Mike Royko is (was, actually; he died a few years ago) one of my favorite columnists, with a broader range than most. At times he is Bob Greene, with his sympathetic but never sappy take on Everyman; other times he is Molly Ivins, with his cynically jaded eye on politics, particularly as practiced in Chicago; at times he is Russell Baker or Art Buchwald, with his air of high absurdity when he speaks with his fictional foil, Slats Grobnick. He rarely matches these other masters of their forms, but he is the only writer I know who trods all their territories, and with such a sure foot. ( )