One down. One to go. Christmas is in the rearview mirror. New Year’s is around the corner. We suffered through a polar vortex with double-digit below-zero temperatures. The only good thing, weather-wise, was the predicted snowmageddon did not materialize.
Monday was downright balmy, with temperatures in the low 20s. By New Year’s, we will be back in the comfortable 40s or near 50s. Some will break the cargo shorts out. Winter is here with all the temperature and snow ups and downs.
I stopped going out on New Year’s Eve decades ago. It is the first amateur night of the year. All the amateur drinkers are out, getting beyond drunk, aggravating other patrons, puking their guts out, and driving drunk. No thank you, I will stay home or go to a house party close to my lair.
I worked many New Year’s Eves over the decades, and they were not pretty. Around 11:30, we would find a safe hiding place. The Chicago Police Department frowned on us bringing the cars in full of bullet holes. At midnight, there were so many gunshots, it sounded like the 4th of July in a war zone. We made dead pools. We would bet on what police district would have the first murder of the year. If we were lucky, we made an arrest before midnight. Then we spent a few hours of the New Year processing the arrestee. Worse were the drunken bar fights near closing times or the early morning drunken domestic disturbances, which had the propensity to turn violent.
Making New Year’s resolutions began in ancient times when people promised the gods they would live better lives. In the present eras, they range from sincere to ludicrous. People vow to lose weight, join gyms, live a healthier lifestyle, quit what they consider bad habits, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Some are ludicrous because people aim to promise the impossible.
I do not make resolutions. I only strive for two things. Strive being the operative word. One, I try to be a better person and citizen of the world. Two, I will keep learning new things. These are relatively easy, as they are the things I do regularly. Being a better person is the most difficult, as I am old, crabby, ugly, tired, mean, miserable, and ornery. You know, perfectly normal.
I am a lifelong learner. I try to learn something new every day. The more one knows, the better person one becomes. I try to associate with people who have more knowledge than me or are more skilled than I am. I look, listen, and ask questions. One thing I never ever do is seek perfection. Never ever is a long f**king time. There is no perfection in nature. Humans created perfection to enslave them in a maze they can never escape.
I added one other thing for the upcoming year. Since I am no longer a fan of that fake contact sport, football, I will learn as much about soccer- real futbol- as possible. Soccer is a contact sport, but the players do not wear helmets or padding all over their bodies. There is not one NFL player who would last fifteen minutes on a soccer pitch. Soccer players, on average, run approximately 12 miles per game.
Football players are Ken Doll sides of beef pretending to convince the gullible backwood peckerhead fans they are rough, tough, macho men. Professional wrestling is more legitimate than football. At least wrestlers pretend to be trying to kill each other.
I am fortunate. I know people from all walks of life with various talents and skills. Through conversation, asking questions, or observation, I learn from them. I try to improve on what they provide through practice or more research.
My motto for several years is, if you think you know everything, you are wrong.
According to weather reports, Chicago will have a White Christmas along with a polar vortex and snowpocalypse.. A combination of a blizzard and single-digit and sub-zero temperatures are supposed to strike between Thursday and Saturday. The 30-degree temps will supposedly come back by Tuesday.
Of course, the city will demand we shovel their sidewalks or face fines. If they want the sidewalks shoveled, they should have city employees do it. Their sidewalk, their problem. Maybe Mayor Lightfoot could get out there and shovel sidewalks to set an example for other city employees. She could press thousands of city employees into service, shoveling sidewalks or using snowblowers. They live in every neighborhood, so why should we risk heart-a-strokes to shovel CITY sidewalks? If the city wants them cleaned, they should do it. Hell, that is why we pay taxes for city services.
The plows will be out, pushing snow against already snowbound parked cars, making digging out twice as miserable.
Once the weather warms up by Monday or Tuesday, kids can make snow people out of whatever clean snow is left. We witness that pure white beauty turns into gray and black ugliness within a day or two. Then, thanks to the dog owners, there is the famous yellow snow. Do not forget that public safety is non-existent in Chicago. Some of the snow will be stained with the blood of the many shooting and murder victims.
Those who have lived here know winters can be brutal, and complaining about them is useless. We just put up with them as best we can. People get out the heavy artillery clothing and footwear. We suffer the high winds while waiting on overhead El platforms or the streets for buses that may or may not come.
