Benny Jay: Weak Signal

I usually have at least two books going at once. But lately I've been in a reading funk, seems like I haven't read a good one in weeks.

Blame it on "The Wire." What a show. I might have gone my whole life without watching it -- never saw it when it was running on HBO, and it's been off the air for months. But Mike, the video store guy, told me about it -- said I absolutely had to see it, said it was the best show ever.

So I rented a DVD and after that I couldn't stop watching it. I'd be renting DVDs every other night. Mike must a made a fortune off of me. I was like a junkie, staying up to all hours, watching up to two or three episodes a night. Ran through five years worth of episodes in no time. Finished with a bang -- four shows in one night. Didn't get to bed `til five in the morning. Woke up in a daze, like I'd been on a drinking binge.

I say this all to let you know that when the night began I thought: Tonight's the night I read a book. But, you know how it goes -- once you're hooked on the tube it's hard to get unhooked. I remember Game Five's on ABC -- Lakers versus Orlando.

I turn the tube to Channel Seven. But Channel Seven doesn't work. Instead, a sign comes on: "Weak Signal."

"Weak Signal?" I mutter to myself. "What the fu...."

I surf around -- Channels Five, Nine and 32. They all work. All the funky little VHS stations work. I go back to Seven. "Weak Signal."

It must be that analog thing. I got the converter box 60 million years ago and Merlin -- our friend, the computer genius -- installed it. It had been working. But now it's not.

I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen. I'm hoping that if I stare at it long enough, it will fix itself.

I turn it on. "Weak Signal."

I call up to the stairs to my wife. "Hey! The TV doesn't work...."

Silence. She's got the radio playing. So I yell louder: "THE TV DOESN'T WORK!"

"What?" she yells back.

"It's that analog thing," I yell.

"You have to reload it," yells my younger daughter.

I'm stunned that she of all people would have an opinion on this. "How do you know?" I yell.

"I heard it on TV...."

I look at the screen. "Did you say to unplug it?" I yell.

"No, reload...."

"Reload?"

"Yes...."

"Reload?" I mutter to myself. "What the hell does that mean?"

I look at the TV changer. I look at the screen. It's like I'm expecting one or the other to tell me what to do.

"How do you reload it?" I yell up the stairs.

"Call Merlin," yells my wife.

I find the phone. I call Merlin. He's not in. I leave a message, something like: "Merlin, you won't believe this, but the TV doesn't work. My daughter says to reload it. But I don't know what that means...."

I hang up. I try again. "Weak Signal." What a joke. It's bad enough I can't watch basketball most of the year cause I don't have cable. Now I can't even watch it when it's on Free TV. They made such a big deal about how getting rid of analog was gonna improve our lives, but they somehow managed to make things worse.

I throw the TV changer on the table, flop on the couch, and lie still for a moment. I hear my daughter and wife moving about upstairs. I casually look to my left and lying on the living room table -- beneath an old, unread copy of Time Magazine -- is a book: "City of Thieves" by David Benioff.

I remember buying it weeks ago on an impulse. Forgot all about it while I was hooked on "The Wire." I pick it up and start reading. It's about these two young men -- one's only 17 -- wandering through Leningrad in the winter of 1942 when the Nazis are shelling the hell out of their city. You figured it'd be ghastly depressing. But Benioff's got a dark sense of humor. The two boys haven't eaten a decent meal in weeks. They're both constipated. They have this one exchange:

"`When was the last time you had a shit?' Kolya asked me, abruptly.

"`I don't know. A week ago?'

"`It's been nine days for me. I've been counting. Nine days! When it finally happens, I'll have a big party and invite the best-looking girls from the university.'"

I laugh out loud when I read that bit. There are few things in life as pleasurable as reading a passage that makes you laugh out loud. I keep reading. I forget where I am. Time goes by. I'm a hundred pages or so into the story. It occurs to me -- the game must be over. I wonder who won. I click on the TV. "Weak Signal."

I know my wife can fix it -- she's freaking genius with this sort of thing (remind me to tell you about the time she fixed my ex-brother-in-law's vacuum cleaner). But it will probably be months before she gets around to taking the time to figure it out. Oh, well, we'll survive.

I return to my book. We're better off without this shit anyway....

Benny Jay: I Hate The Lakers!

It's been kind of quiet on my basketball front since the Bulls lost to the Celtics weeks and weeks ago.

But with the finals on free TV, I'm watching game four at home by myself and I'm trying to stay calm.

Lakers up two to one in the series. But Orlando has a three-point lead with eleven seconds left and Dwight Howard at the free-throw line. He hits one free throw and the game's pretty much over and the series tied.

I'm starting to get excited. Not cause I like Orlando -- I don't. But cause I hate the Lakers! I mean, I hate them almost as much as I love the Bulls, which is saying a lot.

I'm not sure why I hate the Lakers so much. Oh, hell, who am I kidding. It's envy -- raw and unadulterated. They're good. Really good. Always good. And even when they're bad, it doesn't really matter cause their fans don't seem to care. They're not lunatics about their teams -- like me and Milo and Norm and just about every other serious Bulls fan that I know. You don't see them walking around at midnight after a particularly hard loss, howling at the moon. What the hell do they care if the Lakers win or lose? They're rich. They hang with gorgeous babes -- they live in the sunshine out by the ocean. They don't need to win. And yet they do. Meanwhile, we desperately need to win, yet we don't -- or haven't in years. Is that fair? See my point? God, I hate the Lakers!

But, anyway, like I'm saying, they're about to get theirs. All Dwight Howard has to do is hit one....

The dog barks. The front door opens. My wife walks in. She's been out with a friend. "Are you watching the game?" she asks.

"He's gotta make one free throw...."

He shoots -- and misses....

"No!" I rage.

He shoots -- and misses again....

"No, no, no!"

And then, oh, man, the Lakers get the ball. Derek Fisher hits a three. The game goes to overtime. Oh, you don't need to know the rest. It's utter agony to watch -- why would I want to relive it? I can't even bear the final seconds. I turn off the TV before the game is over. I don't want to see the Lakers celebrate. Bad enough knowing that somewhere out in L.A. there's a fat guy with a bad toupee sitting in a hot tub with four gorgeous babes whooping it up....

I take out the garbage. I sweep the floor. I clean the sink. I get a text from Norm. He's gloating. He loves the Lakers. I don't know why....

I walk into the bedroom. My wife and my younger daughter are reading their books. So quiet and calm. Like nothing happened. I stand there. A few seconds go by.

"I hate the Lakers!" I say, breaking the silence.

My wife looks up from her book and smiles. It's a pleasant smile. A nice smile. The kind of benevolent smile you'd give a five-year-old who showed you his finger paintings.

She returns to her book.

"If Howard had only hit one free throw...."

They keep reading.

"Just one -- not even two. Just one...."

My daughter looks up with an annoyed grimace: "Dad -- I'm reading...."

I walk to my computer. I check my email. I wonder: If my wife had not come home when she did, would Howard have made a free throw? No, really, follow me on this. Is it possible that her coming into the house at the precise moment that she did set off some sort of invisible-to-the-eye psychic chain reaction -- like the butterfly that causes a hurricane -- that resulted, you know, in Howard missing those free throws? Anything's possible....

Norm text messages: "It's over."

I tell myself I shouldn't hate the Lakers! Hate is a negativity that hurts the hater more than the hated. I should love the Lakers! I should embrace their inner Lakerness.

I start to text message a congratulatory response. I get as far as: c-o-n-g-r-a-t. Then I stop. I can't do it. The hate's too strong. Ahhh! God, I hate the Lakers!

I grab the leash and walk the dog. I head down the street. I look at the sky. I go about four or five blocks and I realize: I've been thinking about Ronnie and Sammy -- two kids in a book I've been reading. I'm not thinking about the Lakers. My mind is on that book. The game's gone. Like it never happened.

Had it been the Bulls who'd lost rather than the Lakers who won, I'd be howling at the moon. But I love the Bulls. I only hate the Lakers! And that's the thing -- love is stronger than hate. Pass the word. There's hope for us all....

Randolph Street: Let's Keep Rollin' Down The River

Our resident photojournalist, Jon Randolph, is back from the land of sweet air and crystal clear Canadian waters, where he's spent the last couple of weeks reeling in a big haul.

