Backstreets The Book

Thanks, Neil deGrasse made my day - Nova Now

2011-07-21T15:48:00.000-07:00

Viewing KERA one can't help but wonder, why doesn't everyone get all pumped up about growing body parts. Neil deGrasse makes such complicated stuff, so very easy to get excited about. Maybe because my 69th year is coming around and acquiring more MD's business cards in my wallet, than phone numbers on cocktail napkins. The show focused on longevity and how some folks have better foxo genes. Double GG's are the best. I bought the, "Live fast, die young, and have a good looking corpse" program. I never expected to reach 25. So I played hard. As Euby Blake said; "If I knew I was going to live to be this old I would've taken better care of myself." When I google names of people I have written about. It amazes me that their names show up at all and that's almost by magic. Some with start and finish dates. It grabs you when it is some one you liked and enjoyed and they're ticket got punched early. Others...not so much... Seeing deGrasse get information as precious about taking lungs or hearts cleansing them and introducing your cells into that organ and growing a new one for you is miraculous. Creating a form to grow an ear and again using your cells to grow a new one. All this without the worry of the body rejecting the new part. It feels good to know so many people are going to be helped. As a civilization maybe we will get it right....TT

2011-01-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

Tony Ballone and the Towel Count

You need to know the floor plan at Capelli Ltd. Put simply it is a backwards letter “L”. A customer would enter the top right of the L and walk to the rear of the shop to where the hairstyling patrons would be served. On the way to the styling section of the shop, you would pass the regular haircutters. There were 5 big Emil J. Paidar chairs lined in a row with mirrored back bars and a shampoo sink at every station. In our area we were set in individual booths, with 2 chairs next to one another separated by a short six foot wall. That gave a feeling of privacy, when in fact everyone could see everyone else. At my booth which was at the far outside of the L was a hidden entrance for the plumber to access the pipes for seven of the eleven sinks. This secret entrance way was enhanced by the fact that it was part of my back bar. It doubled as my towel bin which was about 22”x 24”. I could neatly stack my small towels as well as the shampoo towels. Looking at these beautiful custom made dark Mediterranean cabinets. No one would suspect a hidden passage way. Not in an office building like the Merchandise Mart. Tony Ballone never new about it for sure.
It was s a boring day at work not many clients. When I opened my cabinet I noticed I was low on towels. Then the scheme hit me. I went to Sonny and shared my devious plan. With nothing more than looks to Dennis, Ron and Gwen the plan was afoot. With three built in mirrors, one forward and two slightly angled All could stay in eye contact with one another. Sonny asked Tony to count towels in the bins to make sure we did not run out before delivery on Friday. “………Because Friday is almost booked solid and same for Saturday. Make it easy on yourself Tony, start up front.” So while Tony went up front I quickly climbed into the cabinet and carefully arranged the towels messed up trying to fit into the tight space. As I waited quietly I could hear each door firmly close. He was at Sonny’s. Will Tony go across to Dennis or come to me next? I waited patiently……. Ah he went to Dennis’ station….Tony opened my door, I waited another two seconds he started counting 1,2, 3 his hand reach all the way down to see if any towels were blocking his count. Then I grabbed his wrist and tried pulling him into the cabinet and shouted,… arggghhha!!!! He jumped back and let out an even louder ….“aarrggghhha!!!!!!! You craazzyy sssommmommaoffabitch!! You omost gif me a eart attack.” The place went up for grabs. The looks on the customers faces were total disbelief and laughter. One client said he was glad to see that we all work very hard and put our dead time to some creative use. But please don’t ever book my appointment with him, he’s nuts. I smiled at the gentleman and said, Thank you. Well that incident was so much nicer than when I put kernels of popping corn in the protective wire in the barrel of his hair dryer. TT 10/23/01

"The Best of Mike Royko" J. Weisberg

2010-11-30T11:57:00.000-08:00

From Jacob Weisberg's on site Slate Magazine, This is a promo from Weisberg's book; One More Time: The best of Mike Royko, University of Chicago Press; 312 pages $22

"Royko's hold came in part from his sense of place. He grew up in the Polish neighborhood on the northwest side of Chicago that Nelson Algren captured in one of Royko's favorite books, The Neon Wilderness, and he never left it in spirit. Royko's father was a milkman, and the family lived over a tavern. Before finding his way into journalism, Royko already had experience "setting bowling pins, working on a landscape crew, in a greasy machine shop, and in a lamp factory and pushing carts around a department store," as he noted in 1990. When he said he became a writer because it was easier on the feet, he half meant it. To his working class and working-class-once-removed readers, Royko was, like Daley, one of Us."

*********************
Why would I be promoting someone elses book? Because I like what he said about the old neighborhood and about Mike himself. I cut Roko's hair a couple of times. Not that he much cared about razor cuts or mens hairstyling. It's just that we were on his way to work. Our shop was at Illinois and LaSalle streets near all three Chicago papers. During one of his visits I told him about the culture shock of moving from Old Town Chicago to Berwyn, Il. He smiled wryly...and listened. two days later several of my clients said "I didn't know you cut his hair" When I read the column titled "He's moving in different circles now" August 8th 1977, I was amazed at the man's brain. It was as though he was a human recording device. Almost verbatum in spots and it was a fun and ironic article. I enjoyed his fearless attack on City Hall, Mafia, Chicago Police Dept., Sanitary district, gun control outlooks, Fern Basket Taverns were also not a favorite thing for him either. Thank You Mike for many great reads. And Thanks to you Weisberg for reminding us about a great writer and a man without pretense and brass balls......TT

Amazing how we all experience the same things so differently

2010-11-05T17:17:00.000-07:00

After 50 years, Kennedy opening recalled with fondness, fear
A milestone in Chicago development, expressway changed face of city

Gov. William G. Stratton (center) is flanked by Mayor Richard J. Daley (left) and Cook County Board President Dan Ryan at the 1960 opening of the Northwest Expressway. (Chicago Tribune / November 5, 1960)

By Richard Wronski, Tribune reporter

1:31 p.m. CDT, November 5, 2010
-kennedy-expressway-fifty-20101104

Ask Tom Terlikowski about the Kennedy Expressway, and the word that comes to mind is condemnation, not commuting. The two-flat where he was raised on North Milwaukee Avenue was one of hundreds of homes taken by the city, torn down and covered with concrete.

While the expressway may be an eight-lane marvel of engineering and a daily route for hundreds of thousands, for Terlikowski, 68, it's an old wound, "a scar 400 feet wide and 16 miles long that tore up one home after another."

Raymond Russell faced the loss of his Northwest Side home too. But the expressway, which opened 50 years ago Friday, turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to him, he insists. Russell was paid a fair sum, $18,000, for his brick Georgian on Parkside Avenue, which he repurchased for a fraction of the price and moved two blocks away.

"I wasn't happy about it at first," said Russell, 85, but the deal helped pay off his mortgage and the move. "Everything turned out wonderful."

It was at 11 a.m. on Nov. 5, 1960, beneath a bunting-draped Lake Street overpass, that Illinois' political powerhouses, Gov. William Stratton, Mayor Richard J. Daley and Cook County Board President Dan Ryan, officially opened the Northwest Expressway.

Although it followed by only weeks the completion of the Congress Street Expressway, now the Eisenhower, Stratton called it "the greatest highway in America."

Three years later, the expressway would be renamed for President John F. Kennedy, a week after he was assassinated on Nov. 22, 1963. That was only fitting because the expressway shared a special link with the young president who captured the city's heart. During Kennedy's three visits to Chicago, hundreds of thousands lined the route to watch his motorcades.

Construction of the Kennedy — it cost $232.3 million — became the foundation for Daley's reputation as a master builder and helped transform the small suburban Orchard Field into one of the world's busiest airports, O'Hare.

The expressway quickly became a road to work for thousands and a commercial lifeline for businesses and downtown merchants, as well as a massive traffic headache.

Completion of the expressway was perhaps the major highlight of the period from 1958 to 1964, termed "banner years for transportation" in Chicago by Joseph Schwieterman and Alan Mammoser, co-authors of "Beyond Burnham," a history of Chicago's planning.

During those six years, more than three-quarters of the region's total expressway and toll road mileage opened.

In 1960, Americans adored their shiny new Ford Galaxies and Chevy Impalas. The Kennedy allowed Chicagoans to escape the neighborhoods and take to the highway as never before.

The expressway was part of a network first envisioned in the famous Plan of Chicago devised by Daniel Burnham in 1909. Plans were hatched in the 1920s for a roadway running parallel to the Chicago & North Western tracks.

Compared with the other expressways, the Kennedy "was much more innovative," said Schwieterman, a professor at DePaul University. It included two "reversible" lanes to carry extra traffic in rush hours and promoted the concept of combining mass transit with highways.

The project also was an example of remarkable political cooperation, Schwieterman said.

"It was the perfect alignment of the stars as far as politicians were concerned," he said. " Republicans and Democrats were in unison that expressways were the ticket to prosperity."

The watershed moment was congressional approval of the interstate highway system in 1956. After that, the federal government tripled its support to the state for major road construction, paying 90 percent of the costs.

Construction of the Kennedy and other expressways literally changed the face of Chicago, said historian Dominic Pacyga, author of "Chicago, a Biography." Suburban Cook County in the late 1950s experienced a population boom while the city lost residents.

"No wonder suburbs grew while city neighborhoods died," Pacyga said. "Some neighborhoods were cut in two."

Many Chicagoans and suburbanites welcomed the convenience and the speedier travel times to downtown that the expressway brought.

Ken Kazmierski recalled the excitement when the nuns from St. Hedwig's School in Bucktown took the kids to the Fullerton Avenue overpass to wave as President Kennedy's motorcade passed underneath.

Kazmierski remembered his parents' relief when they found out their three-flat at Leavitt Street and Medill Avenue would be spared and they wouldn't have to move. Their neighbors across the alley weren't as fortunate.

There was also rejoicing that the corner tavern, then known as Stanley's, wasn't going to get knocked down, said Kazmierski, 57, of McHenry County.

"Parents would go there to have cocktails, and the kids would play on the floor," he said. "That was a mainstay of the neighborhood."

JFK Expressway and our neighborhood

2010-10-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

October 26th 2010

BACKSTREETS by Thomas E. Terlikowski segments of Chapters 3,4,5. Check out some of the other stories in the earlier archives.. http://backstreetsthomas.blogspot.com

Comparing City Life to the Road Trip
Returning to Chicago, I began to see my neighborhood with new eyes. We’re a working class neighborhood filled with people and businesses that grew out of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. The folks were filled with determination, spirit, vision, and enthusiasm to rebuild their part of the city from ashes. They were the same as those who headed out to the wide open spaces of the unsettled West to create a new life from fresh ground.
There were two and three story apartment buildings; some were wood frame with clapboard siding, some had composite shingle siding. The choices of two shades of green or red must have been a big seller in the 1940’s and 50’s. Running through the gangways while playing “hide and go seek” and bumping into those shingles guaranteed a bloody scrape or a torn shirt. The kids out West would probably get the same kind of scrapes running between boulders. Another combination structure was the wood frame added onto brick; all of them were built as the city retrofitted for utilities like sewage, gas, and water lines. That also meant what used to be a first floor apartment was now below street level. Any place with a basement became a sub-basement.
Many of the family-owned businesses had the convenience of their owners not having to drive to work since they lived upstairs over their store. At ten hundred north, on Milwaukee Avenue, the people were a mix of mostly Polish Americans and some Louisiana French. Slowly moving in were a few hillbilly families and Puerto Ricans. Another ten hundred blocks north, only ten blocks directly east of the Chicago River, Augusta Boulevard is called Oak Street. The Chicago River bordered the eastside of their back streets. Oak Street Beach, where Lake Shore Drive and Oak Street come together, and where Lake Michigan laps the shore, with all its wealth and big spenders, mansions and luxury, high-rise apartments overlooked “The Lake.” They might as well have been ten thousand miles away. Even though, at this near west side of the Chicago River, the street name is Augusta Boulevard, there was nothing Boulevardier about their old neighborhood. Milwaukee Avenue was a street of commerce and hard lessons in life.
At the south end of our block were the Northwest Meat Packing Company, a wallpaper and paint store, and the music store where Uncle Al and Mom worked long hours. Next door to us was “Anna's Pet Chop”. That's what I called it and clued my friends to what really went on in that pet store. On the other side of our music store were a mirror manufacturer, a linoleum store, a pierogi factory, dry cleaner, jewelry store, florist, and then a drug store to end the block at Noble Street. Every shopkeeper and store owner knew all those who lived and traded with those folks in the area.
The florist? My brain flashes the name Rose Buck. She had a mean Doberman Pinscher that would, as you entered the store, bare his teeth as he parted the cream and burgundy floral drape on the doorway behind the counter. The chill of that store always went beyond the coolers where the flowers were kept. It smelled like the funeral parlor and the cold greeting you received upon entry always gave a sinister feel to the place.
Across the street was Jimmy Jarosz, the butcher. He knew what cuts of meat Mom wanted me or Danny to bring home. His place, although colder than the florist, was always warm and comforting inside. He had a shiny head of close-cropped gray hair. His broad smiling face was topped off with one of those folded paper hats. I used to try to spell my last name in the sawdust on the floor with the tip of my shoe while I was waiting my turn to be called. However, having an eleven lettered, Polish last name, I always ran out of sawdust before I ever got to the S- K- I ending. I knew in many of those small towns that we drove through on vacation, it must be the same kind of life, just fewer people. I always found myself comparing my city life with the lives of the people we encountered during that Highway 66 vacation.

Cotton Top on a Blessing Spree
The sub-title to this little episode should be - “May the Lord Bless this kitchen, the dining room, the hallway, the bedroom, the other bedroom, this house, the carpet, the doorknob, newspaper, dog, radio, towel, shoe…”
Later that year after the Highway 66 trip, Mom planned an Easter dinner get together for both sides of the family. The first thing that needed to be done was paint the apartment. Paint rollers were not invented yet and neither was water-based paint. Dad had friends that lent him a canvas tarp, a scaffold, and ladders. The walls and ceilings of the six rooms previously had been painted white. Covering white with white was a real pain in the ass. Doing so with a four-inch wide brush was an alcoholic’s nightmare. Dad did about 85% of the work with Mom or Dan helping. Dad finished on Saturday before Palm Sunday.
The next day Cotton Top came home from church with her Palms and a quart jar of Holy Water. That water is kept in an oak cask that is never really cleaned out. The janitor fills it with a garden hose once a year and there the water sits until it is almost empty. A priest comes by, makes the sign of the cross, and says the Latin version of “yubby jubby jubby, prang! You now be holy water.” The water looks clean until you put it next to really clean water. Then one can see the oak resins that make it look like weak tea.
Cotton Top walked through the apartment and blessed the house by dipping the palms into the mason jar of the holier than thou water and splashing it on every wall in every room and anything else she felt needed blessing, including our dog, Shorty. Cotton Top’s splashing streaked all the newly painted walls. When Dad awakened and reviewed his handiwork, he could not believe what he was seeing. He said many things in Polish and English, all of which I recognized from the backstreets. He looked as though he was going to cry. First, Dad went to the pantry to talk with “John Barleycorn”. Later, I saw him with a bucket of soapy water trying to minimize the streaking that Cotton Top had created on the walls. That was the first time I heard him use the expression, “That senile son of a bitch! I hope to piss on her grave.” I wanted to say out loud what the old man’s voice in my head was saying to me. “Hey Ed, are you a little pissed at the old broad? That Cotton Top sure knows how to yank your wanger.” But I realized the voice was just joking with me.

