Retirement doesn't mean veterans stop helping their comrades or their country

 

Brig. Gen. Thomas Kittler, U.S. Air Force (retired).

     Soldiers. Sailors. Marines. Each Nov. 11, when Veterans Day rolls around, crews of GIs, leathernecks and swabbies get trotted out and rightfully honored.
     Somehow the Air Force often gets overlooked, though Air Force vets are not the sort to complain.
     "I never feel slighted," said Tom Kittler, a retired Air Force brigadier general from Northbrook, allowing that, "I think it's a valid argument."
     Kittler immediately speculated why that might be.
     "The Army, the Navy, have been around for quite a long time. The Air Force is relatively new to the show."
     Relatively new, it became a separate branch of the Armed Forces in 1947. Before that, you had the U.S. Army Air Corps.
     The Army and Navy cast a wide net. The Air Force is more focused, looking for recruits like Kittler, who joined the Air Force ROTC in 1984 as a student at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Why? He was already flying, having earned his wings at 16.
     "It was my dream to fly airplanes," he said. "My dad was an avionics engineer. He'd take my Cub Scout troop out to the hangar, we'd climb over the old airplanes. That's how I got the bug."
     Americans give to the military; the military gives back. Kittler not only got a career out of the Air Force — he went on to become a commercial pilot — but a wife and family: He met his future wife Jennifer because she was an Air Force nurse.
     Which put her in a position to understand the demands of the job, like at Christmas 1989.
     "My folks were visiting," he said. Duty called. "We took off Christmas Eve. My parents were aghast — 'Where is he going? When is he coming back?' My wife said, 'He's going to work; he'll be back.'"
     The mission? Operation Just Cause, the effort to unseat Manuel Noriega and restore  Panamanian democracy.
     At least that was over quickly. He was in the reserve during the Second Gulf War, called up for a two-year activation.
     "That was hard," said Kittler. "I was away from my girls — I have two daughters," then 6 and 8. "But you get called, you have to go."
     Does service encourage patriotism?
     "Absolutely it does," he said. "I think the individuals you train to fight with, to go to war with, to spend Christmas Eve on an airplane with, these are your lifetime heroes. You do it for your buddies. You don't want to let them down. That's why I'm so involved with the Northbrook Veterans Center."
     Kittler, 64, a Northbrook resident, would prefer today's piece focus on all vets and their needs.
     "We want to spread the word. It's veterans helping veterans," he said. "Veterans don't know about service and benefits. We want to make sure everybody who is entitled to them is knowledgeable."
     Among The good that Kittler has had been able to do includes was mentoring Cameron Jones, an Air Force major and member of NASA's latest class of young astronauts.
     "My best friend's son came to me, when he was 12, and said, 'Hey Uncle Tom, I want to do what you do,'" recalled Kittler. "This past year, he just got tapped to be the latest of 10 astronauts. He's very bright, did extremely well at test pilot school. It's my understanding he will be selected for our effort to get back to the moon. He's very excited, and I'm very proud of him."

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"Always happy to save a reporter's ass"

A Vanitas Still Life, by Pieter Claesz (Franz Hals Museum)

     Sixty-five is not 57. That's for sure. While living through my 50s I felt I was bustling around the anteroom of age, now I feel I've entered in, found a comfortable chair, and am contemplating the effort of getting up while watching the clock tick.
     COVID must have had something to do with it. Society shut down. More than a million Americans died —a fact our nation just shrugged off. We all stopped going to work and despite continual corporate vows to the contrary, never really went back.

     It's not just perception. The world is definitely more menacing. In his second term, Donald Trump has gotten better at destroying America, and has an army of lapdogs and sycophants eager to help him. But life also just seems more disordered, chaotic, confusing, objectionable.

     Last Wednesday I wrote a column analyzing the word "fuck," since Gov. JB Pritzker told our loathsome leader to "fuck all the way off." It was dashed in the paper, f - - -, but I was amazed they ran it at all. These are desperate times, and I think the general timidity that can affect newspaper editors is being sandblasted away by children being snatched off the street and sent to detention centers in Texas. Now is not the time to debate fine points.
     Regarding "fuck," a number of readers felt Pritzker shouldn't have said it. "I was taught casual swearing is laziness at best and a corrupted heart at worst," one sniffed. Which did not strike me as odd until I noticed this post, from 2018, "Is Ivanka Trump a feckless cunt." It had ... just a more buoyant spirit to it. No one in the comments dabbed a perfumed hankie to their lips and recoiled in horror from the term. 

     Sure, maybe it was because I wrote it exclusively for the blog, with none of the toning down that a newspaper requires. That could be it.

     Still, I thought to myself: "We're growing old, all of us, me and the readers combined, a bunch of seniors in a barrel going over the falls of life, heading to the rocks."
     Too stark? Maybe because a certain reader weighs in, in a footnote, brushing off my concerns, "Honey, I'm your mother. C'mon," and I realized again how much I miss her. Maybe because another colleague died the other day, Mo Cotter. Almost a quarter century on the copy desk. I remember her only vaguely: no-nonsense, in a good way, with just a crinkle of humor at the corner of an eagle eye. I plugged her name into gmail, and years of interactions came up, mostly her telling me I'd made some goof and she was fixing it, half courtesy, half reprimand. In 2012 I'd quoted a St. Josephinum English teacher Haley Coller. "I find a Hayley Keller on the school's faculty list," Cotter wrote. "OK if I change it?"

     Shit yes. I felt like a man, about to step off a cliff, who felt a sudden tug on his shirt. Mistakes are bad and screwing up names is particular bad. The scar of the Medill F stung. I thanked her profusely.
     "That's my job," Cotter replied, with customary terseness. 

      "Nevertheless, not everyone would look that up — I should have and didn't," I continued, "— so I appreciate you sparing me a lousy day tomorrow."
     "If I don't know a name or if it just looks funny, I look it up," she wrote back, subtly reminding me: do better. "I'm always happy to save a reporter's ass."

     Mo was 64. A year younger than me. 

     I made that last quote into the headline of today's post, as a kind of tribute, looked at it, and realized there was no possessive in "reporters." Had Cotter made a mistake herself? I thought, with a flash of something like excitement — we reporters secretly loved the rare-to-almost nonexistent times it is the copy desk in error. I glanced at her email. No, the fault was mine, of course. She used it. I dropped the possessive, typing the line in. Should have cut and pasted. We have to be so careful not to drop things, in the shortening period before, one fine day, everything simply drops.

