March « 2009 « The Third City

Benny Jay: Monday Night Fights

—by Benny Jay on March 24th, 2009

Bowling starts at 7:15, but my team’s running late. We’re always running at least ten minutes late — always rushing to keep up.

Most of the other teams are cool with it. In fact, some of them (the High Rollers and Hawaiians, come to mind) are usually late themselves. But this one dude, he’s got a hardon for us. Lumpy guy, looks like Curly from the Three Stooges. Always wears the same purple shirt. I’m starting to wonder if he washes it. He’s a really weird duck. Always making snide comments when we miss a shot. He doesn’t say them directly to your face, but just loud enough for you to hear. Another thing — he’s a snorter. I’m not sure why. But he stands over me while I’m keeping score and snorts. Okay, I understand if he’s got some sort of nasal defect — but why’s he got to snort in my ear?

Anyway, he hates waiting for us. Drives him crazy. He’s walking around the bowling alley looking at the clock and muttering to himself and talking about us to anyone who will listen.

So it’s already a little tense and then he goes ahead and marks our names on the scoring sheet. Norm takes exception and says something along the lines of: Don’t mess with our sheet.

And Curly says something back, which I can’t hear.

And Norm’s in his face, saying: “What did you say?”

And Curly says: “Let’s take it outside.”

And I’m like, oh, no. The last thing Curly wants is to take it outside with Norm. For one thing, Norm’s way stronger and tougher. For another, Norm’s not taking no shit from nobody — especially Curly!

So next thing you know, Cap’s the only thing keeping Norm from getting at Curly. And Norm’s banging up against Cap’s chest, fire streaking from his eyes, saying: “You wanna go outside, let’s go. C’mon, you the big man, and all….”

Curly’s backing up, but he’s still talking shit, like he figures that push come to shove, Cap will hold Norm back. I fear we’re on the verge of a major incident cause Norm’s almost mad enough to push past Cap and really beat the crap out of this guy. So I step in — yes, me — and I put my back to Cap and tell Curly: “Just get out of here….”

He moves away, grunting, snorting and shaking his head. And I walk with Norm over by the TV and we stare at the Bulls (who, by the by, are losing to Washington, damn it). I tell Norm: “You’re my guy. I love you like a brother. And I can’t stand that piece of shit. But I’m not gonna let you hit him….”

And Norm says: “I ain’t gonna hit him, Benny. I got too much respect for Bob [who owns the bowling alley]. But he’s pushin’ me….”

As we watch the game, I try to remember the last time I got into a fight. It had to be years ago. I’ve never been a fighting man — too afraid to get hit. But when I was a kid — I’m talking grammar school years — I had this notion that I had to win a fight to survive. I figured that if word got around that I won a fight no one would ever want to fight with me. So I picked a fight with this girl, figuring I could beat her up. She slugged me in the stomach and I ran home crying like a baby. After that I learned my lesson. If you don’t want to be beat up, don’t look for someone to beat up. And I found other ways to avoid fights.

Norm and I go back to bowling. I hit a strike. So does Norm. Then Cap. Then Young Ralph. Soon we’re stomping on Curly’s team. And the hotter we get the more irritated Curly gets. After each strike we stand in the alley and exchange high fives. Sometimes Young Ralph and Norm will exchange high fives two, three, even four times. They block Curly from getting to the lanes. Pisses him off even more. Not that we care.

We’re really loose — all fired up. Cap heads to the juke box and plays one great song after another — The Dells, Tower of Power, Mary Wells. Young Ralph puts on “Atomic Dog” — the fifteen minute version — by George Clinton. We’re jumping up and down, doing the Dog Dance, and chanting: “Bow wow wow, yippie yo, yippie yay….”

I show my guys my new dance moves and they can’t get over how good I’m getting. We make plans to take our wives and girlfriends to Summer Dance over in Grant Park, where we will dance under the stars to live music.

We pretty much forget about Curly, who’s walking around muttering to himself and snorting. Like I said, he’s got to be the weirdest dude in the league, and, trust me, that’s saying a lot.

As I head home, I’m thinking what a great night. We annoyed him more than he annoyed us, basically winning the fight without taking a swing.

Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

—by Benny Jay on March 22nd, 2009

It’s the greatest basketball night of the year: Bulls-Lakers, March Madness, and the state high school boys championship game. All on TV at the same time. Free TV, too. Not cable. Even I can watch. Is life good, or what?

I’m flipping from game to game to game. Texas is beating Duke. Good. Can’t stand Duke. Coach is a Republican — `nuff said right there. And Chicago’s Whitney Young High School is beating Waukegan High School. Go, Chi. Best of all, my Bulls are trouncing the Lakers — up sixteen. That’s double good cause, one, I love the Bulls, and, two, I can’t stand the Lakers.

