Bricks and Urns

1. Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door. True or false?
2. No good deed goes unpunished. True or false?

The answer to the first quote is false. As every businessman knows, it isn’t the quality of the product that drives sales but the success of the marketing campaign. Nowhere has this been more evidence than with the Chicago National League Ball Club, LLC, more commonly known as the Chicago Cubs baseball team.

The Cubs have not won a World Series for over 100 years. They have not won the National League pennant for almost 65 years. If they were in the mousetrap business, this would mark an appallingly long time of waiting to catch a mouse. But business is good nonetheless. Indeed, the Cubs have drawn over three million fans into their park for six years in a row. They have not drawn less then two million fans in fourteen years. So powerful is the Cub magnet that even a homeless person in Chicago will scrape up a c-note to watch the lovable “Cubbies” lose in the rain.

The better baseball team is on the south side of Chicago, namely the Chicago White Sox. But even with a more modern ballpark and a winning team, the Sox have struggled to compete with the “Cubbies.” Example: In 2005 the Chicago White Sox won the American League pennant and swept the Houston Astros in the World Series. It was obviously a good year for the southsiders who drew 2,342,834 into their park. But on the north side the “Cubbies” experienced more than 3,100,000 fans moving through the Wrigley Field turnstiles. And this with a team that was fourth in its division, unable to win more games that it had lost.

It was not always this way. For every year from 1953 to 1967, the Cubs failed to draw even a million fans into their park. That was before the marketeers took over.

This year, 2010, we have been told (or sold, depending upon how one looks at it) that being a Cub fan is “a way of life.” This "way of life" does not end with ticket and concession sales. The “Cubbies” now operate “Cub Stores” at which they sell Cub paraphernalia.

Indeed, the marketing of Cub merchandise has become a cradle to grave operation. There are bottles and bibs for newborn Cub fans. And at the other end of life’s spectrum is Cub cremation urns. Holy cow.

The answer to the second quote is true. I am a season ticket holder with the Chicago White Sox – Chicago’s better team. And although the White Sox are winning, it is sometimes difficult to even give Sox tickets away because everybody in Chicago wants to see the “Cubbies” instead. There are three exceptions to this rule, and those are the three games that the Cubs play against the Sox at U.S. Cellular Field each year. One of those games was last night. I gave one of my valued tickets to my wife, a Cub fan, and took her to the game. How nice of me!

But the White Sox beat the “Cubbies” and in the process of doing so extended a winning streak to eleven (11) games. And so by the time the ballpark lights went out, my wife was threatening to place my cremation ashes into one of those Cub urns. In retrospect I clearly should have given my prized ticket to somebody else.

There is only one solution, and that is that I must outlive my wife. This will be difficult because women generally live longer than men and I am already five years older than Ms. Sipsa. So starting tomorrow I am working out every day. I am also reducing red meat and introducing more vegetables and fiber into my diet. A Cub urn to a White Sox fan is akin to a cross being placed before a vampire.

But on the way out of the ballpark I discovered a means of revenge. Surrounding the 2005 World Series statue are a series of bricks, purchased by Sox fans and upon which are inscribed the names of Sox faithful. Thus for a small donation to White Sox Charities, Ms. Sipsa can be permanently enshrined as a fan to Chicago’s better team. Moreover, there are a lot of bricks there. So unless Ms. Sipsa has the patience to visit the park regularly and read each and every one of them, she will never know.

Go Sox!

A Wine & Cheese Woodstock

Mapquest declares that the travel time from my house in Elk Grove Village, Illinois to Ravinia Park is 42 minutes. Last night it proved to be about three hours, roughly the time of a flight from Chicago to Las Vegas.

It wasn't pretty. And blame it on the blues, the Moody Blues. To say that traffic congested in Highland Park, home of the Ravinia festival, would be an understatement. The Ravinia parking lots were filled and it seemed as though the police were just looking for some place to put everybody. And so we inched through the village for an hour or more before being directed to the Highland Park High School which was miles away from Ravinia. We left Elk Grove Village at 5:00 p.m. for an 8:00 p.m. concert. We barely arrived in time.

