The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

“SORRY, MAN. DIDN’T SEE YOU.” Sunday was Himmel’s birthday. I spent most of Saturday night prepping food for his party. I made two pounds of brisket (with ancho peppers, onions, and hot honey), filleted two pounds of catfish, blanched four pounds of potatoes for french fries, made tartar sauce and pickled slaw. I packed it all in Tupperware, put it all in my WBEZ tote bag, and jammed cooking utensils (including my electric griddle) into a Trader Joe’s tote.

The next morning, it was raining. Not hard but consistent. Heading to the car to head over to David’s and cater his afternoon. As I walked past an alley on Sunnyside, a guy on a bike covered in rain gear plowed into me with enough speed to knock me into a huge puddle on the street, hurtle himself off his bike, and scatter the road with all of the food. I mean, all of it. A Subaru next to me was covered with meat, the catfish fillets peppered the asphalt, the griddle slid across and under another parked car.

The guy gets up, looks at the carnage, hops back on his bike, and mutters “Sorry, man. Didn’t see you,” and bikes away down the street.

For approximately 30 seconds, I was completely enraged. A younger me would’ve chased him down the street and beaten him with the griddle. I stood up, soaked and covered in tartar sauce, looked at the receding back of this rude piece of shit, and laughed. It was ridiculous and a huge waste of money and time but we both were walking away injury free. Sure, I was pissed but I couldn’t let it consume my day or David’s birthday. Shake if off a la Taylor Swift, gather my shit up, go home, change clothes, and get to birthdaying it.

After a near lifetime struggling with my temper, I may have turned a corner. I rarely lose my temper anymore but I can still use it when that specific tool is called for.

DNC POINTLESS? Less than three months before the Democratic National Convention comes to Chicago, the event is already losing a significant portion of its celebratory luster as national Democrats on Tuesday said they plan to virtually nominate President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris before the convention to comply with ballot access laws in the crucial swing state of Ohio.

The point of the convention is to nominate the candidate. All the pomp and circumstance revolves around that moment. Understandably, the Dems need their presidential horse on the Ohio ballot so the move makes sense but the question is then begged: why the DNC again? It’ll be here in Chicago so maybe some good food and a show? And, if Biden gets the virtual nod prior to the convention, what exactly will be the point of the planned protests? Logistics matter and someone didn’t plan for this. Probably an ‘events specialist’ whose sole resume credit is her amazing Tik Toks.

NOW, AIR COOLED. Mom decided she wanted to get me an air conditioner and, when mom does anything, she goes big. She dropped a hunk of dough to send me a hi-tech stand-alone unit (one of those air conditioners with the tubes that go out the window and the ability to schedule it turning on and off) and sent me the FedEx tracking. It was delivered and I headed home to get it unpacked and set up.

Despite the photo showing it had been delivered, it wasn’t here. I checked the five other foyers in my complex… nothing. I checked the trash to see if someone snagged it and tossed the evidence… nothing. I called mom to let her know it may have been stolen and she was confident that the company would just send another, cost-free. She was right and we agreed they’d send the second one directly to FedEx and I’d need to sign for it.

Tuesday, while out in the park prepping things for Gospel Fest, I get a phone call. The guy tells me he doesn’t know me but my air conditioner has been sitting in his lobby for a week and can I come get it before he moves on Thursday?

I now have two units that look suspiciously like a ‘droid. One is set up in my apartment. Mom tried to return the second but the company told us to keep it, no sweat. So, I’m going to sell the second and use the money to buy mom something unexpected.

WAIT. WHAT? YOU MEAN HE’S GUILTY? Yes, former president Trump is first president to ever be convicted of a crime. It feels like a huge victory and it is unprecedented. I ain’t holding my breath. Trump has the same problem in picking lawyers that I have choosing wives.

A recent NPR/PBS NewsHour/Marist poll found that “67 percent of voters said a conviction would make no difference for them in November, including 74 percent of independents.” Fifteen percent of voters said a guilty verdict would make them more likely to vote for Trump, while 17 percent said it would make them less likely to vote for the former president. 

As my niece put it, Trump can now win an election he is legally barred from voting in.

TRUMP BRINGS COMMUNION. I’m on the Washington/Adams El platform waiting for the Brown Line to take me home from the park and my phone buzzes. A text from a buddy. “Trump found guilty on all 34 counts!” I look it up on the News app. I smile from ear to ear and then look up at the other fifty people waiting for the train. Almost everyone is staring into their screens… smiling. And I know why. Thanks, Donnie.

UNFUNNY. Jerry Seinfeld’s Unfrosted has been endlessly recommended to me. I sat down, on the eve of a big weekend, and watched about half of it. I didn’t laugh one time. Not. Once. Maybe my sense of funny is just too hateful but it felt like Jerry and the endless cameos were desperate for laughs and were trying so hard to squeeze out comedy about JFK’s infidelity and corporate cereal’s lengths to create a pop tart that the sound of forced dancing was deafening.

A ROAD TO NOWHERE. After spending $320 million and two months to build a pier to deliver aid into Gaza, American soldiers watched as that pier broke off and floated away. The great aid pier lasted eight days, and almost all the aid that came over that pier was immediately looted by Hamas.

And we wonder why it takes four years to fix a highway…

LIVING THE JOB. Today is the Gospel Fest. Tomorrow is the House Music Fest. Of the next 48 hours, I’ll spend 28 working in the park. I love it. The crowds, the staff, the problems to solve, the music. Right in the thick of it. Rock on.

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That’s the week. Short but sweet because I’m working my ASS off! Stay cool, climate change deniers!