Wilmette Notes: Irish Eyes

     As it happens, there are a few cans of Guinness in my refrigerator right now, leftovers from the Hanukkah party. Hopefully, by summer's end, I'll find some guest to press them on. The fine Irish stout, and the men and women who serve it, have inspired many a tale, and prompt today's essay by our Wilmette Bureau Chief. 

By Caren Jeskey

     Neil shared on his Facebook page this story by Maureen O’Donnell about a legendary Chicago bartender John Colgan, who died recently at the age of 63.
     In the piece, columnist Maureen O’Donnell pointed out that “Mr. Colgan had given up drinking, ‘as it interfered with his passion for music and the need for a clear head in order to pursue his ambition of recording a CD.’” He was known for regaling patrons with beautifully sung Irish ballads as he poured creamy-topped pints of Guinness.

     I am grateful that the thought of drinking a Guinness does not sound good to me today. On many a heavy drinking day in the 90s, my friend Jayne and I routinely closed the 4 a.m. bar Raven’s, on Clark just south of Fullerton. Sometimes bantering with the bartender Jimmy was our night out, but more likely we’d have shown up at one or two in the morning after the shenanigans of the earlier part of the night had lost their luster.
     We’d belly up to the bar in jean skirts and cowboy boots, and chain smoke cigarettes. Drinks miraculously appeared, one after another, sent over by drunken patrons who must have wondered where all their money went as they sobered up the next day.
     When I read about John Colgan I remembered what it was like to have Jimmy in our lives. He seemed sober, but I’m not sure if he was. He was warm and kind, and we felt that we were coming home when we got to Jimmy’s bar. We always felt safe, and I believe we were. Coming and going from there was a different story, I’m sure. It’s amazing what we — well, some of us — can survive, if we are lucky, when we are foolhardy.
     I have a friend who’s a big drinker with a red nose who lives in Ireland, a musician of course. Whenever he comes to town we demand that he break out his guitar and lead us through the song "Will Ye Go Lassie Go." We all sing together and he stretches it out as long as he can for us. We depart feeling connected to our friends, and hopeful.
     Summer is finally upon us here in Chicago— my god it took a long time.
     “And we’ll all go together to that wild mountain thyme. All around the blooming heather will you go lassie go?” As I listen to John sing Safe in the Harbor and the Corries singing about wild mountain thyme I can almost believe that the world is a beautiful, lilting, safe place.

Should we see their faces?

     It was nearly 40 years ago, in the mid-1980s. A woman called me at the Daily Journal in Wheaton to say her kindergartener had been raped by the janitor at his Montessori school. She called police.
     “I expected them to show up with their sirens blaring,” she said. Instead, nothing happened. The man wasn’t even charged; it’s hard to build a criminal case on the testimony of a 5-year old.
     I found this out while writing a weeklong series on child sex abuse in the western suburbs, speaking with therapists, victims, even a molester in prison. I stopped by the office of Brian Telander, then head of the DuPage County state’s attorney’s criminal division, to discuss the case.

     On his desk was a large photograph of people gathered together. At first glance, it seemed like a family Christmas portrait from Sears. Then I saw the blood. Telander saw me staring, and turned the picture so I could get a better look. A dead woman sprawled on a bed, her dead children piled around her.
     That image flashed in my head for years, especially when coming home at night. It returned after the slaughter in Uvalde, Texas, when people began urging that photos of the slain children be used to try to jolt America from its awful inertia on gun safety.
     “There must have been some really gruesome photos taken as part of the investigation in Uvalde,” writes reader Cathy T. “If the politicians who refuse to listen to reason and act because of the blood money they receive from the NRA were forced to view photos of the mangled bodies of the children and teachers who were gunned down, do you think they might be sickened enough to do what needs to be done?” 

     Good question. Maybe. History is studded with instances where shocking photographs stir the public. Those pits of naked bodies at Auschwitz. Monks setting themselves on fire to protest Vietnam. And the prime example, Emmett Till, murdered in Mississippi, his body dumped in a river. His mother insisted on an open-coffin funeral, and photos of his battered, bloated face energized the civil rights movement.

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Flashback 2010: Hockey diehards can take cue from this opera buff

Harry Caray's owner Grant DePorter, right, with hockey player Patrick Kane.

     It's flattering to have your work remembered. Even when Facebook first has to spur the recollection.  

