Right now, The Kid is working hard to get our new, redesigned site up. We'll divulge his name just as soon as he comes through with the best-looking site in Chicago, nay, the world!

Until then, we won't have any new posts up. The Kid has to take this site down before he can put the new look up. It all has to do with domain exclusivity and UNIX or LINUX or some such things. We'll be damned if we know what in the hell he's talking about. We figure he knows what he's doing - that's why we're paying him the big money, approaching the mid-three figures!

So don't think we're being lazy asses. Benny Jay, Big Mike and Milo are chomping at the bit to gush on screen for you. Just be patient, alright?

I have to admit I'm as much a sensitive flower as I am a he-man. I can give you a thousand examples of my excruciatingly delicate feelings. Then I'll give you one hell of an example of my manliness. As soon as I think of one.

Maybe that's why Benny Jay and I have been friends for so long. Neither of us is interested in watching Ultimate Fighting matches on TV or gulping shots of Irish whiskey until our eyeballs roll down the bar. Hard guys, we're not.

It's ironic because you have to have the skin of a pachyderm to survive in this mad business. Everybody who lays hands or eyes on one of our manuscripts tells us to change it. Everyone's a critic - and an editor. There are always words to change, lines of thought to mangle, and brilliant mots to delete.

A pal of mine, also a writer, called the other day in a rage. He was lucky his fingers weren't in the neighborhood of his editor's neck otherwise he'd surely be sitting in County Jail right now, making acquaintances with some of Milo's livelier chums. Let's call this guy Yablonski.

Yablonski: "Ya know, I'm sick of these people at the Daily Bladder. I'm ready to walk right now."

Me: "What happened?"

Yablonski: "I just turned in my story about the Mayor and they cut it to shreds. They totally took the heart out of it. Now it's not even worth running."

Me: "Well, did they give you a chance to fight for it?"

Yablonski: "Oh sure! They sent it back and said, 'Are these changes alright?' I said, 'What if I say they're not - will you change them back?' You know what they said?"

Me: "What?"

Yablosnki: "'No, we wouldn't.' So why in the hell are they asking me if it was alright?"

I spent the next 15 minutes consoling my old pal. We agreed that editors edit because, well, because they can. Every business relationship in this world is a power relationship. Those with power exercise it just to remind you and themselves that they have it.

When I was a young writer, every time an editor changed a comma of my manuscript I mourned as though my child had been kidnapped. Then I fretted that all the changes were mounting up, like demerits for a sixth grader. I felt certain that one day my editors would call and say, "Sorry, Mike. We've had to make a total of 500 changes in your stories this year. It's right here on our bulletin board. We can't work with you anymore - you're no longer a writer."

Man, I cried myself to sleep a time or two agonizing over that. Like I said, I'm a sensitive flower.

From the time we met, Benny Jay and I shared a respect bordering on awe for the crusty old columnist Mike Royko. When we want to give each other the supreme compliment, we say, "What you wrote was just like Royko."

In his Tribune years, Royko became awfully cranky. Once, he wrote a column complaining about all these crybaby Hispanics demanding bilingual education in the Chicago Public Schools. I wrote him a letter saying it was a shame he felt that way especially after he'd gone to Catholic schools in the old Polish neighborhood where, natch, the nuns taught in both English and Polish. I figured I'd zinged him, although I felt a bit sheepish about zinging the master.

The next week, the good old liberal Royko reemerged with a column about Ronald Reagan's band of tin soldiers making illegal arms deals with Iran's Ayatollah in order to finance the Nicaraguan Contras. So, hoping to redeem myself, I wrote him a second letter saying, in essence, that's the Royko I know and love.

A couple of days later a letter in a Tribune envelope came to my house. Oh my god! Royko'd read my letters and was bowled over by their magnificence! He wanted me to drop everything and come down to the Tower this minute so I could become his personal apprentice! My hands shook as I opened the envelope.

I found my second letter, the conciliatory one, inside. Written in huge block letter in black marker over my typing were the words: "HEY FUCK OFF!"

Gulp! My idol had forsaken me. Now I was really finished. Royko'd surely spread the word around town that this young punk writer ought to be blacklisted.

Then it hit me - jeez, Mike Royko had been dealing with hypercritical readers and editors for years, every day, every column. New editors probably hoped to make their bones by trying to emend his columns. He'd learned to fight like a mother grizzly protecting her cubs to keep his copy intact. By the time he'd hit the Trib, he'd earned a modicum of editorial license. Then some young punk wannabe writer sends him letters telling him how to write.

