Great Gatsby Roulette

It was May of my senior year in college. Everybody was coasting, knowing either what they were going to be doing the next year, or that they’d be doing nothing. Except for one guy, Tom.

Tom had been accepted at medical school–Harvard, no less–so his future was pretty much mapped out for him, assuming he graduated from college first. Med schools are funny that way. They make you dot your “i’s” and cross your “t’s” before they let you cut body parts off cadavers and stick them in the purses of the secretaries.

Fitzgerald: “The road to med school goes through me.”


And so as we assembled for one of our last nights of drug-enhanced conviviality, we felt a general sense of relief and hopeful anticipation–except for Tom, whose face was clouded by a look that suggested he had a lot of work left to do.

“What’s eating you?” somebody finally asked.

”I need to finish one course in the humanities to graduate,” he said.

“So–what’s the big deal?” came the question from one to whom a course in literature was a day at the beach.

“I need to write a paper on The Great Gatsby,” Tom said.

“Christ, I’ve probably read that book for three courses the past four years,” said somebody else.

“Well I haven’t,” Tom said.

“Haven’t what?” I asked. “Haven’t read it three times?”

“Haven’t read it at all,” Tom said sheepishly.

Like many pre-med students, Tom had spent so much time taking organic chemistry and other hard science courses that he hadn’t had time to take any electives to round out his personality, and his heavy load of classes, labs, shooting pool, going to the race track and Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park and staying up all night playing poker had left him little time to read for pleasure.

“You’ve only got, like, two days, right?” a guy named Alan asked.

“One,” Tom replied, like a prisoner on death row who’s just finished his last meal.

A collective gulp of five Adam’s apples was heard. “You have to read it and write a paper about it . . . tonight?

He was silent for a moment. “You got it.”

The gloom that had, just a moment before, been one man’s burden spread like a contagious disease on the wings of a sneeze. We all felt terrible for Tom, but we were on the South Side of Chicago, home of Saul Alinsky, inspiration to generations of radicals and later even a President of the United States!

Saul Alinsky


What we had learned from the example of Alinsky was that there was a time for talk, and a time for radical social action to improve the everyday lives of ordinary people. We looked at each other and at Tom’s downcast head and as if by telepathy, formed a common purpose.

“We’ll help you write your paper!” someone said emphatically.

“Yeah–all of us–together!” said another.

“Guys–I couldn’t ask you to . . .” Tom began, but I cut him off. “You were there for me in Rocks and Stars,” the elementary science course for English majors, I said. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten that B that kept my grade point average where it needs to be in case I ever figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”

“You gotta work the shirt scene in there somewhere.”


Tom looked around the room and we could see his eyes misting over. “You–you would do that for me?” he asked, a lump in his throat.

“You’d do it for us, if you’d read the book and we hadn’t and we had screwed around like you and left the paper to the last minute,” somebody said.

By now Tom’s eyes were red. “You guys–you’re the greatest!” he said. He’d had a few beers.

“C’mon,” a guy named Bates said. “No time for emoting–we’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

As the only guy in the room who had mastered touch typing, I was assigned the role of scrivener. I loaded a manual typewriter with a sheet of white paper, rolled it up, and centered it for the title.

“Okay–’The Great Gatsby–colon,” I said. “What comes next, and it has to be a question.”

“Why’s that?” Tom asked.

“Because if it’s a question, you don’t have to have a thesis,” Bates said. “You’re just raising an issue . . . ”

” . . . for consideration by future generations of scholars,” said a guy named Jack.

“Uh, let’s see–Threat or Menace?” I offered.

“Too sociological. How about–’Process or Event’?” Jack suggested.

“You used that for your Haymarket Anarchist Bombing paper,” Bates said. “What about–’Icon or Shibboleth’?”

“Great,” I said and typed it in. “Okay–we’ve got to be organized, otherwise you’re going to drive me crazy,” I said. “We’ll go around the room–Russian Roulette style–and take turns. One sentence per person, then on to the next–okay?”