Ravinia Park is kind of a unique place. It consists of a 3,200 seat "pavilion" where the musical performance can be observed in a traditional theater setting. Everybody else brings tables, chairs, picnic baskets and blankets and settles in on the remaining 36 acres of lawn. An upscale crowd is attracted to this venue. The appearance is reminiscent of Woodstock except that nobody is naked, everybody is clean, and wine and cheese are being consumed instead of LSD and marijuana.

By the time we got to Ravinia, we weren't half a million strong. Or maybe we were. God knows it was packed in there and we looked jealously at little patches of grass that were too small to hold our party of four. And so we walked further and further to the outer reaches, near the perimeter fence, where we laid claim to a picnic table and rejoiced in our good fortune. But once the Moody Blues started to play, we realized why the table was available. There were no speakers in this immediate area. The music could be heard from other more distant speakers, but faintly. The Moody Blues were our dinner music

In some sense the Moody Blues seemed out of place at Ravinia. You see Ravinia is the summer home of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, so classical music tends to be the order of the day. On the other hand the music of the Moody Blues has traditionally been a blend of rock and classical orchestration. But when I walked to the Pavilion area to try and get a look at the band, it seemed that the orchestra was probably on tape.

The Moody Blues are old now. And so was their crowd. Their first set lasted about 45 minutes and then they took a break. They probably needed it. Then they played a second set. And about halfway through the second set people started to leave the festival in droves, like they were trying to beat a 10:00 p.m. curfew. This made no sense to me after having battled to get into the concert in the first place. Or maybe these folks wanted to get to their cars to avoid a repeat of the arrival experience.

The music was good, but I noticed something. When the Moody Blues sung their signature song, "Nights in White Satin", they omitted the poetic epilogue which includes the phrase, "Senior citizens wish they were young." Yes, the Moody Blues are senior citizens now.

Incidentally, we were transported to and from the festival by shuttle buses. There were long lines to board these buses and it was almost amusing to watch people, including ourselves, struggle to pack into those buses with tables, chairs, picnic baskets and blankets. The comfort level left much to be desired. I may not be returning to Ravinia Park anytime soon.

The Meaning of Life

What is the meaning of life? And will I discover it before I leave this planet? How many people more intelligent than I have been down this path before me? The meaning of life: the world’s greatest unsolved mystery.

And yet some claim to have figured it out. For example, I have heard that the meaning of life lies in procreation and the continuation of the species. But how mundane and uninspiring is that? Is that all there is? I have also heard that the meaning of life can be found by singing Hosannas to Jesus. But that doesn’t make any sense to me either.

Indeed, I have struggled with religion. Yes I believe that “God” exists in some kind of cosmic sense. What I do not accept is an invisible, bearded man in the sky who spoke only to the ancients, who then authored holy and infallible books while simultaneously believing that the world was flat. I do not believe that the world is 6,000 years old. I do not believe that man coexisted with dinosaurs. I believe that it is dangerous to even entertain such nonsense.

What I do believe is that the “theory” of evolution is beyond challenge. Yes, the verdict is now in. Even at life’s tiniest level, bacteria evolve from day to day, placing mankind in a constant struggle to create antibiotics that will keep us one step ahead of disaster.

On the other hand, I do have an instinctive sense that “God” provides divine inspiration. Perhaps mankind’s most moving musical piece is the Ninth Symphony, but it was written by Ludwig Von Beethoven when he was totally deaf. Indeed, anything that we call art seems to have its roots buried in some kind of divine plane.

Perhaps the meaning of life cannot be stated in words. Perhaps the meaning of life must simply be felt in order to be experienced. Perhaps it is revealed in great books that challenge the order of things. Catcher in the Rye, The Grapes of Wrath. Or in great films: Cinema Paradiso, 2001 A Space Odyssey.

