Crimo father’s T-shirt stunt a thumb in the eye of real victims

Museum of Contemporary Art

      Regular readers might know that I don't usually have a column in the newspaper on Thursdays. But my editors asked if I would weigh in on Crimo's surrender to jail on Wednesday, and I was happy to comply.

     Robert Crimo Jr. got off light.
     He was sentenced to 60 days in jail, two years of probation and 100 hours of community service for signing the gun ownership application that allowed his disturbed teenage son to purchase an assault rifle — the gun the younger man is accused of using to slaughter seven people and wound 48 others at the Highland Park Fourth of July parade massacre in 2022.
     That’s about one day for every casualty.
     A decent person would be grateful, humbled, remorseful at that sentence. But then a decent person wouldn’t help his clearly troubled son buy an assault rifle.
     The sort of person the elder Crimo is was on full display Wednesday when he showed up for his jail time wearing a T-shirt with the words “I’m a political pawn” printed on the front and “LAWS, FACTS, REALITY” on the back.
     Let’s talk about laws. The law would allow Lake County Judge George Strickland to declare Crimo in contempt of court, void his plea agreement, haul him back into court and send him to trial. There’s plenty of precedent for that, such as when a federal judge — irked by a photo of Ed Vrdolyak on the front page of the Sun-Times, smirking after receiving probation in 2010 for a real estate kickback scheme — dismissed his probation as “a slap on the wrist” and re-sentenced him to 10 months in federal prison.

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How to always win at a casino

     People love gambling but hate taxes. Which is odd, because both do exactly the same thing: take your money.
    Frankly, I prefer taxes. At least with taxes, your lost lucre often goes to good use: building roads, funding schools, and such, rather than gilding a toilet in some casino owner’s yacht.
     Then again, I am not a gambler, and nothing is more ridiculous than passion you don’t share.
     Despite lack of interest in gambling, personally, I closely followed the opening of Bally’s temporary casino at the Medinah Temple, having tracked the decades-long chase after the will-o-the-wisp of a Chicago gambling den. Now that one’s actually open, a visit seemed in order.
     Stepping into the Medinah Temple had none of the existential sorrow of Vegas casinos. I’d pondered how much to gamble and, more importantly, whether I could expense my losses. While I have in the past stuck the newspaper with a variety of vices in the name of research, from a $200 bottle of champagne at the Ritz-Carlton bar, to table dances and tips to strippers at Thee Doll House on Kingsbury, something told me that Chicago Public Media might look askance at financing my casino spree. So I figured: eat my losses. Besides, a gambler should never bet anything he isn’t prepared to lose. I initially thought: $100 but then dialed it back to $50. Frugal.
     That plan lasted until I walked in the door. When I told the security guard this was my first visit, he directed me to a desk where I was issued a card — a Bally’s Rewards card, with “Pro” emblazoned in the corner. “Pro?” That made me smile. If I’m a pro, I’d hate to see what an amateur looks like.
     A quick glance at the cover of the brochure I was given revealed the truth. Pro is the lowest rung. The others: Star, Superstar and Legend. “LEVEL UP YOUR LOYALTY” it declares. Perks include free check cashing to cover your losses. I’m surprised there isn’t access to a VIP pawn shop.
     The card also came with a $10 credit. I headed to the slot machines. This $10 grubstake was unexpected. I’d point out the echo of drug dealers — your first hit is free — but don’t traffic in the obvious.

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Simple point

    I wonder how many of those Americans who are going on about the supposed colonial nature of the founding of the State of Israel realize that every square inch of the United States was formerly owned by indigenous peoples, before it was stolen or swindled away from them. 
    If not, it was owned by Mexicans. The entire state of Texas, for starters. 
    And I further wonder if they realize, despite the popular expressions of chin music recognizing that fact, such as the plaque at right, at the entrance to the Field Museum, how they would react if the descendants of those cheated Native-American tribes, or else the heirs of those defeated Mexicans, decided they wanted their forebears' land back, and toward that end started randomly slaughtering people, the better to drive their point home.
      How well would that work?  How persuasive would that be? My guess is: not very. A reminder: it's always easy to give somebody else's land away. 

