Big Mike: It's Rocket Science To Me

Ah, love and marriage.

The Loved One looked up from her laptop, removed her glasses, and asked me, accusingly, "So, you bought a book today? How much did it cost?"

I was ready with the snappy comeback: "Huh?"

"You wrote in your post today that you bought a book."

"Oh." Clearly I was at the top of my repartee game.

It took a few beats for me to get her drift. In Tuesday's post, I wrote about what an intellectual titan I am. I stood on my head to separate myself from the common clay, illustrating this by pointing out that the radio and television banality I'm being bombarded with during my stay at the Holiday Inn is so, well, weird - at least to me. My concluding line was that I was going to jump up and rush to Barnes & Noble to buy Isaac Newton's "Principia."

I was, of course, being a smartass. I bet I'll never actually purchase a copy of one of the two or three most important scientific works ever written in any language. In it, Newton lays out his Law of Universal Gravitation and explains his Laws of Motion. I mean, for gosh sakes, who hasn't heard the line, For every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction? That isn't exactly how Newton wrote it, but it'll do for us here. Suffice it to say that the physics of everyday life are laid out tidily in this three-volume set.

A quick search on Amazon reveals that used sets of the Principia start at $337, and therein lies today's tale.

A good marriage, I am discovering after having experienced a bad version or two, mixes two people whose strengths and weaknesses dovetail nicely. It would be impossible for me to illustrate this better than to admit that The Loved One handles the checkbook and I do not.

In earlier posts, I've revealed that my mother was a fiscal tyrant. She was the type of person who looked out the front door in search of the mailman because the electric bill was due. Long before things like online banking, Ma kept a stack of envelopes - marked electric, gas, car insurance, and so on - into which she'd parcel cash from each of her and Dad's paychecks throughout the month. She kept such a close eye on these envelopes that when I, at the age of ten, began feeling aggrieved that my baseball card addiction wasn't accounted for in them and decided to help myself to some of their contents, she knew immediately what was going on. The next time I went in for the dip, I found a note written by her saying, essentially, Gotcha!

Ma became a paragon of bill-paying in reaction to her mother, who was not. I, in turn, rebelled against Ma's ways. And so it goes. Had I chosen to spawn, my daughter or son would probably have become a CPA. Thankfully, I've spared at least one poor soul that cruel fate.

Anyway, I've lived most of my life like a drunken sailor. I've suffered more third-degree burns on my right thigh than I'd care to admit. Poor old Pat Arden, my former editor at the Chicago Reader - the microsecond after any of my stories ran in his paper, I'd be banging on his door to find out when he could cut me a check. And god forbid I should spend that check on anything as silly as bills - not when there were motorcycles to buy, rounds to pick up, women to impress and, yes, books to accumulate.

Whereas Ma couldn't mail the check to the electric company fast enough, I looked upon utility bills as mere suggestions. The real bill, in my warped view, was the disconnect notice. This system worked well except for those times I forgot to open the disconnect notice. Trying to read in the dark is such an ordeal.

The Loved One was aghast at my pecuniary discipline, or lack thereof. Fortunately, she was drawn in by one or two other facets of my character and so we became a going concern. Only she made it clear from the start that she would be the Chief Financial Officer and if she caught me thumbing through the checkbook, she'd cut said digits off clean.

Now that's a system that really works. Rather like Newton's everyday universe.

Benny Jay: Blows To The Head

For game five of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series, I go to Plan B -- or is it C? -- in order to keep myself from losing my mind: Inebriation.

If you recall, my first plan -- not watching the game -- didn't really work. I wound up making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of track-and-field fans. My second plan -- reading while watching -- was a complete failure. I came close to going insane.

I figure this time I'll get drunk. That ought to do the trick. I mean, it's done wonders for so many other people down through the ages.

So I go over to Norm's house and his lady friend, Sandy, couldn't be nicer. Feeds me pizza and bean dip -- uhm, that stuff is dee-li-cious! And I bring over an 18-pack of Budweiser, cause that's Norm's favorite beer.

I down one and then I down another. And by the third quarter I'm into my third -- which for me is serious boozing. I'm feeling no pain. Feeling groovy. Definitely enjoying the company. It's me and Norm and his daughter, Audrey, and his friends, the double Bs -- Brian and Brian. After the half, Milo comes by. What a great game. Back and forth they go. Up one, down one, up three, down three and so on and so forth.

At the start of the fourth the Bulls go on a mini run and take an eleven-point lead. But you know how it goes with the champs -- they make their own run. Cut the lead to eight, five, three. Next thing you know we're in overtime -- again.

They go up and we fight back. But we can't stop Paul Pierce. He hits one, two, three -- four cold-blooded, killer shots in the O.T. We're down two with three seconds left and coach Vinny Del Negro calls a time out and sets up this play. They fake an inbounds pass to Ben Gordon, but they throw it to Brad Miller, the back-up center. Is that brilliant or what? He's the last guy Boston thinks will get the ball. They probably forgot he was even on the court -- probably think I'll get the pass before Brad Miller.

Miller's got an open lane to the basket, just like Vinny planned. All he has to do is run in and slam it home and the game's tied and we're going to double overtime -- just like last game.

And he's running. At least, I think he's running. I mean, that is running -- isn't it? It's hard to tell cause he's so freaking slow -- Brad Miller has got to be the slowest man in basketball. And by the time he makes it to the basket the Celtics have closed in on him and as he rises to lay it in Rajon Rondo whacks him across the face. I mean, we're talking solid punch to the face. Knocks him down. It should be a flagrant -- two free throws and the ball on the side. But the refs don't call flagrant. They call a regular foul. Which means Miller's got two free throws to tie the score with two seconds left.

