Wry Humor: Reflections as a Side Dish

By Peter M. Lutterbeck

The title Wry Humor: Reflections as a Side Dish says it all. Each essay takes a slice of personal experience observations and nonconventional themes. They are meant for people to reflect upon their surroundings, people and their pecularities. The writings require that we tread carefully among the wonderful nature that we seem to carnage or even destroy. Humans are having a difficult time dealing with each other while mutilating the environment. Mother Nature has wonderful healing properties and drawing attention to human involvment needs to be outed and subtle irony may help to disclose and adjust our insight on our unrealized and skewed behavior.

The Human race has come a long way. Machines are on the foremarch and gadgetry and greed has taken over. Human interactions have been diverted to the inane. Meaningful attention to important issues that compromise our existence have been diverted to trivia largely labeled each day as Breaking News. Perhaps the book title Wry Humor and insightful reflections may help people to realize that addiction to trivia may prove dangerous to our survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496991157

Peter M. Lutterbeck

Dr. Lutterbeck grew up in Chicago after immigrating to the US in 1939 from Switzerland. He graduated from a Wisconsin college and returned to his native country to study and complete his medical education. After spending several years in pathology and obtaining a degree in tropical medicine, he joined the international pharmaceutical industry. The last twenty-five years were spent developing new drugs for numerous companies located throughout Europe, the US, and Japan. He supervised and managed offices in seven European countries, Australia, and Japan, living and working in six of these counties. He traveled extensively and frequently to even more countries accumulating a wide sense of cultural awareness and enjoyed observing and experiencing the less obvious aspects of life, especially in the Anglo-American world. Aside from publishing in the fields of medicine, he only recently, on the encouragement of numerous friends, turned to writing on nonmedical issues of the day using his friends and acquaintances who considered his twisted sense of humor. Married twice, for seventeen and twelve years respectively, with three children, and eight years in between wives. He now lives alone these past twelve years in Zurich, Switzerland. Considering the misery of today, he strongly believes that appropriate humor could help people to cope.

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© 2014 Peter M. Lutterbeck. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/22/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9114-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9113-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9115-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author acknowledges the assistance of

Leah Goodwin and Allison Kemp.

CONTENTS

1940s Chicago: The Mafia, Police & Me

Alien Invasion?

Alpine Antipathy

Blouse Blues

Bumpy Road Often Traveled – Part I

Chick Magnet

Conveniently Conceived

Cooking the Books

Don’t Make Life a Take-Away

Evolution of the Male Species—To Mr. Wimp

Genius for a Few Moments

Advice for Wives and Motherhood

How I Met the Love of My Life – A True Story

I Love You— AKA, You Know, Ditto

If You Can’t Live with Men, Try Moving with Them

Improbable Screen Scenes

It’s Not Over Till the Fat Lady Sings… Or So You May Think

Last Days in Chicago – 1958-59

Legs

Male Bashing – A New Olympic Discipline by 2020

Meeting Agnetha of ABBA

Midsummer in Scandinavia

Movies that Shape the Psyche and Behavior

Movies that Shape the Psyche and Behavior

Movies that Shape Psyche and Behavior

Multitasking and Coping in the Aging Male Living Alone

Nakedness

Nincompoop Designers

Numerical Nonsense and Numbing Numbers

Rootless People

She’s Just Not That Into Him

Survival of the Fittest: A Single Man Gets to Know the Frozen-Foods Section

Sweet Creatures of Mother Nature

Titanic & Sexy, Gorgeous, Old Guys on the Screen

To Internet or Not to Internet?

Understanding Women: Mission Most Improbable

Vampire Banksters & Associates

Why?!

Words to Remember

Zombie Invasion

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Passing Wisdom to the Younger Generation

Dedicated to my daughter Carolyn

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1940S CHICAGO: THE MAFIA, POLICE & ME

Some people might say that the city of Chicago is synonymous with the term: Organized Crime. And as you can imagine, a reputation like that doesn’t just spring up overnight. Chicago’s infamy stretched back to well before the 1900s, but as the violence and visibility of the crimes committed over the years increased, the city’s notoriety spread worldwide. And none of the Windy City’s nefarious characters was more well-known – or feared – than Alphonso Capone better known as Al Capone.

While I was fortunate enough never to experience some of Scarface Al’s exploits, I wasn’t invulnerable to the reaches of Chicago’s crime syndicates. And before I had even been on this earth a good decade, I would come to witness just how far the world of organized crime had come. It was at the tender age of eight-years-old that I learned what the term organized crime truly meant, and not long after, just how organized Chicago had become.

A Fallen Gangster

It all began at my father’s office, where he worked as a radiologist. I frequently assisted him after school, typing lists of non-collectables and attending to other minor office duties, although my presence there was mainly to keep him company as he worked well into the evening, often accepting patients until ten o’clock at night. One such night, a Friday to be exact, just before my father was about to lock the front door and close up shop, a large hulking mass with a ten-day-old shadow encasing the lower half of his face appeared in the doorway.

Now, I was accustomed to the sight of men of a considerable size, as my father had imposing figure, standing nearly 6 ft. 5 in., with broad shoulders and a solid build that suggested athletic prowess in his earlier years. However this man’s shabby and disheveled state belied his non-threatening manner; he moved slowly, and in a polite tone asked to enter the office. Father, recognizing a sense of desperation that seemed to hover just below the surface of the stranger’s countenance, instructed him to sit down next to the desk so he could take down his information.

