DAILYHOTAIR.THETHIRDCITY.ORG

The Eds: Under Construction

2009-08-03T10:45:00Z

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?

Big Mike: Hard Guys

2009-08-01T09:42:00Z

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.

Randolph Street: Highway 61 - Figure Studies

2009-07-31T15:11:00Z

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.

Benny Jay: My Secret Porn

2009-07-30T14:36:00Z

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....

Letter From Milo: When The Well Runs Dry

2009-07-29T13:30:00Z

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.

Big Mike: The Great Biscotti Storm

2009-07-28T14:36:00Z

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.

Benny Jay: Soul Power

2009-07-27T15:04:00Z

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....

Big Mike: A Royal Flush - The Moon Landing Hoax and Obama's Birth Certificate

2009-07-26T12:35:00Z

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.

Benny Jay: A Perfect Conversation

2009-07-25T16:06:00Z

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....

Randolph Street: Highway 61 - On the Road

2009-07-24T00:45:00Z

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.

Letter From Milo: Easy Money

2009-07-23T12:04:00Z

There are a lot of ways to make money in this world, but blogging is not one of them. In fact, writing a blog may be the only guaranteed way NOT to make money. The problem is that anyone can have a blog site. All you need is a computer with an Internet connection, which includes just about everybody in the First World. Talent or a point of view are not requirements.

Don't get me wrong. I went into this blog thing with my eyes wide open. I knew there was no money in it. The way those two low-lifes, Big Mike and Benny Jay, explained it to me, The Third City blog would would be a way for the three of us to hone our craft and work on our writing chops, like musicians practicing scales. We could write anything we wanted. There would be no censorship. We would answer to nobody but our consciences, and I, for one, don't have much of a conscience.

In essence, we would be entertaining ourselves.

(Milo) "Hey Benny, excellent bit about the track meet."

(Big Mike) "Milo, your piece on Marriage Counseling was funny, man."

(Benny) "Big Mike, great job on your bit about the flag."

(Milo) "Mike, the story about Neda, the Iranian girl who was shot, should be featured in every newspaper in the country."

(Big Mike) "Loved your last one, Benny."

(Benny) "Milo, what did your wife say when she read Pussy Magnet?"

With so many blog sites out there, we figured there was little chance we would attract attention. It is a crowded field and getting more crowded all the time. We were resigned to laboring in well-deserved obscurity, our writing destined to be read by just family and a few friends.

Then, a funny thing happened. We began attracting an audience. When Big Mike and Benny Jay, computer geniuses that the are, finally figured out how to count the hits on the site, we realized that we were getting in the neighborhood of a thousand readers a week. As far as I was concerned, that was an astonishing number. Where were these people coming from? Who were they? And why were they interested in the ravings of three nutcases like Big Mike, Benny Jay and me?

The next question that occurred to me was: How can we make some money now that we're attracting readers. Trying to screw my readers out of money was out of the question. It's not that I wouldn't like to, it's just that many of them know me too well to fall for one of my scams, although I wouldn't mind beating Bruce Diksas out of a few bucks. That's always fun.

The answer, of course, was advertising. After all, that's how the big boys, Google, Yahoo, and the porn industry, make money on the Internet.

So, now we've put up our first ads on The Third City site. Granted, we haven't attracted IBM, Miller Lite or Chevrolet, although Big Mike is currently involved in some delicate negotiations with the three of them. From what I understand, we're coming close to a deal. There's just one snag to overcome. And that snag seems to be that IBM, Miller Lite and Chevrolet want absolutely nothing to do with us. But I'm sure that Big Mike, shrewd operator that he is, will eventually forge some sort of deal, and, on very advantageous terms.

In the meantime, we currently have two advertisers, my wife, the wonderful Mrs. Milo, who is hyping her real estate business, and a local video store. The problem is that both are getting free advertising. Mrs. Milo gets hers free just to keep peace in my household. And, from what I understand, Benny Jay offered the video store free advertising in exchange for unlimited access to the latest Swedish porn.

Hell, you've got to start somewhere. Our beginnings may be modest but, mark my words, in a couple of months we'll be rolling in the dough. We'll be standing in tall cotton, eating high on the hog, double parked on Easy Street. From here on in, it's going to be Fat City, baby.

