Letter From Milo: Kingdom of Damaged Men

I was sitting in the admitting office of the Jesse Brown VA Medical Center, waiting to set up an appointment for a physical. I had made the mistake of coming down on a Monday, which is the busiest day at the hospital. Thursdays and Fridays are best. There are generally no lines at the end of the week and you can be in and out in 20 minutes.

The reason I was at the VA was that I had given up my health insurance a while earlier. My wife and I are both self-employed and our incomes have taken a serious hit over the past year and a half. Along with the rest of America, we are feeling the effects of The Great Meltdown. We had to cut expenses somewhere and decided this was a good option. As a combat veteran, who was exposed to Agent Orange, I'm entitled to VA health care. After all, I risked my life, limbs and sanity in Vietnam (where, I believe, the USA won the Silver Medal,) why not take advantage of any perks the government might offer?

A veterans' hospital is a strange place. Like the late, great James Brown sang, This is a man's world. The only women in sight were nurses, doctors, and clerical workers. The patients are almost completely male, which makes sense when you consider that the armed forces, especially the combat forces, are predominantly male, too.

If a VA hospital is a man's world, it is a damaged man's world.

It is where soldiers who were injured in the service of their country come for treatment. One of the reasons they come to the VA is that most health insurance plans have a devilish stricture known as "a pre-existing condition." I'm sure I don't have to explain this asinine clause to any of my readers, but a pre-existing condition is enough to exclude most wounded veterans from traditional health care insurance. Many of them have no choice but to turn to the VA.

As I mentioned, the hospital was crowded that Monday. I couldn't help but notice that a surprising number of people waiting for treatment were maimed. I'm talking about amputees, double amputees, men with limps, men with walkers and canes, blind men, disfigured men, and a few who appeared to be insane: men who talked to themselves, made wild gestures, or drooled.

As I was sitting in the waiting area, a man in a wheelchair rolled up next to me. He was an elderly black man with a blanket covering his legs.

"How you doing, brother?" he asked me.

It was a question that veterans understand on many levels. It wasn't simply a conversational ploy. It was an existential question about the state of your universe - your mental, physical, and social well being. The old man was asking if I was eating well, getting enough sleep, making ends meet, having nightmares, or suffering from any of the horrors associated with war.

"I'm doing fine," I answered.

"Where was you at?"

"Vietnam."

"I was in Korea."

"That must have been tough."

"It was, brother. I never been so cold in my life. Lost all the toes on my right foot. Had a hole in my boot."

"Damn."

"I understand 'Nam was hot."

"Yeah, real hot. Rained a lot, too."

"I'd take hot over cold anytime."

"I would, too."

"You can hide from hot but you can't hide from cold."

"You've got a good point there."

"I live with my daughter. She always keep the thermostat too low. I tell her, 'Turn up the heat,' but she say it's gonna raise our electric bill. I tell her, 'Fuck the damn electric bill, it's too cold in here.' Man, I hate the cold."

A few moments later they called the old man's name and he rolled away to meet his appointment.

As I looked around the spacious waiting room, I noticed that it was a truly diverse place, blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians, young men, old men, middle-aged men, all in the same boat. I saw a white man pushing a black man in a wheelchair. I saw black men drinking coffee and chatting amiably with white men. I saw young men, probably Iraq veterans, companiably exchanging war stories with men three times their age. I heard raucous laughter, saw handshakes and high fives. I saw men comparing old wounds and scars. I saw a mixed race group rush over to help an elderly man who had fallen.

I saw joy, humor, and dignity among men, who by all rights, should have been in states of regret, sorrow and despair. I reflected on the fact that if it's true that the military is the least segregated institution in America, then a VA hospital proves that shared experience and shared adversity can often trump hatred and intolerance. That was the good thing about a veteran. It made you part of something that seemed pure, somehow divorced from much of the ugliness that pervades out society.

Despite the bitter cold of that March morning, I had a warm feeling when I left the VA hospital. I felt that I had somehow reconnected to the great and generous soul of humankind. But it was a long walk to my car and the cold started getting to me. I buttoned up my coat and put on my hat. Damn, I hate the cold.

Big Mike: Loneliness And Marriage

My visitors of last week - my oldest pal Sophia, her husband Danny, and their two kids, Matty and Arianna - left yesterday afternoon. While they were here, the place was a madhouse. From Sunday to Sunday, only the Louisville Zoo hosted a more cacophonous symphony of barking, roaring, whining, giggling, guffawing, meowing, and flatulence.

The Loved One was only able to take part in the distemper for one full day and parts of two others. As noted here previously, she drives in from Bloomington, Indiana on Friday nights and leaves on Sunday afternoons.

Now I'm alone.

Solitude is more indicative of the writers' lot than all the pens, pencils, word processing programs, or alcohol in the world. Good old Benny Jay has constructed a book-lined garret in his North Side manor. He pounds out his political pieces and books there as well as opuses for this communications colossus. He's tied in to all corners of Chicago, taking calls on separate phones like a bookie with two minutes to go before the starting bell. He's greeted every morning by an avalanche of emails. He's constantly communicating with the outside world. Yet, he's pretty much alone all day long.

Conversely, Milo, Gary's Greatest Writer, does his work in the basement. He's banging on doors constantly (and electronically,) trying to convince business owners that his advertising copy will make them jillionaires. Again, by the end of the day, his throat is sore from all the yakking he's done. And again, he's been all alone.

Me? I pound away at the keyboard in the basement, just like Milo. Except for last week, my Murray Hill Pike ranch house is normally as quiet as a Chrysler showroom. Every couple of hours or so, one cat or the other will steal into the litter box positioned behind my office area. The sudden sound of scratching usually makes whatever hair I have left stand on end.

We've all learned the last few years that one of the most pernicious methods of torture is the imposition of solitude. Enforced, extended loneliness makes human beings crazy. Some of the effects include visual hallucinations, the hearing of voices, self-mutilation, and a grab bag of other psychoses.

Yet guys like Benny Jay, Milo, and I have elected to sequester ourselves all the live long day to gather the pennies that society showers on us literary craftsmen.

Solitude won't make us crazy; we already were crazy.

Big Mike's Marital Bliss Update

Last week, if you recall, I opted for domestic tranquility over the First Amendment. I concluded my Saturday post by writing that the question of whether The Loved One would be compelled to revisit our dispute over my Tuesday post (not linked because it no longer exists) was one of those definitive challenges of marriage. In essence, I was holding my breath as I signed off on Saturday.

You'll all be happy to know (although not in a million years more so than I am) that The Loved One didn't utter a peep about the affair while she was home for the weekend. Whew - I finally get to exhale.

Allow me to crow. I would have had neither the smarts nor the discipline to finesse the situation as I did had it happened even as recently as ten years ago. It's a good bet The Loved One wouldn't either. Sometimes I wonder if marriage isn't an operation best undertaken by those past the age of fifty. And why isn't a written and practical test mandatory before a couple gets a marriage license? We do it before people get drivers licenses. I'm willing to bet that lousy marriages have caused more death and destruction than all the auto accidents since World War II.