“I’m in,” said Bates, as he put on the Jefferson Airplane’s “Crown of Creation” album at a volume just slightly below the level that would attract the attention of a resident assistant.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Tom said. “Don’t we have to like–concentrate?”

“Dude, you took too many science classes,” Bates said. “This is how creative-types do their thing.”

“First sentence–somebody, anybody,” I called out.  Bates had already taken a few tokes on a reefer on the quad below, so his creative juices were flowing freely.

“Uh, ‘The Great Gatsby is a seminal work that calls attention to, and plays upon, class distinctions that are customarily submerged beneath the surface in America due to the leveling pressure of democratic principles.’”

“Great start!” I exclaimed as I tapped out the opening lines. “Next.”

“The narrator, young Nick Carraway, serves as the . . . uh . . . sounding board for Fitzgerald’s critique of the American dream, as he is alternately attracted to and repulsed by the materialism with which Gatsby has surrounded himself,” Alan said.

“Got it–who’s next?”

“I guess me,” Jack said. ‘Carraway is sucked into’ . . .”

“Scratch that,” Bates said. “Not high-toned enough. Say ‘Carraway is drawn into Gatsby’s life’–something like that.”

“Okay,” Jack said, a bit peevishly I thought. Pride of authorship. “‘Carraway is drawn into Gatsby’s life because he is second cousin to Daisy Buchanan, whom Gatsby desires because she is from a social class above his, and thus unattainable.”

I looked over at Tom as I typed and noticed that his mouth was hanging open. “You guys are–incredible!” he said, a big smile on his face.

“Why don’t you take a turn?” Bates asked, as he passed the joint to Tom.

“Me? But . . . I only read the first chapter!”

“That’s enough man–go ahead,” Bates said. “Give it a shot!”

Tom inhaled, held his breath for a moment, then opened his mouth to allow the smoke to escape, along with these words. “In this respect, Daisy represents the American Dream, always luring us onward, always receding as we draw near it.”

Arnold Rothstein, fictionalized as Meyer Wolfsheim


“See–you don’t need to read the book,” I said. “It’s in the air you breathe.”

We continued in that vein for several hours until we had collectively banged out three pages–double-spaced, inch-and-a-half margins–of the most bogus symbol-spotting literary claptrap that ever issued from the mind of an American undergraduate. As we wrapped things up with the obligatory analytical pecking and poking at the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, I pulled the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter, and everyone gathered around to admire our work.

“You know,” Bates said as took a final hit on what was left of the joint, “it’s true what they say about art having a cathartic effect.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. He was a little blissed out, but recovered enough to realize he may have missed something. “What exactly does that mean?”

“I dunno,” Bates said. “But it sounded good.”

Available in Kindle format on as part of the collection “Chicago: Not Just for Toddling Anymore.”


Where’s My Phreakin’ Nobel Prize in Physics?

The Nobel Prize in Physics was awarded yesterday, and for the 47th consecutive year since I first took a course in the subject, I didn’t win.  Excuse me if sound a tad bitter this morning.

Nobel Prize:  Where’s mine?


This year’s winners are Rainer Weiss, Barry Barish and Kip Thorne for decisive contributions to the LIGO detector–whatever that is–and the observation of gravitational blodda blodda blodda.  I’ll continue as soon as you finish your yawn and close your mouth.

Physics Department:  “Has anybody seen my subatomic particle?”


I went to college at the University of Chicago, where physics is a big deal, kind of like football at Ohio State.  Twenty-eight winners of the Nobel Prize in Physics have been affiliated with the school.  You can’t swing a dead cat in a physics lab there without hitting a Nobel laureate.  I know, when I was a freshman we tried.  They finally made us stop.  It wasn’t fair to the cat.

Enrico Fermi:  “I don’t play squash as much as I used to.”


