March 1, 2003
George W. Kasper hasn't accomplished much since 1940. He's been rotting away in Chicago's St. Boniface Cemetery, in an elegant tomb looking out on a small forest of crosses and Stars of David. Whatever GWK's thoughts on the price of cigs or the chill wind off Lake Michigan, traffic and sirens drown them out circa today. His door is chained up to keep bums from dropping in uninvited. Dogs are forbidden in this humble graveyard – and I don't see any – but dog shit is hard to miss. But George's thoughts ceased with his heartbeat. Shit ain't a thang to him.