Tate Buckthorn - King of the Knitting Cowboys: Cadets Ain't G-Men

Tate Buckthorn Knits '. . .you have a problem with that? Let's hear it on your hind legs, barkside out, Pard.'

Some cowboys sing, some play the Guit-box, some others toss the lasso, but Tate Buckthorn's knits.  He knits sweaters, throw rugs, baby socks and when perturbed his bushy eyebrows.  Many a dry-gulching, back shooter learned that the purl'n and stich'n irons in the thick calloused hands of Tate Buckthorn can be as deadly as the shoot'n irons on his hips and  tied to his thighs.

Back in '38, when the Amerikadeutscher Volksbund was grabbing all of the best tables in Chicago's beer-gardens, Tate Buckthorn drovered a herd from the louvered rail-cars on the tracks above Canaryville's Root Street and into the Union Stockyards of Chicago.  He was tall on the saddle and knitting away like a widow woman with an eye for the Sears Catalog boys in swimming trunks, but her mind on the gospel messages. Yep, he was busy on the saddle, but with an eye on the 94% of beeves that survived the rail passage to the slaughter pens.

A group of boys from Morgan Park Military Academy were on field trip to the stockyards that day and noted the tall, bronzed figure standing on the ornate Charro saddle hugging the back and belly of  his14.2 hand bucksin stallion, Purl. Tate was doing what the Mex charros call a suerte - showing off.

The teenage boys were wowed by the cowboy's balance and command.

One big, red-headed lunk with jug-ears and buck teeth under his garrison cap halloed, " Hey Lady! Better take a chair and tend to your knitting!"

Tate slowed the pace of Purl some and went as bright-eyed as that school marm back in Fort Smith went,when Tate presented her with a hand knitted sampler containing a pornographic two-dimensional  suggestion for a mutual  day off and answered, " Pard, let me tend to your knitting."  With that, he sprung from the back of Purl and landed square in front of the cadet.





" Well, Red, ain't you the curly wolf, just!   I knit to keep focused and focus is the difference between keepin' a whole skin and taking a steer's antlers in the ribs, Pard.  Some Pokes sing, some twirl the lasso and I knit."

Tate leaped back into the saddle, " Follow me, Red and drag along all them army loafer Pards of your'n and we'll all get familiar with some Sasparilla."  They repaired to a corner store at Wentoworth and Root streets with a blue and white painted  coffin- like ice cooler packed with bottles of root beer next to the store's front steps and entrance to the shop.

Tate Buckthorn treated each of the score of boys ( that's twenty Bufflao Head, brethren) in caps and green uniforms to a bottle of Old Dutch a piece while he squatted on his haunches and knit. The boys petted and cooed over the great horse caparisoned in silver latigos and saddle strings. The door swung open with great noise and violence.  A man emerged wearing  very tight fitting black top-coat.  Under his black bowler hat set the pair meanest grey eyes this side of the Old Man.  He had a muscular thick neck that challenged the collar of his tan shirt and bulged the knot of bow tie out into the public.

" Move on away from my door so people can traffic into my shop  You have ( he said Half) your Pop now go!.  This is private, now!"

" No reason to put the bulge on, Pard. Me and these h'yar saddled-chaps and my old Cayuse, Purl, don't mean to obstruct the trail none."

" Well, take your knitting elsewhere."

It got quiet. . ..two quiet.

Tate stood full to the flush, but let the insult pass.

" Hombres, lets move across the street to that other corner." Indicating the sign above the grocery and notions shop hung sign bearing the name of the owner.

" I take it you are Mr. Hintern-Schnüffeln."

" I have that honor. Why?"

"Some handle.  I see you do not sell beer to Indians.  Get a crowd of Comanch are these parts?"



The Bowler'd square head went blood red,  " There are many tribes of Indian."

Tate Buckthorn sized up the warning sign as well as the owner proprieter.

" I'appears to me, that you lay claim to a wide field."

"  Soon, we will not need such signs, nor require an explanation to the likes of you and all Untermenschen."

" Well, Juniper, I'd wager my next six packets of hard money that you arfe one of them Papier-Aufhänger Liebhaber Wer hasst Juden, Schwarze, Katholiken, Zigeuner und Fuller Brush Männer.

" I do not hate Fuller Brush Men!  You . . . Sie sprechen sehr gut Deutsch für eine Satteltramp.

" Do you sabe un culo kansas antaño patadas?"

The store owner pulled a Ruger MK III .22 automatic from his coat pocket and threatened Tate, but more so the twenty cadets.

" Alle von euch Ratten, weg von meiner Tür bzw. diesen Cowboy, der der Jude Krankenhaus auf 29th Street senden!"

