It's always smart to pop into the library

     At the risk of suggesting that I wasn't Johnny-on-the-spot in Cleveland, I did, to quote the Tammany Hall hacks, see my opportunities and took 'em. Killing time between the 1:30 p.m. protest fizzle and the 6 p.m. protest squib (all the hard core protesters stayed home, I realized belatedly, saving themselves to flock to Philadelphia to howl at Hillary for not being Bernie Sanders) I saw that the Cleveland Public Library had Shakespeare's First Folio on display, so popped in to take a look, 20 minutes before the place closed.

     It was just a book, open to Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy, and I couldn't photograph it anyway. But the special collections department had a number of interesting displays, such as the spread of campaign literature above, or gems from its John G. White Collection of Chess Memorabilia. I particularly liked the "Sultan Peppah: Gourmet Chess Set," not an artwork, but a mass market gift item sold 20 years ago. The collection has over 30,000 books and bound periodicals, with everything from Bobby Fischer's score sheets to Emanuel Lasker's medals.
    I mentioned the Lewis chessmen — a personal favorite, and they pointed with pride to their British Museum reproduction which is, I was pleased to note, exactly the same reproduction as my father brought back for me from London in the mid-1970s, a few pieces at a time, since he took so many trips there.
     The Cleveland Public Library is looking good, in part thanks to Cracking Art, an Italian art cooperative that has installed enormous, brightly-colored creatures around downtown, including a pair of bright sky blue birds in front of the library — I probably wouldn't have noticed that the First Folio, the least interesting part, was inside, had I not stopped to admire the big birds.
    They also have a card catalogue, and we talked about that. The librarian said though they've stopped adding to it about 2004, they still use it, as many of the notions are in a variety of foreign language and they have not had the resources to digitize it, a blessing, as we fans of Nicholson Baker know, because the cards carry all sort of information — scrawled on the backs, for instance — that tend to get lost in the rush to get them online. (Baker wrote a piece in the New Yorker, "Discards," in...ulp ... 1994, as a call to arms to stop disposing of these records, an argument he extended to bound newspapers in general and the British Library in particular in his cri de coeur, Double Fold). 
     Besides, the cabinets are really beautiful, are they not? 

Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

   It's been a busy week. Not only in Cleveland for the convention, but last weekend, Dallas, which made for four flights in seven days. Whew. Then again, the whole year has been like that, jetting around from Japan to Joshua Tree. Not complaining—it's fun to go new places, and keeps life interesting, as well as providing fodder for the Saturday challenge.
     With that in mind, who is this guy, waving with such stolid affability? And where is he? While I can't hope to stump you, as I did last week for the first time, he's obscure enough, at least now, that I can hope you won't just see his face, snap your fingers and go, "Of course! It's good old..."  I had enough hope to airbrush out the name of the building, which was generic, but still gave a way the game on Google. So maybe I won't have to go to the trouble of putting a prize in the post, which this week is ... well, let's go with the 2015 poster. I really have to get rid of those things, and don't want to just burn them. 
     Place your guesses below. Good luck. 

If a protest falls on a bridge and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a noise?

The largest protest march at the Republican National  Convention Thursday, in context.

     Good to be home, and have a chance to catch up with a few postings that didn't make it here. Such as this, which is in today's Sun-Times. I'm pleased that though the New York Times had two reporters working the march and the day's protests, their article missed what I believe is a salient point: there were no observers whatsoever, beyond press and media. 
     I also just enjoyed walking across the bridge, right down the yellow line—how often to you get the chance?—and seeing the "Guardians of Traffic" protectively clutching their various modes of conveyance. 

     CLEVELAND—The protesters were there, about 200 meeting at the historic Hope Memorial Bridge, just west of downtown Thursday, the last day of the Republican National Convention.
     The signs were there, “Don’t Trump America” and “Stop Trump” and “Our Political System is Sick”— the protest was organized by Stand Together Against Trump, or “STAT,” formed by medical personnel.

      There were medics and Amnesty International observers and volunteers from Seeds for Peace handing out water and chunks of homemade banana bread.
     There were megaphones, used to shout chants, such as the classic, oddly syncopated, “The people, united, will never be defeated! The people, united, will never be defeated.”
Many media, even more police, everything you’d expect at a protest. Except for one thing:
     There were no bystanders; nobody there to see it.
     The march proceeded across the mile-long bridge, past a pair of art deco stone pylons with their "Guardians of Traffic" scowling indifferently, across the uninterested Cuyahoga River, and beyond apathetic mills and industrial wasteland, past the east guardians, also blasé, and then through the ubiquitous eight-foot tall metal fencing found anywhere near the Quicken Loans Arena, where the convention itself is taking place.

"Without reading, you don't have access to freedom"

     There were actually some very positive things going on at the Republican National Convention, so long as you kept your attention away from what was happening inside Quicken Loans Arena.           

     CLEVELAND—Even in a Public Square jammed with colorful advocates of every cause, both marginal and mainstream, Jonathan Harris stood out. 
     "I'm spreading the love of reading," said the branch manager of the Aurora Memorial Public Library in Portage County, whose jerry-rigged bookmobile—a milk crate filled with paperbacks strapped to the back of his bike—was simple yet effective.
     No sooner had Harris paused before the Terminal Tower when M'Ryah Holmes, 11, and her sister Rameerah, 10, were upon him, eagerly looking through his selection, being given away to anyone who would take them.
     Why do they like to read?

Mavis Holmes with daughters M'Ryah, (left) and Rameerah.

