The Second Time Around

I don't have to tell you how hard the world is sucking at the moment, do I?

Inflation is taking off like a rocket with an inexhaustible fuel supply. A nation suffering from foreign conflict fatigue can't summon a better response to Vladimir Putin's barbarism than to endure higher energy costs.

And even as we sit poised to collectively turn our clocks forward in recognition of daylight savings time, the thermometer reads but eight-degrees this morning.

Joy.  

But then the news of Jussie Smollett's sentencing drops into your lap like a warm croissant and you are made glad. While Donald Trump isn't in front of a firing squad or in a maximum security prison for committing treason and inciting sedition, at least one turd—Jussie Smollett—has been flushed.

Being the lead actor in a hit TV series wasn't enough for Jussie. The empty maw of his want wouldn't close until Jussie had even more money and even more attention and even more of everything that celebrities wallow in once they become celebrities.

After a failed bid to heighten his influence on the show, Jussie got it in his head to stage a spontaneous hate crime. After all—it wasn't too much of a stretch, was it? As an actor, he'd seen directors put together dramas his entire career. He could do that, too.

Only he couldn't. He fucked up. Central to the case (at least in my eyes) was how an impulsive trip to an all-night sandwich shop intersected with a carefully-staged, pre-planned hate crime.

Hmmm. 

Yeah, that is one hell of a stretch.

Initially, it all went Jussie's way. Kim Foxx, our grandstanding Cook Country State's Attorney, invoked all manner of civic outrage as celebrities poured from the woodwork in knee-jerk support. One even had ties to a former president.

This while the Chicago Police Department earnestly investigated, racking up six-figures worth of overtime in the process.

Yeah, this was a great, big deal.

Then it got weird. As it became apparent things hadn't unfolded the way Jussie said they had, it all just disappeared. The case, the charges, everything. Gone. Like water on a Las Vegas sidewalk.

Foxx issued all sorts of officious-sounding babble that didn't explain anything. The feds took note and began an independent investigation.

This time, the charges stuck. Without the inaction of a Black SA seemingly only interested in decriminalizing crime and any and all Black people caught committing it, logic and objectivity triumphed.

Yes, Smollett provoked a powerful dislike in me. He is a shit. Among public figures, he is second only to president forty-five. Smollett is an inveterate narcissist, a congenital liar and a slavish attention whore.

Which would be fine if it didn't involve municipalities and hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars. Not to mention cheapening actual hate crimes and their victims.

So I offer thanks to the prosecutors and to Judge James Linn for cementing the end of this civic embarrassment in place—once and for all. It's a shame Judge Linn wasn't sitting on the bench for the Laquan McDonald and CPD trials.

With buy-in just short of a Trump-tard, Smollett's family are decrying his sentencing with every bit of mental illness they can muster. My favorite is the statement from Smollett's brother Jacqui, who claims Jussie is going to jail for being attacked.

Ugh-huh.

And how much Kool-Aid was required to embrace that, Jacqui?

Gas is trending towards five-bucks a gallon. Another miserable winter refuses to release its grip on northeastern Illinois. And the once-invincible Bulls have been exposed and now appear decidedly vincible.

But Jussie Smollett is going to prison.

Yay.

That Toddlin' Town

Ah, spring.

Yes, a third of the way through April the thermometer reads thirty-five degrees. For those of you calculating in Celsius, that would be 1.6. The wind chill (yep—still talking about wind chill), thanks to the twenty-mile-per-hour winds, stands at twenty-four (or minus 4.4 C).

In the fine northern Illinois tradition, the skies are a featureless sheet of grey.

I look for a ray of sunshine. It doesn't matter if it's literal or metaphorical. Anything will do.

(And no, the minuscule chance of sunburn does not count.)

There is a newspaper story detailing the heroic actions of six cops who selflessly cast personal safety aside to rescue a man who had jumped into Lake Michigan—in January—to rescue his dog. With an Arctic vortex bearing down on the city, the officers picked their way across the shifting sheet of ice.

Grabbing each other's belts, the cops formed a human chain and were able to hoist the man out of the water and across the ice to safety. I can't speak for you, but this is several area codes removed from my comfort zone.

One column over, the clouds close back in. The sunshine is temporary.

The last particles of fallout from the Laquan McDonald shooting have settled on the ground. Four cops who figured prominently in the initial cover-up stand to lose their jobs if found guilty of conspiracy (again).

But in the highly-politicized world of the Chicago Police Department, this is not the clear-cut case their feeble testimony and the mountains of evidence would lead you to believe.

