Suburban mystery

     The Chicago Botanic Garden is a 10 minute drive from our home in the leafy suburban paradise. A tremendous boon that I've written about here many times. Maybe too many, but you get what you pay for.
      It isn't the only stunning natural expanse we have at our disposal. There is one even closer that I seldom write about because ... well, I'm not sure why. The Trail through Time is itself a wonder, with fields of prairie grasses and large oaks, plus a soccer field and a playground and a large oval around a reservoir. It reminds me of the Valemount trail by my parents' old place in Boulder, except for the Techny Tower, looming in the background. If you haven't been inside, find a way — go to one of their occasional concerts. It's like a European cathedral.
     Friday, after an indulgent birthday dinner of a jumbo char kosher hot dog and fries from Little Louie's, eaten in the downtown park — more natural beauty — we walked off our sins on the trail. By the soccer field, I noticed this tree.

    "Is that a balloons?" my wife said.

    We decided it was a ball. Which raised the question of how it got there? A powerful but misdirected kick? An intentional insertion? Did a kid climb the tree? It's really far in there.
     "If I were a kid, I'd be throwing baseballs at that until it came down," my wife said.

     Kids nowadays, no initiative.

     Or heck, maybe they had, maybe an hour had been dedicated trying to get the thing down. Failed attempts to climb the trail. Baseballs thrown in vain. We'll never know. We dedicated less than a minute to the question before moving on. 

Erecting a billboard for the blind

    

     Once you get in the habit of ignoring reality, the specifics of the reality being ignored hardly matter.
     That’s a key to understanding what’s going on right now, but not something that gets stated plainly. So I’ll say it again:
     Once you get in the habit of ignoring reality, the specifics of the reality being ignored hardly matter.
     Remember when Donald Trump bragged he could shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and not lose a single vote? An uncharacteristic thing for him to say, in that it was true. But subsequent events bear him out, and we free of his mesmeric influence should never forget it. He doesn’t lead a party, but a cult. If your followers believe in you no matter what you do or say, then they are acolytes, not citizens. It’s faith: God is good no matter how many landslides He sends, sweeping away the village school. Ditto for Trump. He is their god. They certainly adore him like a deity.
     The facts presented are clear. After Trump lost the 2020 election, he tried to hold onto power by coining the lie that he had actually won, based on nothing but bluster, then bullied and pressured others to either believe him or act as if they did. He knew this wasn’t true, but he didn’t care. Nor did his followers. When Trump could not marshal enough compliant officials to reject the votes cast by the American people, he summoned a mob to Washington D.C. and set it on the Capitol at the exact moment Congress was certifying the election. It was an attempted coup.
     The U.S. House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol began public hearings Thursday. While part of the country tuned in, aghast and enthralled, a significant segment dismissed it out of hand, ahead of time, reflexively, easily, the way they smirk at climate change and shrug off gun violence. Fox News didn’t even carry Thursday’s hearing.

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The race to lose to J.B. Pritzker

   

     Look at a map.

     Illinois is an oasis of blue state humanity in a desert of red state neo-fascism. Here, women's rights, immigrants welcome and science respected. There, the Handmaid's Tale, build-the-wall and science is what the most conservative parents in a school say it is.
     So despite the mega-millions pumped into the Illinois gubernatorial race, I haven't really been paying close attention, assuming that whoever the Republicans toss up against him, Gov. J.B. Pritzker has to be re-elected. He battled COVID smartly. He worked with the rebarbative Lori Lightfoot the best anyone could. It hardly matters which Republican neophyte he defeats.
     I do have a particular distaste for Richard Irvin, the Aurora mayor and ventriloquist's dummy sitting on the knee of Ken Griffin, the richest man in Illinois, opening and closing his wooden yap while $50 million worth of advertising spews out. Irvin tarred opponents for voting for Joe Biden without ever revealing who he voted for—not wanting to be outed as a former Democrat, or damned as a MAGA wannabe. Wanting to both lure Southern Illinois's considerable population of MAGA zombies to lope in his direction while not repelling off what old style conservative Republicans remain and aren't really paying attention.