     "They don't have no choice," said their mother, Mavis Holmes, with a steely inflection that suggested much get-your-butt-in-that-chair-and-read guidance on her part.
    Why is reading important?
     "The reason it's very important is for them to understand their civil rights," said Holmes, an assistant instructor at a high school. "To get an education and understand the process. You can't have access to freedom without being literate. Without reading, you don't have access to freedom."
     An hour later I ran into Harris in the park next to Public Square, when he stopped his bike for Muireall Brown, 19, of Florida.
     "Do you have anything?" she asked.
     "What do you like to read?" asked Harris. His white baseball cap declared "Make America Read Again" and Babar the elephant peeked out from the tattoo on his right bicep. Harris has been working in libraries since he was 16—his father Mike was also a librarian. 
     "I like a lot of historical-fiction," Brown said.
     This is kind of a busman's holiday for him—taking off work as a librarian to peddle a bike around, working as a librarian. Why?
     "It gives me a chance to talk about reading, about libraries, about funding.
     Brown didn't find a book she liked. But a fellow medic—she was at the convention with Rust Belt Medics, tending to cases of sunburn and dehydration among the protesters—did find a book to his liking.
    "The Time Machine by H.G. Wells," said Taylor Morris, 26, of Atlanta. "I almost took the prequel to Dune that Frank Herbert's son wrote. But I didn't want to take too many books."
       
    
     

Cops on bikes wall off chaos at Cleveland convention

 

  

     The flood-the-zone technique the police are using to control protest at the Republican National Convention is not without its hazards: I watched how a scuffle that broke out after an attempted flag burning turned into a densely-packed mob scene that might have been more dangerous than the incident that sent scores of cops—and members of the media—running to the same spot. (The would-be flag burner, for fans of divine justice, ended up setting fire to his pants, and 18 were arrested in the resultant scuffle. I did not see the incident itself, so can't judge whether 10 cops would have handled it more easily than 100; my hunch is that more isn't always necessarily better). 

    But in the main, it has been very effective for the first three days of the convention, and watching it in action, I thought I would try to describe what struck me as its most noteworthy feature, the use of bicycles as a crowd-control device.

     CLEVELAND — The Bible Believers are back, standing at the edge of Public Square, haranguing the crowd.
     “Your parents hated you,” screams one, through a megaphone. “They spared the rod! They sent you to public schools! Look at you now! You’re pathetic in the eyes of God!”
     The crowd shouts back, makes obscene gestures, pushes closer for a better look.
     Within minutes, Cleveland police start rolling their bicycles around the speaker and his cohort.
     “Make way, make way,” says one. Soon there are 80 officers with bicycles circling the platform, separating the incendiary group from the rest of the square.
     It’s called the “Barrier Technique” and was pioneered by the Seattle police department, which sent officers to Cleveland to train its 280 bicycle cops. The convention is the first time they’ve used the tactic, to direct marchers, to close off streets, and diffuse angry crowds. If the Republican National Convention’s last day ends as peacefully as the first three, credit will go first to the police — 4,500 from 40 departments across the country, though not Chicago (“They have their own problems to worry about,” quipped one high Cleveland police official).
     But the humble bicycle, skillfully deployed, also deserves praise.
     “Absolutely wonderful,” agrees a Cleveland police officer. “Saved the day.”

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"Father God, Bless Mark and his family...."

     Officer Mark Young and seven fellow officers from the equestrian unit of the Fort Worth Police Department drove with their mounts from Texas to Cleveland this week. As they lined up in front of the Terminal Tower, as part of 4,500 police officers providing security for the Republican National Convention, they were approached by Cathie Burson, of Mt. Gilead, Ohio, a member of Hope Is Here, an organization that brought 100 of the faithful to the convention to pray with people they encounter here. She thanked Off. Young for being here, protecting everybody, and asked if she could pray with him. He said yes.
    "Father God," she began, "bless Mark and his family and all your fellow officers." When she was done praying with him, she asked if there was anything I wanted to pray for. I thought about it, and told her that my mother is worried about me, being in the thick of the protests, and perhaps we could pray for my safety, with her in mind, and we did. It was a nice, quiet moment, and a few minutes later, when I found the Bible Believers in the square, again, spewing their Bible-based poisonous hatred, I was glad I had run into people who were trying to use their faith for good, to aid and comfort humanity instead of harassing it.  Isn't that what religion is supposed to be all about?

"Go back to Latinoland"

     
     I've been writing so much from Cleveland — two columns and a news story just yesterday — that I've fallen behind posting the stories on the blog. This is from the first day, and I wanted to get it up before time and subsequent events mooted it. While many protesters are kids lost in street theater or loons on a lark, I was impressed with this young lady's quiet fortitude and sincerity in the face of the indifference and hostility of those surging past her.

Patricia Eguino 

     CLEVELAND — Patricia Eguino stood near the gates of the Republican National Convention, holding a small white sign with green letters: “Latinos against Trump.”
     “I’m completely against Donald Trump,” said the 27-year-old who was born in New York City but lived in Bolivia and whose parents are Hispanic. “I don’t understand racism.”
     By Monday evening, she had been outside the Quicken Loans Arena, buffeted by passing delegates, for five hours.
     “I wish more Latinos were here, more protestors,” she said. “I feel lonely.”
     But the protesters in the Stop Trump march numbered fewer than 400, not the “nearly 1,000” that organizer Mick Kelly claimed, nor the thousands he predicted earlier. Beside the march, protests tended to be scattered, with the media crowding around the more flamboyant individuals, like performance artist Vermin Supreme, wearing his boot hat and rambling about his pony-based economic system, or a man in a polar bear suit drawing attention to global warming. Far more visible was the massive police presence. Squads of officers from around the country were stationed on every corner, or so it seemed.

