Why is this still a surprise?

     This is what I don't understand.
     We know Trump is Putin's lapdog. We know he is a fanboy of dictators everywhere, because he wants to be one of them. He is on record as admiring the iron boot that Xi Jinping uses to grind down the Chinese people. He has dictator envy.
     We know he is rude. We know he is a bully. And a chronic liar. And a seditionist. 
     So why — why, why, why — would disgusting display in the Oval Office Friday, bullying and berating Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky, still come as a shock? To anybody? Why is our intellectual barometer still set so it expects humanity? Why is that still our default?

    That's a sincere question: why? Residual hope? Have we not yet taken Dante's stern warning to heart? Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate.
     "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

     Hope is not a strategy. It's a distraction. One that I have indulged in. No more. I adjure hope. No more.

     Maybe because it's so horrible, we can't get used to it. That sounds closer to the mark. There are tens of thousands of murders in this country every year, but each new one is unexpected. Nobody yawns and says, "Oh, another murder." Cops maybe.

     Perhaps that's it. We've become cynical observers of a crime that happens continually. We've allowed ourselves to be numbed so much, we never seem to truly grasp it. Not really. I was listening to someone on NPR marvel that during the election Trump denied any connection to Project 2025, and yet he has Project 2025 staffers pulling the government apart with both hands, straight out of the Project 2025 playbook. How could that be? 

     They speculated. They mused. Never approaching the truth of the matter: the man is a chronic liar who lies continually. Why is that so hard to accept? It isn't as if it flies in the face of human nature. It's as common as dirt, though the 47th president's special genius. He is a virtuoso of prevarication. 
     Maybe the problem isn't that Trump lies — and why not; those lies certainly are working for him. Maybe the blame belongs to us, to Democrats, to liberal, for our continual gullibility. Our passivity. Maybe that's why we can't change. Because we don't see it's our fault. We don't take this shit seriously. Maybe we never will.

      Maybe the problem is that, taking a cue from Anne Frank, we like to think people are good at heart.
     That didn't work out so well for her, did it?
     So if optimism is a dead end, then what's left? If it's not going to get better, then why even monitor what Trump is doing? Why keep track? The time to push back effectively is past. It passed Nov. 5. Now is the time to put our heads in the sand. Or else to grieve and suffer. And wait.
     That sounds an awful lot like surrender. And I am not a big fan of surrender. As I used to tell my boys when they were growing up, "You can't quit your way to the top."
     A half dozen Republican congressmen could stop this. The country was created to have co-equal branches of government, the executive balanced by Congress and the courts. Congress has just a few too many lackeys, and the Supreme Court was force-fed Trump devotees.
     So it's up to he people to ... what? Protest? Raise our voices to the deaf? That sounds like providing a floor show for the callous. Something for them to sneer and smirk at. Lawsuits? They have been slowing things down, but they eventually get to Team Trump, aka the U.S. Supreme Court.
    Drag our feet? Write essays?
    I have no idea. 

    That's it. No neat ending today. Talk among yourselves. I'm open to suggestions. Otherwise, I got nothing.

Works in progress: Scott Raab

     Writers brandish what most people hide. The secret shame. The festering hurt. What you won't tell your spouse we tell the world. Loudly. While banging garbage can lids over our heads. To attract attention.

      That's how it can feel, anyway. Though what I consider candor seems like throat-clearing compared to the firepower brought to the game by Scott Raab. EGD readers met him last October, when I wrote about his philippic  against LeBron James, "The Whore of Akron," as a On the Night Table feature.

     Usually that would be it. He thanked me for my kind words, and that is where people typically move on. Only he did something unusual — he asked for my phone number. We spoke last week ... for over an hour. He sent me his story in the March Esquire — you can read it here, if you are a subscriber.

     Just that act is ... well, it's a very me thing to do. I'm always pushing my work on people — how would they ever read it otherwise? — handing books to lunch mates who accept them between thumb and forefinger, squirming, as if they hadn't touched a book since high school. I also send relevant columns to random readers who write in. 