Even though I had no intention of ever doing anything with atoms or molecules when I started college at the age of 17, I was compelled by the U of C’s “Core Curriculum” to take an introductory course in physics so that I would be a well-rounded intellectual when I came out four years later.  You know how embarrassing it can be when you’re at a cocktail party and some woman says “Don’t eat that potato chip–I dropped my anti-neutrino in the French onion dip.”  It is essential in such situations that one have at least an elementary knowledge of sub-atomic particles.

“What was that boom?”


Physics is everywhere at the U of C.  My first-year dorm room window looked out on the former site of the underground squash court where Enrico Fermi set off the first self-sustaining nuclear reaction, an event which set back my introduction to the game of squash for another decade.  There was no way I was going to expose myself to radiation just to learn a snooty game played predominantly by rich white men that dated back to British debtors’ prisons.  Racquetball was fine with me, thank you.

My early promise in physics was revealed by an experiment I performed in my first lab session.  Unlike chemistry labs, physics labs don’t smell bad, as long as you stay away from the graduate assistants.  Each student was given instructions for the experiment, which involved a little metal boat that scooted back and forth along a track made frictionless by a cushion of air underneath.  We were supposed to measure something or other which, we were told, would fall within a given range of expected results.

“Dude, you have so totally screwed this up!”


What, I asked the lab assistant, would happen if our results didn’t fall within that range?

That,” he said dubiously, “would be a major upheaval in science.”

I went to work and, when I had completed the experiment and written up my conclusions, the earth-shattering results were staring me in the face, as plain as a pig on a sofa, as Flannery O’Connor used to say.

I went over to the lab assistant and showed him.  “Look!” I shouted with excitement.  “A major upheaval in science!”

“Hmph,” he sniffed as I handed him my lab book.  He looked over my calculations, and a sneer of condescension crept across his face.  “You’ve obviously done something wrong,” he said.

It was really sad to see someone so consumed with jealousy, but I could understand his reaction.  He’d probably spent the better part of a decade working in the field, and I come along and knock one out of the park my first time at bat.

And so it continued.  Every week a new lab assignment, every week a major upheaval in science–I was on fire!  If there were any justice in the world, I would have received a Nobel Prize in physics long ago.  Instead, I have to choke back my tears every fall when a nimrod nobody’s ever heard of wins for some cockamamie crap like “string theory.”  Puh-lease!

So next time you’re sitting in your favorite bar watching TV and the news announcer comes on and says that so-and-so has just won the Nobel Prize in physics, you can turn with an air of astuteness to your companions and say with confidence:  “What a joke–everybody knows those things are rigged.”

Available in Kindle format on as part of the collection “Chicago: Not Just for Toddlin’ Anymore.”

A Night Ride With the Chicago Dance Studio Squad

In Illinois dance studios are regulated by the state Dance Studio Act, which can be enforced by the Attorney General. 

It’s 11:00 p.m. on a hot night in Chicago.  Most decent people are thinking of turning in, but for me it’s the beginning of the graveyard shift on the Chicago Dance Studio beat.  Until seven tomorrow morning I’ll be riding around, bein’ as inconspicuous as I can, trying to nab the perps who operate unbonded dance studios, signin’ up starry-eyed rubes from Keokuk, Iowa who sign promissory notes that can enter the stream of commerce as negotiable instruments, cuttin’ off all their defenses.  I’ve seen it happen, and believe me it ain’t a pretty sight.

I could be a lot more inconspicuous if I didn’t have a rookie Dance Studio Patrolman ridin’ with me tonight.  E.J. “Clell” Furnell, a kid who just graduated from Iowa State with a major in terpsichorean criminal justice.  I look at him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and see–myself, thirty-five years ago, before I became jaded, cynical.  And paunchy, from a lack of the healthful exercise that social dancing provides.

“You have the right to one (1) free lesson in the tango, fox trot or waltz . . .”