My Wife’s out of town, so I get to clap as loud as I can for every Bulls rebound, bucket, steal and blocked shot.

My Younger Daughter and her friend, Brazil, sit at the computer, heads together, giggling. Oblivious to me and my noise.

Then it flips. Texas falls behind. Waukegan catches up. Worse, the Lakers catch fire.

I gotta talk about it — can’t get through this alone. I call my bowling buddy Norm. He doesn’t pick up. Must be working. Call Johnny, the Black Forest Gump. He’s driving to work — can’t talk.

The Bulls fall behind by seven. I can’t bare to watch. I go back to the high school game. Young up seven. I sneak a look back at the Bulls. They’re down 12. Back to high school. But I can’t get into the game cause I’m too worried about the Bulls. I’m wondering: What’s the score? Maybe they’re on a roll? Maybe they’ve taken the lead! I start to change back to the game. I stop. No, I need a new approach — something to change the Bulls luck. I know! I’ll check the score on my computer. That might turn things around, like the game’s outcome is, you know, predicated on how I follow it.

This theory, by the way, is not as nutty as it sounds. During the first great Bulls playoff run of the early 1990s, Big Mike, my dear friend and writing partner, used to leave the room to walk around the block during testy moments of close games. More than once, his walks ignited come backs by the Bulls. After awhile, we wouldn’t even wait for him to leave. We’d just look at him and he knew: Time to walk. In an other example — this one back in 1989 — my neighbor, Janet, wandered into my house while a bunch of us were watching a Bulls-Pistons playoff game. When she took a seat at the far eastern corner of my couch, the Bulls were down about 15. Soon thereafter, they rallied and cut the lead to one. Oblivious to the game, much less her role in it, Janet rose to leave with less than a minute left to, and I’m not making this up, work in her garden. Oh, no you don’t, we chorused — you’re the reason the Bulls came back. We made her sit in that same far eastern corner of the couch until the game was over — won, as I recall, on a Michael Jordan bank shot.

So, anyway, I run up stairs and turn on my computer, hoping that I will be rewarded with good news. But, no. Bulls down 14. It didn’t work.

I return to the TV and watch the high school game. The camera shows the cheerleaders. I see Taaj, Johnny’s daughter. I call Johnny to break the news.

“Your daughter’s getting more TV time than Oprah,” I tell him.

He cracks up. “That’s a good one….”

We hang up. I race upstairs to check the computer. Damn! Bulls lost. I call Norm. No answer. I leave a message: “I can’t stand the Lakers. Can’t stand their players, coaches, owner, stadium — nothing. I don’t even like their uniforms!”

I hang up. I watch the high school game. A few minutes pass. This is how desperate I am for some basketball conversation: “Yo, Ray; Zilly,” I call out to my daughter and her friend. “C’mon watch your school win the state championship….”

To my utter astonishment, they leave the computer to watch the final moments — a dunk, a steal, some free throws. The buzzer sounds. As Whitney Young’s players pour on the court in jubilation, the camera shows the cheerleaders.

“Oh, my God,” says my daughter. “It’s Taaj….”

I repeat my killer line: “That girl’s getting more TV time than Oprah….”

Total bomb. They ignore me.

The Young team lines up to get their first-place medals. Dr. Kenner, the school’s principal, hands them out.

“Okay, Dr. Kenner,” says my daughter. “I see you….”

The team manager steps up. “Oh, my God,” says Brazil. “It’s Preston….”

“That boy is too thirsty to get his medal,” says my daughter.

The star scorer gets his medal. “That’s the boy who keeps texting my sister,” says Brazil.

“For real?” says my daughter.

“For real….”

Another player gets his medal. “Ugh, he’s funny looking,” says Brazil.

“Some of the girls think he’s cute,” I offer, eager to participate in the conversation.

“Not me,” says Brazil.

She points to the next kid in line and says: “Now he’s cute….”

“He’s so obnoxious,” says my daughter. “He’s so full of himself….”

“I know, but he’s cute,” says Brazil.

One boy leans in to kiss the principal on her cheek, but she’s looking the other way. And he backs away without a kiss.

“Ooh, treated,” says my daughter.

When they finish giving out the medals, the girls go back to the computer. I put on my coat and hat and grab the leash. “I’m gonna walk the dog,” I tell them.

They got their heads together and they’re giggling. I wait for them to say something to me, but they don’t. So I clip the leash to the dog’s collar, step out of the house, pull out my phone and give Johnny another call. I figure we got another fifteen minutes of basketball to talk about — at least.

