Extra credit

Looking over my recent photos of Chicago's historic Graceland Cemetery, I was reminded of having become entranced by a row of mausoleums.

Mausies intrigue me; functioning as little houses, they provide dedicated above-ground spaces for those interred within.

(The occupants are past caring, but it's a nice gesture.)

And I love it when they're lined up like soldiers, serious and straight, stoic throughout the ages, all but impervious to the weather and their surroundings.

Ninety-five times out of a hundred, the tiny buildings are locked up tight. I can never decide whether the locks are intended to keep the dead ones in or the living ones out.

Not that I want in.

Be that as it may, looking at my pictures reminded me of a story I meant to tell you and had temporarily forgotten to share.

So here goes.

Technically it's Audrey's story to tell but she told it to me and she doesn't have a blog so I gladly stand in the gap for you, my readers.

I may have one or two of the finer details wrong but in the end it won't matter.

You'll see.

The story involves something that happened to Audrey and Dagny last spring, shortly after they moved into their new house.

They'd gone outdoors so that Dagny could work off excess energy by riding her new scooter.

If Audrey were telling the tale, she'd reveal exactly how they got locked out.

I wasn't there and I can't remember what she told me, but the result is the same: Audrey realized at some point that she had locked her door and left her keys inside.

I'm pretty sure she had her phone with her but it wouldn't have done her much good to call her dad or me, or Andrew or Erica.

We didn't have keys to her house.

Thinking that she may be able to work her way in with a credit card -- it was worth a shot -- Audrey went to a neighbor and borrowed one. 

(Or at least, a plastic card just like a credit card. I mean, would you give a new neighbor one of your credit cards if they materialized at your door and asked for it?)

(Maybe I'm the suspicious type, but I wouldn't.)

At any rate, Audrey returned to her domicile and slid the borrowed plastic card into the space between the lock and the jamb, in an attempt to coax the door open.

But the more she tried, the more she realized that she was well and truly locked out. And that no card -- credit or otherwise -- was going to change it.

There were no windows to slide open either. The place was like a fortress.

Finally, knowing the hit her wallet was about to take but having no choice, Audrey used her phone to call a locksmith.

I wasn't there and I don't know what locksmiths normally do to get into houses when folks have locked themselves out. I assume they have tools that are made for that purpose.

But whatever the locksmith Audrey summoned possessed in the way of tools, and whatever tried-and-true tricks he knew, he too was unsuccessful.

As in, no matter what professional lock-breaching method he employed, he could not get Audrey's front door to budge.

At a loss, he asked if he could use the plastic card in her hand -- the borrowed plastic card she had not yet returned to her neighbor.

And so it was that, using the neighbor's plastic, the locksmith got Audrey's door open while she and Dagny watched and waited.

The locksmith required full payment of his fee for getting them back inside their house using the neighbor's plastic card.

I realize he'd been obliged to drop what he was doing and drive over there to help my daughter, who was in a considerable pickle, and for that he deserved payment, because it's his job.

But the entire amount? For getting in not with the tools he's trained to use, but with a plastic card she'd borrowed from the neighbor?

Yes. What do you think about that?

Here's what I think: I hope that for her money, Audrey requested a quick tutorial on how to open one's door with a credit card.

And then -- for extra credit -- I hope she replaces her current lock with one that cannot be opened with a plastic card.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

Rain. No reign.

Our beloved Chicago Cubs' 2018 season ended with a whimper on Tuesday night.

Will I watch the World Series anyway?

I don't know. It remains to be seen.

When TG and I were at Wrigley Field in Chicago on August 28th to see the Cubs host the New York Mets, everybody's hopes were still high.

On that evening as we arrived at the Friendly Confines, having ridden the sardine train "L" to get there from our hotel, dark clouds were rolling in across Chicago.

They threatened to rain out all or at least part of the game.

But we were ninety minutes early; the radar showed a storm that appeared to be moving quickly.

So it was that, having entered the park and found our excellent seats, as we were absorbing the vibes of Cubbyland and enjoying the outdoors -- hot and muggy though it certainly was -- the grounds crew began covering the field.

Noooooooo ...

Wrigley staff, and messages posted on the huge LED scoreboards, told fans to run for cover if they weren't already under roof.

We weren't; after sitting beneath an overhang last year, with limited visibility, TG and I said "never again" and this year splashed out for seats much closer to the action.

But as the storm showed its teeth, we were shooed higher, and like mountain goats everyone clambered up into the still-empty seats back in the shadows.

While passing the time there we met a young lady who had flown from her home in Texas all the way to Chicago, just for the game. She planned to spend the night and fly back home the next day.

A Cub fan since childhood, she asked if I'd get some pictures of her against the backdrop of one of the most beautiful fields in all of baseball.

Which of course I did, and they were cute. She was so thrilled to be there.

The storms exited the area by game time, moving eastward to darken the skies over Lake Michigan, and the first pitch was thrown out exactly on schedule.

The game wasn't as exciting as some I've seen on TV. In fact, at the end of nine innings it was tied: Cubs one,  Mets one.

The tenth inning was set to begin when the heavens opened again, with rain so torrential that it was obvious the game wouldn't be concluded that night.

It was ten o'clock. TG and I moved higher again -- eighty percent of those in attendance had left -- and waited for an hour with the other stragglers. Just in case.

At eleven, we were again shooed -- this time, out onto the street. Like, bye.

Naturally, we wondered if our tickets would get us into Wrigley the next day to see the game played to its finish (there was a day game scheduled; it would make sense if they wrapped up the rained-out game before starting the new one).

But, no. Huh-uh. I mean, they did finish the rained-out game before starting the next one. But we weren't invited. Not without a credit card number.

