Singing the Song of Illinois

As I raise the shades on my bedroom windows and behold the leaden grey sky and newly fallen snow that coats my backyard, it strikes me that I have been looking at Illinois all wrong.

I promptly discard the notion of a t-shirt which reads 'You don't have to be a masochist to live in Illinois—but it helps' and instead, consider the state where I have spent the majority of my life in a new light.

It's not a place of maddening congestion, sodomic property taxes and bottomless political corruption. Or even endless expanses of really crappy weather. 

It is a place of abundance. I just didn't see it.

For example, the community in which I live isn't a far-flung backwater removed from all that I want to see and do. Instead, it provides an invigorating navigational challenge as well as ensuring my car gets a proper workout every time I take it out.

As with our bodies, the maxim of 'use it or lose it' also applies to automobiles.

The network of two-lane roads I must use to get everywhere aren't clotted with traffic signals every half-mile. No, they are festooned with yellow-stemmed road blossoms which provide me with opportunities to ruminate and even meditate at strategically-placed intervals.

Thusly, I arrive at my destination newly-refreshed despite the elongated travel times.

Similarly, the roads I travel aren't choked with inattentive or squeamish drivers unwilling or unable to travel at the posted speed limit. Like the aforementioned road blossoms, these drivers present multiple opportunities for contemplation as I creep along at roughly two-thirds of the allowable speed.

What's the old expression? Slow down and smell the roses?

The fragrant, pre-climate change springs I recall haven't disappeared, only to be replaced by the meteorological equivalent of bonus months of winter. No. This climate-based algorithm is actually driving down the pro-rated cost of my winter apparel!

I mean, that awesome puffer coat I just had to have last October is getting cheaper by the month when I'm wearing it well into April, right?

Which is a good thing, because in this year of record-high natural gas costs, the weather has thoughtfully dovetailed with that dynamic and required my furnace to remain in service well beyond the established norms.

And that's okay, because my expense-adjusted wage will automatically compensate for it. Wait. It won't. Shit. 

And let us not forget that while it doesn't remove the risk entirely, it is a fact that interminable stretches of cloudy days lower one's chances of melanoma.

Finally, I endeavor to ignore the fact that the annual property tax I pay on my exceedingly modest (it blushes when I roll up the shades) Illinois abode would translate to a four-thousand square-foot opus in my locale of choice.

The new me directs his thinking to the schoolchildren my local taxing body insists are the beneficiaries of this theft and how they no doubt embrace it as they ignore their teachers and concentrate instead on their social media accounts, the coming weekend's hook-up and/or the multifaceted outrage that is life without the latest generation smartphone.

Sigh.

Like the header says, 'Tart. Cheeky. And definitely not for everyone.'

Don't say you weren't warned. : )

Stuck in the Middle With...me?

I had no idea the block-programming I encountered via my cable provider would one day double as a weather model. If I had, I might not have fired them. Alas, AT&T bills escalate like Illinois property taxes, putting the kabosh on that teachable moment.

But even minus the ongoing example their lesson remains.

Last winter gave all appearances of being a mild affair, with precious little of the white stuff falling through the twenty-fourth of January. In my naivete I even began to entertain thoughts of green grass and soft breezes. Leaves on trees. Songbirds.

But the same block-programming which had gifted me with days full of That '70s Show and Wicked Tuna and the always-delightful Housewives franchise asserted itself in a new arena—weather. The one-flavor-at-a-time aesthetic was about to deliver a punishing new blow.

It snowed. Then it snowed some more. And then it snowed still-more. A forty-three year-old record for consecutive days of measurable snowfall nearly fell as well, but was merely tied. Long story short, we received a winter's worth of snow in a single month.

The concentration was unprecedented.

Then spring arrived. And for the first time since 2017, May didn't generate record amounts of rain. But relief is discouraged in Illinois, and by June my portion of the state was immersed in a drought.

Beige grass, trees stressed and shedding leaves—the whole deal.

But last Wednesday it finally rained. Then it rained on Thursday. And on Friday. Saturday. Monday. Tuesday. And is forecast for today as well. (Though appropriately gloomy, Sunday was somehow exempted.)

