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Significant Saps of the Year....by Bob Sanders

 

There can be little denial that this corner's Significant Saps of 2011 are a unique and highly impressive collection of lamebrains as this country continues its steep dumbing down slide.  This year's grand grouping admittedly is weighted by crazed politicians attempting to gain the Republican Party nomination for the Presidency.  Better days are ahead when the GOP ninnies are filtered down to a not so precious few shortly into the new year giving hope for a much more balanced assemblage of the bizarre next year.  Let us count the ways in which they have distinguished themselves while entertaining us this year.  

Worth noting is Sarah Palin's largely subdued performance while failing to achieve the kind of sap stardom of past years.  Palin is to be commended for staying away from commentary about such subjects as Russia, turkeys and death panels while concentrating on self-promotion, something for which she has enormous energy as she sells books and does phoners with Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity.  Alas, there was no further enrichment of Webster's dictionary by her, a somewhat disappointing development.

It was, however, a past year's blunder that came back to haunt Palin when Rep. Gabriella Giffords was shot in Tucson.  It was on a SarahPAC map that Palin had placed a target over Giffords' congressional district, an act that many blamed for the shooting that took six lives.  Palin, therefore, is a member tried and true of this year's team.  Charlie Sheen is not.  He's simply a creep.

If Palin is a turkey, then former Rep. Anthony Weiner is, well, a weiner.  As we learn to live with and understand the quick communications that dominate our lives, we continue to make mistakes and Weiner made a big one when he sent a crotch shot to a young admirer out there in Twitterland.  First Weiner claimed his twitter account was hacked, then resigned when the photo suddenly appeared on the web.

So much has been written about and captured on TV about the GOP contenders that words seem inadequate to describe each candidate's faltering attempts to connect with a confused public.  Of the candidates, only Jon Huntsman, Rick Santorum and Michelle Bachmann have stayed on message.  What has been reduced to a seven-ring circus defies analysis as attack ads mount in intensity with Newt Gingrich's "high road" showing signs of abandonment.  Newtie's in trouble (it couldn't happen to a nicer guy) with an inclination to augment answers to questions.  Such add ons can be devastating as he smugly proves what we already know: he's the best debater of the bunch.  One is reminded of the Hitler story in which The Fuhrer is deep in a Berlin bunker being bombed by both Russian and U.S. armies.  In a particularly impressive rage, Hitler shouts: "O.K.  No more Mr. Nice Guy."  As this is written, Newtie has begun to fight back.

The social conservatives can't handle Romney's Mormon faith nor does Newtie's marital baggage inspire hosannas.  Ron Paul, who may very well win Iowa, is over the cliff on half the debatable subjects while the rest have simply not gained reasonable traction.  Rick Perry does a great impression of George W. Bush while Huntsman's great hope is New Hampshire which he needs to win.  As a Jewish friend once observed: "It's such a puzzlement."

The biggest GOP laughs were provided by Herman Cain whose salesmanship on behalf of pizza and restaurants proved to be poor preparation for the rough and tumble of politics.  Offering public pronouncements of little sense, Cain provided memorable moments heavy on the kind of jive associated with The Kingfish of "Amos & Andy" fame.  Cain's campaign disintegrated when a number of women stepped forward to reveal the pizza man had fast hands in the back seats of cars; one revealed an affair of 13 years.

Also prominent in the Sex Sweepstakes was Arnold Schwarzenneger whose marriage to Maria Shriver was terminated with the discovery of a love child conceived with a housekeeper of some 20 years.  Now 14, the former governor's son began getting strange looks from Arnold and Maria's friends who decided he looks more like the ex-body builder than the other four kids.

We finally got rid of Nevada Senator John Ensign in April and it took a while.  It was in 2009 that Ensign, who had called on President Clinton to resign because of adulterous conduct with Monica Lewinsky, admitted doing the same thing with the wife of an employee.  Ensign's parents paid off the mistress with a total of $96,000 in eight tidy payments of $12,000, a figure that complied with tax rules governing gifts.  Followers of the current GOP Presidential nominating process probably were spared an even great degree of TV attack ads when Ensign's infidelity was revealed.  Amid much speculation that he would run, a June Iowa trip was planned, then called off.  Some "kids" move in with their parents, other maneuver them into mistress payoffs.

Speaking of politicians, another former Illinois governor made it to prison this year.  In a move both criminal and highly gutsy, Rod Blagojovich attempted to sell Barack Obama's old Senate seat.  Amid seriously bad hair displays, Blago, as we have come to know him, was recently sentenced to 14 years on felony corruption charges.  Those knowledgeable about the sentencing of Illinois governors for criminality believe Blago should not have attempted to become a public personality of wide recognition while a judge determined how much time he should serve.  By appearing on such shows as Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice," displaying a propensity for endless TV interviews, and achieving stardom on a TV commercial for Wonderful Pistachios, Blago gained notoriety just this side of the Kardashians that may have added a year or two to his sentence.

Speaking of Trump, there is plenty of evidence suggesting that The Donald needs a new gig as he seeks whatever it is he is seeking.  Further public recognition is what it appears to be mostly about; rumors, largely floated by him, continue to suggest he wants to be President.  There was a period during the year when Trump seemingly was determined to be a king maker over food.  The Trump Primary first found The Donald meeting over pizza with a self-invited Palin.  Other candidates sought Trump's imprimatur with Paul and Huntsman declining.  Disappointed with the many TV debates, The Donald decided to hold his own, then had to back off when all but Gingrich declined.  

Far from the political arena except for Iowa caucusers (that one's a Palin leftover) was Jesse Dimmick of Shawnee County, Kansas who made the mistake of kidnapping newlyweds a couple of years ago.  Dimmick was a murder fugitive at the time with the cops in pursuit when he burst into the home of Jared and Lindsey Rowley.