    I read the essay Raab sent, "New Dad: What Happens When You Suddenly Have a New Family at 71," about a couple of the kids he fathered as a sperm donor 30 years ago who track him down and ... well, whatever you imagine the outcome would be, this is different. 

    I asked him to write a little something about parading his darkest secret for our Works in Progress, and he submitted the following. I'm sorry the Esquire piece is paywalled — it contains many sharp, true, funny lines, the sharpest, truest, for me, being, "Nothing teaches you to love harder than not getting any when you need it most."

     I started writing poetry in sixth grade. It was the early 1960s, and my subjects included the JFK assassination and the still-unsolved murder of a young woman in suburban Cleveland, my home town. I was a scared, helpless kid alone in a world full of tragedy and secrets--especially my own family’s. Writing was feeling. It was also a shield, a sword, a creed, and the only path to truth and freedom I could see. Lord, I was a hurting kid, and writers thrive in manure all over the world, and folks imprisoned by secrets live lives of fear and ignorance, and there is no freedom in it. As a writer, I take no prisoners and keep no secrets.
     “Nothing human is alien to me,” said Terence. Good enough.

If it isn't raining babies, then why these showers?

      "Shouldn't it be, 'She's a girl'?" I said, pointing to a package of paper plates announcing, "It's a girl!"
     My wife furrowed her brow, pondering the question.
     "No, sorry, joking," I said, immediately backtracking. "Just being a grammarian."
     We were in Party City, prepping for the baby shower we're throwing for our older son and his wife, whom you saw married in July. Showers are co-ed now, or so I'm told, which is why my son and I will be there. (If you aren't invited, don't feel bad; we had to limit the guest list to mostly family, to keep it a manageable 40 people).
     Coed baby showers feel strange. I always thought they were strictly No Boys Allowed.
     Times change. But despite societal shifts, the choices at Party City were binary — "BABY BOY" said one sign. "BABY GIRL," the other. Boy stuff was blue. Girl stuff, pink.
     There was no third choice — no purple "It's an ungendered person!" plates. Then again, Party City went bankrupt and is having a final sale, so maybe those were snapped up already.
     Doubtful. Though honestly, I'd be fine if people bought those. I like living in a free country and can perform the mental gymnastics — impossible for many, apparently — of understanding that the freedom I enjoy myself can be utilized by other people who hold other beliefs and values not my own. I don't need to posit imaginary harms and oppress blameless individuals in order to feel good about myself. Freaky, right?
     Democrats, watching in stunned horror as the scaffold of what seems like a fascist state is set up, piece by piece, sometimes fault their general acceptance of the trans community. If only we'd been a bit more judgmental and callous to the vulnerable among us. If only we'd coughed into our fists while kids were bullied, we wouldn't have to sacrifice our government now — fairness in girls high school athletics being the great moral issue of our time.
     That doesn't scan for me. Then again, I'm a roll-with-developments sort of guy. I accepted the news, before we even learned the gender, that we were not to even imagine kissing the baby on the head, lest we poison it with our germs.

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Flashback 1997: To serve and protect: Jews answer the call

      I spent some time Wednesday dubbing old videos onto my Google Drive — it was fun to watch family scenes I hadn't looked at in ... 28 years, such as my older son's second birthday party. It reminded me how I'd use my family to pivot into larger issues, such as this column on Jewish first responders. What's interesting below is how I casually nail the profession that the babe would go into. As if it were foreordained. The Shomrim Society is still around.

