The End of Dan Rostenkowski: The Last Battle of our own Great Beast

“That night, in the mid-watch, when the old man -- as his wont at intervals -- stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing up the sea air as a sagacious ship's dog will, in drawing nigh to some barbarous isle. He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that peculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living sperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner surprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane, and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as possible, Ahab rapidly ordered the ship's course to be slightly altered, and the sail to be shortened.”
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick

I can smell a floundering politician a mile away. There’s an aura they emit – and a fowl one, at that – that’s noticeable but to those few who’ve experienced it up close; much like the scent a female mammal gives off when in heat, signaling to the male of the species that The Time is At Hand. Like an animal, when a politician is really stinking, they’re venerable. And right now, no politician in America stinks more or is more venerable than the U.S. Congressman from the great state of Illinois, Dan Rostenkowski.

Like the great white whale, Rostenkowski is about to get harpooned in a grand and nasty way. Not only has Rosty always considered himself above the people who put him into power, he’s even considered himself bigger than his peers in Congress. But suddenly, he’s being shrunk down to size thanks to a 17-count indictment which has left his perpetual frown even more pathetic and many of his constituents wondering where it all went wrong. And I guess that’s the mystery I’m trying to unravel here: Over the past twenty or so months, it has seemed inevitable that Rosty would succumb to some form of heavy legal wrangling and yet, miraculously, he was nominated again this past spring by his district in the ultimate, albeit, subsequently, foolish act of blind faith. Why?

Steve Daley, political columnist for the Chicago Tribune, opined that Rostenkowski could have escaped this mess before any of it came up; that he “could have taken the money and run. Or, rather, not run.”

Well I don’t know about Daley, but considering it would be taxpayers’ money that Rostenkowski would be running with, I’d like for the Feds – acting on my behalf and yours – to have a shot at getting it back. Here’s what else Daley had to say as he ended his wretchedly forgiving article:

“Had he not sought re-election in 1992, he’d have gone home with more than one million street-legal campaign dollars and would be teeing up the golf ball in some balmy clime. And the Justice Department investigation of his financial affairs would be a memory, you may be sure. The smart guys said that Rosty would walk away, and no one outside the tight circle of loyalists understands to this day why he didn’t. It’s altogether possible that he like his job, and was serious about his work.”

Liked his job? You’re goddam right he liked his job. That’s because “his job” for all these years has been invading the public coffers, pure and simple. Hey, he’s done a few good things while in Washington; he knew he’d have to do something in order to secure those return trips to D.C. every two years. And therein lies the reason he didn’t go “home.” Money and power are addictions like any drug, and ’ole Dan just can’t seem to kick them. Who can? It’s like telling a smack freak that “a little bit of heroin will be plenty.” The human mind and body just don’t work that way; one becomes so immersed in the addiction, that the subconscious mind keeps telling the conscious mind that what is transpiring is…okay. As former Watergate prosecutor Richard Ben-Veniste said during that ugly situation back in 1974, “Certainly on the basis of his public statements (Nixon) doesn’t believe he did anything wrong…”

* * * * *

It may seem as though I have a personal beef with the Tribune’s boy Daley. I don’t. But I have been amazed at how the normally hostile press has treated Rostenkowski with kid gloves. Admittedly, their long-time association with him, often on a personal level, certainly is 180 degrees from any dealings I’ve had with him, which are zilch. But when I heard Walter Jacobson (Fox TV in Chicago) and Irv Kupcinet (Chicago Sun-Times) fawning over their old friend in a phone conversation aired on the radio last week, I thought I might puke. And then, in the June 6th Tribune, that idiot Margolis appeared to find it a shame that “even Rep. Dan Rostenkowski” must pay for his transgressions.

No wonder Richard J. Daley lasted 21 years in this town.

“The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I.”
- Samuel Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

In reality, these local media blowhards may have a point, and they obviously know things that I do not. Because despite every accusation against him, Dan Rostenkowski may go scot-free. That’s a concept that hasn’t really been mentioned much these past few days, what with the possibility of a plea bargain hanging like a guillotine blade, representing what could only be construed as an admission of guilt. But Danny Boy flushed that scenario down the toilet, along with his commitment to put the well-being of his people ahead of his own, and now he’s going to fight it out. Yes, the picture that portrays Dan Rostenkowski as a free man may easily be painted; in these insane times, why not?

Consider the cases of two other “politicians” who’ve been in the news recently: Oliver North and Marion Barry. These guys are CROOKS – REAL CROOKS. They went before a judge, and juries pronounced them “guilty.” Yet, now they’re each talking of big time comebacks as elected servants of the public, and guardians of the inherent trust and, good God, they might just make it. If they do, it’ll be for far different reasons than those that may allow Dan Rostenkowski to wash his hands of the sordid mess he’s gotten himself into. North and Barry are simply taking advantage of the public’s fascination with misfits and underdogs and self-anointed comeback kids. Not so with our friend, Dan; there’s nothing underdogish about him. Like Moby Dick, Rostenkowski is a bloated whale who has freely roamed the seas of Congress for more than four decades, swallowing up every dollar or favor of any sort which floated his way, while blowing out that pond scum which represented waste to him – and that hasn’t been much.

The front page of the June 1st Chicago Tribune was blabbering about “old politics vs. new politics,” but what’s actually emerging is more accurately described as “wrong politics vs. right politics.” I realize the phrase “right politics” may strike one as on obscene oxymoron, but everything is relative, and “old politics” are no excuse for what has taken place under Rostenkowski’s rule all these years.