That was shortly after the cops chased the stolen van Dimmick was driving onto the front yard of the Rowleys, married some seven days.  A confrontation followed, a cop shot Dimmick in the back and the fugitive was sentenced to 10 years and 11 months.  The past two years in the pokey gave Dimmick time to thnk about life's vagaries and what happened when he broke into a home.  Late in October, Dimmick filed a lawsuit of $235,000 against the Rowleys for his pain and suffering.

Then, there's the story about the drunken Santa Claus at the recent Mavericks-Heat game in Dallas.  Santa, gin and tonic in hand, was confrontational with Heat star LeBron James, maybe the most disliked NBA player--particularly in Cleveland where he once played. 

"What do you want from Santa?" questioned jolly Santa as James got set at the foul line. 

"How about a ring?" added Santa in reference to James's having been preeminent as the Heat folded in the finals against the Mavericks.  James made the free throw and scored 37 points as the Heat won.

While the dunce cap in business hss been worn by many--Coca Cola, Ford's Edsel and Enron come to mind--Netflix achieved high honors this year for losing what probably will total two million subscribers.  With the motion picture industry in the doldrums largely due to ticket prices running from $8 to $13 a ticket, Netflix CEO Reed Hastings thought it might be a good time to raise prices.  What ensued was a disastrous financial drama that included a stock tumble from $304 to a recent $71.  The preparing of loyal customers for a price change was not considered and the price hike was as sudden as a roadside bomb.  There was no PR campaign explaining a marketing strategy down the road and Netflix pulled the business blunder of the year.  It was the kind of decision suggesting Reed's qualification for politics.

What Jon Corzine did this year may very well have been both stupid and criminal.  While most of us can revisit poor financial decisions by examining our checkbooks, Corzine managed to lose $1.2 billion and he made it look easy.  A former U.S. Senator, ex-Governor of New Jersey, and former head honcho of Goldman Sachs of Too Big to Fail fame, Corzine proved a remarkably poor gambler when he bet $11.5 billion on a horse named European Debt.  Now gone are bankrupt company MF Global, the billion dollars and change and a reputation that was looking a bit tarnished before he decided Wall Street offers more excitement than Las Vegas.  Oh, yes.  The money of customers and former workers as yet to be found.  How do you jmisplace that kind of money?

One might be inclined to feel sorry for Rupert Murdoch if it weren't for the man's dreadful record as a media impresario and social climber whose leech-like use of people like former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher reflects how he gains power in the UK.  Murdoch's media empire hacked the telephones of celebrities, the royal family and public citizens with the past year the worst yet for the Australian.  His hacking included the phone of a child murder victim.  The investigation of Murdoch is taking place in the UK and in this country (his U.S. holdings include Fox News) with the FBI heavily involved.

By all means, let's not forget Kim Jong-Il who had the decency to take leave of us as starving North Koreans shed tears.  Maybe the tears were real.  After all, the supreme leader was a fashion icon of enormous impact, he invented the hamburger and, yes, shot a round of golf 38 strokes under par while making, you're going to have a hard time with this, 11 holes-in-one.  You could, as Casey Stengel once put it, look it up.  Better yet, check out the bodyguards who were present and attested to Kimmy's feat (there were no pars on his card) and bear in mind it was his first round of golf.  Measuring 7,700 yards, the Pyongyang Golf Course is not some tricked up, short track whose 19th hole that momentous day likely served the divine one his Cognac obsession, Hennessy, whose homeland cost of $630 a bottle amounts to just $270 less than a North Korean family's average annual income.  Hennessy, the corporation is in deep mourning since Kimmy used to spend around $800,000 a year on his favorite booze making him Hennessy's biggest customer.

While Christmas gives us the kind of bemusement that comes with those (hopefully) one-page literary round-ups of familial triumph sandwiched by a card of holiday tidings, the subject of accompanying pictures of poor taste are recalled.  Going away winner this time around is Jorge Santini, mayor of San Juan, who reminds us that politicians are at least a little goofy just about everywhere.  Jorge really outdid all others picture-wise when he posed his family huddling around not a manger scene but one depicting a taxidermied killing.  As a leopard sinks its teeth into a fear-stricken antelope, a little girl smiles sassily.  That's not all.  The caption suggests "the hunt scene was chosen to embody the mayor's holiday spirits over a few other creepy options--including an unconvincing penguin figure staring into a young man's ear in a frosty wonderland a giant bird swooping over the Mayor's head as a black bear poses nearby."  Perhaps something got lost in the translation.

Understandably, political rivals have made their own interpretations suggesting the picture is an understated warning to Santini's opponents in an upcoming election.  This, as we know, wouldn't be the first time a politician has used family as an election furtherance.  The mayor, meanwhile, insists the picture was a promotion for the San Juan Wildlife Museum.

Finally, there's a community of saps who live in State College, Pennsylvania.  We know not how many they number but for a minimum of 10 years (we're not yet sure how long this outrage went on), the townsfolk managed to know nothing about child molester Jerry Sandusky.  The disgusting story tells us a lot about the power of a university (or a corporation) in a small, relatively isolated town and how people, somehow, can become incapable of doing the right thing.

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Island Life....by Bob Sanders

 

Neither Jan nor I had ever lived in a small town before so I guess the odds were against us when we moved triday Harbor, Washington.  That was in January, 1990 and whatever odds were in play must have been elevated by our having moved from Chicago.

