Law school sweethearts wed in beach ceremony

Courtesy of Kay Marie Photography

     Taylor Ann Ackerman and Ross Edward Steinberg were married Saturday, July 13, 2024, on the beach at the Village Suites Bay Harbor in Northern Michigan. Taylor wore a white, rose-patterned lace dress with a parasol, veil, and pearl necklace, and Ross wore a custom black tuxedo with a pocket boutonnière.
     I don't usually take requests from readers. I'm not a hotel lounge pianist; particularly not wedding stories. Once you start, there'd be no end to it. But a certain cherished couple asked me to write an announcement. I'm complying because, well, as their wedding approached, and not wanting to be a source of trouble, as so often happens, I came up with my Three Wedding Rules, which I will share now because they were so helpful: 1) None of this is about me. 2) Do whatever the bride wants. 3) Don't argue with anybody about anything. 
     The wedding party was barefoot on the sand. They wore tan suits and eucalyptus dresses. The florals were muted roses and orchids. The weather was perfect. The bride's brother Brennan officiated the interfaith ceremony. Ross’ brother, Kent, was best man, and Taylor’s sister, Ellie, was maid of honor. Our dog, Kitty, and Taylor’s family dog, Rosie, were the flower girls.

     Every wedding is news. The marriage rate in the United States is plummeting — 1 in 4 Americans over 40 has never been married. This couple bucked the trend because, well, love. Every speech at the wedding circled back to it. 
     At the reception, the couple danced their first dance under a tent to “Say Yes to Heaven” by Lana Del Rey. The centerpieces included their favorite books. Their tables were named after board games, and the signature cocktails were named after their childhood pets — including an NA cocktail, which the groom's father appreciated. The couple did the hora held aloft in chairs, in the Jewish fashion. As darkness fell, much of the wedding party, including the bride and groom, ended up celebrating in the lake, a very Gatsby touch.
     Sun-Times readers have been reading about Ross all his life. He and Taylor first met at a board game club hosted by New York University School of Law on a Friday evening during the fall of 2019. The two played Wingspan in the basement of NYU Law's D'Agostino Hall.
     The groom, 28, of Northbrook, Illinois, is a 2018 graduate of Pomona College and a 2021 graduate of NYU Law. Following law school, he worked as a litigation associate at a New York City law firm and then as a law clerk on the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of California in San Francisco before joining the Federal Trade Commission’s Washington, D.C., office as an antitrust attorney.
     During the COVID-19 spring of 2020, NYU Law began hosting classes online, depositing Ross onto our sofa. He spent multiple hours every day talking on the phone and playing online board games. My wife knew something special was occurring by the way his tone changed. "He's FLIRTING with someone," she told me, infusing that verb with surprise and delight. "I can hear it in his voice." For a while the mystery woman was "T" — my boy jealously guards information, perhaps to keep it from ending up in the newspaper. 
     The bride, 29, of Charlevoix, Michigan, is a graduate of Central Michigan University. In 2018 she received a master's degree in global affairs with a concentration in international law and human rights from NYU and graduated from NYU Law in 2022. She works doing tenant defense for a non-profit in the Bronx.

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Connie Wilkie, 'gruff drill sergeant' who kept the Sun-Times newsroom running, dies at 85

     A colleague asked me to send Connie off in the proper fashion, and I couldn't refuse.

     For many years, the quickest way to reach the Chicago Sun-Times newsroom was by dialing 321-2522. That phone rang on the city desk, and often would be answered by the gruff, no-nonsense, suffer-no-fools nicotine growl of Connie Wilkie.
     "Connie ran the city room like a drill sergeant," remembered Scott Fornek, a Sun-Times breaking news editor. "I believe her title was something like ‘chief editorial assistant,’ but she was effectively an office manager for the newsroom, overseeing the clerical staff, handling scheduling, expense accounts, vacation requests — and everything else that it takes to keep an office of that size running."

