Flashback 2007: "The hook man got him"

 

      Happy Halloween! Though honestly, I'm not feeling the "happy" part, what with the relentlessly grim news. Nor the "Halloween" ... all those grinning skeletons and cartoon ghouls, cardboard memento mori at a time when actual death is already all too present. You want to snarl "Read the room!" and send them packing, scrambling back to the red hell from whence they came. 
    So what then? I glanced into the vault and found this, with manages to combine both concern for Israel and the demons of the seasons, but in a more light-hearted fashion. It was from when the column filled a page, and I left in the original subheads.

OPENING SHOT . . .

     Israel has a problem with Palestinians blowing themselves up in public places.
     So it built a fence, to keep bombers from infiltrating Israel. And it started pulling down the houses of the families of suicide bombers, since it's hard to punish somebody who has blown himself up.
     Not the most extreme governmental action in this woeful world, yet one that sends certain idealistic Americans into a frenzy, such as the protesters who broke up the Caterpillar annual stockholder meeting in St. Charles this week. They don't want the company to sell Israel bulldozers.
     Why stop at bulldozers? I bet Israeli soldiers eat corn flakes. Shouldn't they also picket Kellogg's? And the Jews who support Israel drive Fords. Better demonstrate against Ford, too.
     And the sun — it shines upon the Israelis, warming them, doesn't it? Maybe it can be boycotted, the way British academics are shunning Israeli universities.
     It's silly. One can criticize Israel. It makes mistakes, like any other nation. I don't equate condemning Israel with anti-Semitism, though both can sure smell similar. To be an American, to survey this world of bloodshed and repression — the charnel house of Africa, the slave camp of China, the rigid theocracies of the oil states — and to decide to shout down companies doing business with spunky democratic Israel is out-of-balance, almost perverse. I'd be indignant, but these people are mere stooges, more to be pitied.

BEWARE THE MAN WITH THE HOOK

     An article — a fake article, running down the right side of this column, headlined:

                              "TOP COP SLAMS HOOK MAN FEAR"

     As I put together the tent poles, I merrily composed the article in my mind:
     "Northbrook Chief of Police Buck Jackman assured parents there is no reason to be concerned about the 50th anniversary of the escape of the deranged killer known only as 'The Hook Man.'
     "'All usual summertime activities, including sleepovers, should proceed as normal,' said Chief Jackman. "'The myth of his return on the anniversary to kill again is only that, a myth.' 

       "It was June 13, 1957 — exactly 50 years ago Wednesday when a serial killer whose right hand was replaced with a razor-sharp hook escaped from the Northwest Suburban Facility for the Criminally Insane. The same night, four boys camping in Harms Woods were found brutally slaughtered . . ."
     I would fold the paper over, hiding the part that explained the joke to readers, and pass it across the kitchen table to the birthday boy.
     "Look at that," I'd say, idly. "We'd better not tell your friends. Wouldn't want them to be frightened . . ."
     But I had already turned in Wednesday's column. I briefly considered phoning the paper and having them tear up the page. But the copy desk might look askance at that . . .
     So I let it go. The party proceeded as planned. Bocce ball and dinner at Pinstripes. Home for a ballgame, the pinata, gifts.
     Darkness fell. The boys were settled in the tent to play poker, and I was getting ready to go to sleep when my younger son appeared. His older brother was teasing his friends.
     I went into the yard, found Son No. 1 raking his fingers across the outside of the tent and crooning about a Hook Man — it must be in the genes. I sent him to his room, established that the five boys within were calm, and hit the hay.
     At 3:45 a.m. one of the boys appeared in our room — feeling ill, he said, no doubt a combination of massive sugar infusion, late hours and excitement. His folks were called and they returned him to the comfort of his own room.
     "The boys are going to wonder where he went when they wake up," my wife mused, in the 4 a.m. darkness. Then she smiled — I could hear it. "It must be you guys rubbing off on me, but I'm tempted to tell them that the Hook Man got him."
         — Originally published in the Sun-Times, June 15, 2007

