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.

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.

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....

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.

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...."

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:

1. "Some Like It Hot"
2. "City Lights"
3. "Dr. Strangelove (or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb)"
4. "Annie Hall"
5. "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:

1. "Pretty Woman"
2. "When Harry Met Sally"
3. Any of the Austin Powers movies
4. Anything with Adam Sandler in it
5. "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...

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.

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.

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.

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....