Friday, May 29, 2015

Ireland Always Wanted to be England

Ireland was Ireland/ When England Was a Pup; Ireland Will Be Ireland/ When England's Time is Up ( Old Street Ballad)

We are an unfortunate priest-ridden race and always were and always will be tell the end of the chapter.... A priest-ridden Godforsaken race. JAMES JOYCE, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Ireland - not to be confused with Irish People - always wanted to be England.  By that I mean, the Irish who cleaned up good, went to University, got jobs on newspapers, RTE in the Irish government  or elected to the Dáil , or advocated, were never happy being biologically linked to bog men who could crack anvils with pious prayer.

With the Irish Gay Marriage Victory all of that is no longer a problem:

Secularists insist that religious people will continue to receive the protection of the state – and maybe they are correct. But you have to concede that this does amount to a social revolution by statute. Once-upon-a-time you never had to think twice before quoting Corinthians in public. Nowadays, you have to invoke the state’s beneficent protection to do so.

Ireland is finally England!  Ireland is a secular state, unhobbled by any faith -Of our Fathers anyway.

The Secular Marriage for Anyone Victory in Ireland - the country and not the people, necessarily - is a victory for the cleaned-up good, University sampled, employed secularists who PLO over IDF and  Seifreid Nelson Sauvignon blanc 2014 over a pint of Guinness any day. These are the folks who believe in OXFAM over St. Vincent De Paul, admire Khaled Mashal rather than Chaim Herzog and Michael Barron way over Kevin Myers.

We have the same crowd here in Chicago and Illinois - the comfortable activist/investment plunger who watches only WTTW, loves abortion and hates Chick Fil Lay.

Ireland's referendum has nothing to do with gay or straight.  It's only about making sure that the Roman Catholic Church goes to ground for good, just as Henry VIII demanded when he socially engineered religion out of existence in that daffy realm.

Ireland is England.

I think that the Irish People will rethink this referendum in about ten years.  Ireland will object mightily.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Big Shot Rahm and His Chicago Media Purse Puppies Deflect Failure on City Workers

“The video, I think, is there for all to see and make a judgment. … Rahm Emanuel on dozing cop video
Like every bully, sneak and politician, Rahm offers "BUT" with this ". . .You have to look at what the men and women in uniform throughout the city do all day" in order to smear and avoid a subsequent and well-earned ass-kicking from his betters. You know, weasel words.

Rahm Emanuel is a nasty little man, but a Big Shot.  A Big Shot is an inflated ego supported by sycophants and opportunists.  The opportunists will keep the video alive for a week or so, beefed up with bitchy commentary from the likes Mike Flannery, Dane Placko, Chuck Goudie and Carol Marin and sauced with threats to ruin the life of the man in the squad car who closed is eyes. That's the Chicago Way!

Kill the working stiff and make sure that Big Shots stiff us all.  Rahm is a Big Shot and change.

He is also the Mayor of the Cty of Chicago who promised one, all and sundry that he has learned his lessons and will no longer be a nasty little man and a Big Shot.  That was re-call election days and  night. When night passed, and he rubbed the sleep from his dark-rimmed eyes, his feet hit the floor and he strutted to City Hall the same nasty little man and Big Shot we all know him to be. The problem is that the City of Chicago's sophisticated finances are all over the rails.

So, when some cell-phone equipped citizen caught a Five-O dozing in his squad, Rahm had a golden opportunity to deflect outrage at another city worker, instead of doing his job. The pure gold of this opportunity lies in the fact that the police officer is white.

Rahm, like all good Progressives. detests working people.  Working people are Subjects, or Predicate Nominatives used as rhetorical devices, only.

Working people are The Masses, toilers, breadwinners, hard hats, rank and filers who populate neighborhoods and pay taxes used in and for communities where employment is about as common as the White Rhino - the animal, not Senator MARQUE KIRQUE.

Taking a page from the Richard M. Daley playbook, written for that particular  rare reader at the University of Chicago in the mid-1990's, working stiffs, hirelings, boyhood friends, breeders and unevolved Raoman Catholics. became the meat tossed to Chicago's toothlees media lions.