“When are we gonna ‘nab’ some ‘perps,’” he says, slobbering at the mouth like the golden retriever my dingbat girlfriend kept in our apartment my senior year at the University of Chicago.  I tell ya, that animal set me on a downward spiral; every day studying depressing nihilistic philosophers like Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, every night coming home to a stupid dog goin’ “feed me walk me pet me play with me.”  It made me lose my faith in humanity; how can that stupid animal be so happy, with so much misery all around it? I’d ask myself.

Schopenhauer, getting into “full-scowl” mode.


And so I dropped out and entered Dance Studio Patrolmen’s Academy.  I got my badge and then hit the mean streets of Chi-Town.  Pulaski, Kosciuszko, Shalikashvilli Drive.  Funny how they’re all named after Poles.

It wasn’t easy at first, let me tell you.  Staking out unlicensed dance studios, working undercover as a lonely guy who just wanted to learn the cha-cha–or is it the cha-cha-cha?  Some of my training is slipping my mind, I been on the force so long.

There’s a sucker born every minute.


I look over at Furnell and, against my embittered cynical best judgment, decide to teach him something instead of letting him learn the hard way, like I did; make a mistake, get yelled at, repeat.

“First thing you gotta do,” I says to him I says, “is take on a little bit of protective coloring.”  He’s dressed like something out of a 50’s cop show; standard-issue police blues, black lace shoes.

“What?” he asks, mystified.

“You really think you’re gonna be able to insinuate yourself into the arms of Madame La Vache Qui-Rit in that get up?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You stick out like a taxi cab’s doors,” employing a phrase my big sister used to make fun of my ears many years ago.  “We gotta get you dressed in something swervy.”


“Yeah–like Lucretius.”

“Who’s Lucretius?”

“Power-hitting outfielder for the White Sox in the 70s.”

“No kidding!”

“Of course I’m kidding, you dingleberry.  That’s Richie Allen, who famously said ‘If a cow won’t eat it, I won’t play on it.’”


Richie Allen, Lucretius: Never seen in the same room together.


“Lucretius is the guy who postulated a random tendency for atoms to swerve, thus allowing for free will in a deterministic universe.”


“You already said that, rube.  Anyway, you walk into a dance studio you gotta be ready to swerve.”


“Any which way you wanna, but random is good,” I say as I pull to a stop outside Madame Giselle’s Dance Supply House.  “We’ll get you fixed up in here.”

I walk in and am greeted by the proprieteress with a big hug that leaves me with rouge and lipstick on my face, which she daubs off with cold cream.  “How are you dahling?” she says, sweet as could be.  She’d better be–she’s made a mint over the years keeping me in suave dance togs.

“What is it you weesh from me?” she asks breathlessly in her native Esperanto.

“Not for me sweetheart.  It’s for this Boy Scout over here.”

“Oof,” she says as looks Clell up and down.  “There is a Big & Dumb Men’s Store across the street–perhaps you should look there?”

I can tell from the pained look on Clell’s face that he’s hurt, but I’m not about to help him.  He’s the one who signed up for the dance studio beat–I didn’t make him.

“Go easy on him, wouldya?” I whisper to Giselle.  She nods, then bursts into a half-assed little Eurolaugh to show the hick she was only joking.

“Please–walk this way,” she says as she sashays down the racks of sleek, spangly-sequined dance costumes.

“If I could walk that way I wouldn’t need talcum powder,” he says, and I have to say, maybe the kids got that certain je ne sais quoi he’ll need to cut it.

Giselle holds up a series of possibilities and finally we settle on a sleek, sheer black satiny two-piecer that looks like it got caught in the revolving door at Victoria’s Secret when some shoplifter tried to sneak it out and it got stretched to man-size.

“Howzit feel?” I ask him.

He does a few turns and nods in approval.  “I think I’m ready.”  I can only groan inwardly–Madame Giselle has a “No Groaning–Strictly Enforced” sign in the changing room.  The kid doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.  A bad state to be in.

