Not every 50th anniversary is golden

"One of these things is not like the other...
one of these things just doesn't belong..."

     Today marks the 50th anniversary of the start of the Six-Day War, and it is telling that the media, in general, seems to be marking the half century point of Palestinian occupation, as opposed to the daring victory that allowed Israel to survive for another five decades of international condemnation for the sin of existing.
     You'll forgive me for not parsing once again, on demand from the pitiless calendar, a matter I have dissected endlessly already and that, alas, does not change much as the years slip by, only becoming more hopeless and tragic. I think I pretty much summed it up in last year's post. 
     But I can't just say, "Been there, done that," so I offer up this, which ran immediately after Israel had a bloody encounter with a flotilla of activists who wanted to run their blockade of Gaza. It appeared at a time when my column ran a full page, and I have left in the subheadings.
     At least now I am off the hook for another 25 years. Squinting toward the 75th anniversary, I will be 81. I don't know which is more likely, that the problem will be lingering still, roughly as it is now, or that I'll still be applying myself to this odd business. 

     Those growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, as I did, came to expect a certain genius from Israel, an ability to accomplish tough, nearly miraculous tasks, between the strategic brilliance of the Six-Day War and the daring raid at Entebbe.
     Since the Intifada, though, Israel's record has been spottier, and the latest fiasco—seen coming a mile away, like the Syrians advancing on the Golan Heights in 1973—is Monday's deadly response to the protest flotilla bringing supplies to Gaza.
     It was a lose-lose proposition: let the ships pass, and anybody who wants to is now free to land a boatload of rockets on the beach at Gaza—which, remember, has the habit of firing them at Israel. Stop the ships and you risk a slaughter at sea, which is what happened. Israel took a long look at the trap, then carefully stepped in.
     Israel has justifications for this, but so what? Second-guessing Israel has become an international sport, like soccer, and explanations mean nothing in the capitals of Europe and on college campuses in America, where Israel has long been regarded as a synthesis of apartheid South Africa and the evil Empire from "Star Wars."

TRYING TO BOO THEM OFF THE PLANET

     Does world opinion matter? In the short term, no. Existence as a nation is not a global popularity contest, thankfully, because if it were the U.S. would be voted off the planet along with Israel, which suffers in part because it is so similar to us—a prosperous liberal democracy in the midst of repressive Islamic monarchies and impoverished police states, all too happy to condemn Israel for occasionally doing what they themselves do every day.
     Nothing changed Monday. Those who despised Israel last week continue to do so today, with a fresh outrage to add to their litany. The same people who didn't believe Israel had a right to exist in 1948 and 1956 and 1967 and 1973 and on May 30 continue to do so. And those who support Israel also continue doing so, with the same gathering uneasiness they've felt for years.
     In a way, this unease is misplaced. Israel's supporters tend to forget that the present crisis is actually an improvement over past crises. Forty years ago, the problem was a ring of hostile neighbors keen to destroy the nation, not with global finger-wagging, but with tanks and armies. The current mess is a better problem to have.
     Though not, of course, from the perspective of the Palestinians in two occupied territories, a pair of poison pills that Israel has been unable to either swallow or spit out. I don't think that supporting Israel requires denying the anguish of the Palestinians—betrayed by their corrupt and bellicose leaders, sure, bypassing chance after chance for peace, definitely, but suffering all the same.
     Can the status quo continue? Absolutely. We live in a country routinely condemned by most of the world for whatever we do; in their eyes we are waging not one but two needless wars of aggression in Afghanistan and Iraq. Still, we manage to sleep at night, and the Israelis are used to being scorned for doing what other countries do without notice. Few care that Gaza also borders Egypt, which quickly loosened its own blockade Tuesday, or that Jordan borders the West Bank. If six trucks had rushed an Egyptian checkpoint in Gaza, their occupants would be just as dead as the ship activists, though the world wouldn't notice. And Jordan, which once controlled the West Bank, certainly doesn't want it back. Few bother to wonder why. If "Free Gaza" were the issue, it would be free tomorrow—alas, Gaza doesn't want to be free; it wants to be the outer suburb of a Palestinian Palestine, and prefers to grind through the years in misery rather than function normally and give up the dream.
     Here's where Israel's past successes led it astray—having handled so much, it assumed it could handle an endless occupation, and it can't. Rather, Israel needs to conjure up its past genius and figure out how to end this and get on to the next problem. (Anyone who thinks that solving the Palestinian crisis brings peace is forgetting what the situation was like before).
     Two reasons why this must be done: First, it's a humanitarian nightmare. History has jammed 1.5 million Palestinians into a bad place, and fate's designation of the Israelis as their jailers is one of the cruel ironies that history seems to savor. Just as you can love America and not take pride in its slaughter of the Indians, so you can support Israel and wonder: If they're so smart, why are they still in the bloody occupation business after 43 years? (Of course, nobody flips that question and asks: If the occupation is so cruel, then why don't the Palestinians make peace?)
     Second, the occupation erodes Israel's standing in the world, and while that might not matter now, it will eventually, particularly as the Muslim populations of the United States and Europe grow in numbers and sophistication—adopting the PR techniques that Jews once used to rally the world to Israel. How will Israel fare as a completely ostracized pariah?
     I realize, with miracles confined to biblical times, this might be expecting Israel to do the impossible—but Israel used to be known for achieving the impossible. Maybe it can do so again. If not, the Palestinians are waiting for their own miracle, and lack neither patience nor support.
                    —Originally published in the Sun-Times June 2, 2010.