The minute Rahm appointed career gifter and job hopping milquetoast Forrest Claypool to run Chicago's buses and trains, that worthy told Chicago that its transit problems had to do with CTA employees taking a break to urinate.

Amalgamated Transit Workers Local 308 President Robert Kelly fought back and embarrassed the onion-skinned mayor and his stooge at the CTA.  Immediately, the nasty little man and Big Shot and his career grifter stooge from moss-back Illinois began a campaign to vilify Kelly - a working man.

They brought in no less a loud mouth than Pastor Pfleger and and old Black Panther Bobby Rush to paint Kelly as a racist, over paid white devil who hated children and recently released convicted youth.

With Chicago's soaring homicides, why blame it on a dozing cop?

Idiot media creatures make political hay off of stories that expose the hiring of a labor leaders kid, a napping cop, a Streets and San plumber getting paid overtime, or a meter reader fudging her ticket books.  Soon they find themselves appointed to political postings, or Government Watchdog leadership.

Chicago is blessed with hard-working investigative journalists, but they always seem to be harnessed with a Carol Marin, Dane Placko, or Chuck Goudie in the story's travois, which drags no further than where the Big Shots want it to land.

When Chicagoans toss the Tribune and the Sun Times, turn off ABC, NBC, CBS, WTTW and start taking the plight of our City very seriously and talk to cops, firemen, City Workers about the realities of our wasted talents and treasure, then it might be time to empty City, County and State government of the looters, the leaches and the Big Shots.

Until then, . . .boy how about those Cubbies? . . .can't wait to get my Riot Fest tickets . . .sweet!

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Hickey's All-Time Ten Toughest Men Ever

One may be brave, strong, cruel, domineering and wildly successful and be a cream puff as a man.  Toughness, I believe, is measured by how much one can take, rather than dish out. Here is my list of all-time real life tough guys. Take the test linked to Toughness
           1. Jesus of NazarethImage result for jesus of nazareth on the cross
 2. Tom Crean

 3. Bishop Walsh 4.Ralph Ellison 5. Booker T. Washington 6. Don Pero Nino 7. Moishe Dayan 8. Samson  9.  Pancho Villa10. Spike O'Donnell

Ten Tough Guys.

America's Dash from 'The Field' to Victimhood

"The Bull" McCabe: The field is mine.
The American: Well we'll see about that won't we? John B. Keane The Field
"You didn't build that!"  President Barack Obama on the stump 2012

John B. Keane was a brilliant Irish writer, storyteller and pub owner from County Kerry.  In 1965, he wrote a play called  The Field that told the story of a rough farmer by the name of The Bull McCabe.

The Bull McCabe worked land adjacent to his own - a field allowed to grow fallow and useless through neglect.  He made the field grow green and fecund by his labors.  In fact, he neglected his own family to make this once useless field of rocks and weeds flourish and become an asset.

The problem being the field is owned by a widow. It's the law.

When the widow decided not to sell the property to The Bull,  he engaged in rural terrorism to force the poor woman to give up and go away.

If The Bull had a lawyer as every serious victim seems to have, he could have made a case in court for himself under the real estate laws of Adverse Possession A method of gaining legal title to real property by the actual, open, hostile, and continuous possession of it to the exclusion of its true owner for the period prescribed by state law. Personal Property may also be acquired by adverse possession.

The Bull, like most people, was too busy doing his work to give such thoughts only people with too much time on their hands and a few sparks of cunning between their ears their due.

Like most of us, an injustice real or perceived can race the heart to bitterness.  The Bull was bitter, due to the widow's grasp on the land and the widow, bitter about the pranks and taunts visited  upon her by  The Bull McCabe, his slow-witted son and a sneaky leach called The Bird.

The widow determined to sell the property to a Rich American - The Yank - sight unseen.  The play ends in tragedy.