Connie Wilkie

     Ms. Wilkie died Aug. 5 of COVID-19 at Liberty Village in downstate Pittsfield. She was 85.
     “Connie was a rock in the Sun-Times newsroom, efficiently ensuring that phone calls into the city desk from sources, reporters, cranky readers and others were channeled in the right direction,” said Alan Henry, a former editor. “Graced with a kind heart and a dry sense of humor, she was a pleasure to be around and was one of the ‘characters’ who helped make the newsroom a fun place to work.”
     Ms. Wilkie had a genius for friendship — not only was she friends with Mary Dedinsky, who rose to managing editor, during her time at the paper, but they remained friends for decades afterward.
     "We continued our friendship," Dedinsky said. "Every Christmas and birthday I got a card with a witty note inside. She loved antiques, good food and parties. I have all over my house gifts from Connie, wonderful carnival glass and antique plates. It was always fun to be with her. There was an energy and a wit. She made the best cheesecake I ever tasted in my life: sumptuous."
     Don Hayner, former editor-in-chief, said, "Connie was tough, loyal and smart. She could be formidable when needed, and kind. There was nobody who was a better protector of the Sun-Times and its people.”
     Some of its people, that is.
     "She was one tough cookie," remembered Fran Spielman, the paper's longtime City Hall reporter. "A gruff drill sergeant. An iron lady with a heart of gold. If she liked you, she was fiercely protective of you. She would do anything. But boy, you didn't want to cross her. If she didn't like you, you wouldn't get any calls forwarded to you."

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'Our future is at stake'

     Joe Biden won Illinois in 2020 by 17 points, 57% to 40%. There's every indication his vice president, Kamala Harris, has an equally comfortable lead in the Land of Lincoln.
     But up in Wisconsin, Biden squeaked out a razor victory in 2020 — by 0.63% — in a state Donald Trump won in 2016, making Wisconsin among a handful of swing states.
     "The election is likely to be decided there," said Evanston Mayor Dan Biss, who showed up at Democratic Party headquarters Saturday morning to see off a contingent of Operation Swing State volunteers heading to Wisconsin to knock on doors. "You live in a state that's not close, and you wonder for a second, 'Do I have a voice in this election?' And the answer is 'yes.' Because the state line is about an hour away, and that's where it's going to be decided."
     Biss is a politician; politics is what he does. But why would an ordinary person spend their Saturday — a lovely day, in the mid 70s, low humidity, sunny with a scattering of clouds and a gentle, caressing breeze — driving 68 miles due north to ring doorbells and quiz strangers?
     "Because our future is at stake," said Susan Kelly, a retired executive who lives in Evanston. "I am concerned about what Donald Trump would do if he gets in office again. I'm concerned about Project 2025. The economy may go up and down, but once our democracy is gone, it's gone."
     "A lot of our freedoms are at risk, and I am very concerned, especially as a woman, a person of color and just a human being in general," said Loretta Jackson, a retired social worker, who started knocking on doors in June. "Most of the time they're friendly. You get one or two they want to scream at you about COVID. They don't have their facts straight. You want to try to inform them, but sometimes they don't want to hear it, and when you can't speak to them, it's best to just walk away."
     The volunteers tended to be older, many retirees, while the organizers skew young, like Carter Gulyas, 19, a history major at Illinois State University, and today's canvass captain. He's seen a big change since President Biden took himself out of the race.
     "It's like turning a new chapter — people are really getting excited," he said, noting that about 50 people signed up for today, double what it had been previously. "This is going to be our biggest turnout yet."
     Gulyas made a brief speech: "It is time for new beginnings. It is time for risk. It is time for joy and prosperity. We are here today because we are going to win."
     He made sure everyone was paired with a driver. An experienced activist, Andrea Pauls Backman, former CEO of the Les Turner ALS Foundation, was paired with Diane Ativie, a retired social worker from Skokie. She had done phone canvassing for Harold Washington and Barack Obama, but this was her first time going door-to-door, prompted by both the elevation of Vice President Kamala Harris and the need to defeat her opponent.

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Flashback 2004: 'At the top of the list of the good guys'

    How do you prepare for a national political convention? I'm not a political reporter, but I knew one of the best, Steve Neal. So I pulled down his last book, "Happy Days are Here Again: The 1932 Democratic National Convention, the Emergency of FDR — and How America Was Changed Forever" and reread it.  An excellent book, despite the unfortunate "changed forever" locution in the title. I think I'll write about it before the convention.
     The book made me think of Steve, and be shocked to realize both that he is more than 20 years gone,  and that he was only 54 — ten years younger than I am now — when he died. I went to look at the obituary I wrote the day after his suicide, and realized I've never posted it here.

