What is so dashing about a dashboard?

    "The ages live in history," Oscar Wilde once wrote, "through their anachronism." 
     Seeing something that at first seems out of place in its epoch, like "ROCKET" emblazoned on the heavily-riveted iron boiler of this early 19th century British locomotive, can cause you to pause and wonder.
      The Rocket was built by a father and son team, George and Robert Stephenson, in 1829—built for speed, briefly achieving a jaw-dropping 36 miles per hour at the Rainhill Trials that year, causing it to be picked as the design for the Liverpool & Manchester Railroad, beating three other contenders, including John Ericsson, who would go on to design the first ironclad warship, the USS Monitor, for the Union navy in the Civil War. 
      When I saw the vehicle, on display at the Science Museum in London,* for a moment I pondered if we got our word "rocket" from this train engine. 
    But I immediately realized that the word was already in use, 15 years earlier, when Francis Scott Key wrote "The Defence of Fort McHenry," the poem that would become the Star Spangled Banner: "And the Rockets' red glare, the Bombs bursting in air..."
     Rockets were used in battle far earlier than we might think. The Congreve rocket was used effectively in the Napoleonic wars, though they were not particularly accurate when it came to hitting targets.      
      Before that, they were used mostly as fireworks. The definition of "rocket" from Samuel Johnson's magnificent 1755 dictionary doesn't mention military use, but describes a rocket only as: "An artificial firework, being a cylindrical case of paper filled with nitre, charcoal and sulfur, and which mounts in the air to a considerable height, and then bursts."

Distaff spindles
(The British Museum)

     Johnson gives its etymology merely as "[Rocchetto, Italian]"** and leaves it at that, which is shame, because if you dig deeper you find quite a tale: rocchetto is a diminutive for rocca, which is Italian for "distaff." 
      A distaff is a spindle that wool is wound on during spinning—though if the word rings a bell, it's probably not from making yarn, but because in more recent decades the word lingered as a code to describe the realm of women,  a tad condescendingly. "With all her distaff classmates mooning nightly by their phones for a call from one jock or another..." Frederick Exley writes in the late 1970s in Last Notes from Home. 

From a 1634 British book
"composing all manner of fire-works
or Triumph and Recreation."

    Italians named their fireworks "rocchettos," or "little spindles" because that's what they looked like. They were small cylinders on sticks that resembled the distaff from a spinning wheel (before fins were invented, the stick was needed to point the rocket in the direction it would more-or-less go). 
      As far as how the Italians named that part of the spinning wheel, well, the evidence is murky, but all you have to do is take a look at the leaves of the rocket plant for a hint (although maybe the plants were named for the fireworks. Cause and effect can get switched over the centuries, and you can't make assumptions. For instance, the Canary Islands, off the west coast of Africa, are not named for the little yellow songbirds found there, as one might suppose. The name canary is derived from Latin for dog, canis. The islands were named in Roman times their large dogs; the bird was noticed later and named for the islands).

Rocket leaves

      But it's pleasing to imagine the plant came first. There's a joy in finding low-tech origins hidden in modern words. One of the more unexpected words in Johnson's dictionary is "computer" which, in the mid-1700s was a person, a "reckoner, accountant, calculator." Before picking apart "rocket"—to idle away the time before dinner on a Saturday—my favorite example of this was "dashboard," which Mr. Garman, my cagey 7th grade English teacher, once used to bore the rest of our class at Roehm Junior High School and fascinate me, lodging in my mind for 40 years.
      Think about it. The control panel of an automobile is called a dashboard. Why would that be? What is dashing?  The reason it's called that is when cars were still buggies pulled by horses, there was a low, angled board at foot level to keep horses from flinging mud up on the driver as they dashed. When newfangled automobiles were rolled out, the name carried over because it was in roughly the same location, even though the original use was gone.
      Cars are filled with anachronisms—the "trunk" of course harkens back to the era when a large suitcase was strapped to the back, the "glove compartment" on the passenger time to when that passenger was often a lady a lady invariably wore gloves. 
      I think that's what Wilde meant when he commented on anachronism making history live. It is a thread that connects us today with the people of the past. The next time you read of the latest rocket boosting a satellite into space***, or hurling robot explorers toward some distant planet, think back on those Italian wives and sisters and mothers, working flax methodically around their roccos, perhaps gazing out a window at the stars.


