Big Mike: Loving The Lakeshore

Perhaps the thing I miss most about Chicago is the lakefront. A river town like Louisville has a different take on things than does a seaport like Chicago. Here in the River City, people look upon the mighty Ohio as just another street to cross, albeit a deep, brown, mile-wide thoroughfare filled with driftwood, coal barges and a few odd animal carcasses.

If Kentuckians envision the Ohio River as an avenue out of town, it offers them only two directions - southeast toward Fort Knox or northeast toward Cincinnati. Somehow, I doubt many kids lull themselves to sleep with dreams of those two destinations.

Lake Michigan, though, presents a seeming infinity of options. When I was young, I'd look out over the lake and see nothing but horizon. Any time I pondered that distant line, I couldn't help but feel anything was possible.

I recall being seven or eight and sitting in the back seat of my father's sun-tanned copper 1960 Chevrolet Impala, the kind with the horizontal wings in the back and a white whoosh denoting a jet trail on either side. We'd be heading east toward the lake on a late Sunday afternoon, mainly because Ma wanted to get the hell out of the house.

To me, the lakeshore was a wild, exciting pace, picket-fenced by Gold Coast apartment towers and filled with odd things like countless silvery, staring bodies of washed-up perch and boat tie-down plugs that looked like so many Easter Island statues. Just south of Navy Pier, police marine cruisers and pleasure craft would pull up to the concrete landing as the sun began to set. Boaters would make the three-foot leap from their decks, the cops' keys and handcuffs jangling, and land with a strange mixture of awkwardness and grace. They'd go in to Rocky's, a fried fish shack, and buy a pound of fish and chips or clam strips. I looked at those men the way, I'm sure that some Portuguese kid looked upon explorers returning from the New World.

I had my own death-defying adventure some years later, in 1999, when I was a Coast Guard-licensed sea captain. I piloted a DUKW, more commonly known as a Duck, ferrying tourists along the lakeshore, regaling them with information about the lake and the city as well as the occasional funny story. I won't recount the stories here because they were only funny to visitors from Iowa or Kansas who, being on vacation, their pockets filled with pre-crash cash, already were in a giddy mood.

It was a warm and bright May Sunday afternoon. The Duck was filled with adults and kids. The city couldn't have been prettier. It was only a week and a half after a Duck had sunk in Lake Hamilton near Hot Springs, Arkansas, killing some 13 people, but no distant tragedy could dampen our good feelings. We splashed into the water at the Burnham Harbor ramp between Soldier Field and McCormick Place. The kids screamed in excitement and the adults grinned as broadly as people with pockets full of cash can.

I hadn't even begun my usual patter when suddenly what sounded like a thousand sirens began shrieking in my ears. Just as suddenly, a half-dozen roaring jets of water began gushing high out of the boat's emergency bilge pump outlets along the gunwhale. For the briefest of moments - a time that seemed to my adrenaline-amped senses to be endless minutes - I couldn't figure out what the hell was happening.

I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw some two dozens faces staring at me in terror. They wanted me, the captain, to make everything right. Gulp.

The craft seemed heavy. I tried to steer but the Duck hardly budged off the straight line. I eased off the gas but the engine still roared, automatically throttling up to run the emergency pumps. I wasn't confused any longer - we were sinking.

I floored the gas pedal and the Duck inched forward. The jets of water spewed even higher, 25 feet in the air. As long as I kept the pedal to the metal, the emergency pumps would work at full capacity. First one, then several women screamed. They were wearing flip-flops so they knew before anybody else that the floorboards were now flooded. My mind flashed to the horror in Hot Springs.

If the passengers were hoping I'd say something soothing, allay their fears or even make a joke, they would be sorely disappointed. All I could think of was how to get this half-century-old pile of shit back on land.

With the engine thundering, I swung the wheel to the left, virtually willing the tiny rudders to pitch us into a u-turn. A man reached up into the overhead compartment and pulled down a life jacket. I shouted out an order for the rest of the passengers to follow his lead. The Duck moved glacially, describing an excruciatingly broad circle in the harbor. Water began splashing over the gunwhales.

I glanced again in my rear-view and saw the entire assemblage looking at me, pleadingly. I'd never held an audience so rapt. By now, even strollers and fishermen on the shore gaped at us, knowing full well they might be witnessing something that would haunt them.

After what seemed hours, we circled around and hit the ramp hard. The Duck was so heavy with water that we got hung up on the lip of the ramp. No matter, we wouldn't go down now. I finally spoke into my microphone. "We did it," I announced, breathlessly. "We'll be okay now."

