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.
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 slogan on the Standard Oil service stations’ signs: “As you travel, ask us.” So he asked.
The old, established rich had to give up some of their exclusive box seats at the Metropolitan Opera to some of the newly rich.
The sentiments afoot in the America of 1968 endure a half-century later.
The American people were so divided against themselves that he dared not take part in a political campaign for fear it could get worse.