The Cubs organization let it be known the next morning that the only way you were getting in to see the end of the night game, was if you had a ticket for the day game to follow.

TG and I were headed over toward Wrigley anyway, though, because about a half-mile north of the ballpark is a massive historic cemetery: Graceland.

I'd wanted to visit there for some time, and finally the day had arrived. In another post, I'll show you the things we saw.

Outside Wrigley Field, however, is a great big screen, and you don't have to buy a ticket in order to stand on the street and watch games.

So we made our way back to Clark and Addison, and stood on the sidewalk in a much cooler, gray and misting day, to watch as the Cubs finished what they'd started, defeating the Mets two to one.

This past Tuesday night, the score was again two to one.

Only this time, it was Colorado Rockies two, Cubs one.

Which meant, it's all over but the crying. For us, anyway.

That's baseball.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

The pirate weighs in

I don't know whether he is lying or she is telling the truth, or the other way around.

That's because it's impossible to tell.

What she says happened, if it happened at all, happened thirty-six years ago.

She thinks. Because she can't really remember when it is alleged to have happened.

As well, she can't remember where she really was or whom she was really with.

She told no one. Not her parents, not her best friend, not the homeowner, not her fellow partygoers, not the police, not even the dog catcher.

This is all we know: At the opportune moment, this woman's head popped up and she came forward full of accusations involving a nominee for the highest court in the land.

(President Donald Trump will seat at least one more Supreme Court justice -- maybe two, and perhaps even three -- during his two terms in office. Elections have consequences. Deal with it).

Never mind that if it happened at all, it took place at the dawn of the Reagan administration.

And that the nominee in question has been on the Federal bench for twelve years and has been vetted by the FBI not one, not two, not three, but six times.

Senator Flake says Brett Kavanaugh was "too angry" during his "interview" on Friday. 

Flake was subsequently accosted at the door of an elevator by two bellowing, haranguing feminazi harpies who, he contends, didn't do a thing to change his mind about moving for a swift vote on Mr. Kavanaugh.

Mr. Flake is flakier than his name would suggest if he denies having been intimidated by screeching, apoplectic operatives of the Center for Popular Democracy, which is heavily funded by George Soros.

It's ironic that they caught him in an elevator, because that crowd aren't interested in elevating anything. The gutter is too lofty for them. They're sewer dwellers.

If you're interested in that event and the players, read this article by John Fund of the New York Post.

And I have a question for Senator Flake: If a female whose acquaintance you barely -- if at all -- remember from your callow youth were to appear out of nowhere and accuse you of a crime you supposedly committed thirty-six years ago while in a fit of randy drunkenness, egged on by your best friend, wouldn't you be mad?

Especially if she claimed to be one hundred percent sure you did it but you were equally sure that you didn't?

I'm pretty positive that your head would explode with anger and frustration, and, under intense scrutiny witnessed by the entire world, you'd come off just as agitated and angst-filled as Brett Kavanaugh did.

Since everyone is full of questions, here are mine for the female who started the whole thing:

If you really feared that Brett Kavanaugh might inadvertently kill you during the assault that may or may not have taken place somewhere, at some time, in the year nineteen-eighy-something, surely you'd have told someone -- if only to save another young woman from suffering the same fate, or worse.

Ladies, a tip: If you don't want to be sexually assaulted, one way to avoid it is to steer clear of attending drunken parties with the male of the species.

What; too simple? Victim shaming? No fun? Well, that's too bad. It's the truth. Where you go, and with whom, often determines what the outcome will be for you.

I'll go ahead and say it: Women and girls who frequent parties where there will be men, boys, and booze, know ahead of time full well what is likely to happen. The fact of the matter is that they want to play with fire but they don't want to get burned.

And by the way, if they get mauled in a way that they didn't count on, that situation bears no resemblance whatsoever to an innocent girl being molested by a boy or a man in the course of her daily life when she is doing nothing wrong and has done nothing to invite the prurient attention.

It's not the same thing at all.

So if you want him to take responsibility for his actions, then first take responsibility for your own.

Another question for the California come-lately with the convenient story:

If you're telling the truth, why would you have to change your hair from a hot mess that hasn't seen a hairbrush in years, and a complexion that has no relationship, however fleeting, with moisturizer, much less cosmetics -- to a cut-and-color, sleek blowout, slightly coquettish style that falls coyly over the trendy new Warby Parkers from behind which peer your misty earnest expertly-made-up eyes, just to tell your (extremely short) story to Congress?

Why didn't you just show up as yourself, looking and acting as you do in everyday life when the cameras aren't rolling? What's that? It wouldn't have flown so well, because you're a knee-jerk lefty lib whose appearance regularly scares small children?

I get it.

If you're telling the truth -- and if it's not a legal proceeding, as you were repeatedly advised by whiny Kamala Harris and lecture-prone Cory Booker, who took turns calling you heroic and a patriot -- why must you be flanked by lawyers, working pro bono?

Are they there to remember stuff for you? What is there to remember? The alleged incident took place thirty-six years ago and occupied maybe -- by your own account -- all of five minutes.

If you're telling the truth, why do you have to use a put-on babe-in-the-woods voice overlaid with generous helpings of Kardashian-caliber vocal fry?

It's fake news; that's why.

But even if I got all of the above dead wrong? Here's the only thing that matters:

Not one single allegation that has been proffered can be proven. Or disproven. Too many years have gone by.

So it's time to recognize that what's going on in Washington is nothing more than a rabid attack by the hard left designed to stop the confirmation of a conservative SCOTUS justice whose opinions on that bench could set their agenda back by fifty years.

Call a time of death for this shameful circus, and move on.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday