Dear Reader:

A couple stood in front of a trendy Lincoln Park restaurant. He was an attractive and exquisitely attired older man, tan and seemingly in vigorous good health, with a knowing expression in his eye that belied his genteel subtlety of manner. She was young and stop-in-your-tracks gorgeous, regardless of the obvious surgical and salon ministrations to her body and to her long blond tresses, respectively.

He was all Italian luxury, from the drape of his magnificently tailored suit to his leather shod feet. She wore a suit as well, although clearly this was attire never intended to see the inside of a boardroom; the silk jacket plummeted down in front, the slit of her short skirt ascended in back, to dizzying depths and heights.

There in front of the restaurant, ostensibly oblivious to the attention they received from passersby, the woman was draped on the man as beautifully as his suit. As my companion and I walked toward the couple, I quietly wondered aloud what their relationship might be. My Chicago-native companion, wiser in the ways of the world than my small-town self, whispered, “He’s ‘family.'”

I knew enough from The Godfather to say no more. As we passed the couple, still partially entwined, we heard the woman ask, “Whose possession am I tonight?”


Conversation overheard by Vincent Lizzo:

“This guy was asplittitizmo.”


“Asplittitizmo. It’s a guy who half of the people, they think he’s crazy. But the other half of the people, they don’t think he’s crazy. No. They think he’s just a plain stupid. Asplittitizmo: half think he’s crazy, the other half, he’s just a plain stupid. When you meet someone who’s a-

splittitizmo you gotta pick whether you think he’s crazy or just plain stupid. You make a you choice. You pick. You know what you become when you make you pick?”


“A crazy stupid picking idiot.”