"How can that not be a mutha-fuckin' flagrant foul?" says Norm.

"He popped him in the face!" says Brian.

Miller goes to the sideline to wipe away the blood. And they stitch him up to stop the bleeding. And he staggers back to the line and he misses. Of course, he misses. You try shooting a free throw after getting smacked in the face. And the Bulls lose.

There's not much to say. We just stare at the TV. We've devoted over three hours of our lives to this gut-wrenching basketball game and now it's over and we've lost. There's nothing we can say cause what can you say. I feel like a boxer who's been through fifteen rounds with the champ. Too stunned to talk, too exhausted to cry. Too many blows to the head.

Milo leaves. Audrey goes to her computer. But Norm, Brian, Bee and I just keep staring at the tube. They're replaying the footage of Rondo whacking Miller in the head -- over and over and over.

"Can you believe this shit?" says Norm.

"No," I say.

"He fouled him," says Brian.

"Just smacked him in head," I say.

"Ain't that a bitch," says Norm.

I get it together to get on up and get my coat and head out to my car. On the radio, they're playing "Purple Rain" by Prince. I crank up the volume so it's blasting out of my brain: "Purple Rain, Purple Rain, I only want to see you in the Purple Rain...."

I've watched so many basketball games for so many years, you'd think I'd get tired of it. But I don't. Just the opposite. The more I watch, the more I want to watch. Just keep coming back. There's something about the way they go at it. I think of Brad Miller. The man took a fist to the face. Hit me like that and I'm in the hospital for a week. But Brad Miller? He just wipes off the blood and takes his free throw. Yeah, he missed it. But he took it.

Keep coming back. Never quit. Bulls got game six on Thursday. Win that and it's game seven on Saturday. Lose either one? Well, take the summer off and come on back next year.

Big Mike: Rachael Ray, What Am I To Do?

Sometimes I forget how tight a cocoon I've woven for myself. I like to think of myself as being much smarter than the average bear. Toward that end, I've sworn off broadcast TV, commercial radio and other artifacts of the illiterati such as USAToday.

Oh, I'm as smart as an extraterrestrial visiting Earth. With rare exceptions, I don't even argue with people about politics or social issues, preferring instead to roll my eyes and bury myself in my New York Times when guys insist on buffeting me with their uninformed opinions. Yeah, I'm smart.

I play chess rather than poker (although I shouldn't be too hard on that game - a university professor I know paid for his doctorate studies as a professional poker player.) I don't just root for the Cubs; hell, I pore over the most minute baseball statistics and analyze trends with all the zeal of an epidemiologist at the National Institutes of Health.

For laughs, I read P.G. Wodehouse rather than watch Jimmy Fallon. My car is a Prius. I cook with olive oil rather than butter. I do the laundry in cold water to conserve energy. I'm typing this on a MacBook, not - puh-lease! - a PC. I even wear horn-rimmed glasses.

I'm so smart smoke ought to be pouring out of my ears.

My constant efforts to cultivate this streak of elitism in me - and let's be frank, that's really all it is - have cut me off from, well, American life.

A great way to submerge one's brilliant self in the normal world is to stay at a Holiday Inn. The Loved One and I are spending a week in Bloomington, Indiana so we can look at homes. In our cramped room, the TV dominates. Even the lobby, with its plush leather sofas and cushiony armchairs, is dominated  by an enormous flat screen tuned to whatever peppy talk show is on at the moment.

And since The Loved One forgot to bring her alarm clock, she's had to use the radio alarm that comes with the room and seems permanently tuned to the local oldies station.

Here's what I've gleaned thus far in my descent into reality. The radio, first. I was in that delicious few minutes of half-sleep this morning when suddenly the radio alarm began to blare the Beatles' "Back In The USSR." Only it sounded as though the Fab Four had swallowed a jugful of amphetamines before they recorded it. I realized that a lot of commercial radio stations still use that speed-up technique to quicken the pace of records so they can sound more "energetic" than the competition. I was transformed from sleepily serene to jaw-clenchingly tense before Paul McCartney could sing "Man, I had a dreadful flight."

Unfortunately for me, The Loved One had gotten up before the alarm and was already in the shower. I would have had to roll all the way over to the other side of the bed and stretch out to hit the snooze button. Horrors! So the speeded-up blaring continued.

Next up, the news. I guessed, correctly, that the lead story - the only story - would be the impending termination of the human race by swine flu. It was the kicker at the end of the newscast that informed me radio news readers still employ that stale old format of ending on a wry (read: stupid, dull, and guaranteed to make the brain dead titter) story. This one was about a Chicago guy who wants to open up a hot dog stand called Felony Franks. He wants to staff the joint with ex-cons. Now, that might be a sort-of interesting tidbit but the news reader found the names of the entrees to be the meat of the story. "He wants to serve Pardon Burgers and Misdemeanor Weiners," came the voice over the radio, "this is ABC News."

I suppose the news reader intended me to respond he-he or ho-ho. Instead, I moaned "Shut the fuck up!" which elicited the query from the shower, "What's wrong?"

I decide to go down in the lobby for a cup of coffee and write this post. I'm immediately overwhelemed by The Early Show on CBS. Well, whaddya know - the big story is the coming collapse of civilization due to swine flu. A jittery couple at home wearing surgical masks answer the host's questions. Their teenaged son has developed flu-like symptoms and was tested yesterday for the virus. While awaiting the results, they're doing what comes naturally to Americans - panicking. The kid is off-screen somewhere, coughing occasionally, as if on cue. The host asks them, "Is this the worst day of your life?"

Man, this human-race terminating, civilization-collapsing swine flu couldn't have come a moment too soon, for my money.