     "I shared a pithy comment of yours 12 years ago and it just popped up on my Facebook feed," social media prompted one reader to write this week.

     I read the comment, and was surprised. The line almost sounded like a comedy bit. "Did I write that?" I replied. "I have no memory." Then promptly set out in search for the quote, finding a fun column, posted below. It was back in a time when the column covered a full page, in several sections, and included a joke at the end.

      Though there is inevitably mitigation that comes from all honors and praise, which are accepted at one's peril. As you'll see if you make it to the end. Humility often comes, not by choice, but unnecessity.

OPENING SHOT

     "Patrick Kane is in the restaurant," says Grant DePorter, checking his BlackBerry as we file into FBI headquarters.

     I quickly try to assemble my features into an expression of enthusiasm, but don't do it fast enough, apparently, because Grant, who as managing partner of Harry Caray's has an eye for detail, detects a certain blankness.
     "You do know who Patrick Kane is?" he says, narrowing his gaze.
     "Sure!" I bluster, immediately deploying my Emergency Sports Conversation Algorithm (a logic tree that works like this: 1. What team is currently in the news? The Blackhawks! 2. What player on that team is currently being celebrated?
     "Of course," I bluster. "He's the guy who lost his teeth."
     "No," says Grant, with a hint of frost. "That's Duncan Keith. Patrick Kane is one of the biggest stars on the team. He went to Harry's after the Cubs game. So did Jonathan Toews — the captain — Brian Campbell and Adam Burish. They walked in, one after the other."
     "Wow!" I say. "Exciting!"

OFF THE BANDWAGON

     I would never mention this embarrassing exchange, but Richard Roeper's column Wednesday commented on the bandwagon syndrome — how a team, such as the Blackhawks, nearing the championship will spur fair-weather fans and Johnny-come-latelies to try to muscle in on the glory, and how longtime fans tend to resent that because these newbies have not suffered through years of waiting and hoping and thus haven't earned the right to savor this moment of pending triumph.
     Or so the thinking goes.   

Blackhawks players Patrick Kane, left
 and Jonathan Toews at Harry Caray's.

     It is a curious outlook. When I took 100 Sun-Times readers to the Lyric Opera last fall, we made a point of bringing people who had never been to the opera before. Not so I could harangue them at intermission: "Oh sure, you're enjoying 'The Merry Widow' now, but where were you that grim winter of '94 when we were enduring Berg's 'Wozzeck?'"
     No, I was happy to introduce them to something I love, and eager for them to have a good time.
     Why aren't sports fans that way? It isn't as if hockey is a limited resource, isn't as if others nibbling at the hockey pie means less for you.
     Reading Rich's column — where he rightly concluded that all should happily "enjoy the ride" — sparked the hope that I might actually score a few sports pride points. If hockey fans are contemptuous of those who hurry to join the party now that the Blackhawks are in the finals (starting Saturday against Philadelphia, if all this is news to you), then it stands to reason that they must approve of — perhaps even respect and admire — we stout souls who didn't follow the Blackhawks before and aren't about to start now, championship or no.
     Sadly, it doesn't work like that.
     "They'll hate you either way," laughed the wife of a die-hard fan. "They hate you if you jump on the bandwagon, but they hate you if you're indifferent, too."
     That sounds about right. For the record, I am not indifferent. The Blackhawks seem a fine group of young fellows, and I certainly hope they win Stanley's Cup, for the glory of their fans and for the Greater Chicago Metroplex. I'd still rather weed in the hot sun than watch a hockey game, but then I'm sure most hockey fans would rather strip the paint off an old bench than spend five hours watching "Tristan und Isolde." To each his own.
     If this irks you, consider all the reportage and analysis and ballyhoo that this paper will dedicate to the Blackhawks over the coming weeks. And what do those who don't know Patrick Kane from Kane County get? Just this one little column, whispering that it's all right, you needn't feel guilty. You are not alone.

CORRECTION

     Yes, I know it's "Stanley Cup" not "Stanley's Cup." It was a joke.

CLARIFICATION

     Grant and I were at the FBI for a class. It seemed a piquant detail.

TODAY'S CHUCKLE

From Bob Nickman:

     If you're not into sports, guys think you're less of a man unless you can account for your time in activities equally masculine. When they ask, "Wanna go see the game?" I reply, "I can't. I gotta go put a transmission in a stripper's car."