Zombie babies nibble at Texas freedom

     My sister got married and moved to Texas. Almost 40 years ago. Don’t ask why; it’s complicated. The family would occasionally haul down to Texas to visit.
     I can’t honestly say I relished those trips. Yes, it was educational to visit Dealey Plaza, where John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Seeing how compact the layout is, you go from “How could Oswald hit him twice?” to “How could he miss?”
     But Texas is so .... my sister lives outside Dallas, which is not a proper city, like Chicago. The skyline, with its neon trimmed buildings, seems an inflatable backdrop, something the Army Corps of Engineers would set up overnight to create the decoy of a city.
     Though one early visit stands out. We rented a Lincoln Continental — when in Rome — which I dubbed “The Fat Man’s Car,” thinking of that TV detective Cannon. He drove a Lincoln.
     Back then, in the mid-1980s, Texans could drink and drive — they had drive-through liquor stores. At one point, my brother and I slipped away, picked up a 6-pack of Lone Star beer and tooled around, enjoying the full Texas cultural experience.
     Steering with one hand and nursing a beer with the other was perfectly legal. Why? Because freedom. They would be gosh-darned if they were going to let some gubment bureaucrat tell them how to live. They not only drank and drove but celebrated the practice.
     “Texans love to drive and drink,” Jan Reid wrote in Texas Monthly in 1983. “I’ve done it many times ... gained new vigor for the upcoming stretch of road from the rousing feel of a cold one wedged between your thighs ... the freedom to imbibe behind the wheel represents a level of personal liberty that is denied residents of more thoroughly urbanized parts of the country. We tenaciously defend our right to drink and drive.”
     Tenacity slips, and personal liberty is on hard times in Texas. Not because they passed an open container law in 1987 (for drivers; passengers could imbibe until 1993). Having seen the ravages of alcohol up close, I applaud common sense so clear it even sank into rock hard heads of Texans, eventually.

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Haarlem Nights

 

      Why buy postcards when you can just snap a photo? Such as the one above, taken last month, of the De Adriaan, a rustic windmill in Haarlem, Netherlands. 
      The windmill isn't original — built in 1779, it burned down in 1932 — but a lovingly-crafted reproduction on the precise spot, opened in 2002. Edie and I took the tour, and learned a lot — particularly about the connection between the windmills and Amsterdam's meteoric commercial rise. We think of them as charming anachronisms, now, but they were cutting edge technology 300 years ago.
     I can't share the photo without giving a shoutout to Karen Turner and her Wanderlustingk blog. She is the reason we were in Haarlem in the first place. My wife and I decided to go to Amsterdam at the last moment — just a couple weeks ahead of time — and after we bought our plane tickets, I was surprised to have difficulty finding a room at an affordable hotel, meaning under $300 a night. Even the $400 and $500 hotel rooms were nothing to get excited about. Basic rooms, quite small, most lacking a queen sized bed.
     With what-have-we-done panic setting in, I fled to the internet for guidance, and immediately found Turner's 25 ESSENTIAL TRAVEL TIPS FOR AMSTERDAM FROM AN AMSTERDAM RESIDENT. The first few — don't stand in the bike lane, wear comfortable shoes, carry ID at all times — while no doubt useful, did not address our particular problem. But No. 5 was: "BOOK YOUR HOTEL OR HOSTEL EARLY, ESPECIALLY FOR PEAK SEASON (SPRING/SUMMER)" and for those for whom this was impossible, included this key piece of advice:

     Some people choose to stay outside of Amsterdam to save up to 40% (like my dad did), however you’ll need to factor in the cost of traveling to/from Amsterdam daily per person. Haarlem is a lovely city about 20 minutes from Amsterdam.

     That sounded like a plan. I went online and found a number of suitable hotel rooms for about $200 a night, and booked a stay at the Lion D'Or, right at the train station in Haarlem. The view out our window looked like this:    

    We really liked Haarlem — not only was there a charming windmill, but a perfect little restaurant, Jacobu Pieck, at 18 Warmoesstraat. We ate there three times. We also visited the Franz Hals museum, and took in an organ concert at the Grote Kerk, the town's main church, which has been at that location since 1307. The organ was finished in 1738, and played by Mendelssohn, Handel and a 10-year-old Mozart. We saw Rob Nederlof play, and he was excellent. Tickets were four Euros.