After a commercial for a lawyer ("If someone you love has died after using a pain patch containing fentanyl, call...,) The Rachael Ray Show comes on. The maniacally grinning face of Rachael Ray has infested more grocery store aisles than all the ants and mice that have ever lived. Now, apparently, she's a life coach, too. Today's show features a segment on The Recession (that will, of course, collapse civilization.) A woman calls in to say she'd recently lost her job and asks what she should do next.

Again, she called Rachael Ray for this vital advice!

I can't take it anymore. I dash over to Barnes & Noble to buy Newton's "Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica." I have to hurry up and read it before civilization collapses.

Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

Big Mike: Can I Get A Crutch Here?

There are two things in this life I've tried to get into time and again but have failed at, miserably: smoking and religion.

Let's start with smoking. I tried my first cigarette when I was 16. Many of my Amundsen Park pals had already begun smoking, Kools mostly. Those menthol cigarettes seemed more candy-ish than, say, unfiltered Camels and so were more tasty to my fellow teens.

One day I lit up a Kool. The sickly sweet smoke curled into the upper reaches of my nasal passages, causing me to reel. I regained my balance and surreptitiously dropped the smoke before I could even take a second puff.

A fellow named Carl started hanging out at the park. He was a poet, rather delicate of nature and appearance, and seemed to be attuned to the outside world. The rest of us were a more provincial collection of lunkheads - we thought the world began at Schmidt Drugs at Austin Boulevard and ended at the Sears on Harlem Avenue, a mile and a half away. Carl had travelled to Europe with his family and he knew lines of Shakespeare. Naturally, I was drawn to him.

One fall Friday night, he asked me if I wanted to get high very cheaply. It was a high, he claimed, that was every bit as good as that of pot - perhaps even better - and was virtually impossible for tyrants such as parents and the cops to detect. Why sure, I responded. He handed me what appeared to be a normal cigarette and directed me to light up. I shrugged and inhaled the tiniest of drags, remembering what had happened the last time I tried to smoke.

Within a few seconds it felt as though the top of my skull had blown off and my head was now spewing steam like a nuclear power plant's cooling tower. Carl sat staring at me, a smug smile on his face, as I attempted with all the might I possessed not to topple over.

Finally, I rediscovered the ability to speak. "My god," I gasped, "what was that?"

"Just a Newport dipped in paregoric. Quite a pleasurable high, isn't it?

I nodded perfunctorily.

"Try some more," he said.

"I will, but I have to do something first."

With that, I dashed home and hid in my bedroom for the rest of the night. I never was any good at partaking of the more exotic drugs. Later, I'd learn that paregoric, in addition to being a strong analgesic, is an old-fashioned remedy intended to slow down peristalsis. It's main use through the years has been as an anti-diarrheal. Gee, thanks, Carl.

I didn't think about smoking again for the next five or so years until I started hanging out at dance clubs like La Mere Vipere, Neo and O'Banion's. Everybody wore black at those places. My friends and I would dance all night long to Bowie, the Vapors and New Order, emerging from the clubs with our clothes streaked white from evaporated sweat. Everybody smoked but me so I had to try it again.

I looked good with a cigarette in my hand. Conversation becomes an art form when the speaker can punctuate his utterances with the jab of a cigarette. I bought the mildest cigarettes I could find, Parliament Lights, and I still couldn't inhale, an act guaranteed to induce not only the old dizziness but now also headache and nausea. I'd light up a pack a night without inhaling once. Finally I threw in the towel. Sadly, my punctuation props cost several dollars a pack.

As for religion, I never could quite get the hang of having a personal relationship with god, as mentioned in my previous post. The old bird has never seemed interested in my dramas and if there's one thing I won't stand for, it's being ignored.

Hundreds of millions of people smoke. Billions worship one god or another. Both cigarettes and religion are addictive. What's wrong with me that I can't seem to get hooked on either?

Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Randolph Street: The World In Chicago

Photojournalist Jon Randolph owns Fridays on The Third City. Today, he offers us peeks at Chicagoans who've come from all over the globe.

Fatima Mohammed, a Somali, at Ronan Park.

A kid on a carousel at a Neighborhood Boys and Girls Club carnival, Irving Park Road and Campbell Avenue.

A worker in the meat market district, 853 W. Fulton St.

A man at El Pinguino ice cream company, 3244 W. Lawrence Ave.

A Little Leaguer at Horner Park,

Irving Park Road and California Ave.

Join us tomorrow for more hot air from the keyboard of Big Mike Glab. Look for a Letter From Milo the day after. Benny Jay opens the week Monday with more gas. And, of course, Randolph Street will be back next Friday. The Third City is here for your reading pleasure every day.

Benny Jay: Snoring Through Horror

For our Saturday night movie, I rent "The Pianist," Roman Polanski's film about the Warsaw Ghetto. I didn't want to. I got this thing about unspeakable horror. I don't handle it well. I still haven't watched "Hotel Rwanda." Almost walked out of "The Killing Fields."

But with "The Pianist," my Wife insisted. She's been wanting to watch this movie for years. She says it's 'cause Polanski's such a great director. But I think it's cause she's had a thing for Adrian Brody ever since she saw him kiss Halle Barry at the Oscars.

Watching the movie with us is my good buddy Ed, who's in from out of town on business and is sleeping in the spare bedroom opened up when my Older Daughter went to college.

So the movie starts and within a few minutes I know why I didn't want to watch it. It's relentlessly disturbing -- thousands and thousands of people herded to death. There's no good guys rushing in to save them. Madmen rule the world. I close my eyes. I can't bear the sights and sounds. Oh, why, oh, why did I rent this?