"Caught fish like crazy at Lac Seul - walleyes and northerns," he tells us. "Got me a 36-inch pike and a 25 1/2-inch walleye. As old Mayor Daley used to say, 'There is nothing so wholesome as a fish.'"

We're sticking with Jon's series of pix shot between 1975 and 1986 along US Highway 61, following the Mississippi River.

continued below pix

"Mobile Home," Luxora, Arkansas

"Soul Bar," Mississippi

"Hunter," Arkansas

"Felix," Minnesota

"Cabbies," New Orleans

"Beach Boys," Wacona, Minnesota

continued from above pix

"I've got at least three to four weeks-worth of pictures left," Randolph says. "Unless you're tired of them or something." Hell no! We feel Jon is our own Walker Evans or Dorothea Lange - and this series proves it.

Join us next Friday for another Randolph Street. We're here everyday with new posts by Benny Jay, Big Mike Glab and the eagerly awaited Letter From Milo.

Benny Jay: Entertaining Ourselves

Big Mike and I are on the phone going over the fine details of launching our blog site.

A million, zillion people in the universe are launching blog sites everyday, but for us it's an impossible ordeal. I think Bill Gates built Microsoft in less time than it's taking us to launch this baby. The only man in the universe more ignorant about computers than Big Mike and me is Milo, the other stooge in this enterprise. Thank God he's not on this line or we'd be spending needless hours trying to explain this stuff to him.

As it is, Big Mike's in the middle of yet another labyrinth explanation of the latest chapter in this ongoing clusterfuck, and I have absolutely no clue as to what he's talking about so I keep ask extraneous questions that take him on tangents.

Then my other phone rings.

Usually, I'd just let it go. But, a.) I'm expecting a call from my buddy Rick, and b.) I think Big Mike could use a break from my endless stupid questions.

So I say: "Hold it right there, Big Feller." And I take the call.

"Hello," I say.

Pause. Then an unfamiliar male voice says: "Who just called me?"

There's an edge of suspicion to his tone. Like somehow I did something wrong, when, in fact, I did nothing wrong. Cause -- after all -- it was he just who called me!

So I say: "Who are you?"

Man, George Bernard Shaw himself couldn't come up with a wittier retort.

He mumbles, all indignant like: "Must be the wrong number." Then, click, he hangs up. No, sorry for taking your time. Or, my bad, I messed up.

I tell Big Mike what happened and for some reason it tickles our collective funny bone. It's hard to explain why we find this so funny. Perhaps it's cause the world is so unrelentingly miserable that we have to find ways of entertaining ourselves. But, whatever, we're going over the exchange again and again, analyzing its every detail, and we can't stop laughing.

Little do I know, but my younger daughter's in the next room. She must have been reading or something, cause she walks out in a huff, like my gales of laughter have interrupted her and she says: "Oh, my god -- how can you think that's funny?"

I ignore her and I tell Big Mike about the time I got a phone call from a lady who heard me say hello. "And then she goes: "Who's this?"

He's roaring.

"And I go: `Who's this? Who are you? You called me....'"

Big Mike stops laughing long enough to say: "How can she possibly think that's the right response to dialing the wrong number? This can't be the first time she dialed a wrong number and heard a strange voice on the line. When she did it before, did someone say, `This is Harry, who are you?'"

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha....

"Or, `Well, I'm glad you asked -- I've been wondering myself. I'm having an identity crisis....'"

Identity crisis! It's too much.

I'm howling. He's howling.

My daughter walks past the room. "Are you still talking about that?" she says in disbelief.

I want to call her a hater but I can't get the words out, I'm laughing so hard.

"Oh, my god," she says. "You and your friends are so weird...."

Benny Jay: Out Beyond The Arc

I'm at James Park up in Evanston with my my bowling buddies -- Cap and Norm -- watching Cap's kid, Miles, playing baseball.

Norm notices there's a basketball court across the way.

"You got a basketball in your car, Benny?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I do...."

He looks at me and I look at him. We don't say a word. But I know what he's thinking: Yes, we came to watch Miles pitch. But he's already pitched his maximum three innings. And it's a lovely spring night. So....

We head over the court. On one end there's an empty basket. On the other end, a dad's playing one-on-one with his ten-year-old son. The dad's pretending he just can't block his son's shot. And the son is really excited cause he only needs one more basket to win the game. Meanwhile, over in the parking lot, a group of teenagers are passing a joint and listening to their car radio. I feel like I've gone back in time.

I won't kid you. As much as I love this game, I was never very good at it. I could never dribble with my left hand and I shot the wrong way (two hands, not one). I played strictly Y ball and intramurals. My game never advanced beyond going to the corner and waiting for someone to pass me the ball....

But, in the spring of my senior year -- when there was nothing much else to do -- I played basketball almost every day. Used to come to this park with my friends and shoot `til the stars came out. I mastered a Chet Walker head fake and taught myself to shoot like Bob Butter Bean Love, with the release behind my head so it's hard to block. I wore cut-off blue jeans, floppy socks and black All-Stars. We played until it was too dark to see and then we walked to the corner store and drank our soda and ate our chips and talked and talked and talked....

Norm throws me a pass. I haven't shot in years. Officially, I have retired. Every five or so years I retire.

My first shot falls short. My second comes closer. The third hits the rim. "Damn," I exclaim.

Norm's not hitting many either. The thing is -- he's the real deal. Back in the day, he started for Hales Franciscan High School on the south side.

We're really getting into it. I hit one. Norm hits a couple. I drill three in a row from the corner. "You love that corner, Benny," he tells me.

We shoot so much we forget about the baseball game. The sun's gone from the sky. It's hard to see. My back's aching -- like I pulled a muscle. Norm says his knee's acting up.

But we keep shooting.

Norm says it's time to take it out beyond the arc. I say, first guy to hit a three wins a dollar. He shoots and misses. I shoot and miss. He shoots -- all net.

"I shoulda known better than to bet with you," I tell him.

He pockets my dollar and says: "C'mon, Benny -- you can't go without hitting a three...."

So I go beyond the arc and launch a long jumper -- all net.

I start dancing and singing: "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!"

Norm throws me a pass. I fire up another shot. All net.

"I'm Craig Hodges," I say. "Craig Hodges -- the world's greatest three-point shooter."

My third shot looks dead on. I raise my arms in triumph. But, no, it rattles out.

I figure it's time to go. But Norm's not ready to leave. The pride and joy of Hales Franciscan's not about to let no YMCA boy beat him.

He goes out beyond the arc and just like that -- bam, bam, bam -- hits three in a row. His fourth shot bounces out. But bottom line: He hit three and I hit two.

Don't get it twisted....

"I knew it Norm," I say. "I knew you weren't going to walk off the court in second place...."

Norm can't repress his smile.

"You beat me on my home court," I tell him.

"Next time, Benny," he says.

As we walk back to Miles and Cap, I get a feeling that I may have overextended myself. My toes, knees and back are aching. But, man, for a split second -- when that second three went in -- I almost felt young again....

Benny Jay: Swimming With Sharks

In the middle of the day, I get calling from my old friend, Pamela, the school teacher, calling from her class up in Evanston.

Must be the end of the school year cause I can hear the kids in the background, chattering quietly among themselves.

Pamela starts in where she left off the last time we talked just a few days ago. There's this used Mercedes she wants to buy from some dealership out in the western suburbs. She thinks the salesman is trying to rip her off -- he offered to sell it to her for 24-something but at closing he wanted 25-something. Or something like that. I never could get this car stuff straight.

"It's because I'm a black woman -- they think they can rip me off," she tells me. Just like she told me before. "If I was a white man, they wouldn't play this game...."

"Pamela -- white or black; man or woman -- it's all the same. They always try to nail you by adding on money at the end," I tell her. Just like I told her before. "This is what they do...."

Then I launch into the same story I'd already told her about how a different salesman at a different dealership in a different town pulled the same stunt on me and my wife when we bought our Ford.

But, Pamela's not buying it. She barely listened the first time I told her the story, and she's definitely not listening now.

"Here's what I want you to do," she says.

Uh-oh. Right away, I know, trouble's coming. She wants me to call the dealership and pretend I'm interested in buying the car and see what they offer. "Make sure you talk like a white guy -- use your best white guy voice. They have to know you're white...."

"Pamela, I can't do this...."

"What do you mean, you can't do this. You the president, ain't you?"

