Thursday, June 8, 2017

How to fall to your death and live to tell the tale.











     This is my third article for Mosaic, the web site of science and medicine run by the Wellcome Trust, the largest medical charity in the world. Mosaic publishes its pieces under a creative commons license, meaning they can be reprinted by anybody, provided they give me credit as the author, and link back to the original story here. The enigmatic images are copyright of the photographer, ©Dave Imms.

How to fall to your death and live to tell the tale

Slipping in the shower, tripping down the stairs, taking a tumble in the supermarket – falls kill over 420,000 people per year and hospitalise millions more. We can’t eliminate all falls, says Neil Steinberg. So we must to learn to fall better.
Alcides Moreno and his brother Edgar were window washers in New York City. The two Ecuadorian immigrants worked for City Wide Window Cleaning, suspended high above the congested streets, dragging wet squeegees across the acres of glass that make up the skyline of Manhattan.
On 7 December 2007, the brothers took an elevator to the roof of Solow Tower, a 47-storey apartment building on the Upper East Side. They stepped onto the 16-foot-long, three-foot-wide aluminium scaffolding designed to slowly lower them down the black glass of the building.
But the anchors holding the 1,250-pound platform instead gave way, plunging it and them 472 feet to the alley below. The fall lasted six seconds.
Edgar, at 30 the younger brother, tumbled off the scaffolding, hit the top of a wooden fence and was killed instantly. Part of his body was later discovered under the tangle of crushed aluminium in the alley next to the building.

‘Fall 1 – Journal of Falls’ © Dave Imms
But rescuers found Alcides alive, sitting up amid the wreckage, breathing and conscious when paramedics performed a “scoop and run” – a tactic used when a hospital is near and injuries so severe that any field treatment isn’t worth the time required to do it. Alcides was rushed to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital/Weill Cornell Medical Center, four blocks away.
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Falls are one of life’s great overlooked perils. We fear terror attacks, shark bites, Ebola outbreaks and other minutely remote dangers, yet over 420,000 people die worldwide each year after falling. Falls are the second leading cause of death by injury, after car accidents. In the United States, falls cause 32,000 fatalities a year (more than four times the number caused by drowning or fires combined). Nearly three times as many people die in the US after falling as are murdered by firearms.
Falls are even more significant as a cause of injury. More patients go to emergency rooms in the US after falling than from any other form of mishap, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), nearly triple the number injured by car accidents. The cost is enormous. As well as taking up more than a third of ER budgets, fall-related injuries often lead to expensive personal injury claims. In one case in an Irish supermarket, a woman was awarded 1.4 million euros compensation when she slipped on grapes inside the store.
It makes sense that falls dwarf most other hazards. To be shot or get in a car accident, you first need to be in the vicinity of a gun or a car. But falls can happen anywhere at any time to anyone.
Spectacular falls from great heights outdoors like the plunge of the Moreno brothers are extremely rare. The most dangerous spots for falls are not rooftops or cliffs, but the low-level, interior settings of everyday life: shower stalls, supermarket aisles and stairways. Despite illusions otherwise, we have become an overwhelmingly indoor species: Americans spend less than 7 per cent of the day outside but 87 per cent inside buildings (the other 6 per cent is spent sitting in cars and other vehicles). Any fall, even a tumble out of bed, can change life profoundly, taking someone from robust health to grave disability in less than one second.
Falling can cause bone fractures and, occasionally, injuries to internal organs, the brain and spinal cord. “Anybody can fall,” says Elliot J Roth, medical director of the patient recovery unit at the Shirley Ryan AbilityLab in Chicago. “And most of the traumatic brain injury patients and spinal cord injury patients we see had no previous disability."

‘Fall 2 – Journal of Falls’ © Dave Imms
There is no Journal of Falls, though research into falling, gait and balance has increased tremendously over the past two decades. Advances in technology improve our understanding of how and why people fall, offer possibilities to mitigate the severity of falls, and improve medicine’s ability to treat those who have hurt themselves falling.
Scientists are now encouraging people to learn how to fall to minimise injury – to view falling not so much as an unexpected hazard to be avoided as an inevitability to be prepared for. Training may even have been a factor determining the outcome of the Moreno brothers’ fall to earth nearly ten years ago.
§
Doctors at NewYork-Presbyterian did not want to risk moving Alcides Moreno from the emergency room into a surgical theatre for fear that the slightest additional bump might kill him. They started surgery in the ER. He had two broken legs, a broken arm, a broken foot, several broken ribs, and a crushed vertebra that could have paralysed him, as well as two collapsed lungs, a swollen brain, plus several other ruptured organs. Alcides was given 24 pints of blood and 19 pints of plasma before the bleeding could be stopped.
Doctors marvelled that he was alive at all, reaching for an explanation not often used in medical literature: “miracle”.
By 100 feet or more, falls are almost always fatal, apart from freak accidents. People have fallen miles from planes and lived, due to tumbling down snowy hillsides, the way extreme skier Devin Stratton did when he accidentally skied off a 150-foot Utah mountain cliff in January 2017 and escaped unharmed, his fall arrested by branches and cushioned by deep snow. He was wearing a helmet, which cracked even as its camera recorded his plunge.
“It’s not the fall that gets you,” the skydiving joke goes. “It’s the sudden stop at the bottom.” Deceleration is the key to surviving falls and reducing injuries − it isn’t the length of fall that’s relevant, but what happens as you reach the ground. This was dramatically demonstrated in the summer of 2016 by professional skydiver and safety expert Luke Aikens. He jumped from a plane without a parachute at an altitude of 25,000 feet, or 4.7 miles, hitting a 100-by-100-foot net positioned in the southern California desert and emerging without a scratch.
One theory was that Alcides lived because, when the scaffolding gave way, he lay flat and clung to the platform, as professional window washers are trained to do. The scaffold fell not in the open street but in a narrow alley – air resistance may have built up against the platform, slowing it. The platform also may have scraped against the building and its neighbour, reducing its rate of fall. The aluminium crushed on impact, and landed on a pile of cables, both of which absorbed some of the impact, forming a cushioned barrier.
Survival from heights prompted the first medical writing about falls. Hippocrates, in his treatise on head injuries, observes, sensibly, that “he who falls from a very high place upon a very hard and blunt object is in most danger of sustaining a fracture… whereas he that falls upon more level ground, and upon a softer object, is likely to suffer less injury”. The first modern medical paper on a fall was Philip Turner’s ‘A fall from a cliff 320 feet high without fatal injuries’, published in the Guy’s Hospital Gazettein 1919. It examined the case of a Canadian Army private who stumbled over a chalk cliff on the coast of France in 1916 and lived.
In 1917, an American air cadet named Hugh DeHaven was flying in a Curtiss JN-4 “Jenny” when it collided with another biplane 700 feet above an airfield in Texas. Among the four men aboard the two planes, DeHaven alone survived the plunge. He spent the rest of his career trying to figure out why, culminating in his pioneering 1942 paper, ‘Mechanical analysis of survival in falls from heights of fifty to one hundred and fifty feet’.
In it, he examined eight cases of people surviving long falls – ignoring his own, but including the lucky Canadian private from 1916 – and found that those who landed on newly tilled gardens could walk away surprisingly intact, noting: “It is, of course, obvious that speed or height of fall, is not in itself injurious.” That might sound like the first half of the skydiving joke, but his research led him to design and patent the combined seatbelt and shoulder harness worn in every car today.
Up to the 1960s and 1970s, scientific papers on falls focused on forensics – their subjects tended to be dead, the medical questions centring on what had happened to them. This was important, for instance, when assessing trauma to children – could this child have fallen and suffered these injuries, as the caregiver claimed, or is it abuse? Falls as a separate, chronic, survivable medical problem began to get attention only in the past quarter-century. The journal Movement Disorders was begun in 1986, but the bulk of papers examining the interplay of balance, gait and falls at ground level appear after 2000.
§
You can trip or slip when walking, but someone standing stock still can fall too – because of a loss of consciousness, vertigo or, as the Moreno brothers remind us, something supposedly solid giving way. However it happens, gravity takes hold and a brief, violent drama begins. And like any drama, every fall has a beginning, middle and end.
“We can think of falls as having three stages: initiation, descent and impact,” says Stephen Robinovitch, a professor in the School of Engineering Science and the Department of Biomedical Physiology and Kinesiology at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia, Canada. “Most research in the area of falls relates to ‘balance maintenance’ – how we perform activities such as standing, walking and transferring without losing balance.”
By “transferring”, he means changing from one state to another: from walking to stopping, from lying in a bed to standing, or from standing to sitting in a chair. “We have found that falls among older adults in long-term care are just as likely to occur during standing and transferring as during walking,” says Robinovitch, who installed cameras in a pair of Canadian nursing homes and closely analysed 227 falls over three years.