     "That's a fire truck," I said to my son, getting down on one knee and pointing as the red pumper screamed by. "Those are the firemen going to fight a fire. Maybe you'll grow up to be a fireman someday."
     He just gurgled and cooed, but my wife furrowed her brow.
     "Don't tell him that," she said. "He's not going to be a fireman."
     Normally I'd let the comment slide. I knew what she meant: our son was going to be president of the United States, or the doctor who cures cancer or — be still the fluttering of our fondest hopes! — a lawyer.     
     But her comment strayed into one of the few areas I care enough about to argue over, so I made a little speech: "Firemen are heroes," I began, elaborating with some of what I had seen covering fires over the years as a reporter.
     The Paxton Hotel, with trapped residents leaping out of the windows and being tended to in the middle of the street. The Rose of Sharon Baptist Church, that tremendously cold day on the West Side. How the rose window looked, eerily backlit by the flames. How after part of the roof collapsed and a firefighter was lost, his comrades kept searching for him, even after the fire was out, even when it was obvious that he had to be dead and heavy equipment would have to be brought in to find him. How they didn't want to leave. How, the next day, the firefighters dug through the freezing rubble with their hands.
     I don't think I convinced her any. Public safety is not the sort of profession that Jewish parents, generally, lay out for their children. We don't grow up to be firefighters or – even worse — police officers.
     Which is why I was surprised, and pleased, to find there are nearly 300 members of the Chicago chapter of the Shomrim Society, the national organization for Jewish law enforcement officers.
     "Our membership is not limited to Chicago police officers," said officer David Welbel, an investigator in the organized crime unit and president of the Chicago chapter. "It's open to any branch of law enforcement. We have a lot of suburban police, a lot of county people, some federal agents assigned here in Illinois."
     Jewish police officers tend to be acutely aware that they are contradicting a stereotype.
     "It's just not a traditional role for a Jew to go into," said Sgt. Bruce Rottner, a 25-year veteran working neighborhood relations in Rogers Park. "I've always felt the uniqueness of being a Jewish police officer. I don't shove my Jewishness in anybody's face, but I'm proud of it. It was just wonderful, in 1972, walking into my first Shomrim Society meeting and seeing other police officers who were Jewish."
     The Shomrim Society — the name means "guardians" in Hebrew — is mainly social and philanthropic. Its big annual event is a dinner dance in the fall. Not all Jewish Chicago cops are members. "We have what I refer to as `closet Jews' on the job," Welbel said.
     Which brings up anti-Semitism. Both Welbel and Rottner say they've encountered only traces of anti-Semitism in their years on the force.
     That wasn't always the case. During the Great Depression, when Jews first entered the classically Irish police force in significant numbers, they were met by "thinly disguised contempt, and disbelief that they would make good cops," Arthur Niederhoffer wrote in his essay "The Jewish Patrolman."
     Ironically, Jews were faulted, not so much for their religion, Niederhoffer noted, but for having gone to college, generally. That made them "the target for the anti-intellectualism that policemen shared with many other Americans."
     Rottner was one of three college graduates in his police academy class in 1972, and he remembers being told by a police commander that "college people tend to get bored on the job and don't make good police officers."
     Welbel's own parents — Czechoslovakian Jews who both survived Auschwitz — were dubious about their son's joining the police force.
     "They didn't like it," he said. "Traditionally, law enforcement is not a profession that young Jewish men would seek. The encouragement in the family is always something of higher achievement; being a lawyer, being a doctor or, if not that, a CPA."
     But Welbel, 43, had dreamed of becoming a police officer.
     "I always had an interest in law enforcement as a child," he said. "I always admired those guys: the uniform, the authority, the squad cars, the whole ball of wax."
     As so often happens, his parents came around to see his point of view.
     "But now they've adjusted to it," Welbel said. "They're glad that I joined the Police Department because they see that's what I'm happy doing.
     "Besides," he continued, "they see my brother in business for himself, and they see he's constantly aggravated. They say, `You don't need the aggravation.' For me, I enjoy my work very much. It's easy going to work, and not too many people can say that."
     "Many of us as adults don't get to do what we wanted to do as kids," Rottner said. "This is what I always wanted to do: be a policeman."
       —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Feb. 2, 1997

Mac's Deli offers hot dogs with mustard, relish and hope

Ken Taylor

     As a student of both recovery and hot dogs — a proud graduate of both the Chapman Center, when it was in Highland Park Hospital, and Vienna Beef's rigorous two-day Hot Dog University — I couldn't refuse an invitation to slide by and check out Mac's Deli.