Works in progress: Donald Colley — 'Honesty should guide the pen'

     Usually I run "Works in progress" on Saturdays, such as Lane Lubell's well-received post yesterday. But this week I got two submissions, and — my blog, my rules — decided to extend the practice to Sundays, when necessary.  Readers met Donald Colley in 2022, during the R. Kelly trial. He's been attending the court hearings of ICE Sturmbannführer Gregory Bovino, and files this report:

     In court today. So too one Cmdr. Gregory Bovino, Chief of U.S. Customs and Border Patrol, present to appear before Judge Sara Ellis.
     Whether I go to court for myself or as the eyes of the public, the moment I pass thru the metal detector and retrieve my satchel with sketchbook and drawing gear, I look to be disinterested, as though I haven’t got a dog in the fight. Not so easy today. Today, I will draw and listen as the chief Federal law officer will address the questions posed by a judge concerned about tactics and practices of the Federal agents charged with apprehending undocumented immigrants and alleged criminals. Sent by the current POTUS and directed to ferret out those we’ve been told are here illegally, these Federal agents' stated targets are a criminal element that took advantage of a porous border, many of whom are described by current U.S. Secretary of homeland security as the worst of the worst.
     In the weeks since September, when Cmdr. Bovino and the CBP and ICE agents under his command initiated “Operation Midway Blitz”, daily coverage by media, thousands of videos documenting citizens and residents caught up in incidents related to these maneuvers, and criticism of this Federal directive by, among others, Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson and Illinois governor J.B. Pritzker, have caught the attention of the courts. It will be thru today’s inquiry that Judge Ellis will determine if, in the execution of “Operation Midway Blitz”, the Constitution that both she and Cmdr. Bovino are sworn to uphold, is being followed. This in a city I’ve called home for 26 ½ years.
     I find it imperative, should I feel the tug of personal interest, that I fall in line with what most of us want in a judicial system: impartiality, fairness, a high standard of practice, and an effort in earnest for veritas. So when I open my sketchbook and set pen to paper, I avoid caricature, refrain from giving added pugnaciousness or ghoulish cast. (However, if the lead lawyer has a Nixonian, bluish cast 5 o’clock shadow, so be it. Honesty should guide the pen). If I take license to hang a lantern jaw on someone, turn a slightly furrowed brow into a freshly plowed field, or grow a lawyer’s loose jacket into Emmett Kelly’s overcoat, then I come off as a clown in a forum where much is at stake for plaintiffs, defendants, and the people who care for and may depend upon them, not to mention my making light of the integrity of the institution. My brother spent some extended time incarcerated and the family pain and concern for the duration of his sentence was real. Yet another reason for veracity.
     Courtroom artists are present when Rule 53 is in effect, which forbids the presence of cameras, and sometimes all electronic media. One district attorney told me that some of the cases are enough of a circus that the inclusion of teams of photojournalists and AV equipment would only add to that. Note taken. Therefore, I work smaller than most, leaving large sketchpads and drawing boards at home. I prefer fountain pens and nonvolatile markers of various brush widths for detail and broader coverage in lieu of dusty pastels or pencils that need sharpening. At times I have been seated in the jury box, which affords a closer view of witnesses, questioning lawyer and judge. Mostly, I find myself seated among journalists, family members of plaintiffs and defendants, and interested members of the public. I call that perspective embedded, and it may have its own benefits.
     I first entered a courtroom as a 21-year-old art student whose brothers had found themselves in a fracas with music venue security guards. My sketchbook went along. The concert security guards took issue with me drawing them. I was summoned to the bench to hand the judge my sketchbook. A wide grin broke out over his court officer’s face as he recognized himself in my sketches. The book was handed back to me with the judge’s verdict, ”You’re fine. He may continue.” In the years since, my sketchbook and I have been the occasional visitors to a courtroom and it has always been engaging. I highly recommend it. We also like to go to city council meetings, and political rallies. I think of it as my continuing adult education and merger of Art, Politics and Civics lessons.

Works in progress: Lane Lubell — The Intervention of Dictionary.com

     EGD is interested in many things —politics, culture, products, birds. Words themselves merit special attention. Today we welcome a guest voice, Chicago teacher and family friend Lane Lubell, who in 2023 took a look at the Academy Awards. He asked to comment on Dictionary.com's Word of the Year. The platform is yours, Lane:

“The English language is losing it. Maybe I should have treated her better.” 

              — Buffy Summers

     Hey Dictionary.com. Don't be alarmed. We are gathered here today because we all care about you a lot, but your behavior lately has made us very concerned.    
     That’s right. We are here because you chose “6-7” as your Word of the Year (WOTY). I know it seems like a silly award, but you and some of your friends sitting here — Oxford, Merriam, Collins, Macquarie — you’ve done some great work with it in the past. Remember when Merriam bestowed 2006’s title to the Stephen Colbert-coined “Truthiness?” Unbelievable! Or when Oxford chose “Post-Truth” following Kellyanne Conway’s first utterance of “fake news”? Or when they —
     No, no. You’re right. This isn’t about them. You’ve done great work, too. But, frankly, we’ve been worried for a while. Last year, you really scared us when you chose “Demure” just because some TikToker used it weirdly, but at least people were still using you to find out a good vocab word. But this year… I don’t even know where to begin. 6-7?!
     Dear God! Dic! What are you doing, bud? Just because you talk like a kid doesn’t mean they’ll use you.
     I know you expect me to tell you some things you’ve probably already heard: firstly, that you can’t release a year-end list in October. (If you can’t hear Wham! on the radio, it’s too early.) And yes, “6-7” is not a word so much as two digits uttered consecutively, but, Oxford, you chose the non-vocalic “😀” in 2015, so we’ll give you a pass. At least we can all say this one! (Sorry, Ox, but you know you had it coming.)
     But this is much more concerning than not abiding by convention. This is some anti-dictionary type shit. This is Gen Alpha slang.
     Oh, Harper! Sorry, I forgot you were here. You’ve been so quiet. I know you haven’t received a new edition since 2011, so let me get you caught up.
     The phrase “6-7” is extremely popular among Generation (or, Gen) Alpha (who were only one when you were last published), who represents kids born after 2010, meaning all of them are 15 and under. Here’s how it works: whenever anyone says either the words “six,” “seven,” or –God help you! – both, every child within earshot must scream “6-7!” while making an indiscernible gesture akin to mimicking the scales of Anubis. Most freakishly though, not one of them will be able to tell why they do this peculiar ritual. It’s a Rod Serling nightmare. All we know is that it possesses them with a fervor of joy so strong that South Park (hilariously) was forced to conjecture “6-7” to be apocryphal numerology so inscrutable that not even antichrist expert Peter Thiel could stop it. (Yes, the PayPal guy. Harper, you need to be updated more often.)
     What’s the etymology of “6-7”? That’s a great question, Mac. “6-7” has its origins in a 2024 song by a rapper named Skrilla entitled “Doot-doot.” (That title alone should give you an indication that he may not be the preeminent wordsmith of our time.) The lyric in question goes, “6-7, I just bipped right on the highway (bip, bip) / Skrrrt, uhh. (bip bip bip).” If you found that lyric confusing, don’t feel bad. Skrilla said he doesn't know what he’s talking about either (after all, it’s not like a rapper, for whom wordplay is paramount, should be concerned with things like… the meaning of their words). The phrase was further popularized through teenage TikTok videos and Hornet’s point guard LaMelo Ball, but no one is exactly sure how it exploded to the scale that it did.
     Gen Alpha however doesn’t care. They’ve become notorious for repeating stuff without knowing what they’re saying. And that’s precisely the problem here.
      No, Dic! I’m not anti-slang! We all know how important slang is. Every generation uses words in weird ways that contort their meanings to create completely new lexicons. Indeed, slang has been around as long as language, itself, and is the primary way that languages develop within a society without stealing or appropriating terminology from other cultures. But this generation has done something dangerous with its slang.
     Take any piece of slang from cultures past. “Rad.” Originating from “radical” — itself a product of ‘70’s surf culture — it originally meant “extreme,” but it very quickly became synonymous with “awesome” and “cool.” “Groovy” literally refers to the grooves in vinyl records, which led to songs being described as “groovy.” Soon, other, non-musical objects and feelings acquired the same attribution, which was able to make sense via connotation. Even wacky, constructed slang, when done right, has origins and clear definitions. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, always rife with wordplay, coined “Five-by-Five,” which originated in HAM radio lingo as a reference to signal strength, was contorted to mean “got it” or “OK”.
     Notice the rules? No matter when the slang was started, it always has some definitive origin, and, most importantly, a trackable definition. These rules should be inevitable. Words must mean something. otherwise, they shouldn’t exist. (Bip, bip.)
     Gen Z understood these principles. For example, “Rizz” is a valid example of slang. Though odd, the phrase is simply a shortened, phonetic form of “chaRISma” with a nearly identical meaning. Wonderful!
     But, Gen Alpha went too far. They started using nonsense words when there should be silence. Now kids are just saying stuff that means nothing as if it meant something.
     Even adding “6-7” to a dictionary presents our editors with a paradox: define a word that has no meaning. Numerology will get you nowhere. “6-7” is neither onomatopoeic nor substitutable nor advantageous. Indeed, it lacks all semblance of meaning. It is then, axiomatically, impenetrable per se.
     Your choice has brought heartache to a lot of good dictionaries, like myself, who you’ve hurt. After all, why are kids ever going to use us if we can’t show them that the meaning of words matter?
     To paraphrase Paddy Chayefsky: You, Dictionary.com, have meddled with the primal forces of English and you must atone!
      We have set you up with an appointment at a rehab center led by Britannica. We all believe in you. Now, go. Get help and good luck, Dic.
      Like any good reference material, I’ve included a bibliography below.

