Rolando: To Hell With Wendy

June 24th, 2017

Last week I was riding home on my bike after hanging out at a friend’s house when I decided to stop over at a Wendy’s for a little late night snack.

I had a little to drink at my buddies, so the thought of munching on a juicy double stack burger and a junior bacon cheeseburger sounded just right.

I rolled onto the sidewalk and locked up my bike against a poll out in front of the Wendy’s.

I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I looked at my phone and it was 11:30 p.m. The restaurant was closed, but, lucky for me, the drive-thru was still open.

So, I unlocked my bike, hopped on, and rode up to the speaker and waited for them to take my order.

Five minutes went by and nothing….

“Hello,” I said into the speaker. “I’m trying to order some food.”

Still nothing….

Two cars pulled up behind me, waiting to place an order.

“Hey, you’re holding up traffic here. I”m ready to order.”

Still no response. So I decided to ride up to the first window and place my order there.

When I got to the first window, there was a short Mexican kid at the register.

“Hey, bro, I think your speaker system isn’t working,” I said. “Can I get a double stack and a junior….”

“I can’t serve you, sir,” the little bastard interrupted. “You’re not in a car.”


“I’m sorry, that’s our policy.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “Money is money. Just get me a double stack and….”

“Sir, I can’t serve you if you’re not in a car.”

“Listen, man, just take my order and I’ll get my food and be out of here; There are people waiting behind me.”

All I wanted was a double stack….

He disappeared for a few seconds and returned with an even shorter Mexican lady who turned out to be the night shift supervisor.

“Sirrr, I’m ehsorry, but we cannot serve ju if ju are not een a carrr,” she said in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Lady, that doesn’t even make sense, you mean to tell me Wendy’s is willing to turn down money just because I’m in your drive-thru on a bicycle?”


“Hey, I want a double stack and I’m not moving until you take my order,” I snapped. “All these people behind me are going to wait.”

Now, that was a bad move on several different levels.

First, let’s say some how by brute stubborn force, I had convinced them to actually serve me, it’s almost a sure bet that they would have done unspeakable things to my burgers before serving them to me.

Second,  they could have decided to just call the cops to get my stubborn, slightly more-than-buzzed ass out of there, which the little Mexican lady threatened to do.

She reached for a phone and said: “I’m going to call the policia pendejo.”

To which I responded as I pedaled away: “I just wanted a fucking double stack pendeja.”

I rode to the end of the block and stopped. I looked back at the Wendy’s sign, with that little red-headed, pig-tailed, freckled-face asshole smiling down at me.

That damn asshole was taunting me….

‘To hell with you Wendy,’ I thought. ‘You bastard.’

Damn, I wanted a double stack so badly, though.

Then I had a thought. I could roll up to the speaker again, hide in the bushes and ask the next car that rolled up to place an order for me and give them the money to pay for it.

It was a brilliant idea.

Luckily I was sober enough to give it a second thought, upon which I realized that a big, bald, brown man hiding in the bushes, asking for a favor, might be the type of situation that could get me arrested.

Left with a bitter taste in my mouth, I abandoned my hopes of eating a juicy double stack and rode home.

I made myself a plain ham sandwich and fell asleep with bitterness in my heart.

To hell with Wendy’s.

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Randolph Street: Out West

June 23rd, 2017

1Aimg080Travelin’ ManOakland, CA


These images are from the mid 1970’s.


2Aimg082Catenary–San Francisco


3Aimg084ChinatownSan Francisco


All photos © Jon Randolph

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Benny Jay: Girls Night Out

June 22nd, 2017

This bit’s from the June 20th show. If you want to hear it, click right here

We’re calling this girls night out and here’s why…

So it’s girl’s night out, which means my wife and her friends slip out for a “ladies only” get-together at a male-strip club in Kokomo, Indiana. Just kidding. They went out to eat. I think.

But while the cat’s away–I get to watch a war movie. In this case, Where Eagles Dare, a super hokey 1968 flick starring Clint Eastwood. It’s about this elite squad of highly trained commandos, including a voluptuous blonde seductress, who parachute into Germany in the middle of WW II. They proceed to sneak into a castle fortress, guarded by 600 Nazi soldiers. The action goes like this.

Dennis: We will kill you.

Patrick: Yes, we will.

Dennis: Makes machine gun shooting sound.

Patrick: Makes grenade sounds.

