Salad as concept

     Think of a table. Now imagine it without a top. Or legs.
     No, seriously, imagine it. Right now. I'll wait.
     Doo-dah doo-doo. Doo ta doo...
     Done? Good. What have you got in mind? Nothing? The disembodied idea of a table? Congratulations, you're a philosopher, grappling with a problem that has vexed great minds since Plato, who talked about pure forms, which he considered divine. A chair in the messy physical world can have splinters and be missing a leg — and at some point, played with enough, becomes a stool, or a bed.  But the idea of a chair ... pristine. Perfect.
     Now look at the above photo of S & S's "Wild Maine Salad." I had walked into the deli with a hankering for my standard deli fare, a corned beef sandwich on rye. Maybe hot pastrami — my wife likes that better, and as the star at the center of my world, has drawn me toward her tastes, in the corned-beef-vs.-pastrami question, as in all things.
     But I scanned the menu, and noticed this salad. I'm a sucker for salads — eat one for lunch at least four days a week, sometimes more. And I'm a sucker for fresh mozzarella, blueberries. I can get good corned beef at Max & Benny's or Kaufman's or Manny's when I'm in the vicinity. When in Rome, and all that.
    I'm not complaining about this salad, which was indeed very good. Lunch had been a corn muffin and coffee, so I was hungry and ate every bite. But I did take a photo of it first — feeling a little ridiculous, because taking pictures of your meal has become a rube move, like lauding your host's indoor plumbing. "Why am I doing this?" I wondered. "I'm never sharing this or writing about it."
    Wrong. Look at the photo. Anything ... not quite missing, but in far less abundance than one might expect? Almost completely obscured by the chicken and the blueberries and the candied pecans? That right: lettuce. The thing had hardly any lettuce at all. An inversion of what I had expected — I mound of nuts with a garnish of lettuce, instead of the other way around.
     Is it still a salad then? What if the kitchen had left out lettuce out entirely? Would it still be a salad — a salad of chicken and nuts and blueberries? Why not? A scoop of chicken salad has no lettuce yet we call it salad. What is meant by the word "salad" anyway? The Oxford definition is: "a cold dish of various mixtures of raw or cooked vegetables, usually seasoned with oil, vinegar, or other dressing and sometimes accompanied by meat, fish, or other ingredients."
     So the vegetables are key, definitional — without them it's something else, and while the lettuce was there, its minimal nature begins to make us question whether the term even applies. Although ... why "green salad" then if salads are always green? Maybe the mistake is mine, a strong bias toward lettuce, which I do use in abundance. I've ordered salads with extra lettuce.

    Okay.  There can be a thin line between rumination and rambling, so I should wrap this up. But it's interesting to reflect on at what point does one thing transform into another? When does a salad change into an antipasto tray? A table into a chair. Day into night. A democracy turn into a dictatorship. The change can be so gradual you hardly notice, though I imagine it will come the way Hemingway famously wrote about bankruptcy: gradually then suddenly.

'Crime of the century,' a century later

Nathan Leopold (left) with attorney Clarence Darrow (center) and Richard Loeb 

    Chicago wasn't safe.
    Ghastly crimes regularly occurred, even in upscale neighborhoods like Hyde Park. The body of a murdered University of Chicago student was dumped at 58th and Kimbark. A young man went out to mail a letter and disappeared, his bloated corpse washing up on the beach at 64th Street a month later. A cab driver stepped from a streetcar at 55th and Dorchester, was jumped, etherized, and castrated — two other men were similarly maimed by "gland pirates" feeding the market for a quack testicle rejuvenation therapy popular at the time.
     And then 14-year-old Bobby Franks disappeared, on May 21, 1924 — 100 years ago Tuesday. Coaxed into a car near 49th and Ellis, then bludgeoned with a chisel wrapped in tape, his body doused with acid to hide his identity before being hidden in a culvert.
     Why has should that particular crime should echoed for 100 years while the others, equally horrible, faded? Why all the books and movies? The mystery didn't last long — 10 days. Suspicion quickly fell to a pair of teenage University of Chicago graduate students, Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb. Self-described intellectual "supermen," they turned out to be lousy criminals. Leopold dropped his distinctive prescription eyeglasses near the boy's body. The two promptly confessed.
     Motivation made the crime stand out. Not the usual jealousy or hate or financial need, but to stave off boredom. Asked what gave them the idea, Leopold replied, "pure love of excitement, or the imaginary love of thrills, doing something different.”
     The crime had class overtones — both boys' parents were multi-millionaires. There was sex — Leopold and Loeb had a relationship and might have assaulted Franks.
     That both murderers were Jewish fed the attention in a nation rife with antisemitism. "Once again Jewish degeneracy and anti-Christianity have done their work in America,” the Ku Klux Klan's American Standard declared.
     That their victim was also Jewish — Loeb's cousin, in fact — provided the American Jewish community with relief; had he been a Christian boy kidnapped and killed, it was thought, the ancient blood libel would have surely flared up again.
     Having the effervescent Clarence Darrow as their attorney arguing to spare them from execution certainly helped set the trial in history.
     It made a difference that the case unfolded in Chicago, with its six aggressive daily newspapers. Two of them, the morning Herald and Examiner and the Evening American, were sensational sheets owned by William Randolph Hearst.

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An easy choice

     I doubt that my friends would describe me as "easygoing."
     But I do know when it's time to just shrug and go with the flow.
     Circumstances demanded that I kill a few hours on Saturday. I had a book to read, but needed someplace to sit, plus food of some sort — it was 1 p.m., past my lunchtime. So I walked over to a donut shop, and was confronted with the tableau above. 

     The clerk was apologetic, at first. And then when she saw me taking a photo, a little defensive. They'd had plenty of donuts at 5 a.m., she said, when they opened. Now, not so much. I didn't want to give her a hard time.
     "Hmmm," I said, pondering my options. "I think I'll have a corn muffin." 

     

Lunch at 12 noon on a Monday

   

     An acquaintance suggested meeting for lunch, mentioning her expense account.     "We could do a basic Rosebud on Randolph or Chicago Cut," she wrote. "I’ve never been to NoMI, and we might get a glimpse of George Lucas and Mellody Hobson and their $33M condo. Or we could go more casual – Labriola, Purple Pig or a dive Irish pub."
     I've been to all those places, including a dive Irish pub or four. And I once sat next to George Lucas at RL. The experience was underwhelming. So I countered with an idea of my own: Gene & Georgetti. I like to meet people there because the food is good, the memories thick, the service excellent, and I feel as if I'm supporting a cherished Chicago institution. She agreed.
     We met at 12 noon a few Mondays ago. I gasped walking in. The room was empty, but for a couple guys doing paperwork at the bar. The only actual customer was my friend, at the corner table, by the plaque of Dominic DiFrisco. How many times had Dominic and I sat at that very table while I tried to explain how smart it would be for the Italian-Americans to let go of the Columbus millstone that was pulling them down. Name the drive after Enrico Fermi. He had the advantage of not only living in Chicago, for a time, but splitting the fuckin' atom, a discover on par with Columbus's. Be done with it. Move on.     No go — some people never consider changing themselves, not when it's so much easier to try to change the entire world instead.

