Give Disney the Brush; Not Because of a Tragedy, But Because of Old Walt

 “To create a land that would make this dream reality, we pictured ourselves far from civilization, in the remote jungles of Asia and Africa.” WALT DISNEY 

“We knew that Disney was aware that this was a problem, and yet they encourage people to be there,”  Disney Guest in the wake of the horrific death of a toddler at Disney Resort 

To be perfectly fair, Old Walt intended to have guests be awed by mechanical plastic alligators in Anaheim.  Disney today is a very far stretch from Walt's vision - it is a corporate banana republic.

Disney will do everything to keep the horrific death of a baby snatched by one of Florida's ubiquitous alligators - in The Happiest Place on Earth's controlled environments - out of Court.  No signs for alligators?  Why worry.  Disney has plenty of worry and well it should.

I expect the Disney guest, quoted above, will get a threatening call from the suits for " The Happiest Place on Earth - that you can shell out a year's salary for you and the family."

Already there are voices calling for 'examination of parents,' as in the recent Cincinnati Zoo incident when a toddler managed to get into the gorilla exhibit and escaped only because of the quick thinking zoo response team. The magnificent Silverback was killed and the world seemed to want to lynch the parents of the little boy.  Now, Disney ranked the 66th on the Forbes 500  appears to be at DEF CON Six.

Disney's beaches remained closed on Thursday and the company was "conducting a swift and thorough review of all of our processes and protocols," Jacquee Wahler, vice president of Walt Disney World Resort, said in a statement Thursday.
"This includes the number, placement and wording of our signage and warnings," she said in the statement.
There was a "no-swimming" sign near the water, but there were no alligator warning signs where the attacked occurred, a Disney spokesperson confirmed Wednesday.

Disney, like McDonald's, is not my cup of tea -flying, steaming, or otherwise.



McDonald's lost any and all appeal for me when it exchanged the winking fat guy, "Speedee" for the predatory child molesting Ronald McDonald. I refused to take my kids to McDonald's ( 1984-Present) and encouraged them to consume products made by Mom & Pop joints in the neighborhood.  Primarily because the corporate culture creeped me out.

Likewise, Disney went south for me during the late 1970's and 1980's when the oily suits replaced lovable Old Walt and anyone else with his DNA. Yet I am widowed Dad who was joyfully married to an artistic woman who loved her Mickey and Minnie. The Dude abides.

My kids loved Disney!  What little kids do not?  I have probably the most comprehensive and thoroughly useless VHS collection of the Disney Canon from Steamboat Willie to Lilo and Stitch. We even went to Orlando on two occasions.  They sold beer at Epcot. I joined a Universal Brotherhood of Disney Dad's in Tow!

I friended Dad's from France, an Orangeman from Belfast, a Sikh and a Latvian auto dealer.  At Disney Resorts you can hear -

"Maintenant écoute. Rapide les pleurs . Tout le monde doit attendre en ligne . Ce voyage côte votre maman et moi un poumon . Maintenant , éteignez les ouvrages hydrauliques!" French

"Tagad klausīties . Quick raudāšana . Ikvienam ir jāgaida rindā . Šis ceļojums krasts jūsu Mamma un Me plaušu . Tagad , izslēdziet ūdens darbus Latvian

In every tongue!  Translated to - " Now listen. Quit the crying. Everyone must wait in line. This trip cost your Mom and Me a lung. Now, turn off the water works!"

To which, in every tongue, wives would override with " Lighten up! For Once?  Okay?"

I make light of Disney . . .they can take it.

They dish it out aplenty, as well.

I do not make light of the horrific loss of a sweet angel to Melissa and Matt Graves of Nebraska.  My God, there is nothing so horrific as the loss of a child.

My hope is that maybe families will begin to see the World of Wonder dreamed up by the Chicago North Side Irishman, back in the 1950's.  Go to places where America's past is honored. Go to places that give children a sense of wonder - right in their own backyards,  No lines and you won't have to cough up a lung.

My kids seek out great hamburgers, because they know what they are and who makes them.  If they want toys, take them to a toy store; Top Notch throws together some serious burger over on 95th Street.

Disney and McDonalds are business; not family.

Walt said it best, “A man should never neglect his family for business."

Whiting's Pierogi Fest 2015 - Dough Matters & Odzemok on 119th Street

Today is the last day of the Whiting, Indiana 2015 Peirogi Fest - the absolute best street fest anywhere.  I have been going to Pierogi Fest since the 1990's when I lived in Griffith, Indiana. This is a celebration of people manifested in the treats prepared by busha, or jaja, depending upon ethnic origin.  For northwest Indiana, that means Slovak, Polish, Czech. Bohemian, Moldavian, Serbian or Croatian more than likely.  These folks were the manufacturers of American steel and the refiners of John D. Rockefeller's oil for the 100 years of the American Century.

The American Century seems to embarrass too many people today.  That is sad.   Sad people call the tunes too often these days - they are the ones out among the happy people with the 'equality and fairness' tape measures squawking about hurt feelings and feelings not as yet pinched.  Sad people do not celebrate, they berate, ridicule, ignore and forget.  Happy people dance! Happy people eat!  Happy people sing!  Happy people put away as much Pierogi as they can lay hands upon.

I am happy.    I spent the entire day among happy eaters and dancers: earth launched boot slapping Slovakian horn-dogs locking metaphorical antlers with other athletic swains from the valleys and meadows of the Heart of Europe in thick rut for the attentions of gorgeous, black and blue-eyed beauties in bright pink, black, green, orange and yellow dresses whirling wildly enough for this old geezer to remark "I See London; I See France!" Odzemok, Boy-oh! Three Slovak Dance Troupes from Detroit, Cleveland and Toronto wowed me.

I am happy!  I watched hundreds of kids hurling 12" softball at a modestly sized target-trigger in order to sink a little Carmelite nun into a vat of cool water.  For $ 5 you get three shots to Dunk the Nun.. I couldn't dunk a Camelite.  Had it been a Sinsinawa Dominican or a Sister of Mercy, I'd still be peeling off $20s. I donated my five and bought sister a cold beverage of malted grains.  Best believe that, Junior.


I am happy.  I spent some quality time with Mr. Pierogi, his own bad -self.

I am happy.  I spent a few Jacksons on Pierogi prepared by a landsman - Conley's Pierogis!