The threat of violence and race-baiting rhetorical flourishes by the bowler wearing Bunds had taken the rag of the bush and Tate's wrists rolled yarn by the yard from the twin needles yet clutched in his gnarled hands.  The Bowler'd bully boy's Nazi heater clattered to the cement and the big buck-toothed red-headed cadet from Morgan Park Military Academy kicked the gat far way from the two combatants and into the Canaryville gutter,

With the Teutonic trouble-making desparado ensnarled in butternut wool, Tate tightened the yarn on the Heinie Hyena until the coppers arrived.

The man was charged with threatening boys with and unlicensed hand gun and taken to hoosegowl on 35th Street.  He was booked.

Tate was surrounded by the boys who had had an adventure in the stockyards.  The big redhead thumbed back the brim of his garrison cap and offered, " Mr. Buckthorn I learned a great lesson today."

Tate smiled high wide and handsome, " Tend to your knitting Red! Tend to your knitting and visit the gospel mill every Sunday!  . . .and drink Old Dutch Root Beer!."

Why I Tend to Admire Sarah Palin and Not So Much Our President

I like Sarah Palin - she is a very centered and happy person.  President Obama?  Not so much.

Tales of the South Side -The Victim

Aunt Olympia thought him "Sharp! Real Cool Man!"; his contemporaries . . . not so much.

Listen to your relatives . . .with a handful of salt.  Uncle Jim might suggest a tatoo.  Cousin Buck might offer a suggestion on head-gear akin to Elmer Fudd's haberdashing noggin.  Aunt Stell might think you'd look cute in a slutty-biker chick's leathers and Dad might even suggest WWI leggings for cold winter days.  Listen, nod, but be wary.

Quinn Swallowski  listened to Aunt Oly and selected only really stylish low-priced menswear from Zembski's Family Store on 41rd by Archer and dressed accordingly.  Quinn wrapped himself in smart low-priced fashion and does so to this very day.  Others might find a Brooks Brothers look at a modest tariff but Quinn went full Zembski's at retail . . .and looked it.

"Forget them Baskins, Sears, Munky Wards, Joe-College Red Hanger wallet lifters, Quinn; go by Zembski over by Archer there. Save you money and look nice." the large and meaty mouthed Aunt Olympia commanded.

God generously featured Quinn corporeally -" He looked nice.  Nice hair, nice eyes, nice teeth - nice.

Quinn never ripped his trousers or dirtied his shirts.  Aunt Oly told him of those dangers though she dressed like an auto -mechanic at lunch.  Oly told and Quinn bought it.

This confidence shared between aunt and nephew proved daunting, when young Quinn attended Hubbard High School in 1991.  It seems that some of his school mates found the pretence and self-attention challenging themselves.  That was in a time when bullying was not a one way street,  not  like Hamlin, or today.


Quinn's parents were old country DPs with barely enough English to cash a check at the currency exchange across the street from the Giant Indian at 63rd & Pulaski.

Quinn learned fashion from Aunt Olympia, who was divorced from Uncle Bogdan three days after their wedding and lived with Frieda above the pet store at 63rd Kolin. Aunt Margie was a hoot - she could open non-twist off beer caps and had been a softball All Star for ten years running.   Uncle Bogdan beat it to Tinley Park, or Oak Forest somewhere.  He dressed like a machinist and refused "to wear nice powder blue leisure suit to wedding."

Quinn was named Quinn after his father's foreman at Tootsie Roll by Cicero Ave. and thought the given name might counter pollack jokes from the ever diminishing Irish around 63rd Street. Not so much.  Better Arabs, Mexes and Blacks than crook Micks - kiepska banda drani.  Quinn's parents respected American born little sister Oly's judgments, "She first went by Zembski's; is nice."

Quinn Swallowski dressed nice and he was nice boy like Osmond Brother.


Such things mattered not to the Insane Popes around Hubbard High.  Quinn found things unsettling as the only snappy dresser among a herd of RPN ( Royal Popes Nation) bedecked in White Sox gear only.

Name calling directed at Quinn was identity specific and colorful.  Quinn ignored taunts and managed his time according to curriculum schedule, detention and shift changes at 8th Police District over by St. Louis Street.

Aunt Oly even picked Quinn up from school when her shift at Tootsie Roll allowed -some weeks day; some weeks nights.  Afternoons?  Run, Quinn!

Run Quinn did, like a hobbled Llama.  His running gait only added to the reactive scorn from his contemporaries.  His friends all went to Maria High School, or St. Rita.  Hubbard was tough . . .is tough.

Quinn became a model for Zembski's catalog and eventually landed a great gig with Sears.  He was making money hand over fist over hand.  Quinn's gang banger antagonist had matriculated to  getting tequila and 40 oz. empties collaged around their graves over by St. Mary's Cemetery on Pulaski.

Three years after graduation, Quinn was asked to model for Chicago Public Schools literature and made even more money.

Quinn still deferred to Aunt Oly's fashion judgment.  Soon, Quinn's services were no longer desired at CPS.

Quinn Swallowski was the wrong face in the wrong duds.

Aunt Oly moved to Florida with Frieda, when the damn Mexicans bought the building and kicked out pet store and cancelled the rent of two old bags. Quinn is unemployed, but still looks great within the fashion context set by Aunt Olympia.