But whenever I feel that I am coming close to grasping the meaning of life, it somehow slips away. Perhaps to contemplate the meaning of life, we have to release our minds to a higher, esoteric level and abandon the rules of life that have been ingrained in us since childhood. The ways of the world have been taught to us since we emerged from the womb. But without challenge, they may also mark the prison from which we have to escape.

For example, the ancients thought that the earth was the center of the universe. And why not? And from our position on the ground, it certainly looks that way - except for the seemingly erratic movement of what we now know to be planets. But in the middle ages, planets were just pesky little stars that just wouldn’t stay put. Of course such movement is easily explained by challenging the order of things; that the earth is just another planet revolving around the sun. But once upon a time, that was not something you would want to say in public.

For the past century or so, we have viewed religion and science as being at odds with on another. And guess what? They are. The creation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden now seems much less plausible than the existence of genetic blueprints and DNA. But truth has its own beauty, and so in the end, I suspect it will be scientists rather than theologians who will unlock the mystery of “God.” Someday we may even unlock the mystery of aging and conquer death itself. But I am sixty years old and such a discovery is unlikely to happen before I need it.

No, I will die and presumably meet my maker. Since I’ve lived a fairly good life, I expect to obtain admission to this place called heaven. And once that happens, I have a plan. I’m going to hang around the Pearly Gates and acquire a feel for the lay of the land. Sooner or later St. Peter is going to need to take a break. When that happens, I’m going to swing the gates wide open.

Good news everybody. You’re all getting in.

DINER

There is a certain kind of diner that keeps appearing in the movies.

The layout of the diner is always the same. The diner is long and narrow. It is always on a commercial street and the length of the diner runs parallel with the street. It is invariably marked by a bright, neon sign. In the movies, it is usually raining when a customer enters the diner.

The insider of the diner is separated by an aisle. On one side of the aisle are booths. The booths extend the entire length of the diner and they face the windows. Everybody sitting at a booth has a clear view of the street outside. On the other side of the aisle is a counter. The counter also runs the entire length of the diner. Customers who are flying solo sit on stools and are served by a uniformed waitress on the opposite side of the counter. In the movies, she is always pouring coffee. She also writes the customer's order down on a tablet. She tears the top page off the tablet and puts it on a carousel, where a cook grabs it and fills the order. Later this very same piece of paper serves as a bill or check. Nobody needs a computer in these places and one senses that the IRS doesn't care much about the money coming in or going out. The food is probably good and maybe the IRS agents eat there. They don't want to shut it down.

I am aware of no diners of this type in the Chicagoland area.

Covenant Marriage (And Divorce)

It is my understanding that States of Louisiana, Arizona and Arkansas allow for a second, super-duper form of marriage called “Covenant Marriage.” While I am no expert on such things, I understand that couples opting for Covenant Marriage are really stuck with one another because the grounds for divorce in a Covenant Marriage are much fewer.

In theory at least, Covenant Marriage is really wedlock.

In 2001 the Census Bureau announced that the average length of a first marriage in the United States was about 8 years. Supposedly the overall divorce rate for all first marriages was somewhere around 40%. But here is an interesting statistic: the 30% level was not reached until the 18th year of marriage and the 40% level was only approached by the 50th year of marriage.

Fifty year-old marriages going down the tubes. Is nothing sacred? I guess not.

Incredibly the divorce rate for second and third marriages is even higher, suggesting we are either an unsatisfied or masochistic species.

Anyway, Covenant Marriage will supposedly put an end to all of this roaming. Or will it?

You see lawyers and judges know something that most of the general population does not: divorce in America is an illusion. Just as the marriage was never permanent, neither is the divorce. Divorce simply redefines the relationship between the parties rather than end it. In other words, no handcuffs are taken off when the judge signs the decree. Instead the case is assigned to a post-decree courtroom where the fighting and name-calling will continue in a different forum. The divorced couples continue to wear handcuffs. The only difference is that they have a referee.

So instead of “Covenant Marriage” I am now proposing a new legal concept: Covenant Divorce.

