Barack and me

Barack Obama at the Sun-Times in 2008. Note the tray of cookies to the left.

     You could always tell when somebody important was visiting the Chicago Sun-Times Editorial Board because they’d set out a tray of cookies and little bottles of spring water. These were visible to the newsroom through the boardroom’s glass wall. Hardened political journalist that I am, one day in 2008 I saw the tray and thought, “Ooh, cookies.”
     The VIP wouldn’t miss a cookie or two. I slid in and was just loading a couple into a napkin when there was a commotion in the hall. I tried to flee but was blocked by Barack Obama and his entourage coming in.
     What to do? I took a seat at the table, so I was there as Obama explained away a deal he had done with fixer Tony Rezko, one of the countless hurdles he had to clear to get from where he was to where he was going.
     When I heard that 2,500 members of what has been dubbed “Obamaworld” are meeting in Chicago this weekend to celebrate this past moment of triumph — election night in Grant Park — I didn’t pout, wondering where my invite was. Like my presence at that meeting, the media just happened to be there, already, when he showed up, although we certainly played a key role in Obama’s success.
     Somewhere in the boxes of clips and files that have ended up in my basement is a yellow legal pad with “BARACK OBAMA” scrawled across the top. I still remember waiting in that boardroom — I was on the Editorial Board when he ran for U.S. Senate in 2004 — wondering what kind of person that name might belong to.
     I’d be more ashamed to admit who I imagined — some lefty professor in a big Afro and a dashiki, tossing a Black power salute and lecturing us on American imperialism — if it didn’t so perfectly encapsulate the entrenched prejudices Obama had to overcome on his journey to the White House.
     What was he like then? I felt sorry for him: a husband who really wanted a cigarette but was forbidden to smoke by his wife.

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Flashback 2000: Joseph Colucci, 93, owned Division St. Russian Baths

     Wednesday I went to Wicker Park to take the heat at the Chicago Bath House on Division Street  — the former Division Street Russian Baths. I might write something about that next week. While I was schvitzing, a man sat nearby, running a razor over his bald head, telling a third patron how some kid had tried to upbraid him for shaving in the sauna.
     "So I ask him, how long have you been coming here?" he said. "And the kid says, 'This is my second time.' And I say, 'I've been coming here 33 years...;"
     "Thirty-three years!" I interject. "I've also been coming here for 33 years." Since I checked the bath out to see if it was the sort of place I could take my buddies to after my bachelor party. "You must remember Joe Colucci."
     At which point we fell to telling Joe Colucci stories, his lines delivered in his trademark gravely bark. This guy said that Colucci, as a young man, had been one of Al Capone's drivers. Which I'd never heard before, but could be possible. I realized I never shared his obituary. Now seems a good time.

Joe Colucci

     Joseph Colucci came into the world in 1906, the same year as the Division Street Russian Baths, and he devoted the last 25 years of his colorful life to preserving the venerable institution, an anachronism in a modern age, the last old-world steam bath in Chicago and the only one between the coasts.
     Mr. Colucci, 93, died Sunday at his home in River Forest.
     He was born on the West Side, the son of Anthony and Rachel Colucci, Italian immigrants from the town of Potenza. His parents ran a grocery store.
     An only child, Mr. Colucci helped out early, preparing newspapers for delivery at Madison and Paulina when he was just 6 years old.
    By his teens, Mr. Colucci was driving newspaper delivery wagons, which then were still pulled by horses. He ended up working for the Herald-Examiner, rising through the ranks of the circulation department.
     Newspaper delivery was a brutal business at the time, and delivery trucks were famous for not stopping if pedestrians were in the way. Mr. Colucci met his future wife of 63 years, Mabel Robertson, when the truck he was driving nearly ran her down.
     In 1940, Mr. Colucci became a car dealer, with a Kaiser-Frazier dealership at California and Madison. He ran Parkside Motors, 2810 W. Madison until 1968. He moved his dealership to 1301 W. Washington, where he sold Studebakers, then Jeeps.
     He was always proud of his roots as a newsboy and liked to reward industrious Herald-Examiner newsboys by giving them bicycles.   
     Mr. Colucci was widely known as a bookie. While Mr. Colucci always denied any underworld connection, in 1963 the commander of the Chicago police intelligence unit testified before a Senate subcommittee that Mr. Colucci was one of the top organized crime racketeers in Chicago.
     Whether mob-related or not, Mr. Colucci certainly was a power in the 27th Ward. He caused controversy in 1950 when he erected a "gaudy and illegal" neon sign boosting a sheriff's candidate atop a building he owned. The city, which also backed the candidate, ordered the sign removed — after the election.
     Despite Mr. Colucci's efforts to clear his name — which included suing the Chicago Crime Commission for $1 million in 1970 — Mr. Colucci's reputation was such that in 1974 a top Chicago police official was demoted after being seen playing cards with Mr. Colucci.
     The same year, Mr. Colucci began a new career, as owner of the Russian Baths, 1916 W. Division, where he went every day to enjoy the heat. They were badly run down, and Mr. Colucci was proud of the many improvements and renovations he made to the structure.
     Survivors include his wife Mabel and sons Jimmy and Joe Jr.
     Visitation will be from 3 p.m. to 9 p.m. today at Salerno-Galewood Funeral Home, 1857 N. Harlem.
     The funeral mass will be at 10:30 a.m. Wednesday at St. Vincent Ferrer Church, in River Forest. Burial follows in the family crypt at Queen of Heaven Mausoleum, Hillside.
                —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan 25, 2000