Our discovery of Friday Harbor was one of those fluky things that can work dramatic effect upon lives.  Retired and on a rather lengthy tour of this country's national parks, we had taken a Vancouver Island detour, spent a couple of days in Victoria, then set out for Orcas Island, one of 172 archipelagos that are the San Juan Islands.  Stopping off for lunch at Friday Harbor's picture perfect waterfront, we fell in love with the place, never continued on to Orcas Island, and wound up buying a home some five miles from town.

We quickly learned that not everyone is capable of getting attuned to island life.  Many of the problems can involve attitudinal baggage newcomers might bring with them.;  In settling into a San Juan Island lifestyle, big city types often exhibit an inclination to want things done in, say, a New York way.  Apparently aware of the challenges involved in such situations, New Yorkers pretty much stayed away with the few attempting a rural life achieving collective batting averages not sufficient to play for the Yankees.

The relative isolation achieved by island life was both a blessing and an eventual curse.  As we learned, a limited clinic, while sufficient for mundane medical matters, was not enough for serious situations.  In the general scheme of things, it's one thing to be treated for lower back pain, another for serious gotchas.

Washington State Ferries, the major connector to the San Juans, offered reasonably good service to the island from Anacortes although ferry schedules remain lesser during winter months.  Although it was quite clear to islanders that the ferry system includes a logical extension of highway 20, the state government in Olympia still refuses to buy into the philosophy.  That old debil clout and what doesn't happen when you don't have it is what it's all about.  By the time we left the island more than 14 years later, I think there was an understandable sense of resignation about all matters ferry.

In our early 60s, we determined to embrace island life and quickly became involved in such entities as the San Juan Community Theater, Lions, Whale Museum, the County Fair and Pig War Barbeque.  The latter was started by the wife of the editor/publisher of the Journal of the San Juans.  Memory is a bit murky, but I seem to recall a phone call from her as a result of a feature about me in her husband's newspaper.  Included was mention of public relations triumphs in Chicago and she figured I might be of help in getting the first annual bbq event off to a reasonable start.

The Pig War is about the only war reasonable thinking persons might applaud.  It started in 1859 and lasted 12 bloodless years if you forget about the plugged pig owned by a Brit who lived on San Juan Island.  The shooter, an American, also lived on the island and refused to pay $100 costs demanded by the Brit whose pig had intruded upon the American's potato patch.  Armies faced off on the island where the Brits, with 2,140 soldiers, held a roughly 5-1 advantage.  The sides got along marvelously and the few problems were prompted by the island's enormous stock of liquor.  It was truly a tight little island with Gilbert & Sullivan operettas based upon lesser inspiration.

Jan decided our honoring of the Pig War should involve some kind of Chicago connection--perhaps a team of grill masters whose superiority would recall the notoriety of such Windy City institutions as councilmen, criminals, mayors, precinct captains and the Chicago Cubs.  Recalling Chicago's rich and sometimes inglorious history, we found ourselves confronting an island artist of our choosing who indicated she could create a sign of reasonable significance that would bring attention to our team's name: Pig Al's Trickynoses.  A bit on the serious side (we were never sure the wordplay registered), the artist questioned just what it was we had in mind.

"We'd like a personality logo.  Think of a Chicago gangster wearing a derby.  He has a very tough look and is drawn as a pig.  He's Pig Al, a take-off on Big Al Capone."  Suddenly, the woman's face lit up like the Chicago Theater's marquee.  "Got it," she said, we added a few copy lines and a week later saw proof of her creativity.  The sign was perfect.

The event attracted 22 teams that competed for awards including best ribs (it was an all-pork competition) and best sauce.  Pig Al's Trickynosis (a press release, available at the team's stall, extolled the team's virtues) were aided and abetted by the Hooker Cookers and acappella renditions of songs associated with Chicago.  Many attendees joined in while providing booze of greater intensity than beer and wine to the Hooker Cookers.  The highly attractive HCers were dressed in Chicago 20s style and a couple got more than a little tipsy during the festivities.

Communications on the island were highly interesting.  Islanders but a couple of weeks, we soon found rumor center, a mostly breakfast place called The Donut Shop.  Located on Spring Street next door to Friday Harbor's only cinema, The Donut Shop's apparent rationale for being beyond food was as a starting point for stories of heightened titillation.  Island rumors, their care and feeding, gave evidence of being in the hands of an islander of long duration who claimed he had conducted tests on the spreading of rumors.  A favorite methodology consisted of telling a soon-to-depart for Roche Harbor fellow breakfaster a flawed whopper of incomplete detail.  The amateur sociologist was a firm believer in man's ability to extemporize story components that needed bolstering and whose final form could very well impact the very substance of the original falsehood.  His "studies" often utilized a traveresing of the road from Friday Harbor to Roche Harbor (a community 12 miles away), and the story's return to The Donut Shop brought with it versions of remarkable change.  While not accomplished at a rate as fast as a speeding bullet, the tales of complex altered versions containing such diversities as a town councilman, King's groceries and a bag of cement required as few as 90 minutes to return to its place of origin.

Now living two hours from Friday Harbor, I'm certain the community's direction remains in the hands of five councilpersons and a mayor who guide the citizenry through such challenges as whether or not to post stop signs at intersections ever mindful that the island prides itself on not having a single stop light.  The petunia planters were an entirely different matter.

As we know, capricious government is everywhere and further proven by the Strange Case of The Petunia Planters.  It happened in Friday Harbor and was island comedy relief of 1995-96 while totally devoid of graft--the principal difference between Chicago government and the island.  It was the owners of the Front Street Ale House who wanted to build a deck extension hard by Spring Street, the major connecter from the ferry.  Al fresco dining was the objective but the owners were thwarted twice by councilmanic vote.  During more than two years, the deck, tables, chairs, and petunia planters were in place awaiting the gastronomically-inclined.  The town council believed the deck would force people off the sidewalk into vehicular traffic.