* To visit the Science Museum in London, and see how well the Brits do this kind of thing, is to forever cringe in shame at the corporate puffery and Hollywood junk foisted on the public by the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago.

** Anyone familiar with how Samuel Johnson constructed his dictionary knows that there was a lot of guesswork involved, so the connection between "rocket" and "rocchetto" could be more whimsical than real. If you consult Noah Webster's 1828 dictionary, he offers a completely different etymology for "rocket"as "probably from the root of crack and racket." Although Webster's sounds more like the hunch of a man who didn't know Italian, and I would place my bets on Johnson.

*** A "rocket" has been an engine thrusting a missile into space for nearly a century, since inventor and physicist Robert Goddard began using the term. "It is possible to convert the rocket from a very inefficient heat engine into the most efficient heat engine that ever has been devised," he wrote, in 1919.

    
     
    

Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

    When I looked out the window of the 15th floor of this building last week, my first thought was, "Wow, look at all those trees."
     My second thought was, "I bet this stumps 'em." 
     You might think we are out in the hinterlands of Michigan. 
     But we're not. 
     We're exactly a 41 minute drive from the Willis Tower, according to Google maps. 
     What is this expanse of green?  
     And where am I standing? 
     The winner gets a copy of my rare, practically unique 1996 collection of supposedly humorous essays, "The Alphabet of Modern Annoyances." Post your guesses below. 


    

We'll support our troops, if they're heroes

     It would look trite in fiction.

     It would look trite in comic fiction, in an ironically titled Christopher Buckley novel, “Support Our Troops,” about American hypocritical militarism, our flag-waving armchair generals spouting idiocy. Buckley would have Republicans in full lather over lapses at VA hospitals — a historical constant if ever there were — and just as they are anguishing over vets’ woes going untreated, in midcry a soldier would be plucked from Afghanistan. Immediately the critics pivot 180 degrees, demanding to know why are we rescuing this deserter?

     I’d look up from my book and think: “Oh Chris, this is too much. It’d never happen.”

     Even my own paper, in an editorial Thursday, characterized Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl’s walking away from his unit at an outpost in Afghanistan in 2009 as “rash,” “foolishness” and, to give him the benefit of the doubt, perhaps “more stupid than disloyal.”

     There is another option.

     Is it possible that a soldier wandering off, unarmed, in a state Afghan villagers thought resembled a narcotic daze, might not be foolish, but unhinged? That he might have psychological problems? Is that not possible?

     While you’re chewing on that, let me ask:

     If Bergdahl was, as he seems to be, a deserter, is he the first one? Or does the Army face a problem with soldiers walking away from their posts, even stateside, for reasons ranging from irresponsibility to insanity?

     Spoiler alert: yes.

     Since 2000, about 40,000 American soldiers have deserted in all branches of the military, according to the Pentagon. That matches the desertion in all of World War II.

