And the parade passed by....

Cubs victory parade (photo by Dav Ero)

     "But you love parades!" my mother said over the phone, as I drove to Palos Heights Friday morning.
     It's true. I always troop to see the local Northbrook parades, July 4 and Memorial Day. I love to stand and clap when the vets march past, appreciate the marching bands, thrill to the fire engines.
      But it isn't like I'm rushing downtown to watch the St. Patrick's Day Parade. I see them if they're convenient.
     Which is odd, because I used to hate to miss parades. I have this memory, from being about 4, visiting my grandmother in the Bronx. I was just old enough to know there was a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. And that we weren't going — my parents didn't even go into Manhattan when they visited my grandmother— why bother? What was there? I kind of pressed myself against window, straining to look down the streets and, perhaps, catch a glimpse of the parade I didn't know was miles away.  
       "I have a job to do, mom," I said. It was true. An interview set up before the Cubs won the series, on the campus of Trinity Christian College. They were nice enough to gather together students for me to talk with. I wasn't about to cancel so I could go see a parade. Duty first.
     The students were polite, thoughtful. I wandered the campus, located on a ... no, save it for Monday. Let's just say I was glad I went.  Other reporters covered the parade.
    I heard the hoopla on the radio as I drove back. And I have to admit, listening to Theo Epstein laud Tom Ricketts, made me glad I wasn't there. I'm not a fan. I went to one game this year. This was for fans.
     My wife sent me updates, from the kids drinking wine on the 7:36 Metra Milwaukee North train, to the happy high-fives in coffee shops. I gritted my teeth, and almost said, "You can stop doing that any time you like." But I held back. Why spoil her fun? She didn't mean to taunt me. I wanted to know what happened. A big day for Chicago. 
     People crushed into the city, from everywhere, just to see the players passing by. I get that. A communal celebration. A manifestation of how important it is to them. And I would never say a word against it. Many of societal ills come from a lack of exactly that: cohesion, unanimity, shared experience. Everybody there, everybody under a blue hat was a Cubs fan. No papers, no religious test. We need more of that, not less. 
     What does not taking part mean?  St. Augustine defined "city" as a group of people united by the love of the same object. So not to love that object, and not to partake in the festival. It was like pressing my palm against the cold stone wall, separating me from everybody else.
     Also a necessary function. There needs to be outsiders, observers, the guy who doesn't go, or who stands there, scratching his chin, apart from it all, watching. That guy has always been me. It started growing up in Berea, the only Jew in Fairwood Elementary School, watching the heads swivel in my direction as the one droning Hanukkah carol is rolled out for my benefit. Hating that, at first, wanting to vanish. But growing to like the difference. "What did you expect, horns?" I'd taunt people who said I don't look Jewish (improbably, because I look like the cover of Der Stermer. They must have never seen a Jew, and expected a skullcap and black coat). 
     I don't want to hide behind the faith. Plenty of Jewish Cub fans, no doubt, such as my pal Rich Cohen, who wrote a lovely piece in the New York Times about his lifelong Cubs fandom.  I'm just not a crowds guy. They puzzle me. When the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup, I was downtown at the paper, so wandered a few blocks south to see the double decker buses blow past. Shrugged, then went back to the office. Of course I could come upon the entire Blackhawks team playing a pickup game on the ice rink behind my house in Northbrook and I wouldn't recognize it was them or care particularly if I did. 
     At a certain age, you accept yourself, while being open to what changes and revelations come. And though I didn't go to the parade, I did notice something surprising. Before the series began, people asked me, growing up in Cleveland, which team  I was rooting for, and I'd shrug and say, "Doesn't matter. I win either way."
     But in the 8th inning of the seventh game, when the Indians scored, I did not cheer, but groaned and covered my face. And in the 10th I was on my feet, shouting for my wife, who couldn't bear to watch and had walked out of the room, to come back in, and we watched the next few minutes shouting and hugging. Not so impartial anymore. 

Michigan Avenue, Nov. 4, 2016

Photos courtesy of and copyright by Dav Ero. You can see more of his work at his website. 

Compassion can help battle loved ones' addictions

    The Sun-Times started a new wellness section, aptly entitled "Well," that debuted a week ago Wednesday, and the features editor asked me to write last Wednesday's cover story, reviewing Christopher Kennedy Lawford's new book. I enjoyed talking with him -- an open, rough-hewn sort of guy. I'm not sure of the utility of the book, but then again, I'm not everybody in the world, and I imagine there are people who will find guidance and support in it.   

     Society has a habit of viewing any particular illness first as shame and then as triumph. Not too long ago cancer was something families hid — you didn’t even tell your friends you had the Big C and certainly didn’t mention it in the inevitable obituary. Addiction is following the same path. What was once — and to some still is — seen as a personal failing, weakness and sin is increasingly recognized as disease, a complex mix of genetic, biological, social and psychological pathology scything through our nation.         

     Twenty years ago heroin was what happened to inner-city junkies who could be comfortably ignored. Now it afflicts suburban teenagers and society sits up and takes notice in a way it never did before.       

     Part of the process of dragging addiction into the light is expanding the circle of sympathy for people it affects. There is the addict, or alcoholic, of course. But then the ring of harm expands outward to include family and friends, who cope with the situation, or more likely, don’t cope with it. In some ways they’re in a tougher position; the addict at least has the brief refuge of using. For families, the pain can be unremitting, and they need all the help they can get. 

     Christopher Kennedy Lawford, author of best-selling books on recovery such as “Symptoms of Withdrawal and Moments of Clarity,” has joined up with family therapist Beverly Engel, an expert on abuse, to write “When Your Partner Has An Addiction: How Compassion Can Transform Your Relationship (And Heal You Both in the Process).”

      That’s a big promise to pack into the title of a book... 

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'Unbridled joy' of Cubs' win brings family together

Wayne Juhlin, Mark Grace and Penny Lane

     All over the city, the state, the country, Cubs fans gathered to be with their loved ones Wednesday night to watch their team win the seventh game of the World Series. It was something you had to do together.
     For Jennifer Juhlin, that meant going over to her mother’s house. “I felt I had to be with her,” said Jennifer, 35. “I didn’t want her to be alone.”
     You might remember her mother, on Chicago radio as Penny Lane, married to Wayne Juhlin. You might also remember Wayne — a comedian, voice-over talent, radio show host at WDAI and other stations. That’s how he met Penny — she was a disc jockey on WSDM, “The Station with the Girls and All That Jazz.”
     Even though Wayne was a lifelong Cubs fan — “a super fan,” she called him — when the game began, Penny hadn’t planned on watching the game with her husband of 34 years.
     It wasn’t that she minded his trips to spring training, or the pricey Cubs Fantasy Camp, where he once “struck out Jose Cardenal.” (After that, Wayne would sometimes meet the former Cub at Gulliver’s for pizza.)

