Medicinal Purposes Only
Welcome to my life in words...
On Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1995, my father Thomas "Ace" Egan, from the distinctive Chicago cross streets of Grand and Ogden Avenues, and I listened to Dean Martin sing our favorite Holiday songs as we did every year.
Our favorite singer Dean was dead within hours. We quipped that we gave Dino a Christmas Eve wake of sorts.
Several years later, my father had a stroke and could no longer drive so my mother and I arranged for him to be driven to my house every Wednesday so I could take him to one of our favorite haunts, "Just One More" in infamous Cicero. There he could exercise his favorite pastime, playing the illegal poker machines, and have a few Miller Lites with his friends Colleen and Laddie.
On the way there and back, I'd always ask what "Ace" wanted to hear and he never wavered in his request; the back-to-back-to-back playing of Mr. Booze, Style and Chicago from the soundtrack of Robin and the Seven Hoods.... featuring none other than Dino himself.
There is a verse of Mr. Booze that Dino masterfully crooned about being the world's foremost brain surgeon who began to manufacture alcohol for "For Medicinal Purposes Only" and then he started drinking what he manufactured and drank himself out of his profession.... "For Medicinal Purposes Only."
The time driving, listening and most times singing along would be considered father-son bonding and it will always be remembered as such.
On one of those Wednesdays, "Ace" was definitely not himself, so we left early. He and my mother walked out of my house and I said to "Ace"... "We'll get that machine next week." Without turning around, he waved. It was his last wave, and I never got to see him alive again.
A smoker of two packs of cigarettes a day since he was 12 years old until his first stroke and further cheating death the last two decades of his life - he was on so much medication mosquitos died as soon as they drilled into his skin - "Ace" was rushed to the hospital with an aneurysm a day after that last wave. He bled out before I could get to the hospital.
Standing next to the vessel he rode hard and didn't cheat out of a full life, the Doctor explained to me they did everything they could to save "Ace." The Doctor, with true compassion, told me they pumped as much blood into him as they could.
"So, you killed him," I quickly replied and received a ghostly shock of a look on that Doctor's face. "He hasn't had real blood in his veins in 20 years."
The Doctor didn't get the joke and walked out. As the last one in the hospital room, I held "Ace's" hand and rolled up one last fin and closed his hand tight. I wish I could have been there when the mortician uncliched his hand and a $5 bill rolled out.
I just wanted him to have one more shot at those machines.
Now, whenever I hear Dino sing "For Medicinal Purposes Only," I smile and remember "Ace" and that's why I've created "Medicinal Purposes Only."
This is my life in words and maybe "Ace" can somehow read them.
8.19.2024
Royko: The Toughest Man In Chicago Review
By Tim Egan
9.22.2024
The one-man show - "Royko: The Toughest Man in Chicago" - is a "Gotta See!!!"
Prior to my attending the Chopin Theatre to witness Mitchell Bisschop’s homage to one of Chicago’s greatest voices in print, I was prepped to not think about how the actor looked or the octave of his voice. That distraction was avoided and I was open to the actor, writer and director who became Royko for a couple of hours on stage.
What I greatly appreciated was how the history of Chicago was blended in with the oratory of a young, full head of hair version of Royko and the multi-media blitz of still framed shots, boisterous audio and luckily time capsuled video clips.
To be honest I loved Royko for two major reasons. First, his corner-bar soliloquy that used punch-in-the- mouth poetic language laced with creativity and words many in some of Chicago's neighborhood watering holes couldn't spell, pronounce or understand without a thesaurus or the help of an underemployed bartender. The second reason is The Clincher, 16-inch softball.
Some in my circle may not have the greatest of things to say about Royko because in political circles he is best known for BOSS, his 1971 take on the life of Richard J. Daley.
Studs Terkel called the book; "Stunning, astonishing, myth-shattering!"
To me, BOSS was the price of poker in Chicago’s political casino. Royko took his shots at Daley, but really what was the alternative. We’ve had back-to-back alternatives in Chicago and we’ve got utter chaos.
When I read BOSS many years ago, I thought it was a glowing tribute. Criticize either of the Mayor Daley's all you want, but the current state of Chicago would not be tolerated by either. Royko would be having a field day with Chicago's present disastrous dysfunction and would be a godsent salvation for journalism in its modern on-line, 3-second attention span state if he were clacking away at the typewriter keys.
The play wasn’t just about BOSS. It was about Royko and newspapers. The newspapers of old. As often is the case for a thought meandering Irish romanticist who is a recovering journalist with all the broken fingers a thousand 16-inch softball games could gnarl, I thought about the days of my youth visiting my own father at the Chicago Tribune where he worked for over 35 years.
My father, a career non-editorial newspaper man, once had a punch-less exchange with Royko at the Billy Goat Tavern over what may or may not have been said or touched on my father’s would be daughter-in-law. My father, who hailed from the distinctive corners of Grand and Ogden, had a jagged scar above his lip and a deep scar on his upper left arm from a razor blade slice. The only thing my father would have questioned about the play was the title. I mean Royko was tough, but toughest?
My father, as I did, would have loved the no nonsense sentimentality of the play. It was like using microfiche again. I could smell the bad coffee, feel the tension of a deadline and hear the cranking of the printing presses.
A personal highlight included the revelation that Royko had a long familial relationship with the comedic genius John Belushi, star of the Royko life-mirroring feature film Continental Divide. It was great to learn of the real-life connection and the influence on the underrated Chicago movie.
In summary the Royko play was nostalgic, comedic, and in every endearing way Chicago-poetic.
His books, his columns, his love of Chicago's original and now dying 16-inch softball game and his dedication to Chicago are all on take it or leave it display. And you’ve got to really give it to Royko for taking an inky swing at Frank Sinatra too, all of which makes this play a “Gotta See”!!!
The Royko play finishes its run at Chopin Theatre next week. Chicago would be blessed with a triumphant return. In the meantime, I’ll ponder if I had the chance to pop onto a bar stool at the Goat and ask Royko one question, it would be: “The machine is gone, nothing is working, what now?
I bet I’d get an answer fit to print.
