ON ALDERMEN, `Boss,’ 1971
There are so many deals involving ranking members of the Machine that it has been suggested that the city slogan be changed from “Urbs In Horto,” which means “City in a Garden,’ to “Ubi Est Mea,” which means “Where’s mine?’
ON HAPPINESS, Chicago Tribune, March 17, 1987
Show me somebody who is always smiling, always cheerful, always optimistic, and I will show you somebody who hasn’t the faintest idea what the heck is really going on.
ON HANGOVERS, Chicago Daily News, Dec. 27, 1974
Defining a hangover is simple: It is nature’s way of telling you that you got drunk.
I’ve never understood why nature goes to the bother, since millions of wives pass on the information.
Except for abstinence or moderation, there is no way to completely avoid a hangover.
But there are certain rules that, if followed, will ease the discomfort.
First, stick with the same drink you started with. By that I mean that if you started the evening drinking champagne, beer, and frozen daiquiris, stick with champagne, beer, and frozen daiquiris the rest of the evening.
ON JANE BYRNE, Chicago Sun-Times, March 1, 1979
It was the most stunning upset in the long, wild history of Chicago politics. And this column is about the single most important person involved in that incredible upset . . .
And, no, it isn’t about Jane Byrne, although little Miss Sourpuss finally has something to really smile about.
This column is about you. That’s right–YOU there, on the L train or bus, or in your kitchen reading this over morning coffee. You, at your punch press, or in your firehouse, or hospital cafeteria. You, behind the counter in the department store, or jockeying the cab or unloading that truck.
You did it, you wild and crazy Chicagoans.
Oh, you finally did it. I’m still having trouble believing it. But you slammed your hand down on the table or bar or to your forehead and said: “Enough is enough!”
A MONTH LATER . . .
Chicago Sun-Times, April 4, 1979
In her primary campaign, she said there existed an “evil cabal” of aldermen. As it turns out, the evil cabal seemed to consist of Ald. Edward (Fast Eddie) Vrdolyak and his sidekick, Ald. Eddie (Not As Fast) Burke. As fast as they are, two men are a rather small evil cabal.
But apparently they aren’t evil enough to hold a grudge against. A few days ago, Ms. Bossy turned up at Vrdolyak’s ward headquarters for one of those I-love-you-you-love-me rallies with the precinct captains.
. . . But if that disappoints you, don’t let it. The victory in that memorable primary was yours, regardless of how Ms. Bossy turns out. It will remain yours because you let them know that you did it once, so if the time comes you can do it again.
And that’s something for Mayor Bossy to keep in mind.
ON MINORITY VOTERS, `Boss,’ 1971
The enormous black vote had given Daley his victory. The people who were trapped in the ghetto slums and the nightmarish public housing projects, the people who had the worst school system and were most often degraded by the Police Department, the people who received the fewest campaign promises and who were ignored as part of the campaign trail, had given him his third term. They had done it quietly, asking for nothing in return. Exactly what they got.
ON GUNS, Chicago Daily News, March 24, 1976
I’ve always loved pistols. They are fun to shoot, fondle, and play with. Why, I’ve always considered the phallus to be a pistol symbol. I have always felt sorry for women because they don’t have a pistol symbol. Maybe that’s why they don’t like guns as much as men do.
ON FASHION, Chicago Sun-Times, June 8, 1979
Year after year, a handful of suspicious-looking characters who call themselves clothing designers issue their commands: Wear your dress short and wear boots and look like a hooker. Now throw them away and wear them long and look like a frump. Now dress like a gypsy fortune-teller. Now look like a farm wife. Now wear spike heels. Now show your thighs.
And every time the pimps of fashion give the word, all these enlightened female persons obediently trudge to the clothing stores. With that attitude, they might as well be fetching a pipe and slippers.
ON AIDS, Chicago Tribune, July 12, 1990
I’m a bit puzzled by the statement that love doesn’t cause AIDS, but greed and indifference does.
For one thing, I haven’t heard anyone suggest that love causes AIDS. Love isn’t an issue at all, unless you define love as having anal sex with a stranger in a bathhouse, which would be kind of stretching love’s definition.
And whose greed and whose indifference are they talking about?