 I had Taco Pierogis. I had Louisiana Gator Pierogis!  I had Big Daddy's BubbaQue Pierogis.

I am Happy!  I was with people I know and Love! Neighbors who celebrate!  Sad people don't celebrate - they organize, march and howl. Happy people celebrate up a plenty!

The heat and humidity was exquisite and the massive crowd of happy people enjoying the celebration of genuine happiness was courteous to all and sundry.  Even the eight month olds were happy.

Get happy.  Get over to Whiting.



*Odzemok, considered by many to be the "national" or most typical dance of Slovakia, has been well preserved up to the present time. The physically strenuous and virtuoso movements of odzemok, along with its martial elements, make it basically a man's dance that is very special, indeed.

Variants of the dance are known throughout the Carpathian region by various names and are often referred to as "weapon dances." Such dances were originally danced by soldiers, robbers, and shepherds, but later they were also danced by the nobility. Accounts of this dance form survive from the 16th century and by the 19th century information became more profuse. Still, in this century, its vigor is quite remarkable.

Odzemok is found everywhere in Slovakia but is richest in the central and northeast parts, especially in the High Tatra Mountains.

In the 19th & 20th Centuries The Reds Went to Jail; Today The Reds Arrest The Cops: Francis O'Neill and Emma Goldman, Best Friends Forever!

In just a little more than century, Reds (Marxists who demand to called Progressives) have finally beaten Law Enforcement.  With time, treasure and talent, the Roger Baldwins ( founder of the ACLU and NAACP) have managed to bulldoze the moral high ground of American life to its current valley of the shadow of death.

All it took was money from the once prosperous American middle class and put it into the hands of lawyers, academic, criminals and of course journalists.

Six police officers are in custody in the City of Baltimore for the murder of a man - three officers are black and three are white, but it matters not because the current wisdom defines them as White African Americans.
They are "white" because they joined the Baltimore Police Department. N.B. Let's try and remember that novelist Tom Wolf was being sarcastic when he said, in the Bonfire of the Vanities, that black men become Irish the minute they join a police force. America is evolved - Audie Murphy and Chris Kyle are psychopaths and Al Gore and Michael Moore are cross-trainers; Bishop Fulton J. Sheen long canceled by ABC TV is forgotten and  Sodomite Social Critic Dan Savage is on ABC TV Disney  Cops are locked up and Criminals made Millionaires/Les One Third to Cockroach Commie Lawyers

Somethings need to be permanent -Racism, Class Envy, Ostentatious Displays of Vulgarity. Others, totally forgotten, like police officers are human beings.

Come with me back in time to the turn of the twentieth century. Emma Goldman was planting bombs and getting away with it, because she had the best lawyers and Captain Francis O'Neill Superintendent of Chicago Police was preserving Irish music, catching bad guys, stepping between plutocrats and strikers and making next to nothing annually.

Emma Goldman lectured late in her career as a Revolutionist and here recounts her time with  Chief O'Neill after the assassination of President McKinley: From steppingstone.com

The subject of my lecture in Cleveland, early in May of that year, was Anarchism, delivered before the Franklin Liberal Club, a radical organization. During the intermission before the discussion I noticed a man looking over the titles of the pamphlets and books on sale near the platform. Presently he came over to me with the question: "Will you suggest something for me to read?" He was working in Akron, he explained, and he would have to leave before the close of the meeting.

Mary Isaak came in to tell me that a young man, who gave his name as Nieman, was urgently asking to see me. I knew nobody by that name and I was in a hurry, about to leave for the station. Rather impatiently I requested Mary to inform the caller that I had no time at the moment, but that he could talk to me on my way to the station. As I left the house, I saw the visitor, recognizing him as the handsome chap of the golden hair who had asked me to recommend him reading-matter at the Cleveland meeting.
Hanging on to the straps on the elevated train, Nieman told me that he had belonged to a Socialist local in Cleveland, that he had found its members dull, lacking in vision and enthusiasm.. He could not bear to be with them and he had left Cleveland and was now working in Chicago and eager to get in touch with anarchists.
At the station I found my friends awaiting me, among them Max. I wanted to spend a few minutes with him and I begged Hippolyte to take care of Nieman and introduce him to the comrades.

How long has it been since Cleveland had an elevated train?
My holiday in Rochester was somewhat marred by a notice in Free Society containing a warning against Nieman. It was written by A. Isaak, editor of the paper, and it stated that news had been received from Cleveland that the man had been asking questions that aroused suspicion, and that he was trying to get into the anarchist circles. The comrades in Cleveland had concluded that he must be a spy.
I was very angry. To make such a charge, on such flimsy ground! I wrote Isaak at once, demanding more convincing proofs. He replied that, while he had no other evidence, he still felt that Nieman was untrustworthy because he constantly talked about acts of violence. I wrote another protest. The next issue of Free Society contained a retraction

As I stood at a street-corner wearily waiting for a car, I heard a newsboy cry: "Extra! Extra! President McKinley shot!" I bought a paper, but the car was so jammed that it was impossible to read. Around me people were talking about the shooting of the President.
Carl had arrived at the house before me. He had already read the account. The President had been shot at the Exposition grounds in Buffalo by a young man by the name of Leon Czolgosz. "I never heard the name," Carl said; "have you?" "No, never," I replied. "It is fortunate that you are here and not in Buffalo," he continued. "As usual, the papers will connect you with this act." "Nonsense!" I said, "the American press is fantastic enough, but it would hardly concoct such a crazy story."
... While I was waiting for the man to fill out his order, I caught the headline of the newspaper lying on his desk: "ASSASSIN OF PRESIDENT McKINLEY AN ANARCHIST. CONFESSES TO HAVING BEEN INCITED BY EMMA GOLDMAN. WOMAN ANARCHIST WANTED."
By great effort I strove to preserve my composure, completed the business, and walked out of the store. At the next corner I bought several papers and went to a restaurant to read them. They were filled with the details of the tragedy, reporting also the police raid of the Isaak house in Chicago and the arrest of everyone found there. The authorities were going to hold the prisoners until Emma Goldman was found, the papers stated. Already two hundred detectives had been sent out throughout the country to track down Emma Goldman.
On the inside page of one of the papers was a picture of McKinley's slayer. "Why, that's Nieman!" I gasped.
When I was through with the papers, it became clear to me that I must immediately go to Chicago. The Isaak family, Hippolyte, our old comrade Jay Fox, a most active man in the labour movement, and a number of others were being held without bail until I should be found. It was plainly my duty to surrender myself. I knew there was neither reason nor the least proof to connect me with the shooting. I would go to Chicago.

