Reading Beyond Your Years

Somewhere, there is a little girl who is reading beyond her age level. Perhaps she is in middle school and is picking through Madame Bovary. Maybe a fifth-grader is trying a biography of some World War II general or Evita Peron. Or, some freshman might even be staring into space after a few chapters of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Whatever the situation, here is what I know: she'll be fine. No one thing ruins a mind or creates an emotionally broken person. One piece of art (or even a piece of shit masquerading as art) does not shred a psyche. To be mentally shriveled or emotionally stunted takes time and repeated violation.

The best graphic novel ever, Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis, is in the news again. This time, it has been banned, or not banned, or removed, or not removed, from middle grades in Chicago. It's hard to tell what the controversy even is because of the ham-handed handling of the situation by the Chicago Public Schools administration. But the foofraw centers around a torture scene in the book -- a scene that I actually don't even remember.

As a good citizen, I am tempted to do some homework on this issue, read every blog, research the age-appropriateness of the book, compare this to other situations where material has been questioned because of its depictions or issues raised. But I won't, because here I have time and history on my side.

I have mentioned this before, but I lived through the Iranian Revolution of 1979, the events described in the book. Satrapi was there, in Iran, and the beginning of theocracy in her country affected her personally. And although I was safe in the Chicago suburbs, those same events affected me personally, too. No one censored the news for me when American hostages were held in Iran for hundreds of days. No one glossed over telling me what it would mean for religious leaders to rule a country. No one could -- these things were happening before my eyes.

Anyone who does attempt to make sense of human events for kids should thank Satrapi for creating a powerful document of a particular time and place that still vexes us today. Her tale does not need any expert curricular overlay. It's words and pictures, starring a young girl who experiences events beyond her comprehension -- but she catches up.

On a happier note: This would be a great time for anyone interested in ancient Middle Eastern history to visit the University of Chicago's Oriental Institute, where you can see a bull from Persepolis on display.

The Pope Gives Two Weeks

My vote for Pope. He already had the training. 

Ding dong, the pope has resigned.

Pope Benedict XVI will be the first pope to voluntarily leave his office (as opposed to leave it in a funeral shroud) since Pope Gregory XII in 1415. Needless to say there isn't much institutional memory (even in the glacially slow Catholic Church) to remember what happened after Greg had his going-away luncheon. Then again, circumstances were a bit strange for him. As anyone who has taken Medieval History 101 knows, the papacy through history has hardly been an example of moral righteousness. The position has been bought and sold by those seeking favor with the church and good marriages for their daughters. There was even a breakaway Pope who decamped to Provence to set up am alterna-papacy. The schism was mended when Gregory decided to let the three antipopes fight for the pointy gold hat. It is presumed that Gregory opened an inn in Avignon catering to retirees on the lookout for lavender hand cream and the bridge where "loneydance-uh."

Pope Benedict (will we now just have to call him Ratzi? The questions continue...) is a brave man for setting the first precedent in pope-ology in 600 years. One wonders if John Paul II ("Dziadzia" to his friends who always found even the youthful Karol Wojtyła old-man-like) ever considered resigning as his chin fell slowly closer and closer to his chest and his voice was not up to the demands of issuing and clarifying the tenets and instructions of one of the world's oldest religions.

As a lapsed Catholic, none of this affects me much, except that I do find it interesting that each man faced his waning years in a different way. John Paul obviously felt that he owed the billions of Catholics around the world work until his last breath. Benedict, perhaps uncomfortable with his predecessor's example, is bowing out to let younger blood lead through what will undoubtedly be trying years ahead. The churches' role in the abuse of children in its trust has been addressed so far only by the justice system -- the Catholic body itself has taken no major steps to ensure the faithful that children will forever now be safe within church walls. As the church gets more diverse, it must find ways to either incorporate the customs of people in parts of the world new to Catholicism, just as it has wrestled with how to rein in but yet recognized the needs of American Catholics.

Speaking of those pesty New Worlders, one of them has a question for the Next Pope: If two successive Popes have found it necessary to take two different approaches to their role as spiritual head of the church, why can't this same flexibility be extended to your followers? Some priests might want to marry, some might not. Some women might appreciate a role in the church, some might like to remain in support positions. Clearly, there is no longer One Way for the Pope to approach his papacy. It is not a life appointment or a death sentence. Please give your faithful some of the same leeway to make decisions about how they approach their faith in ways that work best for them.

