Blago's A Bore, And Certainly No "Boss"

In the end, Rod Blagoevich was a lousy politician and a dumb, inept crook. 

"The harm is the erosion of public trust in government."

Those were Judge James Zagel's words to the former Illinois Governor as he handed down a sentence of 14 years, one of the stiffest ever for corruption by a public official. 

Zagel's words were a rebuke to the defense team's notion that even if "Blago" is guilty there was no harm since he never profited from his crimes.

Think about that.

Rod Blagoevich will be 67 years old when he gets out of the federal pen, convicted on 18 counts of corruption including failed attempts to shake down Chicago's Children's Memorial Hospital and "sell"  Barack Obama's vacant Senate seat for $1.5 million, a seat Blago infamously described on a Fed wire tap as "f*cking golden."

But Blago never profited from his schemes.  He couldn't get them off the ground any more than a turkey racing down a runway. 

You could say it was a fall from grace if the guy wasn't on the take from the day he took office.  One has the sense that Blago schemed to get more Doritos in grade school. 

But in the end, he couldn't seal the deal. 

Blago's saga reminds me of the Woody Allen film "Small Time Crooks," where Allen plays a bumbling burglar determined to burrow underneath a bank building in order to rob it. With the help of Tracey Ullman, he sets up a "cover" business where Ullman bakes cookies in order to distract from the jackhammers and digging.

Problem is the cookies are a huge hit with every cop in New York.

Think of Blago as a Slavic Woody Allen.

As a politician, he's no Tom Kane. 

Tom Kane is the fictitious Chicago mayor played by Kelsey Grammer in the new TV series "Boss." 

Grammer is great in the role of machine emperor, a suspendered, fire breathing dragon in a show often over the top.  In the first episode, Mayor Kane manages to drag an alderman around his office by his ear (literally) and have one of his henchman drug a doctor who may have leaked information about Hizzoner to the media. 

In future episodes I can see him throwing a union leader down the stairs and sucker punching a boy scout.

Blago is no Boss.  On tape, he's a foul mouthed brat, but hardly intimidating.  In person he dresses the part in fancy suits, hollow ones at that.  I picture those on the receiving end of his rants trying hard not to laugh.

I certainly can't picture him dragging a state legislator across the floor.

Or a fellow inmate.

Beaten With A Drumstick...My Thanksgiving With the Republican Wannabes

Thanksgiving 2011 was like no other, as the entire Republican presidential field came to our home for turkey and fixins. 

How were we so lucky?

Amazingly, we were chosen via robo call to host the live event for Donald Trump's new Internet channel, EGOTV.

Here's how the day went:

10:00 am - The candidates arrive in their custom made buses, creating quite a traffic jam in the driveway.  My wife and I greet them along with our children.  The kids love Rick Perry's bus, which includes a flat bed and gun rack, complete with a turkey hunted down with his bare hands a few hours earlier. 

10:30 am - "Turkey Bowl" football game.  The highlights: 

Newt Gingrich insists on being game historian, making rules such as "Go deep, go out," or "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi"  sound like a dissertation on molecular physics.

Mitt Romney plays quarterback for both teams, naturally.

The game is tied going into the final minute when Romney completes a pass to Herman Cain, who bowls over Jon Huntsman and Michelle Bachman, then races towards the goal line with Ron Paul latched onto his right leg. With ten yards to go, Perry (who found it hard to run in cowboy boots) manages to lasso Cain from the sideline, bringing him down head first with a thud.

As everyone rushes to Cain's aide, he sits up, dazed, and explains that there is, "All this stuff twirlin' around in my head."

12:00 noon - The candidates watch football and wait for dinner.  Perry cheers for his Cowboys, while Romney can't decide who to root for when he isn't nervously changing channels.   Cain, still dazed, tries to remember where he has seen Huntsman and Rick Santorum before. 

3:00 pm - Dinner. 

At the dining room table sits my wife and I, along with Romney, Gingrich, Perry and Cain.

In the next room, at the kids table, my children sit with Bachman, Paul, Huntsman and Santorum.

Gingrich leads a prayer which goes on for over an hour, after which he announces a new book on Thanksgiving (written while everyone else was watching football), available on Amazon for $24.95.

Discussion centers around who can be the most conservative, with several ideas bandied around including:

- Privatizing Social Security, with funds invested in a nationwide chain of drive thru gun shops (Perry)

- Putting God on the $20 bill in place of Andrew Jackson (Santorum)

- Converting Head Start into a vocational job training program (Gingrich)

Things get heated over taxes as Paul begins jumping on his table while Bachman shoots peas at the other candidates.

At one point Cain says, "I am against government aid to pilgrims for the following reasons...LINE!!"

6:00 pm - Departure.

The candidates begin to leave.  Perry says to my wife, "Boy, there were three great things about today, the food, the company and......let me get back to you."

Plenty of pleasantries to go around. 

And who gets the leftovers?  We do, the voters.

Too Many Cooks in The Presidential Kitchen

It's official.  I have "debate fatigue" before primary season even starts. 