John Keane's wonderful play concerned human labor and property rights at its most basic. Keane's characters played to the fates without a politician to come to aide of either side.

That was in 1965.  LBJ was President. There was a War on Poverty and War in Vietnam.  Victim hood became the greatest revolutionary tool since anarchists international discovered that fused pyrotechnic could shake Bourgeoisie into submission.  Bomb tossing had little effect. Victim hood won the day for the Masses.

America's greatest essayist, wrote a history of Political American Victim hood in the Weekly Standard.  Epstein writes,

Victims of an earlier time viewed themselves as supplicants, throwing themselves on the conscience if not mercy of those in power to raise them from their downtrodden condition. The contemporary victim tends to be angry, suspicious, above all progress-denying. He or she is ever on the lookout for that touch of racism, sexism, homophobia, or insensitivity that might show up in a stray opinion, an odd locution, an uninformed misnomer. People who count themselves victims require enemies. Forces high and low block their progress: The economy disfavors them; society is organized against them; the malevolent, who are always in ample supply, conspire to keep them down; the system precludes them. Asked some years ago by an interviewer in Time magazine about violence in schools that are all-black—that is, violence by blacks against blacks—the novelist Toni Morrison, a connoisseur of victimhood whose novels deal with little else, replied, “None of those things can take place, you know, without the complicity of the people who run the schools and the city.”
Public pronouncements from victims can take on a slightly menacing quality, in which, somehow, the roles of victim and supposed antagonist are reversed. Today it is the victim who is doing the bullying—threatening boycott, riot, career-destroying social media condemnation—and frequently making good on their threats. Victims often seem actively to enjoy their victimhood—enjoy above all the moral advantage it gives them. Fueled by their own high sense of virtue, of feeling themselves absolutely in the right, what they take to be this moral advantage allows them to overstate their case, to absolve themselves from all responsibility for their condition, to ask the impossible and demand it now, and then to demonstrate virulently, sometimes violently, when it isn’t forthcoming. (emphasis my own)
We are victims waiting for shoes, bricks, bats, bullets and bombs to drop - unless we have a lawyer in our wallets'

Americans have run from The Field.   John B. Keane's character The Bull McCabe would have none of that -things will go very tragically, I am afraid; unless, we snap out of it.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Another Leo Class of Men Set to Graduate, Because of Mr. McGrath, Coach Holmes and Miss Latifi!

Leo High School President Dan McGrath wil J. Robinson 2018

Coach Mike Holmes raises us up!

The Lion Queen, math teacher Miss Aurora Latifi

These are the final examination days for the Leo High School Class of 2015.  
Latrell Giles will go to St. Joe's in Renssalaer, Indiana - million miles from 37th & Rhodes.

I am going to miss these fine young men - one gent will be going to the United States Coast Guard Academy and another will study and play football at St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana where Leo Legend Jimmy Arneberg once coached and Chicago Bears held their summer work-out camps.  All have been accepted to at least one good college, or university.  The 2015 Valedictorian wants to opt for the skilled trades, probably the stationary engineers - great trade and vocation that.

Leo Men will go on to proud lives.  These are proud people around this school - proud Alumni, proud leadership, proud parents and families and proud students.

I'd like to credit this pride to three individuals: Leo President Dan McGrath, football coach and Father Figure Mike Holmes and the Lion Queen, Miss Aurora Latifi.

I can think of no trio people who have done more for each and every member of the 2015 and for Leo High School's traditions of commitment and courage.

Dan McGrath spends every waking hour anguishing over Leo High School and young men it serves.  Dan is at every Leo event - academic, athletic or social.  Not an hour goes by that misses a Dan McGrath moment for each and every student under this roof, all the while bringing his many talents to the onerous tasks of meeting payroll, strategic planning, correcting a student's prose, or reaching out to new money.

Mike Holmes raises up young men. Mike takes every student to his massive heart with a father's pride.  He is the most positive, joyful, fierce and sweet-hearted man our young men will ever meet in life.