Letter From Milo: Gambling Men

—by Milo Samardzija on March 22nd, 2009

I used to enjoy gambling. Poker, craps, sports betting, the horses – I played them all. You’ll notice I didn’t say I was a good gambler. The sad fact is that I lost a lot more money than I won.

There was a group of us who hung out at a tavern on Lincoln Avenue near Dickens Street and we liked to shoot craps. The group consisted of my good friend Bruce, Dino, Wayne, Carlos, Mike the Drag, Brooks, Dirty George, Roy, Irwin, and Pope Carl, a truly devout man who muttered a prayer every time he tossed the dice.

Hail Mary, full of grace, first the six and then the ace.

Once or twice a week, after a few hours of social drinking, we’d all head out to the gangway behind the bar and get a crap game going. I remember one time when Wayne made seven straight passes. What are the odds of that happening?

One idiot, we’ll call him Milo to save him any embarrassment, bet against Wayne every time. When Wayne made the seventh pass, busting Milo in the process, Milo angrily hurled his beer bottle across the alley. Living across the alley at the time was the great film critic Roger Ebert. The bottle landed on Ebert’s deck and shattered noisily. It may have even broken a window. We didn’t stick around to find out.

We also used to have some hellacious all-night poker games. Except for Bruce, it was a different cast of characters than the crapshooting crowd. There were three or four attorneys, Pat the Math Professor, Joe, who preferred to be called Monte when he played poker, and Bruce’s Uncle Morrie, who was in his 80s at the time and recently passed away at the biblical age of 101.

The attorneys were a pain in the ass. Whenever a question of rules or procedure came up, each attorney had to have his say, interrupting the game for ten minutes at a time. The attorneys argued, brought up precedent, cross-examined, rebutted, and made closing arguments. I’m surprised they didn’t try to call witnesses. I suspect that the copious amounts of booze and reefer might also have had something to do with the lengthy delays. To this day I refuse to play in a poker game that includes more than two lawyers.

Pat the Math Professor was a degenerate gambler. He played in as many as five poker games a week. He claimed it was his wife’s fault. He hated her and she despised him. He said the only reason he played so much poker was that he couldn’t stand being around his wife.

“I don’t even know why I gamble,” he once told the table. “I’ve got the worst luck in the world. I fucked my wife twice in 10 years and she got pregnant both times. What are the odds of that happening?”

The attorneys immediately began debating the odds.

My favorite gambling activity, however, was betting on thoroughbred race horses. Bruce and I and our friend Dino spent a lot of time at the local ovals, Arlington Park, Hawthorne and Sportsman’s. Bruce would usually drive. He always drove clunkers that would be eyesores at demolition derbies. I doubt he ever paid more than $200 for one of his rust buckets. Still, somehow those cars always got us to the track. Getting back was another matter.

“Damn, Bruce, you got any gas in this thing?

“Plenty of gas, my man.”

“Looks like it’s on empty to me.”

“Don’t worry about it. The gauge is just fucked up.”

(The car finally starts on the eighth or ninth try.)

“What’s that rattle? It doesn’t sound good.”

“Nothing to worry about. It always does that.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! What was that?”

“Backfire, I think.”

“You oil light is on.”

“Fuck it. Pass me the joint.”

My luck wasn’t much better at the track than in my other gambling ventures. But every once on a while I’d get hot and win a few hundred dollars. That’s the thing about gamblers. They tend to forget their losses fairly quickly but they remember their wins forever.

I recall one day at the track vividly. Both Bruce and I won a decent amount of money and were heading back to the city to celebrate. Bruce’s dog, Rocky, was in the car with us. We were on the Eisenhower, a few miles from downtown, when there was a loud explosion and smoke began billowing from under the hood of his clunker. I looked back and saw that most of the engine was scattered across across the highway behind us. Bruce managed to wrestle the car to the side of the road. Acting quickly, Bruce grabbed all of his documentation out of the glove compartment, then went to the back of the car and tore off the license plate. We abandoned the car to the mercy of the towing companies and wreckers and started walking toward the exit ramp. We walked about 25 yards when a cab pulled up. The driver rolled down his window and said, “You boys look like you need a ride. The dog does, too.”

Later, in a bar on Lincoln Avenue, I said to Bruce, “Good thing that cab came along.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “What are the odds of that happening?”

Want more gambling literature from the fecund pen of Milo Samardzija? Buy his book, “Schoolboy,” right now. Hurry, you fool!

Big Mike: A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

—by Big Mike on March 21st, 2009

For the last 30 years, St. Patrick’s Day has meant a lot to me. Not that I’ve ever given a shit about this quasi-religious bacchanalia per se, but something happened on March 17, 1979 that has stuck with me.