It seems even the Cubs, in a fresh take on the eternal nature or nurture question, have adopted the dynamic.

They sucked in April, setting franchise records for hitting futility. And when you consider the team began play in 1876 in the so-called “deadball” era, well, it appeared the deadball era wasn't quite as dead as we thought.

They got their groove on in May, going 19 and 8 and outscored the opposition 131 to 85—a margin of nearly two runs a game. Oh my god! These guys are the 1939 Yankees reincarnated!

Ugh-huh. Sure.

June has seen a return to April's form (if their play can even be dignified by such a term), as they have gone 12 and 15 and averaged a meager 3.3 runs per game, which is even worse than April's showing.

It has grown exponentially worse since the fourteenth. From that point, the Cubs have terrorized Major League Baseball, winning 4 of their last 15 and crossing home plate 28 times in those 15 games. (If you're as mathematically-gifted as I, you'll notice that isn't even two runs a game.)

It is wearying. Sorry, Mr. Hoyer.

Stir in lingering pandemic fatigue, inflation, shortages, random and widespread gun violence and our simmering political and societal divides and life feels pretty damn weird. Out of control. Like a frozen pizza that goes from undercooked to burnt in milliseconds. 

What the _____? Are extremes the new normal?

It must now be asked: Could the neurological condition known as bi-polar actually be a lifestyle?

The Fair Tax Proposition

Here in Illinois, our governor is desperately seeking to stem the flow of red ink on state ledgers. One idea is to change the methodology used to compute our income taxes.

Illinois is one of just nine states to use what is called a flat tax. Under a flat tax, everyone pays the same percentage of their income to the state. So whether you're a struggling waitress who brought home eighteen-thousand or a professional athlete who made eighteen-million, each of you will forfeit 4.95% of your income to the state in income tax.

Governor Pritzker has proposed a 'fair tax'—an income tax with a sliding, income-based scale similar to that used by the federal government.

Predictably, Republicants loathe the idea on principle alone. But their attacks haven't ended there. As is their wont, oceans of misinformation are being distributed via any media capable of doing so.

And it's hardly a surprise that fear is weapon number-one. One hysterical ad alleges Pritzker's proposal will give Democrats new powers to levy taxes, even though the state legislature—composed of both Democrats and Republicants—already has that power.

I wonder if the Trump zombies even realize this. Probably not.

Furthermore, I'm wondering how many takes it took for the guy doing the voice-over to get through the script without soiling himself. I mean, he sounds profoundly and deeply perturbed.

Get some shut-eye, big guy!

Even more interesting than the fear-laden lies being disseminated over the airwaves is who is paying for them.

And guess what? It's the guys with the most to lose. The same guys Sir Lies-A-Lot gifted with a trillion-dollar tax break under the (cough) Tax Cuts and Jobs Act back in 2017. And not only did those guys get a big break on their personal taxes, but their businesses did as well.

Crazy Don not only sucked, he swallowed, too.

Ah. But I digress.

So after receiving this mountain of largesse, it must be a terrible shock to see one's tax bill threatening to swell rather than shrink. Don't we know who you are?

Illinois' most-prominent billionaire is a venture-fund capitalist by the name of Ken Griffin. He buys eight-figure penthouse properties like you and I do tube socks at Target. Which is another way to say yeah, he's loaded.

And to preserve that condition, Griffin is fighting tooth and nail against Pritzker's proposal. He'll tell you anything. Just don't let that proposal pass!

Now, if the fair tax proposal weren't aimed (as Pritzker claims) at the one-percent, why is Griffin pouring fifty-five million dollars of his own money into an effort to stop this thing?

Is he worried about our taxes? Nah. The folk who have essentially bought our government and steered a bevy of billionaire-friendly legislation through it have shown repeatedly they aren't terribly concerned about us. We're just profit-sucking rabble.

Nope. They're worried about staying rich and powerful. And getting richer. And more-powerful.