Aurora Latifi commands love and respect in the math classes she teaches and in halls she patrols. Leo graduates know algebra, calculus, geometry and basic math when they accept a diploma at graduation, because a pretty girl from the mountains of Albania would not allow failure.

Our young men succeed because Leo expects that of them.  No three people set that bar higher than Dan McGrath, Mike Holmes and Aurora Latifi.

Friday, May 15, 2015

Anthony Burgess - How Writers Paint with Words

Better to illuminate than merely to shine, to deliver to others contemplated truths than merely to contemplate.
Aquinas, Thomas. 13th Century.
Outside, the main doors behind him, he was hit full in the chest by autumn. The doggy wind leapt about him and nipped; leaves skirred along the pavement, the scrape of the ferrules of sticks; melancholy, that tetrasyllable, sat on a plinth in the middle of the square. English autumn, and the whistling tiny souls of the dead round the war memorial.  from The Doctor is Sick* by Anthony Burgess

My God! That man could paint with words. The simple 'he was hit' gets a gloriously imaginative pigments from the full palette of Burgess's final picture. 'He' is hit "full in the chest by autumn."  The happy dog of Fall lands both paws squarely on the old heart box, and leaps and nips and skirrs not only at the man's feet, but also a concrete foot honoring English war-dead.

Like Vermeer before an empty canvass, Burgess has mixed his pigments and slathered them onto the palette of his mind's tongue and allows his hands and fingers to form a mighty scene.

Tell me God's hand avoid human expression.

* The "doctor" of the title is Edwin Spindrift, Ph.D., an unhappily married professor of linguistics who has been sent home from Burma to England suffering from a mysterious brain ailment. While Edwin is confined to a neurological ward, undergoing a battery of diagnostic tests, Mrs. Spindrift amuses herself with some disreputable new friends at the surrounding pubs. Sometimes, to Edwin's distress, she sends these friends to keep her husband company during visiting hours, rather than come herself. Most of the novel is a dream sequence: while anesthetised for brain surgery, Edwin's anxiety over his wife and the company she keeps turns into a slightly surrealistic fantasy in which Edwin leaves the hospital and encounters his wife's friends, with whom he has various adventures.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Anthony Burgess: Not Good Writing, Great Writing

                This Leo HS Sophomore is my personal Guidance Counselor

Mr. Apple*..... is a sophomore at Leo High School.  He has a magnificent brain wired to tangle of behavior circuits in need of some minor adjustment. In short, if a pane of glass, left leaning against a locker,  gets smashed, the search for the culprit is not an extended one.  He is a healthy adolescent male.  That is how we roll.   The man is working on his 16 year old impulse control circuitry, I'll say that for him. If I had half of his brains, I'd have one.  His academic chart is only now beginning to reveal an arrow pointing up to what some people might call achievement.

Since, Mr. Apple . . .happens to hold a past record of low-achievement due to his manly impulse to do whatever he feels like doing at the moment and has thickened his disciplinary jacket to RR Donnelly proportions, as well as remains  in possession of the one of sharpest minds on campus, I sought his counsel about my return to the classroom.

I presented Mr. Apple. . .. with a copy of Ralph Ellison's " King of the Bingo Game" and asked him to read it over the weekend.  I told him that it was an example of great writing in prose.

We talked about classroom management (consistency ) and agreed that students act up when bored with a teacher.  When they get bored with a teacher, the subject gets the same treatment.  It ain't pretty.

" Teacher'll says 'This is a great book' and leave it at that," my counsellor told me and added, "Well, it ain't great . . .it's boring. and then he/she gets mad  and says 'take out some paper it's quiz time.' Just because it's in a book don't make it great."

My Man!

Mr. Apple. . . .,  asked me about the difference between good writing and great writing.  I said, "You. "

What you bring to the reading of the book must meet what the writer who wrote it in a way that knocks you backwards.

