What has Happened in Iraq?

I have been cruising the news sites. I have read many blogs written by Iraqis. It sounds like participation in the election has exceeded expectations. I have seen the photos of long lines at the polls. I have read messages of joy and pride from Iraqis. I am amazed at this turn of events. The deep yearning of people makes them courageous.

My expectations for this election were very low. I have grown very weary and jaded abut America's adventure in this sad country. The death and destruction, reported breathlessly by the media, has had its effect. I have found myself falling into step with the press and my fellow Kerry-voters, expecting this to be a mess, a joke, full of carnage and low voter turnout. It appears that my expectations were too negative. I will be delighted if I am wrong about this election.

Now there is a reason to hope. I am going to sleep on that thought.

Brotherhood of the Slide

All of us geeks that currently play the trombone, or have played the trombone in the past, are irrevocable members of the Brotherhood of the Slide. The trombone is an uncooperative musical instrument. It requires a ridiculous amount of embouchure control - which means training your lips to do stuff that human lips are not designed to do. An accomplished trombonist can crack walnuts with his lips alone. The slide is moved to alter the length of tubing that the player blows through. This changes the pitch of the note. The speed of lip vibration generated by the embouchure combined with the movement of the slide provides the player with a broad range of notes. Serious trombonists talk about "ripping" or "playing against the grain," which means that the embouchure tightens and the lip vibration speed increases while the tubing lengthens via slide extensions. Developing speed and expertise in altering the frequency of lip vibrations and the position of the slide is the key to becoming a real 'bone man (or woman). So - you got to get your chops together, your slide technique together, and - oh, yeah - you still have to master the art of reading music, developing improvisation skills, etc. etc. Being an accomplished musician is a challenge no matter what instrument you play, but becoming an accomplished trombonist is harder than most other instruments. As a former T-Bone guy, I might have a bias about this.

The Brotherhood of the Slide celebrates all things trombone. Its members also moan about their dilemmas. Bone men fret about the difficulties of mastering the slip horn. They fret about the obscurity in which virtually all trombonists labor (quick - name a world famous trombonist! What? Can't think of any? You are trombone-ignorant, along with 99.9999% of the human race).

So for those of you who are dying to know about a top-notch contemporary trombonist, I submit the name of Joe Bowie. He blows up a storm; he takes the T-Bone to a different place, he is a Master of Outsider Funk, and he can sing, too. His band is Defunkt, a New York outfit that has been performing since 1978. Joe is a member of the mighty Bowie family, best known for the internationally famous trumpeter, Lester Bowie. But Joe is my man. He is J.J. Johnson on acid. Also, check out Ray Anderson,a good ol' Chicago boy who has made the trombone cool again. Looking back in time, I highly recommend Frank Rosolino - a fabulous player and a tragic, troubled man who killed his own son prior to committing suicide.

Yes, the t-bone can drive a man crazy.

Willfully Unaware

Here is a good quote – “The world we live in – its divisions and conflicts, its widening gap between rich and poor, its seemingly inexplicable outbursts of violence – is shaped far less by what we celebrate and mythologize that by the painful events we try to forget.” (Adam Hoschild, “King Leopold’s Ghost.”) Yes, we willfully choose to be unaware and to forget the painful past – I know I do. It is important to remember the colonial era, what it was at its worst (the Belgian Congo) what it was at its best (British Malaya). King Leopold II ruled over mass murder in the Congo - a calamity of Holocaust proportions. The Brits exploited Malaya, but also invested. When the Union Jack was finally lowered in 1957, the people of Malaysia and Singapore had infrastructure and a system to build upon. The legacy of King Leopold II was also followed carefully when the nation gained independence in 1960. Joseph Desire Mobutu took over after Patrice Lumumba was brutally tortured, then murdered. Mobutu followed the Leopold II blueprint of exploitation and brutality (although he didn't murder anywhere near as many people).

Most Americans know nothing about the Congo. Perhaps they have a slight memory of Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" that they were forced to read in their high school literature class. If you want to find out about those "painful events we try to forget," you are basically on your own - especially when those painful events occurred in Africa.