Big Mike: Not Quite Wrecked By Veeck

2009-07-22T14:48:00Z

Now that Benny Jay and I have committed to putting our brainstorms, schemes, theories, opinions and observations up for public consumption and ridicule every day in this space, I've begun to reflect on how I got into this absurd business in the first place.

When I was in my early 20s, after a few fits and starts in other vocations including health care, cab driving and cable television, I realized the only path for me was to earn my living through the arts. I had my choice of drawing pictures, hamming it up on the stage or banging on the typewriter, all of which I'd tried and, I flattered myself, had some ability in.

Then I met a curious fellow named Jorge Casuso. A bookish character who quoted Lytton Strachey and constantly pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, Jorge was a conservative Cuban. We met in the winter of 1981 at a housewarming party he and his roommates threw for their new apartment in the then-urban pioneer neighborhood just west of DePaul University.

Jorge shared the place with Tommy and Suzie. Tommy was tall, handsome, and newly out. He'd go on to become a successful painter and art therapist. Suzie was tall and lithe with long black hair and alluringly sad eyes. She wrote poems that were even sadder than her eyes. Her own mother once told her that she was too sensitive to be alive.

Tommy was hopelessly in love with every gay man he met as well as half the straight men. Suzie was hopelessly in love with Tommy. Jorge was hopelessly in love with Suzie. The roommate arrangement dissolved long before the lease ran out.

Despite the presence at the party of countless other alluring, sad-eyed young women who wrote poetry, I spent the night chatting with this Jorge fellow and another guy, Dave, a homeless saxophone player. Tommy and Suzie, flouncing arm-in-arm downtown that afternoon, had met him as he played for coins on the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Naturally, they invited him to come to their party that night and play.

Jorge, Dave and I found ourselves sequestered in a den, debating politics as the party swirled on outside the door. Jorge was excited over the new Reagan presidency, which appalled Dave and me. Back in those innocent days, rather than hurl invective at each other, we argued Reagan's merits rationally and calmly deep into the night.

Dave's shoes had holes in them. His threadbare jacket looked alarmingly insufficient against the sub-zero temperatures. And, I must report, he smelled like, well, a homeless guy. He never even cracked open his battered saxophone case that night. Instead, he'd held forth on social policy with the ease and confidence of an English department cocktail party habitué. When we'd talked ourselves out, Dave slipped into his jacket and commented, "Four in the morning! I can't believe it. The party's over. I don't know about you guys, but I came for the chicks."

Jorge and I exchanged surprised glances. That, and the discovery during our conversation that we shared a passion for baseball, sealed our new friendship. He was teaching English lit college courses at the time and was angling to get into newspaper reporting by submitting articles on spec to the Chicago Reader. He'd eventually land a gig at the Tribune and later at the LA Times but two years after the party he was still a wannabe.

In the summer of 1983, Jorge and I concluded that the White Sox were a lock to finish in first place for the first time in a generation. "Let's do a Reader piece on it," Jorge suggested. "We'll interview all those old-time fans and we'll go to the games." He didn't need to suggest it twice.

So we wrote up a lengthy story about long-suffering, colorful South Siders who could die happy if the White Sox won it all. But we felt the piece was lacking. Then Jorge snapped his fingers and said, "I've got it! Bill Veeck!"

Veeck (pronounced VEHK) was the fabled former owner of the White Sox. A chain-smoker, he'd lost a leg in a college mishap and clip-clopped around town on a wooden leg into which he'd installed an ashtray. He was a legendary iconoclast (think Disco Demolition or the only midget ever to appear in a big league game) and was renowned for being an all-around honest guy.

I got hold of Veeck's Hyde Park home phone number and dialed it early one September morning. I explained, nervously, that I was a writer - the first time I'd ever uttered the phrase.

"Um, uh, my partner and I are doing a story for the Reader about Sox fans and, uh, y'know, we were wondering..., oh, you can say no if you don't want to do it..., but, um, can we interview you?"

