Randolph Street: The American Carnival

... But yes, I think it can be very easily done

We'll just put some bleachers out in the sun

And have it on Highway 61.

from "Highway 61 Revisited," Bob Dylan, 1965

Here's the third and final installment of Jon Randolph's series of pix taken along US Route 61 following the Mississippi River, from 1976 through 1985.

"Mailboxes," Keeler, Wisconsin

"Three Gents," Mississippi

"Eagle," Davenport, Iowa

"Edsel," Burlington, Iowa

"Hat," Mississippi

"Wait," Minnesota

Good old Jon Randolph - as we speak, he's sitting back in a fishing boat on a crystal clear Canadian lake, keeping an eye on his line for action, pulling his cap low against the morning glare, perhaps even enjoying a cool libation. That's the life. We have only one thing to say - get the hell back to work, you bum!

Randolph Street, featuring the work of Chicago's premier photojournalist, appears here every Friday. The Third City brings you the best in writing, opinion, memoir and other gibberish every day. Keep an eye open for the move to our very own website - swear to god, it's coming soon!

Letter From Milo: Dropping Like Flies

I've run my own small business - make that a very small business - for about 15 years. I'm not saying I run it well, I'm just saying I run it. I've made good money, decent money and chump change. I've seen good times and bad times, but I've never seen times as bad as these.

The way the economy is going you have to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. Like hunter-gatherer societies, barter economies and the colonial system, maybe true capitalism's time has passed. Maybe it's time for a new economic system to emerge, something that still rewards individual initiative but takes into consideration the immense disparity in the distribution of our planet's natural resources.

Why should a few nations, blessed with an abundance of natural resources, prosper while other nations, blessed with an abundance of sand, rocks, snakes and AK-47s, teeter on the brink of collapse. It doesn't seem fair. It's a small world, dangerous and very crowded. Such obvious disparities in wealth serve only to inflame the have-nots. New chickens are hatching every day and they'll all be needing a place to roost.

Whoa! I'm getting in over my head here. My world view is basically limited to what I can see out of my window. If I try to go beyond that I generally get a headache and have to retire to my couch with a cold Blatz and the remote control.

I was just reading an editorial about about the bankruptcy of General Motors. The writer opined that GM was too big to fail. What kind of bullshit is that! Too big to fail! The dinosaurs failed. The Roman Empire failed. The Soviet Union failed. Everything eventually fails. Do people think GM is going to last as long as the pyramids? Let GM succeed or fail on its own merits. I've got no sympathy for a company that foisted a monstrosity like the Hummer on an unsuspecting public. I mean, who the hell needs to drive a military assault vehicle on the streets of Chicago? Might as well outfit a Sherman tank with baby seats and a roof rack and call it a family sedan.

My concern is not with the GMs, AIGs and big banks of the world. I'm concerned about the little guy. My sympathies lie with the auto worker not the auto company. My heart goes out to the bank teller not the greedy bank honchos who helped cause this economic meltdown. While the fat MBA-festooned bastards are grudgingly accepting the blame, they are not suffering any of the consequences. At the end of the day, they will retire to their gated communities, while the unemployed autoworker and bank teller will be lucky to hang on to their split-levels and bungalows.

Swear to God, if it wasn't for those unreasonable statutes that deprive a man of his liberty for committing even the most righteous of murders, I'd go and...

Ah, never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah. As I was saying, as a small business owner, I rely on a lot of other small business owners to help me provide my advertising services. Several of my clients are small businesses, too, and it breaks my heart, not to mention my wallet, to see them struggling to stay afloat and, and many cases, drowning.

Small businesses are dropping like flies. I've seen mom and pop print shops go out of business. I seen advertising specialty suppliers, the people that provide coffee mugs, ball caps and ink pens with logos on them, go under. I've listened to the sad stories of print makers, rubber stamp manufacturers and silk screeners. I've commiserated with photographers who had to close their studios and designers who wonder where they'll get the money to update their computer equipment. I've listened to people who have worked hard and honorably all their lives wonder if they'll ever be able to retire.

I listen and listen and listen, and all I can do is quote the great Marvin Gaye: "What's Going On?"