It seems there is a Republican presidential debate on every night, or at least as often as "Law and Order." 

I love a good debate, and God bless 'em for having so many of them.  They have provided plenty of good moments and, indeed, some comic relief. 

But every time I watch and scan the stage I can't help but think of the old Bill Murray routine on Saturday Night Live, the one where he would give his Academy Award picks for Best Picture, Best Actor and Best Actress, ignoring the Supporting Actor and Actress nominees because "who really cares about these anyway."

Here's the link:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/270902/saturday-night-live-bill-murray

At some point soon, if they don't drop out on their own, someone from the RNC needs to step in and prod "Supporting Actors" Ron Paul, Michelle Bachman, Jon Huntsman, Rick Santorum et al. to exit for the good of the party. 

I suspect the number of candidates will dwindle anyway, drastically, after the New Hampshire primary.  Until then, voters are stuck with a diluted message delivered by candidates shouting into the wind.

Joe Paterno Must Go

Joe Paterno, the legendary Penn State University football coach, the winningest coach in the history of college football, is all but gone for his role in an explosive abuse scandal involving one of his former coaches. 

Jerry Sandusky, who served as an assistant coach under Joe Paterno for over two decades, was indicted this week, charged with sexually assaulting over 40 young boys dating back to 1994.   Sandusky, who suddenly retired in 1999, continued to office at Penn State while running a not for profit called The Second Mile, which benefited at risk youth. 

And, prosecutors say, he continued to molest young boys. 

In 2002, Mike McQueary, a graduate assistant to Joe Paterno, allegedly witnessed Sandusky raping a boy in the football locker room showers.  The assistant told his father about the incident immediately, then Paterno the next day. 

Paterno then reported the incident to his boss, Athletic Director Tim Curley, who resigned earlier this week.  

The consequence for Sandusky?  No legal action, no police intervention.  He lost his locker room keys. 

I am sickened on two levels.

First, how does McQueary witness a rape and not intervene?  How does he fail to call the police himself?

When McQueary tells his father, how does the father not call police? 

And when McQueary tells Paterno, how does Paterno not inform the police? 

Life in Happy Valley won't be the same for a long, long time.  Not for the victims, for Sandusky, for the administrators, for Paterno. 
 
If the allegations are true, then at a minimum Joe Paterno looked the other way while a predator on his staff raped children as young as ten. 

I am especially sickened, as a Catholic, with the parallels between the Penn State abuse story and the Catholic priest abuse stories.  

In both cases, given the opportunity to protect our children, those in charge looked the other way.

Maybe it's pure coincidence that Sandusky's arrest comes weeks after Paterno won his 409th game, making him the winningest coach in the history of college football. 

In the end, Joe Paterno will be remembered as a man who lacked courage, who failed to protect children from a monster.  A man who appeared to stand for so much, a "molder of men," in the end stands for nothing.  Except winning games. 

Legally, Paterno is in the clear.  Morally, he's on an island.

It's time to go, Joe.  Now please. 

Pre-Occupation With Wall Street

I have watched and read quite a bit about the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, which began in New York and has since spread to a number of other locales. 

While some demonstrations number in the thousands, other groups would be challenged to occupy an elevator. 

As much as I try, it's hard for me to grasp the message of the Occupy movement.  Rich people bad, everyone else good?  Wealth should be re-distributed?  Corporate "fat cats" need to be held accountable?  Basic cable and 4G for all?

I understand the frustration, even anger, which is real, and palpable. 

For the most part, Occupy protesters are upset that so much is in the hands of so few.  The so-called "1%" control most of our nation's wealth while the other 99% feel like they're looking in with lips pressed against a real life snow globe.

A CBS/New York Times poll shows that 42% of Americans majority agree with the views of the occupy movement.  But what are the views?

As much as I love a good poll, this one reminds me of when Congress sends out "constituent surveys" with loaded questions like, "Should your tax dollars be used to build nuclear bombs instead of providing food and shelter to innocent, defenseless puppies?"
 
The Occupy movement is real, but the agenda, and sustainability, are unclear.

Some have tried to equate Occupy with the Tea Party.  But the Tea Party, from the beginning, was a movement with a political agenda. 
 
Say what you like about Tea Partiers, but they came, they saw, they conquered.  They altered the  landscape in 2010 by setting an agenda and running candidates for Congress.  Loud ones. 

So far the Occupiers operate outside the political realm.  In fact, I saw Democratic Congressman Barney Frank pleading with protesters the other night to not cast aside the political process, even though most politicians have avoided Occupy like Donald Trump avoids the subway.

Perhaps the real "threat" or lasting impact of the Occupy movement is that the ranks of disenfranchised voters will grow, affecting future election turnout and leadership.  

I hope not.  Free speech is a precious right, and a responsibility. 

What's your take on the Occupy movement?  I would enjoy hearing from you.

He Had Me At Hello

I found myself watching David Letterman the other night, which is rare.  I can count on one foot the number of times I have watched Letterman through the years. 

