Neil Steinberg! Words that People Say Really Matter, Because They Often Match What People Believe And Do.

 

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

 Obviously, you want Obama elected — the nation will soon realize what it has done, the pendulum will swing the other way — your way. At long last! Ausgerechnet jetzt!
Persuasive stuff. But if I know you — and I do — about now you’re asking yourself: “Hey, wait a second. This guy’s a Jew. Why would a Jew be looking out for the best interest of the Iron Fist of Righteous White Anger, Mount Greenwood Corps?” Neil Steinberg Chicago Sun Times 2009

The immediate snotty crack above followed a series of Sun Times columns by other like-minded writers who hate cops and white Catholics in general that spouted pretty much the same lie. I live in Morgan Park which, like Mount Greenwood, gets grouped in a collective that the media call Beverly or the political landscape of the 19th Ward - home to largely white Catholic, government employees, teachers, nurses, tradesmen, some well-to-do folks, cops and fireman. Many black Americans live very well in this neighborhood as well. I used to meet black gents like Doc and Stewart up at Keegan's Pub having a drink and  a horse-laugh with their paler hued neighbors. Now, Keegan's  is Barney Callaghan's and a younger crowd attend the same salons. However, when I read Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun Times (without paying for either mind you), one might think that folks spent  all of  their time chasing Eliza over the ice flow on the Ohio River, as the poor child attempts to find the Underground High Speed Railroad. Nope.

Well, Monday was Halloween!  A very nice time for kids and their parents.

Trick, or Treat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   Note there is no question.  The implied meaning Treats without your windows getting soaped, your front porch egged, or worse. The tricks have gone the way of merry at Christmas time.

We still love Christmas, Hanukkah, or Yule tide, but the concept of being merry in our age could get a some poor slob locked up and wearing a Velcro dinner jacket on the fourth floor of the local hospital,

I glanced at the Sun Times this morning and saw that Neil Steinberg had a scold for people Neil deems stupid - anyone not Neil Steinberg.

He echoes William Butler Yeats's dismissal of 'polite, meaningless words'

People just say stuff.
Such as “How are you?” when they couldn’t care less how you are. And “I’m fine” when they’re not. It’s expected, the grease that society slides forward on. Hardly worth noting.
When it comes to politics, however, this just-say-stuff habit is more worrisome. Then the grease can send our nation skidding off of a cliff of toxic nonsense and paranoid fantasy. Politicians make promises that they can’t possibly deliver. They air claims that can’t possibly be true, that directly conflict what they just said a day or two ago. And their followers, well, follow, saying things they neither mean nor think about.

Yeats meant what he said about the people he met and knew before they 'changed; changed utterly' by British firing squads.  They were the same people, only dead and honored for their deaths in 1916.


Several days ago, Steinberg wrote a piece that was standard if you back Trump you are a racist Cro Magnon, honeyed with William Butler Yeats.

As terrible as the election of 2016 is, it is also only the beginning. Clinton might win — I hold out hope she will win, unless of course she doesn’t. But that won’t be the end. Somewhere, a sharper, slicker, more disciplined, more palatable version of Donald Trump — Donald 2.0 — is being assembled. Some Marco Rubio-caliber fraud is staring hard at himself in the mirror, liking what he sees, and cooing, “Next time, it’s your turn baby!” The rough beast awakes and slouches toward 2020 to be born.

I used to read and like Neil Steinberg.  Then I learned that his words did not match the guy. Where I come from, that is a problem.  Neil might have been well-served taking a graduate course in regular folks.  But, back to the nub. Neil is on a Yeats kick.

He and so many 'journalists, politicians, anchorpersons, bankers, oligarchs, academics and  hacks are worried that Trump might win on November 8th - I don't worry, nor do I believe that he will get by stacked decks.  Steinberg says stuff all of the time and he believes it.  He hates Trump and the people voting for him with the same passion as he hated people for not worshipping at Obama's 2008 Greek Temple. He goes Orewellian Big Brother on them with great regularity.

 

  Then, Neil decides to really gin-up the Two Minutes Hate on the specific people who might back Trump and nail us good:

Such as? Abortion. “Abortion is murder,” the anti-abortion crowd claims. You hear it all the time. First, that’s incorrect. Since murder is a legal term, and abortion is legal and thus it is by definition not murder. What they mean is “Abortion should be murder.” Except they don’t mean that either, as you can demonstrate by replying, “Oh really? If it’s murder, then for how long should the murderers go to jail?” And the answer is “umm.” We can translate that grunt as “OK ‘abortion is murder,’ is just something we say because it sounds powerful and more compact than, ‘I want to force my religion on you while dragging gender roles back to the 1950s.'” Admittedly quite a mouthful.

Quite a mouthful.  You know what they say about people who talk with their mouths full?