"The Reader?" Veeck bellowed, sounding as though he was in the bathroom (which, in fact, he was.) "That's a good paper. I like it. You're young fellas, huh?"

I panicked. "Well, uh..., not all that young...."

"Yeah, sure. I like to help young fellas. I'll do it. In fact, let's all work on it together. I'd like to do something for the Reader."

I almost fainted. Veeck continued. "I soak my stump for a couple of hours every morning in the tub. That's what I'm doing right now. It's the best time to talk to me. You call me tomorrow and we'll get to work."

We hung up. I was so thrilled it took me three tries to dial Jorge's phone number. He whooped into the phone: "I'll call the Reader and let them know we have Bill Veeck!"

I phoned Veeck the next morning. His voice echoed again. "Ya know, I'm sorta busy working on something else right now. Call me tomorrow. We'll start work then."

I did so, obediently. He said the same thing the next day. And the day after that. And the following day. For a good week, I rang up Veeck every morning as he soaked in the tub and listened to him put Jorge and me off. On the seventh day, I read in the Tribune that the paper had hired him to write a diary on the White Sox post-season journey. I called him the next day.

"Hi Bill. I saw that you're gonna do a diary for the Trib. We'd better get going on our project, huh?"

"What project?" he bellowed. "I got the Tribune now. What do I need the Reader for?"

"Um, er, uh, well, y'know..., I don't know."

"Right. Good luck to you guys. Call me if you ever need help again."

With that, he hung up. I dialed Jorge as if I were about to tell him a friend had died. We eventually submitted our White Sox piece. We were right. It was lacking. It never ran.

Strangely, I was hooked. Jorge and I had been screwed by Bill Veeck our first time out of the box. It didn't deter us, though. As I said, Jorge went on to work for the big dailies. I went on to work as a freelancer for anybody whose checks wouldn't bounce. I've never viewed the Veeck episode as a lost opportunity. Just another story to tell.

Benny Jay: Did I Tell You Barack Obama Knows My Name?

2009-07-21T15:14:00Z

I'm sitting in my car, waiting for my wife to come out of the carry-out store with the broasted chicken -- uhm, uhm, uhm, broasted chicken -- when I see her approach this guy in the parking lot and give him a hug.

Who can that be? I look closer. Oh, no -- it's Larry!

I haven't seen him in years. When I met him way back in the eighties, he wasn't such a bad guy. But then he made it big in advertising -- making commercials with all the hot shots -- and he turned into the world's biggest name dropper. An A-one topper: No matter what you say, he has to top it.

For instance, if I say, I went to the Cubs game, he says: "I had Sammy Sosa's front row seats...."

If I say, I saw the Bulls play. He says: "I met Michael Jordan...."

If I say, I really liked Woody Allen's latest movie, he'll say: "I just had lunch with Woody Allen." Only he wouldn't call him Woody Allen. He'd call him Woody -- like they're best friends.

Anyway, here he comes. I think about running out the back door, but it's too late. Gotta take it like a man.

I put on a big phony smile. I hold out my hand to shake his. I tell myself: Don't hate, don't hate, don't hate. Hating hurts the hater more than it hates the hated....

I say: "Hey, Larry...."

I think: How long will it take before he drops a name and which name will he drop?

He says: "How ya' doin', man?"

I run through some possibilities: Derrick Rose, Bono, Sean Penn....

"Did I tell you, I worked on the Obama campaign?" he says.

Oh, my God -- forget basketball players, rock stars or actors. He's going straight to the top.

"No," I say, straining to look interested.

"We hooked up through David...."

As in David Axelrod, Obama's chief political strategist....

"David and I go back at least twenty years -- we're really good friends...."

I'm sure he was at your briss....

"David called me up and said, `Larry, I want you to work on the presidential campaign...."

Of course, cause they never would have won Iowa without you....

"But Barack and I go back to his senate campaign...."

Right. Larry and Barack -- best friends forever....

"In fact, this is a really funny story that you'll like...."

I'm sure it's not funny and I won't like it....

"So after the election, and David calls me to Washington to work on this shoot. I'm sitting in this room, got my feet up on the table and I'm talking to my sister on my cell phone. It's top security, you can't get into the room without going through all this Secret Service. Timothy Geithner walks by. Rahm Emanuel walks by. Then Barack walks by. He sees me sitting there and he waves...."

