IN WHICH I COME DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO SOUNDING LIKE A TALK RADIO HOST. AND I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT AIR AMERICA.

I have come to well and truly detest NPR. Oh, the news programs are decent enough, I suppose, but of course the bread and butter of public radio is the commentary, the "soft" programs. On the Chicago NPR affiliate WBEZ, this programming runs the gamut from just tolerable to excruciating. Leo Tolstoy wrote in the epilogue to Anna Karenina, "All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." So too, every one of these commentary shows annoys me, but each does so in its own unique manner. One noisome element that unifies them, though, is the presumptuous tone they adopt by suggesting that listeners are shirking their duty to save the world. Whether the host's pet obsession happens to be climate change, human rights, the eradication of poverty, or some other melange of bien pensant concerns, there's this intimation that listeners ought to take it upon themselves to do whatever is necessary to improve the situation - even if this is completely unfeasible and would dramatically worsen their quality of life.

Now, I'm all for finding a cause that you believe in and supporting it, but that support ought never to result from having been guilted and bullyragged into taking action by a bunch of talking heads. A prime example of this type of manipulation was recently broadcast on the show To The Best of Our Knowledge, wherein they interviewed a university professor who had quit his tenured teaching job to live off the grid as a gleaner in Fort Worth, Texas. Now, some might view this as an invaluable opportunity to glimpse life outside the circuit of consumerism from the perspective of a highly intelligent, formerly privileged individual. Me, I think it's just bizarre. Someone who would give up a professional position that required so many years of commitment and effort and not just change course, but essentially elect to live off of the streets, does not seem to me like someone whose opinion is worth taking very seriously. I wouldn't engage the megaphone-wielding derelict on the street corner in a debate on religion for much the same reason: namely, you can kind of guess how that conversation's going to go without actually having to participate in it. Obviously it is possible to survive solely off the refuse of modern society; obviously people are wasteful; obviously there are vast discrepancies in wealth and consumption in America. These aren't exactly brave or shocking statements. But in this interview it was accompanied by the thinly veiled accusation that I the listener, a complete stranger to everyone on this show, was guilty of wasteful, apathetic consumerism. This is just patently false. I'll bet my meager savings that the effete douchebags hosting this radio show have far more excess "stuff" than I do, and yet they feel entitled to tell me how I can reduce my carbon footprint? I, who don't own a pair of shoes or jeans that's less than three years old, who'll drive his 1996 Honda Accord until the motor gives out, who lives in a modest 25 x 30 foot apartment with a roommate in a high-density metropolitan environment and who eats every scrap of food that he purchases - I need to be told how to reduce my impact? You know what, sui generis of NPR? Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your BMW station wagons and fuck your Mephisto walking shoes and your soy milk lattes and your comfortable homes in White Plains and Swarthmore and Forest Park and Cambridge. Fact is assholes, everyone wants what you have, so if the deal is that we all have to give something up, how about you pony up a half-dozen of your luxuries and then maybe - maybe - I'll follow suit with one of my own. Until then you can just eat shit, which amounts to about the same thing as your high-minded tsk-tsking at the awful mindless consumerism of your fellow Americans. Most people I know buy stuff when they need it, for entirely satisfactory reasons. If they can't buy the things they need, that's a problem for them, but it's not my fault and it's not the fault of the guy who has more rooms in his house than he can count. If he can afford to heat and light all those rooms, then bully for him; if not, then he'll just have to move out and seek more modest accomodations.

My point is that almost everyone not on the brink of starvation could make do with less. But for most of us who lead fairly spartan lives, it's not a matter of cutting back from wretched excess. And for those who do live in a state of wretched excess, then the snippy declamations of a bunch of aging liberal arts majors on Sunday night public radio isn't going to amount to a pound of eco-friendly organic horseshit.

