August 2, 2004

BY NEIL STEINBERG SUN-TIMES COLUMNIST

Opening shot

So it begins. The federal government meets this week with airlines to press them to schedule fewer flights through O'Hare Airport. Which means more flights through other cities. Which means the historic peaking of Chicago as a great center of commerce -- that began because the railroads converged here and continued because we had a world class airport -- and the start of the decline. Which means, when we're old, we'll spend our golden years shuffling around a fading city. As it is, Chicago isn't the Second City anymore -- it's the Third City, after New York and Los Angeles, and if we don't fix O'Hare soon, it's going to quickly become the Sixth City, after Denver and St. Louis and Dallas.

If you think I'm wrong, remember: History is a fickle mistress. Galena was a big deal, too, once.

Bring back the prairie

A lion's share of the fault for this disturbing development belongs to our departing junior senator, Peter Fitzgerald, the Republican maverick -- the polite term for "pariah" -- who decided his big contribution to the state would be to strangle O'Hare, in favor of an as-yet-unbuilt airport in an as-yet-undetermined cornfield somewhere in the southwest suburbs. He's actually accusing the city and the airlines of orchestrating delays at O'Hare so as to bolster their case for more runways.

That's insane. As if the city needed to have the worst on-time record in the country to prove that O'Hare desperately needs modernizing. If Fitzgerald wanted to promote his nutbag philosophy, he shouldn't have quit his job. I know he still has a few months left, but do we really have to listen to him foam and sputter up until the very end? Nobody wants to hear what he thinks. To those who agree with him, Fitzgerald is a disappointment, fleeing after one dismal term of non-accomplishment. To the rest, who realize we need a functioning O'Hare, he is a frightening reminder of how the political process can be hijacked by any wacko with a fortune to spend brainwashing the electorate.

Potshots

*The Democratic convention was last week, and we are all shivering ourselves back to normal like a dog shaking off water after a swim. But I have to mention one last thing -- I stand by my prediction that Teresa Heinz Kerry is going to give John Kerry more trouble than George Bush possibly could. Did you notice how she wore the same style futuristic jacket, first in red, then in white, on subsequent nights? I'm telling you, give her a monocle and a Persian cat to stroke and she could be a villain in ''Austin Powers.''

*Perhaps you didn't pore over the obituaries of English scientist Francis Crick, co-discoverer of the double helix structure of DNA. If so, you missed one of those lovely moments that removes giants of science such as Crick from the empyrean and returns them to the realm of we mortals. When the discovery was made in 1953, Crick hurried home to tell his wife that he had unlocked the secret of life. She didn't believe it and ignored him because, as she recounted later, he was ''always coming home and saying things like that, so naturally I thought nothing of it.'' Wives.

*In honor of Francis Crick's passing, I thumbed through co-discoverer James Watson's best-seller, The Double Helix. Its description of Crick contains a thrillingly casual backhand to religion, a 16-word sentence of delightful economy and restraint. ''Neither was politics or religion of any concern,'' writes Watson. ''The latter was clearly an error of past generations, which Francis saw no reason to perpetrate.''

''An error of past generations'' -- put that way, it almost sounds harmless.

Dog update

Sunday was one of those perfect mornings you want to seal in glass to relive in years to come. Caressing breezes. Coffee good and strong, newspapers on the front porch. Enter an 8-year-old boy in his underwear: ''What time is it?'' he says, urgently.

''Eight forty-five,'' I say. He turns, disappears and returns, almost immediately, clothed.

''Tell mom I'm going out,'' he says, running off. At first I'm puzzled -- running? -- and then I remember: his dogwalking business.

He returns to the house with Lady, the aged dowager spaniel from down the street. He wants passionately to take her inside. He wants the dog in his bedroom. At first I say no, but he lingers at the door. Sighing, I thumb him in. ''Try not to let your mom see you,'' I say, or perhaps just think.

''Whoopee!'' he chirps.

After 10 minutes, puzzled by the lack of uproar, I investigate. My wife, perhaps through the direct intervention of a benevolent God, has been in the shower the whole time -- the only room in the house that Lady has not visited. I suggest to the boy that perhaps he might want to quit while he's ahead and take Lady back outside.

''Let's beat it,'' he tells the dog, ''before the cops show up -- meaning mom.'''

I return to the newspapers, chuckling; I love him translating his metaphor for the dog. A few minutes later he comes running full bore down the street, hanging on for dear life behind a big golden retriever named Sam -- his second customer. Just shy of being dragged, his little brother bouncing along in their wake. The trio flies by going west, then returns eastward. I laugh and laugh. A few minutes later, he's back, dogless but $4 richer and carrying a bag of parsley and basil, a gift from the garden of Sam's owner. He pronounces himself ''pooped'' and heads inside. I do my best to set the scene in amber, for retrieval when he wrecks the car.

Closing shot

I don't care about the Sudan. And I bet you don't either. Why not just admit it? Just say that nothing happening in Africa affects us, no matter how biblical the scale of suffering. It would spare us these periodic mental gymnastics that we pretend constitute caring. If this seems callous, take this simple test: 1) Have you done anything, such as given money, to try to help? (hint, ''No.'') 2) Have you taken the time to understand the complex political situation behind the crisis? (see hint No. 1); and 3) Are you as upset about the Sudan, emotionally, as you would be if your car got dinged? (using my psychic abilities I will now predict your answer . . . could it be . . . No?)

If you answered honestly, you answered "No'' to all three. That can be described, in essence, as ''not caring.''' And frankly, I think just coming out and saying so is the braver route. If you are going to be indifferent to the agony of hundreds of thousands of people, you might as well face up to it, and not hide behind this elaborate faux concern that is actually a self-comforting lie.