     There were certainly protesters to be found at the convention. A “Coalition to Stop Trump” made up of students, Black Lives Matter activists, trade and anti-war protesters marched down East 9th Street to War Memorial Plaza on Monday afternoon, where they were confronted by Christian extremists, who displayed signs condemning gays and Muslims and hurled grotesque, sexually-explicit insults at the crowd. The police quickly moved in, using their bicycles to form a barrier between the groups.
     Eguino, a graduate student at Case Western Reserve University, wished more of her fellow students had come, but understood why they didn't.
     "They were scared," she said. "Of violence."
     Eguino heard "a lot of racist comments."
     "People told me, 'Go back to Mexico,' 'Go back to Latinoland,'" she said.
     Trump supporters also rallied, and at least one carried a semi-automatic rifle. But their fierce antagonism toward dissent was not in evidence, though in light of the "Don't Believe the Liberal Media" signs plastered on the street, perhaps take that with a grain of salt.
     Jim Gilmore, an author and motivational speaker from Chesterland, Ohio, walked down Euclid Avenue wearing a t-shirt proclaiming "DUMP TRUMP" in big bold letters, but was not harassed by the Trump faithful. He said he wore the shirt more as a lark than a protest against Trump, though he described himself as "a Republican who doesn't like him."
     "It feels like a ghost town," he said. "It's not a vibrant atmosphere."

Protesters don't hate Trump enough to vote for Hillary

 

Tom Moore

      CLEVELAND — The Republican National Convention was about to nominate Donald J. Trump as its candidate for president. So naturally the protesters milling around Public Square had something to say about the party and its champion.
     “I’m here because Donald Trump and the GOP stand for racism misogyny, homophobia, violence,” said Tom Moore, 24, of Massachusetts, holding a handmade cardboard sign reading “GRAND OLD PARTY, SAME OLD KLAN.”
     “Not that Hillary Clinton doesn’t have her own track record with racist violence,” added Moore, who wore a green T-shirt, an orange batik skirt, and combat boots. “Hillary Clinton advocates racist hate, but there’s no one like the GOP.”
     So which one is he going to vote for?
     “I’m going to vote for Jill Stein.”
     The Green Party candidate. But isn’t that just a vote for Donald Trump by proxy?
     “It is a terrible gamble,” he admitted.
     At a colorful mosh pit of belief, where you can't swing a cat and not hit some kind of oddball performance artist, fringe constitutional theorist or foaming religious zealot, perhaps the rarest opinions are proud Hillary Clinton supporters. Those who admit voting for her, maybe, are not exactly gushing with praise.
     Erika Husby, 24, of Chicago, wore a rectangular smock painted with orange bricks and "WALL OFF TRUMP" painted in blue.
     Does this mean she's supporting Clinton?
    "Probably," she said, looking stricken. "I think that I will, sadly and bitterly."
     Oskar Mosco, 35, a rickshaw driver (if such a thing is possible) from Santa Barbara, Calif., held a sign that said, "JUST SAY NO! TO WHITE SUPREMACY."
     "I want to be able to say to my kids and grandkids that I took a stand," he said.
     Does that stand include voting for Clinton?
     "I haven't decided between Dr. Jill Stein and [Libertarian candidate] Gary Johnson," he said, rejecting the idea that it has to be either the Republican or the Democrat or a wasted vote.
     "I don't want to support dualistic thinking," he said. "The world is not black and white. There's gray."
     What's wrong with Hillary Clinton?
     "I think she's a wolf in sheep's clothing," he said. "She's the 1 percent."
     But persistence pays off, and finally I located Haley Corradi, 24, a high school math teacher from Minnesota who held a sign reading "LOVE TRUMPS HATE" across a background of rainbow stripes.
     Was she planning on voting for Hillary Clinton?
     "Definitely," she said, smiling broadly.

Protests, non-voters and a linty-fresh Donald Trump

Sandy Buffie and friend. 

Melissa Brown

     CLEVELAND — No one goes to the 2016 Republican National Convention expecting to encounter a life-size bust of Donald Trump constructed out of 30 gallons of dryer lint held together with two gallons of glue.
     But it makes perfect sense when you do.
     “At the end of the week, I’ll take the best offer,” said the artist who created it, Sandy Buffie, who said that the money will benefit the Center for Arts Inspired Learning, which organizes activities for kids including, aptly enough, an anti-bullying program.
    
     Welcome to Cleveland, where the streets are alive with acres of t-shirts praising the take-it-to-the-bank GOP nominee Donald Trump and castigating his certain opponent, Hillary Clinton, as a hellion who should be in prison: on some shirts, she already is. There are cross-wielding preachers, $1 iced water vendors, 100 Indiana State Troopers in their “Smokey Bear” hats, plus thousands of officers from around the country augmenting Cleveland’s lean force. Delegates in suits, media in shorts and a general funhouse effect, though the city is reacting with pride.
     “You know the convention’s there?” asked Melissa Brown, riding the No. 75 bus toward downtown Cleveland. Assured her new friend did, and asked what she thought of it, Brown, “old enough to know better and young enough to do something about it,” said: “It’s great. You got all political views and bring a little money to the city. Everybody’s happy. It’s a win-win.”
     Not that the hoopla is going to gull her into voting. Brown, who is African-American, isn't supporting either Trump or Hillary Clinton.
"The only way I'd vote is if Jesus Christ put his name on the ballot," she said, explaining that her church, the Church on the Rise in Westlake, is handing out "Elect Jesus" banners.
     Brown exits the bus, gets aboard a red line Rapid Transit train to Tower City, the hectic hub of the convention. She takes a seat behind Mike Tallentire, 27, who works the third shift restocking a Walmart Supercenter in North Olmsted, Ohio. He used his day off to handprint a lengthy statement on a white t-shirt, a quote from Theodore Roosevelt about the need for immigrants to assimilate in this country. Then he headed downtown to attend an America First sponsored by Citizens for Trump.
     "He just seems the lesser of two evils," Tallentire says, doing a balancing gesture with his hands. But as he speaks, he warms to Trump.
     "He's a businessman not a politician," said Tallentire. "So maybe he can do something about the deficit that never seems to go down."
     And the more extreme statements of Trump's, about immigration and such?
     "The media twists his words around."
     Take Ahmer Mohamed, a Cleveland cab driver for 17 years. He's black, and a Muslim, and voting for Trump. That bit about barring Muslims at the border?
     "He's changing his mind," said Mohamed. "He's not against Muslims. He's against enemies. He's said he's sorry. He's OK now. Lot of people have a bad idea, that he's a nasty racist. He's a strong guy."

