BINGO!

If fifty four percent of China's population is male, it means that in a nation of 1.3 billion people, there will (theoretically) be fifty two million adult men without a prospective wife. Despite the potential for better egg rolls in Utah and a convincing answer to The Beatles' famous question about where do all the lonely people come from, this demographic imbalance is likely to pose grave social consequences for China, and will frame a massive case-study for the cultural implications of marriagelessness.

But even in a country of more promising odds, we still struggle to maintain a majority of holy matrimony. Statistically speaking (now that over fifty percent of American "I do's" end with "I don't,"), sustainable marriage is officially a minority institution. And based on the conventional banter of husbands poo-pooing their wives, one would also figure that even "successful" marriage is too often a grinding compromise of instincts and identity -- and that with due time and duress, even the most sincere and soulful lovers will no less indulge in the custom of testicular cynicism.

Perhaps it won't be surprising then (given the advancements in women's rights, life expectancy, and individual freedom), that the structure of traditional marriage would eventually harden into a stale survivalist shell of mergers and acquisitions. The shelf-life on monogamy could be a decent bet too, considering the constant mockery of single-source vagina being made by the parade of public infidelities and cultural contradictions. In the sleepy suburbs of Chicago, for example, I'm told of routine "swinging" -- not to mention blow-jobs on the bar mitzvah bus. Religious and political champions of "family values," appear increasingly medieval to the relatively silent secularity of common sense people (who strongly oppose their positions on social issues, including gay marriage). And even the recent day-time departure of Oprah Winfrey (the ultimate purveyor of "living your best life"), reminds us of the changing guard, and the modeling of new school partnerships that turn "Steadmans" into golden retrievers.

(So remember, China men, your women already eat dog as a delicacy).

But whatever the direction may be, in spite of all these evolutionary headwinds, I'll still believe in the conquering force of a loving marriage. I'll also believe that no matter how many times your flight is delayed, hijacked, or redirected back to the gate, there's always a happy landing for those who stay airborne (especially for those who fly Virgin).

In my personal flight-log of "favorite mistakes," there are myriad twists and turns that might have otherwise rendered me forever solo, once divorced, or in a circling pattern of "good enough." And backtracking throughout those tailspins of serendipity (both sweet and sour), I am rocked by the dumb fortune of every bad date, big miss, and broken heart that bounced me towards "BINGO!" -- the day I earned me some wings and met my wife.

It wasn't always easy and it wasn't always fun ... but it was always worth it.

Woof-woof.

The Empire Strikes Back

If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Osama bin Laden must have been in constant supply of Visine. Compared to the beady hollows of George W. Bush, I was always confounded by “the evil doer’s” soft brown marbles, and the disarming charisma we now revisit throughout the clips of his passive command. It was almost as if bin Laden had achieved some flawed form of enlightenment, like Darth Vader, and that the Supreme Court (George Lucas) had fatally miscast George W. Bush to play Luke Skywalker, along with Dick Cheney as Obi wan Kenobi, Condoleezza Rice as Princess Leia, Paul Wolfowitz as Yoda, and the common sense of Colin Powell sounding every bit the tongue of Chewbacca. Unfortunately, John Kerry couldn't steal the scene in the sequel, and so as most sequels do, the follow-up bombed so badly that it paved the way for a screenplay we could allegedly believe in -- "Return of the Black Harvard Jedi."

(Sorry W., but Jedi's don't choke on pretzels).

Eyes wide shut, however, and you may observe that the synchronicity between Bush and bin Laden -- the two most impactful men of the new century – is pretty darn good. Sons of privilege and petroleum, both men represented the rotting stereotypes of the American and Arab worlds -- Bush, the crusading cowboy, and bin Laden, the desert tribalism. Both rejected modernity in the name of religion – Bush (stem-cell research), bin Laden (woman’s rights); both perverted a spiritual faith towards leadership and policy; and both men, so mutually catapulted by September 11, were dramatically rebuffed by the still tenuous revolutions of Barack Obama and the “Arab Spring” -- or as the tea party would lump 'em, the Great Muslim Uprising.

In their false theater of good versus evil, Bush and bin Laden would stage a canon of seminal catastrophes, i.e. the Patriot Act, the national surplus turned debt, water-boarding, three-ounce toiletries, two putrid wars and a partridge in a pear tree. And in a suspension of disbelief, we (the people, the press, the Congress) pulled up some popcorn for a blockbuster of tragic reciprocity -- Bush's mistakes and fear mongering validating bin Laden, and bin Laden's temporary success bestowing Bush with his blunderous bounce of leadership.