I realized the sentence, Hey fuck off!, were the most trenchant words I'd ever read. I decided that I would adopt that very philosophy whenever an overly zealous editor or disgruntled reader tore my stories to shreds. I decided to become hard, like Mike Royko.

See? I told you I'd think of an example of my manliness.

Six more from my journey along the American mid-section.


"Three Figures" Minneapolis


"Three Windows" New Orleans


"Department Store" Davenport, Iowa


"Glass Block" Duluth, Minnesota


"Antique Dealer" Dubuque, Iowa


"Streetcar" New Orleans


© Jon Randolph

Randolph Street, by Chicago's finest photojournalist Jon Randolph, will be back with more pix next week and every Friday. The Third City is here to inform, entertain, baffle, snow and tickle you every day.

About ten minutes before dinner, I'm sitting in the living room, reading a magazine, when I suddenly need to know. I chuck the magazine and head for the stairs, careful not to make a sound. But my wife — her sixth sense tracking my every move — knows something's up.

"Where are you going?" she calls out from the kitchen.

"Nowhere...."

"We're eating soon — don't disappear...."

Her last few words cut off as I sneak into my work room and close the door. I walk to the desk and turn on my computer.

"Benny!"

It's my wife.

"Yeah?"

"Dinner...."

"Okay...."

I think she's bluffing. I think there's at least another five minutes before the food's ready to be served. Enough time to feed the beast.

I click to Sam Smith. He's this ancient writer — even older than I am, if that's possible — who writes a blog about the Bulls. Think about it — that's all he does. Follows the Bulls all year long! Some guys have all the luck.

He's got a new entry — a few thousand words on the summertime NBA Rookie League. My eyes gleam with expectation — oh, yeah, come to papa!

I know this is sick. I know this is a disease. I know I need psychological assistance. The regular season's been over for months — anyone with a brain has moved on. But, me? I gotta know: What did James Johnson do in last night's Rookie League game?

I follow the prompts to a box score.

The NBA Rookie League is rag-tag series of meaningless exhibitions played by scrubs and wanna bes in empty gyms in Vegas. They don't even wear real uniforms. It looks like something out of the local YMCA. And James Johnson is a rookie forward from Wake Forest University. I don't follow college basketball so I'd never even heard of him until the Bulls took him in the draft. Now I need to know more about him — more, more, more, more....

I scan the box score. Johnson: 16 points, 8 rebounds, ten fouls.

Ten fouls! What the hell is that all about? How can you have ten fouls? You're kicked out of the game after six.

I go back to Sam Smith. I race through his column unsuccessfully looking for an explanation. I scurry to another website. Miraculously, I find a sentence that explains that players get ten fouls in the NBA Rookie League.

Okay, fair enough.  But how many points did he score before his sixth foul? That's key. That tells me how points he would have scored had this been a real game.

"Benny!"

Uh-oh....

"Yes...."

"Supper...."

"Okay...."

"Now...."

"Right...."

I go back to Smith, hoping to find an explanation of when Johnson scored his points.

"Dad!"

It's my younger daughter. My wife got her in the act.

"Yes...."

I scan the column — nothing! I silently curse — damn, Smith, you call this reporting?

"Your food's on the table!"

"Here I come!"

I turn off the computer, bound down the stairs and hustle into the kitchen to find a steaming plate of pasta at my place.

"How come you always disappear right before dinner?" my wife asks.

"Uhm, good," I say, ignoring the question.

"What were you doing up there anyway?"

"Ugh, nothing," I say.

That's for sure....

Sometimes a person just runs out of ideas. It can't be helped. The creative muse is a fickle, completely unreliable slut. On occasion, the most creative people can come up dry. I imagine that the immortal Thomas Edison had days when the light bulb in his head didn't click on.

Columnists are particularly susceptible to dry spells. There's something about a deadline and a blank page (blank computer screen, actually) that can rattle the most prolific of writers. Smart columnists, and there are a handful of them, have figured out a cheesy way to deal with dry spells. When they can't come up with a piece they simply post letters from their readers, add snappy replies,  and call it a column. Even the great Mike Royko resorted to this ploy on occasion.

Well, it's happened to me. I've hit a dry spell and can't think of a thing to write. So, I've decided to fall back on the "letters from readers" gimmick. Here then, are a few letters from my faithful and adoring readers, followed by my snappy replies.