We waited for about 10 minutes so the emergency pumps could empty enough water from the hull to allow us to move again. Then we slowly climbed the ramp and pulled over next to the harbor master's house. My rapt audience cheered as if I'd just scored the winning touchdown for the Bears in nearby Soldier Field.

I jumped down from the pilot's seat, got on my hands and knees and looked under the Duck. I saw a gaping six-inch hole out of which spewed water. It took a good 45 minutes for the hull to empty out. Some of the male passengers hunkered down next to me to conduct their own examinations. They pounded me on the back and shook my hand again and again. Safely off the Duck, the moms rocked their mewling kids in the lawn.

I never loved the lakeshore so much as on that Sunday afternoon.

Letter From Milo: Dropping Like Flies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody wanna start a riot?

Benny Jay: Swimming With Sharks

In the middle of the day, I get calling from my old friend, Pamela, the school teacher, calling from her class up in Evanston.

Must be the end of the school year cause I can hear the kids in the background, chattering quietly among themselves.

Pamela starts in where she left off the last time we talked just a few days ago. There's this used Mercedes she wants to buy from some dealership out in the western suburbs. She thinks the salesman is trying to rip her off -- he offered to sell it to her for 24-something but at closing he wanted 25-something. Or something like that. I never could get this car stuff straight.

"It's because I'm a black woman -- they think they can rip me off," she tells me. Just like she told me before. "If I was a white man, they wouldn't play this game...."

"Pamela -- white or black; man or woman -- it's all the same. They always try to nail you by adding on money at the end," I tell her. Just like I told her before. "This is what they do...."

Then I launch into the same story I'd already told her about how a different salesman at a different dealership in a different town pulled the same stunt on me and my wife when we bought our Ford.

But, Pamela's not buying it. She barely listened the first time I told her the story, and she's definitely not listening now.

"Here's what I want you to do," she says.

Uh-oh. Right away, I know, trouble's coming. She wants me to call the dealership and pretend I'm interested in buying the car and see what they offer. "Make sure you talk like a white guy -- use your best white guy voice. They have to know you're white...."

"Pamela, I can't do this...."

"What do you mean, you can't do this. You the president, ain't you?"

About four years ago, I hooked her up with someone she needed to know in a completely different matter and ever since she's been calling me the president -- like I'm the man with the amazing connections.

"Pamela, I don't know anything about cars...."

"So what -- I'll tell you everything you need to know...."

She goes into this recitation of everything I'll have to say. And, like the dummy that I am, I'm taking it all down -- literally. I mean, I'm writing a script of what I will say.

"It's a Mercedes CLK 350," she says.

"DLK 350?" I ask.

"No, C...."

I'm all mixed up. "Did you say C or D?"

"C -- like cat. Not D -- like dog. There's no DLK 350. Don't you know nothing about Mercedes?"

"No, nothing. How many times do I gotta tell you -- I know nothing about cars...."

"C'mon, president -- pay attention. Now, they wanted me to pay 25,800. But they're going to offer you 24,000. I know it. Just ask them for the advertised price...."

So I call the number she gave me and I wind up talking to a saleslady named Liz. Reading from my script, I say: "I want to buy a CLK 350. How much will that cost?"

Pause. Then Liz says: "Did you say CLK 350?"

"Yes," I say, desperately trying to sound confident, even though I'm having a panic attack because I just can't remember -- is it DLK or CLK?

Another pause. Then Liz says: "Sir, this is a BMW dealership -- we don't sell CLK 350s...."

Damn! Pamela gave me the wrong number. I try to play it off, like -- ha, ha, ha -- it's an innocent mistake and that I really know the difference between BMWs and Mercedes. "Oh, yes, of course," I say with a phony chuckle. "Sorry...."

But Liz is not done with me. As long as I'm on the line, she's gonna take a bite. "Sir, I have an LLS 500 on the lot. 2006. I'll sell it to you for 33-9. That's the best I can offer...."

At least, I think that's the car model she mentioned. Lord, only knows what she really said. "Ugh, no...."

"That's better than you'll find anywhere for a comparable Mercedes...."

"I gotta go...."

"What's your name?"

Not knowing what else to do, I hang up and call Pamela. "Okay, Miss-just-do-what-I-tell-you, you gave me the wrong number...."

"What!"

"You gave me the number to a BMW dealer. I called a BMW dealership to buy a Mercedes...."

"Oops...."