Street Vendors: Rag Man, Ice Man, Produce Man, Knife Sharpener, and the Hot Dog Guy
Some of the best times Dan and I had, separately and together, were dealing with the street vendors. They changed the atmosphere of the block as soon as the horse and buckboard entered. Since we almost always played in the streets and alleys it was no big thing if we had to stop or move over to make room for a car. It was a quick, easy inconvenience. However, for a horse-drawn service, it colored the street with an attitude of excitement. For many of the kids it was about as close to a farm animal as any would see. Each vendor carried with him a virtual store.
The junk man, or rag man, would holler out “Raggzzinoliren”. His voice was strong and raspy and all the words ran together so they were indistinguishable to my ears. It was like a mantra from the depths of the planet where slave labor must happen. I was in my twenties when I heard Oscar Brown, Jr. explain the words slowly and clearly in an introduction to a song about the rag man. (“Rags and Old Iron” is what was being called out.)
The ice man was always a treat for us kids in the summer. We would sneak up and steal the chips before they melted. The easiest pickings came when he had to walk up to a third floor apartment. Those blocks of ice that he carried with two, big, black iron tongs were heavy. He was an old guy, too, and was slowly being put out of business because of the refrigerator. He wore a huge, leather apron that fit across his shoulder. His aura was more like that of a gunslinger the way he walked and carried those tongs. His horse was definitely spryer than the rag man's horse. Of course, the ice man started out with a full, heavy load and by day’s end, the buckboard was empty. It was just the opposite for the rag man. At the end of his day, if it was a successful one, he would be heavily laden with aluminum, lead pipe, and coils of copper tube or wire, along with rags and bundles of paper. The rag man's horse looked and moved like the word “schlep” sounds. The sound of those steel-covered, wooden wheels over the cobblestones was a powerful grinding sound, punctuated by a very heavy, tired clop…clop…clop of the shod hooves striking the pavement. Kids learned quickly to turn their faces away from those wagon wheels for fear of a shard of glass or stone being squeezed out from under a wheel, like a watermelon seed that was pinched between your fingers. Playing in the alley was most natural for us but taught us quickly to be very attentive and cautious. The alleys, as well as empty lots, were not very forgiving playgrounds.
The all-time favorite sound was hearing the old, Italian produce vendor. He could holler out "WATERMAYLONE!" with such beauty and force, it made you feel like you should give him a standing ovation. There was just one problem -- the drool. We were like Pavlovian dogs; holler "watermaylone!" and we would drool. We wanted some right then and there. He would cut you a slice for a nickel or dime. His buckboard was converted to an enclosed wagon with a door at the back and two steps that extended out affixed to steel strapping. The steps also served as somewhat of a counter. A scale hung from three, small, linked chains and a metal scoop that could hold dry garbanzos, peas, and string beans. He even had a straw hat for his horse, Mona. He also had a pail of water for Mona that hung from the side of his wagon next to a feed bag. Moms would come out and make their purchases when they heard his hawking. Onions, potatoes, cukes, and the smell of fresh dill was always a treat. It would always remind me of visits to our aunt and uncle who lived in Powers Lake, Wisconsin who dried out the dill on their porch near the kitchen. Some mom would call out, "Ten cents worth of soup greens please!" A parsnip, carrot, two sticks of celery, and a few sprigs of parsley were tied with a piece of string and the order was completed. That was when the store would come to you.
There was one other street vendor who walked with his grinding wheel around the back streets, as well as the businesses of the avenue. He sharpened hunting knives, kitchen knives, scissors, linoleum knives, chisels, and planes. His way of attracting business was by way of two bells with very distinctive, separate tones. There was the beautiful, long sustained ding of the first bell followed by the stifled DUNK! of the second bell. He had a water can that looked like an oversized funnel to keep the grinding wheel wet. He sat on his strange looking, but simple device and peddled the two boards that would spin the large stone grinding wheel. We always enjoyed seeing the few sparks that would show up from time to time. It was also always fun to see who owned some hunting knife that we would love to have. We never stayed around too long because he had a pretty bad case of B.O., which also gave us a hunting lesson about standing downwind of your prey.
The hot dog vendor also walked and always had the best flavored hot dogs. That could have been because we played so hard and anything we tasted was absolutely delicious when we were that hungry. Twenty-five cents would be all that you needed for that delight, ten cents for the Coke, or Pepsi, and an extra nickel for a bag of chips. Mom was upset when she found out we bought food from him. “Where does he go potty? And how does he wash his hands afterwards?”
We were amazed that she did not know the answer. “Mom, in the tavern, of course, like all the other vendors.”
Mom was not aware of life on the backstreets. She wasn’t allowed to play there. She was very obedient and well-insulated by her eight older siblings and directed to be an “A” student. That didn’t leave any time for her to explore the neighborhood just one block behind the music store. She studied hard and was involved only with school activities.
Dan and I were one hundred eighty degrees the other way. We loved being on the street. We couldn’t wait to be out of the house and away from craziness we could not control.

Chapter 5
1956

President Eisenhower and Congress passed the Federal Highway Act that was designed to join all major cities via interstate highways. To most of us kids, it didn’t mean anything. Besides, who cared about an old, bald-headed guy who was always playing golf? He bored us kids to death with those long speeches. However, he changed our lives completely over the next four years. Our neighborhood was to live only in our memories from that day forward.

Flash Gordon, Come In
Bob and I were out front of his Busha’s (grandma’s) grocery store drinking a Birely’s orange pop. Birely’s had an oversized mouth to their bottles that meant the bottle cap was about twice the usual size. We used them as our standard hockey puck. As we guzzled our pop, Sherry, who lived in the basement apartment of Bob’s house, was screaming about something. “Come back here, Timmy! Timmy, come back! You bring those back to Mommy right now!”
Timmy was running faster than we had seen him run before. A six year-old can dodge, turn, and stop on a dime, but our money was on Mom’s long legs. Timmy was holding his hands up to the sides of his head while he ran. He had some foam “head phones” in his hands and was making beeping sounds (pretend short wave signal noises) like we heard from Flash Gordon or Tom Corbett Space Cadets. While Sherry, his mom, was chasing and hollering at him, Timmy ran between the parked cars, zigzagging, turning, running, and looping around. It was a comical event until Sherry finally caught up to her little Timmy and whacked him on the back of his head. She hit him hard enough that her falsies fell away from his ears and flew across the sidewalk almost in front of us. Bobby and I tried to look away but we were too fascinated with how they looked. Those two cones bounced and rolled with great enthusiasm. When Sherry finally picked up her runaway boobies, she turned to us in complete exasperation shouting,
“What are you looking at?”
We tried very hard to show that we were looking at anything but her. Her partially buttoned house dress indicated that she had thrown it on as an afterthought as Timmy ran outside, because she definitely was not wearing panties or bra. It was another early anatomy lesson. To a lot of us guys at that age, the female body was a complete mystery.

The Cold War – The Beginning of the End
Dwight D. Eisenhower’s mandate started hitting hard. The order was that every big city in the country needed expressways. The cold war was cooking and the country needed strategic systems to get in and out of the cities. They also needed to link every city across the nation to every other major city across the United States. Our part in this scenario was the construction of the 'Northwest Expressway' (which was changed to the John F. Kennedy Expressway after his assassination). In case you’ve never noticed, there is always a two mile straightway on your local Interstate Highways that can double as a landing strip. In a military emergency, the big C-130s can use that section of highway for a runway. At least that was the plan back then. It didn’t work for hurricane Katrina in the summer of 2005.
All of the lives, sounds, experiences, smells, businesses, and families slowly came to a grinding, angry halt like a pissed off two thousand car train. The entire city was going to be slashed. The wound would be four hundred feet wide and fifteen miles long. Neighborhoods that had been intact since the inception of the city were going to be ripped apart. We were already experiencing a major transitional change in lifestyle through the simple process of modernization. Things like air conditioning, television, and shopping centers were still new things. In cars, one-speed wiper blades, heaters, and slide-open air vents were standards, as were the crank windows and AM radios had the major market-share. There were no air conditioners, no power brakes, no power steering, and directional signals were an option. Using hand signals for turning was a chore in the zero temperatures, let alone in rain or snow. Tubeless tires were not invented yet; don't even think about steel belted radials. No computers, no cell phones. Telephone calls were a nickel and pay phones were all over the city. Men went to barber shops only. Very, very few men wore beards. Unless he was poor, no man had hair that would hang over his shirt collar. Filter tip cigarettes were new, frozen foods were new, and so were ballpoint pens, which sold for $10.00 each. Cuts and scratches were given a slathering of iodine, which really had a strong sting. Mercurochrome did not sting but carried other toxic problems and band-aids always stuck to the wounds. Pizza pie was a new phenomenon that was sweeping the country, as was rock and roll.
I have friends who still say, “Hey Tom, you want a beer? It’s in the icebox. Help yourself,” even though it’s a top-of-the-line refrigerator. Icebox was stuck in our vocabulary. The availability of automatic washers and dryers, refrigerators, air conditioners and automotive changes were becoming more affordable. They brought with them major changes in lifestyle. The necessity of change due to the cold war brought about the biggest heartbreak.
The governmental mandate of expressways was the beginning of the end for the old neighborhood. The Backstreets, as we knew them, were gone forever. It started slowly with announcements in the newspapers. They showed maps from time to time guessing and estimating at where the proposed expressway would run. Friends’ families or their landlords, if they lived in an apartment, began receiving offers from the government to buy their homes and buildings. It put everyone in the path of the highway on edge -- fifteen miles of antsy souls.
People watched the newspapers for updated maps. The real and final maps were like money in the bank for those with that insider information. The information about where entrances and exits were going to be constructed was like gold. Just imagine if you knew beforehand where to put a gas station, auto repair, restaurant, or convenience store. It was fun to see that the Catholic Parish Congressman Dan Rostenkowski belonged to was given a pardon. Although directly in the path of the expressway, there is a major turn in it that avoids St. Stanislaus Kostka Church completely. Maybe that showed his future talent for the Ways and Means Committee, on which he served many years later.
Rude, crude, and underhanded is what we kids learned about politics. Graft was just a way of life during those years. "Vote early, vote often." When you got stopped for a traffic violation and the officer asked for your license the old rule was just fold a ten or twenty under your drivers' license and call it even. That kind of feeling toward politicians and policemen became pervasive. Many of us grew up with little-to-zero trust for political figures, police, and others of authority. We also realized and respected that they had power and that someday you just might need them.
That style of thinking even gave us kids a spin on the air raid drills. They happened on the first Tuesday of the month at 10:30 a.m. The siren blared away. We marched out single file, knelt down in the corridor, hands behind our heads, and waited for the all clear. One of the janitor’s kids figured out that the drill wasn’t for our safety at all because if the bomb was dropped we would all be killed. The only reason we did that drill was because it would make for an easier clean up. I was very pleased to hear that one since it only added to my quiet panic. “Hmmm,” I thought, “so it was just to kiss our asses goodbye.”

Early Protesters
As a group of guys, we started to feel put upon by the powers that be -- the government, et al, local, state, and federal. They were all ganging up on our moms, dads, and our neighborhood. The most obvious form of authority in our minds was the enforcers, the police. We all acquired rotten fruit and vegetables from the garbage cans of the local grocery store and bricks were available in any empty lot. One day eight of us climbed two billboards that overlooked Milwaukee Avenue. A Paddy wagon drove by and we let fly all our ammo, hitting the roof and sides of the Paddy wagon. (We were not targeting the two cops in the front of the wagon.) It sounded like thunder against the empty wagon.
We were amazed at how fast that vehicle could move. We ran and scrambled to hide. None of us were caught. I ran through a gangway and knocked down another kid who was taking out the garbage. It turned out to be my friend, Charlie Braugham. I didn’t even bother to say sorry. I was running for my life. I found an empty coal shed and jumped in. I know I disturbed a family of rats. I could hear their toes scratching the wood and concrete as they resettled. The other attacks on the squadrons and squad cars were never as dramatic as that event. However, the police began to break up any gathering of more than three of us after that.

The Real Definition of Eminent Domain
The government bids that were made on the homes and buildings that were to be purchased for the clearing of the highway were "low-balled", to the point of humiliation of the property owners. It was another slap in the face by the politicians who hid behind the polite-sounding legal phrase of "Eminent Domain", which translated into our neighborhood parlance as “stick it in the citizens' ass.” Since this agonizing process took almost four years to happen, everyone continued their life as usual with the specter of doom hanging over their heads. The kids continued going to school and the parents continued going to work while everyone wondered where they would be living in a couple of years.
Many of the parents were hoping to let their children continue through school where they were and to keep the continuity of friends and classmates. Most of the parents were waiting for their kids to finish eighth grade or senior year of high school as an optimal cut off point to make their move out of the old neighborhood. The kids were also dealing with changes as fast as they came to us and being exposed to amazing underhandedness.