     I'd planned on ordering my go-to meal — speaking of never changing — what used to be called a "Steak sandwich" but was actually a hunk of filet mignon on a piece of toast. Or a pork chop. But I just wasn't very hungry, so went for a classic — the iceberg wedge salad, blue cheese dressing, thick bacon. Hard to go wrong with that. It tasted better than its picture looks.
     I also snapped a few photos of the emptiness, and tweeted one out. I paused, beforehand, wondering if I would be causing embarrassment to the owners. But then decided that tough times require bold acts.
     "Gene & Georgetti at 12 noon Monday," I wrote. "C’mon Chicago, get your asses in here. The food’s still fantastic."
    Honestly, I didn't think much of it, certainly didn't check up on how my message was doing online. You tie a note to a balloon, set it off in the wind, you don't go chasing after it to see how it fares. Later in the day, a friend from New York sent me a screenshot of the tweet: 77,000 views. Quite a lot for a snapshot of a restaurant. The next day it was over 100,000, with 100 comments. As I rule, don't read the comments on X — keep the poison out — but now I was curious. Who was retweeting this 70 times, and why?
     "I don’t wanna get robbed as I’m eating my food. I’ll stay in the suburbs thanks." said FMC.
     "If you don't get mugged on your way in you are unlikely to afford the food anyway," wrote Gator. "Know who you vote for."
     The salad I ordered, I should note, cost $17. Which is not the cheapest plate of lettuce available, but no head-spinning extravagance, not for someone with a job. Besides, she paid.
     To be fair: some observations were reasonable.     "Had dinner there not too long back," wrote Dave Miska. "Absolutely fantastic."     "No one is in the office on Monday. Re shoot this tomorrow" wrote one — that's true.     But most evoked some imaginary nightmare Chicago of their fever dreams, all dysfunction and chaos.
     "Trains don’t run enough," wrote Sean Alcock. "Driving? Not driving 35 minutes to get 3.5 miles from home to the Mart."
     Funny, because I took the 10:33 in from Northbrook just fine.
     I could go on, but you get the point. I just don't get it. How bitter and angry do you have to be to spend your time mocking a city you don't live in? (I don't live in it either, but I don't sit around catcalling the place). I mean, I've spent time in struggling cities — Port au Prince, Haiti, comes to mind. Spent about three weeks there, on two trips, years ago. They have real problems. I'd never jump online and start tweeting, "Ha ha! Some 'Pearl of the Antilles YOU are! Controlled by gangs much? Why don't you..."     I don't like to even pretend doing that. It's such a bad look. A "self-own," where your supposed criticism indicts you far more than it does the thing you're criticizing.       Media maven Dave Lundy summed it up best.
     "Wow, @NeilSteinberg some of these comments are amazing," he wrote. "It's almost like so many on the right are a bunch of snowflakes afraid of their own shadows. C'mon downtown. There everyday. It's just fine. And Tuesday through Thursdays restaurants are packed. Lots of tourists."     Right you are Dave. I don't want to be a pollyanna. Chicago is a city with problems — a hollowed out city center, faltering population, a clueless mayor who's literally running away from his responsibilities, police force curled into a defensive ball. We can't keep people from smoking on the Red Line or shooting at each other in places where people did not used to shoot each other.     But what place doesn't have problems? The question is, how are those troubles being faced? I walked from Union Station to 500 N. Franklin and back, at a slow pace. Nobody so much as glanced crossly at me, an older gent with a white goatee, shuffling along. I stopped at Atlas Stationers, bought a pricy pen, gave $5 to a woman with a baby. Sad that people are wetting themselves in Florida at the thought of doing this.
     You can read the thread — now at almost 140,000 views — here.

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Sorry, Ken — Chicagoans will call the Museum of Science and Industry what they please

     Last year, the Oriental Institute, having tried getting by with the abbreviation "OI," finally changed its name to the inclusive if wordy "Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures, West Asia & North Africa."
     This Sunday, the Museum of Science & Industry, or MSI for short, officially changes its name to the Kenneth C. Griffin Museum of Science and Industry.
     One door opens, another closes.
     "We are thrilled to announce our official new identity," wrote Brianna Wellen, communications specialist at the — for a few hours yet — Museum of Science and Industry.
     They can't be too thrilled. The new name was bought for $125 million by Florida financier Kenneth C. Griffin back in 2019. I wish the five-year delay represented reluctance by the MSI brass to recast themselves in tribute to a right-wing greedhead who fled Illinois for the more welcoming political environment of Florida. But given the place's responsiveness on non-naming matters, like bomb scares, it's probably just characteristic foot-dragging. A newlywed announcing she's taking her spouse's name in five years would be suspected of lack of enthusiasm.

     As to whether "Griffin" is the sort of slur that "Oriental" has become, well, that depends on your politics. To MAGA types who consider Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis bold for banning abortion and dragooning frightened immigrants into transcontinental political theater, the Griffin name might class up the joint and balance that scary, disreputable word "science."
     To me, "Griffin" echoes with the shriek of fear heard from Chicago expats who sit at keyboards in the Sunshine State and exult over each new strong-arm robbery in Uptown.
     Though I'm not broken up by the name change. First, because the future KCGMSI has bigger problems. If you've ever visited a proper science museum, such as the Science Museum in London or the Exploratorium in San Francisco or the Ontario Science Center (all of which muddle forward without plutocrat branding), you realize just how far from the mark we fall here.

