Just hold it in your lap.

Ema in Glenview

     "Let me be surrounded by luxury," Oscar Wilde said, "I can do without the necessities!"

     And generally that serves. But every now and then the lack of a particular necessity catches you off guard.

     Sunday night the kids took us out to dinner to thank us for throwing their baby shower. We went to Ema, a hip new Mediterranean spot in Glenview, and while usually I go casual almost everywhere, my daughter-in-law wore such a lovely plum-colored dress, I rose to the challenge and put on a gray sport coat, gray dress shirt and black jeans. 

      It was raining, hard, so my Burberry raincoat and fedora completed the ensemble. 

      We'd been to Ema twice before  — a lovely room with big plants and interesting wicker light fixtures. There is a curved window as you walk in that I thought was a coat check, but was actually a station for take-out. As maitre d' showed us to our table, I asked her if there was somewhere I could put my hat and coat.

     "We don't have a coat check," she said. 

     "Do you have a coat hook?" I countered.

     "No," she said. 

     So I draped my coat over my chair, and set the hat down by the wall. 

     Which worked fine. Although Ema is a sprawling place, and it struck me they could designate a corner to hang coats. Tuck a hat rack next to one of those plants. Georgie V's, a far less ostentatious establishment, manages a line of coat hooks by the bathroom.  They come in handy. I used one Monday.

    Ema does have a family bathroom, beautifully outfitted with a granite sink and golden lighting, which I appreciated when I excused myself for insulin injection purposes. It seemed odd that they would go to the trouble and expense to create and decorate this lavish little extra room, but fall down on the job in the coat hook department. And Ema is a Lettuce Entertain You Restaurant, which are normally so detail-oriented, down to the Italian conversation they used to pipe into the bathrooms at the old Scoozi on Huron. 

Ema honey layer cake

      Oh well, a small thing. The appetizer spreads are excellent — better than the main courses — paired with warm soft pita bread. We were too full to indulge in dessert, but the honey layer cake we had before is memorable enough to make me regret that. The service is excellent, the coat policy notwithstanding. Our dinner was festive, and while I can't imagine it'll replace Prairie Grass as "our place" — unless I can go back in time and meet the chef 26 years ago — we'll definitely be back as circumstances dictate. Though I'll leave the coat in the car when we do. If a guest asks, "Is there somewhere I can put my coat?" the answer can't be "No." It isn't hospitable. Maybe they could use the nonspecific 3 percent surcharge they tack on the bill because they can to buy a few hooks.

'Secret History of the Rape Kit' reveals past, future

Photo by Jaclyn Nash, courtesy of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History

      We remember feminism of the 1970s without also recalling exactly what women were being militant about: their voices being muffled, their power minimized, their issues ignored.
     Pagan Kennedy's new book, "The Secret History of the Rape Kit: A True Crime Story," is a disturbing journey back to the bad old days of Chicago a half century ago. And maybe, the way we're going, a glimpse into our future, too.
     The book begins with the sexual abuse of the author, trauma both specific and universal. "The warnings of sexual assault carried inside them an even more demoralizing and insidious message: This world is not for you."
     Then Kennedy settles into the story of Chicagoan Martha "Marty" Goddard, whose life changes after volunteering at a phone hotline for homeless teenagers.
     "I was just beside myself when I found the extent of the problem," Goddard said. "The runaways were pregnant, homeless, suicidal, strung out."
     She realized she had "stumbled upon a dark and terrible underworld."
     Police would arrest young women, for solicitation or vagrancy. The abuse that had sent them fleeing into the streets wasn't considered. "No one talked about the crimes that had driven those girls out of their homes."
     It was "a culture in which cops played pranks on victims, making them the butt of sick jokes. At least one officer persuaded a woman to strip naked, so that he could photograph her wounds as evidence. He then passed the photos around to his buddies, as if they were porn."
     Mayor Richard J. Daley deployed a taunt when the subject of corruption arose — "Where's your proof?" — that served double for rape victims. It was her word against his, and everybody knew who was trustworthy, who unreliable.
     The solution was to collect evidence immediately after these crimes, which led to the rape kit, a box filled with swabs, combs and other equipment designed to collect evidence after a woman — or man; 9% of rape victims are men — was assaulted.
     Goddard championed the kit for both its practical and ideological value: "It's true power came from a new set of ideas," Kennedy writes. Ideas starting with: What happens to women matters.
     The kit was named, not for Goddard, but for a Chicago police sergeant, Louis Vitullo, and unpacking that fact brings us back — and maybe forward — to a world where women carry less authority than men. Having a man's name made the kit more acceptable to law enforcement that, frankly, couldn't be bothered investigating sexual assault.