Concurrently
The ice man was the first vendor to go. There was no snatching of ice off the back of his wagon that summer or ever again. The folks who could not afford refrigerators were, in most cases, older citizens. Many of the poorer folks lived on upper floors. Their rent was cheaper because it was tiring to walk up to the third or fourth floor. Imagine unloading groceries or going to the Laundromat and having to carry all that up three or four flights of stairs. As they all died off, the need for the ice man’s business died, too.
The old Italian produce vendor went next. Even his voice couldn’t be heard over the wrecking balls. Tavern owners went quietly and quickly and got established in new neighborhoods on the fringe of the new wrecking and construction crews.
One of the major sociological changes that came from the mechanical/ environmental side of modernization was the air conditioner. The few folks who could afford a window unit air conditioner had given us a sign of what was to come nationwide -- retreating into our homes and becoming more self-centered. The folks who used to sit outside on their porches or front steps and wave or nod a hello were gone.
Walk past Peter's house and you knew they were having Polish sausage and sauerkraut. Now because of the air conditioner, the windows are closed. No food smells greeted you as you went by the houses. We don't hear any conversations nor did we hear John and Zosia having their usual Friday night argument about how much he’d been spending at the tavern. The air conditioner began turning us away from the "family-air." No more smells, sounds, or peeks into houses as curtains wafted out the open windows.
While all this was happening, the local powers were negotiating purchases of homes and closing buildings for the expressway. “Keep out” posters were popping up on houses like zits on a teenager’s forehead. As our lives continued, we hung out at our favorite spots that were left: the Allison Gym next to the Northwest Settlement House, Tina and Sandy’s house, or with the guys on Walton Street. As we walked to school, more and more homes were emptied out.
"Hey, did you see Kenny's house? It's empty."
"Somebody put out all the windows in Jimmy's house!"
Trailers and pickup trucks and sometimes, if the family had enough money for such a luxury, a moving van, became common place. Mostly it was a friend, or a friend of a friend who had a truck, helping each other move their families to another location.
It was the older folks who had the most trouble moving. Bob's Dziadzi built and owned a two-story brick building with a full basement (that was converted to apartments) and a full attic that could have been a comfortable apartment. The detached, brick, two-car garage had tall folding doors that opened in the middle. There were two enclosed back porches and open side porches on the first and second floor. The building was put together with much forethought and love by an old European craftsman with hopes of his son and his son's family living there with him, which did come to be. After Bob's Dziadzi passed on, Bob's dad would have had a solid income from the property and a place for another generation. The bid Dziadzi was offered for the purchase of his domain was an outrage, an insult to him and all of his workmanship, dreams, and efforts. About the same time, he received the results of his medical examination. The report suggested a possible amputation of his leg.
"I won't let them take away my home and chop me up."
A couple of weeks later, Bob came home from school and called out, "Dziadzi, Dziadzi, I'm home." He found his dear Dziadzi, his wrestling partner, and mentor, hanging in his kitchen with the chair kicked out from under him. The family was devastated.
Bob’s dad took the offer and moved away to Niles, to what Bob referred to as the rich kids' neighborhood. They were all Anglo kids with no accents of any kind and they all dressed differently than the inner city kids. Bob never fit in. Their alleys were cleaner than the old neighborhood streets and everything was new. Every house had a lawn and some even had a tree.
The kids played only in the new parks. We played mostly in the streets. You learned how to throw a straight pass in the city streets rather quickly. When you hit someone's car with a football, it leaves an oval smooch. That could earn you a kick in the ass or worse yet, you lost the ball until the guy decided to give it back to you.
All of the games we usually played began to fall away due to the lack of population. Kenny moved away. Alan moved. Jimmy was gone; so was Cletus and the Belcher family. The Lustro's, Vogt's, Stanek’s, Surowiak’s, Wisnowski's, Kopielski, Kosinski, Kukula, Kondal, Krzyzak, Braugham, Sidor, Pontarelli, Adams, Newman, Jozwick, Gajda, Glowacki, Zych, Czelusniak, Sponar, Zielinski, Bazan, Lipinski, Terlikowski, Meadow, Polkasek, Howe, Little, Denmark, Zaborowski, Olowski, Romz, Uliasz, Szukala, Krzyzanowski, Sokolowski families were all gone. Like a territorial cancer, the sweet-sounding monster, Eminent Domain, devoured one house or building at a time.
To speed up the process of moving people out of the neighborhood, fires were started in some of the empty homes or buildings next to stubborn homeowners. Of course, the government would never admit to it, but we street kids saw things. We watched the underhanded game that was played. Some hot shot guy in a new car would call one of the neighborhood winos over to his car. After a little conversation, the wino would walk away with a newspaper, a book of matches, and a pack of cigarettes. The wino would look at something small in his hand, probably a five or ten spot. The wino would enter the abandoned address he was given and the hot shot would drive away. A few minutes later, the wino would leave the building with bellows of smoke pouring out from behind him.
The stubborn folks who wanted to hold out for more money, actually fair compensation, were dealt with that way. The government has their own way of doing things that’s not much different than the mafia. The people in charge win through manipulation, power, and intimidation. “No problem. The project was just given a little push.” The people next door to the fire got the message and were frightened into cooperating. Others also became more cooperative and were soon living somewhere else.
Our family, which at the time consisted of Cotton Top, Mom, and me, moved all of two blocks north from 1017 to 1155 Milwaukee Avenue. We stayed on the street of commerce; Uncle Al still maintained the store and always lived in Logan Square. The sixty-three years of publishing sheet music, Polish playbooks, records, and other phases of grandfather’s business made for a very interesting and complex move.

New Understandings and Emotions, and a Bathtub Ride
A very curious thing happened to those of us who passed by our old houses. We felt compelled to go in and have a last look around, hoping that maybe this whole situation would heal itself and we could all go back to the way things were. Since Bob moved away before I did, his house was the first place where we experienced this weird phenomenon. We wanted to rip the place apart. As we walked up to 940 Willard Court, the door was open. We walked up the five outside porch steps, then the eighteen stairs to the second floor.
At first, we felt like visitors, strangers walking into a cadaver of memories. It was cold, lifeless, and dank. It had the smell of water damage and there was a faint hiss of a broken pipe somewhere in the building. The lath and plaster walls were wet. We could hear the echo of our footsteps and our conversations became stilted. We heard someone running down the back stairs as we walked through rooms of memories. I looked at the empty space where their white, enamel kitchen table used to be. In my imagination I could almost smell Mrs. Surowiak's meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green peas -- staples at Bob's house.
We heard the back door slam and a couple of people running down the first floor backstairs. Evidently, we interrupted some scavengers trying to get the big, old bathtub with the clawed feet. In today’s market, it’s a $3,000 item. The damn scavengers had already loosened the drain connections. The feeling of someone stealing something from you that is no longer yours is complex and real. Neither Bob nor I would have had any compunction about whacking those scavengers in the head for messing with that tub. Since they ran away, the point was moot.
Bob and I rocked the old tub loose and scooted it passed the bedroom and into the kitchen. We removed and saved the clawed feet and worked the pipe fittings completely loose except for the little stem at the drain. We worked the tub over to the stairwell where the top four steps make a turn. We now had a 530 pound bobsled. We climbed in and wiggled it until gravity took over and rode that sucker down the steps with great speed. We got about 3/4 of the way down and jumped out because the drain pipe hooked a step and this step did not give way. However, we did notice the back end of the bathtub did rise up a lot, almost turning upside down, which would have pinned us under it. It must have been Dziadzi’s spirit that saved us from one of our more stupid moves. We jumped out and climbed backwards with our hands and feet pressing against the stairwell walls.
“Hey Bob, your mom would sure be pissed at us for leaving fingerprints on these walls.”
We both laughed about that and continued climbing until we were behind the bathtub. We wiggled it and rocked it sideways and once the drain stem worked itself free of the step, it flew. It ripped the outside door off its hinges and flew down the last five outside steps. There was nothing but gouges in those prized stairs Bob’s mom had taken so much pride in cleaning. By then there wasn’t much left of the entire neighborhood. As we walked away from Bob's old home, he hurled a brick through the window.
We walked passed Tina and Sandy's house and stopped as if to talk to our past. The girls had recently relocated to Logan Square, which was a few notches up the ladder from our old neighborhood.
Bob and I stopped at my old house next. It was spookier than Bob's house. Fewer windows and less light created a more ominous feeling. I never liked the vibes in there from the day we moved in. However, it was a strong and sturdy place. When Bob and I got to the garage, the steel, roll-up door was up and someone had tried to start a fire in the building to no avail. The attempt left only scorched walls and ceiling. Our grandfather would be pleased to know the place was in fact as fireproof as he intended it to be.
Eventually the entire neighborhood was empty. The drone of diesel engines, the iron wrecking ball, dump trucks, and bulldozers, replaced the sounds of people. It was the equivalent of the sustained tone of an EKG monitor’s flat line. Building after building was bulldozed away. Watching the landmarks of one’s life destroyed in the name progress is very difficult. It gave us a sense of what it must be like to be in a war and have your town bombed. There was no undoing or going back. Our sense of dark humor began to grow. I recalled looking at some newly torn down structures and nudging Bob, saying enthusiastically, "Hey, look. They're building empty lots!"
We laughed and paused.
"Yeah."
They finally cleared away all the buildings and began digging down, creating a 400 feet wide canyon with sloping walls. Grading, rebar, concrete, lane separators, signage, and on-off ramps completed it all.

Now it takes just as long to get to where you need to be except now there are MORE of you.........TT

Sites we find looking for other things

2010-08-05T16:29:00.000-07:00

Looking for other Chicago authors. I ran into Literary Chicago Presented by the Bar Project. What simple fun. Finding bars where Chicago writers used to hang out. All of the writers listed were famous. I did expect to see more Old Town bars listed, like Sterchs, Old Town Ale House, Four Farthings, Oxfords. Where many writers could be found. What happened to me though in going through this wonderful site is that I got lost in my Chicago past. Late 50's still in high school (with bogus I D's) we frequented The original Gate of Horn and Second City when it was new. The Blue Note, Mr. Kelly's, London House, when cash would permit, Wise Fools Pub with Dave Remington and later with Roger Pemberton, Plugged Nickel - saw Miles, Woody Herman, Mother Blues saw Biff Rose, Figaro's always was worth the visit, Fickle Pickle coffee house in the basement on Rush St., Cafe Roue met with a lost love there, she made me smile a lot, Blind Pig memories i could arrested for, Gitanos a flaminco bar, Barbarosa listened to Terry Rebnar, Judy Roberts, For Losers Only laughed at myself, Happy Medium. I made myself crazy trying to recall a jazz club on the second floor at either Clark or Dearborn at Division Street N.E.corner. Monk showed up way late for his show and never acknowledged his audience or named band members or any of his tunes. Still can't recall the name.
As I got back to my Chicago Bar Project I saw "Lottie Zagorski's" and my brain reeled back to a conversation with my Dad. He played a couple of jobs there. His recollection was..."...that there was a standing offer to win some great deal of money for any man to do an unspeakable act with a particular woman performer on stage. He would have to pay a small amount to try his once and only effort, but IF succesful the man would win the money."
I suggest that this could be one heck of a tour through the city. Gray Line eat your heart out. Maybe several nights or a week end fest. Good Luck Chicago Bar Project..............TT

George Carlan bringing history........

2010-07-20T19:08:00.000-07:00

Here is a quote that I found in George Carlan's book "When will Jesus bring the pork chops."

"Of course the people don't want war. But after all it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for a lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger."
-Hermann Goring at the Nuremberg Trials

Upon reading this I could reflect on how we here in this country, have been manipulated several times over.

Non-Slanderous Political Smear Speech ....enjoy

2010-06-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

My fellow citizens,it is an honor and a pleasure to be here today.
My opponent has openly admitted he feels an affinity toward your city, but I happen to like this area. It might be a salubrious place to him, but to me it is one the nation's most delightful garden spots.

When I embarked on this political campaign, I hoped that it could be conducted on a high level and that my opponent would be willing to stick to the issues. Unfortunately, he has decided to be tractable instead -- to indulge in unequivocal language, to eschew the use of outright lies in his speeches the use of out right lies in his speeches. and even to makerepeated veracious statements about me.

At first I tried to ignore these scrupulous, unvarnished fideleties. Now I will no longer do so. If my opponent wants a fight he'll get one!

It might be instructive to start with his background. My friends, have you ever dislodged a rock on the ground and seen what was underneath? Well exploring my opponent's background is dissimilar. All slime and filth and corruption you can possibly imagine, even in your wildest dreams are glaringly nonexistant in this man's life. And even during his chilhood.

Let us take a very quick look at that childhood: It is a known fact that, on a number of occasions, he emulated older boys at a certain playground. It is also known that his parents not only permitted him to masticate excessively in their prescence, but even urged him to do so.
Most explicable of all, this man who poses as a paragon of virtue exacerbated his own sister when they were both teenagers!

I ask you my fellow Americans: is this the kind of person we want in public office to set an example for our youth?

Of course it's not surprising that he should have such a typically pristine background - no, not when you consider the other members of his family:

His female relatives put a constant pose of purity and innocence, and claimthey are inscrutable, yet every one of them has taken part hortatory activities.

The men in the family are like wise amenable to moral suasion.

My opponents second cousin is a Mormon.

His uncle is a flagrant heterosexual. His sister, whohas always been obsessed by sects, once worked as a proselyte outside a church.

His father was secretly chagrined at least a dozen times by matters of a pecuniary nature.

His youngest brother wrote an essay on extolling the virtues of being a homo sapien.

His great-aunt expired from a degenerative disease.

His nephew subscribes to phonographic magazines.

His wife was a thespian before their marriage and even performe the act in front of paying customers.

And his own mother had to resign from a woman's organization in her later years because she was an admitted sexagenarian.

Now what shall we say about the man himself?

I can tell you in solemn truth that he is the very antithesis of political radicalism, economic irresponsibility and personal depravity. His own record proves that he has frequently discountenanced treasonable, un-American philosophies and has perpetrated many overt acts as well.

He has preambulated his infant son on the street.

He practiced nepotism with his uncle and firstv cousin.

He attempted to interest a 13 year old girl in philately.

He participated in a seance at a private residence where, among other odd goings on, there was icense.

He declared himself in favor of homogeneity on college campuses.

He has advocated social intercourse in mixed company - and has takenpart in such gatherings himself.

He is delibrately averse to crime in the streets.

He has urged our Protestant and Jewish citizens to develope more catholic tastes.

Last year he committed a piscatorial act on a boat that was flying an American flag.

Finally, at a time when we must be on our guard against all foreignisms, he has cooly announced his belief in altruism - and his fervent hope that some day this entire nation will be altruistic!

I beg you, my friends, to oppose this man whose life and work and ideas are so openly and avowedly compatible with our American way of life. A vote for him would be a vote for the perpetuation of everything we hold dear.

The facts are clear; the record speaks for itself. Do your duty.

Studying a Matter of Relativity

2010-06-08T18:46:00.000-07:00

What does a snail say when he's riding on a turtle's back?

WHEEEE!!!

Carefully Cautiously Coming to a Wrong Conclusion

2010-06-08T18:25:00.000-07:00

We have all experienced people like this scientist.