. . . If they’re talking about government indifference, that might have been true at one time. But it no longer is. Vast sums are being spent on AIDS research. Far more per victim than on cancer, heart disease and other diseases that kill far more people. And as the recent AIDS conference showed, scientists are working frantically to find solutions.
ON DR. KOOKIE, Chicago Tribune, Feb. 17, 1989
I am a member of the Church of Asylumism and believe it is the one and only true faith . . .
Our church was founded by Dr. I.M. Kookie, one of the world’s leading experts on lots of things. In our church, he is called the Prophet Kookie.
As Prophet Kookie has revealed in the Book of Kook, man is not native to this planet. He did not evolve from monkeys, as some people believe, or descend from Adam and Eve, as others insist.
Millions of years ago, a highly advanced race of peaceful, happy beings on a distant planet had a perfect society. But they developed a social problem. A few hundred of them became deranged. Their madness took different forms. Some stole or became violent. Others tried to become lawyers. Some wanted to form political parties. And a few claimed that God spoke to them and told them how everybody should live.
So they were rounded up, put on a spaceship, and a search was made for an uninhabited planet that would serve as an asylum. They found this planet.
THE GROBNIKS
Chicago Daily News, June 18, 1970
My attitude toward (banks) is the same as that of Mrs. Grobnik, who was Slats Grobnik’s mother. “A good bank,’ she always said, “should look like a jail, except the bank’s walls should be thicker.”
Whenever she made a deposit–and she never made withdrawals–Mrs. Grobnik would walk around the lobby to see if they had hired any new guards. If she found one, she would ask him:
“Are you a good shot?”
They always said yes, so she’d ask:
“Who have you shot?”
If they hadn’t shot anybody, she would go to the chief cashier and ask why they were hiring inexperienced people.
Chicago Daily News, Dec. 26, 1969
Like all kids, Slats had to find out one day that there was no Santa. He still remembers.
He was awakened during the night by the sound of somebody moving about in the kitchen.
Slats crept from his bed, hoping at last to catch a glimpse of Santa.
But there, by the kitchen stove, stood his father in his long underwear, his arms loaded with gifts.
Slats bounded through the kitchen to his parents’ bedroom, howling:
“Ma, get up quick–Pa’s filching every damn present Santa left for us!”
ON `ALDERBOOBS,’
Chicago Tribune, May 17, 1988
You may remember Ald. Ernie Jones. He’s the statesman who recently said female cops take too many days off because of their “minister periods.”
I’m not sure who was more confused and offended–the lady cops or their ministers.
Now Jones has turned his pea-sized intellect to other pursuits–art criticism and constitutional law.
Jones was one of the City Hall hysterics who took it upon themselves to yank a painting out of the School of the Art Institute because it offended them.
. . . A student-artist thought it clever to draw the late Mayor Harold Washington in women’s undergarments.
. . . Someone called a black alderman or two and they spread the word among their colleagues and everybody went berserk. Several rushed to the Art Institute–probably for the first time–to seize the painting.
But fearing that the students might splatter them with white paint, they backed down and had the police confiscate the painting for them.
The police justified the seizure by saying that a painting of Harold in female undies might incite black citizens to riot.
Actually, if anyone was inciting to riot, it was this handful of alderboobs.
. . . There certainly were no reports of blacks milling about the Taylor Homes, Cabrini-Green or West Side streets, saying: “My man, have you heard about the offensive portrait of Harold at a private showing in the School of the Art Institute? Shall we show our displeasure by going there and trashing a Monet or two?”
ON THE CITY COUNCIL, Chicago Tribune, March 6, 1985
The subject of criminal rehabilitation was debated recently in City Hall.
It’s an appropriate place for this kind of discussion because the city has always employed so many ex-cons and future cons.
They’ve ranged from crime syndicate mugs to ordinary thieves. But as Mayor Daley used to say when some former felon was found supervising a pothole crew: “If we don’t find it in our hearts to forgive ’em and hire ’em, how can we ask the rest of society to forgive ’em and hire ’em?”
The mayor didn’t mention, of course, that these rehabilitated mugs also excelled at dragging West Side voters to polling places.
ON PRECINCT CAPTAINS, Chicago Tribune, Feb. 27, 1991
A decent precinct captain used to be out there with a wad of bills big enough to choke his clout, handing a few dollars to every needy voter. And there was nothing wrong with that. With the kind of aldermen Chicago has had, people should be paid to vote for them.