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The Cubs win the World Series

A pterodactyl delivers the good news Wednesday night at the Field Museum . 

      It starts with a ball. Foam or rubber or one of those hollow blue plastic spheres that comes in a set with a fat red bat and a brown toy mitt.
     But a parent, a mom or a dad, tosses that ball to a toddler. And the baby, joyful, grabs the ball in a fat fist and flings it back in the general direction of the delighted dad or mirthful mom.
     So it begins. Working toward a real hardball and more complicated games: catch in the yard; base runner; pick-up with the kids on the block. Enter professional ball, watched on television, tucked safely under dad's arm, cheering when he cheers.
     The dream builds slowly. Those backyard players troop off to Little League, to park district squads. Parents watch instead of playing, mom drives from game to game, dad camps out in the stands.
     Others may not play, but channel their passions in baseball cards, into fandom, memorizing stats and records, half hobby, half religion.
     By then they've divided their loyalties, North and South. Few root for a distant team; you grow where you're planted. South Siders cleave to the White Sox, who lived their dream not long ago. Lest you forget—as ESPN did—the Sox won the World Series in 2005.
     But the Cubs didn't—and North Siders embrace the Cubs. As do those empty spaces without teams—lots of Cub fans in Indiana.
     It's a complicated passion. Lovable Losers, our hapless Cubbies playing in their gem at Addison and Clark.
     Each fan has an iconic initial Wrigley Field visit. Who can forget the first glimpse, coming up those stairs, the green and brick unfolding like a mirage, an impossible vision.
     The sacred space where so much happened for so long. Ruth's called shot. The collapse of 1969. Rick Sutcliffe and Steve Bartman and every person who ever played, or ever watched, as the Cubs tried hard but fell short. Years of hope and agony.
     "It was like coming this close to your dreams," as Moonlight Graham says in "Field of Dreams," holding thumb and finger an inch apart. "Then having them brush past like a stranger in the crowd."
     Getting the brush-off became a way of life. The first game was played in Wrigley Field on April 23, 1914. And ever since then, the Cubs had never been champions. Never. Not once.
     Until . . .
     This season started in optimism, but so did last season. The Cubs were young, and good, but how many times in the past has being young and good not been enough? They won 103 games this year and the chance was there, but how many chances were bobbled? In 1984. In 2003. Cubs fans hoped yet did not dare hope.
     Winning the pennant was a dream not lived in the waking world since 1945. That dream became real. Yet our fulfillment was not complete. There were four more games to win. Otherwise, winning the pennant was only a new twist on losing. Not flying but falling with style.
     When the Cleveland Indians took the first game, the old heaviness tapped us on the shoulder. Oh right. They're still the Cubs. Maybe our dream was hurrying past, like that stranger in a crowd. Again.
     But the Cubs battled back in the second game, on the road, buoyed by slugger Kyle Schwarber, injured in early April, returning unexpectedly, our hero.
     The Cubs lost the next two games, at home at Wrigley Field, to add insult to injury. The heaviness settled in our stomaches. Oh well. At least we were there. At least we were beaten, by extraordinary pitching, and didn't just muff the thing away, as usual. Cold comfort but comfort nonetheless.
     Then the Cubs won the fourth game. And the fifth, their bats awakening, the other team, for once, missing the easy fly ball. Addison Russell, all of 22, hitting his grand slam. Even as he was reaching the dugout, you had to think, "He's going to bask in that glow for the rest of his life." As will we.
     We were confident going into that seventh and final game and our confidence was not misplaced. We won.
     Time stopped.
     It was the miracle we had waited for, and our fathers and mothers had waited for before us, and their parents before that. We were bathed in healing waters. The family that taught us the game, the city that nurtured it, the friends we played with, memories we shared, pros we admired, all returned, all alive again, awakened by the crack of the bat, the flash of the ball, the smell of the grass. Alive in our knowledge of how happy this would make them, how happy it makes us now, all of us here, together in victory, for one perfect moment, round and pure.
     Like a ball.

Even Sue the T-Rex couldn't help but smile. 

  

Words have meaning even if they aren't true

     People just say stuff.
     Such as “How are you?” when they couldn’t care less how you are. And “I’m fine” when they’re not. It’s expected, the grease that society slides forward on. Hardly worth noting.
     When it comes to politics, however, this just-say-stuff habit is more worrisome. Then the grease can send our nation skidding off of a cliff of toxic nonsense and paranoid fantasy. Politicians make promises that they can’t possibly deliver. They air claims that can’t possibly be true, that directly conflict what they just said a day or two ago. And their followers, well, follow, saying things they neither mean nor think about.
     Such as? Abortion. “Abortion is murder,” the anti-abortion crowd claims. You hear it all the time. First, that’s incorrect. Since murder is a legal term, and abortion is legal and thus it is by definition not murder. What they mean is “Abortion should be murder.” Except they don’t mean that either, as you can demonstrate by replying, “Oh really? If it’s murder, then for how long should the murderers go to jail?” And the answer is “umm.” We can translate that grunt as “OK ‘abortion is murder,’ is just something we say because it sounds powerful and more compact than, ‘I want to force my religion on you while dragging gender roles back to the 1950s.'” Admittedly quite a mouthful.
     Donald Trump is a master of saying stuff. A mighty river of words flows out of his waggling lips, vague promises and idle threats and broad accusations. They sound dynamic, and his fans lap it up. Build a wall and make Mexico pay for it. Bar Muslims from entering the country. Deport 11 million illegal residents. The election is rigged. The media are corrupt.

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What do you get for a friend in rehab? This.

    There are no "Hooray You're in Rehab!" cards, that I know of. There should be. Swapping a life that's gone off the rails for one that's functional, fulfilling and disciplined should be a cause for celebration, not shame. 

