Benny Jay: Dinner With Dad

For my wife's birthday, we eat at an Italian restaurant.

My father's feeling good. Apparently, he drank a scotch (or two) at home before he got here, where he orders a Manhattan. That makes two drinks -- or three -- but who's counting.

My wife's drinking a Cosmopolitan, my mother got a Manhattan, and my sister's sipping wine. I'm nursing a beer. In a family of serious drinkers, I'm known as the wimp.

It's noisy in the restaurant. We have to speak up to be heard.

Two guys walk in. My sister leans toward me. "Isn't that Eddie Arruza?" she says.

"Who?"

"Eddie Arruza -- the TV guy from Channel 11...."

I act like I'm too cool to care about a TV personality: "I dunno...."

She's annoyed: "You didn't look...."

My father orders a second Manhattan. My wife mentions that we recently saw "Macbeth." My father starts quoting Lady Macbeth -- at 83, he's got this amazing ability to quote from songs, plays and poems: "I have given suck, and know how tender `tis to lose the babe that milks me; I would while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums and dashed the brains out...."

He gets really loud when he gets to the part about nipples, boneless gums and dashed-out- brains.

My sister tells him he's talking too loud.

"What did you say?" he says.

"You're being obnoxious," she says.

He puts his hand behind his ear, like he's straining to hear her: "What was that word?"

"Obnoxious...."

"Oh," he says. "Obnoxious. Say it clearly: Ob-nox-ious...."

"Stop yelling," she says.

"I'm not yelling...."

"You're talking too loud...."

"I don't yell -- I project. There's a difference."

Emily, the waitress, stops by to say hello. She's a voice major at Northwestern University. She tells us she'll be performing in an upcoming student opera production.

"Will you be singing, `Una Furtiva Lagrima'?" asks my dad.

She smiles. Months ago she played the role of Adina in a student production of "The Elixir of Love." Adina doesn't sing "Una Furtiva Lagrima," and my father knows it. But it doesn't matter -- cause he enjoys asking her that question.

"I'm not a tenor," she says. Which is what she usually says.

"What's the name of that song?" I ask my father.

"Una Furtiva Lagrima -- a furtive tear," says my father. He explains that in the opera a young man is afraid of women so he drinks a bottle of wine -- the elixir of love -- that emboldens him. His eyes filling with tears, my father starts singing: "Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suio spunto...."

"Dad, stop," says my sister. "You're too loud...."

It's true. He's very loud. But no one seems to notice. 'Cause it's so loud in the restaurant.

I make my way to the bathroom. I see the man my sister thinks is Eddie Arruza. I don't want my sister to know I'm looking, yet I'm curious. Is it him? I sneak a quick look. But his head is down and I can't be sure.

On the way back, I sneak another look. But it's dark in the restaurant. I keep looking. Don't see where I'm going. Oops, I walk into a waiter. "Sorry," I say, "my fault...."

Back at the table, my father, well into his third drink, is back to Lady Macbeth and her nipples.

We drive to my parent's house to give my wife her presents. My dad builds a fire. My sister puts on a CD of big band songs. Frank Sinatra's singing with Tommy Dorsey.

Sitting on the sofa, watching the fire, I suddenly remember -- the Bulls are playing the Mavericks and it's on TV. I look at my watch. The game must be nearly over. I wonder who won. I sneak out of the living room and into the side room where they keep their TV. I turn on the set, but keep the volume low. My father can't stand the sound of sports on TV.

Perfect timing. There's about three seconds left in regulation. The score's tied. Derrick Rose has the ball. He cuts by his man. Drives to the basket. Jumps. Turns. Shoots. Off the rim! Overtime. "No," I wail. "Where's the foul...."

I turn off the TV. No sense in watching. I just know they'll lose. Damn!

I return to the living room. My wife and my mother -- who's beyond 80 -- are dancing the jitterbug to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." My mom's leading. She twirls my wife, like they're Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

"Overtime," I announce. Like anyone cares.

I watch my mom dance with my wife. You never grow old in my father's house.

