What does it mean to be a man? I've been giving that some thought since my son turns 21 next week. Part of being a man is figuring out what it means to be a man?#34;and not letting society impose its version on you. Besides, the guidebook is no longer in print.
Some people just can't help messing with your mind. Take Chicago a cappella, the nine-voice group that sings?#34;as you'd expect?#34;without instrumental accompaniment. The name will stay the same, but for the first time this Saturday evening at Unity Temple, the singers will have some non-human company.
Striving to stay current with the latest trends in cooking can become tiresome, especially for a cook long dedicated to the view that truly satisfying cuisine is usually uncomplicated, always consistent and always excellent. It's what I call classic. I never tire of it.
Perhaps you recall a television show called Meeting of Minds where Steve Allen would interview actors playing famous figures from history. Most often Allen's "guests" lived in different periods and places and couldn't possibly have known one another during their actual lifetimes.
Everybody plays the fool ... sometime. Last week was my turn. I ran what I thought was a very dramatic tsunami photo from the Internet with an article about a disaster relief effort by an ex-Oak Parker in Indonesia [The village trustee, the explorer, and the tsunami, p. 19].
When you're single, the marketing of holidays seems a cruel ploy to amplify your loneliness, your sense of being detached. Just when you thought it was safe to crawl out of hiding after the one-two punch of Christmas and New Year's Eve, along comes the final February blow.
Ruth S. McLaren, senior vice president, Community Bank Oak Park-River Forest, was named one of the 50 most influential women in banking by US BANKER magazine, a national publication of the financial services industry.
Not long after 5 p.m., the students in Stephanie Clemens' Thursday evening ballet class began shuffling in one by one. Distilled out of the chaos in the hallwayâ€"a flashing din of moms and siblings and snow boots and bookbagsâ€"10-year-old Alex Schorsch gabbed with Max Gorgol, and Christopher Gaumond meandered the length of the room, humming to himself.