About four years ago, I hooked her up with someone she needed to know in a completely different matter and ever since she's been calling me the president -- like I'm the man with the amazing connections.

"Pamela, I don't know anything about cars...."

"So what -- I'll tell you everything you need to know...."

She goes into this recitation of everything I'll have to say. And, like the dummy that I am, I'm taking it all down -- literally. I mean, I'm writing a script of what I will say.

"It's a Mercedes CLK 350," she says.

"DLK 350?" I ask.

"No, C...."

I'm all mixed up. "Did you say C or D?"

"C -- like cat. Not D -- like dog. There's no DLK 350. Don't you know nothing about Mercedes?"

"No, nothing. How many times do I gotta tell you -- I know nothing about cars...."

"C'mon, president -- pay attention. Now, they wanted me to pay 25,800. But they're going to offer you 24,000. I know it. Just ask them for the advertised price...."

So I call the number she gave me and I wind up talking to a saleslady named Liz. Reading from my script, I say: "I want to buy a CLK 350. How much will that cost?"

Pause. Then Liz says: "Did you say CLK 350?"

"Yes," I say, desperately trying to sound confident, even though I'm having a panic attack because I just can't remember -- is it DLK or CLK?

Another pause. Then Liz says: "Sir, this is a BMW dealership -- we don't sell CLK 350s...."

Damn! Pamela gave me the wrong number. I try to play it off, like -- ha, ha, ha -- it's an innocent mistake and that I really know the difference between BMWs and Mercedes. "Oh, yes, of course," I say with a phony chuckle. "Sorry...."

But Liz is not done with me. As long as I'm on the line, she's gonna take a bite. "Sir, I have an LLS 500 on the lot. 2006. I'll sell it to you for 33-9. That's the best I can offer...."

At least, I think that's the car model she mentioned. Lord, only knows what she really said. "Ugh, no...."

"That's better than you'll find anywhere for a comparable Mercedes...."

"I gotta go...."

"What's your name?"

Not knowing what else to do, I hang up and call Pamela. "Okay, Miss-just-do-what-I-tell-you, you gave me the wrong number...."

"What!"

"You gave me the number to a BMW dealer. I called a BMW dealership to buy a Mercedes...."

"Oops...."

I hear the whole class cracking up. I swear, she's got me on the speaker phone. Guess I'm the entertainment for the day.

She gives me another number and I wind up talking to a salesman named Tony. I play it hard. I'm starting to get into this. I'm talking with a thick Chicago white-ethnic accent -- like I'm a Mobster from the northwest side.

"What's your advertised price for a CLK 350?" I ask.

"28,991...."

"Naw, naw -- your best price. I walk in there right now -- cash in my hand -- what are you gonna give me?"

"To be honest, sir, the only way I can do this is if you come in here," Tony says. "I have to run these things by my manager...."

I'm really getting into my mobster routine: "Forget the manager. It's just me and you, Tony. Gimme your best offer...."

"Sir, I can't do this over the phone...."

"Forget it, then....."

"Sir, what's your name?"

I say the first thing that pops into my head: "Harry...."

"Okay, Harry, what's your phone number?"

I start to panic again -- like what if this guy tracks me down? My mobster accent disappears. "I can't talk now," I say.

"Your email, Harry -- what's your email?"

"Oops, got another call coming in...."

I hang up the phone. My heart is pounding. I wait to see if Tony uses the caller ID to trace my number and call me back. Nope -- phew. I call Pamela. "This guy was a freakin' shark," I tell her. "You got me swimming with sharks. Five more minutes and he'd have sold me a car...."

Pamela and her class are howling.

"Find some other white guy to play this part," I say. "I don't even like cars...."

Benny Jay: You Shoulda Seen the 800

I drive all the way to Eastern Illinois University to see the boys high school track and field championship.

It's a three-hour drive -- all the way to Charleston, Illinois. Hit the road at 7, get there at 10. What can I say -- I love this stuff.

Bobby Gee, the track guru who knows everything about everything, tells me I absolutely, positively can not miss the discus. They got two behemoths -- Dan Block and Marcus Popenfoose -- battling it out.

I'm not really a discus guy, but the way he's talking about it, well, how can I resist? The problem is that the discus is held outside the main stadium for all the obvious reasons. I mean, those big boys throw it so far there's no way you can have it in the stadium without someone getting hit upside the head with a discus. And, man, that must hurt.

So I go over the schedule and I come up with a great plan: I'll miss the 800-meter run and check out the discus. That's my great plan.

I leave the stadium and join the crowd watching the discus competition. By the way, you'd be shocked by how many people were out there. I mean, there must have been -- I don't know -- over 200 people lined up around that discus field. And they were really into it -- never knew so many people were so serious about discus throwing. When a guy walks into the throwing ring, folks get really quiet, like it's a golf match and they don't want to disturb his concentration. And you could tell how far the throw goes by the crowd's reaction. If they go "aw" it's like they're disappointed and it means bad throw. If they go, "yeah," it's like they're all excited and it means good throw. Get it? And after every throw you got people marking the distance in their score books. I mean, keeping score at discus competitions -- who knew? Then they have all these incredibly intense conversations about each throw -- breaking down the approach, release, follow throw. I mean, to quote the great Brian Scalabrine: "This shit was ridiculous."

Anyway, I'm looking all around for Block or Popenfoose, but I can't see them anywhere. So I ask this girl, who's keeping score, and she tells me -- no, no, this is the 2A discus competition. You know, for throwers from mid-sized schools. And Block and Popenfoose are in the 3A competition -- for throwers from bigger schools.

"So I'm at the wrong competition?" I ask.

And just about as soon as I say it, I hear a roar coming out of the stadium like some major stuff is going down.

And instantly, I think: Uh, oh -- what did I miss?

Then these three kids from Oak Forest High School come racing up from the stadium, and they run over to their friends, who are standing by me. They're so excited, they're almost out of breath as they try to recreate the wonder they'd just seen.

"Oh, my God, you shoulda seen the 800...."

"It was fucking unbelievable, man...."

Turns some kid came out of the pack to pass the front-runner on the final stretch in record time.

And I'm thinking -- damn! There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- more exciting than watching one runner come from behind a bunch of other runners to win the race down the stretch.

So I run back into the stadium. Not sure why. I mean, the race is over, what's the point? It's not like I'm going to see anything. They don't do instant replays on the giant screen. They don't even have a giant instant replay screen.

It's like -- I don't know, I just have to be where the action was. And sure enough as I reach the main field all the reporters and photographers are still buzzing about that 800.

"Oh, my God...."

"Amazing...."

"Best race of the day...."

And so on.

A coach asks me if I saw the 800 and I tell him that, no, I was watching the discus.

He looks at me like I'm an idiot and says: "The discus? Why would you be watching the discus?"

"I wanted to see Block and Popenfoose...."

"They're not up for another thirty minutes...."

So rather than repeat this conversation with everyone who asks "did you see the 800?" I start to lie. Oh, don't hold it against me. It's not really a lie. Cause I don't actually tell people that I saw the 800. What I do is -- I sort of muddy the waters.

They go: "Did you see the 800?"

And I go: "Amazing race...."

And so on....

By the way, I did see Block and Popenfoose throw the discus. And they were amazing, especially Block. He threw that sucker over 200 feet -- and that's a long, long way. It went so high -- I swear, I thought it vanished in the sun.

When it's over, I race back to the stadium to tell all the photographers and reporters: "Did you see Block throw that discus?"

Do you think they care? Hell, no. All they want to talk about is the 800. Block coulda thrown that discus all the way to Kankakee, and they're still gonna be talking about the only freaking race that I happened to miss.

Well, whatever. I drive home and Saturday turns to Sunday and next thing you know it's Monday morning and I have an appointment with my doctor, who happens to be a big-time track fan.

He gives me a checkup and tells me I'm doing fine. And as I'm about to leave, I mention I saw the boy's state meet.

And he says -- "oh, my, did you see the 800?"

I wince and then I say: "Amazing race...."

Okay, okay, so I didn't really answer his question. But give me credit -- at least I told the truth.

Big Mike: This Means War

I was on the phone with my esteemed colleague, the renowned author Benny Jay, the other day. Somehow the conversation got around to the first concert I'd ever attended. I told him that I'd seen Parliament and War at the International Amphitheater in 1973. There was silence for a moment, then Benny Jay launched into hosannas about my coolness that led me to believe if we'd have been in the same room, he'd have begun salaaming me.