‘Fall 3 – Journal of Falls’ © Dave Imms
Only 3 per cent were due to slips and 21 per cent due to trips, compared to 41 per cent caused by incorrect weight shifting – excessive sway during standing, or missteps during walking. For instance, an elderly woman with a walker turns her upper body and it moves forward while her feet remain planted. She topples over, due to “freezing”, a common symptom of Parkinson’s, experienced regularly by about half of those with the disease.
In general, elderly people are particularly prone to falls because they are more likely to have illnesses that affect their cognition, coordination, agility and strength. “Almost anything that goes wrong with your brain or your muscles or joints is going to affect your balance,” says Fay Horak, professor of neurology at Oregon Health & Science University.
Fall injuries are the leading cause of death in people over 60, says Horak. Every year, about 30 per cent of those 65 and older living in senior residences have a fall, and when they get older than 80, that number rises to 50 per cent. A third of those falls lead to injury, according to the CDC, with 5 per cent resulting in serious injury. It gets expensive. In 2012, the average hospitalisation cost after a fall was $34,000.
How you prepare for the possibility of falling, what you do when falling, what you hit after falling – all determine whether and how severely you are hurt. And what condition you are in is key. A Yale School of Medicine study of 754 over-70s, published in theJournal of the American Medical Association in 2013, found that the more serious a disability you have beforehand, the more likely you will be severely hurt by a fall. Even what you eat is a factor: a study of 6,000 elderly French people in 2015 found a connection between poor nutrition, falling and being hurt in falls.
§

‘Fall 4 – Journal of Falls’ © Dave Imms
Alcides Moreno underwent 15 more surgeries and was in a coma for weeks. He was visited by his three children: Michael, 14, Moriah, 8, and Andrew, 6. His wife, Rosario, stayed at his bedside, talking to him. She repeatedly took his hand and guided it to stroke her face and hair, hoping that the touch of her skin would help bring him around. Then, on Christmas Day, Alcides reached out and stroked not his wife’s face but the face of one of his nurses.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” Rosario chided him. “I’m your wife. You touch your wife.”
“What did I do?” he asked. It was the first time he had spoken since the accident, 18 days earlier. His doctors predicted he might walk again, after lengthy rehabilitation, though the challenges proved to be not only physical but also mental. People who fall suffer the expected physical injuries, but accidental falling also carries a heavy psychological burden that can make recovery more difficult and can, counter-intuitively, set the stage for future falls.
§
Children begin to walk, with help, at about a year old. By 14 months they are typically walking unaided. Those first baby steps are guided by three key bodily systems. First, proprioception – input from the nerves in the muscles, a sense of where limbs are relative to each other and what they’re doing. People whose limbs are numb have difficulty walking even if their musculature is completely functional.
The second sense is vision, not just to see where you are going, but to help process information from your other senses. “Most people who walk into a dark room will sway more than if they can see – about 20 per cent more,” says Horak, an expert in how neurological disorders affect balance and gait.
And third is your vestibular system, canals of fluid in the inner ear that work in a way not very different from a carpenter’s spirit level. The system takes measurements in three dimensions, and your body uses the data to orient itself.
With these various systems doing their jobs, you can step forward and begin to walk, a feat that performance artist Laurie Anderson once described in a song with succinct scientific accuracy: “You’re walking, and you don’t always realise it/But you’re always falling/With each step, you fall forward slightly/And then catch yourself from falling/Over and over.”
Or don’t catch yourself. We fall when the smooth, almost automatic process of walking goes awry. Perhaps it is something as crude as your step being blocked by an obstacle: you trip, over a prankster’s outstretched foot perhaps. Or the traction of your foot against the floor is lost because of a slippery substance – the classic banana peel of silent movie fame, what researchers call “perturbation”.
Christine Bowers is 18. She hails from upstate New York, and is a student at the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. One day she hopes to teach English abroad. In January 2016 she had a cavernous malformation – a tangle of blood vessels deep within her brain – removed.
“It paralysed my left side,” she says, as her physical therapist straps her into a complex harness in a large room filled with equipment at the Shirley Ryan AbilityLab. “I’m working on preventing a fall.”
Under the supervision of Ashley Bobich, the therapist, Bowers is walking on the KineAssist MX, a computerised treadmill with a robotic arm and harness device at the back. The metal arm allows patients freedom of motion but catches them if they fall. This version of the device is quite new – the AbilityLab only got it at the end of 2016 and Bowers is the second patient of Bobich’s to try it. Previously, those in danger of falling would be tethered to overhead gate tracks, a far cruder system, which still can be seen in the ceilings above.
Being a student, Bowers often finds herself in crowded academic hallways, and says she values her cane as much to alert those around her that she has mobility problems as for support. Seeing the cane, she says, her classmates tend to give her a bit of room as they hurry through the corridors.
Still, she has fallen several times, and those falls made her very skittish about walking, a serious problem in the rehabilitation of those who have fallen. “It’s huge,” says Bobich. “Fear of falling puts you at risk for falling.”
Elliot Roth agrees. “Falls often cause fear of falling, and fear of falling often causes fear of walking, and fear of walking often causes abnormal or inadequate walking,” he says. A challenge of rehabilitation is to not only increase physical capacity, but also build patient confidence.
"We've been doing what’s called ‘perturbation training’, where I pick a change in the treadmill speed,” says Bobich. “She’s walking along, I hit the button, and the treadmill speeds up on her and she has to react… Her biggest fear was slipping on ice, so I said, ‘You know what? I have a really great way for us to train that.’”
The treadmill hums while Bobich speeds it up and slows it down, and Bowers, her right hand clasping her paralysed left, struggles to maintain her balance.
“You’re getting better at this,” says Bobich. “You’re getting way better.”
§
The KineAssist is an example of how technology that was once used to study ailments is now used to help patients. Advanced brain scanning, having identified the regions responsible for balance, now diagnoses damage that affects them. Accelerometers attached to people’s ankles and wrists have been used in experiments, plotting induced falls directly into a computer for study, and are now being used to diagnose balance problems – or to detect when someone living alone has fallen and summon help.
“Over one-half of older adults who fall are unable to rise independently, and are at risk for a ‘long lie’ after a fall, especially if they live alone, which can greatly increase the clinical consequences of the falls,” says Stephen Robinovitch. He and his colleagues are working to develop wearable sensor systems that detect falls with high accuracy, as well as providing information on their causes, and on near-falls.
Researchers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology took the “wearable” out of the equation by developing a radio wave system that detects when someone has fallen and automatically summons help. The Emerald system was shown off at the White House in 2015 but is still finding its way to a market chock-full of devices that detect falls, invariably pendants.
Not that a device needs to be high-tech to mitigate falls. Wrestlers use mats because they expect to fall; American football running backs wear pads. Given that a person over 70 is three times as likely to fall as someone younger, why don’t elderly people generally use either?
The potential benefit of cushioning is certainly there. The CDC estimates that $31 billion a year is spent on medical care for over-65s injured in falls – $10 billion for hip fractures alone (90 per cent of which are due to falls). Studies show that such pads reduce the harmful effects of falling.