     Then Bailey got on my radar with a single word. He will stop the "indoctrination" of our children. What we used to call "teaching history," but now Republicans are attempting to slur with their dubious practice of attaching a bad word to something unobjectionable, the way gay individuals wanting to marry each other are described as homosexuals pushing "an agenda."

     I'll say it again. No nation is great because everything they did is a chest-swelling jubilee. Part of being a truly great nation is the ability to confront reality, good and ill. Meanwhile, part of being a totalitarian state is fear that the truth will undo you and must be suppressed. Thus, in an undeniable irony, it is the courageous patriot who will stare unashamed at the full, true, sometimes awful history of any country, and the cringing traitor who insists it must be presented as an unbroken triumphal procession, who passes laws trying to ensure that his children pass through the educational system and end up as ignorant as himself. 

      Give Bailey credit: it works. Ya gotta put the slop where the pigs can get at it.

      A Sun-Times/WBEZ poll found Bailey leading Irvin by almost 2-to-1—guess money can't buy everything. Panicking, Irvin rolled out the tagline, “Cut the fat. Clean up Springfield." This is not only a despicable reference to Pritzker's girth, but a sign of typical Republican oblivious, since after years of austerity budgets, there really isn't much fat left to cut. What are they going to take the old meat cleaver to? Social services? Ah, hahahahahahahaha. 

      I don't want to minimize the importance of a Democratic governor. As the Republican Party becomes the party of sedition, state governors play a key role in either preserving or traducing free elections and a safe vote. Whether the GOP elephant, ravaged by the Trump virus, ends up with either Irvin or Bailey on its back, we have to keep a clear eye on what this race is about: preserving Democratic fact-based, human-oriented policy against creeping Trumpism and fascist fantasy and suppression. Pritzker will win by presenting who he is, while Bailey or Irvin will try to win by pretending to be what they're not.

Parson Weem's Fable by Grant Wood
Amon Carter Museum of American Art, Fort Worth

Wilmette Notes: Irish Eyes

     As it happens, there are a few cans of Guinness in my refrigerator right now, leftovers from the Hanukkah party. Hopefully, by summer's end, I'll find some guest to press them on. The fine Irish stout, and the men and women who serve it, have inspired many a tale, and prompt today's essay by our Wilmette Bureau Chief. 

By Caren Jeskey

     Neil shared on his Facebook page this story by Maureen O’Donnell about a legendary Chicago bartender John Colgan, who died recently at the age of 63.
     In the piece, columnist Maureen O’Donnell pointed out that “Mr. Colgan had given up drinking, ‘as it interfered with his passion for music and the need for a clear head in order to pursue his ambition of recording a CD.’” He was known for regaling patrons with beautifully sung Irish ballads as he poured creamy-topped pints of Guinness.

     I am grateful that the thought of drinking a Guinness does not sound good to me today. On many a heavy drinking day in the 90s, my friend Jayne and I routinely closed the 4 a.m. bar Raven’s, on Clark just south of Fullerton. Sometimes bantering with the bartender Jimmy was our night out, but more likely we’d have shown up at one or two in the morning after the shenanigans of the earlier part of the night had lost their luster.
     We’d belly up to the bar in jean skirts and cowboy boots, and chain smoke cigarettes. Drinks miraculously appeared, one after another, sent over by drunken patrons who must have wondered where all their money went as they sobered up the next day.
     When I read about John Colgan I remembered what it was like to have Jimmy in our lives. He seemed sober, but I’m not sure if he was. He was warm and kind, and we felt that we were coming home when we got to Jimmy’s bar. We always felt safe, and I believe we were. Coming and going from there was a different story, I’m sure. It’s amazing what we — well, some of us — can survive, if we are lucky, when we are foolhardy.
     I have a friend who’s a big drinker with a red nose who lives in Ireland, a musician of course. Whenever he comes to town we demand that he break out his guitar and lead us through the song "Will Ye Go Lassie Go." We all sing together and he stretches it out as long as he can for us. We depart feeling connected to our friends, and hopeful.
     Summer is finally upon us here in Chicago— my god it took a long time.
     “And we’ll all go together to that wild mountain thyme. All around the blooming heather will you go lassie go?” As I listen to John sing Safe in the Harbor and the Corries singing about wild mountain thyme I can almost believe that the world is a beautiful, lilting, safe place.

Should we see their faces?

