Big Mike: Love Seals The Deal

The Loved One called me with the great and good news last night at about ten o’clock.

Me (groggy voice): “Hullo?”

TLO (giddy as a schoolgirl on the last day of June): “Blah blah blah blah!”

Me (voice microscopically less groggy): “‘Kay.”

TLO: “Aren’t you happy?”

Me: “Yes.”

With that, we bid each other adieu and I slipped back into a well-deserved coma.

Funny how some climaxes are, well, anti-climactic. Finally, at last, hallelujah, a nice young couple has agreed to terms to purchase our Louisville home. That was the whole of The Loved One’s call (with the blah blah blahs translated.) It’s been almost six months since we put the manor on the market. No exaggeration, we hadn’t gotten a single offer in all that time — until the Wednesday before last.

We’ve got a gorgeous home in a great neighborhood in the preferred East End of Metro Louisville. We’ve sunk a ton of dough into the place and have kept it up well. We’re surrounded by lovely, mature trees — sugar maples, pin oaks, southern pines, crabapples and, of course, magnolias. Our lawn is rich with rye, timothy and clover. You don’t even need an alarm clock to wake up in the morning — our cardinals, mockingbirds, red-bellied woodpeckers, bluebirds, and Carolina chickadees handle that task.

We offered our home at a steal of a price — only a tad more than we’d stolen the place for a little over two years ago. We’ve had dozens of people walk through, commenting on how clean and attractive it is. Yet no one thought to whip out the checkbook — again, until that Wednesday.

The whole process started to wear on us. To refresh, The Loved One took a neat new job in Bloomington, Indiana, last winter and has been living there during the workweek ever since. She usually shoves off late Sunday afternoon and comes home Friday night, exhausted and often cranky. We have all of 44 hours or so to squeeze in chitchat, meals, laundry, walks, mutual refreshment (thanks, Mark Twain), foot-rubbing, back-scratching, arguing, bill-paying and all the other hobbies most couples have the luxury to spread out over a week’s time.

We’re both spent. The stress of the whole sale process and our enforced separation reached a peak two weeks ago yesterday, right before the nice young couple was scheduled to see the house for the first time. We spent that morning tidying up the place, glancing at each other through slitted eyes, snapping at each other, occasionally refusing to speak to one another. I’m surprised rolling pins and dishes hadn’t gone airborne. Oaths were uttered. Accusations leveled. The winds of war whipped us from chore to chore. At one point, each thought the other had decided to pack it all in.

After the nice young couple left, we squeezed in a speed reconciliation before The Loved One had to shove off for Bloomington yet again.

Yesterday afternoon, The Loved One confessed she worried I didn’t like her anymore. I replied that I certainly did, at least 90 percent of the time.

TLO: “Not always?”

Me: “No, not always. And I know you don’t like me every second of the day either. But 90 percent is damned good. In fact, most couples would be envious of us.”

TLO: “You’re right. You were no prize that Sunday.”

Me: “See? We’re still here, though, aren’t we? Look at it this way — we’ve been through all this shit for half a year now and we haven’t killed each other yet!”

We were chatting in front of the home where she’s renting a room. We’d spent the entire afternoon looking at homes in Bloomington. As I mentioned, that nice young couple had made an offer three days after seeing the place. We’d been lobbing counteroffers at each other ever since. Suddenly, the couple fell silent — by the end of the afternoon, we hadn’t heard back from them. Uh oh. The Loved One tried to pretend otherwise but I knew she was sorely disappointed. I made the long drive home to Louisville, propping my eyelids open with toothpicks. I collapsed on the recliner and was snoring within ten minutes of arriving home.

Luckily, The Loved One checked her email before hitting the hay. Our real estate agent had sent us the great and good news — we had a deal! Naturally, she called me immediately.

I feel awfully bad for not summoning the energy to whoop it up. I know The Loved One wanted to. I figured it could wait until this morning.

