March 17th, 2009
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.
March 16th, 2009
What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties. In form and moving, how express and admirable. In action, how like an angel. In apprehension, how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals.
I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. This goodly frame, the Earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. This most excellent canopy, the air – look you! This brave o’erhanging…
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Randolph Street
Here’s Richard Pegue, the legendary Chicago radio deejay. Benny Jay wrote about his memorial service Saturday. 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
…firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire. Why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.
How dare they end this beauty? How dare they end this beauty? Walking in space, we find the purpose of peace. The beauty of life you can no longer hide.
Hey, can I bum a cigarette?
March 16th, 2009
For the last three weeks, I’ve been teaching myself how to dance.
It starts when my Wife buys two tickets to the Raphael Saadiq concert at the Park West.
The tickets say there will be dancing. You cannot see Raphael Saadiq without dancing. I make myself a personal declaration: “No more being scared and self conscious. No more cowering in the corners of life. The time has come to change. From here on out, you’re gonna be a dancer!”
I break the news to my buddies at a track meet: “I’m gonna learn to dance….”
Everyone’s an expert — everyone’s got something to say. Ray hops off the bleachers and starts Steppin’ right there. He’s as smooth as they come. I watch in awe. “Damn, man, where did you learn how to do that?” I ask.
He shrugs, like it’s something he’s been doing his whole life. Sort of like breathing.
I try to imitate what I’ve just seen, but Daddy Dee cuts me off. “You look really stupid,” he says.
“Thanks for the confidence boost,” I say.
“Forget the steps. Just move back and forth while trying to look cool….”
He shuffles one foot one way and the other foot the other way, while looking really blase.
“That’s like dancing for dummies,” I say.
“Well…..”
“I’m better than that — I wanna dance!”
That night I search You Tube looking for inspiration: Fred Astaire, Sammy Davis Jr., John Travolta, random teenagers on Soul Train. Forget it. They’re so good and I’m so bad. It only makes me depressed.
Every day I wake up and tell myself: This is the day I teach myself how to dance. And everyday I find some excuse not to get it done.
Finally, a few days before the concert, my wife takes me into the kitchen and says: “Follow me.”
It’s four basic steps, she explains. Left food forward, that’s one. Left foot back, that’s two. Right foot up and down, three. Pause, four. Then reverse it. Right food back. Right food forward. Left foot up and down. Pause. And repeat….
She puts “The Way I See It” — Raphael Saadiq’s latest — on the beat-up, old CD player we have on the kitchen counter, looks at me and asks: “Ready?”
I nod. “Okay, let’s go,” she says.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh — sure hope you mean it,” sings Raphael.
I take baby steps. One, two, three, four.
“Count it out,” says my wife.
“One, two, three, four,” I count.
“Good,” she says.
“One, two, three, four…..”
“Now count to yourself…..”
I count in my mind: “One, two, three, four…..”
“Now, count without moving your lips….”
And on it goes as we run through the songs on the CD: “100 yard Dash,” “Keep Marchin’,” “Big Easy”….
And, just like, that I’m a Steppin’ fool. We dance through the whole CD. The next day I wake up with the songs playing in my mind. Everywhere I go I hear Raphhael Saadiq. Got “The Way I See It” going nonstop on my brain. I’m riding the elevator at City Hall and I’m singing to myself “Falling in love can be easy, staying in love can be tricky.” And I’m Steppin’ right there in the elevator — one, two, three, four. Only I’m taking teeny-tiny baby steps, so no one will notice and realize I’m as weird as, you know, I really am.
On the eve of the concert I give it one last go all by myself in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Checking myself out. One, two, three, four. Me and Raphael Saadiq — the world’s coolest dudes.
Nicky, the dog, walks in and looks at me.
“I’m ready, Nicky,” I tell her. “John Travolta’s got nothin’ on me….”
To Be Continued….
March 15th, 2009
Startling fact: I’d never held a gun in my hand until I moved to Kentucky.
When The Loved One and I came down to Louisville two years ago, I found a massive outdoors store across the Ohio River in Clarksville. It bills itself as the largest of its kind east of the Mississippi.