     I liked Amsterdam, particularly the Van Gogh Museum, a must-see lifetime experience, and the Rijksmuseum, which isn't the Prado or the Art Institute for that matter, though still worth a look-see. But we loved Haarlem. 

Works in Progress: "You’re The Best…And…You’re Fired"

 

John Howell

     There's big money to be made worshipping the Trumpian Beast. It's actually something of a vicious circle — The Former Guy fundraises off his vileness, churning content that is then highlighted by an entire Trump Uber Alles media substrata that only starts with Fox News. Holding hands, all make money off the dupes. 

     It takes courage to opt out, as we noted here when Big John Howell was shown the gate at WLS because his blood does not run sufficiently orange. The popular radio host has more to say — that's the job in a nutshell — and asked if he could share his thoughts on EGD. With pleasure. Take it away, John:
  
     I was fired by WLS AM, September 2023. Not unexpected.
     First, I find it deeply ironic (and beautiful career symmetry) that the same station that inspired me to enter the business in 1983, pulled me off the air 40 years later, almost to the day.
     Management: “Great show. You’re the best. A historic run. So sorry. It’s just business. Thanks for your service. Now get out…and we’ll need your parking pass”.
     Howell: “No problem. Thanks for the cash. My kids are launched, the nest is feathered, debts are paid, my professional reputation is secure…By the way, I’m taking my WLS hallway portrait for my home office”.
     Management: “Just understand Cumulus has made the decision that WLS is going to be the most conservative station in America, and you don’t fit in”
     Me: “Understood. Tightening down a playlist is standard practice for stations in trouble. Play the hits, even if they’re bad records.”
     Will it work? Who knows. But be careful of the audience you covet and empower.
     I enjoyed my time at WLS. Still legendary broadcast beach front property, despite the ratings. My colleagues were terrific, the facility top notch. Also, for the record, they offered me a “goodbye show”. I declined. This was a termination, not a retirement.
     I always prepared my shows to be Chicago centric, locally focused. I thought after 6 hours of syndicated hosts (all politically far right), the audience would appreciate a different opinion and local coverage. I was wrong. BTW: I used to be considered “conservative”.
     Why couldn’t I just toe the company line? Because, it would have been lazy and cowardly to ignore the biggest national political story of my lifetime: The rise of Trump and the death of the GOP. Unlike others, I wasn’t going to sell you chicken excrement while claiming it’s chicken salad.
     It was long apparent that my style and content was not in sync with the rest of the hosts. Not even close. My approach fit in as well as…well…intelligence, truth, context, science, evolution, good grammar, good manners (and good grooming) at at MAGA rally.
     I know, that’s a cheap shot.
     Once again, “too hip for the room”. A familiar refrain throughout my career. Having the right to “go along to get along”, but not the ability. I was taught that truth is truth, and truth is supposed to build trust. I was wrong.
     I made the decision, quite a while ago, to do it my way. Knowing the inevitable repercussions could happen. I only presented topics, guests, information and opinions that I considered worth my time, and yours.
     For example, in my world, January 6th is a major historical event, criminally and politically. Hunter’s laptop is a distraction.
     If I wasn’t interested in a topic, It wasn’t on my show, period.
     So often I would hear listeners regurgitate the preprogrammed ”What about, what about, what about” lines. I figured WLS provided blanket coverage of “what about the Dems?” on every other show. Why do I have to play along?
     Of course, historically, WLS famously played the Beatles twice an hour. I would have opted for the Stones.
     Again, just for the record: In 2016 I THOUGHT Trump was manifestly unfit to be president, by 2017 I KNEW Trump was unfit. I wasn’t going to give him a pass for approval from his minions. That’s a dereliction of broadcast duties.
     Is Trump a delusional ignoramus? Or a duplicitous grifter? Both? I hope I live long enough to read the history.
     But here’s the problem:
     His messianic hold on the hard core Trumpians is both comically fascinating, and incredibly disturbing. Historically, we’ve seen collective stupidity, gullibility and cultish, slavish behavior lead to ugly nationalistic political movements. I have news for you, they don’t end well. Gird your loins America.
     And to the enablers in the party, donor class and the media. When you break the stupid, you own the stupid. They’re all yours. When you’re a purveyor of political pornography, it’s tough to get that sticky mess off your hands. And remember, the excuse “it’s just business” is the same one the cartels use. I pointed that out to several in the biz, they refuted this, but they immediately looked down at their fingers.
     Some in the political media and radio business have lauded me for “sticking to my principles” and “walking away when it became untenable.” Not entirely true. I picked up every single dollar WLS made available to me. I thought I’d stick it out through the next round of Chicago corruption trials and maybe 2024. Wrong again.
     This break in my career is the first one in 40 years. I probably wouldn’t have stopped on my own. I might be back, we’ll see.
      Truth be told, my goal was to keep churning the direct deposits as long as possible. I stayed for the tall cake and that sweet SAG AFTRA health insurance. Reminding me of the old country song: “I’m Ashamed To Be Here, But Not Ashamed Enough To Leave”. What’s more “Conservative” than that?
    Regards, John Howell