While I see the truth in Griffin's frenzied spending, I'm betting Illinois Republicants only see the threat of a tax increase and go into the same kind of lockstep stupor they do when they hear the words 'gun control' and will vote en masse to derail this.

Even if the only people affected are people far wealthier than themselves.

And battered, tax-fatigued Democrats may well do the same.

Out of all of this comes a strange and somewhat sickening realization. In our unthinking and knee-jerk distrust of politicians we unwittingly caress the hand crushing our larynx.

When you vote 'no' on the Fair Tax proposition, don't forget to raise a fist and shout “Save the billionaires!”

Truth.

After Growing up in Illinois, How the Hell Did I Become a Democrat? (pt. 2)

Welcome to part two of my After Growing up in Illinois, How the Hell Did I Become a Democrat? post, which examines the Democrats who have controlled Illinois politics for the majority of my life.

Michael Madigan was born on April 19, 1942 and again when he assumed the speakership of the Illinois House of Representatives in 1983.

One of the most cunning politicians to ever draw breath, Madigan parlayed the representation of a small, non-descript district on the southwest side of Chicago into what is effectively the governorship of Illinois.

I can count the things I agreed with former governor Bruce Rauner about on one finger, and that was his observation that Michael J. Madigan controlled the state of Illinois. John Kass, a Chicago Tribune columnist, refers to Illinois as Madiganistan.

I can't disagree.

Imagine a man with the unquenchable thirst for power and control as our current president. Then sand away the need for attention and adulation. Then add a couple dozen layers of epidermis.

Next, fold in a big ol' dose of self-control. Cunning. And bump up that IQ a little bit. Okay—a lot.

Now you're looking at Michael Madigan.

Madigan is Francis Urquhart, the slithering, deadly predator around whom the brilliant BBC production House of Cards revolved. Like Urquhart, Madigan never gets too greedy. Or impatient. Keeps his profile on the down low. And is as unyielding as a diamond.

Madigan lapsing into Twitterrea is unimaginable.

Sadly, this political genius never sought to use his talents to enable Illinois and its citizens. He used it to enable Michael Madigan.

First and foremost of Madigan's greatest hits is his relationship with the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees union, or AFSCME. For decades, he has successfully lobbied the state legislature to relentlessly fatten their pensions without ever troubling himself over the means to pay for it.

Which is why Illinois teeters on the cusp between solvency and ruin today. Our 137.3 billion-dollar unfunded pension liability leads the nation. Madigan has single-handedly placed Illinois' financial future into an industrial-strength meat grinder in a manner Donald Trump only dreams of.

And thanks to a re-written state constitution, it is forbidden to alter those benefits in any way, precluding the obvious common sense solution of downsizing them to a point that doesn't suck the state and its citizen into a deep, dark hole beyond the reach of light and time.

To paraphrase John F. Kennedy, ask not what Michael Madigan can do for you, ask what you can do for Michael Madigan. 

But at least Mike still has a job, right?

Sadly, tossing a state's economic viability into the garbage for political gain isn't a crime. But consorting with a public utility and a telecommunications giant for political gain is. And thanks to the same federal probe that has Ed Burke morphing into Sweaty Eddie, Mike Madigan might be rethinking some career choices.

Friends claim they have repeatedly advised the seventy-eight year-old to step down. What have you got left to prove? Or gain? Why don't you relax and enjoy your money for whatever time is left to you?

Like all power-mad obsessives, Madigan can't see a life beyond the state capitol. “What would I even do?” he is reported to answer. Hopefully the federal government will help supply an answer.

Ever make license plates, Mike?

This is just a rudimentary outline of Madigan's career. Truth to tell, there exist enough skeletons to fill every closet in the Palace of Versailles.

Again, I wonder at his ability to convert a few thousand votes in his home district into the governorship of the State of Illinois. It's akin to electing a president based on the returns of a single county. Or even state.

It's ludicrous. And insidious.

But change is afoot. With the bright lights of that investigation upon him, Madigan's cronies are distancing themselves ASAP. Governor JB Pritzker and Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot, obviously relieved to have the weight of the bully's foot off their necks, are speaking out and calling for accountability.