I had often heard of the third degree used by the police in various American cities to extort confessions, but I myself had never been subjected to it… On the day of my arrest, which was September 10, I was kept at police headquarters in a stifling room and grilled to exhaustion from 10.30 a.m. till 7 p.m. At least fifty detectives passed me, each shaking his fist in my face and threatening me with the direst things …
I reiterated the story I had told them when first brought to police headquarters, explaining where I had been and with whom. But they would not believe me and kept on bullying and abusing me. My head throbbed, my throat and lips felt parched. A large pitcher of water stood on the table before me, but every time I stretched my hand for it, a detective would say: "You can drink all you want, but first answer me. Where were you with Czolgosz the day he shot the president?" The torture continued for hours. Finally I was taken to the Harrison Street Police Station and locked in a barred enclosure, exposed to view from every side …
I woke up with a burning sensation. A plain-clothes man held a reflector in front of me, close to my eyes. I leaped up and pushed him away with all my strength, crying: "You're burning my eyes!" "We'll burn more before we get through with you!" he retorted. With short intermissions this was repeated during three nights …
Since my arrest I had had no word from my friends, nor had anyone come to see me. I realized I was being kept incommunicado. I did get letters, however, most of them unsigned. "You damn bitch of an anarchist," one of them read, "I wish I could get at you. I would teat your heart out and feed it to my dog." "Murderous Emma Goldman," another wrote, "you will burn in hell-fire for your treachery to our country." A third cheerfully promised: "We will cut your tongue out, soak your carcass in oil, and burn you alive." The description by some of the anonymous writers of what they would do to me sexually offered studies in perversion that would have astounded authorities on the subject. The authors of the letters nevertheless seemed to me less contemptible than the police officials. Daily I was handed stacks of letters that had been opened and read by the guardians of American decency and morality. At the same time messages from my friends were withheld from me. It was evident that my spirit was to be broken by such methods.

The same evening Chief of Police O'Neill of Chicago came to my cell. He informed me that he would like to have a quiet talk with me. "I have no wish to bully or coerce you," he said; "perhaps I can help you." "It would indeed be a strange experience to have help from a chief of police," I replied; "but I am quite willing to answer your questions." He asked me to give him a detailed account of my movements from May 5, when I had first met Czolgosz, until the day of my arrest in Chicago. I gave him the requested information, but without mentioning my my visit to Sasha or the names of the comrades who had been my hosts. As there was no longer any need of shielding Dr. Kaplan, the Isaaks, or Hippolyte, I was in a position to give practically a complete account. When I concluded—what I said being taken down in shorthand—Chief O'Neill remarked: "Unless you're a very clever actress, you are certainly innocent. I think you are innocent, and I am going to do my part to help you out." I was too amazed to thank him; I had never before heard such a tone from a police officer. At the same time I was skeptical of the success of his efforts, even if he should try to do something for me.
Immediately following my conference with the Chief I became aware of a decided change in my treatment. My cell door was left unlocked day and night, and I was told by the matron that I could stay in the large room, use the rocking-chair and the table there, order my own food and papers, receive and send out mail. I began at once to lead the life of a society lady, receiving callers all day long, mostly newpaper people who came not so much for interviews as to talk, smoke, and relate funny stories. Others, again, came out of curiosity. Most attentive was Katherine Leckie, of the Hearst papers … A strong and ardent feminist, she was at the same time devoted to the cause of labour. Katherine Leckie was the first to take my story of the third degree. She became so outraged at hearing it that she undertook to canvass the various women's organizations in order to induce them to take the matter up.

Buffalo was pressing for my extradition,but Chicago asked for authentic data on the case. I had already been given several hearings in court, and on each occasion the District Attorney from Buffalo had presented much circumstantial evidence to induce the State of Illinois to surrender me. But Illinois demanded direct proofs. There was a hitch somewhere that helped to cause more delays. I thought it likely that Chief of Police O'Neill was behind the matter.
The Chief's attitude towards me had changed the behaviour of every officer in the Harrison Street Police Station. The matron and the two policemen assigned to watch my cell began to lavish attentions on me. The officer on night duty now oftern appeared with his arms full of parcels, containing fruit, candy, and drinks stronger than grape-juice. "From a friend who keeps a saloon round the corner," he would say, "an admirer of yours." The matron presented me with flowers from the same unknown. One day she brought me the message that he was going to send a grand supper for the coming Sunday. "Who is the man and why should he admire me?" I inquired. "Well, we're all Democrats, and McKinley is a Republican," she replied. "You don't mean you're glad McKinley was shot?" I exclaimed. "Not glad exactly, but not sorry, neither," she said; "we have to pretend, you know, but we're none of us excited about it."

Buffalo failed to produce evidence to justify my extradition. Chicago was getting weary of the game of hide-and-seek. The authorities would not turn me over to Buffalo, yet at the same time they did not feel like letting me go entirely free. By way of compromise I was put under twenty-thousand-dollar bail. The Isaak group had been put under fifteen-thousand-dollar bail. I knew that it would be almost impossible for our people to raise a total of thirty-five thousand dollars within a few days. I insisted on the others being bailed out first. Thereupon I was transferred to the Cook County Jail.
The night before my transfer was Sunday. My saloon-keeper admirer kept his word; he sent over a huge tray filled with numerous goodies: a big turkey, with all the trimmings, including wine and flowers. A note came with it informing that he was willing to put up five thousand dollars towards my bail. "A strange saloon-keeper!" I remarked to the matron. "Not at all," she replied; "he's the ward heeler and he hates the Republicans worse than the devil." I invited her, my two policmen, and several other officers present to join me in the celebration. They assured me that nothing like it had ever before happened to them—a prisoner playing host to her keepers.