The Ale House appeared to finally win when a teetotaler councilman, having voted twice for the project, suddenly realized the restaurant served booze, then abstained (an interesting word under the circumstances) thus enabling the mayor to break a 2-2 tie coming down solidly on the side of petunia planters.  The mayor's role in the decision was not of great surprise since the mayor had, once again, predictably done the bidding of one of the Ale House owners.

Public outcry ensued and the council went into a monumental dither followed by something of a fulsome funk succeeded by a decision to reverse itself.  The petunias, seemingly ensconced on the deck, were doomed and I wrote a dream sequence column in the Islands Sounder featuring Mayor LaTrivia and council members Bumble, Grumble, Humble, Stumble, and Crumble.

Working with some fellow pranksters and the Ale House people, we organized services plus a petunia procssion similar to a joyous and jazzy New Orleans parade.  Extended life for the petunias was realized when the parade was concluded at a restaurant entrance on Second St. 

A suggestion to the Ale House was irresistible.  Suddenly table-less, chair-less and planter-less, why not initiate a new culinary experience: Japanese dining on floor mats and called Sushi Deck-O-Rama?

That never happened. I do recall that two of the Council members back then consistently referred to those who live in Japan as "Japs."

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"Such Interesting People"....reviewed by Bob Sanders

 

I seem to have come full circle public transportation-wise during these latter years.  I began early on in Lakewood, Ohio where I moved about as a youngster--first on the Detroit Avenue trolley, then the more upscale Clifton Boulevard ride.  The destination was nearly always downtown Cleveland and the movie houses featuring live entertainment including swing era bands such as Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman and Count Basie.  I just remembered not to leave out Jimmie Lunceford.

Now, I'm retired living in Bellingham, Washington and using a free WTA pass available to those who have lasted at least 80 years.  WTA stands for Whatcom Transit Authority and I ride the #15 bus from the Cordata Station three times a week.  It's transportation that takes me within two blocks of a swim at the YMCA.  It's a 25-minute run each way and I manage to read round-trip except when kids with little to say somehow produce boisterous enthusiasms about such things as video games.  It's times like that that I realize how fortunate I've been to have lived most of my life during less techy crazed times.

When I became a working stiff, I still managed to use public transportation--first in Cleveland, then in St. Louis where I went to work for TV Guide in 1954.  Actually, I did St. Louis gigs twice eventually prompting a Canadian friend to observe: "Guess you couldn't get enough of the place the first time around, eh?"  It was after a transfer to Atlanta by the magazine that I turned to the automobile doing the same in Rochester, New York, the Quad Cities and Los Angeles to get to work.  Being without a car in Los Angeles is nearly impossible and I stayed with wheels there and for three more years when I went to work in Chicago for Playboy Enterprises.  That was in 1968.  While big cities offer plenty of auto shortcomings, the Chicago lake route south to my office at Playboy wasn't bad and involved indoor parking for $27 a month.  The parking customers were largely Playboy employees and I never tried to figure that one out.  Maybe someone owed Hefner.  I needed a car for the magazine where so many working hours were at night.  My perky '66 powder blue Mustang convertible, parked one night in front of Hefner's State Parkway home, was the only car in the neighborhood untouched when The Weathermen smashed windows during the Democratic National Convention.  The car's windshield had a Playboy logo.

Most of my 22 years in Chicago utilized public transportation.  Maybe the greatest plus about it, certainly to readers, is the opportunity it affords them.  I once figured out my Chicago Transit Authority trips from and to the Wilmette Station (parking there most of the time for 50 cents and a buck a pop for the CTA) enabled me to read more than 11,000 hours worth.   

One of my great joys has been talking with members of the media whose stories made me aware that the unique qualities of some of the characters in Robert J. Casey's Such Interesting People were reflected in some of my contemporaries.  I got to thinking about Casey and his book maybe a month ago and determined to re-read it.  My thanks to both the Bellingham Public Library for obtaining it and the University of Oregon Library in Eugene for the loan. 

 Published in 1943 by Bobbs-Merrill, the book is an absolute classic and was touted to me by Bill Ashboldt, a photographer I worked with on the Lorain (Ohio) Journal.  Bill eventually moved on to the nearby Cleveland Plain Dealer and is best known for the many and widely-circulated photos he took of Sam Sheppard, neck in a brace.  Sheppard, a doctor convicted of murdering his wife, inspired The Fugitive TV series plus a feature film in addition to an enormously undeserved public chorus shouting Sam's innocence.  The latest is a Sheppard 60-minute "documentary" currently playing the ID Channel with a lot of facts either altered or cast aside.

Casey, who retired from Chicago journalism in 1947, would have loved covering the Sheppard trial.  On the other hand, he had his hands full back in his day with such interesting criminals as Al Capone, Dion O'Bannion, Tough Tommy Megrim and Peewee Poopopolos around and about.  Interestingly, the book's hoodlums are bit players to the journalism stars and eccentrics whose enterprising spirit and creative insanity made possible the greatest of the journalistic shows.

Casey nailed it as in: "The fantastic twenties! Those were the days when there were two cars in every bootlegger's garage and a corpse in every alley--when the kitchen smelled of raisin mash and the tattoo of bursting bottles marked the progress of the home-brew in the basement--when the best places to eat in the city were the speak-easies, or maybe your stomach was too paralyzed to tell--when scotch with a Southern accent cost twelve dollars a quart and the customers all seemed to have twelve dollars--when hearts were young and gay, and livers and lights, apparently, were more durable."