While their "ORANGE ALERTS" did provide a brilliant subtext for hooking up with girls, this was not the "69" that we ultimately had in mind. Bush and bin Laden were the best thing that ever happened to one another, and the worst thing that ever happened to us.

In the end, it seems, both men had retreated to their suburban compounds, surrounded by some family and final followers. Then, with a made-for-movie bullet, both men were killed -- one literally, and the other figuratively, in the sense that W.'s John Wayne persona was officially buried when a black constitutional law professor with Hussein in his name rolled into town and lassoed the bad guy (no sir, this was not your father’s western).

Hopefully the world will start showing some better films. But for one fine day in May, it was finally time to roll some credits.

Mission Accomplished.

Of Goats and Men

In the carpool lane of Chicago sports, there proceeds a caravan of winners and losers. Setting the pace up front, one will find the consummate leaders of the new school -- Derrick Rose, Jonathan Toews, and Starlin Castro. These are the refreshing superstars who supplement their skills with hard work, professionalism, and deferred egos. Pulling up the rear, we have a much maligned Maserati -- Alfonso Soriano is driving, Jay Cutler is sitting shotgun (how's that for some dual airbags!), and Carlos Boozer is now stretched out in the back seat after a successful hitch-hiking campaign (a natural extension of his defensive philosophy). These are the dry-heave superstars who accentuate their mediocrity with bad attitudes, insincere teamwork, and general stupidity.

In the middle of the pack, Patrick Kane is driving the party bus (perhaps out of town), and Lovie Smith is driving the church bus (a good natured man, for sure, but if Jesus was the GM, I'll tell you WWJD? He would keep Lovie a defensive coordinator).

Certainly there will be occasions to further address the virtues and vices of these noteworthy passengers, but for now, I will spend the next 271 words eviscerating Carlos Boozer:

Ever since he lied to Gordon Gund (the former / blind owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers), the karma police have been chasing Carlos Boozer like O.J. Simpson on the Los Angeles freeway. Injury prone and fraught with personal acrimony, Carlos Boozer is the most expensive plague to hit town since Mrs. O'leary's cow started the Great Chicago Fire. Speaking of farm animals, here's a little advanced scouting lesson I once learned from the University of Common Sense: If it looks like a goat, and it walks like a goat, and it smells like a goat ... well, then it's probably a goat. I mean, seriously, is it not now completely obvious that Taj Gibson, Kurt Thomas and Omir Asik would collectively cover Boozer's would-be offensive production, moreover, do everything else better with respect to defense, energy and toughness?

Carlos Boozer adds de minimus value to the Chicago Bulls, plain and simple. His best contribution last night would've been punching Jeff Foster and getting suspended for the next series. I'm tired of his false bravado, and I'm not surprised by the hollow cheerleading he contrived while by standing from the bench last night. Maybe Carlos will find another gym bag to "slip" on, and maybe this alleged turf toe he is suffering will allow the Bulls to cushion his fall in minutes.

But if Carlos ever needs a ride, I'm ready to go -- I've got a full tank of gas, half a box of cannolis, and I know of some secluded ponds in Indiana that we can back into.

In Chicago, there simply isn't enough room for another cursed goat.

Penelope of Wicker Park

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

There's Not an App for That

Technology, are you my friend?

There's really nobody quite like you, the way you are always improving and impoverishing my life. The other day, for example, with your fancy 3-D ultrasounds, you treated me to the miracle of my wife's belly as if James Cameron had updated "Look Who's Talking." But then the other night, I read an article that your cell phone radiation may be turning my swimmers into a Michael Phelps bong-circle. Really, technology? Is it possible (given the way previous generations so innocently remember the unknown risk of cigarettes), that with pervasive cell phone usage we are in the mindless midst of history's next rhyme?

I recognize that you are probably a net plus for civilization, considering all of your good citizenship towards science and industry, health and education, and, well, basically everything under the sun. I specifically admire the way you've watered these grassroots movements throughout the Middle East, or how you've allowed couch potatoes to empathize $10 via texts to Haiti and Japan. Your consumer products, too, I must say, these are some marvelous achievements -- anytime you're hanging at Stevie Jobs' house, I'm down for a sleepover.