Here is the best example that I know of in one paragraph.  This is from a brilliant short novel by brilliant guy -Anthony Burgess.
Outside, the main doors behind him, he was hit full in the chest by autumn. The doggy wind leapt about him and nipped; leaves skirred along the pavement, the scrape of the ferrules of sticks; melancholy, that tetrasyllable, sat on a plinth in the middle of the square. English autumn, and the whistling tiny souls of the dead round the war memorial.  from The Doctor is Sick

How's your forward motion?  We'll take a look at this paragraph tomorrow, Kids.  Read and see why I dare call it great writing.

* Fearless defensive back in football, a chess master , two time Gold Honor Roll Student  and undisputed King of Detentions!

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

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

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?

Monday, May 11, 2015

Of Two Minds Illinois Thanks to California


Rahm Rauner; Rauner Rahm: "Take hold of this, Peniculus: I wish to dedicate the spoil that I've vowed.'"ENAECHMUS of Epidamnus.

Any Holiday leads necessarily to conversation over food and sports channel surfing.  Mother's Day was a cornucopia of Chicago losses.The Bulls lost to to Cavs after a magnificent bulling of the Chicago squad by King James of Cleveland in final 0.8 seconds, or was it 1.15 seconds and outside shot at the buzzer. Sox lost to Cincinnati 4-3 and Re-Branded Cubs lost to the Brew Crew for a Midwest Urban Rival Sweep of Rahm's Chicagoland Sports.

The chicken and steal kabobs came off the grill, the salad was mixed and dressed, the pilaf was worthy of Edith her own bad self and whole Fam-Damly scrambled for chairs. Dinner was served and table talk exploded into sound bytes, between bites.  It was a segue melange with political side-servings. Politics on the holidays.   Mother's Day was no exception.  When chat turns political, I generally get a preemptive roll of the eyes indicating, 'We know what you think already. Save it.'  Be silent, be happy and have another tasty Kabob.

I was all ears, because I have forum for my big flapping yap - right here.

What I sampled from the verbal candied pecans was this. My family detests Bruce Rauner (so do I); yet, backed Rahm Emanuel over Chuy Garcia.  I find this fascinatingly schizophrenic. Rahm Rauner is in the same as Bruce Emanuel.  They detest Rahm (as do I) but cast votes for his 'sophisticated economics.'  Chuy Garcia was not taken any where near seriously by anyone eating Mother's Day dinner where I was, but by me and Chuy lost thereby proving the case that one can detest Bruce Rauner, vote for Rahm and shrug and wait for Rauner to pee in our collective bowl of Wheaties.

One can not, or should not, detest one, unless one detest the other.

Illinois is a hick State and Chicago is a hick burg, where the working man will disappear in under a generation.  Rauner will get the universal blame, which will not bother him a jot. Rahm will allow his twin Menaechmus in Springfield bear the whips and scorn of political fortune and both will reap fortunes unimaginable for friends and themselves, increase the debt and unemployment rolls, watch trades unions close shop revel in a job very well done.

Rahm Emanuel and Bruce Rauner were born of a rib taken from California Jerry Brown decades ago.

Illinois is California with liposuction, chin tucks and Botox.

The Casandra of American Fortunes is Joel Kotkin.  I have been a fan for decades.  He warned of dager public sector unions had on Federal, State, County and Municipal budgets as far back as GHW Bush and Bubba.

Casandra was always right and never followed.