Quinn remains a victim.

Hey, I'm just sayin'!

.

These Are the U.N. Beauties Demanding that the Vatican ( Catholic Church) Behaves.

 Thirteen of the eighteen members of U.N. Committee of the Rights of the Child are from what NPR and the BBC World Service like to term 'emergings nations' - nations prone to hacking off limbs, human trafficking, beheading for Allah, vanishing neighbors, nepotism, junta of the week bloodbaths, maritime piracy and Ivy League Alumni.  Hey, they're emerging.

Now, to be fair, I do not know if getting cleaned out at a casino ranks as a human rights violation or not, but Monaco might be somewhat less strident about pedophiles than the House of Saud, who tend to tuck the Koran under the mattress in the late Grace Kelly's principality.

I read that the U.N. Committee of the Rights of the Child are really, really put-out with the Vatican for ignoring the homosexual rape of teenage boys and making girls dor th laundry - all charges made clear by Hollywood, SNAP, Jefferey Anderson, Bill Maher, HBO, OXFAM, and Al Qaeda.  More so, there is a demand of compliance that the Vatican catch up to these emerging nations with regard to gay rights, gay marriage, abortion on demand and free rubbers.

They are dead serious, which makes the hypocrisy all the more laughable.  Here's UN Kid's Watchdog Roster

Ms. Agnes Akosua AIDOO	Ghana*	28 February 2015
Ms. Amal ALDOSERI (Vice-Chairperson a.i.)	Bahrain*	28 February 2017
Ms. Aseil AL-SHEHAIL (Vice-Chairperson)	Saudi Arabia*	28 February 2015
Mr. Jorge CARDONA LLORENS	Spain	28 February 2015
Ms Sara DE JESÚS OVIEDO FIERRO (Vice-Chairperson)	Ecuador*	28 February 2017
Mr. Bernard GASTAUD	Monaco	28 February 2015
Mr. Peter GURÁN	Slovakia*	28 February 2017
Ms. Maria HERCZOG (Rapporteur)	Hungary*	28 February 2015
Ms. Olga a. KHAZOVA	Russian Federation	28 February 2017
Mr. Hatem KOTRANE	Tunisia*	28 February 2015
Mr. Gehad MADI	Egypt *	28 February 2015
Mr. Benyam Dawit MEZMUR (Vice-Chairperson)	Ethiopia *	28 February 2017
Ms. Yasmeen MUHAMAD SHARIFF	Malaysia*	28 February 2017
Mr. Wanderlino NOGUEIRA NETO	Brazil*	28 February 2017
Ms. Maria Rita PARSI	Italy	28 February 2017
Ms. Kirsten SANDBERG (Chairperson)	Norway	28 February 2015
Ms. Hiranthi WIJEMANNE (Vice-Chairperson)	Sri Lanka*	28 February 2015
Ms. Renate WINTER	Austria	28 February 2017

* A few Rights of Child moments from some eemrging nations -

 Ghana -

Le Maison Saud -

Bahrain -

Ethiopia - 

Sri Lanka-

The United Nations is important for one thing alone - slob diplomats who scoff-law NYC, bolt on checks, rape maids and speak English like a crack-heads on NPR.  Thanks for your insights.  This should get Matt Damon's fullest attention.

Let The Velvet Fog Blow The Snow Away!

Snow! Really?  I tried writing something -saved it and went to Leo HS, because it looked to bad out there. It was.  When I got to Leo, I cahnged what I had begun to write.

It took me forty five minutes to get to Leo HS today.  Left the Hickey Family Compound on Rockwell at 4AM;  got to Kareem's Dunkin' Donuts at 4:25 ( six blocks), but Western Ave and 79th Street were well plowed.  I pulled into the lot at Leo at 4:45.

I listened to Mel Torme Live at Marty's and managed nicely without any superfluous obscenities, blasphemies, vain threats to whomever, or spin-outs.

Let the Velvet Fog be your snow-plow!



You gotta love Steve Allen!



How about it?


Here is my favorite When Sunny Gets Blue and one by the great June Christy!


 Drive with Care everywhere!

Snow-Blowing and the Sad Deaths of Talented People and of Course The Superbowl

The Irish Funnies are not.  No matter the day, we are reminded of life's gossamer hold on our blood and bones.  Yesterday, I spent my morning shoveling and snow blowing, after listening to the gospel from Luke in which two very elderly people witness the fulfilment of God's promise when Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to the Temple for the Purification Rites.  I shovel and snow blow in league with Mike the Vietnam vet and retired Chicago Streets and Sanitation worker and a retired CPD detective and attorney who owns the same make and model as my own.  We are a troika of sixty years and change male making the path the little easier for our neighbors, especially the aging widows.  We ain't kids.

