate companies profits would not have suffered. Factoring in inflation, the costs of raw materials and labor would have remained stable. The percentage of profit companies earned would not have been diminished. Also, our battered economy would be in better shape. If lower income people made a wage that would afford them a decent standard of living they would feel freer to both spend and save. A below standard wage keeps these people in a state of grinding poverty. Every penny is spent just to maintain a roof over their head and food on the table. In many cases not even these necessities can be covered.
Vast amounts of cash in this country, controlled and owned by the wealthiest corporations and individuals, sit on the sidelines. These dollars do not circulate, they lay dormant. It is akin to a farmer storing year after year of seed in his barn while his fields lie barren. There is a line from the musical "Hello Dolly", "Money is like manure, it must be spread around encouraging young things to grow."
Perhaps taxing the wealthy is one option. The increased revenue could be used for public works projects putting people to work building bridges and roads. We would be able to develop and revitalize mass transit, which is sorely lacking in the U.S., cutting down on our use of fossil fuels. We would have the ability to research renewable and enviormentally friendly sources of power.
The far right often states that 50% of taxes are already paid by the top 20% of earners. These top earners control 85% of this country's wealth. This means that they are actually underpaying their fair share.
Some are concerned about the solvency of our Social Security system. Pensions are quickly disappearing. Without Social Security many seniors would have to work until they are physically unable to do so. First our retirement age should be raised. Age 65 is no longer what it was when the program was started. Second, the cap on earnings taxed should not be raised but eliminated entirely. Why should people, even those at poverty level, have to pay 6 3/4% of their income into a program while the wealthy, in many cases, pay 1% or even less. If the cap were eliminated and the rate lowered for all to 4 1/2% there would actually be more money coming into the program than there is at present. Another irony is that those high earners, who are more able to put away funds for their old age, get more out of the Social Security system than those that earn less, even though they pay a smaller percentage of their income into it.
In the founding papers of our country are words ensuring that all citizens have a right to "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." My request to government officials sworn to uphold those words and ideals.....GET CRACKIN!
Vast amounts of cash in this country, controlled and owned by the wealthiest corporations and individuals, sit on the sidelines. These dollars do not circulate, they lay dormant. It is akin to a farmer storing year after year of seed in his barn while his fields lie barren. There is a line from the musical "Hello Dolly", "Money is like manure, it must be spread around encouraging young things to grow."
Perhaps taxing the wealthy is one option. The increased revenue could be used for public works projects putting people to work building bridges and roads. We would be able to develop and revitalize mass transit, which is sorely lacking in the U.S., cutting down on our use of fossil fuels. We would have the ability to research renewable and enviormentally friendly sources of power.
The far right often states that 50% of taxes are already paid by the top 20% of earners. These top earners control 85% of this country's wealth. This means that they are actually underpaying their fair share.
Some are concerned about the solvency of our Social Security system. Pensions are quickly disappearing. Without Social Security many seniors would have to work until they are physically unable to do so. First our retirement age should be raised. Age 65 is no longer what it was when the program was started. Second, the cap on earnings taxed should not be raised but eliminated entirely. Why should people, even those at poverty level, have to pay 6 3/4% of their income into a program while the wealthy, in many cases, pay 1% or even less. If the cap were eliminated and the rate lowered for all to 4 1/2% there would actually be more money coming into the program than there is at present. Another irony is that those high earners, who are more able to put away funds for their old age, get more out of the Social Security system than those that earn less, even though they pay a smaller percentage of their income into it.
In the founding papers of our country are words ensuring that all citizens have a right to "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." My request to government officials sworn to uphold those words and ideals.....GET CRACKIN!
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Ode to Spring 2014
There is a special shade of green that appears in spring. Lighter, seeming somehow fresher than it's darker summer hue. It is as if it lives in that moment when you first wake up in the morning and shake off the fuzziness of sleep. Perhaps this moment happens with your first sip of coffee or as the prickle of the spray from the shower touches your skin. Even as the first leaves to appear darken, preparing to do their service providing welcome shade from the hot summer days to come, this special green prevails on the new growth as the plants stretch their limbs after their long winter dormancy.
I associate summer with spotted orange lilies and Queen Anne's lace, the beige of beach sand and the blues, grays and greens of water. Spring colors are brighter. The varied and brilliant hues of tulips, butter yellow daffodils, the blossom laden branches of fruit bearing trees and the fresh color of new leaves. Their visit is not long lasting only a few short weeks. As we watch them transition we look forward to their appearance next year, signaling the end of the dark, cold days of winter and foretelling the long sunlit days of summer.
I associate summer with spotted orange lilies and Queen Anne's lace, the beige of beach sand and the blues, grays and greens of water. Spring colors are brighter. The varied and brilliant hues of tulips, butter yellow daffodils, the blossom laden branches of fruit bearing trees and the fresh color of new leaves. Their visit is not long lasting only a few short weeks. As we watch them transition we look forward to their appearance next year, signaling the end of the dark, cold days of winter and foretelling the long sunlit days of summer.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Afternoon Delight - Part Two - Macy's Annual Flower Show
I walked past the 19th century facades and jewelry showroom windows that line Wabash Avenue. Chicago's iconic El trains rumbled by on the tracks overhead. The small green heads of tulips peaked above the earth in the beds which edge the sidewalks hinting at the colorful blooms to come.