Anyway, I feel that The Loved One and I both aced our own test. Congratulations, Kitty - we did it!

Benny Jay: Sleeping With Billy

It's the Illinois Prep Top Times annual state high school indoor track championship and I'm down in Bloomington, Illinois 'cause, you know, I just eat this stuff up.

Here's the deal. I'm gonna share a room at the Hampton Inn with Caldow, my old pal the track coach. The high schools with the smaller enrollment are running on Friday and the schools with the bigger enrollment are running Saturday. Caldow's skipping the Friday meet. But he knows we're sharing a room -- I think....

The Friday night meet goes longer than expected. But it really doesn't matter cause it's just off-the-charts. They got this kid Zack Riley -- remember the name -- a high jumper out of Herrin, Illinois. Which is somewhere south near -- I don't know -- Kentucky? The kid's killing the competition and I swear I don't see how he does it. He's a wispy thing, light as a feather. Jumps about seven feet. Can't really call it jumping. He just sorts of floats over the bar.

Anyway, by the time I get back to the hotel it's nearly two in the morning. The clerk at the desk -- call him Waldo -- gives me my key. I wander up to my room. Only the key doesn't work. I swipe it one way, then another. I flip it over and swipe it again. Nothing. I know I'm clumsy with technology, but I remember mastering the key swipe thing about a decade ago. So something's definitely wrong.

Back I go to the front desk, where Waldo -- by now we're old pals -- breaks me the bad news. If the key doesn't work that means Caldow's got the door bolted. And there's nothing we can do short of waking him up with a phone call. Don't think I'm not tempted. But I start feeling guilty about it cause I know how hard it is to fall asleep in the first place, much less after you've been awakened.

That's how I find myself blurry-eyed in the lobby, watching Middle America walk through the door. I'm thinking -- there's a lot of people up late in Bloomington, Illinois. Where's all action?

I start chatting with Precious, a shot-putter from Chicago. She's got her own situation. She left her luggage in another girls' room -- now they're sleeping and she can't get in.

"I knocked on the door, but they don't wake up," she says.

"Why don't you just go to sleep now and get your clothes in the morning?" I ask.

She looks at me like I'm crazy. And I remember: I don't understand teenagers and teenagers don't understand me.

We're just sitting in the lobby chatting about this and that when in walks Billy, an assistant coach. He's a young guy -- still in his early twenties.

"Hey, Billy," I say, "can I sleep in your room?"

"C'mon," he says.

"You're not leaving me?" says Precious.

I shrug. What can I do? It's either Billy's room or the parking lot.

It's a small room with one big bed. Billy takes one side, I get the other. I'm thinking: Abraham Lincoln used to share beds with a law partner. Back in the day.

I wanna tell Billy all about it. But he's asleep. Dude put his head on the pillow and -- bam -- he's in sleepy land. I hear him snoring. Not really loud. Thank goodness for that. Tell you the truth, I'm envious. Oh, to be young and fall asleep in a heartbeat. I lie there thinking about stuff. Think about that kid Zack Riley. I wonder what it's like to fly through the air? I think about the Bulls -- what else? They play the Pacers tomorrow. Oops, make that later today. I notice it's light in the room. No wonder! Billy's laptop's glowing. Probably radiating me and him. I look at the time. Three o'clock. Damn! I think I'll go to the bathroom and read "A Passage to India." That ought to knock me out. Hell, don't even have to go the bathroom -- there's almost enough light to read it right here. What with Billy's freakin' computer glowing....

Ring! Ring! Ring!

What the fu....

I'd been sleeping. Somehow or other I managed to fall asleep. Now I'm fumbling to kill the sound. It's the phone. By the bed. I pull it to my ear.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Billy?"

It's Bob, the coach.

"No, it's Benny," I say.

"Did I wake you?"

How can I possibly answer that question in a way that won't end in sarcasm?

"Devyn's coming up," he says. "She needs the key to the van."

"Great...."

The clock says it's 7:15. Four hours of sleep. I roll on my back and look at the ceiling. Billy's still sleeping. Of course the phone didn't wake him. Dude could sleep through a tornado.

Knock, knock.

I crawl out of bed, stumble to the door and look through the peep hole. It's Devyn, Daddy Dee's daughter.

I lower my voice and growl: "Who is it?"

"Devyn...."

"Devyn who?"

"Devyn Tee...."

"I don't know no Devyn Tee...."

She looks puzzled, like she's thinking -- oops, wrong room.

Hee, hee. I open the door. "Fooled ya," I say.

"Pops -- that's not funny," she says, as she marches into the room.

She sees Billy just rousing. "Oooh, you and Billy shared a bed...."

"It wasn't like that...."

She grabs the key and is gone.

Down in the breakfast room, I see Caldow. "Nice play, Shakespeare," I tell him. "Lockin' me out."

"I swear -- I didn't do it on purpose," he says.

I tell him I shared a bed with Billy. He says he had to share a room with Billy at another meet. "I woke up and he was hugging me," says Caldow. "I think he likes older white guys....."

I can see he's happy with that joke cause a few seconds later he repeats it. I can't blame him. A good joke is like a good horse -- you wanna ride that baby forever.

Hours and hours later, after the final race of the day, we're eating at a Steak `n Shake somewhere in the middle of Illinois. Caldow points to me and says to Billy: "Which one do you like best?"

"Man, I feel like I'm in a love triangle," says Billy. "I feel like the inside of a reverse Oreo cookie...."

I like that joke so much I repeat it a few times. Matter of fact, I'm repeating it now. But, as I was just telling you, a good joke is like a good horse....

Bike Mike: The Post Man Always Thinks Twice

The email came in on Thursday, prefaced by no fewer than six sentences composed entirely of the single word, Please.

It was from The Loved One. To refresh your memory, she's staying in the town of Bloomington Indiana during the workweek while I remain in Louisville trying to sell our home. Ergo, the email.

She'd read my post of Tuesday, March 24, and wasn't happy. Entitled, "A Fallen Idol," it recounted the accidental revelation that I dabble occasionally in a pastime that is common, winked at, relatively harmless, and, by the way, a tad illegal. I say it was accidental because in the course of a conversation, I'd forgotten that my 13-year-old niece Arianna was sitting at the lunch table. Without thinking, I let slip the dabbling in question. Arianna promptly raked me over the coals for engaging in such a pursuit when she's warned ad nauseum not to do so.

It was one of my personal favorite posts for this communications colossus. In it, I grappled with my status as a role model for an impressionable, adoring young girl. I concluded by writing that I have no good answers for any of her pointed questions.

I'm being cagey here because of the email. The Loved One begged me to remove the post. She argued that the mere mention of the pastime could lead to dire consequences. Lose of jobs. Imperiling future employment opportunities. Loss of health care coverage and worse.

My first impulse was to stiffen my spine and refuse to delete it. I girded for the fight. I'd cite the First Amendment. I'd invoke artistic license. I'd pick apart her arguments with the precision of Clarence Darrow or Johnnie Cochran. I'd crush her silly demand as easily as I'd snuff out a cigarette butt with the toe of my shoe.

