"A little disappointing"

     Today's initial post is just a re-jiggering of yesterday's—kind of a rip-off, really, for regular readers—so I thought I would offer something fresh. Since today is the 75th anniversary of the opening of Mount Rushmore, it seems appropriate to share this chapter from "The Quest for Pie," the unpublished memoir of my trip with the boys out west in 2014.

     Gutzon Borglum is not famous. Though he should be, if only for embodying the truth that you can do something great, something truly great, that you can create a masterwork through tremendous personal effort, a masterwork that is known around the globe, leaving behind a shrine to yourself and your genius in the bargain and still be completely, utterly obscure.
     And if you are the one person in a thousand who knows who Gutzon Borglum is, well, you should feel good about yourself, because you are extraordinary too, in your own way.
     Borglum sculpted Mount Rushmore. He worked on it for more than 14 years, aided by some 400 workers. The job was finished after his death in 1941 by his son Lincoln.

     Maybe because we first stopped by the small museum to Borglum in town, on our way in, before visiting Mount Rushmore itself, and viewed up close Borglum’s competent but soulless bronze of Lincoln, sitting on a bench by the curb, as if waiting for a bus, in addition to Borglum’s other artless, static metal creations. But by the time we got done passing all the tributes to Borglum, not just the museum in town and the studio shrine at the Mount Rushmore site, plus various busts and plaques peppered all around, I began to suspect that the whole endeavor was a deliberate ploy on Borglum’s part, an artist’s trick to drape honor upon himself, using America’s presidential greats as a pretext. It seemed almost post-modern.
      Not that Mt. Rushmore wasn’t impressive — it is. Big and impressive and patriotic. Sometimes a hugely famous artwork is a let-down when you finally see the genuine article. Michelangelo’s David, for instance. By the time I got myself to Florence, on that vexing trip to Italy with my father, and we laid eyes upon David, it struck me as a well-wrought garden sculpture. I had seen it too many times already.     
     Not Mount Rushmore, whose scale allows it to survive the hype. It really is enormous, and enormous is one quality that is hard to sap away with trinkets. I was particularly intrigued, as we hiked the “Presidential Trail” around the mountain, to catch the four faces from different angles, peeking through the trees. For some reason, we always get Mount Rushmore reproduced from a single, head-on perspective, as if it’s the only view possible, and it felt marvelous, almost subversive, to see Washington in profile. It was surreal, like glancing at your change and noticing a penny with Lincoln gazing directly at you.   

      Yes, Mt. Rushmore memorializes four men who need no memorializing. Nobody says, "Oh, right, George Washington, I forgot about him. High time somebody did something in his honor.” And Jefferson, well, he doesn’t really resemble Jefferson here — his nose is wrong. (That is, he doesn’t look like Jefferson as commonly depicted in portraits and statues — it isn’t as if anybody has a photo).
     But Mount Rushmore is patriotic, and there’s a joy in patriotism, a sentiment you ruin if you think about it too intensely — here it probably helped to skip Wounded Knee. I felt very God-Bless-America-y, so long as I diligently ignored the various aesthetic disappointments. Mount Rushmore is also a reminder of how generally polite the world can be — had France at some point decided to erect the massive heads of, oh, Louis XIV, Charles De Gaulle, Napoleon Bonaparte and Charlemagne, carved into a peak in the Pyrenees, we’d never stop laughing at them. The world is very kind to Americans when it comes to Mount Rushmore, or maybe they just mock us out of earshot in languages we don’t bother to learn.
     The boys and I had lunch — another let down, since Ross, an avid film buff and Alfred Hitchcock fan, discovered, by reading the signs, that Hitchcock didn’t actually film “North by Northwest” here, except for some outside establishing shots. The scene where Eva Marie Saint guns down Cary Grant was not filmed in the room where we were having our $27 worth of tepid foil-wrapped cafeteria cheeseburgers, but in a studio in London.
     Having just seen the Badlands and the Corn Palace in Mitchell, I couldn't help but place Mt. Rushmore in league with the latter. The Corn Palace is a brick building, not made of corn, but decorated anew each year with corncob designs, honoring the local crop and, not incidentally, drawing the dupes off the highway to buy popcorn and postcards, which also was Mt. Rushmore's original purpose — that’s why the local boosters contacted Borglum, to create a magnet to draw visitors to the Black Hills of South Dakota. As is its purpose to this day, once you blow away the mist of unfocused patriotic zeal that the park service sprays over the place. Give them credit: it works.   