Oh, and don't worry about Jeff Ferrell, the erstwhile professor who thought he'd make some bold gesture by living on other people's trash. He's back in the academy as Professor of Criminology at Texas Christian University. I guess living on month-old bread and week-old milk got tiresome after awhile. He wrote a book, no doubt bolstering his credentials in the process, and got back to where he knows he belongs: amongst other tweedy mandarins, with whom he can cluck at the deficiencies of all the plebeians running around trying to make a dime as plumbers or insurance salesmen or any of the other thousand mundane jobs that make modern society function. My apologies if I'm starting to sound like Rush Limbaugh, but this widespread attitude among the professorial class is a hypocrisy that just stinks to high heaven and gives intellectualism a bad name to boot. God help me, if I ever get to be an academic, I swear I will be endlessly thankful for the opportunity and never try to piss on other people from the heights of my ivory tower.

Hey, a man can dream...

THE WILD DREAM

Given the ubiquity and frankness of sex in the public sphere at this point in history, it's tempting to consider the past uniformly repressed and hidebound in its attitudes. But of course even in the most puritanical eras people found the strength to carry on doing the nasty. And sometimes they managed to be far more clever and lyrical in their celebration of the flesh than we are today - though to be fair, it takes little effort to out-class the likes of Girls Gone Wild.

The work that follows here is a personal favorite of mine that I've shamelessly taken from The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, 7th Edition. It's a lyric poem from late 12th century France of the type known as a fabliau, and it serves as an artful celebration of eroticism while taking a remarkably modern approach to the challenge of keeping the sex hot in a long-term relationship. Plus it's just pretty damn funny. If the translation is generally faithful to the original French, then Ned Dubin did a bang-up job of maintaining the sassy, informal tone of the troubador's form. Here it is.

The Wild Dream

I'll tell as briefly as I can

about a woman and a man

and what befell them, if I may.

I heard about it in Douay.

I do not know his or her name,

but I can affirm all the same

what fine, upstanding folk they were

and that she loved him, and he her.

The good man had to leave one day

and go on business far away,

and thus for three full months he stayed

in foreign parts engaged in trade,

and he was so successful there

that he returned walking on air

to Douay on a Thursday evening.

Don't think that his wife felt like grieving

to have her husband back again;

the fuss she made over him then

gave proof of her wifely devotion

and of the strength of her emotion.

When she had hugged, kissed and embraced

him, so he could relax, she placed

a low-slung, comfortable chair

near her and then went to prepare

their meal. All in good time they ate

seated on cushions by the gate,

where a fire crackled warm and bright,

without smoke, but with lots of light.

They'd fish and meat, good, hearty fare,

and wine from Soissons and Auxerre,

white linen, and fresh, healthful meat.

It pleased his wife to see him eat;

she saw that he got all the fine,

choice morsels, and, with each bite, wine.

Eager to please her man, the lady

was more than willing, more than ready

to satisfy his every whim,

expecting in return from him

the welcome for which she was aching,

but it turned out she was mistaken

in plying him with all that drink,

for wine made his libido shrink,

and afterwards, when the man got in

their bed, that pleasure was forgotten.

Not by his wife - it filled her head

when she climbed next to him in bed,

nor would he have needed to ask,

for she was ready for the task.

He had no thought for his poor spouse,

who would have liked them to carouse

and stay awake a while still.

Don't think the lady just sits still

while her husband sleeps like a stone:

"Ha!" she protests, "he sure has shown

himself a stinking, oafish creep!

He should be up, but he's asleep!

My happy hopes have turned to pain.

Three months have passed since we have lain

together, and yet, sure enough,

the devil makes the man doze off.

Well, he can take him, if he will!"

She lies there quietly and still;

what's on her mind remains unspoken -

she doesn't wake him up or poke him,

though in her mind she sorely vexed,

lest he should think her oversexed.

This reason makes her disregard her

thoughts of love-making and ardor

which she has entertained tonight.

She turns in, feeling wrath and spite.

She dreamt a dream while she was lying

there fast asleep - don't think I'm lying! -

that she'd gone up to a yearly fair,

the likes of which you have to hear,

for every stall and shop display

there, every house and place to stay,

every exchange and table was

not selling bolts of cloth or furs

or linen, wool, or silks of price,

it seemed to her, or dyes, or spice,

or goods, or pharmaceuticals -

just penises and testicles

in wild profusion, for the sellers

had filled their houses, rooms and cellars

with the commodity, and porters

came toting them across the borders

upon their backs, while down the road

they rolled in by the wagonload.

