The Death Penalty Gets a Death Sentence

Illinois Governor Pat Quinn abolished the death penalty the other day.  As a result, 15 death row inmates will now serve life without parole.

Hopefully other states will follow.

I have never understood why we execute criminals and always viewed it as a barbaric response to barbaric crimes.  An eye for an eye. 

Therein lies the problem.  Executions are like surfing on a subway car.  If you make a wrong move, you can't go back.  And when it comes to death row inmates there have been plenty of "wrong moves" through the years.

Northwestern University's Medill Innocence Project began looking at death row cases in 1999.  Their investigations have led to 11 innocent men being freed, 5 of whom were on death row.  One of the exonerated, Anthony Porter, was said to be an inspiration behind former Governor George Ryan's moratorium on the death penalty several years ago.  

Ryan came to realize that there is no such thing as an "airtight" case.  If close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, I would hate to be the guy wrongly accused.  And you have to wonder, how many innocent people have we already executed?

We may never know. 

I have read the stories of horrible people committing heinous crimes.  I can't imagine life for the victim's families.   Attorneys fight for victims, but no amount of money or years served will bring back a loved one. 
And violence shouldn't beget violence. 

As a child I remember hearing the story of Gary Gilmore, who chose death by firing squad in 1977 as opposed to hanging, which were the two ways you could be executed in Utah at the time.   I guess it's an upgrade over stoning or being burned at the stake.

As a Catholic I believe life without parole is a far better deal for a killer than the hereafter.  Forgiveness? That's another story.



I have heard valid arguments that certain crimes should warrant the death penalty, or that it should be allowed for a defendant who confesses or wants to be executed. 

Both arguments support the belief that killing inmates is an acceptable form of justice.  Or retribution.

With Illinois news dominated by big haired lunatic governors and our state's financial sinkhole, it's nice to see leadership for a change.

Lost and...Lost

I found a wallet the other day. 

While on the train, I rose to walk down the steps towards the door and there it was.  A brown, open, face down thick wallet. 

I picked it up and kept walking.  As I stood by the door I opened it, saw a drivers license and looked to see if anybody in my car looked like the man on the I.D. 

No luck.

I got to the office and quickly channeled Andy Sipowicz, trying to find the owner.  After rummaging through several business cards and doing an anywho search of the DL info (no match), I finally located a drug card with a woman's name on it. 

Wah lah! 

The next day a grateful owner had his pocket life back. 

I tell the story for two reasons:  1)  I can be equally forgetful and 2) You can't assume anything

I think back to a lovely November day during my junior year of college.  After a string of chilly times and pinching wind, I woke to a day worthy of t-shirts and shorts.  I hopped on my bike and headed off to class. 

April comes, and one morning I am looking for my bike.  A friend asks, "Do you mean the one parked outside J-school?  The one that's been there all winter?"

Oh oh. 

I snuck out late the next night to retrieve my rusted out, crooked bike with slashed tires.  The bike parked parallel to the rack.  The one with notes taped in several places with language unworthy of one of our nation's finest Journalism schools. 

And no, if one particular author happens to be reading this, my head is upright.  Has been for some time, and I can't contort myself.  

But I'm forgetful at times.  Runs in the family.  I have a Great Uncle who was an inventor and patent lawyer.  He was part of the Manhattan Project and a brilliant man. 

A man who had chemical books on his nightstand but couldn't remember what he had for breakfast.

George Carlin had a routine about what happens when we die.  First we pass meet St. Peter, then we are taken to a room which has everything we have ever lost.  Several sets of car keys, pens, cell phones, and wallets.

Which brings me to my other conclusion.  We can't assume anything. 

I have a professional colleague who's daughter recently had a baby with her partner.  The kids are "out" along with Dad, who's now a Grandpa.  We were talking one day about life and how different attitudes are today.  I broke it down simply. 

I spend a lot of time in parks, malls and libraries - the union halls of parenting. 

When I was a kid (and certainly when my elders were) you could spot a kid, see the adult and quickly conclude that yes, they are related.  No need for a DNA test.

Today?  Not so much. 

When I searched the lost wallet, the prescription card had a woman's name on it.  Same last name as the name on the driver's license. 
So I called the company on the front of the card.  When I reached her I said I had found her son's wallet.  "Thank you so much.  He's my husband," she replied. 

Sipowicz would know better.

100 Yards of Risk

When I first heard about former NFL star Dave Duerson's passing my thoughts ranged from shock to sadness.  Now firmly in my 40s, I get a knot when I read about a father dying young, in this case at age 50, leaving four children.

