"Because I have good sense."

     Sorry I didn't have a column in the newspaper Friday. Black people are to blame.
     Oh, did I say that out loud? Whoops. It's supposed to be unvoiced. I should have just pointed out that the newspaper has a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion effort, and let your imagination fill in the rest. 
     I need to work on the above if I hope to mimic the exact note of bone-deep yet tacit racism that President Donald Trump revelled in Thursday when discussing the tragic helicopter/plane collision over the Potomac, veering from his falsely pious evocation of thoughts and prayers for the victims, before he dove into his baseless accusations that the two Ds — Democrats and diversity — are to blame for the crash. Sixty-seven people died, and his minute of silence was followed by half an hour of baseless calumny. It would be shocking if we, you know, hadn't lost our capacity for shock years ago.
     Pressed how he could say that when the investigation of the crash has just begun, the President of the United States replied:
     "Because I have common sense.”
     Good old common sense. No need to spell it out, but let's try. You just know that Black people aren't as skilled as white. You just know that trans soldiers degrade the military. You know that Jews are greedy, Muslims terrorists, and immigrants, criminals and parasites. You know people with disabilities can't do a good job at anything other than bagging groceries. No proof is necessary, and any contrary evidence is merely dismissed. Water off a duck's behind.
     The sad thing — well, one of the many sad things — is there are valid reasons to be critical of DEI. I actually am a member of the DEI council at the paper, When I applied, I did so out of the exquisite sensitivity and devotion to fairness at which I excel.
     "Better to be inside the tent pissing out," I told my wife, "than outside the tent pissing in."
     The language I used applying to the program was more honeyed.
     "While I am not a member of any of the groups that are typically considered under the umbrella of diversity, I've always had a sensitivity to such groups, particularly the LGBTQ community," I wrote. "The paper has always been very supportive — I wrote the first (and to this day, really the only mainstream newspaper look) at the Chicago transgender community in 1992. I'm just now completing a look at how the Sun-Times covered race over the past 75 years, and while it was subject to the limitations and prejudices of its times, all told the paper has always led rather than followed."
     You'll notice I didn't say I'm Jewish. Jews, though certainly a traditionally oppressed group, have somehow lost our minority card. In part, I believe, because we tend to be white, and people buy the slurs against us. Why should the George Soros-funded octopus straddling the world, flailing its grasping tentacles, need a helping hand? DEI is about supporting worthy outcasts, not solidifying Shylock's grasp on his pound of flesh.
     Despite this, my argument worked. Or maybe they just admitted everyone who applied. Either way, I was accepted, and attended the occasional meetings. Which put me in a position to notice Trump tearing out DEI programs root and branch from the federal government with more than the usual perspective of Americans alarmed seeing their institutions re-calibrated to suit the whims of a bigot and would-be demagogue.
     Calling such programs "“radical and wasteful" Trump ordered all DEI-related employees to be put on paid leave by 5 p.m. his first Wednesday in office, in advance of being fired. Concern that any employee address inclusiveness in the workplace was so extreme the order warned against trying to shield such unworthies, demanding that agency heads quiz their underlings whether they “know of any efforts to disguise these programs by using coded or imprecise language.”
     I actually agree with that first assertion. DEI programs are radical in the sense that for the majority of American history, organizations would merely bar employment of disfavored groups. There is no risk of untermenschen proving their worth if you never let them even try. When Chicago hosted the World Columbian Exposition in 1893, Ida B. Wells picketed the fair, where a Black could not be hired a janitor. In the 1920s, colleges struggled to not admit "too many" Jews, so as not to corrupt their student bodies, the way they fret over the proportions of Asian students today.
     The Republican war against DEI is based on the premise that civil rights is over, the minorities won, that white Christians are the besieged community, and the situation must be set right by prying the fingers of these lesser folk from the ledge of acceptability. The thinking is: You can eat at the lunch counter at Woolworth's. So shut up already. The fact that Woolworth's is long gone is not a consideration.
     And true, such efforts create winners and losers. And sometimes it seems that DEI is swapping one unfair system for another. All of that could be discussed, if the current administration were not deploying DEI as a kind of modern shorthand for an old racial slur.