Having earned three citations for bravery in combat during World War I, Casey became an itinerant newsman before he made it in Chicago.  Joining the Chicago Daily News in 1920, he worked as a columnist and foreign correspondent.  He also wrote features, became an expert on the era's gang wars and traveled extensively.  Casey's coverage of World War II included Pearl Harbor and the blitz in London.  He authored 27 books.  All are worth your time.

While the emphasis of Such Interesting People is on Chicago editors including Henry Justin Smith of the Daily News, Walter Howey of the Tribune and Daily News and the American's  Harry Reutlinger plus the idiosyncratic approach to journalism by the reporters, there also are supporting walk-ons of stunning invention who became attached to newsrooms after wandering in off the streets.   

One was "The Ghost Catcher" who spoke with a pronounced German accent, said he was a proof reader and carried cards identifying himself as a "Ghost Catcher" whose name was Professor Otto Reichmann.  Claiming to be a catcher of considerable talent, he had once been hired by the Tribune as part of a claque that went around exposing spirit mediums, story matter probably accomplished by an artful end around Trib publisher Robert R. McCormick.

The Ghost Catcher, described by Casey as looking "like a relic of somebody else's elegance" quickly became a daily visitor to the Daily News and "like the sort of crank who usually pays visits to newspaper offices," temporarily lost out when the paper's publisher, Walter Strong, gave a tour of his brand new building to visiting publishers and editors from South America.  In an unfortunate piece of timing, the copy desk, located at the entrance to the news room, was missing its usual quota of habitues.  Only a "soiled old man in a grease-spotted overcoat and bilious-looking straw hat" sat writing something on a sheet of copy paper.  

Strong touched him on the shoulder asking: "I beg your pardon, but who are you?"

Professor Reichmann turned around and with an odd combination of surprise and indignation, shouted: "I sir," he cried, leaping to his feet, "I am The Ghost Catcher!"

Casey's delight is particularly apparent when he tells the story of Daily News editor Howey, formerly of the Tribune, who wrote a glowing editorial about the paper's leadership in sending a relief train downstate to do good deeds following a cyclone in Murphysboro.  The editorial soared in its successful attempt to properly describe the paper's humanity, timeliness of the project's execution and heroism, then decided what he had written deserved readership beyond that of his paper.  Giving a copy boy detailed instructions, the editor handed the lad a copy of the just-completed editorial scribbling a couple of words on it.  The lad made his way to the Tribune as directed to give the chief copy reader (identified as wearing an eyeshade) Howey's prose.  The scribbled note at the top read: McCormick: MUST.  The copy editor complied and the next edition of Col. McCormick's paper carried the bitter rival's self-congratulatory pronouncement atop the Editorial Page.  It was widely believe Howey had left McCormick's employ unhappily some years before, a likelihood backed up by Casey's suggestion that such a condition "would explain so well the little pleasantries that Mr. Howey extended to the Tribune."

Strong, the publisher who made the acquaintance of The Ghost Catcher, had limited association with the editorial side of the busi8ness and became upset with member of the business community who suggested Daily News reporters were careless.  Strong took public transportation between his home and office and eventually tired of the charges.  One day he invited the critics to dinner on top of the half-finished Daily News Building.  The critics arrived believing they were to be confronted by a gesture of conciliation.  Most of what they knew about the newspaper business was confined to what they saw at the movies.  Forced to make their way in the dark through piles of gravel, they eventually arrived by way of a wooden construction elevator at the 24th floor banquet room.  During the ride, there were strange echoes in the big building.

Strong never finished his opening line of welcome.  Writes Casey: "A man at the middle of the table who hadn't spoken much during the evening and didn't seem to know anybody suddenly pushed back his chair, jumped to his feet, pulled out a pistol and fired point-blank at the guest sitting opposite.  The guest fell over backward.  A police whistle shrieked outside.  The door opened and a woman was glimpsed in the entrance.  But only briefly.  As she stepped across the threshold the lights were out and there was another series of shots and two or three more screams.  An electric lantern flashed to reveal a brace of policemen and as that single ray of light died out the air was filled with a noise of clanking iron.  Then the lights flashed on again to discover the petrified diners in a number of odd attitudes and to reveal that both the murderer and corpse had gone away.  Where there had been a bedlam there was now a dead and terrifying quiet.  Through  it broke the voice of the host who oddly enough had begun to smile.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "we shall see how good you are as reporters.  A waiter will give each of you a pad of paper and a pencil and you shall write out in your own way a record of what you saw just now--or what you thought you saw--and when your stories have been read aloud I shall entertain further suggestions about the improvement of my staff."

As Casey observed: The best brains of Chicago went to work then to prove what any cross-examiner knows about the fallacy of human testimony.  Mr. Strong burned the manuscripts before his guests took their way sheepishly to the terrifying elevator.  One wishes he hadn't."

Get the book if you can find it.  Anyone who enjoys reading about the kind of folks who made The Front Page possible will delight in Such Interesting People by Robert J. Casey.

And now, if you'll excise me, I have a bus to catch and the last chapter of the book to read.

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Small Scale Pinch Hitting....by Bob Sanders

How one of those outrageously strange and thoroughly memorable baseball anniversaries managed to pass me by is, perhaps, another indication that advanced age is creeping up on me.  Recollections of the odd happenings of August 19, 1951 required a bit of internet jogging and I'm indebted to some of the usual providers including Wikipedia--not always the most reliable of sources.

Mention the name Eddie Gaedel to just about anyone other than a baseball fan of reasonably good memory and you'll get the groggiest of groggy looks.  Here are some hints: he was vertically challenged, played in one major league game, wore an unusual number on his back, and achieved immortality in a couple of minutes.