We might not want to go where Uber is taking us

    I'm old enough to remember when authors of a certain vintage fetishized their manual typewriters. During their smug, how-I-create interviews, they would emphasize the physical process of setting down words on paper, as if the devices themselves somehow conveyed authenticity.
     Let amateurs surrender to the siren call of newfangled electric typewriters or, God forbid, the soulless word processor. They were artists, and artists made a whap-whap-whap sound on their beloved Royals and Olympias.
     That went away, eventually. Because manual typewriters are a pain. Computers are far easier, and they won. Technology always wins.
       Still, before that inevitable victory, the two technologies existed side by side for a spell, the old and new, until the inferior one dies utterly clutching the curtains, decrying its doom.
     We've entered that fatal last act with taxis. I never realized it until last week when I had one of those moments where the two technologies go head to head.
     Something called the UI Labs invited me to visit, which required showing up at 1415 N. Cherry.
     Had I been less busy, I'd have figured out where the nearest Divvy station was and biked over, it was only two miles from the newspaper.

To continue reading, click here.

Repurposed

    
     Sobriety starts out being conceptual. That might be the trickiest part. You have to realize it is possible. People do it. You can do it. It is allowed. You don't have to drink. Life still works. You do other things instead. 
     Thus I was intrigued and delighted to notice, while researching a column a few weeks back, this decanter full of M&Ms in the chambers of Ruben Castillo, the chief judge of the United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois. Clever. 
     I never quite understood decanters. I have a pair -- wedding gifts—but never used them. The decanters seemed props in search of a soap opera, something Susan Lucci could pause in front of, her hand on the stopper, before making some startling confession. 
     When I gave up drinking, a dozen years ago, I remember thinking, among the swirl of confused regrets, "And now I'll never use those decanters."
     Boo hoo. The decanters had never been used anyway. Because it seemed an unnecessary step to pour the booze out into these heavy cut glass bottles. Toward what end? 
     This colorful repurposing seems ideal—a notion that had literally never crossed my mind -- and worth passing along, under the assumption it would be a revelation to others as well. I asked Castillo about it concerned that he might feel ill-used if I seized this personal detail from a corner of his desk and publicized it. 
     Castillo didn't mind. He said that sometimes his job requires him to interview children in his vast chambers, and a fancy bottle of candy comes in handy.
     The only problem now is this: I don't like M&Ms. I suppose any small bore candy would work. Although, upon second thought, not liking M&Ms makes them ideal, as it would encourage moderation. I would have the repurposed decanter finally on display. And the candy would be safe from its owner, in the main, and thus available for any visitors who might want a treat.  