So, what kind of colonists will we Americans be in Iraq? The answer to this won't be known for many years. The best we can hope for is the British Malaya outcome. George Bush isn't King Leopold II, but the pile of Iraqi bodies is growing every day.

Great Northern Porter

It is Sunday afternoon. I attended Quaker meeting for worship this morning. The grocery shopping is complete. My beautiful wife and I have planned the menu for the little dinner party we are hosting tonight. The temperature is hovering in the single digits. It is time for a hearty winter beer.

I picked up a six-pack of Summit Brewing Co.'s Great Northern Porter yesterday, chilled it overnight and popped one open a few minutes ago. Summit is a microbrewery in St. Paul, MN. They do lots of winter brews at Summit because there is a lot of winter in St. Paul. Porter is a great, hearty British brew - it was once the most popular beer in England. Great Northern Porter is very dark - it looks like expresso. Its aroma is redolent with roasted grain; it tastes very nutty and has a tangy aftertaste. My friend Byron at Schaefers Wine and Spirits calls this porter "a chewy beer," and that captures the experience nicely. This is a beer that is made to go with meat and potatoes. This is not a "lite" product; it is a "beefy" brew.

A fine beer alters one's attitude and creates contentment.

Is American Meritocracy Dying?

Since I was vacationing and unplugged from the media during the first week of January, I missed the first issue of The Economist for 2005. There is a special report in this edition regarding the erosion and possible demise of meritocracy in the United States. The expected evidence is trotted out - the Bush political dynasty, the widening gap between rich and poor, the "dumbing down" of public schools and the flight of elites to private schools, and the prevalence of "legacy" admissions at America's top universities. The more disturbing allegation is that social mobility is decreasing - a study carried out by Thomas Hertz, an economist at American University in Washington D.C., is cited as evidence.

Surveys in Europe indicate that most citizens believe that forces beyond their personal control determine their success. In the U.S., only 32% of respondents agree with this fatalistic view. Over two-thirds of Americans believe in their ability to succeed, and believe that the U.S. offers the opportunity to do so. I certainly have signed on to that belief, and I am not dropping my faith after reading the Economist article. But it is clear that we are falling out of balance and developing more rigid classes of people.

If you are ever in Chicago, take a field trip to Kennilworth. It is the third suburb north of the city, and one of the wealthiest places in the region (and on the planet). Walk around. Observe the lovely homes. Look at the people. Try to find a black face - or a Mexican face - or an Asian face (not likely). If you have the time and the chutzpah, chat with some of these folks. Find out if they grew up poor (most did not). This is an enclave of homogeneous, moneyed aristocracy. You can find such places all over the U.S., and it isn't a new development. But is it a growing part of our national scene? The Economist thinks so.

My family is all about social mobility. My mom was a school teacher; my dad an office clerk. I made it through grad school - with loans, scholarships and part-time work. My wife is a first-generation American of Mexican descent, the first person in the history of her family to graduate from college - she paid her own way. I am a big fan of folks that start with nothing and make great progress due to their hard work and talent. Enabling this individual striving is the best part of the American experiment. We have to preserve it, and fight the forces that are pushing our country toward the tyranny of a class system.

At The Beginning

I had the opportunity to meet a young fellow last night who is at the beginning of his race. I connected with this guy through the "pro bono" entreprenuer assistance program sponsored by the Kellogg Alumni Club of Chicago. Brad Wilson is 24 years old and is in the middle of an internet adventure. He had a "hobby" web site that aggregated all the good deals on various products (big screen TV's, MP3 players etc.) that he found on the web. Many people began to visit the site, and he discovered that merchants would pay commissions for sales that came through his site. Brad thought, "Score - this will be a great part-time activity while I soldier through the University of North Carolina" and took a semester off to build a proper web site. This was about four years ago, and he hasn't returned to school yet. His web site, dealsdujour.com, is getting traction and is generating about $1 million of revenues. Dealsdujour.com is one of the larger marketing affiliate web sites. Brad's little company got a big boost recently - he was profiled in the Wall Street Journal.