And I guess that's part of what I'm trying to tell you, technology -- you have got to stop cruising with the wrong crowd. Like your buddies at BayerAG, for instance, the agrichemical company that produces the insecticides used on food crops. Scientists now believe that this innovative formula is public enemy number one in the disappearing bee phenomenon. Surely you know that another scientist (named Einstein) once said that "If bees disappear from the earth, then man will only have four years to live." Oops! And how about that adorable little cyber threat of yours, my gosh! Did you hear that when national security insiders are asked what most keeps them up at night, the answer is almost invariably the large scale cyber attack which cripples (further cripples, I should say, the poor things) our infrastructure and banking systems?

Have fun cleaning that one up.

But no worries, technology, I'm not hating on you -- I understand that you're an equal opportunist by nature. I just wish that you would give some of this stuff a little more thought moving forward -- I mean, the industrial revolution was really cool, but now Al Gore is too. Facebook and texting allow us to be social animals, yet sustained eye contact is climbing up the endangered species list. I know, I know, I know -- this is how you roll: for every strength, a weakness; for every convenience, a consequence. But please, if you can help it, don't be such a whore. If you won't start taking some responsibility for yourself, one can only hope that we humans will more often do the right thing by you, or even know what the right thing is ...

And there's definitely not an app for that.

Private Transportation

My apartment in Chicago is nestled along a section of iconic scaffolding, the elevated train tracks which our city calls "the L." Through the apartment's large glass windows facing west, the tracks are visible for miles before vanishing into the mouth of distant property. When I first toured the apartment, it was near twilight and I was treated to the postcard of a passing train -- the rust-steel worm retreating dutifully into the sunset. What a pretty omen, I thought, how industrial chic!

As long as the shower pressure was strong, the apartment would do just fine.

Several years later now, I have lived a happy life next to the train. Its regular roar has become second nature and for the holidays, there are a few decorated train cars in rotation, caroling through the cold December nights. One day, on the street beneath my apartment, I witnessed the most darling little picture of gentrification, the time a car thief waited for a passing train so that its noise would cancel the sound of shattered Range Rover. It reminded me of the signature moment in "Godfather II," when Michael Corleone embraces the coincidence of a passing train to help muffle his murder of a rival mob boss and the chief of police. Good times.

Suffice it to say, there is a cinematic quality about the train and the "L" has set many a scene throughout the canon of Chicago films. While my personal favorite remains with Elizabeth Shue brushing back the Vice Lords per "Adventures in Babysitting," most will remember Harrison Ford's visit in "The Fugitive," or maybe Tom Cruise's joy ride in "Risky Business" (and yes I realize that it was actually the suburban Metra, and that Rebecca De Mornay could never execute the "reverse cowgirl" on the blue-line). Nevertheless, for non-fiction passengers like me, the train can still pack a solid punch of human theater. On my morning commute, for example, I march amongst the work-force zombies, herding up the stairs towards the platform. Lining up along the vacant track, we await our routine fates of public transportation: will the train be crowded or is today an obscure Polish holiday? Will I find a seat or will I decide that I sit all day and should do some good standing? Will there be a cute girl on my car that inspires me to recall Rod Stewart's "Downtown Train?" These are the questions. Every so often, when the train finally arrives, a car door will pull up perfectly in front of me as if the universe is affording me some exquisite gesture of servitude -- for I am the chosen one! It will follow, of course, that I end up the sardines-style loser of a staring contest versus the outstretched armpit of a smelly third-shifter (perchance a large nasally fellow who allocates the deli meat at O'Hare). Sorry, God.

But once you're on the train, you've got some options. While the majority prefer to withdraw into their fortresses of personal technology, I like to look around. I like to study the banner ads and I like to see what other people are reading (two years from now, and I will have completed the Stieg Larson series by osmosis). I'm also susceptible to the "eye game," -- the empty non-verbal flirting franchise that we have all frequented and which married dudes play to test whether or not we've still got "it." I am always humbled by the girls who know how to play the angles in the reflecting windows, and I can also guess the difference between the girls who will make it, the girls who might not make it (tick tick tick), and the girls who will probably never make it (the ones who have succumbed to the practical purse, the white cross trainers, or the clever reuse of a plastic grocery bag). Other times, when I am buttoned up for a big meeting, I like to mess with the gay guys, the masters of the eye-fuck. Aside from a Jewish basketball league, is there anything better for your self-esteem than a Zegna suit on a train full of homosexuals?

At the end of the day, on the ride back home, there is an aura of loneliness aboard the train, as if the passengers are being sentenced back to the bore of their own company. I am always fascinated by the possibilities of what lies beneath the surface of these exteriors we project, and I am always buoyed by the capacity for story that must inhabit a given car. For a couple of stops each day, we are all in it together. You never know who you are sitting next to and you never really know how it will end.