Works Cited:

Chayesfky, Paddy (writer) and Sidney Lumet (director). Network. Speech performed by Ned Beatty. MGM/United Artists. 1975. Streaming.

“Dictionary.com’s 2024 Word of the Year Is...” Dictionary.com, Dictionary.com, 28 Oct. 2025, www.dictionary.com/e/word-of-the-year-2024/#recent-words-of-the-year.

“Dictionary.com’s 2025 Word of the Year Is...” Dictionary.com, Dictionary.com, 28 Oct. 2025, www.dictionary.com/e/word-of-the-year-2025/#recent-words-of-the-year.

Djajapranata, Cliff. “What does '6-7' mean? We don't know either, so we asked a linguist.” Cynthia Gordon (interviewee). Georgetown University. 23 Oct. 2025. https://www.georgetown.edu/news/six-seven-meme-linguistics/

“Twisted Christian.” South Park. Written & Directed by Trey Parker. Created by Trey Parker & Matt Stone. Season 28, episode 1. 15 Oct. 2025. Comedy Central/Paramount+.

“Sigma.” Merriam-Webster.com. 2025. Web. 31 Oct. 2025. https://www.merriam-webster.com/slang/sigma.

Whedon, Joss. Time of Your Life. Penciling by Karl Moline. Inks by Andy Owens. Colors by Michelle Madsen. Cover Art by Jo Chen and Georges Jeanty. Milwaukie, OR: Dark Horse Comics. Print. 2009. Vol. 4 of Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 8.

"Word of the Year 2015". Oxford Dictionaries. November 16, 2015. https://languages.oup.com/word-of-the-year/2015/.


“Word of the Year 2023”. Oxford Dictionaries. Retrieved 4 Dec. 2023. https://languages.oup.com/word-of-the-year/2023/.

Government makes the planes fly on time, and much more

Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia

     The American Taxi was waiting outside at 4:15 a.m. It zipped us to O'Hare in 25 minutes. We checked a bag, breezed through security. The flight left on time. The attendant let me take both a stroopwafel and a chocolate quinoa crisp. The plane landed safely at Reagan National Airport in Arlington, Virginia. The Uber showed up and deposited us at the apartment, exactly four hours door to door. Our daughter-in-law met us in the lobby with the baby.
      It's nice when things work. This happened two weeks ago. I imagine Friday, with flights slashed 10%, trying to relieve an air traffic control system groaning under the government shutdown, air travel will not go so smoothly. Doting grandparents coast to coast will be stranded in hellish airport lounges while breathtakingly cute babies go undandled.
     Why should this be?
     Much of the federal government has been closed since Oct. 1. This might be time for a little honest talk. Pull up a chair.
     Among the biggest lies in the firestorm of untruth we've been enduring is the palpable fiction that government is bad.
     "The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: 'I'm from the government and I'm here to help,'" President Ronald Reagan said, overlooking the fact that he himself was a government employee, and that the citizens whose welfare was supposedly his main concern depend on the government for a spectrum of services. For their mail. To ensure the safety of products they buy and the purity of medicine they take. Often for health care. To encourage clean air and pure water. To appoint fair judges to rule on federal law. To supply soldiers to patrol distant trouble spots. And much more.
     Everyone is on board with the government helping themselves. Those farm subsidy checks are cashed. After every disaster, the emergency aid is gratefully accepted. Yet the specter of other people, people we don't like, also being helped is the soft spot into which the anti-government spear is driven. Our current president began his second term in a blaze of government destruction, inviting an unelected nationalist oligarch to tear apart agencies piecemeal, while hoovering up our private data for his own use.
     Do you know who decimating government helps? Billionaires who don't want to pay taxes. And bigots who quail at the thought of people they hate receiving benefits. That's what the current shutdown is about. Democrats want to extend expiring tax credits that make health insurance less expensive for millions of Americans and reverse Medicaid cuts. That we don't have the universal health care found in nearly every industrialized nation is one scar racism left on the face of our body politic.
     This shutdown does not affect the reign of terror run by Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, lurching around Chicago with their guns and pepper spray, hunting down preschool teachers.
     The government that should be working smoothly, like air traffic control, isn't, while efforts that shouldn't be done in the first place, like extrajudicial ICE kidnappings, hums along; dogged, thank God, by outraged residents — love to you all — defending their communities, and a pesky legal system demanding that people be treated as human beings, no matter the condition of their paperwork.

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Mailbag

     Lots of email about yesterday's column on Gov. JB Pritzker unleashing an f-bomb on the president. I tried to answer each one intelligently, and think you might enjoy glimpsing that process rather than anything else I might write. 

     I was ecstatic when I saw our gov say that to Trump. Bless him!
     No better way to get your point across.
     Ginny M.

     We are still a free people allowed to speak freely. What good is that right if we don't use it? Thanks for writing.

     NS

     I read your article this morning and find that Governor Pritzker and his language to be offensive. The Governor is obviously frustrated with all the drama the state of Illinois is under. We all want to return to normalcy . The Governor in expressing his disdain with trashy language lessens him as a person. Remember he’s the guy that avoided taxes and removed toilets from his house. We can do better without him shooting off bad language.
     Patty L.

     Luckily, I'm not responsible for what you choose to be offended by. Though given what's going on in this country, led by a chronic liar, bully, fraud and traitor, friend to dictators and pedophiles, I can understand a person deciding to take refuge in quaint attitudes, complaining about naughty words. But please don't mistake it for virtue. It's a form of escapism and — no offense intended — cowardice. Thanks for writing.
     NS

     Most readers stop writing at this point, but Patty took another swing.