Winter in Chicago can be weird. Back in the early 1980s, I went running on Christmas Day in shorts and a tee shirt. But, by January, we had one of the coldest winters on record, with high double digits below zero wind chill temperatures.
I remember the blizzard of 1978-79 and the arctic temperatures with more snow that followed. There were still several foot-high snow piles in April at vacant lots and parking lots, where trucks dumped the snow. I also remember shoveling snow several times a day during the 1967 blizzard.
Winter is always a big question mark in Chicago. Some are relatively mild, with a few arctic days and maybe one or two major snowstorms. Others are yo-yos, with fierce weather followed by mild, followed by fierce. You can wear a sport coat and sweater one day and dress like Nanook of the North the next.
Chicagoans are a hearty breed. We may complain, but we learned to live with the strange weather phenomena. Our wardrobes run the gamut from skimpy to arctic explorer, all at hand, just in case. The only downsides are the people who live here and forget how to drive when the roads are snowy or iced over. Things can turn into a bumper car demolition derby on those days.
When the weather gets severe, the heroes are out. The various emergency responders. The police, firefighters, EMTs, emergency utility workers, and others who brave the cold and snow to keep us safe, warm, and well-lit.
Stay warm, stay safe, and remember, the polar vortex only lasts a few days. Then, the balmy 30-degree temps will return.
This is my take on a poem Chicago musician Win Stracke recorded, whose title escapes me.
Santa was gearing up for his midnight run through Chicago on Christmas Eve. As the elves loaded the last packages and retired to raid the liquor cabinet, Santa kissed Mrs. Claus, gave her a hearty swat on the ass, and prepared to depart.
Out of the swirling snow, a long-haired, bearded, robed figure appeared. There was a golden aura surrounding him. It was Jesus Christ.
Jesus asked Santa if he could accompany him on his trip to Chicago. The big man in red knew that when the Son of God asks for something, the request should be considered a Commandment, willfully and cheerfully obeyed.
Italian style, St. Nick, put his hands. palms up, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Yeah. Sure.”
The sleigh’s flight path took them into Chicago over the lake from the Northwest.
The first stop was Uptown.
It was not a home but a homeless shelter. Jesus noted the men, women, and children, especially the children. There would be no sugarplums dancing in their heads this eve. By morning, they would wander and panhandle on the cold streets again. Santa left packages with toys, gloves, scarves, toiletries, and other items.
The next stop was the Gold Coast.
Lights twinkled along Michigan Avenue. The streets were festooned with decorations and lights. Santa and Jesus went from home to home, high rises, townhomes, and single-family mansions to drop off gifts. Christ noted the finery of the houses, the best money could buy. He noted an excess of every kind, the gluttony of riches.
They traveled into the city, circling the Loop.
The streets and stores were decorated to celebrate “The Holiday.” Jesus noted that too. Nowhere was Christmas to be found. Not even a sign proclaiming “Peace on Earth. Goodwill towards Men”. Nothing except something called “Holiday.”
Then Santa did something unusual.
He went underground. Not literally under the earth, but through the underground Wacker and Michigan Avenues. He knew every nook and cranny where homeless denizens of the underground slept. He left packages for them. These were people who gave up all hope except the will to live, at least another day.
Jesus took in the sight of people sleeping in cardboard boxes, wrapped in layers of clothing, with all their possessions stacked on the ground or loaded into shopping carts. He noticed the pungent odor of the unwashed. Santa saw a look of profound sadness on Christ’s face.
The sleigh then veered into the Loop. It alit atop City Hall.
Jesus noticed a peculiar smell, the perfume of graft and corruption. Santa delivered fat envelopes stuffed with cash to each alderman’s desk. He knew about pay-to-play, the Chicago Way. Santa wanted no trouble from city officials next year.
The next stop was Stroger Hospital, the county medical campus.
Where the poor seek treatment for their ills, and the seriously injured or wounded are brought for trauma care. Would be patients packed the waiting area for the emergency room to overflowing. In various states of illness and injury, men, women, and especially children were waiting patiently and not so patiently to be treated.
Sirens blared as ambulances delivered more charges. Triage personnel tried to sort out the most serious—the decision of who would get treated immediately and who would wait all night and into the next day.
In the Trauma Unit, heroic doctors and nurses battled to stabilize, patch up, or valiantly save the lives of people who were shot, stabbed, beaten, or victims of other violence and mayhem. Their movements were energetic, but their eyes relayed weariness. Santa left the staff presents in their break room.
The night was wearing on. There was still much work to do.