Despite being a Democrat, I would be happy to see Madigan take his meals on a tray for the remainder of his natural life. It's the least he could do.

So. With so many bad examples of politicos so close to home, how the hell did I ever come to declare as a Democrat?

It took awhile. My father was a Republican, and in my first presidential election I voted like him. Gerald Ford was an affable guy who seemed capable of reuniting the county after the duress of the Nixon years.

Plus Jimmy Carter struck me as an overly cautious born-again religious zealot, which wasn't something I embraced in the sex, drugs and rock and roll-filled years of early-adulthood.

Carter was equally uninspiring in the next election, leading me to commit this crime against humanity: I voted for Ronald Reagan.

Within a year I was confessing to friends that I ought be in a maximum-security federal prison. It couldn't have been more obvious what a callow and ignorant human being I was not to have known the difference between Reagan and Carter.

It haunts me still.

But just like hangovers, frostbite and hemorrhoids, voting Republican has a lesson to teach us. And it was taught to me in indelible, bold-faced type: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, VOTE REPUBLICAN AGAIN.

And with rare exceptions (all on a state or local level), I haven't.

While scores of Illinois and Chicago politicians qualify as shiftless, beady-eyed charlatans, their primary offenses were usually confined to accumulating power and any remuneration that happened to accompany it.

But on a national scale, Democrats can't hold a candle to the affrontery presented by a succession of Republican representatives, senators and presidents.

Gerrymandering? The endless manipulation and/or outright gutting of the voting rights act? Citizens United? Their class-leading corporate welfare? Their scared-shitless support of the NRA? Their sanctimonious embrace of the pro-life movement?

The artful button-pushing? The never-mind-the-democracy—what's good for us best practices? The willingness to sacrifice our air, our water and our land for the benefit of the business class? The willingness to exploit sexism and racial hatred in exchange for elected office? 

The belief that the pursuit and seizure of power justifies, well, anything?

At their worst, Democrats may be the ones fudging the estimated monthly payments on your new car sales contract. But Republicans are the ones tampering with your brakes.

 

After Growing up in Illinois, How the Hell Did I Become a Democrat? (pt. 1)

When you look back on it, it's quite remarkable, really. That I could come of age in a place dominated by a single political party and despite the decades of corruption emanating from that party, grow-up to embrace them on a national level.

How the hell did that happen?

Some backstory:

First there was Richard J. Daley: The Boss. His iron-clad tenure was earmarked by the slogan “Chicago: The city that works”—at long as you followed the dictates of your precinct captain and voted the right way.

You see, Daley developed a system of patronage that would have been the envy of medieval kings and queens. You either voted for Daley or discovered your garbage wasn't being picked-up in a timely fashion. Or that the burned-out streetlight in front of your house stayed that way for months. Or even years.

Maybe the police paid unusual attention to your car and the state of its registration. Or meticulously observed local parking ordinances as they pertained to your conveyance.

It went on and on and on.

Like all good crime bosses, Daley inserted layers and layers of bureaucracy between him and his functionaries, ensuring it would be difficult to draw a line between him and these civic punishments for non-compliance.

Only death could stop him. And in December of 1976, it did.

Then there was Paul Powell, the Illinois Secretary of State who died in office in 1970. In the time-honored tradition of Illinois Democrats, shoeboxes (shoeboxes!) stuffed with cash were found in his office and the hotel where he lived.

The haul amounted to $750,000 (nearly five-million in 2020 dollars), which was an entirely natural consequence for a civil servant bringing home 30k per.

But Daley and Powell are just the tip of the iceberg. I would be remiss if I didn't name-check George W. Dunne, who as a politically-oriented friend of mine noted bitterly, was the first man to become a millionaire after being elected to public office.

I can't substantiate this claim, but you get the idea. Crooked as a pubic hair.

Then there's Edward “Fast Eddie” Vrdolyak, who, as his nickname implies, could talk his way out of a sunburn. As an alderman, Fast Eddie had a profound ability for making slimy deals and vanishing before the slime even had a chance to dry.

