Out of the sea I saw a beast rising.
Life is tough, after all, and the lost past always seems more attractive than the confusing present or the unknown future. The strong shake it off–realize that memory is an illusion, often a lie. We straighten our spines and smile and toast the striking of the hour, resolving to move on, to face what comes. To live.
The beast was allowed to mouth bombast and blasphemy.
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Bob Greene’s sympathy carries the same corrosive effect as praise from the Daily Worker did in the 1950s. Readers who would normally sympathize at the tragic unfolding of the Baby Richard case find themselves hating the child, based solely on the endless sweaty jig Bob insists on performing on his behalf.
And Joe? Well, suffice it to say that a hardened cynic would point out that Joe happened along just as Bob’s access to Baby Richard ended, just in time to fill his columns with a new complex, endless case. Have you, as Bob would ask, read the complete court transcripts? You will.
The irony here is that on the rare days when Bob’s column actually contains a thought that would take 20 seconds to express, his Tribune editors run to the plaza outside their building and celebrate by dancing around a maypole.
It was granted authority over every tribe and people, language and nation.