Sometimes there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and sometimes, there's just an airport.

How to Make Love to a Vegetarian

In the "granola bar" community of my small college town, there roamed a memorable bumper sticker proclaiming that "Vegetarians Taste Better." Given my charity work in the fight against foul vagina (a.k.a. "halitosis of the vajayjay"), I was obviously heartened by this alleged cure. But I seriously questioned its alluding premise: that vegetarians would make superior lovers.

My argument at the time was based on the most primitive notion of appetite -- that passions for the flesh would beget passions in the flesh. Swoop in on adjacent restaurant dates, I'd propose, and compare the plates -- one girl is polishing off lamb chops, while the other is poking through a side salad and baked potato.

Who would you rather share desert with?

I realized, of course, that I shouldn't confuse being vegetarian with being a lousy eater, or that vegetarians weren't "foodies." But even the most voracious veggie, I felt, would lack the animal spirit that only animal spirits could provide. And when I met the woman who would eventually become my wife (a terrific eater, mind you), the proof was in the pudding.

On our first date, I shared my philosophy that a comparative interest in food, dancing, and travel were clues to compatibility, and that in these core areas of appetite, rhythm, and adventurism, one would find the triumvirate of a lasting sex life. On our dream honeymoon, you might imagine, we ate fried chicken while krumping through the Amazon. And on so many of our sweet and wonderful days together, there was the marker of an indulgent meal, shared strategically -- surfing and turfing our way into the sunset.

But then one day, after years upon carnivore years, I kind of became a vegetarian too.* Did this mean that my wife would start banging the butcher at Whole Foods? Or that the climactic end to our evenings became the five-day forecast? Not yet. Even though our bond over bourguignon had been compromised, there was still plenty of jalepeno in the cornbread.

So now, in the quinoa years, our recipe has changed. We don't share forks as much, but we still go out, we still swap spit, and we still have our sunsets. Sometimes, when there's been a lot of wine, I like to light a few candles, turn on some "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives," and let the night be our oyster cracker.

Feeling light and energetic, we can still suck the marrow out of life.

* does not include in-law hosted affairs, Thanksgiving, sushi or certain business dinners / guy weekends.

I'd Like to Solve the Puzzle

"The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible."

-- Albert Einstein

So if paragraphs are made of sentences, and sentences are made of words, and words are made of letters -- well then, what are the letters made of? For the Creationists, the answer is simple, as it has long been understood that letters manifest when beckoned by the divinity of Vanna White's manicure. But for the inquiring folks who sprinkle science in their coffee, the answer is ultimately unreachable, flanking the mysteries of consciousness, morality, Jay Cutler, and the rogue burnt Triscuit, to be one of those fundamentally untraceable constituents of earthly existence.

Now, consider the cosmos. If galaxies are made of stars, and stars are made of atoms, and atoms are made of subatomic particles, and henceforth throughout the infinite regression of elements -- well then, what are those "letters" made of?

Um ... Vanna? I think I'd like to buy a vowel.

When wrestling with the origin of the universe, the human brain must eventually concede to the undefeated, heavyweight champion of everything -- the great unknown. In the left corner, it's The Big Bang Theory that stands to explain the beginning of time and space as we know it. But what preceded this Big Bang (surely, not dinner and a movie), and who went shopping for the ingredients? And in the right corner, it's religion that takes a leap of faith, which can be lovely for those of us who enjoyed the maddening motherly retort ".... because I told you so." And judging this amateur bout, our cosmic angst is duly laughed at by the enlightened referees of human suffering, deconstructed to be of the same ego stocked soupiness that clogs our pipes with ignorance and fear.

"Understand your true self," the great masters will tell you, "and these mysteries will dissolve."

Fair enough, Dalai, I'm sure you're right ... and may we all be hard working and wise enough to join you one day. But in the meantime, I'm sure you won't mind if I marvel in my mortally misguided ways. I guess I'm just the kind of guy who can't get used to the fact that we don't know jack about the purpose of the universe- - the kind of kid who really cringed when his parents would say " ... because we told you so." It doesn't mean that I don't live a rich and rewarding life, and perhaps quite the contrary. But it does mean that I can be deeply burdened by the day to day fare, not unlike Bill Murray's character in the wonderful allegory that is "Groundhog's Day." Clearly, I am not alone and I know that you can relate. If you think you know something, or can get Andie MacDowell to sleep with me, I hope that you will call.

I'd like to solve the puzzle.