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Flashback 1999: Now's the time for him to chart his own course

    Today is the 38th anniversary of my joining the Sun-Times, a day I traditionally reach back into the files and highlight something from the archive. This column appealed to me because, to be honest, I write about myself so goddamn much, it's a relief to see me focusing on someone else for a change. 

     This column ran the summer I crossed the ocean with my dad for the book, "Don't Give Up the Ship." Our New Zealand press lord, Nigel Wade, would not give me time off — he was offended that I asked — so I had to file a column, three days a week, from the sea, using the molasses-dripping-off-a-stick-in-winter satellite modem in the radio room. Focusing on the ship's only Chicago cadet was a no-brainer. 

    The obvious question this column leaves us with is: what happened to Terry McCabe? My gut told me, as mentioned at the end, that the son, grandson and great-grandson of police officers has a strong chance of becoming a Chicago cop. But CPD, natch, did not respond to my inquiry, and a desultory online search came up empty. He'd be in his late 40s now. He seemed like a nice kid; I hope he's having a good life.

     ABOARD THE EMPIRE STATE — So how does a 21-year-old South Side Irish kid end up aboard a ship, 300 miles due north of Puerto Rico, steaming toward Barbados at a brisk clip of 17 knots?
     "I like water," offers Terry McCabe, the only Chicagoan attending the State of New York Maritime College, the oldest of the nation's six colleges teaching young people the honorable and endangered art of navigating the high seas. Every summer, 400 underclassmen and -women set sail for eight weeks aboard the Empire State — a 37-year-old cargo ship converted to carry trainees — cruising from the Bronx and heading, on this summer's voyage, to Charleston, Barbados, Naples and Wales.
     I suggest to the 1996 graduate of Mount Carmel High School that while many people like water, few sail the seas. He digs for a better explanation.
     "I was a lifeguard at Rainbow Beach, at 79th and Lake Street — also at Kennedy Park," he says. "This is what came to me, I guess."
     It is gratifying to see your city well-represented, and McCabe, as Maritime's lone Chicagoan, does just that. He was vice president of the student council, president of the 50-member Emerald Society, and wrestled at 171 pounds. The cadets have their nicknames embroidered on the pockets of their blue boiler suits, and McCabe's "Scrappy" is a remnant from his days on Maritime's now-defunct rugby team. Five-foot-eight "on a good day," he made up the difference between himself and the typical rugby behemoth with pure grit. Maritime prides itself on a certain quasi-military discipline, and so disbanded its rugby team after realizing that rugby placed its cadets in the general vicinity of other collegiate rugby teams, and thus such venerable rugby traditions as the Naked Beer Slide.*
     Probably just as well. While McCabe's older sister is a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, his blood is not navy but Chicago Police Department blue. His great-grandfather, Peter McCabe, was a Chicago cop, as was his grandfather, John McCabe, as was his father, also John McCabe, who just retired as a detective at Area 2 violent crimes after 30 years on the force. His brother, named — and you saw this coming — John McCabe Jr., is a fourth-generation Chicago cop, currently on leave.
     Despite that long tradition, McCabe — who took and passed the police exam last March — is in no rush to settle down at 11th and State, certainly not before seeing the world. And he has already seen much more than the typical 21-year-old from Mount Greenwood. This is his third cruise_the past two summers took him, among other places, to Spain, Portugal, Germany, Bermuda, England and his ancestral Ireland.
      He wasn't overly impressed. Asked his assessment of the countries he's seen, McCabe replies: "They're all the same." Pressed for something more profound, McCabe, who plays bagpipes in the Chicago Stockyards Kilty Band, admits "Ireland was actually pretty cool."
     McCabe has reasons to be nonplused. Not only is he from Chicago, but the Maritime College is not your run-of-the-mill state institution either. Tucked on the very northeast tip of New York City, where the East River flows into Long Island Sound, the college is built around Fort Schuyler, an 1830s pentagon of stone with formal parade grounds and slit gun ports and enough nautical memorabilia scattered about to quicken even a Midwesterner's dusty heart, such as a massive bronze five-bladed propeller salvaged off that greyhound of the seas, the SS United States, and displayed as if it were sculpture.
     "(The campus) is one of the things I like most about it," says McCabe. "It's hard to believe it's in the Bronx."
     It is, but we're not. Not anymore. The Bronx is 10 days and 1,300 miles behind us. Shipboard life for cadets falls into routine. "You're either on watch, or working or in class," says McCabe, a 1st class boatswain — sort of like a handyman on the ship. They need a handyman, given that the vessel is basically 12,000 tons of pumps, blowers, winches, watertight doors, condensers, conduits and wildcats that haul up 12,900-pound anchors on massive chains with links 14 inches long.
     "You don't usually use heavy machinery in college," McCabe notes.
     The news about the maritime industry typically sounds so grim — all those 400,000-ton Japanese supertankers with crews of a dozen or two — but McCabe, entering his senior year, doesn't think he has spent the last three years training for a dwindling profession.
     "I have more options than (I would at) any other college," he says. "I'll graduate with a degree in marine transportation and I'll also have my U.S. Coast Guard license for unlimited tonnage. So they gave me the best of both worlds here. You can ship out, you can work on land. And my degree is so inclusive, you can do anything and everything, from maritime law to maritime insurance."
     He doesn't add "to being a cop" but that's where I'd bet my money. The lure of the sea is mighty, but it drains away compared to 100 years of family tradition. And besides: How many police officers can figure out where they are with a sextant and a starry night sky? We could use one, someday. But Terry McCabe is in no rush. He has those supreme luxuries of youth: time and a world awaiting.