"Wow," I say. "Great story...."

"But, wait there's more...."

Oh, fabulous -- my lucky day!

"He comes back and he walks into the room. I say to my sister, `I gotta go -- I'll call you right back!' And Barack says: "Hey, Larry, how ya' doin'?"

You were right -- it's a howler. I'm so glad you took the time to share it with me....

My wife gets into the car with the chicken.

"See you around," says Larry.

Not if I see you first, thinks I.

As I drive off, I'm saying to myself: Don't hate, don't hate, don't hate....

Big Mike: Frank McCourt's Gift To America

2009-07-20T13:23:00Z

I took a part-time job at the Barnes & Noble in Evanston back in December, 1996. The book, "Angela's Ashes," had been released three months earlier and already was a major publishing phenomenon.

Since I'd never entertained any interest in Ireland, I ignored the book at first. But I had to look at the picture of the shy, chubby-cheeked, barefoot kid on the cover a dozen times a day; before I knew it, I'd grown curious. That and the fact that I'd caught Frank McCourt doing a reading from it one day on NPR finally broke down my resistance.

That reading was a revelation. It was the finest reading I'd ever heard an author deliver. McCourt's brogue coupled with his lyrical words transformed it from a mere recitation into something more like a song. I cracked open a copy during my lunchbreak that day. The half hour blew by so quickly that I snatched an extra ten minutes to keep reading. My supervisor gave me a fishy look when I got back on the floor but after I told her I'd just started "Angela's Ashes," she nodded and said, "Oh, no wonder."

When I was finished with the book, I felt as though a friend had died.

McCourt's memoir smashed America's romantic view of poverty. When I was a kid in the 1960s, I'd heard the variation on the we-were-so-poor-we-had-to-eat-shoelaces-but-lord-were-we-happy theme so many times I actually started to believe growing up in a comfortable household was the disadvantage. Showbiz blowhards by the score crowed that their success was due to their deprived childhoods. Too many Depression-era babies made that horrible time sound more like a gift from the gods than the soul crushing experience it was. After reading McCourt, I realized such selective recollection was nothing more than a lie.

McCourt wrote about stealing the bread from his mother's plate. He sneaked jam from his ailing siblings. He'd have sold his soul for a cookie. Poverty, I learned from him, is not romantic. It doesn't build character. It ain't a warm, fuzzy memory. Hunger robs its victims of their humanity. Those who starve become feral.

Yet here in America, we use the up-from-the-bootstraps fairy tale as sociological masturbation fodder. I can't help but think there's a trace of racism behind it. In the 60s when people started tossing around the term poverty, it was understood that black bellies were disproportionately empty. The right wing and others who were infatuated with plutocrats found it impossible to work up any sympathy for hungry blacks.

Therefore, poverty and its attendant hunger couldn't be all that bad. In fact, it was good! What the hell was the matter with all these lazy bums who cried about not having enough to eat? Why, look at how hunger has driven so many (white) achievers to such dizzying heights!

So thanks, Frank McCourt for calling out the bullshit. And rest in peace.

Benny Jay: Mom Calls

2009-07-19T16:12:00Z

In the middle of the afternoon, the phone rings -- it's my mom, calling from her cell phone.

"What do you want?" she says.

"What do I want?" I respond. "You called me...."

"No, I didn't -- you called me...."

Pause. This must be some sort of joke. "Are you joking, ma?" I ask.

"No, I'm not joking...."

"Ma, you called me...."

"No, I didn't. You called me...."

I start to worry. This can't be good. She doesn't remember a call she made seconds after she makes it? Sounds like stage one of dementia to me.

I decide to stay calm and be logical: "OK, let's look at it this way. Did your phone just ring, and did you answer it and say, `hello'?"

"Yes...."

"What!"

"Well, no. I saw the cell phone on the table. I looked at it and it said you called. I pushed a button to see when you called and all of a sudden you were on the phone."

Phew, thank goodness. It's not dementia. It's -- she still doesn't know how her cell phone works. I mean, she's only had it for, what, two years? These things take time.