ON POLLSTERS, Chicago Tribune, Oct. 28, 1992
Several years ago, I became weary of countless pollsters telling 250 million people what they thought on the basis of the way 1,000 answered questions.
. . . So I urged people to lie to pollsters. Not that it would make any difference. If you lied to a pollster, then voted the way you intended, elections would still come out the way they would have if you told the truth.
The only difference would be that the pollsters would have nervous breakdowns and be institutionalized, and we wouldn’t be assaulted by their silly numbers every election year.
ON TOY DOGS, Chicago Tribune, Feb. 11, 1993
I have nothing against little dogs that look like dust mops. I’m sure they make wonderful pets and companions. Even fierce watchdogs, should your home be invaded by midget burglars.
. . . If I owned one of the tiny fuzzy dogs, I would spray it with Endust and use it to clean under the beds.
. . . I’d tie it to a long stick and use it to wash the windows.
ON HIS BASSET HOUNDS, Chicago Tribune, July 14, 1994
They are the perfect lazy man’s dog. You can flop on your couch and bounce a ball across the living room and the basset has to take a thousand tiny frantic steps to fetch it. After two or three runs, he has had his day’s allotment of exercise and will collapse from fatigue.
ON CATS, Chicago Sun-Times, Nov. 27, 1980
Whether one eats a cat or not is a personal choice, and I don’t want to sway anyone one way or another.
But if you do, there is one obvious cooking tip: Always remember to remove the bell from the cat’s collar before cooking.
ON CHICAGO SPORTS, Chicago Tribune, Feb. 8, 1996
As a Cubs fan–and this could also apply to Sox, Bears and Hawks fans–you should have known better. But you became a true believer.
You forgot the one hard rule of being a Chicago sports fan: If anything bad can happen, it figures that it will happen to us.
ON WAR, Chicago Sun-Times, May 5, 1981
Dear God: . . . Somebody just shot the pope. As you know, he’s the leader of one of your largest group of followers here. A very peaceful, non-violent man, by the way, although his followers have been known to shed a few million gallons of blood when their tempers are up.
Anyway, the man who shot him apparently did it because of his devotion to you. It’s not completely clear, but this fellow seems to think the pope was in some way responsible for somebody invading the sacred holy mosque of his religion in a place called Mecca. That, of course, was an insult to you, so he got even in your behalf by shooting the pope.
. . . I never believed any of those stories going around a few years ago that “God is dead.” How could you be? We don’t have one weapon that can shoot that far.
ON FISHING, Chicago Daily News, Jan. 11, 1977
I think some foppish types become fishermen because those cute artificial gnats and fleas are used as bait. How would it look to have a lot of fat worms attached to a tweed fedora?
. . . What sensible person would actually prefer wading in cold water, endlessly casting a gnat, when he could be fishing like a true sportsman, sitting in a rowboat, drinking beer, and waiting for the bobber to be pulled down by the finest fish of them all?
I am speaking of the noble bullhead.
. . . I prefer the bullhead above all others, and especially above the overrated trout. Try catching a trout on a piece of salami.
ON `THE BLOND,’ Chicago Tribune, June 8, 1995
The sharp-eyed blond with whom I live . . . stormed into the room waving the sports section and said:
“Have you ever seen a woman golfer throw a club when she makes a bad shot?”
I have no such memory.
“Have you ever seen a woman golfer slam a club into the ground or throw it into a pond?”
Never.
. . . She read from an article giving advice to the growing number of women who have taken up the game.
The advice included this tip: “No temper tantrums–even if you miss your first shot.”
“Has your paper ever told male golfers that they should not have temper tantrums?”
Of course not . . . everybody knows that emotional outbursts are part of the male golf tradition.
ON BEING A NATIVE CHICAGOAN, Chicago Sun-Times, Nov. 22, 1981
In anthropological terms, I was born Bungalow Man. Or, Bungalow Baby, to be more precise.
Later, during a period of family hard times, I became Basement Flat Child.
Still later, I became Flat Above a Tavern Youth.
For a while I was Barracks Man.
Then in early manhood, I was Attic Flat Man. Then Two-flat Man.
Most recently I was Bungalow Man again.
From childhood on, I never lived more than staggering distance from Milwaukee Avenue and I thought I never would.