     We tramped around, probably longer than we should have, and it struck me that on our way here we had passed a thousand more dramatic mountaintops, carved by the wind and the rain, and we make a big deal out of this one and flatter our own abilities because of the crude likenesses of ourselves we managed to blast upon it. Omnia vanitas.
     My boys were even cooler than I to Mt. Rushmore.
     “A little disappointing,” Ross concluded. “Nature is more wonderful than anything we can build.”
     “The Badlands were better,” Kent agreed. “Man-made creations don't compare to nature.”
     I was surprised, pleased, proud and a little unsettled to hear the line from Bernard Pomerance's “The Elephant Man” that I had delivered in the Badlands echoed back to me, in slightly altered form, a day later. Here I thought I was a Polonius-like blabbermouth whose constant stream of platitudes are completely ignored by his sons. But kids are listening even when they don’t seem to be listening. Keep in mind that whatever you tell your children they'll eventually tell you.

                                                                                      

A rough beast is born and slouches toward 2020

     The column I originally wrote for Monday just assumed the Cubs would boot Sunday night's game against the Indians. But as the day progressed, it dawned on me that Chicago might actually win, and thus the column would seem out-of-place. I toyed with adapting it, but that didn't work, and in the end I decided to hold it and run this instead, which sharp-eyed readers will notice is a version of Sunday's blog post.

     Eight days to the election. One week from Tuesday. Just under 200 hours.
     You’d think we’d be home free.
     Yet we’re not. The thing keeps getting weirder.
     Where to start?
     There’s the Washington Post/ABC poll last week that finds the candidates 1 percentage point apart, with 46 percent of voters backing Hillary Clinton and 45 percent backing Donald Trump.
     A dead heat.
     And at week’s end the whole email server nightmare came roaring back. How could it not? As with any good horror movie, just when the monster has been blown up and shot and stabbed and the building has collapsed atop him, just when the heroes are finally grinning and ruffling each other’s hair and making their movie’s-over jokes, suddenly the yammering yam comes bursting out of the rubble, red eyes glowing, his election hopes inexplicably alive.
     Wasn’t it a week or two ago that Trump’s campaign chances were dead and shriven and buried under the weight of squalid allegations of him groping women? Now he comes rearing out of the grave, a la “Carrie,” supercharged by the electric zap of news that FBI Director James Comey sent an inexplicable letter to Congress saying, in essence, we’ve got some emails that may involve Clinton on Anthony Weiner’s computer.

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Enter Anthony Weiner, with a seltzer bottle

     Nine days to the election. One week from Tuesday. Two hundred hours and change. 
     You'd think we'd be home free.
     Yet we're not. The thing keeps getting weirder. 
     As with any good horror movie, just when the monster has been blown up and shot and stabbed and the building has collapsed atop him, just when the heroes are finally exhaling and ruffling each other's hair and clapping one another on the shoulder and making their movie's-over jokes, suddenly the yammering yam comes bursting out of the rubble, inexplicably alive.
     So Donald Trump, whose campaign chances were dead and shriven and buried, comes rearing out of the grave, a la "Carrie," with news that the FBI director James Comey sent an inexplicable letter to Congress saying, in essence, we've got some emails that may involve Hillary Clinton on Anthony Weiner's computer. 
   The thing was almost instantly debunked, but it doesn't matter. I hesitate to declare that facts have mattered less in this election than any in our history — there have been some doozies— so I will just say, "Why should the truth start mattering now?" Just the word "emails," like the word "Benghazi," is enough to erode Clinton's narrow lead. 
    Anthony Weiner. The former Congressman whose career was destroyed, not once but twice, by naughty cell phone photos he felt compelled to send to strangers. First as Congressman, then as mayoral candidate. He happened to be married -- in one of those coincidences that would look trite in fiction -- to one of Clinton's top aides, Huma Abedin. 
     That the emails don't seem to reveal anything or even necessarily involve Clinton is just the icing on the cake of horror. Of course. When one of the major candidates lives in a fact-free echo chamber  —"This changes everything!" Trump exulted—it makes sense that this non-story would rock the campaign. 
    Actually, it doesn't change anything. Clinton has been thoroughly demonized for offenses, —the tragedy in Libya to her high-paid speeches to the endless server scandal — that wink out into insignificance when held up against the bone-deep bigotry, ignorance and anti-Americanism of Donald Trump and everything he unambiguously and proudly represents. 
    I was tempted to conclude that, in generations to come, saner heads will recall the 2016 election with wonder, as the nadir, the hard bottom we bounced up from. Pretty to think so. Because that doesn't sound right. My gut tells me that this is just the opening bell of our dystopian future, with charismatic non-politicians whipping up grass roots mobs, tweet wars and battling TV comedians giving us our news. As terrible as the election of 2016 is, it is only the beginning. Hillary might win — I hold out hope she will win, unless of course she loses. But somewhere, a better, more palatable version of Donald Trump — Donald 2.0 — is being assembled. Some Marco Rubio-calibre fraud is staring hard at himself in the mirror, liking what he sees, and cooing, "Next year, it's your turn baby!" The rough beast awakes and, in anticipation of its hour come round at last, slouches toward Washington to be born.  