      —Originally published in the Sun-Times, June 6, 1999

* Something I knew about because I had witnessed it first hand at a Big 10 rugby party held at Northwestern Apartments in 1979.

"Please consider it could save a life"

     Occasionally someone will ask me if there are any columns I regret writing. And the honest answer is no.

     Well okay, a few touch a nerve, and lead to a couple unpleasant days. Sometimes emails take a week to tail off, even two. That column where the editor sent me to buy an assault rifle that vectored off into the Fox News reality distortion field. The one about the First and Second Amendments where I used "child porn" in the headline, not realizing how that term excites Red Staters. Those lingered, unpleasantly.
     But most ripples pass. There is one, however, whose repercussions roll on through the years.
     It was Aug. 29, 2018, and I was cutting through Daley Plaza — back when people walked around the Loop, going places. I came across a protest held by "targeted individuals" — people who believe they are the center of vast conspiracies. I accepted a flyer, took a photo, and left, and later talked to their spokesman and wrote a column.         

      As I try to do when writing about the troubled, I strove for a gentle touch and to respect their point of view. 

     It began: 

     "Strangers are following you. Teams of them, coordinating their surveillance. Recording you. Attacking you with sonic devices. Maybe burning you with lasers. Maybe implanting grain-sized trackers inside your body. You can feel the hard bumps under your skin.

     "You are alarmed, naturally, and turn for help to those you trust: your family and friends. Maybe law enforcement. Only they don’t believe you. They might even act like you’re the problem. Like you’re crazy.
     "Welcome to the world of Targeted Individuals, a loose confederation of those, in their words, subject to the “growing crimes of organized stalking, surveillance, abuse and electronic harassment.”

     Later in the piece, I quote a psychologist who says, in essence, that these people are disturbed.
What I did not realize was that targeted individuals, reading this, would miss that nuance, and take me for a kindred spirit. 

     On Wednesday, I received an email beginning:

      "Hi my name is Sharon and I have videos of hours of similar events that you have shared in this recent post. I have actual videos of strange events happening for more than 4 years now. I would very much like to meet you and share my experiences on this matter because I believe that if enough light is shed on this story more people who can provide some kind of proof, then maybe our laws will change to protect people with mental illness..."     

     Concision here seemed my friend. "No,"I replied, "thank you."

     That drew a second email:

     "Hi Mr. Steinberg. I just saw your response to the recent email that I sent to you earlier this morning. I can guess why you’re saying no and I understand. I would like to, however, share this with you. I’m 53 years old and I’m being tortured into insanity and I can’t take it anymore. I have had to abandon the state where I was born in because they ran me out from torturing me so bad.
     "My family members want nothing to do with me and my only child is about to lose her mother because I can’t mentally take it anymore and my body, mind, and soul just wants peace now.
      "Please reconsider it could save my life. I was supposed to end it today then I read your article.Thank you for your time and for reading and responding to my email."

