Randolph Street: Rollin' Up The River

While photojournalist Jon Randolph lolls the days away on a fishing boat in a Canadian lake, we're presenting pix from his trips up and down US Highway 61. Here's the second batch. - The Eds.

"Raccoon," Minnesota

"Celose" (note the sign in the window), Minnesota

"Merchant," Minnesota

"Country Kitchen," Iowa

"Yard Sale," Tennessee

"Mirror," Duluth, Minnesota

This is a personal look at mid-America that I shot between 1976 and 1985. At the times I shot these pix, the approximately 1700 miles of US Highway 61 roughly followed the Mississippi River from New orleans to Minneapolis, then jutted northeast to Duluth and then along the western edge of Lake Superior to Thunder Bay, Ontario.

This is the second installment - part three will run next Friday. There's a lot to look at. - JR

Visit The Third City every day for new posts, treats, surprises, words and pictures. We'll be moving soon! Our new home will be thethirdcity.net. We're building the site right now - knowing us and our meager technological talents, it'll actually be up sometime around the turn of the next century. Anyway, we'll keep you up to date. - The Eds.

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.

Letter From Milo: High On The Hog

I'll eat almost anything. The word "omnivore" doesn't do me justice. If it walks, crawls, flies or swims - as long as it doesn't have opposable thumbs - I'll try it.

I'm not saying I'm as adventurous as Andrew Zimmern, the nutcase who hosts "Bizarre Foods" on the Travel Channel but I've eaten some pretty odd meals. I've eaten bugs, rodents, pig and cow testicles, raw beef and raw fish. I've tried fungi, mosses, weeds and leaves from trees. I've eaten food that looked great but tasted vile and food that looked disgusting but was absolutely delicious. I've had food that's gotten me stoned (hash brownies) and food that's sent me to the emergency room (tainted chicken).

That said, there is one meal that I prefer over all others. It is the meal I would order if I was on Death Row and it would be the last food I'd ever taste. I'd go to the gallows with a twinkle in my eye and a song in my heart as long as my face and hands were smeared with sweet, sticky and spicy red sauce.

Yes, folks I'm talking about barbecued ribs, God's gift to the human taste bud.

I've eaten ribs in rib hotspots all over the country - Chicago, the Carolinas, Memphis and Kansas City. Each of these places claims supremacy in the art of barbecue. And each has a valid claim. My good friend Bruce Diksas, tells me that there's even a rib joint on the island of Bali, where he lives part of the year. The place is run by an American ex-patriot and advertises Chicago-style ribs.

One day Bruce decided to try the Balinesian ribs. Now, Bruce grew up in Bridgeport and knows a thing or two about ribs. When he finished the platter, the bar owner asked Bruce how he liked them.

Bruce shook his head sadly and said, "Sorry, pal, these ribs would never make it in Chicago.

One of the first times I ever tasted great ribs was in a small storefront in Gary, Indiana, called Shoe's Ribs and Chicken. Shoe's specialty was a rib sandwich, which was nothing more than two or three rib bones slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread, drenched in sauce and served on waxed paper. I don't recall if napkins were made available. Anyway, those rib sandwiches were delicious. Man, a couple of those and a cold bottle of Blatz and you were set for the day.

When I settled in Chicago, I thought I found rib heaven. There were good rib joints everywhere. My favorite was a small spot off North Avenue by the Chicago River called Edith's. In my opinion, Edith's ribs were close to perfect. Edith used baby back ribs and the texture was just right. They weren't wussy ribs that fell off the bone if a slight breeze passed by. You had to work them a bit but it was well worth the trouble.

The best ribs aren't always found in restaurants. Some of the best ribs I've ever tasted have been at backyard barbecues. Two stand out in particular. One old friend, a college buddy named Way Out Willie Bauer, was and probably still is, a rib master. He took infinite care with his ribs, hovering over the grill like a card shark over pocket aces. He constantly adjusted the coals, carefully turned the slabs and watched for flare-ups as intensely as a California park ranger watches for brush fires. When it came time to add the sauce, Willie's brushwork was every bit the equal of Picasso's. And Willie would accomplish these magnificent rib feats while consuming huge quantities of booze and reefer.

Another rib master is my neighbor, John O'Connor, who works as an attorney in order to finance his rib habit. John prefers a dry rub to sauce. Although I'm a sauce man I have to admit that John's dry rub is the best I've ever tasted, spicy but not overpowering. He hosts a backyard cookout every summer. I always try to be on my best behavior at his cookouts because I don't want to get drunk and do something so stupid that he won't invite me back. His ribs are that good.

A while ago I wrote about visiting Kansas City with Bruce Diksas. We went for a reunion of our old army outfit. Now, Kansas City has a lot of things going for it. It's not Milwaukee or Indianapolis, for one thing. But in my mind Kansas City's greatest asset, it's municipal pride and joy, is Arthur Bryant's.

