Dogma and Dog Days of Summer

I hate to interrupt the Killer's Serial (not because anyone is reading it or waiting on the next installment, but just because I hate disorder), nevertheless I came across something today that I felt worth promoting.

Let me begin by saying that I hate, hate, hate political dogma. My personal innermost circle of hell is filled neck deep with letters to the editor, Hannitys, Colmes', Rushs, and people who think NPR is infallible.


I learned at BYU that I could tolerate any political opinion, so long as anyone could demonstrate to me that he or she had actually considered the issues involved with the opinion rather than the mantras, statements, and catchphrases.

The last thing the world, or any democracy, needs is one more drone screaming "No blood for oil!" or "Illegal immigration is illegal!"

If we are polarized as a nation, and we are getting there, then what right, what outrageous audacity, does anyone claim that would entitle them to paint the other half of the population as idiots? What makes you so much smarter? Especially if you cannot even see the merits of opinions held by the other half?

Any issue worthy of public debate has very valid reasons for support and disapproval.

That said, I'm sick of hearing claims and barbs about climate change from people who could not tell a p-value from a pea pod, and from folks who have never once cracked a peer reviewed publication. Furthermore, even if we were to learn some generations later that climate change is a grand fraud perpetuated by mass hysteria in the international scientific community; even if any measure we can take to reduce pollution pales in comparison to the negative impacts of third world industrialization; even if a drive toward pollution reduction is paternalistic and keeps the proletariat nations bound to cheap production for the bourgeoisie; why not make an effort to do what's right and reduce pollution on our end in general? Not because we have to in order to avoid a dooms day. Not because we can certainly make a great impact. But because we can do something.

Just because the commons lies covered in tragedy, is that any justification for us not to pull back and corral whatever cows we are able?

Is there anyone willing to argue that pollution is beneficial? Should potential ecomonic impacts drive all our decisions? Surely you've given up money hundreds of times this year in consideration of a higher quality of life. So why dig in your heals and fight conservation just because the guy on AM radio says Obama is a fascist?

For shame. Conservation should be a general principle of a prudent life, whether in terms of environment, energy, finances, materials, or any resource. And what ever happened to our national sense of stewardship?


How is drawing more heavily against nature's balance (which we are doing to some degree unless you actually believe pollution is beneficial environmentally) for economic consideration any less blameworthy than leaving behind a legacy of debt for your children to promote some current ease? (And don't try to argue entitlement spending here--it needs to be addressed too; I don't dispute that--it has nothing to do with the wholesale mortgage of environmental quality the world has been bent on since the industrial revolution.)

So, though I hate, hate, hate politically inflammatory rhetoric, I actually found this article really satisfying. (Though use of the "T" word was obnoxious.)

New York Times: "Betraying the Planet"

Killer Serials--The Ghost of Al Capone is My Roommate

Part II--The Lexington Hotel

***Do Not Read Before Part I***

I'm not a historian; I'm not even from Chicago. I'm just a condo owner.

Last April I became a fighting Mondale alumnus when I graduated from the University of Minnesota Law school. Spring 2009 was a rough time to hit the job market, especially for a Mondale, like me, who was in the bottom half of his class. The job hunt was humiliating and slow, and after a month all my best supporters--mom, dad, aunt Karen--began to lose any trace of hope when they would talk to me about the hunt. It wasn't until late May that I found a job, not as a lawyer, and not at a high power law firm, but as a paralegal for the IRS in Chicago.

When people would ask I would say I was taking a job with the federal government and tell them nothing more. I didn't have the heart to tell anyone (who I thought wouldn't find out) that I was going to be looking up cases and photocopying reports for real attorneys. But, disappointing as it was, federal jobs mean federal pay scales, and the money, though it wouldn't compare to private work, was not too bad. Not bad at all for a guy who had $120,000 in loan debt and had gone two months without any job offers. Although heartbreaking, the decision was easy. I was off to the Second City to enter the exciting world of tax law research.