To insert a particularly-relevant feather in Fast Eddie's cap, he unashamedly led the anti-Washington contingent against Chicago's first black mayor, repeatedly stymieing him as he sought to enact municipal policy.

When being an alderman wasn't enough, he ran for mayor as a Republican—twice. But being a Republican candidate for mayor in the city of Chicago is like being the drummer for the fictional heavy-metal band Spinal Tap. The future is not so bright one requires shades.

While death or political miscalculation ended all of the notable careers above, Edward M. Burke has persisted for over half a century.

He was initially elected to the Chicago City Council in 1969 and has served (for lack of a better word) ever since. He has amassed considerable power, and like the businessmen-slash-pols above, it's difficult to tell where his business ends and his position as an alderman begins.

And vice versa.

Until recently, Burke considered himself a very important person, hence the chauffeur-driven limousine and bodyguards. But a federal probe has put the kabosh on his high falutin' ways, and presently Ed and his legal team are sweating out the details on how to beat the charges stacking up against him.

Fifty-years on, you could argue that ship sailed a long time ago. But I'm fine with the idea of Burke enjoying an uncomfortable retirement.

Manners prohibit me from neglecting the fine quartet of Illinois governors who selflessly blazed a trail from the cushy Governor's mansion in Springfield to federal prison. Yep. Otto Kerner, Dan Walker, George Ryan and Rod Blagojevich all did time.

So there you have it. The Elite Eight of Illinois Infamy. A handy and compact guide to the Illinois politicians who have distinguished themselves while answering the call of public service.

Thing is, the were unusually adept at reversing the charges. (For those of you too young to know what that means, Google it.)

Join us here at The Square Peg next time as we take a look the career of the Babe Ruth of Illinois politics.

Ta ta for now.

Mark Janus Seeks the Right to Work

In so many ways, Mark Janus is a very fortunate man. He works for a state agency in Illinois—the same state that has nearly bankrupted itself gifting employees like Mr. Janus with plump, well-fed pensions.

But that's not enough. Our poor, put-upon Mr. Janus has his knickers in a twist because he has to pay $45 a month in union dues for his membership in AFSCME.

As a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, Mr. Janus feels he should keep everything he makes. He feels he shouldn't have to pay taxes and fees and especially union dues, which is certainly interesting given the talking points his political party of choice likes to trot out.

Mark Janus should get his sewage treated, meat inspected, roads repaired and libraries stocked and staffed (not to mention his union representation) for free, but god forbid the poor, the disabled and the elderly get help with, well, just about anything.

Because that would make them freeloaders.

But conservatives like Mr. Janus aren't. 

Got it?

In the words of Mr. Janus' lawyer, “AFSCME takes political positions that he doesn't support and advocates for more spending and higher taxes.”

I would like to invite Mr. Janus to work in the private sector, where after airing his complaint he would be told that thanks to the miracle of At Will employment, he was free to leave. 

Of course, Mr. Janus would never leave his public-sector job because that would mean giving up his union-negotiated salary, union-negotiated benefits and that oh-so-sweet union-negotiated pension.

Yes, Mr. Janus wants his cake and a big, giant fork.

And to be honest, so do I.

I can only dream of not paying taxes to the circus headed by Donald Trump and what I call Republicants because they stand for nothing I believe in and everything I don't. But if I want to enjoy the benefits of living in America, taxes must be paid.

Of course, this is much, much bigger than Mr. Janus and his wallet-busting union dues. It's about defunding unions and consequently, Democrats. It's about the tragically mis-labeled Right to Work statute.

Because in the addled logic of right-wingers like Mr. Janus, Democrats and unions are the enemy. Even as they provide a secure and comfortable living for him.

One party rule is clearly the best path forward because even as Mr. Janus rails against the effects of prolonged one-party rule in Illinois, Republicans controlling everything forever would somehow be different.

This because businessmen would be running things.

Perhaps you know how great things were the last time wealthy businessmen were in control. The salad days of the late nineteenth-century. The Industrial Revolution.

Employment was so abundant men worked six days a week, for ten, eleven and twelve hours a day. And not just men. No sir. Those free-thinking, egalitarian businessmen opened up their factories to everyone. Even kids.