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Not going anywhere

     Peter Baker has covered the White House for the New York Times under five presidents, and it shows. Stare into that supernova of power too long and ... what's the saying? Too much light makes the baby go blind.
     His May 5 article, "Gallows Humor and Talk of Escape: Trump’s Possible Return Rattles Capital" shows how a supposedly unbiased publication with the Times can be tone deaf and trivializing toward our moment of extreme national peril.
     Granted, the story lays out its meager ambitions in the opening sentence: "It has become the topic of the season at Washington dinner parties and receptions. Where would you go if it really happens?" and then talks to a smattering of insiders encountered at those soirees, asking them where they would flee if Trump were re-elected. Portugal, Australia and Canada are popular destinations.
      To be fair, the hollowness of past vows to escape overseas is mentioned. And the story ends with a scholar at the Middle East Institute promising to stay onboard the ship, bailing with all his might, even as it settles under the waters of totalitarianism.
     But that isn't exactly balance. It's not enough. Far, far more people are going to stay put, and fight like hell, and have no intention of giving up on this country, ever. When do they get their story in the New York Times? Let me guess: never.

      No matter. We don't need the Times to validate what we know to be true. There is a reader in Florida I sometimes trade emails with, and we had this exchange on Tuesday after he wrote to me in reaction to "Heads I win, tails you lose," my column on Trump's efforts to skew the election. 
     "I fear for this nation like never before," wrote Steve H. "I’d be one of the first to go ... Toronto may be the place to be. I really fear this election. Politics has already divided my family and it’s invaded my faith. I’m tired. I’m tired of the pointless hatred and nonsense. I wonder if Toronto would be far enough."
     I thought about that, and tried to respond firmly but sincerely.
     "Obviously, you haven't spent much time in Toronto," I wrote. "Forgive me for chiding you, but to even consider running away makes us the cowards that the right already considers us as being. I plan to stay, write whatever I can, resist however I can, even if that means suffering repercussions. I can't imagine a greater accolade than to be sent to prison by the second Trump administration. It' would be my crowning achievement. I encourage you to reconsider. As the great Samuel Johnson once said: 'I will be conquered. I will not capitulate.'"
     This had an effect on him. Reconsidering our positions is the liberal superpower.
     "You have the right attitude," he wrote. "My talk is cheap. I don’t care for colder weather anyway. Thanks for the advice. You’re right…running isn’t the answer, but it seems like it sometimes."
     I thought I should recognize the shift and meet him halfway.
     "Believe me, escape has its time and place — I like to say that all the optimists in my family are back in Poland in a pit," I wrote, trotting out a favorite line. "But the key is to take the last train out. Not the first."
     He responded:
     "I’m sorry to hear about your family members that didn’t make it. You’re right… work and fight until the end. I don’t think I cower from much. This is certainly the time in which all good men come to the aid of their nation. There’s a lot of good women and men who know better. I’m hoping and praying that intelligence will prevail."
      As are we all.

Heads I win, tails you lose

     Let's play a game. Doesn't matter what — checkers, chess, heck it could be a coin toss. Let's go with that, for simplicity's sake.
     A game needs rules. So here's how we'll play. We toss a coin — let's make it a Morgan silver dollar. They're beautiful. If it's heads, I win, and you give me $20. If it's tails, I still win, because you must have cheated. You give me $20. I don't have to provide any evidence of cheating, though I can air some theories: The coin wasn't flipped properly. The wind affected the throw. The coin was loaded. Doesn't matter. You still give me $20.
     And if for some reason you balk at handing over the money, insisting the game was indeed fair, I reserve the right to punch you in the mouth and take your $20. Violence is always an option. For me. Not for you.
     Would you play under those conditions? Would anybody? Why not? Because my coin toss scenario is the essence of the dire situation the United States of America finds itself heading into the presidential election of 2024. With far, far more at stake than $20.
     What amazes me is how transparent this all is. Nothing is hidden. The putative Republican candidate, Donald Trump has a long, well-publicized history of loudly declaring that any contest he might enter into is rigged against him, ahead of time, as insurance in case he loses. Fluffing the pillows in case he needs to swoon into them.
     The Emmys were "all politics" because Trump's TV show, "The Apprentice" didn't win one "many times over."
     When he ran in 2016, he declared that the caucuses were rigged. When he cut through a field of Republican mediocrities to face Hillary Clinton, he saw cheating everywhere.

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Bob Dunning takes a bow

     "Journalism," G.K. Chesterton famously observed, "largely consists of saying 'Lord Jones is Dead' to people who never knew that Lord Jones was alive."
     That's a good thing — better late than never. Also unavoidable. Even the most educated person is ignorant of nearly everything. By necessity much of what we read is bound to be news. Also a good thing — my definition of boredom is being told what you already know.

     When a reader forwarded without comment the last column of Bob Dunning, who wrote for a California newspaper for 55 years and was unceremoniously sacked this week, I did not feel embarrassed that it was my introduction to the man. Nothing shameful there, even though he's written for The Davis Enterprise since I was in 4th grade. Davis has a population double that of Northbrook, and is 2,000 miles away. A local oddity myself, I understand and accept my status as a mote of dust in a continent-wide wordstorm. If after writing for the Chicago Sun-Times for 40 years, one out of 10 Chicagoans were vaguely familiar with me, I'd be surprised and gratified. It's probably closer to one in 100. 

     When others of my ilk deliver their swan songs, it's typically how the greater world first learns of us. Birth announcement and funeral pyre in one brief flash, a tiny puff of smoke far away on the horizon alerting outsiders to our existence even as we vanish.
    Dunning's ave atque vale begins:

    "This is a column I thought I’d never have to write. Through these many years, the local owners of this newspaper regularly told me that as long as The Davis Enterprise existed, I would always have a job. ..."

     And you believed them? Well, there's your mistake right there, Bob. The owners of the Sun-Times never gave me such assurances, nor would I put any stock in them if they had. Any boss who flashed me a vulpine grin, and cooed, "Don't worry, Neil, you'll be here forever...." would leave me shaken. And I have the security of a union. If it weren't for the Chicago Newspaper Guild, I would have been put out to pasture years ago. I might still be, despite it.  It's happened before.

     Quality has nothing to do with it. The Tribune allowed the consistently excellent Eric Zorn to go without even trying to keep him. The great Gene Weingarten, who won two Pulitzer Prizes, one for the magnificent "Fiddler in the Subway," was banished from the Washington Post for the sin of making a joke about Indian food. If it can happen to them, who can't it happen to? Certainly Bob, or me. We are all dead men walking.
     "I upheld my end of the bargain," Dunning continued. "They did not."
      What are you saying? That life isn't fair? Let me jot that down for future reference.
      Sorry. I'll stop now. It takes a lot of ego to fill that blank space, day after day, year in and year out, and a lot of humility to realize it doesn't matter to anyone else a fraction as much as it matters to you. Easy for that delicate balance to get out of whack, particularly in moments of duress. I don't want to critique the dying gasp of a colleague, even one I've never met or knew existed. When my time comes, I like to think I'll tip the executioner and lower my head to the block with quiet dignity. But who knows? I might clutch the radiator and shriek like James Cagney at the end of "Angels with Dirty Faces." 