On the day I arrived in town I extended my debt even more by signing closing papers for a Lexington Park condominium, unit 1947. It was my very own one bedroom with den in the heart of Chicago's southside, "starting in the low 200s."

Lexington Park was named after the Lexington Hotel, which sat on the same plot of ground until 1995. It's probably alright to name a residential building after the old hotel, but you wouldn't want to name your kid after it. The Lexington Hotel had a shady history, at best.

Built in 1892 for the opening of the World's Columbian Exposition, perhaps better known as the Chicago World's Fair, the hotel was supposed to provide luxury residences and accommodations to fair guests. With the closing of the fair, demand substantially fell. Once it was discovered that the hotel was just down Indiana Ave. from H.H. Holmes's infamous "murder castle," demand died, and the hotel fell into disrepair. This is probably why a young, up-and-coming entrepreneur decided to pick up the property on the cheap and establish his headquarters there.


In 1928 Al Capone bought the Lexington Hotel, placed armed guards all along the bottom floor and all around the block, and ran his criminal empire from 22nd Street (later renamed) and Michigan Ave. The hotel would serve as his headquarters until Capone was arrested in 1938, and shipped off to Alcatraz where his body and mind would slowly be ravaged by syphilis. The hotel would outlast Capone, but didn't fair much better.

The associations between the Lexington Hotel, crime, Capone, and Chicago's seedy underside were two strong. With no other entrepreneurs chomping at the bit, the hotel slide into a brothel, and then a low-rent residential hotel, which is a nice way of saying crack/flop house. The Lexington Hotel was declared blight and the city condemned it in 1980. For fifteen years it sat vacant, it's only wholesome use being as a back drop in the photographs of old tourists, mostly men who remembered seeing Capone's exploits on the news reels as small boys.


In 1995 the Lexington was finally demolished, razed clean to the ground. The building was a historical site, and a lot of old Chicagoans were angry at the time, but the city had had enough of the rats and drug dealers that infested the area. A decade would pass before the recollections of the prostitutes, crimes, and mob bosses were sufficiently vanished. Buildings can be torn down faster than memories. In a turn of good fortune, the southside started to become revitalized, just in time for the White Sox to bring home the 2005 World Series trophy and set it on the Chicago mantel. Pleased with the change they saw, the Chieftain Construction company decided the Lexington lot had sat fallow long enough. In 2007 ground was broken for thirty-one stories of trendy urban condos--a whole tower of glass, faux granite, and stainless steel appliances.

When I moved here I didn't know anything about H.H. Holmes, mobsters, or the Lexington Hotel brothel. Even if I had known, I wouldn't have changed my decision. I'm not superstitious. A few months ago I would have been happy to learn they built the place on an Indian graveyard; it would've given me a decent little bargaining chip when I was negotiating the price in the low 200s.

Killer Serials--The Ghost of Al Capone is My Roommate

Part I--The Windy City

In 1492 Columbus came to the Americas. This is a well known among English-speakers, because that year happens to rhyme with the color of the ocean. Far fewer people know what happened 401 years later--The World's Columbian Exposition. "Exposition" doesn't rhyme so neatly as "blue."

In 1889 France built a tower out of scrap metal and invited the world to come have a look. Food was served and they called it the "Exposition Universelle." I don't know how many people were invited, or who répondez s'il vous plaî-ed, but 28,000,000 people showed up. The whole thing was an incredible success; the U.S. became jealous.


To understand the national reaction, you have to remember the United States was dating England exclusively. They broke up, and the U.S. scored France on the rebound. The two started hanging out, talked together about how fat and ugly England was, and had a whirlwind romance. The United States was going through a revolution. It was fun and exciting. We got some sugar from France, in terms of money and naval support. The mutual love was commemorated with his-and-her statues of women holding torches. Soon France got into it's own revolution and war, and came looking for similar support. Under the direction of President Washington, the U.S. stopped answering France's calls. France drove by the house a couple of times, but the U.S. pretended we weren't home. It was mean, but we were still young, immature, and didn't know how to deal with strong emotions and socially delicate situations.

