Surprise is a central element of horror. The monster that is merely scary emerging from a creepy bog is terrifying when it lunges out of the pink and blue cabinet in the baby’s nursery.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Dowd has been slipping herself lately, devoting a Bob-like run of three columns to her snit with Barneys department store. And she hands nearly a quarter of her July 7 column over to her old friend Bob, who she says is “writing a book on the foibles, feelings and fears of turning 50.”
The Bob-is-nearly-50 book would explain why this month Bob has been a one-man Franklin Mint of nostalgia, cranking up his normal keen for the past until it reaches the full-throated wail of an Iraqi funeral.
“In your mother’s America, a baker’s dozen meant 13,” says Bob, dropping his head back to let loose a bellow of pain. “In America the Downsized, don’t be surprised if a baker’s dozen eventually means 11.”
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): Illustration of Bob Greene wearing chef’s hat by Jeff Heller.