     What to say to that? "Tortured into insanity." The presence of the child made ignoring it impossible, at least for me. When you deal with such people, it's best to get them to talk. I fired off questions designed to ascertain how she views her situation, and perhaps say something to plug life:

     "Let me ask you a few questions: 1) Who is torturing you? 2) How are they torturing you? 3) Why ... why you, and not somebody else? 4) Have you explored the possibility that this might be due to something else? 5) How old is your child?
     "We only know two things about this life for certain: 1) death is permanent. 2) However long we are alive, we are dead for far, far longer.

     That didn't work. She wrote:

     "Mr. Steinberg I’m not trying to get into a battle of wits with you. I’m not that smart.
      "Second, everyone always ask those exact same questions. My daughter is 33.
     'I’m not good with the back-and-forth thing I asked you and you said no I asked you to reconsider and we’re doing this back-and-forth thing and I’m not good at that.
     "I really think you should take a look at some of my videos. I really think you should reconsider and take a moment to actually meet with me face-to-face and sit down and talk to me. You won’t be disappointed and you won’t regret it.
     "I can’t answer your questions of who is doing it because I don’t know who. I can only tell you that I am zapped in places on my body day and night 24 hours a day seven days a week, 365 days out of the year and it’s painful....

      There's more, but you get the idea. I called her number and left a message saying, in essence, "I'm sorry, I don't have the skills to help you but I encourage you to find somebody who does." I expected it to end there. But I got a text:

     "Hi Neil, thank you for calling me. I didn't realize that you had called me. I'm hanging in there. I decided to fight last night. I started posting any video that I could find that showed what I was talking about to TikTok, Twitter, Facebook ... It's horrible to be kept awake for more than 24 hours for no apparent reason just because someone can. I've been up for four days. I'm still functioning, but I'm grateful because if you hadn't said no, and I hadn't gotten desperate enough to reach out and hear you say no I don't think I would've fought back ... Please with me the best. I wish you the best. Thank you, you're a kind soul."

      I asked her if she minded my posting our exchange. She didn't, adding, "I was afraid and now I'm a fighter."

     Which is about as good an outcome, for now, as I can imagine. 

Sun-Times takes a hit, but keep on ticking

     