Despite the massive inventory,

the merchants had no need to worry

of not exhausting their supplies.

The thirty-shilling merchandise

was awesome, good ones cost a pound,

and for the poor folk could be found

some smaller ones, which still could sate

a girl for ten or nine or eight.

They sold in gross and in detail.

The best and biggest ones for sale

were closely watched and very dear.

The wife went looking everywhere

and put much effort in her quest

till at one stall she came to rest

on seeing one so long and wide, it

just had to be hers, she decided.

The shaft was large and well-endowed

with a big head, cocky and proud,

and, if you want to hear the whole

truth, you could toss into the hole

with ease a round, ripe cherry, and it

would go on falling till it landed

down in the scrotum, which was made

like the shovel-end of a spade.

No man has ever seen its like.

The wife decided she would strike

a bargain, and she asked how much.

"If you were my own sister, such

as this would cost two marks of silver.

This penis is no scrawny sliver,

but of the finest Loheringian

stock, both testicles and engine,

a worthy wand for a magician.

You would do well to take possession

of it. Do come give it a feel."

"Friend, why should we drag out the deal?

I'll buy it from you, if you're willing

to part with it for fifty shillings.

You won't get so much for it any-

where, and I'll throw in a penny

for God, that it may bring me bliss."

"A giveaway, that's what it is,

but I'm won over, and so suit your-

self, and I hope in the future

you'll try it out and praise the vendor.

I think from now on you'll remember

me when you pray or sing a psalm."

The woman lifted up her palm

to give him high five, well-disposed

on account of the deal she'd closed...

... and hits her husband in the jaw

with so much force , she feels her sore

hand turn bright red, tingle and burn,

and one can easily discern

the finger marks from chin to ear,

and he wakes up in startled fear

and sits bolt upright upon waking

and his wife also wakens, shaking,

who'd sooner sleep on till tomorrow,

since now her joy has turned to sorrow.

She has no way to go on keeping

the joy she bought herself while sleeping,

so she'd prefer to stay asleep.

"Wife," the man says, "pray do not keep

from me the dream that made you go

just now and strike me such a blow.

Were you asleep then or awake?"

"Don't say such things, for goodness sake,"

she tells him, "sir. Hit you? Who, me?"

"In affection and harmony,

by the strenght of your marriage vow,

what were you thinking of just now?

Don't keep it back for any cause."

I'll have you know, without a pause

the woman launched into her tale,

like it or not, and didn't fail

to lay all of the details bare

of her dream of the penis fair,

how some were good and some were bad,

and she bought the largest they had,

by far more impressive than any,

for fifty shillings and a penny.

"Sir," she explains, "here's what occurred.

To close the deal, I gave my word

and went to shake hands with good grace,

hitting you squarely in the face,

but only did it in my sleep.

For God's sake, dearest husband, keep

your temper, for as I admit

my error and sincere regret,

I beg your pardon for the blow."

"In faith, sweet wife," he says, "you know

I pardon you, and so should God!"

He embraces and hugs her hard

and kisses her sweet mouth as well,

and his penis begins to swell,

for she charms him and turns him on.

He lays his penis in her palm

as soon as he feels that it's ready,

and asks, "By your love for me, lady,

as God may keep you free from sin,

at that fair, what would it bring in,

the one you're holding on to now?"

"As I hope to survive, I vow

that someone selling a full coffer

of them would find no one who'd offer

a speck of money for the lot.
Why, even those the paupers bought

were such that one of them with ease

would equal at least two of these

the way it is now. Look here, sire!

There it would never find a buyer

who'd ask to see the thing up close."

"So what?" he says. "That's how it goes.

Take this one - the other ones don't matter! -

until you think you can do better."

(And so she did, if I am right).