Entering the State Street Macy's is a history lesson in small victories. Marshall Field's was a name virtually synonymous with Chicago. When Macy's bought Marshall Field it was requested that, due to it's long association with the city, the Marshall Field name be, at least in part, retained. One suggestion was that for the Chicago area they could call it Marshall Field by Macy's. Macy's was unyielding. Their attitude was, we bought the store, it will be called Macy's, end of discussion. This caused bad blood among old line Chicagoans, some of which persists to this day.
The State Street store building is landmarked. It's exterior cannot be altered in any way. Hence, the bronze plaques on each corner bearing the name Marshall Field and Company remain unmolested. The massive clocks, made famous by Norman Rockwell in an often reproduced Saturday Evening Post cover still keep passersby appraised of the time of day as they have for decades. Inside, the elevator doors retain the molded metal image of sheaves of hay, a Marshall Field trademark. Likewise the Walnut Room, the in store restaurant where during the holidays as many as 4 generations of one family can be seen at the same table sharing a meal, a cherished Christmas season tradition for some, remains unchanged in appearance. The towering Christmas tree in it's center has however become less interesting than it's predecessor's were during the Field's days.
So too has the annual Spring Flower Show changed. In years past, during Marshall Field's tenure, the tops of the fixtures on the first floor were filled with fresh flowers. The scent as one entered was wonderful and heady, demanding that the shopper deeply breath in their strong perfume. Today the show is confined to an exhibition space on the uppermost floor. This years theme was "The Secret Garden", a vague description which allowed designers a great deal of leeway when it came to the displays. A maypole was set among topiaries shaped as animals and chessmen. A floral portrait of Salvador Dali resting on a base created from shards of pottery dishes, with a pair of blue manikin legs upturned, feet in the air, left me scratching my head. So too did the upright piano surrounded by blooms. The centerpiece of the exhibition, though lovely and impressive, made even less sense. A tall white manikin wearing a gown fashioned from dried leaves spray painted bright red kept watch over the various displays. The gown's bustle and train were created using a number of various type of dried flowers, also painted red. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship which seemed, however, to have little to do with a "Secret Garden". I left the exhibition seriously underwhelmed.
As I left the store I gazed up at the venerable Tiffany designed mosaic dome which graces the interior of the landmark building. One of Chicago's hidden civic treasures it reassured me that, no matter who owns what, some things remain the same.
Entering the State Street Macy's is a history lesson in small victories. Marshall Field's was a name virtually synonymous with Chicago. When Macy's bought Marshall Field it was requested that, due to it's long association with the city, the Marshall Field name be, at least in part, retained. One suggestion was that for the Chicago area they could call it Marshall Field by Macy's. Macy's was unyielding. Their attitude was, we bought the store, it will be called Macy's, end of discussion. This caused bad blood among old line Chicagoans, some of which persists to this day.
The State Street store building is landmarked. It's exterior cannot be altered in any way. Hence, the bronze plaques on each corner bearing the name Marshall Field and Company remain unmolested. The massive clocks, made famous by Norman Rockwell in an often reproduced Saturday Evening Post cover still keep passersby appraised of the time of day as they have for decades. Inside, the elevator doors retain the molded metal image of sheaves of hay, a Marshall Field trademark. Likewise the Walnut Room, the in store restaurant where during the holidays as many as 4 generations of one family can be seen at the same table sharing a meal, a cherished Christmas season tradition for some, remains unchanged in appearance. The towering Christmas tree in it's center has however become less interesting than it's predecessor's were during the Field's days.
So too has the annual Spring Flower Show changed. In years past, during Marshall Field's tenure, the tops of the fixtures on the first floor were filled with fresh flowers. The scent as one entered was wonderful and heady, demanding that the shopper deeply breath in their strong perfume. Today the show is confined to an exhibition space on the uppermost floor. This years theme was "The Secret Garden", a vague description which allowed designers a great deal of leeway when it came to the displays. A maypole was set among topiaries shaped as animals and chessmen. A floral portrait of Salvador Dali resting on a base created from shards of pottery dishes, with a pair of blue manikin legs upturned, feet in the air, left me scratching my head. So too did the upright piano surrounded by blooms. The centerpiece of the exhibition, though lovely and impressive, made even less sense. A tall white manikin wearing a gown fashioned from dried leaves spray painted bright red kept watch over the various displays. The gown's bustle and train were created using a number of various type of dried flowers, also painted red. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship which seemed, however, to have little to do with a "Secret Garden". I left the exhibition seriously underwhelmed.
As I left the store I gazed up at the venerable Tiffany designed mosaic dome which graces the interior of the landmark building. One of Chicago's hidden civic treasures it reassured me that, no matter who owns what, some things remain the same.
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