The Chilling Effect of Reality

As a child of the Cold War (late period) I went through a phase where I was obsessed with the thought of our country being invaded. Luckily, this didn't last long. Even as a pre-teen I quickly realized that neither invasion nor outright nuclear war would end well for either the U.S. or the Soviets, and that fact tempered my fear pretty quickly.

As I grew up and stared working as a journalist, the idea that we Americans would just roll over for any occupying force became laughable. I have watched people protest a 1 percent increase in their property taxes, the installation of sidewalks, and the building of a new recreation center with the same passion that drives revolutions -- we are not going to take a take over lightly.

That's why I think the literary and entertainment genre based on an invasion of the U.S. has lost much currency since Germany reunited. This week saw the release of a remake of the 1984 movie Red Dawn. According to Rotten Tomatoes, "A city in Washington state awakens to the surreal sight of foreign paratroopers dropping from the sky - shockingly, the U.S. has been invaded and their hometown is the initial target. Quickly and without warning, the citizens find themselves prisoners and their town under enemy occupation."

In the 1984 version, those invaders were Soviets. The movie was silly, but it was popular among teenagers (like me) who saw the movie, I think, as a way of working through the fears that were being stoked by the adults on the news. This need for entertainment and art to help us think through that which scares us is still there. Now, however, we are more fearful of environmental or economic insecurities, and our enemies are often within. The Hunger Games trilogy is premised on a civil war that divides the country, allowing the few to control the many and exploit their children. Improbable? Likely. But close enough to what many of us worry about during a prolonged recession and a exhausting and cruel election season.

Still, the Cold War child lives deep in my brain, and she spun a story for me last night. I had a dream that could be a pretty-near complete sci-fi/fantasy story. The Earth's atmosphere was poisoned and needed an additive that allowed the human race to continue breathing. Aliens from another planet (who looked like us) invaded and held us hostage because they had the additive. As they enslaved us, people disappeared or were reported as dead. I was somehow chosen to become part of the aliens' administrative team, and was therefore spared the beatings and starvation. Soon, an underground group figured out how to make the additive, and we were saved.

I woke up and thought that I had a ready-made story here. All I needed to do was write it (minor detail....). And then, the pragmatic editor in me (I hate her) started picking the premise apart. Her main complaint? It would take a week, two tops, for someone on earth to figure out the chemistry to save us from the aliens. In fact, wouldn't someone be working on this already? If not us, those French chemists are pretty smart, and the Germans could make sure enough gets manufactured.

So there went another novel, another victim of death by a thousand inconvenient questions. Which perhaps the re-makers of Red Dawn should have asked. After all, the 2012 version replaced Soviet invaders with North Korean ones.

  

Hillary Clinton and the Buck-Stopping Ovaries

It will likely be well into the next century before we all figure out how women “should act” in the workplace. Like men? Like women? Like lemurs after a Five-Hour-Energy drink and a Caesar salad?

This article about Yahoo’s new CEO Marissa Mayer tries, but is completely part of the problem, not the solution. As Mara Shalhoup notes in the Chicago Reader, it raises many more questions than it answers. When I read this article myself, it was half in triumph that the author seemed to be struggling to make Mayer’s elevation to CEO and subsequent pregnancy an issue, but also half in trembling anger that we still ask if a woman can be a mom and in charge at the same time. Really, has anyone asked Mitt Romney how in the heck he raised five boys while also creating Obamacare?

It seems clear to me that women are going to have to do an end run around this played-out argument and develop some new tactics. Here’s Secretary of State Hillary Clinton showing us how (in relation to the Benghazi tragedy, where four Americans were killed:

“I take responsibility,” Clinton told CNN in an interview while on a visit to Peru. “I’m in charge of the State Department’s 60,000-plus people all over the world, 275 posts. The president and the vice president wouldn’t be knowledgeable about specific decisions that are made by security professionals. They’re the ones who weigh all of the threats and the risks and the needs and make a considered decision.”

Yes, ladies, let’s make buck-stopping our main management tactic. Take responsibility: loudly, clearly, and while reminding everyone that you are in charge.

This strategy seems revolutionary and risky because mush-mouthed lawyered-up downplaying and sidestepping is not only accepted but expected from leaders everywhere. It probably takes ten minutes during an MBA candidate’s time in school to learn how to do it. Here’s a template:

“UnitedFlexChoice Global Solutions expresses its deep sympathy to the families of those who (died in a plane crash/ate tainted spinach/found roaches in their hotel beds). We are committed to (evaluating/strategizing/leveraging) new solutions to the challenges we face. Be assured that (customer satisfaction/shareholder value/global brand position management) is our number-one priority.”

