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.

Big Mike: Fathers And Sons

Benny Jay's post about his daddy-o's mini-medical emergency sure gave me a start. Reading the first few sentences, I felt certain the tale would come to no good. I'm happy it didn't.

I've met the old bird once or twice in my life. I know he'd been a prof, teaching a ridiculously esoteric subject at a high-toned university. He seems as smart as Tolstoy and Sakharov put together. Any topic is fertile ground for his musings. He once lectured Benny that I mispronounce my own last name.

That's why it was so shocking to learn he'd been a paratrooper. For pity's sake, those guys are the toughest, boldest bastards to wear a uniform!

So not only does Old Man Jay possess a cerebrum that weighs more than the unabridged Old English Dictionary, he has a touch of Lee Marvin in him as well. That has to be a tough act to follow.

Benny Jay is more a combo of Royko and Alinsky. That's a terrific exacta but still, it pales in comparison. I wonder if, in his private moments, Benny Jay curses his luck that he'll never be able to live up to his father's standards.

The whole father-son thing rubs the rawest of my emotional lesions. My old man, to belabor the metaphor, was a mix of Archie Bunker and the Sphinx. The similarities between Old Joe and the protagonist of "All in the Family" are jarring. They were of similar age, both were high school dropouts, as philosophically attuned as two unlettered Depression-era babies could be, and prone to lash out at anything that threatened their provincial views of the world. I kid you not, they even had the same jobs - both were shipping/receiving dock foremen.

Whenever anybody waxes poetic about how brilliant the sitcom was, I roll my eyes. They ask, Didn't you think it was the funniest thing? I respond, Why the hell did I have to watch it on TV when it played out every night at my family's dinner table?

As for the second half of the tie-in, suffice it to say that if Old Joe and the Sphinx were pitted against each other to determine who could be the more mum, the contest would end in a draw. That is, except for when Old Joe was moved to howl to the world about how his family wasn't worth a nickel.

One day, during a period of family stress, he instructed me to set up a meeting of my siblings at his house because he had something important to tell us. Young Joey, Good Old Franny, and I arrived at my parents' Berwyn penthouse at the appointed time. (Charlotte was absent, having moved to Florida years before.) We sat around the kitchen table with Old Joe at the head.

What was the big news? Were he and Ma planning to move to Florida or Arizona? Had they won the Lotto and wanted to share some of their winnings with us? Old Joe looked at each of us before he spoke. Finally, his voice cut the silence. "The Glabs," he announced, "are shit!"

That was it! His big announcement! Young Joey and Good Old Franny sat gaping. My ears turned red. I leaped up and lashed out at him. All I remember was a torrent of invective that seemed to go on forever. Each of us gave as well as he got. As Old Joe and I bayed at each other, Young Joey and Good Old Franny sat stunned.

I don't regret flashing daggers in response to Old Joe's pronouncement although I realize now he'd suffered all his life from a horrifying clinical depression. He was never officially diagnosed but I don't need to be a shrink to know that he had the disease.

Whereas Benny Jay must surely grapple with his perceived inability to accomplish one-tenth of what his daddy-o did, I wrestle with my own perceived potential to live down to Old Joe's direst predictions. There were all too many of them.

Each of us - my sibs and me - has borne the scars of being raised by a man who utterly despised himself and anything that came from him (meaning us.) Old Joe never needed to make a formal announcement that I, a member of the accursed Glabs, was shit. He conveyed that message to me through subtle words and deeds all my life.

He died nearly fifteen years ago. His aorta burst and the surgeons spent an entire night attempting to sew it back together. They did this knowing that the odds of him surviving were infinitesimally small. How ironic that at the end of his life, a life lived wholly without hope, Old Joe's loved ones and those talented doctors clung only to the merest of hopes to keep him alive another day.

After the surgery was finished, I went back home to shower and change clothes. As I stood under the hot water, crying as deeply as a five-year-old, the phone rang. Old Joe had emerged from the recovery room on life support. There was no hope left.

I dashed back to the hospital to join the family around his ICU bed. Old Joe's organs were shutting down one by one. The consensus was to pull the plug. They only wanted to give me an opportunity to make the vote unanimous.

I couldn't bear to see him in such pitiable condition. Of course, I said, let's let him go. His heart monitor line went flat some 20 minutes later.

The funny thing is, he'd been in a coma since his aorta had ruptured half a day earlier; for the first time in his life, he wasn't suffering.

Benny Jay: Learning To Dance Part II

For the Raphael Saadiq concert, my Wife and I get to the Park West early. We get a good seat near the bar and I order some whiskey. I'm no drinker, but it chills me out.

The place fills up with the coolest cats in Chicago. All ages and races and religions. All kinds of hats, too -- pork pies, hamburgs, fedoras, caps.

"I wanna hat," I say to my wife.

"Okay...."

"One of those caps...."

"Okay...."

"The Kangaroo things, or whatever they're called...."

"Okay...."

"No, you always say okay, but whenever we're supposed to get one, you never go...."

"I'll go -- name the day...."

The woman deserves a medal for putting up with me.

Photo by: Jon Randolph

At 8:30 the lights dim. The background music turns off. The band takes the stage. I love this band. The background singer is a woman dressed in a black suit and tie. From where I'm sitting, she looks a little like Prince. The keyboard player is this beefy dude who looks like Donny Hathaway. Even has Donny Hathaway's wide-brim cap. I love Donny Hathaway.

They kick into a funky version of "Aquarius," the song from "Hair." I'm ready to dance. Only thing is -- there is no dancing. All those days of preparation. Practice at night. Looking at myself in the mirror. Wishing I was John Travolta. And there is no dancing, at least not tonight. I know, I know -- the ticket said there would be dancing. But the club's so crowded, there's just no room -- the dance floor's like a mosh pit.

Onto the stage pops Raphael Saadiq. The man is cooler than cool. He lives on the planet of Extra Coolness in the galaxy beyond planet Coolness. He's got this rusty orange suit that's luminescent in the lights and these glasses with retro-looking thick dark frames. Like a funky version of Clark Kent.

He sings all the songs from The Way I See It, his not-so-new-anymore CD: "Love That Girl," "Sure Hope You Mean It," "Big Easy...."

Yes, Raphael Saadiq may be the guy up on the stage, but, let me tell you, I'm the star. I'm singing the words and tapping my hand and clapping when he says to clap and, most important, under the table my feet are Steppin' in time to the song. Don't miss a step: one, two, three, four. I'm not even moving my lips as I keep the beats. Just feeling it. Me and Raphael Saadiq....