     I'll try to stop, anyway. One does drone on, as I'm illustrating here. Dunning expended over 2300 words, triple the word count of my daily column, to valorize his exit. That's like the last act of "Tristan & Isolde." You can really like Wagner and still think, "C'mon, get it over with." I've been on staff at the paper for 37 years. However I go, I'm not going to shake my fist at the sky and demand, "Why Lord, why?!?" I know why: the profession is falling apart in big chunks. I'm not indispensable.  On days my column doesn't run, they still publish a newspaper. It was a good run. 

     Dunning writes with candor — he mentions his pay, which most writers would not, particularly when that pay is $26 an hour. He wasn't doing it for money, clearly, he was doing it for love, and nothing feels worse than love unrequited.  He has my sympathy. The Davis Enterprise should have treated him with a modicum of human compassion. Stop the presses: that is in short supply in newspaper owners. 

     Then again, life is precious because it ends. We all have an arc, and now that I'm well into my downward plunge, and see the canyon floor racing toward me, I hope I can splat with a certain finesse and not too much indignation.  The world has changed. Newspaper columnists offer the answer to a question fewer and fewer bother asking.

     I'm 63. Bob Dunning is 77. So maybe I'm displaying the casual cruelty of youth — not something I get the chance to trot out much anymore. But the end can come at any time from any direction. When that sad day arrives, it isn't up to us, but to others to determine what value we  had, if any. When my time comes — tomorrow, or next week, or next year, or at 77, or 90 — I hope that I don't go on and on telling what few readers who have stuck around how unfair it all is, and how much I enjoyed writing for them. Hopefully, they'll already know. 

Cicadas won't eat you, but you can eat them

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     Let's cut to the chase: How do cicadas taste?
     Papery. A tad bitter.
     Which I know, not from dry research, but direct personal experience. This is not my first rodeo, cicada-wise. Seventeen years ago, I was knocking cicadas off my spirea — the bugs covered my yard, "like the invading insect army in a horror movie." Inspired by a colleague, I raised a glove bearing one of the five-eyed beasties to my lips and popped it into my mouth.
     Not at all unpleasant.
     I also fried them up, for my boys, then 10 and 11.
     This is the week trillions of cicadas are expected to emerge in Illinois — ground zero, cicada-wise, due to the overlap of the 13-year and 17-year cicada broods, an alignment not seen since the Jefferson administration.
     "We're going to start to be able to see them," said David Horvath, a certified arborist with The Davey Tree Expert Company. "Right now, squirrels and raccoons and possums are running around, having a field day chowing down on cicadas."
     Which is also why there are so many — they're flooding the zone.
     "Their whole survival strategy is predator satiation," Horvath said. "They're going to overwhelm the predators; it's impossible for squirrels to consume them all."
     I was concerned after reading Kade Heather's piece in the Sun-Times quoting the Morton Arboretum warning about the advisability of protecting young trees with netting. I have a lot of young trees — planted 15 at the end of 2022. Like anyone facing something they don't want to do, I sought a second opinion, from Northbrook forester Terry Cichocki.
     "The tree species cicadas favor are oaks, maples and fruit trees," she said. "However, if you don’t do anything with the smaller trees, they will most likely have some damage, but not life-threatening. The cicadas prefer the mature trees. The damage would show up as broken branch tips, which could recover."
     Horvath finds netting something of a 2024 fad.

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Cicada flashback 2007, Pt. I: "And then you die...

Figure of a cicada (China, late 18th century; Metropolitan Museum of Art) 

     The cicadas return this week to find me just where they left me 17 years ago: writing a column for the Sun-Times. I'm going to lay out the welcome mat properly on Monday — though I'll be hard-pressed to top how I greeted them in 2007. Back then, the column ran over a page. This item was toward the bottom.

AND THEN YOU DIE . . .

"Males die soon after mating."
          —Cicada-palooza, Chicago Sun-Times, May 20, 2007

     Darwin was right. You pop the kids out, lick them into presentable shape, pay for college and then hang around as long as modern medical science permits, growing silly and superfluous while your pleasures are, one by one, plucked off your plate.
     No wonder people distract themselves with elaborate cosmologies, dragooning God and angels and nature itself in one vast dance of self-significance — the universe exists as one big frame for you, a gilded stage on which your soul struts forever, in glory.
     Pretty to think so. But my reluctant hunch is that the cicadas — who make their once-every-17-years appearance this week, if the cool weather breaks — are a better indicator of how reality works than any gem-crusted icon. Wake blinking into life, eat something, pass along your DNA, then waddle off to die.
     OK, enough of that. The Sunday Blues. I'm actually looking forward to the cicadas, as a change of pace. The primordial beasties won't be much of a big deal at my half-acre of the world, I expect, because it already boasts about every known pestilence — mice and rabbits, moles and raccoons, wasps, hornets, bees, ants, grubs, flies, mosquitoes, spiders, earwigs. No cattle disease, yet, but I assume that's coming.
     Over the weekend, I removed a nest of tent caterpillars from a newly planted crabapple tree, reaching in with my gloved hand and grabbing fistfuls of the squirming, furry caterpillars, to my wife's cringing revulsion, and dropping them into a plastic bag.
     I tossed the bag into the fire pit, doused it with a blurp of gasoline and lit it with my Zippo — the resulting "foof!" of flame was the highlight of the week.
     Which is how we refute the bad news of the cicadas: Post-reproductive life might be a pointless ordeal, but it's all we have, and we should enjoy ourselves as best we can.
               —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 21, 2007

"I'm a weirdo; all my friends are weirdos" — more from Steve Albini

 

     When a reader makes a suggestion, I sometimes testily reply that I'm not a Holiday Inn lounge pianist or short-order cook. I don't take requests. Other times I nod and get busy. I suppose the difference is what the request is..
     A reader pointing to a line in my second 2021 piece about sound engineer Steve Albini — "I only wish I could have printed more of our conversation" — and observing that now, with his untimely death last Tuesday, would be an apt moment to fulfill that wish, well, I nodded and checked, and found a lengthy transcript. Normally I like to flit from one topic to the next, but it's a pleasure to hang with Steve, let's do it a little longer. I hate to pile on, but the New York Times gave his obit 2/3 of a page on Friday, so it's not just me. I'll begin with a few observations from a version of the story that never ran.