The circus is in town, and that town is Cleveland

     "There is something about a national convention that makes it as fascinating as a revival or a hanging," H.L. Mencken wrote in 1924. "It is vulgar, it is ugly, it is stupid, it is tedious, it is hard upon both the higher cerebral centers and the gluteus maximus, and yet it is somehow charming. One sits through long sessions wishing heartily that all the delegates and alternates were dead and in hell — and then suddenly there comes a show so gaudy and hilarious, so melodramatic and obscene, so unimaginably exhilarating and preposterous that one lives a gorgeous year in an hour."
     Take comfort, then, that the spectacle that will unfold this week in Cleveland is not an unprecedented descent into madness, not a radical departure from the stately decorum we like to imagine our forefathers exhibited when conducting political business. Just the same old craziness in a new box.
     That said, given Donald Trump's genius for attracting the carnival fringes of American life, the Republican National Convention, beginning in Cleveland on Monday, promises to be a circus on an epic scale.
     Ring One is the candidate himself, whose off-the-cuff pronouncements are — take your pick:
     A) a refreshing breeze of candor wafting into our sealed room of political correctness.
     B) terrifying blasts of hate and demagoguery that would tear our nation apart if anyone took them seriously. (Spoiler alert: It's "B.")

To continue reading, click here. 

Let it go

     A woman called my office.  From Northbrook. She started by explaining that she had already contacted a local reporter, but the local reporter "wouldn't touch" her story. Now it was my turn. 
     The story involved a minor traffic accident, maybe six months ago. Or longer. Something she had witnessed, perhaps. She was driving, in line to make a left hand turn. A black van, in front of her, pulled back and veered to the right, across traffic. The car in front of that, was a Mercedes. A kid in the passenger seat turned around and looked at her.
     The story pelted me like a sudden rain. When she got home, she heard from the police. She had been reported for leaving the scene of an accident. The driver of the Mercedes thought it was her, and not the black van, that had hit them.  The caller said the police came to her home to see her car was undamaged, but she ended up signing a ticket saying she had failed to reduce speed to avoid an accident. It didn't quite stack up, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Detail piled upon detail. Complaints to the mayor. The chief of police. I was obviously the end of a very long chain of woe.  She wanted to make sure this never happened to anyone ever again. She said that several times.
     I tried to get a word in, but she wasn't having it. 
     This is a story that I call "a dog's breakfast"—a jumbled collection of glop. It would never go in the paper. To do so, I'd have to contact the police, find the other driver, and for what? A traffic ticket that may or may not have been issued fairly. 
     Obviously very important to her, though. I listened. She mentioned a husband—that's good, somebody helping her out, maybe. And a daughter, a cop somewhere else. Also good.
    Eventually I had to break in. 
    "You called me," I interrupted her in mid-sentence. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"
     She paused, startled. I told her I didn't think it would ever get into the newspaper, because, while important to her, it wasn't the kind of story that anyone else would be interested in. Even though she thought she was treated very badly by the police.
     "People think it only happens to black people, but it happens to white people too," she said, exaggerating the harm done to her.  In fact, no harm, other than having to hire a lawyer and months of worry, seemed to have happened.
    "How did it end?" I asked. "How did the court case end?"
    The woman she supposedly hit never showed up in court and the case was dismissed.
    Really not a story at all. But something that filled her world. I could see that. I tried to be sympathetic, to not shut her down. 
    I told the woman, she should have her daughter call me.
    "She doesn't want her name in the paper," she said.
    "I'm not putting anything in the paper," I said. "At least not right now. I just want to hear her perspective on this." 
     "She's in Denmark, on vacation," she snapped. 
     "I'm not in any rush," I replied.
     Asking for the daughter seemed to change her tone.
     "I feel like I'm wasting your time and you're wasting my time," she said.
     I agreed, and gave her a piece of parting advice.
    "I can see how this has been a stressful and difficult situation," I said. "But you should let it go now."
     I asked her how long she had lived in Northbrook. She said 30 years. If this is the bad thing that is going to happen in Northbrook, I'd say she's doing pretty well. But it wasn't the only bad thing. There was another misfortune, even greater than this one, and she started in on that.  I won't tell you anything about that, but it was a true tragedy. 
     I told her I was sorry for her troubles and got off the phone. 
    After hanging up, I chewed on what had happened. There was an injustice, in this woman's mind. And she wasn't letting go. Instead, she was living in this bad thing that supposedly happened to her, gnawing on the details, suffering anew each time. Maybe motivated by this actual tragedy that she hadn't let go of either, years ago.  
    Let it go. Easy advice to give. Hard advice to take.  I believe it takes practice, stiff-arming worries and complaints that you'd like to embrace hard and hold onto. Don't. Let it go. Bad things happen to everybody, minor annoyances and great tragedies and yes, sometimes you have to seek elusive justice, and pursue it over the years, and I'm not saying that isn't sometimes important. But the things people cling to are often complaints that will never find resolution. All you can do is put them away, eventually.  Life is precious, and short, and most of us have it pretty good, if you see how other people live, trapped in cages of their own making. Let it go.

Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

     I'm traveling today, so I didn't want a fun activity that would be solved too easily, since I can't supervise the contest this morning, and probably won't check in until mid-afternoon (so be nice). 
     Where is this man? Bonus points for who he is, and what he's doing. It isn't simple, but it shouldn't be that hard either. 
     Good luck, have fun, place your guesses below. And the winner gets ... heck, the posters are getting tiresome. How about a copy of "Complete & Utter Failure"? I think that will serve.

Trying to finish their work

     The fearful fascist thrills to terror attacks, such as Thursday night's horror in Nice, France, where nearly 100 Bastille Day revelers were mowed down by a truck. Newt Gingrich was on Fox News immediately, calling for Muslim American citizens to be deported (where?) if they believe in Sharia law. Before 6 a.m. Friday, stuff like this was showing up in my email.