They flew through the Westside, the Lawndale neighborhood, where hope goes to die and dreams are stolen.
They entered the homes of the poor. Santa left parcels at each one, taking special care to arrange the children’s just right. Jesus noted the lack these people suffered. He saw children sleeping, sometimes two, three, or more, in a single bed. Stoves and ovens provided extra heat.
There was a racket coming through the walls of various buildings and homes, yelling and screaming. The noise of domestic disturbances and arguments by people whose desperation makes them so angry they lash out at the ones they love.
While flying to another block, Jesus noticed blue lights swirling through the snow.
Santa flew the sled lower. Jesus saw a police car parked in an alley, its doors open and blue Mars Lights twirling. Two burly cops were standing over the latest victim of murder and mayhem in Chicago. A teenager whose crimson blood was staining the pure white snow. His dead eyes were staring at the sky. The screams of an ambulance pierced the night air.
Off they flew until Jesus saw red blinking lights and a flurry of activity.
There was a huge orange glow lighting up the night sky. The smell of thick smoke was pungent. There were cold, huddled masses on the street watching firefighters try to put out a blaze and rescue the inhabitants of a large apartment building. Icicles hung from several firefighters’ helmets.
They entered the parts of the city where the working classes reside.
As they went house to house, Jesus noted piles of stuff filling every nook and cranny of the homes. Every child and adult toy or gadget imaginable. Santa lamented that easy credit and rampant consumerism were making his job harder and harder.
Then it was off to the south side.
As the sled approached the Englewood neighborhood, Santa started taking evasive action, zig-zagging. Jesus asked why. Santa replied that for the Son of God, he sure knew little. Santa patiently explained he was dodging bullets. Jesus just shook his head.
Santa delivered gifts, and, like in Lawndale, made sure the Children’s were placed just right.
When they hit the Southside neighborhood known as the “Hundreds,” Santa put the sleigh down.
He guided it through the streets, as it was worse than Englewood to fly through. Then, out of nowhere, an armed group surrounded the sleigh. They interrogated the fat man, ensuring he was not from an outside gang or drug operation poaching on their turf. Once assured he was harmless, they grabbed several packages and let him go on his merry way.
The sleigh detoured to the Southwest and Northwest sides, the outer neighborhoods.
Where city workers, cops, firefighters, EMTs, utility workers, and those with good jobs live.
As Santa made his deliveries, Jesus noticed some family members missing, the police, firefighters, and other emergency responders working on this night.
There was something else He noticed it in some of the other homes. It did not escape His attention during all the other stops. Photos. Pictures of men and women in various uniforms, Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen, from across the social, racial, and economic demographic spectrum deployed far from home serving their country.
After they landed back at the North Pole, Jesus noticed a single package left in the sleigh’s corner. He pointed it out to the fat man. Santa sighed, grabbed the package, and gave it to Him.
“This one is for you.”
Jesus opened the package. Inside was a can of WD-40, a roll of duct tape, a baseball bat, and a card with various vulgar, obscene words and phrases. He shot Santa a questioning look.
Santa kindly said, “This is my gift to you. Those are the four items Chicagoans use to fix everything. If one does not work, another will. You have a lot of fixing to do.”
Jesus walked off, shaking His head, disappearing into the swirl of Arctic snow.
If you watched the World Cup finals, Argentina vs. France, you saw real athletes playing at the very pinnacle of their game. The game was an exciting nail biter through over 120 minutes of regular play, added minutes, plus two 15 minute overtimes and a penalty shootout because of a tie. Argentina broke the tie during the penalty shootout, winning the cup. France has nothing to be ashamed of. They came from a 2-point deficit to tie and hold on until the very end.
I you watched the Bears yesterday you wasted your time on fake athletes. The McCaskey Ken Dolls lost again. Oh, everyone hyped Justin Fields and his useless stats. Rah, rah, rah, he ran this much, he threw that much. A word to the idiots in sports media, Field’s stats and records are irrelevant and meaningless if the TEAM does not win. Winning is not only everything, It is the only thing. The only thing that counts.
Winning is something the owners, sports media, and the slobbering drooling fans do not care about. They have their one-man god, Justin Fields. He, who does not walk on water because doesn’t want to get his shoes wet.
The Philadelphia Eagles played as a TEAM. It appears they have a SYSTEM. They worked their SYSTEM. They won. The McCaskey Ken Dolls lost. At 3-11, they have the worst record in the NFL this year. But you won’t hear the sports media or the front office say that. To them, losing is success. You know, those useless numbers for the supposed record books.