     At least someone finally standing up to all the democrats who have pulled the covers over peoples eyes.

     I wouldn't dream of arguing with you. Thanks for writing.

     Italians have a saying regarding foul language: “ Quando ci vuole, ci Vuole” translation: ( When it is needed, it is needed.)  💞 your columns.

     Bob A.

     Ooo, I like that. I'm going to tuck it away for future use. My favorite Italian saying, used to explain whatever is going on in the current clutter, shortcoming and disorder of life, is Tengo familia — "I have a family." Thanks.

     NS

     Hi Neil, I’m curious if there is one ST writer who can say one positive thing about the President. There are many to be said and written! You and the ST are so savagely slanted against him it would be nice to hear other views especially from a service that I have so respected until recently. You stand behind our Governor to tell him to F off? Really? Is this what you teach aspiring writers and reporters? Come on we can all do better in some areas. You can’t tell me Kamala would be a better president? It’s laughable! Things are looking way up especially getting criminals out of our cities. Unless you guys like this? Please offer other views for us for us long time loyal readers. 

      Best, Kevin L.

     Sorry, can't help you there. Of course Trump has positive aspects, and I've written about them — he pushed for a vaccine against COVID (that he later minimized). He got rid of the penny. And Hitler built the Autobahn. So what? Your email is the classic red herring argument — "Boo hoo, you're mean to my president, who is so great." Let me state the situation plainly, since you seem to be confused: Donald Trump is a liar, bully, fraud and traitor trying to dismantle the American democratic system so he can stay in power forever. That you are blind to the fact and want to be catered to so you feel better, well, that's your misfortune, and ours. Kamala Harris would have hands down been a better president. Again, your being blind to it doesn't change the matter — colors don't wink out of existence when a person chooses to wear blinders. I'm glad you are, supposedly, a long-time, loyal reader. But given that, you aren't reading too closely, are you? I mean, it doesn't seem to have helped you much. I'd say try reading for comprehension, rather than begging the news to be skewed to suit your pitiful misunderstanding of life in America today.

      NS

     I’ve always been curious with lexicology and, specifically, swear words. What actually makes a swear word a “swear” word? Why is “fuck” a swear word and “wish” isn’t?
     Yvette C.

     Now, that is an excellent question. My off-the-top-of-my-head guess is it has to do with oaths — "By God's wounds!" or whatever — which were the initially "forbidden" words and terms. You were swearing, as in an oath. But let me look into that on tomorrow's blog. Thanks for asking.

     Bingo. In my OED, the first 11 definitions of "swear" — nearly two pages — have to do with oaths. Finally, we get "12. Swear at — a.To imprecate evil upon by an oath; to address with profane imprecation; gen. to utter maledictions against; to curse."

      Which is why, now that I think of it, they're also called "curse words."

     My wife said that Neil Steinberg is the best columnist in Chicago. 
     And I said, “No shit!”

     Dodd B.

     Tell your wife "thank you," and she is too kind. Part of me wants to demur with "Well, yeah, because I'm the only columnist in Chicago at this point." That gives the short shrift to esteemed colleagues, such as Eric Zorn and his invaluable Picayune Sentinel, or Lee Bey, who does an incredible amount of excellent work. I'm still shaking my head in awe and smiling over the fantastic piece he did on painting the Edgewater Beach Apartments. (I mean really, who even does that? Writes about a building being painted?) And such a wealth of detail, from the hue of the paint (sunset pink) to the amount (500 gallons) to my favorite, the seaplane that the adjacent hotel once had.
     But I digress, as is my wont. Thanks again.
     NS

     I found your discussion to be fascinating. In Eric Zorn's blog, we Joe Schmo readers have been having quite a discussion. I would say debate. But most of us primarily elderly white and mostly on the liberal side readers seem to be on the same page. When I was a young lad on the south side, I lived in fear of certain words. They were likely to bring down the wrath of hell(Oops- can I use that word) from my very socially conservative parents. Did you know that having your face slapped hurts and soap doesn't taste very good. But as a senior citizen, I have arrived at the view that even though words can be a powerful force, I am a lot more concerned about actions than potty mouth. Trump is a fine example. He is boyishly proud of himself for the killing of those on boats in the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean. There has been no trial or proof evident of their guilt. There are many other examples of those he has harmed. Cleaning up the language has not helped any of them. I'll bet their families and friends would be more than happy to listen to a few nasty words to have them back or otherwise doing better.. So while I admit words can have a powerful effect(quote Lincoln and MLK) I am personally more concerned about actions than F's, H's, S's and D's.    
     Laurence S.

     Good, good — "fascinating" is what I'm going for. I too admired Eric Zorn's treatment of the topic. And yes, despite having liberal Jewish parents, like you, I know both what it's like to have your face slapped, hard, and to have your mouth washed out with soap.
     I too am a senior citizen, barely. I can ride public transportation for half price. And while I fancy myself something of a wordsmith, I like to use the full range of words, and find censorship is never ending. Allow certain words to be off-limits, and the ring grows. We start with the "n-word" and get to the "f-word" and very quickly the reader has no idea what you're talking about.
     I can't understand the horror that supposed adults have over these words. I recently wrote a profile on Cynthia Yeh, the percussionist at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. She used the phrase "beating the shit out of" a drum. Said it twice. I thought the usage was charming, and contrary to the pretense of high culture that gets draped over classical music. I liked it so much I asked my boss if we could print the actual word?
     We dashed it. And the CSO was so aghast that I quoted the musician saying that word, which she actually said, twice, they said, in essence, "Beat it. We don't want to work with you on stories anymore." I've never written anything about the CSO since. I found it very sad. Then again, there's a lot of very sad going around. Thanks for writing.

    There's more, but that should do for today. See you tomorrow.

JB Pritzker says what the Sun-Times can't

 

     One of the countless anecdotes regarding my hero, Samuel Johnson, is about a lady complimenting him for leaving out "bad, low and despicable words" when compiling his great 1755 dictionary.
     "No, Madam, I hope I have not daubed my fingers," he replied, as if including dirty words would actually soil his hands. But being Johnson, he had to add, "I find, however, that you have been looking for them."
     No crime there. While most adults don't search for swears, we do notice them — that's one reason they're used, as intensifiers, to draw attention, language's yellow highlighter. Consider a headline in Monday's Sun-Times, "PRITZKER TELLS TRUMP TO 'F- - - ALL THE WAY OFF' IN VIRAL VIDEO."
     If only more people did that.
     This might be a good moment to register my personal objection to those dashes. Who are they supposed to protect? If you know the word — and pretty much anyone who can read knows this one — you automatically fill it in yourself. Perhaps some would swoon to see those last three letters in print. But they'd get over it.
     We could help them. Obscenity shocks, some folks, anyway, because it's rare. If we used such words more, they would become less objectionable, the way gay people rehabilitated the slur "queer." Gov. JB Pritzker can say the word, but the Sun-Times won't print it undisguised — don't blame me, I'd do so in a heartbeat. But as I sometimes tell readers: I follow our style; I don't set it.
     Not every institution is so inhibited. The University of Chicago has a stellar reputation, one not particularly associated with lewdness. Yet parents of prospective freshmen visiting the school were once treated to linguist Jason Riggle's class on obscenity. With projected charts tracking the frequency of specific obscenities. In Rockefeller Chapel. No one complained. Nor did Pritzker's word choice cause a stir.
     "We've gotten more used to politicians intentionally breaking these rules to convey extra strong feelings," Riggle said. "We totally expect that. It tends to convey authenticity because you're breaking politeness norms — you can't be held to them because you're so upset."
     Swearing is an expected transgression.
     "It's not that unusual, but it is unusual — that's kind of the whole point," Riggle said.
     The surprising part of this episode is how little "pearl clutching" there was afterward.
     "I had to go looking for it," Riggle said. "The fact that this didn't cause more of an uproar is fascinating. That he was talking to teachers adds an extra meta level."
     The University of Chicago has a long history of frankly studying obscenity — well, as frankly as they could. In 1934, U. of C. professor Allen Walker Read published a 15-page academic paper called "An Obscenity Symbol" without ever specifying the word he defends, arguing it is not the natural physical act that makes such words objectionable, but our reaction: "Thus it is the existence of a ban or taboo that creates the obscenity where none existed before."