Art Institute hopes to broaden its scope

     This has been a good year for me and major museums.
     One glorious day at the Prado in Madrid, including half an hour gazing at Hieronymus Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” which I’d previously only seen as a square inch detail in textbooks. In reality, it’s 12 feet across and almost seven feet high. Then in September, a day at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Four, count ’em, four Vermeers.
     Despite inhaling all this high-octane artwork, it’s always good to come back to Chicago to the Art Institute, a world class institution by any measure. My wife and I are members, which means we can stroll in anytime we like and wander around. And I do, literally if I have an hour to kill and am in the vicinity.
     So I’m trucking into the American wing not long ago, and I notice this little niche, with room for five paintings. Something new.
     “Folk Art and Belonging” announces a sign. The text explains that folk art — also called “vernacular art” — is a wide range of creative endeavors, from handmade jugs to embroidered samplers to amateur portraiture.
     “Museums often present vernacular traditions as separate from the larger histories of art,” it says. “Embracing a more expansive vision of the arts, we are rethinking this approach. ... We likewise plan to reintegrate such artwork throughout the galleries downstairs as part of a major reinstallation in the coming years.”
     Golly. What does THAT mean? “Let’s put a potholder next to this Rembrandt”? Seeking clarity, I emailed the Art Institute and, since they can ... um, how to say this nicely? ... take a while to find their ass with both hands, I also reached out to the Cleveland Museum of Art, as a control.
     Cleveland leapt from the blocks.
     “In the Cleveland Museum of Art’s Strategic Plan, we prioritized diversifying the collection to include more important works by historically underrepresented artists including BIPOC and women artists,” said deputy director and chief curator Heather Lemonedes Brown. “By expanding the scope of our world-class collection, we help all audiences see themselves, as well as discover the culture of others in our galleries.”

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Plumbers at work

 

     Good design can stop me in my tracks. Like this cute little plumbing truck, spied on Illinois Street last Monday as I was walking from Union Station to Navy Pier — a hike, I know, but I had the time, the weather wasn't bad, and I take my exercise where I find it. 

    When I got home, I checked in with the owner.
     "We've been in business over 30 years," said John Baethke, whose company, founded by his father, is based at Cicero and Addison in Portage Park. "When we started, for 10 years we had a white van with a magnet on the side. Then a white truck with red, white and blue lettering. Probably three years ago, we wanted something a little more unique, a little more attractive and simpler."
      Just as you wouldn't do your own plumbing, so smart plumbers don't do their own graphic design, and Baethke brought in KickCharge Creative, a New Jersey company specializing in "truck wrap designs for home service companies."
    "Through a process of working together, we rebranded together," he said. Now they have 10 of those trucks.
     It was a lucky break for me to catch them downtown.
     "We try not to work in the downtown area," said Baethke. "Difficulty parking." Otherwise, they try to stick to the Northwest side.
     Because they were downtown, where parking is difficult, they sent two men. That's why there was a guy in the truck, Ron, to see they didn't get a ticket while a second plumber was inside. I notice him, but balked at rapping on the window and quizzing him.

       "That's an attractive truck you have there, my good man." Maybe not. 

       But fortune favors the bold, and when I got to the end of the block, I realized I should find out what kind of job they were on. So I doubled back, resolved to do just that. But the truck pulled away, turned left in front of Navy Pier, and was gone.
   Baethke filled me in. "They were looking at a unit being remodeled, checking the plumbing."
   Always smart. Easier to make sure the plumbing is right before the drywall goes in. Spend money to save money. Just as I'm sure getting those graphics on 10 trucks did not come cheap. But neither does good plumbing. Both are a sound investment.