For years, Arthur Bryant's, along with the Rendezvous in Memphis and Lexington Barbecue in Lexington, North Carolina, has been ranked as one of the top rib joints in the country. There was no way on Earth we were going to Kansas City and not visit Bryant's. It would be like going back to your home town and not visiting Mom.

We were not disappointed. Bryant's served superb ribs, meaty, al dente and with a wonderful sauce. It was everything I'd hoped it would be. We each had a slab accompanied by French fries and a scoop of slaw. I doubt Bruce and I spoke a word while devouring those fantastic ribs. We just grunted, groaned, belched, slurped, licked our fingers and guzzled beer. When we finished, we leaned back in our chairs, patted our distended bellies and sighed with pleasure.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked Bruce.

"You know, Milo," he said, "I think those ribs would make it in Chicago."

Big Mike: A Stinging Refusal

I have more phobias than I have fingers and toes. My phobic history has even evolved. For instance, I was pretty much incapable of going over a bridge in a car as recently as 15 years ago. In 1992, I essentially had a nervous collapse at the foot of the Second Street Bridge over the wide Ohio River because of my unbearable panic. Now, though, that particular terror has gone into remission. I drive the mile-long span as easily as ordering a medium pizza with sausage and green peppers.

But I still have a healthy (well, unhealthy) collection of hysterias. Probably the biggest of all is bees, wasps and hornets. No, it's not a sane person's reasonable caution concerning the sting-y buggers. I have nightmares about them. I can't even look at pictures of them. Should a nature show on TV suddenly zoom in on a beehive, I dash out of the room. As for those whackjobs who like to wear bee beards, well, they ought to be horsewhipped.

It's so ridiculous that even typing the word bee makes me jittery. That, my friends, is a phobia.

My lineup of shrinks and skull jockeys has urged me to unearth the genesis of this terror for decades. The best I can come up with is an incident when I was about four years old. It was a sunny summer day. I was fooling around in the backyard without any shoes on.

My father was mowing the lawn and I was pretending to help him. Apparently, my seemingly futile attempts to drag the bushel basket over to him when it was time to empty the grass catcher were actually of service. Who knew?

Anyway, at one point I took a step and felt a sharp pain. I looked down and saw beneath my pink big toe the mad, buzzing, wing-flapping bee who'd just planted his shiv in me. I shrieked louder than Janet Leigh in her Bates Motel room shower and ran inside. Dad either couldn't hear me or - more likely - chose not to. He didn't possess an unending reservoir of empathy for the anguish of four-year-olds.

Ma grabbed me and hustled me into the bathroom where she applied a variety of palliatives to my throbbing toe. She yanked the stinger out with a tweezers, washed my foot with soap and hot water, dabbed mercurochrome on the wound and, for all I know, sprinkled garlic powder on it. At some point during these ministrations, Dad must have called for his bushel basket and found me missing. He was hot.

Dad marched into the house and called my name in that loud, deep, father-voice that's meant to petrify anyone within earshot. I couldn't answer because I was still sobbing. He called my name again and the second ensuing silence enraged him. He stomped into the dining room, off of which was the bathroom, and found Ma operating on my foot. "I'll be goddamned!" he hollered. "When I call you, you answer!"

Ma hollered back: "For chrissakes, Joe! he was stung by a bee!"

What followed was one of their classic donnybrooks. My parents fought exactly as George Costanza's parents would on TV some three decades later. Every time I see Frank and Estelle screeching at each other on "Seinfeld" reruns, I alternate between convulsive laughter and painful grimaces. It's as though I'm watching my family's home movies.

At that age, such brawls scared the bejesus out of me. Ma and Dad would take positions at either end of the house and launch verbal salvoes at each other for what seemed hours. They swore, they called each other names, they goddamned each other and themselves countless times, their faces turned beet red and there was fire in their eyes. Normally, I'd hide in my room until they'd shouted themselves out.

I did so on this particular day, all the while telling myself it was my stupid fault for getting stung by a bee. As usual, after such open hostilities had ceased, my parents would then engage in a Cold War, refusing to speak to each other for days - even weeks - on end. I was, I told myself, a jerk for causing another such stretch of bad blood.

Cut to Friday afternoon. The Loved One announced that she'd discovered a hornets nest under the eave of our house. My blood turned cold. I didn't even respond, thinking that if I ignored her, the nest and her forthcoming suggestion that I do something about it would simply go away. Mirabile dictu, she didn't breathe another word about it for the rest of the day. Almost.

That night, about 11:00pm, I was sitting in my boxers and flip-flops at the dining room table, reading celebrity gossip on dlisted online and feeling my eyelids getting heavier by the minute. That's when The Loved One, who'd been snoring on the sofa, began to stir. I heard her pad around the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of milk and sneaking a piece of chocolate cake. She joined me in the dining room.

"Mike," she asked, "would you help me do something?"

"Certainly, my precious angel, light of my life and partner 'till death. What is it?"

"Help me take down the hornets nest. It's the perfect time; they're dormant for the night. It'll be easy."