    Which is why I was delighted when my friend Lise Schleicher, who owns BasketWorks in Northbrook, suggested creating a One Day At a Time Recovery gift basket around my new book, Out of the Wreck I Rise: A Literary Companion to Recovery, written with Sara Bader.     She's been doing land-office business with her Chicago Reads basket featuring my Chicago memoir, You Were Never in Chicago, and was looking to do some brand extension.  And yes, I sign the books for those who want me to.

    Lise consulted with me designing her basket, and I suggested the sweets—sugar touches the part of the brain that booze wallops, and you tend to go through a lot of candy in the early days of rehab. Coffee of course. And the "One Day at a Time" sign because you need that one-foot-in-front-of-the-other determination to get through those arduous first months of recovery.  

    And the book, which has been out now for about two months.. It's still getting notice—just last week Newcity ran a perceptive review  by lit editor Toni Nealie. I also taped a podcast that I thought went very well for the Poetry Foundation which should be up any day. And in a few weeks Sara and I will go into the studio to cut a segment with Scott Simon for "All Things Considered" on NPR.

    With gift-giving season approaching, I wanted to spotlight Lise's new basket. I've used her company before, and can attest that she's prompt and the baskets are wildly appreciated. Particularly under these circumstances, when a person tends to feel alone, facing a life radically different from the life they've become accustomed to. They could use some support, and nothing says, "I'm with you" like a basket of goodies. I believe this sort of thing could catch on. It's a great idea.

"A little disappointing"

     Today's initial post is just a re-jiggering of yesterday's — kind of a rip-off, really, for regular readers — so I thought I would offer something fresh. Since today is the 75th anniversary of the opening of Mount Rushmore, it seems appropriate to share this chapter from "The Quest for Pie," the unpublished memoir of my trip with the boys out west in 2009.

     Gutzon Borglum is not famous. Though he should be, if only for embodying the truth that you can do something great, something truly great, that you can create a masterwork through tremendous personal effort, a masterwork that is known around the globe, leaving behind a shrine to yourself and your genius in the bargain and still be completely, utterly obscure.
     And if you are the one person in a thousand who knows who Gutzon Borglum is, well, you should feel good about yourself, because you are extraordinary too, in your own way.
     Borglum sculpted Mount Rushmore. He worked on it for more than 14 years, aided by some 400 workers. The job was finished after his death in 1941 by his son Lincoln.

     Maybe because we first stopped by the small museum to Borglum in town, on our way in, before visiting Mount Rushmore itself, and viewed up close Borglum’s competent but soulless bronze of Lincoln, sitting on a bench by the curb, as if waiting for a bus, in addition to Borglum’s other artless, static metal creations. But by the time we got done passing all the tributes to Borglum, not just the museum in town and the studio shrine at the Mount Rushmore site, plus various busts and plaques peppered all around, I began to suspect that the whole endeavor was a deliberate ploy on Borglum’s part, an artist’s trick to drape honor upon himself, using America’s presidential greats as a pretext. It seemed almost post-modern.
      Not that Mt. Rushmore wasn’t impressive — it is. Big and impressive and patriotic. Sometimes a hugely famous artwork is a let-down when you finally see the genuine article. Michelangelo’s David, for instance. By the time I got myself to Florence, on that vexing trip to Italy with my father, and we laid eyes upon David, it struck me as a well-wrought garden sculpture. I had seen it too many times already.     
     Not Mount Rushmore, whose scale allows it to survive the hype. It really is enormous, and enormous is one quality that is hard to sap away with trinkets. I was particularly intrigued, as we hiked the “Presidential Trail” around the mountain, to catch the four faces from different angles, peeking through the trees. For some reason, we always get Mount Rushmore reproduced from a single, head-on perspective, as if it’s the only view possible, and it felt marvelous, almost subversive, to see Washington in profile. It was surreal, like glancing at your change and noticing a penny with Lincoln gazing directly at you.   

      Yes, Mt. Rushmore memorializes four men who need no memorializing. Nobody says, "Oh, right, George Washington, I forgot about him. High time somebody did something in his honor.” And Jefferson, well, he doesn’t really resemble Jefferson here — his nose is wrong. (That is, he doesn’t look like Jefferson as commonly depicted in portraits and statues — it isn’t as if anybody has a photo).
     But Mount Rushmore is patriotic, and there’s a joy in patriotism, a sentiment you ruin if you think about it too intensely — here it probably helped to skip Wounded Knee. I felt very God-Bless-America-y, so long as I diligently ignored the various aesthetic disappointments. Mount Rushmore is also a reminder of how generally polite the world can be — had France at some point decided to erect the massive heads of, oh, Louis XIV, Charles De Gaulle, Napoleon Bonaparte and Charlemagne, carved into a peak in the Pyrenees, we’d never stop laughing at them. The world is very kind to Americans when it comes to Mount Rushmore, or maybe they just mock us out of earshot in languages we don’t bother to learn.
     The boys and I had lunch — another let down, since Ross, an avid film buff and Alfred Hitchcock fan, discovered, by reading the signs, that Hitchcock didn’t actually film “North by Northwest” here, except for some outside establishing shots. The scene where Eva Marie Saint guns down Cary Grant was not filmed in the room where we were having our $27 worth of tepid foil-wrapped cafeteria cheeseburgers, but in a studio in London.
     Having just seen the Badlands and the Corn Palace in Mitchell, I couldn't help but place Mt. Rushmore in league with the latter. The Corn Palace is a brick building, not made of corn, but decorated anew each year with corncob designs, honoring the local crop and, not incidentally, drawing the dupes off the highway to buy popcorn and postcards, which also was Mt. Rushmore's original purpose — that’s why the local boosters contacted Borglum, to create a magnet to draw visitors to the Black Hills of South Dakota. As is its purpose to this day, once you blow away the mist of unfocused patriotic zeal that the park service sprays over the place. Give them credit: it works.   

     We tramped around, probably longer than we should have, and it struck me that on our way here we had passed a thousand more dramatic mountaintops, carved by the wind and the rain, and we make a big deal out of this one and flatter our own abilities because of the crude likenesses of ourselves we managed to blast upon it. Omnia vanitas.
     My boys were even cooler than I to Mt. Rushmore.
     “A little disappointing,” Ross concluded. “Nature is more wonderful than anything we can build.”
     “The Badlands were better,” Kent agreed. “Man-made creations don't compare to nature.”
     I was surprised, pleased, proud and a little unsettled to hear the line from Bernard Pomerance's “The Elephant Man” that I had delivered in the Badlands — "Art is nothing as to nature" — echoed back to me, in slightly altered form, a day later. Here I thought I was a Polonius-like blabbermouth whose constant stream of platitudes are completely ignored by his sons. But kids are listening even when they don’t seem to be listening. Keep in mind that whatever you tell your children they'll eventually tell you.