     It was nearly 40 years ago, in the mid-1980s. A woman called me at the Daily Journal in Wheaton to say her kindergartener had been raped by the janitor at his Montessori school. She called police.
     “I expected them to show up with their sirens blaring,” she said. Instead, nothing happened. The man wasn’t even charged; it’s hard to build a criminal case on the testimony of a 5-year old.
     I found this out while writing a weeklong series on child sex abuse in the western suburbs, speaking with therapists, victims, even a molester in prison. I stopped by the office of Brian Telander, then head of the DuPage County state’s attorney’s criminal division, to discuss the case.

     On his desk was a large photograph of people gathered together. At first glance, it seemed like a family Christmas portrait from Sears. Then I saw the blood. Telander saw me staring, and turned the picture so I could get a better look. A dead woman sprawled on a bed, her dead children piled around her.
     That image flashed in my head for years, especially when coming home at night. It returned after the slaughter in Uvalde, Texas, when people began urging that photos of the slain children be used to try to jolt America from its awful inertia on gun safety.
     “There must have been some really gruesome photos taken as part of the investigation in Uvalde,” writes reader Cathy T. “If the politicians who refuse to listen to reason and act because of the blood money they receive from the NRA were forced to view photos of the mangled bodies of the children and teachers who were gunned down, do you think they might be sickened enough to do what needs to be done?” 

     Good question. Maybe. History is studded with instances where shocking photographs stir the public. Those pits of naked bodies at Auschwitz. Monks setting themselves on fire to protest Vietnam. And the prime example, Emmett Till, murdered in Mississippi, his body dumped in a river. His mother insisted on an open-coffin funeral, and photos of his battered, bloated face energized the civil rights movement.

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Flashback 2010: Hockey diehards can take cue from this opera buff

Harry Caray's owner Grant DePorter, right, with hockey player Patrick Kane.

     It's flattering to have your work remembered. Even when Facebook first has to spur the recollection.  

     "I shared a pithy comment of yours 12 years ago and it just popped up on my Facebook feed," social media prompted one reader to write this week.

     I read the comment, and was surprised. The line almost sounded like a comedy bit. "Did I write that?" I replied. "I have no memory." Then promptly set out in search for the quote, finding a fun column, posted below. It was back in a time when the column covered a full page, in several sections, and included a joke at the end.

      Though there is inevitably mitigation that comes from all honors and praise, which are accepted at one's peril. As you'll see if you make it to the end. Humility often comes, not by choice, but unnecessity.

OPENING SHOT

     "Patrick Kane is in the restaurant," says Grant DePorter, checking his BlackBerry as we file into FBI headquarters.

     I quickly try to assemble my features into an expression of enthusiasm, but don't do it fast enough, apparently, because Grant, who as managing partner of Harry Caray's has an eye for detail, detects a certain blankness.
     "You do know who Patrick Kane is?" he says, narrowing his gaze.
     "Sure!" I bluster, immediately deploying my Emergency Sports Conversation Algorithm (a logic tree that works like this: 1. What team is currently in the news? The Blackhawks! 2. What player on that team is currently being celebrated?
     "Of course," I bluster. "He's the guy who lost his teeth."
     "No," says Grant, with a hint of frost. "That's Duncan Keith. Patrick Kane is one of the biggest stars on the team. He went to Harry's after the Cubs game. So did Jonathan Toews — the captain — Brian Campbell and Adam Burish. They walked in, one after the other."
     "Wow!" I say. "Exciting!"

OFF THE BANDWAGON

     I would never mention this embarrassing exchange, but Richard Roeper's column Wednesday commented on the bandwagon syndrome — how a team, such as the Blackhawks, nearing the championship will spur fair-weather fans and Johnny-come-latelies to try to muscle in on the glory, and how longtime fans tend to resent that because these newbies have not suffered through years of waiting and hoping and thus haven't earned the right to savor this moment of pending triumph.
     Or so the thinking goes.   

Blackhawks players Patrick Kane, left
 and Jonathan Toews at Harry Caray's.