Benny Jay: The Godfather

I get "The Godfather" from the video store. Been planning to watch it for weeks. Hear so many guys talk about it. They quote the lines and relive the scenes -- obviously, it's influenced their lives. I play along -- like it's influenced my life too. But the fact is I only saw it once, when it came out 37 years ago. I don't remember much about what happens.

I get it the night my wife's out with some friends. She's not crazy about watching movies she's seen before -- even if she's only seen them once many years ago. Me? I can watch the great ones over and over over....

So it's just me and my younger daughter and after awhile, as much as she likes it, she goes to bed because she has to get up really early. I should go to bed too, but I can't stop watching. As the movie goes on, the scenes, the characters, the dialogue -- they all come back. Sonny Corleone beating the crap out of his brother in law, Vito Corleone playing with his grandson in the tomato garden, Michael Corleone, cold-blooded and calculating, renouncing his belief in Satan at his godson's baptism, while his henchmen gun down gangsters all over town.

I think of Bubba -- this skinny, little black kid I knew in high school. One day in the locker room after gym, I overheard him tell his buddies about how he'd been ballin' this girl -- Didn't even bother undressing, had her up against the door, and was banging her so hard the door slammed against the wall, while she was calling out his name: "Oh, Bubba, Bubba, Bubba...."

I was 16 at the time. I wasn't even kissing girls -- much less banging them against the wall -- even though I was dreaming about girls day and night. When I heard Bubba tell that story, I was beyond jealous. I was thinking: why can't that stuff happen to me?

And now all these years later I'm watching "The Godfather" and I realize -- Bubba made it up. He never banged no babe! He stole that story from the scene where Sonny -- fully clothed -- is banging this girl and the door's slamming against the wall, and she's calling out his name: "Sonny, Sonny, Sonny."

And to think I fell for it. To think I was actually jealous of Bubba. The little twerp -- probably wasn't getting any more than me.

The movie ends and the credits roll and I sit in the dark and stare at the screen. I think about Cichowicz -- better known as Chicken Tit, and later just The Tit -- this chubby, baby-faced boy who sat in front of me in German class. Funny as hell, really good with imitations. He worked as an usher at the Valencia Theater on Sherman Street in downtown Evanston. He saw the movies so many times, he knew the lines by heart. He'd entertain me in study hall -- when we were supposed to be studying German -- doing bits from "The Godfather," "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Dirty Harry," "Shaft"....

I remember standing in the alley behind the Valencia. The Tit opened the door. He was wearing his usher's uniform -- this red sports coat that was about one size too small. Made him look like a Chipmunk. He had a flashlight and he led me down the aisle to my seat. There was hardly anyone in the theater cause it was a matinee. I don't know why I bothered sneaking in. It couldn't have cost more than $1.50 to see a movie. I guess it was just the thing to do. Anyway, that's when I saw "The Godfather."

After high school, The Tit went his way and I went mine. Last I saw of him was at Jonny's funeral. Damn, Jonny. One of my best friends in high school. It's been seven years since he died. Cancer.

I go to the computer and read Roger Ebert's original review of "The Godfather," from January 1, 1972. It's the same old thing, once I get on the Internet, I can't get off. I start going from this thing to that. I wind up reading stories about John Cazale, the actor who played Fredo. I love Fredo -- he's my favorite Corleone. The runt of the family. He could never match up to Michael or Sonny. I can relate. So, I bet, can Bubba -- and The Tit.

Cazale was in "The Deer Hunter" and "Dog Day Afternoon." He died young -- cancer. Just like Jonny. After his funeral, all of his actor friends and peers -- Pacino, DeNiro, Gene Hackman, Meryl Streep -- said he was the best.

Damn, it's quiet in the house. Every one's asleep. No one's up. Except for me -- and the ghosts....

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.

Letter from Milo: The Old Man Misses A Great Game

Most of the people I knew in Northwest Indiana were White Sox fans. It was a geographical thing. Comiskey Park was closer to Gary than Wrigley Field. You could jump in your car and be sitting in Comiskey Park's cheap seats in about half an hour.

One day in the summer of '66 I asked the Old Man if I could use the car.