                                                                                      

A rough beast is born and slouches toward 2020

     The column I originally wrote for Monday just assumed the Cubs would boot Sunday night's game against the Indians. But as the day progressed, it dawned on me that Chicago might actually win, and thus the column would seem out-of-place. I toyed with adapting it, but that didn't work, and in the end I decided to hold it and run this instead, which sharp-eyed readers will notice is a version of Sunday's blog post.

     Eight days to the election. One week from Tuesday. Just under 200 hours.
     You’d think we’d be home free.
     Yet we’re not. The thing keeps getting weirder.
     Where to start?
     There’s the Washington Post/ABC poll last week that finds the candidates 1 percentage point apart, with 46 percent of voters backing Hillary Clinton and 45 percent backing Donald Trump.
     A dead heat.
     And at week’s end the whole email server nightmare came roaring back. How could it not? As with any good horror movie, just when the monster has been blown up and shot and stabbed and the building has collapsed atop him, just when the heroes are finally grinning and ruffling each other’s hair and making their movie’s-over jokes, suddenly the yammering yam comes bursting out of the rubble, red eyes glowing, his election hopes inexplicably alive.
     Wasn’t it a week or two ago that Trump’s campaign chances were dead and shriven and buried under the weight of squalid allegations of him groping women? Now he comes rearing out of the grave, a la “Carrie,” supercharged by the electric zap of news that FBI Director James Comey sent an inexplicable letter to Congress saying, in essence, we’ve got some emails that may involve Clinton on Anthony Weiner’s computer.

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Enter Anthony Weiner, with a seltzer bottle

     Nine days to the election. One week from Tuesday. Two hundred hours and change. 
     You'd think we'd be home free.
     Yet we're not. The thing keeps getting weirder. 
     As with any good horror movie, just when the monster has been blown up and shot and stabbed and the building has collapsed atop him, just when the heroes are finally exhaling and ruffling each other's hair and clapping one another on the shoulder and making their movie's-over jokes, suddenly the yammering yam comes bursting out of the rubble, inexplicably alive.
     So Donald Trump, whose campaign chances were dead and shriven and buried, comes rearing out of the grave, a la "Carrie," with news that the FBI director James Comey sent an inexplicable letter to Congress saying, in essence, we've got some emails that may involve Hillary Clinton on Anthony Weiner's computer. 
   The thing was almost instantly debunked, but it doesn't matter. I hesitate to declare that facts have mattered less in this election than any in our history — there have been some doozies— so I will just say, "Why should the truth start mattering now?" Just the word "emails," like the word "Benghazi," is enough to erode Clinton's narrow lead. 
    Anthony Weiner. The former Congressman whose career was destroyed, not once but twice, by naughty cell phone photos he felt compelled to send to strangers. First as Congressman, then as mayoral candidate. He happened to be married -- in one of those coincidences that would look trite in fiction -- to one of Clinton's top aides, Huma Abedin. 
     That the emails don't seem to reveal anything or even necessarily involve Clinton is just the icing on the cake of horror. Of course. When one of the major candidates lives in a fact-free echo chamber  —"This changes everything!" Trump exulted—it makes sense that this non-story would rock the campaign. 
    Actually, it doesn't change anything. Clinton has been thoroughly demonized for offenses, —the tragedy in Libya to her high-paid speeches to the endless server scandal — that wink out into insignificance when held up against the bone-deep bigotry, ignorance and anti-Americanism of Donald Trump and everything he unambiguously and proudly represents. 
    I was tempted to conclude that, in generations to come, saner heads will recall the 2016 election with wonder, as the nadir, the hard bottom we bounced up from. Pretty to think so. Because that doesn't sound right. My gut tells me that this is just the opening bell of our dystopian future, with charismatic non-politicians whipping up grass roots mobs, tweet wars and battling TV comedians giving us our news. As terrible as the election of 2016 is, it is only the beginning. Hillary might win — I hold out hope she will win, unless of course she loses. But somewhere, a better, more palatable version of Donald Trump — Donald 2.0 — is being assembled. Some Marco Rubio-calibre fraud is staring hard at himself in the mirror, liking what he sees, and cooing, "Next year, it's your turn baby!" The rough beast awakes and, in anticipation of its hour come round at last, slouches toward Washington to be born.  

Tiny planes flying underground in Cleveland

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     As far as the World Series goes, you didn't think it was going to be easy did you?
     Otherwise, about all I have to say is that I was hurrying to the airport in Cleveland on Monday, having popped into town to write a quick scene-setter for the paper, when I noticed a small model of this very familiar red and white plane mounted on the wall over the tracks. The Granville Gee Bee R-1, my favorite plane, winner of the Thompson Trophy at the National Air Races in Cleveland in 1932.
     The RTA stop at Hopkins Airport sort of had a mixed aeronautical metaphor going on — antique racing planes on the walls, jetliners on the floor.  It didn't quite mesh, but give them credit for trying. 
     I should dig out the story I wrote about the plane —another day, it's late. But I had the honor of talking to the pilot of the Gee Bee, Jimmy Doolittle, the same Jimmy Doolittle who later led the raid on Tokyo in 1942. If I remember correctly, he was in the phone book in Arizona, and was more than happy to chat about his brief time in the cockpit of the Gee Bee. Flying it, he said, was like "trying to balance a pencil by its point on your fingertip." Or words to that effect. It had stubby wings, an oversized engine and a little sump of a tail, and killed several of the men who flew it, but not Doolittle, who won the race, stepped out of the plane, declared the era of racing planes over, and never raced again. 
      Decorating train stops is one of those small details that brings joy to city life, though Cleveland certainly has nothing on Chicago, which has been installing gorgeous mosaics and artworks at certain 'L' stops. Though I liked something I saw in the subway in Paris -- they had glass cases displaying wares from nearby stores, as advertising and display. That seemed a good idea, though security is no doubt a concern. 
    Anyway, I spent the entire evening watching Game 3 of the World Series, am feeling — tired and subdued — so this post will have to be brief and slight. I have to admit, the game was not a font of fascination, which could have been forgiven had we won. But we didn't win. 