Today and tomorrow, the Chicago fanboy sports media will gush over how well Fields played. How great he is. They will sing hymns of praise about him. They will write odes to different stats he racked up and his prowess while downplaying the TEAM’s loss.
Coach Matt Eberflus will act like he won too. He will talk about how well his team played and executed plays while glossing over the loss as immaterial. It is how well they played, not winning, that counts to him, the McCaskeys, and the news media fanboys and fangirls.
The McCaskey Bears organization are practitioners of the Chicago Way. “Problem? We don’t got no stinking problem. There are no problems. Everything is going as planned. Wait till next year. We are building. The project is going as planned. Wait, you will see.” They say that every year. Year after year after year. Quarterback after quarterback after quarterback.
Eberflus and his bosses, the McCaskeys, owe the fans a giant a$$ kissing apology for fielding such a horrible team this year. That will never happen. It appears this is all part of their plan. As long as the fan’s a$$es are in the seats, watching television, and buying tons of merchandise, they do not care about winning. The McCaskeys are laughing all the way to the bank. The kachingo$ are all they care about, and they are raking them in big time. They proved you do not have to be a winning team to be a successful. enterprise You just have to own a team and watch those dollars roll in.
When are the sports media and dullard fans going to stop smoking the hopium, wake up, and realize the Bears organization has been shoveling bear scat at them all these years?
When are they going to realize they have been getting ripped off by charlatans and frauds? The NFL is as fake as pro wrestling. The only thing that is real is the money, and it is the only thing the owners care about. Football is a money sport, not an athletic one.
There is no hope for the sports media in Chicago. They are nothing more than cheerleaders. Maybe they are part of the Chicago Way too, the corrupt upside-down system, where wrong is right, right is wrong. Lies are truth, and truths are lies.
When are the fans going to decide enough is enough, abandon the Bears, and become, oh, I don’t know, soccer fans?
You better watch out You better not cry You better not pout I’m telling you why Santa Lightfoot is coming to town
You’ve heard about the mall Santa? Welcome to the Hall Santa! Yes Chicago, Santa is real. She lives on the Fifth Floor of City Hall. She and her elves on the shelves in the City Council delivered Christmas gifts early this year.
Gift number one out of her sack of goodies? Funding to extend the CTA Red Line to the far Southside of the city. This project, years in the making, is sorely needed, and finally came to fruition with sleight-of-hand tax increment funding, crafted and approved by her elves in the City Council toy shop.
Gift number two from her sack? Santa Lightfoot and her City Council elves finalized bringing a casino along with a temporary casino to the city. The mayor is taking victory laps with her dutiful reindeer, the Chicago news media, who carry her to deliver gifts. All this just in time for the election cycle she hopes will return her to City Hall for a second term.
Look, a shiny new casino and a new El extension! Hallelujah! All Lightfoot needs is a red suit trimmed in white faux fur, boots, and a pointed hat to remind people of her Christmas largesse. Her elves on the shelves, the alderpersons, should dress in green Christmas elfish fashion, while working in Lightfoot’s toy factory.
We are supposed to be oh-so grateful for Santa Lightfoot bringing gifts just in time to crank up her reelection campaign. She will hype these gifts through April, when the election is held. Instead of cookies and milk, Santa Lightfoot’s true believers, those who will profit from these gifts, will leave cold hard campaign cash on Christmas Eve.
Both gifts, coming back-to-back, were wrapped in pretty paper with fancy ribbons. The news reindeer delivered positive hype and love. These gifts will promote Lightfoot’s greatness while ignoring her failures. Public safety? Murder and mayhem? Armed robbery crews? Car jackings? Fuhgeddaboudit.
Another major story out of the City Pole? A Christmas contest to name the snowplows. Yep. You not only get an El extension and Casino under the tree, you get a chance to name a snowplow. Jolly Olde St. Lightfoot is bringing oh so much joy to Chicago. Grief, mourning, and fears of being victimized? Those are not the tale of Christmas. The tale, the only tale, is the largesse of Santa Lightfoot.
Lightfoot, like her predecessors, celebrates bread and circuses. She buries her failures, aided, and abetted by her partners in crime, the Chicago news media and their editorial boards. The media are willfully blind to City Hall’s and Superintendent David Brown’s failures in public safety. Like baby birds, the media eats the supposed data regurgitated daily by City Hall or they cut-and-paste City Hall press releases.