This winter is like other winters, despite the Polar Vortex and our dangerously over-heating planet.  Mike, Copper and I have been 'doing the sidewalks and diveways' since 1999, when I moved on the block form Griffith Indiana.  It is not fun, but it needs to get done.  We learned by being ordered by our elders and betters to 'get your ass out there and shovel the sidewalks, because you should not need to be told to.'  I have watch home-owners in possession of snow-removal gear take care of their property and return to warmth of the hearth and the flat-screen TV.

I can't do that and neither can my two neighbors. We are too timid to face the echoes of commands past -'get your ass out there and shovel the sidewalks, because you should not need to be told to.'  I don't know what my counterparts thought about while snow-blowing, but was stuck on the gospel by Luke and thought about old people (sans me of course) and how they perceive infants as possibly a justification of their lives. -

Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, looking for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him.
And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he should not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ.
And inspired by the Spirit he came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the law,he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said,"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word;
or mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to thy people Israel." . . .
And there was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phan'u-el, of the tribe of Asher; she was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years from her virginity, and as a widow till she was eighty-four. She did not depart from the temple, worshiping with fasting and prayer night and day.And coming up at that very hour she gave thanks to God, and spoke of him to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

Now, bear in mind that it is cold and that I am a God Damn crybaby; therefore my thoughts were constantly derailed according to cracks in the sidewalks and dents to the blades, the odd refuelings and unclogging the chute - yes, with the engine off.  I'm not a complete moron.  I thought about the recent death of a colleague, the result of folly.  How all the good that one can do, might be erased by one case of bad judgement.  I thought about my own catalog of sins of commission and the warehouse full of omissions.  What if I had grabber -right here in the alley between Rockwell and Maplewood and had not the opportunity set things somewhat right.

Old Simeon and Anna were delighted to witness the redemption of Jerusalem.

Finally, the sun came out and no more snow packed on to piles.  I spent the Sunday doping off, reading and watching old Maverick re-runs, until SuperBowl XLVIII!  Bad snap! Safety! It only got uglier.  The commercials? All I cared about was the Doritos selection, which included south sider Mike Cullen's talents.  Red Hot Chili Peppers? Not so much.  I watched the game until Denver scored, which seemed like a PC every-one-gets- a-trophy mercy kiss.  I had to be up at 3:30AM to pen my prose, go to Dunkin Donuts, say Hi to Cousin Sy, drive to Leo High School light the boilers, read the stuff I wrote and fix my more glaring errors, start the grey van and pick up the guys.No Jerusalem in New Jersey for the Mile High Guys.  What a stinker.

When I woke I learned of the death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman found with a needle in his arm in the bathroom of his NY apartment.  My God, the kid was only 46 and had proved himself to a most talented actor. Those demons we deny, or try to self medicate and meditate did in another supremely talented human being.

But Simeon and Anna kept their attentions on redemption and the new Jerusalem.  They saw it in the baby Mary and Joseph brought to the Temple according to the faith. No hoopla, or glitz, but genuine.

Walp, four to six inches of the white stuff is on the way.  I know what I'll be doing with my Me Time.

In Praise of Great Women!

There is no more evident sign that anyone is a saint and of the number of the elect, than to see him leading a good life and at the same time a prey to desolation, suffering, and trials. -- St Aloysius Gonzaga



Thanks to my pal Jack Daley for this daily reminder of the power of good women and God bless the young gents on the skateboards who preserved this video epiphany!

Old Commies Live a Long Time - For Longevity, Go Red!

  Nah.  You'd have been fine Pete. Catholics, Jews, genuine labor leaders, working stiffs of every race and color  . . .not so lucky. 



Pete Seeger the privileged WASP New York kid who pretended to come from Appalachia died this week at age 94. Wasn't That a Time?

It is amazing that old Reds and vigorous fellow travellers, now called Progressives,  manage to cheat the Grim Reaper. Chicago has always been a labor town, but the Reds never succeeded in making Chicago their own, until the last forty years or so. Labor kicked out the Reds under John L. Lewis and subsequent labor leaders, until Democrats discovered that Reds help increase the voting rolls - hat tip to Jane Byrne.

Lookee H'yar!  With possible exceptions of the youthful demise of  Saul Alinsky (63 yrs,)and Roger Baldwin (70), Red and Pinkish Lefties tend to reap at least eight score years.

Famous Dead Reds and Past Pinks
Leon Despres (dec,) -99
Pete Seeger(dec,) - 94
Studs Terkel (dec.)- 95
Dawn Clark Netsch(dec.) -86
Frank Marshall Davis (dec.)-82
Clarence Darrow (dec.)- 80

Living the Over Throw of Capitalism
Dr. Quentin Young - 91 and still plotting

When the Reds say "Long Live . . .whatever!"  they really mean it.

Must be eating all those beets.

Governor Pat Quinn Uses Pope Francis to Grab Kids at Birth and Raise Minimum Wage?

“But when Herod was dead, behold an angel of the Lord appears in a dream to Joseph in Egypt, saying, Arise and take the young child and his mother, and go into the land of Israel: for they are dead that sought the young child’s life” (Matthew 2:19-20).