     Any valid complaint regarding DEI melts away when Trump is thundering that all such programs "divided Americans by race, wasted taxpayer dollars, and resulted in shameful discrimination.”
     Actually, it is the president who is dividing Americans by race — or rather, sticking a crowbar into the division and prying back and forth, widening the chasm.
     Everyone harbors prejudice. Everyone exhibits discrimination of one sort or another at certain times and places— I wish we could grind that into people's heads. What I remember most distinctly from the first DEI meeting is this: I had vowed to just listen, to keep my yap closed — shutting up is an art form I struggle to master. But at one point "microaggressions" — small slights too minor to constitute discrimination but yet sting — were brought up.
     "Older employees don't know what a microaggression is," someone said.
     "Which itself is a microaggression!' I blurted out.
     I'd like to say my point was made, my colleagues nodding, wiser thanks to my insight. But it wasn't. Old people, like Jews, are scorned so automatically nobody even considers it prejudice. And so the work continues.

     In closing, I should point out that efforts at racial inclusion really did keep me from writing a column Friday. Because I worked a long day on the Martin Luther King Day holiday, rather than relax and contemplate our nation's progress, I asked to take a day off later on, rather than take extra holiday pay. My boss kindly reminded me I had that day off coming, so I took Friday. An outside observer might be forgiven for believing that this was entirely my doing — the decision to work, and to take time off. But that just means they're blind to the hidden hand of DEI machinations at work in our country today. DEI means nothing is ever your fault.  There will be not a mistake made in the next four years that our monster president cannot lay at its feet. 

Is it the shoes?

 

Those wouldn't be size 14s by any chance?

   Postage stamps. Crystal. Office chairs.
   To Chicagoans of a certain vintage, the above miscellany should conjure up Dan Rostenkowski as clearly as if I had posted his photograph. The minor grafts that ruined him, the pebbles upon which the great chairman of the Ways and Mean Committee scuttled his career and sent himself to prison.
    Not to single Rosty out. Corruption is always over petty shit, compared to the damage done. Ed Burke, off to jail for ... anybody? ... corruptly holding back a driveway cut-out exemption for a Burger King until his law firm got some business thrown its way.  Mike Madigan mumbling the wrong phrase into a federal wiretap. George Ryan crumpling an envelope holding a thousand dollars in cash and jamming it in his pocket. Rod Blagojevich tossed to the wolves by his father-in-law, Dick Mell, over the governor shutting down a landfill owned by Patti's cousin. It would look ludicrous in fiction.
    Okay, not always petty shit. Ed Vrdolyak went away for a significant chunk of cash — a $1.5 million kickback scheme. Although, compared  to the billions the Vrdolyak Law Group rakes in on personal injury lawsuits, still chump change. As always, the crime is what's legal.
     Into this pantheon leaps Mayor Unforced Error, Brandon Johnson, according to the Sun-Times, with his pathetic take of luxury goods — Hugo Boss cufflinks, a Montblanc Pen, handbags by Kate Spade and Givenchy. The usual baubles.
    Not to suggest anything untoward. Perhaps everything is on the up-and-up, as the mayor insists with his trademark huff. Maybe his wife isn't carrying that Kate Spade purse. Maybe his failure to account for the gifts is just him being too busy doing important work, driving the city deeper into ruin. His blocking the inspector general from looking into the matter is due entirely to distraction. No time to follow standard ethical policy. Yeah, that's the ticket. Though the guilty flee where none pursueth, and were the mayor handling gifts properly, why did he do everything he could to keep prying eyes off the supposed trove? Why wax so indignant? (The answer to that could be, "Because he always does." Truly, the man bristles at a touch).

     At this moment, what journalists are no doubt pawing over photos of the mayor, looking for him wearing a pair of Carucci shoes, whatever those may be. Careers have foundered over less.

Ronald Reagan's dream come true

Vent Haven Museum, Ft. Mitchell, Kentucky

     The Reagan epiphany was a simple one. With overt racism fallen from favor, in some quarters, you could no longer directly afflict the people you are keen to scorn— the minorities, the immigrants, the poor, gays, not to forget women, who are actually the majority but historically vulnerable because of their sex. 

      But you could assail the government that helps them. Starve it by slashing taxes, for the rich. Smother programs. Jettison goals. Scrap supportive laws and pass restrictive ones.
    Public education, once the bedrock of American society, could be abandoned once Black people found their way into white classrooms. School choice could be boosted, and here "choice" means "using tax money to pay for private schools for parents who couldn't bear to let their kids rub elbows with their lessers." 

     People bought it.

    That many of your own kind are hurt — most people in poverty are white — didn't matter. Bigotry is both a kind of ignorance and a form of self-immolation. Southern towns would fill in their swimming pools in the 1960s after the courts ordered them integrated. If your own children sweltered, well, there are always private clubs, and another reason to hate the people you hate already. 