Kathy Griffin shows her throat to the GOP

Sign in the Paris catacombs: "The eyes of God are fixed on the righteous, and His ears are open to their prayers."

     I'm not the most vigorous consumer of popular culture, especially when it comes to television So I don't know whether being unfamiliar with Kathy Griffin until her career blew up this past week is a justifiable oversight or an embarrassing lapse. And her a local talent, pride of Oak Park, I learned today. When I heard she hosted the cheesy, unbearable New Year's Eve celebrations with Anderson Cooper, there was a glimmer of recognition. I've seen those, usually with the sound off at parties.
     Though to be honest, I thought she was Kathy Lee Gifford, until people kept calling her a comic.
      Griffin's career fell apart, for the moment, gigs vanishing and sponsors fleeing, after she tweeted a photo of herself holding a severed, bloody rubber Donald Trump head. She must have thought it was edgy, or funny, or something. It wasn't. Rather, it was manna from heaven for Trump and the delicate souls who support him. All bullies consider themselves victims, and this sort of thing is just tossing chunks of meat into the piranha tank. The rare poke at them that isn't justified. The president was so excited, he dragooned his 11-year-old son to add spice to his outrage while his supporters got a chance to lavish their long-dormant sympathy on themselves. 

     Insincerely evoking supposedly injured family members is a favorite stunt of politicians, certainly not exclusive to Trump. Rahm Emanuel also pulls out that violin when he wants to draw extra pity. 
     The GOP needs injuries to keep attention away from, oh, colluding with Russia. They can't keep harping on Hillary's emails -- this is some new minutia to puff into supposed significance.
     This is not a defense of Griffin. She was foolish. She's 56. She should have known better. It takes a certain discipline. While the Griffin drama was unfolding in the corner of my eye midweek, I was writing my Thursday post, looking for a metaphor to describe what I assume will be the uncomfortable transit of Trump through the body politic.
     "Frankly," I wrote, "we can count on the Europeans to realize, along with half of America, that Trump is a kidney stone the nation will eventually expel, after much pain tie wasted curled and ineffectual."
      That was the revised version. As I originally typed it, the sentence read "the nation will eventually expel, after much pain and bloodshed..." but I stopped, as soon as I typed the word, and backspaced out "bloodshed." Too much. No blood. As soon as Trump became president, I made a rule that I would never write anything, not a tweet, not an email, nada, suggesting it would be a relief for him to drop dead, perhaps from a stroke, being so fat and never exercising and just due to the wrath of a just God finally stirring. Never mind suggest that be killed. Because it would be a mean and unworthy sentiment to express, not to mention desperate. It's like wishing he would magically disappear. What's the point?
     The irony of the Internet is that it rewards extremes. A master like Ann Coulter spews the vilest, most loathsome horseshit, yet somehow rides the wave of outrage on to the next career milestone. She's like the geek who bites the heads off chickens at carnivals—disgusting people isn't a mistake, it's her entire act. And yet she, and some people, get away with it. Trump could suggest, quite baldly during the campaign, that should Hillary Clinton win, someone should shoot her -- "2nd amendment solutions" is the code he used. Bald, but code enough, and he was elected president.
      Maybe that was Griffin's crime. She didn't use code. And, worse, she apologized, which is almost a confession. She should have said, "Bloody head of Trump? No, no, no, it was Mussolini. Easy mistake to make.They can be hard to tell apart."

Hope flickers, and is extinguished.

Laocoon and his sons, Vatican Museum

     I wrote this in the hours waiting for Trump to pull out of the Paris accord Thursday. Maybe because there was a delay — the announcement had been expected Wednesday — it became sufficed with a baseless hope. But I was glad I had it ready, as the event itself was just too damn depressing, more than I expected. People I knew were genuinely shocked, which is surprising at this point of the Trump administration. Maybe not "shocked." Sad and disappointed, worried and embarrassed. I was happy to walk out of the newsroom and go downstairs and watch the river,  a perfect first day in June, and remember that the world goes on, more or less, despite the folly of the humans upon it.