Brad finally hired a couple of part-time employees a couple of months ago - he is getting too swamped, wearing too many hats. He works out of a small office in the Technology Innovation Center in Evanston IL. He is a pretty low key guy, and very together (at least when compared to the other early-20's folks that I know). He showed up for our meeting in a suit and tie! (I was in a sweater and khakis). Brad speaks well, but fast - and in spurts. He is deeply engaged in what he is doing and sees a long open road stretching in front of his little business. This is a young fellow who has been learning fast on the fly. He is truly at the beginning - he has a lifetime of wins and losses ahead of him.

I am supposed to advise him, but I suspect I will learn more from him than he will learn from me.

Dizzy in his Prime. 

John Birks Gillespie - Music is the Best

I have Dizzy Gillespie on my mind this morning. As a mediocre high school trombonist, I had the incredible opportunity to play in a youth jazz band that backed up Dizzy at an afternoon concert during the Monterey Jazz Festival many years ago. We were a bunch of slack-jawed, awe-struck teenagers; he was beyond cool. His playing caused our hair to stand up on our heads. He was fast, his ideas exploded in every direction, he was chromatic, he burned on those Latin tunes, he sang goofy be-bop ditties, he had us playing way over our heads. Dizzy was generous and kind to us - no Miles Davis attitude at all. (He was no cream puff, however - he once had an argument with Cab Calloway and pulled a knife. Cab turned and ran, so Dizzy cut him in the ass - it took 20 stiches to close Cab's wound). After the concert, many of the swaggering high school jazz stars wept like baby girls.

We lost Dizzy in early January, eleven years ago. I listen to his music regularly. When I do, I think of Frank Zappa's classic "prose poem:"

"Information is not knowledge.
Knowledge is not wisdom.
Wisdom is not truth.
Truth is not beauty.
Beauty is not love.
Love is not music
Music is the best."
Frank Zappa (1940-1993)

To Duck Key and Back Again

I have been incommunicado, hiding out with my family on Duck Key in Florida. We got warm, missed 7 inches on snow in Chicago, and saw alligators, key deer, and many, many birds generally not seen in the midwest (pelicans, cormorants, white ibises, snowy egrets, and on and on). That is all that I will say about this trip because I do not want this to be a tedious on-line version of "slides from my great vacation."

Coming back to Chicago involved a 50 degree reduction in temperatures and 45 minutes of shoveling snow (well, slush might be a better description). The one-eyed cat with FIP has deteriorated and we are struggling with the euthanasia decision. Bills and mail have piled up. There are several hundred messages in my four e-mail accounts. Vacation has definitely ended and stress has kicked in. I must sleep now to shake off the numbness that comes from realizing that I am facing an insane number of tasks that should have been done yesterday.

oh five

The clock ticked and we broke out the new calendar that I received from my insurance man. My dear, beautiful wife took me to a New Year's Eve party last night hosted by her friend, Audrey Niffenegger. Many of the folks at the party were artists or writers - my wife plunged in and connected with these people immediately. I tried and I tried, but I could not fit in. I leaned against the kitchen wall and drank my beer. My sweet wife finally took pity on me after I grumbled a bit. We left before midnight. We saw oh five in with our two girlies, watching the lakefront fireworks from the second floor of our old house. I crashed right after that. I was yanked from my sleep at 3:00 a.m. with a wicked sore throat. I am facing the New Year with a lousy cold.

We prepared the "New Year Good Luck" meal - Hoppin' John, which is based on black eyed peas. Humanity needs good luck. We lived through a pretty challenging year in 2004. On the local level, our next door neighbor died unexpectantly in September. On a global scale - this is one of the worst years in our lifetimes. There was lots of human violence in many locations, topped by the tsunami. Oh five ought to be better.

Where is Mohammed?

I am not referring to the Mohammed the Prophet. I am referring to Mohammed, the panhandler who hangs out in front of the Metra Station at Riverside Plaza in Chicago.

Mohammed has a cool strategy. He sits on an old milk crate right in the flow of foot traffic. Everyone who exits through the revolving doors at Madison and Riverside Plaza must glance at him as they dodge past. Mohammed never says a word to anyone - he just holds his cup and looks into the faces of the people. If he locks eyes with you, you are toast.