That night in bed before I fall asleep I think about the concert. I play back the songs in my mind. I see Raphael Saadiq in his rusty-colored suit. I see the backup singer who looks Prince and the key board player who looks like Donny Hathaway. I remind myself to remind my wife -- I gotta get a hat like Donny Hathaway.

I must fall asleep cause I have this dream. Raphael Saadiq's on the stage and he says: "Hey, Chicago. I wanna call up my good friend, Benny Jay. Put your hands together, y'all, for Benny Jay."

I take the stage and I hug the background singer, who looks like Prince, and I slap hands with the keyboard guy, who looks like Donny Hathaway. And as Raphael kicks into "Just One Kiss," me and the background singer are Steppin' -- one, two, three, four. The crowd's going crazy. And I leave the stage. And Raphael Saadiq goes, "Give it up for Benny Jay."

People are patting me on the back and buying me glasses of whiskey. I keep on Steppin' to the music, just gliding across the floor. Just like John freaking Travolta....

Big Mike: Our Strange Heroes

Benny Jay and I had that conversation the day before yesterday. You know, the one wherein two old chums discuss the untimely passing of a third.

I was walking home from  the Barnes and Noble in the late afternoon. Every few minutes, a drop or two of rain hit my shiny scalp. As I struggled up and down the Ten Broeck hills, Benny rang me up and broke the news that Norm Van Lier had been found dead in his apartment. Our reactions ran the gamut from shock to silence and, finally, to uproarious laughter over shared Stormin' Norman anecdotes.

There was, as a single example, the time seven years ago that Norm decked a fireman. Based on news reports and what I think I know of Norm's ways, it wasn't hard to imagine what had happened. Norm was at home in his lakefront highrise, probably sitting in his beloved beanbag chair - or, at least, its modern-day equivalent- and listening to that first, brilliant Chicago Transit Authority album (my own favorite cut from it is "Questions 67 & 68.") Perhaps he'd employed some additional aid to achieve a certain tranquil frame of mind; no one can say. Whatever. The sound of sirens stopping in front of his building caused him to high-tail it down to the lobby.

Rattled that his mood had been broken, Norm had a head full of steam as he exited the elevator. In the lobby, he encountered a stranger wearing a white T-shirt. Apparently, a few cross words were exchanged.

The dialogue might have gone something like this:

Norm: "Who the fuck are you?"

T-shirted stranger: "Who the fuck are you?"

The next thing anybody knew, the man in the white T-shirt, actually one of the responding firefighters, was laying on the marble floor rubbing his jaw.

True? Who knows. But like all good stories, it ought to have been. Stormin' Norman was the toughest, meanest, most competitive son of a bitch you can imagine.

I knew that Benny would write about him yesterday. Norm Van Lier was to Benny what Ron Santo is to me. That is, a teenager's fixation. Even as we've become thicker, grayer, and more flatulent with the years, Benny and I have hung on to our boyhood idols, Norm and Santo. In fact, we've each written long, in-depth Chicago Reader cover stories of our respective paladins. The hardest part of the extended times we'd spent with Norm and Santo was trying not to look like the awe-struck, acne-faced geeks we'd reverted to.

After I hung up with Benny, I planned to follow up on his post by writing today that his affinity for Norm was baffling because no two more diverse personalities exist on this planet. Benny is the most accommodating, understanding, serene man on six continents. Norm was, of course, Stormin' Norman.

Yet, mirabile dictu, Benny expounded on that very dichotomy. Norm was everything Benny wasn't and, often, wanted to be.

It wasn't so with Santo and me. He was impulsive, confrontational, uncontrollable, thin-skinned, opinionated, and a general pain in the ass. Subtract 16 years and the exceptional baseball skills, and that would be the precise description of me.

Benny idolized what he wasn't; I idolized what I was. That's ironic because throughout his adult life, Benny has appeared to be very comfortable within his own skin. I, on the other hand, have spent most of my life trying to jump out of mine.

Benny and I will have that conversation again, perhaps very soon. Santo turned 69 on Wednesday. He's a diabetic and has a troublesome heart. We'll express our shock, turn silent, and then laugh ourselves to tears recounting the time he set his toupee on fire in the Shea Stadium broadcast booth.

What is it with us and jocks? Benny Jay and I have constructed our lives to be the antitheses of single-minded, physically-oriented, acquisitive, pugnacious professional athletes. Today we revere Philip Roth and Amnesty International. We discuss lofty concepts like altruism, egalitarianism, and the inner workings of the political process.

Yet we're still held in thrall by a couple of old warhorses. I doubt Stormin' Norman ever ranked altruism among his most cherished human traits. And I Santo knows why Portnoy was inexorably drawn to a girlfriend nicknamed "The Monkey," he hasn't let on yet.

We're odd birds, Benny and I.

Big Mike: Look Back In Horror - How We Got Here

We're live! Yup, Benny Jay and Big Mike have come out - no, not that way. Jeez. The Third City is now open to the public.

Benny Jay pitched the idea of this blog to me. He told me about these voices in his head that keep him up all night (and I thought I was a loon.) He figures he'd better write down the things they say or they'll be lost forever. I figure, Why not? We both earn our living by clacking on keyboards. Naturally, the notion of gas-bagging our way through life seems too delicious to pass up. So here we are.

We started this blog as a closed forum - the settings switched to private all around - just so the general public wouldn't be able to see us make asses out of ourselves. Benny and I have made asses out of ourselves in front of each other for so long that we're pretty much immune to embarrassment now.

We started posting in early November under noms de plume (Benny Jay was Nicky Silver; I was Studs Diamond.) In retrospect, neither of us knew what in the hell we really wanted to do with this thing. At first, we thought we were going to look at this mad, mad world through the eyes of two fanatic sports fans. Benny's wild for the Bulls and I live and die..., well, just die, with the Cubs. Now we know what in the hell we're doing (we hope.)

We've decided to bare our souls for your pleasure. Also, as writers, we've been fortunate enough to meet the wildest, wackiest characters this side of Jeff Lebowski's world. Here, you'll meet them all. Most of the characters herein are real people; a few are tweaked a little to keep us a step or two ahead of any libel and slander suits.

Make sure you read this every day. Twice a day or more, in fact. We need all the hits we can get so we can make some cash off this monster. Get going!

Big Mike: The Kidney Stone Kids

I've been chewing my fingernails for the last hour and a half. Jeez, I'd better watch out or I'll draw blood. I'm tense, edgy. The guy driving the black BMW in front of me is going about 12 miles an hour, leaning over and checking addresses. I honk. He turns around and flips me the digit. I pull around him to pass and yell, "Get the hell outta my way!"

As I pass, I see him shouting a response. Most of the words begin with an F.

I'm back in Chicago.

