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.

Big Mike: A Guide For The Married Man

With The Loved One spending her weekdays in Bloomington, Indiana now, leaving me and the cats, Boutros and Terra, to our own devices, I've been thinking about the nature of marriage, love, relationships, and other forms of comedy.

TLO seems to be suffering more than we are. After all, she's sleeping in a sublet room, sharing an apartment with a cerebrum-on-legs grad student, while the cats and I have the run of the Louisville manor. We phone numerous times a day just to hear each others' voices. The conversations regularly seem to end up with one or both of us dewy-eyed.

I might think that would be the tale any married couple would tell in a similar situation but, of course, that isn't true at all. Take a couple of examples. My neighbor, Captain Billy, grants me the benefits of his wisdom as often as he can - that is, whenever her sees me before I can see him. The Captain has many fascinating ideas about husbandly duties and wifely obeisance.

He had much to say to me when he learned that I would drive TLO to work downtown every day before she jumped for saner pastures. We're a one-car family and I didn't want to be stuck without one. The Captain told me there was a perfectly good bus stop about a mile away and that my wife should have the decency to take that bus, thereby not putting me out and, besides, gas cost nearly four dollars a gallon at the time. "What the hell's wrong with her?" he demanded.

The Captain's family, being a normal Kentucky brood, has enough vehicles to open a used car lot. Everone in the family has a set of wheels. Hell, if Boutros and Terra lived with them, they'd have cars too. Normally, the Captain's wife drives her own car to work but at the time her car, a massive heap with a robust engine that serves as my alarm clock every morning, was on the fritz. Since the car has been in use since the Taft administration, it took weeks to find parts for it. Through those weeks, the Captain deigned only to drop his bride off at the bus stop, rather than haul her all the way to work (or, god forbid, let her use his car.)

For kicks, I decided to check the bus schedule to see how long her trip might be. It turned out she had to ride and hour and fifteen minutes each way. That bus, by the way, comes by every hour so woe unto her should she miss it.

I told the Captain that TLO might not reward me with a hug and a kiss if I suggested such a scheme to her. The Captain recoiled as if I'd taken a swing at him. "You tell her to take the bus," he advised. "You don't ask her."

Naturally, if I'd ever approach the delicate flower in that manner, I'd be the one recoiling from a flurry of swings.

I merely laughed off the Captain's advice and he walked away probably convinced my testicles are the size of protons.

Now, example number two. Skip the Trombonist's wife slipped while walking down the stairs late last fall and broke her ankle so badly she had to have metal bolts surgically inserted. Since she'd be confined to a wheelchair for a couple of months, she decided to stay in Harrodsburg in her sister's one-story home.

One Tuesday, during our Trivia game (Skip and I are part of Team Gorlock) I asked him if he missed the love of his life. "Damned right I do," he replied. "The dishwasher's full, the litter box is overflowing, there's nothing in the refrigerator. Shit, the place is a mess."

"Have you cooed these words into her ear yet, you old Romeo?" I asked.

"Nah. Why should I? Nothin' she can do about it now," he said.

After growing up in a family and neighborhood where husbands and wives regarded each other as if they were operating under United Nations-imposed cease-fires, I can be forgiven for thinking The Loved One and I have a rather unique relationship. Then again, I think of friends like Danny and Sophia, Ben and Pam, Milo and Sharon, all of whom have been hitched for more than 20 years. And if their words are to be believed, none has ever even entertained the notion of having an innocent fling. They all seem to cherish and care for their cellmates.

Who are the oddballs? We who sorta like our cellmates or Captain Billy, Skip, and their respective helpmeets?

Note from Big Mike: Celebrate today! It's the 200th birthday of both Abie Baby Lincoln (the original cast recording of "Hair" was the first album I ever owned - if you get the reference, you are awfully cool) and Charles Darwin. Both gents believed in god, pretty much the only thing I can take issue with either of them.

Big Mike: Hey, I Wanna Be An Evangelist Too!

Young Joe, the kid next door, rang my back bell yesterday afternoon. As usual, I'd been pounding away at the keyboard in my underwear ala Hemingway (pretty much the only thing we have in common.) Without thinking, I dashed upstairs and answered wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of wind-whipped man-bloomers - white with red hearts, natch.

