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.

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....

Benny Jay: Juke Box Battle

It's Monday night bowling, and we're on lanes one and two, the closest lanes to the jukebox. That's good, cause the closer you get to the jukebox, the more likely you're gonna play it. And, let me tell you, the music's been bad in recent weeks. All those thirty-something-year-old chuckleheads reliving their glory days, playing crummy 1980s rock. Good God, if I hear Axl Rose singing Paradise City one more time....

Cap starts us off with Tower of Power -- What Is Hip? I take it as a tribute cause Cap knows I love that song. And Cap and I -- we start jamming with the drums in the closing riff, going at it beat for beat with Tower's rhythm section, never missing a beat, cause we've heard the song one zillion times before and we'll probably hear it another zillion times again cause some songs never get old....

When it's over, we jump back, high fiving and walking with a little strut, like we're sending a big-time message to the young bucks in the bowling alley. We're a couple of old dogs -- born in the `50s, raised in the `60s, come of age in the `70s -- and we know what's good.

Watching it all is Young Ralph, one of our teammates, who's got to be, I don't know, 25, maybe 26. And he heads over to the jukebox and he puts on Snoop Dogg, `circa 1996 -- Gin And Juice. And he and J-Dub, who's maybe 31, sing along from memory, like the words are etched in their brains. Let me tell you -- it's not easy. Snoop raps fast. But, I swear, they don't miss a word -- something about "mama ain't home" and "bitches in the living room" and "pocket full of rubbers." I don't know -- I can't be sure cause I can't really follow them. When they get to the chorus, they come up close, waving their fingers in my face and going: "Rollin' down the street, smokin' indo, sippin' on gin and juice, laid back with my mind on my money and my money on my mind...."

And when the song's over, they start high fiving like they da shit. And so it's on. A generational showdown. Battle of the ages: `60s and `70s versus `90s and the `00s.

So we come at `em with Stevie Wonder and they come back with Ice Cube; and we do Johnny Taylor, and they came at us with Lil' Wayne, and we trump their ace with Al Green. And not just any Al Green. But "Love and Happiness."And that shuts them up cause you can't top "Love and Happiness" and everybody knows it. Especially the part at the beginning where the guitar does a little riff and Al Green cries: "Someone on the phone/Three o'clock in the morning -- yeah/Talkin' about how she can make it right." Only he doesn't say right -- he says ri-hight. And Cap and I press our right hands -- like they're microphones -- against our mouths, like their microphones, pretending we're Al Green up on stage.

They try to recoup with Outkast -- Elevators (Me and You): "Me `n yo' mama `n yo' cousin too rollin' down the strip...."

J-Dub's doing this gentle bump with Erica, Young Ralph's girl. I wave my hand in disgust, like that's nothing. But inside I'm thinking: Damn, I didn't know J-Dub was such a good dancer, and, damn, I kinda like that me-and-yo-mama-and-yo-cousin-too-bit. Though I'll never -- never, ever, never -- admit it....

Cap puts on The Marvelettes. Only instead of singing "Don't Mess with Bill," I'm singing: "Don't Mess With Benny -- leave my Benny alone."

Norm thinks that's funny. Cause I can't sing. I just bellow, more like a screech. But it's so noisy in the bowling -- what with balls crashing into the pins -- no one can hear so no one cares.

Cap puts on Darling Nikki, which is a compromise, cause everybody -- old and new -- loves Prince. Young Ralph, Norm, J-Dub, Cap and I are bellowing together: "I met a girl named darling Nikki -- I guess you could say she was a sex friend...."

Then Erica -- who's as young as Young Ralph -- shocks us all by playing "All I Do" by Stevie Wonder -- I mean, that songs got to be older than she is. And, well, that just brings down the house. Cap's Steppin' with Erica, who's getting quite a work out with all the attention. And we're all singing: "All I do -- is think about you...."

When the night ends we hug and high five. I guess you can say the great generational showdown ends in a tie.

I walk home in the freezing cold -- I mean, out of nowhere this goofy weather dropped at least 20 degrees -- but it's really not so bad. I'm singing "All I Do." In my mind I sound as good as Stevie Wonder. I'm still singing it when I walk through my front door.