Big Mike: My Horrors Are Bigger Than Your Horrors

The woman appeared to be boiling over. Let's call her Fatima. She seemed to be dying to say something but knew it might ignite a verbal melee. She found a roundabout way to say it, though. What followed was not an explosion but a simmering huff. The explosion would have been better.

Let me set the scene. The Loved One and I participated in a gallery exhibit at the Lakeside Legacy Arts Park the week before last. Entitled "Snap Out Of It..., Don't You Hate It When They Say That?" the show focused on clinical depression.

The show's barn boss was a visual artist named Sophia, a dear old pal of mine. She's fought a lifelong battle to get people to take clinical depression seriously. She suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, a symptom of which is depression. Too many people have implied that she's merely being lazy. Some have come right out and said so. With the show, she created a constructive public outlet for her frustration.

I did a reading of a piece entitled, "I'm Slipping." It recounted a bit of my own lifelong battle against depression. Here's how it started:

I'm slipping.

Again. Same old thing. My life becomes very simple when I'm in the big slip. Sleep. Eat as many carbohydrates as the world's farms can produce. Tell myself what a lousy, lazy bum I am. Go back to sleep. Wake up. Eat more carbs. Insult myself. Do it all over again.

A lot of people love the simple life.

What's to love?

Later, I write:

I'm alone.

There must be some outward sign that warns people I'm toxic. Stay away! Don't touch, don't inhale, don't catch it!

When I'm slipping, people find ways to sidle away from me. And I think, "Those jerks. Couldn't get enough of me six months ago, now they wouldn't pour their drinks on me it I was on fire. What's wrong with them?"

But something's wrong with me. I radiate something. I've heard that if you walk near a big radio station's transmitter, you can hear the broadcast in your head, as if the metal in your fillings has received the signal and now is treating you to the Jonas Brothers in the caverns of your cranium. Maybe that's how powerful this depression is - 50,000 watts-worth of misery pouring out of me like the WGN signal.

I even delve into my wrangling with the ultimate solution:

Gotta find a way out of this mess.

Suicide. I've thought about it every day for most of my life. Sometimes, every hour....

... People become angry when they hear about a suicide. They say the person who did the dying was - take your pick - selfish, sinful, weak, or even all three. As if the cutting, the hanging, the ingestion of poison, the inhalation of toxic gas, or the submersion in frigid waters was the moral equivalent of having an office fling or eating the last of the ice cream.

In true Hollywood fashion, I end on the upbeat:

In a never-ending attempt to right my listing ship of sanity, I've tried talk therapy, group therapy, cognitive therapy, behavioral therapy, Freudian analysis, four different antidepressants, Valium, Xanax, Buddhist chanting, prayer, St. John's Wort, exercise, gin, vodka and beer, promiscuity, abstinence, pot, and at least a half dozen other panaceas I've forgotten or am too embarrassed to mention.

Trial and error. If at first you don't succeed, yadda yadda yadda. I hit on Zoloft when I was 46. Seven years ago. Hmm. I think this might work. I don't feel too much like killing myself anymore. Zoloft. And hope. They're all I've got.

I promise you - I swear to you - I'm gonna snap out of this. Because that's how easy it is. I made the decision and set out to complete this task and I'm almost finished. And it's only taken..., let's see now..., 36 years. It's a snap!

The fun thing about doing a staged reading is that, for a few minutes at least, I'm a rock star. A sculptor ran up to me after I was finished and lavished more praise on me than I could possibly merit. As she gushed, Fatima approached.

Fatima was born in a country that's notorious for its history of violence and unrest. She's made it clear many times that this whole business of depression is the bunk. According to Fatima, depression is easily conquered through prayer and a stiff upper lip.

Antidepressants? Hah! Shrinks and support groups? A couple of rackets.

Her's is precisely the attitude "Snap Out Of It..." was intended to address.

Exuding tension, Fatima waited for an opening. When the sculptor said that today's economic woes may set off an epidemic of depression, Fatima couldn't hold herself back. "You know, people have no idea what problems really are," she began.

Her eyes flashed wide. Her jaw jutted. "I've seen people shot on street corners. I've had to take cover for my life. Americans don't have any problems yet they're always talking about how horrible things are. It's sickening! Maybe people should experience real horror."

