President Trump and the Media - A Full Press Court in Vinegaroon, USA

You have been tried by twelve good men and true, not of your peers but as high above you as heaven is of hell, and they have said you are guilty. Roy Bean

Much of Trump's cluelessness about issues stems from his refusal to make more than a minimal effort at his job. As his comments about Andrew Jackson and the Civil War confirm, Trump is not merely too lazy to learn; he's too lazy to notice there is anything others know that he might need to. His is indolence on an epic scale. Steve Chapman

 Well, I'm about as tall as a shotgun, and just as noisy.- Truman Capote

The American media is as judicious in its treatment of President Trump as that sound voice of due process from Vinegaroon, Texas - Law West of the Pecos.  Judge Roy Bean is now working under many pseudonyms - Frank Rich, Dana Milbank, E.J. Dionne, David Brooks, George Will, Billy Kristol, and Kat6rina Vanden Huevel. The Judge has morphed into whole editorial boards at Washington Post, New York Times and even the hick burg rags like Chicago Tribune and Sun Times.

Only months ago, Judge Roy Bean had been Truman Capote to Barack Obama - smooching the patron and hissing at everyone else and then Trump won.  Lord the change.  The Resistance!

Me?  I just read the papers - most of them and then some.

Here is the Cinco De Mayo, 2017 sampling of Trump Thumping from the New York Times in Headline  Real journalism. Like nowhere else.

EDITORIAL

• The Trumpcare Disaster

SUNDAY REVIEW

• Mexican Drug Smugglers to Trump: Thanks!
• Trump’s Civil War Comments: Right and Left Reactions
• By ANNA DUBENKO
• A roundup of partisan writing that includes three political myths Mr. Trump has helped to bust and a comic you won’t believe.
• Obamacare Repeal Faces Senate Hurdle
• Fact Check: Is Congress Exempt From the Bill?

 Then,  I read a deceptively titled story -President Trump Returns to New York for a Brief First Visit - Home Boy President?  Nah.

This was a "We Ran Him Otta Town!"  piece by Michael Wilson.  NY, NY!

The Rube Media here in Chicago is mildly amusing with daffy screeds by lightweights like Rex Hupke, Mary Schmich, Eric Zorn and the Bruce Dold editorial ink.  The worst of this sad lot is the Tribune's own David Brooks JV player Stephan Chapman - The Minority of One, his own bad self!

Donald Trump has many worrisome, regrettable and even deplorable traits. But after studying him for the past two years, I have concluded he has an overlooked quality that cancels out many of his bad ones. Say what you will, the man is lazy.
This is a discovery that should gladden people of all parties, philosophies, races, sexes and religions. His detractors can be glad that he will never muster the drive or discipline to actually bring many of his worst ideas to fruition. His admirers can rest easy knowing he will not work himself to death.

 Really? Trump has been like an horny rabbit on bennies putting the blocks to the Obama Legacy - nothing for everyone, BUT Obama and his peeps. 

Lazy?  Chapman was right with his opener "Donald Trump has many worrisome, regrettable and even deplorable traits."  Can't argue that.  But, the lick spittle who munched Obama's rump for eight years and more should have stopped there,

There was a great line from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Roy Bean-like character exclaims, "I'm not crazy; I'm just colorful. That's what happens when you live "( 8 years alone in a Banana Republic)-, "you get colorful! " Then he is shot dead.



Judge Roy Bean was colorful.   The Press is crazy.

Tales of the South Side: Breakfast at Tiffany's Reviewed by Kondike " Moose" Cholak

Man, I took a beating in April of 1965. That was not my best year by far.  The Nun I had for the tail-end of Sixth Grade at Little Flower told my folks that I was 'retarded, obstinate, disorganized and destined for bad end.' To say that I was a miscreant little jerk is not a stretch and I remain less than anal retentive in my assault upon tasks. However, bad end?  I think not.  I have been saved by great folks.

Immediately following one of my numerous extra curricular Pre-May Crowning beat-downs by Sister Beautificus, RSM, I accompanied two pals Tom Scanlon and Bernie Weber eastward in  the alley between 80th & &79th Street.. In their company,  I took my first cigarette, actually my second, my first I got from Uncle Mike.  This was my first outside of the tribal circle.  My companions were considered a bad lot in the common-room of the school's convent,  whose families lived in the apartments along Ashland Avenue on the Little Flower side.  One guy, Tom, is now a retired school psychologist and the other, Bernie, became a much decorated Chicago fireman, also retired.  We all three had written satirical essays on the upcoming May Crowning, which offended Sister Beautificus, who asked me, 'What would your Father say if he saw this?'  I waited a second, timing is everything, " Who you think wrote most of its, S'ter?"  Flesh and bone was now open for business. Messy desks, slipshod arithmetic no SRA work done in weeks built the hooded Black and White into a Torrent of Spring Fury!  I took it on the cheeks, the ears, the snot-locker and even the gums, as did my boon chums.  We celebrated this blood-bond with a pack of Chesterfields snitched from Tom's Mom's purse. 