            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 28, 2010

Editor's note: If you're wondering what the inevitable mitigation was, let me point it out: it wasn't my line. The comments he remembered was me quoting someone else. Oh, and the Blackhawks defeated the Flyers to win the Stanley Cup in 2010. I had to check Wikipedia to find out.

Why restrict child porn but not guns?

©Gabriele Galimberti from The Ameriguns, Dewi Lewis Publishing. Used with permission.

  

     God bless free speech.
     It is what allows columnists — or anybody else — to write whatever we want without fear the government is going to haul us off to jail. In Russia, you can go to prison for calling their war against Ukraine “a war.” In China, you get sent to a camp for adhering to certain religions.
     Free speech is so important in the United States, it is the First Amendment to our Constitution: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech.” Not only am I allowed to air the truth as I see it — Donald Trump is a traitor who should be in prison — but all sorts of salacious material are permitted. Courts decided, grudgingly, that offensive artworks and obscene comedy sketches and extreme pornographic videos are also free speech and cannot be banned.
     There are, of course, exceptions. Free speech doesn’t permit you to shout “Fire!” in a crowded theater. I didn’t just grab that example by accident. During World War I, a pacifist was arrested for distributing a leaflet claiming the draft was unconstitutional. In upholding his conviction in 1919 in Schenck v. The United States, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote:

The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic. ... The question in every case is whether the words ... create a clear and present danger ... that Congress has a right to prevent.

     A half century later, the Supreme Court decided we are a great enough nation that our freedoms extend even to resisting a war we are currently fighting, and Schenck was dialed back. Now to be illegal, speech usually must be libelous, or promote imminent lawless action — you are not free to deliver a speech urging your neighbors to kill someone.
     Nor can you own child pornography, and it’s important to understand why. Child pornography is among the most restricted material in our society. You don’t have to produce it or sell it to commit a crime; it’s a crime simply to possess it.
     Why does child pornography merit such a unique level of suppression? I’ll give you a hint: it’s called “child pornography.” Children cannot consent to sexual acts with adults and are severely damaged by being forced to do so. Child pornography hurts children, so we fight it with all the legal might our nation can bring to bear, even if it infringes on fundamental freedoms.

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Is a bicycle a "device"?

     The wrong word grates.
     Whoever in the Central Park Conservancy decided that bicycles, scooters, skateboards, etc., are "WHEELED DEVICES" should do a face plant. Devices? This has to be a bleed-over from the omni-presence of screens. "Electronic devices." Maybe some kid who's been playing too many games was in charge of the signs.
     I was curious whether these signs, in media savvy Manhattan, had sparked previous complaint. I can't be the first one to notice, can I?
     The signs showed up three years ago, and while they were criticized at the time, it seems to be on aesthetic grounds, for being ugly or useless, and not for using the wrong word.
     The usage "wheeled devices" does not seem localized to the East Coast. Here is the  California State University at San Bernardino's "Wheeled Devices Policy."
     Which makes me wonder. Could I, like so many who point out supposed mistakes, be myself wrong? If I had to define "device" without looking it up, I'd say a mechanism to achieve a purpose, a contraption designed to do something, a goal-oriented machine. A certain complication is implied: a can opener is a device. An axe is not (I would call that "an implement.") Add "electronic" and electronic devices are any small handheld piece of equipment. A cell phone. An iPad.
     Let's check the experts. My Oxford English Dictionary focuses on devices as figurative invention: "1. The action of devising, contriving, or planning; the faculty of devising," taking its time to even allude to physical objects:. "6. Something devised or contrived for bringing about some end or result" but even then, its "an arrangement, plan, scheme, project, contrivance."
     But language is plastic. Perhaps a newer definition would include Central Park's mountain bikes and rickshaws.
     The first half dozen definitions on the online Merriam Webster focuses on schemes and techniques, with only definition f giving us: "a piece of equipment or a mechanism designed to serve a special purpose or perform a special function" giving the example of smartphones and tape recorders.

     So is a bicycle a device? Legally, yes, judging from explanations such as this, from the California state vehicle code: "A bicycle is a device upon which a person may ride, propelled exclusively by human power..."
     And language is plastic: bicycles are devices if people say they are. But other people are allowed to push against certain usages, and calling a skateboard a device is, to me, an affected, out-of-place legalism, like calling a criminal a "perpetrator." "Vehicle" is a fine word, from the Latin vehiculum, which conveys the sense of something being carried, making it better than device because it suggests the presence of a rider being conveyed somewhere.   

