The Supreme Court : HBC - April

If you ever find yourself looking for a really bad book to read to atone for something you did, pick up "The Supreme Court" by Chief Justice Rehnquist. There are only two reasons this book was published. The first is that the publisher was counting on name recognition and a solid topic (does it get loftier than the Supreme Court?) to bring in sales. The second is that the publisher just couldn't tell a sitting Supreme Court justice not only that he wasn't interested in the book, but that the author only has a limited grasp on how to put a book together.

The book layout starts chronologically: the Marshall court, then the Tanney Court. The Tanney Court chapter talks about how a Supreme Court can effectively work in commerce and regulations and how it can fail miserably by overreaching it's bounds in the Dred Scott Case. Then the book talks about 2 random judges, then then 3 random judges. Most of the information that the reader finds out here sounds like it was lifted from a pamphlet from the Visitor's Center.

Rehnquist decides that now would be a good time to throw in two chapters about the Steel Seizure Case then a couple of chapters about how he runs the court and what the typical day in the life of a justice is like and how he selects his law clerks.

The key insights in his book are that if a sentence takes up more than six lines of printed type it is too long. That's really something that Rehnquist tells us in his book. Even more pedantic, we learn that Rehnquist found it puzzling when he first became a justice that lawyers would come up to him and they would know his name but he would have forgotten theirs! He spends five pages telling us about how for a lawyer, this is his big day, a day in front of the court; for a justice it's just another day at work.

The last nugget that really rubbed me the wrong way was when he pulled the standard middle-school technique of starting a chapter with a "Webster's defines 'pack' as..." So what I've learned from this book isn't that the Justices are these magnanimous beings, but that they have shortcomings - unfortunately, one of Rehnquist's is that he's a horrible writer that has no respect for the intelligence of the common reader.

With such a bad book, you could imagine the way that the History Book Club meeting went. When I usually arrive fifteen minutes early, there are other members setting up tables or browsing the aisles for upcoming month's picks. Today, no one. Finally, the Dave, the head of the club shows up then one other member. We talk casually about how much we loathed the book and curse the person who picked it until we realize she hasn't even shown up yet. Fury glows in all of our eyes. Ten minutes late, the picker of this trash comes in and says, "so how was it? I didn't read it, I've been playing golf for the last three days." I'm speechless.

Fine, the meeting continues with the three readers. We say a few nice things then focus on the shortcomings of the book. Periodically, the lady will interject, "So what are you reading now" or "I don't understand how you can not support the war" or "All you ever hear about are the gays, but San Fransisco is one of the most beautiful cities." She actually said that.

I almost walked evey time she opened her mouth. And she didn't actually want to hear why anyone would have misgivings about the war or why Congress today doesn't have statesmen anymore, because as soon as someone would reply she would daze off into the distance until we started talking about the book again. If it was my first meeting, I told Dave, I'd never be back. Which is fitting because with my move to Chicago, I wouldn't be able to. It's too bad I'm leaving with a bad book under my belt and bad taste in my mouth because of partisan-spewing book club crashers.

My Favorite Season

I had two favorite times of year in college; the beginning of fall and spring semester. The few weeks ahead of time I would pick up a schedule of classes and begin debating which courses to take next term, which prof was best. I had scheduling down to a science I would track which courses were filling up, which were cancelled, where I stood in line for waitlisting. My senior I acutally registered in less than 10 minutes. There was a rush to get in, and get out with the best schedule possible. Literally, my heart would beat faster and I would sweat trying to beat the other hundreds of people that were registering simultaneously.

But the real rush was going to the book store to buy the course books. How could you not look forward to that? I couldn't wait to see which books I was going to be able to discuss with a professor, which books I probably wasn't going to read, and which books I didn't look forward to but would read anyway. "Hope Leslie", anyone?

Nowadays, I'm out of college and don't get to experience buying course books anymore. When I'm in a college town, I still mosey over to the textbook section and see what the undergrads are reading for Postmodern Lit or Introduction to Literature but it's not the same - I don't have the excitement for it. I'm on the other side of the glass, looking in.

My current favorite time of year is going on right now. It's the time when I spread out garbage bags on my floor and repot all my houseplants. Some don't make the cut and get thrown away to make room for new plants or old plants that need new digs. Many branches are pruned back and cuttings are made toward propigation. The whole process takes three or four days. Already, just a few days later my cactus plants have already started to grow and a few plants have begun to flower. When the basil that K and I are growing made the push through the soil, I actually jumped up and down at the new growth.

St. Jude's Run with the Spirit 5K

This morning I went back to my grade school to run the Run with the Spirit 5K. After spending K - 8 in this neighborhood, being educated in the Catholic tradition there, it's funny how I never really noticed the landscape. Maybe when you're younger you have boundless energy, you aren't really allowed too far away from the school grounds, and you spend most your time playing parking lot football and trying to impress girls; so you never really care about how hilly certain streets are.