Still, I figure it’s his funeral, so we head back out to the squad car and start to case Carmela’s Home of Happy Feet, the latest iteration of a bust-out studio that keeps getting shut down but re-opens under the name of another daughter of Louie de Phillipo, the capo di tutti capos of the Chicago ballroom dance scam scene.

“You see that doll over at the metal desk?” I ask him as we pull up to the curb and look through the plate-glass window.

“I don’t see a doll, just a very good-looking young woman who’s . . .”

“I’m using tough-guy slang, you nougat bar,” I snap at him.  “That young woman is a doll–got it?”

“Fine,” he says.  “You don’t have to get testy.”

“Oh yes I do,” I say.  “I’m the jaded senior cop who understands that he has to be tough with a tyro like you.  Now listen up and listen good.  You’re gonna go in there, eyes bright and coat shiny, and you’re gonna tell her you’re interested in dance lessons.  What’s the most economical plan they got?”

Thomas Carlyle:  “Economics is making me verrry . . . sleepy.”


“But . . . isn’t economics the dismal science?”

“That’s what Carlyle said, but who gives a flyin’ fuck at a rollin’ donut.  You’re gonna act naive–it shouldn’t be too hard–and she’s gonna try and ‘upsell’ you to a lifetime membership, or for payments over a term of longer than one (1) year.  When she does that, you give me the high sign.”

“What’s the high sign?”

“You flap one hand under your chin, so you look like Oliver J. Dragon on Kukla, Fran & Ollie.”

Ollie and Fran, on Scots Presbyterian Pride Day.


He didn’t know the show, so I showed him how to wag his hand under his chin to approximate a dragon’s lower jaw.  It took awhile–makes you wonder what they’re teaching kids in college these days.

Anyway, I wished him good luck and he took off.  I saw Carmela flutter her eyelashes at him–I hadn’t counted on outright coquetry as a tool of the criminal underworld–as he sat down at the table.  They palavered back and forth, then she pulled a contract out of a desk drawer–like it was something special and she was doin’ him a favor.  He leaned in like he was farsighted or something, then he rolled his head to the right like a whale, then wig-wagged his hand under his chin–the sign!

I was inside the studio in two, maybe three shakes of a lamb’s tail and I had the collar on the beauteous front woman.  “You have the right to wear fruit on your head and remain silent,” I said, reading her the Carmen Miranda warning.

“Tell me something I don’t know, copper.”  She was a tough cookie for a kid who probably had to learn the Loco-Motion from a history book.

“This contract for dance studio services violates 815 ILCS 610/6 and 7.  You gonna dummy up or . . . is there anybody else higher on the chain of command you’d like to tell us about?”

It isn’t easy asking a girl to turn in her father, but I’m not after small fry–I want to catch the big fish, get that mayoral commendation from Rahm Emanuel, the only big city mayor in America with ballet training–and retire to the Indiana Dunes.

And you thought I was kidding . . .


We were standing there, staring each other down, when my inner light went out and I felt myself falling, the taste of warm, salty blood in my mouth.  I hit the floor and looked up to see Furnell, standing over me with his sap in his hand.

“You’ll never make it in the tough, gritty world of dance studio law enforcement if you’re going to fall in love with everything in a women’s asymetric ballroom skirt,” I growled through a gap in my teeth.

“Who said anything about love?” Furnell asked, genuinely mystified.  “She’s offering me a great deal on the Latin Hustle.”


Available in Kindle format on as part of the collections “Chicago: Not Just for Toddlin’ Anymore” and “Dance Fever.”

Quitting Smack

It was the early 70’s. The Vietnam War was just coming off its peak, and the traffic of young men back and forth between America and Southeast Asia brought new, cheap and exotic goods back to the states for consumption by those deferred, rejected or too young to fight. The products of that trade consisted primarily of stereo equipment–cool-looking Pioneer brand speakers were one particularly hot item–and heroin.

Listen to Blue Cheer through these bad boys and your brain will never be the same.