Now, Benny Jay is as wired in to the Brother Culture about as much as any white man ever has been. I assumed he'd been in the groove from childhood on. Sadly, he wasn't. Benny Jay later admitted that way back in 1973, he was still listening to Top 40 songs on WLS and WCFL.

In the 60s, these two seminal Chicago rock 'n' roll radio stations had introduced me to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Jackie Wilson and the Chambers Brothers as well as blue-eyed soul brothers like the Rolling Stones, Tommy James and the Shondells, the Young Rascals and others. I still listen to all of them to this day. But by 1973, the two radio titans had grown stale, reflecting the state of pop music at the time, and my radio dial never again came near either AM 890 or 1000. I refused to listen to the unbearable crap they were playing. To illustrate, here's a list of some of the top songs of 1973. Read it and try to refrain from retching:

• "Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Old Oak Tree," by Tony Orlando and Dawn
  
• "The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia," by Vickie Lawrence
  
• "Little Willy," by Sweet
  
• "Half Breed," by Cher
  
• "Wildflower," by Skylark
  
• "The Morning After," by Maureen McGovern
  
• "Diamond Girl," by Seals and Crofts
  
• "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," by Bette Midler
• "Funny Face," by Donna Fargo
  
• "The Twelth Of Never," by Donny Osmond
  

And some people think waterboarding is torture. Poor Benny. He says it wasn't until he went away to college that his musical horizons broadened. He became infatuated with Jimi Hendrix, among many others. Now, I can take Jimi Hendrix or leave him (well, to tell the truth, I'll leave him, period) but that's a matter of taste. At least he turned a youthful Benny Jay away from Tony Orlando and Dawn.

Our conversation got back to that first concert I'd attended. My pal Whitey and I took the No. 72 North Avenue bus from its western terminus at Narragansett Avenue seven miles east to Halsted Street, where we picked up the No. 8 bus and headed south another 57 blocks to Bridgeport and the Amphitheater. The ride took a good two-and-a-half hours but we both loved War. The song, "The World Is A Ghetto," was a brilliant, haunting, 10-minute-long masterpiece. Whenever it came on the radio (by this time, I'd become an habitual WGLD listener - the low-watt Oak Park station that later gave way to WXRT) I became lost in it, cranking the volume up to Nigel Tufnel's mythical 11. A bomb could have gone off next to me but I'd take no notice.

Neither Whitey nor I were familiar with Parliament but by the time its opening set was finished, we'd become diehard fans. Since we were a couple of half-broke Northwest Side teenagers, we could only afford cheap seats. We sat somewhere near the upper boundary of the troposphere and viewed the proceedings through a dense haze of legal and illegal smoke. We got back home to Galewood around 4:00am, proud of ourselves for our sojourn into the big, black inner city.

"How many white people do you think there were at the Amphitheater that night?" Benny asked.

"I'd say two - Whitey and me," I replied.

"So, you were the only two white guys in the whole place, and one of you is named Whitey!" Benny exclaimed, roaring. Then, he added a correction. "Three white guys - you forgot War's harmonica player, Lee Oskar."

I congratulated Benny Jay on his knowledge of War. Thank the gods, dumb luck or modern pharmacology, his listening to Donny Osmond hasn't resulted in brain damage.

Benny Jay: Modern Man

I'm driving north on Southport, and my car dies....

I know there's no good place to stall in traffic, but this place particularly sucks -- in the left turn lane, just south of the intersection. I suppose it could be worse. I could, you know, be in the middle of the intersection. Guess I should count my blessings....

It's noon. Car's zipping by. Nothing I can do. I try to go through life without swearing. I really do. It shows a lack of discipline and creativity. But, every now and then -- FUCK!!!

Ah, now I feel much better....

I have a cell phone. But it's almost as useless as my car. The battery's low. The battery's been low for about two weeks. I need a new battery. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the cell phone store to get a new battery when my car died. Can you believe this shit?

I figure I have just enough juice in my battery to make one quick call. So I call my wife, who's really busy at work. And I tell her: Can'ttalklongphonealmostoutofbatteriescardiedintrafficcalltriplea....

Which translates into: Can't talk long; phone almost out of batteries; call Triple AAA.

Message conveyed, I put on the blinkers, rush to the back of my car, and direct oncoming traffic to go around me. Some doofus in a Toyota honks his horn, like, you know, I'm standing in the middle of the street for some reason other than my car has died.

"My car is dead," I tell him.

"Fuck you," he says.

Ah, the compassion of my fellow man....

A guy on a bike pulls over and asks: "Need help?"

I want to hug him. Instead, I say: "Thanks, man...."

He gets behind my car. "We'll push it through the intersection," he says. "So you're not blocking traffic...."

We push, but the car won't budge. "You have to take it out of park," he tells me.

"Right," I say. "I knew that -- I really did...."

I hop back into my car. I'm about to switch gears when I see the keys dangling from the ignition. On an impulse, I turn the keys. It works!

"It's a miracle -- the car's on," I tell the biker. "Thanks for everything -- you're the man...."

I want to turn left and park on the side of the road. But the light's red and the car's quaking, like it's about to die at any instant. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the light to turn green. Ever notice how long something takes when you're waiting for it to happen?

The light turns green -- finally. I make the turn. The car's like an animal who's been shot in the leg with a bullet, limping along in pain. I drive it past the no-parking, bus-stop zone. I pull it into an empty space, just as the car dies. Phew!

I get a call from an editor. I tell him I can't talk -- battery low. I get a call from my wife -- she tells me Triple A is on its way. My phone dies. All juice gone. What the hell good is it? I toss it on the seat. I feel like the main character from that Isaac Bashevas Singer story who's on a train from New York City to Montreal in the years just after World War II. It's modern times and he's a modern man. But he feels as though with a flip of the switch he'll slip back to the Dark Ages. That's how fragile our existence is....

The deep thought passes and I bide the time the way I usually do -- thinking about the Bulls. Today's paper had a picture of Ben Gordon wearing a Blackhawks jersey. I wonder if the Bulls will sign Gordon. I start to call Norm to talk it over, when I remember: My phone's dead.

The Triple A tow truck arrives. The driver's named Ed. He couldn't be nicer. He hitches me to his tow truck, tells me to hop on in and he drives me to the mechanic. Along the way, he says the problem is the alternator -- the thing that feeds juice to the battery. It used to be called the generator. He's giving me a whole lecture when -- wham! -- the tow truck hits a speed bump that he obviously didn't see coming.

It feels as though my car was dropped from the sky.

He hops out of the truck to see if my car is damaged. Oh, brother, just what I need.

"It's okay," he assures me when he gets back.

He drives me to the mechanic and we walk into office. "We're here," I tell the lady at the cash register.

"Now, who are you?" she asks.

"The Ford," says Ed.

"Oh," she says. "Your P's husband...."

"Yeah, the one and only...."

She fills out a form and says: "Who should we call?"

"My wife," I say. "She's the brains of the family...."

"Guess you're the beauty," she says.

I shrug with Elvis-like humility and say: "I guess that's what I bring to the equation...."

When I leave the shop, she's smiling. I'm feeling pretty good, like I'm still quick with a one-liner.

Gonna call my wife to tell her all about my witty exchange. And I remember -- the cell phone's still dead. Aw, man. That's the thing about technology. It's one step forward, one step back. Probably all better off without it....

I walk home, get my bike, and peddle on over to the cell phone store.

Benny Jay: Memorial Day

The strongest memory I have of Donna Reed is as Jimmy Stewart's wife -- Mary Bailey -- in "It's a Wonderful Life."

I've seen that movie a hundred times -- watched it nearly every Christmas for as long as I can remember. I love that scene where Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed -- young and in love -- are walking home at night from the dance. He promises to give her anything she wants in life. Just say the word and he's gonna "throw a lasso around the moon" and give it to her.

Yeah, yeah, I know -- I'm hopeless....

I was thinking of Donna Reed cause of a story in today's New York Times by Larry Rohter. Turns out that during World War II -- when Reed was still in her twenties -- hundreds of soldiers sent off to the battlefields of Asia, Africa and Europe saw her as a beloved reminder of the life, women and country they missed.

They'd write her letters -- hundreds of hundreds of letters -- "as if to a sister or the girl next door, confiding moments of homesickness, loneliness, privation and anxiety," Rohter writes.