Letter #1

Motherfucker, where's my money!

Snappy reply:

You'll have to be more specific. Are you talking about a gambling debt, loan, bail-bond forfeiture or other fiduciary matter? Shit, wait a minute. Are you Bobby from Baltimore? How'd you find me anyway? I bet you Googled me and traced me back to this blog site. Damn it, I should never have let Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this crummy outfit, talk me into writing for this site. So far, it's been nothing but a huge pain in the ass.

Letter # 2

Dude, I think there's something wrong with that weed you sold me. I smoked three fat joints and all I got was a headache. Dylan, my roommate at DePaul, says you sold me a bag of oregano. I can't believe you ripped me off. You seemed like such a nice guy when I met you at the Jimmy Buffet concert at Wrigley Field.

Snappy reply:

That's what you get, dumb ass, when you buy weed from strangers. You're a college kid, right? So how come you don't have a decent weed connection. Show some initiative. When I was your age I had a half dozen solid connections. Matter of fact, I had a good pot dealer when I was 11 years old. He'd take my check, too. I don't know what to think about this younger generation. It's simple-minded young fuckers like you who make me worry about the future of this great country.

Letter # 3

This is the final letter you're getting from me before I take you to court. Your last five child support checks bounced. School's starting soon and and your little children need new clothes and school supplies. Plus, you haven't visited your children in nearly five years. You're a sorry excuse for a father. If I had my way I'd stick you in jail with all the other deadbeat dads. I mean it. You are disgusting.

Snappy reply:

Heh, heh, sorry about that. There must have been some sort of computer error at my bank. I'll rectify the situation as soon as possible. But, first, could you clarify something for me? Are you Monica, Louise, Denise, Angie or Juanita?

Letter # 4

As a grandmother and concerned citizen, I find your writing extremely offensive. Why can't you be more like those nice boys, Big Mike and  Benny Jay? Those fellows are real writers.  They write nice things about their families, and current events and sports, things that people really care about.  And they don't use the vile language that you seem so fond of.  It seems to me that all you write about is sex, drugs, liquor, violence and more sex. I'm close to 90 years old and in poor health. The last thing I need is to be upset by the filthy writing of an obvious pervert.

By the way, is the Third City planning on having some articles about knitting and needlework in the near future?

Snappy reply:

I'm truly sorry to hear that you're in poor health. I may be able to help you in that regard. I know a fine doctor up in Michigan who's been known to work wonders with ailing senior citizens. His name is Dr. Kevorkian. He'll even pick you up in his air-conditioned, fully equipped van and take you for a nice ride in the country. Please, there's no need to thank me. As for your last question, I believe Big Mike is researching a column about  making doilies and Benny Jay is soon going to be posting his fabulous recipe for oatmeal cookies. Have a nice day.

Letter # 5

Hey, you low-life cocksucker, where's my money!

Snappy reply:

Please refer to Snappy Reply #1.

Saturday night about ten o'clock, I decided to make biscotti. The Loved One, who can't get enough of them, asked me to make them with almonds this time. Nothin' to it, I replied.

Which was a too-glib response. Making biscotti isn't neat and clean like making cookies or cakes. You can't use a wooden spoon or a mixer. You have to get down and dirty and plunge your hands into a thick, sticky mass of glop in order to mix up the ingredients. After about 23 seconds of squishing dough through your fingers, you pull your hands out and it looks as though you're wearing enormous yellow mittens. You try to scrape one hand with the other but the substance only becomes even more adhesive.

Admittedly, it's not a predicament on a par with trying to scratch out a subsistence in Karachi but it'll do for a lazy Saturday night.

I had the Saturday Night Blues Party on the kitchen radio while TLO laid on the sofa and finished watching "A Night at the Opera." Thunder had been rumbling in the distance for a good half hour. As I mixed my flour, sugar and eggs, I heard her voice.

"Mike?"

"Yes, dear."

"The Marx Brothers - were they supposed to be funny?"

The question took me aback. The Marx Brothers are supposed to be funny the way that the Cubs are supposed to break my heart and Glenn Beck is supposed to be a dick. Then again, TLO has her own standard of humor. Don't ask me to define it, just take my word.

"I guess so," I said tersely. I'd been growing frustrated by my dough. It felt as though I was mixing concrete.

"I can't believe they made whole movies."

"Yes, dear."