     Steve Neal cut to the chase.
     He liked short lead sentences that punched to the heart of a matter. "He had it all" packed the essence of Dan Rostenkowski's fall from the heights. "He tried" telegraphed Eugene Sawyer's shortcomings as mayor. A dissection of Lee Daniels began, "If you've got the money, he's got the time."
     Mr. Neal, 54, unequaled as a political columnist in Chicago, was discovered dead at his home in Hinsdale on Wednesday. The DuPage County coroner's office described it as a "suicide situation." 

Steve Neal

     The end of Steve Neal's life was a stark contrast to how he lived — energetic, successful, surrounded by a wide, reverential circle of friends.
     "I'm sure going to miss him," said Rostenkowski, the former U.S. House Ways and Means chairman. "There's going to be a void. He was not just a friend. Steve Neal, in my opinion, was one of the more outstanding historians of our time. He recorded the unvarnished truth."
     "Steve Neal was a man of incredible talent, generosity and wit," said former President Bill Clinton. "He was a gifted writer and a sharp political analyst, always drawing from his deep reservoir of historical knowledge to frame current events in a way that helped people really understand what was happening in an increasingly complicated political universe."
     All were shocked at his unexpected death.
     "None of us saw anything," said Bernie Judge, editor of the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin. "No one had any indications that he was in trouble."
     Perhaps Mr. Neal's greatest legacy was keeping Gov. George Ryan from staffing the new Lincoln Presidential Library in Springfield with political pals. Gov. Blagojevich said he looked to Mr. Neal when dealing with the library.
     "A lot of the decisions I've made were in large part the result of conversations I had with him," Blagojevich said. "He was very committed and dedicated to make sure that we had a presidential library for the greatest American president that was second to none."
     Mr. Neal could swing races. Ald. Tom Murphy (18th) credited Mr. Neal with helping him win a nip-and-tuck aldermanic runoff in 1991.
     "On the day before the election, he wrote his column about the 18th Ward race, and we felt so good about it — that he had given us such a fair shake —we ran off 15,000 copies of his column and distributed it," Murphy said. "We ended up winning the race by 127 votes. That column played a huge role in putting us over the top."
     Mr. Neal could write stinging barbs against politicians who he felt were acting improperly — there was bite, but no animus behind his attacks.
     "He could blast you one day, and the next day he'd call you and say, 'Let's have lunch,'" said Cook County Board Finance Chairman John Daley, adding that Mr. Neal's essential fairness made him a favorite of the Daley clan.
     "He was a great friend of our family," said Daley. "My mom really loved reading his columns. I considered him a great personal friend. I shared many good dinners with him and lunches. His knowledge of the history of Chicago was amazing."
     Daley's brother Mayor Daley echoed those sentiments.
     "Sometimes, Steve may have criticized me, and I wouldn't agree, but I always respected his point of view and political insights, and I know he returned that respect to me," the mayor said.
     In addition to his three-times weekly column in the Chicago Sun-Times, he was the author, editor or co-author of 11 books, one just being published now. He approached his profession with the joy of a man doing what he loved. Mr. Neal once began an autobiographical essay with, "It beats working."
     "He thought it was fun to write books," said former Mayor Jane M. Byrne. "Those are his words. He was proud of what he had published. He brought it to you with pride with a letter in front. He was forever delving into politics and government. It made him stand out in his broad depth of knowledge when he would write his columns."
     Indeed, friends wondered whether the effort to finish his latest book — Happy Days are Here Again, a study of the 1932 Democratic National Convention —might not have ground him down.
     "He never complained about anything to me, but he complained about being tired about his book," said Judge. "He told me he was really tired. Forty pages of single-spaced footnotes...."
     His wife, Susan Neal, agreed that the book "took a lot out of him." He frequently wrote until 11 p.m. or later, even on weekends, and had not taken a vacation in four years, she said.
     Medications he was taking also were troubling him, causing adverse reactions that left him feeling ill and weak, she said.
     According to Hinsdale police, who responded to a "carbon monoxide alarm," Mr. Neal was found at the wheel of his car in the garage attached to his home Wednesday around 5:30 p.m. He left behind several notes, according to police.