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Crunchy and beautiful

     Okay, give it up for Trader Joe's.
     I admit, I resisted them, for years. First, because I am a Sunset Foods guy — well run, lots of selection, nice staff who I tend to know on a first name basis, starting with jovial pater familias Ron Bernardi, part owner of the chain who nevertheless will still sometimes pitch in, bagging. 
     Second, because I'm a brand guy. I don't want ketchup, no matter how supposedly marvelous, from some esoteric catsup company. I want Heinz Ketchup. I want General Mills Cheerios, not whatever Oaty Os knock off someone is trying to sell. Anything off brand makes me think of those white boxes of generic food we had in the 1970s. Sure, my wife picks up Kirkland olive oil and I will use it in my stir fry. But I'm not happy about it. I don't want to eat chocolates that have the same brand name as batteries.
     Like Costco, Trader Joe's is heavy on store brands. And their graphics were initially sort of cheesy. I remember when the first Trader Joe's promotional materials started showing up at the house, I looked at their low rent, clip art illustrations and thought, "What the heck is this?" 
     But my wife became a fan — they are constantly cycling through their offbeat products, and you never know when one will disappear. I tag along with her, eyeing all the bounty, noting how much of the store is given over to booze and snacks, thinking of that line from The Band's "Up on Cripple Creek" — "A drunkard's dream if I ever did see one."
     Admiration, perhaps, but grudging admiration. Except of course for the free sample — a chunk of cranberry pie last time we were there. What kid doesn't love free samples? Trader Joe's also has the most energetic, pleasant staff imaginable; really, once I almost invited one home for Thanksgiving.

     Still, I held back. Trader Joe's, just not my type. 

     Then I noticed a bag of their Fall Leaf Corn Tortilla Chips. Why? Because the bag was beautiful, the burnt sienna and orange and yellow, the leaf shaped chips. I didn't say a word, but my wife caught whatever psychic signal I was sending out, swept over and grabbed a bag ("I don't have to speak," The Band sings, "she defends me.")
     Normally salty snacks are the one thing I'm armored against. But these I had to try. They just looked so good. And they taste good, are good, complicated chips — with not only white and yellow corn flour, but tomato, carrot and pumpkin powders, along with a "trace of lime." Great with Red Gold salsa.
     She's bought two more bags since then. Yes, the product could vanish at any time, like that blueberry sauce she bought when the boys were small and they all still talk about, the Lost Eden of blueberry sauces. But until then...
     Don't get me wrong. I'd still rather hop on my Schwinn and head to Sunset for a basket full of food. And the Fresh Farms on Milwaukee has my heart, with their Valencia juice oranges — oddly hard to find, even in the affluent North Shore. They also have dozens of different varieties of bulk Russian and Polish candies. Plus — and I love this detail — a little garbage can, always filled with wrappers, as if to say, "Spokojnie, spróbuj jednego. Masz pozwolenie" — sorry, "Go ahead, try one. You have permission."
     And the bread. Don't get me started on the breads baked at Fresh Farms. Worth an entire column. In fact, if I had any sort of confidence that I could actually make it happen, I'd love to walk the aisles of Fresh Farms with its owner, talking about just how incredible the place is.
     Wait, we were talking about Trader Joe's. Sorry. I do get carried away. Fall Leaf Corn Tortilla Chips. Tasty and beautiful. Get 'em while you can.

Balloon Museum a temporary escape from the daily disaster

"Airship Orchestra," by ENESS

     If you want relief from the growing national crisis — and at this point, who doesn't? — the Balloon Museum, which opened last Thursday at the Fields Studios, 2828 N. Pulaski Road, offers escape for an hour or two to a place where inflation is a good thing, and denizens are puffed up only with air, not ego and malice.
     "EmotionAir: Art You Can Feel" is less museum, more sprawling play zone along the lines of Meow Wolf, the "artertainment" immersive experiences out West whose purpose is to give visitors something big, colorful and unusual to pose in front of on Instagram.
     Workers were busily tacking down carpets when I got a sneak peek last Wednesday, which might have detracted from the overall effect. Though I also didn't have to pony up $39.83, the weekday toll for teens and seniors (more for adults, and more on the weekend) which no doubt honed my sense of childish wonder. Kids under 3 are free.

     I admired the colorful benignity of ENESS' "Airship Orchestra," the first of 18 tableaus — artworks if you're feeling generous — 16 stolid, striped, violet and blue squashlike balloons, some with bunny ears, all with eyes, to get visitors off on a cheery, anthropomorphic foot.

     Then came large grey cylinders that slowly collapse — rather like our democratic norms — and reinflate, a hopeful touch. Leading into "ADA," by Karina Smigla-Bobinski, a white room with an enormous clear helium-filled balloon, studded with charcoal sticks like a sea mine, a "self-forming artwork" that will cover the walls with black streaks by the time the show ends April 6. It did make me think of an actual artist: Iceland's Olafur Eliasson, who had a diverting show at the Museum of Contemporary Art in 2009.
     The enormous ball pit is clearly a highlight, though concern that I not lose my phone in the thing squelched whatever gleeful abandon one is supposed to experience. Here being ahead of the crowd helped. One visitor during the Balloon Museum's New York run reported the wait to get into the pit "felt like forever."
     "Invisible Ballet," a storm of silver balloons, is disorienting fun. I felt compelled to take a video and toss it onto social media, where the first response taught me a new term, "timeline cleanse," meaning something that isn't an Edvard Munch scream of shock at the latest offense against social decency.
     Next came Momoyo Torimitsu's "Somehow, I Don't Feel Comfortable," the one display that — in my opinion — rose to the level of actual art. Truly, you could cart it over to the MCA and it would fit right in.
     A trio of enormous inflatable pink rabbits, crammed against a too low ceiling, "Somehow..." is a comment on kawaii, the culture of cuteness that has gripped Japan for the past half century. Kawaii sells $4 billion a year worth of Hello Kitty stickers and backpacks. But it is also the happy face on a straitjacket of enforced helplessness and passivity, an attractive trap of being "something innocent, pure and small that should be protected" that many women spend their lives trying to escape.

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 "Somehow, I Don't Feel Comfortable," by Momoyo Torimitsu

Fall back

Clock with perpetual calendar, by Jean Antoine Lépine (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

         It's Sunday, Nov. 2. Did you remember to set your clocks back?