     "I miss Steve," I thought, which was odd, because I hadn't seen him in nearly 40 years, when we were both students at Northwestern. I helped run the humor magazine, Rubber Teeth, and he drew for the magazine. He also was a punk musician, and I was on the far periphery of the campus music scene because my freshman roommate had been guitarist in a popular band.
Albini had made a name for himself, as a student, by confronting the calcified strata of mouth-breathing frat certitude that encrusted Northwestern like a coral reef. He was most notorious for inviting his enemies to throw things at him — a stunt I witnessed, or remembered witnessing, Steve crouched behind a plexiglas shield as a kind of performance art piece....

     Like any old college classmates, we talked about school, and teachers who inspired us. Albini said he really admired David Protess, who taught journalistic ethics and ran The Innocence Project. I said I felt lucky to study drawing with Ed Paschke.

     "He and I became friends," Albini said. "My wife threw an elaborate birthday party for my 35th birthday, I was really touched he showed up. When he died, I met his son, corresponded with his son.
     "He was easily the best educator at Northwestern. He had a really interesting relationship with his own work that I really admired. He had a regular thing he would do where he would take his class to his studio, and he would have work all around his studio, and he would tell his students they were free to add anything they wanted to to his paintings. If you wanted to do something to one of his paintings, go ahead. I didn't understand that at the time. We talked about it afterward, and he said, 'Every once in a while someone would do something really intrusive and really bold. Or sometimes people would just do some really tiny thing, continue filing in a color, something like that.' He said that was an interesting display of their relationship with someone else's work, whether they would be respectful, or make their mark on it.
     "The most important thing it did for him, it gave him a problem to resolve, he saw most of his work as solving the problems that are presented by the image. If you are trying to convey something , and it's not there yet, that means there's some problem you need to find the problem and address the problem and that will get you on your way to finishing the image. I really admired that for a number of different reasons. It was very playful. His paintings were sold on subscription, anything, they were selling for astronomical sums, $100,000 and more, and here he was willing to let some sophomore fuck it up."

     We talked about Northwestern.

     "What was a big shock to me, I had never been around people with money before," said Albini. "People my age who had no concern with money. Bottomless wealth at their disposal. One of my first roommates, Lauren James Godfrey III. He had a leather valise. A freshman going through his stock portfolio. . . "

     I mentioned my roommate Kier helped widen my musical horizons. I showed up at school liking Bob Dylan and Elton John, and he was playing the Talking Heads and the Buzzcocks.

     "Kier Strejcek is actually an important musical figure," Albini said. "His brother, Nathan Strejcek was in The Teen Idles with Ian MacKaye who later started Minor Threat and Fugazi."
     "Can I tell him you said that?" I asked. Albini was nothing if not an arbiter of cool.
     "He knows that," Albini said. "It's his brother..."
     "No," I replied. "...that he's an important musical figure."
     "He was revered. He was the big brother, well literally, to the hardcore punks in Washington DC. who started a movement. He was sort of seen as the older brother who knew... he learned to play guitar before everybody else. He was in bands before everybody else. He moved away, he had a band when he moved out here. He's a seminal though not necessarily critical figure."

     I told him a story about Kier and I giving a ride to Nathan Kaatrud, the future Nash Kato of Urge Overkill, a pompous poseur who sneered at people like Kier and myself as grinds who work for a living while artists like himself soared into the empyrean.

     "That's an early indication of what a piece of shit that guy was," Albini said. "He was my roommate for years. Putting everyone else down is super fun."

     We talked about how to live a moral life.

     "My ethics are principally about my behavior," Albini said. "On a personal level I don't want to be involved in things I don't respect. As professional, whatever walks in the door I have to do a good job on it doesn't matter what it is. I'm not very selective with my clients. That surprises some people just because I am fairly rigorous about the way I conduct myself and the way my band behaves.

Electrical Audio

     "The money is not really a big part of it here. Everything operates on a knife edge in the music scene at the moment. Pandemic aside, the margins people operate on in the music scene are so so small. The amount of money that can be made off a recording has dwindled over the years because physical formats are less and less, though recently there has been a huge resurgence in vinyl, which is heartening. A lot of record labels will do a release, it's an official release if there is vinyl. That's the only physical format that sells anymore.
     "It's weird being involved in music," he said. "You're at this nexis between youth culture and broader culture and artistic ambition, creative impulse and whatever, and then all these secondary material concerns that impinge on it in a million different way. I love making records and love working with musicians, people I admire and respect. The people that work in the studio, I would take a bullet for any of those people. But that I have to do it in a capitalist system is oppressive, that I have to do it as a business owner, and be the president of the organization in order to have standing in certain scenarios.
     "When I first got into music, the music I was attracted to was weirdo music. I'm a weirdo. All my friends are weirdos." Here he laughed. "My peer group is weirdos. All the music that I've ever done has had, it's never bothered me who listened to it. My main consideration was I wanted to do it and I wanted to do it in a way I felt good about. The way my bands have always conducted themselves has been internally consistent. We knew why we were doing things the way we did. We had a process we were going through . The end result was we were going to make music and we would perform it if people would have us. Other people just don't enter into it. I described it once as an extremely selfish enterprise. Shellac of North America — we are the only three people on earth that matter, in terms of opinions about our music. We don't do press releases, don't do advertising. We don't do any kind of promotion for our records at all. We will announce our tour dates, and when a record comes out there is an announcement that it is coming out. But we don't advertise it, we don't do active promotion of any kind because I've always been bothered by things being thrust at me. I detest advertising. I have TIVO for watching television at home. I haven't seen a commercial in 10 years. I have ad blockers on all my computers. Don't see ads on YouTube videos. I don't see it. That's intentional, I don't like having that kind of commerce intrude into my experience. I think it's cheap and crass when someone is trying to make money from my attention. Someone wants my attention, and their purpose is to try to extract value from me. That seems like a dishonest relationship and I just won't participate in it.
     "How many of our records sell? I have no idea. We make money. I don't know how we do relative to our peers. I don't know what a good selling record is, what a bad selling record is. We make music exclusively for ourselves and we're lucky enough that other people like it and buy it.
     "The music scene, because it's so cliquish, with so many different subcultures contained in the music scene. My band is well known, within our circles, right? But I'm smart enough to know our circles aren't very large."
     He laughed again.
     "If you took a random sampling of people, I used to say from the phone book, random sampling from any neighborhood in Chicago, if you got a thousand people you might find one that knew my name. And that's in the city I live in at the time I'm alive."

