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Monthly Archives: November 2008

“Purveyors of this sad story”

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If GE “brings good things to life,” the Internet brings good things to light, or back to life — for example, the CBS Radio Mystery Theater (CBSRMT).

Radio Hall of Famer and Those Were the Days host Chuck Schaden aired a few episodes of CBSRMT many years ago, but was thwarted in his quest to broadcast the series by some kind of rights issues. Today many CBSRMT episodes can be found online as MP3s — which means I may need to break down and procure an MP3 player.

I was 12 years old when the CBSRMT series began to air, usually at midnight. I listened to the program in the silence of the night, trying to be quiet as I huddled under the covers and squirmed to the ominous tones of bass woodwinds and E. G. Marshall’s “Pleasant . . . dreams?” I felt vulnerable in my little room in my little trailer, with little between me and the evils of mankind and the unknown supernatural.

I listened to an episode this Saturday, “The Lodger” starring Kim Hunter, which was originally broadcast 13 May 1974. I would see Hunter a few years later at Buffalo’s Studio Arena Theater in Elizabeth the Queen with George Chakiris.

“The Lodger” is a familiar story told many times on radio. For 1974, this version had a vaguely retro feel as a city newspaper reporter somehow gets the scoop on every killing. With blogs and news blogs and constant news updates, is there such a thing as a breaking news scoop anymore?

The commercials also took me back. One, for a discount grocery chain, touted, among other comfort foods, Pepperidge Farm Layer Cake on sale for 69 cents. It may sound strange now, but 69 cents was nothing to sneeze at for a frugal working man like my father (the licensed driver and therefore the grocery shopper and bargain hunter of the family). Of course, this commercial was targeted at “her” — Mom. Even in 1974, the title of “Mom” was attached to the majority of domestic chores. (As far as I’ve seen on the television at work, in 2008 household cleaning products are still within the woman’s domain.)

The other commercial I paid attention to was for Budweiser, then still “The King of Beers” and known for the company’s signature Clydesdale horse teams and the light musical theme heard in the background. The male voice talent suggested that you “reach for a glass” although “it’s great beer any way you drink it.” With a glass, you get the full benefit of “the wonderful head of foam” — “those bubbles, tiny though they are, still amount to something pretty special at the top of your glass — taste appeal and eye appeal.” This is due to “exclusive beechwood aging and natural carbonation.” The result is “a difference you can taste.” So, “when you say Budweiser, you’ve really said it all.”

No sports, no celebrity, no sports celebrity, no sex or rock music, and no irrelevant cuteness like frogs. Just “something pretty special at the top of your glass.”

At least until microbrews, imports, and ADHD came along. Who today would pay for air time, even after midnight, for such a boring commercial about the product?

After the episode ended, a few moments of news commentary came on, delivered by Fulton Lewis III, defending President Richard Nixon. In a ponderous, old-style news voice, Lewis talked about how allegations of a “specific nature” had been answered “promptly and firmly” by the White House, whose response referred to “concerted efforts by some sources to circulate fallacious reports,” the “vindictiveness of some people,” and “the purveyors of this sad story.” Lewis, who said that Nixon’s language could be “rough,” also asserted that those who knew the president, including him, agreed that racial, ethnic, and religious slurs were not in his vocabulary.

Nonsense. Any Caucasian of Nixon’s age had slurs in his vocabulary, even if he didn’t use or believe in them. For many Americans, they were part of the culture of the early and mid-twentieth century, along with Jim Crow laws and segregation. TV producer Norman Lear built a long-running comedy series on a character of Nixon’s generation — All in the Family‘s Archie Bunker — whose bigotry was his hallmark. Later, the evidence would show that not only were slurs in Nixon’s vocabulary, but that his racist vocabulary was more extensive than Archie Bunker could have dreamed.

How fascinating it is to look at even relatively recent history with the knowledge and superiority of hindsight. As I listened to Lewis righteously and indignantly question the charges and the motives of the “purveyors,” I knew what he couldn’t — that he was a dupe of the failed coverup and that the man he was defending would prove to be the “crook” he claimed not to be. Yesterday’s heated debate long ago resolved itself into today’s cold fact.