"The boys in our outfit think you are a typical American girl, someone who we would like to come home to!!!!!" wrote Sergeant William F. Love. He wrote that letter on August 18, 1944 from the jungles of New Guinea.

Here's another letter quoted in the story: "Sometimes I wish I was back there with the old gang, able to go the usual rounds of the week. Occasionally, I will set on the fantail and look at the moon, wondering how many of our old friends were doing the same."

Then there's this 1943 letter from Lieutenant Norman P. Klinker: "One thing I promise you -- life on the battlefield is a wee bit different from the `movie version.' It is tough and bloody and dirty....quite an interesting and heartless life at one and the same time."

On January 6, 1944, Lieutenant Klinker was killed in action in Italy.

These letters would have been long forgotten. Except Donna Reed saved them -- kept them in boxes -- and her daughter discovered them. One thing led to the another and Rohter wrote it up in today's New York Times.

Here's the thing: Donna Reed "became an ardent antiwar campaigner" during the Vietnam War. She was co-chairwoman of "a 285,000-member group called Another Mother For Peace," and she volunteered for Senator Eugene McCarthy's 1968 anti-war presidential campaign, according to Rohter.

The story quotes her biographer, Jay Fultz, who writes: "She looked forward to a time when 19-year-old boys will no longer be taken away to fight in old men's battles."

Anyway, on Memorial Day, I'd like to offer a toast of gratitude to all the men and women who served -- my father; my uncles, Milo; my nephew Terry; and John Reeves, just to name a few.

And here's to all the other warriors -- Donna Reed among them -- who fought just as hard for peace.

Benny Jay: Now, That's How You Kill Somebody

I'm in Charleston, Illinois for the girls high school track championship. Me and the gang: Bobby Gee, Casey, the CPA, and Caldow. Super track freaks every one.

We broiled for hours in the sun, watching the qualifying rounds and now we're at a restaurant for dinner. I'm famished. Eating like a buyer -- like I ran the races....

Caldow is talking about a track meet that happened two zillion years ago.

Did I tell you I love talkers? Well, I do. I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame. I'm thinking of getting them together for a party. You could charge people to attend, it be so entertaining. Just off the top of my head I'd have to invite Daddy Dee, Alonzo, Johnny (the black Forest Gump), and Lavinia's Uncle John. And Caldow -- gotta have Caldow. Of all the talkers, he may talk the most. I think the man was born talking....

Afterwards, we head over to Wal-Mart to by some stuff. I'm wandering around the big, old store with Bobby Gee and Casey.

Casey says: "I need a pillow...."

This being a Wal-Mart, there's about a million to pick from. She can't make up her mind.

Bobby Gee plucks one from the pile and says: "Get this one. It's only five bucks -- plus it's red...."

I don't have anything to buy. But I pass the school supply section and I see they have notebooks on sale. They're the little, itty-bitty flip-over kind that fit into your back pocket. It's like four for $1.29. I can't resist. I buy three packets. Then I see a pack of pencils. I don't need pencils. I don't even use pencils. But, there's twenty-five to a pack. Plus, they have all sorts of brightly colored erasers. Again, I can't resist. I take a pack.

We go to the self check out line. I'm not sure what to do. I'm standing at the machine, looking at it. Big Mike was right -- I have this phobia about machines. I have this fear that if I make the wrong move something terrible will happen. I make a mental note to myself: Gotta get some psychological assistance for this machine thing....

But Jamika, one of the girls on Bobby Gee's team, steps up to show me how to use the machine. She wipes the notebooks and pencils across the scanner. Pushes the right buttons. Inserts credit card. The whole thing. The girl's a freaking genius. Just call her Wilma Gates....

I'm so grateful I give her a pencil. Throw in an eraser too -- you know, as a bonus.

We're in the car, backing out of the parking space. Bobby Gee says: "Let me know if I hit anyone...."

"Just a small child," says Jamika.

I'm really impressed. First the machine. Now comedy. The girl's got jokes. Who knew?

I wind up with Caldow in Bobby Gee's dorm room -- yes, we're staying in a dormitory -- watching a movie on Bobby Gee's computer. It's the movie "Taken," starring Liam Neeson. Here's all you need to know about "Taken." It's really stupid. I mean, really, really, really, really stupid. Neeson plays this super-strong, super-smart ex-CIA agent whose 17-year-old daughter gets taken (hence the title) by a bunch of Albanian thugs who plan to sell her as a sex slave. I'm not making any of this up.

Did I tell you the movie's really stupid? Well, it is. But here's the thing. I get into it. I mean, way into it. I can't help myself. It moves really fast as Neeson goes after the bad guys to save his daughter. And here's the best part of all. I got Caldow doing the commentary. Everything that happens he's got something to say. Neeson shoots someone, Caldow says: "Those CIA guys are good shots. That's all they do -- practice shooting all day."

Neeson kills a guy with a karate chop, Caldow says: "Now, that's how you kill somebody. Crack. Split their neck. It's over...."

This bad guy drives a car into a bridge that knocks his head off his neck, and Caldow says: "You're dead. Next...."

Neeson kills a ton of bad guys while trying to save his daughter. Caldow's got something to say about each death. I never knew the guy knew so much about murder.

Plus, he's giving Neeson advice -- like the guy, you know, can hear him. Stuff like: "Look out." Or, "his gun needs a silencer. Use a silencer." Or, "duck." Stuff like that.

The climactic scene occurs on a boat that's running down the middle of the Seine. It's not really a boat so much as a super big yacht that's owned by this sheik who has a thing for virgins. So the movie boils down to this: Can Neeson save his daughter before the sheik deflowers her?

There's got to be -- oh, conservative guess -- fifteen bad guys protecting the sheik. Each one has at least two guns. Neeson doesn't even have a pistol. Yet he manages to mow them all down. He kills a guy with a karate chop, takes the dead guy's gun and shoots the other bad guys. You get the idea.

Eventually, it comes down to Neeson and the sheik, who has a knife to the throat of Neeson's daughter.

Bam, Neeson shoots him. The bullet whizzes past his daughter's head to splatter the sheik's brains. "I told you those CIA guys can shoot," exclaims Caldow. Like what we saw, you know, really happened.

The daughter hugs Neeson. But Caldow's one step ahead of us. "Look out," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"Who's driving the boat?"

"Huh?"

"They killed everyone. So who's driving the boat?"

"You're right," I say. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Cause you're not Yoda," he says. "The all-powerful one...."

Apparently the movie maker felt no need to address the all-important question of who's driving the boat. Because the movie ends a few minutes later and they never tell us how they got off the boat.

"Neeson must have killed two dozen people," I say.

"Let's count `em," says Caldow. He starts tallying up the carnage, scene by scene. The guy's like a machine. He remembers murders from the movie that I had long forgotten. He's breaking them down by categories: decapitations, shootings, blows to the brain and so forth.

He loses count at twenty-something. But it's late. We're tired. We go to bed.

The next morning at breakfast, we're feeling refreshed. Caldow and I pick up where we left off, trying to count up exactly how many bad guys Neeson killed.....

Benny Jay: Hacking Like A Mug

Got a cold. Came last week. Thought it would go away. But it only got worse. Burrowed in my chest. Now it sounds like it's here to stay. Fuck....

Got me hacking like a mug. Sounds like I've been smoking two packs a day for the last twenty years. I should be up and at `em, working the phones. But all I wanna do is sleep....

I lie in bed. Tell myself -- this will only take five minutes. Just need a little rest....

Thirty minutes later I wake up and look around. Where the hell am I? In bed. Ugh. Start coughing. That leads to hacking. My stomach muscles ache. I feel sorry for myself.

I call my wife at work. "Do you have the swine flu?" she asks.

The swine flu! Damn. I hadn't thought of that.

"Take your temperature," she says.

I find the thermometer buried behind the Band-aids in the bathroom cabinet. I shove it in my mouth: 98.3. I feel better. Then I think: What if I didn't take it right? What if my mouth was open too much? I have this notion that somehow or other keeping my mouth open lowers the temperature. I take it again. And again. I become obsessive about my temperature. It's like the Bulls versus Boston one more time. I'm losing my freaking mind....

I go back to bed and look up at the fan. I turn to my right. There's a Reader's Digest on the night stand. Reader's Digest? How did that get here? I haven't seen a Reader's Digest in years.