I was introduced to heroin–a/k/a smack, junk–by my friend Bobby, when we worked at his father’s appliance store. Bobby had a big brother Tommy, who was right in the middle of the draftable bandwith. Tommy knew more than his share of servicemen returned or on leave from Vietnam, and one day Bobby surprised me in the delivery truck by unfolding an aluminum foil package containing brown powder.

“Dig this,” he said, or something similarly prideful as he showed me the stuff.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Heroin–from Vietnam. You want to try some?”

I knew of the dangers of heroin–addiction, a life of crime and so forth. On the other hand, a number of the men and women I looked up to were known users, current or former: Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Lenny Bruce, Keith Richards, Durward Kirby, William Burroughs, Ben Franklin.

Ben Franklin, stone junkie.


Just kidding; I threw Durward Kirby in there just to make sure you hadn’t nodded off. As junkies are wont to do.

“Will I get . . . hooked?” I asked nervously.

“No way, not from one snort.”

That sounded promising. “You mean you don’t have to shoot it up?”

“Nope. Tommy tells me up the nose is the safe, easy responsible way to take heroin.”

That sounded good to me, but we had a refrigerator to deliver, so I stopped him as he rolled up a dollar bill. “You’re going to do it now–before the last install?” I asked.

Bobby’s face took on a look of deep thought as he considered the issue of timing. “I don’t know. I think it’s like acid or pot–it takes a while to kick in. I think we should do it beforehand.”

“We’ll have you set up in a jiffy, Mrs. McKelvey . . . bluagh!”


I figured he knew what he was doing–he was the crazy one, after all, not me–so we took turns snorting lines of equal volume, then drove over to the house of an old woman who’d bought a brand, spanking new frost-free refrigerator.

We got the appliance out of the truck, with me pulling the dolly and Tommy doing his best to avoid heavy lifting; I, after all, was the former middle linebacker, while he was the kind of kid who’d lie on his stomach while everybody else was doing push-ups in gym class.

We got the refrigerator up the porch stairs when I felt even the semblance of effort from Tommy’s end cease. I heard a noise like a sink backing up, and saw Tommy puking his guts out over the railing onto the shrubs below.

“Jesus–are you all right?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He leaned against the rail, whiter than the underbelly of a trout, and tried to collect himself.

“You’re not going to die or anything, are you?”

“No, I feel better now. Must have been the cheeseburger I ate for lunch.”

I looked at him to make sure, then rang the doorbell. At this point, I was clearly the more presentable of the two representatives of the appliance store on the porch.

The old woman greeted us and showed us into the kitchen, where what should have been a routine hook-up job was made more difficult by the effects of the drug that supplies pushers around the globe with their daily bread.

“Would you boys like some lemonade?” I recall her saying as I tried to properly position the refrigerator, using a bubble level. My guess is given my condition, she never saw a well-formed ice cube out of her freezer compartment until the day she died.

“No ma’am, but thanks,” I said, trying to bring the transaction to a conclusion. I got her to sign the receipt and we headed off to the truck, with Tommy a festive combination of green, blue and white hues.

Bob Seger


We went back to Tommy’s place–his parents weren’t home–and listened to “Stone Junkie” by Curtis Mayfield, over and over. I don’t think it was by choice; back in the day, as they say, a properly screwed-up record player would repeat an album over and over again until you got up to turn it off. Which, if you’re on heroin, you’re incapable of doing.

That was the sort of trouble you could get into in a small town in the summer, surrounded by kids who were, in the words of the Bob Seger song of the time, young and restless and bored. When I returned to college at the University Chicago in the fall, I genuinely believed I would never get near the stuff again, but I fell in with a bad crowd; pre-med students.

There is probably no more daring group of drug consumers among the undergraduates of this country than the boys who will some day become men with the power to dispense pharmaceutical products to average schmoes like you and me. Their willingness to risk their lives by exposing themselves to drugs in varying dosages, or dubious purity, and unknown origin is admirable. By the time they get their long white coats and stethoscopes they will have sampled just about every item in the Physician’s Desk Reference pharmacopoeia–and then some. It’s almost saintly, when you think about it; these guys wouldn’t expose a patient to a substance they hadn’t tried–in highly excessive quantities–first.