     Not everyone who deserts is mentally ill. Top reasons include family or financial problems. Some just don’t like the military; “failure to adapt,” it’s called. None of that is being considered for Bergdahl, whose hometown canceled his welcome celebration, lest it devolve into a spectacle of protesters, who seem to take a 19th century view of desertion: it’s cowardice, pure and simple, give him a brandy and ship him back to the front or clap him in irons and ship him to jail.
     If we've learned one lesson from all things military, it is to be deeply skeptical when the Army serves up a front-line story. Pat Tillman's death didn't turn out to be the heroic tale the Army first spun. Nor did Pfc. Jessica Lynch, darling of the 2003 invasion of Iraq, ever fire her weapon. Bergdahl, too, has a story to tell, and shouldn't a nation that actually supported our troops, that had even a flimsy, secondhand, pretend understanding that war is hell, wait to hear it?
     Nah, it's too tempting to chew on Barack Obama for doing it, for swapping five Taliban prisoners, as if now these jokers are going to defeat our country, as if there weren't 5,000 waiting to take their place. As if, had we refused to ransom Bergdahl, the next time a dazed soldier wanders into a Taliban stronghold, they'd tell him to keep walking. "Remember the man Bergodahla? For five years we fed him and it got us nothing . . . "
     Sen. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C., who last week was demanding Obama personally apologize to the families of those who died waiting for VA treatment, paused, took a breath, then condemned Obama for saving a soldier who perhaps—I'd say obviously—had some kind of front-line breakdown.
     My wife, as always, had the best, sharpest reaction to all this. When she heard that five prisoners at Guantanamo Bay were being swapped for this soldier, she said: "We should have swapped them all."
     Bingo. Anybody who actually cares about terrorist recruitment would have closed Guantanamo years ago. Whatever direct threat these unfortunates pose is minuscule compared with the blot that the existence of this oubliette from a Poe nightmare puts on what is left of America's good name.
     Friday is June 6, the 70th anniversary of D-Day. If we hadn't kicked the Nazis out of Europe, they'd still be there. Army Rangers scaled the cliff at Pointe du Hoc into the teeth of German machine guns. And if later, one of those Rangers threw down his gun and walked into the Ardennes woods during the Battle of the Bulge, who is going to call him a coward? You? The vast majority of deserters, 90 percent, are never tried. It would compound the tragedy if Bergdahl is hung out to dry to appease a vindictive nation.
     Supporting our troops is meaningless if the only troops we support are the heroes who need it least. Not everybody is a hero. It's a volunteer Army. Soldiers sign up for many reasons, but nobody signs up to wander into the Afghan wasteland and become a Taliban prisoner for five years. This nation owes its soldiers much; some sympathy and benefit of the doubt is not asking too much.

Backpacks win

     High school boys don't use their lockers. I can't tell you why, though I've asked my two teens a number of times. Not cool, I imagine. Using your locker means you have to stand by it, where you run the risk of being seen standing by your locker, which must be somehow bad. Thus they carry these enormous backpacks crammed with all their books all day long. The packs must weigh 30 pounds. Attempting to heft one is like trying to lift a fire hydrant.
     Thus high schoolers are accustomed to hauling backpacks. So it should not be surprising to see that the backpack fashion has migrated, as fashions do, from the young to the less young, as those who were carrying backpacks in high school five years ago now rely upon them to tote their necessities to work.
     The change has been long in coming, a number of years, with online chatter going back to 2012, 2011, about whether backpacks are appropriate in a business setting. That debate is over, settled. This spring has been the time, during the trudge from the train station to work, that I registered that backpacks have definitely won, though I might be influenced by Motorola moving to the Merchandise Mart—they gave their employees company backpacks as a welcoming present, stuffed with corporate policy books and giveaway pens and lyrics to the company song, no doubt. Motorola backpacks galore. Many companies do the same--perhaps in part because backpacks have an aura of priciness but are actually pretty cheap. I see lots of backpacks emblazoned with tech company logos.
     Why did backpack prevail over the traditional briefcase? Several reasons, running from the practical to the psychological. On the practical side, we carry fewer papers and books and magazines and, sigh, newspapers and other things that are flat, but more devices and 3D objects. Your backpack is your laptop case, your gym bag, your lunch bag, your shoe bag. If you're carrying heavy stuff around, a backpack more evenly distributed the weight across your shoulders, while a heavy briefcase tends to tilt you to one side.
     Then there are the psychological factors. Backpacks are active, young and sporty, while briefcases are sedentary, stodgy and old. We are all climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro now, at least in our own minds, and a backpack implies that you have just stepped out of Estes Park and are making a necessary dash through the Loop before returning to your cabin in Idaho. Many people carry water bottles, jammed into little mesh holders on their bags, to stay hydrated on the hour trek downtown from Naperville. Nor are the bags simple; they are silly with compartments and zippers and flaps and carabiners and handles and straps: complicated bags for complicated people.
      At least in our own minds.
      As a fuddy-duddy, I was inclined toward briefcases. As a young man I carried one of those big leather legal briefcases that opened wide at the top, the better to jam more books inside. I also liked envelopes--lovely pebbled leather cases without handles, designed to be tucked under your arm. I could never carry a backpack because I'd feel like somebody is coming up from behind, grabbing me by both shoulders, pressing a knee against my back and pulling. Even hiking I prefer a belt pack. I also often wear suits, and carrying a backpack with a suit is like wearing sandals with a suit. It's just wrong. For me. For the moment.
      Even so, when it came time to replace my latest briefcase, I had a consideration that was new for me--I wanted something I could fit my Bell bike helmet in.
     REI sells a perfect hybrid bag, its Quantum brief, half messenger bag, half briefcase, softsided,  with a compartment large enough for a bike helmet to slide securely into, not to mention flashy orange zipper pulls and a surprising orange interior, which helps keep me alert. It's squishy, rounded, like a briefcase a cartoon character would carry.
     What's next? If fashion trends are being fed by high school--a safe bet--that means in a few years businesspeople will wear cargo shorts to the office all year round. At least for a while, before they stop going to the office entirely. Nothing to cry about. If fashions didn't change, we'd all still be wearing spats and carrying canes.  And if you feel bad about the briefcase vanishing, by all means carry one. Idiosyncrasy is always in fashion. 