     

Be president of the United States! Earn big bucks!

Old Post Office, now the Trump International Hotel, summer 2016

     Jimmy Carter is perhaps the most disdained president of recent history. Thinking about the late 1970s, the American public generally remembers the energy crisis, the hostages in Iran whom Carter couldn’t free, his “national malaise” and that’s about it.
 

National Portrait Gallery

   Which is unfair. At first he was very popular, for common man moves like walking with his family during the inaugural parade. Carter offered welcome relief from the Greek tragedy of Richard Nixon and the Roman farce of Gerald Ford.
     His being a peanut farmer was celebrated, and companies offered products trying to capitalize on Carter’s grinning likeness. The government quickly moved to make it stop.
     On May 3, 1977, Assistant Attorney General John M. Harmon prepared a memo suggesting the Federal Trade Commission might prevent the president’s likeness from being used commercially.
     “The commission could probably prohibit the use of advertisements, labels, or trade names which implied that the president endorsed, profited from, or was connected with the sale of a particular product,” he wrote. “The prestige of the presidency and President Carter’s well-known background would probably allow the commission to eliminate most of the attempts to attach the president’s name to peanuts and peanut products.”

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Bartman is one of us

     I had completely forgotten about this column, when Ald. Joe Moore reminded me of it. I was going to post it only if the Cubs punted the pennant. But they didn't punt, they nailed it, something we need to remind ourselves should the World Series victory elude our grasp. 
    I'm posting it anyway because it speaks to the Bartman question, which is with us far more than I would have thought possible, between people who want him to throw out the pitch before a game — a bad idea; what if we then lost? — to that vindictive dick holding up a large "Bartman for President" sign in the first row along the third base line at Progressive Field, one of those details that magnified the horror of Tuesday's loss to the Indians. I'm proud that, back when people were calling for his head, I stood with the star-crossed fan whose only sin was doing what anybody would have done.

     Mrs. O'Leary was a real person. Catherine O'Leary. Married to Patrick. They owned a cow and lived on DeKoven Street. When much of the city of Chicago burned down in 1871, blame fell to Mrs. O'Leary and her cow, which supposedly kicked over a lantern. She denied it to her dying day, and historians agree it never happened. But people hounded her anyway -- reporters and circus owners who wanted her to appear in freak shows. The O'Learys moved from place to place, becoming bitter and withdrawn. It still annoys their descendants six generations later.
     I thought of Mrs. O'Leary when this Steve Bartman story broke. As the world knows, he's the 26-year-old fan who deflected a ball that Moises Alou might -- and here I want to emphasize the word "might" -- otherwise have caught.
     Bartman was guiltless, only doing what fans at the ballpark do. The ball comes to you, you strain to catch it. Happens every time. The fans around him were reaching too -- any one of them, or us, could have done it.
     Yet people blamed him. Why they should blame him and not, oh, Alex Gonzalez who muffed an easy double play shortly thereafter, is a mystery. If I were Gonzalez, I'd send Bartman a fruit basket at Christmas.
     Rather than vilify this young man, we should embrace him. He is one of us -- he was a fan, at the ballpark, in his baseball cap, cheering on his team. He bothered to get a ticket and go -- did you?
     Why do we need a villain? I didn't see the Cubs dogging it. Kerry Wood says he choked, but the only reason he had a lead to protect was because of his own home run.
     We need to remember: Baseball is a machine designed to break your heart. I think that's why I generally keep it at arm's distance — there is enough heartbreak in life without caring about a game.
     But I was surprised, when the moment came, that I did care. A lot. Call it Johnny-come-lately fandom, if you like. Still, I was glad to have been drawn in. Even though I must have looked like a fool Wednesday night, perched on the edge of the sofa, in my sweats and old Cubs cap and my Little League mitt — for luck, or in case a ball came flying out of the TV.
     "That's it boys!" I shouted, when Wood hit his home run. "They'll never beat us now."
     My wife, wiser, wouldn't watch the game with us. "I can't bear to see them lose," she said.
     But I had hope. That's ridiculous, isn't it? And you know what is more ridiculous? I still do.
     Who are the losers?
     Let me ask this: If the Cubs are such losers, what are the Braves — we beat them earlier in the play-offs, remember? How about the Pirates, or any other team that didn't even make the playoffs? What are they? Sure it's frustrating to get so close to the dream.
     But that's also the essence of baseball, isn't it? Remember "Field of Dreams"? Remember Moonlight Graham? The Burt Lancaster character wasn't a former Yankee. He wasn't a swaggering slugger who regretted a muffed play in his chain of glory. He was a guy who never got a chance to bat.

Build Bartman a statue

     That's baseball. Sure, we lost, and it was heartbreaking. But the thing to do when your heart is broken is to hold your head up and claim your pain. Don't be too dumb to be proud. Turning Bartman into Mrs. O'Leary would be wrong. He is us. We need to fold him under our wing, because he is the vehicle chosen by Fate, and Fate rules baseball. If you think that the Cubs would have won without him, then you don't understand. Fate is more resourceful than that, and if it doesn't get you one way, it gets you another.
     Besides, what is Bartman's sin compared to the die-hards who are now losing faith? We're through, they seem to say. Boo hoo. Forget about the Cubs. We're done. Let the Tribune tear down Wrigley Field, like they've always wanted to do, and build whatever gross and gargantuan Col. Robert McCormick Memorial Stadium that looms in their corporate dreams.
     If baseball is all about winning, why not go be a Yankees fan? They win every year. Your team will never be far from a Series.
     Life goes on. The Cubs had a season in 1970. We are facing a long winter now. But spring will come. In February. In Arizona.
     Let me tell you something. I was on the couch watching Wednesday. With my two boys, who, like their dad, are not big fans. At one point during the game my 6-year-old said something he had never said before.
     "Daddy," he said. "Can we go to Wrigley Field?" I said sure, in the spring, I'd get tickets. "No," he said, "I mean, can we get in the car right now and drive there?"
     I told him we would wait until spring. We'll be there. And so will you. The Cubs will recover from this. Chicago will shake it off.
     I wrote the editorial that was supposed to run after the Cubs won the pennant. It was beautiful. I know that by saying this I'm reinforcing my reputation as my own most ardent admirer. But it was. My mother cried when I read it to her. I cried when I wrote it. It was about what binds a city together, the years of waiting ended, the iron faith of little boys grown old rewarded, building to a joyous crescendo of how great it is to win.
     I read it one more time and then tucked it away. We'll use it next year.

