Opinion & Comment: Let's Go, Brandon!

Brandon! Can I call you Brandon? How're ya doin’, pal? Big week. Big, big week. Fresh off your narrow bond proposal gift from our esteemed City Council,^[1] you marched straight onto center stage in front of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee and a national audience finally had the chance to see that shy grin shine as bright as we do every single day.^[2]

You did it, champ. Secured the bag and you took your first pinch like a man. I know a thing or two about these dog-and-pony shows, and I know I can speak for all of Chicago when I say we're as proud of you as Jimmy Conway was of Henry Hill. "Never rat on your friends, and always keep your mouth shut." You stuck to the script, and that’s what matters.

Listen, I know people say you're nothing more than a pawn of the Chicago Teacher's Union. But not me, Brandon. People say you're a useful idiot to take the heat off Toni Preckwinkle. But not me. People say that you're as sharp as a bowling ball, failed faster than a blind man at a driver's test, and have more problems than a textbook. Not me. I see a star, misunderstood.

Washington’s frothing at the mouth to grill you over Chicago’s sanctuary city stubbornness, demanding to know why you won’t cooperate with federal immigration? Most mayors might quake at that spotlight. Not you. You played it like Marshawn Lynch at a press junket: "I'm just here so I don’t get fined." Perfect. You brushed off that little details like how much we’ve spent on incoming migrants, because hey, what’s a few extra stacks of city cash tossed on the bonfire?^[3] It's not like the city's residents would have used that money for something good. And what are the feds going to do about it anyway? Squat. Nothin'. A bunch of puffed up bullfrogs and you run the show back home. I don't see a Manchurian candidate, I see a "MAN who CAN." Write that one down.

Now, I’ve made my living greasing the wheels in this town as long as I can remember, so believe me when I say I want you at your best. You’ve got a kind of dopey style that keeps you from getting too much notice. Sure, your approval rating’s a scorching 6.6%, but who’s counting? Math’s never been my strong suit and it sure as hell ain't the vote counter's in this town, either. You’re down, but not out, kid. You’re about as popular as a parking ticket and as underwater as the Daley street meter deal, but you’re still not afraid to hit the accelerator and gamble with Chicago’s future at every turn. And I like that. You remind me of some octogenarian blowing through a crosswalk at top speed, ignoring every frantic scream from the sidewalk, "NO! STOP! DON'T! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" And I respect that. A Chicago-style dice roll. Sometimes folks just don’t recognize greatness.

Most politicians would hear the outcry and tap the brakes. Not you. You’ve got your foot planted, and if there’s a map somewhere, you’re too busy chucking it out the window to care. You're not coaching Little League in Elgin, you're the Mayor of Chicago, damn it, and that means doubling, tripling, even quadrupling down, not playing it safe. That’s why I’m offering you some advice, from one professional deal-cutter to another:

Three words. "Let’s Go, Brandon."

Yeah, I said it. Take that little slogan from the last presidential cycle and flip it on its head. Own it as your own personal rebrand. Let go of whatever’s tying you down, put your foot down even harder on the gas, and aim for the stars. Free yourself. This city’s been balancing on a tightrope made of unpaid pension promises and duct-taped 'L' tracks and the IOU's have piled up for so long even guys like me are thinking about giving kneecaps a break for a little bit. So maybe it’s time to just snip the cord altogether and announce your grand design for the People’s Republic of Johnsonville? If Chicago’s already hanging by a shoelace, what do you got to lose? A sock? We’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel, why not lean in? Every day your residents feel as if they're living in a pressure cooker of rising costs and shrinking revenue but your friends all keep chanting and demanding more, so why not give it to them? You could be the next face of big Commie in this country and that's big business, baby. You’re the captain now. Stacy Davis Who? Tell her you're busy and you'll call her back when you're on the way so she knows to get dinner ready. Jackson Potter...Pottie...Potawatomie? Never heard of him. More like Jackson...gotta get me a pot o' coffee, amirite?