    And there's always someone to hate, to fear, if that is what you are looking for. 
    The task never ends, and when would-be demagogue Donald Trump took office, he arrived with a flurry of spite and vindictiveness, sprayed in all directions, against groups and individuals who dared stand up to him in the past, a practice, already rare, sure to become rarer. 

      Trans soldiers were ejected from the army, based on nothing more than malice and general distaste. The same calumnies directed at Black military personnel until Truman integrated the Army in 1948 could be retrofitted. Any port in a storm. The first thing the new secretary of defense did was strip former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Mark Milley of his security detail and security clearance, and take steps to bust him in rank in retirement. The first thing.

     Whatever pressing matters the country faces are pushed aside. The need for a functioning military is overlooked. 
     So, open season on vulnerable Americans and the government that serves them. The whole system torn down, as if by a child. That the government does so much, from building roads to testing the purity of food and drugs, that it helps so many, is simply ignored. Racism is both a form of ignorance and a powerful addiction that must be fed .... with somebody. Anyone will do. Democrats, liberals, will serve too, eventually. Does it seem the bond that should hold Americans together in unified purpose is easily dismissed? Apparently so. 

    Today's post is late — my apologies — and I know feels ... what? ... muted, wooden, subdued. That's an accurate rendition of my mood. There must be a lot of that going around.

Lady Liberty gets a makeover — the statue remains, the concept behind her is sold for scrap

     Look on the bright side. The Statue of Liberty is still there, at the mouth of New York Harbor. Facing southeast, to welcome immigrants arriving aboard ships. Lifting her lamp to light the golden door.
     "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free ..." is still emblazoned on a plaque at the feet of the Mother of Exiles. "Send these, the homeless tempest-tossed to me."
     There is no plan — no public plan anyway — to take her down and sell the copper for scrap. Or jackhammer away Emma Lazarus' famous poem praising "a mighty woman." Or remove the torch and refashion her uplifted right hand to display an extended middle finger.
     Not to give anyone ideas. Defacing national monuments is already in the air — talk has resumed of adding Donald Trump's face to Mount Rushmore.
     The statue remains, for now. Only the concept behind her is being scuttled, the American welcome mat yanked away, again. The golden door slammed shut.
     U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement — ICE — was busy in Chicago and across the country Monday. Hundreds of immigrants were arrested here, thousands nationwide, and while those arrested were portrayed as murderers and rapists, facts were scarce.
     I have a feeling that when the facts are known — and we can't assume the truth will ever be known, this being 2025 America — the bulk of deportees will end up having committed parking offenses, and of course, the unforgivable crime of being here in the first place. Which is what this is all about, and why Donald Trump is president — so we can throw out the foreigners along with their crime and disease and strange languages and get back to this country as we imagined it to be in the 1950s.
     A certain brand of foreigners, of course. From Mexico and South America, primarily. They haven't rounded up the Norwegians, yet. I contacted the French consulate in Chicago to see if their people here are on edge. Let's just say, they're not. The elimination of diversity efforts in government and anti-discrimination laws give further proof, as if more were needed, of what this is really about.
     The effort focused on Chicago. Here is where border czar Tom Homan was striding around, joined by — in that note of surreal horror that all true nightmares require — TV's Dr. Phil,  offering the ripping apart of families as entertainment, edging toward the strafed lifeboat full of refugees in George Orwell's "1984." Red meat for red state audiences.
     Remember why Chicago is being singled out. What is our crime again? Oh yes, we are a "sanctuary city," welcoming immigrants, who have so overrun the place that Chicago's population has been flat for 30 years. Chicago had more people in 1925 than it has today. We're being punished for seeing a situation clearly — we need residents — and acting upon it. Expect more of that.

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A visit from Lee Goodman

 

     "Aren't you jumping the gun?" I asked Sunday, as neighbor Lee Goodman took off his raincoat to reveal a striped concentration camp uniform, with the inverted blue triangle, representing immigrants. I invited him to have a seat in the living room.
      He said he was going downtown Monday to protest the ICE arrests in Chicago, and wanted me to know, I suppose, in case he disappeared into Donald Trump's growing security apparatus. He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him. I considered going along, to observe, but had other work to do Monday and, besides, dramatic symbolic acts are not my strong suit. I prefer spinning reasoned argument to dash uselessly against the reinforced armor of unreason. I don't know which is more futile; I suppose it boils down to personal preference.
     I asked where he had gotten the uniform — what with Party City out of business and all. That's me, always curious about practical matters.  Those new red MAGA hats with the Death's Head insignia, who thought of that?