The newspapers had published rumours about mobs ready to attack the Harrison Street Station and planning violence to Emma Goldman before she could be taken to the Cook County Jail. Monday morning, flanked by a heavily armed guard, I was led out of the station-house. There were not a dozen people in sight, mostly curiosity-seekers. As usual, the press had deliberately tried to incite a riot.
Ahead of me were two handcuffed prisoners roughly hustled about by the officers. When we reached the patrol wagon, surrounded by more police, their guns ready for action, I found myself close to the two men. Their features could not be distinguished: their heads were bound up in bandages, leaving only their eyes free. As they stepped up to the patrol wagon, a policeman hit one of them on the head with his club, at the same time pushing the other prisoner violently into the wagon. They fell over each other, one of them shrieking with pain. I got in next, then turned to the officer. "You brute," I said, "how dare you beat that helpless fellow?" The next thing I knew, I was sent reeling to the floor. He had landed his fist on my jaw, knocking out a tooth and covering my face with blood. Then he pulled me up, shoved me into the seat, and yelled: "Another word from you, you damned anarchist, and I'll break every bone in your body!"
I arrived at the office of the county jail with my waist and skirt covered with blood, my face aching fearfully. No one showed the slightest interest or bothered to ask how I came to be in such a battered condition. They did not even give me water to wash up. For two hours I was kept in a room in the middle of which stood a long table. Finally a woman arrived who informed me that I would have to be searched. "All right, go ahead," I said. "Strip and get on the table," she ordered. I had been repeatedly searched, but I had never before been offered such an insult. "You'll have to kill me first, or get your keepers to put me on the table by force," I declared; "you'll never get me to do it otherwise." She hurried out, and I remained alone. After another long wait another woman came in and led me upstairs, where the matron of the tier took charge of me. She was the first to inquire what was the matter with me. After assigned me to a cell she brought a hot-water bottle and suggested that I lie down and get some rest.
The following afternoon Katherine Leckie visited me. I was taken into a room provided with a double wire screen. It was semi-dark, but as soon as Katherine saw me, she cried: "What on God's earth has happened to you? Your face is all twisted!" No mirror, not even of the smallest size, being allowed in the jail, I was not aware how I looked, though my eyes and lips felt queer to the touch. I told Katherine of my encounter with the policeman's fist. She left swearing vengeance and promising to return after seeing Chief O'Neill. Towards evening she came back to let me know that the Chief had assured her the officer would be punished if I would identify him among the guards of the transport. I refused. I had hardly looked at the man's face and I was not sure I could recognize him. Moreover, I told Katherine, much to her disappointment, that the dismissal of the officer would not restore my tooth; neither would it do away with police brutality …
Poor Katherine was not aware that I knew she could do nothing. She was not even in a position to speak through her own paper: her story about the third degree had been suppressed. She promptly replied by resigning; she would no longer be connected with such a cowardly paper, she had told the editor.

Again I was taken to court for a hearing and again the Buffalo authorities failed to produce evidence to connect me with Czolgosz's act. The Buffalo representative and the Chicago judge sitting on the case kept up a verbal fight for two hours, at the end of which Buffalo was robbed of its prey. I was set free.
Ever since my arrest the press of the country had been continually denouncing me as the instigator of Czolgosz's act, but after my discharge the newpapers published only a few lines in an inconspicuous corner to the effect that "after a month's detention Emma Goldman was found not to have been in complicity with the assassin of President McKinley."
Upon my release I was met by Max, Hippolyte, and other friends, with whom I went to the Isaak home. The charges against the comrades arrested in the Chicago raids had also been dismissed. Everyone was in high spirits over my escape from what they had all believed to be a fatal situation. "We can be grateful to whatever gods watch over you, Emma," said Isaak, "that you were arrested here and not in New York." "The gods in this case must have been Chief of Police O'Neill," I said laughingly. "Chief O'Neill!" my friends exclaimed; "what did he have to do with it?" I told them about my interview with him and his promise of help. Jonathan Crane, a journalist friend of ours present, broke out into uproarious laughter. "You are more naïve than I should have expected, Emma Goldman," he said; "it wasn't you O'Neill cared a damn about! it was his own schemes. Being on the Tribune, I happen to know the inside story of the feud in the police department." Crane then related the efforts of Chief O'Neill to put several captains in the penitentiary for perjury and bribery. "Nothing could have come more opportunely for those blackguards than the cry of anarchy," he explained; "they seized upon it as the police did in 1887; it was their chance to pose as saviours of the country and incidentally to whitewash themselves. But it wasn't to O'Neill's interest to let those birds pose as heroes and get back into the department. That's why he worked for you. He's a shrewd Irishman. Just the same, we may be glad that the quarrel brought us back our Emma."
I asked my friends their opinion as to how the idea of connecting my name with Czolgosz had originated. "I refuse to believe that the boy made any kind of confession or involved me in any way," I stated; "I cannot think that he was capable of inventing something which he must have known might mean my death. I'm convinved that no one with such a frank face could be so craven. It must have come from some other source."
"It did!" Hippolyte declared emphatically. "The whole dastardly story was started by a Daily News reporter who used to hang round here pretending to sympathize with our ideas. Late in the afternoon of September 6 he came to the house. He wanted to know all about a certain Czolgosz or Nieman. Had we associated with him? Was he an anarchist? And so forth. Well, you know what I think of reporters—I wouldn't give him any information. But unfortunately Isaak did."
"What was there to hide?" Isaak interrupted. "Everybody about here knew that we had met the man through Emma, and that he used to visit us. Besides, how was I to know that the reporter was going to fabricate such a lying story?"

There's a pencilled note in the copy of the book I have noting that it's the Chicago Daily News that's under discussion, not the New York Daily News.
A trusted person was dispatched to Buffalo, but he soon returned without having been able to visit Czolgosz. He reported that no one was permitted to see him. A sympathetic guard had disclosed to our messenger that Leon had repeatedly been beaten into unconsciousness. His physical appearance was such that no outsider was admitted, and for the same reason he could not be taken to court. My friend further reported that, notwithstanding all the torture, Czolgosz had made no confession whatever and had involved no one in his act.

The tragedy in Buffalo was nearing its end. Leon Czolgosz, still ill from the maltreatment he had endured, his face disfigured and head bandaged, was supported in court by two policemen. In its all-embracing justice and mercy the Buffalo court had assigned two lawyers to his defence. What if they did declare publicly that they were sorry to have to plead the case of such a depraved criminal as the assassin of "our beloved" President!