The course did a loop just west of the school then came back and went east into the park area behind the adjacent hospital then came west back for a smaller loop. The course was a good challenge and my quads definately felt the burn of the rolling hills. I finished with a respectable 28:15 and beat a few runners that usually finish ahead of me.

Up at the head of the winning pack was my friend's little brother who we used to call "Goober" growing up. It's hard to believe that I can remember when Goober was first born and now he's out running races ahead of most other comers. I may not be as fast or as competitive as I used to be but I enjoy "it" more. I've never felt more comfortable or confident. Just part of growing up, I suppose.

The 2006 Race to Wrigley 5K

Since I'm moving to Chicago in about a month the inevitable question needed to be answered soon. Cubs or White Sox? If I root for the White Sox I look like a Johnny-come-lately and even worse, a bandwagon hopper; if I root for the Cubs I would immediately turn into a drunken frat boy with my hat backwards and develop an unhealthy obsession with "next year". The choice was obvious.

This way, 90 years from now, I can complain that I moved to Chicago and began rooting for the White Sox the year after they won the World Series and bemoan the fact that they haven't won one since. Plus, whenever I would venture to Chicago to see a ballgame in the past with the boy scouts or some other organization we would go to Comisky - I've never been to Wrigley.

So it was with a little chagrin and a lot of trepidation that I ventured up to Wrigleyville last Saturday to run the "Race to Wrigley" - a truly terrible race. I seem to remember the day as cold, possibly rainy, with dark clouds and occassional lightning behind the ivy-fenced Castle Grayskull. The weather channel, however, seems to think it was in the brisk upper 50's and totally sunny. The race had 3,000 participants so the pace was slow because the pack would have to walk when we had to turn. The fellow runners were obnoxious, often cutting others off. I saw at least 10 people cut across the course well before the turn- arounds; they all seemed to be wearing blue and red and white outfits with a large "C" on them. Cubs? I think not, "Cheaters".

After running the first 3 miles through Hades' bar district, the last .1 mile went into the gates of Wrigley and through the concourse. I've never run faster.

Overall, K and I finished a little slower than usual, but I think we were happy to escape with our Sox-loving heads.

My Shitty Roommate

Back in 1787 Grigori Potemkin constructed hollow facades on the buildings in his village in order to fool Catherine II as to the value of her new conquests of the Crimean War, thus enhancing his standing in the empress's eyes.

My roommate similiarly puts up a false front to hide the fact that he is the worst roommate ever. No hyperbole. Worst, ever. Example: he subsrcibes to Esquire to learn how to dress "European" but when he buys a nice suit jacket he doesn't realize that the pockets are sewn shut and as a result believes that he has "fake pockets". He looks nice, but it's all window dressing. It turns out he's one of the least considerate people alive, and only does something if it will publically improve his standing.

Months ago when we first moved in together, I bought a 24-roll pack of toilet paper. It lasted for a while but inevitably we ran out. I noticed that we were on the last roll and in fear of running out, I bought a mini 4-pack. This supply runs out shortly thereafter, as it happens on a Friday. I go to Chicago on weekends so I figured we'd be restocked when I returned. No such luck. I had no intention of being the toilet paper lacky, so I got a couple rolls and kept them in my room, wondering how he could have gone three days without toilet paper. "Maybe he's been lucky and has gone at work or during errands," I think, "Or maybe he was at his girlfriend's all weekend."

A couple of weeks go by and the odds are certainly not in his favor any longer. I have my secret stash so maybe he does too. I do a brief check in his room, no paper products. The next week A, who lives a floor below and knows of this conundrum, is going to have a big going-away party for a friend and my roommate offers our apartment to her (of course, not checking with me). My roommate's girlfiend pulls A aside, takes napkins out of her purse and says, "Here you'll need these, they aren't buying any toilet paper." You'll obviously note the incorrect pronoun usage there, but I'm past that. A. laughs out loud and my roommate must have been embarrassed enough because shortly after we have T.P. again. A four pack of one-ply, but it's better than nothing.

I respond once that runs out with another 4-pack and that lasted up until last Thursday. Easter vacation hits and I head up to Chicago for the weekend. I have now returned to a bare cardboard roll and the beginning of the Second Great War. It like looks the reserves are going to get called up again.

There's Something About Riding a Bike Down a Country Road in a Nice Blue Suit

James Taylor; oh boy, can that man sing.

Yesterday my parents and I went to the Embassy Theater and saw James Taylor. You know that dream you have when you purchase tickets to a great singer-songwriter and you hope that maybe they'll just show up alone with their guitar and play. However, when you get to the concert they've brought a whole big band and the aspects that you were hoping for (voice, guitar, lyrics) are overshadowed by the "big show" hoopla?

Not tonight.