I had immediate credibility with the Doogie Howsers avant la lettre; I had not only taken heroin, I’d installed a major, big-ticket item “white goods” appliance while under its influence. I wasn’t some tyro, I was–as Jimi Hendrix might say–experienced. A drug kingpin among mere wanton boys.

Leopold and Loeb: I named my cats after them.


Why, you might ask, was a group of high-SAT scoring undergraduates driven to such desperate pastimes? I can’t answer that. Perhaps it was because we lived in the dormitory that had housed Leopold and Loeb, the UofC thrill-killers whom Clarence Darrow spared from the electric chair after their botched attempt to commit the perfect crime. With that sort of aura permeating the halls, you needed to do something more dramatic than play “Gimme Shelter” so loud the graduate dorm monitor told you to turn it down in order to assert your innately stupid young manhood.

Curtis Mayfield


But these guys were serious technicians, not two kids slurping stuff up their noses in a delivery van. They had hypodermic needles and syringes, and could calibrate dosages with precision. I trusted them the way you trust your family doctor. If your family doctor sells controlled substances out the back door.

And so I became–off and on, over a period of months–a more-or-less regular user of heroin. You learned to spot other users; the willowy blond in 20th Century French Drama with the little bruises on her feet, where she had to shoot up because she couldn’t find a vein in the crook of her arm and didn’t want the marks to show on her hands. We had gone out on a couple of dates the year before–then she discovered she knew more about jazz than I did. She ended up becoming an anchorwoman in L.A.

With that descent into the hell of heroin, dramatic changes in my life occurred. I got involved in a steady relationship for the first time in years. My grades improved dramatically; straight A’s in Aesthetics and Ethics–bringing me closer to Phi Beta Kappa than I’d ever been before. Those hopes were dashed when I earned my customary B in Genetics, but I had an excuse–my high school biology teacher had gone walkabout when he suddenly came down with amnesia. When my girlfriend broke up with me, a girl I’d been friends with in high school sent me a postcard saying she was coming through town, and we hooked up. I was rolling in it; the Big H, horse, whatever you wanted to call it–it was like pixie dust!

But despite all the positive changes that heroin produced in my life, I knew I couldn’t continue to use it as a crutch that helped me focus on my studies and improve my interpersonal skills. For me, smack had one fatal flaw; it was expensive, and was starting to crimp my budget for record albums. That’s right; the most powerfully-addictive drug known to man was no match for my deep-seated cheapness.

And so I sit before you–actually, before my computer–clean and sober tonight. Straight edge, hard core, as they say. I went cold turkey and got the monkey off my back, to mix my animal metaphors. I can laugh about it now, sure, but back then it was a serious thing. I still can’t believe how close I came to a life of complete and utter degradation, dissolution, and depravity.

If I’d done just a little better in Genetics, today I’d be one of those dorks wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key in his lapel.

Available in Kindle format on as part of the collection “Chicago: Not Just for Toddlin’ Anymore.”

Talkin’ Feline Leopold & Loeb Blues

In Chicago town, I had two cats;
Kittens, sprightly, genuine brats.
I named them for thrill killers known ‘round the globe
by their last names only: Leopold and Loeb.


At night they’d crawl into bed with me–
had no girlfriend then, there was lots of space free.
And there they would cuddle, seeking warmth from the cold,
two tuxedo felines, named Loeb and Leopold.

One night one of them—I can’t remember which–
decided to snuggle so tight that I itched.
I asked him what gave, and out the words came:
“So how exactly did we come by our names?”


I inhaled a bit, the moment had come:
They were now in their teens, I couldn’t play dumb.
I propped each one upon a knee
and recounted how their monikers came to be.

