I didn't plan to post anything else about the Cubs today.  I almost didn't even read this article -- I've read plenty enough about last night's game, so did I need one more?  But my recently-mentioned friend Eric Boardman sent me the link to a piece in the Washington Post, and I'm glad I clicked.  That's because I immediately saw it was by Thomas Boswell, who's my favorite baseball writer.  (As I told Eric, I almost added, "probably my favorite," but then realized that's wrong.) 

Boswell (and what an appropriate name is that for a writer) has written numerous books (that are collections of his Washington Post columns) on a variety of sports, but he shines with baseball.  Two of his books leap out -- How Life Imitates the World Series and Why Time Begins on Opening Day.  If you do love baseball, I can't recommend these enough.  (And since they're both a few decades old, the available price for each can be found for as low as a penny -- plus shipping -- depending on the quality of the copy.)

He's a gem of a writer.  Conversant, matter-off-fact, full of stories, and eloquent.  One of my favorite of his columns is the masterful, "99 Reasons Why Baseball is Better Than Football."  One reason is -- "The poet Marianne Moore loved pitcher Christy Mathewson.  No woman of quality has ever preferred football to baseball."  Another reason is -- "Listening to a car radio on a summer night."

One of my favorite of his lines in another article is when he writes that people always wonder what a manager says to a pitcher when going out to the mound when the player has gotten into a jam, and figure it has to be something like, "Babe Ruth is dead.  Throw strikes."

This article about yesterday's game is pure Boswell.  Conversant, matter-of-fact, full of stories and eloquent.  I even suspect people who don't follow baseball might like it, because it's about more than the game, but about the perspective of things.

You can read it here.

And as long as I'm posting at the moment, I figure I might as well add a couple of photos which I just came across today.

This first was sent to me by my cousin Peter Leviton (who I believe was instrumental in the Cubs success as he was on the field during the team's recent reconstruction of Wrigley, as the Cubs' fortunes began to turn, of which I posted a photo here).  His son Eric -- also my cousin, of course... -- went down to Wrigley Field last night and took some photos of the festivities after the game.  Somehow, he's a White Sox fan, but he at least had the good sense to be part of history and appreciate it.  (By the way, I'm really impressed that there was no car-turning or rampaging after the pennant-clinching win last night, just pure joy throughout the city.)
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And also, here's evidence that one change which won't be a carryover from the Obama Administration if Hillary Clinton wins. He's a White Sox fan - she however is a lifelong Cubs fan! (And even threw out first pitch at Wrigley Field when she was First Lady.) 

Here she is last night when one of her Cubs-fan aides, Connolly Keigher, was live-streaming the game, and gave Clinton an instant replay of final out.

For reasons best-attributed to nothing but whimsy or perhaps kismet, I recently have come across a couple of graphics that I thought were extremely clever, and both had connections to slogans from the 1960s. I'll get around to posting each, and here's the first.

There are a series of photos which are making the rounds of the Internet these days, and they are just too freaking adorable and wonderful not to bring to your attention.

Allan Dixon is an adventurer based in Australia who travels the world and, among other things takes photos of animals.  No big deal, I know, but so many of these photos are selfies with the animals, and they're just...well, otherworldly.  Here's just one example --
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And most of the rest are almost just as wonderful.  Really.  I'm not exaggerating. 

Like this one, for example. 

There was a nice tribute to Leonard Nimoy from outerspace on his passing Friday.  This was tweeted by Terry Virts from the International Space Station.

The return has been completed.  I got in a little while ago from lovely Primm, Nevada, and have unpacked and slightly decompressed.

It's always odd leaving from Primm, because you're in the middle of the desert (literally) and so expect it to be hot, but not only is it not -- I'm particularly talking about the morning, when I leave -- but it's often been nippy.  I don't mean nippy by "And this is the desert" standards, I mean...one year there was frost covering all my car's windows and I had to scrape it off and then defrost them.

It always can get chilly in the evenings (when I head out to the Mad Greek for dinner), but even beginning in the late afternoon.  Yesterday, the afternoon was fine -- quite comfortable, in fact -- but one year was blistering, and (not expecting it and having left my jacket in the trunk), there was a lot of fast running-around.

Mind you, I don't mean to compare this to sub-zero Chicago winters, or the blizzards hitting the east.  But most especially when you're in the desert and aren't acclimated to the cold, frost-weather does come as quite a nippy surprise.

The drive back was fine.  The first part through the California foothills is fairly nice (it's a bit dull for the first half hour, but then picks up), but driving through Victorville is unappealing and the first heads-up that you're gong to leave the desert behind pretty soon.  And then the last 45 minutes is pretty annoying.  You've left pure nature behind, traffic almost suddenly becomes crowded, and the "architecture" of encroaching civilization is fairly disorganized, almost like it wants to be somewhere, but they couldn't figure it out and so threw a bunch of buildings and unrelenting billboards down at random.   At that point, you just can't wait to get home.  Only near the end, though even more crowded, is there at least a sense of "place."  That's not saying a lot, but happily it's enough.