"Okay, ma, here's what happened," I explain, relishing the opportunity to look really smart about phones. "When you pushed that button, you called me...."

"I did?"

"Yes, and I can prove it...."

"How?"

"Here's how. I'll call you back on your home line. Then I'll show you which buttons to push on your cell phone, so you can go into your call directory to find out who called who -- get it?"

"Oh," she says, obviously impressed with my brilliance.

"So, I'm going to call you," I say.

"Okay," she says.

"Don't get on the house phone...."

"I won't...."

"I mean it -- I'm calling you back as soon as I hang up on this phone...."

"Okay, already -- I won't get on the phone."

I hang up. I immediately call her house phone. The line's busy.

"Agh!!!!"

I call again.

Still busy.

I call again and again and again -- busy every time. I think: This is part of a plot to drive me insane.

I go back to what I'm doing. Five or ten minutes pass. My phone rings. It's my mom, calling from her cell.

"What, you forgot to call your mother?" she asks.

"You're phone was busy. I told you not to get on your phone, and the first thing you do is you get on your phone...."

"You're not going to believe this, but right after I got off the phone with you, you cousin, Robert, called. He's on the phone with your father...."

"Oh, my God...."

"It was so much easier before they had all these phone gadgets -- right?"

"Yeah," I say. "Oh, for the good ol' days of the carrier pigeons...."

"Don't be fresh...."

Big Mike: Garry Marshall Is Satan (This Post Has Nothing To Do With Dogs, China, Michael Jackson or Rush Limbaugh)

2009-07-19T01:29:00Z

You may have noticed we're starting to run ads on this site. They look rather primitive, mainly because a guy with primitive skills (me) is designing them. The good thing is, our entire site is being re-designed by a brilliant geek we'll call The Kid for now. So far his stuff looks great. If all works out well, our new look will be up within a week. Then we'll disclose The Kid's name and you damned well better start throwing some business his way.

The very first ad we posted was for Darkstar Video, over on Lincoln Avenue just south of Montrose. Mike, the guy who runs the place, will be running different movie lists every week in his ad. The first week, he listed the Five Best Drinking Movies. If you missed it, where the hell have you been? Mike's next list (currently running) is the Five Best Las Vegas Movies.

I have my own decent collection of movies, about 275 in all. My tastes run in all directions, from Bruce Beresford & Horton Foote's "Tender Mercies" (perhaps the sweetest movie I've ever seen) to Fritz Lang's "Metropolis" to Godfrey Reggio's "Koyaanisqatsi." I've spent the last dozen or so years collecting film noirs so I'm fairly confident I have every Jack Palance snarl, Richard Widmark lunatic giggle, and Barbara Stanwyck glare on celluloid.

My next collecting project will be 1950s science fiction. I'm particularly eager to get as many giant creature flicks as I can lay my hands on. Perhaps the master of such films was Bert I. Gordon who was responsible for "The Amazing Colossal Man" (an Army colonel is exposed to an atomic bomb test and grows to 50 feet tall,) "The Beginning of the End" (locusts - who looks suspiciously like grasshoppers - muck around in a silo of radioactive wheat and grow to 20 feet long,) and "Earth Vs. The Spider" (the title arachnid gets mixed up in radioactive gunk - natch - and grows to either 50 or 20 feet long or tall, I forget which.) Clearly, Bert I. was infatuated with radioactivity and bigness. Seems fitting, given his initials.

Anyway, last night, The Loved One and I collapsed on the couch and watched Peter Sellers in "The Party." We were both wiped out from the long week yet Sellers as a subcontinent-Indian crashing a Hollywood party still made us guffaw. I figured, Hey, I can make a list, too. And I bet every movie on my list is available at Darkstar (man, am I a shill or what?) So, here are my Five Greatest Comedies:

"Some Like It Hot"
"City Lights"
"Dr. Strangelove (or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb)"
"Annie Hall"
"The Nutty Professor" (Jerry's version)

Nothing too controversial here. I wanted to find a place for something from Jacques Tati ("Playtime," probably) or "The Producers" or anything by the Coen boys, but, following Darkstar Mike's lead, I limited myself to five. So, to make myself feel better about it, I've decided to make one more list - the Five Most Overrated Comedy Movies. Here they are:

"Pretty Woman"
"When Harry Met Sally"
Any of the Austin Powers movies
Anything with Adam Sandler in it
"It's a Wonderful Life"

Now, there's some controversy for you. Plus, I bet you'll find any of these at Darkstar as well (shameless, ain't I?) I had to place "Pretty Woman" at the top of the list because, well, Garry Marshall is Satan. Look at the facts - he's responsible for the television shows "Happy Days," "Joanie Loves Chachi," "Laverne and Shirley," "Angie" and "Blansky's Beauties," among others. He wrote scripts for "Gomer Pyle USMC," "The Joey Bishop Show," and "The Lucy Show" (you know, when Lucille Ball was milking every last drop of fame out of "I Love Lucy" despite having lost her edge and her timing, and having gained a gin-soaked, three-pack-a-day bellow.) Then - then! - he goes and directs a weird paleo-chauvinist fantasy about a typical, gorgeous, vivacious, drug-free, disease-free prostitute played by the shrill Julia Roberts. I tell you, the man is guilty of crimes against humanity.

So there, argue amongst yourselves.

Randolph Street: Keokuk And Beyond...

2009-07-17T15:25:00Z

Randolph Street: Keokuk and beyond...

More scenes from Highway 61, shot by Chicago's finest photojournalist, Jon Randolph from 1975 through 1986.

"Main Cafe" Keokuk, Iowa

"County Fair" Barnum, Minnesota

"News Stand" New Orleans Louisiana

"Dollar Days" Keokuk, Iowa

"Corn Grader" Iowa

"Sorghum Tanks" Red Wing, Minnesota

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

Benny Jay: Dog Intervention

2009-07-16T06:06:00Z

Racing downstairs to get the mail, I spot Nicky, the dog, cowering under the bed, head on paws, and her big, round, brown eyes open wide in fright.

Oh, no -- trouble. Nicky is clearly having a nervous breakdown.

The specific reason is that our home has been invaded by a couple of strangers in white work clothes who are painting the kitchen.

But, really, her problems are much bigger than the painters. Nicky lives a life of fear. It's not just the big things that scare her, it's everything -- even the small stuff. Like the vacuum cleaner. The other day I left it leaning against a bookcase outside my bedroom. She wouldn't leave the bedroom. Just sat at the door barking at the vacuum cleaner -- like it was a cat who had invaded her turf. It was like some weird doggie version of agoraphobia -- you know, fear of crossing the vacuum cleaner.

Then there's her thing with the backyard. When I let her out in the back yard to do her business, she refuses to return on her own, even if the back door is ajar. Instead, she'll stand at the foot of the back steps, barking at the open door, until I personally come out to usher her in. I think she wants to make sure I'm still home because she has a fear of entering an empty house. Look, I tell you this dog's not being rational -- the dog's lost her mind!

Now it's the painters. They came at eight in the morning and stay until four in the afternoon. When they first showed up, Nicky raced to the door bravely barking. She's always tough as nails with people and dogs walking down the street.

But the painters called her bluff. They entered the house and took it over -- setting up their ladders and equipment. Nicky ran upstairs and hasn't come down since. Call it complete capitulation....

With each passing day, they're driving her closer to the brink. She won't come out from under the bed -- I wouldn't even know she's there, if I didn't see the tip of her nose peeking out. Any sound the painters make -- the clanging of the ladder, the slamming of the door -- makes her jump. She's always got her ears perked up, like she's scouring the air for silent sounds coming from those painters. This dog, I tell you, is a lunatic -- if she keeps this up, I'll lose my mind!

The time has come for an intervention -- I must take her aside and give her a talk. By the way, it's not unusual for me to talk to the dog. I talk to her all the time, though usually about the Bulls.

Anyway, I walk into the bedroom and sit on the chair and pat my knees, encouraging her to come out from under the bed. She waits a moment and then wiggles out and rests her head on my knee.