Where I’m from, when a hog reaches its peak of consumption, it’s slaughtered. But at this stage of the game, I’m even willing to give a politician a fair chance. Far be it from me to pre-judge anyone, even Dan Rostenkowski, though Big Dan has made a career of pre-judging others. Who? Those who have supported him, for starters. He had the gall to run in the Democratic Primary this past March, figuring the voters in his district would forget the many months of accusations and innuendo which had transpired. And you know what? His instincts were right. They nominated him for yet another term as a U.S. Representative, proving that his district is loaded with those whose standards are as equally corrupt and as equally vile as his own. In the end, they got not only what they deserved, but what they wanted.

And Dan Rostenkowski continues on – until now.

“‘Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!’ cried Ahab,
‘they hour and they harpoon are at hand!’”
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Our Man Funk Gets the Bluesfest Blues

On the old highway maps of America, the main routes were red and the back roads blue. Now even the colors are changing. But in those brevities just before dawn and a little after dusk - times neither day nor night - the old roads return to the sky some of its color. Then, in truth, they carry a mysterious cast of blue, and it’s that time when the pull of the blue highway is strongest, when the open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself. - William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways


MEMO - June 6, 1994, 5:00 AM.

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: Remembrances Along The Blue Highways

Well, Nort, my friend, I promised you a 1994 Chicago Blues Festival review and you shall have it, even at this delicate point in time - just before dawn - as I head south on Illinois State Highway 3, just past Alton, Illinois.

Whenever possible, I avoid major interstates and travel the blue highways. To celebrate the genius of Miles Davis, a native of this old river town, I stopped in Alton to pick up a case of Busch beer and three fried egg sandwiches at one of the local all night establishments. I’m not sure what it was that triggered my memory; maybe the Charlie Daniels playing in the jambox that sits in place of a navigator. But yes, Nort, I’ve just remembered that I had promised you a few words on the Fest. In fact, as I speak into this very heavy 20-year-old, Sony dictating machine hanging around my neck, I’m hoping that part-time secretary back in Chicago will be able to hear my verbal notes over the noise of the Riviera’s muffler for the purpose of typing this up and getting it to you in a timely fashion. Let’s try.

As you may or may not recall, Nort, I’m aiming for St. Louis to investigate what I hear is an exceptional Rhythm & Blues scene. Not blues, per se, but traditional R&B, with its brass accents and wild, swinging grooves. Though this is an adventure I’ve been planning, its timeliness is eerie, as our own Chicago Blues Festival has left me down. After a steady deterioration of the quality of the Festival over the last few years, the damn thing has finally hit rock bottom – for me, at least, and for reasons I’ll touch on later. For now, let me say that I don’t necessarily mean the music itself, but some of the logistics of the bash. Let me also say that, while I attended the Main Stage Closers last evening, I prefer to spout off with regards to the acts on the other two, smaller stages, which don’t receive near the press as the performances held on the three nights at the Petrillo Band Shell.

Now Nort, you know me.... I'm as much a traditionalist as anyone. It’s not important that I went out and bought Robert Johnson’s recordings when they emerged on compact disc; it’s that I knew to do so without recommendation. And I honestly enjoy listening to Johnson and his contemporaries as much as I enjoy listening to Muddy Waters or Buddy Guy or BB King or Clapton or Stevie Ray. But there comes a time when the folks who run the Blues Fest should “just say no” and that time is Now. Their habit of marching the older players up the steps of the Front Porch Stage with a roadie or some such assistant at each arm to prevent a stumbling or even a collapse, followed by an hour of requisite mumbling through a few standards.... well, it has ceased to entertain the audience or do the performer any justice. Nort, I know I’m going to catch a lot of shit for saying all of this, but I’ll wager there are an equal number of blues lovers who just may agree with me.

That said, if the powers that be are going to insist on this practice, how about turning up the PA? I was only three-quarters of the way back on the lawn, but couldn’t hear a lick of Jimmy Rogers’ afternoon set. Frustrated by this, I got up to get a beer. Unlike past years, the beer and food lines were next to nothing since an additional row of booths had been set up along Columbus Drive, stretching south from Jackson Boulevard. However, it didn’t take long for me to see where the lines of past years had gone; the city officials, it appeared, had neglected to add any ticket booths. (Tickets must be bought which are subsequently traded in for beer, pop and food.) A short wait in line was 25 minutes, and completely diminished the intention of the newly added concession outlets.

Fabulous. The already-crowded section of Jackson between Columbus and Lake Shore Drive was even more of a mess with the lines extending from the ticket booths. Which brings me to another bitch: When are the Blues Fest officials going to wise up and set up the Crossroads Stage so that the audience is spread out horizontally across the band instead of stretched vertically in front of it? Again, think of the audience.

One more thought, Nort, and this is merely a sentimental one. In past years, the Front Porch Stage has had a homespun charm to it as it was actually designed to resemble an old country cabin of the south; a place where the blues as we know it may have begun. For Bluesfest ’94, this stage was revamped to have a more generic look, thereby losing much of its flavor. A damn pity.

All right, amigo, there’s my review and, I’ll admit, it’s a depressing one, but theses are my memories of the event, cold and true.

And I see I’ve wrapped up just in time, as I’m just hitting the bridge that crosses the Mississippi River, the Gateway Arch that welcomes southbound travelers to St. Louis is a glorious sight. With the sun’s reflection, it’s damn near blinding and I look away to see that, in my mesmerized state, I’ve spilled a newly opened can of Busch beer onto the floorboard beneath me. Ah, the hell with it. The June heat and humidity here will dry it up fast enough. Meanwhile, stand by for next month’s lowdown on the greasy, funky, down and dirty R&B that’s all the rage here in St. Louis.