     Ken Taylor was dead. Or close enough to dead. Overdosed, on a hospital gurney, motionless, waiting for a doctor to make it official.
     "I had an accidental overdose of fentanyl and cocaine; I literally died," said Taylor, 60. "All of a sudden, my breath came back. I gasped."
     "Welcome back, Mr. Taylor," a doctor said. "You're one lucky man."
     People can make their own luck, and Taylor decided to get busy.
     "That was a wakening moment for me," said Taylor, supervisor at Mac's Deli, the cleanest hot dog stand in the city of Chicago, opened last November and run by recovering drug addicts and alcoholics at Haymarket Center in the West Loop.
     Every addict has a story they tell to keep themselves honest, and Taylor shared his as the half-dozen workers under him prepped Mac's Deli for the lunch crowd, pregrilling burgers and wiping down already clean surfaces.
     On June 8, Taylor got out of prison after more than a decade behind bars for robbery. A drug habit is expensive.
     "I've been in and out of prison for the better part of 30 years — my whole adult life," said Taylor. "I used to live and lived to use."
     On June 10 he went back to his old stomping grounds. Waiting for him there was his old friend cocaine, laced with the fentanyl that is now mixed into everything.
     "That was not my intent to go use," he said. "I went down there just to be social. Next thing I know, I was ready to be pronounced in the hospital."
     He ended up at South Suburban Rehabilitation Center, which recommended Haymarket, the city's largest provider of addiction and mental health services, treating 12,000 Chicagoans a year — 95% earning less than $10,000 a year. It's a busy place.
     "When I came down to Haymarket they didn't have a bed open," said Taylor. "It was on a Saturday, and he told me, 'Come back Monday morning and I'll get you in.'"
     Do you see the flaw in that plan? Taylor did.
     "I told that guy, if you let me leave here I will not make it back here Monday morning," said Taylor. "He saw that I was serious. He said, 'Let me see what we can find.'"
     "That guy" was Jose Castro, manager of central intake at Haymarket.

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"A sexual reference"

      The years when we hit every opera in the Lyric season are gone and not coming back. Ditto for ticking off each new play at the Goodman and the Chicago Shakespeare Theater. Part my own gathering senescence. Part a shift in the material being presented. Whoever the audience is supposed to be, I ain't it.

     But we do rouse ourselves, sometimes.
    "Let's go see the Dylan movie," my wife enthused Friday night, coming home about 5 p.m. The next show at Northbrook Court was 6:10 p.m., so we mobilized. I went online to buy tickets, but it was complicated, and we decided to just grab them there. A quick dinner of leftover Chinese food, then into the car. 
     Northbrook Court is sad and abandoned, much of the parking lot surrounded by chainlink fence. They don't even have those large cardboard movie displays by the theater entrance anymore — not worth production. We bought the same seats I'd tried to snag online and saved $4, maybe $6, buying them in person. So score one for analog living.
     Before the movie — excellent, incidentally — 20 minutes of ads and previews. One for "Until Dawn," a horror movie that unspools the novel story line of a group of buff young people blundering into a creepy house populated by gore-mouthed fiends who hack them apart for 90 minutes. The preview alone was unbearable — it went on and on. I can't imagine what the actual movie is.

     None of this I would mention. Except at the very end, after an eternity of these kids being slashed with knives and jabbed with pickaxes, screaming and having worms bursting out of their faces, while gore spattered clowns flash into view, there is the blue rating card, giving away the game to potential viewers that the film is rated R for gore and warning us, specifically, of the presence of, "A sexual reference."
     That was it. Just one, apparently, judging from the indefinite article.

      Sometimes I feel like I'm in a movie myself, and want to turn to the audience and say, "Can you believe this shit?" We're Americans. Of course the bloodbath doesn't bother us — just the opposite, we pay for that part. That's what brings someone to watch "Until Dawn." But just in case anyone's titillation at the Grand Guignol dismemberment occurring onscreen might be spoiled by "a sexual reference" — just one, not even plural — there is a warning.  You've been informed. Brace yourself for a word alluding to sexual matters.
    "Gosh Brad, I'd love to see 'Until Dawn' but I hear somebody mentions forming the beast with two backs before being hacked apart by clowns, and that's against Scripture..."