Mohammed is older. He tells me he is 68 and that is possible. His hair is white, and he lets it grow out in a mid-1970's 'fro. He has a longish goatee. He is a blue-eyed African American man. His eyes are set deeply and his gaze is full of meaning. He has a very slight hint of a smile on his lips at all times - sort of an ironic little smile. If it is cold or wet, he throws a yellow hooded jacket over his shoulders and head.

I stormed past Mohammed for weeks when I resumed my train commuting to Chicago's Loop. I sometimes engage with panhandlers, but usually not during my march to the office in the morning. One morning, I looked at Mohammed and he locked on me. No words passed, but I dropped a bill in his cup. Soon, dropping alms in Mohammed's cup became part of my daily ritual.

After a few weeks, I worked up the courage to ask him his name. After that, we greeted each other in the morning. We even small-talked about the weather, the Bears, whatever. He told me that he stays with a friend in the projects - doesn't have his own place right now. He once said to me, "Today's my birthday!" This is how I learned that he is 68.

Well, I haven't seen Mohammed at his spot for many days. Where did he go? I miss this guy and I am worried about him. Can a guy named Mohammed take a Christmas break?

Wall of Water

I have lived in Southeast Asia. The family stayed in Singapore, but I wandered the region, spending lots of time in Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand. I have been to Penang and Phuket, places now swamped by the tsunami. During my time in the area (1984-1987), I connected with lots of local people, but time and distance has disconnected us. Were some of my old friends smashed against the wall of water?

Nature always holds the trump card. Earthquakes and tsunamis, along with hurricanes and floods, represent larger risks than most human evils. It will take a long time for terrorists to top the death toll created by the seas crashing into the coasts of Southeast and South Asia.

There haven't been very many tsunamis in the Indian Ocean. Massive natural calamities have occurred in odd places before. There was a massive earthquake in the St. Louis area early in the 19th century, but I bet most St. Louisians don't worry about getting shaken to death. So is the earth is teeming with forces that could cause a fatal rupture in an unexpected location? And even with all of our learning and science, we could just get a big Game Over surprise? Is fatalism the only rational approach to life on this instable planet?

Boxing Day

In the USofA, we don 't pay attention to Boxing Day. It is the day after Christmas, the Feast of St. Stephen (the first Christian martyr). The term may come from the opening of church poor boxes that day; maybe from the earthenware boxes with which boy apprentices collected money at the doors of their masters' clients back in Victorian England. When I was a kid, I thought that it referred to stressed-out dysfunctional family members engaging in post-Christmas fisticuffs. Here at the Mr. G household, we are hosting a family party today - the turkey is in the oven, and I need to make a run to the liquor store. Mr. G's in-laws enjoy their fermented beverages.

Our Christmas was satisfying - not overdone. Christmas Day was fun for the little girlies and relaxing for the missus and me. We went to Quaker Meeting on Christmas Eve - silent worship, with some beautiful violin music and candlelight. After the Meeting, I hit Bill's Blues Bar, which was surprisingly full. There was a solo pianist/accordianist playing - Radoslav Lorkovic. Radoslav was born in Croatia in the late 1950's and came to the U.S. when he was 6 - he settled in Iowa City, IA. Iowa City is a hotbed of the blues - who knew? Radoslav's classical music career got sidetracked into the blues, and he has stayed on that track for the most part. He is a very accomplished musician, and he has had some brushes with fame (played on the Prairie Home Companion). Mr. G had to blow some harmonica with this guy. So I ended Christmas Eve wrapped up in the blues again - which was appropriate, since we lost Fred.

A small shrine had been erected at Bill's Blues Bar - a shrine to Fred the Mailman. On most days, Fred spent time after work at Bill's, enjoying a couple of Crown Royals after his shift as a mail carrier. He was a cheerful fella and much loved by the Bill's Blues Bar community. Fred missed his shift at the post office on Tuesday. Since he was single, his pals didn't know who to call to check up on him. On Wednesday, they found him in his apartment, dead of a heart attack at the age of 51. Fred was a big, affable ex-football playing black guy with a lot of friends. Fred's friends had spent some time at Bill's on Christmas Eve, building the shrine and drinking Crown Royal. Fred had planned to throw a Christmas party for his buddies at Bill's on Christmas Eve...

