Sarah and Hizzoner

In the summer of 1971, inside the city of Chicago, you would think that nothing much had changed. Fire hydrants were detonated at neighborhood intersections to cool the sweltering masses. Ice cream vendors thrived. Thousands of Sunday afternoon barbecues were conducted by masters of the charcoal arts, tongs in one hand and a can of Old Style in the other, while sizzling before them danced bratwurst, Italian and Polish sausages--the Holy Trinity of processed meat byproducts. As friends and family exchanged news, invariably the conversation would include something like this: "my cousin Johnny's idiot kid got on wit' Sanitation". In the North Shore suburbs, that might be translated as, "my nephew has a new job as a garbage man". Except that no one on the North Shore would ever admit such a thing. But inside Chicago, despite the stained image of the '68 Democratic Convention and the race riots of that same summer, a city job was still a city job. It was not only the promise of a steady paycheck, but also one that wouldn't require much in the way of sustained labor.

It was also confirmation that Chicago, the town built on the patronage plums doled out by Richard J. Daley--'Hizzoner'--still worked. The system reached from the lowliest lawn mowers in city parks all the way through the ranks of Daley's city council. While 'democratic' in party name, the council was as closed a court as any medieval king's. Among the 50 elected aldermen, a black face or two could be found, but because Daley's machine controlled the nominating process, their loyalty was assured. The lone Republican member was a curiosity, derided when not dismissed entirely. The only discordant notes came from a handful of progressive Democrats from pockets of wealth on the near north side and Hyde Park (where Barack Obama lived before moving to the White House). But their attempts to argue democracy in a body purportedly constructed to honor concepts like 'one man-one vote' and 'free speech' were doomed. When he had heard enough, Daley, seated behind his commanding desk like a wary wizard, would simply tap his finger to the side of his nose, and magically the dissenter's microphone would lose the power of electronic amplification.

But outside the council chambers, Daley was losing his magic touch. Aligned with the likes of Rev. Jesse Jackson, the few council liberals dared to challenge the entire state's slate of party delegates to the following year's national Democratic Convention in Miami. And they would win. But not without a fierce fight from Daley. His chosen argument was a populist appeal symbolized by the then recently coined phrase, 'limousine liberal'. In his appeal, those party rivals, voicing support for the 'common man', could have no concept of that man's world. The bungalow belt of carpenters and machinists that girded Daley's working class political base frequently toiled beneath the stench of the Stockyards. In Daley's mind, those sniffing only the fresh breezes of the posh lakefront precincts could neither see--nor smell--real life. They were college-educated, cafe-fed, and couldn't figure out which end of a hammer to hold. They were elitists. And thus, they were the enemy.

This comes to mind as Sarah Palin inevitably assumes the role of Mad Hatteress for the current wave of disaffected Tea Partiers. In the upside-down world of baseless beliefs and failed lives, stupidity is smart and quitters can still win. Even if you can't voice your truth, or even explain it to yourself, you can still feel that it's right. And that's all that matters. Because aligned against you are those persistent limousine liberals, with all their easy money and their paper degrees. They don't know your world. They are elitists. And thus, they are the enemy.

But a funny thing will happen to the Republicans on the way to electoral triumph. Because (as the perceptive ones already realize), the Tea Partiers stand ready to slay their own elitists along the way. Sarah Palin is in attack mode. She is the same potent political witch's brew of delusion, ambition, religion, ego and vengeance that periodically conflates heroism with fascism. There is no 'I' in team. But there is in Palin. She is mad as hell--and so are her minions. They're not going to take it any more. They are mounting the steps of hatred in lockstep, one at a time--frustration...alignment...mockery...anger...obedience...violence. Their eyes are trained on Obama. But their boots will mindlessly trample would-be allies on the climb to the top.

On those hot August nights of 1968, when Mayor Daley's stately Michigan Avenue and pristine Grant Park were invaded by the 'dirty hippies'...whose straggly hair and rag-tag clothes only disguised the next generation of clueless elite...there was no doubt sincere conviction in the hearts and minds of the the helmeted and shielded police as they raised their night sticks. After all, they were not attacking, only defending. Defending the truth; a city that worked; a country that worked. A place where 'real people' understood what the elites never could. In the heat of the moment, cliches like 'offense is the best defense' and 'love it or leave it' and 'America first' could all be melded into a hazy, fearful aggression. The crack of wooden weapon on human skull was not violence--it was justice.

It was the death knell for Mayor Daley's career.

But it was the spiritual birth for Sarah Palin's.