Our Priams continue the March of Folly.   Illinois aped California and will continue to do so.  Here is Joel Kotkin on how California is the blueprint for Blue Progressive States;
 How a writer looks at California can be increasingly predicted by the writer’s political orientation. For liberals, the nasty California that produced both Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan has been supplanted by a cooler, greener and more socially progressive state. If you are on the Right, California is beloved for reasons of nostalgia; for the Left, California is where the future once again is being shaped. Those of us more in the middle are simply unsure of what to think.
In many ways, Brown presaged many of the current trends in progressive thinking. For one thing, Brown – like much of the Democratic elite – does not much identify with middle- and working-class concerns, notably old social democratic ideals of upward mobility. Instead of tackling poverty and stagnation by creating good middle-class jobs, Brown blames the state’s high poverty rate on our “incredible attractiveness,” not on some fundamental economic flaw. This viewpoint seems not to offend some of the very people who, in other cases, rail against rising inequality and poverty.
Brown’s almost single-minded focus on climate change also fits well with a Democratic Party whose ideology – and funding base – is increasingly dominated by this issue. He also, at least for now, can claim that he has tried to save the planet while improving the economy.
Jerry Brown is a hippie grown wealthy and old.  Many hippies grew old and wealthy. Jerry Brown is elder statesman of the Progressive oligarchy dependant upon bloated government, corrupt mortgage banking tied to social engineering programs, monster bloc voting via public sector unions and a non-existent Fourth Estate.  Hippies are aped by hipsters. Hispsters are educated, affluent Gen X and younger folks who flock to urban settings. Hipsters are the new Rubes.  They'll buy and swallow anything manages to get public limelight, whether it happens to be kale, kindergartens or caring without any genuine effort.  Hipsters flock to public outcry and Occupy, or Ferguson Up, or Moveon.organize all done with the latest Steve Jobs gizmo.

They are the voice of America, because everyone else has been told to 'just shut up and evolve.'

Fair enough. Illinois replaced a doughy, soft-ball as governor with flinty hard-ball plutocrat as governor. He is the bad twin.  Chicago reelected a flinty hard-ball plutocrat as its mayor.  They are the twin Menaechmi of this pathetic politic-economic farce called Illinois government.

More Kabobs!

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Happy Mother's Day - The Fifth Joyful Mystery

. . .  And when they saw him, they were amazed (Luk 2,41-51)

No human being loves like a woman.  Half of us try and make it look good.

I saw the depths of a mother's anguish and sorrow in eyes of my wife, Mary, one Saturday in late May of 1991,  in a  Marshall's store near Mishawaka Mall in South Bend, Indiana.  The Hickey's went shopping for new clothes.   I had eight year old Nora with me. After Mary had decked her out in new spring wear,  I took Nora with me to look for a cassette of Paula Abdul's Rush, Rush.  We lived on the campus of La Lumiere School and Nora spent a good deal of time with the teenage ladies from Linnen Dorm and had heard the newly released pop hit - a good girl must have her heart's desire.

Mary had three year old Conor in tow.  He was a piece of work. Mary was looking for Sunday-Go-to Meetin' clothes for your scapegrace.  Three year old boys and older detest having their clothes picked out and more so fitted.    I can only imagine the verbal back-and -forths between Mary and her beloved son.

By the time Nora and I returned, an alarming situation had taken place in Marshall's.  A little boy was lost and the clerks and security guards were frantically trying to calm Mary and search at the same time.

Child abduction had been brought to world attention in 1981 when Adam Walsh disappeared.  I knew of a case that had taken place in Beverly neighborhood of Chicago on the very block where two of my friends lived at the time and little girl had been snatched from the front lawn lawn when her mom went into the house to get her a can of pop.

Mary had had a horrific labor bringing our beautiful boy into this wonderful world,  The anaesthetics had not taken effect, the epidural of all things, and Conor was breached.  Mary needs additional cutting - the episitomy - and the only thing she said, "Oww" once.  It took hours of drug free endured pain, but that was as nothing to what I saw in her beautiful blue/green eyes on the floor of Marshall's.

The search was on and South Bend police had been called.  It seemed like seconds after Nora and I witnessed the scene, that howling laugh from a big African American security guard announce " My Man! Your Mom is going to be so, happy!'

Conor had slipped into clothing carousel stuffed with winter coat overstock and had made fortress of solitude for himself and had fallen asleep.

Mary rushed to the sound of big man's voice and hugged the man!  She swept Conor up her arms and smothered him in kisses.

" I wanna Hamboygee! Let's see Doodah* at Prairie Tabern by the ducks."  Conor was oblivious to the situation, as all children should be and asked to stop at Prairie Tavern in Rolling Prairie off of Rt. 20, where he was a regular fixture at the bar.