In Covenant Divorce, the handcuffs truly come off. There will no longer be any contact whatsoever between the formerly married parties. None. No visits, no phone calls, no e-mails, no texts. All prohibited.

Just peace, quiet and everybody going on with their lives.

A BIG F***ING DEAL

This has been a very good week for me.

First, my daughter has been accepted into three graduate schools including the school that had been her first choice. She will also receive a prestigious scholarship. Now she can march forward with her goal to become a clinical psychologist. Most of all, she wants to help people and improve the world. What would be better than that?

Second, Barack Obama, finally became presidential with both the health care reform victory and the arms reduction treaty with Russia. At last I am seeing the man that I voted for. His autographed photograph hangs in my office and is not coming down anytime soon.

To borrow a bit from Joe Biden, this has been a good f***ing week.

Gerry Spence

Perhaps the greatest living trial lawyer in America is Gerry Spence of Jackson, Wyoming.

But why is this the case? What is Spence’s special gift? How did Gerry Spence become to trial practice what Albert Einstein was once to physics?

Reasonable minds might disagree on the source of Spence’s courtroom talent. Some point to his strong personality and imposing physical presence. Others believe that Spence’s power lies in his deep voice, which he plays like a musical instrument. Then there is Spence’s use of psychodrama as a trial preparation tool. Perhaps all of these have played some role in his success. But I think Spence’s genius lies in his creativity. He always seems to find a unique and different way of looking at a case. Then he communicates his vision so effectively to the jury that they are compelled to share in it. Gerry Spence never loses.

The truth is that most lawyers try cases in a very predictable manner. Their minds have been programmed to work that way. They prepare for trial in almost an assembly line fashion, much in the same way that cars are built. Yes, they might have been told the value of storytelling and the necessity of developing a trial theme, but often the chosen theme is so obvious and predictable that a fifth grader could have thought of it while walking home from school. Gerry Spence never makes this mistake. His themes are custom designed. They invoke emotions of righteous indignation. They are arrows to the heart.

Gerry Spence once tried a case against McDonalds in Chicago that involved the breach of an oral agreement for the sale of ice cream cones. Most lawyers probably would have turned that case down. Who in this day and age could even imagine the concept of an oral agreement involving millions of dollars? To the contrary, we live in a time in which important contracts are not only reduced to writing but have grown to the length of short novels, rife with definitions, obligations, exceptions to the obligations and then exceptions to the exceptions. To suggest the existence of an oral agreement with a major corporation the size of McDonalds almost hinted of naivety. But Spence looked at the issue in a different way. He reached into the past, to a time when a man’s word was considered to be his bond. And then he asked the jury to “put honor back into a handshake.” They did: $52,000,000.00 worth. It was, at the time, the highest verdict in the history of the State of Illinois.

More recently Gerry Spence defended attorney Geoffrey Fieger, who stood accused of violating campaign contribution laws. It was claimed that Fieger illegally circumvented federal limits on campaign contributions by having other people make donations to the John Edward’s presidential campaign, after which Fieger would provide reimbursement for the donations. The trial judge ruled that this amounted to a violation of the law, and on the surface at least, the case seemed incapable of defense. But as usual, Spence found the Achilles heel. No crime could have been committed if Fieger did not know that he was violating the law. And there was nothing in the language of the Act that specifically prohibited reimbursement. From this chip in the armor, Spence built his defense. He compared the prosecution to a police officer writing tickets to motorists for disobeying traffic signs that did not have anything written upon them. He talked about housewives, without any income, being prosecuted for making political donations to candidates simply because their husbands gave them the money to do so. He compared the government’s over-zealous arrest of Fieger to the now discredited “shock and awe” invasion of Iraq in 2003. He noted that many decisions of the United States Supreme Court were decided by a five to four vote, suggesting that reasonable minds can disagree as to a law’s meaning. Not surprisingly, Fieger was acquitted on all counts.

Of course this all leads to a bigger question of whether creativity can be taught, and learned. I don’t know the answer. But I do know that to the trial lawyer, creativity is life’s golden goose.