Gaedel knew a Chicago booking agent who had done business with Bill Veeck, owner of the Cleveland Indians from 1946-49.  Having "advanced" to ownership of the St. Louis Browns, Veeck contacted the agent with an idea for a gag to be consummated on a major league diamond.  The agent put Veeck in touch with Gaedel and the initial plans were kicked off for a midget to become a celebrity by walking in a major league game.

Veeck, sometimes called The Barnum of Baseball, was one of two wild men never understood by their fellow owners whose approach to the game and relations with their employees bore distinct similarity to plantation owners of pre-Civil War days.

The other crazy was Charles O. Finley whose insanity tended toward personal involvement such as: riding a mule around the Kansas City A's infield (later in Oakland); the hiring of a beautiful Chicago TV weather girl who, as a color commentator, knew as much about baseball as Finley did robot surgery; and the Machiavellian creation of a pennant porch built by a college of carpenters and designed to result in more A's (and opponents) home runs.  To Finley's credit, it was he who suggested that World Series games be played at night.  This development came 36 years after the Cincinnati Reds hosted the first night game in 1935.  Baseball is often slow to recognize, then seize upon good ideas.

The inspiration for Veeck's canard is a bit murky.  Frequently accused of stealing the idea from a James Thurber short, You Could Look It Up, Veeck denied the charge in his charming autobiography, Veeck As In Wreck, telling readers he stole the idea from John J. McGraw.

McGraw, an enormously successful manager of the New York Giants, was a pal of Veeck's father, then president of the Chicago Cubs when the younger Veeck became aware of a hunchback McGraw kept around his team as a good-luck charm.  Further, Veeck more than once heard McGraw, having had a drink or 10, proclaim his desire to send his gnome up to bat.

The year of the midget pinch-hitter also was the Fiftieth Anniversary of the American League, an event the cheapskate organization did little about other than provide special emblems for players' uniforms.  Anniversaries to Veeck suggested parties and he soon involved the Falstaff Brewery in celebratory cake and beer, a culinary combination totally foreign these days to Martha Stewart.  Consumption would be during a double-header between the Browns and the Detroit Tigers.  Neither team was going anywhere.  The Tigers would finish in fifth place and the Browns last as usual.

It's hard to believe, but the Browns would encounter such financial problems two years later that the team implored fans to return foul balls.  Batting and fielding practice was skipped on the season's last game and umpires allowed balls to remain in play that should have been discarded.  That game, the Browns' 100th loss of the season, not only was the last of the year but the last ever in St. Louis for the team that moved next year to Baltimore.

It was agent Marty Caine who introduced Gaedel to Veeck.  Caine knew Veeck from the days when he owned the Indians while employing all manner of box office attractions including Max Patkin, most often referenced as the Clown Prince of Baseball.  In addition to Patkin, described in his New York Timesobituary as having "a toothless face capable of contortions rivaling a knuckleball's," Veeck's attendance enhancements included exploding scoreboards and a movable fence whose flexibility of 15 feet changed from series to series depending upon home run capabilities.

Editorial accuracy demands that Veeck also be acknowledged as a solid baseball man whose appreciation of talent (and fairness) led to his 1947 signing of Larry Doby, the first black player to play in the American League, and Satchel Paige, the oldest rookie ever (42) the following year.

Gaedel, who stood 3' 7" with his socks on, was a bit dubious when Veeck approached him about his major league debut.  Veeck asked how much he knew about baseball and the answer suggested he was reasonably well-schooled in the game's basics: "Well, he said.  "I know you're supposed to hit the white ball with the bat.  And then you run somewhere."  Who could ask for anything more under the circumstances?

As Veeck worked on the little fellow's batting stance, the Browns' owner became fascinated by the nuances of pitching to a midget.  At one point, Veeck grabbed a ruler and determined Gaedel's strike zone measured 1 1/2 inches, a severe challenge to the Tiger pitcher who, when game day rolled around, turned out to be Bob Cain.

The contest's scorecard that day reflected the rarity of the moment.  Offering further proof of his unique resourcefulness, Veeck, the man who first placed names on the backs of players, put the number 1/8 on Gaedel's uniform, borrowed from the bat boy.  The wily Veeck, not wishing to tip his hand, identified the new player in the scorecard as #18.

Veeck had taken care not to magnify his deceit by offering it as a lone piece of derangement certain to offend baseball's power structure.  A between games celebration included classic cars circling the field and a band featuring Paige on the drums.  Further, Veeck's circus (he once tried to buy Ringling Bros.) included festivities at all the bases including a hand-balancing act at first base, a trampoline exhibition at second and a team of jugglers at third.  Even Patkin was there.  He pulled a woman out of the grandstand and jitterbugged with her on the pitcher's mound.  Gaedel first got into the act when, suited up, he jumped out of a birthday cake.  The crowd of 18,000 quickly put him out of mind--but not for long.  

As a pinch hitter, Gaedel had to bat for somebody who turned out to be Frank Saucier who had defended his center field position in the top of the first.  During the rest of Veeck's life, he felt badly about Saucier's involvement.  A minor league phenom labled "can't miss," Saucier was a favorite of Veeck's.

The Browns came to bat with the ballpark announcer intoning: "For the Browns, number one-eighth, Eddie Gaedel, batting for Saucier."  The crowd buzzed and confusion reigned.  Gaedel began warming up by swinging three toy bats.  Chief Umpire Ed Hurley took a look at Gaedel, blanched, then headed toward the Browns bench.

"Hey," he shouted to manager Zach Taylor, "what's going on here?"

Taylor responded bringing to the plate papers that included Gaedel's contract.  The active player list was produced proving that there was room to add a player.  Cain and his catcher, Bob Swift, huddled at the mound to discuss the imponderables of pitching to a midget.  Swift, acknowledging the significance of the moment, dropped to both knees giving his pitcher the best target possible.  Meanwhile, Gaedel had abandoned the rehearsed crouch Veeck had come up with and was aping Joe DiMaggio's classic feet spread style.  Would he attempt to hit one of Cain's pitches?