    Change happens. Words change. In Shakespeare, where "device" is always a plan, intention or scheme, Hamlet decries that "Our wills and fates do so contrary run/That our devices still are overthrown."

Editor's note — Reader Brian Goldberg added this on Facebook, which seemed a valuable coda:

    Your article inspired me to do a tiny bit of research, admittedly superficial. Consistent with your own caveat that "peanut gallery" critiques are not always right, I figured there had to be a somewhat reasonable explanation, and I think I found it. For years Central Park had signs saying "No Vehicles" on various paths, and everyone understood that this ban primarily included bicycles. But then there was a proliferation of other vehicles, mostly scooters (both human power and motorized), and it appears that a decent number of these vehicles were being used even on the "No Vehicle " paths, or at least there was a seeming concern that they would be, based on people claiming "But I thought vehicles just means bikes and cars/motorcycles." So someone came up with a whole new term, "devices," and specifically wheeled devices. It is an admittedly awkward, arguably "wrong" use of the term, but it worked. Because device is such a clearly different term than vehicle, people "get" that "wheeled devices" means something different — in this case, basically anything with wheels. Or more accurately, people can no longer claim that the "No Vehicle " sign does not apply to them (scooters, etc, and maybe a resurgence of rollerblading?) Even though it obviously did, because it is a "No Wheeled Device" sign. So beleaguered park employees do not have to try to over explain the original signs, and can just point to this one.

Chicago ‘not a hellhole’

     Email is pretty useless, right? A firehose of poorly written press releases, hyperpartisan money grabs and weaponized malice.
     Yet I try to scan the sewage and pluck out the occasional actual reader comment. You never know where they lead. Friday’s column mentioned the Democratic primary race for Illinois secretary of state between former Treasurer Alexi Giannoulias and City Clerk Anna Valencia, drawing this.

Ald. David Moore

     “Thanks for a good laugh first thing,” wrote Chuck Bernardini. “As for Democrat Secretary of State, take a look at the third candidate David Moore. Alderman 17th ward (St Sabina). Earnest young man universally respected, no controversy, no money, no chance, no sleaze like the other two.”
     No sleaze? What fun is that? The name David Moore didn’t ring a bell, which is usually a good sign with City Council members, since they tend to distinguish themselves only by scaling the heights or corruption or folly. No Lori Lightfoot he, Moore deigned to respond to a media inquiry and talk about why he should be elected.
     He already has a safe City Council seat; why push for another job?
     “First and foremost, this is a servant seat,” Moore replied. “Similar to my aldermanic seat, it allows you to serve everybody regardless of party, regardless of race, regardless of gender.”
     Unlike the top two candidates, with their circus calliope of TV commercials, Moore is running a more understated campaign. Secretary of state represents the limits of his ambition.

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Girl's team wins national title

    
     Northwestern University had no humor magazine when I arrived in the fall of 1978. There had been one, The Purple Parrot. But it was a dusty relic occasionally spied in a glass case in the library in displays about student life in the 1940s.
     But it did have Robert Leighton, and the future New Yorker cartoonist and professional game-meister set about creating one, called Rubber Teeth, for "biting satire that doesn't hurt." I was lucky enough to be living down the hall from him in our giant freshman dorm, and so was able to help.
     At least I hope I helped. I was there, doing stuff, for four years. Though if I had my way the thing probably would have been called "Razor Teeth."
     Flash forward 40 years.
     Facebook has devolved into a place where posting today's lunch is too cutting edge and relevant, and oldsters such as myself wallow in the warm mud of nostalgia. A classmate remembered the parody of the Daily Northwestern that we did senior year, and how it included an item that was a comment on the short shrift the student paper gave women's sports. I happened to have the parody issue at hand — thanks, again, to Robert, who went to the trouble and expense of binding up the four years worth of issues we produced into a lovely red keepsake volume, with the newsprint issue tucked inside.
     I'm not a fan of the TV character joke names. A bit much. And the misplaced possessive might be an actual error rather than a comment on the Daily's copy editing skills. But the joke conveyed in the parody story, reprinted below in its entirety, is, alas, still relevant enough to be funny. A study at Purdue University last year found media coverage of women's sports is the same now as it was 30 years ago.