The kid had been waiting in the rare bright sunshine (this has been a lousy winter even in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky), shifting nervously from foot to foot in his gargantuan sneakers in the melting snow. When he saw me, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head.

"Sorry buddy," I said. "I always write like this." The explanation only seemed to confuse him further so I let it drop. "What's up?"

He handed me two copies of a book. "These are for you and your wife," he said, smiling shyly.

I put my cheaters back on and studied the top copy's cover. It was entitled "One Heartbeat Away: Your Journey Into Eternity." It was, of course, a tome on god and how I ought to get cracking on believing in him/her/it before the old ticker shorts out.

"Um, thanks," I said. "Why are you giving these to me?"

"I'm witnessing for my church," Young Joe said.

At this point I was already debating in my mind whether I should tell him not to waste the books on The Loved One and me or if I should soften the blow and say One will do, thanks. I mean, I didn't want to appear unneighborly but, you know, save a tree and all that. Before I could speak, he said, beaming proudly, "I printed your names in them for you."

"Oh. Fine. Yes. Fine. Very nice. That's awfully nice of you," I replied, now holding the books as if they were rare artifacts. With that, Young Joe bid adieu and dashed back home.

The god and Jesus thing has been a quandary for me since I arrived in Louisville nearly two years ago. Back home in Chicago, belief in god usually manifests itself in one of two ways. The vast majority of people in the city proper profess to be far too sophisticated for traditional worship. I'm not a member of any regular religion, they might say, I believe in my own way. Those who aren't apologetic for their religiosity often can be found shouting into bullhorns on State Street.

In Kentucky, though, Christianity seems to be the club everybody wants to belong to. My first weekend here, I was cornered at Barnes and Noble by some old bird who bent my ear about how I had to accept Jesus. Cab drivers, Chick-fil-a drive-thru clerks, convenience store owners, and the like think nothing of going on and on about how fabulous and wonderful god and Jesus are. Or, I guess, is. Sometimes it seems as though every citizen of the Commonwealth has a story about how he or she was saved from some crushing reversal of fortune or even sudden death and has The Big Man to thank for it.

I try to keep my non-believer status close to the vest in these parts now. When we first moved onto Murray Hill Pike, I met Young Joe as he dashed through my yard chasing a ball. We introduced ourselves and exchanged information. Puffing out his chest, he told me he attends a school affiliated with one of the biggest mega-churches in the region. I told him that was, well, nice. "You should come to service on Sunday," he gushed. "You'll love it!"

"Well, I'll think about it," I replied. Then, to fill in an uncomfortable silence that followed, I asked, "What denomination is it?"

Young Joe looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Y'know, is it Methodist or Lutheran or something?"

"Oh," Joe said, "it's just Christian." Which is, as I understand it, a denomination all its own under The Big C umbrella - search me; as I said, I'm a non-believer

"So what are you?" Joe asked.

Uh oh. My mind shifted into fifth gear. What do I tell this 10-year-old about my atheism? I don't want it to sound as if I'm proselytizing. And I don't want his parents to think I'm polluting his mind. But he asked. "I'm, uh, nothing," I said.

Young Joe was aghast. "You don't have any religion?" he whispered, as if merely uttering the words would taint his soul.

"No," I answered, sotto voce, the way I used to speak in the confessional.

"Then you have to come to services Sunday," Joe concluded. In the ensuing weeks, his mother, Jan, repeatedly told me how terrific their church was and how we were invited to come anytime as her special guests. I thanked her repeatedly. She still doesn't know the exact nature of my beliefs although the language that came spewing out of me last summer when I hit my head on the Prius's hatchback latch gave her an indication I'm not a Baptist minister. Jan and her mother had been sitting in the swing behind her house when the torrent commenced. Even though It was a perfect evening, the two hustled inside as if my verbiage were a plague of locusts.

I'm rather touched that Young Joe hopes to save my soul. I appreciate Jan's invitations to church. And, honest, I listen politely when cabdrivers go on and on about how god's hand has guided their lives. I only wish I could figure out a way to tell them about my god-free world without thinking I'm gonna burn in hell.