61 Days: My Home Town

We take them for granted, the places we are from, the places that made us.  They say it takes a village to raise a child.  And it’s true.  In my case, literally, true.  I’m going to tell you, as briefly as I can, about the wondrous place where I grew up.  The Village of Skokie – the biggest village in America (and probably the world).

I feel compelled to share my knowledge about this place now because I am here now, and I’m a bit overwhelmed with emotion.  And because I finally realize what a unique place this is.  And how much it shaped me.  I would not be who I am having grown up somewhere else.  And it’s made me think about (OMG) perhaps coming back.

Coming home to visit every time after I left almost twelve years ago was a polarizing experience.  On the one hand, comfort, familiarity, the peaceful safety of the family house and community.  On the other, I was embarrassed that I came from such a typical suburb, and an ugly one at that.  If you grew up in suburban Chicago, you’d kind of like to say you grew up in funky historic Evanston, or picturesque upscale Wilmette.  Not little middle-middle class Skokie, not worthy of a picture postcard or an award for hipness.  Now, I’m not so sure I believe that.  In fact, I know it to be a snobby youthful “grass is greener elsewhere” reaction, an almost compulsive drive to be ashamed of little cookie-cutter houses, straight grid streets, and strip malls as far as the eye can see.

On the beautiful side of Skokie...a typical Chicago bungalow

Much less pretty and much more common Skokie Ranch

A few facts about Skokie.  It’s super middle class, 65% white, 20% Asian, 5% African American, 5% Hispanic, and 5% other.  Or thereabouts.  Thing is – it’s much more than these numbers.  Skokie is a haven for new and old immigrants alike.  It was historically known as a haven for Holocaust survivors, and it’s still a thriving Jewish mecca.  More than 100 languages are spoken in the households of Skokie.  And people here are pretty damn nice.  My best friends growing up were Israeli (most obviously), Korean (it took me about five phone calls and hang-ups before I realized my friend’s grandma saying “yaw bo seh yo” was actually hello…and not a wrong number), and Indian (many Skokie homes will always have a strong curry fragrance, years after the offenders move out).

Skokie Public Library

I have studied at some great universities, and I’ve been around the world, many times over.  And yet, my favorite library is the Skokie Public Library.  And the US government thinks it’s the best, too.   It won the 2008 National Medal for Museum and Library Service. See, I’ve gone home many times.  Gone home, as in, crashing at Mom and Dad’s for a few weeks to a few months while prepping for other plans.  And the library has been a saving grace.  A huge selection of books.  In many languages.  DVD’s.  Media center.  Friendly people.  Bright, clean, welcoming.  I love to go there.  It’s perhaps my favorite place in all of Skokie.  It’s the perfect example of the crowning glory of human civilization.  It’s the storehouse of all our knowledge, all that has passed, all that we’ve learned and accomplished.  And rightly enough, it is so friendly, interactive, a living and breathing facility, it does its job better than most.  I spent many a weeknight on the multicolored rug in the children’s section reading and being read to by my mother.  The Skokie Public Library makes reading fun, a normal, vital experience.  And I am who I am today for it.  I visited yesterday, checked out a John Le Carre (of course, I’m on a binge) and a Robert Heinlein.  It was as comforting being there as being in my parents’ home.  Such a cornerstone of Skokie’s functioning, the local congresswoman’s people conduct weekly meetings there. Just to meet with local people who might have questions.  When my father was unemployed, it was the center of command to find new jobs, using their free resources, Internet, classes.  I’ll stop now.  But I did have the thought that it would be worth it to move to Skokie, just to be able to take advantage of that glorious library.  Seriously.

Other Skokie stuff — the schools are amazing.  They win that presidential excellence in academics award every year.  Furthermore, while the rest of the country has its arts funding cut year after year, the Niles Township Schools arts programs were recognized in 2007 as having the #1 program in the nation by the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.  Amazing, huh.  I was active in the band, the choir (and the marching band, and the vocal jazz choir), and the theatre program (as an actress, technician, and director).  Talk about an amazing school!

