Getting intoxicated at my first political fundraiser in Lake County.

In 2006, I got intoxicated at my first political fundraiser in Lake County. No, it’s not what you think.

I had just become the new metro columnist for the Post-Tribune newspaper and I figured part of my new job involved the county’s notorious political beat. So, armed with my pen, notepad and a bottomless cocktail of naiveté, I pulled in to the jammed parking lot at the (now closed) Patio restaurant in Merrillville.

"For many years, the popular joint served as a watering hole for generations of Lake County politicians. Here’s my column from that unforgettable evening, which turned into a true baptism by fire.

I figure there’s no way all these cars are here for “An Evening with Lake County Treasurer John E. Petalas.”

I mean who the heck is John E. Petalas? And do insiders merge together his first name and middle initial to call him “John-ny”? Or do they call him “The Treasurer.” And should I, too, to appear like I belong?

And who attends these hoity-toity political fundraisers anyway? Certainly not the hoi polloi, i.e. you and me. With donations starting at $100 a pop—I got in with a complimentary ticket—I figure most of these cars came for the off-track betting parlor next door, right? Wrong.

The Patio’s banquet hall is packed with political officials, political wannabes, and political sycophants. I, on the other hand, am a political virgin, a sheep in a wolf’s clothing, a columnist with a million other places to be on this Friday night.

I don’t know any pols. I don’t use pols as unnamed sources. I don’t yuck it up with pols after hours. Heck, this is the first time I ever wrote “pols” instead of politicians.

Besides the female servers here—“Yes, can I please get a Coke on the rocks”—I’m probably the only person who doesn’t want something from somebody for some favor or some fee or for some friend of a friend. No, wait, I’m here for a column. So indict me.

Well anyway, I’m standing at the wide open bar next to an old-timer named E. Hugh McLaughlin. The 78-year-old former Gary city councilman has a bottle of Miller Lite in one hand and an endless Parliament cigarette in the other.

“Does the smoke bother you?” he asks, surveying the room for familiar faces.

“Nah,” I say, lying, sliding slightly away from him.

The Hobart man also used a free ticket to get in, with plans to make the most of it. He arrived at 6 p.m. sharp, he already downed three beers, and he keeps eyeing the food buffet line.

“You gotta try the fish here,” he keeps telling me. “It’s the best.”

During my hour here, no less than five people tell me to try the fish. I don’t like fish.

Even though I was born and raised in Lake County, I’ve never been to Friday night fish fries or anything involving politics. I know, I’m satanic. Consider me the anti-E. Hugh McLaughlin, who seems to know everybody here.

“You see him,” he says, nodding toward a well-dressed middle-aged guy with graying hair and a polished smile. “Yeah, he’s an honest guy,” McLaughlin tells me.

“You see him,” nodding to another guy, “not so honest.”

(By the way, this describes most guys here, and many whip out business cards from their crisp suits like a pistol from a holster.)

I recognize only three elected officials, one who ignores me (Karen, what gives?), and another who says he enjoys my columns. Should I believe him? The rest are strangers.

Hobart attorney David Gilyan tells me these events are all alike, like “Groundhog Day.” “You haven’t missed a damn thing,” he says.

Andrew Kyres, a banking guy and a Crown Point city councilman, invites me to his table for dinner. Very kind. I decline.

Then I meet Randy Palmateer, from Local Electricians Union 697, who I shouldn’t like. Oh, not for his politics but because he’s the guy who won that St. Jude House home raffle earlier this year. I started picking kitchen colors the week before the drawing.

I eventually shake hands with John E. Petalas, who I end up calling “sir.” He seems like a nice man, an honest man, an appreciative man who thanks guests in triplicate.

Before the band begins, Gary Mayor Rudy Clay takes the stage, telling guests that “God is a democrat.” I think he believes it. He then slams Republican congressmen who send out pornographic e-mails. “We don’t do none of that,” he preaches.

To my right, an elderly man ignores Clay’s speech and instead overfills a paper plate with choice desserts. He covers it with a napkin and slips out the door. Smart man, I tell myself.

Before I leave, sans the desserts, McLaughlin waves over several more guys, introducing me like we’re long-time pals. After a while, I feel like his long-time pal. In fact, I feel like a long-time pal to most everyone I meet.

It’s an intoxicating feeling. I stagger outside, wander to my car, and try sobering up."

Well, it’s been ten years since I attended that political fundraiser. I’ve since been to many more of them for various candidates. I’ve also got to better know some of those elected officials I mentioned, including former Gary mayor Rudy Clay, who has since passed away. McLaughlin also passed away, but he kept in contact with me regularly since we first met at this fundraiser. In hindsight, David Gilyan, the Hobart attorney who now lives in Las Vegas, was right. They’re all alike, just like in the movie Groundhog Day.

Same purpose, same unspoken rules, same political chit-chat under the guise of polite conversation. Only the faces change. And sometimes the hairstyles. Sometimes not. Attending these never-ending affairs—designed to fill campaign coffers and make new political connections—is often like walking into a time capsule. Without much effort, it’s easy to pretend these events are being held in, say, 2006 or 1986 or 1956. Only the fashion changes.

In Lake County, Indiana, it’s always fashionable to be seen at these fundraisers because these pols know damn well it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.

This excerpt is included in my new book "Crooked Politics in NWI," along with chapters focusing on our region's history with public corruption, input from pols who've been convicted and sentenced, explanations why Lake County is ground zero in our state for crooked politics, and what can be done to finally address it.

If you're interested in a signed copy, message me here, email me at [email protected], or mail $21.99 (plus $2.50 for shipping) to this address: 453 Lorraine Dr. Valparaiso, In. 46385.

Thanks for your interest.