This scientist was conducting an experiment on a frog. He placed the frog carefully at a starting line he marked on the table.
Then he tickled the frog's butt with a feather and shouted, "jump! frog jump!"
He then carefully measured, and notated that the frog had jumped 16 inches.
He quickly snipped off the frogs two front legs.
Placed him at the starting line tickled the frog and shouted again, " Jump! frog jump!"
The frog cleared eleven inches.
So the scientist made his notation. Frog jumped eleven inches.
With an adept stroke of his scalpal He removed both back legs.
Quickly placed the frog down at the starting line once again.
Tickled the frog and shouted "Jump! Frog Jump!" ...nothing happened.... heshouted again and again and one last time. He went to his note book and wrote down his conclusion.
. "After removing all four extremities Frog goes deaf."

A Christmas Tradition

2010-06-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

The fragrance of this brew, fills our home with love and memories. It's not too early to get this one started.

Thomas' Glogg Recipe

1. About Three Days before you get started making this recipe. Purchase three navel oranges, peel them and slice the rinds into quarter inch strips. Lay the strips between paper towels and let them air dry for two or three days.
2. Other items: A large stock pot to total your fifths or quarts and gallon containers so you don't overfill your stock pot. Save all the bottles you bought, you will be re-filling them. Also a funnel plastic is okay for this, a metal sieve that can handle a small flame. (No plastic ones) A soup ladle, knife, fork, soup spoon, flame lighter, and an extra bottle or two Mason Jars would be perfact to help with any overage.
Dry ingredeints:
2a. 25 - cardamom seeds
2b. 10 - whole cloves
2c. 8 - cinnamon sticks
2d. 1/2 - teaspoon of nutmeg
2e. 1 - pound of raisins
2f. 5 - Granny Smith, or Gala appples cored and sliced into wedges that will fit back into your bottles.
2g. 8oz. of sliced almonds
2h. 1 cup of sugar cubes
Wine Liquours
3. 2 - gallons Port Wine, Gallo is perfect for the Glogg Recipe
1 Quart - Bacardi Rum light or dark, your preference.
1 Quart - Brandy "E & J "
1 Quart - Akavit Alborg is a very good brand. All of the liquors may be scaled down to fifths or even pints to diminish potentcy. Or (add a quart of filtered bottle water for the same purpose. Only after you've tasted the end brew.)
4. Pour all of the wine and liqour into the pot EXCEPT the AKAVIT.
Use sanitation consciousness. Wash the oranges and apples, minimize bare hand contact as much as possible. If you feel like drinking whatever you are pouring use a glass, never from the bottle.
4a. Add the raisins, dried orange peels, apples, cloves, cinnamon sticks, cardamom seeds give them a pinch, nutmeg.
4b. Put 5 to 6 sugar cubes into the METAL seive. pour the Akavit onto the cubes and set them on fire to caramelize them. Repeat until the cup of cubes is used up.
4c. Heat the pot of Glogg at the lowest temp or flame for two hours or so. Let the Glogg cool then begin to re-load your clean bottles. Don't forget to leave enough room in the bottles to include a little fruit (I don't like to include the cinnamon sticks, they leave a bitter dry taste) for each container and some "breathing space". Before capping the bottles let them cool a little more, and since you'll most likely be storing them make certain they are kept in a cool dry environment.
Come time to serve; pour a bottle into the crock pot, heat and serve with a cinnamon stick. Or pour into a glass and micro wave. Drink wisely, this is all about enjoying a real tasty treat. The Glogg mellows with time. The crock pot also dissipates some of the potency as well as fills the room with cheer.
Enjoy and don't over indulge..........TT

Check out these reviews on my book Backstreets

2010-03-26T09:02:00.000-07:00

The process of writing a book is tedious. Trying to get people to buy and read it is tougher. So when someone enjoys what you have created it is a blessing. Here are a few reviews that made me smile for days.

If a friend writes a book, and asks for you to review tha book, do that person the favor and write something about the book.

How it made you feel. Was it too short or long. Were the characters clear, could you picture them in your minds eye.Positive constructive criticism is good.

Best thing about the orchestra, we got out of class

2010-03-26T08:48:00.000-07:00

Here is that great grammar school orchestra. I definitely had to be the worst player in the group. But because there was the music store connection I believe that was the only reason the nun allowed me to stay. I played by ear and consequently memorized each piece by repetition. I would be dead in the water if Sister Eulalia said, "Thomas take it from letter J." I would hunt and peck until it sounded familiar then speed it up an d almost het it. The marimba was in the key of C so I always followed the violins. (as best as I could)

Why I enjoyed 25 years behind the barber chair

2010-02-06T09:45:00.000-08:00

I always loved going to work. I never knew exactly what was going to happen. Police, firemen, wait staffers, bar tenders, doctors and nurses have the same experience I would imagine. Maybe because of the location and type of shops had a lot to do with

my luck. Here I was lucky enough to spend 30 minutes and get a photo op with one of my heroes this lifetime, Mel Brooks. John Denver was a regular client for his short stay with the Mitchell Trio while in Chicago. When Evel Knievel fell into a tank of sharks I had the distinction of working on him in the hospital. He was to be the Grand Marshall of the Mardi Gras Parade (1977) the next morning. Marvin Glass the toy design magnate made that one possible for me. Burgess Meredith was a an enjoyable experience because I had no idea who he was and we talked hair cut, weather in Chicago, without effort. In relaying that story to a friend he said; "They're making another Rocky Movie this time with out Burgess Meredith being Rocky's trainer/ mentor. They're going to call it Rocky 2 - Pauly goes to college." ;-) The Righteous Brothers came into the Shop and I worked on Bobby Hatfield and Larry Ward worked on Bill Medley. It was the time when radio D.J.'s could make a a band Hatfield asked me if I ever heard of the Righteous Brothers. I said; No. He said watch for us we are going to become an over night sensation. Within a week they were played on all the major Chicago stations as if someone flipped a switch. They were good and often reffered to as blue eyed soul. There was another favorite of mine in the jazz field a flutist named Herbie Mann. It was a treat to ask who he listened to what kind of music he enjoyed. He liked the light classical guys, Debussy, Ravel and Satie. Those were the easy days so many others that showed up that the other stylists worked on offered the "guess who came in today?" game I could play when I came from work.

Other home from work, queries were; "Guess who got killed?, got stuffed in a trunk?, got shot in the head?, going to prison? Life is much more subdued these days........TT

Chutzpah I love words

2010-01-09T08:16:00.000-08:00

I love words:
Chutzpah is a Yiddish word meaning gall, brazen nerve, effrontery, sheer
guts plus arrogance; it's Yiddish and, as Leo Rosten writes, "no other word
and no other language", can do it justice. This example is better than
1,000 words. Read the story below the picture and then you will understand.

THE ESSENCE OF CHUTZPAH...

A little old lady sold pretzels on a street corner for 25 cents each.

Every day a young man would leave his office building at lunch time, and as
he passed the pretzel stand, he would leave her a quarter, but never take a
pretzel.

This went on for more than 3 years. The two of them never spoke. One day, as
the young man passed the old lady's stand and left his quarter as usual,
the pretzel lady spoke to him. Without blinking an eye she said: "They're
35 cents now."

political correctness

2010-01-09T08:11:00.000-08:00

Here's a thought:

"Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rapidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media,which holds forth the irrational proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

As with many e-mail forwards I don't know who authored this or I would give them credit....TT

Here's a story that didn't make it into the book

2010-01-07T10:57:00.000-08:00

Hey Dennis, you might find this amusing and/or ironic. It didn’t make it into the book…2/20/09…….TT
I remember this day quite clearly
April 2, 1970 drug bust a separate story in itself I will get to that later, it covers a span of twenty four years. One of her friends, a guy named Bill, beefed on me when he got stopped for a traffic violation after having dinner at our house with his girlfriend. We shared some smoke after eating and drinking a little wine. When the cops stopped them on his way home he gave me up like marshmallow chicks at Easter.
My friends would have called to warn me, even if they had to leave a coffin. This guy was such a pussy. He never said anything of a warning. So I got tagged for growing grass, paid the lawyer, judge and bondsmen. Not as much as even an apology from Bill Pussymeyer. MFW thought the entire incident was funny. Lorrie McGrab, her best friend that week, called me paranoid, and over reacting, for putting up a crossbar across my back door.
I had the right to be paranoid; that happens after dealing with police, judges, attorneys and ‘friends’ that sell you out.
Lorrie was not really into reality, she only came to reality as a visitor. Once during a conversation, I thought we were having. I spoke about how poor this girl Nickie’s family was, and what it meant to them for her to taking ballet classes. The sacrifices her family had to make for her to do so. But, then again, Lorrie was from an upper middle class family, who once told me; “That’s no big deal that your old girlfriends father paid for ballet dance classes. Every little girl’s father does that.” I suddenly realized that although she was a college graduate, she knew nothing about life, and was really a snob in hippies clothing.

Buying Poverty

After hearing so much about poverty, especially now since her husband was a social worker. She thought she should really try this poverty stuff out. To really understand what it is like to be poor. She went to the Salvation Army thrift store and bought some used clothing. Then set a money limit for groceries and bought the cheaper food stuffs and even bought house brand products. By doing just those things she said; “I now understand poverty.” That entire escapade drove me up a wall. Especially having the extra cash to buy a nickel or dime bag of grass when she chose to do so and there was always the reality of calling her parents for some cash. How shallow can you get? My take on it was, this woman actually tried to buy poverty. Leaving things out like the hopelessness, no one or no where to turn, for assistance, financial or medical, that’s real poverty. That style of thinking says;
If I have the answer key to the I.Q. test before hand, and I answer all the questions correctly then I’m a genius. If I run up all my credit cards to the max then I must be rich. Just because you own a boat and have sailors cap that doesn’t make you sea worthy, nor a Captain.
Several months later she wanted to understand what single life was all about again so she excused herself from her marriage and left Jerry her husband, with their daughter. I bet she’s part of the Dubya Bush’ think tank.
************