That’s the sound of them killing a bunch of generals as they blast their way in and out of that German fortress.

Dennis: Machine gun sounds.

Patrick: More grenade sounds.


What a movie…


In the process, killing at least 400 Germans. Clinton Eastwood alone must have killed 200.

Dennis: Machine gun sounds.

Patrick: Grenade sounds.

And it’s not like the Germans aren’t fighting back. They fired hundreds of rounds of ammunition–grenades included–without killing anyone. Except maybe each other. Leading me to wonder….

Dennis wondering: What would Tim do?

No, that’s a different bit.

Dennis: Oh, yeah. My bad. How could an army with such lousy shooters possibly conquered Europe?

Good question. For another time. What matters is that the movie gives me a whole new round of ammunition, so to speak, for one of my favorite games –bother the Dog. That’s where I get back at the Nicky the dog for bothering me. Like when we’re on a walk and she spends five minutes sniffing a bush.

Me: C’mon, Nicky, I wanna get home.

Dennis as Nicky: Dude, I think that little beagle down the street left something for me on this bush.

In this case, I tell Nicky…

Me: Okay, I’m the voluptuous German waitress, who’s really a spy for the Brits.

Nicky looks at me as if to say.

Dennis as Nicky: Oh, shit—not this.

Me: You are the unwitting Gestapo agent who I have lured to my bedroom.”

Dennis as Nicky: I’m getting under the bed.

Me: Komin here, my Bavarian strudel.

Which is supposed to be a German accent. As I pull her out from under the bed.

Dennis as Nicky: Hey, I’m calling the SPCA.

Me: Such a magnificent specimen. I am hot for your lips.

I pull her close for a kiss. But instead of kissing her I make-believe stab her in the neck with my make-believe dagger that I’ve pulled from my make-believe cleavage that’s make-believe bulging out of my make-believe Bavarian peasant blouse.

Me: Aiyee. Take that — you Nazi bastard.

Dennis as Nicky: I’m getting out of here, you psycho.

Just then the phone rings. It’s my old pal, Milo.

Dennis as milo: Hey, benny, what you doing.

Me: Ah, nothing.

I look at Nicky. She’s settled on the floor already asleep. Thank goodness she can’t talk. Nothing like a little fun on girl’s night out…


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Randolph Street: Hey, Good Lookin’…

June 21st, 2017

1DSCF1245 copyCouple–Uptown


2DSCF0952Woman in WhiteLakeview


3DSCF1282Rest–Art Institute


4DSCF1278Wait–Art Institute


5DSCF1247 copyCouple 2–Uptown


All photos © Jon Randolph 2016

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Benny Jay: Don’t Want To Talk About Saul

June 20th, 2017

This bit’s from the Friday, the June 16 Ben Joravsky show. If you want to hear it in action, click right here…

We’re calling this Better-Call-Saul Friday, and here’s why…

So about a week ago I discover Better Call Saul, this TV show about a sleazy lawyer. And I love it. Can’t stop watching it. I know, I know, it’s been around forever–once again, I’m late to the party. But here’s the thing. I love it so much all I want to do is talk about it. But even though it’s super popular, I can’t find anyone who’s seen it. So I can’t find anyone to talk about it. Cause, who wants to talk about a show they haven’t seen? Nothing duller than that. Why, the other day I went to Dennis…

Me: Hey, Dennis—have you seen Better Call Saul?

Dennis: You mean that show with Bob Odenkirk?

Me: Yes—that one.

Dennis: I love Bob Odenkirk.

Me: Well, in Better Call Saul, he plays this sleazy…

Dennis: Have you seen Mr. Show?

Me: Mr. Who?

Dennis: Mr. Show. It’s a TV show from back in the day. Odenkirk was in it.

Me: No, but in Saul he plays Jimmy McGill and…

Dennis: By the way, have your heard Brian Regan?

Me: Who?



Dennis: Brian Regan. The comedian.

Me: No, but…

Dennis: Man, that dude’s so funny. He’s got this bit about going to an emergency room where he goes, `Have you ever had to call your own ambulance…’

All right—obviously, I’m not going to get any decent Better Call Saul conversation out of Dennis. So I try Patrick, the WCPT computer whiz. I catch him in the break room.

Me: Hey, Patrick you see better call Saul?

Patrick: Uh-uh.