When the Exposition Universelle made France the belle of the international ball, our Congress couldn't stand it. It's hard to have a lot of people paying attention to your ex. The U.S. had to have another ball. Now. Congressional committees, working as fast as Congressional Committees can, narrowed down the possible venues to three American cities: Washington D.C., New York, and Chicago. New York was the gem of the country. D.C. was the nation's capital. Chicago, by contrast, was a stinking expanse of rail yards, slaughter houses, cattle yards, mud streets, and run down tenaments.

Illinois was the American frontier--everything West being rocks, dirt, pine trees, Native Americans, gold miners, and Mormons.

Whatever Chicagoans lacked in sophistication, they made up for with heart. If you've ever lived and fallen in love with a city that's considered provincial, you'll understand how readily defensive the tip of the tongue becomes. The people of Chicago were so adamant in blustering boasts of their city's merits, that New Yorker's, in derision, started calling Chicago "The Windy City."

New York could make fun and tease all they wanted. Congress gave Chicago the Columbian Exposition. To stick it to France, Chicago was going to throw the world a party on the 400th anniversary of an Italian, sailing for Spain, trying to reach India, accidentally landing in America. What could be more natural?







I'm not trying to show off. I never would've learned any of this if I hadn't met Al.

Bad Call

Welcome to my average summer day.

6:30 Awake.

7:00 Law of Moses.

8:15 Drive to law school--predominantly listen to sports talk radio.

9:00 Lending Law.

11:00 Work out--mostly watch ESPN and CNN.

12:30 Drive home--predominantly listen to sports talk radio.

1:30 Read law books; research legal issues.

4:00 Drive back to law school--predominantly listen to sports talk radio.

6:00 Administrative Law.

8:00 Drive home--predominantly listen to sports talk radio.

Law. Sports. Law. Sports. Forgive me if my thoughts lack diversity, but here is a nexus (non-lexis type).

Enter Lee Cider.



This man stole Lance Armstrong's bike. Clever? No. Criminal? Certainly. Kind of funny? Maybe.

For his crime of bike rustling, Mr. Cider will spend three years in prison thinking about the folly of stealing the bike of the most famous cyclist in the history of the world. (Did he think he would Craigslist it? Pawn it?)

Now let's move to the top side of the sports world.

Meet Dante Stallworth.



One evening he spent the whole night getting liquored up, got behind the wheel of his Bentley, and killed an innocent pedestrian at 7:00 AM. For this not-at-all-funny and just-as-certain crime, Mr. Stallworth will spend a grand total of 24 days in jail and perform 1,000 hours of community service.

I know this isn't particularly entertaining, but given the mental neighborhood I live in, I can't help but to find this seriously disturbing and grotesque.

Vain Ambitions

My dog is obsessive. I don't know if it was nature or nurture, but I feel part way responsible. Regardless...

I'm always trying to convince him that he would be happier if he could mentally let go: stop thinking about the bird outside, the reflection my watch is making on the ceiling, or the squeaky I set on top of the fridge.

He refuses to be comforted. He can stare and wait and whine and dance and always, always keep up the stare. He cannot be diverted, appeased, or reasoned with. He is locked in a marriage between himself and fantasy, which thunder, lightening, earthquake, and gale cannot divorce.

Would Churchill train a dog to never, never, never give up? Is not discretion the better part of valor? Should not a covenant impetuously made when broken reveal a virtue?

I don't know. But I do know that I woke up in the middle of the night to grab my laptop, jot down this poem, and cannonball right back into sleep. I call it "O Coyote."

O' Coyote...
Your lust for roadrunners
is your undoing.

Weighing My Options...

Yesterday I started thinking about becoming an anarchist.



Pros: Something to talk about at dinner parties and a possible change of apparel.

Cons: It doesn't seem very convenient, and there would be very few people my own age at the Christmas party.