Chapter Time: Back to that marijuana bust. Her friends as oppose to my friends
Amazing How Things Change
Our biggest crime was having a group of us getting together on a Monday night and passing a “J” around and watching Carl Grayson host the Flash Gordon episodes on Chicago’s TV channel 9. The series, stories, and the acting were so bad, they were good. We did not sell grass as much as we shared a purchase now and then. Or if one of us ran out we would exchange the going price for an equal quantity of grass. Not for profit, only for a fair exchange. So “dealers” we were not.
It was 10:00 a.m. April 2, 1972 and I was cutting the hair of a regular client of mine, Commander Braasch. He was the head of the 18th police district one of the hot beds of the Chicago area. He was a very busy man during the 1968 Democratic Convention. The 18th District takes in the North side of downtown, the Gold Coast, Near North Side, Old Town, Lincoln Park, and the ever popular Cabrini Green Housing Projects, enough different types of crime to keep all the law enforcement agencies busy all the time. Braasch was a neat guy to talk with, because of the stories he could tell. He also gave me a professional cop’s point of view unabashedly. When I asked him about an officer Montgomery who carried a Buntline Special, a 45 cal. Six Shooter (it has a 12”barrel) and a Glock 9mm and a WWII paratrooper stiletto which is strictly a stabbing knife, Braasch simply replied; “Tom, I need Doberman Pinschers once in a while. Guys who will go into an attack mode, without any questions. Montgomery is that kind of officer. I don’t have to like him or his philosophy, however sometimes I need an animal.”
President Nixon was busy trying to discredit anyone who was not in accordance with his line of thinking. Maybe it was a carry-over from his Joe McCarthy era, where he and Ronald Reagan saw commies hiding under every bed and in every closet in the country. Reagan was turning in fellow actors, actresses and film directors. Nixon was finding communists anywhere the word “Workers” was used. This time it was different. He was the President of the United States. It was; “Them long haired, anti-war, bearded weirdo, pinko, dope smokin’, commie freaks.” I fit three of the six profile points.
Amongst my circle of acquaintances,(they were mostly my wife’s friends) I was thought of as conservative more leaning to the right. As far as a real conservative, I was a leftist radical, one of those liberals. Since I dealt with businessmen on a daily basis I needed to blend in. I blended even with mafia members, who by the way, did not like war protesters, nor anyone else who might upset the balance of their game. So my beard was always neatly trimmed and my hair styled. My wild ties were the only sign of a man trying to breakout of society’s cage. However buying ties was an important subtle signal to all the clothing reps that came in through the shop doors. (I was contributing to the apparel industry).
Back to the Nixon point. He began spraying the marijuana fields on both sides of the border with a toxic chemical called paraquat. According to Taber’s Medical Dictionary it damages skin on contact and if ingested may cause liver, renal, and pulmonary disease. “Treatment: Remove from stomach and gastrointestinal tract by emesis, gastric lavage and catharsis. A slurry of clay and charcoal should be administered to absorb the poison. Cortisone I.V. and hemodialysis are helpful.” Well that scared me enough to get some books and start doing my own gardening. Enter good old Dr. Ed, a long time client with a Phd. in micro biology. He gave me some pointers, and recommended using Schultz’s Instant, as an excellent fertilizer to stimulate growth and to use the information from The Marijuana Growers Handbook because it was a good reliable source of information. Then he got into a lengthy explanation about using some camel hair paint brushes to pollinate the plants. It was more information than I could handle at the time. He went on to explain anyway he was that detailed about everything. His request for a haircut would go on like a dissertation. (I loved the mix of my client base.) In a few weeks my seeds had sprouted into 5” tall plants. I had about 24 plants in my wooden crate from the original Crate and Barrel Shop on Wells Street, a tiny cool neighborhood store back then.
I finished Commander Braasch’s haircut and he was on his way to the station by 10:40 a.m. A couple of clients later, at 12:20, Diane the receptionist nods at me indicating that it was my phone call. When I picked up the phone, it was a new voice, an Officer Rifkin telling me to come home right now. He has an arrest warrant for MFW, and me and he will have to take my son and daughter to the juvenile center if I am not home in 15 minutes. I said I need to finish my client which would take ten minutes. He said that would be okay and to bring $100.00 for bond money.
When I arrived at home my heart was pounding. Officer Rifkin was right at the door to greet me. He then allowed MFW to go along with the arrangements that had been made with our neighbors who lived across the street on the third floor. Jerry and Leslie were to tend to our children Tom and Michelle until this issue got resolved. Officer Rifkin walked me into my kitchen where I was introduced to Officer Grana. Upon closer viewing at the other the vice cop, Officer Grana was sniffing and trying to bite some snowflake obsidian. I spoke out to him.
“Hey be careful you’ll crack your teeth, those are rocks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” The Neanderthal cop would not believe me and continued sniffing, tasting and biting my little tackle box of stones from my lapidary / jewelry making class. They had plenty of time to go through the entire house basement and all. They only took about three ounces of grass in a baggie. Rifkin said, “I left you some to roll a couple joints for when you get released later.”
Wow, what a sweet couple of guys.
They were so matter of fact and totally indifferent to what was happening. It blew my mind. I on the other hand was not. I felt anger, hostility, fear like these two men were Nazis in sport clothes rounding up my family only because they were following orders.
Officer Rifkin saw the hate in my eyes and said; “Hey don’t take this so personally.”
I looked him in the eyes and asked “Who did this to me?”
He said; “Turn around. I’m going to put handcuffs on you. I can’t tell you who, but I can say that it’s someone you break bread with.”
They let MFW stay and walked me out to the unmarked car. It was an ugly, sickening feeling, looking up across the street into the third story building and seeing my son looking at me being taken in hand cuffs.
Officer Rifkin said; “You know if you really want to have those plants grow you need to remove all of those cedar chips. They are too acidic for those plants. By the way I found a lot of information about Canada in your house. What’s the matter, don’t you like this country?”
“Aren’t you taking me to jail for smoking grass in my own home?” I replied.
The day went on forever. Finger prints, photos profile and head on, and then to a holding cell. As the door entrance to the holding cells swung open Commander Braasch did a double take upon seeing me behind bars. In retrospect he must have looked to see what I was in for and who arrested me. As long as that took, about three minutes, a uniformed cop came in with a business card.
“Here, this is from a friend who saw you in here, and said you need to call this attorney.” He was very emphatic that it needed to be this particular lawyer. I took the advice of this friend. My court date was set for 6/24/70 just two months and twenty two days after my arrest, 82 nights of anxiety. It felt like years. The constant wonder of who turned me in. These god damned new friends are assholes. None of my old crowd would ever consider “beefing” on a friend. Snitches never lasted long in a school yard or in the old neighborhood.
I saw my attorney Thomas Maloney about 10 days after my arrest and paid him the $800.00 as requested by our initial phone conversation $400.00 more to be paid on the court date. Without getting into the details of my situation I asked around about this attorney of mine and came to find out he was “The Policemans’Attorney”. He would make sure that what ever the situation, the cops would come out on top.
Finally the court date came about and I was amazed at how young so many under cover police looked. It was the first time for me to have an age check experience. Most people get that realization when they go to the hospital or clinic to see a new doctor and think,
“This guy doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor, or receive a traffic ticket and think he’s still a kid what is he doing with a gun? Let alone writing me a traffic citation.”
This time I saw men who could easily pass for teenagers. I was scared. The bailiff announced Judge Surea into court with all the formality of a 16th century system. The fear percolated inside of me as I watched some of the defendants being escorted through the doors behind the judge’s bench after their cases were heard. Just as I had watched my brother go through doors like those and not return for five years. They were escorted to cells. The lucky ones walk out the doors through which they entered. Which one will I be? I could barely keep water in my stomach and my mouth felt like parchment. Case after case went by the morning was halted by a lunch break….
“All rise! The Honorable Judge Surea blah blah blah……….”
Maloney looked at the bailiff and caught the nod. He tapped my knee and gestured with his head to follow him. I noticed there were others in the court room with special attorneys. There were five different cases that had to go upstairs for their cases to be heard. All the words and procedures followed just like downstairs. Except we were all found to be innocent of possession of drugs for one reason or another. Mine was an improper search warrant. Rifkin and Grana were nice enough to say the grass was found in the basement and the Judge asked;
“Was the warrant for the basement?”
they said; “No your honor”.
“Dismissed!”
Maloney got his $1200.00. I got my freedom and first night’s sleep, but the under current of which one of my wife’s friends had ratted me out, ate at me like a cancer. It was almost a year before I discovered who it was. I could hear Rifkin’s words,
“Someone you break bread with…”
Someone who had dinner with us frequently. It was as though someone had dropped a movie in my brain of the night before the bust. I pieced it all together with bits of fragmented conversations, gestures and looks, then it gelled. That evening after leaving our home with his new girlfriend, he got a traffic ticket. His eyes were bloodshot and his new girl was a young teacher who never smoked grass until that night. And he took her downstairs to show off the plants. The two of them did everything except drive the police back to our home. The prick never called to notify or warn us. He got scared and sold us out. None of my old crowd would have said anything to the police unless they got very physical. Even then if they had access to a phone I could count on being forewarned. Those were the old friends.
Even though Braasch was a cop, he stood by me like an old friend. I was a little fish that got scooped up in his net. He had his own game going and I was completely unaware of it. To play it safe he stayed away from me and the barber shop all eighty two days. When I was found innocent via attorney Thomas Maloney’s efforts, Braasch returned as before a regular client and bringing in his son every month or so. Then on October 6th 1973, I picked up the Chicago Sun-Times and there he is on the front page. BRAASCH AND 18 OTHERS FOUND GUILTY - Every Chicago newspaper carried a similar headline on the front page. He was convicted of extortion, Phil Grana went down and Ed Rifkin turned states evidence and went into the witness protection program offered up by the F.B.I. and he gave all the details and fingered everyone he could. I guess there are 19 other guys he used to break bread with too. Even Thomas Maloney couldn’t get him out of this one. Braasch served about five years. I don’t recall exactly but it sure was good to see him come through the barber shop doors all those years later. He served his time and now he is a limousine driver and still stands tall and commands that air of respect. After his third or fourth visit to the shop after his release from prison he brought in his son.
“Wow you got tall since I saw you last.”
His son was about nine or ten back then, plus five years at that point in life kids grow like they are being paid to do it. He was like a colt not quite used to his long legs as yet. He sat in the barber chair and dad looked at him proudly. It was a Saturday and the shop was busy. The waiting area was filled, that was why Braasch was standing in my work station. The TV was on and aside from wanting some room noise we were waiting for the baseball game to start. The program that was in progress was a special investigative report on police corruption in the U.S. and faster than I could realize (because I was concentrating on the work in front of me).I heard the announcer say and in Chicago one of the highest ranking police officials to be sentenced to prison was Commander Clarence Braasch and with him 18 other police officers. I looked at him and asked if he wanted me to change the channel. He said; “No it’ll be over in a minute.” As I looked into the mirror I saw the people in the waiting area looking at his image on the TV and doing a slow take of him in real time. It was awkward and I could feel his pain and the resolve he maintained gave an example of his strength to his son. He took it all, head-on without a blink or squirm. He never said these words out loud that day, but it showed as, “I was wrong, I did my time, took my punishment and I’m going on with my life.” His son did not react one way or the other he might have missed the whole thing just as a matter of a kid paying attention to his haircut. Most of all he liked the haircut. After all that is what they came in for anyway.
My marriage was already falling apart after seven years of enduring a mate rather enjoying a mate. We went on a cross-country trip from Chicago to Toronto straight west across Canada. It was a great trip, one of the best. I thought all was going to be great and maybe even better than before. Upon returning home it didn’t take but a week when all the turmoil started all over again. It was time to go. After 5 years of being single, I married again started a new family. Things got off to a rocky start. My son stayed with us but my daughter went back with her mother. It was a heartbreaker. As soon as son Tom was old enough, he had had it with crazy parents and joined the air force in November 1983. The following year we moved to Texas.
A side note to this story line a friend asked me and my wife to come as a friend / bouncer to his Christmas office Party because he knew I could be discrete, and oversee his and our friends. Through the course of the evening as the party wound down. I danced with a young lady and as we talked and exchanged names I was very surprised to find out her father was Judge Surea. What were the chances of that happening?
August of 1984 we moved out of Chicago too, away from all reminders. Many years later I received a newspaper clipping from one of my old haircutting clients Ed Lee, the same fellow who gave me the scoop on Maloney being “The Policeman’s Attorney” the article is dated Friday, July 22, 1994. Headline reads Ex-judge gets final fix: 15 years. My old attorney became a judge and continued fixing the law for a price. The F.B.I. had him under surveillance for some time. At 67 years old getting a 15 year sentence is a life sentence. Several others had gone down with him. He served 12 years and died in a nursing home from kidney failure. Amazing how the twists and turns that life takes.
**************
Judge Thomas J. Maloney died Oct. 21 2008 at age 83
Clarence E. Braasch checked out Feb 20th 2009 also at 83 DOB Nov 9 1926

A Christmas Tradition

2010-01-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

Thomas’ GLÖGG Recipe
1 About three days before you get started making this recipe. Buy three navel oranges, peel them and slice the rinds into quarter inch strips. Lay the strips between paper towels and let them air dry for two or three days.
2 Other items: A large stock pot to total your fifths or quarts and gallon
containers so you don’t overfill your stock pot. Save all the bottles you purchased, you will be re-filling them. Also a funnel is a good idea, and a sieve that can handle a small fire (no plastic ones). A soup ladle, knife, fork, soup spoon, flame lighter, an extra bottle or two to help with any overage.
2a. 25 - cardamon seeds
2b. 10 -whole cloves
2c. 8 - cinnamon sticks
2d. ½ teaspoon nutmeg
2e. 1- pound of raisins
2f. 5 - Granny Smith, Gala, cored and sliced into wedges that will fit back
into your bottles.
2g. 8oz. of sliced almonds
2h. 1- cup of sugar cubes
3. 2 gallons of Port Wine is the base
1- quart or fifth of Rum your choice of light or dark. The liquors can be
inexpensive but not super cheap. “Don Q” price range will work.
1- quart or fifth of Brandy “E & J”
1- quart or fifth of Vodka “Gilbey’s or Gordon’s or Wiszniowka”
1- quart or fifth of Akavit (Alborg)
4. Pour all of the liquor into the wine base cooking pot EXCEPT the AKAVIT. Add the dried orange peels, apples, raisins, cloves, cinnamon sticks, cardamon, nutmeg.
4a Use a sieve that will handle a small amount of heat NO PLASTIC.
4b ADD sugar cubes5 or six at a time pour Akavit over cubes to saturate them then set them on fire to caramelize the sugar cubes and let them plop into the pot.
4c Heat at lowest temp or flame for two hours let cool then reload your clean bottles. Don’t forget to leave enough room in the bottles to include a little fruit for each container. I prefer not to leave the cinnamon sticks in the bottles, they give off a slight bitter dry taste. Since you’ll be storing the liquor for a while. Be “sanitation conscious” use clean implements, try not to handle fruit with bare hands. IF you Feel like drinking what your pouring, use a glass never from the bottle. Come the time to serve; pour a bottle into
the crock pot and ladle out; or serve by the glass heat in the micro wave.

Richard Cain, Scalzetti

2009-07-31T16:30:00.000-07:00

***** 1962****
He Might Look Gay, but…
It was the critical me observing a client in the shop. Hmmm, who was this guy talking to Sheriff Olgilvie? He looks like a school teacher that’s a little light in the loafers. It’s those small rectangular frame glasses; they look too stylish for a man. Ah yes, I’ve seen this guy around the terminal several times. I guess he likes to hang around here. That was never a good sign.
Carmie broke my silent dialogue by whispering to me, “Kid it looks like you’re staring at them. Go read a magazine. Get a newspaper, they’re taking care of business.”
“The sheriff and the fag?”
“Don’t mistake the guy with the glasses; he’ll just as soon stuff you in a trunk as look at you. He’s so tricky I don’t even know whose side he’s on. He’s like horse shit, he’s everywhere.”
“Who is he?”
“Sometimes he’s Rich, sometimes Rick or Dick Scott, Cain is his last name for sure. And just because you see him around the terminal that doesn’t mean he’s gay. People use high pedestrian traffic areas for drop offs, exchange of packages or information, shit like that. And don’t stare. Let’s go get some coffee.”
Then a voice from across the shop, “Hey where are you fellows going? I need a haircut.”
“Okay kid, he’s all yours.” That was the first of many haircuts I gave to Mr. Cain. He was one of those people you store in your mental file cabinet because he just seemed weird, and he made me feel very uneasy, almost creepy.

**** 1973 ****
Dick Cain, aka Scalzetti The Moran Detective Agency had some security guard contracts, too. They occupied an office in the same building as The Lion’s Cut. Having them as a neighbor was of no benefit to our business; their security guards looked like they were just released from Cook County Jail. However, Mr. Moran had a friend that came around to visit, my old "friend" Richard Cain from my early days at Melito’s. On a cold 20th of December, 1973 he, too, wound up on the front page. He got shot in such a way that it took days to clean up Rose’s little sandwich shop on 1117 Grand Avenue. They had to use his fingerprints to figure out who he was. It started to make me wonder if there were just that many shootings in Chicago? Is it some kind of message I’m supposed to get? Or was it simply a matter of the original client base that came through these shops?

Marvin Glass, This Glass changed my outlook on life.

2009-07-31T12:37:00.000-07:00

Mr. Marvin Glass
Marvin Glass is a man who made a positive impact on my life, too. He was small of stature with gray, straight hair, heavy eyebrows, and always very well dressed in custom tailored clothes. He was quick to smile with approval or verbally take your head off and hand it back to you. He was always busy and at one time or another he received a haircut from all of us at the salon. He always got a manicure and a shoeshine. Marvin treated all of us with equality and fairness; although, I have heard he was tyrannical as a businessman. Marvin Glass held more patents on toys than any other toy designer in the world. He even got the phrase “Acapulco Gold” locked up in case they were to legalize “pot”. He was a renaissance man, he loved to be around bright people, and loved to share knowledge and exchange ideas good or bad. Music, art, politics, history, religion and food were some of the subjects we would touch on during the course of a haircut.
He decided to conserve his time and be consistent about his intervals between haircuts and with the stylist and manicurist. He asked me to put together a list of all the things I would need for a complete salon in his office. Marvin wanted to make sure that Frances, the manicurist, had all of her tools available also. He had his crew create a one chair styling salon complete with shampoo sink and anything else I thought was necessary for his personal hair or facial grooming. He said, “When you come through that door I don’t want to see anything in your hands.”
He showed me around his office which was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Behind his desk was a LeRoy Neiman wall mural painting. In the conference room were twelve paintings by Marc Chagall depicting the astrological signs of the zodiac. The security in the building was incredibly tight with cameras everywhere. As with most things, Mr. Glass saw the sign of things to come. He was always ahead of the times. Each of the designers that were in-house had a special shelf inside a huge safe. That is where any and all projects that were being developed, whether in the drawing stage or a working model, were locked up twice with a lock in the shelved area and then the huge safe door. It was from here that toys like the Light Brite set, Rock’em Sock’em Robots, Tommy Turtle, and the first anatomically correct boy doll were developed. But how do you build a toy empire? That was done with Yakety yak teeth, the wind up set of chompers gag gift and the ever favorite whoopee cushion, farts and false teeth. Not what you might call the American dream. Never the less, a tremendous income generating duo. One of the great lessons I learned was that no matter how strange or unusual the idea, if I can see it being used, I’ll go for it.
After about a year of using his office salon Marvin became ill. The chauffeur would come to pick us up and take us to his home in Evanston rather than the short eight blocks to his office. He would vary so much from visit to visit looking better and healthier, then tired, low energy, poor skin color and irritable. He surrounded himself with beautiful museum quality art work. I also observed that no matter how much money you have when your number is up, you go. Also, if you have enough money the going can be a little more comfortable.
After his passing the company continued on. I don’t know the details of that. However I still worked on his legal assistant, Fred, from time to time. One day in particular things became way out of the ordinary. Fred came into the shop for a haircut. The conversation went like this. “Thomas I was so pissed at my wife that morning. We had a big meeting scheduled and they needed my input on the legal side of things. My wife was not feeling well so I had to drop my kid off at school and take a parcel over to my mother-in-law. We argued a little, but even that was cutting into my time so I just did as she requested. I dropped my son off at school, delivered the package to my mother-in- law and then barreled ass to the office and on my way I got a speeding ticket. Now I was hopping mad. I was thinking of all the stuff I was going tell my wife about time, work, priorities and when I say I have to be someplace at a certain time, don’t find things for me to do on my way. As I was going through this dialogue in my head I realized that I couldn’t access any parking. Then it hit me. I’m already here, at the office. I got here by automatic pilot. What the hell is going on here? There are squad cars everywhere and ambulances going and another coming. I worked my way through the crowd and into the crime scene area. Our receptionist, Pauline, was an emotional wreck but she was alive. Four other people were dead and so was the shooter. He was one of the toy designers and was having some emotional problems and went way over the deep end. He killed everyone in the meeting room, except me. Was it the drop off at school? Was it the in-law delivery? Was it the traffic ticket? Or all three?”
Fred wasn’t scheduled to die yet. This funeral haircut conversation hit me in such a profound way at so many levels. I don’t have to dig very deep to feel it all over again. I passed my condolences on to Fred knowing that everyone there at the studio were like family to him. Even the shooter must’ve been under tremendous pressure. How that incident impacted all the families and the business was profound.

