The Daily Parker

Politics, Weather, Photography, and the Dog

More weird weather

If the forecasts remain accurate, Christmas in Chicago will round out only the fifth "holiday temperature reversal" in history:

This could be only the 5th time that Christmas will be warmer than BOTH Halloween and Thanksgiving since records began in Chicago back in 1871.
  Halloween Thanksgiving Christmas
1873 -1°C 1°C 3°C
1895 6°C 5°C 13°C
1954 4°C 6°C 7°C
1982 7°C 3°C 9°C
2019 1°C 3°C 7°C

I'd say "cool" but that's cheap.

A theory on the Trump aesthetic

Former Deadspin editor David Roth examines the evidence in this year's White House Christmas decorations video:

Even though Melania is also a cipher whose relationship to her powerful husband has for years seemed tragicomically ceremonial, her Christmas video delivers an insight into a crucial mystery of the Trump aesthetic: Why is all this always so shittyHow is it possible for something so fancified to feel so repellent and cheap? Again, in one sense, there’s just nothing there to find. Trump himself doesn’t really know why he does anything, and every decision that he makes—personally, politically, aesthetically, whatever—ultimately resolves to him servicing whatever rude personal want is currently making itself felt. This doesn’t really explain how every space that the man inhabits became so desperately gilded and singularly inhospitable, although it does suggest he doesn’t much care about how other people experience it. But Melania’s latest foray into haunted festive design comes closer to providing a skeleton key for the warped mimetic rules of Trumpism than Trump himself ever has.

What’s spooky about it goes beyond Melania’s personal uncanniness or Trump’s world-historic tastelessness or the built-in stiltedness of White House ritual. The pure anhedonic cheerlessness of it all points back to a deeper psychic deficit: an inability to understand what any of this might even be for, if not to spite or defeat someone else. Of course there’s too much of it. They don’t know when to stop—they never have known when to stop, they do not know how to stop—because they have never really understood why they got started in the first place. After all, look where it’s gotten them.

Also, Roth does not say, but we can all observe, just how many id-driven strongmen have no taste at all.

Time for a kip

I've arrived safely in the Ancestral Homeland, and as my body will tell you, it's too early to text anyone back home to let them know.

Right now I plan to sleep. Assuming I wake up sometime today, I'll get some caffeine, possibly a bite, and then walk around my second-favorite city in the world for a bit, aiming to queue up for St Paul's midnight service sometime around 22:30. (I might also try to get in to the Christmas carol service at 16:00; haven't decided yet.)

Candlelight service in Winnetka

Combine a full moon, a really good camera, and a beautiful church on Christmas Eve:

(The grain is from shooting a HDR photo at ISO-12800.)

Did I mention the candlelight part?

The final piece of the service is the entire congregation singing "Silent Night" holding candles. Even as an atheist, I found it moving. And the Winnetka Congregational Church, while still a Christian church, doesn't beat people over the head with religion. I'm certain I wasn't the only atheist in the congregation.

Satire: Erev Christmas

By Bruce Marcus and Lori Factor-Marcus

'Twas the night before Christmas, and we, being Jews,
My girlfriend and me—we had nothing to do.
The Gentiles were home, hanging stockings with care,
Secure in their knowledge St. Nick would be there.
But for us, once the Hanukkah candles burned down,
There was nothing but boredom all over town.
The malls and the theaters were all closed up tight;
There weren't any concerts to go to that night.
A dance would have saved us, some ballroom or swing,
But we searched through the papers; there wasn't a thing.
Outside the window sat two feet of snow;
With the wind-chill, they said it was fifteen below.
And while all I could do was sit there and brood,
My girl saved the night and called out "CHINESE FOOD!"

So we ran to the closet, grabbed hats, mitts and boots
To cover our heads, our hands, and our foots.
We pulled on our jackets, all puffy with down.
And boarded "The T," bound for old Chinatown.
The train nearly empty, it rolled through the stops,
While visions of wontons danced through our kopfs.
We hopped off at Park Street; the Common was bright
With fresh-fallen snow and the trees strung with lights,
Then crept through "The Zone" with its bums and its thugs,
And entrepreneurs selling ladies and drugs.
At last we reached Chinatown, rushed through the gates,
Past bakeries, past markets, past shops and cafes,
In search of a restaurant: "Which one? Let's decide!"
We chose "Hunan Chozer," and ventured inside.

Around us sat other Jews, their platters piled high
With the finest of foods their money could buy:
There was roast duck and fried fake squid, (sweet, sour and spiced,)
Dried kosher beef and mixed veggies, lo mein and fried rice,
Whole fish and moo shi and "shrimp" chow mee foon,
And General Gau's chicken and ma po tofu....
When at last we decided, and the waiter did call,
We said: "Skip the menu!" and ordered it all.
And when in due time the food was all made,
It came to the table in a sort of parade.
Before us sat dim sum, spare ribs and egg rolls,
And four different soups, in four great, huge bowls.
And chicken wings! Dumplings! and beef teriyakis!
And scallion pancakes—'cause they're kind of like latkes

The courses kept coming, from spicy to mild,
And higher and higher toward the ceiling were piled.
And while this went on, we became aware
Every diner around us had started to stare.
Their jaws hanging open, they looked on unblinking;
Some dropped their teacups, some drooled without thinking.
So much piled up, one dish after the other,
My girlfriend and I couldn't see one another!

Now we sat there, we two, without proper utensils,
While they handed us something that looked like two pencils.
We poked and we jabbed till our fingers were sore
And half of our dinner wound up on the floor.
We tried—how we tried!—but, sad truth to tell,
Ten long minutes later and still hungry as hell,
We swallowed our pride, feeling vaguely like dorks,
And called to our waiter to bring us two forks.

We fressed and we feasted, we slurped and we munched;
We noshed and we supped, we breakfast'd and lunched.
We ate till we couldn't and drank down our teas
And barely had room for our fortune cookies.
But my fortune was perfect; it summed up the mood
When it said: "Pork is Kosher, when it's in Chinese food."
And my girlfriend, well, she got a real winner;
Her's said: "Your companion will pay for the dinner."

Our bellies were full and at last it was time
To travel back home and write some bad rhyme
Of our Chinatown trek (and to privately speak
About trying to refine our chopstick technique).
The MSG spun round and round in our heads,
As we tripped and we laughed and gaily we said,
As we carried our leftovers home through the night;
"Good Yom Tov to all, and to all a Good Night!"


Bruce Marcus is a storyteller. He and Lori live in Malden, Mass.
©1992 Bruce Marcus and Lori Factor-Marcus. Reprinted with their kind permission.

Submitted by reader B.M.