Gaedel followed Veeck'sscript and Cain failed to find the strike zone, such as it was, while laughing between attempts to find the tiny strike zone.  Gaedel walked on four pitches.  The last pitch was at least three feet over his head.  Jim Delsing then ran for the midget hitter who patted his replacement on the butt, waved to the crowd, shook hands with the first base coach and took a lot of time crossing the infield to the third base Browns dugout.  He loved his considerably less than 15 minutes later confessing he "felt like Babe Ruth."  During all of the next season, Delsing wore #18.

Veeck had a lot of fun with league president Will Harridge and others in baseball's hierarchy so offended by his hi-jinks.  Leaping upon the phrase "little people," Veeck called for further clarification about minimum heights and what the height of a player should be.  References were made to New York Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzutto ("not much over five feet tall") with the inimitable Veeck suggesting Rizzuto was either a large midget or a short major league player.  Harridge decreed Gaedel's name would be stricken from all official records, a decision of chagrin for Veeck who had promised Gaedel immortality.  Veeck countered by suggesting that if Gaedel hadn't batted, then Bob Cain would not have thrown the pitches and that Swift hadn't caught them.  Moving right along, it also meant that Delsing had come in to run for no one, meaning Saucier had been deprived of a time at bat.  Veeck's case boiled down to the integrity of the sport's records having been compromised.  Records, of course, are the holy grail of baseball.

The Saucier aspect of the midget who pinch hit story is both complex and sad.  Born in 1926, he served 38 months in the U.S. Navy during World War II, then began a spectacular minor league career in 1947 hitting .348 at Belleville in the Illinois State League before being promoted the next year to Wichita Falls where he hit an amazing .446, the best in all of baseball.  His .343 average during 1950 for the San Antonio Missions in the Texas League won the batting title and he was named Sporting News  Minor League Player of the Year.  At the threshold of success, Saucier was pulled into the Korean War, suffered an injury and attempted to resume his career after Veeck signed him while adding a substantial bonus.  That was in July, 1951.  He played mostly hurt (severe bursitis) in but 18 games getting one hit in 14 at bats for a .071 batting average.  He never returned to the majors and eventually became a successful businessman.  A graduate (with degrees in math and physics earned at Westminster College (Fulton, Missouri), he is proud of an athletic field there named after him.  The college may be recalled as the site of Sir Winston Churchill's "iron curtain" speech in 1946.

Gaedel gained re-entry into the record books and you could look it up.  He earned 100 bucks for having the shortest career in the history of major league baseball.  When he died in 1963 of a heart attack following a mugging, Gaedel got a front-page obituary in The New York Times.  The honor normally is reserved for statesmen, generals and Nobel Prize winners.  The lone baseball person to attend services was Bob Cain, the only major leaguer to pitch to a midget.

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Bonhomie Bob Cromie....by Bob Sanders

It was while taking the #15 WTA bus to downtown Bellingham the other day that I began thinking about my good fortune to have known Bob Cromie.  Perhaps it was the book I was reading during the ride that reminded me of him.  A classic among journalists, Robert J. Casey's Such  Interesting People is a highly perceptive look at Chicago reporters, writers and editors who, among other things, inspired Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur to write The Front Page.

Cromie, who left us at 90 with six months and change left before the Millennium, was a carry-over from Casey's era.  His book, published in 1943, did not goose me into the field of journalism; rather, it was reportorial efforts on The Heun Gazette, a for-laughs-only publication passed around study halls by restless students at Lakewood High School located in a suburb immediately west of Cleveland, Ohio.  More later about The Gazette, editor Dick Heun and our decidedly bizarre approach to journalism as we created our versions of the first pages of history.

Cromie may be recalled as the host of a nationally syndicated radio show about books plus two TV programs, "Cromie Circle" on Chicago's WGN and "Book Beat," home based at WTTW, the city's public TV channel that fed the shows to PBS stations.  His broadcast triumphs were an adjunct to four decades of reportorial excellence.  He loved words and the people who used them--particularly those who called attention to social injustice, an attitude that characterized every aspect of his work and life.

Successful journalists owe their reputations to many things.  Some dig deeper for stories than their counterparts.  Others, not as persevering, may place greater emphasis on originality while some make effective use of contacts calling upon rolodexes both real and of the mind.  Cromie is the only journalist I ever met who was thoroughly noble and it showed in the way people responded to him.  I never heard him swear and that includes time on the golf course where people are very inclined to do so.

In a business where excessive drinking, more than any other shortcoming, has probably ended more careers, Cromie (to my knowledge) never took a drink.  Whether this was a lifelong consistency or a resolve preceded by a battle with demon rum I know not.  He often sat at John Fischetti's First Amendment celebratory table at Riccardo, joining in and providing hilarity while not imbibing.  Fischetti, a Pulitzer winner for editorial cartooning, was my best friend first at the  Chicago Daily News, then at Sun-Times after the Daily News was folded by Marshall Field V.

Like many outstanding journalists, Cromie was a messy desk person although he was on the neat side compared to sports writer/columnist Bill Gleason of the Sun-Times.  I once made reference to something he had written nine years earlier prompting Gleason to dive into a filing system everyone called Mt. Gleason.  Groping for a moment or two with Herman Cain-like proficiency, he extracted a published piece plus paper-clipped notes and proclaimed: "You mean this?"   