      Howell is a native of Holland MI. A graduate of the Berklee College of Music in Boston (1982). Howell began his broadcast career at WZND/Zeeland MI (1983), WLAV AM/FM, WJFM, WGRD/Grand Rapids (1984-1988), WCKG, WUSN, WIND, WLS/Chicago (1987-2023). He still has a daily show. His audience? His 3 dogs, who agree with every word.

    

No thoughts, no prayers

     

     Nah, I don’t care about the mass shooting. 

     This latest crop of gunfire victims leave me completely unmoved.     

     I know nothing about them and am indifferent to the tragedy, to the lives cut down in a hail of bullets. I don’t feel sorry for them. don’t want to know their names or see their faces. I’m not expressing any thoughts or prayers, no sympathy extended to their families.
     In fact, were they to hear from me today, as I write this, they would not welcome my condolences, even though I would be the very first to reach out to them. Doing so would only leave them confused, even frightened.
     Nor do I care about the reasons the killer did what he did. Terrorism? Mental illness? Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. The breathless wait for a “motive.” As if that matters to the dead or anybody else. The only reason we want to know what prompted the murderer to pull the trigger is so we can dismiss the whole thing even faster than we already do, which is plenty fast.
     I’m not even curious about the kind of gun, though it doesn’t take a genius to assume it’s another assault rifle, because it always is. That’s what these guns are made for, to mow down many people quickly.
     Yet we’re always surprised when they do. Or at least we pretend to be. We put these guns in the hands of millions of people. Then press our palms to our cheeks when they use them. Pathetic.
     To summarize: Don’t know anything about the shooting, its location, how many victims or who they are, who the shooter is or why he — it’s always a he — did it.
     I don’t know because I can’t know, since I’m writing this not in the aftermath of the recent atrocity, as is custom. But before, on April 9, 2021. To prepare for the inevitable.

     As I type, the victims-to-be are still going about their lives. Their as-yet-uncrushed loved ones have not seen the initial bulletin, felt the sinking dread, frantically tried to find out, learned the awful news and been stunned, stupefied, devastated.
     I’d warn them, but I don’t know who they will be. They could be anybody. Could be me. Or you — well, not you, since you’re reading this. You were lucky. This time.

      Journalism is a kabuki, a stylized form, the telling of the same story again and again. So please forgive me for trying to experiment within the confines of a long established tradition, the ritual post-slaughter hand-wringing.

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"There is another way"

    There is no shortage of Jewish people sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. Which I'm tempted to portray as a stark contrast to Palestinians, who do not seem awash in sympathy for Israel and its sufferings. I can't recall hearing anybody say that Israel is a nation that has a right to exist and its people should continue to live. 

     I've been reluctant to say that in print simply because I have not done a survey of everyone everywhere, and for all I know there are Palestinian voices that echo the compassion that flows from Jewish quarters, I just haven't heard them. Besides, Jews can express themselves without worrying the Mossad will kill their families, which is not be the case for critics of Hamas. I try to be fair.

     That said, a reader, Harry R., sent this to me. It seemed a worthwhile, if idealistic, opinion. I asked to post it here today, and he said yes. He didn't ask that I shield his name, but given the tenor of the times, I did so, as a courtesy and precaution.

Dear Palestinian Neighbors:

     I’m reaching out to you as a friend, a neighbor and someone who cares about my many friends and family who live in Israel/Palestine. We need to reach out to each other, today, more than ever, before the entire region blows up. 