     Lee said he had made it himself, using a painter's outfit dyed grey, then masked out with tape and painted with black fabric paint. That's Lee, the guy who put up a sign tallying the COVID dead in 2020 at the corner of Shermer and Walters, prompting that to become a focal point for several pro-Trump rallies. He's the spoon that stirs the pot. I've admired his commitment to social action, even as I question its efficacy. As I question my own. 

     We talked about whether the Holocaust had so faded from public memory that younger people might not even know what it represented. 

    "They might see it and think, 'Beetlejuice,'" I suggested.

    Bingo. 

     "I was surprised by how little reaction my uniform got throughout the day," Lee later wrote, on his Facebook page report about how his trip downtown played out. "I was even more surprised that among the several people who did react, only one recognized the uniform. Everyone else thought I was dressed up as the movie character Beetlejuice. Only after I corrected them did their expressions change from amused to somber."

    Lee went to the Daley Center, City Hall, the County Building. He didn't get far trying to visit ICE headquarters and his senator's office.

   "Things didn't go as I expected," he wrote.

    They seldom do. 

    I'm torn. Part of me resented Lee for going straight to the Holocaust. Shouldn't we save that for when thousands of arrested immigrants are languishing in camps on the outskirts of town? Isn't the present moment alarming enough without exaggeration? I both admire Lee for doing something and look askance at what he's actually doing and a little at why he's doing it. Who does this help?

    "If I didn't do anything, it would eat me up," he said, and I nodded. I sometimes view protest as an elaborate washing of the hands — an orchestrated cry onto deaf ears done more for the benefit of the criers who can now tell themselves they've done something.

     The concentration camp imagery is powerful. The paper won't even let me call whatever facilities they're building to corral immigrants — and no doubt, eventually, citizens —  "concentration camps." Too judgy. I think we settled on "detainment camps." As if that mattered.

      Maybe that's the danger — thinking none of this matters, that resistance is futile. Resistance didn't topple the Nazis — America did. We saved Europe. But now, who will save us? Lee Goodman is on the case, and God bless him. But it's going to take more than that.

We need to support the people Trump is stepping on

     This fall will mark the 50th anniversary of the release of the "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." A comic romp sending up 1930s science fiction movies, it featured Tim Curry as Dr. Frank 'N' Furter, a cross-dressing mad scientist, Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon as the naive young engaged couple who ... —  The movie was so popular, it feels almost strange to describe it, like explaining the plot of "Hamlet" — "See there's this guy, he's a prince, and his father is murdered ..." Everybody knew "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
     But times change.
     You did not attend the movie once but many times, bringing along props — squirt guns for the opening rainstorm, toast to throw. I was 15 when I first went with a group of friends.
     My parents neither noticed nor cared about me viewing this randy cross-dressing romp. We did not live in constant dread of trans people, nor worry about encountering them in bathrooms, nor fret about their influence on high school sports. There was no moral panic.
     Yes, trans people were played for humor. But then groups scorned by mainstream society traditionally tiptoe toward acceptability through comedy. It is a foot in the door, just as white households who'd never invited a Black guest to their table howled at "Amos and Andy" in the 1930s, and Jews who couldn't stay at a restricted resort in the 1950s could still tell jokes in its ballroom.
     There's nothing I can do here to stem the current fear-mongering, except point out where attention is being misdirected, like a magic trick. Card-carrying liberals darken at the topic, suddenly concerned about bathroom assaults and unfair swim meets.
     Democrats took to reflexively blaming the outcome of the last election on their previous — the "wreckless" is unspoken — acceptance of trans folk, as if addressing toilet etiquette by undoing democracy makes even momentary sense. "Look at those drapes! We must burn the house down."
     I try to make my friends step back and see how the issue is being framed for them and usually fail. They aren't considering the vast number of Americans who have this orientation and struggle to live but the margins, the nagging issues — do not male bodies pose unfair advantage in the 100-meter dash?
     It's like any other prejudice, only not as noticeable. If every time someone mentioned the word "Muslim" I began ranting about terrorists, or every time the word "immigrant" came up I cited some ghastly crime against a 12-year-old girl, you'd peg me as a hater. Terror and crime are real problems; the hate is in pretending these problems represent the entirety.
 