Together they thus passed the night,

but I think his judgment unsound,

for the next day he spread it round

till a rhymer of fabliaux,

Jean Bodel, also came to know

of it, and for its merits he

put it in his anthology

neither embellished nor extended

which means the lady's dream has ended.

Ok, so it's not Penthouse Forum, but still, not bad for an era when people were burned at the stake for heresy and witchcraft. Not that I'd want to trade places with a bunch of Medieval troubadors, for a whole host of reasons. One is cleanliness, which leads me to my next point.

Take-home question for readers: was sex during the seventeenth century (or really, any time prior to the 20th century) ontologically dirtier than today's sex, simply because people were so physically filthy back then? Regardless of your opinion, think how strong the desire to couple must necessarily have been to compel two people to fuck, given how repulsively dirty their bodies no doubt were. This was long before the era of municipal waterworks and indoor plumbing, let alone antibacterial soap, thrice-daily tooth brushing, brazilian wax jobs, sanitary pads, compulsory bathing practices, etc. In fact, I'm willing to wager that most individuals' reproductive organs were coated - nay - encrusted with filth, so meager and delimited were sanitation... alright, there may be more sensitive readers perusing this thread, so I think I'll leave to the imagination how nasty your typical coital romp must have been. Probably made it a lot easier to heed the injunctions of the Church against extramarital sex, at least for anyone who wasn't already too kinky to care. Perhaps we should rethink a bit our judgment of early modern Europeans from obsessively puritanical, to simply grossed out at the thought of getting busy with their effluent-smeared neighbors. Speaking of kink, the following quote is attributed to that dirty bird Napoleon Bonaparte in a letter he sent while on campaign to his wife Josephine: "J'arrive. Ne te lave pas." Translation: "I'll be home soon. Don't wash."

As Rachel Ray would say, "Yumm-oh!" Guess that means both Napoleon and I would have been in that group the Church gave up on. At least with him as my wingman I'd look like a center for the NBA.

DR. FREUD, PAGING DR. FREUD!

Right now Ilene is watching a little television show called The Girls Next Door. I'll sidestep all the obvious, choice things I could say right here, and pose a question: I know that 'Elektra Complex' is the psychoanalytic term for a woman's wanting to have sex with her father. But tell me, gentle readers, what is the proper technical description for a woman's wanting to have sex with her great-grandfather?

I mean, besides "Ewww!!!"

THREE LITTLE PINOTS

Just a quick note on some damn good wines I tasted recently with a friend from the ol' distro job. There are days when I really miss working as a sales rep, mostly because it afforded me the opportunity to drink shit like the following:

Domaine Hubert de Montille 2006 Pommard 1er Cru "Les Pezerolles"
This came to me via the former sommelier at Charlie Trotter's. The bottle'd been open for about 18 hours prior to tasting. Limpid, pale red color. Reticent nose of strawberry tart and freshly snapped dry twigs. Fine-grained tannins unobtrusive on palate, kirsch, rainwater, and oolong tea notes flesh out to an intriguing, pronounced blood and raw red meat component. Tightens up markedly on finish, tannins finally kick in as meatiness subsides, beautifully balanced and very persistent. Just lasts forever on the finish - like having to watch a Friends marathon, but in a good way. Silky and seductive like a Volnay, or better yet like that smokin' hot friend-of-a-friend of yours, the one who flirts with you mercilessly because she's dating an NBA power-forward and knows she can get away with just about anything.

Nalle 2005 Pinot Noir, Dry Creek Valley
Much more aromatically assertive than the de Montille. Smells of rose petal and crushed geranium. As pale but more purple than the Pommard. Light and lithe on the palate, boisterous acidity and then a wash of purple fruit, boysenberry and blackberry. Rose water and delicate berry mid-palate, finely etched and effortless, no sweetness or oakiness anywhere to be found. More primary than the Burgundy, without the umami dimension, still a lovely American pinot. Big ups to Doug Nalle, he and Andrew make some remarkably subtle wine from the Golden State. Opened probably 8 hours before I got to it.