There's one point on the trip after Victorville, though, that's absolutely gorgeous -- though for years terrified me.  That's the area of the El Cajon Pass.  You're pretty high up in the foothills and make your very-winding descent down.  And sometimes if you're lucky (or not, depending on your perspective) you're near a low-hanging cloud cover.

Here are a couple of pictures I took my year after finishing grad school at UCLA.  I'd gone back home for the summer and then drove back from Chicago to start my post-grad life in Los Angeles.  When I hit the Pass, I was so taken that I pulled far off to the side and took a couple of photos.  These don't do it justice, but will have to do, if only for the "historic" factor.  Keep in mind that these were before digital photos, I had a cheesy little camera, the pictures faded after years, gathered some dust and then got digitized.

And then turning back a bit and to the left, you'll see what I meant by the low-hanging cloud cover.  When I say "low-hanging," I actually meant it...

Anyway, the reason the El Cajon Pass terrifies me is that you're near a huge drop-off (though, yes, there's a railing), and it's incredibly winding, like I said -- and drivers just keep zipping along as if it's a straight-old interstate.  The most horrifying year was during a rainstorm, and California drivers, unused to rain, I guess, kept barreling along as always, at their oblivious 70 MPH.  I moved over the right slow-lane with the trucks and was happy as a clam at about 25 MPH.

A close second in the Utterly Terrifying category (and when I think about it, it sometimes nudges into first place) is when I did the drive at night.  Again, remember, this is very winding.  And also, I have night blindness.  I can see, but not great, and my depth perception is  off.  So, I tend to try to remember to wear glasses in the dark.  It's far better.  Though I don't always remember.  And I didn't on this trip.  I hadn't factored in the El Cajon Pass -- and drivers whizzing along at 70 MPH.  And this was before the "Rain Trip," so I hadn't factored in the slow lane, either and was in the middle.  I swear to you that I was frozen in my seat.  My arms stiff, hands vice-like gripping to the wheel, my jaw and teeth clenched and heart palpitating all the way down (it takes a couple of minutes).  Unable (or more a case of unwilling) to look over my shoulder to get in the right lane and slow down.  It was horrific.  And it was the last time I made the trip at night.

What I did do, though, is mark down exactly how many miles it is to get to the El Cajon Pass from Primm.  (It's 155 miles, for those keep score.)  And now, when I reach about the 152 mile mark, I begin to get in the right, slow lane with all the trucks and calmly plod along at around 40 MPH surrounded by my trucker buddies -- as the cars to our left zooooom past at 70 MPH.  Even still, when you're out of the Pass and the ground levels out, it's one of more pacific and beatific moments of driving that I have, anywhere.

Alas, I really can't find a picture online to do it justice, but this is the closest I can get --

And then he decompressed...

Some photos simply don't need anything to be said about them.  Or you can't think of something to say that would add to the picture.  In this case, all I can think of is -- Surf's up!

I'm a couple of nights behind watching Ken Burn's documentary series on The Roosevelts,  So it was nice to see last evening the first mention of Franklin and Eleanor's home at Campobello.  I had the opportunity to visit there when I was working on the movie Pet Sematary, which was shooting in Ellsworth, Maine.

On my days off, while most crews on location tended to prefer to crash, I liked to explore the area as much as possible.  One day, while planning my upcoming Sunday, I was perusing the map and noticed something called Campobello Island.  The name being so odd, I figured it had to be the Roosevelt estate, and it was.  I was boggled because I had no idea that it was in Maine.  I didn't even have any idea that it was on an island.  Pretty much all I knew about it was from having matched the classic movie Sunrise at Campobello, based on Dore Schary's play about Franklin Roosevelt contracting polio there and his rehabilitation and re-entry into politics.  So, knowing how historic this place was, there was no way I wouldn't go there.  Though I couldn't get anyone to join me.

It's a gorgeous drive up there, and a magnificent ride over the bridge to the island.  But the biggest shock to me was that it's not listed on the map as a "National Park," but rather...an "International Park."  It turns out -- Campobello Island is not in the United States!  It's in Canada.

And for anyone who doesn't believe that -- check out the Canadian and American flags.

Inside, the rooms seemed fairly small, it was all very intimate.  But very elegant in a rustic way and extremely charming.  

Most views I think that people see of Campobello are this above, but I do like to wander, so rather than just going into the house itself, I headed across the huge lawn which angles downward, and I walked to the edge of the property below.

So, this is the view of Campobello that you usually don't get...

Actually, though, I'll take this a step (or several steps...) further.  I suspect that most people tend to make the drive across the bridge specifically and solely to see the house.  They tour inside, note its charm and then head back to the mainland and the United States.