The reason for all my nail-chewing and overall angst is the city's unbearable traffic. I've been in Louisville more than two years now and people down there consider five cars stopped at a red light to be a traffic jam. I don't know how I survived 50 years in Chicago with my sanity intact.

I'm heading over to Benny Jay's estate, hard by Lincoln Square, a hop, skip and a jump from Wrigley Field. How long has it been since I laid eyes on my literary colleague and business partner? It becomes obvious the first time we see each other as Benny answers the door. He shushes the dog and wrestles with the front door lock. My technologically challenged old pal. He's stuck - the lock has baffled him. He literally has to run out the back door, around the house via the gangway, and out to the front to greet me.

We seem to freeze for an almost imperceptible moment, assessing each other after we hug. There's a hell of a lot more gray on both our heads, some three or four more belt notches around my waist, and -believe it or not - a good decade of living separating this moment from the last time we saw each other.

"Honestly," Benny asks, "how long has it been?

I ponder a moment. Then it hits me. I remember that memorable early October evening when we watched the festivities on TV in the Irving Park Road bowling alley after Rod "The Shooter" Beck had snuffed out Dusty Baker's San Francisco Giants, vaulting the Sammy Sosa Cubs into the 1998 playoffs. As Sammy himself body-surfed over thousands of delirious bleacherites, some now-forgotten glamorous TV reporter shoved her microphone into the faces of blotto revelers and asked, "How do you feel?"

Some nameless bowling alley employee turned to Benny and me and shouted, as if it were he she was pumping for a sound bite, "Nice tits, bitch!"

Benny and I doubled over in laughter even though we we're both smart enough to be disgusted by his ridiculous, benighted, antediluvian outlook toward women. Why? Who knows? Maybe we were giddy over the Cubs' rare success. Maybe we felt we were suddenly 12 again, giggling over some classmate's use of dirty words.

Whatever. I'm sure we'd seen each other since then but that episode will do for now.

Benny shows me a recent picture of his daughters, who, if I recall correctly, had spaghetti sauce and jelly stains, respectively, on their T-shirts the last time I saw them. They are now grown women. Ouch! What does that make me? The living dead?

Milo calls. "Glab's here!" Benny shouts into the phone. "He's in town! He just dropped in!" And, like that, Milo hops into his car to join us.

Handshakes and hugs abound. Three old goats stand around staring at the ravages of time on each other in Benny's cramped office garret. Before we know it, we settle down to discuss the things that really matter to such venerable figures.

"My doctor says I'm doing good," Milo says. "Blood pressure's good. My weight's good." (At which point I think, The bastard.) "All in all, not bad for a geezer."

I congratulate him on his good fortune.

"But, he did say my kidneys are a little iffy," Milo adds.

Uh oh.

"Yeah, I had kidney stones and they left some scarring."

At this very moment, Benny lopes up the stairs. He'd been downstairs taking a phone call.

"Whaddya guys talkin' about?" he says with the air of a 12-year-old expecting to jump into a chat about the Cubs or the Bulls or the Monkees.

We ain't 12 anymore. Kidney stones, we inform him.

"Oh yeah, I had 'em," Benny crows, almost like a 12 year-old bragging that he's kissed a girl. "I never felt such pain! I remember, it was 2003. I was coaching my daughter's baseball team. It hurt so bad I was nauseated. After the game, I was walking home through River Park and I had to stop to throw up. One of the kids was passing by as I'm bent over and I'm thinking, 'Oh great! What's this kid gonna tell her parents?'"

Milo and I agree that the kid'll probably grow up to be an eminent blogger. One of her posts will be about the time she saw her drunken old baseball coach puking his guts up in the park after a game.

We laugh. Deep, basso, raspy laughs. Milo coughs a bit. I try to catch my breath. Benny says, smiling sagely, "Ah, these kids!"

It's good to be home.

Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Letter From Milo: The Big Meltdown (Plus, another installment of Randolph Street - The Eds.)

Folks, it's getting pretty ugly. The vultures are circling. The hyenas are cackling with joy. Worms are getting fat. The Neptune Society has put in a huge order for firewood and propane. And it's all about the economy.

People who previously didn't know Dow Jones from Shinola have become experts in the stock market's fluctuations. Bankers have become objects of loathing. Bernie Madoff is America's new archvillain (worse than Hue Hollins in Benny Jay's opinion.) Detroit's Big Three, after arrogantly ignoring reality for years, are on the brink of collapse. Healthcare has...

continued below Randolph Street

Randolph Street

Richard Pegue (1943-2009)

Benny Jay wrote Saturday about attending the legendary Chicago radio deejay's memorial service. Jon Randolph shot this picture in May, 1998. The shot was used on the cover of the memorial service program.

Letter From Milo, cont'd

...become unaffordable for many of our countrymen. Unemployment figures are growing at a staggering rate. Retail sales are down. New home construction and the sales of existing homes are at their lowest rates in decades.

That's just the economic news.  I'll save global warming, rising sea levels, famine, drought, wars, pestilence, ethnic hatreds, religious intolerance, political instability, and nuclear proliferation for another post.

And guess what, folks. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

There isn't a reliable pundit who says the economy is going to turn around soon. Of course, these authorities never saw The Big Meltdown coming either, so we should take their predictions with a certain amount of skepticism.

It's inescapable. Everywhere I go, the economy has replaced everything else - sports, politics, the weather, movies, etc. - as the number one topic of conversation. Everyone has horror stories. Everyone knows people who've lost jobs, watched their retirement funds disappear, have to sell their homes, default on their loans, or declare bankruptcy.

I was at a potluck dinner the other evening with several friends, all witty, accomplished people who work in the arts, communications, advertising. Normally the dinner table conversation would have been stimulating. But this time it was nothing but gloom and doom.

"Moe lost his job."

"Damn."

"Yeah, and his wife got cut down to three days a week at her office."

"Damn, that's tough."

"They might have to sell their house."

"Did you hear about Curly, down the street?"

"What happened?"

"Lost his job, too."

"Jesus."

"Lost his health insurance, too, and then had a stroke worrying about it."

"Good lord! Is Shemp still working?"

"Yes. The world still needs good divorce and bankruptcy lawyers."

I'm beginning to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. There seems to be something inherently wrong with the system, some sort of dormant bug that's come alive and threatens to undermine the rotten foundations of capitalism.

"I'm just a hack writer, bright enough to know when there's a problem, not smart enough to provide a solution. That's why I'm so glad there's an intelligent man like Barack Obama in the White House. After eight years of Bush ineptitude, of pandering to America's worst instincts, the money men and the merciless corporate machines, the special interest pigs, and the rigid minds of the military bureaucracy, maybe now someone will stop and consider the plight of the rest of us. We can only hope.