In the midst of the carnage, Ed starts to snore. Not too loud. But you can't ignore it. I find it sort of reassuring -- a break from the slaughter. After about five minutes, he stops snoring.

Midway through the movie, its tone changes. The Adrian Brody character -- the pianist -- slips out of the Warsaw Ghetto. The parade of death stops. At least, we don't see it 'cause he doesn't see it. The movie, after all, is viewed from his perspective. It becomes less a tale about genocide and more a story about one man's heroic efforts to stay alive. I can handle that.

At the climax, when the central character's almost out of his mind with hunger, he finds, of all things, a piano. He starts to play. It's a moment of iconic heroism and triumph, a symbol of man's fierce determination to survive.

And right in the middle of it all, Ed -- my good buddy from out of town -- starts snoring. Only this time it's not a gentle buzz like before. Aw, hell no -- man sounds like a chain saw. Gzzachachazzzz -- like a parody of Curly in the Three Stooges. If you put a towel on his face, it would flutter up as he exhales.

"Ed, Ed," says my wife.

"Huh? Huh?" says Ed, lost in sleep.

"You're snoring...."

"Snoring?"

"Snoring....."

"Okay...."

He opens his eyes. Sees the pianist playing the piano. And falls back asleep. "I hear the TV," he says, "but I'm asleep....."

A few minutes later, he's snoring again.

When the movie ends, Ed wakes up long enough to go to bed. Pretty soon I'm the only one awake in the house. How the hell these people can sleep after watching the extermination of thousands of people is beyond me.

I look at the clock. It's two in the morning. I'm wide awake -- no sleep for me. I put on "Stony Island," Andrew Davis' classic flick about a soul band trying to make it big in Chicago in the 1970s. I love this movie -- takes me back to the time I moved here a billion years ago. Near the end they play "Ooh, Child, Things are Gonna Get Easier." Damn, I love that song. I sing along. I can't sing, but what the hell -- there's no one around but the dog. And the dog never complains: "Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier, ooh, oh, child things'll get brighter...."

By 4:30 I think I'm ready for sleep. I trudge up the stairs and climb into bed. I close my eyes. But I hear a noise. Sounds like a buzzing. Maybe an alarm clock. Or a rodent in the wall.

I get out of bed and walk toward the sound. It's coming from my daughter's bedroom. I walk closer. It's getting louder. I push open the door. It's Ed -- freaking Ed! He's snoring. Sounds like water rushing down an unclogged drain.

He's dead asleep. Oblivious to it all. Some guys have all the luck.

Letter From Milo: Legalize This

Back in the good old days when I used to smoke a bit of reefer (I developed glaucoma at a young age), I paid about $40 an ounce for a bag of decent Mexican weed. Out of that forty dollars I figure about $10 went into the pocket of the dealer, another ten went into the dealer's supplier's pocket and the rest of the money found its circuitous way back to Mexico.

At the time, in the early 70s, there was an epidemic of glaucoma in the USA and there were literally millions of folks who had to smoke reefer to gain some relief from the affliction. That meant that there were millions of $40 transactions taking place every week. That also meant that a lot of money was going into the dealers' pockets and a huge amount of money was flowing back to Mexico.

But not one cent went into the coffers of the United States government. In fact, the government was actually losing billions of dollars trying the suppress the marijuana trade.

As I understand it, the price of marijuana has skyrocketed over the years. The same bag that cost me $40 now sells for several hundred. Yet, the government still does not make a penny from this multi-billion dollar business.

It is estimated that marijuana is California's largest cash crop. Yet California - which is in the throes of a terrible budget crisis, and has to borrow money from the feds just to maintain basic civic services - refuses to even consider legalizing and taxing marijuana. This strikes me, and quite a few other commentators, as the height of fiduciary irresponsibility.

The government taxes and regulates tobacco, alcohol and gambling. Why can't they tax and regulate marijuana? Let the potheads help pay the salaries of our city and state employees. Then we might hear conversations like this:

Cop: Did you know you were going the wrong way down a one-way street?

Driver: (giggling) Didn't realize it, officer.

Cop: Young man, are you stoned?

Driver: Chill, dude, who do you think is paying your salary?

Cop: Ah, sorry boss. Didn't mean to inconvenience you.

I won't even try to argue the ethical, moral or health issues of marijuana, but from a strictly economical viewpoint, the continued prohibition on marijuana makes no sense. It is a costly, ineffective program that has proven to be a complete failure. Marijuana is as popular as ever. It is a multi-billion dollar business with the potential to bring in billions of tax dollars. I just don't get it.

While I'm at it, I'd like to propose the legalization of all drugs. Legalize everything - coke, heroin, meth, crack, cough syrup, model airplane glue, banana peels - everything.

Alarmists might say I'm crazy: Milo, are you nuts? The streets would be crawling with depraved junkies.

I say, So fucking what? The streets are already crawling with junkies. I doubt if the number will increase just because drugs become legal. A certain percentage of the population will always be drug addicts. Oh, there might be a spike in useage at first, but once the novelty wears off people will come to their senses.

Besides, there's nothing as harmless as a junkie when he's loaded. They pass their days staring at TV, dozing or picking lint from their belly buttons. Junkies only become dangerous when they don't have any junk. That's when they break into your home, rob you on the street or commit senseless murders.

I say let the junkies register in a national addict program, then they can visit their MD, get a prescription, walk down to their neighborhood Osco and pick up their drug of choice. It works with methadone programs, and it will work with other drug programs.

Besides reaping huge amounts of tax dollars, legalizing drugs will have added benefits.

With the stroke of the legislative pen we could empty our prisons, which are filled with people serving time for drug-related offenses and costing taxpayers billions yearly in upkeep. We could break the power of the narco states in South America and Asia. Terrorists who rely on drug money to finance their schemes will have to get day jobs. The Mexican border gangs, who have created their own mini-states along the Rio Grande, will fade away.