I wind up reading an article called, "America's Funniest Jokes." Sid Caesar and seven other comics are sitting around a table in the back room of a deli, swapping jokes. Here's the first joke: "A man, shocked by how his buddy is dressed, asks him, `how long have you been wearing that bra?' The friend replies, `Ever since my wife found it in the glove compartment.'"

It must be the illness. But I find that hilarious. I can't stop laughing. I laugh so hard I start to hack. Then cough. Uncontrollably. Finally, I settle down. I'm lying on the bed. The dog's looking at me.

I start calling friends: Milo, Big Mike, Norm, Daddy Dee. I gotta talk to someone. Let the world know I'm still alive. They're all healthy. Busy. Doing shit. Big Mike's making bread, for Christ sakes. I'm not kidding. He's rolling out the freaking dough himself. Jesus. The whole world's doing stuff and I'm lying in bed.

I pick up Reader's Digest -- need another joke. I read about the priest, the minister and the rabbi who want to see who's best at their job. So they go into the woods, find some bears and attempt to convert them. The priest's so good he gets his bear to its first communion. The minister talks his bear into getting baptized. "They both look down at the rabbi, who is lying on gurney in a body cast. `Looking back,' he says. `Maybe I shouldn't have started with the circumcision.'"

I think that's hilarious. The rabbi cut the bear's dick -- get it? I'm roaring. Then I'm hacking and coughing. Aw, hell....

I roll on my back. I drift off. I hear a phone ringing. It's way off in the distance. I'll answer it later. When I get better....

Benny Jay: Who Raises Gorillas?

I'm sitting at a table on the corner outside Starbuck's -- my dog at my feet -- drinking my coffee and reading my book, a Graham Greene novel about an English double-agent.

I'm enjoying the moment. The sky's blue -- the day warm, but not hot. The plots got me hooked. I'm eagerly turning the pages -- something big and bad's about to pop.

My cell phone rings. It's my mother.

"Did you see the story about the lady who raises gorillas?" she asks.

"No...."

"She raises gorillas in her front yard. Who raises gorillas?"

"I didn't see it...."

"It's in the paper...."

"I haven't seen the paper yet?"

"You haven't read the paper? It's almost noon and you haven't read the paper -- did you just get up?"

"I've been reading a book...."

"I'm about to eat lunch and you haven't read the paper...."

I sip my coffee. This could be awhile.

"She went to your college...."

"Who?"

"The lady who raises the gorillas...."

"Oh...."

"It says she's two years older than you, so you would have been there where she was there. Did you know her?"

"What's her name?"

"I can't remember...."

"How do I know if I know her if I don't know her name?"

"Well, she went to your college...."

Pause. I'm not sure what I can say.

The phone beeps. "I got another call coming in -- hold on." I put her on hold to take a call from Merlin, the computer wizard, who tells me he's coming by to fix my computer. I come back to my mother and I catch her mid-sentence. I don't think she realizes I put her on hold.

"She keeps the gorillas in her front yard. Can you imagine liking gorillas so much you raise them?"

"No...."

"She said she used to go to Milwaukee and visit the zoo. Ever go to Milwaukee?"

"Yes...."

"I can't imagine anything worth seeing in Milwaukee...."

I fight off the urge to defend Milwaukee. My phone beeps. "Hold on." I put her on hold to take a call from my oldest daughter who tells me she and my wife will be home soon.

I come back to my mother who, again, not aware that she was on hold, has moved on to another subject -- the Preakness horse race.

"The filly won...."

"Yes, Rachel Alexandra...."

"A filly is a girl horse...."

"I know...."

"A gelding is a horse that's fixed...."

"Right...."

"A colt is a male horse -- did you know that?"

"Yes...."

"You didn't know that...."

"I did know that...."

"I'm just tweaking you...."

A lady walks by with a dachshund. My dog, who had been resting, rushes out from under the table. My coffee spills. No more left. I think about buying a new one. But, nah, Merlin's on his way. Time to get home.

I gather my stuff and cross the street. Got the book and the leash in one hand and the cell phone in the other. My mother's telling me about her friend's illness. Guess I'll read my book later....

Benny Jay: Here Come The Hawks

At the bowling alley, they got the Blackhawks game on TV -- all five of them, to be exact. It's game six of the playoff series against Vancouver. If the Hawks win, they move on to the next round.

I couldn't care less. I wouldn't even be paying attention except there's a dozen or so Hawks fans hanging around the bar, making so much noise.

I stand between Bob and Pat -- two stone-cold, crazy Hawks fans. They're standing still as statues. Eyes stuck on the tube. I'm not even sure they're breathing.

I turn to Norm. "They never put the Bulls on all the TVs," I say.

"Don't hate," he says.

"I'm just saying...."

"No, you're hating...."

I watch the Hawks skate round and round and round. Truth is, Norm's right. I am hating. I know I should be happy that they're doing so well after so many dismal seasons. But, hell, I don't care about the Blackhawks. Don't know any of their players. Can't remember the name of their coach. And my not caring has turned to hate cause I'm jealous. Every one's paying attention to the Hawks and every one's forgotten about the Bulls. I mean, this is even weirder than my normal weirdness, which is pretty weird.

"I used to like the Hawks," I tell Norm.

"Yeah...."

To prove it, I sing a snatch of their ancient fight song: "Here come the Hawks, the fighting Black Hawks/take the attack and we'll back you Black Hawks...."

Norm's laughing.

"But then they dumped Bobby Hull," I say.

"That was forty years ago, dawg...."

"Yeah, but he was the Golden Jet, man -- they dumped the Golden Jet...."

"You gotta get over that shit, dawg...."

"I hope they lose...."

"Aw, that's terrible, Benny. How can you say that, dawg? That don't make no fuckin' sense. They Chicago, Benny. As long as they from the Chi, you got to be goin' for them...."

"I can't...."

"Try...."

"Okay, man -- for you...."

So I try. I really do. I ask Bob for the name of the guy who scored a goal and he says that it's Pat Kane. I ask him who's the goaltender and he tells me -- something. I don't know. The name's a jumble of vowels. When the Hawks tie the game at five, I cheer. But it's an empty cheer. I just don't care.

I'm starting to worry about Pat. He looks pale. I'm watching him watching the Hawks and I'm thinking -- so this is what I must look like when I'm watching the Bulls on TV. All hunched over, a nervous wreck. Pat's a grown man, too -- past fifty. He's wearing a team jersey with Pat Kane's name an number on the back. Man, he's got it bad -- maybe even worse than me. At least I never wear a Derrick Rose team jersey.

Bored with the game, I go to the bar and order a coke. I page through the Sun-Times that's lying on the counter. I'm looking for a story about the Bulls -- any story will do. Turn page after page. Nothing. Nothing but Hawks this and Hawks that. I don't want to hate, but....

Roar! I look up to see the Hawks have scored. They're up six to five. Folks at the bar are cheering. Except for Pat. He looks even worse than before. Lips clenched. Hands tight. Whiter than white. I recognize the symptoms. I know what he's thinking -- he's dreading the worst. He's thinking if he cheers too soon -- if he counts those proverbial chickens before they proverbially hatch -- he'll blow it for his boys. As though anything he does can ever impact the game. I can related. If it were the Bulls, I'd be thinking the same stupid thing....

"Maybe you should take a walk," I suggest to him.

"Fuck," he says.

Clearly, he's in no mood for conversation. "They're gonna win," I tell him.

"Shut the fuck up -- don't jinx `em...."

"What do you mean jinx them? I got nothing to do with them. They're up one and they're playing at home. They have the home-court advantage...."

"Ice," says Bob.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Home ice advantage -- it's hockey, not basketball, dickwad...."

"Ice, court -- whatever...."

I walk to the jukebox. The younger guys have taken it over, playing shitty `80s rock. Is it just me or did the `80s suck when it came to rock `n roll?

Another roar. Hawks score -- up two. Vancouver looks devastated.

"It's over," I tell Pat.

"Not yet," he insists.

The game ends. The bar erupts. Bob and Pat are pounding each other on the back and talking about the next big series.

Aw, hell, it looks like it's gonna be at least another two weeks of this crap. If I were a drinking man, I'd have to have another....

Benny Jay: Mother's Day

We go to our favorite Italian restaurant for Mother's Day. Nobody gets plastered, but we have a few drinks. Manhattans for my parents, beer for me. My sister and wife are drinking something -- can't remember what.