‘Fall 5 – Journal of Falls’ © Dave Imms
But older people have all the vanity, inhibition, forgetfulness, wishful thinking and lack of caution that younger people have, and won’t wear pads. More are carrying canes and using walkers than before, but many more who could benefit shun them because, to them, canes and walkers imply infirmity, a fate worse than death (80 per cent of elderly women told researchers in one study that they would rather die than have to live with a debilitating hip fracture). This sets up another vicious cycle related to falling: fearing the appearance of disability, some elderly people refuse to use canes, thereby increasing their chances of falling and becoming disabled.
Padded floors would seem ideal, since they require none of the diligence of body pads or canes. But padding environments is both expensive and a technical challenge. If a flooring material has too much give, wheelchairs can’t roll and footing is compromised. That’s why nursing homes tend not to be thickly carpeted. People pick up their feet less high as they age, and so have a tendency to trip on carpets.
There are materials designed to reduce injuries from falls. Kradal is a thin honeycombed flooring from New Zealand that transmits the energy of a fall away from whatever strikes it, reducing the force. A study of the flooring in Swedish nursing homes found that while it did reduce the number of injuries when residents fell on it, they fell more frequently when walking on it, leading to a dilemma: the flooring might be causing some falls even as it reduced the severity of resulting injuries.
One unexpected piece of anti-fall technology is the hearing aid. While the inner ear’s vestibular system is maintaining balance, sound itself also seems to have a role.
“We definitely found that individuals with hearing loss had more difficulty with balance and gait, and showed significant improvement when they had a hearing aid,” says Linda Thibodeau, a professor at the University of Texas at Dallas’s Advanced Hearing Research Center, summarising a recent pilot study. “Most people don’t know about this.”
Horak agrees, saying that people who have cochlear implants to give them hearing also find their balance improves. Hearing is not as critical for balance as proprioception, vision and the vestibular system, she says, “But hearing may also contribute and we don’t understand how. We think you can use your hearing to orient yourself.”
Thibodeau says one reason it’s important to establish this link is that insurance companies don’t typically cover hearing aids, because they are seen as improving lifestyle more than sustaining basic health. Hearing aids can be expensive – up to $6,000 – but a broken hip, which insurance companies do cover, can cost five or ten times that figure, or more, and lead to profound disability or death.
More than half of people in their 70s have hearing loss, but typically wait ten to 20 years beyond the time when they could first benefit before they seek treatment. If the connection to balance and falls were better known, that delay might be reduced.
The role of hearing reminds us that, while walking is considered almost automatic, balance is at some level a cognitive act, achieved by processing a cloud of information. Pile demands on our attention and that itself can cause falls, particularly among people who are already compromised physically or cognitively.
Thibodeau once led a group of people with hearing impairments to the Dallas World Aquarium to test out wireless microphone technology in the real world. “There’s a stairway going by an enormous fish tank,” she says. “I had a participant fall on the stairs, and someone at the aquarium told me, ‘A lot of people fall going down those stairs, looking at the aquarium.’” (Asked to comment whether this indeed is a common problem there, the Dallas World Aquarium director did not reply, a reminder perhaps that the legal aspects of falls can inhibit dissemination of information about them).
§
Given the tremendous cost of falls to individuals and society, and the increasing knowledge of how and why falls occur, what can you do to prevent them? And can you do anything to lessen harm in the split second after you start to fall?
1. Prepare your environment
Secure loose rugs or get rid of them. Make sure the tops and bottoms of stairs are lit. Clean up spills immediately. Install safety bars in showers and put down traction strips, and treat slick surfaces such as smooth marble floors with anti-slip coatings. If there’s ice outside your home, clear it and put down salt.
2. Fall-proof your routine
Watch where you are going. Don’t walk while reading or using your phone. Always hold handrails − most people using stairways do not. Don’t have your hands in your pockets, as this reduces your ability to regain your balance when you stumble. Remember that your balance can be thrown off by a heavy suitcase, backpack or bag.
Roth asks most of his patients who have fallen to describe in detail what happened. “Sometimes people are not paying attention. Multi-tasking is a myth, and people should try very hard to avoid multi-tasking. No texting while walking.”
The more problems you have controlling your balance, the more attention is required, says Horak. “If you’re carrying a big backpack on a slippery log, you don’t want somebody to ask you what’s for dinner.”
3. Improve your gear
Wear good shoes with treads. On ice, wear cleats – you can buy inexpensive soles with metal studs that slip over your shoes. Do not wear high heels, or at least have a second pair of flat shoes for walking between locations. Get a hearing aid if you need one. Wear a helmet when bicycling, skiing and skateboarding. Use a cane or walker if required. Hike with a walking stick.
4. Prepare your body
Lower body strength is important for recovering from slips, upper body strength for surviving falls. Martial arts training can help you learn how to fall. Drugs and alcohol are obviously a factor in falls – more than half of adult falls are associated with alcohol use – as is sleep apnoea. Get a balanced diet to support bone density and muscle strength. If you feel lightheaded or faint, sit down immediately. Don’t worry about the social graces, you can get back up once you’ve established you are not going to lose consciousness.
Understandably, some elderly people fear falling so much that they don’t even want to contemplate it. “People should know they could improve their balance with practice, even if they have a neurological problem,” says Horak.
5. Fall the right way
What happens once you are falling? Scientists studying falling are developing “safe landing responses” to help limit the damage from falls. If you are falling, first protect your head – 37 per cent of falls by elderly people in a study by Robinovitch and colleagues involved hitting their heads, particularly during falls forward. Fight trainers and parachute jump coaches encourage people to try not to fall straight forward or backward. The key is to roll, and try to let the fleshy side parts of your body absorb the impact.
“You want to reach back for the floor with your hands,” says Chuck Coyle, fight director at the Lyric Opera of Chicago, describing how he tells actors to fall on stage. “Distribute the weight on the calf, thigh, into the glutes, rolling on the outside of your leg as opposed to falling straight back.”
Young people break their wrists because they shoot their hands out quickly when falling. Older people break their hips because they don’t get their hands out quickly enough. You’d much rather break a wrist than a hip.
§
Alcides Moreno underwent a long regimen of physical and occupational therapy at the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in New Jersey, working to strengthen his legs, restore his balance, and walk. Occupational therapy was necessary, as well as counselling, as he had grown depressed over the loss of his brother, Edgar.
He is unable to return to work but received a multimillion-dollar settlement in his lawsuit against the scaffolding company, Tractel, after a Manhattan court found that it had installed the platform negligently. The sum wasn’t revealed, but a source said it was more than the $2.5 million that Edgar’s family received.
Alcides and his family moved to Arizona, and live outside Phoenix. “This weather is good for my bones,” he told the New York Post. He keeps busy, driving his kids to school and to sporting events, and likes to work out in the gym.
Last year he and his wife had a fourth child, a son.
“I keep asking myself why I lived,” he told the BBC this year. “I have a new baby – he must be the reason, to raise this kid and tell him my history.”