I can’t wait to dive into the rich treasure trove of CBSRMT episodes that await — not only for the emotions revived by nostalgic memories bur for the history I witness, didn’t appreciate, and have already forgotten.

Dream: Wicked visit

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I was making a quick stop at DW’s house on the way to another city (I would figure out later that it was NYC). I didn’t see most of their house, including the living room, dining room, and kitchen, all of which seemed to be off limits. Instead, I was restricted to a bedroom and/or sitting room.

When I tried to use the bathroom, I found that the doorway was so narrow that I couldn’t fit through it. I used the one in the master bedroom once, but had the impression that that was frowned upon. I found another bathroom that was set up almost like a salon, with a woman or two sitting on chairs in a waiting area. I turned to close the door for privacy, but there was none, not even a curtain. This door was also unusually narrow.

In the bed-/sitting room, a green toilet seat flapped up and down erratically and mysteriously.

Every now and then I would open a door and, instead of a bathroom, I would find an ocean scene with a witch from Wicked astride the waves. I didn’t know what to think.

Then there was a game that involved racing herb leaves down the length of the pan. I did well, but discovered only later that the leaves would follow the finger like a magnet. Finally, I accidentally flipped the pan over and panicked about losing leaves. All of them were accounted for.

I wondered how my friends could live in such a strange, chaotic place, but noticed that they still retained their old values from childhood.

I told DW I was going to meet a friend in NYC. When she looked at me inquiringly, I looked at her significantly, which surprised her. I began to imagine this liaison, although even in my imagination it did not happen as I wished.

I remembered that I didn’t yet have a ticket to NYC and wondered at myself for doing so much flying in such a short time. I felt disappointed because I knew I could not pull it off — there must have been a miscommunication somewhere.

And I kept encountering the Wicked witch, atop the waves.

You put your left knee in

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It’s been several years since I underwent physical therapy for impingement syndrome, so I was a little nervous about the new round of treatment, this time at a different place on a different part of my anatomy — my left knee. It all began with Dr. Knee’s concern about the pain I’ve been experiencing for several years when I walk down stairs.

I was joined in the waiting area by a woman with a crutch, who asked, “Is this your first time here?” Nod. “You will love it!” I took this as an assertion, not a command.

While I waited, she hobbled back and forth to the desk a few times, and an older woman issued forth, walking very slowly and very gingerly toward the elevator and reaching out to the wall for support — a prime candidate for an assistive device. I wondered just how far she was going to have to walk to get to her transportation and her destination, every step painful and precarious. I remembered that, at the other therapy office, I had always appeared to be in much better shape than my fellow sufferers, with no obvious injury or limp. But when the shoulder pain kicked in, invisibly, it was excruciating and debilitating.

The sound of my name startled me out of a half slumber, and reluctantly I hauled myself out of the chair and followed H. to the very back. She directed me to a far less comfortable chair and pulled the hospital-style curtain closed for privacy. Unlike my previous PT experience, there were to be no witnesses to my efforts. She did say, however, that in the future we would venture out into the “gym.”

After asking me why I was there, how long my knee had hurt, and other questions, she had me perform various tricks, such as balancing for as long as I could on each leg (I was able to last almost three times longer on the right than on the left) and bending my knee as far back as possible while lying down (left knee is more flexible than right). She dug into the front and side of my thigh with her palm and into my knee with her fingers. The side hurt more than I would have expected, and she found a tender spot in my knee above the patella (“I’m going to use the proper terms”), right where it hurts when I descend stairs. She explained the anatomy and the underlying weakness. The tendon (I think) is tight, and although x rays revealed no patella problems, she confirmed something I had noticed — the left kneecap is loose. Physical therapy is going to strengthen the function — at least that’s the idea.

I find it fascinating that my two legs have separate lives, but she said that it’s not uncommon.