I hear the whole class cracking up. I swear, she's got me on the speaker phone. Guess I'm the entertainment for the day.

She gives me another number and I wind up talking to a salesman named Tony. I play it hard. I'm starting to get into this. I'm talking with a thick Chicago white-ethnic accent -- like I'm a Mobster from the northwest side.

"What's your advertised price for a CLK 350?" I ask.

"28,991...."

"Naw, naw -- your best price. I walk in there right now -- cash in my hand -- what are you gonna give me?"

"To be honest, sir, the only way I can do this is if you come in here," Tony says. "I have to run these things by my manager...."

I'm really getting into my mobster routine: "Forget the manager. It's just me and you, Tony. Gimme your best offer...."

"Sir, I can't do this over the phone...."

"Forget it, then....."

"Sir, what's your name?"

I say the first thing that pops into my head: "Harry...."

"Okay, Harry, what's your phone number?"

I start to panic again -- like what if this guy tracks me down? My mobster accent disappears. "I can't talk now," I say.

"Your email, Harry -- what's your email?"

"Oops, got another call coming in...."

I hang up the phone. My heart is pounding. I wait to see if Tony uses the caller ID to trace my number and call me back. Nope -- phew. I call Pamela. "This guy was a freakin' shark," I tell her. "You got me swimming with sharks. Five more minutes and he'd have sold me a car...."

Pamela and her class are howling.

"Find some other white guy to play this part," I say. "I don't even like cars...."

Randolph Street: The World In Chicago

Photojournalist Jon Randolph owns Fridays on The Third City. Today, he offers us peeks at Chicagoans who've come from all over the globe.

Fatima Mohammed, a Somali, at Ronan Park.

A kid on a carousel at a Neighborhood Boys and Girls Club carnival, Irving Park Road and Campbell Avenue.

A worker in the meat market district, 853 W. Fulton St.

A man at El Pinguino ice cream company, 3244 W. Lawrence Ave.

A Little Leaguer at Horner Park,

Irving Park Road and California Ave.

Join us tomorrow for more hot air from the keyboard of Big Mike Glab. Look for a Letter From Milo the day after. Benny Jay opens the week Monday with more gas. And, of course, Randolph Street will be back next Friday. The Third City is here for your reading pleasure every day.

Big Mike: Everybody Has The Same Moon

Vincenzo Parello was my grandfather. My father and uncles all called him Jim, which I could never figure out. He lived with us until shortly before he died in 1966. He sat in an old, rickety rocking chair in the tiny back porch of our Natchez Avenue home, never rocking and never sitting back in it, either. He perched himself forward in the seat, his elbows on the arm rests, as if waiting to jump up and do something.

Not that he had much to do by that time. His days were occupied mainly by listening to the birds chirp on the utility lines along the alley next to the house. That and waiting for the garbagemen to come by. He was drawn to the garbagemen, as was I.

The sound of the garbage truck, still a block or more away, would prick up the ears of the two of us, separated in age by some 70 years. In those days, people threw their garbage into round, metal 55-gallon drums. After the garbagemen emptied each, they'd let it bounce on the ground, creating an echoing boom. I'd mimic the noise as the garbage truck came closer: boom, boom, boom.

Jim never failed to laugh at that. In his thick Sicilian accent, he'd say, "Mockie! Gah-bidge-ah can boom!"

Jim always had some tiny bit of garbage wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag. For reasons known only to himself, he kept his garbage separate from the rest of the family's. As soon as the garbage truck turned the corner behind our garage, Jim'd jump out of his rocking chair and toddle, bow-legged, through the backyard, waving. He'd hand his garbage to one of the crew and then engage them, whether they wanted to be or not, in a broken-English conversation - or more accurately, soliloquy.

Every once in a while, Ma would shake her head and ask, "Pa, why don't you leave them alone?"

Jim would look at her as if she were daft. "D'ey-ah my friends-ah!" he'd insist.

The beer truck drivers were also his friends. Jim's ears would prick up every other day when he heard the Hamm's truck come by, stopping at all the bars and restaurants across the alley. Again, he'd toddle through the backyard, waving. This time, though, he'd press a couple of dollars into the driver's hand in exchange for a case of beer. He never needed to explain his relationship with the Hamm's drivers to Ma.

At night, Jim would sit in the rocking chair and sip beer after beer out of a heavy, clear glass mug. Often, I'd stand between his knees, my butt leaning on the edge of the seat, as he imbibed. The aroma of the beer was intoxicating. Every once in a great while, Jim would let me take the tiniest sip out of his mug. I felt like the luckiest kid in the world.