You snagged that $830 million payday loan from a City Council that’s proud to call itself broke as long as their daughter gets a pony for her birthday. And I've dropped off a lot of ponies. Sure, maybe it’ll grow into a $2 billion anvil dropped on future generations of Chicagoans who’ll curse your name between diaper changes knowing they already owe more than $40k each to this city before they even pull off mommy's teet, but that's their problem, not yours. You need lofty promises today, and the next batch of Chicagoans can grumble about the tab when they’re old enough to hold a sippy cup. Let the analysts wring their hands over interest rates, and let the good folks in City Hall daydream about how many ways they can spend it. With my help, of course. In the meantime, you’re busy awarding big smiles and bigger favors, and that’s what sets you apart.

So what if Citadel packs up, Boeing calls a moving van, the NYSE leaves a postcard on the desk to forward their mail, and every other major player are making contingency exit plans as we speak. The utopia's right around the corner, Brandon, and this time, the proletariat will have never had it so good. So what if the old neighborhood diners and corner bars and local retailers, fixtures of Chicago’s soul since before Capone even knew what rum was, are shutting off their neon signs for good? They're just another batch of capitalist bourgeoisie traitors scurrying away. Let 'em go. Thank 'em for saving you the effort. So what if the tax base is barely keeping their heads above Lake Michigan's waters, you and Alderman La Spata are too busy charting out all new ways to create government nonsense like rather than do a little community organizing or just be an adult and tell some local kids to shovel an extra 50 feet of snow off their little old lady neighbor's sidewalk, you replace them with me and the boys on a sweetheart union contract and, you know, we put a few extra hours of overtime on the payroll for you and your friends. You’ve got a grand plan for collectivized grocery stores, never-ending pothole repair work, and "affordable housing" at $1.1 million a pop. My friends thank you.

I don't mean to beat the horse, I'm just ready to giddy up. I've been walking around this town feeling like a kid who has a tip at old Arlington. Your approval's in the gutter, business and capital are fleeing, public safety's a fading memory, and our mountain of debt makes the Sears Tower look like a model in an architectural firm's office lobby, but my guy Brandon Johnson just shrugs and asks, "What’s that got to do with me?" Let's go, Brandon! The city's bleeding cash? Buy leeches. The boat's sinking? Do a backflip off the top deck. Grain's missing? Kill the sparrows. Man must conquer nature, as they say.

Will they call you incompetent? Of course they will. But in politics, it’s all about deflection, and you’ve got the best shield in town: the trusty race card. It's not a crutch, it's a sidekick when something goes sideways. Wield it like a magic wand. They'll roll their eyes but you'll keep rolling. Budget meltdown? Systemic injustice. Crime wave? Legacy of oppression. Business exodus? White flight. It’s a morality tale parlor trick that can turn a villain into a martyr and, as long as you can spin that you’re a noble crusader battling centuries of inequality, it’ll keep the pitchforks at bay and your accountability well beyond when the city’s too battered and broke to clap back anymore. Beautiful.

And here’s the kicker: if you do all this with enough panache, you’ll carve your name into the granite of Chicago lore forever. You have the chance to cement your place on the lake and leave a legacy so audaciously ugly that even Obama’s library might say, “Now that’s some nerve...”

So go for it, Mayor. Don’t worry about it. Guys like you and I'll manage, one way or another. We’re used to the hustle. And if anyone tries to warn you of the iceberg ahead? Just smile and wave. Let’s go, Brandon. Let’s see how big this balloon can get before it finally pops. Just don't forget my piece and we won't have any problems.

Years from now, the lake will still lap at the shore, the hawk wind will still howl through the canyons of empty skyscrapers, and the CTU will still be marching for more crumbs from our last hot dog vendor as he grills his final frank and whispers, "At least we kept it real..."

And hey, just tell them Pritzker's good for it. He's never had a problem with the way this town works. And, you know, if he wants to be President...

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