                 —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 17, 2003

Turning down World Series tickets can be done

     It’s sad that the Chicago City Council needs an ethics panel to yank back the World Series tickets that aldermen should know enough not to accept on their own.
     It is possible to turn down World Series tickets. I know, because I’ve done it. Not so much from ethical as practical considerations. But the process is the same. You just say no.
     But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s begin at the beginning.
     I grew up near Cleveland and followed the Indians. My father, a nuclear physicist, didn’t do the whole sports thing. But my mother was a fan. She was 12 when the Indians won the World Series, and I knew that team well — ace Bob Feller, Larry Doby, the second black player in the league, third baseman Al Rosen, who was Jewish. Jewish players meant a lot to me.
     My grandfather took me to my first game, around 1966, but that was it. He was a stern, silent Pole, and I only got the one game with him. Otherwise I would go to the enormous Cleveland Municipal Stadium with friends. I remember one doubleheader against the Red Sox in 1973 where we waited in the parking lot for the players to go to their cars. I got Carl Yastrzemski’s autograph, Gaylord Perry’s too. I still have the program.

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Looking to son's future is a sentimental journey

Ross, age 5

     Our elder son Ross turns 21 years old today. I can't express how proud I am of him, or how unfathomably great being his father has been. But this column, written when he turned 5, touches upon it. 

Dear Ross:
     Surprised? I thought you might be. It didn't take a genius to realize that databases such as old newspaper files would hang around for a long, long time, and a bright guy like you would figure out he could plug his name and his dad's byline into some search device and kick out everything the old man wrote about him while he was growing up.
     Wasn't like that when I was a lad. No fancy search engines for us. No, we had it tough. We had to trudge miles to libraries, through blinding snowstorms, to scour thick indexes and court eyestrain reading scratchy microfilm reels. . . .
    I won't start. You've heard that enough. See, that's the thing about being a dad. You set off in one direction and suddenly find yourself somewhere else entirely, off on some stupid tangent, about to explain how music sounded sweeter played on a thick vinyl 33 rpm record.
     Begin again.
     Five years old, this week. Hard to believe. The time just snapped by. That's a cliche, I know, but it's also a fresh reality for me. I knew it was coming, I tried to avoid it, seizing the moments, clutching at them, observing closely, listening hard, taking all those pictures, and it flashed by anyway. You were born, now you're 5, and a few more flashes from now you'll be—what? 30, 35—reading this in the blue glow of some sleek little computer gizmo at Mach 5 high above the Earth.
     I picture you tall, handsome as sin, of course, hair closely cropped at the temples with maybe some sort of a weird futuristic touch — a single Anakin Skywalker rattail, beaded or dyed or something. You're wearing the charcoal-colored spandex business suit we've been projecting into the future for the past 30 years, and relaxing in the big aqua leather seat on the 7 a.m. suborbital shuttle from Chicago to Tokyo.
     You glance out the window at the curve of the Earth, give a last look at the sales figures for carbon fiber data couplings in the Asiatic rim, sigh, then hit a few buttons, and up pops one of dad's old columns.
     Five years old. Happy birthday, boy. Did you like the metal Chicago police car? Just like the real ones. The doors open, and everything.
     I wish you could see yourself as you are now — the videos just don't convey it. Sprawled on the floor, doing a hard puzzle, working through a maze, tossing tough questions from the back seat. "Dad, what's the difference between hornets and wasps?" "Dad, why does the moon follow us?" "Dad, what happens if somebody shoots a missile at us?"
     I remember well the moment you were born, howling complaints like a Steinberg. They cleaned you up, and then they did something I didn't expect, despite all the books and preparations and Lamaze training. The nurse shoved you at me, and everybody turned to pay attention to your mother. I looked down — there was a baby in my hands — and got another shock. Most babies are all red and creased and squished and look like Jake LaMotta after 12 rounds. But you were beautiful, china pale and perfect, and I held you and sang the Air Force song — "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder, flying high, into the sun . . ." — because it was the only thing I could think of.
     I wrote it all down in a letter to you that night. I meant to write letters on every birthday, but you know what happens. Time passes, everyone's so busy, and important things get pushed aside.
     I did try to soak moments in, to look at you and see what was in front of me. It's so easy for adults to ignore kids, to treat them like the curtains, the stage scenery, and not as the point of everything. I will take credit for that much; I realized, when you were born, that you were what everything I was working toward was about, you were the thing I was going to leave behind, you and your brother, and everything else ratcheted down a few notches in significance.
     That sounds nice, but there's a downside to that attitude. Expectations grow and grow. There is no glory that I haven't imagined for you, from smashing World Series-winning homers out of Wrigley Field, to being sworn in as president, to saving the world.
     In fact, I lied about the shuttle to Tokyo image. That's the watered-down version. My actual thought was something grander. I imagined you on a mission to Mars — Lt. Col. Ross Steinberg, NASA, commander of the International Mars Mission. It's a three-year-trip, so you have plenty of downtime, and you found yourself surfing the Tabloids of Yesteryear Web site.
     I was embarrassed to admit that. I know how harmful expectations can be. They're good in that they set standards of ambition, but bad in the sense that life falls so short so often. Expectations can be a trap that parents, with the best intentions in the world, set for their kids.
     That might seem like an odd message to drop into an electronic bottle and toss into the churning sea of cyberspace. Maybe you are reading this, not aboard the shuttle to Tokyo, not on the flight to Mars, but in the free computer room of the public library. Maybe you play the washboard in a skiffle band on Madison Street, and you've come in to get out of the cold. Life does that to people. I'm still proud of you.
Love,
Dad

                   —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 22, 2000

Cleveland and Chicago: A Tale of Two (Baseball) Cities

 

  

     About an hour after the Cubs won the pennant Saturday night, my boss told me to get myself to Cleveland "pronto.' I was on the 7:35 a.m. flight Sunday. By 10 a.m. I was on the Rapid downtown. I dropped my bag at the Hyatt at the Arcade—I wasn't sure if I was going to stay a day or a week—and was snapping this picture about 12 noon, while wandering around Progressive Field, looking for ... well, anything. My only instructions were to compare the two cities. It was Sunday, and all I could think to do after checking out the ballparks was go to the East Side and talk to black Clevelanders about baseball. I figured, if nothing else, I could look at race and baseball. Somehow the whole thing came together and by 4 p.m. I was back at the hotel, writing this.  Rahm Emanuel hasn't been very high on my list for the past few years but, I have to admit, comparing his remarks to the mayor of Cleveland's, you have to give him credit for verve.