It was odd that I remember the smell of the beer. Ma tells me that poor old Jim smelled like a goat. I don't remember that. She'd fight with him for days on end to take a bath. Once, he'd been working in the garden and Ma refused to let him sit at the dinner table until he washed his hands. He did so, in what seemed record time. Suspicious, Ma marched into the bathroom and fetched the erstwhile clean, white towel upon which he'd wiped his hands. She held it in front of him. "Look, Pa! Look! It's black!" she exclaimed.

Jim was defeated. After dinner, he sat in the tub. He refused to use soap, though. He claimed the smell of soap made him nauseated. Ma still shakes her head when she recalls scrubbing the ring he left.

He came from the rural outskirts of Agrigento, where daily baths and deodorant soaps were unheard of. As a nine-year-old, he went to work in the local sulfur mine. The sulfur dust was so corrosive that it could eat away at his clothes in a matter of days. Nobody could afford that so he and the rest of the mine crew - grown men and children - worked in the nude.

By the time he was 20, he found himself in an arranged marriage to an energetic girl named Anna Lazzara. The couple moved to America, settled in Little Sicily around Grand and Ogden avenues, and opened a corner grocery. Jim ran a bathtub gin and wine operation in the back room. Eventually, he began to take a jug of his homemade wine into the basement, where he kept a cot, and drank himself to sleep.

To Anna, Jim was a cafone. The mere sight of him turned her stomach. Still, they had seven kids. She divorced him after the kids had grown up. He always carried a torch for her, though.

One night, Jim, Ma, and I all sat in lawn chairs in the backyard, watching the dark sky and hoping to catch a glimpse of Telstar or Echo, early artificial satellites. A thumbnail moon was about to set in the west. Jim didn't know much about geography but he knew that Anna was in the west. She'd moved to Pasadena after the divorce because its weather reminded her of Sicily.

Jim stared at the moon for a few minutes and then broke the silence. "Susie," he asked Ma, "does-ah you mother have-ah the same moon in Kahleefornyah?"

He never learned to read or write. But one day, curious, I rifled through his belongings and found an orange booklet resembling a passport. It had his picture in it and his X on the signature line. The cover read "Enemy Alien Registration." For a hot minute, I imagined my beloved, simple Grandpa was a spy. What was I to do? Turn him in? I'd never get to sip his beer again. Tearfully, I confronted Ma with my discovery.

Ma roared. Grandpa had never become a citizen, she explained. During World War II, Japanese, German, and Italian nationals had to register so the government could keep tabs on them. She assured me Jim was a true-blue American. What a relief!

Vicenzo Parello died on April 9, 43 years ago. Every time I see the garbagemen, I think of him.

Randolph Street: Westward Home

If it's Friday, this must be Randolph Street. Photojournalist Jon Randolph takes us on a tour of the West Loop, a neighborhood bounded by the Eisenhower Expressway on the south, the Metra commuter rail lines on the north, the Kennedy and Dan Ryan expressways on the east and Ashland Avenue on the west. The area is home to a dizzying variety of residents and...

continued below the images

Willis Tower from the 200 block of N. Peoria St.

The Palace Grill, 1124 W. Madison St.

In the meat market district,

800 block of W. Fulton St.

The Lyon & Healy harp factory loading dock,

near Ogden Ave. and Lake St.

The Chicago Boyz Acrobatic Team,

practicing at Union Park,

Randolph Street and Ashland Avenue

Looking north from W. Fulton St.

Whitney M. Young Magnet High School,

211 S. Laflin Ave.

continued from above images

... businesses, from the meat and seafood wholesale markets near Lake Street to the chic restaurants on Randolph Street, and from the young professionals near Grand Avenue to the single-room-occupancy hotels around Union Park.

Jon Randolph shares his peeks into Chicago life every Friday on The Third City. Join us every day for the (take your pick) well-reasoned observations or fanatical ravings of Benny Jay and Big Mike Glab. And, hey, don't forget our frequent Letters From Milo, penned by Gary's Greatest Writer.

Randolph Street: The Bronzeville Age

Our man with the unflinching lens, photojournalist Jon Randolph, took his camera to Bronzeville recently. An historic old Chicago neighborhood just south of McCormick Place and extending down to the old blues, doo-wop, and commercial mecca of 47th Street and beyond, Bronzeville is being rediscovered these days.

