—by Big Mike on April 30th, 2009
Ah, love and marriage.
The Loved One looked up from her laptop, removed her glasses, and asked me, accusingly, “So, you bought a book today? How much did it cost?”
I was ready with the snappy comeback: “Huh?”
“You wrote in your post today that you bought a book.”
“Oh.” Clearly I was at the top of my repartee game.
It took a few beats for me to get her drift. In
Tuesday’s post, I wrote about what an intellectual titan I am. I stood on my head to separate myself from the common clay, illustrating this by pointing out that the radio and television banality I’m being bombarded with during my stay at the Holiday Inn is so, well, weird – at least to me. My concluding line was that I was going to jump up and rush to
Barnes & Noble to buy
Isaac Newton’s “
Principia.”
I was, of course, being a smartass. I bet I’ll never actually purchase a copy of one of the two or three most important scientific works ever written in any language. In it, Newton lays out his
Law of Universal Gravitation and explains his
Laws of Motion. I mean, for gosh sakes, who hasn’t heard the line,
For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction? That isn’t exactly how Newton wrote it, but it’ll do for us here. Suffice it to say that the physics of everyday life are laid out tidily in this three-volume set.
A quick search on Amazon reveals that
used sets of the Principia start at $337, and therein lies today’s tale.
A good marriage, I am discovering after having experienced a bad version or two, mixes two people whose strengths and weaknesses dovetail nicely. It would be impossible for me to illustrate this better than to admit that The Loved One handles the checkbook and I do not.
In earlier posts, I’ve revealed that
my mother was a fiscal tyrant. She was the type of person who looked out the front door in search of the mailman because the electric bill was due. Long before things like online banking, Ma kept a
stack of envelopes – marked electric, gas, car insurance, and so on – into which she’d parcel cash from each of her and
Dad’s paychecks throughout the month. She kept such a close eye on these envelopes that when I, at the age of ten, began feeling aggrieved that my baseball card addiction wasn’t accounted for in them and decided to help myself to some of their contents, she knew immediately what was going on. The next time I went in for the dip, I found a note written by her saying, essentially,
Gotcha!
Ma became a paragon of bill-paying in reaction to her mother, who was not. I, in turn, rebelled against Ma’s ways. And so it goes. Had I chosen to spawn, my daughter or son would probably have become a CPA. Thankfully, I’ve spared at least one poor soul that
cruel fate.
Anyway, I’ve lived most of my life like a drunken sailor. I’ve suffered more third-degree burns on my right thigh than I’d care to admit. Poor old
Pat Arden, my former editor at the
Chicago Reader – the microsecond after any of my stories ran in his paper, I’d be banging on his door to find out when he could cut me a check. And god forbid I should spend that check on anything as silly as bills – not when there were
motorcycles to
buy, rounds to pick up, women to impress and, yes, books to accumulate.
Whereas Ma couldn’t mail the check to the electric company fast enough, I looked upon utility bills as mere suggestions. The real bill, in my warped view, was the disconnect notice. This system worked well except for those times I forgot to open the
disconnect notice. Trying to read in the dark is such an ordeal.
The Loved One was aghast at my pecuniary discipline, or lack thereof. Fortunately, she was drawn in by one or two other facets of my character and so we became a going concern. Only she made it clear from the start that she would be the Chief Financial Officer and if she caught me thumbing through the checkbook, she’d cut
said digits off clean.
Now that’s a system that really works. Rather like Newton’s everyday universe.
—by Benny Jay on April 28th, 2009
For game five of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series, I go to Plan B — or is it C? — in order to keep myself from losing my mind: Inebriation.
If you recall, my first plan — not watching the game — didn’t really work. I wound up making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of track-and-field fans. My second plan — reading while watching — was a complete failure. I came close to going insane.
I figure this time I’ll get drunk. That ought to do the trick. I mean, it’s done wonders for so many other people down through the ages.
So I go over to Norm’s house and his lady friend, Sandy, couldn’t be nicer. Feeds me pizza and bean dip — uhm, that stuff is dee-li-cious! And I bring over an 18-pack of Budweiser, cause that’s Norm’s favorite beer.
I down one and then I down another. And by the third quarter I’m into my third — which for me is serious boozing. I’m feeling no pain. Feeling groovy. Definitely enjoying the company. It’s me and Norm and his daughter, Audrey, and his friends, the double Bs — Brian and Brian. After the half, Milo comes by. What a great game. Back and forth they go. Up one, down one, up three, down three and so on and so forth.
At the start of the fourth the Bulls go on a mini run and take an eleven-point lead. But you know how it goes with the champs — they make their own run. Cut the lead to eight, five, three. Next thing you know we’re in overtime — again.