Me: Great show. This sleazy lawyer gets caught up with the mob and…

Patrick: Hey, what’s a six-letter word for alternative to olives?

Me: Huh?

Patrick: I’m doing the crossword.

Me: Okay, but in Saul…

Patrick: Capers! That’s it!

Oh, brother. He’s not much help. Now I’m desperate. I gotta talk about this show. But if I didn’t know better, I’d say word’s got around. Uh-oh, look out for Ben! Cause, it’s like–guys are getting weird. Like Yoda, the station manager.

Me: Hey, Yoda…

Matt: Let me guess—Better call Saul.

Me: How did you know?

Matt: I’d love to talk to you about it but, I, ugh, uhm, gotta switch the laundry.

Me: Laundry?

Matt: Yeah, my clothes are in the washer and I gotta put them in the dryer.

Me: We have a laundry facility in the studio?

Matt: Gotta go—don’t want my shirts to get wrinkled.

Finally, I corner Mark, the guy, who sells ads.

Me: Mark—my man. I know you must have seen Better Call Saul.

Dennis as Mark: Oh, no, I’ve broken out in a rash!

Me: What?

Dennis as Mark: First it was my hands. Then my back. Now, it’s my knee, arms and thighs. Quick, get out before you catch it.

You know I’m starting to think these guys really don’t want to talk about Better call Saul.

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Letter From Milo: Ugly Old Men

June 19th, 2017

I woke up with a hangover yesterday morning. It was one of those cruel, oppressive hangovers that linger all day and make you bitterly regret not only your excesses of the past 24 hours, but also just about everything you’ve done for the past 30 years.

As I was wandering around the house that morning, dressed in my ratty bathrobe and slippers, feeling sorry for myself and muttering about the essential unfairness of life, I happened to glance at a mirror and was shocked by what I saw.

I looked like an ugly old man.

My face was puffy, my lids were drooping, and my eyes were still bloodshot. I hadn’t shaved in a week, my hair was standing on end, and my skin was off-color, almost jaundiced.

To be honest, I looked like shit. And I didn’t like it one bit.

Of course, most people look terrible when they wake up. But after cleaning up — showering and attending to toiletry details — they generally look a lot better.

Unfortunately, that didn’t work for me. After showering, shaving, trimming my eyebrows and nose hairs, and tending to the follicular growths sprouting from my ears, I still looked like Shemp Howard after a rough night.

Maybe I was being too hard on myself. Perhaps the hangover was skewing my perceptions. So I decided to get a second opinion. I asked my wife, the lovely Mrs. Milo, “Honey, do I look okay to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m feeling kind of old and ugly today.”

“Well, you’re not that young anymore.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And if you quit drinking and smoking so much it might improve your appearance.”

“Anything else?”

“If I think of something I’ll let you know.”

Thankfully, I don’t have to rely on my looks to keep my job as Society, Lifestyle and Religion columnist here at The Third City. Nobody cares what a blogger looks like. It’s like being a radio personality. Appearance is meaningless.

Now that I think about it, except for Ms. No Blaise, who happens to be a fine looking young woman, most of my colleagues at this blog site are mangy looking fuckers.

Benny Jay, for example, is an ugly bastard. He’s got a face that would give Stephen King nightmares.

Jonny Randolph has seen better days. I’d be willing to bet that he hasn’t gotten laid since the mid-1980s. And I doubt things will improve anytime soon.

Rolando is a nasty looking brute. People cross the street to avoid him. The local kids dress up like Rolando on Halloween, just to scare the neighbors.

Jim Siergey is another homely bastard. Years of obsessive cartooning have ruined his looks. He’s come to resemble a cartoon character himself. If he had a handlebar mustache, he’d look exactly like Yosemite Sam.

I suppose I shouldn’t dwell on appearances. What could be more superficial than judging people by the way they look? After all, some of the great people in history were not much to look at.

Abraham Lincoln was homely, to put it kindly. Mother Teresa could have used a touch of lipstick and a little rouge. Winston Churchill resembled a bulldog. Golda Meir probably had a tough time getting a prom date.

That said, I couldn’t shake the thought that I was becoming an unattractive older man. I was walking along Clark Street later that afternoon, depressed by the notion that time was working against me, that I was only going to get older and uglier, when I saw a very attractive young woman walking in my direction. As she passed by she gave me a beautiful smile and said, “Hi.”

I started feeling better right away.

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