In the meantime, I'm stocking up on canned food, bottled water, and I'm digging a bunker in my backyard. See you in 2014.

Milo's Smoking Update

In my first post for this blog, I promised never to lie to the American people. Well, it's been over a week since I started my latest quit-smoking campaign and, yes, I've cheated a few times. But I'm not giving up. I still see a light at the end of the smoke-filled tunnel. I'll keep you informed.

Big Mike: Loneliness And Marriage

My visitors of last week - my oldest pal Sophia, her husband Danny, and their two kids, Matty and Arianna - left yesterday afternoon. While they were here, the place was a madhouse. From Sunday to Sunday, only the Louisville Zoo hosted a more cacophonous symphony of barking, roaring, whining, giggling, guffawing, meowing, and flatulence.

The Loved One was only able to take part in the distemper for one full day and parts of two others. As noted here previously, she drives in from Bloomington, Indiana on Friday nights and leaves on Sunday afternoons.

Now I'm alone.

Solitude is more indicative of the writers' lot than all the pens, pencils, word processing programs, or alcohol in the world. Good old Benny Jay has constructed a book-lined garret in his North Side manor. He pounds out his political pieces and books there as well as opuses for this communications colossus. He's tied in to all corners of Chicago, taking calls on separate phones like a bookie with two minutes to go before the starting bell. He's greeted every morning by an avalanche of emails. He's constantly communicating with the outside world. Yet, he's pretty much alone all day long.

Conversely, Milo, Gary's Greatest Writer, does his work in the basement. He's banging on doors constantly (and electronically,) trying to convince business owners that his advertising copy will make them jillionaires. Again, by the end of the day, his throat is sore from all the yakking he's done. And again, he's been all alone.

Me? I pound away at the keyboard in the basement, just like Milo. Except for last week, my Murray Hill Pike ranch house is normally as quiet as a Chrysler showroom. Every couple of hours or so, one cat or the other will steal into the litter box positioned behind my office area. The sudden sound of scratching usually makes whatever hair I have left stand on end.

We've all learned the last few years that one of the most pernicious methods of torture is the imposition of solitude. Enforced, extended loneliness makes human beings crazy. Some of the effects include visual hallucinations, the hearing of voices, self-mutilation, and a grab bag of other psychoses.

Yet guys like Benny Jay, Milo, and I have elected to sequester ourselves all the live long day to gather the pennies that society showers on us literary craftsmen.

Solitude won't make us crazy; we already were crazy.

Big Mike's Marital Bliss Update

Last week, if you recall, I opted for domestic tranquility over the First Amendment. I concluded my Saturday post by writing that the question of whether The Loved One would be compelled to revisit our dispute over my Tuesday post (not linked because it no longer exists) was one of those definitive challenges of marriage. In essence, I was holding my breath as I signed off on Saturday.

You'll all be happy to know (although not in a million years more so than I am) that The Loved One didn't utter a peep about the affair while she was home for the weekend. Whew - I finally get to exhale.

Allow me to crow. I would have had neither the smarts nor the discipline to finesse the situation as I did had it happened even as recently as ten years ago. It's a good bet The Loved One wouldn't either. Sometimes I wonder if marriage isn't an operation best undertaken by those past the age of fifty. And why isn't a written and practical test mandatory before a couple gets a marriage license? We do it before people get drivers licenses. I'm willing to bet that lousy marriages have caused more death and destruction than all the auto accidents since World War II.

Anyway, I feel that The Loved One and I both aced our own test. Congratulations, Kitty - we did it!

Benny Jay: Cell Phone Play by Play

I wasn't gonna watch game one of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series. After the Bulls looked awful losing the last game of the regular season to the dreadful Toronto Raptors, I sent Milo an e-mail announcing that I was officially through with these worthless bums -- forever!

Plus, I had a track meet to attend. So I'm sitting on the aluminum bleachers of Hanson Stadium watching the 4/200 meter relay when Norm calls.

"You watching this?" he asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "How bad are we losing?"

"We're not losing -- we're winning. In Boston -- we're beating them in Boston, Benny...."

"No...."

"Yes...."

"How much?"

"Up three...."

"Oh, my God -- call me back. Keep me posted!"

A few minutes later, he calls back: "We're down one. Nine seconds left. Derrick at the line...."

"Oh, my God!"

"What?" says Daddy Dee, who's sitting next to me.

"Rose on the line," I tell him.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" says Norm.

I interpret this as a made free throw. "Bulls tied it," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Whee! Yeah!" says Norm. "Derrick Rose...."

I interpret this as another made free throw. "Bulls up one," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Celtics call time out," says Norm. "I'll call you back...."

A few minutes later, my cell phone vibrates. "Yeah?" I say.

"Damn," says Norm.

"No," I say.

"What happened?" asks Daddy Dee.

"Noah fouled Pierce with two seconds left," says Norm.

"No!" I say.

"Yes!" says Norm.

"Damn!" I say.

"What?" asks Daddy Dee.

I fill him in: "Noah fouled Pierce. Two seconds left. Pierce on the line. If he makes `em both, the Bulls lose...."

"Tied," says Norm.

"He made the first," I tell Daddy Dee.

"He missed," screams Norm. "He missed! The Truth missed, Benny!"

"Overtime," I tell Daddy Dee.

"Keep me posted," I tell Norm.

My phone vibrates -- Norm again: "We're up two in the OT...."

"Just stay on the line," I say. "I can't take this anymore. I need the play by play...."

"Okay, Rose has the ball," says Norm. "No. Agh! Ugh! Man...."

"What? What? What?"

"Agh!"

From the anguished tone of his wail, I gather something bad has occurred.

My phone vibrates. It's my sister. "Hold on, Norm -- I got another call. I'll put you on hold." I switch to my sister. "Are you watching this?" she asks.

"No, I'm at a track meet," I say. "But I got my friend on the other line giving me the play by play. What's going on?"

"Well, there's three minutes and four seconds left and the Bulls have the ball. Now it's three minutes and three seconds, three minutes and two seconds, three minutes and one second...."

"Stop counting down the time -- tell me what's going on!"

"Three minutes left...."

Oh, brother. I love her dearly, but she's the absolute worst at play by play. I switch back to Norm. Apparently, he never knew I had him on hold cause he's in the middle of yelling: "Damn, Benny...."

I'm just about bellowing: "What? Is it good? Is it bad? What? What?"

"You got to calm down," Daddy Dee tells me.

"Tyrus hit a jumper -- Bulls up one," says Norm. "Celtics call time out. They got a last chance!"

"Call me back," I say.