Luckily for me, I'd been enjoying a beer when the email came in. I planned to get to work immediately on my brilliant rebuttal but first I had to return some of the ingested beer to the water cycle. I stood in the porcelain-tiled room, performing that time-honored post-libation ritual, thinking about how unfair The Loved One was being to this sensitive virtuoso. As the seconds ticked by, I entertained delicious images of The Loved One slinking away in defeat, having been humiliated by my unassailable logic. Consequences, huh? I'd show her the consequences of trying to squelch a literary craftsman!

Would Mark Twain have stood for this? Phillip Roth? For pity's sake, Salman Rushdie went underground for years in defense of his right to publish freely.

Then I zipped up. Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that The Loved One really wasn't trying to smash my windpipe with the heel of her jackboot. Sheesh, she's just a caring, somewhat scared working person trying to keep our family income level north of the poverty line.

Do I really want to crush her? Humiliate her? Would I enjoy watching her slink away in defeat?

Like that, I decided to delete the post.

Deleting a Google Blogger post is awfully easy. Physically, that is. A couple of button clicks and the post disappears as if it had never existed. Still, there was a pugnacious, righteous part of me that resisted fiercely.

I told myself a couple of things. One, the post wasn't Twain's "Letters From The Earth." It wasn't "Portnoy's Complaint" or "The Satanic Verses." It was a simple rumination about an everyday moral dilemma.

The second - and more important - consideration was the fact that, golly gee, I really do love The Loved One! Even if I disagree with her reasoning (and believe me, I don't buy a word of it,) this means a hell of a lot to her.

Is my pompous dedication to some ideal of literary purity worth more than her sense of well-being? The answer, I reminded myself and my recalcitrant button-clicking finger, was no. I clacked the delete button and the post was no more.

I dashed off a response to The Loved One's email. I did it, it read. I want to keep peace in the family. Now, I never want to hear another word about it again. Ever. Please.

I feared rehashing the argument might stir up my blood.

My old pal Danny, whose family is visiting me this week, laughingly reminded me that many wives just might find the urge to revisit the contretemps irresistible. Hmm. The Loved One, I suspected, might indeed wish to explain herself in greater detail after returning home on Friday night. I told Danny I hoped she wouldn't. All I need to know is that removing the post means a lot to her.

It's Saturday morning now. She hasn't mentioned it yet. The hammer may fall soon. Then again, maybe it won't. So goes the challenge of marriage.

Randolph Street: Sunday Morning Glory

Fridays are for Randolph Street on The Third Word. Sundays are for a higher calling at the Bethel AME Church, 4440 S. Michigan Ave. Photojournalist Jon Randolph shot these pix on April 1, 2007.

Jon Randolph's lens is a window to Chicago. Join us every Friday for Randolph Street. We're here every day for the lives, loves, and characters of The Third City.

Letter From Milo: A Well Earned Rest

I went to a memorial service this past Tuesday for a dear friend who passed away at the biblical age of 101. His name was Morris "Morrie" Rosengard and he was the oldest man I ever knew.

How in the hell does someone live to be 101? I've read articles and seen news stories about people who have lived for more than a century and when asked about the secrets to their longevity they always say something like, Never had a drink in my life. Don't smoke. Went to bed early. Didn't eat red meat. Went to church twice a day.

That wasn't Morrie, not even close. Morrie liked to drink, smoke cigars, and eat red meat. For all I know he had impure thoughts, too. His favorite vice, however, was gambling - cards, horses, sports, casino games - he loved them all. That's how I met him, at a poker game, more than 30 years ago. His nephew, Bruce Diksas, was hosting the game. Bruce had been telling me stories about Morrie for years. I had expected to meet a colorful character and I was not disappointed.

Morrie was a pharmacist by trade. For years he had a drugstore in Bridgeport. Rumor had it that as well as filling prescriptions, Morrie ran a 24-hour, high stakes poker game out of the back room of his store. That may or may not be true, but it was true to his character.

Morrie was a wonderful man, but he was no angel. Some of the people he associated with were not candidates for sainthood either. He was friendly with people whose names you'd regularly see in the newspapers, and I'm not talking about the society pages. He knew "connected" people, bona fide members of the Chicago Outfit, guys who made their livings the hard way and often took long vacations at government expense.

Once, at a wedding, a short, stocky man came up to Morrie and chatted with him respectfully for a few minutes. When the man left, Morrie leaned over to Bruce and whispered, "That's the meanest man I ever met in my life." Coming from Morrie, who had rubbed shoulders with some of the toughest, most brutal men in Chicago, that was high praise indeed.

As a matter of fact, in the 1960s, Morrie had some legal problems of his own. But they were just bumps in the road. He took them in stride, just like everything else in his life. Not much fazed Morrie.

I was in my 20s when I met Morrie and he was already close to 80. He was born in 1908, the last year the Cubs won the World Series. He lived through World War I. He saw Ty Cobb play baseball. He roared through the Roaring 20s and survived the Great Depression. He served his country honorably in World War II. The US Army was in dire need of pharmacists, men trained and experienced in the phamacological arts. When I asked Morrie what he did during the war, he replied, "I passed out rubbers at Pizmo Beach, California."

Morrie lived through VE Day and VJ Day. He lived through the Korean War, the War in Vietnam and the wars of George Bush. He was born when Teddy Roosevelt was president and lived long enough to see Barack Obama inaugurated. He was around when horses were the main means of transportation and when Neil Armstrong took a stroll on the moon. He had, literally, seen it all.

I made it a point to call Morrie on his birthdays. I had a nice chat with him on his 100th birthday. When I called him on his 101st, his wife sadly informed me that Morrie was in the hospital. He had fallen down the day before and broken both of his legs. When I asked how he was doing, she said, "He knows what he's up against."

Morrie was a gambler, someone who knew the odds and understood probabilities. He knew what was coming. But even the most cold-blooded, experienced gambler sometimes relies on luck. Maybe, just maybe, he might spike an ace on the river. Unfortunately, Morrie's long run of good luck had finally run out. There was no miracle ace.

I was honored when Morrie's family asked me to make some comments at his memorial. Here is a transcript of my remarks.

I guess everybody here knows that Morrie enjoyed a friendly game of cards on occasion. I also understand he was very fond of horses, although I don't know for a fact that he ever sat on a horse. I met Morrie more than 30 years ago at a poker game. He was introduced to me by his nephew, Bruce Diksas, who was hosting the game.

Bruce told me a lot about Morrie over the years. I felt like I knew him before I ever met him. When I did finally meet Morrie, I was impressed. He was smart, friendly, a good conversationalist, and a real gentleman. I've considered him a friend ever since.

I didn't see Morrie as often as I liked. Usually it was just a few times a year, at card games, the race track or small gatherings. But every time I ran into him, he brought a smile to my face. Some people are like that, they just have a natural magnetism that draws people to them.

Anyway, I want to get back to our friendly games of cards. Despite being more than twice as old as most of the players, Morrie was usually the first to arrive and the last to leave. And when he left, he usually left with more money than he came with. I should know, a lot of that money was mine.

