You could always pee a little on his shoe. I find that usually breaks the ice.

I used to share an office floor with Tom Magliozzi. We had the whole floor, and he had a little office in the corner. His presence was mostly indicated by constant wafts of acrid cigar smoke and, occasionally, that laugh.

And in the office downstairs, next to our lunchroom, it was the mob boss who was later indicted for fire-bombing a pizza place down the street. His "business" had a shingle hanging in front of the building. I swear to god -- no hyperbole -- that the business name changed at least twice a month. One week, he was a travel agent. Another week, he was an investment banker. He always wore one of those nylon jogging suits, and he had a 42" television in his office that was always tuned to MSNBC.

Gotta love Boston's North End.

Ha, that's great. Mafiosi are strange to be around. My dad grew up in Oak Park, IL, a few streets over from Sam "Momo" Giancana and Tony "Big Tuna" Accardo.

He and his friends used to drive by Big Tuna's compound on Saturday nights and throw lit firecrackers out the window to see the floodlights flash on and the armed thugs come running. They'd peel away laughing, never thinking how stupid and dangerous that was.

And in 1975, when my dad was working for the Dept. of Defense (I can't tell you where; there's no such agency), his mom and brothers all called him to see if they could get the inside scoop on Momo, murdered while cooking up sausage and peppers while under FBI and police protection.

But Giuliani, wow, I don't know what I'd say to him. Probably something like, "I don't know about you, but that big guy in the corner with the sunglasses and the earpiece is making me hungry."

Or something like that.

I'd say "Fuck you big head!"

I'd probably just shit my pants while standing there at the urinal, and say, "Mr. Giuliani, I just shit my pants while standing at the urinal here, and I don't want to play the blame game, but I think it's your fault. Can you see your way to helping me out of this jam I'm in, maybe one of your goons has a pair of pants I can wear or maybe you have a tracksuit in the office I can squeeze into while that big fellow runs down to Jos. A. Bank and buys me something off the rack? They're having a big sale through Sunday, yeah, most of their suits are 50% off, so maybe you could buy me a second pair in case I see you again in the hallway or something? I know how you like a bargain, anyway, could you stay with me until that guy gets back? The shit's making my leg cold and I think I'm fading fast. Thanks, Rudy. You're a schmuck. I mean, you're a Menshevik, that's right, isn't it? I wouldn't know, I'm not Italian."

Yeah, yours is better, say that.

Hey Hugh, here's the meal Giancana was making when he was whacked. (At least, that's it according to his daughter.)

I always wonder, when people are killed while cooking, if their hit men often turn off the stove to prevent a fire, particularly if arson isn't part of the contract. I want to know exactly what step Momo got to before he got it, you know, was he sauteeing the sausage, or just cleaning the escarole; peeling garlic?

I guess that's a little morbid, but that's how I shake my pepper.

Ol' Rudy does have a ginormous head... I saw him once in a midtown hotel lobby. It was like he was wearing a Snoopy costume. I almost went to hug him round his legs till I remembered it wasn't Great Adventure.