     What do u think Neil now that there is more blood on your hands this morning? Do you get a bonus from President Axelrod or from Stooge Balack Hussein? Since ur on Balacks inside, no pun intended, describe to me Balacks day, would you? I bet he didn't sleep a wink, he was so exhilarated that his religion has killed more innocent people? I picture him having a cafe au lait, playing 2 rounds of golf, he is giddy, smoking 2 joints after, then maybe some French pastries, all while wearing a beret. We gotta get Loretta over there for some serious hugging. That's what the Islamic terrorists need, is big big hugs. As u promote live and understanding and If only Loretta had been around hugging Hitler, maybe you wouldn't be here today? Ever think of that, sellout? —Vince DiBenedetto

     I thought a moment -- there is so little of that nowadays -- and replied like this:

Dear Mr. DiBenedetto:Does it ever occur to you that you are reacting exactly as they intend? It's like you're giving money to ISIS. How does that feel? I can tell you how it looks. Horrible. And you signed your name to it.
Thanks for writing.

     Why is it, when the Western way of life is attacked, that some people respond by trying to abandon the Western way of life? Yes, they're terrifying. But isn't our duty as Americans NOT to be terrified? Not to react blindly in terror, lashing out at each other? Gingrich and his ilk, it's as if they're in league with the terrorists, trying to finish their work.

Picking the wallpaper in Hell

                       

     Mike Pence.
     Ah, hahahahahaha.
     Well, if there is anyone in America still wondering what the 2016 election is all about — and those people seem to exist, though I can't imagine how — Donald Trump's all-but-official choice for vice president, Mike Pence, governor of Indiana, ought to nudge them toward making up their minds.
     Pence is Trump's Christian Soldier, the man Trump hopes will march with him onward to the White House. Pence has called himself "a Christian, a conservative, and a Republican, in that order.” The Indiana governor is the guy who last year vigorously defended a state law designed to allow Hoosier businessmen to express their contempt for gays and lesbians, provided they could gin up a religion-based justification. The law's immediate effect was to cost Indiana millions, as large corporations — which have learned the gays-are-employees-and-customers lesson so elusive to Republican leaders — scrambled for the exits.
     Pence also signed one of the most draconian anti-abortion laws in the country, one that would force a woman who had an abortion to pick out a little Twinkie-sized mahogany coffin to bury her aborted fetus in or pay for cremation, her choice.
     Mike Pence! Not a lot of ambiguity there. Do I sound gleeful? Honestly, I'm disappointed. I was pulling for Newt Gingrich as the sentimental favorite.

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"Bags?! We don't have BAGS!"

     Authors are often portrayed as being intensely jealous of each other's success, and maybe some are. But I take genuine pleasure in the accomplishments of my writer friends. My former landlady is Carol Weston, the author of the "Ava and Pip" trio of young adult novels, delightfully blending together wordplay and the challenges of growing up. I was thrilled to hear that the three books will be sold bound into one volume at Costco as "The Diaries of Ava Wren."
    Not only is it good for Carol, but good for Costco, which has grown in stature in my eyes. The days when I go there grudgingly, cringing, and think of those space fatties on their scooters in "Wall-E" are long gone. Now I know they've got great salmon, and usually the best prices. 
     Still, Henri Bendel it is not. And when I heard the good news, I couldn't help think of this column from seven years ago, when I juxtaposed the two shopping experiences. 

     Once upon a time, there was a store on North Michigan Avenue called Henri Bendel. It was a fancy New York clothing shop exclusively for ladies, but occasionally I would venture inside to buy a present for my wife.

    A clerk — think Audrey Hepburn — would glide over and ask if I needed help. I certainly did need help, and enjoyed slipping into the role of the Befuddled Male in a Woman's World — think Cary Grant, except without the looks.
     Together we would peer into various display cases, and she would hold up various garments, and I would settle on a purchase. Sure it was expensive, but as I always said, "At Henri Bendel, you pay for the service — the fact they also give you something is just an added bonus."
     All too soon I would be walking out of the store with an elaborately tissue-papered and boxed and gift-wrapped silk scarf or smart little hat, in a little chocolate and white striped bag, delicate as a debutante's purse, which I would proudly parade through the springtime warmth of Michigan Avenue (her birthday is in May, so it was always spring).
     Oh sure, inevitably I had to take the present back — the hat was wrong, or the scarf was wrong, and the whole thing cost far, far too much anyway, in her eyes. But that was OK because I got to return the item, with apologies and smiles and mutual understanding, another little Noel Coward play in the returns department.
     All this remembrance drifted back last week under the high white lights of Costco in Glenview. My wife, also a generous soul, in her fashion, had purchased for me a stylish black Calvin Klein jacket, all wool, a steal at $55.95 But it was too large, and I volunteered to return it and get the size smaller.
     The transaction was handled by a slack-faced clerk who met my attempt at conversation with blank silence. I entered the vast warehouse to try on the jacket in a smaller size. Gazing around — there are no mirrors in a Costco — I waited until a fellow customer came by, a woman pushing one of those immense carts. Again playing the Befuddled Male, I asked her whether this jacket fit. She said yes, but in the mechanical way that hypnotized people speak in movies — "Yehhhhhhhs" -- and without actually looking at me or breaking stride.
     I figured I'll look in a mirror at home.          
     While I was there, I wandered the aisles. Costco might be as familiar to you as your living room, but it's still new to me — someplace I first went to, under protest, five years ago and have been back to maybe once a year since.           