Old Orchard Shopping Center

And then there’s Old Orchard Shopping Center, what many would consider the cherry on the Skokie sundae.  One of the most beautiful malls (God, I can’t believe I just said “beautiful mall”…but it’s true).  It’s outdoor, with fountains, gardens, sculptures, music.  It rivals the stunning shopping experiences I encountered in Ojai, California, and that be mega-rich-people territory.  I virtually lived in the Barnes and Noble bookstore at Old Orchard, sucking down Starbucks while studying for AP’s and leafing through magazines and all the books I wished I could buy.

What else can I say?  I’ve been writing for too long.  And I could go on and on.  The mayor is the nicest guy.  He was my little league baseball coach.  There’s a huge sculpture garden.  There’s a huge statue of Gandhi.  There’s a festival of cultures.  There’s always new condos being built (I don’t know how I feel about that…).  But all in all, it’s a pretty fantastic place.  For a suburb.  No, no, no.  It’s a pretty fantastic place, period.  Suburban living is just different than city life.  Sure, it’s not full of gorgeous architecture.  Doesn’t have five star restaurants.  Doesn’t have cafes (or laundr-o-mats or nail parlours or florists) on every corner.  You need a car.  Big time.  But I think my parents made a marvelous choice in picking Skokie.  It’s down to earth.  It’s not the least bit pretentious.  And the schools and library are better than the city’s and better than the richer suburbs.  It’s a gem.  A real gem.  So what that it’s full of dull ranch houses?  It’s the people in them that makes this a great place, right?

Should I move back?  Who knows.  But it’s always worth considering.

122 Days: Sweet. Home. Chicago. Whisk(e)y.

Now I wish I were home. Not really. But this makes me want to be in Chicago.

Binny’s Beverage Depot, arguably the store I made the most fun of in my youth.  For goodness sakes.  Who is Binny?  And a beverage “depot” of all things?  Well, it actually makes sense.  In an American superstore kinda way.  These stores are huge.  And while it makes things more convenient and cheaper for the consumer, I always feel these k-mart-ish monstrosities take away from the real world charm of what wines and beers and spirits really are.  Then again, it is America, here.  The home of the “champagne of beers,” oh Lord our God and God of all ages, save me.   No American beer, besides what we call microbrews stands up to the imports.  And Lord knows I drank my share of MGD in college, oh goodness gracious I did.  Little did I know until years later that this was actually an “upscale” American beer for a college student to be drinking…some good friends at other colleges (perhaps state schools) were happy to point that out.

But, back to Binny’s.  They’re having an event called “World of Whiskies,” where for around $50 you get to taste around 150 whiskies…from around the world…duh.  And OMG.  I would really kill to be there right around now.  AND – this is apprently an annual event held on the night before the Malt Advocate’s WhiskyFest.  For $95:

Your ticket includes Glencairn tasting glass, 1-year subscription to Malt Advocate magazine, event program with tasting notes section, all seminars, gourmet buffet and beverages throughout the evening.

The best and the worst of America.  Of the world.  I so want to be there to taste and learn and experience.  But I don’t want to be in a herd.  At least in Israel, there aren’t enough people to feel like you’re being driven like cattle.  And should I ever become expert enough in any of these related fields, I certainly wouldn’t want to be preaching to masses of folks yearning to suck down inordinate amounts of excellent whiskies.  Oh I’m such the snob.  I have no right to be.  Really, I don’t.  Nobody does.  God, I wish I could “break into” this industry.  I would love to teach people about this stuff.  I want to taste everything and meet the makers and maybe even try to make my own as an experiment and certainly refine my palate as much as possible, because Lord knows (and the Lord does indeed know if a Lord does indeed exist) that I have a fine, fine nose on the front end of my face.  It’s a nose to cast a thousand ships.  I identify herbs and spices in foods like no other I know.  And I am mostly untrained as a greyhound, honest I’m not.  And I’d so like to be.  I’d be proud to auction my nose off the the highest bidder, honest I would…that is if I was confident about its skill.  I’m going to stop now.  I just compared myself to a greyhound.  Next, who knows, I’ll be insuring my nose like Rita Hayworth did her gams.  Good Lord.  Gams?  And what’s with the Lord’s today?  I don’t know.  I forgot my meds, and I drank too much coffee, that’s what.  And I’ve started to write about passion.  Sexual desire.  And its food equivalent.  It’s a good day, for sure.  And now I’m stopping, you fine fine readers, wherever you are.  And if you’re in Chicago – GO!  Go to this thing, and tell me about it, you lucky lucky sons of bitches.