I watch the runners. I hunch over and remind myself to stay calm. I'm surrounded by people and I don't want them to think that I'm any weirder than they probably already think I am. I cross my fingers. I actually cross my fingers. I have officially lost my freaking mind.

The phone vibrates. It's Norm. He has this tone of wondrous satisfaction: "We won, Benny...."

"Yeah?"

"Thirty-six points and eleven assists for Derrick Rose, Benny. I told you, dawg -- Dee Rose is the real deal...."

The phone vibrates. It's my sister. "They did it; they did it," she says.

"I know, I know...."

The phone vibrates. It's Young Ralph: "Did you see this?"

"No, I was at a track meet...."

"Tyrus Thomas won it with a jumper -- Tyrus Thomas!"

Daddy Dee's phone rings. It's his son, Jordan. "Yeah, I know," I hear Daddy Dee saying. "Hold it." He tells me: "Jordan says the Bulls are gonna sweep `em!"

All around me I heard the sounds of people officially jumping on the Bulls bandwagon, as calls come in telling people the unbelievable news: Bulls win! Bulls win!

My phone vibrates. It's Milo: "Did you see this?"

"No, I'm at a track meet. But I heard."

He can't resist. He says: "Why would you care, Benny? I thought you were through with the Bulls -- remember?"

Ha, ha, ha. Funny man -- a regular George Carlin. As the gun goes off for the start of another race, I tell him: "Well, Milo, I guess I changed my mind."

Benny Jay: Out Beyond The Arc

I'm at James Park up in Evanston with my my bowling buddies -- Cap and Norm -- watching Cap's kid, Miles, playing baseball.

Norm notices there's a basketball court across the way.

"You got a basketball in your car, Benny?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I do...."

He looks at me and I look at him. We don't say a word. But I know what he's thinking: Yes, we came to watch Miles pitch. But he's already pitched his maximum three innings. And it's a lovely spring night. So....

We head over the court. On one end there's an empty basket. On the other end, a dad's playing one-on-one with his ten-year-old son. The dad's pretending he just can't block his son's shot. And the son is really excited cause he only needs one more basket to win the game. Meanwhile, over in the parking lot, a group of teenagers are passing a joint and listening to their car radio. I feel like I've gone back in time.

I won't kid you. As much as I love this game, I was never very good at it. I could never dribble with my left hand and I shot the wrong way (two hands, not one). I played strictly Y ball and intramurals. My game never advanced beyond going to the corner and waiting for someone to pass me the ball....

But, in the spring of my senior year -- when there was nothing much else to do -- I played basketball almost every day. Used to come to this park with my friends and shoot `til the stars came out. I mastered a Chet Walker head fake and taught myself to shoot like Bob Butter Bean Love, with the release behind my head so it's hard to block. I wore cut-off blue jeans, floppy socks and black All-Stars. We played until it was too dark to see and then we walked to the corner store and drank our soda and ate our chips and talked and talked and talked....

Norm throws me a pass. I haven't shot in years. Officially, I have retired. Every five or so years I retire.

My first shot falls short. My second comes closer. The third hits the rim. "Damn," I exclaim.

Norm's not hitting many either. The thing is -- he's the real deal. Back in the day, he started for Hales Franciscan High School on the south side.

We're really getting into it. I hit one. Norm hits a couple. I drill three in a row from the corner. "You love that corner, Benny," he tells me.

We shoot so much we forget about the baseball game. The sun's gone from the sky. It's hard to see. My back's aching -- like I pulled a muscle. Norm says his knee's acting up.

But we keep shooting.

Norm says it's time to take it out beyond the arc. I say, first guy to hit a three wins a dollar. He shoots and misses. I shoot and miss. He shoots -- all net.

"I shoulda known better than to bet with you," I tell him.

He pockets my dollar and says: "C'mon, Benny -- you can't go without hitting a three...."

So I go beyond the arc and launch a long jumper -- all net.

I start dancing and singing: "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!"

Norm throws me a pass. I fire up another shot. All net.

"I'm Craig Hodges," I say. "Craig Hodges -- the world's greatest three-point shooter."

My third shot looks dead on. I raise my arms in triumph. But, no, it rattles out.

I figure it's time to go. But Norm's not ready to leave. The pride and joy of Hales Franciscan's not about to let no YMCA boy beat him.

He goes out beyond the arc and just like that -- bam, bam, bam -- hits three in a row. His fourth shot bounces out. But bottom line: He hit three and I hit two.

Don't get it twisted....

"I knew it Norm," I say. "I knew you weren't going to walk off the court in second place...."

Norm can't repress his smile.

"You beat me on my home court," I tell him.

"Next time, Benny," he says.

As we walk back to Miles and Cap, I get a feeling that I may have overextended myself. My toes, knees and back are aching. But, man, for a split second -- when that second three went in -- I almost felt young again....

Benny Jay: Not Dead Yet

We're about half way through game one at bowling, when Cap breaks the news: Harry Kalas, the longtime announcer for the Philadelphia Phillies, died this morning.

"Just dropped over," says Cap. "Heart attack...."

"Damn," says Norm. "I didn't hear that...."

"Mark Fidrych, too," I say. "You know, The Bird."

"Heart attack?" says Norm.

"Naw -- crushed by a truck," I say. "He was fixing a truck and it fell on him...."

"A truck fell on him? Damn," says Norm. "I was just a shorty, but I remember Fidrych. I loved The Bird -- he be talkin' to the ball and shit...."

We're silent. "Marilyn Chambers also died," I say. "But, man, you probably don't remember her. She's a little ahead of your time."

Norm flashes his annoyed-with-me look. "C'mon, Benny. Don't get it twisted. I know Marilyn Chambers -- `Behind the Green Doors.'"

"Damn, Norm," I say. "You know your porn."

What follows is a one-or-two minute discussion of great porn movies of the `70s. I got to give Norm credit -- he knows his stuff. I make a mental note to send him Milo's opus on fake tits.

All this talk of death gets me kinda gloomy -- I'm bowling lousy. Can't pick up my spares. Feeling old and tired. Checking my pulse rate. Worried. Don't get enough sleep. Too much running around. Gotta take it easy.

But Young Ralph's got the answer. He leads the team to the bar and buys us shots of whiskey. He lines them up -- five shot glasses in a row. The whole team looks at me. They know -- when it comes to drinking, I'm the world's biggest wuss.

"C'mon, Benny," says Young Ralph. "Try it."

"Oh, all right," I say. They cheer. And the five of us -- me, J-Dub, Norm, Cap and Young Ralph -- click glasses and knock `em back. Or they knock `em back. I take a sip -- almost gag.

"That's not how you drink it," says Young Ralph. "You gotta knock it back."