. . . As an amateur anthropologist, I was familiar with the ways of Two-flat Man, Bungalow Man, Tavern Man, and all the other species that form the general classification of Neighborhood Man. That’s because I was one, from my shot glass to my long underwear from Sears to my new linoleum.
And I had an extensive understanding of such mutants as Suburb Man and such lesser creatures as Downstate Man.
ON THE INTERNET, Chicago Tribune, Nov. 13, 1996
It’s been my policy to view the Internet not as an “information highway,” but as an electronic asylum filled with babbling loonies.
ON THE BILLY GOAT TAVERN, Chicago Tribune, Jan. 21 1987
That evening, I stopped at the Billy Goat Tavern, where a hamburger is still a hombooger and a cheeseburger is still a chizbooger: flat circles of meat cooked on a greasy grill, with onions and yellow mustard and slices of pickle.
And I warned Sam Sianis, the owner, that times were changing and he should consider changing with them.
Ferns, Sam, you had better think about ferns.
“How you cook dem?”
You don’t cook them. They’re plants. You hang them from the walls and ceilings.
He shook his head. “No plants een dees place. Plants got bugs. I no like bugs.”
ON JOHN WAYNE, Chicago Sun-Times, June 13, 1979
I can’t remember not being a John Wayne fan. . . . He shot people in the heart, and drank whiskey, and treated his horse like a horse. In fact, he treated women like he treated his horse. He seemed real because he reminded me of the men in my neighborhood.
I never went to a John Wayne movie to find a philosophy to live by or to absorb a profound message. I went for the simple pleasure of spending a couple of hours seeing the bad guys lose.
ON LOVE, Chicago Sun-Times, July 30, 1981
Nobody is really sure what love is. Shrinks mess around with trying to define it and just make it sound more complicated than it is. Poets, as neurotic as they are, do a much better job.
I’m not sure what it is myself, except that it leaves you breathless, makes everything else seem unimportant, and can cause you ecstasy, misery, and drive you crazy. And also drive you happy.
. . . Now when you’re down, someone will take your hand and help you up. When you’re crying, someone will dry your tears. When you’re frightened, someone will hold and reassure you. When you’re alone, someone will tell you you’re not.
ON PATRONAGE, `Boss,’ 1971
Daley didn’t come from a big family but he married into one, and so Eleanor Guilfoyle’s parents might well have said they did not lose a daughter, they gained an employment agency.
ON SAN FRANCISCO, CLEVELAND AND MILWAUKEE, Chicago Tribune, July 9, 1992
I remember what happened when Mike Ditka hit a shrieking San Francisco fan in the head with a wad of his chewing gum. The creature wailed so loudly that thought was given to turning the matter over to a federal grand jury. Why, in a real city, like Cleveland or Milwaukee, the fan would have peeled the gum from his brow and chewed it. Waste not, want not, a solid heartland virtue.
ON BALDNESS, Chicago Tribune, March 18, 1987
If men were honest, they would admit that it is their hope that the presence of hair on their heads will lead to their ultimate goal: making out with female persons.
Despite what anyone might say, that is the single greatest motive for a young man’s dread of a receding hairline or the appearance of a thin spot on top of his noggin.
THE DEATH OF THE DAILY NEWS
Chicago Daily News, March 3, 1978
When I was a kid, the worst of all days was the last day of summer vacation, and we were in the schoolyard playing softball, and the sun was down and it was getting dark. But I didn’t want it to get dark. I didn’t want the game to end. It was too good, too much fun. I wanted it to stay light forever, so we could keep on playing forever, so the game would go on and on.
That’s how I feel now. C’mon, c’mon. Let’s play one more inning. One more time at bat. One more pitch. Just one? Stick around, guys. We can’t break up this team. It’s too much fun.
But the sun always went down. And now it’s almost dark again.
———-
So long, Chicago
This collection of Mike Royko’s writing is headlined “So long, Chicago” because that was the headline on the last edition of Royko’s beloved Chicago Daily News. The Daily News–the people who worked there and those who played for its renowned 16-inch softball team that Royko managed and pitched for–was his extended family. When the paper ceased publication on March 4, 1978, it was one of the saddest days in Royko’s 40-plus years as a newsman and left a void he was never able to fill.