What struck me first about the place, after I’d noted that it’s only slightly smaller than NASA‘s Vertical Assembly Building, were the homey, ye-olde-shoppe-type signs on the front door directing customers to check in their weapons at the information desk. This policy, I’d learn after a few weeks in town, is rather liberal compared to those of grocery and liquor stores as well as government buildings here, all of which post prominent signs prohibiting people from carrying concealed firearms inside – period. Their policies regarding shotguns and rifles are left to the imagination.
Anyway, the outdoors store had a firearms department that would do for an NRA member what Viagra does for me. I’d never imagined that so many guns could be in one place outside of al Qaeda headquarters or the office of a hip-hop record producer.
I spent an hour and a half just looking at the guns. When I came to a case full of Glocks, the clerk asked me if I wanted to hold one.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said nervously. “I’ve never held a gun before.” The clerk’s knees buckled. Once the shock wore off, he repeated his offer.
“In that case, you have to feel this,” he said, pulling one out of the case. Gun aficionados seem to have a sensual relationship with their weapons. They talk about the feel of a gun in a way that makes it seem more like a sweetheart than a hunk of metal and polymer.
“Naw, that’s alright,” I said. “I don’t have a license. I’m not a gun guy. I’d feel funny.”
“C’mon.”
“Really? Should I? You think it’d be OK?”
“Here.”
He brought the Glock closer to me, like a pet shop clerk offering me a kitten. I tentatively grasped it. I actually curled my finger around the trigger and aimed the gun at a mannequin dressed in the latest camouflage.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked.
“Oh sure, ” I replied, although I was lying. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t anything at all other than a hunk of metal and polymer in my hand.
It took me moving to Kentucky to truly understand how deeply people in this great nation feel about their guns.
I listened in on a conversation between Printer Bob and All-American Allen at Dick’s Pizza the other night. Barack Obama‘s face had appeared on the big screens and the two of them commenced lamenting the crumbling of our great nation. The talk got around to guns.
“I’ll tell ya,”All-American Allen said, “when I went to the gun show in December, I never saw so much traffic in my life. You couldn’t move.”
“Oh yeah,” said Printer Bob, who’d also attended.
“These people,” All-American Allen continued, jerking a thumb toward the big screen, “they just don’t get it. They don’t realize that every time they say they’re going to do something about guns, everybody goes out and buys more guns!”
“That’s right,” Printer Bob said. “Guaranteed. If they say the words gun control, the gun shows are packed for the next six months.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” All-American Allen said, “I’m not like some of them. You see guys at the shows that have guns and ammunition buried in their backyards. I like guns but I’m not a nut.”
“Same here. I only have the one gun,” said Printer Bob.
“But look, if they come after my guns, they’re never gonna get them. All I have to do is say I sold ‘em to my friend. What are they gonna do about it?”
“You can never get rid of all the guns in this country.”
“It’s impossible! How are they gonna do it? The cow’s out of the barn.”
“This isn’t France or Germany where they can just take ‘em away.”
“Whenever a country wants to take away your liberties, the first thing they do is take away your guns.”
“We want our freedom,” said Printer Bob.
“That’s all,” said All-American Allen. “That doesn’t make us bad people. Believe me, I’ve never met a nicer, more caring group of people than gun owners. I mean it! If I had to take my wife to the hospital and I needed someone to take care of my kids, I’d call one of my friends – and they’re all gun owners. All good people.”
It’s ironic that this exchange came a day after 26 people were killed in shooting sprees in Alabama and Germany.
“It sounds old but it’s true,” Printer Bob said. “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.”
“I’ve never shot a person in my my life,” All-American Allen said. “And I hope I don’t have to.”
March 14th, 2009
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.
March 13th, 2009
Remember when you were a kid and everybody was spooked by the curmudgeonly old goat who lived by himself down the street? Well, we’re all grown up and we’re still spooked by a curmudgeonly old goat – only he’s one of the most talented and accomplished photographers in the city.
Jon Randolph has been snapping pix for longer than he’d care to remember. His work will appear in The Third City starting today. Here’s his first contribution:
Maxwell Street was the old flea market in Chicago. No way I can say for sure when this picture was taken but it was around 1970 or ’71. I remember there was a fire. I was taking pictures of people looking at the fire. People are rapt by fires. The thing is, the boy wasn’t looking at the fire. I just saw him while I was making other pictures.
- Jon Randolph, photojournalist
Jon’s really not that old but he’s had a headful of prematurely gray hair since we’ve known him and he used to chomp on cheap cigars, so the image fits. He is a curmudgeon though. As evidence, read the following snippets from an email exchange between him and us.