So what the hell. When in Rome, and all that stuff. I take a gulp and knock it back. It burns like hot oil running down my throat. But, damn -- it's got a kick that fires me up. I come back to the alley, braying like a beast.

"Now you know why all these mutha fuckas drink," Cap tells me.

I roll a strike. I pick up a spare -- finally. I start singing to the Led Zepplin Young Ralph's playing on the juke box: "Dazed and Confused" and "A Whole Lotta Love." He ups the ante, switching to Hendrix: "Foxy Lady," "All Along the Watchtower, " "Voodoo Chile." Me and Ralph are jamming on air guitar. "Check it out," I tell him. "I'm playing with me left hand -- just like Jimi."

The tamale man comes in -- a chubby little dude who sells homemade tamales out of a lunch box. Norm and he have a special relationship. Norm talks to him in a babble of English mixed with every Spanish word Norm knows, most of them curse words. The dude seems to love it.

He sells a few tamales and turns to leave. Norm catches him before he's out the door. "Why you leave-oh without saying by-oh," he bellows.

J Dub and I are cracking up. "I guess you call that Spanglish," says J Dub.

"There's nothing Span about it," I say. "Just English with a funny accent."

He laughs. I laugh. We're all laughing. Our team gets hot and wins the last two games. Feeling good, feeling strong. No more talk about gloom and doom. What's that song Dylan sings about those not busy being born are busy dying? Forget that, we ain't dying -- we're living. Fifty-something years old, but my life's just getting started.

It's amazing what one little shot of whiskey can do for you.

Benny Jay: Mom Breaks The News

I'm on the phone with Milo, the world's smartest man, and we're doing what we've been doing too much of lately. We're going down the list of reasons for the long, sad slide of our beloved Bulls: Larry Hughes is selfish, Ben Gordon's short, Joakim Noah's flaky, Tyrus Thomas is inconsistent, Vinny Del Negro can't control the team.

We switch subjects to Barack Obama.

"Do you think he's really a good basketball player or is everyone who plays against him just afraid to guard him tight?" I ask.

"Well, Benny, think about it," says Milo. "How good can he be? He couldn't start for his high school basketball team in Hawaii. Hawaii, Benny -- it's not known as the bastion of good basketball. That's like a black kid from Detroit moving to Tokyo and not being able to start on his Japanese basketball team. That would be an embarrassment."

The other line beeps. It's my mother. She's enraged.

"Who is this witch?"

"What witch?"

"That lady...."

"What lady? I need more information...."

"Don't be fresh...."

"You mean, the new senator from New York?"

"Yes...."

How did I possibly know what she was talking about?

"She's a Blue Dog Democrat," says my mom.

"What's that?"

"That's a Democrat who's always a Democrat no matter what...."

"I thought that was a Yellow Dog Democrat....."

"That's what your father said...."

I go online and read the news story on the New York Times web page. "Her name is Kirsten Gillibrand, she's from outside of Albany and she's a moderate Democrat...."

"That's ridiculous. We don't need anymore moderate Democrats -- we need liberals. What'sa matter with liberals?"

"They're trying to reach out...."

"To who?"

"Republicans and....."

"Bullshit, we don't need Republicans. Let the Republicans pick Republicans. When do the Republicans reach out to us. These Democrats are such wimps. What's the matter with that governor in New York?"

"He's just trying to be like Obama, ma. You know, Obama says: `There are no red states and no blue states -- just the United States."

She ignores me: "Look on that thing and tell me if she's pro-choice...."

"What thing?"

"You know -- that thing where you look things up...."

"You mean the Internet?"

"Yes, that thing...."

"Okay, mom...."

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: Juke Box Battle

It's Monday night bowling, and we're on lanes one and two, the closest lanes to the jukebox. That's good, cause the closer you get to the jukebox, the more likely you're gonna play it. And, let me tell you, the music's been bad in recent weeks. All those thirty-something-year-old chuckleheads reliving their glory days, playing crummy 1980s rock. Good God, if I hear Axl Rose singing Paradise City one more time....

Cap starts us off with Tower of Power -- What Is Hip? I take it as a tribute cause Cap knows I love that song. And Cap and I -- we start jamming with the drums in the closing riff, going at it beat for beat with Tower's rhythm section, never missing a beat, cause we've heard the song one zillion times before and we'll probably hear it another zillion times again cause some songs never get old....

When it's over, we jump back, high fiving and walking with a little strut, like we're sending a big-time message to the young bucks in the bowling alley. We're a couple of old dogs -- born in the `50s, raised in the `60s, come of age in the `70s -- and we know what's good.

Watching it all is Young Ralph, one of our teammates, who's got to be, I don't know, 25, maybe 26. And he heads over to the jukebox and he puts on Snoop Dogg, `circa 1996 -- Gin And Juice. And he and J-Dub, who's maybe 31, sing along from memory, like the words are etched in their brains. Let me tell you -- it's not easy. Snoop raps fast. But, I swear, they don't miss a word -- something about "mama ain't home" and "bitches in the living room" and "pocket full of rubbers." I don't know -- I can't be sure cause I can't really follow them. When they get to the chorus, they come up close, waving their fingers in my face and going: "Rollin' down the street, smokin' indo, sippin' on gin and juice, laid back with my mind on my money and my money on my mind...."

And when the song's over, they start high fiving like they da shit. And so it's on. A generational showdown. Battle of the ages: `60s and `70s versus `90s and the `00s.

So we come at `em with Stevie Wonder and they come back with Ice Cube; and we do Johnny Taylor, and they came at us with Lil' Wayne, and we trump their ace with Al Green. And not just any Al Green. But "Love and Happiness."And that shuts them up cause you can't top "Love and Happiness" and everybody knows it. Especially the part at the beginning where the guitar does a little riff and Al Green cries: "Someone on the phone/Three o'clock in the morning -- yeah/Talkin' about how she can make it right." Only he doesn't say right -- he says ri-hight. And Cap and I press our right hands -- like they're microphones -- against our mouths, like their microphones, pretending we're Al Green up on stage.

They try to recoup with Outkast -- Elevators (Me and You): "Me `n yo' mama `n yo' cousin too rollin' down the strip...."

J-Dub's doing this gentle bump with Erica, Young Ralph's girl. I wave my hand in disgust, like that's nothing. But inside I'm thinking: Damn, I didn't know J-Dub was such a good dancer, and, damn, I kinda like that me-and-yo-mama-and-yo-cousin-too-bit. Though I'll never -- never, ever, never -- admit it....

Cap puts on The Marvelettes. Only instead of singing "Don't Mess with Bill," I'm singing: "Don't Mess With Benny -- leave my Benny alone."

