Randolph Street: El Stations

September 21st, 2018

1IMG_1417Paulina Station–Chicago

 

2_MG_8941Downtown

 

3IMG_1421Brown Line

 

4_MG_7344Madison & Wabash

 

5IMG_1414Platform

 

All photos © Jon Randolph

jonrandolph.com

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Benny Jay: Oops

September 20th, 2018

I’m sitting in my car, waiting for my wife to get off from work, when Layla comes on the radio.

Immediately, I start playing air guitar.

I can’t help myself. It’s like I’m programmed. As soon as I hear that hard-charging opening guitar blast by Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, man, I just gotta join in.

And I know the song so well–having heard it at least 10,000 times in my life–that I got it down lick for fucking lick.

Pretty soon, I’m singing along: “Layla, got me on my knees, Layla…”

I’m really going to town, too, as, out of the corner of my eye, I see this dude on the sidewalks, who seems to be heading my way.

I pay him no mind cause–it’s like, Eric & Duane really need my help on this song.

But then–the dude enters my car!

I kid you not. He opens the back door and sits behind the passenger’s seat, like he knows me.

That’s right–there’s this strange man sitting in the back of my car!

ericclaptonduaneallmanI was playing along with Eric & Duane…

 

It hits me on two levels. One, who the fuck is this strange dude sitting in the back of my car? And, two–uh-oh, whoever he is, he just caught me playing air guitar to Layla, which is pretty embarrassing.

I try to play it off, like I’m not really playing air guitar so much as stretching my arms, as I turn down the radio.

“Meyer?” he says.

“Meyer?” I ask.

“You’re not Meyer?”

“No.”

“You’re not a Lyft driver?

“No.”

I don’t know who’s more embarrassed–he, for getting in the wrong car. Or me, for getting caught playing air guitar.

“Oh, my god, I thought you were my Lyft driver,” he says.

“No problem…”

“This is the exact same kind of car he’s driving…”

“Hey, man, it all good…”

He gets out and walks away in a hurry, like he wants to immediately put the whole thing behind him.

I look around. The sidewalk’s empty–no one’s coming.

What the heck? I crank up the radio volume and go back to playing air guitar–lick for fucking lick.

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Letter From Milo: Fake Ones

September 18th, 2018
Every once in a while my brother-in-law sends me porn in an email. It’s usually a bit of fluff that someone sends him and he forwards it to me. Now, I’m not saying my brother-in-law is a pervert – you’d have to ask my sister about that – but he does enjoy a bit of porn on occasion.

 

The porn he sends me is actually pretty tame stuff. It usually has a humorous bent to it. For example, this past holiday season he forwarded me an attachment that had a Christmas card from the then-President. The subject line of the email read, “Greetings from George and Laura’s Bush.” The picture was of President and Mrs. Bush, full frontal naked, smiling and waving from one of the doorways of the White House.

 

It was obviously a Photoshop job and not very well done. I looked at it for a few moments before deleting it. The computer I use is accessible to my wife and children and I don’t like leaving anything on it that would offend their tender sensibilities. They have a low enough opinion of me anyway without adding porn freak to their list of grievances.

 

In my youth I was as intrigued by the nude female form as any sex-deprived young hetero male. In those days opportunities for seeing naked women were rare. Along with my equally horny young friends, we made every effort to satisfy our sexual curiousity. As teenagers, we snuck into burlesque houses in the dying days of the art form (see my earlier post about the Follies Theater on State Street.) We hoarded magazines like Playboy, according them the same respect and awe that a baseball nerd reserves for a Honus Wagner collector card.

 

A few years later, when social mores loosened, I saw “Deep Throat” starring Linda Lovelace at the Tivoli Theater in Gary, Indiana. A couple of years later I saw “The Devil in Miss Jones,” starring the great Georgina Spelvin at a theater in San Francisco.

 

When home theater technology became available I rented a couple of VHS tapes at the local video store (pre-Blockbuster days) but found them, on the whole, pretty boring. By that time I had experienced a bit of the real thing and, like most sportsman, I preferred to participate rather than watch from the sidelines.

 

Years later, when the great Internet explosion occurred, I was pretty much bored with the whole concept of watching other people copulate. I generally paid no mind to the filmed shenanigans of bored housewives, mustachioed UPS drivers, horny cheerleaders, naughty nurses, pizza delivery boys, errant nuns, French maids and doctors with unorthodox bedside manners.

 

One thing I did notice, however, was the proliferation of fake tits. It seemed that all the ladies in these films were as inflated as Michelin tires, their breasts grotesquely large and sometimes misshapen. They seemed to defy all known laws of physics and gravity.

 

Fake tits weren’t restricted to porn stars. The popped up everywhere. From Hollywood and Vine to Main Street USA, fake tits became as common as coffee shops. I read an article in a legitimate newspaper that trumpeted the fact that some parents were buying breast implants for their daughters as high school graduation presents. Every once in awhile my dear wife, who works in an industry with a preponderence of women, will tell me that so-and-so just got a boob job. She will say this as casually as if mentioning what were were having for dinner that evening.

 

“Why would she do that?’ I asked. “I thought she looked pretty good.”

 

“Well, she’s had three kids.”

 

“So?”

 

“Maybe she wants to look better. Improve her self-esteem.”

 

“How old is she?”

 

“I don’t know, 50 maybe.”

 

“Jesus, who’s she trying to fool.”

 

“I guess she just wants to feel better about herself.”

 

“If she want to feel better she should get a dog. Dogs always make you feel good.”

 

“I swear, sometimes you sound like a complete idiot.”

 

“I love you too, babe.”

 

Maybe I’m being a boob about this, but I hate fake tits. I hate the mindset behind them, the pathetic attempts by some women to re-engineer their bodies in the hopes that their lives will magically change for the better. That’s a lot to expect from bags of saline solution or petroleum byproducts.

 

Maybe I’m a dumbass, but why are fake tits considered sexy and false teeth are not? Why are fake tits deemed an asset while a prosthetic leg is considered unfortunate? Why are fake tits considered good for self-esteem while a glass eye is basically good for nothing.

 

I guess I’ll never figure it out. Ah, well, whoever said, Vanity, thy name is woman, might have been on to something. Wait a minute, the doorbell just rang. I hope it’s FedEx. I recently ordered a Swedish Dick Extender on the Internet and it due to arrive at any time. Gotta run.
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Randolph Street: 3 On 61

September 14th, 2018

1Mailboxes-61-2#37Mailboxes, Highway #61–Kieler, Wisconsin

 

2ccMcSky61-80-12#22McSky–Grand Marais, Minnesota

 

3PorchdollAAAposPorch–Pleasant Prairie, Iowa

 

All photos © Jon Randolph

jonrandolph.com

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Randolph Street: Daley Town

September 12th, 2018

Mayor Richard J. Daley

Richard J. Daley–Citywide Rally at the Bismark Hotel

Waiting for the Mayor–Northside Rally at the Aragon Ballroom

Richard J. Daley–Roseland Neighborhood Luncheon

Machine Men–Bismark Hotel

Richard J. Daley–Aragon Ballroom

Leaving the Citywide Rally–Bismark Hotel

All Photos © Jon Randolph

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