And thanks to their generous wages, upward mobility was never more prevalent. Frugal, industrious folk could save enough cash to have stew—with meat—once a week. Or dream of a visit to a cobbler and a new pair of shoes. Or buy a coffin for ma when she died during childbirth.

Yes, life was grand.

Then those goddamn Democrats and their confounded unions screwed everything up.

Thanks to their unswerving dedication to make life better for everyone (i.e. even people who didn't possess millions of dollars), people could not work seventy hours a week and still have a shot at living quarters that included light, fresh air, indoor plumbing and electricity.

They could even afford to see doctors before they died at forty-five of black lung or tuberculosis or dysentery.

But as the best and the brightest conservative minds have pointed out, this sucked.

It sucked because unlike you and me, the folks organizing labor and effectively fighting the offal in the executive wing for a fair share of corporate profits needed money to live. This is where the heresy of union dues enters the picture.

And if that weren't bad enough, some wise-ass got the idea for an urban sewage system. And another for consumer protections. And yet another for an agency that would promote public health.

And boom! We had taxes.

You have to agree this was pointless, wasteful stuff.

Through the widespread implementation of Right to Work statutes, we can—at long last—cede control to Republicans and their healthy, inclusive, we're-all-in-this-together agenda.

Anger is a very unhealthy state of being. It's what makes us cut off our nose to spite our face. It's what makes bloggers post inarticulate rants—like I did last Thursday. When we're angry our thinking is muddled. Our actions lamentable.

Do we really want to destroy unions? Do we really want to remove the checks-and-balances a two party system provides? Do we really want to hand over one-hundred percent of everything to Republicans and wealthy businessmen?

Are we really so naive?

So many things in the United States of America could be better. Our leadership. Our government. Ourselves. But throwing the baby out with the bathwater isn't the answer.

We don't burn down our houses when we discover an insect infestation. We call an exterminator. And despite my howling indignation about so many facets of twenty-first century America, I don't generally advocate for revolution.

Yeah, blowing stuff up and smashing windows is lots of fun. And who doesn't enjoy a roaring fire now and then? But in the end it mostly wastes time and energy. And the clean-up is a bitch.

Mr. Janus, the vast majority of taxes go to the public good, except in places like Illinois where the *ahem* pension obligation threatens the economic well-being of the entire state and demands an inordinate share of tax revenue. 

Whining about higher taxes and political positions as your employer slavishly seeks to honor its pension commitment to you is questionable at best and off-the-charts hypocrisy at worst. Now would be a good time to mention that Janus was a two-faced Roman god.

Tell you what, Janus. Why don't you file a suit alleging your pension is too generous, and that instead of threatening the entire population with higher taxes and service cuts, your employer should instead increase your union dues and scale back your benefits?

You know, show some of that individual responsibility you Republicans are always crowing about.

Yeah. That's what I thought.

What Gets Protected

We've all seen the cop movie where the line between the lawful and the lawless is practically indistinguishable. The kind which illuminate just how thin the veneer of civilization can be. 

Former Chicago police commander Jon Burge, if he didn't inspire such movies, certainly lived them.

Burge was a detective who repeatedly crossed that line when he employed torture as a means of extracting confessions from suspects, padding his district's statistics and speeding his presumed ascent to the top of the tree. 

Burge and his henchmen weren't picky: electrical cords, phone books, rubber hoses, guns. Anything would do. Machiavelli would have been proud. 

But a funny thing happened in the midst of Burge's two-decade reign of blood-soaked lawlessness. He got caught. He got convicted. And eventually he went to jail.

Mind you, it wasn't a regular jail full of regular bad guys. It was a minimum security one in beautiful North Carolina, full of white-collar guys who cooked the books and wrote bad checks. It seems the powers that be just couldn't bear the thought of Jon running into some former acquaintances.

And despite the prosecution demanding a sentence of thirty years, Jon received just four and-a-half (of which he served three and-a-half) for his wholesale and violent abuse of authority.