"What for?"

"Yankees are in town. I wanna see the game."

"Fucking Yankees," the Old Man muttered.

Like any diehard Sox fan the Old Man despised the Bronx Bombers, and for good reason. They regularly beat his beloved Sox, relegating them to second place or worse throughout the '50s and '60s. Some of those Sox teams had records good enough to win pennants in most eras, but the Yankees were always just a few games better, sometimes a whole lot better.

"OK, just drive careful," he said, tossing me the keys to his 1964 Chevrolet Impala.

I was a few months short of my 17th birthday and had just gotten my driver's license. Until I could scrape together two or three hundred dollars for a beater, I had to rely on the family car for transportation. I stopped to pick up a couple of buddies, the Kaiser brothers, Dickie and Danny, and Sandy Bordeaux, who were also diehard Sox fans. We made a pit stop at Mr. Lucky's Tap, one of the places in town that catered to underage drinkers, to pick up some quarts of Schiltz and a couple of half pints of flavored vodka before heading to Chicago and the big game.

We were excited, brimming with nervous energy. The closer we got to Chicago the more excited we became. The beer went down easy and we were tipsy by the time we neared 35th Street. All of us cheered and waved and wished the Sox luck as we passed Comiskey Park and continued on toward the Loop.

Our true destination was South State Street - the Follies Theater to be exact, one of the last Burlesque Houses on what had once been a notorious stretch of strip joints. In the days before "Deep Throat" and "The Devil in Miss Jones," before VHS and internet porn, there were very few places where a horny young man could see naked women. Unless you were lucky enough to have an accommodating girlfriend - which I wasn't - you were restricted to magazines like Playboy which only showed bare tits. To see the real thing, honest-to-God live women, shimmying and shaking, baring luscious tits and fabulous asses to the beat of a four-piece house band, you had to go to a Burlesque House.

We found a parking spot and staggered up to the box office. The scabby old ticket-taker took one look at us and cackled.

"You boys 21?"

"Yes sir," we replied.

"I'd ask for some ID but as you can see I'm real busy right now. That'll be five dollars... each."

"Wait a minute," one of us protested. "The sign says three dollars."

"I know what the sign says. You boys are getting the special price."

We paid the five dollars... each.

Although the theater had a capacity of three or four hundred, I doubt if there were 30 people in the house. There was a noisy group of sailors from the Great Lakes naval base and maybe another dozen scattered men. We had our choice of seats and sat as close to the stage as we could. I believe we were in the second or third row. We had saved the half pints of flavored vodka (cherry and grape) and started passing the bottles. By the time the show started we were happily drunk and giddy with anticipation.

The show opened with a 20 minute movie of a volley ball game in a nudist colony. It was a grainy, soundless movie, and the participants were mainly flabby old men and overweight women with sagging tits and wrinkles in all the wrong places. Still, we were spellbound. It didn't matter how old and unappealing the women were, they were naked and that's all that mattered.

When the movie ended, Dickie Kaiser said, "Hey Sandy, that one woman looked like your Grandma."

"I don't think so," Sandy replied. "The movie was probably made in Sweden. Grandma lives Crown Point."

Then the band started to vamp and it was SHOWTIME.

There were eight strippers on the bill and they all had gimmicks. There was the Tiger Lady, who wore a tiger-striped gown and prowled around on her hands and knees as she disrobed. There was Simone, who wore a French maid's costume, followed by Nurse Nellie and Cowgirl Lil, Queen of the Rodeo.

Sad to say, a couple of the strippers had seen better days. Simone had to be at least 50 years old and Nurse Nellie wasn't much younger. The sailors in the audience were rough on the older women, booing, catcalling, yelling for them to get off the stage. The women were professionals, however, and ignored the abuse. They were troupers and carried on in the grand showbiz tradition of The Show Must Go On.

Although all of the women had gimmicks, their acts finished in the same way. They stripped down to pasties with hanging tassels and skimpy g-strings (none was ever totally nude.) They gave us ample views of their fronts and behinds, then strutted to the side of the stage and covered themselves coyly with a part of the curtain. As the house band hit a crescendo, the strippers took off their g-strings and tossed them onto the stage. The drummer hit a couple of rim shots, the stage lights went dark, and two minutes later the next stripper came on.