                                                       Photo by Jessica Koscielniak

     As a rule, you're not supposed to draw attention to what isn't in the newspaper. The idea is, you've got everything right here, in your hands. All the news you need to know today, plus a horoscope, comics and tomorrow's weather. Anything that isn't here doesn't matter.
      But the key rule about newspapers is: There is no rule that can't be scrapped as circumstances dictate. Sometimes the stylebook gets set aside. Sometimes the loss is too big to ignore. When iconic movie reviewer Roger Ebert died in 2013, we didn't go back to running reviews that were bare synopses under jokey pseudonyms like Mae Tinee.
     We honored the man, recognized the loss, then moved forward, as best we could. The 35 staffers — including 23 in the Sun-Times newsroom — who took the Chicago Public Media buyout and are mostly leaving Friday are too important for the paper to cough into its fist and hope you don't notice. First, because they made a sacrifice, saving $4.2 million a year in costs to help the newspaper survive. That's news, and our job is to report the news. Second, you will notice. Their loss will be felt.
     I'm feeling it now. For me, it's personal, starting with John O'Neill, who has been the primary editor on this column. He's saved me from a thousand gaffes and probably a few career-ending misfires. He's my friend, as is his wife, Suzanne McBride, who often edits this on Sundays. I've been to their house, and they to mine. They were at my younger son's wedding, and I know their children, Jack and Grace.
     Richard Roeper is the biggest name to go. He is a star in his own right, holding his own with Ebert after he replaced Gene Siskel on his TV show in 2000. The author of seven books, Richard is a fearsome poker player and — what mattered to me most — a really good writer. We were good friends in our salad days — he was at my wedding — before I disappeared into marriage and parenthood, two snares that Richard neatly sidestepped.
     I will miss another friend in Rick Telander, who was the king at Sports Illustrated when the paper snagged him. He played football for Northwestern, and when he was drafted by Kansas City, Rick and a buddy drove straight north until they hit Lake Superior, where he bought 30 acres of land. Eight autumns have been highlighted with visits to his compound, to breathe the crisp air, smoke cigars, eat big steaks and plunge from the sauna into the gelid cold lake. He let me hang around even though I sometimes admit that I don't follow sports. While he played one-on-one with Michael Jordan, I once almost asked Jordan his name, because to me he was just another player in the Bulls locker room. Yet somehow Rick and I got along.
     Rick Morrissey is another vital sports columnist who is going, plus Bears beat writer Mark Potash and White Sox writer Daryl Van Schouwen. When I heard Annie Costabile is leaving too, I went looking for a text she sent me years ago. I had written something rounding up Chicago sports, and at the last minute cut out the Sky, for space — "how could I?" she demanded. She cared deeply about what she did — a defining characteristic of people who work at the Sun-Times, and was sincerely indignant, as befits someone who changed the way Chicagoans view the WNBA and women's sports.
     We lost most of our editorial board, and the future of editorials at the paper is uncertain. Lorraine Forte headed the board, running a staff not half as large as what was required to do the same job at the Tribune. Tom Frisbie left —soft-spoken, he edited my work when I joined the Sun-Times school guide as a freelancer in 1984, his quiet calm a counterpoint to my frantic, gerbil-on-a-wheel ambition. Back when we did endorsements, every trustee from every small town from Addison to Zion traipsed through the editorial board room, a process that was saved from devolving into pure confusion by the organizational skill and good cheer of Marlen Garcia.
     Our features department was mostly Miriam Di Nunzio and Darel Jevens, who edited Roeper and whose clever headlines for Dear Abby have been seen by millions of readers. With them leaving (although we are grateful Di Nunzio has agreed to stick around for a few months), I don't know who's going to try to step into their shoes, but I'm sure glad it won't be me. They did yeoman's work.
     Every election night about 5 p.m. the staff would gather in the newsroom to hammer out a game plan. We were looking at a long seven hours hours of pinballing around the city until drinks at the Billy Goat, and we all took our marching orders from Scott Fornek, decked out in the election night sweater vest he wore for luck. He had joined the Sun-Times when the Chicago Daily News folded in 1978, and carried that special cachet that Daily News alumni enjoyed, having worked at the same paper as Carl Sandburg and Ben Hecht.

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"You and I alone ... could fight this royal battle."

 

Human brains stored at the Anatomical Gift Association of Illinois, 2013

     So I spoke to a neurosurgeon last week — in my professional capacity, I rush to add. Not for personal reasons. His hospital had pitched some achievement or another, and I, in that they-offer-you-a-hand-and-you-grab-their-elbow manner of mine, replied, "You know, I've never even spoken to a brain surgeon." 

    It worked. We talked, got on well. So now photographer Ashlee Rezin and I will, at some point in the near future, scrub up and watch this man operate on somebody's brain.
     Which is cool. Though not my job, per se, as a daily newspaper columnist. Except that I've made it my job, my portfolio being the realm of the interesting, and operations are interesting. I've watched a heart transplant and a lung transplant, a kidney transplant and Chicago surgeons in Vilnius putting a stainless steel rod in a girl's leg. A hip replacement — that was me, a video of the operation I underwent. Because surgeries are not something the average Sun-Times reader gets a chance to peer at, and I don't pass up an opportunity to share one. When a doctor at Northwestern rebuilt my spine, I spun it into a three part series. 
     I wouldn't mention this — no point in ballyhooing a story that could be months away from print — except that, jarred by the cleaver taken to the staff this week, I was tempted to begin this by cataloguing all the positions that the Sun-Times once had that are now gone. A jazz critic and a classical music critic, a book editor and an assistant book editor. A TV critic. A food editor. A travel editor. A medical writer. Five full-time librarians. 
     All lost. Along with 35 colleagues this week. The temptation is to focus on the past, on the loss, to sit in the ashes and cry. "We used to have a corporate jet and now look at us!" And maybe I should do that. But honestly, I don't have the heart for it. Nor the time. There was a moment Wednesday when I just felt so tired, and wished I'd left with them, and wondered what the future will be like, where the will to go on will come from.