     It is a curious outlook. When I took 100 Sun-Times readers to the Lyric Opera last fall, we made a point of bringing people who had never been to the opera before. Not so I could harangue them at intermission: "Oh sure, you're enjoying 'The Merry Widow' now, but where were you that grim winter of '94 when we were enduring Berg's 'Wozzeck?'"
     No, I was happy to introduce them to something I love, and eager for them to have a good time.
     Why aren't sports fans that way? It isn't as if hockey is a limited resource, isn't as if others nibbling at the hockey pie means less for you.
     Reading Rich's column — where he rightly concluded that all should happily "enjoy the ride" — sparked the hope that I might actually score a few sports pride points. If hockey fans are contemptuous of those who hurry to join the party now that the Blackhawks are in the finals (starting Saturday against Philadelphia, if all this is news to you), then it stands to reason that they must approve of — perhaps even respect and admire — we stout souls who didn't follow the Blackhawks before and aren't about to start now, championship or no.
     Sadly, it doesn't work like that.
     "They'll hate you either way," laughed the wife of a die-hard fan. "They hate you if you jump on the bandwagon, but they hate you if you're indifferent, too."
     That sounds about right. For the record, I am not indifferent. The Blackhawks seem a fine group of young fellows, and I certainly hope they win Stanley's Cup, for the glory of their fans and for the Greater Chicago Metroplex. I'd still rather weed in the hot sun than watch a hockey game, but then I'm sure most hockey fans would rather strip the paint off an old bench than spend five hours watching "Tristan und Isolde." To each his own.
     If this irks you, consider all the reportage and analysis and ballyhoo that this paper will dedicate to the Blackhawks over the coming weeks. And what do those who don't know Patrick Kane from Kane County get? Just this one little column, whispering that it's all right, you needn't feel guilty. You are not alone.

CORRECTION

     Yes, I know it's "Stanley Cup" not "Stanley's Cup." It was a joke.

CLARIFICATION

     Grant and I were at the FBI for a class. It seemed a piquant detail.

TODAY'S CHUCKLE

From Bob Nickman:

     If you're not into sports, guys think you're less of a man unless you can account for your time in activities equally masculine. When they ask, "Wanna go see the game?" I reply, "I can't. I gotta go put a transmission in a stripper's car."

            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 28, 2010

Editor's note: If you're wondering what the inevitable mitigation was, let me point it out: it wasn't my line. The comments he remembered was me quoting someone else. Oh, and the Blackhawks defeated the Flyers to win the Stanley Cup in 2010. I had to check Wikipedia to find out.

Why restrict child porn but not guns?

©Gabriele Galimberti from The Ameriguns, Dewi Lewis Publishing. Used with permission.

  

     God bless free speech.
     It is what allows columnists — or anybody else — to write whatever we want without fear the government is going to haul us off to jail. In Russia, you can go to prison for calling their war against Ukraine “a war.” In China, you get sent to a camp for adhering to certain religions.
     Free speech is so important in the United States, it is the First Amendment to our Constitution: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech.” Not only am I allowed to air the truth as I see it — Donald Trump is a traitor who should be in prison — but all sorts of salacious material are permitted. Courts decided, grudgingly, that offensive artworks and obscene comedy sketches and extreme pornographic videos are also free speech and cannot be banned.
     There are, of course, exceptions. Free speech doesn’t permit you to shout “Fire!” in a crowded theater. I didn’t just grab that example by accident. During World War I, a pacifist was arrested for distributing a leaflet claiming the draft was unconstitutional. In upholding his conviction in 1919 in Schenck v. The United States, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote:

The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic. ... The question in every case is whether the words ... create a clear and present danger ... that Congress has a right to prevent.

     A half century later, the Supreme Court decided we are a great enough nation that our freedoms extend even to resisting a war we are currently fighting, and Schenck was dialed back. Now to be illegal, speech usually must be libelous, or promote imminent lawless action — you are not free to deliver a speech urging your neighbors to kill someone.
     Nor can you own child pornography, and it’s important to understand why. Child pornography is among the most restricted material in our society. You don’t have to produce it or sell it to commit a crime; it’s a crime simply to possess it.
     Why does child pornography merit such a unique level of suppression? I’ll give you a hint: it’s called “child pornography.” Children cannot consent to sexual acts with adults and are severely damaged by being forced to do so. Child pornography hurts children, so we fight it with all the legal might our nation can bring to bear, even if it infringes on fundamental freedoms.

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