After the sixth stripper finished her act there was an intermission while the stage was set up for the comedy act. I remember the act very well because I laughed my ass off. The set was a hotel room and the comic, who the term baggypants was invented for, and his foil, who looked suspiciously like Nurse Nellie, were trying to pack a suitcase. The suitcase was hard to shut. It was overfilled and there was always a shirt sleeve or trouser leg popping out as they were trying to shut it. Here's some of the dialogue as I remember it:

"Oooh, it popped out again."

"OK, I'll stick it in again."

"Maybe if you push a little harder."

"Damn, I got it in the wrong end."

"Maybe we should grease it up."

"How about if you sit on it."

"Oooh, it popped out again."

"Try blowing on it."

"I know, I'll get on my hands and knees."

"Damn, that's a tight fit."

After the comic finished his bit, there was another unremarkable stripper and then the star of the show came on. Her name was Ineeda Mann and the reason she was the star was that she could swing her tits in such a way that her tassels rotated in opposite directions. As far as we were concerned, this was an amazing feat and we hooted and applauded in appreciation. She did the tassel swinging trick a couple of times before finishing her act with the ritual tossing of the g-string. A moment later the houselights came on and the evening's entertainment was over.

None of us realized, as we stumbled out onto State Street, that an era was passing. Burlesque was as dead as Vaudeville. Within a year the Follies Theater would be torn down to make way for condos and townhouses. By 1970 I doubt if there was a Burlesque House left in the City. I sometimes wonder what happened to the Tiger Lady or Nurse Nellie. I hope they weren't reduced to demeaning jobs or the welfare rolls. Although I'm sure that Ineeda Mann, with her unique skills, managed to thrive.

It was time to go back to Gary. There was a problem, however. When I got home the Old Man would ask me about the Sox game. I knew that he had watched the game on TV and would want to talk about it. The guys with me had the same problem. So, we drove to Bridgeport and found a few stragglers still hanging around Comiskey Park. We asked them about the game and they gave us enough information to get by.

The Old Man was snoozing on the couch when I got home. He woke up when he heard me come in.

"Hey, how about those Sox!" He was happy. The Sox had beaten those rotten, no-good Yankees 6-3.

"Tommy John looked real good," I said.

"Yeah, I was watching."

"Pete Ward hit a three-run homer."

"I saw it, barely cleared the fence."

"Smoky Burgess had a pinch hit."

"Shit, I wish I could have gone with you. Must have been a great game."

"Yeah, you would have loved it."

(Get Milo's book, "Schoolboy," now. - The Editors)

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.

Big Mike: America's Holy Orgy

Okay, I'm gonna burn in hell. I'm ready to take my punishment like the soft, liberal, wussy, non-man I am.

I detest the Super Bowl.

Much of this hatred originates from my overall loathing of the game of football. And yes, I'll admit it, we liberals are haters; you're right, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter and whatever other clever primates the GOP cares to unleash. So, really, what I'm admitting here is that I hate America.

I spent Sunday evening at - where else? - Dick's Pizza, finishing up the New York Times as a multitude gathered to watch the mega-materialistic, hyper-jingoist media suckfest and orgy of money, violence, machismo, and tits that is the Super Bowl. Icepick Ray tapped me on the shoulder and proffered a plate of appetizers. "It's barbecued goose wrapped in bacon," he announced, already slurring his words. I stabbed one with a toothpick knowing full well that the morsel would send my bad cholesterol skyrocketing.

"You only live once," I said. "What the hell, it is the annual game of the century."

"You're damned right," Icepick Mark said, nodding. "And these were homemade by Major Bob. He shot the goose and cured the bacon." Well, there's something. I sank my teeth into the hors d'oeuvre and unleashed a taste torrent of wild game, salt, pork, honey, tomato, and vinegar. The mouthful will shave a good year and a half off my life but so what? It tasted better than a thousand carrot or celery sticks.