     Then I shook it off, like a dog after a bath, and thought about watching brain surgery. The future for me will include looking at a living human brain. And talking to a man skilled enough to fix one. If he can do his job, I sure as hell can do mine. Writing a column, three times a week, trying to comfort Chicagoans living in a country driving to the brink of ruin — that's almost like a type of collective public brain surgery. Reaching into the mind of the body politic and rearranging. 

      That's worth doing, still. I get to focus on what is important or, when need be, completely ignore what is important and take a bubble bath in the trivial. 

     Make no mistake. It is daunting. And difficult. A colleague called Wednesday morning, someone I interact with a lot, and I let that colleague grieve and weep and vent about the various individuals who will no longer be at our side, working with us. No question. It'll be a loss keenly felt. But not insurmountable. I thought of — but wisely did not mention — Shakespeare's "Henry V," after the king fires up his troops to face fearsome odds against an overwhelming French force. 

     "God's will, my liege!" Westmoreland enthuses. "Would you and I alone, without more help, could fight this royal battle!"

    That is bluster. I did not say, "We'll put out the paper ourselves." We could not do that. But I thought it. And at times it might feel that way, to those of us left behind, shouldering an increased burden. We need to always remember that it is an honor to remain in the struggle.  This is a battle worth winning, whatever our reduced numbers, however stacked the odds are against us. Losing is simply not an option. Or if it is our fate, then we will go down fighting. 

Correction: Dylan Thomas was a Welshman. From Wales.

     Maybe all those years of living in Northbrook while writing about Chicago have made my brain soft. But when constructing Monday's gathering of Irish poets for St. Patrick's Day, I tucked in Dylan Thomas. Who of course was Welsh. Having been born in Wales. And lived his life there. As a Welshman.

Dylan Thomas

     I knew that. I've written about the pride Wales has for him. The information was somewhere in my brain.
     Yet not readily accessible when the moment called for it. Because there was Thomas, on page two, tucked after W.B. Yeats and before Seamus Heaney and Oscar Wilde.
     My blog readers leaped on the error when the column posted at the stroke of midnight — well, 12:13 a.m.
     "Dylan Thomas is Welsh, not Irish," someone commented, anonymously.
     The only thing worse than being awake at 4 a.m. is confronting your failings at 4 a.m.
     "Ah," I replied, at 4:03 a.m. "You'd think 'A Child's Christmas in Wales' would have been the giveaway. Do you think I can get through today saying I consider him Irish by marriage? Probably not. Maybe I'll try saying, 'We're all Irish on St. Paddy's Day.'"
     I went online and tucked a version of that into the column, pretending that I knew all along. I often wish I were as smart, or as eloquent, as the guy whose thoughts run under my picture in the newspaper.
     Shamefully, some rebellious mental sub-circuit immediately tried to justify the error. Well, I thought, we consider Oscar Wilde Irish, even thought he lived for years in London, so why couldn't...
     No.
     Wales isn't that far from Ireland...
     Don't.
     I actually checked: 154 miles from Swansea, where Thomas was born, to Dublin. That's like saying someone residing in Peoria lives in Chicago.
     Mistakes are a good way to air whatever corrosive narrative is running in the back of your mind, unnoticed. Mine, apparently, goes something like this: "You're a hack and a bumbler who can't do his job properly, who puts on this pretense of knowing stuff but in fact is the kind of ignorant stumblebum who would include Dylan Thomas among IRISH POETS when in fact he famously, no, VERY famously, is a [obscene gerund] Welshman from [the same obscene gerund] WALES!"
     It's good to get that out, from time to time. Cleansing.
     I don't like to make mistakes. But I do like copping to them, just because the ability to do so is rare. When you see someone whose ego is so inflamed — no names, please! — that any suggestion of error is an impossible affront, then taking responsibility for mistakes is a sign of confidence, almost a superpower.
     Still, gaffes in print make for a long day. The first newspaper reader weighed in at 9:03 a.m.:

     "Steinberg. Have you been drinking that green beer? The author of A Child’s Christmas in Wales? Maybe we say in Chicago that everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day but Thomas was not.
John D Cameron
(former waiter at the Quadrangle Club, not Irish either)"

     I sighed, deeply, then replied:
     "No, to the beer, green or otherwise. But yes, you are right. I own the sin. Maybe seeing his face on all those pub walls led me astray. It's fixed online. As for the print edition, you are the first to point it out. No doubt there will be more. Thank you for writing."

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