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Flashback 1995: Bob Watch debuts

Illustration by Jeff Heller

     Journalism is disposable. Reporters who don't get that are fooling themselves. A fraction of the population ever sees our work, fewer still read it, and that handful forgets what they read the next day, if not the next minute.
     That said, scraps of my oeuvre linger. Every few years someone will dredge up my 2004 book "Hatless Jack" and, oblivious of what it's about, seek out my opinion on how Kennedy killed hats. 
     And Bob Watch, the monthly ad hominem vivisection of Tribune columnist Bob Greene that debuted in the Chicago Reader 30 years ago Monday, Jan. 27, 1995, under the slogan, "We read him so you don't have to."
     I'm not sure why, of all my stuff, Bob Watch should persist. Perhaps it has a sharp-edge that people like. A crystalline meanness. The great Gene Weingarten recently cited Bob Watch after dredging up a Bob Greene column on Bob Evans, which he identifies as the worst column ever written, a prize that Greene seemed to vigorously vie for. I felt honored that the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner remembered me.
     I should tell the story. Spy magazine had come out and I decided: "These are my people." I flew to New York and spent some time with founding editors Graydon Carter and Kurt Anderson. While I was there, I pitched stories, including Bob Greene — but he was already in works, and I ended up writing the sidebars to Magda Krance's gleeful keelhauling of Bob. (My favorite was "How a Press Release Becomes a Bob Greene Column," where I selected columns of his that obviously had come from corporate ballyhoo, then contacting the companies to get ahold of the relevant releases that sparked Bob's muse. I'll have to dredge that up and share it someday. The similarities alone should have cost Greene his job, had anyone in authority at the Tribune been paying attention. Spoiler alert: they weren't).
     The Spy pieces caught the fancy my friend of Cate Plys, then an editor at the Reader, who suggested I take a whack at Bob every month. This was my first entry. I'm surprised at how brief it is: a mere 428 words But I manage to pack a lot of scorn in a small space. It's poignant to be sharing it now, as the Reader is laying off its staff and seems destined to crumble and be swept into the dustbin that awaits us all. I hope they can survive — the Reader has always provided an important outlet for perspectives that would never otherwise be shared in the mainstream media. Like Bob Watch, which ran for two years, and began this way:

     Those who sincerely admire and respect Bob Greene – who read his columns aloud to entertain their dozens of cats, perhaps – should leave the room now. We don’t want to upset them.
     That leaves those of us who can rationalize his existence only by inverting the normal expectations of readership – instead of excoriating his faults, savoring them. We pick up his column with a tingle of anticipation – how awful will it be? Will he content himself with another effortless sputtering of baby talk, lavished over one of his pitiful handful of themes and interests? Or will he reach some new benchmark of idiocy?
     Bob loves imperiled kids, and himself holds a key role in the chain of abuse. Parents torture their kids, DCFS ignores them, the schools and the courts bungle the situation, and, finally, the tiny emaciated survivors are led into a room where Uncle Bob awaits, cooing sympathetically while he boosts them onto his knee for the Final Abuse, the flopping out of his revolting pity.           This week he sallied day after day, again and again, to the defense of “a little boy in deep, terrible trouble,” an unfortunate he called, “with typical folksiness, “Joe.” Last week it was a class of handicapped students who had lost the services of a speech therapist. The last sentence of this column, where Bob appeals to Mayor Daley to personally intercede, is a joy. You can see the mayor of Bob’s fantasy world – porkpie hat, big cigar, sitting in the bathtub – crushing the paper in his little fists and squeaking “Why, why, this is an outrage!”

     The next day, Bob rewrote the New York Times obit of Victor Riesel, the columnist blinded in 1957 when acid was thrown in his face by union thugs. Bob begins the tale by conjuring up his beloved idyll of 1950s Columbus, Ohio, where little Bobby Greene learned about the courageous newspaperman who wouldn’t back down. Though Bob gets almost halfway through the column before he remembers to mention Riesel’s name, he implies that the “kid reading the paper [who] wondered about the man behind the glasses” was inspired by Riesel’s example. We are left marveling how a blind man’s bravery helped embolden one special little boy to someday become Bob Greene, nostalgist of courage, boldly speaking his truths and letting the chips fall where they may, whether he is daring to openly worship Michael Jordan or mourning the passing of toaster covers.
     Bob doesn’t quite come out and say it but, from his vantage point, Riesel’s sight must seem a small price to pay.