Tony Borsellino & my brother Dan, Good things from unexpected sources

2009-07-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

Dan in photo:

Somebody Special, Somebody Dead p.252 Backstreets
Mom treated our families to “The Nutcracker Suite” at the Chicago Civic Opera House. For Mom it was a double treat: introducing her five grandchildren to a classic and a chance for her to reflect upon the days when she sang in the chorus. And for Dan in particular, when he was six years old and he sang with her as part of a street scene chorus in the opera “Carmen.” Dan loved the bright lights, the attention, and all the action. Back stage, front stage, and the audience, stuff going on everywhere he turned. It was yet another peek into what he was to become, an insight into his personality.
We all approached the highly polished brass doors and entered the red carpeted lobby. Dan’s husky six foot frame seemed to broaden, as well as his red beard did with a smile, when his eyes zeroed in on the ticket taker. He was a very well-tailored gentleman with full gray hair, about five foot eight, medium build, clean shaven with a boxer’s nose. The gentleman did his simple job with dignity. Dan’s enthusiasm drew our families into his energy field.
“Tony, how the hell are ya, man?” Was Dan’s greeting in a loud whisper and a simultaneous two-handed handshake. You could see the register of a deep insightful look of understanding of where each of them had been together previously. What they are doing now is so very tough, tedious and boring for them trying to stay on a straight and narrow path.
“Mom, this is my friend Tony.” The introductions went on, wives, me, the kids. Tony smiled, shook hands with all and mentioned to Dan that he’d be around at intermission tending the bar.
We found our seats and settled in. Our two families flanked Mom on either side. The performance was well received by all, a totally enjoyable evening. At intermission Dan and I got drinks. Tony asked Dan, “So what are you doing these days?”
“My brother, Tom, got me a job at place called The Lion’s Cut, a classy men’s hairstyling salon.” The conversation was stilted by orders for wine, vodka martinis and Black Russians. We did the polite thing and left Tony to do his job. Dan tucked a business card in Tony’s suit coat pocket.
The next day at work, Dan and I could talk without interruption. He shared this experience with me about him and Tony. Dan was twenty-six when he thought, “Wouldn’t it be great to write a check for whatever amount of money you wanted and not have to worry whether or not you would be overdrawn at the bank.” Dan also found out the U.S. post office uses a custom paint that no one else uses. It was difficult enough to deny possession of a mail bag full of blank postal money order checks and a postal money order machine, let alone the paint chips on his pry bar and paint chips in the car. Tony was thirty-eight when he decided to do a tidy $900,000.00 silver hijacking.
It was a special day for both groups. The kids at the local orphanage always enjoyed the day out with the guys. This was a once a year event. Most of these kids were passed over for adoption because they did not fall into the cutesy category or the ages most likely to be adopted. The picnic-like atmosphere was a little different than most family get-togethers. The team of prison guards supervising the adoptees and their counselors on this day in the sun gave the party an edge of oddness. What a mix…Men that were asked to leave society and kids that were not given the chance to be part of it. The inmates were quick to put together teams and games and the kids loved the attention and enthusiasm that was being generated.
Dan had already palmed a football from the sports table. He and Tony walked through the Leavenworth Penitentiary compound and noticed a mother and her ten year old son that looked like another case of being “left out again.” Tony and Dan approached them. When the guys arrived at the picnic table they saw that the boy’s skin was paper thin. As they found out later he had been burned over forty percent of his body. Parts of his head, arms and hands resembled a patchwork quilt. Some places on his head had hair and other spots were just tightly stretched skin.
Tony gently slapped the boy on the shoulder and said, “Hey, go out for a short one.” Dan handed off the football to Tony as if some magical play was just called by the quarterback. The boy awkwardly received the catch from Tony. “Aw right kid. Great catch!” … and on it went.
The mother was awestruck; these two men didn’t even introduce themselves, which would be inherent, considering their kind of businesses. They just treated her son like nothing was wrong with him. Everyone had always treated him as though he were made of glass, or worse, because he looked so scary and different as a result of the scaring from the fire.
It is amazing to note what some people develop by survival others get by attending classes. Reading people and situations is primarily what N.L.P. (neuro-linguistic programming) is all about; the subject is taught at adult education classes and universities all over the country and costs an arm and a leg for certification. Professional con-men, thieves, good card players and successful salespeople do the same thing the “N.L.P.’ers” do. They just don’t get a piece of paper that says “certified.” They have an ability to read people and situations like a book. Their certification comes under the auspices of “street observation”. Dan and Tony played football with the kid over an hour. Everyone eventually learned each other’s names by way of playing. Joey was the boy’s name; however, Mom remained Mom to all. Joey was enjoying the attention and played so enthusiastically that he even surprised himself. He had never played so long or so hard as to become winded so even that was something new for him.
He took a couple of falls, realized he was okay and came back for more of the same.
After one tumble Joey looked a little dazed. That prompted Dan to say, “My arm is tired do you mind if we rest?”
Tony looked at the kid and told him, “Joey, you got the heart of a lion. How about we give the old guy a break?”
They all took a break and got some hot dogs, lemonades and cokes. Joey was shocked when Dan asked him how his lemonade was and then took a slug out of his cup. Nobody, other than his mom, felt comfortable enough to be that pleasantly forward with him. Joey was accustomed to having people treat him like he had a contagious disease.
The day progressed with a little Frisbee catch and conversation until their food settled. The young boy looked at Tony’s broken nose. Tony said without hesitation, “I got it from boxing. What about you?” Joey hesitated and started to look at the ground. Tony read Joey’s response and quickly said, “Boxing. Do you do any boxing?”
A look of confused relief came over Joey. He would not have to talk about the fire again as he first thought might have to do. Dan brought back a set of boxing gloves; they were by most standards quite thick. The headgear was only for Joey. Tony and Dan had fun coaching Joey as Mom looked on in total disbelief. Tony and Dan both took turns being Joey’s punching bag and showing Joey how to bob and weave, when and how to fake a blow and how to maximize his punches. The two cons did more in an afternoon for the kid’s emotional scars and his self-esteem than any of the head shrinkers were able to do in the previous years.
The loudspeaker announced the end of the picnic. Dan and Tony gave the kid a handshake and a slap on the shoulder, walking away kind of half backwards waving to the mom. Mom ran up to Tony and Dan, shook their hands and thanked them so very much for treating her son like an ordinary normal boy. No one had ever played with him like they had. Her eyes welled up with tears as she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
“Hey Joey, take care of your mom, she’s a neat lady.” The two men walked through the compound to their respective cells.
Dan was released seven months later after completing his five year sentence. Tony finished his time three years later. Dan went on to own a successful restaurant and bar after five years of cutting hair. Wish I could tell you how Joey is doing. He would be in his forties now.
As for Tony: Some years later at the barber shop I picked up the Chicago Sun-Times. At the top of page twenty-two, May 24, 1979, it read “Hood, Tony Bosellino’s body is identified”. The article went on to talk about how he was in debt to some loan sharks in the amount of $200,000. He took five shots to the back of the head and his body was found by a farmer near the entrance to a Will County forest preserve. His fully clothed body with an expensive watch and diamond studded Christ figure still attached to his body meant that this was a lesson and not a robbery. At least Joey and his mom will always think of Tony kindly.

Frank "Strongy" Ferraro, My First Big Shave....

2009-07-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

My First Big Shave and the Tuna’s Princess is Getting Married
It was great being on the close outside circles of a three ring circus. Tony Accardo's (also known as “The Tuna”) daughter was getting married. “Outfit” guys were coming in all week long to get fixed up for that wedding. The faces showing up in the barber shop were familiar to me from the ten o’clock news as well as the local papers but I had not learned all their names as yet. I was still the new kid at Melito’s.
It was Thursday at 10:30 a.m. when Frank “Strongy” Ferraro came through the Clark Street door. His bodyguard, Hy Godfrey, came in through the building’s concourse entrance, as usual.
The three manicurists were always kept busy; Laura won over most of the high rollers. Laura was my favorite too. She gave me my first manicure and a major piece of advice both at the same time; “Kid, look at their socks. If they spend money on their socks they’ll drop it.” She was right. It wasn’t Khalil Gibran, but the lady knew how to size up customers.
Millie, who was short, chunky, with a piercing nasal voice and critical of everyone, was working on a client when Strongy came in with Hy. Millie wished Laura would drop dead and maybe then she could possibly get some of that money crowd.
Flash was a sexy woman with a deep throaty voice, but time had not been kind to her. She spent all of her slow time reading the racing forms through her rhinestone studded glasses. She was also on a first name basis with every gangster that came through the doors of the shop. Maybe today she would get to work on Hy.
Laura was the classiest and was always Strongy’s first choice. However, Laura had a bad combination of addictions: astrology and playing the ponies. I asked Laura, “Who’s got the valuable birth date? The owner of the horse? The jockey? The trainer? The horse? YOU?”
“Kid, when you find out come back and tell me.”
Of the three porters Pope was a droopy eyed, pie faced man that would rather be sleeping than working. He always had a kind word, and a quick biblical reference to anything that would transpire. Slicker Sam was never in the running for most of the outfit guys and was sent to the downstairs barber shop which catered mostly to the out of town commuters. Charles was quick, lithe and willing to help, also very classy, from the old school of service. Strongy liked him the best.
Since I was the new kid and nineteen years old, I was lucky to be in the upstairs shop. I was assigned the ninth chair down past Carmie, in the eighth chair, and Dennis in the seventh chair. I frequently thought it was more for security reasons that Carmie and Dennis were positioned so far into the shop as opposed to being on the Clark Street side of the shop. Strongy would be attending the Accardo wedding that weekend.
The Big Tuna’s daughter was getting married. Tony Accardo, being Chicago’s Godfather, it was understood that when invited, you showed up. Most of these men were carry-overs from the Capone era. They were young enforcers at that time and had worked their way through the system so that by 1961 they were the major players. Strongy made himself comfortable in Carmie's chair and Hy made a once over sweep of the shop before sitting down in the waiting area and giving his boss the “everything is okay” nod.
Strongy asked Carmie, "Is the kid is doing anything?"
Whoa! That’s me. I am the kid. My asshole tightened like a hangman’s noose. I hated shaves. I was terrible at them. The last shave I gave was at barber school. “Hunchback Frank” was one of the more popular neighborhood bums. He slept in the basement of Healy’s grocery store with their dog. I remember accidentally cutting him because his hump wouldn’t allow him to lay flat. As I would apply pressure on one side he would rock to the other. That’s when I nicked him. It was like trying to shave someone in a rocking chair. But this is a mafia boss’ bodyguard. No doubt he’ll kill me if I cut him.
Carmie said, pointing to my chair, “He’s not doing a thing, sit down over here, Hy.”
And so the show began. I wrapped the chair cloth around Hy’s big body, and tilted the chair back to put him at a comfortable height for me to do my work. Carmie put the jar of prep in front of me with out saying a word. I picked up on the queue. I placed the first hot towel on Hy’s face and his wide broken nose stuck out of the towel.
Hy spoke up and said, “I like these hot towels. They really feel great, boss.”
I liked hearing something favorable. So it went, more prep, more lather, more hot towels. My sink was starting to get kind of sloppy wet with all of these hot towels. Hy had two hot towels on and I was reaching for the hot shaving lather to start in on the shave for my life. Since I share Carmie's new, all chrome, hot lather machine, I chose to make the reach rather than walk around the manicurist, porter and Carmie. I depressed the chrome button and began filling my hand with lather. Then physics increased my learning curve. The corner of my wet sink that I was leaning against dampened my trouser leg through to my right testicle, which became the electrical ground. I gave a shout that was heard throughout the shop. Hy was standing up ready to reach for his gun. There was a beautiful foamy white arc across my back bar mirror from the shave cream that slowly began to weep. Everybody wanted to know what happened. Carmie and Dennis came to me immediately and huddled, just like two baseball managers going to the mound to tell the pitcher, “one more of those and you are out of the game.”
My legs were still vibrating as I explained to Carmie and Dennis that “I just electrocuted my right nut.” Unfortunately, Hy, Strongy and Laura all heard what I told Carmie and Dennis. Strongy looked at me and laughed. He instantly gave me a nickname.
"Hey, Thundernuts, how’s it going?"
They all laughed. Hy laid back down for his shave and I did an okay job from that point. His leathery knuckles were flat from hitting things, no peaks and valleys like everyone else I knew. They just remained there on top of the chair cloth like two resting Rottweilers. When I got to his upper lip I had to pick up that busted up nose. Hy reached up slowly wrapped his hand around my wrist, like mine was a little babies’ hand. He said, “Don’t be nervous, I ain’t gonna hurt you kid. Everybody has to learn their business and it’s always tough at the beginning. If I was a real good boxer at the beginning, I wouldn’t have a broken nose, right?”
I finished the shave with a witch-hazel steam and looked at those big hands with knuckles flattened from years of punching, thinking “Wow, this guy still has a heart.” I found out later that he raised show dogs. Boxers, what else?
During their first visit after my big shave I wondered if I was going to be addressed as Thundernuts. I almost liked the name because it did have somewhat of a Native American sound to it. I never mentioned it to the guys I ran with because the name might have stuck. This time when they came in they both acknowledged my existence.
"Hi, kid."
"What du ya say, Junior."
I was befuddled----What should my response be? Should I say “Hello, Frank”? “Good morning, Mr. Ferraro”? No one ever calls him Strongy except when he’s not present. Maybe I should not use any names at all. There was nothing in my Christian Courtesy book we studied in grammar school that taught us how to greet mafia bosses. Yo would never do. No names, that's it.
"Good morning, sir," was it. I said it twice and prayed that Hy didn’t want a shave. My prayer was answered and I busied myself with stropping my razors.
There was much hyperbole about The Tuna’s princess’ wedding and wisecracks were made about how the groom would have a short lifespan if he were ever caught cheating. The general consensus was that no one wanted to be the husband in a marriage like that.
I began to notice every Thursday when Strongy came in he was always impeccably dressed. It was the first time for me to see a man with jewelry like that. Most of the other outfit guys wore gold chains with the Italian horn or cross and a diamond pinky ring. Strongy always wore a tailored suit, custom made shirts with French cuffs and ties with a CM logo sewn into them. Eventually I asked what the CM was all about. Old Matt clued me in, “Oh kid, dose are da most expensive ties around. Dat stands for Countess Mara. She’s some kinda special designer broad for big shots all over da world.”
When Strongy wore a black suit he would wear a full set of diamonds; cufflinks, tie tack, and pinky ring all in a platinum setting. If he wore grey, it would be a set of star sapphires; a brown suit brought out a set of rubies. Any of the watches complemented the ensemble and none of the watches were ever thicker than a half dollar. Always upon finishing the manicure Laura got his box of English Ovals and lit his cigarette for him while his nail polish dried. The old saw of “crime does not pay” was turned on its head for me. That was for a short while though. During those months I thought that not only did it pay, it paid quite well.
A couple of Thursdays went by and all was well. I was an accepted personage and, even more important to me, nobody wanted me to shave them. Carmie had finished Strongy and Laura was still finishing up his manicure. I headed over toward Toffenetti’s to meet Carmie and realized I had forgotten my wallet in the drawer of my back bar. As I walked back into my area and opened the drawer. I heard Hy say; “Aw, c’mon, boss. He’s got a wife and kids.”
My stomach just turned. Some guy is going to get whacked; and I…uh, …I’m uh…. I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Carmie corrected me about what I heard. I was right about Hy. He did have somewhat of a heart, he only did protecting. He didn’t do hits. Someone else would whack the poor doufas.
Dan’s philosophy on living was inspired by Dad’s comments we both had heard him say too many times: “I wished I’d…or If I only would have…” Neither one of us wanted to find ourselves in the regret department at the Pearly Gates Super Store. Dan would frequently say, “Better to be a has been than a never was-er.”