The first question my father asked him was his name. The man was clearly taken aback. You don’t know me? he inquired in a thick Italian accent. My father took a closer look, and I bent my head for a better look as well. No sir, he stated evenly. Well, my name is Luigi Romano, the man answered. My father calmly began filling out the form as if Mr. Romano had said his name was Joe Smith. The bedraggled stranger looked at him, perplexed. You don’t know that name? Father looked upward, seeming to scroll his mental Rolodex for a moment. No look of recognition crossed his face. I’m sorry, I don’t. But what can I do for you? he asked plainly.

Not insulted, taking my father’s lack of critical awareness in stride, Mr. Romano – in a very hoarse voice – replied simply: I need to have my teeth x-rayed. At this point, I was about six feet away from him, so I twisted my head further to glance at his mouth – and saw only a black cave with a few jagged and crooked teeth jutting in various directions as if he had bitten into an exploding hand grenade. Twenty minutes later, after the pictures were taken, Mr. Romano scribbled both his address and that of his dentist on a piece of paper to indicate where the invoice and pictures could be sent accordingly. When that was settled, he quietly exited the premises. As my father was locking the door, he turned to me – seemingly relieved that this experience was over – and gave me a strange look. I asked whether Mr. Romano should be listed in the non-collectable file. Father only grunted, not saying a word.

About three weeks had passed, when on an early Saturday morning the usual thud was heard from the newspaper landing on the wooden back porch of our apartment. The ritual for me was to check the latest baseball scores, and I eagerly snatched up the paper. As I did, I glanced at the front page, and there he was! Dad, you gotta see this! I exclaimed. The gory picture showed Mr. Luigi Romano lying on his back, his body straddling the gutter, his chest and neck riddled with bullet wounds, and his mouth open – teeth barely discernible. GANGLAND SHOOTOUT the headline seemed to scream. Needless to say, that file became a non-collectable; non-collectable even for a collection agency.

The Outfit

A couple of years later, on a beautiful Sunday in late Autumn, Father took me with him to visit a colleague of his, a surgeon who lived in a lovely expansive villa on Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Upon arrival we were offered food and drinks to dine on in the living room, and while the men were discussing politics, the host signaled to me that I should roam about the house as I pleased. Entering a room just off the steps of the first landing, I gently pushed aside the laced curtains and gazed out the window.

Almost immediately, I noticed a procession of about 8 or so large black limousines, slowly – ever so slowly – entering a circular driveway next door. They moved deliberately, as did the men who departed them. Most were wearing hats and large, oversized overcoats, which seemed inappropriate – at least to my childlike sensibilities – for the mild weather conditions. Peering closer, I noticed that these men seemed to be intensely scrutinizing the immediate vicinity. For what, I had no idea. Some carried what looked to be violin cases. After about a minute, several dapper gentlemen emerged carefully from a few of the cars, and my innocent mind came to one simple conclusion: one of these men must be the band leader, and the others must be special soloists or something to that effect.

My curiosity adequately piqued, I moved quickly to the landing of the steps and hollered down to the men below, trying my best to sound casual as I mentioned the scene I had just witnessed, and adding that there appeared to be a concert of sorts soon to get underway. Our host immediately called me to come down, instructing me to stay away from the windows. Huh? I thought, but only until I heard my father’s booming voice repeat the order. Yes, Sir, I replied quietly, and promptly scampered down the stairs, moving to sit a short distance away from the men with my mouth shut.

Father nodded to me, then faced his colleague and said, You can tell him. He’s old enough to handle it. I watched as our host turned to me. Well, Peter… he started, you see, these chaps are from the three cities – Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Louis. And they represent the organized criminal elements largely controlling those cities. This information wasn’t particularly new to me after overhearing a number of conversations my father had had with many people about this very topic. But, don’t the police know about this meeting? I asked. His answer, as if it were the most logical thing in the world, was simple. Of course, he stated his voice monotone. That’s why they’re not here.

It wasn’t long before I learned another key lesson about the world of organized crime: Mafia patience is unparalleled. Father and I were enjoying a not too early morning breakfast together in our Hyde Park apartment, when suddenly a booming blast, followed by a series of rickety cracks, was heard. We raced out to the porch to scan the skies for smoke and listen for sirens, a sound which was never heard. Reluctantly, we shrugged our shoulders and returned – unconcerned – to our breakfast.

In the following days, my father found out through his connections that a Jim Kelly – or whatever his name was – had turned witness against The Outfit that controlled the city years ago. And despite having murdered one or more people, he was given a life sentence instead of the death penalty for his testimony. During his time in prison, he was kept in total exclusion from others, and after serving a twenty-five year sentence he was released to Witness Protection. The plan was that he would be temporarily located for a day or so near where we lived, before being relocated to a new town with a new identity. It seemed fate had other ideas in store.

Kelly strolled out onto the back porch of the place where he was staying, intending to have a smoke. Although he was guarded by several FBI agents, their presence was not enough to protect him from what was about to happen. A thundering blast demolished the scene, apparently from pre-planted explosives. The rickety cracks we had heard were the sounds of several machine guns firing away at the descending debris, making absolutely certain that nothing could survive in such a mess. Kelly’s body was found grossly mashed and ripped apart by numerous bullets. The makeover – gangland-style – was complete.

An Organized Operation

For years I heard tales of – and witnessed – what the Chicago Mafia was capable of. But one night I would come to find out that they weren’t the only organized operation in