With that, the house was flooded with a bright blue light and a clap of thunder rattled the windows. The cats flew under the furniture. TLO switched to The Weather Channel and began reading aloud from the severe storm warning crawl: "A line of storms is crossing the Ohio River at 35 miles per hour! Pea-sized hail and wind gusts up to 65 miles an hour! Deadly lightning strikes!" (The exclamation points were hers.)

Poor TLO. She hadn't even had the chance to build a sofa cushion fort in the hallway when a thunder clap with the decibel level of Krakatoa exploded. Little Richard had been singing "The Girl Can't Help It" at that moment and suddenly, he fell silent. The lights flickered once or twice and then went out. It was as black as a Birther's soul.

And there I stood with my hands submerged in a bowl of wet concrete. I extricated myself from the glop and felt around for the drawer with the flashlight in it. Of course, I was wearing the usual pair of thick yellow dough mittens. After I found it, just trying to switch it on took a minute and a half. At this point I began swearing.

"Honey! I need help!" (Muttering under my breath, Goddamn it!)

No answer.

"HONEY! I NEED YOUR HELP!" (Stupid god damned dough!)

Nothing.

I edged out into the den, hoping not to step on a cat's tail - which, come to think of it, would have been just perfect. I heard TLO in the basement, probably gathering survival gear. The house filled with bright blue light again, undoing any acclimation my eyes might have made to the dark. I heard a rustle underneath the recliner next to me. Oh god damn it, I thought, I know I'm gonna step on a cat's tail.

Then TLO appeared, carrying three lighted flashlights. Truth.

"Help me!"

"Mike, there a storm!"

"I don't care! My dough's gonna go to waste!" After a minute of back and forth, I finally guilted and badgered her to hold up one of the flashlights so I could see my bowl. I finished mixing the dough and tried to lay it out. No dice. It was unmanageable, I was pissed and TLO was literally shuddering next to me. I absent-mindedly placed my hands on my hips while I pondered my next move, only to realize I'd now put two huge glops of dough on my pants. God. Damn. It!

The lights went back on. The thunder became more distant. The Loved One visibly relaxed. The cats emerged from their hiding places. But my dough was a gluey mess. I threw my hands in the air.

"God damn it! Stupid fucking dough! Fuck it," I said as I dumped the breadboard and the dough in the sink.

"That's alright," TLO said soothingly. "Make your biscotti another time. I don't need any more sweets right now."

I was in no mood to be soothed. My end of the conversation devolved into a string of god damn its.

Some 15 minutes later, the thunder was long gone and The Loved One was in bed. I stared at the glop of dough in the sink, shaking my head. I was no longer frustrated. I tittered, hehe, thinking what an opera singer I'd been. I started running the water to get the drying dough off the breadboard. And then it hit me. Water! That just might make the dough manageable. You're not supposed to use water in biscotti dough but, hell, what do I have to lose? I moistened the glop, formed it, laid it out and popped it in the oven. Swear to god, my biscotti came out perfectly. I brought a piece to TLO as she read in bed.

"This is perfect," she said, her mouth half-full.

I bit into one. "Yup," I agreed. "Perfect."

Monday morning, after I'd sent The Loved One off to Bloomington, I went back inside, looking forward to a hot cup of coffee and a biscotti. Only there were no biscotti. She'd taken them all with her.

God damn it.

The moment I read about the new movie, "Soul Power," I tell my wife: This is one flick we have to see!

It sets off an argument: Who wants to see the movie more and who wanted to see it first?

Technically, she's correct — though I will never, ever publicly admit it — as she brought the article to my attention. But I knew about the movie before I read the article — that counts for something, right?

Anyway, what really matters is that we agree it's a must-see documentary about the 1974 music festival held in Zaire, Africa right before the great Ali-Foreman heavyweight fight — you know, the so-called "Rumble in the Jungle."

Think about it: James Brown, The Spinners, B.B. King, Bill Withers, The Crusaders — it's like going back in a time machine to see the best performers singing the greatest songs in the world!

We decide we have to see it on opening night. We pick a show time: 7:40. She makes a point of getting off work on time. We meet at the el station at seven o'clock. I'm really thirsty. On the train going to the theater, I tell her: "We gotta hurry. We can't dawdle. There's gonna be a line.

"Are you sure?" she says. "It's a documentary...."

"Are you kidding me? It's opening night — a Friday night. This is the only theater in Chicago where it's playing. And Dave Hoekstra gave it four stars in his Sun-Times review. The line's gonna go around the block — we may have to buy early tickets for the ten o'clock show."

We get off the train at 7:15. It's starting to rain. 