Manny Skar, aka Mr. Stone’s, I had a new client for at least seven haircuts.

2009-07-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

Manny Skar, aka Mr. Stone’s Haircut Ruined
Months later I was well entrenched in the shop, developing my own clients and being fed new clients by Jader and Powell more than the others. One man in particular, who was pleased with my work and was passed on to me by Jader, was Mr. Stone – A.K.A. Manny Skar. His previous haircuts were way too close and he needed some corrective reshaping of style. The style was looking good and the left side was really shaping up quite well. After about the sixth visit I figured out who he really was. I mentioned it to my brother during one of our visits to Stateville Prison. Dan said, "Oh that's cool."
I felt disappointed in his lack of response. But what could I really expect? Ooohs and aaaahs? Look at where I’m visiting. Manny Skar was “connected.” He owned a hotel called Sahara Inn, an underground gambling casino on Manheim Road in Schiller Park. I thought of him as a big time gangster. In my own warped way I thought it was cool to be working on such a character.
Jader greeted me one morning with his great voice; "Thomas, Mr. Stone will not be seeing you anymore."
"Why not Jader, are you going to be doing him?"
"No, Thomas, he's suffering from a severe case of lead poisoning." Jader then showed me the morning newspaper: September 11, 1965, Manny Skar found shot to death in his car in front of his home after dropping off wife and daughter.
My next visit with my brother at Stateville was enlightening. He said; “I knew your ‘Mr. Stone’ was going to get whacked; everybody in here knew. The grapevine in this place is phenomenal. That’s why I couldn’t say anything to you. You don’t need to know about any of that kind of shit anyway. Just stay clean.”

My Experience with Frank Schweihs

2009-07-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

page 132 of Backstreets by Thomas Terlikowski

“Crippled” Frank (Schweihs, The German)
Carmie was out of the shop at the moment. He was probably having lunch with the Redhead so there would be no interrupting him at that point. Dennis just went to lunch with Crippled Frank who was a known hit man. Dennis clued me in on that fact when he realized I don’t ask too many questions and I proved myself to be tight lipped about what goes on in the shop. The other guys were having lunch so that left just Jack Frenzone (who was on the #1 chair that looked out on to Clark Street) and I (at my usual #9 chair next to the building’s inner concourse). The entire middle of the shop was empty.
Two men came into the shop wearing sport jackets and walked up to Jack and myself asking for a trim. Neither man wanted to remove their sport coats. However, when they turned to sit in the big Paidar barber chairs’ their sport coats flared away from their torsos. I couldn’t help but notice each man had a 45 caliber pistol stuffed in their trouser belts. No holsters. That stopped me cold. The thought of being caught in crossfire was distressing. This could turn into another Albert Anastasia murder sequence, a highly publicized barber shop Mafia hit, or the sloppier gunfight at the O.K. Corral where bullets flew everywhere. At least the New York mobsters were thoughtful enough to push the barbers out of the way as they wasted Albert. In either case I didn’t want any part of it.
Frank was a well respected man in his field and wasn’t really crippled; he just had a slight limp. However nicknames are quickly doled out at the slightest of differences. “No Nose”, “Greasy Thumb”, “Teets”, “Mad Sam”, “The Stoop”, “Apes”, “Joe Battters”, “Joey Doves”, “Jackie the Lackey”, “The Wizard of Odds”, “Cowboy”. But Jack in the number one chair didn’t put any of this together he was completely oblivious, which might have helped the situation. I looked too young, clean cut and inexperienced in life situations to create any suspicions by the two men with sport coats and forty-five automatics. After I wrapped the chair cloth around the client’s neck I told him I had to use the rest room and that I would be right back. When I got to Toffenetti’s I whispered the situation in Dennis’ ear and let him use his own discretion as to whether or not to tell Frank. Then I did go to pee.
The man calmly lounged in the barber chair waiting for me to return. I was hoping to be through and have him out of the chair before Dennis and Crippled Frank returned. I was almost done when my eye caught the flicker of Dennis’ white barber coat reflecting off the ceiling to floor barber shop windows. Frank, with his distinguishable gait, was at Dennis’ side. I felt the blood drain from my head not knowing what would happen next. Dennis wasn’t eager about walking into a potential hit so he hung back out on the concourse. He took a long drag of his cigarette and let Frank step into the shop alone.
Frank walked up to my client first since my chair was next to the door that accessed the walkway inside of the building. Frank stood directly in front of the man, locked eyes and leaned toward him for about seven seconds without saying a word. It felt like forever to me. He walked away without ever looking back. My only thought was whether he was going to be shot in the back of the head. Frank continued to the front of the shop and stood in front of the other man, fixing his steely gaze into his eyes and again leaning forward toward the stranger. Not a word was spoken. Frank walked toward Dennis’ #7 chair, shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and turned out both hands gesturing - nothing here to worry about here. The two men paid their tab and weren’t so careless about showing their weapons. They both headed out the Clark Street door and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic.
Dennis and I both smiled with relief. Dennis finished the haircut and Frank headed toward the door. I was amazed that I didn’t hear his brass balls clang as he walked out to Clark Street. I guess that was one way to deal with one’s own possible assassination.

Diving for the Pearce Arrow

2009-07-21T16:19:00.000-07:00

Scuba diving was always fun but when you add trespassing, at night, into some old Italian guys gravel quarry you just might wonder about your own sanity. Like why is this old Pearce Arrow at the bottom of the quarry. Was somebody behind the wheel when it was sent over the edge? Who gives a shit. I really wanted to see that old classic car. Driving down the gravel road was scary even at 15-20 mph. I hit a bump and the loudest PFFFSSSSS I have ever heard in my life. I jumped out of the car, opened the trunk turned off the air valve and wondered how much I lost. From that point on I walked in front of the car as my wife drove slowly enough to not even register a speed on the odometer. Ken and I put on our wet-suits pointed our flash lights into the water. It illuminated a heavy murky green algae with a total of 7 or maybe 8 feet. Ken and I stayed connected with a clothes line for safety. We followed a twisted steel section rail track. That rested on a railroad trestle that reached down to the quarry floor. About 50 feet below us. The rail ended and pointed downward as we got further down my air began to run out after 25 minutes or so we surfaced with great disappointment . never to see the great Pearce Arrow we were so enthused about. Many promises and talks about "Next Time we'll...." and we knew there would never be a next time. But we dreamers and doers keep our ideas filled with fresh hot air, hope and calculated b.s. ...........TT