In my very first posting on this blog site, I promised that I would never lie to the American people. Although I've fudged on that promise a few times, I'll be completely honest now. I'm suffering, too. My business is going through the same problems that other small business are dealing with - budgets slashed or eliminated, lack of credit, longer payment terms and clients defaulting on invoices.

I don't now how much longer I can or want to keep it going. If things don't pick up in the next six months I'll have to make some tough decisions. As it is, I'm probably going to have to get a night job, something to help make ends meet. The only problem is that half the people in the country are looking for night jobs to help make ends meet. As W.C. Fields said, "It's a tough old world, you're lucky to get out of it alive."

Anybody wanna start a riot?

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...."

Big Mike: Ma, The Homewrecker

When I was younger (read: the week before last), I operated under the assumption that all the puzzles, uncertainties, traumas, heartbreaks and flat-out stupid decisions that accompany romantic life would magically disappear once I'd reach a certain age.

From the age of 13, when I discovered the opposite sex (the thought of the young, long-haired, curvy Kathy Chelini still makes my breath catch) I realized that the irresistible urge to reach an understanding with a female for the two of us to provide each other with friendship, affection, wise counsel and occasional nudity was a journey fraught with landmines.

At that age I realized that the emotions, strategies and overall thought patterns of those members of homo sapiens sapiens whose cells carry 23 X chromosomes are utterly baffling to me. I concluded that it was difficult - if not impossible - to accurately gauge when and if a girl was interested in me and whether that interest might culminate in pal-hood or true love. And then, once the game rules had more or less been laid out, it became even more challenging to determine whether at any given point my new gal pal/love of my life was secretly angry, sad, resentful, bored or suddenly curious about that new guy who just moved into the neighborhood.

So, when it came to girls, at 13 I was lost. Suffering from blissful optimism, I assumed that I'd figure the whole thing out long before I was 20. But I was still lost at 18. As well as 21. And 25. Thirty-three. Forty-two. Fifty. Even as recently as this past weekend.

I'm not so clueless to think that the women of my life haven't also been dumbfounded by me. Heck, my chaotic, inscrutable psyche has left enough dazed girls and women in its wake to populate a small town.

Fair enough. Still, I foresee a time when I'll no longer be bewildered by the mating imperative and all its attendant jealousies and misconceptions. Now, the age of 60 seems a fairly good target. How many 60-year-olds do you see running around fretting over love? Certainly by the age of 70 my worries will be over. At 80, such concerns will be dim memories.

That's why the phone conversation I had with my mother yesterday nags at me.

Ma turns 88 this year. Born in 1921, she remembers streetcars and horse-drawn milk wagons. She has lived through Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination and 9/11. She's been toughened by life.

Yet she cried on the phone yesterday.

"Mike," she began dolefully, "I've been having trouble at church."

"Trouble at church!" I exclaimed. "How can you get into trouble at church? Whadja do, nail a list of theses to the door?"

"This isn't a joke!"

"Okay. Sorry. What happened."

"Well, there's this usher...."

Uh oh.

"... I think he likes me. He always goes out of his way to say hi to me. He flirts with me. He smiles at me. One time, during the collection, I had to dig for my envelope in my purse while he stood there holding the basket. He patted me on the shoulder and said, 'Don't worry, that's alright.' I think he liked standing next to me for so long."

"Well Ma, that's nice, isn't it?" I offered, trying to erase from my mind the image of a bent, wizened old buzzard lurking over my mother's pew.

"No it isn't! He's married!"

Oy.

"His wife knows what's going on. She watches us like a hawk. Now she's always giving me the evil eye. Every time I turn around, I see her staring at me. After mass, she stands at the back of the church and I have to pass right by her. It's so uncomfortable!

"Mike, I would never come between a man and his wife. She looks at me like I'm a hoor! It's getting to be too much. Ever since your father died, I've never even wanted to see another man. Now this woman thinks I'm trying to steal her husband."

With that, Ma began to weep.

"Ma, Ma, you can't let this lady get to you. It's her problem if she's jealous."

"I know," she said between sobs. "But she's friends with everybody at church. I don't want her telling everybody I'm a bad woman.

"It's gotten so bad, I even stayed away from church for a few weeks."

