Comments on Dick Daley

            

            There aren’t many things that have been true my whole life.  First I was from Tommy Moore, then Queen of Martyrs.  Dad alive; dad dead.  God used to exist; not no more.  I’m taller.

            Little Company of Mary hospital is still there.  I guess that Potter Pavilion wasn’t always there.  Still, the main building is the same.  A few weeks ago I was in the ER and the woman there asked me if I had ever been there before.  “I was born here,” I said.  She smiled.  “So were my mom, my dad, and my sister.”  She finished filling out her form.

            A truth of life will be a lie in a few months: that the mayor of Chicago is Mayor Daley.  My generation doesn’t even need to say “Richard M.” or “Daley Jr.”  He’s just always been Mayor Daley to us.

            I’m told I met him when I was five.  A few times, maybe.  It’s all a blur to me.  I’ve seen him plenty of times, usually at Fire Department related events.  He’s not friendly looking.  I’ve always liked that about him.  He doesn’t look mean, it’s just that he doesn’t have that bullshit smile, like Blagojevich.  In fact, he looks a bit unsure of himself.  Like he knows what he wants, but he doesn’t think he has the means to get it.

            The last time I saw him in person was on my birthday a couple months ago.  He gave a speech to the new class of police officers graduating from the academy.  He used it as a platform to rant in defense of the handgun ban.  I must admit his segue from pertinent material to this political sound-byte op was smooth.  Something about cops making tough decisions and having to answer to the community for those decisions.  Once I noticed that the speech had taken a deliberate shift (which took me a while; the segue was really good) I was a bit perplexed, and then I had a moment of naivety when I turned around and actually noticed the news crews behind me for the first time.  I felt like a child for having this moment of realization- a lesson in local politics and media.  My mom and I were both visibly upset.  I don’t know how she feels about gun laws, but we both thought the tirade was a hijacking of the new officers’ moment of recognition.  Nobody around us seemed to care, or even notice that the speech was off-topic.  Were they jaded or naïve?  Or did they just not care?

            Daley’s greatest accomplishments involve the beautification of Chicago through projects like Millennium Park and Navy Pier.  Despite my reminders to my friends that the free events at these places are bullshit because they come at the taxpayers’ expense, I do enjoy the fruits of these public projects pretty frequently, and I do not think that private entities would have necessarily cleaned up those sites and replaced them with anything pretty, and I have been to ugly industrial towns in Ohio and Michigan whose local governments have not invested in sightly endeavors, and so I curb my libertarianism when it comes to certain city projects that really do drive tourism and make everyday city life a little more beautiful.  So, bravo, Mr. Mayor.

            Thinking about the mayoral race, whose candidates are presently still mostly in the speculative phase, I’m starting to understand why I hear more about local politics around the city than I do about national politics.  You might actually know somebody who is right in the thick of a local scandal, or your buddy plays softball in the park where Blagojevich goes jogging, or you run into an alderman at a bar, where he is shitfaced.  And so you read about what happened in some public building (which you happen to walk by every day) involving a couple guys from your neighborhood, and you feel connected.  And suddenly Chicago doesn’t seem so big.  And developing some influence (or, in my case, a readership) feels like it’s right within reach. 

And that’s really what I think I like about Daley.  He looks like and talks like and practically is a guy from my neighborhood, and he makes me believe that the little patch of grass behind my mom’s garage where I play with my dog really isn’t so far from the world of news cameras and multi-million dollar contracts and international debates- a world populated by women and guys.  Guys like Mayor Daley.  Guys like me.

Being A Better Man

Or, failing that, being a man.
            There’s a trend brewing among hyper-introspective guys like me across the web: the embarking upon and chronicling of one’s quest to “be a better man”.  It’s a movement born of a generation who has watched mook after bumbling oaf pervade its fall sitcoms.  It has seen masculinity’s tumble from the world of tailored suits and firm handshakes to a mess of apathy and shirked responsibility.  And some of this generation have assessed the state of manhood today and said, “You know what? Not for me.”