        Just an hour. Though we live in an era where some people seem stuck on pushing time even further backward, to some mythic time in their distant past. They're never very specific as to exactly when. Vague glory days, perhaps immediately after World War II, though that recedes past memory for most. Once I pressed a reader — what year are you talking about when things were better? Pick one? She replied 1952, and I wrote a blog post on just how grim that year actually was — polio rampant, the Korean War raging, Jim Crow deforming the South, McCarthyism creating a pall of fear.

     I actually don't think it is a specific era that MAGA is trying to regain — when American was "great" — but a social order where the people they don't think should count today indeed didn't count for much. Votes were suppressed — a future they're striding for. The national narrative was scrubbed of Blacks and gays and women. White folks were top dog, by definition. The world was their oyster. In theory. In memory.

    There is a useful word for this hunger: revanchism. A policy of trying to claw back what has been lost, to retaliate against those who have taken it, in your estimation. We see this everywhere. Vladimir Putin decides that Ukraine belongs to Russia because of something that happens in the 10th century. Encouraging diversity undermines merit — merit being what white folks display when they collect the cream. A world where we were top dog, and called the shots. We said "Jump!" and the world responded, "How high?" 

     At least in our memory. In the memories of some. Or, rather, their fancies, since they don't actually remember such a time. Because it never really existed.

    We do fall backward an hour every autumn. And just that one change throws people. The truth is, there is no going back, only forward. I grew up in a time when, with an eye on the 21st century, there was a lot of talk about the future, speculation about what things would be like. Now, not so much. Now our potential futures seem grim, from the authoritarian state being imposed by Donald Trump, to the violent storms caused by global warming, to the menace of artificial intelligence (though why people should fret over the hazy possibilities AI, and not the climate change ravaging the world right now, right before our eyes, is a mystery. Or maybe not such a mystery — it's always easier to consider esoteric danger than true threat. That's why we obsess over shark attacks, but not heart attacks).

      The future is coming whether we consider it or not. It could hold for us a decent society, where people are free to speak, write, think, vote. Where health care is a right for all, not a privilege for a few. Where education mattered. Or it might not. We seem headed for a very different future, a crude patchwork cobbled out of impressions of the past. Do we really want to go back there? Falling back an hour is hard enough. We can't fall back years and years, and shouldn't try.

Restaurant field notes: Smoque

     Certain restaurants exert a sort of tractor beam. You might not head there for a night out, but if you are in the neighborhood, if you stray into their field of attraction, you are inevitably drawn in. It really isn't a choice — their allure pulls you.

     Such is the case with Smoque, the barbecue joint at 3800 North Pulaski. I found myself a dozen blocks south, checking out the Balloon Museum experience — I'll share that Monday. That required I show up about 11 a.m. So when I finished experiencing giant balloons, about 12:30, there was no doubt where I was going to lunch.
     The only question was what to eat. Trying to avoid bread, I nixed the sandwiches, and happened to have ribs for dinner the night before. So no ribs. My mind quickly settled on the brisket platter.  Sure, I could have got it with slaw and two sides — but one of those sides would have to be beans, and the other probably corn bread, and while I did have my insulin with me, I didn't want to overload on carbs. The full platter also cost $27.50. Which is quite a lot of for a quick solo lunch on a Wednesday.
    So I opted for the a la carte platter, depicted above. Which cost ... I almost said "only cost" but that isn't quite right ... $18.50. Or $4.62 per slice. Quite a lot, really. 
    Although. It is very, very good brisket, falling apart at a touch. And the sauces are superb. I went from looking at my order rather dubiously, prior to the first bite, thinking, "That's it?" to eating it, quite quickly, and realizing, with satisfaction, "That's it!"

     I have to point out that service at Smoque is excellent, as warm and inviting as their brisket. None of the take-this-and-get-out tone found at too many places. I ordered a side of mac and cheese to go, for my wife for dinner, and the smoked beans for myself. Taking my tray, I wondered where they were, and was told the sides were already bagged and tucked in a hot box, waiting until I finished my meal — which, lingering, took all of three minutes. That's the thing when you're selling gold — even a little bit, well, it's still gold. 

    

The U.S. Labor Department dreams of an Aryan America

     My profession has a saying, coined right here in Chicago: "If your mother says she loves you, check it out." Good advice, particularly now that building airy castles of fabrication is official U.S. government policy, and social media is awash in engaging untruths, making each of us a little paper boat buffeted by an endless typhoon of lies. Anything unusual enough to catch attention merits immediately asking: Is this true?
     A few days ago I noticed a grid of 15 images supposedly created by the U.S. Department of Labor, assembled by Geoff Bowser, a Brooklyn real estate attorney with fewer than a thousand followers on Bluesky. "I made an image of all the art posted by US DOL on X since approximately Labor Day," he wrote.
     A dozen of the images were versions of the same broad-shouldered white hunk, with stern admonishments like "BUILD YOUR HOMELAND'S FUTURE" and "AMERICANS FIRST." The other three were a family straight out of "Fun with Dick and Jane," right down to the white-collared shirtwaist dress on the little girl.
     The standard 1950s dream images of a white-bread America that never existed — not without squinting away a whole bunch of folks who didn't count, then, and apparently still don't. An America that exists even less today, except in the fever dreams of those, now sadly in power, trying to stuff our country back into the confines of their narrow cookie-cutter molds.
     Why is this surprising? It perfectly meshes with everything else going on. Chicagoans are being snatched from the streets by masked thugs for the crime of being Brown in public. Black people are scrubbed from of our nation's history on official websites and driven out of positions of authority in the military. 

     Yes, I know that one reason totalitarianism succeeds, at first, is that decent people can't quite believe what they're seeing. You carefully pack your suitcase per instructions, not realizing it's going to be yanked away on the train platform. You show up for your job interview with a haircut and your best suit, not realizing they're never going to hire a person who looks like you.
     But could the Department of Labor really be representing America as a white man and only a white man, with no minorities in sight, and women, who make up half the work force, delegated to gazing with adoration at a daughter — in a pink bonnet! — at church?
     The United States is 19% Hispanic. Twelve percent Black. Six percent Asian. More than a third of the population. Is the Labor Department really giving them all the cold shoulder?
     I jumped on X to check — "if your mother tells you she loves you" etc.— and examined the Labor Department's X feed.
     The images are in support of Operation Firewall, the department's move to restrict visas.
     "The American Dream belongs to the American People," the department announces over one poster. And we know who those people are.
     "Initially, I just went to X out of curiosity to see whether the art that was posted was representative of the full extent of the art they used," Bowser told me. "When I saw that it was all white men as workers ... I felt compelled to share it as a composite to draw attention to the propaganda and racism."
     Why bother putting together that grid and disseminating it?
     "I'm angry and heartbroken about what Trump is doing to this country," said Bowser, who has two boys, 3 and 6. "On a more basic level, I'm doing it because it's something I can do. I don't want to have to tell my sons that I didn't try to stand against this."
     I reached out to the Labor Department for comment, forgetting that the government is shut down until further notice.

