Chicago

Old Pro ponders 'rayform'

By PAUL M. GREEN

IN Shakespeare's As You Like It, Jacques sentimentally states, "All the worlds's a stage," as he divides man's life span into seven distinct ages, Chicago politics may not be Elizabethan drama, but let me submit with the authority of one who has recently made the generational glide that you can divide the life of a Chicago political diehard into three distinct stages

Stage1: The New Kid. He is young and eager to learn about the ins and outs of politics. He volunteers his time, works the street and pledges that he and his friends will turn out in huge numbers for the candidate. At meetings or rallies, his eyes seek out political notables while his ears yearn for political tidbits. He asks questions, seeks knowledge, learns how to give the "Chicago handshake" and constantly talks about what he is going to do.

Stage 2: The Old Pro. He is a seasoned political campaigner, a frequent financial contributor and a continuous happy warrior. In short, he loves politics. The Old Pro views international affairs and national issues as secondary sidebars to the real important stuff — local politics. Given a choice, the Chicago Old Pro would listen to Walter Jacobson over Ted Koppel, would read Mike Royko over David Broder and would study Richard J. Daley over anyone else. The Old Pro is in his political prime of life, and he delivers advice, strategy and anecdotes with the style of a man at the top of his game.

Stage 3: The Wily Veteran. He is a storyteller. He spends most of his time talking about the good old days — reliving bygone battles featuring bygone candidates. Words like revered, honorable or sage are often used to describe these elder statesmen. Some Wily Veterans remain politically active. They use current campaigns and party power struggles to keep their precinct juices flowing. Unlike those in other cities, Chicago Wily Veterans never talk about publishing memoirs, diaries or autobiographies: You do not blow a lifetime of political deals by telling all. To a true Wily Veteran, his political word is not everything; it is the only thing.

My rite of passage into the older generation took place at a very nice southwest side Chicago saloon. This was completely appropriate. Chicago's first city hall was housed in the Saloon Building on the corner of Clark and Lake streets, and drinking establishments have played a crucial role in the city's politics. Or looked at another way: Chicago politics drive people to drink.

As I walked into that spacious bar, so much was familiar — the speeches, the beer, the whispered camaraderies, all those good things that make being a political diehard worthwhile. It soon became apparent, however, that something was terribly different.

First off, the place was full of kids. Three-fourths of the crowd looked like they should be at a fraternity or sorority rush party. These youngsters were speaking of the need for a new generation of leaders, and I knew they were not talking about me. Worst of all, some fresh-faced upstarts started peppering their remarks with ancient historical references that I remembered all too well — because I was there.

Alas. The inevitable mitosis had happened: I was now an Old Pro.

I reflected back on my former New Kid career, thinking of all the Old Pros and Wily Veterans who had nurtured and guided me along. Professors like Milt Rakove and Walter Johnson (no longer with us but not forgotten) and Richard Wade (now a Wily Veteran practicing his trade in New York City).

I also remembered the politicians, the best professors of practical politics. My first Chicago precinct captain who truly died with his boots on, suffering a heart attack while rooting home a winner at Arlington Park on city time. The Old Pro who equated electoral politics with true love (the campaign is the courtship, the election day is the wedding ceremony, and election night is the honeymoon). And the countless elected officials who share so much information with New Kids and who will remain nameless so that they can continue to do so.

I left the saloon that night somewhat battered, somewhat melancholy, but in a way challenged to take on my new role on the political stage. "After all," I told myself, "I'm not exiting the play, I'm just moving to the next part."

I also started pondering one question that historically has dominated Chicago politics: Is there such a thing called reform? Today, countless Chicago pols and pundits are running around, each claiming to have the secret definition of reform. This is happening in a city where an adapted version of the old Sam and Dave rock 'n' roll song, "I'm A Mole Man," dominates media coverage and where words like "wars," "buggings" and "hocus pocus dominocus" are used to describe the activities of local officials. Perhaps the answer to this heavily debated question is a simple one: Everyone in Chicago politics is a reformer — as long as reform suits their self-interest.

For support I turned to the wiliest veteran of them all: Martin J. Dooley, the turn-of-the-century fictional saloonkeeper-philosopher created by Peter Dunne. According to Mr. Dooley, "A man that'd expict to thrain lobsters to fly in a year is called a loonytic; but a man that thinks men can be tur-rned into angels by an miction is called a rayformer an remains at large."

The Old Pro's corollary is: If there is a reform purist somewhere in Chicago, he is not in politics because he is too busy training lobsters how to fly.

April 1986/Illinois Issues/39