Now, some people will say that Morrie lived a good life, a long life, an interesting life. I agree. He had a good run. But as far as I'm concerned he left us too early, because now I'll never be able to win my money back.

I'd give almost anything to sit down at a card table with Morrie again, and watch him sip his scotch, smoke his cigars, laugh at a good story, or tell one himself. He was wonderful company and I'll miss him dearly. It was an honor and a pleasure to know him. Rest in peace, old friend, you deserve it.

Benny Jay: Monday Night Fights

Bowling starts at 7:15, but my team's running late. We're always running at least ten minutes late -- always rushing to keep up.

Most of the other teams are cool with it. In fact, some of them (the High Rollers and Hawaiians, come to mind) are usually late themselves. But this one dude, he's got a hardon for us. Lumpy guy, looks like Curly from the Three Stooges. Always wears the same purple shirt. I'm starting to wonder if he washes it. He's a really weird duck. Always making snide comments when we miss a shot. He doesn't say them directly to your face, but just loud enough for you to hear. Another thing -- he's a snorter. I'm not sure why. But he stands over me while I'm keeping score and snorts. Okay, I understand if he's got some sort of nasal defect -- but why's he got to snort in my ear?

Anyway, he hates waiting for us. Drives him crazy. He's walking around the bowling alley looking at the clock and muttering to himself and talking about us to anyone who will listen.

So it's already a little tense and then he goes ahead and marks our names on the scoring sheet. Norm takes exception and says something along the lines of: Don't mess with our sheet.

And Curly says something back, which I can't hear.

And Norm's in his face, saying: "What did you say?"

And Curly says: "Let's take it outside."

And I'm like, oh, no. The last thing Curly wants is to take it outside with Norm. For one thing, Norm's way stronger and tougher. For another, Norm's not taking no shit from nobody -- especially Curly!

So next thing you know, Cap's the only thing keeping Norm from getting at Curly. And Norm's banging up against Cap's chest, fire streaking from his eyes, saying: "You wanna go outside, let's go. C'mon, you the big man, and all...."

Curly's backing up, but he's still talking shit, like he figures that push come to shove, Cap will hold Norm back. I fear we're on the verge of a major incident cause Norm's almost mad enough to push past Cap and really beat the crap out of this guy. So I step in -- yes, me -- and I put my back to Cap and tell Curly: "Just get out of here...."

He moves away, grunting, snorting and shaking his head. And I walk with Norm over by the TV and we stare at the Bulls (who, by the by, are losing to Washington, damn it). I tell Norm: "You're my guy. I love you like a brother. And I can't stand that piece of shit. But I'm not gonna let you hit him...."

And Norm says: "I ain't gonna hit him, Benny. I got too much respect for Bob [who owns the bowling alley]. But he's pushin' me...."

As we watch the game, I try to remember the last time I got into a fight. It had to be years ago. I've never been a fighting man -- too afraid to get hit. But when I was a kid -- I'm talking grammar school years -- I had this notion that I had to win a fight to survive. I figured that if word got around that I won a fight no one would ever want to fight with me. So I picked a fight with this girl, figuring I could beat her up. She slugged me in the stomach and I ran home crying like a baby. After that I learned my lesson. If you don't want to be beat up, don't look for someone to beat up. And I found other ways to avoid fights.

Norm and I go back to bowling. I hit a strike. So does Norm. Then Cap. Then Young Ralph. Soon we're stomping on Curly's team. And the hotter we get the more irritated Curly gets. After each strike we stand in the alley and exchange high fives. Sometimes Young Ralph and Norm will exchange high fives two, three, even four times. They block Curly from getting to the lanes. Pisses him off even more. Not that we care.

We're really loose -- all fired up. Cap heads to the juke box and plays one great song after another -- The Dells, Tower of Power, Mary Wells. Young Ralph puts on "Atomic Dog" -- the fifteen minute version -- by George Clinton. We're jumping up and down, doing the Dog Dance, and chanting: "Bow wow wow, yippie yo, yippie yay...."

I show my guys my new dance moves and they can't get over how good I'm getting. We make plans to take our wives and girlfriends to Summer Dance over in Grant Park, where we will dance under the stars to live music.

We pretty much forget about Curly, who's walking around muttering to himself and snorting. Like I said, he's got to be the weirdest dude in the league, and, trust me, that's saying a lot.

As I head home, I'm thinking what a great night. We annoyed him more than he annoyed us, basically winning the fight without taking a swing.

Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

It's the greatest basketball night of the year: Bulls-Lakers, March Madness, and the state high school boys championship game. All on TV at the same time. Free TV, too. Not cable. Even I can watch. Is life good, or what?

I'm flipping from game to game to game. Texas is beating Duke. Good. Can't stand Duke. Coach is a Republican -- `nuff said right there. And Chicago's Whitney Young High School is beating Waukegan High School. Go, Chi. Best of all, my Bulls are trouncing the Lakers -- up sixteen. That's double good cause, one, I love the Bulls, and, two, I can't stand the Lakers.

My Wife's out of town, so I get to clap as loud as I can for every Bulls rebound, bucket, steal and blocked shot.

My Younger Daughter and her friend, Brazil, sit at the computer, heads together, giggling. Oblivious to me and my noise.

Then it flips. Texas falls behind. Waukegan catches up. Worse, the Lakers catch fire.

I gotta talk about it -- can't get through this alone. I call my bowling buddy Norm. He doesn't pick up. Must be working. Call Johnny, the Black Forest Gump. He's driving to work -- can't talk.

The Bulls fall behind by seven. I can't bare to watch. I go back to the high school game. Young up seven. I sneak a look back at the Bulls. They're down 12. Back to high school. But I can't get into the game cause I'm too worried about the Bulls. I'm wondering: What's the score? Maybe they're on a roll? Maybe they've taken the lead! I start to change back to the game. I stop. No, I need a new approach -- something to change the Bulls luck. I know! I'll check the score on my computer. That might turn things around, like the game's outcome is, you know, predicated on how I follow it.

This theory, by the way, is not as nutty as it sounds. During the first great Bulls playoff run of the early 1990s, Big Mike, my dear friend and writing partner, used to leave the room to walk around the block during testy moments of close games. More than once, his walks ignited come backs by the Bulls. After awhile, we wouldn't even wait for him to leave. We'd just look at him and he knew: Time to walk. In an other example -- this one back in 1989 -- my neighbor, Janet, wandered into my house while a bunch of us were watching a Bulls-Pistons playoff game. When she took a seat at the far eastern corner of my couch, the Bulls were down about 15. Soon thereafter, they rallied and cut the lead to one. Oblivious to the game, much less her role in it, Janet rose to leave with less than a minute left to, and I'm not making this up, work in her garden. Oh, no you don't, we chorused -- you're the reason the Bulls came back. We made her sit in that same far eastern corner of the couch until the game was over -- won, as I recall, on a Michael Jordan bank shot.

So, anyway, I run up stairs and turn on my computer, hoping that I will be rewarded with good news. But, no. Bulls down 14. It didn't work.