And since MBA culture has infected everything from the highest levels of government down to the local school board, you now hear phrases like this hundreds of times each week. It’s so common that you likely don’t even feel the revulsion anymore.

This is “choice?” This is “liberation?” Women need to put into everyday practice what they do at home: lay down the law. Choose responsibility. Liberate the truth.

Where have we seen this before? Oh yeah:

Please don’t tell me that Clinton and Reno are extraordinary women. Janet Reno wrestles alligators for fun, you say, and Hillary Clinton has already shown that she can rip out her own heart and replace it with a steel simulacrum if she has to and that you, Miss Normal, Miss Ordinary, are not that strong.


Ladies, not only are you that strong, but you must be. 

Scents and Sensibility

It's Phonebook* Vogue time again -- the fall fashion magazine extravaganza featuring issues you could use as bricks. The phenomenon was given the definitive treatment in the documentary The September Issue. This year, Vogue is up to 900 and something pages. Elle and Harper's Bazaar lag behind, but if you put the three of them together you likely have five pounds of fashion, four-and-two-thirds of which are ads. However, the fashion-industrial complex does publish different ads for different mags, so you see many of Chanel's new looks if you browse all the issues. Why does a normal person need to see what haute couture houses are thinking women need to look like? As Meryl Streep's NotAnna NotWintour character explained in The Devil Wears Prada, what Chanel does will trickle down to you in the discount hinterlands eventually. So it's nice to see what you will be wearing next year this year.

As for me, I spent some time this Labor Day weekend working on my wardrobe. To say "Macy's is having a sale" at any point of the year is redundant, but their racks right now are jam-packed with the last of the summer stuff. The fashion industry is still operating under the illusion that there are distinct seasons, and you will walk past the fall offerings to get to the sale area. Since real-world dwellers know we could have six more weeks of warm weather, stock up now on cheap capris, swingy skirts, and short-sleeved tops.

Finding something inexpensive and pretty and useable is about the closest to pure joy I get. But leave it to a big fashion name to remind me that these moments are frustratingly elusive. Calvin Klein's new scent, called Forbidden Euphoria, could also be the title of my autobiography.

One might ask: if this perfume is available for $64 at Macy's, just how forbidden is euphoria? As a lifelong anxious person, I can testify that I know exactly what Calvin was getting at. While contentment can be obtained through a full night's sleep, a little bit of organization, and some pharmaceuticals, happiness might come once per month (and not during the time of the other thing that comes once per month). Euphoria is the platinum version of happiness. It is like you have to save up for it. My classic euphoric moment I recall from being about eight years old right after school ended for the year. It's the Friday night before we were to take our annual trip to Wisconsin Dells, and not only am I anticipating water slides and shopping for tacky souvenirs and swimming in the lake but I also have the whole summer ahead of me. So euphoria is not just an of-the-moment feeling, but also requires a lack of anticipatory dread. Try finding that as a grown up.

That's why my premium perfume is Thierry Mugler's Alien.

That's a fabulous bottle, no? It's got an otherworldy head and a cloak with a collar. Just like this alien:

celebrating his 50th birthday in 1997. Alien the perfume, by the way, has a sort of warm, amber-ish, jasmine scent and will linger for three days on your sweater. Mugler's marketing people say it's "mysterious," "soothing" and "magnetic." Three things that aren't bad to be in this non-euphoric world.

*I realize my long-ago coined term is coming up for a re-think. We don't have phonebooks anymore -- well, we do, but we don't want them. There has been a pile outside my building door for a week now.

Urbs in Roofo

Beer gardens on roofs are all the rage with the kids these days. Since I like beer, gardens, and views, I decided to check out some of the splashiest bar/eatery upstairs-seating areas in Chicago.

I've already been to Rock Bottom's beer garden, which offers glimpses into other people's lives in the form of condos canyoning State Street and Grand Avenue. Despite the semi-blocked view, the garden is a nice place to sit, and Rock Bottom makes good beer, for a chain. However, we have a Rock Bottom up the road from us in Lombard, and they make really tasty, clever beer. The Lombard outpost does not have a roof seating area but does have tables outside. We never sit there because we are usually there to watch a Sox Game.