They go up and we fight back. But we can’t stop Paul Pierce. He hits one, two, three — four cold-blooded, killer shots in the O.T. We’re down two with three seconds left and coach Vinny Del Negro calls a time out and sets up this play. They fake an inbounds pass to Ben Gordon, but they throw it to Brad Miller, the back-up center. Is that brilliant or what? He’s the last guy Boston thinks will get the ball. They probably forgot he was even on the court — probably think I’ll get the pass before Brad Miller.
Miller’s got an open lane to the basket, just like Vinny planned. All he has to do is run in and slam it home and the game’s tied and we’re going to double overtime — just like last game.
And he’s running. At least, I think he’s running. I mean, that is running — isn’t it? It’s hard to tell cause he’s so freaking slow — Brad Miller has got to be the slowest man in basketball. And by the time he makes it to the basket the Celtics have closed in on him and as he rises to lay it in Rajon Rondo whacks him across the face. I mean, we’re talking solid punch to the face. Knocks him down. It should be a flagrant — two free throws and the ball on the side. But the refs don’t call flagrant. They call a regular foul. Which means Miller’s got two free throws to tie the score with two seconds left.
“How can that not be a mutha-fuckin’ flagrant foul?” says Norm.
“He popped him in the face!” says Brian.
Miller goes to the sideline to wipe away the blood. And they stitch him up to stop the bleeding. And he staggers back to the line and he misses. Of course, he misses. You try shooting a free throw after getting smacked in the face. And the Bulls lose.
There’s not much to say. We just stare at the TV. We’ve devoted over three hours of our lives to this gut-wrenching basketball game and now it’s over and we’ve lost. There’s nothing we can say cause what can you say. I feel like a boxer who’s been through fifteen rounds with the champ. Too stunned to talk, too exhausted to cry. Too many blows to the head.
Milo leaves. Audrey goes to her computer. But Norm, Brian, Bee and I just keep staring at the tube. They’re replaying the footage of Rondo whacking Miller in the head — over and over and over.
“Can you believe this shit?” says Norm.
“No,” I say.
“He fouled him,” says Brian.
“Just smacked him in head,” I say.
“Ain’t that a bitch,” says Norm.
I get it together to get on up and get my coat and head out to my car. On the radio, they’re playing “Purple Rain” by Prince. I crank up the volume so it’s blasting out of my brain: “Purple Rain, Purple Rain, I only want to see you in the Purple Rain….”
I’ve watched so many basketball games for so many years, you’d think I’d get tired of it. But I don’t. Just the opposite. The more I watch, the more I want to watch. Just keep coming back. There’s something about the way they go at it. I think of Brad Miller. The man took a fist to the face. Hit me like that and I’m in the hospital for a week. But Brad Miller? He just wipes off the blood and takes his free throw. Yeah, he missed it. But he took it.
Keep coming back. Never quit. Bulls got game six on Thursday. Win that and it’s game seven on Saturday. Lose either one? Well, take the summer off and come on back next year.
—by Big Mike on April 28th, 2009
Sometimes I forget how tight a cocoon I’ve woven for myself. I like to think of myself as being much smarter than the average bear. Toward that end, I’ve sworn off broadcast TV, commercial radio and other artifacts of the illiterati such as USAToday.
Oh, I’m as smart as an extraterrestrial visiting Earth. With
rare exceptions, I don’t even argue with people about politics or social issues, preferring instead to roll my eyes and bury myself in my
New York Times when guys insist on buffeting me with their uninformed opinions. Yeah, I’m smart.
I play chess rather than poker (although I shouldn’t be too hard on that game – a university professor I know paid for his doctorate studies as a professional poker player.) I don’t just root for the Cubs; hell, I pore over the most minute
baseball statistics and analyze trends with all the zeal of an epidemiologist at the
National Institutes of Health.
I’m so smart smoke ought to be pouring out of my ears.
My constant efforts to cultivate this streak of elitism in me – and let’s be frank, that’s really all it is – have cut me off from, well,
American life.
A great way to submerge one’s brilliant self in the normal world is to stay at a
Holiday Inn.
The Loved One and I are spending a week in
Bloomington, Indiana so we can
look at homes. In our cramped room, the TV dominates. Even the lobby, with its plush leather sofas and cushiony armchairs, is dominated by an enormous flat screen tuned to whatever peppy talk show is on at the moment.
And since The Loved One forgot to bring her alarm clock, she’s had to use the radio alarm that comes with the room and seems permanently tuned to the local oldies station.