After all these contortions and measurements of my flexibility, we were ready to get to work. Lie on your side. Lie on your back. Lie on your stomach. Raise your hips. Raise your feet. Repeat 10 times and rinse.

Unlike with my shoulder exercises, nothing hurt.

We finished off with an ultrasound treatment (“this shouldn’t hurt, but it may feel warm,” she said as she spread icy cold sonic gel on my knee) and then a cold wrap to reduce the small amount of inflammation remaining from my August fall.

With exercise handout in hand, I walked out self-consciously — the more normally I tried to walk, the more gimpy and awkward I felt I looked.

While I didn’t exactly exert myself, I felt sore this morning — partly due to the little workout, partly due to being chained to a chair eight hours a day during an especially (and poorly planned) intense time.

Now my shoulders hurt.

Scattershot musings

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Last Sunday, the trees were glorious, and Wednesday the air was balmy at 70 degrees Fahrenheit. By Saturday, the trees that had glowed against the blue of the lake were bare against the gray of the lake, and the temperatures had plummeted to the 40s.

Only two brave souls sat outdoors together at Bonjour, each reading a newspaper section.

I frittered the days away with sporadic reading, browsing, and napping — I hadn’t indulged in the latter for months, especially not since my UFE recovery period.

It must be the weather. Because I can’t blame fluctuating hormones, at least for the moment, I’m laying my increased carbohydrate cravings and consumption at the feet of the shorter days and colder nights.

So far this year, however, I haven’t been as chilled outdoors as I am indoors, every day by midday. My fingers are aching even as I write this. We can do so many interesting things, solve so many problems, and conjure up so many improbable theories, but maintaining a reasonably comfortable temperature in a state-of-the-art office beyond remains beyond our ability. It gives women something to chat about as we warm our hands under warm tap water in the bathroom where, at my old job, the main activities (aside from the obvious) were networking and problem solving. Now we use the bathroom as a combination waste disposal facility and warming shelter, except the air in there is chilly, too.

When I started working, managers and above sat in window offices (with their backs to the windows) and worker bees aspired to move into a window office. Then design became more egalitarian, and offices began to feature cubicles, er, workstations with windows. I have two and one-half windows, and do so my cohorts. The other day I noticed that nearly all of blinds down the hallway are closed, which struck me as amusing — an admittance that the view is not as important as the perceived prestige once associated with windows. But there are two reasonable explanations: In this gloomy weather, it’s easier for the people across the alley to see us. And there isn’t much for us to see, either, except the people across the alley. Which is easy to do because they don’t lower their blinds.

With the change in weather, J. and I have not been as active. On Saturday we ate at the Dixie Kitchen and Bait Shop, where we did not see Obama, just as we had not seen him at Medici on 57. Perhaps someday we’ll catch him at Valois Cafeteria or Mellow Yellow.

I started to watch the 1996 version of The Canterville Ghost with Patrick Stewart, but left the final half hour for the next morning — by which time it had disappeared from the on-demand list. Now I’ll never know how it ends . . . it was not bad for a modern version, although the father’s character was disturbingly inconsistent. It was strange enough that he greets his daughter only in passing as he rushes to gush over his boys. As the movie proceeds, he veers illogically between the rational and the emotional. As a scientist firmly grounded in the real, he refuses to believe in ghosts or any evidence they may leave behind. At the same time, based on only the flimsiest circumstantial evidence, he roundly condemns his daughter as a cruel, even dangerous prankster. Then he has the gall to whine to his wife that he and the daughter aren’t close like they used to be, to which the wife responds with grating predictability, “She’s growing up.” Too bad Dad doesn’t do the same.

As I was waiting for a bus that seemed determined not to arrive on Monday, I heard sirens, saw a number of unmarked black cars whizzing about officiously, and noticed that traffic was backing up down 57th toward Stony Island. Access to Lake Shore Drive had been cut off, with Everett being the only immediate escape east of Hyde Park Boulevard. Obliviously I assumed there had been an accident and wondered how late I would be.

Then I heard the helicopter and saw the spotlight hovering above.