"You should have brought an umbrella," says my wife.

"Who cares if we get wet," I say. "Let's go!"

I lead the charge down Sedgwick to North, down North, past Orchard. I see the theater in the distance. I look for the line. No line. They must be lined up inside the theater cause of the rain, I think.

We get inside the theater building — still no line. Hmm, this is strange.

We take the escalator to the theater. Ah, yes, finally, the line. It's long and it's thick and it snakes along the wall — dozens of people, including lots of kids in their twenties. "I told you," I tell my wife. "Everybody wants to see this movie."

But, wait, the line's not leading to the movie theater. No wonder — it's the line for Second City. There's no line for the movie theater. We walk right in. "Two for Soul Power," my wife tells the cashier.

"Is it sold out yet?" I ask the cashier.

She looks at me like I'm daffy: "We've only sold eleven tickets....."

I'm stunned. Eleven tickets! This can't be true. Why, this is a movie with James Brown, B.B. King, The Spinners, Bill Withers — and the great Muhammad Ali.

We walk into the theater. There are five people — I know this cause my wife counts them — scattered around a theater big enough to seat hundreds.

"Do you think we'll get a seat?" my wife asks.

"Funny," I say.

"We better run, run, run...."

"Ha, ha, ha...."

"Maybe we should go to the ten o'clock show...."

We sit in the center aisle. A few minutes later in walks Klonsky, an old friend. He's with his twenty-something year old daughter. "She's the only one who would go with me," he says.

Thank goodness she's here. Without her, the median age in the theater would be around sixty.

The lights go down. The movie goes on and, well, I won't lie to you — it's a little slow getting out of the box. But once they get to Africa, man, it's jamming. There's vintage clips of Ali, holding court to anyone who will listen. And the songs? You can't beat them: "The Thrill is Gone," "One of a Kind Love Affair," and at least four numbers by James Brown, who, by the way, is on freakin' fire.

When the lights go on, I'm still staring at the screen, like I hope the movie will start playing again.

Fast forward two days — I'm drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Monday morning papers. They got a list of the weekend's top grossing movies. G-Force — a cartoon about hamsters — is number one. It brought in thirty-something million.

And Soul Power? It says: Benny Jay, his wife, Klonsky, and Klonsky's younger daughter.

Hey, there's no accounting for taste.... 

Good old Buzz Aldrin. The white-haired bird is 79 and still appears spry and sharp enough to outrun a 25-year-old from here to the corner and then trounce him in a Jeopardy! game.

Just a few years ago, when Aldrin was 72, a moon-landing-was-staged conspiracy theorist got in his face and began shouting accusations. The guy called Aldrin a "thief," a "coward" and a "fake," his face so close to the ancient astronaut's that I'll bet poor Buzz could smell the morning's coffee on his breath. Ugh. Aldrin up and clocked the guy with a right to the jaw.

Normally I don't condone the use of violence to settle spats but watching on You Tube as Aldrin put the exclamation point on this one made me smile. The insults, the violation of personal space and, I'd guess, the smell of stale coffee breath seemed ample justification for Aldrin to send the guy to REM-land with a tap on the chin.

Last Monday, the 40th anniversary of Aldrin and Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon, I sat in the patio of Dick's Pizza, awaiting the start of the weekly Trivia contest and gushing about how cool I still think it is that people flew a quarter of a million miles to an inhospitable orb and planted a flag there. Not many 50-plus-year-olds gush about anything, other than the workings of their lower digestive tracts, so most of those sitting around me grinned at my exuberance.

Except for one. A guy named Seamus. He's generally a decent sort but now and again he exhibits evidence that he's a little tightly wound. As I rambled on, I noticed his eyes burning a hole through me. Clearly, he couldn't wait for me to finish so he could set the record straight.

"Just think of it," I said. "The only things standing between those guys and certain, immediate death were their spacesuits! Hell, I can't bear it when the temperature hits the high 80s and it's humid. The surface of the moon in sunlight is around 250 degrees! Plus, with no atmosphere, had their pressure suits failed, they woulda popped liked water balloons in the snap of a finger. Man!"

Mayor Judy shook her head and smiled. "Y'know," she said, "we forget how amazing that was."

"Yeah," said Old Gus, the cranky coot who'd normally be unimpressed if Marilyn Monroe magically materialized in his lap, "that was somethin' else."

"I don't know what I wished for more that summer," I continued, "to see the moon landing or for the Cubs to finally make it to the World Series."