"There, there, Nicky -- there, there," I say, gently petting her on her head. "Now, look, it's okay to be afraid of somethings. We all have our fears. But you can't be afraid of everything. Like vacuum cleaners. I mean, that's a little weird -- what's with you and the vacuum cleaners?"

She stares at me with her big brown eyes. I go on: "The thing is -- you can't let your fears control your life. You have to control your fears."

Wow, good line! I like it so much, I say it again. It's a shame this is being wasted on a dog.

I stop talking. The thing about talking to dogs is that you're never sure they're listening.

"Well, anyway," I continue, "you gotta be braver. Okay, Nicky?"

From the downstairs comes a voice. It's one of the painters. "Hey, mister," he calls out. "We're leaving'...."

"Okay...."

"Be back tomorrow at eight...."

"Yeah, sure -- no problem...."

I turn back to finish my pep talk. But Nicky's disappeared. All I can see is her nose sticking out from under the bed.

Oh, brother. This is going to take longer than I thought.

Big Mike: Be Reasonable - Like Me!

2009-07-15T17:33:00Z

I like to think of myself as a brilliant arguer. Well-read. Informed. Reasonable. Not swayed by emotion. Convincing. Civilized.

Hell, the United States Senate ought to hire me as a debate coach. The Palestinians and the Jews would solve their problems by this afternoon of only they'd pattern themselves after me.

I've been involved in a couple of recent contretemps that have tested my dazzling rhetorical powers.

The other day, Benny Jay and I launched into a lengthy exchange over the relative merits of one Samuel Babson Fuld. We swapped countless emails and engaged in endless phone conversations about him. We easily expended more energy and spent more time on the consideration of his contributions to society than we've ever given to, say, Albert Einstein or even Stephen Colbert.

You've never heard of Samuel Babson Fuld? You're not alone. All I can say with assurance is that his parents and he know who he is. And Benny Jay and I.

He's a ballplayer, the 26th man on the Cubs' 25-man roster. He's called up whenever a Cub outfielder strains a ligament. Benny suggested that it's a shame Fuld can't get a real shot at making the big club. He's an example, Benny opined, of baseball's arbitrary decision-making process. Once a guy is labeled a non-prospect, he's out of luck. No matter what he does, baseball brains will forever consider him lacking.

Upon hearing this, I leaped into action. I created extensive spreadsheet analyses comparing Fuld to other young guys who have gaudier statistics. I accused Benny of thinking with his heart rather than his brain. I defended the professionalism of major league general managers. Our arguments grew heated. Voices were raised. Benny called me stubborn. I called his thought processes idiosyncratic. It was really a veiled way of calling him an idiot.

Now, the second episode of contention. Monday night, after Trivia at Dick's Pizza, my pal Printer Bob, with whom I've had a run-in or two in the past, was pontificating on politics. He held court with a couple who nodded continuously as he spoke.

"Can you believe this crazy woman?" Printer Bob howled. "Just another one of Obama's socialists! It ain't gonna be long now - hold on to your wallets!"

I was returning from the men's room at this moment. A voice inside me warned, Don't do it! But I couldn't resist.

"Okay, Bob, how are you gonna aggravate me now? Who said what?"

"This woman Obama just named as Surgeon General. What's her name? Benjamin? Regina? Whatever. She said, 'Doctors should not make a profit. What they do is a public service and they shouldn't make any money off it!' Now what in the hell is that all about?"

I'd never heard of any such statement uttered by Regina Benjamin. Had I missed it? Uh oh. Did Barack Obama make a mistake, choosing someone who wants to overturn the capitalist system? I took a chance.

"I knew you'd aggravate me," I said. "She never said that."

"Oh no?" Bob yelled. "I just heard about it on the way here! She said it!

"No she didn't."

"Yeah? Well, what did she say then?"

Uh oh, again. Damn. Had she said something that was being twisted by the anti-Obama gang? I had no idea what it might have been. Still, I dug my hells in deeper.

"Listen to me. She never said that."

"C'mon, c'mon. What'd she say? You don't know what she said, do you? You don't know!"

I didn't. Well, I figured, may as well shoot the moon.

"You know why I have a fat ass, Bob? The easier it is for you to kiss it!"

Like I said - reasonable, civilized, urbane.