     The land of Brobdingnag, no question — giant jars of mayonnaise, triple boxes of breakfast cereal, tubfuls of apple juice you could bathe in. The deal seems to be: You buy a month's worth of product, we shave 20 percent off the price.
     Fair enough, if you abandon the idea of shopping as a social act. I picked up four cans of shaving cream, shrink-wrapped into a slab, and a few other toiletries, plus a package of socks and the smaller jacket.
     I paid the clerk, who deposited the toiletries and the socks and the jacket into the cart, nudging it past the register. I looked at the items, jumbled in the cart.
     "Could I have a bag please?" I asked.
     "Bags?" the clerk exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and contempt. "Bags! We don't have bags." He looked at me for the first time, as if to see what manner of person was in front of him, this bag-asking man. "We have boxes. Over there."
     It was here that I remembered Henri Bendel — well, right after thinking of "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre." ("Badges! We don't need no stinkin' badges!")
     I selected a box, emblazoned with "THE FAT BURNING POWER OF CONCENTRATED GREEN TEA EXTRACT," put the stuff into it and, holding the box awkwardly in my arms, headed in shame to the car.
     The jacket fit, but the sleeves were too long, and the seamstress couldn't shorten them. Two days later, I returned to Costco.
     "I remember you from Monday!" I said brightly, to the slack-faced returns lady. She didn't react at all. I proceeded into the store. My wife wanted canola oil.
     I picked up a gallon, and noticed the brand name, "Kirkland Signature." That sounded familiar. Oh yes. But could it be? I hurried to the clothing area. "Kirkland signature" shirts. I looked up. Huge signs at the back: "Kirkland MEATS." "Kirkland BAKERY."
     This seemed so wrong. A feeling akin to horror — like the discovery that Soylent Green is people — crawled over my skin. Shirts produced by an oil company. Hot dogs turned out by a bakery.
     I tried to comfort myself — Trader Joe's brands everything with its name. But "Trader Joe's" is the name of the store. Who or what is "Kirkland"? (The town in Washington, it turns out, where Costco used to be headquartered). Is that supposed to be elegant?
     I bought the Kirkland oil. The snow was blowing horizontally outside, and I got a frozen handful of it slapped into my ear as I quickstepped to the car, wondering: How did that jaunty man in his mid-30s, happily squiring his brown and white striped bag down the Boul Mich in springtime, end up in this wintery parking lot?
     Henri Bendel closed its Michigan Avenue store in 1998.

Justice Ginsburg snaps at the bait

    

Ruth Bader Ginsburg

     I once had an editor who I once described this way: "He's not only timid, but inspires timidity in others."
     That's how leadership works. You act a certain way, and people see it, and follow your example, either because they like your style, or to curry favor, or because your actions, performed by a person in a position of authority, lend them a certain unspoken permission.
     That is what we are seeing with Donald Trump, who has made bullying and personal attack an even more common part of American politics than they already were, which is saying a lot. 

      Not only does every knuckle-dragging hater now feel free to stand up and walk the streets of our social discourse, but you get respected people like Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the Supreme Court justice, denouncing Trump as a "faker" and worse, an action legal experts consider at best unwise, since it calls her impartiality into question should, say, the 2016 election end up before the high court the way the 2000 election did.
     You can see why it happened. Trump candidacy poses an existential crisis to any patriotic American, and credit must be given to the Bushes, Mitt Romney, Dan Webb, and other rock-ribbed Republicans who also denounced him, and went on record that they just could not support Trump, no matter what the GOP did. Ginsburg also felt she had to denounce Trump as the looming disaster he without question is.
     Of course, once you do that, you're playing Trump's game. He immediately attacked Ginsburg as a "a disgrace to the Court" and demanded that she resign.
     "It's so beneath the court for her to be making statements like that," Trump continued, and we know we have strayed into a particularly surreal realm when Trump is delivering lectures on dignity. Does anyone doubt how he'd react had Ginsburg instead praised him? Support for Trump is the measure of all things: those in his corner are winners, those opposed, losers. That is his value system. Whether it becomes our nation's too, well, that is what this struggle is all about. 

It only takes a little spit to spoil the soup

Barbara Kruger installation, Hirshhorn Museum, Washington, D.C.

     Being mathematically inclined is considered a good thing. But I'm not so sure. Spend time on Facebook and a ready grasp of numbers can be the bell clanging dully at train crossings. An annoying warning of limited practical use.
     I was scanning the posts of my Facebook friends, just seeing what is on people's minds for want of a better word. There was a photo of that $100 million Noah's Ark Ken Ham has built near his Creation Museum in Kentucky, along with the observation that the money could have been used to "buy a house and a car for every homeless person in Kentucky."
     The dull clang started up. I sighed and slid over to Google. There are an estimated 30,000 homeless people in Kentucky, a state of 4.4 million. About one in 150 persons. Sounds right.
Divide $100 million by 30,000 and you get $3,333. Not bad, but not enough to buy a house and a car — even in Kentucky.
     I shared that thought on Facebook and turned off the post's notifications, not wanting to be drawn into conversation about how many cars/houses one Ark replica could buy. Even to make the suggestion shows, not only innumeracy but a category error, a fundamental misunderstanding about why the Ark was built. It isn't as if Ham was rooting around for some way to help the people of Kentucky and thought, "Not low-income housing . . . an Ark! That's it! For when the Flood comes!" It's a profit-making tourist attraction — $40 a pop for adults, $28 for the kiddies. To suggest Ham should have done otherwise is like saying Walt Disney could have used the cash spent on "Dumbo" to support actual elephants instead. Yeah, sure, had his goal been helping elephants. But it wasn't. He was making a cartoon.

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Is this too strong for you?

"Venus of the Rags," by Michelangelo Pistoletto

     My mother reads this blog, faithfully. Which has never caused me a moment's embarrassment. Until, well, maybe today. Let's just say, Mom, you might want to skip this one. Agreed? Can we both agree on that? Good. Thanks. It'll make our conversation this afternoon just that much easier.  Besides, it's all about Samuel Johnson. Dull, Georgian stuff. Nothing of interest for mothers here.
     Right ... so, waiting for Mom to push away from the computer ... there ... done. Excellent. Bye Mom. Love you.