There is no June 4 in China

     June 4. 

     The Fourth of June. 

      6/4. 

     There are many ways to express it, and in the United States we are free to say them all. We can even be more specific: June 4, 1989. The day that Chinese Communist troops slaughtered protesters who had camped out for weeks in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, demanding democracy.

     Protests had begun in mid-April, with students calling for freedom and an end to corruption. Unrest grew. On May 20, Premier Li Peng declared martial law in Beijing.

     No one knew what would become of the gathering chaos. For days, the army was trying to reach the square, where 300,000 students and supporters had gathered. But Chinese citizens blocked the troops — at times with their bodies, as in the iconic image of a man facing down a line of tanks.

     It seemed the country was about to change into something freer, more open.

     Never happened. China cracked down. The red dragon flicked its tail.

     “Bloody Beijing” was the headline of the Sun-Times on June 4, 1989. Soldiers shot protesters, they killed Red Cross ambulance drivers. Beijing Radio reported “thousands of people” had been killed. Later in the day, that announcer was gone, the party line returned, the scrubbing process begun.

     Having crushed dissent, China’s leaders methodically tried to stamp out all memory it had ever existed. Two years ago, when the Shanghai stock exchange fell 64.89 points, censors suppressed the figure. The date itself is banned, but in a testimony to the human spirit, protest continues. Think of the power of the date 9/11; now imagine you were forbidden from saying it. So 6/4 is sometimes referred to in China, by strategy, as “May 35th.” Or “63+1.”