Major Bob, a silver-haired bear of a man, is the new resident Republican ideologue of Dick's He has replaced Sellersburg Randy, who held the title up until the fall. Randy'd backed, in order, Fred Thompson, Mitt Romney, Mike Huckabee, and, grudgingly, John McCain, switching allegiances as each candidate dropped out of the primary race. In September, with McCain beginning his inexorable slide in the polls, I chanced to ask Randy who he thought might win the election. The contest still could have gone either way at the time.

"Oh, it's in the bag," Randy replied, dismissively waving his hand. "He can't lose. The only thing that'll beat him is if he gets caught with a 13-year-old in a motel room."

"You're that certain?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. Look at the polls. Look what's happening," Randy said.

I was amazed he'd sound so sanguine considering the impending paddling of his beloved party.

"So doesn't it depress you that Obama's gonna win?"

Randy nearly dropped his pint of beer. "Obama?" he shouted. "McCain's gonna win!"

With nearly two months to go before the election, I found it odd that anyone on either side could predict victory so assuredly. "You're sure?" I pressed.

"Absolutely sure," Randy said.

I had to figure out a way to capitalize on this kind of hubris. "Tell you what," I offered. "I'll bet you a drink."

"You are on," Randy replied as we shook on it.

The election, of course, fell on a Tuesday - Trivia night. Randy to that point had been one of the core members of Team Gorlock with Skip the Trombonist and me. When CNN announced that Obama had gone over the top in electoral votes, Skip cheered, Major Bob shook his head and cursed, and I sat silently, drinking in the history of it all.

I paid for my own drinks that night because Randy never showed up. Skip and I were puzzled because he was as much a fixture at Dick's as a barstool. We haven't seen him since. Either Sellersburg Randy's depressed that the country has elected a mole from Osama bin Laden's army of spies or he's too cheap to buy me a drink.

Back to Sunday night. A parade, fireworks, and an interview with the new president preceded the game, the crew of the airplane that landed in the Hudson River was trotted out, soldiers in dress habit carried flags and presented arms, confetti flew, cameras flashed, Faith Hill sang some paean to America, Jennifer Hudson warbled the national anthem, and then the military capo of the Iraq adventure, Gen. David Petraeus, came out to oversee that ritual so vital to our national security, the coin toss.

As the camera zoomed in on Petraeus's facial pores, Major Bob leaped to his feet. He began to applaud, banging his big paws together so loudly I feared the HDTV screens might fall off the wall. "Yes," he shouted, almost as a challenge. "Yes! Yes!"

And then the Steelers and the Cardinals actually played football. No lie. Buried somewhere beneath the bullshit was a game. I left the place after halftime. Bruce Springsteen, the icon of the blue-collar worker who just last week had announced that he'd made an innocent mistake in signing that big exclusive deal with the anti-union tyrants at Wal-Mart, sang "Born In The USA." You know, the song that jingoists for the last quarter century have adopted as their own despite The Boss's repeated innocent assertions that it's really a protest song. Honest.

EDIT: Benny Jay tells me The Boss sang "Born To Run" not "Born in the USA." The point still holds.

I'd had enough bullshit for one day - for another year, for that matter. If the Super Bowl is America, then consider me anti-American.

Letter from Milo: Street Corners - Chicago and Kansas City

I will never lie to the American People - unless I absolutely can't help myself.

I can't tell you how honored and flattered I am that Mr. Diamond and Mr. Silver have asked me to contribute to this blog. The fact that I owe those two scabby sons of bitches money has nothing to do with my decision to participate.

Faithful readers of this blog may recall that Mr. Silver refers to me as Milo, the Smartest Man in the World. Although I tend to agree with him, modesty prevents me from claiming that title. There is a man in Montreal who is a bit smarter than I am and another in Barcelona who comes close, so, in my humble opinion, the title is up for grabs.

Speaking of smart people, I live about four blocks from the former governor of Illinois, Rod Blagojevich. Although intelligence has never been a requirement for holding public office in the state of Illinois, Blagojevich seemed to have been blessed with more than his fair share of gray matter. He speaks well, with a minimum of you knows and awkward pauses. He's a lawyer and a former congressman who at one time time had a bright future. He was also blessed with more than his share of ambition. Rumor has it that he even contemplated running for president.