     There's more, but that should do. We did talk about what he'd do when his hearing went, I suggested he write a book. He said that he did get asked to write things pretty regularly, and that he would love to write "a comprehensive manual of recording practices" including "all the institutional knowledge we have inside the building." I put him in touch with my editor at the University of Chicago Press, but nothing came of it, which is a pity, because Steve Albini was a true professional and unique, unsparing, fearless voice. He will be missed by many.

Giving thanks to those who gave us life

     Motherhood is a simple biological fact. One that encompasses the condition of a woman — or, I suppose nowadays, a person of any gender identification — who gives birth to a baby. Or adopts a child. Or becomes a foster parent. Or enters into an ad hoc care relationship with a younger dependent.
     Not so simple after all.
     Reminding us that motherhood is also a social construct. Traditionally wrapped up with duty — a mother must care for her, or their, baby; the child, grown, is then obligated to care for its mother, if need be. That's only fair.
     The details, however, shift according to age group, religious affiliation, geographical location. Should mothers stay home and focus entirely on their children? Work full time at demanding careers? Both?
     The image also shifts over time.
     When I was young, the popular motherhood cliche retained a whiff of the prairie. Put an old lady in a coal scuttle bonnet, give her some knitting and sit her in a rocking chair, and the image said, "Mother." Words were not necessary. Think James McNeill Whistler's "Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1 (Portrait of the Artist’s Mother)."
    Our impressions of motherhood today often come not from paintings, but from commercials — think of all those women lunging after spills, their faces twisted in horror. Then there is "Strong," a commercial that Ohio consumer products manufacturer Procter & Gamble ran in conjunction with the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro. Every Mother's Day I post "Strong" on my mother's Facebook page, and it's the rare commercial that I'll sometimes call up and watch for pleasure, the way you'd watch a movie. If you have access to YouTube, I suggest you go watch it now.
     Created by Wieden+Kennedy, a global, independent creative agency, the "Strong" spot grabs you in its first second, both visually and aurally. The opening scene is the back of a little girl, frozen, transfixed in horror at an angry tornado churning up the horizon. A siren wails.

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Steve Albini: The last genuine punk rocker

Steve Albini

     "That hits hard," a college classmate texted from Los Angeles. "Albini always seemed like someone who would be eating pancakes on our graves."
     When the paper called with the news that the influential Chicago sound engineer had died, at work, of a heart attack at 61, my reaction was shock, followed by doubt. Were they sure? Because faking his death, well, if anyone was going to do that...
     Yes, it was confirmed. Did I want to write his obituary? No. I hate writing obituaries for people I know — it seems like seizing their corpses and trying to dance with them. The highest tribute I could pay to Albini was not to presume to explain him, not to look through my keyhole perception, colored with nostalgia and affection, and pretend I had any special insight into his essence. Let someone who listened to Big Black for pleasure do that.
     Last August, Jeremy Gordon, writing in the Guardian, nailed Albini's complicated personality:

     Albini – and I can’t say this without it sounding a little silly because of the way the music industry has conspired for decades to sand off the edges of any once-transgressive cultural movement, but more on that later – is a genuine punk rocker. Not because he plays music with distorted guitars or exudes contempt for pretentious establishment figures – though he has done plenty of that – but because throughout his career he, perhaps more than anyone else, has attempted to embody the righteous ideological tenets that once made punk rock feel like a true alternative to the tired mainstream.

     Chicago musical historian Mark Guarino did a fine job encapsulating his life for WBEZ. 

     I had my swing at his life three years ago, reaching out during the long COVID slog. I'm not sure why — we hadn't communicated in 40 years. But I read a quote from him, and I missed his fearless intelligence — most people have nothing to say and, besides, would be too timid to say it if they did — and went to visit him at Electrical Audio, his Belmont Avenue studio, and then to lunch. 

     I ended up writing two pieces — the first, about his work as a sound engineer — he sneered at being called "a producer" — that ran on Labor Day. I deliberately did not mention that he had, his feelings notwithstanding, produced Nirvana's last album, because everybody cites that, prominently, and it was, I guess, either an attempt to honor his non-starstruck integrity, or just as a way of kissing up. The second, we discussed life and success and the future. I found him softened, kinder, humbler. There was much I left out — he's a professional poker player, and we discussed the high stakes poker scene in Chicago. I mentioned my former roommate, who had a band at college — they practice in our dorm room for a while — and he said some generous things about him, his music, and his brother's music.
     "You're not going to believe what Steve Albini said about you..." I told my friend, in the car leaving the interview. Albini cast a cold hard light that showed the ugliness of a lot of what passes for culture. But it could also warm the few he approved of. I won't claim that Steve Albini was a nice guy, though he could be kind — he probably wouldn't want me to say that. But it's true. 

The Sun-Times regrets the error.

   Grr. Urg. Other expressions of visceral, teeth-grinding frustration.
     Monday morning. All is right with the world. Or right enough, if you squint. The vanhoutte spirea are in their puffy white glory. There are fresh blueberries to put atop my Shredded Wheat. The big challenge of the day is to get downtown and go to Gene & Georgetti for lunch. Maybe get something going for Wednesday, columnwise, so I don't have to reinvent the wheel Tuesday morning.
     Rinse the blueberries. Pour the cereal and the milk. Flip open the Sun-Times to page two — "Every day I'm on page two is a good day," I often tell the wife. There is my lighthearted riff on yo-yos. The story begins:

     “No," I said, puzzled, slow on the uptake, figuring she was coming out of a dream. "Why do you ask?"

     Well, that's how the story begins in the physical newspaper. The actual column, as written, has three paragraphs before that. Bowl of cereal in my hands, I rush upstairs to the computer, to see whether the opening was also sliced off online, or whether it was a print issue. I'm worried that, in copying the opening to post on my blog, I somehow cut it instead, and the mistake was carried unnoticed into the paper. An actual impossibility with the system, but still...
     The story was fine online. Whew, so not my fault. But somebody's. I instantly see what had happened. They put in a big "OPINION" bug as a subtle hint that what you are reading is not the just-the-facts-ma'am impartial news the paper prides itself with, but slant, bias, perspective. Whoever went to grab the copy to put into the paper took the part below opinion and didn't notice the part above, and no sentient eyes gazed up the result.
     Forty years writing for the paper, I can't recall that ever happening to one of my stories. A first for everything.
    I fire off a note to my editor saying as much. Then wait, checking my email for befuddled "Huh?" notes from readers. Instead, I get people enthusiastically upping their subscriptions and donating to the newspaper, which seems an odd reply to a blunder. Then it hits me. Ohhh. The marketing department had asked me to write a letter, rattling the cup. The same morning that my decapitated column hit the street, the letter asking for donations also went out, the type of ironic coincidence which makes life the rich pageant it is. The species of minor indignity that follows me, quacking, like a pull-toy duck. Some journalists won the Pulitzer Prize on Monday, others have their mangled work tossed out into the world with a shrug.
     I knew immediately that I would not be inundated with puzzlement. Readers tend to plow on. And as my wife points out, even the few who notice something amiss, well, most people do not write to newspapers. The physical paper itself goes to, what?, 50,000 readers. Maybe. Not 2 percent of the population. Online is where it's at. Online we draw a full ... well, several multiples of 50,000. I think. Or hope.