Then came the details.  A suicide, and what looks to be martyrdom.  Duerson shot himself in the chest so that doctors could examine his brain for degenerative brain disease.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/23/sports/football/23duerson.html

Dave Duerson was a big hitter.  He came of age with the 1985 Chicago Bears, a member of one of the most dominant defenses ever.  A safety from Notre Dame, Duerson became a starter in 1985 after Todd Bell and Al Harris sat out the entire season in a contract dispute.  Duerson and his teammates became legends, while Todd Bell and Al Harris entered the Shelley Long wing of the Museum of Bad Career Moves.  Coincidentally, Bell also died young, suffering a heart attack at age 46.

After football, Duerson went on to business success and was active in the NFL players union, eventually serving on a panel that considered player disability claims. 

In what may become the ultimate irony, Duerson likely was dealing with his own encephalopathy ("punch drunk") after spending many years openly skeptical of similar player claims. 

And his death may prove to be a turning point. 

I love football, having played from 4th grade through high school.

My high school coach liked to say, "Basketball is a contact sport.  Football is a collision sport." 

Amen.  I had plenty of them.  Had my "bell rung" a number of times, shook it off and got back in the huddle. 
I only suffered one concussion.  One that I was aware of. 

As much as I love football, I think we will see a dwindling of youth programs in the next decade.  There is simply too much evidence coming out about the dangers of head trauma.  And too much at stake for park districts and schools to risk liability. 

My son, now 12, has wanted to play football for some time, but I have resisted, probably until high school. 

He's gravitated towards other sports.  Baseball, wrestling, basketball.  Sports that require a specific skill. 

Football is about physics more than skill, and you can't teach height, weight or brute force.  

I heard a commentator theorize that football may go the way of boxing, where participation is limited mainly to the poor as an avenue to financial success.  In other words, Middle and upper-class parents don't take the risk. 

In the New York Times article (see above link), Duerson's son Tregg is quoted as saying, "I wish he had played baseball." 

Lots of sons, and their parents, may soon feel that way.

Do your children play football?  Please feel free to post a comment.  I would enjoy hearing from you.

Paper Lion

Chicago had some snow a couple of weeks ago.  Lots of it.  I'm sure you heard.  Snow, wind, yada, yada, yada.

It was bad.  People who ventured out must have felt like they were sucking nuclear fallout.   Me and the fam hunkered down for the night.  Movies, cards and a good book.

We woke up under two feet of snow.  I wandered downstairs to put the coffee on.

And naturally my first thought, as I opened the front door and peeked over a four foot drift, was "WHERE ARE MY NEWSPAPERS??????????!!!!!!!!!

I'm a news junkie.  Paper please - two dailies and the Wall Street Journal. 

I hate to leave the house uninformed.  For me, a day without papers is like showing up at NASA with a 3rd grade education. 

Need my papers, especially when we're trapped like olives in an air tight bottle. 

I grew up surrounded by news.  Among my earliest memories are waking up to the sound of radio, transistor style, emanating from the bathroom.  I knew the time and temperature before my dream was done. 

Then it was off to the kitchen table, where another radio sat on the end as my parents dove into their coffee and papers.  Mike Royko, Wally Phillips, Bill Gleason, Roy Leonard.  Voices of Chicago.  My voices. 

I'm a dying breed. For proof, step on to a train or bus these days. Everyone is glued to their pods, berries and pads. The "commuter fold" is going the way of drive-ins and mimeographs.

I go online, but its not the same.  Online news is like indoor baseball or TV hockey.  Nice, but I want a real experience.  You can't shake a website or doze off covered by the sports page, though my son would probably say, "Isn't there an app for that?"

Which brings me back to our snow day.  The benevolent folks at my dailies gave me access, for a day, to the electronic version of their rags.  Not the website, mind you, but the actual paper online, pages and all.  This.  Was.  Cool. 

Memo to your marketing folks:  Figure out a way to bundle your home delivery and electronic versions.  Having both at a competitive price would be delightful.

In the meantime,  see you at the webstand.

clothesure

Before reading this post you must accept the following disclaimer. Please read the disclaimer, close your eyes and nod to confirm and acknowledge:

I acknowledge whereby reading said blog entry I hereby indemnify said author from any and all thoughts, accusations or premonitions of being anything less than a man’s man.

I certify said author loves to wrestle farm animals, brush his teeth with Johnnie Walker Red, roll his own cigarettes and watch MMA marathons. In fact, said author would rather sit through a symposium on global affairs with “The Situation” and Paris Hilton than watch one minute of Lifetime or the Oprah network.



Thank you.

I hate my clothes.

Not all of my clothes, not all of the time, but I hate my clothes.