Initially, Police Superintendent Eddie Johnson wanted to fire the four after an official investigation concluded they were guilty of conspiracy. But in the inside-out, up-is-down world of the CPD, your boss can't fire you.

Instead, they were suspended for a year.

Restored to paid positions, their disciplinary hearings were then delayed by the Jason Van Dyke trial. (If you're scratching your head, join the club.) Even after these hearings conclude tomorrow, it will be months before a decision is reached.

There is layer upon layer of review boards and committees that decision must pass through, giving all concerned ample opportunity to concoct another implausible lie depending on how disagreeable they find the outcome.

This puts us at four years since the release of the dash cam video, and five since the actual shooting. When has it ever taken this long for an employer to fire an errant employee or four?

Since they'll be excused anyway, can't we save taxpayers the expense and re-route this through Domenica Stephenson, who can again reject conflicting evidence out of hand and rule that even after being shot sixteen times, Laquan McDonald represented a threat to the officers on the scene, justifying any and everything they did afterwards?

(On a personal note, it is my belief that Stephenson watched way too many Freddie Krueger movies as a child.)

Sunlight becomes even more remote after reading the interviews conducted with CPD officers Janet Mondragon, Daphne Sebastian, Ricardo Viramontes and Stephen Franko.

Like the rationale offered by Jason Van Dyke, Joseph Walsh, Thomas Gaffney and David March, we can be thankful it's not toilet paper, so thin is it and so easily does it dissipate under even the slightest pressure.

It is impossible to differentiate their words from those of the hardened rapists, murderers and drug dealers they routinely encounter. In contrast to the cops on ice story, it is sobering to realize how easily these cops lie and how defiantly they look their interviewers in the eye and invite them to challenge the layers and layers of protection surrounding CPD officers.

It's not too hard to imagine a crime boss testifying before congress, smugly dodging question after question and offering only the most banal, most obvious lies when they do speak. No wonder the city's black population feels itself a target to be used and abused without consequence.

This is the latest battle in an escalating race war.

The same Fraternal Order of Police organization that is behind the knee-jerk protection of even its worst officers is urging official reprimands of Cook County Prosecutor Kim Foxx, she of the equally-mysterious and indefensible exoneration of Jussie Smollett.

Right or wrong, blacks see this as payback for the exoneration of the CPD in the murder of Laquan McDonald.

Outside, the wind continues to blow. There is no sunlight.

Here Are Your 2019 Chicago Cubs!

In the wake of perhaps the most disappointing 95-win season in baseball history, the Chicago Cubs begin another season today. Even with the ascendant Bears garnering disproportionate amounts of media attention, the Cubs remain the topic on everyone's lips.

Why didn't they pursue Bryce Harper? Why didn't they pursue Manny Machado? Why didn't they sign a front-line reliever? Why didn't they extend Joe Maddon's contract? Why didn't they can Joe Maddon? How are they going to compete by standing still?

Cubulous Nervosa generates many, many questions. The only known cure is to take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

Yes, last season was one of the most perplexing and aggravating on record. An offense that would vanish like a magician's prop. The disastrous signings of not one, but two, free-agent pitchers. A profound early-season slump by the usually reliable Anthony Rizzo and an injury-plagued, below-par year from Kris Bryant.

Not to mention late-season injuries to Brandon Morrow and Pedro Strop.

And yet the Cubs still won 95 games. Contended for the division flag until the last day of the season against the surging Milwaukee Brewers. A run here and a run there and that irksome wild card game against the Colorado Rockies never would have happened.

If Maddon didn't prove his worth and the Cubs their mettle last season, I don't know when they have.

Alas, we live in a microwave culture. Expectations rise like the temperature inside a parked car. 2016 might as well be 1908. 

And when these new expectations aren't met, the people take to social media and howl.

As your friendly, web-based contrarian, I'm going to suggest that 2018 was an aberration, not the beginning of a trend. I'm going to suggest that we should be praising Theo Epstein for resisting the public mania for brand name free-agents.

Not that Epstein is without fault. I'm not crazy about his public calling-out of Maddon. But as Maddon himself would admit, it's the manager's lot to take the blame for whatever perceived failure his team accrues.

Not winning the 2018 World Series doesn't constitute heresy in my book. And I'm not sure not winning the 2019 edition qualifies, either. I think the Cub nation needs to take a deep breath and consider where it is.

It has evolved from wondering if haplessness is a permanent condition to demanding world championships every year. It must remember the quantum leap the objects of its affection have made.