     As a fan of Samuel Johnson, I was of course delighted that my favorite magazine, The Economist, named its newest column after the Great Cham of Literature. (The Economist, while sharp and of-the-moment in every other regard, embraces the quaint old- school notion of not using reporters' bylines. The idea being, I suppose, that the newspaper—they call themselves a "newspaper" because magazines are so, I don't know, tawdry—speaks with a unified voice. So its columnists have noms de guerre like "Lexington" and "Bagehot" and "Buttonwood.")
     This Johnson entry on cuss words (I thought it was recent when I read it, but it's from 2015, a hazard of encountering material online) touched upon a subject near to the hearts of all of us working here at everygoddamnday.com. Almost immediately, Johnson deems "God damn" as "too strong for American ears." That might explain the mass of readers who haven't been showing up here.
    Not really. To be honest, it probably isn't the blog name.  Very few readers have complained over the past three years—a handful, hard though that may be to believe.  Credit the portmanteau with a lower-case "g" — "goddamn" — as opposed to "God damn." Makes all the difference in the world. Plus the blog is protected by an iron-ribbed pre-emptive putdown of those who might dare to blush at its name.
    While excellently written, The Economist, like all journalism, is not infallible, nor do its columnists have space to explore every tangent. What the Johnson column left out was the idea of context. "Fuck" still shocks on network television, or what's left of it, but is a staple of cable and of course online. I ran into ... (umm Mom, I thought we agreed this isn't interesting for you. Besides, isn't that the doorbell? I believe it is. The neighbor ... with muffins. Hot blueberry muffins. Or maybe that's Dad calling you. Either way, perhaps you should leave off reading at this point, and go have some tea, and we'll both be more comfortable ... truly) ... Hera Lindsay Bird's delightfully dirty new poem, "Keats is Dead so Fuck me From Behind," in two very different places on Twitter within the span of an hour Monday: one, the feed of Gili Bar-Hillel, a translator of Hebrew children's books, who accused me of being sarcastic about a bookstore (I like to see who I'm sparing with) and the second on the feed of Don Share, editor of Poetry Magazine (I'd say we're due for the issue on "Fresh Voices from New Zealand," where Bird is safely tucked, for the moment). The wheels come off the poem a bit toward the end, but credit her with the best use of "fuck" in the opening line of a poem since Philip Larkin's "This be the Verse," 
     Where was I? Bad words. "Nigger" is unacceptable in most polite society, but tossed about freely by African-Americans when among themselves, and by the occasional blogger, holding his breath and wondering how it'll fly. And "God damn," while perhaps not showing up in the State of the Union anytime soon, skates by in the general filth and irrelevance of the online world. 
    Or so it seems to me.
    And Mom, really. I'm surprised at you. We'll discuss it later.

How the story ends depends on how it begins

     A neighbor—older, meticulous, German—was explaining to me how he takes plastic bags of dog excrement and flings them over his well-tended hedge into the street.
     The street we both share. Our street.
     He was indignant, almost proud.
     Of course there was more to it. The conversation had been about dogs—mine was in tow—and he told me that some people hurl their poop bags into his yard. So he hurls it right back.
     I walked away thinking, "Framing." How you begin the story determines how it ends. You include the provocation, and the reaction seems justified. Leave it out, and he becomes the jerk, throwing dog shit into the street. Which is true? Maybe both.
     We see this constantly. In his mind, Micah Johnson wasn't firing blindly at innocent police officers, Instead—again in his own mind—he was reacting to the Black Lives Matter movement, which keeps its view tight on those jumpy videos of cops shooting innocent folks. The cops meanwhile widen the frame, to include the violent neighborhoods they patrol, and wonder why everyone else doesn't.
     "Why are we just focusing on the very very small percentage of all interactions with police officers that go bad?" a reader wrote Saturday. "Why don't we start a movement that focuses on all black lives that tragically end? Lets go to the Southside and Westside and protest the shooting of all those young blacks by mostly other blacks....Can a liberal Democrat answer this question please?"

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Create your own reality

     The headlines Sunday morning were filled with tales of anxiety. "AMERICA GRIEVES, TENSE AND WARY," the New York Times announced across its front page. 
     Maybe so. It seemed a good time to escape to the Chicago Botanic Garden where nature is, as always, just nature. We must not have been alone in this impulse, because it was about as crowded as we've ever seen it: part the perfect summer day, part the dire news, perhaps, part both a lily exhibit and a pepper festival going on at the same time.
    As always the Garden was a slice of heaven, and not just for the plants. People of all ages, races, languages. "I'm not sure what that is—Romanian?" I whispered to my wife as we passed some murmuring Eastern European tongue. Lots of Russian, of Japanese. Babies in carriages, old folks in wheelchairs. A white, grandfatherly sort with white hair put a loving arm around an African-American boy, maybe 12, in a bright green soccer uniform and they ambled, talking. My fingers itched to whip out my iPhone and take a picture, but I decided not to intrude. Maybe taking an hour like this, to get away, is just another example of White Privilege. If it is, so be it, it was my privilege to take it and I am not ashamed to do so. This is how the world should be for everyone, how it could be, if we'd only let it

"Red Hot" variety lily. 

The Tea Party's man feints to the Left.

     To be honest, I did not know former Congressman Joe Walsh had a radio show, and never would have thought of him again for the rest of my life had not he posted a particularly brainless tweet in the wake of the Dallas police shootings, seeming to threaten the president and declaring a state of "war." 
    I remembered vaguely meeting him in a coffee shop four years ago, and thought it would be diverting on a Sunday to dig that column out. My apologies if it's overkill — with the way the news is going, I'll have some new horror to react to by this afternoon.
    Until then, notice how he blames the abortion issue on liberals, as if the Right trying to strip away reproductive rights from women were a Democratic plot. The general sense of squishiness and blame-shifting should be reminiscent of another Republican flash-in-the-pan currently enjoying his moment on the stage. 