I return to the TV and watch the high school game. The camera shows the cheerleaders. I see Taaj, Johnny's daughter. I call Johnny to break the news.

"Your daughter's getting more TV time than Oprah," I tell him.

He cracks up. "That's a good one...."

We hang up. I race upstairs to check the computer. Damn! Bulls lost. I call Norm. No answer. I leave a message: "I can't stand the Lakers. Can't stand their players, coaches, owner, stadium -- nothing. I don't even like their uniforms!"

I hang up. I watch the high school game. A few minutes pass. This is how desperate I am for some basketball conversation: "Yo, Ray; Zilly," I call out to my daughter and her friend. "C'mon watch your school win the state championship...."

To my utter astonishment, they leave the computer to watch the final moments -- a dunk, a steal, some free throws. The buzzer sounds. As Whitney Young's players pour on the court in jubilation, the camera shows the cheerleaders.

"Oh, my God," says my daughter. "It's Taaj...."

I repeat my killer line: "That girl's getting more TV time than Oprah...."

Total bomb. They ignore me.

The Young team lines up to get their first-place medals. Dr. Kenner, the school's principal, hands them out.

"Okay, Dr. Kenner," says my daughter. "I see you...."

The team manager steps up. "Oh, my God," says Brazil. "It's Preston...."

"That boy is too thirsty to get his medal," says my daughter.

The star scorer gets his medal. "That's the boy who keeps texting my sister," says Brazil.

"For real?" says my daughter.

"For real...."

Another player gets his medal. "Ugh, he's funny looking," says Brazil.

"Some of the girls think he's cute," I offer, eager to participate in the conversation.

"Not me," says Brazil.

She points to the next kid in line and says: "Now he's cute...."

"He's so obnoxious," says my daughter. "He's so full of himself...."

"I know, but he's cute," says Brazil.

One boy leans in to kiss the principal on her cheek, but she's looking the other way. And he backs away without a kiss.

"Ooh, treated," says my daughter.

When they finish giving out the medals, the girls go back to the computer. I put on my coat and hat and grab the leash. "I'm gonna walk the dog," I tell them.

They got their heads together and they're giggling. I wait for them to say something to me, but they don't. So I clip the leash to the dog's collar, step out of the house, pull out my phone and give Johnny another call. I figure we got another fifteen minutes of basketball to talk about -- at least.

Letter From Milo: Gambling Men

I used to enjoy gambling. Poker, craps, sports betting, the horses - I played them all. You'll notice I didn't say I was a good gambler. The sad fact is that I lost a lot more money than I won.

There was a group of us who hung out at a tavern on Lincoln Avenue near Dickens Street and we liked to shoot craps. The group consisted of my good friend Bruce, Dino, Wayne, Carlos, Mike the Drag, Brooks, Dirty George, Roy, Irwin, and Pope Carl, a truly devout man who muttered a prayer every time he tossed the dice.

Hail Mary, full of grace, first the six and then the ace.

Once or twice a week, after a few hours of social drinking, we'd all head out to the gangway behind the bar and get a crap game going. I remember one time when Wayne made seven straight passes. What are the odds of that happening?

One idiot, we'll call him Milo to save him any embarrassment, bet against Wayne every time. When Wayne made the seventh pass, busting Milo in the process, Milo angrily hurled his beer bottle across the alley. Living across the alley at the time was the great film critic Roger Ebert. The bottle landed on Ebert's deck and shattered noisily. It may have even broken a window. We didn't stick around to find out.

We also used to have some hellacious all-night poker games. Except for Bruce, it was a different cast of characters than the crapshooting crowd. There were three or four attorneys, Pat the Math Professor, Joe, who preferred to be called Monte when he played poker, and Bruce's Uncle Morrie, who was in his 80s at the time and recently passed away at the biblical age of 101.

The attorneys were a pain in the ass. Whenever a question of rules or procedure came up, each attorney had to have his say, interrupting the game for ten minutes at a time. The attorneys argued, brought up precedent, cross-examined, rebutted, and made closing arguments. I'm surprised they didn't try to call witnesses. I suspect that the copious amounts of booze and reefer might also have had something to do with the lengthy delays. To this day I refuse to play in a poker game that includes more than two lawyers.

Pat the Math Professor was a degenerate gambler. He played in as many as five poker games a week. He claimed it was his wife's fault. He hated her and she despised him. He said the only reason he played so much poker was that he couldn't stand being around his wife.

"I don't even know why I gamble," he once told the table. "I've got the worst luck in the world. I fucked my wife twice in 10 years and she got pregnant both times. What are the odds of that happening?"

The attorneys immediately began debating the odds.

My favorite gambling activity, however, was betting on thoroughbred race horses. Bruce and I and our friend Dino spent a lot of time at the local ovals, Arlington Park, Hawthorne and Sportsman's. Bruce would usually drive. He always drove clunkers that would be eyesores at demolition derbies. I doubt he ever paid more than $200 for one of his rust buckets. Still, somehow those cars always got us to the track. Getting back was another matter.

"Damn, Bruce, you got any gas in this thing?

"Plenty of gas, my man."

"Looks like it's on empty to me."

"Don't worry about it. The gauge is just fucked up."

(The car finally starts on the eighth or ninth try.)

"What's that rattle? It doesn't sound good."

"Nothing to worry about. It always does that."

"Jesus fucking Christ! What was that?"

"Backfire, I think."

"You oil light is on."

"Fuck it. Pass me the joint."

My luck wasn't much better at the track than in my other gambling ventures. But every once on a while I'd get hot and win a few hundred dollars. That's the thing about gamblers. They tend to forget their losses fairly quickly but they remember their wins forever.

I recall one day at the track vividly. Both Bruce and I won a decent amount of money and were heading back to the city to celebrate. Bruce's dog, Rocky, was in the car with us. We were on the Eisenhower, a few miles from downtown, when there was a loud explosion and smoke began billowing from under the hood of his clunker. I looked back and saw that most of the engine was scattered across across the highway behind us. Bruce managed to wrestle the car to the side of the road. Acting quickly, Bruce grabbed all of his documentation out of the glove compartment, then went to the back of the car and tore off the license plate. We abandoned the car to the mercy of the towing companies and wreckers and started walking toward the exit ramp. We walked about 25 yards when a cab pulled up. The driver rolled down his window and said, "You boys look like you need a ride. The dog does, too."

Later, in a bar on Lincoln Avenue, I said to Bruce, "Good thing that cab came along."

"Yeah," he replied. "What are the odds of that happening?"

Want more gambling literature from the fecund pen of Milo Samardzija? Buy his book, "Schoolboy," right now. Hurry, you fool!

Big Mike: A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

For the last 30 years, St. Patrick's Day has meant a lot to me. Not that I've ever given a shit about this quasi-religious bacchanalia per se, but something happened on March 17, 1979 that has stuck with me.

Back then I was an orderly in the surgery department at West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park. I'd been thinking that I'd work in the medical racket the rest of my life. I was already an Emergency Medical Technician and had taken EEG tech training. I figured I'd become a Physician's Assistant.