Us: Would you mind answering some questions for your bio?
Jon Randolph: “Yikes. I never expected the Spanish Inquisition.”
Us: How old are you?
JR: “Well, how old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?”
Us: Where did you grow up and where did you go to school?
JR: “Grew up in Hyde Park and Evanston. Went to
Evanston (Township High School) and
Central YMCA (High School) downtown. Then
Blackburn College.”
Us: Where have you worked?
JR: “
Channel 11 (WTTW-TV) until 1982. Freelance since.”
Us: What was the highlight of your career?
JR: “When I was seven or eight, I went up to (White Sox second baseman) Nellie Fox for an autograph and he cursed me.”
Us: What are you trying to do when you’re shooting?
JR: “Mostly, I take the “Seinfeld“ approach to photography and don’t try to shoot anything special, just stuff. Unless, of course, I’m being paid.”
See? Glib, he’s not. But he speaks with his camera and now we’ve got him. We like to think of him as Chicago’s
Weegee. And our friend.
Enjoy.
March 12th, 2009
Okay. Here we go again. I’m trying to quit smoking for the 300th time. I’ve got all my shit with me – Nicorette gum, Tootsie Pops, sugarless chewing gum, literature from the alarmists at the American Heart and Lung associations, and a hotline number to call when the urge to smoke comes over me.
How hard can it be to quit smoking? I’ve given up a lot of other vices. I don’t use drugs anymore. I gave up hard liquor, although I do enjoy a glass or two of wine on occasion. I quit gambling. I gave up having crazy, acrobatic, and unprotected sex with supermodels. Matter of fact, now that I think about it, smoking is one of my only remaining vices.
So, how hard can it be to quit? For me, it’s close to impossible. I’ve tried acupuncture and laser treatments. The laser thing, in my opinion, was a rip-off. It cost more than $300 and I was smoking again half an hour after I walked out of the clinic.
I tried acupuncture about 20 years ago and it worked – for three weeks. I was smoke-free, on my way to a healthy life style. I was planning to join a health club, lift weights, and run marathons. I was going to become a better person, a Milo 2.0. The world was going to be my oyster.
Then, darn the luck, I had an attack of kidney stones. For those who have never been afflicted by kidney stones, consider yourselves lucky. It is one of the most painful conditions you can imagine. The only thing doctors can do is make you comfortable, and that means keeping you doped up on Demerol and running IV liquids through your system until you piss the damn stones out.
So, there I was at Illinois Masonic Hospital (as it was then known,) blissfully under the influence of a primo opiate, when I noticed that my attending nurse had a pack of cigarettes in her pocket. Of course, I bummed one, then talked her into buying me a pack of Marlboro Lights. I doubt Florence Nightingale would have approved.
I’ve tried to quit a couple of times since then but never lasted more than a few days. But this time – this time – I’m going to do it. For one thing, cigarettes are just getting way too expensive. At more than $8 a pack, I’m spending over fifty bucks a week. And the city and state are planning to raise the cigarette tax again in a month or two.
Another reason I’m going to quit is that my Wife and Kids are driving me crazy. They won’t let up. They’re on my case every day.
Wife: “Didn’t you feel like an idiot at the Ivcich‘s last night, going out on the porch and smoking those stupid cigarettes. It was freezing.”
Me: “It was pretty cold, heh heh.”
Daughter #1: “We don’t want you to die, Dad. Please stop.”
Daughter #2: “Nobody else smokes. It’s like totally embarrassing.”
Wife: “Plus you reek of smoke and you get those big bags under your eyes.”
Me: “What bags?”
Daughter #1: “More like suitcases.”
Daughter #2: “Duffle bags, actually.”
Me: “Very funny. Haven’t you kids got something to do, like homework?”
Wife: “Everybody’s just very concerned. It’s not like you’re a kid anymore.”
Me: “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that I’m old, I stink, and I’m ugly. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Wife: “Kind of, yeah.”
Me: “Well, shit, honey. I already knew that.”
I don’t have great hopes about quitting. I know myself too well. But I have to give it a serious try, if only to have some peace and quiet at home. Still, when I think about it, it would be nice to get back in shape, lift some weights, do a little running. You never know, those nymphomaniac supermodels might come calling again. I’ll let you know how it goes.