     Mr. Neal liked to socialize, to eat and drink, and a long Neal lunch, at his favorite haunts such as Eli's or Gene & Georgetti's, was a valued opportunity for politicians and journalists to let down their guards and talk shop.
     The management at Harry Caray's kept Mr. Neal's table empty Thursday as a tribute during the crowded lunch hour.
     "He was, I guess for lack of a better word, a raconteur who enjoyed good food and drink, but only as an adjunct to stimulating conversation," said Ald. Ed Burke (14th). "He had a great capacity for remembering details that many others forget and to put those details into proper perspective."
     "Having a drink with Steve was like getting a free seminar on what was going on," said Pulitzer Prize-winning Washington Post columnist David Broder. "I grew up in Illinois. I thought I knew something about politics. But he knew a hell of a lot more than I did ... he was a treasure."
     "He worked hard. He enjoyed life. But, he was always there when the bell rang to do the job," said former U.S. Commerce Secretary William Daley.
     Mr. Neal realized that politics was all about personalities, and he was deft at navigating the often-conflicting egos.
     "He also had a great capacity for rapprochement," said Burke. "He would write critical articles about a politician and, the next month, sit down and break bread with the same person."
     Mr. Neal could easily have left Chicago for the glamor of the nation's capital.
     In 1989, President George H.W. Bush asked Mr. Neal to serve as his press secretary, said former state Sen. Jeremiah Joyce.
     Why did he turn it down?
     "He was a reporter," said Joyce. "People sometimes lost sight of that because of his great personality, but he was a true journalist.... There will never be another Steve Neal."
     His office walls were covered with framed posters from long-ago campaigns, featuring picture after picture of his heroes: Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy.
     Significantly, there was no picture of Mr. Neal — he was a modest, quiet, self-effacing man, who never bragged — not about covering the White House, nor being there when Ronald Reagan was shot nor about dining with Richard Nixon, nor about his powerful friends. At home, though, dozens of shots of Mr. Neal with national and local political leaders joined a gallery of family photos on the walls.
     Mr. Neal was born in Oregon, but he was introduced to tales of Chicago politics by his grandfather, who lived here for half a century. He was drawn to political writing by Theodore H. White's classic The Making of the President 1960.
     He attended the University of Oregon, met his wife when both were freshmen in 1967, and got his first job as a reporter on the old Oregon Journal. After the Columbia University School of Journalism, he went to work at the Philadelphia Inquirer in June 1972.
     In 1987, he joined the Sun-Times. Soon Mr. Neal would touch off a political storm with a controversial story about a meeting between 1987 mayoral challenger Edward R. Vrdolyak and Chicago mob boss Joseph Ferriola.
     Mr. Neal was himself the kind of last of a breed he often celebrated.
     "There was absolutely no smarter political reporter in the city than Steve Neal," said Cook County Commissioner Larry Suffredin. "The other sad thing is he ended up the last Chicago political daily writer in a town that once had five or six Steve Neals. It's sad there aren't any other voices like his out there."
     Survivors besides his wife, Susan, include two daughters, Erin and Shannon, his parents, Ernest and Ellen Neal, and two brothers, Dan Neal and Gary Neal.
     Mr. Neal "loved his family. He loved his friends" said his wife. "We will miss him terribly. He was just a great husband and father."
     "In the field of politics, there are good guys and there are bad guys," said U.S. Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill). "And Steve Neal was at the top of the list of the good guys."
Contributing: Scott Fornek, Dave McKinney, Abdon M. Pallasch, Dan Rozek, Fran Spielman
             —Originally published in the Sun-Times, February 20, 2004 |

Flashback 1997: Italian eatery unafraid to dish out stereotypes

     Ah Buca di Beppo. There was a time when the crazily over-the-top Italian eatery was part of my life — there was one on Clark Street, a few blocks from where we lived on Pine Grove Avenue. I'd stop by for a glass or two of wine, back in the day, and we'd eat there, or try to. The portions were so huge, hese huge family sized platters, it was difficult for a couple to find something to order. Later we went back with the boys, who liked the chaotic decor. Ross had his bar mitzvah lunch at the Buca in Wheeling. I still remember a guest, a prominent chef, looking around tentativelly, as if thinking, "They're having it HERE?" 