Mary found her child, " Can You Believe Him?"


That is Mother's Day

* Legendary bartender, sportsman and Patriot. Served as a Male Role-Model for my son.

Friday, May 08, 2015

Get Thee to L'Erable! Eat Thee at the Longbranch and Enough of This King James Thee BS!

Call me Hungry!   Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, or May, or Tuesday after a particularly dull Monday, I  turn my thoughts to L'Erable, Illinois; unless I get distracted by something else.

I spent some of happiest times of my ordinary life in French Illinois: Kankakee and its border counties.  This is a beautiful land inhabited by beautiful people - many of whom are of French Ancestry.

The French discovered ( with apologies to indigenous Injuns who hunted and fished and yanked wild onions hereabouts for centuries)  the soil we offend with our smelly feet and Kankakee County doubled down on its Gallic demographics in the 1840's because of the labors of French Canadian priest, who shortly upon his arrival in Illinois become the only American Catholic Apostate - Charles Chiniquy.Charles Chiniquy vs. the Catholic Church

Chiniquy was the Michael Pfleger of the 19th Century, who never met a bishop, or Superior he did not loathe. Chiniquy tangled with every Ordinary of Chicago, until he quit the Catholic Church altogether and became a darling of the Know-Nothing crowd and lectured world wide on the dangers of the Church of Rome. Chiniquy, from my reading of his works and primary documents of the day, was a pathological liar, bully, land swindler, name-dropping fraud, roue and megalomaniac; but, some would argue that 'he did a lot of good,'

That he did. Chinquy brought great, hard-working, devout and industrious French people down from Canada and established Catholic parishes and townships south to Illinois. When Chinquy broked from the Church, most of his people said goodbye to the American Luther; thus, we have St. Anne, Martinon, St. George, Boubonnais, Papinaeu, Beaverville and just south of the Kankakee County line -L'Erable, Illinois.

L'Erable is notable for two magnificent buildings: one is the Church of St. John the Baptist and the other is Longbranch Saloon and Restaurant.
Image result for l'erable il

St. John The Baptist Catholic Church was built in 1856.  The Longbranch Saloon a bit later.

The Longbranch has a storied history:
The Longbranch has been in my family for the last 40 years.  I am the third generation in my family to own and operate it.  My grandparents owned it before selling to my parents who ran it for 21 years and my wife and I took over at the beginning of 2013.  We are located in a tiny unincorporated village an hour and a half straight south of Chicago in the middle of corn and soybean fields. My wife Lindsay and I are both culinary school graduates having attended the Cooking and Hospitality Institute, myself in Chicago, and her in Las Vegas.  I started working at the Longbranch when I was twelve years old, starting out as a busboy, moving up to dishwasher and cooking by the time I was 14.  I didn't go to culinary school right out of high school because I didn't think this is what I wanted to do for a career.  But I couldn't find any other career path that interested me so decided to go to Chicago to culinary school and graduated in 2005 and found myself back at the Longbranch in June of 2005 and have been here ever since.  I met my wife a few years ago and  brought her in as a chef to work alongside me and business has been awesome ever since.  We work great as a team and have been putting out some great food that people drive from all over to come and eat.
 At the beginning of the year she moved out to the front of the house but still has her hand in a lot of the cooking.  We run a few different specials every weekend.  It keeps people wondering what we'll be cooking each and every weekend and keeps them coming back for more.  What sets us apart from other restaurants around is that we always look to buy the best quality product and strive to give our customers the very best that their money deserves.  We're known for our great prime rib and steaks and have even been known to serve up some killer sushi.  But like I said we're doing something off the menu and different every single weekend so I think that makes us very unique for the area that we are in.
-Nick Bohn, owner
The Longbrach has a storied menu of great eats -seafood include Froglegs, naturalment!

Get to L'Erable!  Eat the Longbranch! Celebrate the people who put the frog in the froglegs!

As the dirty old ditty goes,  Les Français , les Français de la sale race ; ils se battent avec leurs pieds et . . . avec leur visage!