"From the river to the sea..."

Cain murdering Abel (Met)

    I try to write an honest, thoughtful column, one that considers issues fairly and in a logical way. Of course not everyone agrees. And some issues defy abstract reason — the gut-wrenching horror in Gaza, for instance. Not a situation, perhaps, where deliberation is much use. It's like trying to measure a scream with a ruler.

    I'm tempted to just declare the war unspeakable and address other things — but that strikes me as cowardice, a failure of my duty to myself, to the paper, and its readers. The Israel-Hamas war is a huge story. People are scared and in pain. I know I am. Perspective is needed.

     Maybe not my perspective though. The column below isn't running in the Sun-Times today — nobody explained to me why. I thought it made an obvious, undebatable point — the Jews are there to stay; this from-the-river-to-the-sea business is counterproductive. Maybe it was the way I said it.  Or maybe its acceptance of Israel as a country that exists isn't fit to print.

      Anyway, my apologies to co-workers who were upset — that's the last thing I want. These are heartbreaking times aplenty without my adding to anybody's suffering. I mean that. You can't imagine how profoundly I hate what's going or how sincerely I wish it would go away. Maybe covering your eyes is the next best thing. I'm a humorist at heart; that's what I set out to be. Maybe I can find my way back to that enviable, oblivious state. I'm going to do my best to focus on lighter matters. Readers need that too. I sure do.

     “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” is often heard at rallies supposedly supporting the Palestinian people. While the media sometimes points out that it’s a code for genocide — they’re basically saying, “Let’s kill the Jews and take over Israel” — I include the word “supposedly” because someone should consider its effect on Palestinians.
     Belief that they are entitled to all of Israel is what kept them, tragically, from accepting past peace deals that fell short of the Israelis handing over the keys to the country and then magically vanishing.
     It’s what inspires the charmed notion that Israel, one of the most advanced militaries in the world, will be defeated through a series of terror attacks, even one as severe as Oct. 7.
     It’s a mindset that discourages Palestinians from creating a nation where they are — why live jammed in the West Bank and Gaza when the wide sweep of land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea is theirs for the taking? Though if we look at history — a handy guide — for the first 20 years of Israel’s existence, it didn’t possess sections its people highly desired, such as Jerusalem, but the Israelis built their country anyway.
     Because of that attitude, for all the heartbreaking death and suffering being inflicted by Israel on Gaza, appeals for a ceasefire are directed at Israel and not at Hamas. Surrender is not an option.
     That’s a shame. Surrender is underrated. Look at Germany. Kaiser Wilhelm II got World War I going by sending his troops into Belgium on their way to France, which the Germans always fancied they deserved (“From the Atlantic to the Rhine, France shall be mine ...” — not quite as catchy). The four-year bloodletting cost 20 million lives.
     Germany gave up in 1918 but didn’t really surrender — the position the Palestinians keep finding themselves in. The Germans decided they didn’t lose because of all those American doughboys. No, they had been betrayed, stabbed in the back — by the Jews, natch.
     In that frame of mind, after 20 years spent siring a new generation of cannon fodder and rebuilding its military, Germany tried again.
     World War II cost over 50 million lives — 15 million military deaths and at least 38 million civilians, because civilians always take the brunt of war. It didn’t start in Gaza. After World War II ended with their complete defeat, again, the Germans looked over the ruin of their once prosperous nation and did something surprising: They learned. They decided to surrender sincerely this time. They gave up their dream of possessing the Sudetenland. They stopped fighting, and endured seven whole years of Allied occupation.

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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.