     Rep. Joe Walsh is a charming man. Big, handsome smile, generous (at least to me), Walsh (R-8th) insists on paying for our drinks at the Starbucks on Delaware.
     And he has moxie ­— after I wrote a column about breakfast with Sen. Dick Durbin, Walsh was the lone politician to suggest the same.
     I will admit, meeting the Tea Party's darling was not high on my agenda. What the Tea Party represents — tear down the government out of an exaggerated concern for the deficit, oppress immigrants under the fig leaf of illegality, and in general try to drag the country back to a past that wasn't all that great the first time — is anathema to me. But why not talk?
     "Awfully nice of you!" he exudes.
     The Tea Party movement . . .
     "Here's the deal. There's such a misunderstanding of the Tea Party movement. The Tea Party movement is a good thing only in that it has gotten the country talking again."
     Walsh talks fast, and it takes a moment for the "only" in the above to register.
     "No," he corrects himself. "I mean it's a better thing than that. The country is going through a revolution. What I mean by that is we're having a grand debate and an argument and a fight about our core principles."
     Reagan's epiphany was: Starve the government so we can cut these programs we hate that serve people we hate. That's what's happening.
     "What you and I both know is we've got 10,000 baby boomers retiring every day. And they're not living until they're 63, they're living until they're 93. Politicians in both parties have been scared to frickin' death about how to pay for all that health care."
     What would be a fair amount to pay? What would be fair for Joe Walsh to pay in taxes?
     "I wanna say 'Yes, we should pay something.' I want a safety net, especially when it comes to health care."
     The question is, who pays for it?
     "If we don't figure that out, we're sunk financially. Come home from Afghanistan tomorrow. Get rid of the oil subsidies. Do all this stuff that I want to do and liberals want to do and it won't solve the debt problem. The biggest, fastest-growing piece of our budget is health-care costs for our aging population. Democrats don't want to touch it. They're scared to death. So here come Republicans."
     When it comes to women, suddenly you want an active government prying into citizens' lives.
     "The Tea Party movement, all we talk about, all we've focused on is the growth of government, all this spending, all this debt, and to a smaller degree our loss of perceived freedoms. I don't think we've been asked four times in the past two years about abortion."
     But it keeps coming up.
     "The other side's bringing it up. It's how they succeed, they think."
     Does that explain immigration, too? Because I seem to recall a lot of immigration talk at rallies.
     "I don't want to have a discussion what to do with 12 to 14 million living here until the government does the one thing it should do: Secure the border. You gotta stop the spigot. Right now, it's illegal to come over the border. I'm a limited-government guy, but use every resource we've got."
     Is it worth it? You're expending resources trying to stop something that's good for the U.S.
     He chewed on that. "You probably want the government to do a bit more than I do," he finally said. "One thing I want the government to do is enforce its laws. If it's not going to enforce its laws, it should change its laws."
     But wouldn't that be "amnesty"?
     "I hear what you're saying. I don't want my government to incentivize behavior."
     Such as by permitting of gay marriage?
     "I don't want my society recognizing any forms of marriage except for heterosexual marriage. End of story."
     Why?
     "I want my government acknowledging the best, most unique way for kids to grow up is through a two-person heterosexual marriage."
     What's that based on? Studies?
     "God yes!" he said, poking my arm — he does that a lot, driving his point home. "A man and woman! There are studies that show, when it comes to crime, education, drug use . . ."
     What studies? That just isn't true.
     "I will feed you studies. But the Tea Party doesn't talk about this. I've talked about this twice. Nobody talks about abortion. The Tea Party is 99 percent focused on the economic."
     It's been a week and I'm still waiting for those studies, which don't exist. Walsh is very dynamic. He believes — using facts if they're there, emotion and sleight of hand if they're not.
     "There's this notion that the Tea Party, we're these crazy cave men," he said. "All I'm trying to do is get us back to what I think this country was founded upon."
     I think it was founded upon life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Yet some people's happiness doesn't seem to count for much.
                    —Originally published in the Sun-Times May 12, 2012

Joe Walsh is an idiot

    Is there any situation that Joe Walsh can't make worse? As the nation reeled from the murders of five policemen in Dallas Thursday night, Walsh popped up on Twitter, blaming Obama and urging that he be ... what exactly? "This is now war." Here's the Tweet. 

     He does know that Obama has already served out his two terms, mostly, and won't be running again? Maybe he doesn't. Speculating on what Joe Walsh does or doesn't know is an endless task. Like plumbing the depth of a bottomless well.

     I remembered having coffee with Walsh when he last ran in 2012—I actually try to be open to the other side and listen to what they have to say, talk about thankless tasks. I'll post that chestnut tomorrow. 

    In the meantime, as an appetizer, the last time Walsh appeared in my column, from November four years ago.  Note the helpful, ignored advice to the GOP in the second graph. They can't say they weren't warned about how to avoid their current disaster. Judging by the tone, the presidential ballots were still being counted, but it was clear that Walsh was toast. I was a little giddy, thinking we were rid of him. But like a bad penny, he keeps coming back:

     Maybe this is like one of those Christmas movies where everybody gets a second chance to relive their botched lives, doing it right this time. Maybe Barack Obama will pull it out, and get that shiny new second term he always wanted, a true holiday miracle, freed of the political fetters that hobbled him from doing all he said he dreamed to do for the country.
     Maybe the Republican Party will awake from its long night of obstruction and pandering to its radical fringe. Maybe they'll announce themselves changed men and give Bob Cratchit that big raise and realize the government is supposed to do more than provide grim workhouses to punish the poor.
     And Joe Walsh lost. That can't be stressed enough. Joe Walsh, Tea Party bigmouth, magically removed from the Illinois political scene, at least for now. Picture Walsh the size of a bundled baby, his howling face red, as Robbie Gould drop-kicks him into the oblivion he so richly deserves. Buh-bye Joe, say hello to Alan Keyes and Jim Oberweis for me when you get there.
     Cue the puffy snowflakes, up with jingling bells, cut to young Natalie Wood, home at last. Christmas came early this year.

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 7, 2012