"You were asking for too much," Mayor Judy's husband Tom said, laughing, "two miracles in one summer!"

"If I actually believed in miracles, that's what I'd call the moon landing," I concluded.

Everybody nodded. Except, of course, Seamus.

"That is," he said, boring in on me with narrowed eyes, "if it did happen."

My first instinct was to invite him to kiss my fat ass. My second, and clearly wiser, was to ignore him. Mayor Judy, though, couldn't let it pass: "What? You think they faked it?"

"Uh huh," Seamus said, nodding sagely. "They spent billions of dollars and they knew going to the moon was impossible."

Mayor Judy guffawed. "Oh, come on," she said.

"They didn't have the technology 40 years ago!" Seamus said, his voice rising. At this point, I got up and headed for the men's room.

Lunatics have been with us forever. Usually, they're relegated to the fringes. I don't recall true believers in the Area 51 conspiracy or the USS Philadelphia plot getting much face time on the mainstream media in years past. But ever since Barack Obama proved himself to be a viable candidate for President, the nuts seem to be leaping out of the woodwork. The latest example is the Birthers. I don't know exactly how many of them there are in the US but one is far too many. They believe Obama was born in Kenya and not Hawaii.

Naturally, Fox News, a handful of Republicans in the House and mean old pricks Rush Limbaugh, G. Gordon Liddy and Lou Dobbs have advanced the Birthers' claim. Their harangues continue despite there being more proof put forward that Obama was born in the US than there ever had been for any other president.

They all make me wanna scream. Birthers, UFO-abduction theorists, global warming deniers and the rest. They're so frustrating that sometimes I'd like to pull a Buzz Aldrin on them even if their breath doesn't smell of stale coffee. But I don't.

My best bet is to ignore people like them and Seamus. Communing with a urinal is far more satisfying.

It's the morning after Mark Buehrle's perfect game: 27 batters up, 27 batters out — no hits, walks or errors....

I heard the last inning on the radio and got so excited, I've been wanting to talk about it ever since. The problem is I don't really know anyone on the home front who likes baseball. I try talking about it with my mother. The conversation goes like this:

Me: How `bout Buehrle?

Mom: Who?

Me: Buehrle — the guy who threw the perfect game....

Mom: That's the guy with the funny name?

Me: Yeah....

Mom: How does he pronounce it?

Me: Like Burr-lee....

Mom: That's a funny name....

Me: Yeah, but what about the game?

Mom: Your father says it's a German name — he says it should have an umlaut.

Me: Sigh....

Out of desperation, I turn to my wife. As she walks into the living room, I hold up the photo on the back page of the Sun-Times. It shows White Sox center fielder Dewayne Wise making a sensational, leaping catch to save Buehrle's perfect game.

"Isn't this picture just amazing?" I say.

"Nice," she says.

"No, really — look at it...."

She takes the newspaper, studies the picture and then asks: "Is this the pitcher?"

I pause, not sure how to continue. Then I say: "The pitcher? Why would the pitcher be catching a ball in center field?"

"I thought it was a no-hitter?"

"It was...."

"Well, how can it be a no-hitter if the batter hit the ball?"

Another pause....

Hmm....

Okay, I must admit — it is a logical question. But, of course, the larger question is how could anyone who's live with me for so long know so little about sports? Then again the same could be asked in reverse about, oh, fashion.....

I clear my throat. This is what they call a teaching moment. "Okay — I see where you're coming from. But just because you throw a no- hitter doesn't mean no one hits the ball...."

"Oh," she says, trying hard to look interested.

I'm getting all excited cause we're about to talk about sports — and as everyone knows, I love talking about sports. "It just means that no one got a base hit. Get it? You could hit a fly ball to the center fielder — like in the picture. But if the center fielder catches the ball, it's not a hit. See?"

Pause.

"I think we should go to the 7:40 movie tonight," she says.

Oh, well, I can see that about wraps up the baseball lesson for today.

"Okay," I say, "good idea."

Hey, it was a great baseball conversation while it lasted....

More photos of America's middle.


"Paper Hat" New Orleans


"Puppy" Vicksburg, Mississippi


"Demolition Derby" Minnesota


"4th of July" Grandview, Iowa


"Snakes" Blue Grass, Iowa


"Shell Station" Mississippi



See more from Chicago's finest photojournalist Jon Randolph next Friday. Randolph Street appears here every Friday. Join us every day for more words and images at The Third City.