     The Wheeling Buca shut down abruptly last year after more than 25 years in business, and the chain declared bankruptcy this week, trying to structure a debt of up to $50 million. That doesn't mean it's closing any of its 44 locations, necessarily. But it ain't doing well. 

      The lede is a reminder that "Big Night" was originally a cult classic that only gained in popularity as Stanley Tucci's star rose.

     You probably didn't see "Big Night." It was one of those small films that plays in theaters for about two weeks before a single copy is sent to video stores.
     In the movie, a pair of brothers devoted to good Italian cooking open a little restaurant and are crushed by the owner of a garish, sprawling spaghetti-and-meatball place that is filmed in shades of red and presented, none-too-subtly, as the culinary equivalent of hell.
    Cut to a few weeks ago. I'm walking up Clark Street. Suddenly, I'm standing before a red and green vision calling itself Buca di Beppo. Around the entrance are strung red Christmas lights.
     Inside, deep red walls. More Christmas lights. Loud, full-throated Italian chestnuts such as "It's Now or Never" blare from speakers. All sorts of weird framed photographs leer down from the walls: a nun in habit watching "Wheel of Fortune", Al Capone's mug shot, a giant portrait of Joe DiMaggio, lots of Sophia Loren and a photo of a drunken man trying to lift a strand of spaghetti off a woman's ample cleavage. Italian-Americanism seen through a post-ironic, MTV lens.
     "Wow," I said to myself. "Someone opened the hell restaurant from `Big Night.' Incredible!" I couldn't have been more astounded had I looked out the window downtown and seen the African Queen chugging up the Chicago River with Charlie Allnut at the helm.
     My wife and I returned for a meal. We saw the portions were huge — stupendous — back-breaking platters of steaming pasta, covered in red sauce, topped with meatballs the size of grapefruits. Portions so huge, so Swiftian, we couldn't order anything we wanted — isn't that how it would be in hell?
     We ordered a small Caesar salad, split it between us, with bread, and were content. The food in fact was very good, and I resolved to meet the people behind this curiosity.
     It wasn't that I was offended, personally. I like to see cultural pieties poked at. If there was a restaurant called "The Talmud" with waiters in beaver hats and framed scholarly writings and portraits of famous rabbis, I'd go, provided they knew how to pickle herring.
     Rather, I was intrigued. It takes a certain kind of courage to offer up the mild blasphemy of Buca di Beppo, from the phone number ("Dial 348-POPE") to the unashamed stereotyping of Italians as mobsters, movie stars and priests. What I didn't expect was sincerity.
     "I'm from southern Italy," said Vittorio Renda, a vice president for Buca Inc., based in Minneapolis, where the restaurant got its start four years ago. "We wanted to do something southern Italian immigrant. Quality. Tradition. Just homemade cooking."
     The place is designed for family dining, Renda explained, proudly noting that the chicken cacciatore platter weighs in at 7 pounds, two of which are garlic mashed potatoes. Another Buca di Beppo — the name means "Joe's Basement" — has just opened in Wheeling.
     When I asked about the walls, he proudly explained how they travel to Italy every year to pick up decorations. "We go to the Vatican, to all kinds of shops," he said.
     With that, he led me to the "Pope's Room," a circular dining area festooned with yellow papal flags and a table set for 20 diners, who no doubt would argue over who gets to sit on the throne.
     "It's like being in the Vatican," Renda said.
     My biggest surprise came when I mentioned — very gingerly, to one of the partners, Cliff Spence — how Buca di Beppo reminds me of the hell restaurant in "Big Night."
     He smiled, proudly, and said that the movie's producers toured the Buca di Beppo in Minneapolis. "That must have been part of where they got the idea from," he said. Of course, art imitates life.
     Regarding complaints, Renda gave a Mediterranean shrug and said, "You always get a call here and there." But Spence said the photo of the woman having a strand of pasta plucked from her meloni prompted hundreds of protest calls in Minneapolis, particularly after they ran the picture as a quarter-page advertisement.
     "We got calls for two days," Spence said. "They called and said it was a gross misrepresentation of women."
     I expressed admiration for the fact that, having received all those complaints, they nevertheless included the photograph, big as life, in their new restaurant in Chicago.
     "The owner said the biggest mistake he ever made was not taking out a full-page ad," Spence said.
     I suppose the photographs might bother some people. But as the sign in Buca di Beppo's kitchen says: "Se non sopporta il calore, vattene dalla cucina."
     In other words: If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, June 25, 1997