    I wonder what the sexual reference could possibly be. Not enough to see the film. Maybe somebody who does see stuff like that can make note of it, and let us know.

     

The New Yorker marks 100 years of excellence

     Chicago owes a lot to New York. We don't like to admit it, but it's true. This place was pretty much started by New York land speculators. Our first mayor, William B. Ogden, was a New York lawyer sent to check on his brother's real estate holdings. He stuck around and put his bets on the new railroad, while St. Louis was doubling down on riverboats.
     We still use nicknames that New Yorkers gave us, like "Windy City," describing, not the winter gales, but our blasts of ballyhoo trying to snag the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition.
     And "Second City" — the title of a three-part backhand A. J. Liebling published in The New Yorker in 1952, a gleeful vivisection of Chicago as a dreary cultural backwater, with bad plays, lousy water and erratic garbage service. Not a proper metropolis at all, but "a theater backdrop with a city painted on it." The Loop "like Times Square and Radio City set down in the middle of a vast Canarsie."
     Chicago rolled with the criticisms. One of the many ambitious improv comedy groups that sprouted here in the 1950s took "Second City" as its proud moniker, the way gays coopted the insult "queer." And to far less renown I took an angry line scribbled on a postcard to Liebling, "You were never in Chicago," and used it as the title of my city memoir a dozen years ago.
     The New Yorker celebrates its 100th anniversary this month, and while it is off-brand for a Chicago metro columnist to note the occasion, who cares? We defy parochialism. Credit where due. What started as an arch romp for Manhattan sophisticates turned into an engine driving liberal American culture, from John Hersey's "Hiroshima" — the whole Oct. 31, 1946 issue given over to a sympathetic portrayal of a people who, months before, were being displayed solely as loathsome buck-toothed caricatures. To Ronan Farrow helping spark the Me Too movement with his 2017 expose on Harvey Weinstein.
     Too many to cite. Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring" comes to mind. Busloads of masterful writers: Joseph Mitchell. J.D. Salinger. Humorists from Robert Benchley and Woody Allen to Ian Frazier and Simon Rich. Before he was on the radio, Garrison Keillor wrote for The New Yorker. Genius artists — from Saul Steinberg, no relation, alas, to Charles Addams, Bruce McCall and Roz Chast.
     The New Yorker certainly was a polestar for me — I've lived in a house that subscribed to the magazine for my entire life. My father, a proud product of the Bronx, subscribed. As a teen, I wanted to be James Thurber, and modeled myself on him so much that as college ended I didn't bother applying for a job. Somebody would introduce me to my E.B. White and I'd be on my way. As a career strategy, that worked about as well as you'd expect.
     Writing my first book, a history of college pranks, the question arose whether to write the chapter on Caltech's Ditch Day using the mass of information already written about it, or spend a chunk of my advance getting to Pasadena for the day of pranks. "What would John McPhee do?" I asked myself, then booked a flight.
     At least that got published. Battering myself against the barred door of The New Yorker was the same futile effort for me that it was for most writers who miss the mark. Except for one short story, "Mascots Reign at Fall Show," a parody of the trade shows I covered at McCormick Place. The British quarterly Granta accepted, then rejected it. Which emboldened me to dare send it to The New Yorker.
     An editor, Dan Menaker called me at home. I remember where I was standing when I got the call. The story, he said, is terrific — it reminded him of Donald Barthelme. I hung up the phone and let out a scream. We worked together on it for a few weeks. But in the end Tina Brown didn't like it. I kept sending in new work, not realizing I'd already had my Moonlight Graham moment. The rest of the submissions got increasingly formal rejections. But that one story, for one moment. "It was like coming this close to your dreams, then having them brush past you, like a stranger in a crowd," Burt Lancaster says in 'Field of Dreams." "I thought 'They'll be other days' I didn't realize, that was the only day."

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