New address sits fine, thank you

Originally published: January 11, 1984

I was born in the wrong generation. If I'd had any choice in the matter, I would have arrived years later, so that I would have been growing up during the 1960s.

Say what you will about the youths of that era -- dope heads, flower chompers, mantra chanters -- they had an attitude toward work that appealed to me. They tried their best to avoid it.

My old pal Slats Grobnik, also born before his time, summed up our attitude this way:

"Everybody says that work is so good for ya. Well, if work is supposed to be so great, how come they got to pay ya to do it?"

That's always made sense to me. I've known a few people who were born rich and never had to work, and they always struck me as being a little dumb, but very happy.

Oh, those born rich will try to con you into believing that with all their money they're still capable of being miserable. Occasionally, one of them will fake a nervous breakdown and blubber to People Magazine about how his or her wealth has brought nothing but sadness, tension and blotchy skin.

But don't believe a word of it. They only say that because they're afraid that if the rest of us knew what a good time they're having, we'd storm their estates, drink their wines, ravish the maid and eat their polo ponies.

Consider that Onassis girl, the one with the bowling ball thighs. Every so often, we read about how her inherited millions have not made her happy. But every time I see a picture of her, what is she doing? She's on the deck of her yacht, wolfing down figs, baklava, snifters of Metaxa, all brought to her, ordering around a crew of handsome beach boy types.

If she's miserable, then the night scrub lady in this office would gladly trade in her mop and pail for that type of torment.

On the other hand, just go stand outside Union Station or a Loop 'L' stop or a factory gate in the morning and study the faces. Grim, grim, grim. You can almost hear the stomach acid eating away at the lining.

Why? Because they're going to work, that's why.

So why do we do it if it is so depressing? The obvious answer is that we have to eat, pay the rent, clothe the kids, feed the cat, cover the bar tab and put something aside for a good hairpiece in our old age.

But beyond that, we have been taught that it is good to work. Every generation, except that of the flower children believed it. The Depression generation feared the soup lines. Today's generations fear Sony and Honda.

And we were taught that anybody who didn't work was a bum. [Many Republicans still believe that. Except those who are unemployed.]

It's this dread of being considered a bum that has motivated me to work, without missing a payday, since my 15th birthday.

My first job was setting pins in the old Congress Bowling Alleys on Milwaukee Avenue. I was amazed to find that many of my fellow pinsetters were bums. That's when I discovered that life can be so tough, even bums have to hustle a living.

Later I tried other occupations, working in a screw machine shop, on a loading dock, in a lamp factory, a department store and behind the bar of a tavern.

These jobs taught me a lesson that I still live by, in work or physical fitness: Don't run if you can walk; don't walk if you can just stand there; don't stand there if you can sit down.

That philosophy led me to my present line of work. It's not that I particularly enjoy chasing news stories, although it can be fun watching a frightened alderman crouch behind his wallet. And it's not that I enjoy writing opinions, since it is much easier to lean on a bar and mumble them instead. The true appeal of this job is that I can do it while I'm sitting. The only thing that would be better would be to find a job I could do while lying down. But hardly anybody, except Hefner, has that kind of luck.

So that's what I've been doing for the past 20 years or so -- sitting and avoiding being a bum. To be truthful, I'd rather be doing nothing, leading the life of a boulevarder or a playboy, but that costs a lot.

Until today, I've been doing my sitting at another place about a block from here.

And I was content until this fellow came into town with a large sack of money and decided to buy that place.

As sometimes can happen between boss and employee, we didn't see eye to eye on a few things, so I decided to do my sitting over here.

That doesn't strike me as being any big deal. I would think that any self-respecting, international tycoon would be delighted to get rid of somebody who sits as much as I do.

And if he wants somebody for a sitting job, heck, I know people who are much better at it than I am. My friend Slats once tried for a world record in sitting. And he would have made it, too, if he hadn't become so fatigued that he had to lie down.

Anyway, that's how I landed on this page.

But now this international tycoon's side says they are going to court to prevent me from doing my daily sitting here.

What a problem. I don't want to do my sitting there. But he doesn't want me to do it here. Can you imagine a guy coming all the way from Australia just to tell me where to sit?

So what option will that leave me? Sitting on a park bench, I suppose. And I wouldn't mind it, but it doesn't pay much, unless you work for Ed Kelly.

Life is strange. All those lousy jobs loading trucks, working in factories, slinging hash, digging holes and running a punch press -- nobody ever said they'd sue to make me stop.

Ah, Rupert, where the hell were you when I needed you?

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