The Royko Thread

For fans of the man (and I was acquainted, though I'll also testify as to just how much of a difficult prick he could be . . . )

"The World of Mike Royko" . . . in words and pictures, an informal bio, and much, much more . . .

97 cents at Amazon.

The steal of steals.

 

All hopelessly dated with little chance of reaching today's youths.

 

Kind of like you.

 

TF -- I can't giveyou Grizzard, He always seemed a Gilbert and Sullivan Southerner to me. Roy Blount is what LG always tried to be. This is one I'd like to hear from Dave on.

And the usual poop-flinging from the monkeyhouse has commenced, I see.

 

One of the great joys of my journalism career was having a beer at the Billy Goat near where Royko was huddled over his drink.

Clearly, I'm old.

 

His pre-Boss daily work was superior to his later stuff, but to condemn his body of columns in blanket fashion does not speak well
for those sneering . . .

 

One of the great regrets of my career was having a beer at the Billy Goat, as a very young puppy, near where Royko was huddled over a beer, and not going over to him to shake his hand or buy him a beer or grab his butt or something. One of the few times in my life I was just too intimidated.....wish I had that moment back.

 

I loved drinking in that place, but never ran into Royko in my visits there. It was still great, though.

 

"Boss" is an amazing book. Royko was one of a kind...hell, people don't even want to be like him anymore. Too many reporters would rather be on TV making dumb comments about dumb things or acting as a lapdog to people in power.

 

Again, from "Sez Who?"....for PDB, here's the Sinatra column...can't link it, but can cut and paste....


    A short man with a thick neck just walked in and handed me an envelope and said: "Dis is fum Mr. Sinatra."
         Sure enough, it was--a letter from Ol' Blue Eyes himself, telling me off good for my column about how he has a 24-hour police guard outside his hotel suite while he's in Chicago.
         Here's what he says:
         Let me start this note by saying, I don't know you and you don't know me. I believe if you knew me:
         First, you would find immediately that I do not have an army of flunkies.
         Secondly, neither myself, nor my secretary, nor my security man put in the request for police protection. It is something that's far from necessary.
         It's quite obvious that your source of information stinks, but that never surprises me about people who write in newspapers for a living. They rarely get their facts straight. If the police decided that they wanted to be generous with me, I appreciate it. If you have any beefs with the Chicago Police Force, why not take it out on them instead of me, or is that too big a
job for you?
         And thirdly, who in the hell gives you the right to decide how disliked I am if you know nothing about me?
         The only honest thing I read in your piece is the fact that you admitted you are disliked, and by the way you write I can understand it. Quite frankly, I don't understand why people don't spit in your eye three or four
times a day.
         Regarding my "tough reputation," you and no one else can prove that allegation. You and millions of other gullible Americans read that kind of crap written by the same female gossip columnists that you are so gallantly
trying to protect: the garbage dealers I call hookers, and there's no doubt that is exactly what they are, which makes you a pimp,  because you are using people to make money, just as they are.
         Lastly, certainly not the least, if you are a gambling man:
         (a) You prove, without a doubt, that I have ever punched an elderly drunk or elderly anybody, you can pick up $100,000.
         (b) I will allow you to pull my "hairpiece." If it moves, I will give you another $100,000; if it does not, I punch you in the mouth.
         How about it?
         (signed) Sinatra.
         cc: The Honorable Richard J. Daley
         Police Supt. James Rochford
         Mr. Marshall Field, Publisher
         Mr. Charles Fegert, Vice President
         This material has been copyrighted and may not be reproduced unless used in its entirety and sets forth the following copyright notice: (copyright) Frank Sinatra, 1976.

(Oops, more to come...)


         

 

(Here's the rest...)


Before I respond, 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.
Way back, when we were both young, Sinatra was one of my heroes because (a) he was real skinny (b) he had a big Adam's apple (c) he had greasy hair, and (d) all the girls loved him. Me too, except for (d).
For thirty years I considered him the master of pop singers. Why, in 1953, I played his great record of "Birth of the Blues" so often that a Korean houseboy learned every word. And he probably taught that song to his
children. So if Sinatra has a fan club in the Korean village of Yong Dong Po, it's because of me.
I mention this only to show how deeply it pained me to be critical of him. The pain may have been brought on by the french fries at lunch, but I prefer to think it was sentiment.
Anyway, here is my point-by-point response to his point-by-point response to my column:
-- If you say you have no flunkies, I take your word and apologize. I even apologize to the flunky who delivered the letter.
-- You say you didn't ask for the police guard. I'll buy that. But I didn't say you asked. I quoted the police public relations man who said you did. I now suspect that what actually happened is that some politician sent the cop over to impress you. This point could have been easily cleared up before I wrote the column, but every time we called your suite, your secretary
got snippy and hung up. I thought you didn't like smart-aleck broads.
-- I didn't say you were disliked; the police PR man said it to justify the guard. I like you, Frank, honest. When you wore big bow ties, I wore big bow ties. When you wore big lapels and baggy pants, I wore big lapels and baggy pants. When you dated Ava Gardner, I dated Agnes Grobnik. We're a lot alike.
-- The reason people don't spit in my eye three or four times a day is that I duck fast.
-- After rereading your massive file of news clippings, I agree that you never punched any "elderly drunks." Most of the drunks you punched were younger.
-- If you can prove, without a doubt, that I have ever been a pimp, I will give you $11.69. In cash. You're not the only high roller in town.
-- I don't want to pull your hair. People would think we're a couple of weirdos. However, for the sake of a sporting proposition, I'll do it. But only if I can make new terms for the bet.
If your hair doesn't move, you can give me a punch in the mouth. (I figure that fans who can't get tickets for your show will pay 50 cents to touch my swollen lip.)
But if it does move, never mind the 100 G's--you give me one of your old bow ties and an original recording of "Birth of the Blues." I still say it was your best song.

 

Honestly, that place was completely gross...if you could even tolerate the stink of the urine from Lower Wacker....and the rats that circled around the endless sewer grates.  And then the tourists wrecked the place after Belushi made it way too famous...cheeborger cheeborger, no pepsi, coke.

But if you really thought about who had been there, what they had known and seen and written....no way you didn't get chills and feel as if you'd been to some secret paradise.