     It’s easy to decry repression elsewhere. We also should remember that, over the past quarter century, Americans have generally failed to speak up the way we should. Worried about the economy, about placating our trading partner, we chose politeness over our supposed ideals. What’s sticking up for freedom when you’ve got a chance to sell gizmos to 1.3 billion Chinese?
     Maybe that's prudent. Maybe we are being smart, and time will nudge China in the direction those students wanted it to go. Maybe prosperity is better than freedom.
     But that isn't something to be proud of. Not everyone ducks their responsibility. In Chicago, for 23 years, Naperville musician Fengshi Yang held a concert to mark June 4.
     "That day has changed the world," she told me Tuesday. "It has to be remembered in the world's heart, for our children, our children's children. We need to continue to remember this day, to promote freedom."
     Yang was a student at the University of Chicago on June 4, 1989; like many, glued to the television. "We watched TV every day," she said in 2001. "We prayed and hoped for a better China. When the tragedy finally happened, that took so many innocent young lives, we all cried."
     This year, the 25th anniversary, her daughter—Tiantian, 2—will keep Yang from holding a concert in Chicago. "I had my first baby," she said. "I didn't have the time to do it this year."
     So instead she and her family are in San Francisco, where she is set to take part in a concert during a candlelight vigil before the Goddess of Democracy, a statue created there in honor of the "Goddess of Liberty" statue built by students at Tiananmen Square and torn down June 4, 1989.
     "China is not free," she said. "We need to remind people that China is not a free country."
     Yang has paid a price. She became a U.S. citizen in 1996, but because of her activism, China would not give her a visa to visit her ailing father, whom she had not seen since visiting in 1993. He died in 2012.
     What does she think of China now?
     "Things are worse, because people act like, 'Oh, it's so open now,' " Yang said. "No. Underneath, it is very, very tough. They think they are powerful. They think they can do anything."
     Our attitude seems to encourage them.
     "Doing business is more important [than promoting freedom]," she said. "People keep silent because they don't want to hurt their business. I feel so sad about it."
     We hope that China will become like us; we should worry that we're becoming like them. Or worse. In China, people don't know about June 4 because of government repression. Here, those who don't know or don't care have only themselves to blame.
     As the world grows smaller and our fates intertwine, we must recall 6/4 as a code, a talisman, to be sure that it is they who inch toward freedom, and not us who inch away.

Nothing to say

    It had to happen, eventually.
    After 11 months and two days of posting something here every day, every goddamn day, as the blog title suggests, on Monday night about 8 p.m., I found myself staring out the window at the darkness falling, listening to the birds chirp.
    Blank. Utterly blank. 
    Which is odd, because you'd think I'd have something to say. My older son had just graduated from high school the day before. Usually a time when any pundit worth his ink stains can turn a glib palm toward the sky and pontificate on demand. Pith should flow like a river. Insights galore. 
    Maybe that was the trouble. This subject was too easy, a slow pitch right down the pipe. Graduation went exactly as it was supposed to go: Caps and gowns were worn. "Pomp and Circumstance" was played. Speeches made. The future envisioned. Dreams nurtured. Throats tightened, eyes glistened. Mine anyway. 
     But all that was so usual, so expected, nothing I couldn't lift off the front of  the Hallmark cards lined up by the mylar graduation balloons in our foyer. As for the out-of-the-ordinary stuff, well, what's there to say about that? The Glenbrook North High School chorus sang "The Star Bangled Banner" to the parents, which was surprising and lovely, but you really had to be there. Later the school held a senior night, from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m., with games and prizes and a four-part searchlight sweeping the night sky out front. It must have taken a ton of planning on somebody's part. T-shirts were designed, games set up, six hours worth of entertainment for hundreds of 18-year-olds. Someone put a lot of time and effort into this, a lot of someones. Many parent volunteers. I couldn't do it; my palms sweat just thinking about doing it. I never even heard it was going on until last night.
     What I mean is, thanks. The kids loved it. Or so I'm told. Well, not quite told. That was the impression I gleaned. Nobody tells me much of anything anymore.
     Maybe that's why my mind shut down. None of this is about me. It was somebody else's dream I was walking through. The bystander, making a cameo. The parts that I had input in -- the endless readings of "Hop on Pop," the preparation of oatmeal, the chauffeuring -- are so far away already, now drop-kicked even farther into the distant past. All I had to do was show up and sit there, and I showed up and sat there magnificently. But if I had skipped it, the whole thing would have unfolded just the same and I can't say the boy would have cared one way or another. 
     No wonder I don't want to think about it. Or, more precisely, can't. Because the only thought I have is the most banal, cliched thought ever on this topic:
     God that was fast. Eighteen years, bing, boom, thanks pop. Actually, not even the thanks pop part. That only happens in the movies. 
     No wonder I'm uncharacteristically mute. "God that was fast" is not exactly the most profound insight into the parenting experience. Maybe because it's all the same for everybody, if you do it right.
     Maybe that's what I'm afraid of saying. Because honestly, beside it now being over with, mostly I have no regrets. Which is rare for me. But really, no regrets at all. I wasn't an absent dad or a bad dad or a neglectful dad or a domineering dad. I nailed it, dad-wise, I think. It all has worked out, so far, yet to say anything about it smacks of bragging, and for all my logic and reason, I still believe that bragging is giving the finger to fate and earning the retribution that's coming. I don't want to do that. My gut tells me to fall quiet, don't attract any attention and maybe this string of luck will just keep spooling out, unbroken.
     Kinda blew it here, now, though. 
     In for a dime, in for a dollar. There's one more thing to say. The one thing I don't want to say because it's so ... it's so ... what? Great, I suppose. Yes, great. I usually believe that wonders should be remarked upon, but this one, well, I should just tuck it away, but there's this blank page to think about, so let's just get it out there and be done and we can move on. 
     So ...we were all gathered Sunday in our kitchen, after commencement, my parents, everybody, about to have dessert, to launch into our cheesecake—oh, heck, they advertised last Christmas—to launch into our absolutely delicious Eli's Cheesecake. And my wife has us all, the two dozen or so family members present, sing "Happy graduation to you," which seems odd—like wishing people "Merry Halloween." But as I said, this graduation isn't all about me, so I keep my yap shut. We finish singing —a least there were no candles to blow out —and some of the relatives call upon the boy of the hour to make a speech. 
    "Speech, speech," they cry out—not me, by the way. I am mute. He sort of looks at us and doesn't seem to feel inclined to say anything, so someone-- again, not me, I'm tucked in the corner, watching--calls out, "What is the secret of your success?"
     He does not pause, does not ponder, but replies with one word:
     "Family." 