Upon the celebratory light-up, Bernie's Dad's car came bouncing through the then unpaved alley at a great clip.  Old Man Weber had seen us in the act,

 " Bernie, get your rump home now!  Immediately, if not sooner.  Hickey - I'll see your old man, when he gets off work and stops at Billy Ellis's.  Hi Tom!  How's your Mom?"

Mrs. Scanlon was a widow who worked for the Phone Company over on Stewart and was considered by every pater familias to be easy on the eyes. .

"Fine, Mr. Weber, "  Scanlon, obviously off the hook, spirited the rumpled pack of Chesterfield's in my jacket pocket and tore ass south at the intersection of Marshfield and the alley.  Mr. Weber glared at me, " You're as big a smart-ass as your Uncle Bart.  I told Bernie to stay the Hell away from you. Bernie, beat it!  You, Mr. Hickey, make yourself scarce."

Swell. A brace of great communications concerning the fruit of his loins to candy Dad's ears, prior to his twenty minutes at home before he had to go his other job at the Beverly Theatre.  Nun Battery followed by the manly art of snitching a nail.  "I am well and truly screwed," I determined with no prodding from the audience, whatsoever. Smart Lad!  I fired up another smoke and walked across Ashland Ave. to the Highland Theater - home of the Hercules versus Viet Cong and other B Movies.. There was always sexy and salacious movie posters to heighten a lad's trip to the Saturday Confessional.  Always, a grand idea to tempt oneself.

 I stood in the ticket bay of Highland Theatre on Ashland and smoked another Chesterfield with the existential fatalism of Sartre, jilted by some swell French Dame in tight sweater and tighter black slit skirt..  I looked at ads of upcoming movies that I would never see.  A gruff but familiar voice assaulted my pornographic musings, " Spit out that butt, Kid." Jesus!!!!!!!

Cop? Uncle?  No. Ignatius the school janitor?  Nope. I turned to see furrowed brows and dashing side burns, bushy eye brows and Goliath-like terror of none other than Klondike Moose Cholak - The Wrestling Foe of Man and Beast!.

The man eclipsed the waning western sun beaming on the tar roof of Billy Ellis' Wooden House, where the Old Man stopped for a Hamms and a Vinegar and Oil ( Seagrams VO Canadian).  The Star of Saturday afternoon pre-Confessional Wrestling, brought to me by Ben's Auto Sales on South Western Ave., snapped,  " Weed's for sissies, book-worms and sob-sisters, kid."

Uh,uh stammered I ,  " I just tried 'cuz the guys and me . . ."

Moose Cholak glared at me, " Hey, save it for Aunt Gertie!  You wanna end up being be some pencil neck, no good for anybody, salad eater, Boy?"

Given my proclivities of the tongue, I was more than familiar with the rhetorical question at this tender age and checked my natural tendency go all Noel Coward with Klondike Moose Cholak.

Rather, I penitently answered properly, "No sir."

With folded arms and a broad smile of avuncular approval, Klodike Moose Cholak ordered me to pick up the cast away cylinder of sin and put it in the cement ashtray near the curb like a good boy and then waxed poetic, " Breakfast at Tiffany's,  kid. That's what smoking'll do for you and our whole county. You know, that they made it a movie a couple years back with that skinny broad from My Fair Lady.? Now, pay attention! The guy who wrote the story about that  skirt what liked to shop and hang around with fairies and rich creeps, started smoking at your age.  I saw him on Suskind's TV show, when I couldn't go back to sleep last week and it stuck with me.  This tiny little bald  guy with a pixie voice said his mom was some hillbilly hooker and that he started smoking as a little guy and it stunted his growth, made his hair fall out and talk like a girl. That's no way, Kid. Now,  where's that saloon what's called The Wooden House?"

I pointed to the northwest corner of 79th & Ashland and corrected the wrestler, " We call it Billy Ellis's around here."

With a smile, Moose offered this valediction, " You got some lip on you kid. A  lip on you that' would trip a pig."

How could one come to bad end in this urban Arcadia?

I have not had a cigarette, since breakfast.