“It’s the president-elect,” a woman told me.

“Really?” I said. I didn’t think he’d spend much time in Hyde Park anymore.

After a while a motorcade came along. I didn’t pay close attention, but did spot a black woman peering out of the open back window of one of the limousines.

The motorcade had passed before I realized that I should have been more interested.

“Did you see the hearse? It wasn’t the president-elect; it was a funeral,” the woman said.

I hadn’t seen a hearse, but I couldn’t swear positively that I hadn’t seen it, either, so I let that go.

“The only person I can think of who’s died is Studs Terkel, and I can’t imagine all that for him,” I said.

“He died a couple of weeks ago,” she noted erroneously.

“I won’t get that kind of sendoff,” I said, perhaps a bit wistfully.

“Do I look like I will?” she laughed.

Silence for a bit.

“History is being made,” she added, but not conceding the funeral point.

“A better kind of history,” I offered.

“You know it,” she said as I was saved by the appearance of an X28 bus.

On the Chicago Tribune site, I saw that Barack Obama had dropped his girls off at the University of Chicago Laboratory Schools, then he and Michelle had taken off for Washington, D.C., to meet with George and Laura Bush. Hearse sighting aside, I’m fairly certain that all the excitement, complete with choppers, was over that daily ritual of every family with children — the trip to school.

The online photo spread showed Obama, sporting a Sox cap, hugging his daughters, who in their neat school clothes and backpacks look like any other Hyde Park student on a school day. They were the only ones who arrived with a Secret Service, police, and news escort, I imagine. How fascinating it will be to watch them grow up over the next four to eight years, now that they are in an inescapable fish bowl.

I spent many mornings waiting in the dark, cold, and snow, alone, for a school bus that never had a seat for me and my bass clarinet.

Yet I don’t envy them.

Not really.

Well. Perhaps a little as they get to see the world.

Still, there’s the fishbowl.

At least they’re used to it.

I think it would kill this lonely guppy.

On the other hand, a life of ease and comfort would suit me well just about now.

Stress free.

Dream: Sleeping on the trailer train

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I was sleeping in bed at home and woke up to find that a train was passing a huge window in front of me. It was so close and traveling so fast that it frightened me. I noticed the trailer was moving, also on tracks. Sometimes the train was faster, sometimes the trailer. Later, when I sensed my dad walking around nearby, I wondered who was driving the trailer. We went on and on, seemingly endlessly. I didn’t know what kept us on the rails.

I was at a mall or other public place talking with acquaintances when I noticed a grill in the wall and realized that the state or the police were listening to us. I felt guilty as though we had been plotting something and fled up some stairs. It occurred to me that this wasn’t far enough to escape the clutches of the people behind the grill and that I was probably surrounded by electronic surveillance, but I didn’t know where else to go, plus I had a sense I could evade them.

I found myself in an apartment, greeted by a cat, then another cat, then another, and another, and another. Had I found refuge with a cat hoarder? She was talking to a rabbit in a cage, which bothered me at the back of my mind. I didn’t know why, but it slowly occurred to me that the rabbit was not a pet like the cats, but was slated for slaughter. Horrified, I fled again.

This time, I came out into a courtyard that led to open country. I felt a little more free, but I still could be seen and heard. I despaired at the lack of freedom, even out here. There was nowhere to left to go and to hide — why I needed to hide, I didn’t understand.

Dream: Money pit

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At one point, I was clenching my teeth so tightly that my night guard, already broken in back, disintegrated under the force. I could feel tiny plastic shards between my teeth and wondered if I would need a new guard and how I would pay for it. While all this was vivid and sensory, I understood that it was a dream.

I was in a classroom, and the instructor asked who some group feared the most. The obvious answer would have been a particular racial or ethnic group, but I knew the real answer, which came out involuntarily: “The working man.” I turned around and saw Studs Terkel few seats behind me. Although he showed no reaction, I hoped I had gotten his attention with my insight.