Czolgosz was sentenced to death in the electric chair.
While it has nothing to do with the preceding story, I noticed while reading the book that Goldman had enjoyed visiting the fair city of San José during the Spanish-American war.
Thenceforth my most important lecture, and the best-attended, was on Patriotism and War.
In San Francisco it went over without interference, but in the smaller California towns we had to fight our way inch by inch. The police, never loath to break up anarchist meetings, stood complacently by and thus encouraged the patriotic disturbers who sometimes made speaking impossible. The determination of our San Francisco group and my own presence of mind saved more than one critical situation. In San Jose the audience looked so threatening that I thought it best to dispense with a chairman and carry the meeting myself. As soon as I began to speak, bedlam broke loose. I turned to the trouble-makers with the request that they choose someone of their own crowd to conduct the meeting. "Go on!" they shouted; "you're only bluffing. You know you wouldn't let us run your show!" "Why not?" I called back. "what we want is to hear both sides, isn't that so?" "Betcher life!" someone yelled. "We must secure order for that, mustn't we?" I continued; "I seem unable to do so. Supposing one of you boys comes up here and shows me how to keep the rest quiet until I have stated my side of the story. After that you can state yours. Now be good American sports."
Boisterous cries, shouts of "Hurrah," calls of "Smart kid, let's give her a chance!" kept the house in confusion for a few minutes. Finally an elderly man stepped up on the platform, banged his cane on the table, and in a voice that would have crumbled the walls of Jericho, bellowed: "Silence! Let's hear what the lady has to say!" There was no further disturbance during my speech of an hour, and when I finished, there was almost an ovation.

 Emma Goldman and Chief O'Neill are middle class Darby and Joan nowadays.  Real radicals make a great deal of money shrinking the middle class out of existence and cops are being assassinated and sent to jail.

Wasn't that a time?

Prate About An Elephant Nobody Has Seen: An Indian Tale About Politics?

How was your Election Night?  Mine was brief.

Once there was a village high in the mountains in which everyone was born blind. One day a traveler arrived from far away with many fine things to sell and many tales to tell. The villagers asked, "How did you travel so far and so high carrying so much?" The traveler said, "On my elephant." "What is an elephant?" the villagers asked, having never even heard of such an animal in their remote mountain village. "See for yourself," the traveler replied.
The elders of the village were a little afraid of the strange-smelling creature that took up so much space in the middle of the village square. They could hear it breathing and munching on hay, and feel its slow, swaying movements disturbing the air around them. First one elder reached out and felt its flapping ear. "An elephant is soft but rough and flexible, like a leather fan." Another grasped its back leg. "An elephant is a rough, hairy pillar." An old woman took hold of a tusk and gasped, "An elephant is a cool, smooth staff." A young girls seized the tail and declared, "An elephant is a fringed rope." A boy took hold of the trunk and announced, "An elephant is a water pipe." Soon others were stroking its sides which were furrowed like a dry plowed field, and others determined that its head was an overturned washing tub attached to the water pipe.
At first each villager argued with the others on the definition of the elephant as the traveler watched in silence. Two elders were about to come to blows about a fan that could not possibly be a pillar. Meanwhile the elephant patiently enjoyed the investigations as the cries of curiosity and angry debate mixed in the afternoon sun. Soon someone suggested that a list could be made of all the parts: the elephant had four pillars, one tub, two fans, a water pipe, and two staffs, and was covered in tough, hairy leather or dried mud. Four young mothers, sitting on a bench and comparing impressions, realized that the elephant was in fact an enormous , gentle ox with a stretched nose. The traveler agreed, adding only that it was also a powerful draft horse and that if they bought some of his wares for a good price he would be sure to come that way again in the new year.         Indian Tale

Rahm Made Me Easter Breakfast

I wake early. Generally, I wake between 3:30 and 4:10 AM.  Easter Sunday is no exception.  I hit the floor and pray on my knees ( Memorare) hit the shower, shave and brush my buckers.  I'll read a bit and jot down some sentences about anything, as has been my practice since 1975 when I became a teacher.  I will pop over to Leo High School and check the e-mails and phone messages.  At 8 AM, I'll lock up, check the Sangamon Street side door to see if the pad lock is secure and head south on Vincennes to 116th, make a quick right hit Easter Mass at Sacred Heart Church.

Today was different.  

House sounds tend to pluck me from the arms of Morpheus - sump pump kicking in, furnace oddities that sort of stuff.  If any of the kids are staying at the house, I'll sleep with one eye open for their return from twenty-something adventures on Western Avenue.  

Today was different.

I heard the floors above me ( I sleep in the basement) creak and the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, as well as the rustle of pans. Maybe, the Fruit of My Loins had come south from Wicker Park for a night of roistering with his contemporary Catholic League Alumni boon chums and was treating them to an omelet. Could be, because something smelled mighty tasty. The girls always go straight to bed, but my son goes all Food Channel, when lickered up - like his Paw.

I performed the daily Triple S, donned a pair of sharply creased chinos and blue steel Aran knit and headed up the stairs, " Toss a few on the plate for your Silver Haired Pappy, Son!"

No response.

Odd.

There, instead of my son, or one of my daughters was The Mayor of Chicago deftly swirling what appeared to be a wholesome skillet full of carefully diced green red and yellow peppers and onions.  I noticed a plate on the counter of crisp nuggets of sauteed pancetta and a cloth stuffed basket containing six biscuits.  The 55th Mayor of Chicago added a bowl of carefully beaten eggs with a dash of 2% milk into the pan and swirled the mixture of yellow, red, green and white goodness over the flames. " You have yet to pay your water bill and that had been sent out in January, if I'm not mistaken," said the 54th descendant of William Butler Ogden, " and why have you not had a water meter installed?  Just asking."

I was dumb-founded and for once in my flannel-mouthed life speechless.

The Mayor was all on task and yet he continued, " Look, you have said and written some pretty . . . over-the-top things about me - Coon Eyes, Mayor 9.5, Ballet Boy and such . . .I get it.  Most of your family seem to like me well-enough, but you seem to only want to be some kind of latitudinarian odd-ball, regular guy Democrat.  You have called me, in print mind you, a Prique.  I have kids, too.  Look.  I may not get your vote, but I'd sure like to change your heart. Sit done and have a nosh of breakfast."

Finally, I was able to speak and asked, " How'd you get in?"

