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Outside, it’s hotter than a lightly toasted Pop Tart. Well, ok, maybe not that hot. It’s hot enough for a lightly toasted Pop Tart to burn the tip of your tongue. Well, ok, maybe burn it just a little, but not enough to burn it to the point where the burned bit bugs you all day. No, that’s probably still too hot for how hot it really is outside.  My Daewoo’s dashboard display tells me it’s 84 degrees. Well, ok, it’s not really a Daewoo. Let’s say I’m too embarrassed to tell you what I really drive. We’ll go with that. Ok, Chuck?  So it’s been 84 degrees toasty, if not toastier, all day; and that’s how toasty it was this afternoon when I pulled into Pop’s driveway, way down in the southern ‘burbs.  But by the feel inside of Pop’s house, you’d have thought all of Death Valley had dropped in for a quick visit. Well, ok, not all of Death Valley, but as much of its climate that’ll fit into a modest, two story brick abode of the Midwest.  If you’d been there today, you’d have heard Pop’s

In addition to Richard Lindberg’s Return Again To The Scene Of The Crime: A Guide To Even More Infamous Places In Chicago , and the September 1961 and October 1964 issues of “ Modern Man: The Adult Picture Magazine,” and the October 1956 issue of “ Cabaret : The Adult Entertainment Magazine,” and the April 1962 issue of “ Ace : The Magazine For Men Of Distinction,” and also the June 1959 issue of “ 21 ,” I picked up a copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies. If you’d been there, you’d have found all this, and more, at Manager Mick’s annual yard sale in Wicker Park.  Long before Mick managed a coffee shop, he made anatomically correct Ken dolls. He also did things to Barbie dolls Mattel probably wouldn’t approve of. To his credit, his collection was featured on an episode of “ Wild Chicago.”  Mick used to pay the bills by performing as a stripper. He sold drugs, too. But he also found work as an interior designer. Like so many real-world things and folks, TV seems to get stripp

There I am, not far from Niagara Falls, sitting on a park bench in a small Canadian town. A shallow pool with a spout of water is within leaping distance. As I am but a tourist here, I dare not leap.   The small birds of southern Canada — not all of them, but enough to take note of — flock around me, my two slices of fudge, and my mocha. None of these birds have a taste for the several crumbles of fudge I’ve flicked their way. That doesn’t stop them from homing in on my position. Admittedly, I am not entirely sure that I’ve enjoyed my fudge myself. This comes as something of a surprise.  (One slice, if you must know, is peanut butter chocolate fudge; the other’s cookies and cream fudge. Please don’t get me wrong, I love old-fashioned chocolate fudge, but at my age I’ve had more than my fair share of it. Nowadays I seek to add to my fudgy / fudge-ly / fudge-able palate and broaden my fudgy / fudge-ly / fudge-able horizons. And, please, my personal and very slight displeasure for said sw

Burping is not an efficacious means of transmitting herpes. But don’t take Howie’s word for it. Don’t take Howie’s word for anything. Howie don’t know diddlysquat. Then again, neither do I. That’s what Howie and I have in common: an extensive knowledge of diddlysquat. We don’t eat pizza in the summer because it makes us phat. No, it makes us fat. When we eat pizza in the winter it makes us phat. God, what is my problem? “YOUR PROBLEM, MY CHILD, IS THE LACK OF VITAMIN Q-BERT IN THE ATMOSPHERE. SEE AL GORE.” Golly. Gee-whiz. Thanks, God. I’ll see Mr. Gore right away. I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased to see me. No doubt he’ll let me walk right through his front door. Especially if I drop Your Name.  They call it “Southern Hospitality,” I believe. And although I’ve never heard of Vitamin Q-BERT, no doubt Mr. Gore has. And I’m sure, while we’re sipping wine, or mint juleps, on his veranda he’ll snap his fingers and say, “By God, that’s it!!! Vitamin Q-BERT!!!” He’ll slap the heel of hi