Norm thinks that's funny. Cause I can't sing. I just bellow, more like a screech. But it's so noisy in the bowling -- what with balls crashing into the pins -- no one can hear so no one cares.

Cap puts on Darling Nikki, which is a compromise, cause everybody -- old and new -- loves Prince. Young Ralph, Norm, J-Dub, Cap and I are bellowing together: "I met a girl named darling Nikki -- I guess you could say she was a sex friend...."

Then Erica -- who's as young as Young Ralph -- shocks us all by playing "All I Do" by Stevie Wonder -- I mean, that songs got to be older than she is. And, well, that just brings down the house. Cap's Steppin' with Erica, who's getting quite a work out with all the attention. And we're all singing: "All I do -- is think about you...."

When the night ends we hug and high five. I guess you can say the great generational showdown ends in a tie.

I walk home in the freezing cold -- I mean, out of nowhere this goofy weather dropped at least 20 degrees -- but it's really not so bad. I'm singing "All I Do." In my mind I sound as good as Stevie Wonder. I'm still singing it when I walk through my front door.

Benny Jay: Here Come The Hawks

At the bowling alley, they got the Blackhawks game on TV -- all five of them, to be exact. It's game six of the playoff series against Vancouver. If the Hawks win, they move on to the next round.

I couldn't care less. I wouldn't even be paying attention except there's a dozen or so Hawks fans hanging around the bar, making so much noise.

I stand between Bob and Pat -- two stone-cold, crazy Hawks fans. They're standing still as statues. Eyes stuck on the tube. I'm not even sure they're breathing.

I turn to Norm. "They never put the Bulls on all the TVs," I say.

"Don't hate," he says.

"I'm just saying...."

"No, you're hating...."

I watch the Hawks skate round and round and round. Truth is, Norm's right. I am hating. I know I should be happy that they're doing so well after so many dismal seasons. But, hell, I don't care about the Blackhawks. Don't know any of their players. Can't remember the name of their coach. And my not caring has turned to hate cause I'm jealous. Every one's paying attention to the Hawks and every one's forgotten about the Bulls. I mean, this is even weirder than my normal weirdness, which is pretty weird.

"I used to like the Hawks," I tell Norm.

"Yeah...."

To prove it, I sing a snatch of their ancient fight song: "Here come the Hawks, the fighting Black Hawks/take the attack and we'll back you Black Hawks...."

Norm's laughing.

"But then they dumped Bobby Hull," I say.

"That was forty years ago, dawg...."

"Yeah, but he was the Golden Jet, man -- they dumped the Golden Jet...."

"You gotta get over that shit, dawg...."

"I hope they lose...."

"Aw, that's terrible, Benny. How can you say that, dawg? That don't make no fuckin' sense. They Chicago, Benny. As long as they from the Chi, you got to be goin' for them...."

"I can't...."

"Try...."

"Okay, man -- for you...."

So I try. I really do. I ask Bob for the name of the guy who scored a goal and he says that it's Pat Kane. I ask him who's the goaltender and he tells me -- something. I don't know. The name's a jumble of vowels. When the Hawks tie the game at five, I cheer. But it's an empty cheer. I just don't care.

I'm starting to worry about Pat. He looks pale. I'm watching him watching the Hawks and I'm thinking -- so this is what I must look like when I'm watching the Bulls on TV. All hunched over, a nervous wreck. Pat's a grown man, too -- past fifty. He's wearing a team jersey with Pat Kane's name an number on the back. Man, he's got it bad -- maybe even worse than me. At least I never wear a Derrick Rose team jersey.

Bored with the game, I go to the bar and order a coke. I page through the Sun-Times that's lying on the counter. I'm looking for a story about the Bulls -- any story will do. Turn page after page. Nothing. Nothing but Hawks this and Hawks that. I don't want to hate, but....

Roar! I look up to see the Hawks have scored. They're up six to five. Folks at the bar are cheering. Except for Pat. He looks even worse than before. Lips clenched. Hands tight. Whiter than white. I recognize the symptoms. I know what he's thinking -- he's dreading the worst. He's thinking if he cheers too soon -- if he counts those proverbial chickens before they proverbially hatch -- he'll blow it for his boys. As though anything he does can ever impact the game. I can related. If it were the Bulls, I'd be thinking the same stupid thing....

"Maybe you should take a walk," I suggest to him.

"Fuck," he says.

Clearly, he's in no mood for conversation. "They're gonna win," I tell him.

"Shut the fuck up -- don't jinx `em...."

"What do you mean jinx them? I got nothing to do with them. They're up one and they're playing at home. They have the home-court advantage...."

"Ice," says Bob.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Home ice advantage -- it's hockey, not basketball, dickwad...."

"Ice, court -- whatever...."

I walk to the jukebox. The younger guys have taken it over, playing shitty `80s rock. Is it just me or did the `80s suck when it came to rock `n roll?

Another roar. Hawks score -- up two. Vancouver looks devastated.

"It's over," I tell Pat.

"Not yet," he insists.

The game ends. The bar erupts. Bob and Pat are pounding each other on the back and talking about the next big series.

Aw, hell, it looks like it's gonna be at least another two weeks of this crap. If I were a drinking man, I'd have to have another....

Benny Jay: Winning The War

After the Bulls ended their season by losing game seven to the Celtics, I took the dog for a walk.

I thought I'd get away from the disappointment, but the details live in my mind. We race to the early lead, but the Celtics go on a run that turns a six-point deficit into a 14-point lead. The Bulls scratch and claw to get back. Cut it to three late in the fourth. Ben Gordon has the ball. Can tie the score and really turn things around. Should take his time, and work it around the perimeter to find a better shot. But, c'mon -- you know Ben. That's not his style. He's been a chucker all this season. He's not about to change now. Especially with the game on the line and no one else ready to step up....

The man throws up a prayer from the other side of Mongolia. It bounces out. Boston gets the rebound. And, well, here I am. Walking the dog....

After the game the TV shows Vinny Del Negro's locker-room talk to the team: I'm proud of you. You never quit. No one expected us to even be here. And so on and so forth....

It sounds like everything I ever told any little league team I ever coached after a disappointing loss. You'd think they'd come up with something more profound to say in the pros. But, really, what else is there to say?

The phone rings. It's my older daughter. She sounds like she's about to cry. Says she feels so bad cause she's really fallen in love with the Bulls in this playoff series.

I think back to a scene in my parent's house over 40 years ago after a playoff series between the Bulls and the Atlanta Hawks. I was crying in front of the TV set. I was in what -- sixth grade? My mother comes in and asks: "Why are you crying?" I tell her, "the Bulls lost." She says: "so, is that a reason to cry?" I tell her: "you wouldn't understand...."