Josh Shapiro was good, but no Tim Walz

     Something special, exclusively for EGD readers. Typically, I run a few paragraphs of my Sun-Times column then link to the paper — they pay for it, they deserve the clicks. But today I'm running the entire thing, because the version in the newspaper was ... how to say this tactfully? ... watered down, out of concern for their 501(c)3 status. Click here for the paper's version, for those inclined to compare. But you're braver than I, who couldn't bring myself to read the final version. I turned in this:

     Donald Trump has taken to calling Kamala Harris "Kamabla" in his social media posts.
     Which at first glance seems minor, one of those tiny things that flies by unchallenged in the endless media whirlwind. Trump is such a gushing geyser of lies, errors, insults and malice that to focus on any one bit seems naive, almost pointless. By the time you've remarked on it, it's already out-of-date, replaced with a dozen more of the same, or worse.
     Trump is fond of tagging childish nicknames on his opponents. But "Kamabla" resonates more, at least with me. Mangling someone's name is a classic racist go-to move. The "What kinda funny name is THAT?" grin is implied. I get "Bergstein" and "Steingold" and "Goldstein" and a dozen variants, all signs that that I'm about to read the thoughts — to stretch the term — of some sneering anti-Semite who feels compelled to weigh in on today's topic.

   Or not read them.Why bother? Racism, remember, is a form of ignorance —you're not perceiving the world as it is, but through the crazy kaleidoscope lens of your own obsessive fears. Who cares what dumb haters think? And the funny thing is, egotism is such an intrinsic part of being a bigot, the thought they're disregarded as beneath contempt doesn't occur to them. I have people gibbering in my Spam folder, ignored, for years.
     But the Republican presidential candidate cannot be dismissed so easily. Even though none of this is news. Ever since he came down that brass escalator in the garish lobby of Trump Tower on June 16, 2015 and started slurring Mexicans as criminals and rapists, he's been the pied piper for the lowest sub-hell of the American psyche: racism, sexism, xenophobia, nationalism, religious bigotry.
     Nearly a decade. No wonder we're all loopy. No wonder Joe Biden bowing out of the race brought an explosion of joy, optimism and energy. Hope dawned. Maybe we can finally break the spell.
     This has been a particularly exuberant week, since Harris announced her running mate is Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz.
     Walz wasn't on my radar. My personal favorite was secretary of transportation Pete Buttigieg, the sharpest razor wit in politics. The prospect of watching him vivisect Trump and Vance for the next three months was delicious to contemplate.
     Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro was my second choice. He's also a guy who can deliver a verbal broadside, and could be expected to win his own battleground state. Plus he's Jewish — as with Sandy Koufax, you like to see your guy on the mound, striking 'em out.
     Both men had drawbacks. Buttigieg is gay, so picking him would churn the Republican waters — not that they wouldn't churn anyway — plus give pause to some Democrats who harbor anti-gay bias. Sure, it would be cool to have a gay vice-president — a sign that maybe our country isn't really a nest of hidebound religious loons who live their lives in a sex panic frenzy. But prejudice isn't something people gladly admit to pollsters, and you'd hate to bet our democracy on just how progressive people are in their secret hearts, then wake up Nov. 6 and find out you were wrong.
     Shapiro being Jewish, while catnip to Jews, would have been a drawback last year, but since Oct. 7 has become an anchor, as the outrage of Palestinians — and their undergraduate allies —over the Israel-Hamas War tends to drift from Israelis to Zionists to Jews in general. And Shapiro is no random member of the Tribe, but as governor shut down campus protest in a way that Palestinian activists didn't like.
     “Somebody like Shapiro would be an absolute disaster since he essentially has made it seem as if the Palestinians don’t have any rights to freedom or self-determination or anything,” said Hatem Abudayyeh, national chair of the U.S. Palestinian Community Network, while Harris was still pondering her choice.
     Some Jews chose to register displeasure at Shapiro being passed over. Me, I understand that the goal here is to win, and if Harris-Walz has a slightly better chance at victory than Harris-Shapiro, then Harris-Walz it is. Would you rather lose with your guy, or win with somebody else? We can work at perfecting American society afterward.
     That's called strategic thinking. The idea that people unhappy with some current administration policy are going to withhold their support, or back the guy who would be much, much worse, is cutting off your nose to spite your face. Maybe Jews are unduly attached to our often considerable noses. But doing that just isn't smart.