Songs about soldiers

Marilyn Monroe entertains troops in Korea in 1954.

     Today is Veterans Day. Thank you to all the men and women who have worn a uniform in defense of our great country. Your service is greatly appreciated.
     This year, I found myself thinking of entertainers who thanked the troops — perhaps because my mother was a singer with the U.S.O., and went overseas to put on shows for soldiers in Europe in 1952, when she was 16. Flying aboard an Army Super Constellation.
     There are a lot of good songs about soldiers. I thought immediately of slightly before her era, the Andrews Sisters singing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B" — "a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way." There is a good version on YouTube with Katie Perry, Keri Hilson and Jennifer Nettles, of all people. My wife loves Cher, so I have to mention the video for "Turn Back Time" shot aboard the U.S.S. Missouri at dock in San Diego. While not necessarily military, we can't forget Gang of Four's "I Love a Man in Uniform."
     Military families also make sacrifices, which often get overlooked. Though musicians take notice, such as the melancholy "Gun Shy" by 10,000 Maniacs, Natalie Merchant's half salute, half criticism to her little brother, who had enlisted in the U.S. Army. She recorded it on a cassette and sent it to him in Germany:

I always knew that you would take yourself far from home
As soon as, as far as you could go.
By the 1/4 inch cut of your hair and the Army issue green,
For the past eight weeks I can tell where you've been.

     A lot of people confuse Memorial Day — to honor the military dead— and Veterans Day, to honor the living; so "Billy Don't Be a Hero" wouldn't count, since young William never comes home. Of course some songs do both, like Big & Rich's "8th of November," is about soldiers lost in Vietnam, but focuses on a survivor. The Vietnam era was a confusing time, and some military-themed songs are just obscure, like Neil Young's "Soldier."

     Elton John's "Talking Old Soldiers" captures the struggle of vets growing old alone.  Reservists are sometimes seen as second tier, but Toby Keith's American Soldier gives them their due. Just as most soldiers don't see combat, so most songs involving soldiers skip that experience, though the trippy "Three-Five-Zero-Zero" in the musical Hair doesn't mince words (including the n-word, so be forewarned before you click). And Jacques Brel's queasy "Next" is a reminder that military awfulness isn't confined to battle. 

     That should do — I'm sure I've overlooked some, and feel free to mention them in the comments. I put my flag out yesterday, but if you have one, fly it, and if you know a vet, you might want to give them a call and see how they're doing. 

     

Bathing in the river of blood

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     Chicago murders spiked in August 1991, the deadliest month in city history: 120 killings. Almost four a day. The Sun-Times scrambled to cover this horrific story, crafting a wide-ranging series, “After the Shooting Stops,” trying to convey the expanding shock waves of tragedy and loss radiating outward from each death.
     Some reporters sat with grief-stricken families. Others rode ambulances or trailed police. My job was to go to the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office on Harrison Street and watch a single day’s butchery being processed.
     To say it stayed with me is an understatement. I can still see the dura stripper peeling back skin to expose the yellow layer of fat underneath. Can hear the shriek of bone being cut by a Stryker saw. Smell the decay from the body that had lain undetected on a flophouse floor for two weeks.
     What I can’t still see is the autopsy of the blue-tinged baby. Because when her turn came, I tapped photographer Robert A. Davis on the shoulder and said, “union-mandated coffee break.” We hurried out.
     Cowardice? Prudence? It was defendable from a professional level — we were writing about murder, and this baby probably wasn’t murdered. At least not by street crime, which was our focus. A crib death, supposedly.
     Though the real reason was: my wife and I were trying to have kids, and I just didn’t want that baby being cut apart in my memory. Some things you can’t unsee. It is not a decision I’ve ever regretted.
     Though it came back Tuesday, when the Israeli consulate in Chicago called to say they were showing “exclusive footage” of the Oct. 7 slaughter, and I must be there.

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