     I confess.
     As 2 p.m. CST Thursday approached, the hour set for an expected Rose Garden announcement that the United States is turning its back on both the unified nations of the world and on the planet itself, pulling out from the Paris climate accord, a spark of hope flickered.
     Could he...? Could he possibly...?
     See, one good thing about Donald Trump — I almost said "the redeeming quality" but let's not get carried away. But one positive attribute, as I've mentioned before, is that he doesn't believe in anything. Nothing at all except of course himself. No causes, no ironclad convictions, other than utter certainty that he is the very center of the twirling universe.
    And a strange, non-Euclidian space it truly is, folding in upon itself. Should Donald Trump be emboldened to venture any distance in one direction he winds up right back where he began: himself. All vectors lead to Donald.
     Trump never cared if we built a wall and Mexico paid for it. Not given the alacrity with which he dropped the notion once in office. Or for repealing NAFTA. His daft campaign promises mere empty words mouthed to draw the naive, vote-paying public into his gaudy tent.
     Hours before he abandoned our country's commitments to reduce carbon dioxide emissions, it was announced that, despite his vows to the contrary, the U.S. embassy will not move to Jerusalem.

To continue reading, click here. 

 
    Editor's note: Laocoon, according to myth, angered the gods by trying to warn of the danger of the Trojan horse, and was punished along with his twin sons. The image seemed a tacit nod to the dangers of prophecy, even when completely accurate. ESPECIALLY when completely accurate. 

The United States walks away from the Paris climate accords

     I am old enough to remember cars without seat belts. The restraints did not become mandatory in new cars until 1966, a little late for me — I had already lost my baby teeth against the dashboard of Phil Flannigan's mother's car after she stopped short for a light on Bagley Road in Berea, Ohio. 
     Even then, wearing seat belts was never mandatory in the good old U.S. of A., so only about 2/3 of Americans do, as compared to 95 percent of Germans. 
     An estimated 5,000 American lives could be saved if seatbelt rate were at 90 percent but, you know, freedom!
     The obvious solution to this destructive negligence was air bags, which do not require drivers to activate them any fashion. But airbags cost money, and automakers fought installing them for decades, only beginning to yield when they realized that a certain sort of driver would pay a premium for safety. Finally, airbags became mandatory in U.S. cars in 1998.
     I thought of this midweek, as the Trump administration began signaling that we will indeed join  Syria and Nicaragua in rejecting the Paris climate accord, walking away from the collective effort endorsed by 193 other nations
     To be honest, if the Republicans merely said the truth: they are in the pockets of big business which, like car makers in the 1970s, find it too expensive to guarantee the safety and comfort of their customers, I could almost respect that. People are greedy and lazy and think short term.
     But that requires a level of candor they are incapable of. So they attack the science, ginning up objections, pulling at any lose thread, any cool day, to mock and jeer the hard truth that emissions from fossil fuels are raising the temperature of the planet far faster than even our worst fears of several years ago.
     When the shoe finally drops — though some tiny part of me holds out hope that, at that last second, Trump will shrug off rejecting Paris, the way he abandoned his wall, gutting health care, his Muslim ban, and a variety of other missteps, none as significant as this one.  
     Maybe he's had enough flipping off the world for one week. This would come hard on the heels of his trip to Europe, when the president, like a 21st century Innocent Abroad, put a dent in the Atlantic alliance by hectoring our NATO allies for not paying enough, in his estimation, of the cost of defending Europe against his buddy, Vladimir Putin.
    Frankly, we can count on the Europeans to realize, along with half of America, that Trump is a kidney stone the nation will eventually expel, after much pain time wasted curled and ineffectual. And it would not be completely irrational to imagine that the U.S. dropping the ball on climate change will encourage other nations to pursue clean technologies with increased zeal, hoping to fill the leadership void we have left.
   Airbags save thousands of lives of a year. Though the number of traffic deaths in 2015 — 38,000 — was a significant jolt upward, prompted, it is thought, by people texting while driving, few bothered to point out that it was the same number of deaths as recorded in 1937, when the nation had half the population.  The grim math of truth sets in, and then business, which is supposed to be so clever, realizes that it is good economics to do the right thing. Global warming is real as a car wreck. Coal is on the way out. Nations that see this and plan for the future will thrive. And those that don't—the United States, Syria and Nicaragua—will suffer. Although, since we're already suffering, big time, I should say, "We're going to suffer more."