Gene & Me: The Ecstasy of Defeat

      Hard to express just how small a part of my consciousness is taken up by the White Sox. I think about topology more. Somewhere between the mental energy expended on Q-Tips and that dedicated to the Kansas-Nebraska Act. 

     But Gene Weingarten is my hero — the best newspaper writer alive. His column collection, "Fiddler in the Subway," made me proud to be in the same profession. Even if I never did anything remotely as good, and never could, we share the same rough job description, as people who arrange words on a page. A stretch, I know, like saying you resemble someone because you both have bilateral symmetry. 

     Bottom line: when Gene asked me to engage in a colloquy about the White Sox and their historic losing streak, you can be damned sure I was going to engage in a colloquy on the White Sox and their historic losing streak. He posted the results on his Gene Pool blog Tuesday, and I want to share it with you here today. This is his introduction — I show up later on, adding my perspective on the perennial South Side losers, for what it's worth.

     We live in turbulent, truculent times. Matters of grave importance are in flux; one day you think the country faces a certain depressing storyline, and then, seemingly overnight, the scene shifts momentously and who knows where we wind up?
     I think you know what I am talking about. We are confronting what we have become as a nation, and wrestling over whether this is really what we want to be: bullies and braggarts and bigots and weirdos? Or do we want to be miserable defeatists mired in despair? But now, suddenly, there is a third reality, a bright beacon around which we can flitter like moths, and coalesce: I am talking about the Chicago White Sox. 

     Let’s take a breather from the furious frenzy of politics. Let’s enjoy the beauty of failure, embrace it, and grow mighty from the purity of it. Remember, Chicago will be the scene of the Democratic National Convention: There is resonance in this.
     The White Sox are a bad baseball team, but even better than that, they appear to be on the cusp of becoming the worst baseball team the modern world has ever known. Their ineptitude is degrading and pathetically wound-licking: One of their better players is “Andrew Benintendi,” whose last name, as i see it, tepidly translates into “good intentions.”
     This team is so bad it is seriously statistically challenging the comically feckless 1962 Mets, the losingest team in modern baseball history, for the distinction of being immortally bad. Can we not love this team for their failures? Indeed, can they love themselves? Can we not celebrate humanity in its glorious totality — strong and weak, good and bad?
     It was just three months ago, in the Gene Pool, toward the very start of the season, that I envisioned exactly this scenario, but cited … The Miami Marlins, a team that, at the time, stank like a deceased mackerel in the sun. I proposed launching The Badwagon, a takeoff on “The Bandwagon,“ Tony Kornheiser’s famous 1991 mid-season columns urging fans to join his online club rooting for the Redskins to keep winning games, and then win the Super Bowl. (They did, and did.). The Badwagon would be similar, but different. I was urging readers to root intensely for the Marlins to keep losing, on the theory that there is nobility in abject failure.
     That was three months ago. Time, that thief of joy, intervened. The Marlins found a small degree of competence. They began winning occasionally. Right now, they are a very bad team indeed, but not a historically, world class very bad team.
     But Time, and Fortune, have once again smiled on us all. The second worst team from three months ago, the Chicago White Sox, girded their loins and roared stunningly backwards. You can practically hear the urgent bleat of a garbage truck in reverse. As of this morning, The White Sox were on a spectacular 21-game losing streak, a mere two losses from the worst frenzy of decay in history. They are now way worse than the Marlins. As of today, their record was 27-88, which is a winning percentage of .235. That’s even crappier than the uber-crappy ‘62 Mets, a brand-new team, one composed almost entirely of castoffs from other teams, a team that included the famously maladroit Marv Throneberry, a team that finished the season at 40-120, the most losses ever. Their winning percentage was .250. The 1916 Philadelphia Athletics finished even lower, at .235.

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