Beer for Christmas

Many people like to drink beer when the weather is hot and sticky, but I seem to increase my consumption around Christmas time. I have posted a photo of my favorite cheap Midwestern beer - Old Style. There was a time when this beer was dominant in Chicago, but the Anheuser Busch juggernaut squashed Old Style's market share. This beer is the liquid version of white bread - empty calories, fills the space, does the job. It is a superb blue collar beverage and at an average cost of 50 cents per can, a heckuva deal. You can still buy an Old Style at Wrigley, but at 10 times the supermarket price.

Beer is a marvelous invention. Someone famous once said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." This is an interesting thought. I do believe that I will head out to the bar tonight - if might be God's will that I do so.

Cheap Midwestern Beer 

Short Day

We have sun in Chicago on this Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. There are plenty of empty seats on the Metra train to the Loop today - many folks have begun their holiday break. I plan to try hard to be productive - it will be a challenge. I sometimes believe that the hardest part of working is trying to make it happen when you are distracted, bored and tired. This is what I am today.

At 4:48 A.M., my alarm clock began to grind. I stumbled into my workout clothes and made it to the McGaw YMCA at about 5:13 am. As I walked in, the desk guy, Tom, handed me a Christmas card. Now this is a guy who is at that Y desk every day by 4:15 am. He is unfailingly cheerful, greets everyone by name, and usually has a clever/amusing comment to toss our way as we trudge through the turnstyles. Tom is a paunchy guy with meager white fringe on his head and a luxurious white beard. He shaves his beard about once every 4 months - it is a terrifying to see his naked face. Tom brings light into many lives without thinking about it.

So I lifted weights today. Fifty year old weightlifters suffer quite a bit more than twenty-five year old weightlifters. My lats ache and my bones are tired. I have bought into the theory that exercise is the fountain of youth. Maybe this is true. But I feel quite aged after I have pushed myself through the weight routine.

I had to turn away from today's news - push it away. The horror, the horror! We are coming up on the birthday of Jesus Christ, and people are dying in large groups in many locations - 24 Americans in Iraq today. I am not a political idealogue; I listen with amazement at my liberal and conservative friends and their firm positions. George Bush may be wrong; he may be right. But right or wrong, the suffering is very hard to bear. And the Iraqis take the heaviest blows - murdered by their fellow Iraqis. Sadam's evil spirit still is creating havoc in Iraq. There is hard pounding going on - who can pound the longest?

Christmas and the One-Eyed Cat

When Christmas approaches at Mr. G's homestead, the threat level moves from Yellow to Orange. We put up additional barricades and implement more aggressive security routines to protect an important "soft target" - the Christmas tree. Our Golden Retriever has mellowed into doggy middle age and is no longer a credible threat to the decorations. But there are two plotters remaining - a terrorist Papillon puppy and a one-eyed cat.

I am an involuntary keeper of pets. My three womenfolk bring creatures into the house. When I protest, the floodgates open. I have yet to stand firm as the oceans of little girl grief smash into me. I tell myself "Okay, this time I will not cave in; this time I will implement my decision mercilessly and teach these girls that I am not to be ignored." This is akin the an ice cube saying "Okay, I will not melt this time - I am going to sit here in the sun and remain solid and square." So we have two cats, two dogs and a hamster. The critter population has declined - we used to have three cats, but one decided to move out when we brought the terrorist puppy into the house. We also used to have dozens of fish in three different tanks, a leopard gecko, a rabbit, two gerbils (which were very tasty treats for the cats) and a fire-bellied toad. I am happy that we free of this infestation of small, smelly creatures.

The one-eyed cat actually has two eyes - the left eye is diseased, bulges out of the socket and is a milky white color. This startling problem is caused by Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), which is an incurable, fatal disease caused by a coronavirus. My girls found this cat and its litter-mate at the local Pet Smart, where someone had abandoned a litter on the doorstep. The one eyed-cat lost its sister last summer - FIP caused its belly to blow up like a small balloon and I had it put down. The one-eyed cat, called "Jade," is defying the odds. She continues to eat, sleep and behave more or less like a normal cat. She doesn't see well, obviously. Her energy level is a bit low and she is a runty creature. But she continues to live and has a darn good attitude, all things considered. Jade still bats the Christmas tree ornaments around, when she sees them.