“Long ago,” I began, “in the Windy City,
A crime was committed that wasn’t pretty.
Two students at the college that I now attend
Decided a young boy’s life to end.”


They gasped, horror-stricken, and looked at each other;
They were incredulous, the two be-whiskered brothers.
“Why’d they do that?” one of them asked,
while the other looked on, completely aghast.

“They wanted to prove that they were so smart
that they could perfect the murderer’s art.
They both possessed brains of the sort you well know;
The type that attends the U of Chicago.”


They knew in an instant whereof I had spoken;
They’d heard bon mots that I spent like tokens,
Offending acquaintances both left and right
With callous disregard on a dinner party night.

“Say no more,” Leopold said.
“I know exactly why the kid’s dead.
O’erweening intelligence, a shrunken heart,
You guys think you’re soooo damn smart.”


“Yeah,” said Loeb.  “They thought it was funishment
to make like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment.
“Your undergrad Supermen read too much Dostoevsky,
Instead they should imitate Alexander Nevsky.”

That’s the kind of cats I was raising;
Moral, upstanding, platitude-praising.
Or at least that’s the impression they like to leave
when you walked in the door from a drunken eve.

“Excuse me,” I said, with uncommon candor,
“You’re in no position to utter this slander.”
Their whiskers bristled, they took offense,
I couldn’t believe cats could be so dense.


“And what,” asked Loeb, “do you mean by that?”
Have you ever been grilled by such a cat?
“I mean just this,” I said with aplomb,
And then I dropped my behavioral bomb:

“Men and cats are the only two sort
who will kill another animal purely for sport,
So before you roll your eyes at me there,
Take a look in the mirror at the cats you see there.”

They were taken aback, and then back some more.
The circled their bods ‘round my apartment floor.
And then they sheepishly admitted their vice:
“Well, we do like to play with those stupid mice.”

Moral:  Those who live in cat houses shouldn’t throw stones.

Freedonia Offers to Replace England in EU

NGORZSKL, Freedonia.  Freedonian officials are tired this morning after an all-night vigil they kept in a state of anticipation and suspense, fueled by oglitz, this land-locked European country’s bitter variation of coffee.  “It is very functional,” said Ngli Zolitwk, the nation’s first female Prime Minister, of the highly-caffeinated native drink.  “What you don’t finish can be used to strip furniture, or unclog sluggishly-flowing sinks,” she says as she stifles a yawn.

The occasion for staying up late was Zolitwk’s petition to the European Union to accept Freedonia in substitution for England, which voted to withdraw from the twenty-eight member political-economic body last week, leaving a “free space” of the sort that Freedonians incorporate into all aspects of their play.  “The hard-working women of our nation are entitled to a ‘free space’ one Saturday night of each month,” says Jnizko Uxbkel, Zolitwk’s chief press secretary.  “We live for these nights without sex, so we are well-prepared to fill  in for England if they have other political-economic bodies to bed down with.”

“I’d file a formal protest, but I need the fresh air.”

Freedonia has petitioned the EU for membership in the past, only to be turned down repeatedly as “Not Ready for International Organization.”  “They do not understand the mores of world diplomacy,” says Jean-Claude Malraux-Emilion, French attache to the EU as he closes his attache case.  “The came for their last interview with a bushel basket full or turnips and a live chicken.  We asked them to leave the chicken outside but they refused, since he was chief of their delegation.”

10,000, 20,000 and 50,000 Flemux notes, the fiat currency of Freedonia.


News of England’s withdrawal, which inspired the shorthand term “Brexit,” were brought to this tech-starved country by carrier pigeon since the lone dial-up modem in Godans Flez, often referred to as the “Silicon Valley of Freedonia,” was at the nation’s last-remaining Radio Shack outlet for repairs.  “They are a godsend, these pigeons,” says Grzil “Bud” Ftemskri, who was the first to receive the news.  “They bring you glad tidings from the air, then you bake them with a little turmeric at 350 degrees for dinner.”