I sensed immediately that she was really referring to my tale of woe. Yet, wishing to avoid a scene, I found myself nodding. "Oh yeah, I know what you mean," I replied in my oiliest salesman voice. "We're richer and healthier than 98 percent of all the people in the world...." And so on.

What I should have done is tell Fatima to go fuck herself. It would have made me feel a lot better. When you're clinically depressed, you should always try to make yourself feel a lot better.

Letter From Milo: Professional Bullshitter

For the past 25 years years I've made my living in the advertising business. I've worked for mainly small- to medium-size agencies and for the last 10 years I've run my own small company, called Big Sky Studios.

When I tell people I'm in the ad business, they sometimes ask me what I do. Am I a designer, account exec, media buyer? "No, " I answer, "I am a professional bullshitter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm an advertising writer, the person who comes up with catchy headlines and informative copy that are supposed to convince you that the products or services I'm writing about are things you can't live without. In essence, I'm a salesman with a keyboard."

I've met a lot of interesting people in the ad business. On the creative side - meaning art directors, designers and writers - the business is filled with very talented people. Many of them could be very succesful in other creative endeavors. I've also met some very nice people from the business side of advertising - account managers, media buyers and upper echelon executives. Many of these people could also succeed in other business environments and often do.

On the other hand, I've also met a lot of raging assholes, unscrupulous and unethical people, some who are borderline psychotics and others who are shameless thieves. Sadly, the ad business seems to attract nutcases. It is an industry driven by creativity, the almighty dollar and merciless deadlines, a combination guaranteed to bring out the worst in people.

One of the most unscrupulous and unethical people I ever met in the business was a guy I'll call Lou, who owned a mid-size agency that specialized in direct mail, or what some people refer to as "junk mail." Lou had the trifecta of despicable character traits: he was an ego-ridden maniac with a penchant for screaming at his employees; a thief who cheated clients and vendors alike; and - worst of all, in my opinion - he despised the business that made him a wealthy man. He hated his clients, loathed his vendors and mistreated his employees. One of his favorite sayings was, "All clients are pigs."

He was also insanely jealous of anyone in the business who was more successful than he was. Just mentioning the name of of someone like Leo Burnett or David Ogilvy, founder of Ogilvy & Mather, would set Lou off.

"Leo Burnett was a rotten old bastard, stole his best ideas and ended up with a billion-dollar agency. I make it a point to piss on his grave a couple of times a year. And don't get me started on Ogilvy. He's nothing but a Limey faggot who came over here and bullshitted everyone with that greasy English charm. What the fuck did either of those cocksuckers ever accomplish other than stick their noses about a foot and a half up their clients' asses? You tell me."

If you were foolish enough to point out that Burnett and Ogilvie were part of a small group that virtually invented modern advertising, Lou would turn on you. He would call you vile names and probably cut your Christmas bonus in half - that is, if the cheap bastard planned on giving out bonuses at all.

I saw Lou do a lot of underhanded things, but the most outrageous was when he cheated our biggest client. It was a case of blatant theft and the funny thing was he could have gotten away with it if he had not been so stupid.

The client put in an order for thousands of ball caps with its company logo on them. Lou immediately called the most expensive vendor in town and got a quote of $16,000. He then marked up that price $4000 and presented the client with a quote for $20,000. The client agreed to the price.

That's when Lou went to work. He immediately began searching for a vendor who would provide the ball caps at a lower price. After talking to dozens of suppliers, he finally found a small mom and pop shop that would do the job for $3000.

Despite the new rock bottom price, Lou stayed true to his nature and refused to pass on the savings to his client. When the mom and pop shop invoice arrived, Lou let it sit on his desk for months. That was his style. He hated to pay vendors. He would string them along for months, waiting until they threatened to sue, then send them a pittance, just enough to satisfy "legal good faith" requirements. Then the whole dragged-out payment process would begin again.

In this case, the mom and pop shop got tired of waiting and pulled an end run. They sent a copy of the invoice directly to our client. Shortly afterwards, I got a call from Jeff, my contact at the client.

"Hey, Milo, I've got an invoice sitting on my desk from the ball cap company."

"That's strange."

"They sent it here because you guys haven't paid them and the invoice is six months old."

"Heh, heh. Must be some sort of mistake."

"Perhaps. Oh, and by the way, can you explain why were were charged $20,000 for a job that you paid three thousand for?"

I may be a professional bullshitter, but I didn't even try to bullshit my way out of that one. The client fired us a week later. And a few weeks after that I gave my two week notice. After all, there's only so much bullshit a pro can take.