Back then I was an orderly in the surgery department at West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park. I’d been thinking that I’d work in the medical racket the rest of my life. I was already an Emergency Medical Technician and had taken EEG tech training. I figured I’d become a Physician’s Assistant.

But life, as usual, got in the way of my plans. I was taking some science courses at Wright Community College in preparation for the PA program. I also took a composition course just for the hell of it. I discovered there that I was as superior to the rest of my classmates in the art of writing as Alex Rodriguez is to your seven-year-old T-baller. Quick as that, I decided to become a writer and have been one, come hell, high water, poverty, angst, bounced checks, and excessive navel-gazing, ever since.

I stayed at the hospital for about a year after making the decision, mainly due to the presence of a pretty young Operating Room Technician named Tami.

She was diffident and apparently as pure as the driven snow. She’d been raised in a born-again christian family but I sensed she’d be happy to throw off the chains of that peculiar madness. She had blonde hair, piercing gray eyes, a brilliant smile, and an hourglass figure that stood out even in her baggy hospital greens.

We started dating in the winter and by the time March rolled around we were madly in love. We both called in sick that St. Patrick’s Day and rode the Lake Street el into the Loop to catch the parade. It was unseasonably warm so we were able to stroll slowly, hand-in-hand past the highrises and through the throngs. We were so smitten, we hardly knew anybody or anything else existed.

Tami and I jay-walked across Wacker Drive west of Clark Street and got stuck on the median island. As we waited for traffic to clear, we turned toward each other and kissed. Not a crazy mad kiss, but softly and slowly. As we pulled our lips away from each other, the sun shone gold around us. We were junkies on love.

That single moment, that kiss, became a touchstone for my life. Call me stupid, call me naive, but I thought from that moment on that love, true love, was that kiss. Months later, when Tami and I were breaking up, I pleaded, “But what about that kiss on St. Patrick’s Day?” as if that could outweigh all the emotional craziness we’d laid on each other (alright, that I’d laid on her.)

Tami and I went to every St. Patrick’s Day parade for the next few years, in homage to that moment on Wacker Drive. Fifteen and twenty years later, we’d call each other on St. Patrick’s Day for the same reason.

For the next couple of decades, I took the fact that I’d never experienced that same high from a kiss as proof positive that Tami was the one true love of my life. I’d say this to myself even though I’d been married, divorced, and lived with a bevy of fabulous women in the ensuing years.

As I write this, I realize I sound like a junior-high girl with a Jonas Brothers fixation. And the truth is, that would perfectly characterize my outlook on love for most of my adult life. I saw it as a drug, a simcha, even a sacred ritual that would cleanse my conscience of sin and my heart of angst.

It took me until well into my 40s to realize that love has a tad more to do with things like commitment, compromise, understanding, mutual goals, forgiveness, and – shock of shocks – the ennui of everyday life.

Maybe I was lucky. Maybe, if I hadn’t transformed love into a fix, I might have turned instead to some hard-assed drugs. I might be dead by now or have been a veteran of repeated stays in a rehab center had I not spent years trying to replicate the high of that kiss.

I like to think I’m better and smarter now. The memory of that kiss won’t ever go away. I still talk to Tami on occasion. We’re both married and as happy as clams with our respective mates. But I’ll bet we can still turn each other into Jello merely by mentioning the median island on Wacker Drive.

But, as Barack Obama advised us in his inauguration speech, we must leave childish things behind. As soon as I finish writing this, I’m going to run over to Kroger and pick up a slab of corned beef. I’ll boil it up tonight and have sandwiches tomorrow. That’s how I celebrate St. Patrick’s Day now.

Randolph Street: South Side Steppers

—by Jon Randolph on March 20th, 2009

Fridays on The Third City are now are the exclusive domain of photojournalist Jon Randolph.

Today’s pix portray a venerable South Side institution, the Wednesday Afternoon Dance Set. Revolving among three renowned night clubs – Mr G’s, the Taste Entertainment Center, and East of the Ryan – the weekly party catered to…

Text continues below photos

Continued from above photos

…an older but still swinging crowd. Photos from this shoot ran in a March, 2002, Chicago Reader story entitled “Still Got It.” For a $13 ticket, the nattily-attired steppers got a good lunch, beverages, great music, and the opportunity to swing a well-shined shoe. Numerous South Side clubs still hold weekly afternoon dance parties.

See you here next Friday for more Randolph Street and everyday for more of The Third City!

Benny Jay: Learning To Dance Part II

—by Benny Jay on March 19th, 2009

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

—by Big Mike on March 18th, 2009

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.

Benny Jay: Monday Night Fights

Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

Letter From Milo: Gambling Men

Big Mike: A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

Randolph Street: South Side Steppers

Benny Jay: Learning To Dance Part II

Big Mike: I’m A Lucky Guy

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