But I figured, hey, I made the long trip up here, probably a 3-4 hour drive in each direction.  And this is an island after all, so why not actually wander around the island and see what the entire area is like.  Beside which, this is all part of what takes a historic and particularly iconic location and makes it live as a real place that breathes on its own.

Campobello Island a fairly small place, and hasn't been built up much at all.  Being very far out of the way -- that's no understatement, when you head off onto the bridge, you're in about as far northeast as you can get in the U.S. -- it's all incredibly provincial up there.  It's not that you're in Canada -- and out in the ocean, at that -- but you're pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

So, this then is the island part of Campobello Island that most people have never seen.  Friar's Bay, it's known as.  And yes, most of the day up there was in the fog.  I suspect that most of most days up there are, as well.  It was therefore a very generous thing that Dore Schary did for the people there, naming his play Sunrise at Campobello.  Because without the title, you might never know...

On Thursday, I wrote about the Baha'i Temple in Wilmette, Illinois, one of eight in the world, and include a photograph of the majestic structure.

Reader Fred Nachman sent along a photo of another of the temples, this one from Haifa.  As what appears from the two pictures, and what another reader Keith Kretchmer subsequently noted, all the Baha'i Temples, while from a similar foundation, have a different design.

A few thoughts come to mind when looking at this structure and the surrounding grounds.

1.  This is one jaw-dropping gorgeous building and setting.  Those Baha'is sure know how to design for a sense of majesty.

2.  This might be a magnificent temple, but can you catch the El to Wrigley Field and a Cubs game from here?  I think not.  Score one for the temple in Wilmette.

3.  If you wanted to build a house of worship that was sure to the scare off the reform, moderate or even conservative practitioners of your religion from ever attending services and guaranteed to only attract the most all-encompassing, whirling-dervishly devout, this is how you'd design it.

Okay, here's another in my occasional ongoing series of "Photos I Took at the Art Institute of Chicago of Great Paintings."  This is The Herring Net by Winslow Homer, a work I've always loved.  Very atmospheric and rich in its colors which, not surprisingly, are much more vibrant in person.  That said, while I know that Winslow Homer did the hard work here, it's much too easy to dismiss the fine craft that goes into finding the painting in the museum, patiently waiting until all stragglers leave the view, framing your camera lens properly, and actually taking the picture.  And so, with that in mind, here is my collaboration with Winslow Homer.

As the saying goes, the first three rules of real estate are location, location, location.  But sometimes, it still doesn't make any sense.

The other day I was driving along the lake just north of Chicago in the 'burbs, and got out of my car to take a picture of a local landmark which, in all my years here on the North Shore, I'd never photographed before.

A very brief backstory.

When I was growing up, there were only three Baha'i Temples in the world.  Today, there are more, but just barely, still a mere eight.  That's not a whole lot of houses of worship for an international religion.  If you've ever seen a picture of a Baha'i Temple, you can see they're magnificent structures, but however gloriously you build it, that's still hardly many.  And not only are they few, but they're  dotted in exotic or obscure locales around the globe, like Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, and Kampala, Uganda, and Delhi, India.

And for reasons I've never been able to understand -- in Wilmette, Illinois.  On Sheridan Road, bordering Lake Michigan

As far as I can tell, the North Shore suburbs of Chicago is not, nor has ever been (nor likely will ever be) a hot bed of the Baha'i faithful.  Sheridan Road borders Lake Michigan which is laden with old-money mansions.  The El that takes you to Wrigley Field is four blocks away.  My high school, New Trier, is about a mile north.  If you watched the original Bob Newhart Show, when Dr. Hartley left his exclusive high-rise in the opening credits, that luxury complex of apartment buildings was just down the road

And in the midst of all that was, at the time, one of only three ultra-magnificent Baha'i Temples on earth.

Seriously, I have no idea what they were thinking.  Maybe they spun a globe and threw a dart.

Mind you, I've always been glad it was there.  It was always a joy to drive along the winding Sheridan Road and see the tip of the temple's dome peek through the trees, and then as you curved around the street, this majestic structure from another time would loom up.

For reasons that I assume are not shocking, we always referred to this as the Giant Orange Juice Squeezer.

Over all the many years I've driven past the Baha'i Temple, I only went in once.  There may have been other rooms for worshiping or meeting, but all I remember is just one big open room and a very high view upward.  It was a fascinating combination of simple and ornate -- the design was meticulous and gorgeous (as you might suspect), but it was fairly barebones.  I also don't recall any clergy "officials" there, though I'd think there had to have been.  But it was all very low-key, and meditative.

I only mention this all so that the next time you're planning to go to Tiapapata, Samoa, to visit a Baha'i Temple, just know there's one closer.

You can't miss it.  It's right across the street from Gillson Park.