Mary and Joe beat it to Egypt, because Planned Parenthood of Roman Occupied Judea allowed Herod to kill babies.  Things are pretty bad in Illinois, many Mary and Joe couples have already beat it to Wisconsin and Indiana. Our home grown Herod is the Guv, in Planned Parenthood/SEIU and IPI occupied Illinois.  I wish him a very long, happy, healthy and quiet life out of office.

Gov. Pat Quinn is a gifted ninny.  He is gifted by those who stick Holy Writ, or Papal Remarks under his schnozola and read the words to him.

Yesterday's State of the State stem-winder was completely Quinn-worthy.

Illinois is back!  Repeating exactly what Quinn mouthed last year.  Quinn has succeeded only in getting business to leave Illinois quicker than a pewful of folks stuck behind a wildly flatulent worshiper. Quinn has re-defined marriage as he commanded to do by Personal PAC.  Other than that?

• Illinois public schools continue to stink on ice.
• College grads can't find work in Illinois
• Nanny State laws pour forth every News Years Day
• Bridges crumble
• Potholes proliferate
• Grain prices drop
• The Coal industry shrinks
• The governor belittles the religious
• The continuing erasing of the Illinois Middle Class

Now, the political hack who fights heroically for the right of women to avoid the scared consequences of conception via abortion, takes Pope Francis I's comments completely out of context, in order to make sure that Mikey D's fry stuffers have boosted short-term spending power Moreso, Governor Goof wants to mandate child care the minute a child is born.  Imagine, the State of Illinois ( SEIU) raising and caring for every baby born from Lena Winslow to Cairo. 

The ever disappearing wages of tradesmen, cops, teachers, fire fighters, truckers, small business owners, sales people and practicing artists will be used to pay Keith Kelleher's SEIU care-givers and doctors who not somehow qualify for that great job at Pontiac, or Galesburg prisons. Pope Francis and Isaiah were invoked by Governor Cliffs Notes - no doubt at the suggestion of Illinois  Pete Seeger of Medicine - Old Doc Quentin Young, physician to CPUSA and gubernatorial guru.

Quinn, who is Catholic, quoted scripture and popular new Pope Francis in setting his priorities. But the speech only occasionally drew measured applause, though Democratic lawmakers clapped when he called for increasing the minimum wage. Republicans remained silent through most of the 40-minute speech, short compared to some of the governor’s earlier efforts.
Quinn first proposed hiking the state minimum wage during his address a year ago, but the effort didn’t gain much traction. He’s hoping for an election-year boost this time around as President Barack Obama and Democrats across the country also push the issue in the mid-term elections.

The Republicans are too gutless to speak the truth to this Botched Cesarean Caesar.  They act like old bags arguing over bingo markers at the Peotone Legion and are much  too busy to get elected. Every election.

Governor Pat Quinn is pandering to the have-nots and will nots of Illinois - pure and simple. That is all he's got and he will use Bible or the out-of-context Papal pronouncements to get the NPR nodders in the pews of upper-middle-class Unitarian Catholic Churches of suburban Illinois to join his Crusade.  Upon what brie doth this Caesar feed?  Planned Parenthood's and morsels from the Hyde Park mafia, that's what brie.

Pope Francis I said this the very week he was elevated to the Papacy - -“Defend the unborn against abortion even if they persecute you, calumniate you, set traps for you, take you to court or kill you."  

Parse that, Guv. 

The Father American Gay Marriage, Larry Brinkin of San Francisco.

(Photo: Rick Gerharter)

The Father of American Gay Marriage and his spouse: Larry Brinkin, right, walked into court Tuesday accompanied by his husband, Wood Massi. 

Lost in all of the data, polls and political will to outlaw marriage is the fact that a man is meant to marry a woman and possibly have children.  The modern will to change that fact is not evolution. Molusks are not yet

The news reported the indictment and guilty plea of the Father of American Gay Marraige, Larry Brickin of San Franciso on charges of child pornography possession. The following a rather mild report of deeply disturbing public figure, who will be celbrated next month by the city of San Francisco.

