Here's a short quiz. Which of the following is statistically more likely to land a Chicagoan in jail: a) joining the Gangster Disciples, b) selling crack on a West Side street corner, or c) becoming governor. The answer is c, of course, which makes me wonder. If governing Illinois is such an at-risk occupation, why don't we just abolish the job and replace it with a board of directors or a court-appointed supervisor?

It's almost hard to blame Blagojevich for the trouble he's in. The odds were against him from the beginning. Three of his last six predecessors -- Otto Kerner, Dan Walker and George Ryan -- have gone to prison. Ryan, who as secretary of state sold drivers' licenses for bribes, is languishing in a federal pen in Wisconsin, pining for a Christmas pardon from President Bush.

When Blagojevich was elected, he promised to clean up the state's "pay to play" political culture. But nobody really believed him. He was the governor, for God's sake. The governor is the last guy who would do something like that. Who benefits more from shaking down political contributors?

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Everett, a longtime family friend, is 94 years old, which means he's been collecting his pension and his health insurance far longer than GM's actuaries counted on paying. If you don't think GM needs help, let me tell you something: they're going to have to keep supporting Everett for a while. He still drives his own car. And he's going steady with a woman half his age.

As the company once known as Generous Motors is learning, that's the bitch of providing workers with great medical care: They live longer, and use more of it.

Everett is also one of the last survivors of the 1936 Flint Sit Down Strike, which forced GM to recognize the United Auto Workers. Factory work has been good to him. He bought a house in the suburbs, across the street from a college professor. Even in retirement, he's loaded. A widower, Everett likes to flirt with waitresses. He always wondered why a server at his favorite diner never smiled at him. When he found out, he gave the woman $14,000 to fix her teeth. A columnist for the Lansing State Journal heard the story and dubbed Everett "The Dental Man."

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When the gates to Grant Park were thrown open at a quarter past 6 -- over two hours ahead of schedule -- the first of tens of thousands of Obama supporters cantered across the softball fields, as carefree as streakers, racing for a spot near the stage. It was festival standing for the final Obama rally of the 2008 presidential campaign.

"It's the transformative night of my generation," declared 26-year-old Mike Berenbom, who works in commercial real estate. "In the last couple elections, our generation talked a big game, but we didn't show up."

"Obama is the first post-baby-boomer president," Berenbom said. "He's getting us past the '60s. All this stuff about Bill Ayers and the racial issue, I don't give a shit. There's more important stuff out there, like the economy and alternative energy."

Berenbom had scored Chicago's golden ticket -- one of 65,000 Grant Park passes, distributed through Obama's Web site. Those who hadn't scored stood along Michigan Avenue, begging like Deadheads looking for a miracle.

"Anyone need a guest?"

"I need one. I'm not a scalper."

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At noon, Melanie MacBride and Molly Hudgens were standing by the curb, flapping Obama signs at passing truck drivers, who answered with air horn salutes.

Just minutes before, Mayor Rudy Clay, who is renowned for his muttonchops, his stylish menswear and his photo opportunities, had stopped by the corner.

"We just met the mayor of Gary," MacBride said. "He was totally awesome. He gave us this stuff."

MacBride flashed a photo of Clay posing with Barack Obama.

"He was wearing a suit," she said.

"With a weird back," Hudgens noted.

"He looked really sharp," MacBride said. "He was in a Hummer. Two big dudes, two bodyguards, came out. He gave us the pictures of himself while he was on a cellphone."

You could tell, just by their shoes, that MacBride and Hudgens aren't Hoosiers. MacBride wore Skechers; Hudgens, vintage Pumas. Both live in Chicago. With Illinois in the bag, Obama is free to deploy his home-state loyalists across the state line. This morning, thousands of Chicagoans poured into Indiana.

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"Go Cubs!" I hooted. "They're gonna win it all this year!"

I know it's rude to talk about winning in front of Cubs fans, but I meant it in the nicest way. Now I'm wondering whether a World Series title would be the biggest curse of all for a team that's built its identity on losing.

On Sheffield Avenue, across the street from Wrigley Field, there's a counter marking the years since the Cubs last won the World Series. This season, it hit triple digits. That's right, it's been 100 years since since that 1908 championship season when the Cubs inspired the newspaper doggerel "Tinker to Evers to Chance," and wore vintage uniforms, like the ballplayer in Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First" routine. It's the longest losing streak in sports history. You'd have to visit nearby Graceland Cemetery to find someone who saw the Cubs beat the Tigers in 1908.

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McCain has run for the presidency twice, as two completely different candidates. His campaigns and his image have been shaped by the nasty partisanship of the late 20th and early 21st century, an era that may be remembered as the Late Culture Wars. McCain has never seemed comfortable with that style of politics. Despite his identification as a conservative, he's been willing to reach across the aisle to work with Democrats who shared his concept of reform. In 2000, McCain tried to be a liberal's conservative, holding stream-of-consciousness press conferences on his bus, bashing right-wing preachers as "agents of intolerance" and opposing repeal of Roe v. Wade. Republicans were unimpressed, so when McCain finally won their nomination, he picked as his running mate a woman who had less than two years' experience as a governor -- a woman young enough to be his daughter, or his third wife, even -- but who belongs to a Pentecostal church, baits the Washington media and wouldn't allow any woman to have an abortion.

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As much as Detroiters are relieved to be rid of their lubricious, dissembling mayor, Barack Obama has to be even more relieved.

Last year, before addressing the Detroit Economic Club, Obama praised Kilpatrick as "a great mayor." This year, he told the mayor to stay away from the Democratic National Convention. On Wednesday, as Kilpatrick apparently balked at accepting a plea deal, Obama issued a public statement asking him to resign. The longer Kilpatrick stayed in office, the more the Detroit-phobic white voters of Michigan were liable to ask, "If a black Democrat can't run the city, how can one run the country?"

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Air conditioning offends my sense of Northern pride. They have a saying in Maine: "If you can't stand the winters, you don't deserve the summers." But the air conditioner allows Arizonans to enjoy a cool, lakelike breeze in the comfort of their living rooms, without ever having to buy snow tires. As one who has seen firsthand how the Sun Belt created a poor Yankee cousin called the Rust Belt, I blame the air conditioner for the decay of Detroit, Cleveland and Buffalo, N.Y. I blame it for the decline of the American labor movement. And I blame it for the election of George W. Bush, as well as the fact that we haven't elected a Yankee president in nearly 50 years. Honestly, I don't want something like that in my house. Especially if I have to pay for it.

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Falstaff was once the third biggest brewery in America. George Will drank it when he was a teenager, as hard as it is to imagine George Will as a teenager. It even outsold Budweiser in St. Louis. But Falstaff no longer exists. The last bottle was capped in 2005. The only remnant I know of is a faded mural on the East Side of Chicago.

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As a racing fan, I've learned to accept injuries as a consequence of a sport in which spindly-legged animals sprint at high speeds. Horses are fright-and-flight animals, instinctive runners who sometimes run themselves to death. It happens in the wild, and it happens on racetracks. But I also understand the revulsion of sports fans who tuned in to the Kentucky Derby -- probably the only horse race they'll see all year -- and watched it end in a filly's destruction.

In the first half of the 20th century, when racing was one of the most popular sports in America, most fans had ridden horses on farms, or seen them pulling carts and carriages down city streets. They understood the animals' weaknesses and were not as shocked by death on the racetrack. It's more difficult for modern audiences to bear.

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