I was in this classroom because I had re-enrolled in college, but I could not recall attending any other classes, and I couldn’t remember what they were. I reluctantly confessed to someone that I had returned to college for another degree that wasn’t even at a graduate level, that I had not been attending classes, and that I had lost track of my progress and status.

I began to worry about the money I had wasted, thinking a few hundred dollars up to as much as a thousand. I didn’t understand anything I had done. I wondered whether trying to continue toward such a useless goal with so many questions unanswered and with no motivation would be a waste of more money and if quitting would mean wasting the money already spent.

I worried that Studs would find out.

Dream: Devil in the dark

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I was eating lunch with my co-workers in a place I’d never been to. When the server came with the check, I realized that I was nude. Embarrassed, I looked to see if anyone else was — no. On the positive side, no one seemed to have noticed my state.

As I was walking around an underground stone chamber that looked like something out of the original Star Trek, a young woman stopped me and rubbed a balloon over my head. For a while, I was mesmerized by the strangeness of this action and wondered what it signified.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was being distracted from my purse and wallet. I felt for them; I still had them, I thought, but they seemed to have gotten farther away. “You’ve sold your soul to the devil!” I screamed at the girl, who looked innocent enough.

The next thing I knew, someone was cackling and leading me out of the Star Trek-style stone chamber and into another. At first, I felt claustrophobic under its low ceiling and in its confines. As it dawned on me that these horrible chambers took up infinity and there was nowhere else to go, I realized that I had landed in Hell.

And I panicked.

Election day and Indian summer

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Two unrelated topics that happen to coincide this year: election day and Indian summer.

After looking at the forecast, I took today off. With the temperature projected to start dropping tomorrow, this really does look like my last day outdoors at Bonjour. It’s tempting to return this afternoon for a final hurrah.

I voted at Montgomery Place, where there were two lines — a longer one for Precinct 38 and a shorter one for 37. The handwritten signs were so light that I didn’t notice them until someone mentioned that there were separate lines based on precinct.

I stayed in the longer, right-hand (38) line out of habit, which turned out to be the right choice. It was perhaps 10-12 people long, and the elderly man ahead of me carefully felt for one of the chairs lined up against the wall. I’m not sure how much effort this saved him because, although I gave him plenty of room, he got up and changed chairs a couple of times as the line moved.

As he provided his information — like my father would have done, he gave his address as “Montgomery Place, whatever that is,” although he knew the address because he spouted it effortlessly later — he added, “I’m blind.” That explained why he sat so gingerly on the chairs. After he signed a form attesting to his disability, he was directed to a chair to wait for assistance. He looked ahead blankly, so I offered him my arm to lead him to it. He said, “Well, I can see your arm!” I did not quite know how to take that, but fortunately a judge came along to lead him. So much for my attempt at chivalry!

The judge started to read the choices and to mark the ballot — whether as indicated, who can say? I was sitting next to them and could hear all that was said, so it was not so secret. It’s no wonder we treasure our individual independence once it is lost.

My turn. This was the strangest ballot I’d ever seen; instead of punching out holes to make my selections, I used a marker to connect two arrowheads by the choice or the candidate. The “booth” served only as a partial privacy shield/desk. The topmost question on the page was in the middle column and was about local district commissioners, I think. It took me a few moments to find the presidential candidates buried at the bottom of the left-hand column.

When I was done, I tried to put the ballot in the privacy sleeve, but one or two judicial retention votes peeked out obstinately. It would have taken only one more inch — but no matter. I plugged the ballot into the collection machine, which dutifully sucked it up — and dutifully spit it out. “Missing initials,” it complained. I had to get a judge to initial it (which strikes me as odd and not very secure). The first two I went to to demurred and sent me to a man who scribbled, “KP” in the box. The machine accepted it; my vote was official. Time spent in line and voting? Perhaps 20 minutes.

Part of me would like to say that I was at the Grant Park rally, but my dominant reclusive introvert self, which hasn’t been sleeping well lately, had no choice but to go home and avoid anxiety by reading. I did well for a while, but then I found out that Google News had posted an automatically updating map. It was fascinating and disturbing to watch the nation divide itself yet again along the usual lines.