If that isn't offensive enough, know that Burge is currently living the good life in Florida, courtesy of a $36,000 dollar a year pension despite costing the cash-strapped City of Chicago one-hundred million-dollars in reparations, legal fees and court costs, with many millions more to come.

Despite the cruelty and lawlessness Burge showered his victims with, the Illinois Supreme Court declared it illegal to withhold Burge's pension, saying that to do so would constitute a “fundamental change” of the state's pension code.

And who wants that?

Chicago is desperately seeking revenue enhancements, and has closed four-dozen public schools to cut costs. Aid for the mentally ill, the poor, the elderly, kids with autism and public transportation subsidies—among other things—has been terminated in Illinois.

But Jon Burge's pension? God forbid.

It's good to know that something is sacrosanct in Illinois.

Nickel and Dimed

Traditionally, Illinois has been known as the Land of Lincoln. And while the association with a revered public official is certainly laudable, one has to wonder how representative it is nearly one-hundred-fifty years after his death.

To provide a more appropriate picture of twenty-first century Illinois, I propose a new slogan. Call it The Kama Sutra State. Or Land of Kama Sutra. Does the sexy tingle of State of Kama Sutra do anything for you?

OK. You might wonder what the Kama Sutra has to do with Illinois, especially since the former is an ancient Indian sex manual and the latter is smack dab in the middle of the Midwest.

Let me explain.

Within the Kama Sutra are a staggering variety of male-female couplings in all manner of positions. Many of them require an almost inhuman degree of flexibility.

As a resident of Illinois, it’s only natural I would be reminded of the Kama Sutra when I see the torturous contortions citizens attempt in order to meet the needs of state and municipal agencies.

Let me share two small, everyday examples.

Example number-one is our state lottery, which was recently privatized in the belief that the golden hand of business would reduce costs, increase efficiency and send profits soaring.

Of course, the only people who believe business has a golden hand are those who have never been employed by one.

Our new and improved lottery has mostly succeeded in missing revenue targets and failing to pay agreed-upon penalties. As of this writing, Northstar Lottery Group owes the state of Illinois roughly twenty-million dollars for not boosting lottery sales to the heights promised.

As a result, Northstar has taken the path all businesses take when they need to increase revenue. With no appreciable payroll to cut, they have raised the price of their product.

They didn't devise an irresistible lottery game that has Illinoisans lining-up to play. Or initiate a clever and attention-grabbing marketing campaign that has us seeing the lottery in a fresh new light.

No. They just doubled the cost of a lottery ticket.

This is the inspired business acumen for which the state ponied up one hundred twenty-five million dollars.

For those who play the lottery, this means ten bucks now buys half as many numbers as it did before privatization. Or ten instead of twenty. Five instead of ten. You get the idea.

I’m guessing you’ve been waiting as anxiously as I for just the right opportunity to cut your chances of winning the lottery in half.

What I really want to know is how long it’s going to take for Northstar to cough-up the twenty mil it owes the state. According to my calculations, it should be half as long as it was before the increase.

But that’s just me. And this, after all, is Illinois.

And then there’s the Chicago Transit Authority and their no-change ticket dispensers, which pocket surfeit cash from hapless riders unarmed with exact change.

But even the retention of unearned money hasn’t kept the CTA from declaring yet-another cash shortfall, necessitating yet-another round of talk about service cuts and rate hikes.

You’re already keeping my change! What more do you want? My socks?

We could always drive, but after the giveaway of the city’s parking meter revenue in a seventy-five year contract to Chicago Parking Meter LLC, the CTA is definitely the lesser of two evils.

(Unless of course you take some kind of perverse pleasure in paying the nation’s highest parking rates.)

None of this would be so irksome if Illinois didn’t boast the second-highest unemployment rate in the nation. Or if Chicago’s wasn’t stuck at ten percent.

Or if our thirty-dollar-an-hour bus drivers were occasionally a tad more polite and understanding of those who don’t ride their bus five days a week.

But it is. And they aren’t.

So yes, the comparisons are apt. We are the Land of Kama Sutra.

Because like the figures in that text, we invariably get fucked.