To the editors:
Jeffrey Amon's encounter with Chicago's finest [Neighborhood News, November 29] reminded me of the alien in Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who crash-landed in a farmer's field and approached the farmhouse for help. The creature, belonging to a race that communicated by farting and tap-dancing, went up to the farmer's door and, launching into his solicitation, got himself blown away.
I don't know what planet Mr. Amon comes from, but in this corner of the universe you don't leap from a vehicle with expired tags, parked in a private spot you can't prove you have the right to occupy, and start whining and wiggling around a blue-and-white steel box once you have fallen under the gaze of the individual inside. They may call that routine ethnic dancing in the hallowed halls of "ye old school," but it doesn't play so well to the occupants of squad cars. Instead of going off to Africa for drum lessons, I think Jeffrey should have been planning a trip to the Mayo Clinic to see if they'd sell him a brain.