     CLEVELAND — Both downtowns bear ghostly scars, names of great department stores now gone: Marshall Field’s in Chicago, The May Co. here. Plaques in both commemorate where Abraham Lincoln once trod, and both struggle today with notorious police shootings of young African-Americans, reminding us that Lincoln’s work remains undone. Both have hollowed-out industrial zones, more memory than manufacturing, and startup tech centers straining to replace them.
     Still, Chicago and Cleveland, whose Cubs and Indians meet for Game One of the World Series on Tuesday, are more different than alike, starting in size. Chicago is a behemoth. The third-largest city in the United States, 2.7 million people in 234 square miles. Cleveland is a relative sliver, barely squeaking into the top 50 at No. 48, a bantamweight 390,000 people over 82 square miles.
     Which means Cleveland has 15 percent of the population of Chicago and about a third of its density; walk around, and Cleveland just seems emptier: weedy lots, empty streets, distant suspension bridges and rusty warehouses slowly reverting back to nature. Parking downtown can cost $7.50 a day. On Monday morning, a stretch of Concourse C at Cleveland Hopkins Airport contained no people at all.
   Still, Cleveland has pride and a sense of beleaguerment. Signs in bar windows read, "Cleveland against the world." Chicago has pride and attitude, which you can see by comparing our mayor, Rahm Emanuel, with Cleveland Mayor Frank Jackson. I asked both to comment on the relative merits of their cities.
     "Cleveland is a city of champions, and all of us are working hard every day to create a better Cleveland, together," said Jackson, displaying the low-key boosterism rampant in his town. "The strength and determination displayed by our sports teams are a reflection of our city and its people. On a national level, many are surprised by what they see and experience in Cleveland, but Clevelanders know that this is who we are and what we do. We win together, and we move forward together."
     Emanuel's comments pack more zing.

     "Cleveland is a perfectly nice town but let's be honest, no one outside of Cuyahoga County is pulling for the Indians," our pugnacious mayor remarked. "And I'd be willing to bet there are more than a few people there who would like nothing more than to fly the W."
     And why not? The cities can't compare on most metrics: Chicago is famous for architecture, with dozens of buildings known worldwide, including Willis Tower, for decades the tallest building in the world. Cleveland has the Terminal Tower, which looks like the box the Statue of Liberty came in.
     The Cubs have Wrigley Field. No more need be said. The Indians have Progressive Field, nee Jacobs Field, an asymmetrical, blond brick ballpark, built just as Camden Yards was about to make Wrigley-like nostalgic hip again in baseball park construction.
     Unlike Chicago, Cleveland hollowed out; it has less than half the population it had when the Indians last won the World Series in 1948. Chicago is predominantly white: 45 percent, with 32 percent black and 31 percent Hispanic. Cleveland is a majority black city: 53 percent, with 35 percent white and 5 percent Hispanic.
     Yet Cleveland is also less segregated, somewhat. In a recent study, Chicago was the second most segregated city in the country, after Detroit. Cleveland was fifth, and black residents I spoke with paint a cheery picture of the situation.
     "I grew up in Cleveland. It's a melting pot of diversity, nationalities," said Harold Childres, a bartender/server at Stonetown on Prospect Avenue. "You have your Asians. You have your Hispanics. You have your Caucasians. You have your African-Americans. We all get along together.
     "Certain areas might be more laden with one particular race, but we all get along. It's like a different city, a mixture of everybody. Even Little Italy, at one point in time, black people wouldn't go to Little Italy. We can work there now. I don't know what has changed. People have mellowed in their feelings as far as racism."
     Baseball has struggled to create a diverse fan base; but black Clevelanders I spoke with waxed nostalgic about the Indians, how their fathers taught them to love the game. Others spoke of the general civic pride of having a winning team with a diverse roster of athletes.
     "The simple fact is the Cavs did it, now the Indians are going to do it too," said Nate Rivers, 20, standing at the Windermere train station on the far East Side, wearing a cap with the controversial Chief Wahoo caricature on it. Some sports shops in Cleveland won't even carry merchandise depicting it.
     Which leads to the one thing that is exactly the same in both Chicago and Cleveland: championships are good for business, for restaurants, stores, souvenir and clothing manufacturers, and, yes, newspapers.
     "That the city might have another winning team makes everybody happy," said Lee Battles, 31, riding the bus down Euclid Avenue through Cleveland's extensive medical district. "Everyone buys the shirts and baseball caps, gives everyone a reason to be proud. A lot of people have jobs, cleaning up, food preparation, and that's cool too. A lot of black people play on the team, and I'm happy about that. It's cool to see your city on ESPN, and you say, 'Oh my God, Cleveland's on ESPN!'"
     More than one person asked me, having both grown up in Cleveland and lived in Chicago for 35 years, which team I'm rooting for. And I reply with candor, "I win either way."
     Play ball.

WikiLeaks snooping is as scary as the election

WikiLeak's founder, Julian Assange

     Imagine a politician’s relative who is a very private person. Could be his wife, could be his grandmother. Someone not in the public eye.
     Say I decide to gather insights into that little-known relative’s personal life gained by kicking in a basement window at the family home, creeping into their bedroom and rifling through her diary. It says here, on the entry for May 17, that she worries her children are . . .      What? Intrusive? Some of you are wondering if I had any right to break into her house and snoop around? How about if I don’t actually break into the house — which for the record, I did not actually do. How about if I just stole some letters to friends after the relative put them out for the postman?
     Still bad? How about if I hacked her emails and found some cutting observations about various politicians? You want those?
     You see where I’m going with this. The 2016 campaign is so fractious, the standards of civility so degraded, we’ve all overlooked a very bad precedent that’s being set.