Table of Contents for Backstreets

2009-07-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

More photos to come
Page Chapter Title
5 One Dan Coffee Grounds
6 Dog Fights and other Noisy Games
7 Dan’s Crash
9 Hourglass Bread
10 Two Dziadzia Sajewski Died
11 August 1948
12 In a Fog Moving the Piano
13 Cotton Top
14 Welcome to the Neighborhood Helcha
16 Three Dat’s Miiine
17 Dan nailed it
18 Ziggy
19 Bombs Away Don’t Run, Don’t Wrestle, Don’t do…..
20 Dad’s Drinking and Family Encroachment
22 A New Friend Playing from Zur ta Zur
23 The Green 1951 Pontiac with Visor
24 The Burma Shave Road Comparing the Road Trip to City life
25 Dan Missed This One
26 Cotton Top on a Blessing Spree
27 Luminous Paint Not Quite the Same Since
Street Vendors: Rag Man, Ice Man, Produce Man, Sharpener
29 Flying Kids and Open Windows Wake You Uppers
31 Koswelski’s Tavern; Three in, Two Out
I See Your Can of Ravioli and Raise You a Mum
32 Cotton Top; How She Got her Name
33 Smash and Grab Duck Soup aka Czarnina
34 Junkin’ Kids Getting Money, 1954
36 Payback Breaking Monotony
37 Dan Dodging Dad
38 Four TV with Cotton Top
39 Polish Beavers on TV How considerate Cotton Top Could Be
40 Go West Young Polish Guys
41 The Torch Eckhart Park
42 Dime Store Dillinger
43 Helping an Old Lady Tina and Sandy
45 Great Party, Tom Pizda, Pizda, Pizda
46 Dad’s Snitch
47 Early Big Brother Delights
Father Pastor, Goldfish & Coffee
48 Child Support Cuts into Dad’s Drinking Money
Name Calling in a Mixed Neighborhood
49 My Saturday Ritual and Observation
Those Little Moments and Cryogenics
51 Friday Nights with Bob and His Dziadzi A Life Lesson
52 A Fight That Changed My Life
54 Tom? He’s Dead.
Altar Boys & Father Gruza it’s not what you think
55 A Dan Lesson to Younger Brother
56 April 1955—Fire Hoses and Unspoken Confidence
58 Want Some Chips?
60 Five Federal Highway Act Bullies are Pussies Dan’s Quest
62 Flash Gordon, Come in!
The Cold War -The Beginning of the End
64 Early Protesters
65 The Real Definition of “Eminent Domain” Concurrently
67 These Are Grunts Lose the Fancy Spices
68 New Understandings and Emotions and a Bathtub Ride
69 Hey You Forgot to Tell Us.
71 A Long Way to the Assayers Office in Disneyland
74 Six Holy Trinity High to Wells
75 Music and Attitudes
77 A City Guy Gets a Lesson from a Country Girl
78 A Dan Letter Eric and Bridget
79 Collita Francesca Espinoza de Jesus (aka Vickie) and Sasha
85 A Dan Phone Call Understanding Time and Gravity
86 Come with Me to Meet My Dad Gang Wars
87 Senior Year Jimmy La Farge, Big Ron, Rich Breakaglass,
Roger Price and me.
90 Dare to Step Out of the Box? Jonathan Livingston Seagull Did.
91 Seven Changes Out of High School Out of Our Minds
92 I Finished Barber School, All 1,872 Real Hours
Back to Vickie and an Undercover Subway Cop
93 Sasha and Her Changes
94 Dan and His Changes “I’ll stay here in California for a while.”
95 No Problem I Can Handle It… and a “Saturday Night Special”
96 Eight Downtown Chicago Barber Shop
July 1961 Tommy This Is Tony
97 Meeting the other Man in Her life
98 Son
99 Interview at Melito’s Barber Shop
100 John and Sophie
103 Planting a Seed for the Club Apartment Norge Ski Jump
105 Eau D’Volvo
107 Dan meets Ben
108 Getting Acquainted with the New Widow, Clients
(including) Action Jackson and Sol Levine story
114 There Goes the Neighborhood
115 Speaking of Hitting Things
116 My First Big Shave The Tuna’s Princess is Getting Married
119 Mike Prepares Spaghetti a le digit
122 Four X Skins
124 416 State Street
125 Carmie’s Radar Always Working
Someone Was Stealing My Stuff
126 Got This New Pistola and Haven’t Shot Anyone Yet
127 Enjoying the Moment He might look Gay but………
128 He’s Not Dead
129 I never wanted to miss out on anything
131 Carmie’s antennae still working
A different kind of coming out party
aka “Crippled Frank”
133 Is That All There Is? I Killed a Garbage Can at 3 in the Morning
134 February 17th 1962 Wishful Thinking in a Bad Situation
139 We All Recall Our Firsts
140 A Cacophony
141 What’s In a Name?
142 Nine Everyone Off To Prison
144 Carmie’s Super Day
145 Members of the Cast or “Kid don’t look now, but there’s….”
146 We Should’ve Called Him Mike The Ferret
147 There’s Nothing Like a Cops Bar
148 Dan and Lightning
149 He Just Looked So Clean Cut Protocol: Who acknowledges
150 “Hey Kid do me a favor” I recognize this guy from the……
151 The Club/Apartment, Mike and Cosette
152 A Different Kind of Peanuts A Legend in Our Time
153 Milk Carton and Machine Gun
154 Another Great Character from The Melito Years
155 Da Guys Coming by to dere Pay Respect
156 I Guess I Better Go Now
159 Ten End of An Era Nov. 22nd 1963
160 Mike Finds a Woman with Class The Marriage Mirage
My First Wife Lehrerin
162 Eleven July 4th 1964
163 Wire-room April Closing one Door and Opening Another
165 Twelve On The Right Path
166 Enter Thelonious Our Monkey
168 Don’t Take any Crap from Those People
169 July 20th 1965
170 Carol Does Something Special for Her Husband
171 Goodbye, Lake Shore Drive
172 Thirteen What Bosses! First Jader, Then Powell
175 Fourteen Cotton Top—It Finally Happened, August 1st 1965
175 Summer Time 1946
177 Why Such a Darky? Crystal Radio Set
178 Coming Back to Hudson Street, After the First Visitation
180 The Czarnina Scam The Forgetful Thief Angry Raisinettes
181 Kitchen Wonders and Gross Outs The Kitchen Towel Rack
183 Day Two Goot Zupa, No?
185 Sam, the Baby Gorilla Squirrel Monkey, Future Hit-man
186 Jim Bowie and PB&J Sandwich Cemetery Time
188 Back to Jader’s: A London Fog with a Big Surprise
189 Is There Room for Anyone Else in Here?
190 No Problem, I’m a Professional, I Can Handle This
191 Getting Acquainted with Powell
192 With a Name Like Pappa, You’d Think He’d Be Kind
No One Tells Heinzie How to Cut Hair
193 Mr. Stone’s Haircut Ruined Back at Jader’s
194 Welcome to Leavenworth Diving from the Sky
195 There’s Gold in Them Thar Flatlands! Short Letter to Dan
197 Fifteen Strategies of a Clever Businessman Spring 1967
198 Thank You Beetles Now there has to be a Gazillion Michelles
Maybe It’s the Planets…. Goodbye Rush and Delaware Hello…
199 Women Get Bored; They Need Excitement in the Bedroom
201 We Weren’t Ever Meant To Be Real Close Friends
202 Back to the Lion’s Cut
205 Dan Writes Nick Pilferwrist
207 Another Nick Delight Starting a letter to Dan
208 An Infectious Laugh is Hard To Beat A Costly Brush Off
209 Oops, Home too Early 22vs 357 Mamma Mia, it’s Maria
211 It’s Time to Live on Fast Forward
212 Some Decorating Ideas Take a Different Turn
My Boss Looked Different from the floor
214 Tolerated, Not Accepted
215 An Advertising Adventure Gas For Less
217 It’s All About The Tttttttiming
218 Like A Human Shell Game
219 Friends Come and Go but their memories linger on.
Mr. Camel Lashes Lawyers Dilemma—Be a Manly Man or Sue
221 Sixteen Welcome Home Dan - winter 1969
Dan Comes to Work with Us at The Lion’s Cut
223 I Want to Get Out of Here
224 Dan moves to Woodstock, Il. Weatherman Riot
225 Isis
227 Do I say I remember you? Or just Shut up
228 I remember this date quite clearly
229 Buying Poverty July 1970 Sly and the Family Stoned
230 Auto Shower—Inner City Style Dan and a Kid’s Haircut
231 The Housewife’s Friend is different when done I.V.
Setting some turkey dressing aside for the kids
234 This Glass had an important impact on my life
236 Hey Honkey! Uh oh….That would be me they’re calling
238 I want to see that Pearce Arrow
239 Somehow I could feel a Fox in the Chicken coop
240 Maybe Going to the Mountains
Making a choice. Who has been good to you?
241 Last Laugh Together
242 September, 1971-- Leaving Home
243 We All Deserve Another Chance First Date After Moving Out
244 Hippies from Arkansas
245 Hey, Tom, Now Just You Wait Until You See the Kitchen!
December Snow in Chicago Evening Rush Hour
246 Psychotherapist and Trust Issues
Mr. Dougherty
247 5:30 PM -- Rush Hour Sports
248 Dan Puts Things Together
249 Dick Cain, aka Scalzetti Barry Lipin
250 Somebody Special, Somebody Dead
253 Remember Me?
254 Astro Date
257 The Euphemism Is “Business Agent”
259 Spring of 1972 – Reunion
Tony the Tout, Taking Things Too Far
260 A Simple Pleasure
263 Life Changes One More Time
264 A Lesson from Viet Nam for Rich
265 Gorillas, Opera and Guns
266 A Subtle, Haunting Daymare
268 Seventeen A Busy Weekend February 13, 1974
273 Eighteen Lifestream Another Major Turning Point
274 A Great Wedding for Two Hundred Guests for Less Than Four
Thousand Dollars June 6th 1976
Chaser: Dog, Friend, Teacher – June 7th 1976
275 A New Restaurant in Town—July 15th 1977
276 New Marriage, Home and a Suburban Mentality….Berwyn?
277 August 8, 1977
279 Man, These Outfit Guys a Stricter Than Sister Assumpta
E. Mason Income Tax Service
281 Nazis with a solid I.Q. of 52 Trying to Create a Riot –June 1978
283 I’d Cry but I can’t- July 1978
285 June 4th 1979
286 The Obelisk
287 Paul Meets George
289 Bert’s Heart Attack Brings Us to Leo’s Warehouse
291 February 13th 1983 Ken Eto
292 The “Good Doctor”
295 Casket Races “Excuse Me I need to Borrow a…..”
298 We Learn a New Phrase Upon crossing the Texas Border
August 1985
301 One Promotional Idea for The Bar was to Advertise…
Volkswagen Fastback
304 Re-Introduction to my old friend Mike earlier in this collection
306 Back to School
308 Woodstock, Il. Uncle Dan’s
309 Back to Texas
310 The Dallas Saga- on a Downward Spiral
311 What a Phone Call – Dan Repairing a 40 year old Lie
312 Back to Life in Texas
313 Another Call from Dan
314 A New Profession for Her Too
315 Part Deux- “You Just couldn’t leave it alone” or “Open your
mouth, insert your feet & dance, dance, dance.”
316 Cable Guy – August 4th 1991
317 I Create an On-Site Massage Program at the While Foods Market
in Richardson Texas Christmas of 1988
318 Dan’s Shortest Day
320 “Mr. Terlikowski Dan is ready for you.”
322 “Tell Her to Climb Over the Gear Shift”
323 Years before Dan Died
325 Tom!
328 About The Author

2009-07-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Why would I start a blog? Because I want to share my experiences, introduce some strange characters, and different than average situations. Things like lowering a dead, two foot alligator from a second story roof top to just above two winos drinking from a paper bag.
Getting thown out and ultimately failing my bookkeeping class because my grand mother stole my homework.
Finding out that Thelonius Monk, and Mile Davis really sound different when those L.P.'s were played at 78rpm instead 331/3 and how much deeper the groves become.
That when it comes to cryogenics and pets, that should be left to the professional scientists and movie makers.
Never let your big brother talk you into bringing his car to another location.
When your boss leaves an Alice B. Toklas brownie on your back bar put it imediately away or in a drawer.
What to do when you get a nervous giggle when kneeling at a casket of a loved one.
What does an 18 year old brain think when witnessing a completely naked 87 year old woman bending over into a refrigerator? These questions and suggestions are addressed. In Backstreets...........TT

Cotton Top our Nemesis

2009-07-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

Sam was a great new friend/monkey a squirrel monkey to be clear. Cotton Top was the name my friend Bob and I gave to my grandmother. She thought he was a baby gorilla that I had purchased to do my dirty work, and to do her in. In her warped mind she figured to avoid any problems she would make friends with him by feeding him. After all the good Polish woman that she was, raised nine children, five boys, four girls and all were well fed. She knows how to make friends with food. I asked her many times and ways to NOT feed Sam. Since I was in my senior year of high school she had access to him all day long.

In all my viewing of Marlin Perkins wild life nature movies, jungle movies, Disney animal specials I have never seen a stuffed Cabbage Roll tree, Kraut Pierogi bush, or a smoked sausage plant. That never stopped Cotton Top. This day in particular was an all American dish, fried chicken wing and small drumstick. Sam had already figured out how to unlock his cage and sneak out.

This time he heard the slippers shuffling across the linoleum floor. That soundmeant food was coming so he climbed high on the cabinets in the utility room that separated Cotton Tops apartment from ours. As she entered that room he leaped off the cabinet and grabbed the chicken wing and was back up high on his new perch. The problem was having a long prehensile tail, he wrapped it around her neck in order to reach down from her shoulder to the saucer where she had the chicken pieces. That choking action was all she needed to be convinced my Sam was a KILLER MONKEY. She dropped the saucer and ran downstairs to the store and told her son Alvin she was attacked and almost died. She was lucky enough to fight off the viscious beast and get to the safety of my mom and uncle.

When I came home from school I got the notice that Sam will have to go. The look on my uncles face was true mixed emotions. As he retold the incident to me I cold see him envisioningthe entire comical event but he also had to maintain that wee bit of autoritarian look of discipline. I read it all, loud and clear Cotton Top always got her way. I found a good ownwer, a father and daughter came to buy Sam and he found a new happy home, but no pierogi, sausage or cabbage rolls. TT

Characters: A State Street Boxer 1950's

2009-06-04T13:59:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the 1950's afforded us to street characters. On State Street that great street. Our dad was treating us to a movie and a stage show at the Chicago theater. There was an old looking black man who evidently was a boxer at one time. He was a little man must have been a bantam weight. He was speaking quite loudly to no one in particular. He would shuffle his feet, wave his arms and move around gracefully. Then the green rocket came rolicking past us, that's what we called the State Street, streetcar. Everything changed instantly when the green rocket clanged its bell. The boxer crouched down and began boxing with an invisible opponent. Short quick steps, jabs and from time to time a knock out punch and an occasional upper cut. Most of the folks smiled and gave him room for his imaginary thirty second, ten rounder. Dad enjoyed watching and I was totally fascinated and wondered about him for the rest of the day. Was he winning absolutely yes. He smiled proudly raising his hands above his head not minding that a few teeth were missing. He danced a little and then resumed a slow smooth casual walk.
I began to wonder does that happen every time the streetcar clangs its bell?
Is it voluntary? Or does he have to go into his fight routine? Does he have to go down different streets to avoid the green rocket clang? We moved on and watched a John Wayne movie. Then watched the movie screen roll up ward and a full orchestra rose up from the depths of the undertheater to become a live stage performance. A stand up comic told jokes then Steve Lawrence and Edie Gorme. What a treat!.......TT

2009-05-13T13:32:00.001-07:00

Another sampling of my brother Dan

2009-05-13T11:39:00.000-07:00

Since there was five years between us I got the chance to see things that much further ahead then any of my friends who didn't have an older sibling. One of Dan's characteristics was action he always had to be doing something. At Christmas he drove his tricycle into the Christmas tree. Later in the year I learned how much noise and a mess firemen can make when they come into your home to put out the drapes and curtains. Even going for a loaf of Wonder Bread Dan saw kids shooting marbles, he had to stop by and play a few rounds with his buddies. That was Dan at seven and eight years old. Thirteen years brought out the great white hunter in him. We lived four blocks from the Chicago River and the nighttime hunting team was engaged. He and couple of the other guys took their trusty Daisy Red Ryders and taped flashlights to the underside of the barrels to shoot river rats. I don't believe they ever killed any unless the BB's went into the eye socket but they came back with stories as if they killed the Dragon of Goose Island.
Time moved on as he got older I learned about eight pagers, Parodi Cigars and how to puke my guts out from smoking one. He taught me about zip guns and brass knuckles and to never snitch. The lessons always came in unusual ways. Like Uncle Al making a comment about how there was a gang war at Harlem and Diversey Avenues. The fire department was called by the police and the hoses and water cannons were used to squelch the melee. Dan came home soaked the previous evening.
When he joined the Marines I thought it was a match made in heaven. The biggest thing I learned about that was, that letter writing to Dan was a sign of things to come.
While he was at Camp Pendleton our grand mother who we called Cotton Top continued to steal things from our half of the apartment we shared with her.

Belly-flopping

2009-04-15T10:05:00.000-07:00

This might have gone the way of the buggy-whip. Kids don't carry schoolbags anymore. They have back packs with $700.00 of electronic equipment, C.D.s, DVDs and cell phones. The school bag an envelope shaped carrier made of any kind of fabric with separators for books loose leaf binder and other school supplies. Since Chicago is as hilly as a cookie sheet. We lucked out with having an empty lot next to where the Meadows family lived. The lot had twelve foot vertical drop and a eighty-five foot run out from the cobble stone alley where there was a slight rise about four feet from all the compacted broken chunks of concrete, busted beer and soda bottles, pieces of old clapboard siding, dirt and other debris piled to the alley side of this lot. It once had a two story wood frame apartment house that was built before the Chicago fire. What was once a first floor and basement became our sledding hill.
Conversations marching two by two down the stairwell at the end of the school day as to whether or not the snow was good packing was our primary thought. On the best of snowfalls we were geared up for a good time. Walking through the alley to "Meadows Hill" the anticipation build our pace increased and our schoolbags lifted and held tightly to our chests. Now at a full run and the commitment to flop down onto your schoolbag and ride the hill and out distance your buddies. It always turned into a competition, speed, distance it was always fun. More in "Backstreets" .....TT

The rusty nail in my brothers knee

2009-04-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

It's life here..... Belly-flopping is a fact of life. How you do it. How to find a hill in the flatlands of inner city Chicago. In every case one needs snow. As Dan showed me his different techniques and how to get better distance. He walked up hill looking angry. He said, "we have to go now." When I asked why he just glared at me, so I shut up. When I told hom his pants are crooked he hollered don't touch me or my pants. When we got home to the family music store Uncle Al asked what was wrong. Dan showed him the rusty old 16 penny nail stuck through his pants and into his knee. I was amazed at how odd it looked and Dan didn't cry. Uncle Al said Tommy go get me some iodine from the medicine chest. While I ran to the bathroom Dan's eyes followed me. Uncle Al Grabbed the nail and yanked it out. It was the pink and white stuff hanging from the nail, some of it a little string like and shinny not very bloody. Dan made a sucking sound as Uncle Al poured the iodine into the open wound. Then he told Dan to go upstairs and tell Mom that you might need to get atetanus shot.

I do have fun thinking about modern children and what they have become accustomed. Kids don't have school bags anymore. Backpacks have replaced them. They are filled with ipods, earbuds, cellphones, Kindles, color tv's, CDs DvDs, plastic lunch containers, and some even might carry a book. To belly flop on all that might cost a fortune. And one would have to wear the back pack on their chest..TT