Gay rights pioneer Larry Brinkin is expected to serve six months in jail after pleading guilty this week to felony possession of child pornography.
Brinkin, 67, who was a longtime staffer at San Francisco's Human Rights Commission, quietly entered his plea Tuesday, January 21 before San Francisco Superior Court Judge Brendan Conroy.
At his sentencing March 5, Brinkin is expected to be ordered to serve five years of probation, which would begin with six months in jail and be followed by six months of home detention with a monitoring bracelet. Brinkin must also register as a sex offender for life. Prosecutors had charged Brinkin with two counts of distributing child pornography and four counts of possession of child pornography. The remaining charges were dismissed Tuesday.
San Francisco police initially arrested Brinkin on child pornography-related charges in June 2012. He quickly posted bail and was released from custody on those charges. Following further investigation by police at the request of the district attorney's office, he surrendered to police in September 2012 and bailed out of custody shortly thereafter.
Assistant District Attorney Leslie Cogan has said that there were "numerous items of photographs as well as videos" involved in the case, and that Brinkin's activity had gone back to October 2011.
Brinkin, who was a compliance officer for the Human Rights Commission for more than two decades before he retired in 2010, declined to comment before his court appearance Tuesday. His husband, Wood Massi, accompanied him, as he has for numerous hearings since 2012.
After the hearing, Randy Knox, Brinkin's attorney, said that Brinkin is "genuinely remorseful" and has a "much greater understanding of the damage that child pornography inflicts."
"Larry is a wonderful, kind, sensitive human being who made a terrible mistake," Knox added.
According to the affidavit accompanying a search warrant in the case, in May 2012, San Francisco police viewed information that had been sent to them by a Los Angeles Police Department detective. That detective had received tips from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children that had come from an America Online representative.
Court records showed that police seized two locked red plastic toolboxes containing videos, two laptops and a desktop computer, three thumb drives, and other items from Brinkin's Waller Street home.
Among other items, attached to one email police found an image that showed "an approximately 2-3 year old child ... Underneath the child is an adult male, using his right hand to hold the child and his left hand to insert his erect penis into the anus of the child," the document says.
In the email, the user, who authorities indicated was Brinkin, wrote, "damn, what a sight seeing huge dick in tiny hole, tearing it open. That [n-word] must be in coon heaven stuffin it in the tiny white hole!"
Asked if he had any comment to the LGBT community on Brinkin's behalf, Knox, who declined to allow reporters to speak to Brinkin, said, "I'm not really qualified to speak on Larry's behalf to the LGBT community." However, he said Brinkin has spoken to "people who have been friends and supporters in the past to explain personally how this happened."
Among highlights of his HRC career, Brinkin was a manager for the city's equal benefits ordinance, the first of its kind in the country. The ordinance requires city contractors to provide the same benefits to their employees with spouses and their employees with domestic partners.
Brinkin also managed the commission's multi-year investigation of Badlands, a popular Castro neighborhood bar that in 2004 faced allegations of racial discrimination. Owner Les Natali has steadfastly denied the discrimination charges and the case was eventually settled through mediation.
Reached by phone Tuesday, HRC Executive Director Theresa Sparks said, "Overall, I have no comment, obviously, professionally, but personally I think it's just a very, very sad commentary, a very sad situation. I'm heartbroken it happened."
Sparks said she doesn't believe his plea will affect his pension, but "I'm not an expert on that. I have no idea."
Knox said that Brinkin should continue to receive his pension from the city, since "this is not a moral turpitude crime," and it's "not something that happened when he was working for the city."
As part of Brinkin's probation, officials would be able to monitor his computer use, and he'd be ordered to participate in outpatient sexual offender therapy, among other conditions.

The same people who demand the murder of babies in the womb, or out of the womb for that matter, justify the euthanizing of the elderly, or ill, encourage universal promiscuity and state funded contraception believe that non-Euclidian sex is a marriage and a human right.  I disagree.

Governor Pat Quinn will trumpet his fight to change marriage in his sorry State of Illinois blab, as the most important use of pen in our State's history

I more than disagree.  I shudder.

Chicago Needs A Neighbor as Mayor - ATU 308 President Bob Kelly Makes Sense

Laura Washington, God love her, suggests that Chicago needs a hometown De Blasio.  If De Blasio translates to ' a powerful enema,'  I agree. Chicago's blocked colon is the result of, not the lack of Progressives.

However, De Blasio name probably come from the Italian of Biazz in Tuscony, or the Italian Swiss town of the same name.  De Blasio is avariant of the name Biasi.  There was a famous Italian manufacturer of explosives by the name of Mario Biazzi (1897-1974), which would factor nicely with the former Sandinista Boy Scout, a married a former lesbian and is now Mayor of the Big Apple.

I did not know that there were former lesbians.  I thought they were like members of Irish Republican Army, or the U.S. Marines - Once In, Never out. Lord have mercy.

Bill De Blasio and Rahm Emanuel are cuts from the same cloth. However, once a Progressive gets a taste for corporate boodle, he can not get his snout out of the trough.  Bill De Blasio is only just wetting his beak.  Rahm has had a moolah bath for decades in golden tubs filled by Goldman Sachs, Hollywood, Planned Parenthood and the Non-Euclidian Plutocracy.

When corporate suits play at Progressive and the political rubber meets the road there is always a blow-out.  Real estate and real politics are a fixture not unlike sticking a starving rat and rabid raccoon in a burlap bag. One will win the fang and claw fest but you end up with a useless and bloody bag.

A recent study of Santa Cruz, CA offers this insight, " Since most cities are usually controlled by real estate developers and their buddies, Santa Cruz is a good test case for comparing theories of urban power. Atypical cases are helpful in eliminating theories from consideration if they cannot explain the unexpected events." Not true.  Most cities are controlled by coalitions of interests outside of the city limits.  The suits don't live in the city.

