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.

Benny Jay: The Keys On Richard's Chain

I get up early to go to Richard Pegue's funeral. I figure I have no choice since I expect half the town's gonna be there.

I take Lake Shore Drive, heading south. Traffic's heavy on the north side, but south of the Loop, it picks up.

The service is at Apostolic Church of God, the mega-church at the corner of 63rd and Dorchester Avenue.

I sign the guest book and take a seat in the back of the sanctuary. Must be over 1,500 people there with more coming in. Almost every one's black. Can't say I'm surprised. For over 40 years, Richard, a disc jockey, played R & B and soul, the kind of music everybody loves. But he played it on WVON and other black stations. And you know how it goes in the Chi. Whites here, blacks there. Might as well live on different galaxies in space. Ask black baby boomers if they've heard of Richard and they'll say -- "Are you crazy? I grew up listening to that man." But most white guys -- they don't even know the name.

The church organ's playing soft, sorrowful chords of mourning. Up on the stage, Pam Morris, the mistress of ceremony, runs through the speakers.

I think back to when I met Richard -- must have been a dozen years ago. I wrote an article about him. After that we'd meet every now and then at a diner -- a smoky, cab driver's joint -- a little west of the Hancock. Richard would roll in after dropping off his wife at work. He carried his cell phone in one hand and a big clump of keys in the other. More than once I asked him what's with the keys? But he never gave me a straight answer. Richard liked his secrets. He joked about having an alter ego -- Willie the Janitor, the black guy no one pays attention to, even though he secretly owns properties all over town. He'd talk in riddles, like a character in a song by Bob Dylan. I'd ask him head on -- what are you getting at? And he'd smile and let it go at that. Half the time I didn't know what he was driving at. Thought I knew but I wasn't sure.

I scan the church, looking for familiar faces. I recognize a few from the diner. Richard was always bringing folks together. He'd call me up and say there's someone you should meet. So I'd go to the diner and meet one of his guys. There was his Computer Guy, his T-shirt Guy, the guy who sold him fresh-baked cookies. I was his Writer Guy. I'd tell Richard that me and the others were like the keys on his chain -- we unlocked different parts of his life. He liked that metaphor. He'd smile his elusive Richard smile and tell me we had to write a book. I'd tell him, if we're gonna write a book, he'd have to give me something good to write about. He'd just smile some more and say he'd tell me all I needed to knew when the time was right to tell me.

The service moves quickly. Richard Steele, Richard's oldest friend, talks about how they formed a doo-wop group -- in order to pick up girls -- almost 50 years ago, when they were students at Hirsch High School. Jackie Taylor introduces Melanie McCullough and Theo Huff, two singers from her company, The Black Ensemble Theater. McCullough sings "At Last" and Huff sings "Try a Little Tenderness," one of my all-time favorites. I love that song every time I hear it even though I've heard it many times before. Huff sings it strong, sounds just like Otis Redding. Almost makes me forget I'm at a funeral.

After the service, I head back north along the Drive. I scan the radio look for "Try A Little Tenderness." But all I hear is commercials, so I turn off the radio and let the memory of the song linger in my mind as I drive by Soldier Field and the Museum Campus, returning to the white side of town....

Two days later I get a call. The voice on the phone says she's Stephanie, daughter of Helena Appleton. I can't believe it. Helena and I worked together over 25 years ago. I loved Helena. She treated me like a son. I used to help her fetch her groceries at the Stop `n Shop on Randolph Street. We'd be walking through the Loop and she'd give me all the gossip. Stephanie and I try to recall when we last saw each other. Must have been in 1987 -- at her mother's funeral.

Anyway, Stephanie read a tribute I wrote to Richard and decided she had to call. Turns out she knew Richard for over 30 years -- used to do voice-over work for him back in the `70s.

We swap stories about Richard, fill each other in on the last twenty years of our lives, exchange email addresses, and promise to do a better job of staying in touch.

I hang up the phone and look out the window at a squirrel running across the telephone wire in the alley. All those years of meeting Richard at the diner and we never made the Helena connection. Who would have thought that Helena's daughter was another key on Richard's chain? Guess I shouldn't be surprised. Like I told you, the man knew half the people in this town.