" Back door was unlocked.  I checked your garage and every thing seemed in order.  Do you always leave it unlocked?" he fired back questions.

I told him that my neighbors were all cops, firemen, FBI and Secret Service agents.  

" Whatever," the mayor shrugged and added the pre-crisped and drained pancetta to the bubbling omelet and concentrated on its outcome.

" Chuy Garcia make you breakfast?"

I laughed an obvious reply to negative.

" Well has he?" Rahm Emanuel had cast off the happy chef demeanor and laser-ed his black rimmed eyes and parted his thin lips to reveal his ossein and metaphorical fangs.

"No, Chuy Garcia has not cooked me breakfast; nor have I had the pleasure of meeting the man," I feigned backbone in retort.

"But you have met me!"  His voice was pure menace, but his culinary manipulations belied his tone as he plated up and served my breakfast of cold fresh squeezed orange juice, hot black coffee, Omelet Ala Rahm, hand rolled biscuits and wedges of melon. " Eat. Enjoy."

I tucked away at the swell meal, like a guy going to the chair. . .perhaps I might.

The Mayor waxed on, " Old Coon-eyes, Old 9.5, The Dancing Prique just cooked you an Easter Breakfast. Me. I rub elbows with Big People, Hickey.  You are a @#$%ing termite!!!!  A delusional know-it all who can't be grateful for all that I have done.  All that I have given up - like Sleep!  Yeah, this Prique made you breakfast!  You got anything to say?"

I held up an index finger miming a period of grace before my response, because my pie-hole was stuffed.  I chewed carefully and savored every dancing flavor from the fork-full of breakfast bounty. Finally, when I had cleared my oral orifice of every particle of primary fuel, I answered.

"Hey, thanks for breakfast,"  

The Mayor cleaned the pots, skillets, sauce pans, baking pans and cutlery. He sprayed the prep-counter with Windex all purpose anti-biotic cleaner, as well as the stove top and scrubbed every station in the cooking process and wiped the handle of icebox. 

Without another word, Rahm Emanuel zipped up his wind-breaker and went out the back door.  He beeped open the door of his black 2015 Toyota Prius C and pulled out of my driveway.

I thought for a moment.

" Prique," I muttered, "but one damn fine breakfast."

February 24, 2015 - Chicago Redeemed

 These two Mayors sold off Chicago, because we sold out.

These two Chicagoan's (Chuy Garcia and Pickle Joyce)could help us redeem what we have lost. 

re·demp·tion
rəˈdem(p)SH(ə)n/
noun
1.
the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.
"God's plans for the redemption of his world"
synonyms: saving, freeing from sin, absolution
"God's redemption of his people"
a thing that saves someone from error or evil.
"his marginalization from the Hollywood jungle proved to be his redemption"
2.
the action of regaining or gaining possession of something in exchange for payment, or clearing a debt.

I believe in redemption.  I'm a Catholic;  I gotta beleive in it.  As a person, I know that I owe a debt to those who gave me a comfortable life and to those who will follow after, when I shed this mortal husk. a place worth my time on the terra.

We cashed in Chicago, years ago.  When Harold Washington became mayor, too many whities got the willies, but soon learned that the Mayor was a pretty decent leader.  Harold reached over the Jesse Jacksons, the Michael Pflegers and the Judge Pinchams to ask the Polish, Mexican, Croatian, Lithuanian and Irish ethnics to give him a chance.  Harold was no race baiter.

Too many of us whities sought comfort with States Attorney Richie Daley, still a Bridgeport Boy and an easy laugher.

Harold Washington's death happened shortly after whitey agreed with the Mayor's leadership and direction.

We cashed in Chicago with Richie Daley. I know I did.  His laugh became forced and he -Richard M. Daley, not Richard J. Daley.

My bad.  I refused to believe what I  witnessed:  the direction Richie Daley was allowing himself to travel on the University of Chicago automated beltway to power via Progressive Policy.  As I watched from the sidelines of citizenship, Daley chucked away people like Ald. Pat Huels, Terry Teele and Oscar DeAngelo at the mere suggestion of impropriety in the Sun Times and Tribune. Then he chucked his entire neighborhood of Bridgeport, all while closing scores of neighborhood taverns in Canaryville , Bridgeport and Back of the Yard. When I asked one one gent whose bar supply business on 47th & Canal went belly up as result why Daley would close those historic joints owned by neighbors and friends, I was told, " No crowd of beer drinlers; no talk; no talk, no complaints."    That was in 1998.

We went along for twenty years. We, the Richie Daley accolytes of the 1980.'s cashed in Chicago. Mea culpa.

CHICAGO — No city in America beats Chicago when it comes to selling public assets - garages, bridges, even parking meters - and contracting with private companies to supply traditional public services.Over the past five years, the Windy City under Mayor Richard M. Daley has sold or leased out public institutions such as the Chicago Skyway ($1.83 billion), underground garages beneath Grant and Millennium Parks ($563 million), and, more recently, city parking meters ($1.15 billion).

We cashed in the Skyway, Meigs Field,  tavern licenses, street parking, wide throughfares like State Street, for $5 Tolls, A Band Venue, Yuppie Zinc Bars, or stay at home with your quart of Old Milwaukee, $28 a half hour warehouse, and concrete planters full of growth obstructing the view of everyone but Double Decker Tour buses. Oh, we a go a huge ass Silver Bean.

Rahm went even further - we Daley Acolytes created Rahm - The CTA was given to Ventra, Red Light Camera Robbery, Charter and Faux St. Ignatius Preps like Gwendolyn Brooks Academy proliferation and the closing of Catholic and neighborhood public schools.  Yep, Rahm hates Catholic schools more than he hates CPS.  His first act as Mayor was to tax Catholic schools for water.

Now we can make things better. Now we can act to redeem Chicago -A City of Neighborhoods and Neighbors

We have a chance to talk to one another again and to get back something of our selves.

Rahm Emanuel has "Earned" My Vote? BS, MBS & PhD!

There was a an old response to an outrageous assertion from a person who had college degrees after his name, that I no longer hear in Chicago.  It went  " Listen to him. He's an important guy. Look at the letters after his name BS, Master of BS, Piled High and Deep!"

We no longer live in Chicago.  We reside in Chicagoland.