Now, don't get all nasty on the real estate developer.  Their 'buddies' are banks, lawyers, Friends of the Parks, Universities, political weasels and the media.   They have tony zip codes.

Toni Preckwinkle, President of the Cook County Board and recent Single Mom, is poised to challenge Rahm Emanuel for Mayor.  Toni has a tony zip code.

Most Chicagoans do not.  Chicagoans need a mayor who is also a neighbor and not just some cork-screw in Armani who stashed the old lady's wedding dress in the family rental, while in greener pastures.

If Chicago want to break the cycle of dynastic Kleptarchy and Progressive blow-out government ( which have nationally, state-wide, county level and at City Hall), Chicago needs to get a neighbor in the brawl.  I'd pick ATU Local 308 President Robert Kelly.

• Kelly is no friend of the grifting interests that begat Emanuel, Claypool, Preckwinkle & Quinn
• Kelly is a middle class wage earner who earned his Carhartt gear
• Kelly is a geuine labor leader, unlike the Marxist myna bird - Karen Lewis
• Kelly is a Chicago tax paying homeowner with eleven children
• Kelly is leader of a broad and diverse labor local of skilled professionals
• Kelly has managed one of the only Pension funds in Illinois that is going to benefit its membership
• Kelly is already in the political cross-hairs
• Kelly is already a media target - how can one not trust person whom Eric Zorn, Rich Miller, Carol Marin and Michael Sneed just don't like.

Chicago could use an enema with firehouse on full strength.  Chicago is not New York, never was and never should be. Every stupid idea Chicago City Council ever nanny stated on its people came from New York. Vote in Chicagoans.

The difference between Rahm (Bloomberg) and Toni ( De Blasio) is the difference between cancer and strychnine.

Tales of the South Side: I Really Do Not Know How to Respond to This

There I was, in my cubicle at Leo, waiting for the One o'clock meeting with the boys from J Walter Thompson. I twas going to be a good meeting. I like good meeting and really dislike when meetings go bad. I'm a Catholic school Development guy, I should know that things get dicey.

Dicier than a souse chef on bennies and ignored at Charlie Trotter's wake and a thiry year mortgage on three flat in the gold Coast.

The clock would not move. It stood still like the dame I asked to the Little Flower Homecoming Dance in 1968, when I was home from the seminary for weekend and didn't really go to Little Flower High School yet , because I was still in the seminary up in Holland Michigan.  Well, that skirt just looked at me like a clock standing still.  Then she moved real fast.  She was what we used to call a fast girl.  I can't run a lick,

So there I was loading data into the Excel Spreadsheets, when I decided to check my e-mails. The clock had moved.

There were nine, from Leo High School Alumni and twenty six ED ads that I deleted - not the Alumni, the Droopy Johnson ads.  I was all set to return messages about how I would get to them, like Mike '69 in Downers Grove who still had not received the thank you from me for the dough he sent in in December.  Missed that one.  And the other eight.  I missed them like a fat man misses Thanksgiving dinner at the cousins.

I was in the middle of my response to Mike '69 when another E-mail popped up.

Dear Hickey, I suppose you'll call this a confession when you hear it... Well, I don't like the word confession, I just want to set you right about something you couldn't see because it was smack up against your nose. You think you're such a hot potato as a claims manager; such a wolf on a phony claim... Maybe y'are. But let's take a look at that Dietrichson claim... accident and double indemnity. You were pretty good in there for awhile Hickey... you said it wasn't an accident, check. You said it wasn't suicide, check. You said it was murder... check.

Fred MacMurray

I went colder than that twist I asked out from Kenilworth - who went all haughty at Beni Hana's in the hibachi room when my big toe popped through my calf-length socks after I kicked off my wing-tip brogans.  I went cold.

 Something just was not right.

Fred MacMurray had three sons as I recall and like me was a widow man.  He lived in Kankakee,as did I.  MacMurray was a musician and I play guitar and 5-string banjo (C tuning).  Fred had been a nutty professor and I am in education yet.

My boss, Dan McGrath, hollered that we had a meeting.  I sat rigid at my desk.  Fred MacMurray.

He was not happy.  Fred MacMurray, not Dan McGrath. Dan is getting used to how I am.  Fred MacMurray obviously is not, or does not.   Man, it's cold. Colder than Fred MacMurray.

A Wistful Few Moments With Marge - The First Girl in My Parish to Read The Female Eunuch

“Men are the enemy in much the same way that some crazed boy in uniform was the enemy of another like him in most respects except the uniform. One possible tactic is to try to get the uniforms off.”
― Germaine Greer, The Female Eunuch

In October of 1970, I was a freshman at Loyola University ( Lewis Towers) in Chicago.  I had had a great summer due to a great paying job as a second year janitor ( $ 2.75 per + T and 1/2 for OT)  and the brief but spicy company of Marge. That month a book came out that rocked our world - Germain Greer's The Female Eunuch/  Feminism.  You can't beat it.  You can nod to it, grant that it is there, see it for what it should be and what it is most certainly not and live your life.