The Mahogany dress shop

260 E. 35th St.

Illinois Institute of Technology

Campus Center

3201 S. State St.

One Stop Foods

4301 S. Lake Park Ave.

The Negro League Cafe

301 E. 43rd St.

The Mahogany dress shop, again

108 E. 35th St.

The arbiters of all that is hot and cool in this town may be rediscovering Bronzeville as if it somehow went away for a few years. But, as Randolph's pix illustrate, this community has never stopped being vibrant.

Once dubbed "The Black Metropolis," Bronzeville is home, in addition to IIT with its remarkable Mies van der Rohe architecture, the Illinois College of Optometry, VanderCook College of Music, Shimer College, and Wendell Phillips Academy. 

Back in the 1930s, newspaper editor James Gentry popularized the new name because it accurately described the skin color of its inhabitants.

Be here next Friday for more Randolph Street. The Third City is here everyday for your reading and dawdling pleasure.

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!

Randolph Street: Sunday Morning Glory

Fridays are for Randolph Street on The Third Word. Sundays are for a higher calling at the Bethel AME Church, 4440 S. Michigan Ave. Photojournalist Jon Randolph shot these pix on April 1, 2007.

Jon Randolph's lens is a window to Chicago. Join us every Friday for Randolph Street. We're here every day for the lives, loves, and characters of The Third City.

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: I'm A Lucky Guy

The Great Gun Battle continued at Dick's Pizza last night. Oh, okay, I'm being overdramatic, as usual. Whenever there's an opportunity for me to be alarmist, panicky, hyperbolic - you name it - I'll take it. Ask The Loved One. Heck, even my nephew, Jittery Jimmy, had to reel me in the last time he was down here to visit. We were standing in the backyard and I heard a woodpecker.

"Quiet!" I commanded. "Listen to that! It's a woodpecker. Isn't that amazing!"

"Uncle Mike," Jittery Jimmy said, firmly, "it's not amazing."

So no shots were fired nor were harsh words even exchanged. But I like the sound of The Great Gun Battle so there it is. Last week, I recounted a log-rolling chat between Printer Bob and All-American Allen about guns. My point was, it's hard for us Chicagoans to understand how the rest of the country feels about firearms. The gun is as dear to many people in this great land as pizza or the Cubs are to me.

I felt self-satisfied for recreating their discussion fairly. I thought I'd acquitted myself well, not portraying them as loons or wild-eyed survivalists. I even closed the post with All-American Allen saying, with a hint of pride, that he'd never shot a human being and hoped he'd never have to.

Man, I thought, aren't I magnanimous?

The answer, I learned last night, is not so much.

Weatherman Loren and his pop, Bandleader Leo, came in to watch the Kentucky men's basketball team play a first-round game in the NIT. During an early timeout, Loren ambled by and patted me on the back.

"I read you're post about guns," he said.

Immediately, at least three nearby heads turned our way. One of them asked Loren what it was all about. He tried to be kind but as he hemmed and hawed through his explanation, it became clear he felt I'd wronged the good folk of Kentuckiana.

"Well," Loren finally said, turning toward me, "I gotta tell you. It read pretty much like you were telling us what a bunch of hillbilly rednecks we are."

I was crushed. I'd meant nothing of the kind. Loren said he understood that but still....

"Lemme put it this way," he continued, "if we were 60 miles south of here, youd'a got your ass kicked."

I felt lucky indeed. Even luckier as the night wore on. I chatted at length with All-American Allen, as Republican as a man can be. He feels about Barack Obama pretty much what I felt about George W. Bush - this is one lousy president. No matter. Rather than tear each other's throats out, All-American Allen and I made our respective cases without a hint of mayhem. Hell, our talk was so civil most people today wouldn't even consider it a political discussion.

All-American Allen is about my age but - damn him - he's tall, good-looking, strong, and trim. His imposing stature was on my mind as we tentatively waded into our conversation. All-American Allen appears capable of lifting even this pasta-stuffed bovine and hurtling me through a plate glass window.

Had I been sitting on a barstool next to a Goliath like All-American Allen 60 miles south of Dick's Pizza, I might have bit my tongue. The Bourbon Trail is about 60 miles south of these precincts. It's a gorgeous landscape with rolling hills, broad vistas, and the occasional passing Ford F-150 pickup in whose loadbed compartment is stored who knows what variety of ordnance. Even if a fellow from the Bourbon Trail lacked the sinew to heave me through the nearest window, it's a good bet he might use me for target practice.