If history has proven anything, it's that vice can't be stopped. Prohibition is the prime example. Did people quit drinking liquor because the government banned it? The only thing Prohibition did was to enrich organized gangs and entrench them in society, so that even now, 90 years after Prohibition was enacted, mobsters are still a force to be reckoned with. Had it not been for Prohibition, mobsters would never have been anything but a historical footnote in American history. No Godfather, no Goodfellas, no Untouchables.

Let the good times roll!

Big Mike: The Greatest Feeling Ever

The usual suspects, plus some new ones, are screaming bloody murder over Barack Obama's invitation to address Notre Dame's graduating class next month. You'd be excused for thinking he'd submerged a crucifix in urine for all the outcry it has aroused.

Obama is wishy-washy about abortion, a stance not good enough for the extremists among the right and the Catholic church. They want our elected leaders to equate abortion with the Holocaust and the genocide of Indians in the Americas, something Obama won't do. Of course, there are probably quite a few who are a lot less agitated about the latter two issues than the first.

I'll make one pronouncement about this whole tempest before I go on to the meat of the post. I'm all for people hollering their fool heads off about Obama's invitation. I hope they protest, stage prayer-ins, and wave placards as passionately as if an ND quarterback had been jobbed out of the Heisman. That's the strength of the United States - our freedom to tell the President to his face that he's full of shit.

I only wonder if these same right-to-lifers were as outraged when Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush spoke at Notre Dame commencements months after their elections, considering their giddy infatuation with capital punishment, a practice the Church considers as evil as abortion. I think I know the answer already.

Anyway, I was raised Roman Catholic. My parents sent me to St. Giles elementary school and then Fenwick High School, both in Oak Park. My parents and I attended church every Sunday at St. Giles.

The mass lasted an hour, which to my seven-year-old brain was the equivalent of the Holocene Epoch. I spent that near-eternity resisting the urge to giggle, enduring one or more waves of nausea induced by a nearby worshipper's excessive perfume or body odor, kicking my legs, staring at the pew back in front of me, and waiting for the blessed end of the ordeal.

That was signaled by the glorious moment wherein the priest would announce, "The mass is ended, go in peace," to which the proscribed response was, "Thanks be to god." Sometimes I'd be sitting within yards of my school chum Albert DiPrima. The two of us after a while started responding Thanks be to god in loud voices of dramatic relief, after which we'd giggle surreptitiously to each other. One day, though, we must have gone too far because I received a sharp rap on top of my cranium from my father's knuckle and Albert's father led him out of church by the ear.

After mass, we'd come home, Dad and I would strip out of our jackets and ties and Ma would shed her girdle and begin frying up bacon and eggs. My brother Joey would join us for breakfast. He'd reached the age allowing him to skip mass, a passage I anticipated as deliciously as receiving my first drivers license.

We'd sit around the kitchen table as Ma served up the grub, my father busy buttering four slices of homemade bread, one of which I'd invariably snatch away from him, which - now that I look back on it - must have been his plan all along. Those breakfasts were among the fondest of my childhood memories mainly because the torture of church was over at least for another week.

I never could figure out this religion business. The nuns at St. Giles taught me in catechism class that my first duty as a Catholic was to love god. Hmm, love god - what the hell did that mean?

I'd seen pictures of Michelangelo's fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel portraying god and various other hallucinations. So I adopted that image of the old bird. I was still left with the question, How do I love him? I tried hard to make it happen when I went to bed at night and said my prayers. I didn't exactly know which prayers to say so I silently repeated the mantra, I love you god, I love you god, all the while imagining I was kissing the cheeks of Michelangelo's deity.

One day, the St. Giles principal, Sister James Mary (don't ask me why she'd adopted a male saint's name - suffice it to say that catholics are just whacked when it comes to sex), visited our catechism class and informed us that loving god was the greatest feeling we'd ever experience. This was at odds with my own empirical observations based on my tentative forays into more immediate gratifications under the covers.

That moment completed a process that had begun a few years earlier when Sister Jerome (another gender-ambiguous nun - it's a wonder I'm not even more sexually fucked up than I am) ordered us never to watch or listen to the Beatles because, well, just because.

I knew that Sr. Jerome had to be wrong because the Beatles with their long hair and Beatle boots and cool suits were, well, cool. And if Sr. Jerome was wrong about the Beatles, what else could she be wrong about?

So, by the time I was 12, I'd quit the party, er, the church. Thank Michelangelo's deity I did, otherwise I might be one of those blowhards hollering about Barack Obama's invitation to speak to the Notre Dame graduates.

Benny Jay: Cell Phone Play by Play

I wasn't gonna watch game one of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series. After the Bulls looked awful losing the last game of the regular season to the dreadful Toronto Raptors, I sent Milo an e-mail announcing that I was officially through with these worthless bums -- forever!

Plus, I had a track meet to attend. So I'm sitting on the aluminum bleachers of Hanson Stadium watching the 4/200 meter relay when Norm calls.

"You watching this?" he asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "How bad are we losing?"

"We're not losing -- we're winning. In Boston -- we're beating them in Boston, Benny...."

"No...."

"Yes...."

"How much?"

"Up three...."

"Oh, my God -- call me back. Keep me posted!"

A few minutes later, he calls back: "We're down one. Nine seconds left. Derrick at the line...."

"Oh, my God!"

"What?" says Daddy Dee, who's sitting next to me.

"Rose on the line," I tell him.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" says Norm.

I interpret this as a made free throw. "Bulls tied it," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Whee! Yeah!" says Norm. "Derrick Rose...."