Though not a woman, I can deeply appreciate the feelings of being objectified, patronized and fitted into clothing and undergarments that might be alluring, not never comfortable. I was forced to wear a turtle-neck sweater once, because the girl who purchased it for me thought I'd look like one of The Monkees - just a pathetic male adolescent wearing something he hated.

The girl's name was Marge.  She lived at 77th & Wolcott in Little Flower Parish. Her Dad was a lockesmith with shop between Hermitage and Wood streets.

Marge was a girl who blossomed early and adopted the dress and attitude of the greaser chicks who latched onto the 69th Street Loafers north of the tracks from us.  The Loafers were mostly Italian kids and we were largely Micks.  We got along, unless we were complete assholes.  The Loafer guys wore cabrettas, rat-stabbers ( Stacy Adams shoes) and greased their back like Elvis.  The greaser girls wore tight black slacks jeans, or skirts, tighter sweaters and their hair all cotton-candied up and large and supported by Alberto Culver hairspray.

We Micks tended to sport more of a Joe College Karol's Red Hanger look and buzz-cuts.  The girls wore attire straight out of Trouble With Angels Haley Mills/Mary Tyler Moore modest allure. The Greasers called us Doopers, or Wood Street.

We Doopers imagined Greaser girls to be a little bit slutty - they'd put out a little bit anyway. Not so.Some of our Meghan Mickleberry Haley Mills babes were positively Russ Meyers in attitude and deportment, while Shirley and Flo, though bedecked in Faster Pussy Cat, Kill,Kill,  fashion and accessories were as virginal as St. Agnes.  Never assume.

I flirted with my afore mentioned Marge, the locksmith's daughter, because I assumed that I might have my wicked way . . .within reason . . .with her.  She looked the part and by the 6th Commandment filled the part.
I was stunned!  You asked for it Bub and you got it.  Marge accompanied yours truly on several trips to Rainbow Beach and we smooched - à la manière de la sale français - up a storm.

Marge was positively black Irish gorgeous and built like a muscle car at Santa Fe Speedway.  Every impulse to explore the horizon of human copulation was aroused, only to be quieted by ethics and Catholic moral instruction.  As  St. Thomas Aquinas once said, " You knock-her up and you marry her."

I was bullied by better angels, while Errol Flynn whispered in my ear . . .not forgetting Marge was the whole package. She was nice.  I was and remain . . . complicated.

I determined that discretion was the better part of satisfaction and that bookish me was destined for Loyola University in few months time and the burdens of parenting were complimentary to four years of the Jesuits. I did what any male 17 year old goof equipped with a robust and operational set of nuts could do - I avoided Marge.  You know.  Disappear in plain sight.  Never call.  Never acknowledge.  Guy stuff. Birth control on the cheap.

I dreamed of Marge and went on my way.  So did Marge.

Years later, I ran into Marge at a party near DePaul University. Marge had moved up to the north side and was taking classes while working at  Earl Pionke's Earl of Old Town.  Marge still looked great, but had adopted the more exotic looks of a flamenco dancer and not a Hot Rod Mama.  This suited the radical cool guys and faux Hippies who lived in the hipper quarters of Chicago, or frequented its environs.  I still dressed and groomed like Dooper -close-cropped hair, crew neck sweaters and penny loafers. Dweeb chic.  Marge remarked that I had not changed and that was not a compliment.

The verbal punch out was taken it in cowardly good humor, because I had acted the cad.  No, Marge said it was not my Catholic school boy creepiness about love and passion but my insular and puritanical cowardice.  I was not liberated.  Marge said that she was liberated.  She had been given The Female Eunuch, by one of her older sisters and that book became her bible.

 Marge explained that men hated women and treated them horribly and women went along with it pretending that love and family really meant something.  Woman was better. Kids raise themselves. Mother is Man Word.  Sex is liberating only if one is liberated.

Okay.

I still wanted to see if maybe Marge . . . not a chance.  Marge was dating a guy from Canada named Guy - Geeeeeee -no kidding.  I mean she was shacking up with Guy, while she further evolved.

We parted ways. Decades of life vanished like ice cubes in a dog's mouth.

At one of the Little Flower summer reunions out at a south Cook County Forrest Preserve, I asked one of my balding compeers if he had any word about Marge. " Yeah!!!!!!!!  You tried to crack her britches; didn't you?"

Actually no . . .up to and including that possibility to be sure, but no.

The former football star and Mayor of Palos Hills said, " Marge.  She was all over the place. Married a bunch.  Screwed everyone and anyone.  Nutty.  Billy Fleming called her Million Man Marge."

Well, what happened to her?

" She's a feminist. Writes a blog or something."

Imagine that.