So now I have a bond with All-American Allen. We're not going to convince each other of anything but we came away from our chat at least respecting each other. And I neither flew through a plate glass window nor took a round of buckshot in the ass.

Big Mike's Dee Brown Update

I met a man two weeks ago at Dick's who claimed to be former NBA all-star and 1991 Slam Dunk Champion Dee Brown. When the man and his partner, a woman named Natasha, departed, the citizenry in Dick's seemed skeptical he was who he said he was. I was as dubious as anyone. I did a little digging and found that the two were the real thing. Natasha is Brown's business associate and the two are in town to open a Louisville location for his The EDGE basketball training facility.

Big Mike: We Can Rest Easy Now

The first week The Loved One and I lived in our current home, we witnessed a manhunt out our front window. That was two years ago. The manhunt, believe it or not, finally came to a conclusion last week.

We'd bought our house in June, 2007, in a little town called Murray Hill, population 630. It's a bedroom community built on the rolling hills of an old potato farm in the early 70s. Fences are banned, contributing to a more collegial atmosphere. Rather than chat with my neighbors over the fence, we mosey out in the middle of the undulating greensward between our homes. No one really knows where one property ends and another begins.

Murray Hill for a brief period of time had it's own little private police force even though the worst crime in these parts was when someone's dog left a pile of Lincoln Logs on someone else's lawn. The private police force was quickly voted out when it became clear the only thing the officers were doing was ticketing residents for rolling through the stop sign.

The place was considered so safe that many people kept their garage doors open and even left their back doors unlocked. That is, until recently.

That's why it was so shocking when, on a July Sunday evening two years ago, The Loved One and I were aroused by the sound of a police helicopter overhead. Murray Hill Pike was teeming with citizens carrying flashlights and holding back dogs straining at their leashes. One neighbor who's a Jefferson County Sheriff's deputy rode his bicycle up and down the pike wearing flip-flops, a T-shirt, cutoffs, and his holstered service revolver.

I asked my new neighbor Captain Billy what was wrong. "Ah, some little son of a bitch broke into somebody's house," he said. "The woman left her purse near the window and the kid musta saw it, broke through the screen, reached in and took it."

The Loved One and I chuckled. It was as though we were now living in Mayberry.

Ever since then. I'd been hearing about the Burglar Who Was Terrorizing The Area. Word circulating through the crowd at Dick's Pizza was that people were beginning to shut their garage doors and lock their back doors. It wasn't quite the reaction Chicago had when Richard Speck was on the loose for four days in July, 1966, but it would do for a small town.

Then one night last week as I sat at the bar at Dick's enjoying a diet cola, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mayor Judy. She's actually the garbage commissioner of the adjoining town of Goose Creek but she gets a kick of me calling her mayor.

"Didja hear?" Judy exclaimed. "They caught the burglar!"

Suddenly it was as if a cloud had been lifted from over Dick's. I could have sworn there was merriment in the air. Everybody started talking at once.

Here's the story as Mayor Judy told it: "Yeah, they caught him. Just a kid from down near Westport Road, you know, where it's not so nice. They got him on 61 counts. He's been doing it for years. He says he was doing it to support his family's drug habit. He doesn't do drugs himself. He wasn't hurting anybody, just reaching inside most houses to grab money or a purse."

Later, I caught the story on the local news. It seems the lad, 22, was less than superlative as a desperado. Toward the end of his reign of terror, he would swipe keys from some houses and then drive the victims' cars home. When the cops started finding the stolen cars in the same neighborhood, they figured they knew where he lived.

One night last February, he broke into a home in St. Matthews, sat in the living room, turned on the TV, and ordered some cable porn. He sat there for more than an hour hoping the residents, who were upstairs sleeping, would come down and shoot him. He was tired, he later told the police, of his life of crime.

The kid got tired of waiting for the residents to come down and put him out of his misery so he walked outside and hailed a cab to take him home. He paid the fare using money he'd grabbed from the house.

He's in custody now. Murray Hill, Goose Creek, Barbour Meade, and the other villages of the East End are now safe. Still, I don't think people are going to be leaving their back doors unlocked again.

Big Mike: Hey, I Wanna Be An Evangelist Too!

Young Joe, the kid next door, rang my back bell yesterday afternoon. As usual, I'd been pounding away at the keyboard in my underwear ala Hemingway (pretty much the only thing we have in common.) Without thinking, I dashed upstairs and answered wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of wind-whipped man-bloomers - white with red hearts, natch.