Tiny planes flying underground in Cleveland

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     As far as the World Series goes, you didn't think it was going to be easy did you?
     Otherwise, about all I have to say is that I was hurrying to the airport in Cleveland on Monday, having popped into town to write a quick scene-setter for the paper, when I noticed a small model of this very familiar red and white plane mounted on the wall over the tracks. The Granville Gee Bee R-1, my favorite plane, winner of the Thompson Trophy at the National Air Races in Cleveland in 1932.
     The RTA stop at Hopkins Airport sort of had a mixed aeronautical metaphor going on — antique racing planes on the walls, jetliners on the floor.  It didn't quite mesh, but give them credit for trying. 
     I should dig out the story I wrote about the plane —another day, it's late. But I had the honor of talking to the pilot of the Gee Bee, Jimmy Doolittle, the same Jimmy Doolittle who later led the raid on Tokyo in 1942. If I remember correctly, he was in the phone book in Arizona, and was more than happy to chat about his brief time in the cockpit of the Gee Bee. Flying it, he said, was like "trying to balance a pencil by its point on your fingertip." Or words to that effect. It had stubby wings, an oversized engine and a little sump of a tail, and killed several of the men who flew it, but not Doolittle, who won the race, stepped out of the plane, declared the era of racing planes over, and never raced again. 
      Decorating train stops is one of those small details that brings joy to city life, though Cleveland certainly has nothing on Chicago, which has been installing gorgeous mosaics and artworks at certain 'L' stops. Though I liked something I saw in the subway in Paris -- they had glass cases displaying wares from nearby stores, as advertising and display. That seemed a good idea, though security is no doubt a concern. 
    Anyway, I spent the entire evening watching Game 3 of the World Series, am feeling — tired and subdued — so this post will have to be brief and slight. I have to admit, the game was not a font of fascination, which could have been forgiven had we won. But we didn't win. 


     

Be president of the United States! Earn big bucks!

Old Post Office, now the Trump International Hotel, summer 2016

     Jimmy Carter is perhaps the most disdained president of recent history. Thinking about the late 1970s, the American public generally remembers the energy crisis, the hostages in Iran whom Carter couldn’t free, his “national malaise” and that’s about it.
 

National Portrait Gallery

   Which is unfair. At first he was very popular, for common man moves like walking with his family during the inaugural parade. Carter offered welcome relief from the Greek tragedy of Richard Nixon and the Roman farce of Gerald Ford.
     His being a peanut farmer was celebrated, and companies offered products trying to capitalize on Carter’s grinning likeness. The government quickly moved to make it stop.
     On May 3, 1977, Assistant Attorney General John M. Harmon prepared a memo suggesting the Federal Trade Commission might prevent the president’s likeness from being used commercially.
     “The commission could probably prohibit the use of advertisements, labels, or trade names which implied that the president endorsed, profited from, or was connected with the sale of a particular product,” he wrote. “The prestige of the presidency and President Carter’s well-known background would probably allow the commission to eliminate most of the attempts to attach the president’s name to peanuts and peanut products.”

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Bartman is one of us

     I had completely forgotten about this column, when Ald. Joe Moore reminded me of it. I was going to post it only if the Cubs punted the pennant. But they didn't punt, they nailed it, something we need to remind ourselves should the World Series victory elude our grasp. 
    I'm posting it anyway because it speaks to the Bartman question, which is with us far more than I would have thought possible, between people who want him to throw out the pitch before a game — a bad idea; what if we then lost? — to that vindictive dick holding up a large "Bartman for President" sign in the first row along the third base line at Progressive Field, one of those details that magnified the horror of Tuesday's loss to the Indians. I'm proud that, back when people were calling for his head, I stood with the star-crossed fan whose only sin was doing what anybody would have done.