But life, as usual, got in the way of my plans. I was taking some science courses at Wright Community College in preparation for the PA program. I also took a composition course just for the hell of it. I discovered there that I was as superior to the rest of my classmates in the art of writing as Alex Rodriguez is to your seven-year-old T-baller. Quick as that, I decided to become a writer and have been one, come hell, high water, poverty, angst, bounced checks, and excessive navel-gazing, ever since.

I stayed at the hospital for about a year after making the decision, mainly due to the presence of a pretty young Operating Room Technician named Tami.

She was diffident and apparently as pure as the driven snow. She'd been raised in a born-again christian family but I sensed she'd be happy to throw off the chains of that peculiar madness. She had blonde hair, piercing gray eyes, a brilliant smile, and an hourglass figure that stood out even in her baggy hospital greens.

We started dating in the winter and by the time March rolled around we were madly in love. We both called in sick that St. Patrick's Day and rode the Lake Street el into the Loop to catch the parade. It was unseasonably warm so we were able to stroll slowly, hand-in-hand past the highrises and through the throngs. We were so smitten, we hardly knew anybody or anything else existed.

Tami and I jay-walked across Wacker Drive west of Clark Street and got stuck on the median island. As we waited for traffic to clear, we turned toward each other and kissed. Not a crazy mad kiss, but softly and slowly. As we pulled our lips away from each other, the sun shone gold around us. We were junkies on love.

That single moment, that kiss, became a touchstone for my life. Call me stupid, call me naive, but I thought from that moment on that love, true love, was that kiss. Months later, when Tami and I were breaking up, I pleaded, "But what about that kiss on St. Patrick's Day?" as if that could outweigh all the emotional craziness we'd laid on each other (alright, that I'd laid on her.)

Tami and I went to every St. Patrick's Day parade for the next few years, in homage to that moment on Wacker Drive. Fifteen and twenty years later, we'd call each other on St. Patrick's Day for the same reason.

For the next couple of decades, I took the fact that I'd never experienced that same high from a kiss as proof positive that Tami was the one true love of my life. I'd say this to myself even though I'd been married, divorced, and lived with a bevy of fabulous women in the ensuing years.

As I write this, I realize I sound like a junior-high girl with a Jonas Brothers fixation. And the truth is, that would perfectly characterize my outlook on love for most of my adult life. I saw it as a drug, a simcha, even a sacred ritual that would cleanse my conscience of sin and my heart of angst.

It took me until well into my 40s to realize that love has a tad more to do with things like commitment, compromise, understanding, mutual goals, forgiveness, and - shock of shocks - the ennui of everyday life.

Maybe I was lucky. Maybe, if I hadn't transformed love into a fix, I might have turned instead to some hard-assed drugs. I might be dead by now or have been a veteran of repeated stays in a rehab center had I not spent years trying to replicate the high of that kiss.

I like to think I'm better and smarter now. The memory of that kiss won't ever go away. I still talk to Tami on occasion. We're both married and as happy as clams with our respective mates. But I'll bet we can still turn each other into Jello merely by mentioning the median island on Wacker Drive.

But, as Barack Obama advised us in his inauguration speech, we must leave childish things behind. As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to run over to Kroger and pick up a slab of corned beef. I'll boil it up tonight and have sandwiches tomorrow. That's how I celebrate St. Patrick's Day now.

Randolph Street: South Side Steppers

Fridays on The Third City are now are the exclusive domain of photojournalist Jon Randolph.

Today's pix portray a venerable South Side institution, the Wednesday Afternoon Dance Set. Revolving among three renowned night clubs - Mr G's, the Taste Entertainment Center, and East of the Ryan - the weekly party catered to...

Text continues below photos

Continued from above photos

...an older but still swinging crowd. Photos from this shoot ran in a March, 2002, Chicago Reader story entitled "Still Got It." For a $13 ticket, the nattily-attired steppers got a good lunch, beverages, great music, and the opportunity to swing a well-shined shoe. Numerous South Side clubs still hold weekly afternoon dance parties.

See you here next Friday for more Randolph Street and everyday for more of The Third City!

Benny Jay: Learning To Dance Part II

For the Raphael Saadiq concert, my Wife and I get to the Park West early. We get a good seat near the bar and I order some whiskey. I'm no drinker, but it chills me out.

The place fills up with the coolest cats in Chicago. All ages and races and religions. All kinds of hats, too -- pork pies, hamburgs, fedoras, caps.

"I wanna hat," I say to my wife.

"Okay...."

"One of those caps...."

"Okay...."

"The Kangaroo things, or whatever they're called...."

"Okay...."

"No, you always say okay, but whenever we're supposed to get one, you never go...."

"I'll go -- name the day...."

The woman deserves a medal for putting up with me.

Photo by: Jon Randolph

At 8:30 the lights dim. The background music turns off. The band takes the stage. I love this band. The background singer is a woman dressed in a black suit and tie. From where I'm sitting, she looks a little like Prince. The keyboard player is this beefy dude who looks like Donny Hathaway. Even has Donny Hathaway's wide-brim cap. I love Donny Hathaway.

They kick into a funky version of "Aquarius," the song from "Hair." I'm ready to dance. Only thing is -- there is no dancing. All those days of preparation. Practice at night. Looking at myself in the mirror. Wishing I was John Travolta. And there is no dancing, at least not tonight. I know, I know -- the ticket said there would be dancing. But the club's so crowded, there's just no room -- the dance floor's like a mosh pit.

Onto the stage pops Raphael Saadiq. The man is cooler than cool. He lives on the planet of Extra Coolness in the galaxy beyond planet Coolness. He's got this rusty orange suit that's luminescent in the lights and these glasses with retro-looking thick dark frames. Like a funky version of Clark Kent.

He sings all the songs from The Way I See It, his not-so-new-anymore CD: "Love That Girl," "Sure Hope You Mean It," "Big Easy...."

Yes, Raphael Saadiq may be the guy up on the stage, but, let me tell you, I'm the star. I'm singing the words and tapping my hand and clapping when he says to clap and, most important, under the table my feet are Steppin' in time to the song. Don't miss a step: one, two, three, four. I'm not even moving my lips as I keep the beats. Just feeling it. Me and Raphael Saadiq....

That night in bed before I fall asleep I think about the concert. I play back the songs in my mind. I see Raphael Saadiq in his rusty-colored suit. I see the backup singer who looks Prince and the key board player who looks like Donny Hathaway. I remind myself to remind my wife -- I gotta get a hat like Donny Hathaway.

I must fall asleep cause I have this dream. Raphael Saadiq's on the stage and he says: "Hey, Chicago. I wanna call up my good friend, Benny Jay. Put your hands together, y'all, for Benny Jay."

I take the stage and I hug the background singer, who looks like Prince, and I slap hands with the keyboard guy, who looks like Donny Hathaway. And as Raphael kicks into "Just One Kiss," me and the background singer are Steppin' -- one, two, three, four. The crowd's going crazy. And I leave the stage. And Raphael Saadiq goes, "Give it up for Benny Jay."