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Tricked by a bug

   

     Not to give women any ideas ... but praying mantises do not always need a male in order to reproduce.
      Sure, they can do it the standard birds-and-bees way, with male praying mantises famously being eaten by the female after serving their purpose. And usually, they do. But females can also reproduce through parthenogenesis, laying eggs that are clones of herself, without needing to  bother with the annoyance of involving a male, and all the drama that entails.
     And yes, the female occasionally eats their special friend after copulation. This happens mostly in captivity though, where males have been seen continuing to mate even with their heads gone, which is also par for the course. Though the nymphs — young mantises — also eat each other, and mantises are so generally voracious that they inspired a rare bit of wordplay in the no-nonsense Encyclopaedia Britannica, which ends its entry for mantids (a variant they prefer to "mantis"): "Since all mantids are ferocious carnivores, 'preying' rather than 'praying' may better describe them.") Touche!
     I spied this fine specimen on our doorpost Wednesday morning.
     "Hello gorgeous," I said. "Where have you been all summer?"
     She hadn't been there the evening before — at nearly four inches long, I could hardly have missed her at eye level — but then praying mantises are crepuscular (coming out at twilight) and nocturnal. She probably showed up in the night. I was surprised to see her — it's been getting a little cold for such an ectothermic (drawing heat from the outside rather than generating it from within; I know people like that) creature.
     I admired how still she stood as I snapped her portrait — I assumed it was a female, who had just laid her eggs, in a protective egg case called an ootheca, a lovely word that seems to have a pair of eggs right there in the beginning, coined by 19th century science, turning to the Greek, of course, ōon meaning egg, and thēkē meaning container. (Ootheke is ovary in Greek; mantis is straight Greek, for "prophet," which enhances the praying part).
     It was only later, when I passed by our doorpost a second time, did I remember the iron fist that nature hides within the velvet glove of all that beauty. My mantis wasn't holding still; she was dead. 

     Or so I thought. I returned later in the morning, thinking I would collect the corpse and perhaps deposit it on a shelf in my office, as a wintertime companion. But she was gone. I looked on the ground, figuring she had fallen off. No mantis. Maybe a bird got her.

      Then I noticed her, a few inches down, head facing earthward. Front arms definitely wiggling with life. And I remembered that mantises — and there are nearly 2,000 kinds, the praying mantis is only the most familiar — are mimics, imitating flowers, leaves, stems, blades of grass. There are orchid mantises and stick mantises, dead leaf mantises and mantises that mimic ants.  They blend in. 

     I'd been fooled. By an animal with a brain the size of a mustard seed, one that can carry on a meaningful romantic life with its head bitten off. I smiled, admiringly, and wished her well as she carried on with her Wednesday, and I continued with mine.

Donald Trump: Every brag a blot.

My father's carving of Don Quixote, bought in Spain in the 1950s.

     Donald Trump was praising himself on social media the other day. No news there. Now if a day passed when he didn't puff himself — that would be something special. Otherwise, to even report the fact of our president prattling on about his own superlative self is like sharing  the bulletin that molecules are flitting through the air, or that water is rushing across the landscape, seeking its own level — it happens everywhere all the time, and to notice it is to state the obvious.
     Yet this week, regarding some droplet flung from his firehosing self-puffery, spattering more salve at the festering open wound that is his ego, I thought again of a line from Cervantes, translated by Edith Grossman as, "Self-praise is self-debasement" mentioned in my 2017 examination of our then-new president through the lens of Don Quixote.
     But for some reason, this time I paused. Something wasn't quite right. There is a problem with that quote, particularly "self-debasement." A clunky word, not one you'd ever use. You'd never say, "I'm not that good at bowling — this isn't self-debasement; it's true."
     We can do better. 

     I wondered what the original was, and found it in Chapter XVI. Don Quixote is ruefully singing his own praises, pointing out, in Miguel Garci-Gomez's translation: "though self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me."

    Which makes Trump's constant upchuck of auto-flattery all the more puzzling, because it is so unnecessary. There is always someone at hand to do it for him; many someones. He's surrounded by a hallelujah chorus of lackeys, lickspittles and lapdogs — and those are just the L's — scrambling over each other to pay tribute like piglets fighting for position around a sow. He needn't bother. But bother he does. Because that echoing void where a soul might go demands to be fed, 24-7, and as an addiction expert once said, "It's hard to get enough of what doesn't work in the first place." I am often accused of hating the man but the bedrock truth is, I pity him. I can't imagine a worse punishment than just being who he is.
     "Self-praise is degrading" is an improvement on "self-praise is self-debasement." But we could still do better. Let's look at the original Spanish for clues: "Las propias alabanzas envilecen."
     "Propia" is own, as in your own self. "Alabanza" means praise, often in religious sense, as in worship. There is Alabanza Christian music, singing of the glories of God. So "Las propias alabanzas" means, literally, "The self-praise." We could flip it to "praising yourself," which sounds better.
     "Envilecen" is a verb, meaning to debase, or degrade.
     We could try, "praising yourself is shaming yourself." An improvement on the translation I used in 2017, "self-praise is self-debasement," though the doubled "yourself" grates as much as the doubled "self" did. Or spice it up even more with a bit of the vernacular: "singing your own praises is cutting your own throat"? Even better. 

     But we live in a time when language is sandblasted into an endless series of smooth bloops and bleeps, thoughts polished smooth like pebbles so we can continually slingshot them at one another through social media. It's often said of our president that every accusation is a confession, so why not build on that and observe that every brag is also a blot? "Every brag a blot." Now, that's a keeper.

Nothing to see

 

    
      My granddaughter lives within walking distance of the White House, and Monday we all took a break from cooing over her to stroll our little lozenge of concentrated cuteness over to eyeball the place for the first time since the East Wing was torn off.

      You can't see anything. Which itself is odd, because typically this administration is too arrogant and dumb to be ashamed of the bad it's doing. In truth, the careful concealment was more worrisome than any glimpse of ripped up architecture. Because it is a reminder that, as awful as what we know of the current administration certainly is, imagine what is going on out of sight. Not just the self-dealing, the corrupt practices — those are also pretty plain, though there must be more and worse that will someday be revealed. 

     Beyond that, think about those windowless ICE detention facilities. We see how ICE behaves in public, with upstanding members of the public whose only crime is exercising their Constitutional rights. What is going on in darkness, with zero oversight nor accountability? When the facts come out — and they always do — it'll make the recent tempest over abrupt removal of part of the people's house seem silly. It isn't a matter of speculation, but a certainty. Anyone wondering whether the faceless thugs operating outside the law are behaving themselves in private is an idiot.
    It was very sad to see the White House. Usually I thrill to consider the greatness that once resided here. Now it's hard to think beyond the evil therein, the excrescence occupying it, tearing it apart, and our country too. 
   At least we can still speak out. Free speech hasn't been cast as obstruction of justice, yet, though ICE is halfway there, hassling Americans for taking videos in a Sam's Club parking lot. There were protestors in LaFayette Park. They seemed to be having fun, and I thought I'd amplify their messages in my own small way. 