My eyes, half-lidded 15 seconds earlier, now were saucer wide. My legs turned to jelly. I responded monosyllabically:

"No."

"But Mike, we have to do it!"

"No."

"I need your help!"

"No."

"You're so selfish," she snapped. With that, she stomped out of the room. She refused to speak to me at the beginning of the next day. She eventually warmed back up by noon. Thankfully, she hasn't brought up the hornets nest again.

For my part, I was prepared to fight a Cold War for days - even weeks - on end.

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.....

Big Mike: I Rebel Against Guy Nation

I've never been terribly comfortable being a guy. It's not that I've ever thought about changing my sex. I'd be equally - if not, more - uncomfortable being a woman, what with how they've been treated by the guys of this world. So don't worry, this isn't a confessional about my hitherto undisclosed desire to become the next RuPaul (RuBig Mike?)

It's just that guys are jerks. And the more guys who gather in a room, the more the jerk factor shoots upward. In fact, with the addition of each single guy, the jerkiness factor increases exponentially.

Want proof? Go to a bachelor party. Walk into a cop bar. Peek into a men's locker room. Hell, the jerkiest religions in the world are those that relegate woman to the status of quadrupeds. Ever hear of a Catholic priest named Mary (outside of Halsted Street, that is)? Orthodox Jews say a prayer every morning thanking god that they weren't born women. And, of course, in the strict Islamic world, women would be taking a giant step up to achieve the status of sheep.

Guy-ness even pervades art. I usually keep my utter distaste for hip-hop and rap music quiet. To be honest, I don't want to open myself up to the charge that I'm a bitter old prick who hates anything the kids are listening to nowadays. While it's true I am a bitter old prick, I love a lot of new music. The Decemberists. Feist. My Morning Jacket. Radiohead. The list goes on. But I loathe hip-hop and rap because it's so guy. Hip-hop guys are always getting laid, drinking expensive Champagne, wearing precious metals, rolling in dough and calling every female on the planet up to and including flowering plants that contain the ovule-bearing structure, the pistil, bitches. Hip-hop and rap are way too guy.

I found myself surrounded by guys at Dick's Pizza the other night. One of those things. For some unknown reason, there wasn't a single woman in the house. There were the two bartenders, Hank and Rock-star Zach. There were Old Gus, Dinesh, All-American Allen, a couple of strangers and your faithful reporter. It was a sausage fest.

Old Gus is the epitome of senior guy-ness. He drives an aircraft carrier-sized Buick. He carries a came with an ornate gold knob. He was married a long, long time ago but he left his wife after a month and has remained a happily dispeptic bachelor ever since.

Dinesh comes from India. Once I asked him how the average Indian views Pakistanis. Normally a reserved man, Dinesh became an orator. He launched into a half-hour examination of the many socio-political, cultural and religious issues that divide the two nations. But as he went on, his anger mounted. He finally concluded with the statement, "D'ey are no goot! D'ey are pieces of sheet!" He couldn't resist, in other words, being a guy.

All-American Allen, whom I've introduced previously in this space, is a staunch Republican. You know, the party of white guys.

Bartenders Hank and Rock-star Zach are reasonably decent fellows although Zach plays lead guitar for a local band that gets a lot of radio airplay around these parts. Ergo, guy.

On the evening in question, the jowly, ever-outraged face of Lou Dobbs loomed above us on the three giant flat screens over the bar. Lou Dobbs is a king among guys. As if there weren't enough to send Dobbs's blood pressure skyrocketing, he'd found a video of an unfortunate incident on some big city bus. As captured on the bus's security cameras, a young man walked on, paid his fare, took two steps toward the handicapped seats and suddenly, without provocation, began whacking the shit out of some poor blind woman. Oh, the steam was pouring out of Dobbs's ears.

The gang of guys at Dick's was transfixed. We watched as several fellow riders tackled the assailant and threw him off the bus. Dobbs called them heroes. But my barmates weren't in a mood to laud heroes.

"They shoulda held him and called the cops," Rock-star Zach announced. "I hope they put him in jail and show that video to all the other guys in jail every morning. Then he'd get what's coming to him!"

"They shoulda beat him bloody!" All-American Allen proclaimed.

"I know what I would have done to him," Old Gus said in a loud voice, "I would have stuck my cane up his ass right then and there!"

"D'at guy ees a piece of sheet," Dinesh said in a louder voice. "D'ey should shoot him in d'e forehead!"

There followed a three-minute orgy of can-you-top-this with the two strangers joining in. I listened patiently until the orgy died down a bit, then spoke.

"Has it occurred to anyone that maybe, just maybe, the guy's mentally ill?"

The bar became silent. Either the guys were wowed by my intellect and sense of compassion or they'd exhausted all their rage. Aw, I'll stop kidding myself. They'd spewed all the bile they could muster. They were spent.

Hank sidled near me just as a different video of some thugs pummeling an old man in a playground flashed on the screens. "What's wrong with people?" Hank asked.

I pondered for a moment. "People?" I responded. "Or guys?"