John Hoffmann, Director of Research for Gallery 1134, had this fantasy for going to jail.  "Don't you ever want to," he would query me, "Just for one night, just to see what a was like?"  "No way man, Victor Morales was there for eighteen months.  It didn't sound too pleasant for him."

He did get his wish, he was busted for something, all of his parking tickets caught up to him, even though Bob was supposed to be taking care of all that.  One time the Chicago cops caught up to him on all his parking tickets, back when they could put you in jail for that, and there was collateral damage to an unsuspecting passerby.

An older gentleman, Dr. Henry Morgan, came into town to give a lecture.  He drove all the way from Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where he had been working at the accelerator there, and had been one of TJ's graduate advisors.  He was telling Loren how TJ published somebody else's results prematurely, I guess just to steal the thunder, and so that got him in good with her.

So John and I and this professor went out to eat and we ended up at the Golden Ox's buffet.  It was all you could eat for $12, and it was all great fun.  We had a contest to see who could eat the most jumbo shrimp, and it was Henry who did it.  This buffet was in the basement of the place, and a sing‑a‑long was going down there.  Nobody my age was singing, since we didn't know the words, but Henry and others of his era were.  He said that was quite common for his generation, and it was pretty cool since the music was non‑stop, somebody was always singing even though people were eating.  It just goes to show how radio and TV and rock and roll have destroyed these kinds of traditions, when people made   their own entertainment, and were not embarrassed to sing in a community.

While we were drinking and eating, he kept mentioning the airplanes that he would always see flying overhead of where he lived, probably carrying pot from Mexico.  He didn't seem to get upset about it, so we figured he might be hinting about something.  He also kept mentioning how he wanted to buy a little shack and enjoy a Jimmy Buffet "Wasted Away Again in Margaritaville" home style of existence.

After dinner, before we split up, as I was going to pick up my reporter friend, Steve Rassenfoss, at the airport and those two were going to crash at Loren's old storefront apartment on the South Side where John was staying. We asked Henry if he wanted to smoke some hash, probably the last of that stuff that I have ever seen.  So we got a good buzz, and Henry told us that he would sometimes fly one of those afore-mentioned airplanes, so he could afford his bungalow, since his government retirement money wouldn't let him.  I took off for 0'Hare on my motorcycle, ready for adventure with the Rass.

But what happened to those guys turned into a nightmare.  Since Henry didn't know where to go, John led.  He turned the corner on a red light, but Henry didn't follow directly behind, and you guessed it, John got pulled over and taken to the cop shop because there was a warrant out for him for all the parking tickets and maybe even no driver's license.  Since John apparently vanished into thin air, this poor man had to find Loren's place, and sleep in his car, a Honda Civic, luckily he was only 5' 4" so he fit in it OK, in front of the joint, hoping that John might show up.  John couldn't reach me because I was out barhopping with the Rass and didn't get in until 5 in the morning, while Henry called Loren but they wouldn't have answered their phone after midnight.