The kid had been waiting in the rare bright sunshine (this has been a lousy winter even in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky), shifting nervously from foot to foot in his gargantuan sneakers in the melting snow. When he saw me, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head.

"Sorry buddy," I said. "I always write like this." The explanation only seemed to confuse him further so I let it drop. "What's up?"

He handed me two copies of a book. "These are for you and your wife," he said, smiling shyly.

I put my cheaters back on and studied the top copy's cover. It was entitled "One Heartbeat Away: Your Journey Into Eternity." It was, of course, a tome on god and how I ought to get cracking on believing in him/her/it before the old ticker shorts out.

"Um, thanks," I said. "Why are you giving these to me?"

"I'm witnessing for my church," Young Joe said.

At this point I was already debating in my mind whether I should tell him not to waste the books on The Loved One and me or if I should soften the blow and say One will do, thanks. I mean, I didn't want to appear unneighborly but, you know, save a tree and all that. Before I could speak, he said, beaming proudly, "I printed your names in them for you."

"Oh. Fine. Yes. Fine. Very nice. That's awfully nice of you," I replied, now holding the books as if they were rare artifacts. With that, Young Joe bid adieu and dashed back home.

The god and Jesus thing has been a quandary for me since I arrived in Louisville nearly two years ago. Back home in Chicago, belief in god usually manifests itself in one of two ways. The vast majority of people in the city proper profess to be far too sophisticated for traditional worship. I'm not a member of any regular religion, they might say, I believe in my own way. Those who aren't apologetic for their religiosity often can be found shouting into bullhorns on State Street.

In Kentucky, though, Christianity seems to be the club everybody wants to belong to. My first weekend here, I was cornered at Barnes and Noble by some old bird who bent my ear about how I had to accept Jesus. Cab drivers, Chick-fil-a drive-thru clerks, convenience store owners, and the like think nothing of going on and on about how fabulous and wonderful god and Jesus are. Or, I guess, is. Sometimes it seems as though every citizen of the Commonwealth has a story about how he or she was saved from some crushing reversal of fortune or even sudden death and has The Big Man to thank for it.

I try to keep my non-believer status close to the vest in these parts now. When we first moved onto Murray Hill Pike, I met Young Joe as he dashed through my yard chasing a ball. We introduced ourselves and exchanged information. Puffing out his chest, he told me he attends a school affiliated with one of the biggest mega-churches in the region. I told him that was, well, nice. "You should come to service on Sunday," he gushed. "You'll love it!"

"Well, I'll think about it," I replied. Then, to fill in an uncomfortable silence that followed, I asked, "What denomination is it?"

Young Joe looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Y'know, is it Methodist or Lutheran or something?"

"Oh," Joe said, "it's just Christian." Which is, as I understand it, a denomination all its own under The Big C umbrella - search me; as I said, I'm a non-believer

"So what are you?" Joe asked.

Uh oh. My mind shifted into fifth gear. What do I tell this 10-year-old about my atheism? I don't want it to sound as if I'm proselytizing. And I don't want his parents to think I'm polluting his mind. But he asked. "I'm, uh, nothing," I said.

Young Joe was aghast. "You don't have any religion?" he whispered, as if merely uttering the words would taint his soul.

"No," I answered, sotto voce, the way I used to speak in the confessional.

"Then you have to come to services Sunday," Joe concluded. In the ensuing weeks, his mother, Jan, repeatedly told me how terrific their church was and how we were invited to come anytime as her special guests. I thanked her repeatedly. She still doesn't know the exact nature of my beliefs although the language that came spewing out of me last summer when I hit my head on the Prius's hatchback latch gave her an indication I'm not a Baptist minister. Jan and her mother had been sitting in the swing behind her house when the torrent commenced. Even though It was a perfect evening, the two hustled inside as if my verbiage were a plague of locusts.

I'm rather touched that Young Joe hopes to save my soul. I appreciate Jan's invitations to church. And, honest, I listen politely when cabdrivers go on and on about how god's hand has guided their lives. I only wish I could figure out a way to tell them about my god-free world without thinking I'm gonna burn in hell.

Letter from Milo: Street Corners - Chicago and Kansas City

I will never lie to the American People - unless I absolutely can't help myself.

I can't tell you how honored and flattered I am that Mr. Diamond and Mr. Silver have asked me to contribute to this blog. The fact that I owe those two scabby sons of bitches money has nothing to do with my decision to participate.