By the end of the dinner no one's feeling any pain. My younger daughter orders tea -- Earl Grey. "I don't like Earl Grey," my sister says.

"You're not drinking it," I tell her.

My mother tells a story about a girl she knew in college who stole a towel from a hotel: "They found the towel in her suitcase. I said, `You don't need that towel.' She said, `I always wanted that towel.'"

The conversation moves to a discussion of Key West in Florida. My father talks about the writers who have lived there. "Hemingway and Wallace Stevens once had a fist fight," he says.

I shouldn't say anything, but he has to be wrong. Wallace Stevens is too old to be a contemporary of Hemingway. The old man's slipping -- he's getting his poets mixed up.

"Stevens broke his fist when he hit Hemingway in the jaw," he continues.

I shake my head. "That didn't happen," I say.

"Yes, it did...."

"It couldn't. Stevens is twenty years older than Hemingway. That's like you having a fight with...." I try to think of a colleague or a friend who is twenty years younger than my father.

"They had a fight," he says. "You can look it up...."

The conversation moves to Pete Seeger. My sister says they just had a concert in New York City, celebrating his 90th birthday. "Bruce Springsteen was there," she says.

"But your friend didn't show," my father says to me.

"Which friend?" I say.

"Dylan...."

I think -- don't fall for it.

"He is your friend?" says my father, as if I've ever even met Bob Dylan.

"Dylan snubbed Pete Seeger?" asks my mother.

I fall for it. "We don't know if he was invited...."

"Why wouldn't he be invited?" says my sister. "You know he was invited. He's still mad at the folk singers for things that happened forty years ago...."

"We don't know he was invited," I say.

"He should get over it," says my sister.

I stop. Why am I falling for this? I'm a thousand years old and I'm still falling for this.

"The point is that one of them is a leftist and the other is a religious rightist," says my father.

I fall for it again. "Okay, Dylan's not a religious rightist," I say.

"But didn't he become a Christian?" asks my mother.

"That doesn't make him a religious rightist," I say.

"But why didn't he go to Pete Seeger's party?" asks my mother.

"Maybe he wasn't invited," I say.

"Of course, he was invited," says my sister.

"How do you know?" I say. "Did you make the invitations?"

Ah, weak response. I'm not up to my usual game. I should drink more. Maybe I'd be wittier if I drank more.

Later that night I go to my computer and look up Wallace Stevens and Ernest Hemingway. I'll be goddamn -- there it is. They quote a letter that Hemingway wrote, and it's just like my dad said: "Mr. Stevens hit me flush on the jaw with his Sunday punch bam like that. And this is very funny. Broke his hand in two places. Didn't hurt my jaw at all."

What an arrogant ass Hemingway was. Makes me want to hear Stevens' side of the story.

Oh, well -- I should know better. There are four arguments you will never, ever win: A baseball argument with Big Mike Glab; a basketball argument with Norm; an argument about The Beatles with my sister (she knows freaking everything about The Beatles); and an argument about poets and/or poetry with my father.

No matter how old he is....

Benny Jay: My Time Of Year

It's Daddy Dee who tells me about the concert at Martyrs. He says he's singing with Tributosaurus, this cover band that sings the songs of the legends, and on this particular night they're singing War.

For a minute I think I'm not going cause it's raining, number one; and, number two, I don't want to play the part of the old timer gathering with other old timers to sing old songs from the past.

But forget that. I am old -- no use sitting at home about it. And I love War. Always have. Always will. Plus, my wife got me this new umbrella -- cherry red and everything -- which covers up the whole sidewalk, it's so big.

So my wife and I go. And they knock us out. There must be ten guys in the band, including a horn section, a keyboardist, a bass player, a drummer and a percussionist. One of the singers is a big feller named Matt Spiegel, who's deceptively nimble. Moves like a cat. Reminds me of Nathan Lane. And he's got almost operatic range -- he really sounds like the singer in War. The trumpet player is, of all people, Mike Cichowicz, who happens to be the older brother of The Tit, the kid who snuck me into see "The Godfather" about, oh, two billion light years ago. And the coolest of the cool is the guitar player, who sits on his stool and barely blinks an eye. Daddy Dee calls him Big D, but I think of him as Baby Buddha cause he radiates a peaceful kind of mellow.

Daddy Dee and Matt are trading solos, singing every song in the book -- "Spill the Wind," "The World is a Ghetto," "Why Can't We Be Friends" and so on. I'm on the dance floor, not so much dancing as tapping my umbrella to the beat. Got a couple of beer-bellied old timers in Hawaiian shirts standing behind me. They know every word and they're singing along, bringing back phrases I haven't thought about in years: "Let's have a picnic go to the park, rollin' in the grass `til long after dark...."

The band does an off-the-charts version of "Slippin' Into Darkness." In my mind, it's the summer of `78 and we're down by the boathouse on the North Avenue beach around midnight. Some one's passing the wine and the weed -- must be two dozen people crowded around a boom box that's playing this song. A police car cruises up and everyone scatters cause it's after curfew. I run all the way to Fullerton and double back after the police car's gone. Every one's returned. Got the song playing right where we left it -- "Slippin' into darkness, takes my mind beyond the trees." Didn't miss a beat....

The band moves into "Summer," one of my all-time all times. Now I'm singing with the boys in the Hawaiian shirts: "Ridin' round town with all the windows down, eight track playin' all your fav'rit songs...."

The concert ends and we head outside, walking down Lincoln Avenue in the dead of night. Rain's stopped. Clouds gone. Seems warmer. I take off my jacket. A cool breeze strokes my arm. I'm tapping my umbrella against the ground like it's a cane. Feeling all sprightly -- like Fred Astaire. Summer's coming. I can feel it. Gonna ride my bike up and down the lakefront. Check out the outdoor concerts in Grant Park. Dance under the stars `n everything. From the corner of my mind the refrain returns: "Yes, it's summer, summer time is here/yes, it's summer, my time of year...."

Big Mike: The Good, The Bad, And The Repulsive

Ah, back in good old Louisville, where the magnolias are deep green, the grass awns wave blue in the breeze, and my nasal passages are packed with concrete, thanks to all the Ohio Valley allergens fighting to get a crack at me.

My four-day sojourn in Chicago brought about the usual love-hate reaction. The bad: the crush of traffic, the brusque - almost hostile - manner of passersby and check-out clerks, and the phallic prominence of Donald Trump's new monument to himself on the site of the old Sun-Times building. As I understand it, the condominiums of his Trump International Hotel and Tower are largely empty and he's being sued by his creditors. Come to think of it, maybe this isn't such a bad thing - it's always a pleasure to see a confidence man get his comeuppance. Still, that soulless 1300-foot sex toy on the Chicago River has marred a mostly magnificent skyline.

As for the good, well, there are my pals Sophia and Danny and their two kids, Arianna and Matty, with whom The Loved One and I stayed, Benny Jay and Milo, of course, Chinatown and Ricobene's pizza joint on 26th Street, and Wrigley Field - which I always drive circles around when I visit. The ballpark looks gorgeous, even with the commercialization of the bleacher entrance (good god, the Cubs have essentially sold naming rights to a doorway - what's next, the Michelob Pale Ale Urinals? The Vagisil Medicated Anti-Itch Ladies Room?)

I love Chicago and I hate it. I suppose that puts me in the good company of some 2,896,016 people (according to the latest official census.) A dozen or so of those citizens were gathered at the access road away from McCormick Place Monday afternoon as The Loved One and I drove past, giving us a remarkable send-off. I mean, I assume they were Chicagoans but, then again, given the reason for their jarring presence, they might well have been from distant points on the American map (as well as the American psyche.)

The Loved One had just attended a convention of the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists at the Lakeside Center. Now that she's drawing pretty pictures for reproductive technology products for her new employer, she has to rub shoulders with medicos who specialize in women's plumbing.

Our plan was to begin the long drive back to Kentucky as soon as her Monday convention session was finished. The Prius was packed with all our luggage, as well as a sizable Ricobene's pizza - much of which we demolished by the time we got to Indianapolis. The sun shone, the temperature hovered around 70, the Cubs were in the midst of a four-game winning streak - what could tarnish the mood?