            Among those writers keeping his bumbling in check is Chicago native Caleb Gardner, who keeps the blog TheExceptionalMan.com.  In addition to offering cultural critical gems like the above graphic, Gardner focuses largely on clothing and grooming.  This focus has steered readers his way via the growing men’s style sector of the blogosphere, whose united stance seems to connect masculinity, adulthood, and investing some serious effort into your wardrobe.

            I am unrepentantly a foot soldier of the expanding army of newly style-conscious men, whose tales are told day after day on blogs like PutThisOn.com, which bears the tagline “a web series about dressing like a grownup”.  It was this very emphasis on adulthood (specifically manhood) that won me over throughout this overwhelming 2010, and got me to start getting picky about every garment that gets pulled over or fastened to my newly in-decent-repair body.  I’ve become demanding in regards to fit, exploratory in the realm of texture, and I’ve seriously limited the colors that pervade my wardrobe, choosing shades that mingle well with my eyes, skin, and hair. 

One year ago, that last sentence would have made me laugh.  It also would have sounded like a lot of work.  And it is.  What’s worse, it’s the kind of work that doesn’t feel like icing on the cake, a bonus boon to my existing sense of worth.  Rather, it’s what I feel I need to do just to reach my baseline; my gridiron tapes that need reviewing before I take to the field and actually gain some yardage.  Dressing well feels not like an accomplishment, but like a necessity for me to achieve anything.

Speaking of accomplishments, Esquire writer-at-large Chris Jones recently launched his blog My Second Empire, in which he chronicles his restoration of a 140-year-old house for his family in a small Canadian town.  He’ll be putting his less-than-masterful carpentry skills to use on the mansion while he simultaneously works through his shortlist of “better man” goals, which involve family devotion, health, and creative output.  This man is up to his Canadian waist in icing on the cake.  Happy family?  Check.  Secure career?  Check.  Now he’s improving things that many folks have no business obtaining in the first place.  Jones has earned the “better” in his ambition to be a better man.

What’s admirable about the quests of Gardner and Jones is that their self-improvement agendas have distinct goals, dealing in specific areas of their lives.  So even though I feel I haven’t earned the ambition of being a “better” man, I can model my own plan from a similar perspective.  I can isolate distinct elements of my life and try to improve them.  And, should I fail, I can at least pound out some amusing sentences about my attempts.

The big picture goal for my pursuit is to relate less to malcontented sons of privilege, like James Dean’s Jim Stark in Rebel Without A Cause, and more to contemporary cowboys who have staked out some America for them and theirs, like… umm… there’s gotta be a guy like this somewhere in contemporary pop culture…

Hank Hill?  Well, no matter.  The point is, I’d like to be a guy at whom folks point and say, “That man has his shit together.”  With that in mind, I’ve compiled a short list of areas in my life that need some assessment.  Here goes:

·      Openness.  I’d like to be emotionally available to those in my life.  A good start towards this is to be communicatively available, meaning I need to start answering my phone, and promptly responding to messages, Facebook or otherwise.

·      Productivity.  I’ve got to stop giving myself a break in my free time, and respond to my reflective observation that tangible pieces of work (songs, essays, letters to friends and family) are the only healthy remedies for my chronic anxiety, occasional depression, and the fuck-it-all emptiness that runs like a current underneath my perpetual hyper vigilance.

·      Mindfulness.  As fall continues its march across my city, I’m going to acknowledge the vague sense of dread that is constantly present in my noggin, and, without judging it, take a peek beyond my anxiety, unveiling my bitter Chicago in all its truth and complexity.  I resolve to take time to love Chicago every day without relying on spending, eating, or drinking as gateways to appreciation.

Suppose I make some good strides in these areas.  Will that make me a man?  We learned in The Big Lebowski that being a man can be defined as “being prepared to do the right thing, whatever the cost,” accompanied by “a pair of testicles.”  I suppose this endeavor will test my resolve to pay the price for doing the right thing.  So, barring a run-in with castration-threatening nihilists, checking off these three bullet points will be a bar mitzvah of sorts for old Citizen Steve.  (Insert your favorite Yiddish saying here.)

So. How do we kick this thing off?  I’ll let Tobias pull the trigger.