Read my other posts about whisk(e)y:

Canadian Tennessee Scotch – about a fun tasting I did in Tel Aviv

Johnnie.Walker.Blue – says it all, and more, it was a phenomenal tasting in Dublin

270 Days: Rahm Emanuel to be Chief of Staff?

Representative Rahm Emanuel, Illinois' 5th

It’s a great day for America, for Chicago, and here in Israel, there is a collective sigh of relief.  Rahm Emanuel is a great person, an intellectual Clintonite, a Chicagoan, a Jew whose dad is Israeli, grew up with Hebrew spoken, and volunteered for the Israeli Defense Force during the Gulf War.

Check it out:

http://blogs.abcnews.com/politicalpunch/2008/11/obama-offers-ra.html

271 Days: GO VOTE! GO OBAMA!

It’s here!  It’s finally here!  Let’s make it a good one, America!

I’m so excited, and today I really feel homesick.  Nobody really gets it here.  Or else, I don’t have too many American friends.  And some Americans I know here are Republicans.

I have nowhere to go tonight yet.  I don’t know where (a bar, a club?) will have good coverage.  I don’t know which place will have a nice crowd of folks like me.  I really want to be out among friends tonight, and it’s really hitting me how few strong, interesting, intelligent, very liberal, American people I know around here.  Oh pooh, at times like this, I just miss Chicago.  The 2000 election.   I miss Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap, and renting a giant donkey costume, and going to the Gore rally, and feeling optimism and hope–old style, like Clinton could never lose, and who on earth didn’t just love him, and the Reynolds Club on election night, the entire student body screaming at the TV, and running back and forth between the theater lounge where we had internet and the cafe where the TVs were set up.  I miss paad thai and The West Wing and confidence and beautiful possible future.  Before the ground caved in beneath us.

So, if anyone knows where there’s a good place to hang out in Tel Aviv tonight, please let me know.

And all youse guys in America – GO VOTE!  NOW!  Because who knows how long you’ll have to wait in line!  And remember to not leave until you’ve voted!  No matter what they say.  And as we say in Chicago, “Vote early, vote often.”

Go get ‘em, tigers.  We’ve got an election to win.

327: Investing or How to make adult decisions in this confusing world

I just got back from my therapist.  It was a good session after a rocky week.  I haven’t gotten to the very root of why I have such trouble making decisions, why I have such guilt over leaving things (hobbies, professions), and why I move around so much.  But through our session today it became very clear that I often keep myself on the fringes, keep myself uninvolved, keep myself temporary, fluid, flexible.  It’s kind of the story of my life: don’t get too attached – you never know when you have to leave.  The thing about leaving all your options open, is that at the end of the day, you’re left feeling empty and unfulfilled.  My therapist said at one point, sure, at 13 it’s great and fun and necessary to be figure skating, and taking piano lessons, and going to space camp, and learning French.  But as we get older, we just can’t keep doing that.  If we do everything, we end up with nothing.  And that’s what I’ve gone and done.

I could very well blame it on my parents, for giving me next to no guidance and trusting that because I was so mature, I could figure it all out and take responsibility for myself…from about age 16.  Both of them had quite opposite upbringings, with their parents suggesting, recommending, leading them in a certain direction, making sure they at least were able to have occupations that would enable them to sustain themselves.  I guess my parents, my mother especially, felt that the hands off approach would have been so much better, and why not let the kids decide for themselves.  Well, we can’t.  Sometimes parents get it wrong, make people become responsible accountants and horrible things like that (apologies to accountants, my dad included).  But a little guidance goes a long way.  A dose of reality early on would really have helped with the major decisions I have had to make in the last ten years.  Decisions on grad school, first jobs, job satisfaction, job versus career, quality of life, etc, etc, etc.