The messy desk possibly continues to be a matter of pride to some contemporary journalists.  I once took wife Janet on a tour of the Chicago Tribune editorial floor during which she met such print paragons as columnist Eric Zorn, critic Gene Siskal (then thumbs-upping it at the movies with TV co-host Roger Ebert) and cartoonist Jeff MacNelly, a three-time Pulitzer winner.  It was in the newsroom that we came upon a remarkable example of clutter whose magnitude suggested it had to have been detritus of an Oklahoma tornado decidedly off course.

"Whose office is this?" asked Jan.

"It's Casey Bukro's,"  I replied knowing what was coming next.

"What does he do?" was the anticipated question.

"Why, he's the Environmental Editor" I giggled in return.  Bukro, responsible for environmental entries, nearly won a Pulitzer for his "Save Our Lake" series.

Born in Detroit and educated at Oberlin College, Cromie joined the Tribunein 1936 and was the newspaper's war correspondent for four years.  Wherever World War II battles raged, whether in Europe or the Pacific, Cromie was there to report--often with a local angle.  His modus operandi nearly always was kicked off by asking if there were any soldiers or Marines from Chicago or Illinois.  Tribune readers had the war "personalized" for them and Cromie was masterful.

Cromie was with the Marines when Guadalcanal was invaded and he put in a lot of miles traveling with Gen. George Patten including coverage of the Battle of the Bulge.  Like Ernie Pyle, he wrote stories about average guys turned into everyday heroes.  Typical of his work was an October 12, 1943 report telling of a raid on Rabaul located, as the dateline proclaimed, SOMEWHERE IN NEW GUINEA.  The writing is rich, spare and aimed at a readership whose heightened interest in the war is in direct contrast to today's indifference.

"As we taxied on the runway," continued Cromie, "I moved into the bomb bay and stood between rows of 1,000 pound bombs.  We had plenty of respect for the 1,000 pounders--Staff Sgt. Fred C. Whitney, 22, Independence, Mo., Staff Sgt. John G. Shaffer of Logan, W. VA, and I.  We didn't return to our comfortable posts in the waist until Bond (Lt. John E. Bond 24 of Scarsdale, N.Y.) had plenty of time to get his plane on an even keel.  Other heavy bombers were all around us.  I could count more than 50 at one time.  We gradually got into formation and headed for Rabaul, soon running into heavy fog which hid the wingtips and sent tiny drops of water running on the windows.  Then into the sun once more.  The morning was all blue and gold and blinding white.  I went forward and stood behind the pilot's seat.  Tech Sgt. H. V. Milarski of 3800 Diversey boulevard, Chicago, was working on the radio.  As he smoked a cigarette he looked as bored as if riding down State street in a street car.  Tech Sgt. Joseph A. Gosseaux, 23, of Grindstone, Pa., the engineer, was busy writing down the names of the personnel.  He did this with ease from long practice, even to putting down each man's serial number from memory--some numbers containing eight digits." 

Cromie's war journalism is something we don't get today because of the military's control explicit in embedding reporters resulting in spoon fed versions far short of what we should be getting.  For that we can thank President George H.W. Bush, Dick Cheney (then Defense Secretary) and other members of the administration who conducted an assault on constitutional freedoms during Operation Desert Storm.  Without question, a strangely passive press also was at fault.

I have two particularly fond memories of Cromie.  One involved attending services for Fischetti who died two weeks after I left Field Enterprises (owner of the Sun-Times).  There were people critical of my leaving for the Tribune but Fischetti was highly supportive during two months of my maneuverings with the marketing and editorial departments of the Boul Mich monolith.

Cromie's eulogy for Fischetti was perfect.  In the company of all who loved the guy, Cromie offered a parting line that recalled a legion of mid-day fun: "I think it's entirely possible that John Fischetti invented the long lunch."

My other indelible memory of the journalist was the result of a question I asked him following a taping of "The Cromie Circle" at WGN.  Of all the authors he had interviewed, with which one would he prefer to spend a lot of time?  Cromie mentioned several but the stickout he decided was Ernest K. Gann.  Gann's many lives were spent as a theatrical manager, film director, painter, writer, pilot and seaman.  Both he and Cromie were man's men for whom laughter was an important ingredient of living.  "He is truly one hell of a guy," was the way he put it.

"'ll tell you something interesting about Gann," observed Cromie.  "His was the only interview I ever conducted in which the subject would not tell me where he lived.  I asked him why and Gann replied: "If I tell you, you'll ask me what it's like and I'll tell you how wonderful it is.  Members of your audience will then get interested in the place and they'll buy property and build homes and the place won't be the same.  That's why."

Our conversation took place in 1985 shortly before Cromie retired.  When more than four years later Jan and I moved to San Juan Island in the Pacific Northwest, we discovered that one of its better-know residents was Gann, author of 25 novels about aviation and the sea.  Among the best known: Fate is the Hunter, The High and the Mighty and Blaze of Noon. 

We met Ernie and spunky wife Dodie (an inductee into the National Ski Hall of Fame, she captained the 1948 Olympics team) at a party a couple of weeks after our January, 1990 arrival in Friday Harbor.  He recalled the conversation with Cromie and thought our meeting indicative of pronounced prescience on Cromie's part.  Among the many joys of our island life were the sensational views offered from our home including the Olympic and Cascade Mountains, the waters of Puget Sound, the Strait of Juan de Fuca and much of Ernie and Dodie's 760-acre Red Mill Farm in the San Juan Valley below.

The farm and its assured future gave further evidence of Ganns' staunch attitude regarding the heaven on earth he had referenced in his conversation with Cromie.  Shortly after donating a conservation easement to the San Juan Preservation Trust thus denying development, Gann told me: "We have to do something to save this land, not only for our children but for ourselves.  People need to stop thinking of money all the time, or the land won't be here." 

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