Frosty mug

   
     You know what made car alarms so annoying? They never stopped. They went on and on and on and on and on. And on. And on and on and on and...
     You get it. Plus, inevitably there wasn't anyone actually breaking into the car that was shrieking in front of your apartment in the middle of the night.
     Which makes the annoyance of car alarms different from the present situation in our country, where indeed a criminal is right now trying to steal our country, abusing peaceful residents one day, defacing public monuments the next, all the while planning to corrupt our election system so he and his cronies can never be removed from power no matter how unpopular they become. The danger is very immediate and real.
     So no false alarms here. Constant warning, as loud as possible, is justified, maybe even essential.
     But also deadening. Soul-sucking. So the strategy at EGD is to occasionally turn our gaze away from the horrific shit show in Washington — and increasingly around the country — and regard something that doesn't suck.
     Such as this frosty mug of A & W root beer I was served earlier this month in Weston, Michigan. I hadn't eaten at an A & W in 20 years, if not more, if ever. But we were driving my brother's hot new Audi Q6 — an all-electric SUV, it seemed a challenge to get it to Ontonagon without ending up on the side of the road. And was. Planning was required.
     So we were making one of three pitstops required to make the seven hour drive, timed for an early lunch, and walked over to this A & W. Where I ordered a double cheeseburger and a diet — thank you Mr. Diabetes! — root beer.
     "Do you want that in a frosty mug?" the clerk asked.
     I was taken aback — a frosty glass mug? In a fast food joint? it's as if I spied a worker seated next to the deep fryer, churning butter.
     "Hell yes!" I said, or words to that effect, and she produces from a cold case a big, heavy, indeed frosty glass mug.
     The sugarless root beer was quite good, as was the cheeseburger — I had a hunch that A & W fare wouldn't be the queasy, why-did-I-put-that-in-my-mouth? offal found at McDonald's. After we ate, when I went to deposit my garbage at the can by the door, I placed my mug on a tray, along with all the other used mugs, and marveled at this nod to tradition, which required an expenditure of time, effort, much mug washing, and no doubt considerable breakage. I thought maybe A & W Restaurants were family-owned; they're not. But they are the only major restaurant chain that is franchisee-owned, meaning someone closer to the customers decided to go to the effort to keep the frosty mug tradition alive.
     It's worth it. As was the typically glorious weekend at Ontonagon, complete with cigars, sauna, tomahawk steak, conversation, lake swimming, and the largest beach bonfire ever constructed by mankind, in my estimation. On the way back, we stopped in Weston again, topped up the battery, and hit the A & W, where I ordered exactly the same thing: double cheeseburger, frosty mug of diet root beer. It was still good.
     Does the persistence of the A & W frosty glass mug in the annus horribilis of 2025 counterbalance the destruction of democracy, the erosion of freedom, the encouragement of the cruel and the dampening of hopes of any of this ending anytime soon, if at all? No. Not in the slightest. But it's not nothing, and at this point I'll take any glimmer I can get. America may not be great, anymore, but it is still good, at certain times and in certain places.

Erie Canal, the ditch that made Chicago great, marks its 200th birthday

 

     The Erie Canal is one of those historical topics that traditionally make eyes roll up. It's so pre-industrial, and mule-centric. But as a student of the origins of Chicago, I knew that there is a fascinating tale there, one not only key to the development of the city, but also important today in this time of rapid technological change. I was so certain that last November, when we drove to Cooperstown for Thanksgiving, I detoured 45 minutes to Lockport, New York, to eyeball the thing, and take the above photograph. I'm glad that the paper recognized that I'd found something worthwhile, and splashed the story across the front page, and hope you agree.

     What was the most significant event in the history of Chicago?
     The Great Chicago Fire? Wrong. The 1893 World's Fair? Wrong. The Cubs winning the World Series in 2016? Tempting ... but no.
     Those don't count. Because Chicago was already a dynamic city when they occurred. What happened to create a major metropolis here in the first place?
     Time's up! The most important thing to ever happen in the history of Chicago — for starters, it's the reason Chicago is not a city in Wisconsin — isn't well known here because it didn't happen here, but 500 miles east, exactly 200 years ago Sunday: the opening of the Erie Canal, a 363-mile waterway, 40 feet across and four feet deep, from Albany, on the Hudson River, west to Buffalo on the northeast tip of Lake Erie.  

     The opening was announced by a cannon firing in Buffalo at 9 a.m. Oct. 26, 1825, with the news echoed across the state, all the way to Sandy Hook, New Jersey, by guns placed within earshot of each other.
     As that cannonade reverberated, kicking off eight days of celebration, Chicago was a swampy nowhere, a log stockade fort and, maybe, 100 residents. St. Louis, "the Rome of the West," had 100 times the population. There were more enslaved miners digging for lead in Galena than there were residents of Chicago.
     So how did the Erie Canal push Chicago to the forefront?
     The canal meant a ship could sail across the Atlantic Ocean, pass New York City, travel 150 miles up the Hudson and transfer cargo to flatboats at Albany. Those boats would transverse the state via canal, load goods and passengers back onto schooners at Buffalo to range across Lake Erie, up the Detroit River, across Lake St. Clair and the St. Clair River, up Lake Huron following the contours of Michigan, through the Straits of Mackinac down choppy Lake Michigan, to be deposited on its southernmost point, at Chicago, which on an 1825 French map in the Newberry Library was the name of the portage where Native-Americans carried their canoes from the Chicago to the Des Plaines rivers.
     If that sounds arduous, it was easy compared to the previous system — ox cart — unchanged since ancient Greece. Considered an engineering marvel on par with the pyramids, the Erie Canal cut shipping costs by 90%.
     Not everyone got it. President Thomas Jefferson, in a rare moment of short-sightedness, withheld federal funds, calling the canal idea "a little short of madness." New York Gov. DeWitt Clinton made it his personal project. Work on the canal began July 4, 1817, three days after Clinton took office.
     Some called it "Clinton's folly." Others immediately saw the canal's implications, including Nathaniel Pope, the Illinois territory's delegate to the House of Representatives.
     The Northwest Ordinance of 1787 set the northern border of Illinois as a continuation of Indiana's northern border, cutting Illinois off from access to Lake Michigan.
     Pope pressed Congress, already rattled by storms that would lead to the Civil War, arguing that being connected to the Great Lakes and the East, via the nascent Erie Canal, would tie Illinois to the Union.
     Without lake access, Illinois's proximity to the Mississippi might draw it into the camp of the restive South. Congress agreed and pushed the state's border 60 miles north.
     That's why Chicago is in Illinois rather than Wisconsin. What got it going as a city was the prospect of the goods of the world landing at the sand bar blocking the mouth of the Chicago River. Where would they go from there? What would be loaded for the return trip? The soldiers at Fort Dearborn got busy excavating the mouth of the river, while the federal government began developing the port of Chicago.
     Meanwhile, a dream that began when Joliet and Marquette visited Native Americans here in 1673 — a canal leading to the Mississippi — was put into motion: The Des Plaines River wasn't good for much beyond canoe traffic. But If a canal could be dug from the Chicago River, 96 miles south to the Illinois River at LaSalle. Then boats could continue into the Mississippi and down to New Orleans. The Erie Canal dropped Europe on Chicago's doorstep; the I & M Canal would invite South America, too.
     Such A canal cost money. had to be paid for. There was one readily available resource here: land. Chicago was surveyed and platted up so lots could be sold to finance a canal, plus land along the canal route.
      If you look at the original James Thompson Chicago map of August 1830, you'll recognize Loop streets — Wells, La Salle, Clark. And west of the river are two street names that hint why this is being done: Clinton, for the Erie-building governor of New York, and Canal, which kind of gives the game away.

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