It now looks like Jade will live through Christmas. I was fearful that we would be scheduling her euthanasia right about now - definitely not a cheerful Yuletide activity. I consider Jade's continued survival to be a Christmas gift from the God of cats.

Jammin' on a Cold Thursday

There is lots of music being created in the Chicago area on a Thursday night. Up north in Highwood, there is a blues jam at Pops for Champagne led by Carl Davis. At Bill's Blues, there is a jazz jam session led by Mike Finnerty. There are also blues sessions at the Harlem Avenue Lunge in Berwyn and at Rosa's Lounge on the West Side of Chicago. I have visited them all. This past Thursday, I hit Pops and Bill's Blues.

The jam at Pops is a comfortable, laid-back affair. The place was just about empty when I arrived at 9:45 p.m. Highwood used to be a dicey town. It was where the sailors from the Great Lakes Naval Base would go to get into trouble. Back in the late 1970's it was full of sleazy bars and sleazier people. As the affluence spread past the borders of Lake Forest into Lake Bluff, Highwood morphed into a fancy dining and entertainment destination. At Pops on Thursday nights, the patrons consist of middle aged wealthy types and a few younger folks that are probably the offspring of the wealthy older folks. It is not an ethnically diverse crowd. Carl Davis, the jam leader, is an accomplished guitarist and has a yawping style of singing that evokes the old rockers - Elvis, Carl Perkins, the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly. Carl is too young to have ever heard a live performance from this group of singers. The other guitarist is Shoji Naito - a fabulous blues musician, born and raised in Japan. Shoji has been bitten badly by the blues bug - he left his home and came to Chicago to drink in the music from its source. He plays guitar, bass and harmonica - and he plays them with skill and heart. The jammers are mostly harmonica players from the Old Town School Monday night harp class. Shoji is a stalwart of the Monday night class, and his pals show up to play with him. Dexter, the drummer, is subtle and solid. I sat in for three tunes, had a beer and hit the road, heading south.

Bill's Blues Bar is a smallish room - much smaller than Pops for Champagne. Since it is in Evanston, the crowd is not homgeneous. There were a couple of private equity guys from Kenilworth, an old black fella from Belize, some Northwestern students and a motley collection of jazz players. The only female in the joint was the bartender. Mike Finnerty is a large, intense tenor saxophonist. He has been part of the Chicago jazz scene for decades. When Mike runs a jam, it is organized and disciplined - friendly, but not loose. One of the better trumpet players in Chicago was playing - a 50-ish guy named Nick. Nick is a schoolteacher who freelances around town playing a range of gigs. He gave up the life of a traveling jazz musician to create and tend to a family. I see Nick at various places in Evanston. He is usually with his young daughter.

Finnerty always calls a blues for me. After that, I try to play jazz with him. I am no jazz player - I can fake it if the changes aren't too complicated. When the clock struck 1 a.m., I escaped and ran home.

A jam session is like a musical version of a bowling night or a pick-up basketball at the Y. You get together with some folks; you might know some well, but others are complete strangers. You quickly enter into a group endeavor that entails a high level of communication. With luck, it works and it is great fun. Then you leave - you might not ever see some of your jam bandmates again.

Mr. G - Photo by Rick Trankle

Mr. G blowing over the background noise. 

The Background Noise is Deafening

I am having difficulties with the world's "background noise." The background noise is generated by all the troubles we see/hear on a daily basis - the homeless guy with his mangy dog sitting on the sidewalk at Franklin and Madison, holding out a cup; the latest 9 U.S. soldiers blown to pieces in Iraq; the thousands starving in the Sudan; today's terrorist "threat level," the relentless Christmas consumption orgy all around us. I turn away from the background noise every day, block it out, push it down. This is a reasonable coping strategy, but I feel guilty about it. I am not doing anything to quiet the noise. And the noise makes it difficult for me to hear the music in my life. For me, the music comes from hearth and home, from the connections with my fellow harmonica nerds, from the support of my partners in my firm, from working up a good sweat on the footpaths.

New Year's Resolution - do something to quiet the noise.