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Some acts of terror terrify us more than others




     You are going to be killed this afternoon.  
     In one of two ways — hypothetically, I rush to point out. This is a thought experiment, not a warning.
     The first potential manner of your death: You are walking along Wacker Drive, smiling at the sky, when a truck driven by a religious fanatic veers onto the sidewalk and kills you.
     The second: You are at work, calling up a spreadsheet, when a disgruntled former employee bursts in and shoots you.
     Both deaths are instantaneous. Which do you prefer?
     As the victim, it hardly matters. Either way, you're just as dead. Your family misses you just as much.
     Had you foreknowledge, you would try to spare yourself from either attack with equal vigor. In both cases, you would no doubt avoid the fatal spot — Wacker Drive or the office. You would notify authorities of the peril.
     Yet that is not how society approaches such killings. We do not view them with equal attention, equal seriousness. Nor do we try to avoid both situations equally. Attacks such as the one Saturday on the London Bridge that killed seven are acts of terrorism that demand international attention, global grief and brisk action. We demand something be done.
     While the shooting Monday at an awning factory in Florida is generally ignored. Five dead, but nothing to be done, or even contemplated. We hardly care what the motive was. Something work-related.

To continue reading, click here. 

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Not every 50th anniversary is golden

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

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

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

TRYING TO BOO THEM OFF THE PLANET

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

Monday, June 5, 2017

We might not want to go where Uber is taking us




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


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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Repurposed

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

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Kathy Griffin shows her throat to the GOP


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

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

     Insincerely evoking supposedly injured family members is a favorite stunt of politicians, certainly not exclusive to Trump. Rahm Emanuel also pulls out that violin when he wants to draw extra pity. 
     The GOP needs injuries to keep attention away from, oh, colluding with Russia. They can't keep harping on Hillary's emails -- this is some new minutia to puff into supposed significance.
     This is not a defense of Griffin. She was foolish. She's 56. She should have known better. It takes a certain discipline. While the Griffin drama was unfolding in the corner of my eye midweek, I was writing my Thursday post, looking for a metaphor to describe what I assume will be the uncomfortable transit of Trump through the body politic.
     "Frankly," I wrote, "we can count on the Europeans to realize, along with half of America, that Trump is a kidney stone the nation will eventually expel, after much pain tie wasted curled and ineffectual."
      That was the revised version. As I originally typed it, the sentence read "the nation will eventually expel, after much pain and bloodshed..." but I stopped, as soon as I typed the word, and backspaced out "bloodshed." Too much. No blood. As soon as Trump became president, I made a rule that I would never write anything, not a tweet, not an email, nada, suggesting it would be a relief for him to drop dead, perhaps from a stroke, being so fat and never exercising and just due to the wrath of a just God finally stirring. Never mind suggest that be killed. Because it would be a mean and unworthy sentiment to express, not to mention desperate. It's like wishing he would magically disappear. What's the point?

     The irony of the Internet is that it rewards extremes. A master like Ann Coulter spews the vilest, most loathsome horseshit, yet somehow rides the wave of outrage on to the next career milestone. She's like the geek who bites the heads off chickens at carnivals—disgusting people isn't a mistake, it's her entire act. And yet she, and some people, get away with it. Trump could suggest, quite baldly during the campaign, that should Hillary Clinton win, someone should shoot her -- "2nd amendment solutions" is the code he used. Bald, but code enough, and he was elected president.
      Maybe that was Griffin's crime. She didn't use code. And, worse, she apologized, which is almost a confession. She should have said, "Bloody head of Trump? No, no, no, it was Mussolini. Easy mistake to make.They can be hard to tell apart."

Friday, June 2, 2017

Hope flickers, and is extinguished.

Laocoon and his sons, Vatican Museum

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


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


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

Thursday, June 1, 2017

The United States walks away from the Paris climate accords


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

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Godzilla never seems to mind that he's crushing Tokyo



 

     Seven hundred days? Where has the time gone?
     That's easy. Washed over the waterfall of wasted opportunity. With the entire state of Illinois soon to follow, battered on rocks, then breaking apart as it plunges into the frothing financial abyss.
     Unless . . . .
     Well, unless nothing. This isn't going to be fixed. Not now. Not next month. Maybe not next year. Maybe not ever. We're at the light incense and pray for Superman stage of the problem.
     It is disingenuous for the Sun-Times, my beloved mother ship, to post a daily front page count of how long it has been since Illinois has had a budget. The idea is that doing so will somehow shame our leaders into coming to an agreement and getting on with the business of trying to right the capsized and foundering vessel that is Illinois.
     But really, if embarrassment were a possibility with the speaker of the house and the governor, this would have resolved itself long ago. I've met crackheads living in a nest of blankets on Lower Wacker Drive who had a more highly developed sense of shame than these two jokers.
     I do not want to fall into the easy "a plague on both their houses" trap. Yes, they are equally unpleasant men.

     Bruce Rauner is a callous, sneering billionaire who comes across in person like the human model of C. Montgomery Burns on "The Simpsons." Rauner expressed no interest whatsoever in public life beyond enriching himself until, perhaps bored, he took some of his bottomless lake of money and began fire hosing it at Illinois—a kind of political waterboarding. Eventually the state, sputtering and gasping, cried uncle, and elected him governor over Pat Quinn. Good old Pat, standing at the mound in his zigzag T-shirt, lowered his head as if weighed down by the brim of his enormous baseball cap, uttered a sigh and padded home.
     And Mike Madigan is a grim slip of a man: think of a last year's jack-o'-lantern mounted on a broomstick, the whole thing marinated in vinegar then hung out to dry.
     Rauner is definitely in the wrong. He's kneecapped the budget, tying it to a variety of side issues—castrating the unions, demanding term limits so that no future Madigans can spawn. With typical my-way-or-the-highway Republican scorn, he demands capitulation then denounces his opponents for holding as fast to their convictions as he does to his own. Even as unions founder, corporate profits soar, and non-CEO salaries—surprise, surprise—stagnate, Rauner insists that the union bogeyman must be defeated before someone tosses a life ring to Illinois.
     If rich old white men like Madigan and Rauner were being hurt by this impasse, it would have been resolved yesterday. But it damages the poor, the struggling young—who rely on public universities and colleges that are dropping staff, injecting furlough days into their academic calendars, and, in general, suffering on starvation rations. Plus those with disabilities, victims of crime, and all the unfortunates who must fall back onto a safety net that both men are pawning to the rope merchant.
     Am I near the end? Good. Because this is pointless. Rauner doesn't need to compromise—his kids are fine. And Madigan can't without prying the fingers of what remains of the Illinois middle class off the bottom rung of the ladder. So as the days and years dribble away, our two leaders, like Godzilla and Rodan, grapple and roar and roll around, smashing the model Tokyo to flinders.
     Godzilla never seems to mind the buildings being crushed beneath him, does he? Mothra doesn't flinch before pulling down the sparking power lines. You never see the guys in the rubber suits pause, thinking, "Gosh, I hope those people on that bus are OK. . . ." They're monsters. They don't care. That's he definition of being a monster. Not caring.
     If either Madigan or Rauner care about the state being ground to kindling under them, there is scant evidence. The people of Illinois, we care big time. We can't afford not to. But nobody hears our voices over the din; they must be muffled by those thick rubber suits.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Impeach Trump?