     Mrs. O'Leary was a real person. Catherine O'Leary. Married to Patrick. They owned a cow and lived on DeKoven Street. When much of the city of Chicago burned down in 1871, blame fell to Mrs. O'Leary and her cow, which supposedly kicked over a lantern. She denied it to her dying day, and historians agree it never happened. But people hounded her anyway -- reporters and circus owners who wanted her to appear in freak shows. The O'Learys moved from place to place, becoming bitter and withdrawn. It still annoys their descendants six generations later.
     I thought of Mrs. O'Leary when this Steve Bartman story broke. As the world knows, he's the 26-year-old fan who deflected a ball that Moises Alou might -- and here I want to emphasize the word "might" -- otherwise have caught.
     Bartman was guiltless, only doing what fans at the ballpark do. The ball comes to you, you strain to catch it. Happens every time. The fans around him were reaching too -- any one of them, or us, could have done it.
     Yet people blamed him. Why they should blame him and not, oh, Alex Gonzalez who muffed an easy double play shortly thereafter, is a mystery. If I were Gonzalez, I'd send Bartman a fruit basket at Christmas.
     Rather than vilify this young man, we should embrace him. He is one of us -- he was a fan, at the ballpark, in his baseball cap, cheering on his team. He bothered to get a ticket and go -- did you?
     Why do we need a villain? I didn't see the Cubs dogging it. Kerry Wood says he choked, but the only reason he had a lead to protect was because of his own home run.
     We need to remember: Baseball is a machine designed to break your heart. I think that's why I generally keep it at arm's distance — there is enough heartbreak in life without caring about a game.
     But I was surprised, when the moment came, that I did care. A lot. Call it Johnny-come-lately fandom, if you like. Still, I was glad to have been drawn in. Even though I must have looked like a fool Wednesday night, perched on the edge of the sofa, in my sweats and old Cubs cap and my Little League mitt — for luck, or in case a ball came flying out of the TV.
     "That's it boys!" I shouted, when Wood hit his home run. "They'll never beat us now."
     My wife, wiser, wouldn't watch the game with us. "I can't bear to see them lose," she said.
     But I had hope. That's ridiculous, isn't it? And you know what is more ridiculous? I still do.
     Who are the losers?
     Let me ask this: If the Cubs are such losers, what are the Braves — we beat them earlier in the play-offs, remember? How about the Pirates, or any other team that didn't even make the playoffs? What are they? Sure it's frustrating to get so close to the dream.
     But that's also the essence of baseball, isn't it? Remember "Field of Dreams"? Remember Moonlight Graham? The Burt Lancaster character wasn't a former Yankee. He wasn't a swaggering slugger who regretted a muffed play in his chain of glory. He was a guy who never got a chance to bat.

Build Bartman a statue

     That's baseball. Sure, we lost, and it was heartbreaking. But the thing to do when your heart is broken is to hold your head up and claim your pain. Don't be too dumb to be proud. Turning Bartman into Mrs. O'Leary would be wrong. He is us. We need to fold him under our wing, because he is the vehicle chosen by Fate, and Fate rules baseball. If you think that the Cubs would have won without him, then you don't understand. Fate is more resourceful than that, and if it doesn't get you one way, it gets you another.
     Besides, what is Bartman's sin compared to the die-hards who are now losing faith? We're through, they seem to say. Boo hoo. Forget about the Cubs. We're done. Let the Tribune tear down Wrigley Field, like they've always wanted to do, and build whatever gross and gargantuan Col. Robert McCormick Memorial Stadium that looms in their corporate dreams.
     If baseball is all about winning, why not go be a Yankees fan? They win every year. Your team will never be far from a Series.
     Life goes on. The Cubs had a season in 1970. We are facing a long winter now. But spring will come. In February. In Arizona.
     Let me tell you something. I was on the couch watching Wednesday. With my two boys, who, like their dad, are not big fans. At one point during the game my 6-year-old said something he had never said before.
     "Daddy," he said. "Can we go to Wrigley Field?" I said sure, in the spring, I'd get tickets. "No," he said, "I mean, can we get in the car right now and drive there?"
     I told him we would wait until spring. We'll be there. And so will you. The Cubs will recover from this. Chicago will shake it off.
     I wrote the editorial that was supposed to run after the Cubs won the pennant. It was beautiful. I know that by saying this I'm reinforcing my reputation as my own most ardent admirer. But it was. My mother cried when I read it to her. I cried when I wrote it. It was about what binds a city together, the years of waiting ended, the iron faith of little boys grown old rewarded, building to a joyous crescendo of how great it is to win.
     I read it one more time and then tucked it away. We'll use it next year.

                 —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Oct. 17, 2003

Turning down World Series tickets can be done

     It’s sad that the Chicago City Council needs an ethics panel to yank back the World Series tickets that aldermen should know enough not to accept on their own.
     It is possible to turn down World Series tickets. I know, because I’ve done it. Not so much from ethical as practical considerations. But the process is the same. You just say no.
     But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s begin at the beginning.
     I grew up near Cleveland and followed the Indians. My father, a nuclear physicist, didn’t do the whole sports thing. But my mother was a fan. She was 12 when the Indians won the World Series, and I knew that team well — ace Bob Feller, Larry Doby, the second black player in the league, third baseman Al Rosen, who was Jewish. Jewish players meant a lot to me.
     My grandfather took me to my first game, around 1966, but that was it. He was a stern, silent Pole, and I only got the one game with him. Otherwise I would go to the enormous Cleveland Municipal Stadium with friends. I remember one doubleheader against the Red Sox in 1973 where we waited in the parking lot for the players to go to their cars. I got Carl Yastrzemski’s autograph, Gaylord Perry’s too. I still have the program.

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