     I call my editor, not seeking explanation, more just to have some someone to talk to about this. "The trick to journalism is to both think what you're doing is the most important thing in the world and know that it actually doesn't matter much," I say.  You thunder in a column against Donald Trump, liar, bully, fraud and traitor, as if doing so is the difference between America continuing on in freedom or sliding into a slough of fascism and oppression. And know that you could have written every single article highlighting the Oort Cloud of crimes and errors surrounding him and he would still be right where he is now, poised to retake the presidency. Raising your voice is the most important thing you can do, and nothing.

     The paper is actually doing something surprising. It's reprinting the column today, with the top three graphs in place (I'm told. I haven't seen it yet. It would be funny if the three paragraphs got lopped off again). I didn't ask for that — in fact, almost pointed out that it really isn't necessary. But they feel it was, and I decided not to question their judgment. Besides, I can't ever think of that ever happening in a Chicago paper — a column running Monday, then its corrected version Wednesday. Kinda cool, really. A distinction, almost. I'll take it.
    Onward, as Rick Kogan says.  Apologies for the inside baseball, but that's what I got today. Honestly, when they said they were reprinting the column, my first thought was I'd have a day off, which I can use. No biggie. Mistakes happen. To write is to err or, as I sometimes spell it, "Too right is two air." Even noble Homer dozed. Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes... Okay, you understand. We'll try again tomorrow, and hopefully get it right this time.

Rattling the cup

     So we moved my mother and father, a week ago Monday. The next day I asked my mother how she liked the new place.
     "I'm not getting my paper," she complained.
     Ah, right, the paper. Did not take care of that. But I will, immediately, I told her. Jumped online to use the subscriber app. It's hard enough to change the address of your own subscription, never mind someone else's, and I was thwarted.
     But I had a Plan B. Last year we donated our van to the paper, and I got to know our membership director. She owed me a favor. Perhaps, I asked, she could point me toward someone who could change my mother's subscription. She did, and it was handled easily. While she had my attention, however, she said, in effect, You know ... we've been sending out these emails, fundraising, and perhaps you'd like to write one. For World Press Freedom Day, Friday. This was, oh, Wednesday.
     Too soon. Next time, I said, not wanting to rush something out half-baked. Not really wanting to do it at all. But she asked nicely, so gave the old Boy Scout try and wrote this:

Dear reader:

Almost 40 years ago, I visited the Chicago public high school located in Cook County Jail so incarcerated teens could go to school. One lesson I watched taught where to put the stamp on an envelope. Later I asked the teacher: is this really necessary? He looked at me pityingly and replied that while students here may have killed someone, may have fathered children, they often did not know where the stamp goes because they'd never written a letter because they can't read.

That stuck with me, and decades later I decided to go back and check up on the place. Yes, I'd written about it before, but no readers rattle the paper and say: "Hey...I read about this 30 years ago!" The Chicago Public Schools didn't want to let me return. But I kept badgering them. Finally, they relented, and when I went back I found out why they didn't want me there, after several teachers pulled me aside and said that, trying to goose the numbers, the school was graduating students who had left the jail long ago. Some had died. The inspector general investigated for a year. The principal was fired.

Exposing corruption and making changes is the heart of what the Sun-Times does, and what gets mentioned on days like World Press Freedom Day. While that's crucial and I'm all for it, done by others, in my career here — now in its fifth decade — I've always emphasized the visit-interesting-places part. To show readers something they didn't know was there. So I've gone down the Deep Tunnel and up the western spire of 875 N. Michigan, then the John Hancock Building, with the workmen changing the lightbulbs on the antennae. I've watched a heart transplanted, a manhole cover forged, and Wilco record a song. It's important to uncover hard truths and confront the powerful with them. But it's also good to have institutional memory and to go places, uncover intriguing truths and share them: the first blood bank in the world opened in Chicago, as did the first public school for children with disabilities. To pray toward Mecca in Chicago, you face northeast.

SUPPORT A FREE PRESS

This is a very long way of saying that my daily column, which has appeared for 28 continual years in the Sun-Times, shines a light in the odd corners, sometimes afflicting the comfortable and comforting the afflicted. Sometimes merely being interesting, which is also important. While my colleagues uncover corruption and hold elected officials' feet to the fire, I'm wondering where Fresca went during COVID, who opens Cologuard jars, and what goes on at the dominatrix dungeon on Lake Street, three blocks from the governor's office. One column examined how blind people pick up after their dogs. 

Asking questions that readers might never think to ask, but nevertheless enjoy learning about. I've always found Chicago an infinitely fascinating place, and feel lucky to be able to explore it three times a week in the Chicago Sun-Times. People who don't read the paper literally do not know what they're missing — theirs is a smaller, drier, blander, paler, scarier world. 

Since October 2022, the Chicago Sun-Times has been community-supported, funded by readers like you. If you haven't contributed to the paper, please consider doing so — reflect on how much poorer the city would be without us, not just the crimes that would go undetected, but the wonders that would go unheralded. Then dig deep. To me, you need the Sun-Times the way people need glasses: in order to see properly. You'd think nothing of spending a few hundred dollars on an extra pair. I hope you consider contributing the same to Chicago's preeminent newspaper for the past 76 years. Thank you for your attention.

Sincerely, 

Neil Steinberg
Columnist
Chicago Sun-Times

     That brought in thousands of dollars. But more importantly, to me anyway, a cascade of letters like this:

Hi Neil,

I don't have much, but I wanted you to know I just donated to the Sun-Times because of you.
When I lived & worked in Chicago, the Times was my favorite paper and you were my favorite columnist.

I thought it only fair to show a little respect.

Thanks, Neil.
You have taught me & entertained me a lot.
peace,
Eric R.
Kissimmee, Florida

     Maybe I'm a little shell-shocked lately. But there was something very moving in seeing people I'd never met dig into their pockets, inspired by my column, and say nice stuff on top of it. Anyway, thanks to everybody who pitched in or is going to pitch in. They gave out the Pulitzers on Monday — never getting one of those. But these emails were a suitable consolation. Odd to think it all came about from getting my mother's paper delivered to her new address.