He had it made, standing in the tall cotton, living high on the hog, double parked on Easy Street. All he had to do was keep his nose clean for a few years and he would be set for life. But he just couldn't do it. His greed, arrogance and hubris ruined his life and his career. He'll be extremely lucky if he doesn't spend the next 10 years in prison.

On the evening of the day he was kicked out of office I had a few glasses of wine and walked the few blocks to his house just to see the media circus that accompanied his downfall. I stood on the corner, 30 or 40 yards from his home, marveling at the news trucks crowding the streets and the helicopters fluttering overhead. Those were sights I expected to see, but what I didn't expect to see was the crowd that had gathered outside his home. There were maybe a hundred people outside of his home, chanting his name, waving placards, calling for him to make an appearance.

I don't know why I was so surprised by the crowd. After all, car accidents, fires and street fights also draw crowds, so why shouldn't a train wreck like Blagojevich attract gawkers. Yes, Blagojevich still has fans and supporters, people who believe that he's getting a raw deal and that once all the evidence comes to light he will be completely exonerated and restored to his former glory. Fat fucking chance.

Standing on that corner made me feel like a voyeur. I felt like I was peeking into a neighbor's window. I felt unclean. What if someone saw me there and thought I was a Blagojevich supporter? What if someone mistook me for someone who cared about a disgraced politician?

I stood on that corner for about 20 minutes, still tipsy from the wine I had been drinking, thinking about the vagaries of life, when a tune started drifting through my head. It was the great "Kansas City" sung by Wilbert Harrison, and it brought to mind another street corner in another town. There's a line in the song that says

Standing on the corner/

12th Street and Vine.

About a year ago a friend and I went to a reunion of my old Army outfit in Kansas City, MO. We made a road trip out of it, partaking of liquid and herbal substances that would have been more appropriate to people half our age. While driving, we had the radio blasting and one of the songs we heard was "Kansas City."

"Fuck, man, we've got to stand on the corner of 12th Street and Vine."

"I'm with you, man. How can you go to Kansas City and not stand on the corner of 12th Street and Vine?"

"I'm going to get one of those disposable cameras and we'll take pictures with the street sign."

"Good idea."

"Do me a huge favor, man. When I die make sure that on my tombstone it says, 'Once stood on the corner of 12th Street and Vine.'"

"Consider it done."

"I'm counting on you, man."

"OK, just remind me again in the morning."

We made it safely to Kansas City and checked into our hotel rooms. The next thing we did was head for the hotel bar, which was packed with drunken veterans. We caught up with old friends, toasted the memories of those that didn't come and, sadly, those that would never come. By closing time we were roaring drunk and ready to find 12th Street and Vine. We went to the lobby and asked the concierge where to find that fabled corner. He had no idea. We asked a few others and nobody knew.

Then I saw an old black woman who was working as a maid and asked her. She smiled at us and immediately gave us directions. She explained that 12th and Vine had once been the heart of Kansas City's black entertainment district. Of course, we were in no condition to drive, but we drove anyway. We found 10th Street and Vine and 14th Street and Vine, but no 12th Street and Vine. Confused, I stopped a cab and asked him for directions and he told us there was no longer any 12th Street and Vine. That whole stretch of city streets had been torn up to make way for housing projects. 12th Street and Vine no longer existed.

As I stood on the corner by Blagojevich's house, I thought back to Kansas City and the corner that had simply disappeared. Then I thought about the governor and the the fact that his career had also disappeared. Was it progress? I suppose so. 12th Street and Vine had been torn down to make way for much needed housing. Blagojevich has been thrown out of office to make way for much needed house cleaning.

Intellectually, I realized that there was really no connection between the two events, but in my heart I knew there was a cosmic thread tying it all together. In the end all I did was confuse myself. That's what happens when you hang around street corners too long.

(Get Milo's book, "Schoolboy," now - The Editors)