J.K. Carriere 2005 Pinot Noir Willamette Valley
Much darker and more opaque than previous two wines. Dark garnet red tending towards purple. Dark, brooding fruit and bosky notes on nose. Palate more rigid and shows a touch of herbaceousness along with black fruits. Whispered "Cabernet" for a moment, it did. Also, think tar dusted with dark potting soil. Never goes over the edge, though, alcohol's low and acidity's almost off the charts. Hits both the low A and the high C all at once. A bigger mouthful than either of the other wines. Softer on second pass, and far prettier. At one point my friend asked rhetorically, "Is this the best domestic Pinot producer in our portfolio?" Considering the wines he reps, that's high praise indeed. Too different from the Nalle to make a direct comparison; despite its virtues takes second billing to the Pommard. Opened at same time as the Nalle.

One fringe benefit of working in this industry is that even the most mundane event can provide the opportunity to taste great wine. We drank these while watching a Pittsburgh Penguins - Philadelphia Flyers hockey game. God, I'll be having dreams about that de Montille Pommard for days. Literally one of the greatest estates in all of Burgundy, and by extension, the world. I didn't get to taste it until Day 2 and it was still easily one of the finest wines I've tasted all year. I'd like to remind everyone reading this that Christmas is right around the corner. Shouldn't be much more than $100 a bottle. Not that I'm dropping hints or anything, I'm just... saying. Buy me some.

BOOBS ARE FOOL'S GOLD. THE ASS IS WHERE IT'S AT.

I read with interest the report here in the journal Insider Higher Ed that for the second time this year - hell, for the second time in four months - a professor at the University of Iowa has killed himself after being charged with sexual harassment.

Now, the details of these affairs are always pretty sad and morbid, which is of course why I love to pore over them. There's not much to glean from the article on the most recent incident. However, the particulars of the former case are pretty damn juicy: "In August, Arthur H. Miller was arrested on bribery charges and accused of telling female students that he would give them higher grades if they let him fondle their breasts."

OK, I'm sorry. I love the breast. I'm very "pro" breast. If it comes down to breasts in one hand and almost anything else in the other, then I'm deciding in favor of breasts more than nine times out of ten. However, breasts aren't so good that it's worth throwing away your career (and in this schmuck's case, your life) just to get a handful of nubile, perky young sweater cow. I mean, if you really need to feel something like a breast, you could do just as well with a beanbag or a ball of bread dough with a gummy bear glued to one side.

You see, I'm a reasonable man. An ass man. And I'm here to tell you, if you're going to ruin your life by making ludicrously inappropriate propositions to women half your age, it should at least be for something that can't be easily duplicated with a lump of gluten and a soft bear-shaped candy. On the other hand, it's damn hard to cobble together a halfway decent proxy for a firm, callipygous Jennifer Lopez-style booty. God knows I've tried.

Oh, and just between you and me nothing, and I mean nothing, feels like the anus of an 18-year old coed. You can't just manufacture that shit out of play-doh. God knows I've... well, you know where this is going.

HABEMUS... SALVATUM?

It is funny, though - and I say this as a supporter of the brilliant but inexperienced man now on his way to Washington - how The New York Times simply cannot wait for this Obama presidency to get underway. In fact, they've paved such a shining path for the incipient leader of the free world that I think they've fairly convinced themselves he's already taken up residence in the White House, issuing executive orders right and left (well, mostly left.) A glance at the front page of their online edition today shows an entire column devoted to "The 44th President." This new section, now in its fourth straight day, promises to be a fixture on the site until the moment, though not far in the offing still too distant for the masthead at 620 Eighth Avenue, when the scourge of the George W. Bush Administration will be no more, and peace and prosperity shall rain down upon the land like manna from a beneficent heaven.