     Impeach Trump? You're kidding, right? Impeach him for what? Pervasive toxic jerkishness is not, alas, a high crime and misdemeanor, the standard set out in the Constitution. 
    Or do you think he can be impeached because his campaign colluded with the Russia during the election? Is that even a crime?  
    If it is, don't you imagine that there are a plenty of cringing underlings for Trump to casually kick into the ditch? While the Donald smirks his personal responsibility away and fires off a few dead-of-night tweets glorying in it all? Nothing has stuck to him yet. Why would this?    
     Besides, who would do the impeaching?  Congress, right? The Republican Congress. The same trembling cowards who can't even utter a word criticizing the most unfit leader our nation has ever seen are somehow going to magically pivot and great rid of him? After they shelved all their supposed beliefs and principles to meekly shuffle wherever he decided to lurch today. It's like expecting a spinning weather vane to hop off the old barn and point your way through a forest.
    Won't happen. It surprises me to hear people speculating it could happen. Magical thinking, on par with believe-in-fairies-or-Tinkerbell-will-die. And it's such a pathetically easy solution. Deus ex machina; let's just wish this away. A denial of hard realities not dissimilar from the kind of head-in-the-sand outlook that got Trump elected in the first place.
     And like many fantasies, destructive in that it distracts us with daydreams from the hard work at hand. You don't need to harvest the crop if you are convinced gnomes will do it. And there is hard, right-now work beyond breathlessly awaiting what the Washington Post will dig up next.
     Whenever the subject comes up, I shock the people taking a big lungful of the pipe dream by saying, "Impeach him? It's far more likely we'll re-elect him." They stand there, exhaling, the blissed out grin dying on their faces.
    We should be talking about his reelection, not his impeachment. I can see reelection happening. Easily.  It's the far more likely outcome — if somebody wants to put down his money on impeachment, and I can put and equal sum down on re-election, winner-take-all, I'll grab at that bet.  But you'll lose.
     His base is standing with him, more or less. The Democrats have nobody. And it's happened before. The pattern is already there. History is not a schematic for the future, but there are hints and lessons there. Since those spinning impeachment dreams drum up Richard Nixon, who resigned after the gears of impeachment began to grind him. So let's go with Nixon. 
    In 1968, he defeated Hubert Humphrey, an unloved political hack not unlike Hillary Clinton.  While Nixon drifted to the center -- he created the EPA, went to China -- the Democrats tacked left, nominating George McGovern, who was so progressive he lost 49 states. 
     So sure, the impeachment process swung into action against Nixon. But he was also re-elected, after Watergate began to grab headlines. 
     The Bernie Sanders sideshow could convince the Democrats that a similarly radical candidate—though not Sanders himself, thank you God, for one because he'll be 79 in 2020—can have a chance in hell, which Sanders wouldn't have had once America took a good hard look at what was behind his slogans, which wasn't much. We're not a radical left nation. We can't even find our way to national health care, like every other nation on earth with indoor plumbing. 
    Don't get me wrong. Given the daily shocks that the Trump administration serve up when he isn't abroad, deeply humiliating the country, giving NATO a kick (I wish I could believe Putin pays him directly for this kind of thing; my gut tells me they just both think alike) and re-assuring the Europeans that their traditional tacit contempt for America is finally justified, no one can say when whatever smoking gun, tawdry tape, or grotesque cruelty or stupidity will finally pry his supporters' fingers off the door jamb. It's possible.
    But don't hold your breath. There's no reason to consider it now. We just elected the guy last November. And in once sense, we got exactly what we paid for. Nobody can say they were deceived by Trump—sure, he made all these mendacious promises that he didn't even pretend to try to keep. But it was clear he'd do that, particularly since half of what he promised was patently impossible. If voters could screw their eyes tight and vote for him in November, what makes you think they won't stay that way for the next eight years? Opening your eyes to Trump now would be like opening your eyes under the ocean. It burns. 
     The only focus should be: elect Democratic Congressmen in 2018. Then we can talk impeachment, provided we're still allowed to talk at all. Until then, find a decent presidential candidate for 2020 who won't be so flawed she lets a notorious liar, bully and fraud get his tiny hands on the levers of power.

Monday, May 29, 2017

Candid biography of cartoonist Mauldin shines light on worst of war

 

        No fallen soldier actually benefits from the empty platitudes that rise from a million Facebook pages on Memorial Day. The fulsome and generic praise that passes for "honor"—and I've been guilty of it myself in the past and no doubt will again in the future—seems more designed to make the speaker feel a warm bubble of self-satisfied civilian complacency than to reflect the actual miseries and horror of service; "sacrifice" is too glittery and false a word. 
      This column was actually a book review, but I think it touches upon the reality we are whitewashing today with our lip-service. It ran when the column took up a full page, and I've left in the sub-headlines and the joke at the end.

OPENING SHOT . . .

     The youngest soldiers who served in the Second World War are in their late 70s now, and an estimated thousand American World War II vets die every day. They are sent off in a blast of "Greatest Generation" tribute, patriotism and nostalgia, which is only fitting, on a personal level, though it does get a bit cloying and of course is a gross simplification of what actually happened.
     Thus it is a refreshing tonic to read Todd DePastino's new biography, Bill MauldinA Life Up Front, which, like its subject, picks candor over mythologizing.    
     Mauldin was a two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist, famous for creating the Willie and Joe characters in World War II -- unshaven, exhausted foot soldiers yearning, not for glory, but for dry socks and a hot shower. Mauldin was on the staff of this paper for 30 years, and died five years ago this month.
     While he is best-known for his World War II work -- and the grieving Lincoln statue he drew the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated -- Mauldin continued, for decades after V-J Day, to provide a refreshing counterpoint to the tendency of people -- particularly military men -- to rhapsodize their past heroics. During the Vietnam era, DePastino notes, Mauldin "reminded those who complained about draft evaders that during World War II, 'the draft board had to drag most of us, whimpering, out of the bushes.' "
     Some 400,000 American soldiers died in World War II, so of course their sacrifices -- and the sacrifices of those who survived -- should receive commemoration. So long as we also remember that the heroic tales we tell ourselves -- as usual -- are only the shiny surface of the story. There is more.