     First, a little background. I am a Jewish man who grew up in the Chicago area and lived in Israel for 16 years, from 1985 to 2001. During that time, I devoted myself to building bridges between Israeli Arabs/Palestinians and Israeli Jews. It is still upsetting for me to note that non-Jewish citizens of Israel grow up almost completely separated from their Israeli Jewish neighbors, living in separate communities, going to separate schools and living separate lives.

     The non-Jewish communities often lack the quality services and infrastructure that their Jewish neighbors have. During the time I was in Israel, living in the Galilee (indeed on land formerly owned by Arab neighbors) a group of Jews and Palestinians living in neighboring villages chose to break down the barriers between us. We created joint summer camps, leadership programs, community shared holidays and events. When peace was achieved between Israel and Jordan we took a group of youth leaders to Jordan. We were at the forefront of a peace movement in the 1990s that was going to change the face of Israel/Palestine. We had hope. 

     Then it all imploded. The second Intifada broke out after Ariel Sharon led a group of Israeli leaders onto the “Temple Mount/Al Aksa.” Then he was elected Prime Minister. It was at that time that I moved with my family, for personal reasons, back to the Chicago area, where I grew up. Today my heart is breaking for all Israelis and Palestinians who are suffering under leadership that does not believe in peace and has led them all to the brink. I cry for the many Israelis of all ages who were massacred by militants who were sent on a mission to “liberate” Palestine and kill Jews. These were not freedom fighters, they were murderers. 

     I cry for all the Palestinians who have been brutally murdered by Jewish settlers, while the Israeli army looked on. I cry because the peace that I worked for and believed in for many years is now farther away than ever. Last weekend I was in downtown Chicago and saw many of my Palestinian brothers and sisters rallying and calling for the destruction of Israel. Their signs read: "Palestine from the River to the Sea." They did not leave any room in their rhetoric for a peaceful Israel. And worst of all, they did not reach out to me to cry together over all the innocent lives lost. They did not criticize the cruel leaders in both countries that do not show enough care for human lives. They only saw their friends and families in Gaza who were being killed. Likewise, many of my Jewish friends and family only see and grieve over their friends and family in Israel, and demand revenge. Friends, the killing may go on and on, but how will it end? Neither side will win. It is an impossible situation filled with ongoing hate, and ongoing sorrow. But, there is another way. We can sit down together for a proper “sulha,” (Arabic for a mediation). We don’t need to agree. We need to sit down with each other and listen. We can do this at the dinner table, in our places of worship and community centers. There are many examples for how this can be done. Slowly we can rebuild trust and create something new. It isn’t too late! We have a choice. I am calling on all of you today to sit down again, share our sorrows and hopes. My friends, let’s work together before it is too late.

    Harry R.

Think before becoming the monster

By Takashi Murakami

     “Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird,” Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche writes: “Anyone who fights with monsters, should be careful that he does not become a monster.”
     That aphorism has been clanging in my head like an alarm bell ever since Israel began its counter-attack on Gaza. The trick is “How?” and the honest answer is: Once the blood-letting begins, it’s already too late.
     The monster is unleashed, to rage for a long time, maybe years, before we realize what we’ve become. Or never realize, because the killing has gone on so long, it just makes sense. We had to massacre those folks. They had it coming.
     Fourteen hundred Israelis slaughtered Oct. 7, mostly civilians. Five thousand killed in Gaza since then, with more slain every day.
     All hidden behind a solid wall of justification. As if every atrocity ever committed in the history of the world weren’t backed by solid reasons, in the eyes of the perpetrators. Hamas and its supporters have plenty of excuses for the Oct. 7 attack, starting with the creation of the State of Israel in 1948 and stretching back to the construction of Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem around 957 B.C.
     Israel can cite the brutal Hamas attack as reason aplenty to unleash its murderous fury. They have to destroy the terror group, root and branch. Destroy those tunnels. Destroy command centers and weapons caches. And if Hamas located those under mosques and apartment buildings, well, whose fault is that? Yes, Hamas doesn’t exactly poll the neighbors before setting up shop. But that is one of those fine points lost in the fog of war.

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