I interpret this as another made free throw. "Bulls up one," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Celtics call time out," says Norm. "I'll call you back...."

A few minutes later, my cell phone vibrates. "Yeah?" I say.

"Damn," says Norm.

"No," I say.

"What happened?" asks Daddy Dee.

"Noah fouled Pierce with two seconds left," says Norm.

"No!" I say.

"Yes!" says Norm.

"Damn!" I say.

"What?" asks Daddy Dee.

I fill him in: "Noah fouled Pierce. Two seconds left. Pierce on the line. If he makes `em both, the Bulls lose...."

"Tied," says Norm.

"He made the first," I tell Daddy Dee.

"He missed," screams Norm. "He missed! The Truth missed, Benny!"

"Overtime," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Keep me posted," I tell Norm.

My phone vibrates -- Norm again: "We're up two in the OT...."

"Just stay on the line," I say. "I can't take this anymore. I need the play by play...."

"Okay, Rose has the ball," says Norm. "No. Agh! Ugh! Man...."

"What? What? What?"

"Agh!"

From the anguished tone of his wail, I gather something bad has occurred.

My phone vibrates. It's my sister. "Hold on, Norm -- I got another call. I'll put you on hold." I switch to my sister. "Are you watching this?" she asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "But I got my friend on the other line giving me the play by play. What's going on?"

"Well, there's three minutes and four seconds left and the Bulls have the ball. Now it's three minutes and three seconds, three minutes and two seconds, three minutes and one second...."

"Stop counting down the time -- tell me what's going on!"

"Three minutes left...."

Oh, brother. I love her dearly, but she's the absolute worst at play by play. I switch back to Norm. Apparently, he never knew I had him on hold cause he's in the middle of yelling: "Damn, Benny...."

I'm just about bellowing: "What? Is it good? Is it bad? What? What?"

"You got to calm down," Daddy Dee tells me.

"Tyrus hit a jumper -- Bulls up one," says Norm. "Celtics call time out. They got a last chance!"

"Call me back," I say.

I watch the runners. I hunch over and remind myself to stay calm. I'm surrounded by people and I don't want them to think that I'm any weirder than they probably already think I am. I cross my fingers. I actually cross my fingers. I have officially lost my freaking mind.

The phone vibrates. It's Norm. He has this tone of wondrous satisfaction: "We won, Benny...."

"Yeah?"

"Thirty-six points and eleven assists for Derrick Rose, Benny. I told you, dawg -- Dee Rose is the real deal...."

The phone vibrates. It's my sister. "They did it; they did it," she says.

"I know, I know...."

The phone vibrates. It's Young Ralph: "Did you see this?"

"No, I was at a track meet...."

"Tyrus Thomas won it with a jumper -- Tyrus Thomas!"

Daddy Dee's phone rings. It's his son, Jordan. "Yeah, I know," I hear Daddy Dee saying. "Hold it." He tells me: "Jordan says the Bulls are gonna sweep `em!"

All around me I heard the sounds of people officially jumping on the Bulls bandwagon, as calls come in telling people the unbelievable news: Bulls win! Bulls win!

My phone vibrates. It's Milo: "Did you see this?"

"No, I'm at a track meet. But I heard."

He can't resist. He says: "Why would you care, Benny? I thought you were through with the Bulls -- remember?"

Ha, ha, ha. Funny man -- a regular George Carlin. As the gun goes off for the start of another race, I tell him: "Well, Milo, I guess I changed my mind."

Big Mike: What Are You Rebelling Against?

I was born and raised in a little neighborhood called Galewood, part of the larger, officially recognized Austin neighborhood on Chicago's Northwest Side. The residents of Galewood were Italian, Polish, Irish and Greek, with a Jew or two for good measure.  The men of Galewood were more white-collar than not - plant managers, insurance men, elementary school principals and so on. The women stayed home to vacuum.

We had a politician or two who lived nearby as well, including Benjamin Adamowski, former Cook County State's Attorney who challenged Mayor Richard J. Daley in the 1963 election, and Edward V. Hanrahan, another State's Attorney, who led the terror squad that whacked Black Panthers Fred Hampton and Mark Clark.

There were no blacks in Galewood. But the place was lousy with Outfit characters, from upper-echelon bosses to low-level juice loan collectors.

My old man, a shipping/receiving dock foreman, and my mother, a vacuumer, lucked their way into Galewood. Looking to buy their first home in the 1950s, they happened upon a comfortable bungalow on Natchez Avenue owned by an ancient dowager named Mrs. Alstead. Not sophisticated enough to squeeze every last penny out of her home, she offered it for a good deal less than $20,000. Ma and Dad snapped it up.

Even at that bargain-basement price, the house was too rich for my father's meager salary so Ma had to go to work, first at a sandpaper company, gluing abrasives onto heavy-gauge cards while I floated blissfully in her womb, later for Frank's Dime Store, and then for Sears. To this day, she brags about her magical way with money. She relies on a tried-and-true series of old financial saws guaranteed to make the eyes of her children roll like pinballs:

• I robbed Peter to pay Paul
  
• I made a penny do the work of a dime.
  
• I struggled to make ends meet.
  

When I was very young, I heard that last adage as "make ennsmeat," which I assumed was some old country dish that she didn't feel like preparing anymore.

Sadly, in part because Ma was a pecuniary tyrant, I rebelled and became a profligate spender. Oh, I won't blame all my debtor woes on her; I possess, after all, a wide streak of compulsive narcissism. But one of my primary goals in life has been to show Ma that actually buying stuff isn't fatal.

My Galewood neighbors attempted to impart many other lessons to me. Here's a compendium of Galewood's philosophies on black people:

• They wreck everything we give them.
  