SOME SHOT THEM FOR SPORT

     

     During the last nine months of World War II, Todd DePastino tells us, more American soldiers fighting in Europe died of alcohol poisoning than of communicable disease. In Italy, 20,000 U.S. troops deserted their units -- one reason the military brass tolerated Bill Mauldin's syndicated blasphemy was because the truth was far worse, and they hoped that collapsing morale might be bolstered if the men could see a faint reflection of reality and laugh at it.
     Meanwhile, on the home front, a sizable chunk of the American public was eager to make peace with the Nazis and declare the whole thing a draw. Which is why the Allies had a ban on depicting dead soldiers, for the same reason George W. Bush tried to keep Americans from seeing flag-draped coffins, as an attempt to undercut demands for peace.
     "Such candor might increase sentiment for a negotiated peace with Germany, a position shared by nearly a third of Americans in mid-1942," DePastino writes.
     Since Mauldin specialized in presenting soldiers, not as the spit-and-polish warriors of home-front propaganda, but as mud-caked mopes seeing how flat they can press themselves to the ground, it's fitting that DePastino renders World War II, not as the heroic moment of moral clarity we prefer to remember, but as a terrifying ordeal where the good and bad guys could be hard to sort out. In this book, American soldiers rape and kill, driving around Morocco shooting Arabs for fun.
    "Some shot them for sport," DePastino writes, " 'like rabbits in the States during hunting season,' as one American explained in a letter home."
     Then there was Naples. DePastino calls the city under American military control "the largest black market in history" with stolen Allied supplies accounting for 65 percent of the city's per capita income.
     "Cargo pilferage in Naples attained levels unprecedented in the history of warfare," he writes. "Food, clothing, fuel, medicine, blankets, cigarettes, and vehicles disappeared in such large quantities that by December 1943, Allied infantry were receiving only two-thirds of the supplies earmarked for them."
     This was not brazenly done under American noses; rather, it was brazenly done with enthusiastic American help.
     Not to give the impression that the underside of the war is all that DePastino shows us. There are truly moving moments, such as Gen. Lucian Truscott's Memorial Day speech.
     "Before a crowd of Army luminaries and VIPs from the States, including several U.S. senators, General Truscott climbed onto the speaker's platform and turned his back on the audience; his address, he informed the crowd, was for those lying beneath the endless rows of graves in the sandy soil of the Anzio beachhead."
     And what did Truscott say?
     "He apologized to the men arrayed before him for sending them to their deaths. It was his fault, he said, and the fault of all those commanders who order men into battle. He had made mistakes, the general admitted, and those errors had cost lives."
     Truscott "promised that in the future if he ran into anybody, especially old men, who thought death in battle was glorious, he would straighten them out. He said he thought that was the least he could do."

 SPUNKY GUY WHO COULD DRAW

     A Life Up Front is the first biography of Mauldin. It won't be in stores for a few weeks. Sorry for jumping the gun, but it's such a wonderful book, and I can only begin to describe how it captures Mauldin's complex, tragic, funny, fascinating personality. Some events almost defy belief, except that you can't make such things up. Mauldin, on his own from an early age, returns home at 17 to show off his new ROTC uniform to his alcoholic father. "He arrived at the old homestead to find Pop drunk and naked, wallowing in a bathtub filled with homemade beer," DePastino writes. " 'There he was,' Bill recalled with laughter decades later, 'pissing in the beer and then scooping some out for a drink.' "


TODAY'S CHUCKLE

     Bill Mauldin could make the most mundane matter into a joke. On the physical exam that admitted his scrawny, 110-pound self into the Arizona National Guard five days before it was federalized into the U.S. Army, Mauldin said:
     "They didn't really test our eyes, they sort of counted them."
                   —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 2, 2008

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Ramadan (whenever it began) is more than just fasting





     Crossing Devon Avenue, walking up to the Muslim Women Resource Center, my first thought was that the organization had somehow convinced the Grocery & Meat Market to let them camp out in a corner of their store, as the two entities share the same green sign.
     The truth is even more surprising.

        "The store is our social enterprise," said Sima Quraishi, executive director of the MWRC. "We've been running Muslim Women Resource Center for the past 15 years. Two years ago, when the governor cut down the budget, we decided that we should do something to make some money so we don't have to lose our staff. This is what we came up with. Giving back to the community. Our main goal is to sell to the community and also hire community members."  
       The market looks like your standard, small, ethnic city grocery. A haphazard assemblage of items from floppy bags of fresh naan to bottles of frozen camel's milk. A variety of chutney and some enigmatic items, such as bags labeled "Broken Sugar."
     I was visiting because Ramadan — the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and a time of spiritual renewal — was beginning sometime this weekend. (Don't ask exactly when because it's complicated "We don't know," said a staffer at the Chicago office of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, suggesting I survey a few mosques and gather their opinions.)


     To continue reading, click here.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

The humdrum life is thrilling enough







 
     This past week was a particularly lethal one on Mount Everest: four climbers killed. Which made me think of this column, written—ack!—over 20 years ago. It has the shades of immaturity upon it. I don't think I would quite so casually mock a father-to-be who had just died in a mountaineering accident. Though I am proud of making the connection between mountain climbing and drug use. And remember, at the time I wrote this, I had been on paternity leave, helping tend a newborn for seven months. So I had something of the mania of a glittering fanatic myself, deep in his own struggle up the mountainside. 

     The weather was calm, the air, still. It was just after lunch when I set up my base camp, on the southern ridge of the green sofa. The view, of the rocking chair and the expanse of the dining room beyond, was fabulous.
     If conditions held, my goal was in sight. I was almost there, drifting off to a pleasant slumber, when my wife clattered into the room, performing some sort of chore. My eyes snapped open. The elusive quarry would have to wait for another day.
     Napping doesn't enjoy the good publicity that mountaineering does. I have no idea why. Naps are far more pleasant and attainable. Plus the odds of perishing in a freak storm, the way eight climbers on Mount Everest did recently, are almost nil.
     Perhaps if naps had better hype—a few hyperkinetic TV commercials showing paunchy guys wearing their Snooze Nikes as they sprawl on comfortable couches, a few blowzy memoirs with titles like My Naps on Seven Continents—then some of those climbers would have stayed home, and been alive today.
    As reluctant as I am to detract from the grand, operatic techno-tragedy of dying climbers cell-phoning in their last words to their soon-to-be widowed spouses and half-orphaned children, somebody should point out, if only in a hushed whisper, that these people are idiots, throwing their lives away in pursuit of a transcendent thrill.
     That sounds harsh. Outdoorsy types—clerks at mountaineering shops, board of trade members who've taken a few adventure vacations—will disagree, of course. They'll evoke all sorts of piffle about sportsmanship and Just-Do-It-itivity, and facing the ultimate challenge. The same fairy tale we've been telling ourselves for a century.
     In the beginning, there was the excuse of exploration and science. Now the climb is just a meaningless, cargo-cult imitation of those early expeditions, done for self-glorification. People climb Everest to prove something to themselves, as a personal accomplishment, as an adventure.
     Fine, so far. But isn't that little selfish? What about their families? What about their kids? That view from the top of Everest must be really something, to be willing to risk it being the last thing you ever see. That climber with the wife who is seven months pregnant—if he wanted a thrill, he could have gotten one by just hanging around the house for another two months. Perhaps even a bigger thrill than climbing Everest—he'll never know now, will he? The tragedy isn't that he was killed; that was just bad luck. The tragedy is that he went.
     Seeking thrills, in general, is overemphasized. Perhaps I'm just a cautious type, but I find life plenty thrilling, right here at home. Sometimes just merging onto Lake Shore Drive at Fullerton is enough wild adventure to last me a week.
     If there was a difference between the climbers who died from bad weather on Everest and the junkies who died that week from bad heroin in Baltimore, I would suggest it is a minor one, a fine shade of athletics and legality that has little bearing on the end result. Both groups were paying money to enjoy a dangerous sensation. Both found the routine of life too burdensome to be endured.
     Given our public distaste for chemical adventures, the wholesale endorsement of physical thrills—from bungee jumping to hang-gliding—is something of a mystery. Isn't the danger of heroin the basis for making it illegal? Why are adventurers seen as heroic and addicts as pathetic? Just custom? Or maybe the thrill of physical adventure is "earned" through sweat equity, and drugs are seen as lazy and therefore repugnant.
     The immensity of any potential thrill must be balanced against the smaller, daily thrills endangered by grasping at it. I remember, back in college, a friend of mine once extended a handful of LSD tablets. "Here, take one," he said. "They're great."
    I was sure they were great. But I was also worried about chromosome damage—a false concern, perhaps. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I just can't see my wife someday giving birth to a calf's head, and her looking at me for explanation, and me shrugging and saying, 'Sorry hon, but I just wanted to get high.' "
     Perhaps that is timidity. And, to be honest, I have at times regretted not taking the acid. People speak highly of the experience. That was my chance and I blew it.
     On the other hand, I'm here. Maybe I would have taken the acid and promptly jumped out a window. People do that. And, in balance, measuring the potential fun of a 24-hour LSD trip versus the 17 good years I've had since then, I think I made the right decision. Normalcy isn't that bad. It can even be thrilling at times—provided that your wife doesn't go around making a ruckus.