My two-cents says that if fans can't quit obsessing whenever the Cubs don't pitch a no-hitter every time out and if certain quarters of the media don't stop turning every molehill into a tabloid-worthy mountain, all assembled might have seen their last World Series trophy.

I'll say it again: the Cubs have scaled heights unseen at Wrigley Field since the Great Depression, and ones unimaginable as recently as 2013. You remember 2013, don't you?

But they need a little breathing room. They need a little less scrutiny. It's okay if Hendricks occasionally goes four innings or if Bryant is hitless in four at bats. It's not the end of the world.

Counter to Mr. Epstein's appraisal, consistently winning two out of three would be wildly and exuberantly splendiferous. My therapist assures me 108 wins would give the Cubs the NL Central title and home field for as long as they want it.

Last year was just.....weird. It's not going to happen again. And with the season-long presence of a fully rehabilitated Yu Darvish, the Cubs effectively have a new free-agent signee. Not to mention one of the best managers in the biz.

But Theo, we (that's you) need to let him be. Excepting Jussie Smollett, I've never seen anyone perform well with a noose around their neck.

Go Cubs!

Black Privilege?

Not so long ago, I didn't know who Jussie Smollett was. I wish I still didn't.

One of the most self-centered and unlikable celebrities ever to besmirch the city of Chicago, Smollett deemed it appropriate to utilize its overworked police force in a bid to extract a raise from his employer, the producers of Empire, after a homemade death threat failed to generate adequate concern for the attention-starved actor's financial well-being.

Deep in the me-first recesses of Smollett's brain, another scheme was hatched. Like any right-thinking American, he reasoned that if a death threat wouldn't land him a bigger paycheck, being the victim of a hate crime would.

The restless creative forces within Smollett were soon at work. He cast two forlorn brothers as his attackers and elected to stage the drama amid the upscale high-rises which populate the near-north neighborhood of Streeterville.

Then, on one of the coldest nights of the year, Smollett ventured out to visit an area Subway sandwich shop.

He never made it.

He was supposedly accosted by two men, who took exception to Smollett's seeking to satiate a nocturnal craving on such a chilly night. They bit, kicked and punched Smollett, shouted racial and homophobic slurs and poured an unknown liquid over him. Then they placed a noose around his neck.

Before I credit the two goon's diligence in keeping a liquid in liquid form in sub-zero weather (the temperature at the time of the attack was zero degrees, with sustained winds of fifteen to twenty miles an hour leading to a wind chill of twenty degrees below), I have to marvel at such a highly-personal attack happening on what Smollett maintains was a spontaneous, unplanned trip to grab a sandwich.

Is there a bookie in Vegas who could even lay odds on that?

Regardless, Smollett fought them off, ending up in an emergency room where he was later released in good condition. Despite the brutality of the two-on-one confrontation, Smollett had only a fine, horizontal scratch beneath his eye to show for the assault.

Within hours, the knee-jerk wheels of the social media court were in motion.

Poor, poor Jussie! Bad, bad Chicago! Among the most-commonly expressed sentiments was “Give that man a raise!”

Alas, as the mass of CPD detectives assigned to this high-profile case went to work, Smollett's contentions began to unravel like a sweater from K-Mart.

It being very, very late on a very cold Monday night, pedestrian traffic was, as you can imagine, light. Pedestrians armed with unidentified fluids and nooses were especially scarce. In fact, the area's network of public and private security cameras didn't detect them at all.

Despite maintaining that he had spoken with his manager on his cell phone just before the attack, Smollett refused to surrender his phone as evidence. Which was certainly curious for someone victimized to the extent Jussie claimed to be.

And then there was the $3,500 which had recently changed hands, and the footage of the Nigerian brothers buying the rope and ski masks used in the attack. It wasn't long before the unavoidable conclusion could no longer be avoided.

In the aftermath, Smollett was rightly charged with sixteen felony counts of filing a false police report. He was dumped from Empire. All seemed right with the world.

Until yesterday. Out of the blue, Illinois state prosecutors announced they were dropping all charges against Smollett. While they maintained this didn't amount to an exoneration, Smollett's record has nevertheless been expunged and the case files sealed.

Hmmm.

If your eyesight happens to be better than mine, could show me where the part about it not being an exoneration kicks in? Because I can't see it.

Somewhere, an uneaten Subway sandwich molders. And we are again left to wonder whether our traditional notion of justice belongs on the endangered species list.