People are patting me on the back and buying me glasses of whiskey. I keep on Steppin' to the music, just gliding across the floor. Just like John freaking Travolta....

Big Mike: I'm A Lucky Guy

The Great Gun Battle continued at Dick's Pizza last night. Oh, okay, I'm being overdramatic, as usual. Whenever there's an opportunity for me to be alarmist, panicky, hyperbolic - you name it - I'll take it. Ask The Loved One. Heck, even my nephew, Jittery Jimmy, had to reel me in the last time he was down here to visit. We were standing in the backyard and I heard a woodpecker.

"Quiet!" I commanded. "Listen to that! It's a woodpecker. Isn't that amazing!"

"Uncle Mike," Jittery Jimmy said, firmly, "it's not amazing."

So no shots were fired nor were harsh words even exchanged. But I like the sound of The Great Gun Battle so there it is. Last week, I recounted a log-rolling chat between Printer Bob and All-American Allen about guns. My point was, it's hard for us Chicagoans to understand how the rest of the country feels about firearms. The gun is as dear to many people in this great land as pizza or the Cubs are to me.

I felt self-satisfied for recreating their discussion fairly. I thought I'd acquitted myself well, not portraying them as loons or wild-eyed survivalists. I even closed the post with All-American Allen saying, with a hint of pride, that he'd never shot a human being and hoped he'd never have to.

Man, I thought, aren't I magnanimous?

The answer, I learned last night, is not so much.

Weatherman Loren and his pop, Bandleader Leo, came in to watch the Kentucky men's basketball team play a first-round game in the NIT. During an early timeout, Loren ambled by and patted me on the back.

"I read you're post about guns," he said.

Immediately, at least three nearby heads turned our way. One of them asked Loren what it was all about. He tried to be kind but as he hemmed and hawed through his explanation, it became clear he felt I'd wronged the good folk of Kentuckiana.

"Well," Loren finally said, turning toward me, "I gotta tell you. It read pretty much like you were telling us what a bunch of hillbilly rednecks we are."

I was crushed. I'd meant nothing of the kind. Loren said he understood that but still....

"Lemme put it this way," he continued, "if we were 60 miles south of here, youd'a got your ass kicked."

I felt lucky indeed. Even luckier as the night wore on. I chatted at length with All-American Allen, as Republican as a man can be. He feels about Barack Obama pretty much what I felt about George W. Bush - this is one lousy president. No matter. Rather than tear each other's throats out, All-American Allen and I made our respective cases without a hint of mayhem. Hell, our talk was so civil most people today wouldn't even consider it a political discussion.

All-American Allen is about my age but - damn him - he's tall, good-looking, strong, and trim. His imposing stature was on my mind as we tentatively waded into our conversation. All-American Allen appears capable of lifting even this pasta-stuffed bovine and hurtling me through a plate glass window.

Had I been sitting on a barstool next to a Goliath like All-American Allen 60 miles south of Dick's Pizza, I might have bit my tongue. The Bourbon Trail is about 60 miles south of these precincts. It's a gorgeous landscape with rolling hills, broad vistas, and the occasional passing Ford F-150 pickup in whose loadbed compartment is stored who knows what variety of ordnance. Even if a fellow from the Bourbon Trail lacked the sinew to heave me through the nearest window, it's a good bet he might use me for target practice.

So now I have a bond with All-American Allen. We're not going to convince each other of anything but we came away from our chat at least respecting each other. And I neither flew through a plate glass window nor took a round of buckshot in the ass.

Big Mike's Dee Brown Update

I met a man two weeks ago at Dick's who claimed to be former NBA all-star and 1991 Slam Dunk Champion Dee Brown. When the man and his partner, a woman named Natasha, departed, the citizenry in Dick's seemed skeptical he was who he said he was. I was as dubious as anyone. I did a little digging and found that the two were the real thing. Natasha is Brown's business associate and the two are in town to open a Louisville location for his The EDGE basketball training facility.

Letter From Milo: The Big Meltdown (Plus, another installment of Randolph Street - The Eds.)

Folks, it's getting pretty ugly. The vultures are circling. The hyenas are cackling with joy. Worms are getting fat. The Neptune Society has put in a huge order for firewood and propane. And it's all about the economy.

People who previously didn't know Dow Jones from Shinola have become experts in the stock market's fluctuations. Bankers have become objects of loathing. Bernie Madoff is America's new archvillain (worse than Hue Hollins in Benny Jay's opinion.) Detroit's Big Three, after arrogantly ignoring reality for years, are on the brink of collapse. Healthcare has...

continued below Randolph Street

Randolph Street

Richard Pegue (1943-2009)

Benny Jay wrote Saturday about attending the legendary Chicago radio deejay's memorial service. Jon Randolph shot this picture in May, 1998. The shot was used on the cover of the memorial service program.

Letter From Milo, cont'd

...become unaffordable for many of our countrymen. Unemployment figures are growing at a staggering rate. Retail sales are down. New home construction and the sales of existing homes are at their lowest rates in decades.

That's just the economic news.  I'll save global warming, rising sea levels, famine, drought, wars, pestilence, ethnic hatreds, religious intolerance, political instability, and nuclear proliferation for another post.

And guess what, folks. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

There isn't a reliable pundit who says the economy is going to turn around soon. Of course, these authorities never saw The Big Meltdown coming either, so we should take their predictions with a certain amount of skepticism.

It's inescapable. Everywhere I go, the economy has replaced everything else - sports, politics, the weather, movies, etc. - as the number one topic of conversation. Everyone has horror stories. Everyone knows people who've lost jobs, watched their retirement funds disappear, have to sell their homes, default on their loans, or declare bankruptcy.

I was at a potluck dinner the other evening with several friends, all witty, accomplished people who work in the arts, communications, advertising. Normally the dinner table conversation would have been stimulating. But this time it was nothing but gloom and doom.

"Moe lost his job."

"Damn."

"Yeah, and his wife got cut down to three days a week at her office."

"Damn, that's tough."

"They might have to sell their house."

"Did you hear about Curly, down the street?"

"What happened?"

"Lost his job, too."

"Jesus."

"Lost his health insurance, too, and then had a stroke worrying about it."

"Good lord! Is Shemp still working?"

"Yes. The world still needs good divorce and bankruptcy lawyers."

I'm beginning to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. There seems to be something inherently wrong with the system, some sort of dormant bug that's come alive and threatens to undermine the rotten foundations of capitalism.

"I'm just a hack writer, bright enough to know when there's a problem, not smart enough to provide a solution. That's why I'm so glad there's an intelligent man like Barack Obama in the White House. After eight years of Bush ineptitude, of pandering to America's worst instincts, the money men and the merciless corporate machines, the special interest pigs, and the rigid minds of the military bureaucracy, maybe now someone will stop and consider the plight of the rest of us. We can only hope.

In the meantime, I'm stocking up on canned food, bottled water, and I'm digging a bunker in my backyard. See you in 2014.

Milo's Smoking Update

In my first post for this blog, I promised never to lie to the American people. Well, it's been over a week since I started my latest quit-smoking campaign and, yes, I've cheated a few times. But I'm not giving up. I still see a light at the end of the smoke-filled tunnel. I'll keep you informed.