Stage left: one piano
Stage right: a large screen
Center Stage: James Taylor, guitar

James put on a great show, not just because his voice has somehow gotten better with age but because he brought pictures. Sometimes before a song he would put pictures up on the screen and explain how the song came into being. Pictures of his parents, old girlfriends, old cars, Richard Nixon, Mediterranean Islands. He was extremely funny, quipping at one point when he realized his explanation was a little long, "You probably didn't realize that you were paying to sit in the dark to look at old photos." Or when he was explaining a song, "So, that's the first and last verse, the rest is just filler. All that middle stuff? Filler." When he was describing Richard Nixon's resignation, "And he walked down that long hallway and out through the French doors, or rather, what we would call Freedom doors nowadays."

If a chorus was needed in a song, on the screen would be the choir from his hometown filmed singing the chorus in his recording studio/barn. It was awesome seeing an ordinary choir, ordinary faces, ordinary people sing along to their friend's songs.

It's times like this when your hometown becomes a little less quaint and a little more cozy. When you can run into your dentist at a concert and he'll ask you about your life, or when the elderly ushers who have worked so hard to hold onto and maintain such a magnificent theatre crack a large grin when James Taylor compliments their preservation efforts.

After being so down on concerts a month ago, James has reminded me how powerful live music can be by making it personal and really seeming to care that each person in that audience connects with the show and the music.

Your Time Confuses Me

This year I had to deal with daylight savings time. For the first time. Ever since I could tell time, I have lived in one of those few states that doesn't observe daylight savings time. This always gave me a cool feeling when I could check Eastern (Indiana) as my Time Zone option. I guess as long as the crops get their sunlight, it don't matter what hour we call it out here in the sticks. Well, our governor grabbed the bull by the horns on his last campaign and decided that all of Indiana should be on the same time zone instead of three different ones. Well after much debate, we now observe Eastern Standard Time unless you don't, so we still have three time zones but now instead of not changing clocks, we do. Whatever.

However, this year for my first daylight savings celebration I was in Chicago, so it wasn't a big deal to everyone because they've been doing it for years. Of course, K and I forgot and sprung forward about 7 hours later than everyone else. Indiana was already one hour ahead of Chicago when I arrived so I didn't actually have to change my computer or watch.

Well a week goes by and I arrive back in Indiana assuming that all of my clocks are in order. On Sunday night, as I am getting ready for bed I realize it's not actually midnight but instead 1:00 a.m. There goes my good night's sleep; Daylight Savings Time pulled a fast one on me, albeit one week late.

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You

After a great beginning portion to my Spring Break in Chicago, K and I ventured SW to help her grandma move and to pick up my car. The carless experiment is over. After a $300 drop for a new starter, I reclaimed my car. My first stop: Target. About 15 miles down the road, the "Check Engine" light begins blinking. Using my excellent mechanic knowledge, I deduce a plan of action. I'll call its bluff. I've known people that have driven with that light on before, it'll stop, I tell myself. Besides, if it doesn't stop, I'm screwed.

Well, the Neon carries us around Ottawa and back to Chicago safely. On the drive back to Fort Wayne, I stopped to get gas. Shortly afterward the "Check Engine" light turns off. The possibilities:

1) The engine was rejecting the transplant of a new starter.
2) The car was allergic to old gas.
3) The car realized that I didn't care.
4) The car is still in dire straits but the "Check Engine" light is now also broken.

A Playful Weekend

Yesterday night, after driving to Chicago with my sis and her boyfriend, K and I went to see Romance by David Mamet. It is a foul-mouthed, hilarious comedy that tries to restore peace in the middle east through spine-alignment in the large picture and peace in the bedroom through the airing of the grievances. It was standard Mamet dialogue; that is, sparse and great. The thing I liked best about this play is that between scenes they would dim the lights and you could see the actors move the props and set around while this cool synth, drum beat played. The actors would set themselves, the lights would go off, then when the lights came back on the actors would be in different positions.

Today, we went to see Macbeth at the Navy Pier. It was well-done with great scene transitions with some weird gothic/street tough leather style costumes; I think the acting in the Mamet was better, but that's Shakespeare theater for you. Immediately afterwards, the actors sat on the stage and answered questions about the play, and since it was kids day matinee the kiddies got to ask most of the questions. I was impressed that 1) many 8 year olds sat through Shakespeare play and 2) they had formed interesting questions about the play. The actors answered ably and didn't dumb down their responses. I felt like even I learned something. At the end of the play when Macbeth is killed (sorry to ruin it for you), they made the choice to have Macbeth grab Macduff's dagger help in the stabbing. It showed that Macbeth was responsible for his choices even though his path had been predicted by the witches. It was a great touch, though something I would have missed or dismissed if the actor hadn't pointed it out.

Big City theatre; it's hard to top the quality of the everyone involved the process.