Former President Bill Clinton was the guest and I was struck by two things:

1)  Clinton looks great.  In fact, sans the gray hair he looks better than he did twenty years ago.

2)  I love listening to a politician freed from politics, able to speak their mind without a the proverbial cup in hand. 

There weren't any great revelations but Clinton was in his element, relaxed and ever eloquent. 

I have read commentary lately about President Obama's disdain for "retail politics," the daily, one-on-one, behind the scenes aspect of public office. 

Obama, the theory goes, is more comfortable in front of large audiences than in smaller settings.  He's not particularly interested in working the phones and cashing in chits with members of Congress.  One writer speculated that Obama likes humanity, but not human beings.  

It's certainly debatable to what extent backslapping skills are necessary for a Commander in Chief.   And connecting with Congress today must feel like knocking on a steel door.  Once "inside," even infomercial king Billy Mays would probably wind up kicked in the teeth like Willy Loman.  

President Bill Clinton was a master glad hander, the most effective in my lifetime.  

Watching Clinton on Letterman, I felt the power of a man who simultaneously compelled two individuals (Letterman and I) along with an audience.  He had me hooked for days after.  Ask my wife, who is convinced I have a man crush.

Many years ago I had a client, a staunch conservative who had the opportunity to meet then candidate for president Clinton.  "I don't agree with Bill Clinton about anything," he said, "but believe me, when he shook my hand and looked me in the eye, I was the only person in the room."

That I believe.  I doubt Bill Clinton ever leaves a room without trying to connect with everyone.  His Rolodex could power a river boat. 

The most effective politicians master the public and personal; salesmanship and empathy.  Despite his personal failings, Bill Clinton was effective working a room and getting legislation passed. 

The man is persuasive.  Heck, he got me to sit through an hour of late night T.V.

Sweetness...Timeless

Author Jeff Pearlman's new Walter Payton biography, "Sweetness," has some unflattering details about the Chicago Bears Hall of Fame running back.  In the book, Pearlman alleges that Payton had affairs, battled depression and abused pain killers.

I have not read "Sweetness," though I did read the Sports Illustrated excerpt containing the allegations, which I found interesting but hardly surprising.  Most Chicagoans have heard rumors of Payton's infidelity through the years, while pain killers and depression were ooh so common for players active in the 1970's. 

In fact, the "broken down jock" narrative would make a good county music song:  Legendary player (insert name) struggles with life after (insert sport), finances and marriage fall apart while depression and addictions intensify. 

Jeff Pearlman insists his book is a balanced look at an enigmatic man, a "definitive" biography, in his words. 

We could debate what, if anything, is out of bounds when writing about a public figure, and to what extent they should be "outed" for their shortcomings.   A good biography paints a complete picture, which often isn't pretty. 

For the record, I am as objective here as a life insurance salesman in a maternity ward.  Walter Payton was my childhood hero and the greatest football player I have ever seen. 

I was in 4th grade in 1977 when Payton rushed for an NFL record 275 yards against the Minnesota Vikings.  I remember the game, and I remember proudly wearing my Walter Payton "iron-on" from the local sports page a few days later.  And every day until the t-shirt fell off my back. 

Walter Payton was Zeus in shoulder pads.  So quick, so strong, so tough.  With legs churning like pistons, he never stopped moving, redefining the football term "forward progress."

I never saw Sweetness take an initial hit.  Payton rarely "got hit."  He always delivered the blow, with a stiff arm I'm sure felt like being struck by an AMC Pacer. 

Walter Payton played on some lousy teams, in a city of lousy teams.  He was our collective hope back when Chicago was home to more dog teams than the Yukon. 

Here's my Payton story:

My grade school was a block from Northwestern's Dyche Stadium, and in those days when the field was bad at Lake Forest College (yes kids, there was a time before practice domes and heated surfaces) the Bears bused to Evanston for practice on NU's artificial concrete, I mean turf.  My buds and I made the trip hoping for a sweatband, arm pad or autograph.  

One time I waited outside in the snow after practice, pen and paper in hand, when Walter Payton emerged from the locker room in his game uniform. 

A camera crew from Sports Illustrated was there to take Payton's picture for a cover story on the Bears.  I watched him approach the crew and insist that he wouldn't appear in any shot without his offensive line. 

As the crew and flunkies haggled over the photo spread, a line began to form as a Bears official herded us kids for autographs.  Inexplicably, I ended up in the back (should have thrown a stiff arm or two).  Payton walked up to the line, looked at the first kid and bellowed, "I'm starting at the back." 

I still have the runny, worn signature, and a glimpse into Walter Payton, the man. 

Sadly, we will never know whether Payton suffered from CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), the progressive brain damage which strikes so many players, including his Super Bowl teammate Dave Duerson, who committed suicide earlier this year. 

Sweetness was gone too soon, but his legacy is timeless. 

Despite Jeff Pearlman's salacious morsels, Walter Payton will never be "semi-sweet."