Faithful readers of this blog may recall that Mr. Silver refers to me as Milo, the Smartest Man in the World. Although I tend to agree with him, modesty prevents me from claiming that title. There is a man in Montreal who is a bit smarter than I am and another in Barcelona who comes close, so, in my humble opinion, the title is up for grabs.

Speaking of smart people, I live about four blocks from the former governor of Illinois, Rod Blagojevich. Although intelligence has never been a requirement for holding public office in the state of Illinois, Blagojevich seemed to have been blessed with more than his fair share of gray matter. He speaks well, with a minimum of you knows and awkward pauses. He's a lawyer and a former congressman who at one time time had a bright future. He was also blessed with more than his share of ambition. Rumor has it that he even contemplated running for president.

He had it made, standing in the tall cotton, living high on the hog, double parked on Easy Street. All he had to do was keep his nose clean for a few years and he would be set for life. But he just couldn't do it. His greed, arrogance and hubris ruined his life and his career. He'll be extremely lucky if he doesn't spend the next 10 years in prison.

On the evening of the day he was kicked out of office I had a few glasses of wine and walked the few blocks to his house just to see the media circus that accompanied his downfall. I stood on the corner, 30 or 40 yards from his home, marveling at the news trucks crowding the streets and the helicopters fluttering overhead. Those were sights I expected to see, but what I didn't expect to see was the crowd that had gathered outside his home. There were maybe a hundred people outside of his home, chanting his name, waving placards, calling for him to make an appearance.

I don't know why I was so surprised by the crowd. After all, car accidents, fires and street fights also draw crowds, so why shouldn't a train wreck like Blagojevich attract gawkers. Yes, Blagojevich still has fans and supporters, people who believe that he's getting a raw deal and that once all the evidence comes to light he will be completely exonerated and restored to his former glory. Fat fucking chance.

Standing on that corner made me feel like a voyeur. I felt like I was peeking into a neighbor's window. I felt unclean. What if someone saw me there and thought I was a Blagojevich supporter? What if someone mistook me for someone who cared about a disgraced politician?

I stood on that corner for about 20 minutes, still tipsy from the wine I had been drinking, thinking about the vagaries of life, when a tune started drifting through my head. It was the great "Kansas City" sung by Wilbert Harrison, and it brought to mind another street corner in another town. There's a line in the song that says

Standing on the corner/

12th Street and Vine.

About a year ago a friend and I went to a reunion of my old Army outfit in Kansas City, MO. We made a road trip out of it, partaking of liquid and herbal substances that would have been more appropriate to people half our age. While driving, we had the radio blasting and one of the songs we heard was "Kansas City."

"Fuck, man, we've got to stand on the corner of 12th Street and Vine."

"I'm with you, man. How can you go to Kansas City and not stand on the corner of 12th Street and Vine?"

"I'm going to get one of those disposable cameras and we'll take pictures with the street sign."

"Good idea."

"Do me a huge favor, man. When I die make sure that on my tombstone it says, 'Once stood on the corner of 12th Street and Vine.'"

"Consider it done."

"I'm counting on you, man."

"OK, just remind me again in the morning."

We made it safely to Kansas City and checked into our hotel rooms. The next thing we did was head for the hotel bar, which was packed with drunken veterans. We caught up with old friends, toasted the memories of those that didn't come and, sadly, those that would never come. By closing time we were roaring drunk and ready to find 12th Street and Vine. We went to the lobby and asked the concierge where to find that fabled corner. He had no idea. We asked a few others and nobody knew.

Then I saw an old black woman who was working as a maid and asked her. She smiled at us and immediately gave us directions. She explained that 12th and Vine had once been the heart of Kansas City's black entertainment district. Of course, we were in no condition to drive, but we drove anyway. We found 10th Street and Vine and 14th Street and Vine, but no 12th Street and Vine. Confused, I stopped a cab and asked him for directions and he told us there was no longer any 12th Street and Vine. That whole stretch of city streets had been torn up to make way for housing projects. 12th Street and Vine no longer existed.

As I stood on the corner by Blagojevich's house, I thought back to Kansas City and the corner that had simply disappeared. Then I thought about the governor and the the fact that his career had also disappeared. Was it progress? I suppose so. 12th Street and Vine had been torn down to make way for much needed housing. Blagojevich has been thrown out of office to make way for much needed house cleaning.

Intellectually, I realized that there was really no connection between the two events, but in my heart I knew there was a cosmic thread tying it all together. In the end all I did was confuse myself. That's what happens when you hang around street corners too long.

(Get Milo's book, "Schoolboy," now - The Editors)