Somehow or other I must have passed this lunacy onto my daughter.

I walk to the corner where months ago I howled at the moon. That was after Miami beat the Bulls on a last second shot by Shawn Marion. Remember? The shot came after Thabo Sefalosha threw the ball away. Thabo Sefalosha! The dude doesn't even play for the Bulls anymore. They traded him to Oklahoma City for a draft choice. Probably figured he'd never come to anything after watching him throw away that pass. Just thinking about that play makes me groan. Freaking Bulls....

I can't believe the season really ended. Feels like it just got started. They say it's too long, but I don't think it's long enough. Now I have to wait `til October -- another five of six months -- for the start of a new one.

This is too damn depressing. I call Johnny, the black Forest Gump, the wisest man I know.

He says he's at work, sitting in his patrol car out by O'Hare Airport. He heard the game on the radio. Tough game to take.

I tell him my daughter was just about crying. He tells me to tell her that "the Bulls lost the battle but they won the war."

How's that?

"They're stronger from this -- they'll come back stronger next year. You tell your daughter that what can't kill you only makes you stronger. It ain't even about the basketball game. For me `n you, the greatest thing in the world is to watch the games with our daughters. I watched game six with Taaj. She was telling me -- `Bulls gotta switch up their defense.' `The Bulls ain't blockin' out.' Tellin' me all kinds of stuff. The girl really knows her stuff. You `n me, Benny, we got to be the luckiest guys alive. Get to watch the games with our daughters.

"Make sure you tell your daughter that we lost the battle but won the war. And tell her that if this is the worst thing that ever happened to her, she's doin' all right...."

Benny Jay: He Jumped Out Of Airplanes

I'm talking to my Dad on the phone and he doesn't sound good. He says he has a crick in his neck and it's very painful. He sounds tired. He's 83. I worry something's wrong.

So I drive to his house and I walk in as my Mom and he are finishing dinner. He doesn't look good, a little too pale.

He says he has to lay down. But he's too tired to move. He slumps in his chair. My mother stands at his side, to keep him from falling to the ground.

She gently pats his face and asks: "Are you all right?"

No response.

"Can you hear me?"

He starts to snore.

"Is he sleeping?" I ask.

"Who falls asleep like this?" she responds.

She calls 911. An ambulance and a fire truck show up, red lights flashing. Four paramedics walk into the house. They call out his name. He's still slumped over. They lift him from the kitchen chair, put him in a wheelchair, and strap him in. It scares me to see him helpless in that wheelchair. "He was in the paratroopers," I tell them. "He used to jump out of airplanes." They wheel him out of the house and into the ambulance....

By the time I get to the emergency room, he's sitting up in bed, wide awake. It turns out he drank two Scotches on top of taking a painkiller -- Vicodin -- and that's what knocked him out. My mother's taking the blame cause she gave him the pill.

Everyone -- especially me and my mom -- is relieved to see him strong. As different doctors and nurses enter the room, my parents repeat the story.

"It started with that crick in his neck," says my mom.

"It hurts," says my dad.

"He shouldn't have taken the painkiller with the Scotch," says my mom.

"Ever hear of anything like that?" I say.

"It's still painful," says my dad.

"You know what you do for a crick in the neck?" I say. "Take a tennis ball and rub it where it hurts."

The doctors and the nurses leave the room. It's just me and my parents.

"They're talking about you in the hallway," I tell them.

"No they're not," says my mother.

"Yes, they are. Hold on -- shh."

I put my head out of the curtain lining the room and pretend to be listening to a conversation in the hallway. I bring my head back into the room and say: "They're saying: `Who would take Vicodin and Scotch for a crick in the neck?'"

My dad ignores me. "The crick is painful," he says.

"Try the tennis ball. I'm telling you -- it loosens up the muscle...."

Another doctor comes in and my dad asks her what she would do for a crick in the neck. "Apply heat," she says.

"Heat's good," I say, after the doctor leaves. "But, the tennis ball's better."

My dad looks at me with exasperation and says, "Benny, stick that tennis ball up your...."

I can't tell you how good it is to get back to normal.

Benny Jay: Walking And Talking To The Black Forest Gump

It's close to midnight and I'm walking the dog on a cold, cloud-free night. The moon's shining bright and there's no one around.

I take out my cell phone and call my buddy Johnny. He works the midnight shift as a security guard out by O'Hare. He's got plenty of time to talk, and no one can talk like Johnny. He calls himself the Black Forest Gump, on account of the fact that he's always manages to wind up in the right place when something big is gonna pop.

"My man, Benny," he says. "You see President Obama's speech to congress? Man, those congressmen were goin' crazy. White people too. I ain't seen so many white folks skinnin' and grinnin' since Lincoln was shot. They gave him 52 standing ovations. When Obama walked down the aisle everybody wanted to touch the hem of his cloth. Took him a half an hour just to get out of Congress cause everybody wanted to shake his hand. The man is Jesus. I say, let's vote him king. Forget president. King Barack."

I ask him if he saw the Republican response by Bobby Jindal, governor of Louisiana. "I saw it. That fool didn't say nothin'. The man's governor of one of the poorest states in the union and he talkin' about he don't want to take any of the stimulus money for Louisiana. That's easy for him to say -- he got a job. Man, I don't know what folks in Louisiana were thinkin' when they elected him governor. They should vote the man out. But you know how it is -- everybody say they want change, but really they lookin' to make some change. Everybody want to go to heaven, but don't no one want to die. We live in a ten-day democracy -- after ten days we forget all about it...."

I walk by the el track as a train roars by. By the time it's passed, somehow or other Johnny's made the transition to talking about a lady he knew a long time ago on the West Side. "We had a sister -- called herself Sister Udahwe. That's ooh-dah-we. She was so pretty we used to call her Sister Ooh-wee. Man, that woman was fine...."

I cut him off to ask about the passing of Norm Van Lier and he starts telling me about the time in "nineteen-seventy-somethin" when Billy "the Kid" Harris, the legendary South Side playground star, tried out for the Bulls. "Man, Billy the Kid lit them up in practice, but he was talkin' so much trash ol' Coach Dick Motta didn't like it. Norm took Billy aside and told him -- `Billy, all you gotta do is keep your mouth shut and you'll make the team.' But Billy wasn't about to close his mouth. I always liked Norm for that. Tried to help Billy the Kid. But the man wouldn't help himself...."

By now, I'm home. I open the door, and take the leash off the dog. Johnny's about to go on for another hour -- what the hell, he has all night. But I need sleep. I tell him I'll talk to him soon. Probably the next time I'm walking the dog at midnight....