• They're comin' after our daughters.
  
• Martin Luther King speaks with a forked tongue.
  
• JFK (or LBJ or any national Democrat) is a nigger-lover.
  
• The White Sox lose because they have too many niggers.
  
• They don't want to work.
  
• Better watch out or they'll take over.
  

Even as a dopey kid, I couldn't figure out how a group that didn't like to work would have the ambition or capability to "take over."

Galewood's actions were as alarming as its words. When, for instance, Ma refused to participate in an anti-busing school boycott, our house was showered with raw eggs. And after King's assassination, I took a schoolyard ass-beating after objecting to the prevailing opinion that he'd gotten what he'd deserved.

As mentioned here in previous posts, I had a hard time washing myself clean of Galewood's racial muck. Even though I mourned King's death and was outraged by those of Hampton and Clark, I still found myself uttering slurs now and again. It took me years to free myself of even unintentional racial loathing.

I compare my own growth in this matter to that of the nation's. Sure, we've elected a partially black man as president. Yet, as the inane "tea parties" of the past week demonstrated, we're not totally free of racial fear.

Too many people bandied placards and words decrying our new "tyranny" and comparing Barack Obama to Adolph Hitler. They aren't just suggesting that taxation or government spending programs are the moral equivalent of the Holocaust or Saddam's gassing of the Kurds.

It's more cryptic than that. I suspect the "tea party" right-wingers are not as devoted to Ma's brand of thrift as they are enslaved to Galewood's old fears that "They'll take over."

The tea party-ites still have a lot of racial muck to wash off.

Letter From Milo: A Good Pimp Is Hard To Find

I haven't been sleeping well lately. I've got a lot of things on my mind - the nation's economy, my economy, the Bulls playoff chances, the White Sox playoff chances, my dog's health, the undeniable fact that I'm not the #2 pencil I used to be - just to mention a few things. But the one thing that is driving me crazy, the thing that starts the snakes squirming in my head, is trying to find a literary agent.

I've written two books in the past couple of years and am in the process of writing a third. The first one, a poker-themed novel titled "Schoolboy," I had to self-publish as an ebook because I could not find an agent to represent it. It did very well as an ebook, lingering at the top of the best seller list for more than a year. The second book is now being considered by two different agents, one who wants to give it "further consideration" and another who says it's interesting and will get back to me soon.

Athough this may sound like a promising situation, it's basically the same shit I heard about the first book, so I don't have great hopes that either one of them will take me on as a client.

The problem with trying to publish a book is that most publishers will not look at a manuscript unless it is represented by an agent. Go to the web sites of the major publishers and right there on their home pages they state, "We do not consider unagented manuscripts." In other words, no agent, no publisher.

I can understand this on an intellectual level. Publishers are deluged by manuscripts. They need some sort of screening process to weed out the bullshit from the even worse bullshit. So they use agents to do their triage work. The thinking is that if legitimate agents, who work strictly on commissions, are willing to put in their precious time trying to sell a manuscript, then there must be some value in it. After all, why would an agent waste time on something unsalable.

Despite the fact that I hate leaving my fate in someone else's hands, I had no choice but to play by their rules, So, when I finished my first book, I spent a long time sweating over a query letter and began sending it out to agents. In due time I began receiving replies, both email and postal. I had a few good responses, agents who wanted to see the first few chapters or a synopsis. The majority of responses, however, were flat-out rejections.

I haven't been shot down so much since I was a single guy trying to pick up chicks in bars.

Initially, I took the rejections in good humor. I took consolation in the fact that even the greatest writers suffered their share of rejections. After a while, though, I started getting pissed off.

It wasn't the rejections that were getting to me, it was the way I was being turned down. Some agents were clearly sympathetic to my plight, writing personal notes expressing their sincere regret that due to their heavy consumption of martinis, their long weekends in the Hamptons and their incredibly convoluted sex lives, they simply didn't have time to read my manuscript. That sort of rejection I could understand.

The agents that got my goat were the ones that waited months to respond and then replied with an automated response, like this one:

Dear Author:

Please forgive the impersonal nature of this rejection. Due to the overwhelming number of manuscripts we receive, we are simply not able to reject each author personally. This is in no way a reflection on the quality of your work. We wish you the best of luck in the future.

I immediately replied:

Dear Agent:

Please forgive the impersonal nature of this reply to your rejection. Due to the overwhelming number of rejections I receive, it is impossible to personally reply to each rejection. This is in no way a reflection on the quality of your rejection. I wish you continued success in rejecting authors in the future.

Needless to say, I did not hear from that agent again.

And then there was this snide reply to my query letter from some arrogant bastard of an agent:

Sorry, I never consider first novels. But I will say that your query letter is one of the best I've seen.

I stewed a while, then replied:

You cocksucker, if you like the query letter so much, why don't you try selling it and picking up an easy 15 percent on that.

Needless to say, I never heard from that agent again, either.

Author's Note: I don't want to give the impression that all my dealings with agents have been problematic. There have been some very kind and helpful ones, who have offered advice, referrals, and digital pats on the back. Among the good ones are Jim Fitzgerald, Steve Gregory, Henry Morrison, Laura Strachan, Jeff Kleinman and Bob Mecoy. If any of you writers out there fall into their hands, you should consider yourselves fortunate.

Randolph Street: This Business Is Full Of Hot Air

Photojournalist Jon Randolph takes us into a firm that boasts it has more than a million balloons in its warehouse. MK Brody Company has been selling novelties and party tchochkes since 1911. The company moved to the wholesale market district west of the Loop in 1960, when the area was a gritty, tough spot populated by men walking around wearing blood-soaked aprons.