I go into the closet each morning and try to fill out the lineup card.  Suits, ties, shirts.  In my next life I'm coming up with garanimals menswear.

A couple of suits are designated strictly for “spot start and long relief.” Don't like 'em, and I'm not sure how they got there.  Most times when I wear them I go ahead and pile on with an "emergency call up tie" and "designated for assignment" shirt.

I don't part with clothes.  Some are icons.  And if it was good enough for the Carter administration it's bound to come back. 

I once owned a suit for nearly 20 years that despite my best efforts always looked presentable, on the outside.  My Rasputin suit.  On the inside it looked like an episode of “Seamstress Gone Wild.”

I don't part with clothes.  Rock bottom was when my daughter, then nine, turned to me at a hockey game and asked “How long have you had that shirt?”  Think break dancing, then add a few years. 

I hate to shop (guy + no shop = redundant).  I'd rather run from a tornado in high heels. 

I've been shopping with the wife.  Twice.  Each time, the salesperson initially turned bug eyed with a joyful, "I just broke the bank" look,  picturing Taina as Gunther Gebel-Williams and me as the hapless lion. 

We all nodded in agreement for a few minutes until things quickly deteriorated.  My problem is that I am the most amenable shopper on earth until I am left to make a decision, at which point I breathe fire and we're forced to add the store to our list of "places we can never return."  

So I learned.

I’ve evolved, and as they say, the only normal people are the ones we don't know very well. 

I use a frames for my posters instead of tape.  I drink from a glass instead of swigging from the bottle.  

And I use duct tape and nod at department stores.

Blaze Orange of Glory

Only in Chicago.

Only in Chicago could a visit by Chinese President Hu (Hu's on first?) Jinato be upstaged by Mike Ditka.

Front page news on this frigid Friday is Da Bears, not Da Prez.

We interrupt the earth's rotation for an important announcement.  Ditka speaks, and he (still) hates Green Bay. Spits green and gold, he hates them so much. 

It's personal.  The cheese fiends are coming.  Win or go home. 

I never saw it coming.  In August I thought the Bears would be lucky to win 6 games, their offensive line exactly that, offensive. 

Who knew.  Luck, as they say, is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.  Or better yet, when you play in the inferior conference and have Superman returning kicks.  Devin Hester is indeed ridiculous.  Having a 20 yard head start (if Hester hasn't already scored) makes up for a lot D-league talent. 

It's personal.  Don't like the Packers.  Growing up they were mediocre, just like the Bears.  But they were our team, our Bears.  We gathered on the playground with our Walter Payton iron-ons and orange wristbands.  A 7-7 season was cause for a parade. 

John Brockington?  Chester Marcol?  The Packers were harmless, the Bears more like puppies.

It didn't get nasty until the 80s, when Ditka and Forrest Gregg came along. 

Chuck Cecil.  Mark Lee.  And Charles Martin, who body slammed Jim McMahon like an empty beer bottle.

Bears-Packers is the NFL's oldest rivalry, dating back to 1921.  Over 90 years, but never a game with so much at stake.  The Halas trophy, then the Lombardi trophy.

Win or lose, we'll head back to work in one of the world's great cities, worthy of foreign dignitaries. 

Packer fans? They'll still have stock car races and fish boils. 

A Vulnerable Place

I found myself with a heavy heart over the past few days. 

My heart goes out to the victims of the Arizona shooting and their families.

My thoughts keep coming back to mental health.   The health of our families and friends. 

Most of us have experienced at some level the pain of mental illness, and the helplessness that often comes with it. 

We are learning more about the shooter, clearly a sick individual. 

And a son.  And neighbor.  And classmate, co-worker and friend.

Estimates are that 10% of our population is on anti-depressants.  And how many of the remaining 90% should be?  How many people on the subway could use meds to "take the edge off" but go untreated?

Our country has changed, and few (hopefully) would want us to go back to institutionalizing across the board.  We're certainly more open about mental health.

But mental health is hardly a political priority.  As budgets bleed, facilities close or lose staff.  

So many of us are teetering. 

We don't know much, if anything, about the shooter's parents or how he was raised. 

I keep coming back to shows like "Intervention" or "Celebrity Rehab."  Shows so predictable in many ways. 

An idyllic childhood.  Smiling pictures in a football uniform or princess dress.

Then a dark secret, and addiction gradually sets in.

Family and friends try for years to intercede.  Glimmers of hope.  Fleeting glimmers.  Helplessness.

If you haven't read Beautiful Boy by David Sheff I highly recommend it.  As a parent I found it both inspirational and terrifying. 

Godspeed to us all.