Don't get me wrong: I happily voted for Obama. I'm extremely pleased that Obama won, and proud of the country not just for electing an African American to its highest office but also for holding its leaders to some measure of accountability. The Republicans have done more than their share of damage over the past eight years, and shitcanning them was sweet indeed. It gives me pause, though, to see so many people pin so much of themselves to the slim shoulders of the man now about to occupy the White House, and I fear a mass disillusionment when the changes they pine for are either slow in coming, or fail to come at all. Do I think Obama's presidency will cleave far from the policies of the Bush Administration? Yes, but don't give the Executive Branch too much credit, or assume that this election represents a "mandate." Tell me, did you feel that George W's reelection was similarly a "mandate," as he claimed? Contrary to the beliefs of the doe-eyed true believers, the Republicans aren't holding a nation hostage from policy changes it universally craves. The country's still incredibly divided on a whole host of issues, and no amount of presidential star power is going to change that; there will be no Deus Ex Hyde Park.

The most salient support of my point exists in the fact that when I so much as question whether Obama will be able to bring about an alchemical change in the American body politic, my skepticism has most often been received with paranoid surmise and outright scorn, rather than reasoned consideration. Apparently one must not only support a repudiation of Bush and the Republicans, but also drink of the Kool-Aid, and drink deeply.

Let me just say this: Folks, please don't lay all your hopes and dreams at Obama's feet. Rejoice in the achievement, luxuriate in the victory, but resist the urge to feel that from this point forth (or at least from January 20, 2009 forth) The World Will Be Made Whole. Obama's election indeed represents an enlightenment of American politics. Therefore heed the following koan:

Before Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.

After Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.

Don't let this get away from you.

THE END OF AN ERA, UNHERALDED

I have always loved to drive. When I was a teenager living in the suburbs with my parents, I would often take long solitary drives to nowhere in particular. Without exception these took place in the evening, often on a Thursday or Friday night, and when I say I had no destination in mind I mean I would get in the car, head in some random direction, and continue as long as I had some idea of where I was. Often I would take Lake Cook Road east towards Lake Michigan, or sometimes I'd hop on the Kennedy and drive downtown, exit at say Irving Park Road, cut over to Southport, drive past the Music Box Theater and all the shops and bars along that street, then head back along Belmont to the highway, and home. Today, with gas at 4-something per gallon and the causes célèbres of climate change and energy independence this seems quite irresponsible. Even at the time I felt somewhat sheepish about spending an hour or more just driving aimlessly instead of chasing skirts or passing the time at friends' houses. But often driving felt essential, felt like escape from the banalities of my hometown, even if only to experience the novel banalities of another.

Sometimes my late-night wanderings had a destination. There once was a little coffee shop in Rogers Park at 1439 West Jarvis called Don's Coffee Club, owned by a slightly gruff Swedish guy named Don. How can I describe Don's Coffee Club to you? Would it help if I described it as the anti-Starbucks, as inimical to that corporation's gleaming, homogeneous outposts as matter is to antimatter? Don's was dimly lit even on a bright summer afternoon; at night, when I was usually there, it was so dark you could barely read a book. The walls came together at oblique angles and the white stucco ceiling was dingy and discolored; the entire space seemed so outré to me at the time, coming as I did from a town where every nice home was new and clean and sparkling. My family and I didn't live in one of those homes; we lived in a cramped ranch with a sunken living room and crabbed, untidy bedrooms. The fact that some of my friends lived in houses so vast they had to use intercom systems to know whether other family members were home constantly amazed me. It also struck in me a defensive chord, knowing how much more modest were my family's means, and sparked a bit of plebian self-righteousness as well. Perhaps because of this Don's felt right to me, this place that was older and grubbier even than my family's shabby little house and yet was filled with cozy, high-backed upholstered chairs and low, iron and glass art deco coffee tables. Dark though it was I read a whole host of books in those chairs: Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut; Catch-22 by Joseph Heller; A History of God by Karen Armstrong; and most of Dostoevsky's masterpiece The Brothers Karamazov, which to this day remains the most important book I've ever read. (As an aside, my senior English teacher Dale Griffith told us in class before beginning The Brothers Karamazov that "no one can claim to be an educated adult without having read this book." At the time I thought that claim presumptuous and a bit absurd. After finishing the book I thought it profoundly wise.)