288 consecutive nights in bars—Harry Caray in 1972

    This fell into my lap late last week, and while plenty of media attention shines on Harry Caray's restaurants as it is, I couldn't resist flipping through Harry's expense diary. 

    It isn’t the “Vampire Diaries” or “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.” It sure isn’t the diary of Anne Frank.

   But it is a diary, of sorts. An 8-by-5-inch, dark green, 1972 “Day Book” owned, once upon a time, by famed baseball broadcaster Harry Caray.

     Grant DePorter, CEO of the Harry Caray’s chain of eateries, inherited the diary, one of eight, all from the ’70s and early ’80s, in four boxes of memorabilia, World Series tickets and cashed checks, that the executor of Caray’s estate found when he cleaned out his office.

     Knowing my interest in all things historical, DePorter asked if I wanted to take a peek at one, and I swung by Harry’s and walked away with 1972. 

     I should say right away that this is not a Dear Kitty, pour-out-your-heart, frank-assessment-of-my-friends kind of diary. Old Harry was not big on introspection, as he was the first to admit.

     “I’m a convivial sort of guy. I like to drink and dance,” he told an interviewer once. 

     For those just joining us, Caray had been the Cardinals’ color broadcaster for many years in St. Louis. Driven out of town in 1969, he migrated to Chicago, via a misfire year in Oakland, to announce first for the hapless White Sox, finishing his career in a golden twilight glow with the Cubs. 

     In 1972, he had just begun his tenure with the Sox. A savvy businessman, Caray cut a deal pegged to ballpark attendance, which doubled, largely thanks to his flamboyant presence. It would make him very wealthy, though in 1972 he was still tallying each bar tab.  

     “Remember, you used to be able to deduct a three-martini lunch,” DePorter said.