Two words - Nuremberg Laws, numb nuts.

Nuremberg Laws and Roe v. Wade. Hitler murdered Jews and Planned Parenthood murders babies.  See, nothing on my teeth and gums.

Words matter and people mean what they say, even if they use Yeats.

Neil went through a Dante period that was equally shallow in 2008-'09. During his Inferno Days,  Neil had lunch at Kens on Western Ave. around the time when Mr. Steinberg's conduct brought public humiliation on him and his tenure as an employee, much less a columnist was doubtful.  Blood under the bridge.  No one forgets a kindness like a guy who believes that he is Emile Zola.   I took Neil Steinberg to Jackie Casto's Ken's on Western Ave. for lunch, where the talented word-sculptor chatted with a thick number of folks who live here, including cops, fireman, school teachers. the Mayor of Evergreen Park, two writers from Beverly Review and a number of Leo Alums who had attended the Veterans Observance.

Generally, when one breaks bread with another person some kind of bond of mutual grace and respect surfaces - not so with too many columnists.  A few months later, Neil smeared the people he lunched with to make a snotty crack about the stupid people who did not vote for and worship Obama in 2009.

Hell, I didn't vote for Obama in 2008, or 2012, because I firmly the believe the man has limited mental capacities - he has yet to disappoint me as our first Ted Baxter President.

I say, "Good Morning,: because I mean that I hope everyone including Neil Steinberg has a very good morning.

Neil Steinberg is a semiotic totalitarian - he and his circle know what meaning is and they will tell us.  He gets caught up in all of that clever Jacques Derrida deconstructionism that journalists employ to white-out events, words, deeds and meanings. Poetry works for semiotic totalitarians.  Me and the neighbors tend to be prosaic.

When I say " Get the @#$% off my porch,"  I don't mean come on in and set a spell.

Hickey's Diversity Leg of Lamb

Diversity Leg of Lamb Ready for the lid and six hours of slow cooking magic


My Grandma, Nora ( nee Sullivan) Hickey, came to Chicago in 1912 from a one room cabin with a dirt floor outside of Caherciveen, County Kerry.  Nora had seven sisters and a little brother; she was the oldest and the family threw an American Wake for her, before heading to Queenstown in Cork and trip over.

She landed at Castlegarden, NYC and immediately upon release from Immigration took a train to Chicago.

Here, she worked in the kitchen 'a great home' on Prairie for the rich Yanks run by an African American woman and several Mexican women as her assistants,

Here, Nora Sullivan learned from the hands of the daughter of a slave and escapees of the Revolutions in El Norte how to properly prepare food.

Unlike so many Irish families in America, the Hickeys ate more than boiled grey beef, mashed spud sand cabbage.  We grew up with spices!

My Mom was a lousy cook until my Dad showed her how to make dishes other than burned pork and canned carrots.

The males in my family are exceptional cooks.  I ain't too bad.

I have recently fallen- in -love -all over again with the Hamilton Beach slow-cooker (AKA crock pot) and have larded my thick bones with soups, ragouts, Lancashire Hot Pots, cassoulets, goulashes and slum gullions of every variety.

Craving goat tacos a la Birrieria Ocotlon on east 106th in South Chicago - I used lamb shoulder and chops.  Not bad.  I also got tired of chewing down on missed bones.

Leg of Lamb - big bones - was the key.

Per the male sense of opportunity, Spices, vegetables and herbs became intriguing dramas.  The resultant dish comes from wonderlands and influences - Japan, Mexico, the Caribbean.

Here it is.

Celery chopped one cup

One large Vidalia Onion chopped

Two large Poblano peppers - cut lengthwise

One large red peppper  - cut length wise

Two Lbs Leg of Lamb whole and bone-in trimmed of fat

1/2 cup of Caribbean Jerk Spice for lamb rub

1/4 cup of Kikoman Teriyaki sauce

Big bunch of Cilanto

Methode:

Layer Celery Onions on the bottom of the Crock

Apply heavy doses of Caribbean Jerk rub to the trimmed leg of lamb and place over the celery and onions and then pour 1/4 cup of Teriyaki sauce over the lamb

Layer Poblano and Red Pepper strips over the lamb.

Turn Heat indicator on high and cooked covered for six hours - longer if you wish.  Then remove the leg bone and joints from the lamb - the meat will shred and fall away.

The natural fats and water in the vegetables will make a superb broth. Chop and sprinkle cilantro over the individual portions. 

Eat this with tortillas, flat breads, rice, coucous, or spuds. Here she is with about four hours of cooking.

I have not had any complaints and even a few lascivious notes from women in Morgan Park with whom I have shared portions and the recipe.

Voila!  Six hours and change later- The lamb falls away at the touch.  I will let this cool; pop in the ice box and serve it later with couscous.