That night, after I got home, I did some research and found Dr. Benjamin had never said any such thing. The purported quote was invented by none other than Rush Limbaugh because she'd opened a non-profit clinic in Alabama. Natch.

Phew!

As long as I was at it, I decided to reread the Sam Fuld emails that Benny Jay and I had exchanged. The more I read, the more convinced I became - Benny Jay was right! Baseball men are narrow-minded thinkers, wedded to preconceived notions, loath to change their minds. Yet I'd fought him tooth and nail.

So there you have it. I'd argued one point based on nothing more than a dumb hunch. I'd argued another even though I didn't believe in what the hell I was talking about.

Sheesh. If the Palestinians and Jews did pattern themselves after me, the Middle East would be a mess.

Benny Jay: My Home Town

2009-07-14T14:01:00Z

What a day -- what a glorious day! It's such a beautiful day and I'm so happy to be riding my bike along the glistening lakefront that I'm singing a song.

"Never Can Say Goodbye," to be exact. My all-time favorite from the King of Pop.

I can't remember the words, so I keep repeating the line that goes: "Every time I think I've had enough, I started heading for the door...."

Riding thirteen miles south from Irving Park Road, I wind up at 64th and Hayes Drive. I pull off the bike trail, head into Jackson Park, stop besides a basketball court, flop under a tree, watch some kids shooting hoops and fall asleep.

I wake to the sounds of a hard-thumping bass, which I follow to the west, and stumble upon a House Music Festival. There must be five-thousand people wedged into this corner of the park, dancing, singing, re-living the old songs from their glory days....

As I wander through the crowd -- piecing my way around tents and barbecue grills -- I start to wonder: Where are the white people? I mean, everybody at this party is black!

OK, all right, I don't mean to get all heavy here, but, people, really, what the hell: You mean to tell me there's not one white person in this whole freakin' town of two point something million people who likes House Music? I mean, white people can send black people to the White House but they can't party with `em?

Hold it, hold it -- I take it back. I see a white person -- a woman with pink hair. Well, I guess one's better than none....

I stay long enough to remind myself that I didn't like House Music when it first came out and I'm not about to like it now that I'm two-hundred-and-ninety-seven, or however old I am these days. I'm winding my way out of the park when they bring on a singer who breaks into -- I kid you not -- "Never Can Say Goodbye."

That stops me in my tracks. I've always loved the way Michael Jackson scales this song like a rock climber climbing to the top of a cliff. Up, up, up he goes until he reaches the peak, only to fall to the ground and start the climb again in the next verse.

This singer's not as good as Michael Jackson, but he's good enough. And as he makes his climb through the verses, the words come back to me and I can't help myself. I sing it loud as I walk along: "There's a very strong vibration piercing me right to the core -- it says turn around you fool, you know you love her more and more, tell me why -- is it so...."

I sing that song all the way to Irving Park Road -- wind up at an outdoor festival in Welles Park. There's got to be at least three thousand people in a big field, listening to Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears, this kick-ass band out of Austin, Texas with a lead singer who sounds a little like James Brown -- I kid you not....

The place is jumping: Folks dancing, singing, laughing -- having a great time. Milo's there -- the old pussy magnet himself. He feeds me a fried chicken leg and offers me a glass of wine. Then he tells me this pretty girl in a skimpy skirt's making goo-goo eyes at me.

"Why you acting so surprised," I tell him. "Pretty girls in skimpy skirts are always making goo-goo eyes at Benny Jay...."

But here's the thing. It's the reverse of Jackson Park -- everybody's white. Wait, wait -- let's be accurate. I count five, maybe six, black people in the crowd, not including the lead singer, of course.

So let's put the question in a different fashion: You mean to tell me that in this whole freakin' city of two point something million, we can't find more than five or six black people who want to hear the next James Brown?

C'mon, Chicago, why you gotta be so damn up tight? Whites here, blacks there -- Hispanics and Asians somewhere else. Still clinging to your tribes, still living in your caves.

Don't worry -- that's enough social commentary for me. I'm gonna shut up, eat a fried chicken leg, drink a glass of red wine, go home, get in bed and go to sleep. Just like everyone else....