Benny Jay: Learning To Dance

For the last three weeks, I've been teaching myself how to dance.

It starts when my Wife buys two tickets to the Raphael Saadiq concert at the Park West.

The tickets say there will be dancing. You cannot see Raphael Saadiq without dancing. I make myself a personal declaration: "No more being scared and self conscious. No more cowering in the corners of life. The time has come to change. From here on out, you're gonna be a dancer!"

I break the news to my buddies at a track meet: "I'm gonna learn to dance...."

Everyone's an expert -- everyone's got something to say. Ray hops off the bleachers and starts Steppin' right there. He's as smooth as they come. I watch in awe. "Damn, man, where did you learn how to do that?" I ask.

He shrugs, like it's something he's been doing his whole life. Sort of like breathing.

I try to imitate what I've just seen, but Daddy Dee cuts me off. "You look really stupid," he says.

"Thanks for the confidence boost," I say.

"Forget the steps. Just move back and forth while trying to look cool...."

He shuffles one foot one way and the other foot the other way, while looking really blase.

"That's like dancing for dummies," I say.

"Well....."

"I'm better than that -- I wanna dance!"

That night I search You Tube looking for inspiration: Fred Astaire, Sammy Davis Jr., John Travolta, random teenagers on Soul Train. Forget it. They're so good and I'm so bad. It only makes me depressed.

Every day I wake up and tell myself: This is the day I teach myself how to dance. And everyday I find some excuse not to get it done.

Finally, a few days before the concert, my wife takes me into the kitchen and says: "Follow me."

It's four basic steps, she explains. Left food forward, that's one. Left foot back, that's two. Right foot up and down, three. Pause, four. Then reverse it. Right food back. Right food forward. Left foot up and down. Pause. And repeat....

She puts "The Way I See It" -- Raphael Saadiq's latest -- on the beat-up, old CD player we have on the kitchen counter, looks at me and asks: "Ready?"

I nod. "Okay, let's go," she says.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh -- sure hope you mean it," sings Raphael.

I take baby steps. One, two, three, four.

"Count it out," says my wife.

"One, two, three, four," I count.

"Good," she says.

"One, two, three, four....."

"Now count to yourself....."

I count in my mind: "One, two, three, four....."

"Now, count without moving your lips...."

And on it goes as we run through the songs on the CD: "100 yard Dash," "Keep Marchin'," "Big Easy"....

And, just like, that I'm a Steppin' fool. We dance through the whole CD. The next day I wake up with the songs playing in my mind. Everywhere I go I hear Raphhael Saadiq. Got "The Way I See It" going nonstop on my brain. I'm riding the elevator at City Hall and I'm singing to myself "Falling in love can be easy, staying in love can be tricky." And I'm Steppin' right there in the elevator -- one, two, three, four. Only I'm taking teeny-tiny baby steps, so no one will notice and realize I'm as weird as, you know, I really am.

On the eve of the concert I give it one last go all by myself in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Checking myself out. One, two, three, four. Me and Raphael Saadiq -- the world's coolest dudes.

Nicky, the dog, walks in and looks at me.

"I'm ready, Nicky," I tell her. "John Travolta's got nothin' on me...."

To Be Continued....

Big Mike: Aiming For Freedom

Startling fact: I'd never held a gun in my hand until I moved to Kentucky.

When The Loved One and I came down to Louisville two years ago, I found a massive outdoors store across the Ohio River in Clarksville. It bills itself as the largest of its kind east of the Mississippi.

What struck me first about the place, after I'd noted that it's only slightly smaller than NASA's Vertical Assembly Building, were the homey, ye-olde-shoppe-type signs on the front door directing customers to check in their weapons at the information desk. This policy, I'd learn after a few weeks in town, is rather liberal compared to those of grocery and liquor stores as well as government buildings here, all of which post prominent signs prohibiting people from carrying concealed firearms inside - period. Their policies regarding shotguns and rifles are left to the imagination.

Anyway, the outdoors store had a firearms department that would do for an NRA member what Viagra does for me. I'd never imagined that so many guns could be in one place outside of al Qaeda headquarters or the office of a hip-hop record producer.

I spent an hour and a half just looking at the guns. When I came to a case full of Glocks, the clerk asked me if I wanted to hold one.

"Oh, I don't know," I said nervously. "I've never held a gun before." The clerk's knees buckled. Once the shock wore off, he repeated his offer.

"In that case, you have to feel this," he said, pulling one out of the case. Gun aficionados seem to have a sensual relationship with their weapons. They talk about the feel of a gun in a way that makes it seem more like a sweetheart than a hunk of metal and polymer.

"Naw, that's alright," I said. "I don't have a license. I'm not a gun guy. I'd feel funny."

"C'mon."

"Really? Should I? You think it'd be OK?"

"Here."

He brought the Glock closer to me, like a pet shop clerk offering me a kitten. I tentatively grasped it. I actually curled my finger around the trigger and aimed the gun at a mannequin dressed in the latest camouflage.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked.

"Oh sure, " I replied, although I was lying. It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't anything at all other than a hunk of metal and polymer in my hand.

It took me moving to Kentucky to truly understand how deeply people in this great nation feel about their guns.

I listened in on a conversation between Printer Bob and All-American Allen at Dick's Pizza the other night. Barack Obama's face had appeared on the big screens and the two of them commenced lamenting the crumbling of our great nation. The talk got around to guns.

"I'll tell ya,"All-American Allen said, "when I went to the gun show in December, I never saw so much traffic in my life. You couldn't move."

"Oh yeah," said Printer Bob, who'd also attended.

"These people," All-American Allen continued, jerking a thumb toward the big screen, "they just don't get it. They don't realize that every time they say they're going to do something about guns, everybody goes out and buys more guns!"

"That's right," Printer Bob said. "Guaranteed. If they say the words gun control, the gun shows are packed for the next six months."

"Don't get me wrong," All-American Allen said, "I'm not like some of them. You see guys at the shows that have guns and ammunition buried in their backyards. I like guns but I'm not a nut."

"Same here. I only have the one gun," said Printer Bob.

"But look, if they come after my guns, they're never gonna get them. All I have to do is say I sold 'em to my friend. What are they gonna do about it?"

"You can never get rid of all the guns in this country."

"It's impossible! How are they gonna do it? The cow's out of the barn."

"This isn't France or Germany where they can just take 'em away."

"Whenever a country wants to take away your liberties, the first thing they do is take away your guns."

"We want our freedom," said Printer Bob.

"That's all," said All-American Allen. "That doesn't make us bad people. Believe me, I've never met a nicer, more caring group of people than gun owners. I mean it! If I had to take my wife to the hospital and I needed someone to take care of my kids, I'd call one of my friends - and they're all gun owners. All good people."

It's ironic that this exchange came a day after 26 people were killed in shooting sprees in Alabama and Germany.

"It sounds old but it's true," Printer Bob said. "Guns don't kill people; people kill people."

"I've never shot a person in my my life," All-American Allen said. "And I hope I don't have to."