Let me know how this works out for you and if it does not, keep it to yourself.
 Me?  I'm on it!

Go to Work,or Play Sick Mountie of the Yukon All Day

Outpost of the Mounties                                        Outpost Hickey in 2014 before wind took down the basketball rigWhen the summer wind comes a-winging,

Then I’m feeling so alone.

There’s a melody softly singing,                       

Bringing me memories of home.
"Due to severe weather conditions, we will be closed tomorrow, Thursday, February 19, 2015."


Leo High School soundly decided to call off school due to the dangerous winds and Artic temperatures. we had an Alumni meeting at Father Perez Knights of Columbus Council 1444 last evening, while Lions of the Hard wood hosted our Brother School - Brother Rice in the 3rd Floor Gym.  I have yet to track down the score of that game - must have run late*.

We are in the frozen North! Midwest. South, East you name it.  Chicago was again blessed by God and avoided tons of the white stuff now crusting Indiana and Michigan.

I decided to come into the school and prep some stock donation with the requisite info and my signature - drop off Alumni donations and avoid being an Arctic cocoon.

My late wife Mary like corny old movies that had Singing Mounties, be they standard black and white epics, or Shirley Temple's blubbering interrrupted by song.  Whenever our Bourbonnais, Illinois apartment heat failed to keep up with the threshing winds and the thermostat dropped below 60 degrees, she'd say, "Time to play Sick Mountie!"

That meant that the two of us and later the three of us would cocoon within quilts, sleeping bags, Army blankets and even thick bath towels.

I though of that last night, when we got the call 8:53PM announcing "No Classes."

I covered the cat in an extra blanket and Sophie objected not a bit.

Car fired up fine, no snow.  Really cold, as predicted. 

It is Lent - be productive, somewhat!  Anytway, no oone to play Sick Mountie with but that damn scrawny cat.

* UPDATE Brother Rice 51, Leo 48: Mike Shepski scored 12 points in leading Brother Rice (11-16) to a spot in the consolation championship. Morgan Taylor added 11 points for the Crusaders and Jake Kosakowski had 10 in the contest at Loyola. Kewan Smith registered a game-high 21 points for Leo (9-15) and Darius Branch finished with 18.

Baby, It's Cold Outside. 'Who Told You, Hickey?'

 Dangerously cold wind chills to affect the area ... In Effect From Midnight Tonight to noon CST Thursday ... which is in effect from Midnight Tonight to noon CST Thursday ..N.B. photo provided by the exquisite Deborah Boscarelli

Fifteen minutes for my pre-set alarm goes off ( 3:25 AM) Sophie's scratch at my basement bedroom door signals me to toss off the quilts, hit my knees to the floor for my morning Memorare, and re-et my alarm  My eight year old jet black kitten, is one needy female who purrs up a storm until I give her the morning's change to the sandbox, In-House Cat Chow and double bowl of Michigan Straight H2O, as well as the requisite scratching, petting teasing with the pen laser.

God has given me another chance to inhale the day.  Neighbors, I worry not about ISIS, Al Qaeda, Ebola  Vlad Putin, the PDRNK, ,Red China, or what Rahm Emanuel is planning for me and other tax-payers.  That pile of anxieties are for people much more thoughtful, or psychically profound than I.  My anxieties are spiritual, related to prosaic civic and vocational obligations and most especially familial - I am a parent.  I worry about me bairns 24/7.  Like most worries those stand foar beyond my control. My youngest is snuggled in her bed and has five days remaing of her break from Western Michigan. The two older young uns are out of the nest.  Yet, I do worry.

Things I can address cause most of my anxiousness due to my husbanding of technical skills and talents.

The furnace is working fine. The sump-pump's buzz durng the morning's ablutions calm my constant home owner fears.  

All is right with the . . . Uck Fay!  

(Hickey's alley facing north)

Two powdery  inches of new white stuff on the weathered wooden deck.  The snow blower checked out and operated handsomely in respense to Winter 2015's intial assault, only hours ago.  The temperature is Zero, but the winds are mild.  No sweat. . .plow after work at Leo High School.

But, wait!  

Once  fleased, buttoned, zipped and gloved, I survey the immediate property.  On my walk, is a form . . .a human form . . .and all too human form . . .an all too female woman buck-nekid form . . supine in the snow drifted 1926 poured City of Chicago walk-way between the trio of park way trees and south side of Casa Hickey!

Do I start the dependable MTD snow throwing Dreadnaught and chance taking a 9mm in the ass from a neighbor - it is, after all, 3:45 AM?  Do I wait until after work? This exquisite beauty might require immediate attention! Call 911 and go to work?  

Own a home? You got anxieties.

Man, it's cold.  Time for Dunkin Donuts coffee!!!!!!!