Here’s what I’ve gleaned thus far in my descent into reality. The radio, first. I was in that delicious few minutes of half-sleep this morning when suddenly the radio alarm began to blare the
Beatles‘ “
Back In The USSR.” Only it sounded as though the Fab Four had swallowed a jugful of amphetamines before they recorded it. I realized that a lot of commercial radio stations still use that speed-up technique to quicken the pace of records so they can sound more “energetic” than the competition. I was transformed from sleepily serene to jaw-clenchingly tense before
Paul McCartney could sing “Man, I had a dreadful flight.”
Unfortunately for me, The Loved One had gotten up before the alarm and was already in the shower. I would have had to roll all the way over to the other side of the bed and stretch out to hit the snooze button. Horrors! So the speeded-up blaring continued.
Next up, the news. I guessed, correctly, that the lead story – the only story – would be the impending termination of the human race by
swine flu. It was the kicker at the end of the newscast that informed me radio news readers still employ that stale old format of ending on a wry (read: stupid, dull, and guaranteed to make the brain dead titter) story. This one was about a
Chicago guy who wants to open up a hot dog stand called
Felony Franks. He wants to staff the joint with ex-cons. Now, that might be a sort-of interesting tidbit but the news reader found the names of the entrees to be the meat of the story. “He wants to serve
Pardon Burgers and
Misdemeanor Weiners,” came the voice over the radio, “this is
ABC News.”
I suppose the news reader intended me to respond he-he or ho-ho. Instead, I moaned “Shut the fuck up!” which elicited the query from the shower, “What’s wrong?”
I decide to go down in the lobby for a cup of coffee and write this post. I’m immediately overwhelemed by
The Early Show on
CBS. Well, whaddya know – the big story is the coming collapse of civilization due to swine flu. A jittery couple at home wearing surgical masks answer the host’s questions. Their teenaged son has developed flu-like symptoms and was tested yesterday for the virus. While awaiting the results, they’re doing what comes naturally to Americans –
panicking. The kid is off-screen somewhere, coughing occasionally, as if on cue. The host asks them, “Is this the worst day of your life?”
Man, this human-race terminating, civilization-collapsing swine flu couldn’t have come a moment too soon, for my money.
After a commercial for a lawyer (”If someone you love has died after using a pain patch containing fentanyl, call…,)
The Rachael Ray Show comes on. The
maniacally grinning face of Rachael Ray has
infested more grocery store aisles than all the ants and mice that have ever lived. Now, apparently, she’s a life coach, too. Today’s show features a segment on
The Recession (that will, of course, collapse civilization.) A woman calls in to say she’d recently lost her job and asks what she should do next.
Again, she called Rachael Ray for this vital advice!
—by Benny Jay on April 26th, 2009
I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.
As you may recall, last time I didn’t watch it. This time I’ll watch it but I won’t care. I’m serious. I’ll be indifferent. I’ll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll catch up on “Clockers,” Richard Price’s novel. Every now and then I’ll look up just to, you know, check on the score….
I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I’m too excited to read. I’m on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I’m telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I’m working the refs, telling them to call it both ways — “he hacked, ref — he hacked” — and not just against the Bulls….
I’m alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she’s sleeping….
Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he’s not watching, like he’s got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he’s watching. I bet he just wants me to think he’s not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn’t care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn’t want me to know that he’s as big a loser as I am. But, I’m on to you, Milo. I know you’re watching. Oh, yes, I know….
At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open — and I mean, absolutely all alone — behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him — of all people — open for a three?
That’s it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he’s one of those guys who doesn’t care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I’m really not some weird guy who’s obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am….
On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that’s what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don’t sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature….
When I get home, I think — I’ll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that’s good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby’ Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby — cause he’s fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him — the big fat pig. What can I say — it’s the playoffs….
It’s a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I’m Derrick Rose and I’ve just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we — the Bulls — are running away with the game. I know I need help. I’m sure there’s a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby….
Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who — no! — is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He’s open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open — again? Noooooooo….
In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can’t bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I’ll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I’ll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. And so I go — in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out….
Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three — good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime….
The Bulls score first. They score again. There’s a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span….
Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston….
I jump up and down. I sing, “Go Bulls, go.” A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they’re finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.
“Finally, Joakim,” the announcer is saying, “what about these fans?”
“Off the hook,” says Joakim. “Off the hook.”
If he only knew — lord, lord, lord, if he only knew….
—by Big Mike on April 26th, 2009
There are two things in this life I’ve tried to get into time and again but have failed at, miserably: smoking and religion.
Let’s start with smoking. I tried my first cigarette when I was 16. Many of my
Amundsen Park pals had already begun smoking,
Kools mostly. Those menthol cigarettes seemed more candy-ish than, say,
unfiltered Camels and so were more tasty to my fellow teens.