Godzilla never seems to mind that he's crushing Tokyo

 

     Seven hundred days? Where has the time gone?
     That's easy. Washed over the waterfall of wasted opportunity. With the entire state of Illinois soon to follow, battered on rocks, then breaking apart as it plunges into the frothing financial abyss.
     Unless . . . .
     Well, unless nothing. This isn't going to be fixed. Not now. Not next month. Maybe not next year. Maybe not ever. We're at the light incense and pray for Superman stage of the problem.
     It is disingenuous for the Sun-Times, my beloved mother ship, to post a daily front page count of how long it has been since Illinois has had a budget. The idea is that doing so will somehow shame our leaders into coming to an agreement and getting on with the business of trying to right the capsized and foundering vessel that is Illinois.
     But really, if embarrassment were a possibility with the speaker of the house and the governor, this would have resolved itself long ago. I've met crackheads living in a nest of blankets on Lower Wacker Drive who had a more highly developed sense of shame than these two jokers.
     I do not want to fall into the easy "a plague on both their houses" trap. Yes, they are equally unpleasant men.
     Bruce Rauner is a callous, sneering billionaire who comes across in person like the human model of C. Montgomery Burns on "The Simpsons." Rauner expressed no interest whatsoever in public life beyond enriching himself until, perhaps bored, he took some of his bottomless lake of money and began fire hosing it at Illinois—a kind of political waterboarding. Eventually the state, sputtering and gasping, cried uncle, and elected him governor over Pat Quinn. Good old Pat, standing at the mound in his zigzag T-shirt, lowered his head as if weighed down by the brim of his enormous baseball cap, uttered a sigh and padded home.
     And Mike Madigan is a grim slip of a man: think of a last year's jack-o'-lantern mounted on a broomstick, the whole thing marinated in vinegar then hung out to dry.
     Rauner is definitely in the wrong. He's kneecapped the budget, tying it to a variety of side issues—castrating the unions, demanding term limits so that no future Madigans can spawn. With typical my-way-or-the-highway Republican scorn, he demands capitulation then denounces his opponents for holding as fast to their convictions as he does to his own. Even as unions founder, corporate profits soar, and non-CEO salaries—surprise, surprise—stagnate, Rauner insists that the union bogeyman must be defeated before someone tosses a life ring to Illinois.
     If rich old white men like Madigan and Rauner were being hurt by this impasse, it would have been resolved yesterday. But it damages the poor, the struggling young—who rely on public universities and colleges that are dropping staff, injecting furlough days into their academic calendars, and, in general, suffering on starvation rations. Plus those with disabilities, victims of crime, and all the unfortunates who must fall back onto a safety net that both men are pawning to the rope merchant.
     Am I near the end? Good. Because this is pointless. Rauner doesn't need to compromise—his kids are fine. And Madigan can't without prying the fingers of what remains of the Illinois middle class off the bottom rung of the ladder. So as the days and years dribble away, our two leaders, like Godzilla and Rodan, grapple and roar and roll around, smashing the model Tokyo to flinders.
     Godzilla never seems to mind the buildings being crushed beneath him, does he? Mothra doesn't flinch before pulling down the sparking power lines. You never see the guys in the rubber suits pause, thinking, "Gosh, I hope those people on that bus are OK. . . ." They're monsters. They don't care. That's he definition of being a monster. Not caring.
     If either Madigan or Rauner care about the state being ground to kindling under them, there is scant evidence. The people of Illinois, we care big time. We can't afford not to. But nobody hears our voices over the din; they must be muffled by those thick rubber suits.