                                —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 19, 1996

Friday, May 26, 2017

Trumpet the good news, mutter the bad




     Listen to Pat Gengler, spokesman for the Kane County Sheriff's Office, telling CNN on May 13 how a SWAT team took down Tywon Salters after he grabbed a correctional officer's gun and took a pair of nurses hostage at Delnor Hospital in Geneva, and you'd think the operation was a textbook example of police efficiency.
     "The officer was able to get away," Gengler said of what happened after Salters took a 9 mm handgun away from Officer Shawn Loomis. "The SWAT team made a decision to make entry into the room. One of the SWAT team operators did discharge his firearm, striking the inmate and killing him."
     Nothing about Loomis possibly hiding in a hospital room after losing his weapon.
     Nothing about Loomis perhaps failing to alert anybody that there was an armed felon on the loose.
     And absolutely nothing about a nurse hostage being shot by the SWAT team — or possibly being raped during the three hours law enforcement was trying to figure out what to do.
     To learn that, you have to read a lawsuit filed against the Kane County Sheriff's Office, Loomis, in particular, and Apex3 Security, the company that's supposed to provide security in the hospital.
     That lawsuit, filed Thursday, makes alarming reading.

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Thursday, May 25, 2017

Del Close: In the midst of tragedy, the possibility of laughter

"Slaughter of the Innocents," The Vatican Museum

     Last week I went to the opening of the American Writers Museum, which I appreciated more than expected. They have a Hall of Fame, of sorts, of Chicago writers, cleverly presented on moveable banners so they can add and subtract as circumstances dictate. I noticed—with a mix of satisfaction and unease—that I had met a full half dozen of the iconic writers showcased: Mike Royko, Ann Landers, Studs Terkel, Saul Bellow, Roger Ebert and Del Close. Quite a lot really. I hadn't thought of Close in a while—I spoke with him at the wake Bill Murray threw at his hospital the night before Close killed himself, and saw him on the stage as Polonius in Robert Falls' "Hamlet." I glanced at the obituary I wrote for Close in 1999, and thought it might be suitable for this grim, terror-tainted week. We should not of course laugh at the individual victims of specific tragedies. But certainly must laugh at the general tragedy of the human condition, one where insane religious fanatics commit atrocities against children, trying to lure good people into accepting the hatreds which so define and limit their lives. We are supposed to be terrified—I would say being bitterly amused at the ultimate futility of their efforts might be a far more valid reaction.
Del Close

     In the famous Second City comedy sketch taking place at the funeral of a man who died by jamming his head into a gallon can of baked beans, that detail—to make the cause of death a big can of Van Camp's pork and beans—was provided by Del Close, whose morbid, risky brand of dark comedy formed generations of American comedians.
     Mr. Close—teacher, actor, director, pagan, junkie, occasional lunatic and fierce iconoclastic spirit behind Chicago's beloved comedy troupe, as well as friend and mentor to its biggest stars—died of complications from emphysema Thursday at Illinois Masonic Medical Center. He was 64.
     "There is something irresistibly funny about a funeral," he once said. "More basically, I think the point is that beyond the deepest tragedy, there is laughter. Even in the midst of tragedy, there is always the possibility for it."
     Mr. Close acted not only in troupe comedy but in serious dramas. He was acclaimed as Polonius in the Robert Falls' landmark "Hamlet" at Wisdom Bridge and appeared in several motion pictures, including "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."
     His death came the day after about 50 of his friends feted Mr. Close as he sat in a wheelchair in a basement room of the hospital.
     He was "an amazingly intricate human being," said Second City producer Kelly Leonard. "Notoriously prickly, tremendously warm and very funny," he specialized in humor that's "dark and subversive," Leonard said.
     Mr. Close grew up in Manhattan, Kan. He was a second cousin of Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Ike once showed up at a Close family Thanksgiving in the years before he became president. Mr. Close ran away from home as a teenager, getting his first taste of show business as an assistant in a cheesy bit of vaudeville called Dr. Dracula's Tomb of Terror.
     He attended Kansas State College on a bass drum scholarship and was a classmate of James Dean's. He auditioned in 1957 for the St. Louis branch of the Compass Players, the precursor of Second City.
     Mr. Close was part of the original St. Louis cast, performing in the Crystal Palace. The cast moved to Chicago to become Second City, but Mr. Close went to New York, becoming a stand-up comic in the company of people such as Lenny Bruce. After taking in a Bruce show with Second City founding director Paul Sills, Sills reportedly said to Mr. Close, "If you can ever find out what Lenny is taking, by all means do it."
     What Bruce was taking was heroin, and Mr. Close followed Sills' advice to a fault. He not only became a heroin addict; he was proud of it.
     "He relished his narcotic past," Bob Woodward wrote of Mr. Close. "He wore his track marks from the needles like a badge of honor."
     Mr. Close appeared off-Broadway in a musical, "The Nervous Set," in 1959. But an arrest for marijuana possession cost Mr. Close his cabaret card, and, unable to perform in New York nightclubs, he returned to Chicago, where he joined Second City, sharing directing duties with Bernie Sahlins.
     Mr. Close began performing in the cast of Second City in 1962. It was not a placid relationship, and Mr. Close was plagued by his drinking, drug addiction and emotional problems, which sometimes required institutionalization.
     "Sheldon Patinkin, who wasn't yet the Second City director, used to pick me up at the loony bin and drive me to the theater, where I'd do my thing. Then he'd drive me back to the loony bin where I'd spend another day," he said in 1972. Sahlins said that he, too, used to pick Mr. Close up at a mental hospital so he could perform.
     Mr. Close was fired in 1965. "I deserved it," he later said. "I was always getting loaded, quite frankly."
     He moved to San Francisco, where he took small acting roles. He appeared in "Beware the Blob," being eaten along with Burgess Meredith, and in episodes of "Get Smart" and "My Mother the Car."
     Mr. Close hung out with the Grateful Dead. He ran the light shows at 1967 concerts as the group's "optical percussionist."
     He returned to Chicago in 1972 and directed Second City reviews consistently for the next decade, becoming close with stars such as John Belushi, whose talent he nurtured and formed.
     "He was particularly good with the new generation of Vietnam rebels—John Belushi, Harold Ramis, those people," Sahlins said. "He was a rebel, definitely a product of what we used to call the hippie generation. . . . He had an unusual capacity for leading young people, not always down the straight path. He was an inspiring director and teacher, even if sometimes the content was not acceptable."
     Belushi was particularly affected by Mr. Close, both professionally and personally.
     "I like the man's style," Belushi said of his mentor in 1978. "He can create with you, unlike so many other directors. He can motivate people. He's been my biggest influence in comedy."
     Mr. Close's first-floor Wells Street apartment, across from Second City, was also a convenient spot for Belushi, himself an addict, to shoot up. It was only after Belushi's death by drug overdose in 1982 that Mr. Close was able to shake his drug habit.
     He was let go, again, from Second City in 1983, and took his comedy workshops to CrossCurrents, then to the fledging ImprovOlympic, where he helped develop its signature piece, "The Harold," a framework combining audience suggestions into skits that end up working together.
     Mr. Close returned to Second City in 1988 to direct "The Gods Must Be Lazy," bringing in his ImprovOlympic standouts Chris Farley, Tim Meadows and Joel Murray. Critics credit Second City's current renaissance to the mid-'90s import of Mr. Close's acolytes from ImprovOlympic.
     He won three Jeff awards, a Chalmers award for directing Toronto's Second City, and a Charlie award for lifetime achievement from the American Association of Comedy Artists.
     "It's a grim business, this being funny," he said in 1975. "Every time you come up with a strong satiric idea, the world tops it. None of our reactionary military characters in the past decade could top the real-life line that came out of Vietnam: 'We had to destroy the village in order to save it.' "


