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.

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."