The district, surrounding the CTA Green Line elevated tracks between Halsted Street and Ogden Avenue, still is home to meat, seafood, and floral wholesalers,

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but chic restaurants and clubs now dot the landscape there. And, of course, the area was granted its holy imprimatur when Oprah Winfrey opened her Harpo Studios on Washington Boulevard.

Brody sells everything from champagne glasses to breast cancer awareness pink ribbons to hand fans with Barack Obama's image emblazoned on them. But after the company bought out the giant 800-4-Balloons outfit in 2005, its business, well, soared.

See you here next Friday for another glimpse of Chicago brought to us by Jon Randolph. See you here tomorrow for more of Benny Jay, Big Mike Glab, and those all-too-rare Letters From Milo.

Big Mike: Everybody Has The Same Moon

Vincenzo Parello was my grandfather. My father and uncles all called him Jim, which I could never figure out. He lived with us until shortly before he died in 1966. He sat in an old, rickety rocking chair in the tiny back porch of our Natchez Avenue home, never rocking and never sitting back in it, either. He perched himself forward in the seat, his elbows on the arm rests, as if waiting to jump up and do something.

Not that he had much to do by that time. His days were occupied mainly by listening to the birds chirp on the utility lines along the alley next to the house. That and waiting for the garbagemen to come by. He was drawn to the garbagemen, as was I.

The sound of the garbage truck, still a block or more away, would prick up the ears of the two of us, separated in age by some 70 years. In those days, people threw their garbage into round, metal 55-gallon drums. After the garbagemen emptied each, they'd let it bounce on the ground, creating an echoing boom. I'd mimic the noise as the garbage truck came closer: boom, boom, boom.

Jim never failed to laugh at that. In his thick Sicilian accent, he'd say, "Mockie! Gah-bidge-ah can boom!"

Jim always had some tiny bit of garbage wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag. For reasons known only to himself, he kept his garbage separate from the rest of the family's. As soon as the garbage truck turned the corner behind our garage, Jim'd jump out of his rocking chair and toddle, bow-legged, through the backyard, waving. He'd hand his garbage to one of the crew and then engage them, whether they wanted to be or not, in a broken-English conversation - or more accurately, soliloquy.

Every once in a while, Ma would shake her head and ask, "Pa, why don't you leave them alone?"

Jim would look at her as if she were daft. "D'ey-ah my friends-ah!" he'd insist.

The beer truck drivers were also his friends. Jim's ears would prick up every other day when he heard the Hamm's truck come by, stopping at all the bars and restaurants across the alley. Again, he'd toddle through the backyard, waving. This time, though, he'd press a couple of dollars into the driver's hand in exchange for a case of beer. He never needed to explain his relationship with the Hamm's drivers to Ma.

At night, Jim would sit in the rocking chair and sip beer after beer out of a heavy, clear glass mug. Often, I'd stand between his knees, my butt leaning on the edge of the seat, as he imbibed. The aroma of the beer was intoxicating. Every once in a great while, Jim would let me take the tiniest sip out of his mug. I felt like the luckiest kid in the world.

It was odd that I remember the smell of the beer. Ma tells me that poor old Jim smelled like a goat. I don't remember that. She'd fight with him for days on end to take a bath. Once, he'd been working in the garden and Ma refused to let him sit at the dinner table until he washed his hands. He did so, in what seemed record time. Suspicious, Ma marched into the bathroom and fetched the erstwhile clean, white towel upon which he'd wiped his hands. She held it in front of him. "Look, Pa! Look! It's black!" she exclaimed.

Jim was defeated. After dinner, he sat in the tub. He refused to use soap, though. He claimed the smell of soap made him nauseated. Ma still shakes her head when she recalls scrubbing the ring he left.

He came from the rural outskirts of Agrigento, where daily baths and deodorant soaps were unheard of. As a nine-year-old, he went to work in the local sulfur mine. The sulfur dust was so corrosive that it could eat away at his clothes in a matter of days. Nobody could afford that so he and the rest of the mine crew - grown men and children - worked in the nude.

By the time he was 20, he found himself in an arranged marriage to an energetic girl named Anna Lazzara. The couple moved to America, settled in Little Sicily around Grand and Ogden avenues, and opened a corner grocery. Jim ran a bathtub gin and wine operation in the back room. Eventually, he began to take a jug of his homemade wine into the basement, where he kept a cot, and drank himself to sleep.

To Anna, Jim was a cafone. The mere sight of him turned her stomach. Still, they had seven kids. She divorced him after the kids had grown up. He always carried a torch for her, though.

One night, Jim, Ma, and I all sat in lawn chairs in the backyard, watching the dark sky and hoping to catch a glimpse of Telstar or Echo, early artificial satellites. A thumbnail moon was about to set in the west. Jim didn't know much about geography but he knew that Anna was in the west. She'd moved to Pasadena after the divorce because its weather reminded her of Sicily.

Jim stared at the moon for a few minutes and then broke the silence. "Susie," he asked Ma, "does-ah you mother have-ah the same moon in Kahleefornyah?"

He never learned to read or write. But one day, curious, I rifled through his belongings and found an orange booklet resembling a passport. It had his picture in it and his X on the signature line. The cover read "Enemy Alien Registration." For a hot minute, I imagined my beloved, simple Grandpa was a spy. What was I to do? Turn him in? I'd never get to sip his beer again. Tearfully, I confronted Ma with my discovery.

Ma roared. Grandpa had never become a citizen, she explained. During World War II, Japanese, German, and Italian nationals had to register so the government could keep tabs on them. She assured me Jim was a true-blue American. What a relief!

Vicenzo Parello died on April 9, 43 years ago. Every time I see the garbagemen, I think of him.