How about a seemingly endless string of enormous, full-color placards of human fetuses in various states of destruction? There were images of half skulls, bloody limbs, gooey guts, and all the rest of the emotional pornography that anti-abortionists wallow in. The dubiously self-described "right-to-lifers" had chosen this spot to attempt to shock us into agreeing with their selective love-of-humanity philosophy, figuring, I'm sure, that at least some of the conventioneering doctors have performed an abortion or two.

Fair enough. I love being an American and support the right of anyone to carry a placard, even if it compares Barack Obama to Adolf Hitler or posits that George W. Bush and his boys engineered the 9/11 attacks. Lunatics have as much right to shout from the rooftops as I do. Only I don't shout from rooftops nor do I much care to tote a picture of a fetus's severed arm.

So rather than drink in that last glorious glimpse of the Loop, Navy Pier and the Ferris wheel, the blue lake, and the lovably pretentious neo-Grecian architecture of the Field Museum, we were forced to peer at some religious fundamentalists' macabre messaging.

The jerks.

Benny Jay: Talkin' Tony The Teeth Cleaner

It's dentist day. Damn. I hate everything about it. Can't stand sitting in the chair with the teeth cleaner hovering over me. Can't stand the sound of the drill. Can't stand the scratchy sound the scalpel makes when it scrapes across my teeth....

Plus, it's raining. Got wet running from the car. Sitting in the lobby reading an old copy of The New Yorker. Must be from March. I hear a drill in the distance. I feel a headache coming on....

I hear my name. I look up. It's Tony! The world's greatest teeth cleaner. He leads me to the chair and already I'm feeling brighter. Haven't had him in years. Forgot he even worked here.

He's not like most teeth cleaners who don't say anything until your mouth's open wide and then they ask you a question. Like they really care about what you have to say even though they know you can't possibly say anything intelligent with your mouth open wide. Is this passive aggressive or what?

But Tony doesn't ask questions. He talks. He's this gay guy from a small-town in Michigan and he has a sixth sense for the inconsistencies in life -- like how we say one thing and do something else. It's like having a stand-up comic chatting away while he cleans your teeth. Not a Rodney Dangerfield comic, more like a Jerry Seinfeld. You know, situational humor....

"I used to have a dog, but I gave her away...."

"Why?" Only it comes out "ahy" cause my mouth is open.

"She hated me...."

"Ril-ly?"

"I never heard of a dog who hates its owner. Usually, they love whoever feeds them, right? But this dog hated me. She used to leave the room when I came in. She would sit on the other end of the couch when I was watching TV. I could have grown beef jerky for armpit hair and she still would have hated me...."

"Goo' wah....."

"The funny thing is -- she loves the people I gave her to. They call me up, `oh, she's the sweetest little dog. Cuddles with us at night.' She never cuddled with me. She wouldn't even get in bed with me...."

I spit. He starts talking about his family -- not sure how the topic comes up. He has two brothers in the Army. Both overseas -- Iraq, Afghanistan. For awhile one of his brother was stationed in Kuwait: "I sent him a guide book -- things to do in Kuwait. Art museums to go to, restaurants to eat at. He calls me, `Tony, I'm not on vacation -- this is war.' I'm like -- `well, you still have to eat.....'"

He turns on the drill:"I'm the only boy in my family who didn't join the military. My father was a Marine. He used to wake me up early. `Get out of bed, soldier.' I mean -- soldier? Good God, I'm like 12 and he's calling me soldier. If I did something wrong, he'd make me rake the leaves. `You're gonna rake the leaves until I'm tired.' I was so literal minded. I'm thinking -- `how can that be? I'm raking the leaves -- not him.'"

He turns off the drill: "When I was 17, I told my father I wasn't going to the military. It devastated him. But there was no way -- just no way -- I was going to the Army or the Marines. Especially the Marines...."

"Is he still in the Marines?"

"No. He left the Marines and became a computer programmer. He works at a hospital. He's big time in the union...."

"So he's a Democrat?"

"Are you kidding me? He voted for McCain. I'm like -- hello! You're in a union. You work in a hospital. Why are you a Republican? It's all that Marine in him. He's incapable of being a Democrat. He still can't pronounce Obama's name. He calls him Obamba -- like the song. Does this make sense? None of this makes sense. But since when did life make sense...."

Big Mike: The Kidney Stone Kids

I've been chewing my fingernails for the last hour and a half. Jeez, I'd better watch out or I'll draw blood. I'm tense, edgy. The guy driving the black BMW in front of me is going about 12 miles an hour, leaning over and checking addresses. I honk. He turns around and flips me the digit. I pull around him to pass and yell, "Get the hell outta my way!"

As I pass, I see him shouting a response. Most of the words begin with an F.

I'm back in Chicago.

The reason for all my nail-chewing and overall angst is the city's unbearable traffic. I've been in Louisville more than two years now and people down there consider five cars stopped at a red light to be a traffic jam. I don't know how I survived 50 years in Chicago with my sanity intact.

I'm heading over to Benny Jay's estate, hard by Lincoln Square, a hop, skip and a jump from Wrigley Field. How long has it been since I laid eyes on my literary colleague and business partner? It becomes obvious the first time we see each other as Benny answers the door. He shushes the dog and wrestles with the front door lock. My technologically challenged old pal. He's stuck - the lock has baffled him. He literally has to run out the back door, around the house via the gangway, and out to the front to greet me.

We seem to freeze for an almost imperceptible moment, assessing each other after we hug. There's a hell of a lot more gray on both our heads, some three or four more belt notches around my waist, and -believe it or not - a good decade of living separating this moment from the last time we saw each other.

"Honestly," Benny asks, "how long has it been?

I ponder a moment. Then it hits me. I remember that memorable early October evening when we watched the festivities on TV in the Irving Park Road bowling alley after Rod "The Shooter" Beck had snuffed out Dusty Baker's San Francisco Giants, vaulting the Sammy Sosa Cubs into the 1998 playoffs. As Sammy himself body-surfed over thousands of delirious bleacherites, some now-forgotten glamorous TV reporter shoved her microphone into the faces of blotto revelers and asked, "How do you feel?"

Some nameless bowling alley employee turned to Benny and me and shouted, as if it were he she was pumping for a sound bite, "Nice tits, bitch!"

Benny and I doubled over in laughter even though we we're both smart enough to be disgusted by his ridiculous, benighted, antediluvian outlook toward women. Why? Who knows? Maybe we were giddy over the Cubs' rare success. Maybe we felt we were suddenly 12 again, giggling over some classmate's use of dirty words.

Whatever. I'm sure we'd seen each other since then but that episode will do for now.

Benny shows me a recent picture of his daughters, who, if I recall correctly, had spaghetti sauce and jelly stains, respectively, on their T-shirts the last time I saw them. They are now grown women. Ouch! What does that make me? The living dead?

Milo calls. "Glab's here!" Benny shouts into the phone. "He's in town! He just dropped in!" And, like that, Milo hops into his car to join us.

Handshakes and hugs abound. Three old goats stand around staring at the ravages of time on each other in Benny's cramped office garret. Before we know it, we settle down to discuss the things that really matter to such venerable figures.

"My doctor says I'm doing good," Milo says. "Blood pressure's good. My weight's good." (At which point I think, The bastard.) "All in all, not bad for a geezer."

I congratulate him on his good fortune.

"But, he did say my kidneys are a little iffy," Milo adds.

Uh oh.

"Yeah, I had kidney stones and they left some scarring."

At this very moment, Benny lopes up the stairs. He'd been downstairs taking a phone call.

"Whaddya guys talkin' about?" he says with the air of a 12-year-old expecting to jump into a chat about the Cubs or the Bulls or the Monkees.

We ain't 12 anymore. Kidney stones, we inform him.

"Oh yeah, I had 'em," Benny crows, almost like a 12 year-old bragging that he's kissed a girl. "I never felt such pain! I remember, it was 2003. I was coaching my daughter's baseball team. It hurt so bad I was nauseated. After the game, I was walking home through River Park and I had to stop to throw up. One of the kids was passing by as I'm bent over and I'm thinking, 'Oh great! What's this kid gonna tell her parents?'"

Milo and I agree that the kid'll probably grow up to be an eminent blogger. One of her posts will be about the time she saw her drunken old baseball coach puking his guts up in the park after a game.

We laugh. Deep, basso, raspy laughs. Milo coughs a bit. I try to catch my breath. Benny says, smiling sagely, "Ah, these kids!"

It's good to be home.