The election appears to have been called between 10 and 10:05 p.m. CT. My first clue that it was time to check the map again was when I heard whooping and hollering from in front of the restaurant/bar downstairs.

I’m relieved that it’s over. Months of hyperbole, ridiculous representations, and rampant paranoia. Racism was evident, but so was ageism — there were plenty of people who disqualified John McCain based on his age (not his health) and who pulled out every derisive age-ist term in the cliché book. In the past year I’ve learned that there are two characteristics left that are fair game for mockery and derision: age and weight. Someday I may be both old and fat. So may you. We should all find hatred about either unacceptable.

WWI veterans are virtually no more, and WWII and Korean War veterans are on their heels. As the oldest first-term presidential candidate, John McCain woke me up to the obvious: the young men I remember returning from Vietnam are not only no longer young; they are old. Somehow, I have lived half of a lifetime since then, although it seems like yesterday.

I don’t envy Barack Obama. He’s about to take over leadership of a nation that may be as troubled as at any point in its history. The difficulties are deep and wide, and the solutions will not be instant or immediate. With so much to do and such high expectations, he is bound to disappoint. As one woman I heard today said, “He’s not only going to save black people; he’s going to save the world.”

That’s quite a burden for any one person.

Yes, we can, we hope — but Obama needs to remind us, and we need to remind ourselves, that healing and reconstruction will take time and sacrifices.

Let’s give them to him.

Halloween with Puppet Bike and eating with Obama

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We’re into November already, and it’s warm enough to sit outdoors comfortably at Bonjour in just a t-shirt. This may be the last opportunity of the year, so I marked the occasion by getting a chocolate espresso tart decorated with music notes as a treat for later.

I was going to celebrate Halloween by going straight home from work and vacuuming, then reading in bed — such are Friday nights for the reclusive introvert — but Puppet Bike (and artist/inventor Jason Trusty) saved me from myself with an invitation to a party at the Peter Jones Gallery.

After dinner at the convenient Lloyd’s Chicago (note: shuttered as of June 14, 2019), J. and I headed to the Brown Line at Washington and Wells. There, we ran into “Jesus” — a dreadlocked man dressed in fleecy robes with fashionably tattered jeans showing. He was with a typically dressed young woman, following her and talking seemingly nonstop at her. It was going to be an interesting evening.

As we were walking from Montrose to the gallery, J. stopped as he saw a middle-aged man emerging from a car and asked if he’d taught high school in the south suburbs — he resembled one of J.’s teachers. The answer was no. As we moved on, I pointed out that a teacher who looked like that man 30–35 years ago would be in his 70s or 80s now. The thought took J. aback momentarily — in his impulsive way, he hadn’t thought of that. Who but me would? In my mind, my teachers, most of whom I liked, are frozen in time in the prime of life, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Some of the older ones have passed away, and it’s difficult for me to picture even the younger ones as retired. How much the world and education have changed since then!

We ran into this couple a short time after we’d arrived. The man who was not J.’s teacher was dressed in a one-piece, sparkly red turkey costume, but he said the head was too hot to wear. The neck protruded from below his abdomen, with the head hanging limply. He must have picked up a subtle cue from my glance, because he said, “Hmmm, I guess it does look a little questionable.” Later we saw that he’d fastened the head to his chest with a small binder clip. In the meantime, his wife was dressed as a flapper, although he told her plan was to change into a chef’s uniform. I pictured her running him down while wielding a meat cleaver . . .

Homemade costumes can be the most creative, but the one I liked best was off the rack: a pantsuit that made the young woman look like a boa constrictor. To complete the effect, she carried a realistic toy snake over her shoulder and arm.

Alan Emerson Hicks’ “Time Machine” was under wraps for a show in the spring, and the front part of the gallery had been taken over by women’s art. Some of it was very good, and interestingly I can’t say that I would have guessed the theme was women’s art. The subjects were more varied than I would have expected, although not broad in scope. I found a pinhole tintype especially intriguing.

