Classic Royko

Columns from legendary writer Mike Royko republished from the Chicago Sun-Times archive.

Mike Royko wrote this column in 1979, recalling his first time seeing the Cubs play, which also was his first home opener and his first time at Wrigley Field.
This is story of Mary, Joe and their newborn in Chicago on Christmas, as written by the late Mike Royko in 1966.
This mayor, legend has it, first appeared during the Chicago Fire. He doused the fire with one hand and milked Mrs. O’Leary’s cow with the other.
Drinkers from the neighborhood liked him for many reasons. He could hold his liquor. He didn’t sponge. And once in a while he’d even buy a drink.
They took part, from all over the country, pouring words of hate into the ear of the assassin.
After Harold Washington won the mayoral election in 1983, Mike Royko pleaded the “white ethnic neighborhood people” to give him a chance.
I have to admit that receiving a signed, hand-delivered, copyrighted letter from Frank Sinatra was a thrill. Even if he did call me a pimp.
When I was born, the first thing my mother said to me was: “He takes after his father. Look at those feet.” She was right. My father had size 12 feet
“James! You, cottage cheese? What about prime rib? You never ate cottage cheese in your life!”
Go to the nearest alley, lift the lid from a can, and shove your head down inside. Breathe deeply. Look around inside that can. That’s garbage, sir.
That’s the trouble with the ERA crowd and most do-gooders. They are earnest, diligent and energetic. But they don’t have much sense.
The old farmhouse stood along a winding dirt back road. It was the last house before the road disappeared into the heavy Wisconsin forest.
Hugh Hefner’s kingdom is the same kingdom the 5:15 suburban commuter is rushing home to.
They mess up their stomachs with fancy drinks. And it ain’t the whisky that kills ‘em, it’s the other stuff they mix in — juice and stuff.
Every summer seemed better than the last. The sunsets seemed to become more spectacular. And more precious.
Or is it possible the mayor was thinking about the words of Noah, who said: “Let’s all get in the Ark.”
One day Bill Malloy, a Chicago folk singer, noticed the catchy slogan on the Standard Oil service stations’ signs: “As you travel, ask us.” So he inquired about the meaning of life.
The sentiments afoot in the America of 1968 endure a half-century later.
The old, established rich had to give up some of their exclusive box seats at the Metropolitan Opera to some of the newly rich.