                         —Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 5, 1999

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Barrel of Monkeys makes writing more fun


     Children want to talk. The third-graders in Mrs. Javor’s class at the Chalmers School of Excellence strain their twig arms toward the sky, fingers fluttering, desperate for permission to say what’s on their minds.
     They have the desire but, at 8 years old, can lack the communication skill to make themselves heard. When called upon, some speak in tiny voices, inaudible a yard away, their disjointed whispers trailing off.
     Enter a Barrel of Monkeys.
     “My friends, hello!” booms Mary Tilden, striding into Room 202 with four confederates: Alejandra Zavala, Marianna Green, Jo Jo Figarella and Barry Irving. “I’m so excited to see you.”
     The next 90 minutes are a whir of free-form storytelling boot camp, where students are led through fast-paced exercises that are part kiddie Stanislavski Method actor training, part junior Iowa Writers’ Workshop.


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Tuesday, May 23, 2017

The circus has left town



     Readers wondered why I had two columns in Monday's paper. One about federal judges helping ex-cons, which I posted yesterday. And this, about the final performance of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus performing for the final time Sunday night.
     The answer is simple enough. I wrote the federal judges column Friday (and a bit on Saturday, and again Sunday morning). Then Sunday night an editor asked if I might wax rhapsodic about the passing of the Greatest Show on Earth. Sure, why not?

     The elephants were important after all.
     A year after Feld Entertainment, owners of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus, bowed to pressure from animal rights activists and retired their 40 performing pachyderms, a “dramatic” slump in ticket sales prompted the 146-year-old “Greatest Show on Earth” to announce in January that it was going out of business.
     Which it did Sunday night, after one final show at Nassau Coliseum in Long Island, New York.
     The wonder is it lasted this long.
     The death of the circus — the biggest, most famous American circus anyway — couldn’t have been just the elephants. High operating costs also did in the last circus to travel by train as smaller, nimbler, more innovative shows, such as Cirque du Soleil, gobbled up audience dollars without having to worry about feeding lions, tigers and bears.
     And an audience that could fight alien monsters or dogfight in spaceships or have almost any adventure imaginable while sitting on their living room sofa and jiggling a joystick didn’t need to go to the circus. The circus came to them.

     When the boys were small, we'd go to the Ringling Brothers circus. It seemed almost child abuse not to. The circus was America, a vision of America. The ringmaster in his tall hat, the lion tamer and his cracking whip, the swaying elephants with their feathered and sequined headpieces, ridden by showgirls. It was somehow both wonderful and deeply familiar, a cliche come to life. And those who didn't appreciate the classic acts could be entertained by the new twists - those motorcycles racing around their spherical cage of death. That was something to see.
     When I asked my older boy, 21, if he'd miss the circus, if he was sorry to see it go, he said, "No. Not really. It was before my time."
     It was before all of our times. Before the internet, before television or movies or radio, the circus was the flashiest entertainment you could find, traveling from town to town, delighting audiences with clowns and acrobats, prancing ponies and death-defying feats.
     You could spin this milestone a number of ways. As a triumph of the culture of victimhood—we sympathize too much with animals now to put them through the ordeal needed to perform. It was hard to shepherd the kiddies past protesters denouncing its cruelty, and the suspicion that they had a point lingered in the back of the mind, sapping what was supposed to be an innocent joy.
     You could blame the economy. The circus was expensive. Tickets to the final show ranged from $29 to $90 and no, the final performance was not sold out, but nearly.
     You could blame a dwindling of childhood—toy stores shuttered too—and the age when a kid might be agog at a seal balancing a ball on its nose probably ends in the upper single digits.
     Maybe we aren't so innocent anymore. WrestleMania seems to have no trouble packing them in for their flash-bang bouts of sweaty pseudo violence. Pay-per-view boxing thrives. Maybe watching a lot of clowns get into a tiny car just can't compete. It became boring.
     I wondered if it became routine for the performers too, and once asked a Ringling Brothers human cannonball, who had been shot out of a cannon 5,000 times, if doing his act ever became dull.
     "It's never the same," Jon Weiss, the "Human Clown 'n Ball" told me in 2000. "I try not to make it dull. You always try to improve what you're doing, trying to fly further or straighter or land different."
     Maybe that's what Ringling's problem was. They didn't adapt, didn't make it different enough. They tried. They had pared down, Circque du Soleil-type shows, with more of an arthouse vibe. But that didn't work either.
     There were circuses before Ringling Brothers—itinerant entertainers going back through the Middle Ages, to Roman times, traveling troupes. And circuses yet survive—Circus 1903 uses elephant-sized puppets and is performing for the next 17 nights in Dallas.
     But Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey was the biggest, its three rings alive with action, an overwhelming spectacle. If you went to the circus and saw it, then you know what I mean. And if you never went, well, now you're never going to.


Monday, May 22, 2017

Federal judges lend helping hand to ex-cons

Federal Judge Sara L. Ellis, from left, Judge Susan E. Cox and Jennifer Colanese, a U.S. probation officer, review cases at a meeting of the intensive supervised re-entry program run by the U.S. District Court in Chicago. The program is designed to help ex-cons stay out of prison. 

     “How do you deal with life when it’s going well?” asked Judge Sara L. Ellis, airing the dilemma of one ex-con adapting to life on the outside. “There was a reduction in the chaos of his life that made him very uncomfortable.”
     She was addressing three fellow federal judges — Susan E. Cox, Sidney Schenkier and Chief Judge Ruben Castillo — plus three probation officers, two assistant U.S. attorneys, two federal defenders, and one drug treatment specialist.
     It was 9 a.m. Thursday. The group sat around a long table in Castillo’s spacious chambers on the 25th floor of the Dirksen Federal Building. The beginning of an extraordinary morning where, every two weeks, the vast, overcrowded, harried, understaffed, often-indifferent, reflexively punitive American legal system pauses for a few hours to turn careful attention to, on this day, 11 long-incarcerated ex-cons — armed robbers, drug dealers — who put their post-prison lives under the supervision of four federal judges.
     The group trades mundane minutia of fractured lives coming together.
     “But he has been writing his poetry . . . .”
     “Have him attend 30 meetings in 30 days . . . .”
     “He did attend counseling this month, group and individual . . . .”
     “He was supposed to meet with me, but didn’t show . . . .”

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