Editorial Boards in Chicago are umbilical chords pumping life and vitality into the misery that is Illinois still-born government.  Editorial Boards in Chicago shined no light on Candidate Obama long association with Chicago Slum Warlords: Allsion Davis and Valerie Jarrett who trotted out bundler Tony Rezko - The Man in The Iron Mask. Nor did they point out the daffy irregularities of  Blago, Burris, Quinn & Company, Ralph Martire: The Architect of Pension Three Card Monte, Daley's Sell off of Assets.

Reporters did that. No paper has better reporter than Chicago Sun Times: Tim Novak, Dan Mihiapolous, Chris Fusco, the silenced Dave McKinney and Natasha Korecki. They are the Casandras of our  City.  Chicago went the way of the stockyards and became Chicagoland, which is gussied up with verbal arugula from Sundance Films and Sundance Bob Redford doing a solid for Ari Emanuel  We are asked to pretend that Rahm Emanuel is 'one of us.' Chicagoland is Hollywood-lite.

That is Okay with both Chicagoland Papers.

These twin Chicagoland editorial boards work to get Rahm a permanent place on the 5th Floor.

That is their right and privilege.  The pin-stripe crowd that comes into Chicagoland from Lake County and points tonier and exits at sunset command the skype-ready board rooms that look down on Chicagoland and giggle with pride and snide, knowing full well that Rahm Emanuel will direct more cash to their vaults.  They nod with conviction and solemn agreement when the Twin Chicagoland Medill Brat Pack inks its endorsement.

The twin pulp endorsements are as glued to the truth as a Brian Williams combat yarn and tell us that our lot is Resignation.  "Resignation is the lot of the helot with thirty year mortgage and $ 487 water every six months.  Resign yourselves to the inevitable, pay your bills and shut the duck up, or Rahms sake."

I am told by the editorial board of the Sun Times, the paper with fanged talent I listed above, that Rahm Emanuel 'Earned My Vote.'

Bullshit!

Was that too intemperate and un-WTTW?

How about Horseshit - you know the stuff Ed Burke so solemnly banned from the Gold Coast.

I earn my pay.  I earn the love of my children and respect and courtesy of my neighbors.

The very same editorial ink that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I owe my vote to Dancing Priam, tells me also that, " The city’s four main pension systems are underfunded by a stunning $20 billion. Workers and retirees will have to pay in more and get back less. There is no other way. Homeowners, best we can tell, will have to pay higher taxes. Absolutely nobody will be happy."

Gee, you think?

I will bet that my Ward, the 19th, will go along with Rahm, because for too many of my neighbors personal obligations will demand it.  They will be a doing a solid for the guy who desperately believes that Rahm wil save his job on the Garbage trucks, or down at the Hall, or help his kid get a pipes trades job, in some way.

I know. I have been there and voted that.

Vote for whomever you believe to the best person, be it Rahm, Bob, Chuy, Willie, Doc or Jimmy the Two-Headed Boy.

You owe no one your vote.   You don't need a PhD to tell you that, but he will.

The Joan Walsh Evolution: Wall Flower to Shrill Hag To Spartan Fascist

Be nice to homely girls, always; for if you do not, they may become dangerous. 

In another attempt to define normal people as dysfunctional and Republican candidates as what they are,  spineless dummies, Joan Walsh has mapped out her personal journey from porky wall-flower to Spartan Fascist -


Joan Walsh, the poor door full of woman, not only demands women abort a child to feel fresh, but now has gone full Spartan.

Parents own kids.  Most cultures hold that to be true and self-evident.

The Spartans, as goofy a gang of homoerotic zenophobes as ever raped a helot, did not believe that chldren belonged with their parenst; neither, did Plato; neither did The Utopians; neither did Hitler nor did Hooky Sanger and Planned Parenthood Movement of America.

Joan Walsh must have been treated very badly by my male contempraries at whatever sock-hops, dances or socials Miss Walsh hugged a wall.  Hurt can lead to bitterness and bitterness to savagery - Spartan savagery.

 The Spartan family was quite different from that of other Ancient Greek city-states. The word "spartan" has come down to us to describe self-denial and simplicity. This is what Spartan life was all about. Children were children of the state more than of their parents. They were raised to be soldiers, loyal to the state, strong and self-disciplined.
It began in infancy. When a Spartan baby was born, soldiers came to the house and examined it carefully to determine its strength.The baby was bathed in wine rather than water, to see its reaction. If a baby was weak, the Spartans exposed it on the hillside or took it away to become a slave (helot). Infanticide was common in ancient cultures, but the Spartans were particularly picky about their children. It was not just a matter of the family, the city-state decided the fate of the child. Nurses had the primary care of the baby and did not coddle it.Soldiers took the boys from their mothers at age 7, housed them in a dormitory with other boys and trained them as soldiers. The mother's softening influence was considered detrimental to a boy's education. The boys endured harsh physical discipline and deprivation to make them strong. The marched without shoes and went without food. They learned to fight, endure pain and survive through their wits. The older boys willingly participated in beating the younger boys to toughen them. Self-denial, simplicity, the warrior code, and loyalty to the city-state governed their lives.Spartan children were taught stories of courage and fortitude. One favorite story was about a boy who followed the Spartan code. He captured a live fox and intended to eat it. Although boys were encouraged to scrounge for food, they were punished if caught. The boy noticed some Spartan soldiers coming, and hid the fox beneath his shirt. When the soldiers confronted him, he allowed the fox to chew into his stomach rather than confess, and showed no sign of pain in his body or face. This was the Spartan way.At the age of 20 or so, they had to pass a rigorous test to graduate and become full citizens. Only the soldiers were received the aristocratic citizenship. If they failed their tests they never became citizens, but became perioeci, the middle class. So to some extent class was based on merit rather than birth.

The Spartans hated eveyone - not just Darius' Persians.Haters gonna Hate.  Joan Walsh is full-Spartan: cool with infanticide, hates everyone not herself.

Thus, the damage done to life's unplucked flowers - the nunnery, or Spatan fascism.

Man and child, it is a bitter thing to witness what happens when a girl can go from walllower to harpy.  Spartan, almost 

NYPD Again 'Backs' Mayor Warren/DeBlasio/Bill DeBlasio/Billy Jack.

New York decided that Warren Wilhelm, Jr. ( AKA Warren DeBlasio-Wilhelm ( 1983) and finally in 2002 Bill De Blasio) would make a fine mayor of the Big Apple. Hell, Chicago voted in a nine-fingered  Highland Park  Danseur  Why?  Billy Jack. 