One day I lit up a Kool. The sickly sweet smoke curled into the upper reaches of my nasal passages, causing me to reel. I regained my balance and surreptitiously dropped the smoke before I could even take a second puff.
A fellow named
Carl started hanging out at the park. He was a poet, rather delicate of nature and appearance, and seemed to be attuned to the outside world. The rest of us were a more provincial collection of lunkheads – we thought the world began at
Schmidt Drugs at Austin Boulevard and ended at the
Sears on Harlem Avenue, a mile and a half away. Carl had travelled to Europe with his family and he knew lines of
Shakespeare. Naturally, I was drawn to him.
One fall Friday night, he asked me if I wanted to get high very cheaply. It was a high, he claimed, that was every bit as good as that of pot – perhaps even better – and was virtually impossible for tyrants such as parents and the cops to detect. Why sure, I responded. He handed me what appeared to be a normal cigarette and directed me to light up. I shrugged and inhaled the tiniest of drags, remembering what had happened the last time I tried to smoke.
Within a few seconds it felt as though the top of my skull had blown off and my head was now spewing steam like a
nuclear power plant’s cooling tower. Carl sat staring at me, a smug smile on his face, as I attempted with all the might I possessed not to topple over.
Finally, I rediscovered the ability to speak. “My god,” I gasped, “what was that?”
I nodded perfunctorily.
“Try some more,” he said.
“I will, but I have to do something first.”
With that, I dashed home and hid in my bedroom for the rest of the night. I never was any good at partaking of the more exotic drugs. Later, I’d learn that paregoric, in addition to being a strong analgesic, is an old-fashioned remedy intended to slow down
peristalsis. It’s main use through the years has been as an anti-diarrheal. Gee, thanks, Carl.
I didn’t think about smoking again for the next five or so years until I started hanging out at dance clubs like
La Mere Vipere,
Neo and
O’Banion’s. Everybody wore black at those places. My friends and I would dance all night long to
Bowie, the
Vapors and
New Order, emerging from the clubs with our clothes streaked white from evaporated sweat. Everybody smoked but me so I had to try it again.
I looked good with a cigarette in my hand. Conversation becomes an art form when the speaker can punctuate his utterances with the jab of a cigarette. I bought the mildest cigarettes I could find,
Parliament Lights, and I still couldn’t inhale, an act guaranteed to induce not only the old dizziness but now also headache and nausea. I’d light up a pack a night without inhaling once. Finally I threw in the towel. Sadly, my punctuation props cost several dollars a pack.
As for religion, I never could quite get the hang of having a personal relationship with god, as mentioned in
my previous post. The old bird has never seemed interested in my dramas and if there’s one thing I won’t stand for, it’s being ignored.
Hundreds of millions of people smoke. Billions worship one god or another. Both cigarettes and religion are addictive. What’s wrong with me that I can’t seem to get hooked on either?
—by Milo Samardzija on April 25th, 2009
My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.
Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn’t let it go. I had to get back at her. I’d show the bitch who’s who and what’s what around here. The problem was that I couldn’t think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.
When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, “I don’t care what you write about, just don’t write about our sex life.”
Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I’m going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you’ll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I’m going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I’ll show you.
I’ll never forget this one time she…. Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago
I wrote a piece about
Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our
Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a
sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average
Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy’s reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy’s name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife’s inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she…. Hold it, I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I’m giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.
Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn’t realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I’m a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.
I couldn’t remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, “Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you – heh, heh – hit me with a skillet or something.”
“No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop.”
“Darn.”
Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here’s the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time…. Shit, I’ve got to answer the phone. Be right back.
That was
Benny Jay. For those who don’t know, Benny is a
Bulls fan.
Fan may be the wrong word.
Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about
Derrick Rose’s inexperience,
Ben Gordon’s hot and cold streaks, and
John Salmons’s injury. Benny remembers the Bulls’ glory days when
Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We’ve got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of
raised banners and
Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact
his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.
Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I’m working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.
Enough’s enough. It’s time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha – it’ll serve her right.
Wait! The phone’s ringing again. Be right back.
That was
Big Mike, the
Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I’ve used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn’t pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the
last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I’ll fix my wife’s wagon at another time. Stay tuned.
—by Jon Randolph on April 24th, 2009
Photojournalist Jon Randolph owns Fridays on The Third City. Today, he offers us peeks at Chicagoans who’ve come from all over the globe.
A man at El Pinguino ice cream company, 3244 W. Lawrence Ave.
Irving Park Road and California Ave.
Join us tomorrow for more hot air from the keyboard of Big Mike Glab. Look for a Letter From Milo the day after. Benny Jay opens the week Monday with more gas. And, of course, Randolph Street will be back next Friday. The Third City is here for your reading pleasure every day.