Problem No. 1 with roof gardens: No TVs during my favorite sports season.

Last year, the old-school (and tightly packed) Meyer Delicatessen in Lincoln Square became Gene's Sausage Shop, showcasing two floors of Euro-style meats, groceries and liquor. The third floor has been made into a beer garden (sorry: biergarten) that has earned salivating raves from Chicago beer hounds and food freaks. The small stand serves a few sausagey sammiches and a few beers. The roof is cash only, and while the sandwiches are fairly reasonable, the beers are in the $6-$8 range, which makes cash flow quickly. And the view is kinda meh, since the building is not that high.

Still can't figure out how tiny Meyer Delicatessen turned into massive Gene's Sausage Shop.

Problem No. 2 with roof gardens: Running beer lines up the stairs seems to guarantee some kind of View Tax on beer, which is often not justified by the actual view.

This year's gift to the en plein air hipster crowd is the Fountainhead in a neighborhood I think is Ravenswood but is also kind of Lincoln Square. If I sold houses for a living, I guess I would call it LiSquRavWoo. Or Montrose and Damen.

When I stepped in, I actually wanted to stay in the main dining area, as it looked dark and cozy with large vintage liquor ads on the walls. Big posters of penguins selling pastis are a waterslide into my heart. But I tromped upstairs to the roof and got the last shady seat. The menu featured your getting-to-be typical selection of craft beer and cocktails with rosemary, artisanal gin and obscure Bosnian schnapps. The beer I had was a 5 Rabbit 5 Lizard, a sourish Wit. I have been impressed with every 5 Rabbit beer I have had so far, although I find all of their styles to be a bit to specialized for regular drinking.

Over near the edge of the building, a couple sipped drinks, the female shielding her eyes from the sun. I stopped at one beer -- it was a hot day, and I found myself enjoying the ice water more than the beer.

Ayn Rand would make you get your own drink.

Problem No. 3 with Roof Gardens: They are open in the summer, and summer means heat and sun. I hate heat and sun.

All of these places are perfectly fine and offer a great experience. I think much of my limp reaction following the Great Roof Garden Pursuit is my fault. I build things up in my mind and then experience inevitable disappointment when I encounter the real thing. Here is what I think a beer garden should look like:

Fritz Lang, Proprietor

The fountain is, of course, spraying Three Floyds' Gumballhead.

So perhaps the lesson is that, for me, drinking should be done indoors. My favorite bars are all dark or strangely lit and are decorated with random oddities or breweriana. You should never be able to tell if it's day or night in a correctly-configured drinking establishment, with a few exceptions (brewpubs on vacation or after a tour, beer fests and tastings, in a Sheryl Crow song).

Throw Me the Whip and I'll Throw You the Idol

I've seen Raiders of the Lost Ark about 59 times. The only reason I had, in aggregate, more Star Wars junkephenalia than ROTLA stuff was because Indiana Jones debuted right as I was teetering into pre-teendom and therefore I wasn't as into dolls and coloring books and bedroom curtains. But in terms of influence, Raiders sits comfortably in my top five films of all time. And one of my favorite lines from the movie is when Indy declares, "I'm making this up as I go."

I haven't dodged Nazis while hanging off a moving truck lately, but I have tried something much more difficult: I have tried to get an agent for my novel. It's hard. I feel as if I am missing one side of the headpiece to the staff of Ra. If only I can find that guy with it burned into his palm.

Last year, I devoted most of my time to finishing and trying to sell a teen paranormal novel. Even if I had successfully convinced an agent, and then a publisher, to send my work out onto the shelves, I likely would have had to return to the world of a steady paycheck. And I have. It sounds like I am fudging a bit when I say that I planned this all along. I did, kind of. At least,  I can say this: I always intended to grab a good job when it came along.

It did. I have returned to LibraryLand as a marketing director at a suburban Chicago library. But I have not abandoned my quest to see my book in a store or on AmazonTunes and Noble someday (actually, it would be the biggest triumph to see my novel in the window at Anderson's Bookshop). In fact, I consider myself lucky to be able to straddle the aspirational writer's realm and the real-life space where readers meet stories.

That brings me to the re-emergence of this blog. I missed my Lady Heathen Soul. My writing-related blog was fun, but was, by necessity, constrained. The Lady is more free-wheeling, and can react to the universe at large. So I hope you will continue to follow us as we save vital historical artifacts from the hands of totalitarian fascists. Or something.