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Fight cancer with more than a book

     The last time I was in Myopic Books on Milwaukee Avenue, I faced a dilemma. They had Time on Fire, Evan Handler's funny and terrifying account of surviving leukemia despite being treated at Sloan-Kettering in New York City. It is something of a guerrilla guide to beating cancer (Practical Tip #1: don't feel reluctant about hectoring reluctant medical technicians about washing their hands) and I give it to all my friends when they get cancer, and every single recipient survived (well, Jim Tyree is no longer with us, alas, but he wasn't done in by the cancer, but by the ineptitude of a med tech trying to insert a line for dialysis. Handler is right; you have to watch them like a hawk). 
     I always pick up a copy, because someone is always coming down with the Big C. The challenge was that Myopic had three copies -- my instinct was to buy them all, to have a reserve. 
     But that seemed a commitment to my friends getting cancer en masse, and I didn't want to err on that side. I bought one, and still have it, so I made the right decision. 
     Passing along books to people who contract cancer is, I admit, a rather low key approach to fighting the disease. Which is why I'm so much in admiration of my friend Eleni Bousis, who last year took much more dynamic course of action: she formed the Hippocratic Cancer Research Foundation. 
    The HCRF has one goal -- "to eliminate cancer and save lives" — and is doing so by supporting the Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Canter at Northwestern University, in the forefront of what is called "translational research," which basically means speeding new therapies from the lab to actual patients who can be helped by them. 
     Toward that end, the HCRF is holding its Inaugural Gala at the Hilton Chicago on Nov. 5, hosted by Susanna Homan, Anna Davlantes and Lou Canellis. That's only two weeks away, but there are still tickets available. I'll be there, adding my sequin's worth of sparkle to the black tie evening.  I'll also auction off my new book, though I'll warn you -- I'm instructing Edie to jack the bidding up so it doesn't go for less than the Amazon price. And yes, there is dancing.
    You can learn more about the event and buy tickets by clicking here. As you know, I don't ballyhoo causes upon my readership here very often -- in fact, I never have. But I'm a big fan of Elani Bousis, and I think that cancer sucks, so it's also the least I can do. By the time I deliver a copy of Time on Fire to friends, they're already in the thick of the struggle. Curing cancer seems a much more more aggressive approach to the problem.  It's a fun night for a great cause and I hope you can join me. 

Cold? Flu? Yes, that's the ticket

     A colleague asked me if I were excited about the Cleveland Indians winning the pennant this week, and I answered, candidly, that I was excited when they won it in 1995 and actually saw a World Series game in 1997, leading to the column below, which got me in hot water at work, for reasons I will explain afterward. As you read, try to imagine what landed me in the editor's office, having my future employment called into question.

     I'm sorry, but there won't be a column today; I'm feeling under the weather.  
     World Series tickets!
     Must be some kind of virus I picked up Monday — I forgot my wool hat at home, and with the change of weather and all those people sneezing on the bus. 
     An old friend from Cleveland called and said he had a big piece of Fall Classic pasteboard with my name on it.
     Much as I'd like to be at work Tuesday, finishing that piece on global warming (really), it seemed the responsible thing to stay at home and not risk infecting my co-workers. 
     "I can't. . . ," I began, pausing long enough in shock that he began to reply when I cut him off, ". . . believe it! Yes! In a heartbeat." There was the sticky matter of my job, however, the livelihood supporting me, my loving wife and two adorable children.
     Because colds have a way of racing through a workplace, especially at this time of year.     
      Southwest Airlines. One-hundred and sixty-three dollars. That was a lot. But my God, the World Series. I'm 37 years old and I've never been to a World Series, never mind one in Cleveland, with the Indians, whose dismal record of endless, soul-crushing mediocrity served as the dreary background to my nondescript youth.
     And who knows if it's just a cold? The flu, pneumonia, meningitis — all going around this time of year. Better to take a day and rest and not risk making it worse. 
     Game starts at 7:20 p.m., Chicago time. Though I'll be there an hour or two early, just to gaze in abject awe at the red-white-and-blue bunting surrounding the upper decks, to soak in the atmosphere and, if history is any judge, a couple of big cold ones.
     To be honest, as sick as I am, I still hate taking a day off. Responsibility is key to any job, and if you don't show up one day, well, that just adds your burden to the weary shoulders of your co-workers. 
     Of course we'll win in dramatic style, the way the Giants beat us back in '54. The only thing people remember from that is Willie Mays running to make The Catch, and then that tremendous throw to the plate, his cap flying. A nice moment for him and most everybody else. Not so nice for those in Cleveland.
     Slack off and you risk getting in trouble at work. That's awful. Your boss is all grim-faced, and everybody is discussing what to do about The Problem, and you feel like you're back in first grade, in the principal's office for building a volcano of snow on the radiator. 
     The Marlins aren't even a real team, just a marketing concept put together to sell sportswear to teenagers. Teal? How'd they come up with teal? They had to do a survey of what teens wanted to wear on their hooded sweat shirts to get a color like that.
     I remember getting fired from a job once — my last job before this one, now that I think of it. A small suburban daily newspaper. For something I wrote in my column, coincidentally. My boss looked like he just swallowed a lemon, and he asked me to go for a walk. He did the deed on the side of Schmale Road, in Wheaton, with the traffic whizzing by. 
     Did I mention that my grandfather took me to my first Indians game? It was the only thing we ever did together in our entire lives. I can still see him sitting there in his neatly laundered sports shirt, smelling of cigarettes and Luden's cough drops, cheering. He's long gone now.
      But things have a way of working out. That newspaper folded shortly after I left, and the guy who fired me took some job in the distant collar counties and was never heard from again. I ended up here. 
    Well, not here, not at the moment, but at the World Series in Cleveland. I'll be back here tomorrow. Eight a.m. flight. Don't tell anybody.
      —First published in the Chicago Sun-Times, Oct. 21, 1997

    "What is this?" the editor at the time asked me, an hour after I turned in the column. I brightly explained to her that I was going to call in sick and attend the World Series in Cleveland. She frowned. "You know you could be fired for this? For calling in sick when you're not sick." 
     I'm not sure what I replied. Certainly not, "But I'm NOT calling in sick, not really, you muddle-minded martinet. I lay it all out in the column. I'm attending a World Series in another city at no cost to you whatsoever! Plus you get a fun column out of it. Isn't that the important thing?" 
    Apparently not. I no doubt apologized and wheedled, my only goal being to get my ass to the game, which Cleveland lost to the ersatz Florida nine in what I remember being a 4 and half hour ordeal in 42 degree weather that saw my pal and me at a bar in the flats before the final pitch was thrown.  I do remember seeing Bob Hope at the beginning of the game, a distant speck in a box, waving to the crowd. 
      The editor, incidentally, went on to a glittering career at the Tribune, where fidelity to rules is highly prized.