Several people introduced themselves. but rarely can I remember names. In general, the crowd was older than I expected and very friendly.

Puppet Bike, which had been entertaining at a park earlier in the day, appeared at about 9:15 p.m. — for a moment I thought it was going to run me down. J. had to be up by 6 a.m. on Saturday for work and wanted to catch the 11:05 p.m. train, so at around 9:50 I had to drag him and his camera away, successfully only after the third or fourth attempt.

While waiting for the bus, I noticed a lot of adults in costumes. Seeing them combined with the early exit and the ongoing issues I face daily made me wish I had enjoyed life more when I was younger — too many restrictions and too little energy now.

Yesterday J. came over for a pre-sunset walk at Osaka Garden and dinner at Medici on 57th, where their t-shirts proclaim, “Obama eats here.” The important questions are: What does he eat? When? And does he leave good tips? Am I the only person in Kenwood-Hyde Park who has never encountered Obama?

Medici is in a different building than it was when I was in college, and it has changed in other ways, too. Sunday brunch was introduced, and the menu has been expanded beyond burgers, pizza, and drinks like himbeersaft. Last night, something struck me as subtly different, and it took a few minutes before I pinpointed it — the silverware was wrapped in maroon (more or less) cloth napkins, with no paper napkins in sight. I drew J.’s attention to this detail and said, “That’s because Obama eats here.”

Throughout dinner, we admired the door into the kitchen, which is suspended from a vertical beam. On one side of the door is open space (not quite enough to comfortably fit through), and on the other are condiment shelves attached to the beam. If the open space doesn’t provide enough visibility of comings and goings to avoid accidents, there’s a cutout in the door. As busboys and servers dumped off glass after glass, cup after cup, plate after plate for a young man at the sink to rinse and stack for dish washing, I pictured him someday going insane and screaming, “NO! NO MORE OF YOUR GLASSES! I’M DONE! I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT OR THEM ANYMORE!”

After dinner, I visited the facilities and was surprised to pass through a door that hadn’t been there before. I was more surprised when it opened onto a room with a sink and three doors leading off it, like in one of those “Choose the door with the tiger behind it and you die” scenarios from a 1960s spy series. Two were labeled “GIRLS,” one “BOYS.” The old narrow, graffiti-covered stalls are history.

I entered the nearest “GIRLS,” which was surprisingly clean. It also had a sink with an automatic faucet. When I came out, I noticed that the room I had been in was also labeled for disabled access. I told J. that the restrooms had been upgraded because “Obama eats here,” although I did admit that ADA compliance was probably more of a factor.

Before Medici we had stopped at a TV screen in the window at Urban Search and lusted after huge area homes with hardwood floors, fireplaces, and, in some cases, medieval-style exteriors, mostly in the high six figures and on into seven figures. Next lifetime . . . afterward, we nipped into two more Medici ventures — University Market and the bakery. Does Obama shop there, too? I wonder. If so, I recommend the chocolate croissants — which, alas, were sold out.

And so on to the Flamingo for tea and a jackpot version of Antiques Roadshow. Imagine buying a chair that “looks old” at a garage sale and finding out it’s a Chippendale worth $1,500–$2,000 at auction. J. doesn’t understand how the sellers of such items don’t know their value. I told him my theory — that when people are in a hurry to move or clean up, they look at such things as “that old rickety chair that you can’t even sit on comfortably” and say, “Let’s get rid of the old thing.” The appraiser was beside himself with the excitement of such an extraordinary — and recent — find.

An older woman brought a lovely painting of Lake Louise that, if I remember right, she’d bought for $5 while on vacation. I can’t recall the exact appraised value, but I think it was more than $50,000 or $60,000. And to think she’d bought it mainly as a pretty souvenir.

Isn’t this the stuff of every junk collector’s dreams? Remember that the next time you are thinking of getting rid of an old chair or painting . . . it could be a down payment on one of those Urban Search mansions.

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