The Democrat Party warmed to the notion of a post-political, non Wall Street infected hipster with a compelling narrative makes a great elected official.  I believe that I can trace this notion back to that fine American film that dominated the American conscience during the Carter Administration - Billy Jack Goes to Washington - a re-make of Capra's Mr. Smith Goes to Washington by Capra's boy Frank Junior. Billy Jack is, in the Democrat tradition that made Roland "Tombstone Burris" a national laughing stock of a United States Senator, appointed to fill-out a term. Instead of Mr. Smith's planned Boy Ranger Park, Senator Billy Jack goes for a clean-energy " NO MORE NUKES" National Initiative!  Hey, it works for Billy Jack, imagine what it could do for National Health and Same Sex Marriage.

With tweaking in the last century and twerking in the current millennium the DNC has produced Senators, Congressmen, governors, mayors, Water Reclamation District trustees and a President with all of the abilities and heart of Billy Jack. We are living the Billy Jack dream!  Warren Wilhem-Warren DeBasio Willhelm-Bill DeBlasio is Mayor Billy Jack and he hates cops.

People who normally are known to their communities as goofs,odd-balls, anti-cross and creche litigants have been elected by voters more concerned with Fantasy Football rosters, Oprah Matters and political pantomime, than taking responsibility for their continued presence in the American middle class.

The national news media, no longer played by veteran character actor Thomas Mitchell, but by Chris Hayes, hates not only cops, but also, firemen, skilled tradesmen; Catholic schools; all living Jews inIsrael;Black Supreme Court Justices, neurosurgeons, Army colonels; all Navy Seals and taxpayers.   Some believe that the murder of the two NYPD officers made cops happy and that police officers should turn their backs on politicians who call them stupid, racist, brutal choke-hold and trigger happy thugs.

Call me silly. but I admire and respect police officers - committed public servants who deal with monsters frequently and creepy asses hourly.

In defiance of Commisioner Bill Brattan's suggestion that NYPD Blue-coats refrain from signally their contempt for a contemptuous ass occupying Gracie Manor, thousands of officers turned their backs on the Big Screen when Mayor Warren Wilhelm-DeBlasio, Bill photo bombed the services for Officer Liu and mouthed pious hypocrisies, like this idiocy worthy of Salon's Joan Walsh, “New York has been, from its earliest days, the most tolerant of cities, that harmony has been challenged.”

Really?  Ever since the Dutch took Manhattan with a handful of Mojos, New York has been intolerant of somebody - People who backed George Washington, potato gobbling, garlic scented, kielbasa wielding Catholics,  Slavic accented  shtetl- dwellers who believe in Justice universal, and Archie Bunker.

I have a blue ribbon on my tree.  In fact my neighborhood has blue ribbons tied to trees all over my Ward.  It is meant to show support for cops.  I never use the word solidarity, because my union card expired in 1977.   I respect cops.  They keep the kids who attend Leo High School safe.  Leo High School is 95% African American and not one has been shot, let alone killed by a Chicago Police Officer.  I have helped bury ten young black men who were Leo students and have watch one young man struggle to over come the five bullets to his abdomen sent their by the gang-banging monster who wanted to kill his cousin and decided he's do as well.

Mayor De Blasio is a media creature - Mayor Billy Jack.  Billions of barrels of ink and TV balloon juice will back and parse away every contemptuous word that comes from this Mayor's maw.

Who back the back-turning people in Blue?

Me.

I got a blue ribbon, put on my tree by one of my neighbors.   It  is not much but it speaks to my choices.

I know bullshit when I see it, but I refuse to dine upon it.

My Design and Site Proposal for the Obama Library in Chicago

Tribune reporters

9:59 p.m. CST, March 6, 2014

The University of Chicago has been working behind the scenes to get competing factions to collaborate on a unified bid to build the Obama presidential library in Chicago, but U. of C. officials said Thursday that they won't select a neighborhood for the library — the president and first lady will.

"The Obamas know Chicago like the back of their hands, and for us to say we want it in one spot does not make sense if they want it someplace else," said Susan Sher, a senior adviser to the university's president and coordinator of its library effort. "At the University of Chicago, our approach is to build it on the mid-South Side of Chicago within a few miles of the university. But we have no specific site." Chicago Tribune

Me and the guys do!!!!

Since the announcement calling for proposals for the design and site of a future of Presidential Library named for Good Old Number 44- Barack H. Obama, I have been feverishly reading Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel, watching Old Maverick re-runs that I taped from Encore's the Western Channel, planning dinner menus to suit the gustatory discernment's of my son, meeting the standard obligations of good citizenship in the light and heavy snow removal incumbent upon us all with advent of Global Warming, dating a gorgeous woman, attending Leo High School basketball games in its run to capture the IHSA basketball title and generally doping off.

In the last thirty minutes, or so, I put together a nondiverse team of gender specific 19th Ward Democrats and retired city workers to meet the challenges posed by Marty Nesbitt's team of Library sycophants and Obama bundlers.

Hickey's Big O Library Design & Site team - L-R- Aloysius T. Byrd, Mike "Slim" Cullen, Terry "Four-Eyes" White, Pabst " Blue" Ribbon, and Neary Lee Dunne enjoy a breakfast turkey and brainstorm.

We met in my kitchen, when Brewbaker's closed this morning.  The ideas were wholesome and praiseworthy.  As Obama is the most transformational, unprecedented, omniscient and fluid of men, we hit on a design that just might - meet the mark.  Between the turkey and the spuds it was determined that our design should tell the story of the man himself.

The Square peg in the round hole.  It was determined that such an All-Seeing-"I" of A Man deserves a placement worthy of his waters - The 68th Street Water Crib out on Lake Michigan. Imagine the morning halo, like all those pictures of the BIG O taken by the hand-picked White House Boy photoger!

The site should fit the Presidential self-styled south sider and Sox Fan - he can see Adam " Big Donkey" Dunn from the library were it to sit out on the Lake. 

There should be enough shelf space for both of President Obama's books and all of the swag he's collected.

 The Big O out on the Lake! Sun Rise; Sun Set!

This work was not done over night - took only a couple of minutes, like filling potholes and increasing property taxes.