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....

Big Mike: A Little Note On A Big Deal?

This long distance romance deal is losing some of its, well, romance. Spending her weeknights holed up in the bedroom of a sublet apartment has begun to turn The Loved One into a irascible thing. She certainly was no Perle Mesta this weekend back home at the Murray Hill Pike ranch and it's hard to blame her. On the other hand, I nominate myself for sainthood for bearing without complaint (oh, alright, I complained a little..., scratch that - a lot) her tight-lipped mien, snippy replies and overall spleen.

So I suppose the prospects of my beatification hinge upon the fact that we didn't actually engage in hand-to-hand combat from Friday evening through late Sunday afternoon, the length of this week's reunion.

Imagine that - St. Big Mike!

We did get some good news Friday when the owners of a terrific country home took us up on our offer to make a contingency offer (is that an offer once removed?) They've found a new place but, like everyone else in the United States, are stuck waiting for someone to take their current home off their hands. It's a nation of time-biders right now. I get the feeling that some family, somewhere - say, Enid, Oklahoma - will get a solid offer on their home Wednesday afternoon, setting in motion the domino fall of several million sales that will cause real estate agents everywhere to swoon in delirium.

Not to mention The Loved One and me. We haven't got a single offer yet, even though our home has been on the market for more than two months and, if I do say so myself, is quite a joint.

That's all for now. Gotta shave (head and face) and dress like an adult. I'm headed up to Bloomington, Indiana later this morning for an afternoon chock-full of interviews with people from a gigantic corporation who seem interested in my services as a copywriter. Hmm.

The last of the great free agents trading in his normal workaday attire (boxer shorts, coffee-stained T-shirt and flip-flops) for a collared shirt and pleated trousers? Can it be? Stay tuned.

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...."

Randolph Street: Bob Dylan In Chicago

Jon Randolph is alive! Randolph Street is a day late but well worth the wait. Chicago's finest photojournalist tells the tale of today's pix in his own words. Take it away Jon. - The Eds.

I took these photos in September, 1975, when I was working for WTTW Channel 11 in Chicago. I'd loved Dylan since the Freewheelin' album was released in May, 1963. It was a dream come true that he was scheduled to appear on Soundstage for a tribute to John Hammond....

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I'm not sure Dylan was even the biggest star of the show - after all, Hammond had played a key role in the careers of Marion Williams, Helen Humes, Benny Goodman, Teddy Wilson, George Benson, Red Norvo, Philly Joe Jones, Milt Hinton, and even John Hammond, Jr.

With Scarlet Rivera playing violin, Dylan sang "Hurricane," "Simple Twist of Fate," and "Oh, Sister." It was well after midnight when Dylan finished his set. I was standing next to a young hipster record producer when he said to his pal, "He's still got it. Goddamn, I thought he was through."

Amen.

Big Mike: This Depression Ain't So Great

Visual and spoken word artists have joined forces for an exhibit on depression (the skull-jockey variety, not the economic kind) in the Dole Gallery at the Lakeside Legacy Arts Park in Crystal Lake, Illinois. The show, "Snap Out Of It... Don't You Hate It When They Say That?" which runs through May 15th, features deeply personal ruminations on the illness, which some 20 million Americans grapple with.

May is Mental Health Month in McHenry County. Lakeside Legacy Arts Park this month also features "Voice - Adolescent Allies," in the Sage Gallery, featuring works by teens exploring relationship power dynamics and sexual violence.

Here are images of some of the works from "Snap Out Of It."

"Social Phobia," acrylic on canvas, 2009,

by Sophia Anastasiou-Wasik

"I Would If I Could," computer graphics, 2009,

by Karen Roszkowski

"Addiction" (left) and "Obsession," both mixed media on Masonite, 2009, by Sophia Anastasiou-Wasik

"I'm Falling," prose poem performance, 2009, by Michael G. Glab

In case you're looking for this week's installment of Randolph Street, photojournalist Jon Randolph is missing in action today. To the best of our knowledge, he had pressing social and convivial responsibilities last night which kept him from his cozy bed until the wee hours. We trust he has an ample supply of aspirin on hand for when he greets the day.

Check in with us tomorrow. Hopefully, good old Jon will have rejoined the living by then. Come to The Third City every day for top-notch writing and terrific pictures.