Getting to Don's was something of an adventure. At the time (and even today, in some areas) Rogers Park could be a dicey neighborhood. As a practical matter, any precinct in Chicago is more diverse than my hometown, and compared with the torpor and complacency of the suburbs the city seems to pulsate with energy. The shop was tucked right into a residential neighborhood just off Sheridan, surrounded by apartment buildings, and only distinguishable by its glass storefront and dilapidated shopfront door. You couldn't get a soy latte or an Americano at Don's; he served regular and decaf coffee, hot or iced - maybe cafe au lait and cappucino, but nothing more exotic than that. You could also get a donut or bagel, and I believe sometimes soup was also available. Nothing was served "half-caf" or "ristretto" or with any fanfare or pretense. Sometimes it was Don who helped you, sometimes a mousey but cheerful Loyola coed. You sat as long as you wished and nobody said a word to you unless you wanted them to. The shop didn't close on the weekends until 3 am. On more than one occasion I closed it down.

When developing a pattern of behavior, propinquity is crucial: if something is too distant, too remote, it won't become part of the common currency of your life. So it was for me with Don's. Rogers Park is a long, long way to drive from Barrington in order to get a cup of coffee and read a book - 31.45 miles, by Mapquest's reckoning. I went away to college and when I returned Don's, like so many fixtures of my adolescent life, had lost its romantic allure. I rented apartments further south and frequented other coffee shops. Years passed and I had literally almost forgotten that Don's existed until a few weeks ago while driving up Sheridan Road to Evanston to see my sister at college. Something flashed in my mind at the chiasm of adolescence and academia, some nostalgic trigger, and when I saw Jarvis I thought instantly and longingly of Don's. Longingly, because as soon as I remembered the place I recalled having read that Don had sold the shop not long after I left for college, and that the new owner had forsaken it soon after. The present tenant is a theater company called The Side Project. Change has come not just to 1439 West Jarvis, but to the entire street: an Italian restaurant, a bagel sandwich shop, and an upscale cafe have moved into the block just across the intersection from where Don's shabby little emporium used to be. Gentrification has arrived, which for a neighborhood of Rogers Park's charm is nothing to be wondered at.

Maudlin sentimentality is not my object. All things come into our consciousness and later pass from it, as do we ultimately pass from consciousness ourselves. No, what I miss is not so much a place, or a picture of what once was that exists in my head. What I miss is the feeling of potentiality, of unfettered possibility that swarmed in my mind and body at the time I was a customer at Don's. Everything extraordinary still lay ahead of me; college, career, casual love affairs, commitment, a family, a home of my own - all lay before me in a splendid but ill-defined tableau, and nothing disappointed because nothing had firm contours, no paths were closed off. Surely I knew that a career as, say, a professional athlete was not in the cards, but that never held appeal for me so the deprivation dealt no sting. But beyond that, any and all good things were surely at my disposal. At seventeen, no dream is small, and no sentiment modest. There's a reason punk rock concerts allow minors, or at least always should: the force of feeling at that age is only reflected adequately in the efforts of the greatest auteurs of that genre. In a way, punk is a superfluous stimulant for a teenager; I remember getting worked up listening to Handel. Jump forward a decade, and now, even in my moments of greatest sadness or elation, I know I feel only half as strongly as ever I did at seventeen.

As I was saying, I love to drive. Lately I have taken to the same sorts of long, solo drives to nowhere that I indulged in years ago. I set out with no destination in mind, no itinerary, only the knowledge that what I am doing feels important to me, important enough to squander fuel that now costs $4.50 a gallon. I look into the windows of other cars as they pass me, much as I did in my teenaged years. I wonder at my fellow motorists, what they might be like as people, whether they entice or bore me, and in a flash they are gone. At some point I turn the car around and head for home. When I reach Lincoln Park I find yet again that nothing has changed, that I have learned nothing new. But there's another road to nowhere tomorrow. And somewhere, I hope, another Don's.

HERE IT IS... YOUR MOMENT OF ZEN

Rockstar. Forget the images, although some of them are pretty breathtaking. The music, people! Karita Mattila nails it out of the park here, ably assisted by the great Sir Neville Marriner and the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.

Listen to this and then tell me your day didn't just get better. You're welcome.