That's bad. Ever since Ma started catching sight of the end, she's been hedging her bets with the putative creator of the Universe, praying like a monk and attending mass, well, religiously. Now she's afraid to go to church and beg her god not to banish her to everlasting hell. All because of some jealous wife.

Has anybody ever figured this stuff out?

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.

Letter From Milo: The Time Luc Longley Chickened Out

Back in the days when Jack Daniel and I were close friends, I used to do and say a lot of very stupid things. It wasn't my fault. I blamed it on the booze. As an anonymous old bluesman once sang, "I was high, baby, when I did you wrong and you know it don't count when you're high."

I remember staggering home one evening from my local swill-a-teria and passing my neighbor's house on the way. The neighbor, a lovely woman named Amy, saw me rocking and reeling and called out, "Milo, are you drunk again?"

"I am indeed drunk," I replied, in my usual gentlemanly fashion. "But tomorrow morning I'll be sober and you'll still be an ugly old whore."

The next morning Amy's husband, a big brute of a man who is 20 years younger than I am, confronted me. "Did you call my wife an ugly old whore last night?"

"Yes I did," I answered. "And I'm truly sorry about it. It was presumptuous of me to say that. You see, I don't know what your wife does for a living."

Instead of kicking my butt, which he had every right to do, Amy's husband laughed his ass off and invited me over for drinks later that day.

I used to hang out at a bar called Sterch's on Lincoln Avenue. It is far from a chic or trendy spot, just a local saloon that has been sensitive to the needs of drinkers since the early 70s. One evening, a little after midnight, a smartly dressed couple walked in, probably by mistake, or else they were just slumming, checking out the local wildlife. They reeked of class, probably had season tickets to the opera and made regular appearances in Kup's Column.

It just so happened that the gentleman sitting on the bar stool next to me, who I had been having a lively discussion with for the past few hours, chose that moment to pass out. He rocked back and forth a couple of times then fell forward, his head hitting the bar with a loud thump.

The society matron appeared disgusted by the sight of my friend dozing on the bar. The woman pointed a well-manicured finger and said, "He must be the local drunk."

"No, lady," I told her, "We all generally take turns."

I've mentioned my good friend Bruce Diksas a few times in my posts. Bruce spends most of the year out of the country, in places like Bali, Nepal and Australia. Due to his proclivity for traveling, and his astute sense of the ridiculous, the editors of this blog site have offered him the prestigious and highly paid position of The Third City's Foreign Correspondent. As of this writing, Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this site, and Bruce's agent, Moe Howard, are still dickering over the terms of the contract. The hangup seems to be the company car. Big Mike is offering a 1997 Ford Taurus while Bruce is still holding out for a late model Buick Electra 225.

Anyway, until Bruce comes on board and provides us with his own unique and informative brand of bullshit, I'm going to steal one of his stories.

Now, Bruce is a guy who enjoys a good drink once in a while. In fact, he has had the the great pleasure of ordering drinks on five different continents. When they open a saloon in Antarctica I'm sure it won't be long before Bruce is on a first name basis with the bartender.

One day Bruce was sitting in his favorite watering hole on the island of Bali when in walks the biggest man he has ever seen. Not only that, the huge man is accompanied by a six-foot tall blond that would make Stevie Wonder look twice. When the awesome couple took seats at the bar next to Bruce, he realized that the man was none other than Luc Longley, the Aussie who was the former center for the Chicago Bulls. Bruce, being a Chicagoan and a Bulls fan, introduced himself and offered to buy Luc and his companion drinks. Luc accepted and shortly afterward reciprocated.

A few hours and quite a few drinks later, Bruce was feeling pretty good. In fact, he felt bulletproof, like Superman. He felt so good that he challenged Luc Longley to a game of one-on-one.

Luc, who must have faced this situation countless times, graciously declined, claiming a bum knee.

We were having a few drinks, a few months later, when Bruce related this story to me. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe Bruce was just feeling feisty, but he put his own unique spin on the tale. He didn't outright say it, but he intimated that perhaps, just perhaps, the great Luc Longley chickened out.

"Can't say I blame him," I replied. "After all, why would any seven-foot tall former NBA basketball player with three chanpionship rings to his credit want to tangle with a drunk 60-year-old Lithuanian with a four-inch vertical leap."

"My point, exactly," Bruce said.

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.