The only sites to find accurate crime news is CWBChicago. For accurate data and data analysis, there is HeyJackass.
People in the neighborhoods and some alderpersons are complaining about the lack of public safety and police shortages in the districts. The complaints fall on deaf ears. It is all buried under crappy, filthy snow piles.
Christmas is nine days away. What other shiny baubles will Santa Lightfoot deliver from her toy shop in City Hall?
Bang bang bang, bang bang bang It’s Christmas time in the city Bang bang bang hear them shoot Soon it will be Christmas day
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks Dressed in holiday style In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas Children dying, people wounded Meeting scream after scream And on every street corner you hear bang bang bang, bang bang, bang It’s Christmas time in the city Hear them shoot Hear the screams Soon it will be Christmas day
Strings of street lights, even stoplights Blinkin’ bright red and green As the shoppers get robbed of their treasures Hear the gun shots, see the kids die This is the robbers big day And above all this bustle you hear
Bang bang bang Bang bang bang It’s Christmas time in the city
Bang bang bang, it fills the winter air Hear them shoot, you hear it everywhere Soon it will be Christmas day
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks Dressed in holiday style In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas Children dying, people screaming Seeing wounds and murder Very soon it will be Christmas day
His name was Joseph Kromelis. Mr. Kromelis is known as the “Walking Man” or “Walking Dude.” He was a regular presence for forty years, walking and peddling around downtown and North Michigan Avenue. Mr. Kromelis was recognizable by his shoulder-length gray hair, prominent mustache, and clothing. Except on the hottest days, he wore a sport coat or overcoat. Sometimes he added a boutonniere.
Mr. Kromelis never bothered people. He was not a panhandler. He rarely talked to people. Once, someone asked him about his meanderings. He merely said he liked to walk.
Chicagoans knew little about Mr. Kromelis until he suffered a beating in 2016 and made the news. He made the news again in May of this year. While sleeping in the Underground Wabash near Trump Tower, a man doused a flammable liquid on him and lit him on fire. Security guards extinguished the fire and called the police.
Mr. Kromelis was not expected to survive. He suffered burns between 50-65% of his body. He survived and after being released from the hospital, they sent him to an assisted living and rehabilitation facility. Joseph Guardia was charged with attempted murder and arson.
Chicago, like any major city, has and had its share of colorful or oddball characters. Occasionally they made the news or the obits. No one knows what caused their idiosyncrasies. No one knows why Joseph Kromelis, “The Walking Man,” spent his years daily walking around, other than he liked to walk. Chicago knew Mr. Kromelis because of his constant presence, yet we knew little about him. Not who he was, but why he was.
“Christmas Day will always be just as long as we have we.” (Narrator, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas)
I get nostalgic as Christmas approaches. I remember the Christmases past. My folks, dedicated foodies, prepared days ahead for the feasts on Christmas Eve and Day. I would accompany my dad on sometimes citywide excursions to buy the various food items needed.
I remember the look of pure joy on my parents’ faces as they prepared the feasts. On the two days, buffet tables groaned with enough food to feed an army. The relatives came over and the feasts began. On Christmas Eve, there were trays of clams and oysters, calamari, and cod poached in water and olive oil with garlic.
On Christmas day, a roast or ham, turkey, dressing, salads, lasagna, and other side dishes. After the meal, there was a tray of fruit, fennel, and nuts. Dessert and coffee were served later.
Over the years, I prepared feasts, or we went to others’ homes where a feast was held. During the past few years, we simplified our holiday dinners. We get the best ingredients we can afford, prep and cook. The cooking takes way less time, as there are not as many people taking part. I take the same care and feel the same joy my parents felt all those years ago. I will make gravlax again like I do every year. Christmas Day will be a small roast with some sides. Maybe roasted vegetables and some kind of potato dish.
I no longer decorate for the holidays, except for the Santa doll, plate, a bottle of Bourbon, and a two-pound package of bacon. Screw those little crumb-crunching, nose mining spawns of Satan and their oh so precious parents with their cookies and hot chocolate. I am never disappointed on Christmas day. I made my yearly donations to charity. Just one this year, but one well worth it for what I get in return.
Next week I will start listening to Christmas music from many genres, including punk and metal, to get into the supposed festive joy of the season. My shopping is done, except for the gift I buy for myself every year. All I must shop for is the food.