      Saturday, Jan. 1, lists four bars: the Back Room, still on Rush Street, plus three long-ago joints: 20 E. Delaware, Sully’s and Peppy’s, with expenses for each $10.30, $9.97, $10, and $8.95. This in a year when a six-pack of Old Style set you back $1.29.

     You needed to cite who you entertained to get the write-off, so on New Year’s Day he lists Dave Condon, the Tribune sports columnist; Billy Sullivan, who owned Sully’s; and Joe Pepitone, the former Yankees first baseman who had been traded to the Cubs.

     And so it begins. A chain of old-time Chicago bars — Riccardo’s, Boul Mich, Mr. Kelly’s. A posse of early 1970s sports figures — Wilt Chamberlain, Don Drysdale, Gale Sayers. Plus a few unexpected blasts from the past: boxer Jack Dempsey, comedian Jack Benny.
     "These guys did nothing but go out and have a few cocktails," said Jimmy Rittenberg, who owned Faces, which Caray visited 14 times in 1972. "I don't know how they did it. They were 20, 30 years older than me and I couldn't keep up with them."
     Jan. 16 something unusual happens. Caray is in Miami, yet there are no expenses, just one enigmatic word, "Super."
     After that break, if indeed it was, comes 288 consecutive days in bars, not only in Chicago, but New York City, and of course on the road with the Sox, beginning with spring training in Sarasota.
     The unbroken streak pauses Nov. 3, when all we get is "to K City @310." The only completely blank day is Monday, Nov. 6 - what must THAT have been like? Then off to the races again.
     Clay Felker, founder of New York magazine. Caray's former boss, A's owner Charlie Finley. A few surprises: Sox owner John Allyn. Several times. That surprised me, though it shouldn't have. All I knew about their relationship was that Allyn fired Caray, and Caray replied with this timeless retort:
     "I can't believe any man can own a ballclub and be as dumb as John Allyn. Did he make enough to own it, or did he inherit it? He's a stupid man. This game is much too complicated for a man like John Allyn."
     But that was 1975, the epic year when White Sox players complained they did so poorly because of Caray's critical broadcast booth assessments, drawing my favorite Caray line: "Hey, you can't ballyhoo a funeral."
     So what was it like to stand in the Pump Room (16 visits in 1972) and hoist a few with Caray?
     "I was out with Harry Caray a couple of times," the Tribune's Rick Kogan said. "It was always at the Pump Room. He was one of the most charming people in the world."
     How so?
     "Drunk but joyful," Kogan said. "It always would up being a joyful, laughter-filled time."
     Caray was always surrounded by friends like TV sportscaster Tim Weigel.
     "He really liked Tim Weigel," Kogan said. "I was an audience, at best, with those two characters around. They had incredible mutual affection. There was no better place to share that mutual affection than over way too many cocktails."
     I assumed that White Sox broadcasters today do not hang out in bars every night fraternizing with ballplayers and other assorted celebrities. But, not liking to assume things, I phoned the Sox and asked whether current announcers Steve Stone, who shared a mike with Caray, or Ken Harrelson, burned the midnight oil.
     They declined to comment.
     That kinda says it all, huh?
     Toward the end of the diary, on Dec. 24, comes the kicker. After spending at least 354 of the previous 357 days in bars (DePorter counted 61 different tap houses) Caray writes, in a bold hand, "Vacation in Acapulco. Then "Vacation" every day until the year runs out.
     Which makes me wonder how he knew he was on vacation. I guess if nobody was playing baseball in front of him and when he looked over the rim of his drink he saw Mexico, then he knew he was on vacation.
     But give Caray credit. As old-fashioned, and perhaps even pathological, as the bar-crawling seems today, there is another truth worth mentioning: Harry Caray could have taken his drinks at home. He went out because it was his job.
     "He felt the bartender and bar people were his fans," Rittenberg said. "He felt he was responsible He would stop in 10 joints. He was just a gregarious guy."