Yo-yos are back, someday, maybe

Boys in a Chicago schoolyard play with yo-yos. (Photo for the Sun-Times by Bob Kotalik)

     My wife sleeps late while I wake early.
     "I'm going to walk the dog," I explained a few weeks back, after she stirred while I was putting on my shoes.
     "Do you have a yo-yo?" she asked, sleepily.
     "No," I said, puzzled, slow on the uptake, figuring she was coming out of a dream. "Why do you ask?"
     "'Walk the dog,'" she explained. Ah. A yo-yo trick.
     My next thought — I kid you not — was: I should get a yo-yo and learn tricks to entertain our future grandchildren. Then I wondered: Are there people who teach yo-yo tricks? Are yo-yos even still a thing? Or has technology completely killed them?
     "Our demographic is 6 to 15 years old," said Josh Staph, CEO and president of the Duncan Toyscq Company, manufacturer of yo-yos for nearly a century. "There's smartphones, there's TikTok. A lot of elements that can provide immediate gratification to kids. A yo-yo does not provide immediate gratification. You have to try it a few times."
     That you do. My only childhood memory of yo-yos is never being any good with them. "Walk the dog" is a trick where you throw the yo-yo down, hard, and it remains at ground level, spinning — like a dog on a leash — until you summon it back up with a snap of the wrist. My string tended to break.
     Yo-yos are another classic plaything to emerge from Chicago, along with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs and Raggedy Ann. Not that they were invented here — basically a vertical top with the string attached, yo-yos can be traced to antiquity. Women play with yo-yos on Grecian urns.
     Donald F. Duncan was a Chicago entrepreneur in the 1920s who started a parking meter company. He visited California in 1928, where he saw Pedro Flores demonstrate a yo-yo. Flores was from the Philippines, where yo-yos were big, and had already trademarked the word "yo-yo," Tagalog for "come come." Duncan bought the rights then got busy, joining forces with newspaper titan William Randolph Hearst to get newsboys pushing yo-yos.
     Yo-yos were a craze in Chicago in the summer of 1929 — newspaper columnists complained you couldn't enter a Loop building without fighting your way through crowds gathered to watch experts perform tricks. People grew annoyed.

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Flashback 1998: Gays victimized by our silence

     

     Odd that the same year, more than a quarter century in the past — 1998 — would pop up under two completely unrelated contexts this week. Yesterday I traced the origins of "Snoopy in a blender" to a 1998 story. And today's post is prompted by a long overdue shift in policy by the United Methodist Church of Christ last week. Turns out gays are okay after all. Or at least they can serve as clergy.

     Reminiscent of "I Believe," among the funniest songs in the very funny musical "Book of Mormon," basically a rendition of actual Mormon doctrine. It contains the line, "I believe ... in 1978 God changed his mind about Black people." Really meaning that the Mormon Church changed its mind about Black people, and decided, upon 130 years of deliberation, Black ministers were okay after all.

     And now God, as represented by the United Methodist Church, has welcomed the LGBTQ community into the ranks of the chosen, i.e., themselves. A little late, surely, but better late than never. I tried to tell them back in 1998:

     I live in a gay part of town. Not the gayest — that would be about two blocks west and maybe four blocks north of our place. But gay enough. Every summer the Gay Pride Parade rolls past my block, which has a small, sedate gay bar on the corner.
     I've never been in the bar. When I pop out of the house for a beer — say, on the pretext of picking up the milk, I pass by the corner gay bar and walk another block to a straight bar, there to drink straight beer. Birds of a feather . . .
     That said, once or twice, I will admit, I have ventured into one of the local gay bars for a quick drink to see what they are like inside and to prove to myself that there is nothing to be afraid of. They served me a beer; they took the money. The TV blared. I finished my beer, unmolested, and emerged with my heterosexuality intact.
     It isn't the sort of thing I tell everyone (well, until now), but it didn't strike me as the biggest deal, either. I think it's important to not be afraid of things unnecessarily. Ignorance is fertile soil for hate.
     For instance, before I moved to the neighborhood, I had to pause to seriously ask myself whether I really wanted to live in a gay area. I worried it would become oppressive in some way I couldn't foresee. But after a little thought, I decided it probably wouldn't be a bother. And it hasn't been.
     Then again, I'm lucky. I've always felt pretty secure about myself. I don't feel threatened. Strolling with my sons through the neighborhood, I don't worry that the boys will somehow be infected by gayness. When we're on the street and a group of laughing, young, fit men — a group I assume to be gays headed toward the bars — passes, I don't shield my kids' eyes. I don't worry I'm exposing them to some toxin. The mighty edifice of heterosexuality doesn't crumble that easily, in my view. And while I'd rather my boys not grow up gay — that seems like a tough road, at least for the parents — I figure the die is pretty much cast, and I'll find out one fine day.
     None of this strikes me as extraordinary. In fact, it seems the basic attitude of liberal American decency at the end of the 20th century.
     But obviously, people must feel otherwise. The Methodist Church is holding a trial in a few months to see if the minister at the Broadway United Methodist Church — just a few blocks up from me — should be booted out of the clergy for performing a rite marrying a gay couple.
     The immediate reason — it's against the Bible — grows pale the more you look at it. Many things are banned in the Bible, from dishonoring your parents to eating lobster. Going hammer and tongs after gays, the way organized religion feels compelled to do, seems awfully selective. Why boot out just gays, and the ministers who unite them, and not, say, adulterers? Why not those who swear? They're banned, too.
     I suppose the quick answer is that gays are targeted because they can be. The Methodists can't very well toss out a minister for marrying an interracial couple, or a Methodist and a Baptist, or a liar and a thief. Gays are one of the few subgroups left that can be openly persecuted. The awning of law and custom we've built up doesn't quite cover them yet, and certain people are horrified at the thought that it someday might. Who would be left to openly loathe?
     Part of it is that the rest of society is so quiet when gays are persecuted. Yes, we cluck our tongues when young gay men are brutally murdered, as if to say, `Well, we don't want to kill them now, do we?" But the fear of being labeled gay is so strong that it is easier to be silent or look away.
     Let me get this straight: God cares about our sexuality, but not about our moral courage. Right . . .

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, October 27, 1998 

Note: The minister, whom I did not not name, was Rev. Gregory Dell. He was tried by the United Methodist Church in 1999, found guilty, and given a year suspension. He returned to the Broadway UMC until 2007, when he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He and his wife moved to North Carolina, where he died in 2016.