So, I am upset.  I am upset that I am a “Jack of All Trades”…because a Jack of all trades is a master of none.  At the end of the day, I need to be excellent at one thing.  Whether it be decorating cakes or perfecting screenplays.  I need to give something important of myself to the world,  At 25, I went to work at a Museum, thinking to myself, this is a cool job, for now.  For now, I’ll work hard, I’ll learn a lot, I’ll do good.  And so what that my life sucks a little now, this is a good job and good experience.  But there is no way in hell I’m doing this when I’m 30, when I’m 35, when I’m 40.  How on earth could I live with myself?  But what did I want to do instead?  I didn’t know.  I directed plays on the side because that’s what I was supposed to do.  It gave me some joy, earned me some respect, but I’m not sure I loved it.  I loved the creativity.  I loved the self-expression.  I loved the attention.  But was the theatre it?  I am writing now.  Many have told me I’m good at it.  The thing about writing is that there is a practical, journalistic, media-oriented, communications, regular income producing kind of writing, and then there is artful writing.  And the two crossover all the time.

Investing.  This is the word I left my therapist’s office with.  Investing.  In Tel Aviv I have stayed on the fringe.  Sure, I’ve gone to the beach a lot, picked a cafe I liked, tried to make some friends.  But it isn’t living.  I have a job with a healthy income, yet I choose to stay in my family’s art-warehouse of an apartment, cluttered, so-not-mine-it-hurts, and temporary.  In Chicago, before, in many ways I stayed on the fringe – was this THE job, were these MY friends, was this MY apartment?  I have always found it difficult to make decisions, and very difficult to establish close friendships.  Despite a healthy dose of social anxiety, a lot of this, I now think, comes from not wanted to become tied down.  Fear of commitment is an “easy” definition to throw around.  But it runs very deep with me.  Most use this term for people not wanting to get married.  With me, I can’t pick a country, not to mention a city within one.  So, friends, family, job, career?  Right.  And I always ask, am I making the right decision?  I want someone’s permission.  Now.  Alas, no.  There is nobody’s permission to ask.

Investing, in the non-financial definition, is to spend or devote for future advantage or benefit, or to devote morally or psychologically, as to a purpose; commit.  To devote, to spend, to devote morally, to devote psychologically.  These are big things.  You cannot reap the benefits of anything, unless you invest.  You will not have crops if you do not plant seeds.  Plain and simple.  And the fact that it is both material, physical devotion – as well as psychologically and morally – it fits the whole picture for me.

I need to invest.  I need to do one thing, and then do it.  I need to stand on my own two feet.  Get my own place.  Stick my neck out.  And do all of it even though I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do.  Even though it may totally fall apart.  Even though it scares me to death.  Because now, I’m planting a seed here, and a seed there, and I’m not watering enough, and I’m not there to tend everything, and nothing is growing too well, and I enjoy nothing.  Plain and simple, I don’t have much enjoyment in life, because I haven’t invested.

What does this mean practically?  I haven’t decided yet.  Ha!  Don’t blame me, I just walked through the door from the therapist’s.  But it may mean coming home.  Yes.  Leaving this place.  Because in Chicago, I know the streets, I know the shops, I know the theatres, I know the lake, I know downtown, I know uptown, I know the suburbs, I know my university.  In Chicago, I know.  In Chicago, I have friends.  A lot of them.  And I’ve always said I wished I could spread myself all over the world and be where all my good friends are, from Ireland to Norway to Thailand and Australia and back again.  But I can’t.  Nobody can.  And a good solid amount of my friends, good, good people, are in Chicago.  And it might not happen.  I might yet give Tel Aviv a fighting chance.  They say if you don’t know where you’re going stay where you are.  But they also say, go where you know people.  And I have people in Chicago.  No place has ever really felt like home to me.  Even there.  Sometimes especially there.  It’s not beautiful romantic Paris.  It’s not the hip, friendly, bustling Dublin.  It’s not the chic happenin’ London.  And it doesn’t have the beach of Tel Aviv.  I have called all these places home.  But my people are in Chicago.  I have to invest.  Sometimes I think to myself, just take all the money you have (and it ain’t much), and make a downpayment.  Just buy something.  Anything.  Anything you can live in and make your own.  And decide to stay there.  Writing is good.  It’s scary as hell.  Singing for your supper, kind of.

So, I have a lot to consider.  But for some reason, I feel I have made some peace with myself tonight.