I worked many Christmases, Eves, and Days as a Chicago police officer. A local restaurant would send pans of turkeys, hams, sides, and dessert to the station. We would come in shifts to eat. The owner was kind enough to feed us every year. I will never forget their generosity or the camaraderie of sharing a meal.
Aside from the religious significance and various traditions, Christmas is about “We.” It is about sharing gifts and meals with family, friends, or co-workers if they must work on that day. People need the “We” in this world, even if it is just one day a year.
As Christmas nears, I think about how fortunate I am. I have a family. I have friends and acquaintances from all walks of life. They are my “We,” and I am grateful to have them in my life.
Buckminster Fuller said it best. “Man was not meant to be alone.”
Gardiner is once again under investigation for his thuggery. Gardiner is accused of harassing volunteers seeking petition signatures for his opponent, Marina Tomic. A Ring camera caught part of the altercation.
One canvasser accused Gardiner of threatening to punch them. Gardiner thinks he is a tough guy, a thug, a brawler, and above the law. He believes intimidation is the way to make friends and influence people ala the Chicago Outfit. In reality, Gardiner is a two-bit cowardly punk. Only punk cowards make threats they cannot or will not deliver.
In the video, Gardiner states, “Run a clean election.” His interference in the canvassing shows his hypocrisy. By harassing canvassers, he is running a dirty campaign, the Chicago Way campaign. What next? Will he hire armed goons to make sure people vote for him? Will he recreate the Pineapple Campaign of the 1920s? Will he send his precinct worker toughs out to intimidate voters? Will he hire gang members, like other alderpersons have done to menace voters?
Gardiner is a disgrace to the City Council and the City of Chicago. He has no business being an alderman. He defeated a thug, and he turned into a thug. Maybe he was a thug all along.
His predecessor, John Arena, was no better. He, too, was a thug. It appears that a few aldercritters are acting no better than gangbangers. They use intimidation to fight opponents. Gardiner, with his past actions under investigation, is a proven lager lout. He is also a charlatan and a fraud. He proves it every day he holds office.
The 45th Ward deserves an alderman who will represent the community, listen to critics, and respect the electoral process. That person is not Jim Gardiner. The only reason he is an aldercritter is because it pays more than being a firefighter, which was his career before becoming an elected thug. He could not care less about public service or his constituents.
Gardiner believes he can ride roughshod over the people in his ward. He believes he can do whatever he wants. Hopefully, the Feds will have enough to nail him before the election and take him out.
Chicago had its share of thug politicians in the past. Many thought that sordid past was long gone. That past reared its head in Aldercritter Jim Gardiner. He is living the thug life large and enjoying every minute. So, when does the drill rap video drop?
“Maybe. Perhaps.” Is the repeated theme of the piece. While a rebuke, it is not a total rebuke, but it is better than their slobbering sports writers’ past adoring opinions turning the Ken Dolls losses into wins and treating QB Justin Fields like the one and only god to be worshipped.
After eight straight losses, it is about time the Tribune allowed honest, objective reporting on the Ken Dolls versus obedient adoration. Listening to Matt Eberflus, the coach, one would think the Dolls are heading into the postseason versus into obscurity.
Another report claimed that the most sold Ken Doll jersey is Number 1, Justin Fields. By season’s end, those jerseys will fill Goodwill bins, selling for a couple of dollars. But the McCaskeys are happy. They made big bucks off the quarterback they are ruining. Big bucks are all they care about. Winning not so much.
Mayor Lori Lightfoot is in full campaign mode. She is touting her continual string of failures as successes. Lightfoot is claiming promises made during her last campaign are promises kept instead of every promise being broken.
The Chicago news media is gleefully echoing and cheering for her in their reportage. No editorials are calling her out for her dishonesty. No criticism that Lightfoot broke every promise she made when running for her first term. She had to return a large campaign contribution because of an ethics violation and may have to return another large contribution for the same reason. Yet, it is reported as a minor blip, an oversight.
The Eleventh Commandment is, “Thou shalt not get caught.” The Thirteenth Commandment is, “Thou shalt not talk.” I wonder if there is a Fourteenth Commandment, “Thou shalt not bear harsh witness of the Chicago’s mayor, City Council, and Chicago Sports teams.”
Chicago is known as the city of scoundrels. We can add the Chicago news media to the scoundrel list for joyfully and willingly ignoring failures in local political and sports reportage while hyping them as successes.