I hope The Loved One understands. I am, after all, no prize every second of the day.

Benny Jay: Hit The Road, Jack

The day before we hit the road for our vacation up north, my older daughter comes down with some strange affliction.

She has a fever, a sore throat, and swollen glands. My wife thinks it’s an inflamed wisdom tooth. She takes her to the dentist. But, no, it’s some kind of virus. There’s nothing to do but ride it out.

And so as we take off, she’s in the back of the car, moaning and groaning and downing Ibuprofen to ease the pain.

Somewhere in Indiana, we pull over to a rest stop and I buy her a big bottle of water. “The thing about fighting a virus is you gotta drink a lot of water,” I explain with utmost certainty, as if I’m Jonas Salk. “So take a drink.”

She takes a swig.

“That’s not drinking,” I tell her. “That’s sipping. Drink some more….”

She takes another drink.

“Better,” I say. “Now another….”

“Dad!”

“C’mon — one more….”

My wife, who’s driving, chimes in. “Be careful — she can drown….”

I look at her in disbelief. “Drown?” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

“That’s the dumbest think you’ve ever said — no one has ever drowned from drinking a bottle of water….”

“Yes, they have….”

“Who? Name one….”

“It’s true — ask Robert….”

Robert is my cousin who knows absolutely everything about everything.

“I am not asking Robert — that’s too dumb to ask Robert….”

On we drive. My older daughter falls asleep. My younger daughter takes the wheel and puts on “Hairspray.”  Good choice. I love “Hairspray.” It’s one of my favorite Broadway musicals.

We go north, north, north. “Hairspray” runs through fourteen songs and on comes “You Can’t Stop the Beat,” my absolute favorite.

I close my eyes and see myself dancing on stage and singing backup to Queen Latifah.

From the back of the car comes the sound of my older daughter. “Dad, when did I take my last IB?”

“Hold on,” I say. “This is my favorite part….”

“Dad, I need to know if I can take another….”

“Not now — after the song….”

“Are you kidding me?”

I turn up the volume and sing along: “You can’t stop today as it comes spinning around the track….”

“Mom,” my daughter says to my wife. “Can you believe this?”

“`Yesterday is history and it’s never coming back….’”

“Benny,” says my wife.

The song ends.  “Damn it,” I say. “I didn’t get the full effect of the song….”

“Oh, my God,” says my daughter. ” I’m in pain. Pain! And you’re worried about a song….”

“Not just any song — my favorite song….”

“I’m not talking to you,” she says.

“Good,” I say. “I’m not talking to you either….”

I hear a clickity-clack sound — probably her tex-messaging a friend about her outrageously insensitive father.

At eleven, we reach our destination — a hotel in northern Michigan. We stumble out of the car and wander up to our room. It’s above the indoor swimming pool that reeks of chlorine.

On a table by the TV is a letter from the management. For reasons unexplained, the local electric company will be shutting off the service for two hours in the morning.

My older daughter falls onto her bed and groans.

I walk over and meekly say: “Sorry….”

“Leave me alone,” she says. “You’re so mean….”

“Will you forgive me?”

She says nothing.

“Who coached you through drinking the water?”

I see her stifle a smile.

“Please,” I repeat.

“Oh, all right,” she says.

We turn off the lights and fall into bed. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but I wake up with an urge to take a leak. I look for the clock by the bed but there’s no clock to see. I remember the letter from management: The power’s off.

I stumble out of bed and grope through the darkness. On the way back, I trip over my daughter’s sneaker — karmic payback for being mean.

I flop on my bed and close my eyes. I can’t sleep. I hear heavy breathing — every one’s asleep. I smell the freaking pool. From out of nowhere, “You Can’t Stop the Beat” returns to my mind.  Queen Latifah’s singing loud and clear. I imagine myself as a dancer up on stage.

It soothes me. Next thing I know I’m waking up. It’s the morning and I’m all geared up to get on with the final leg of our drive.

Big Mike: The Bush Team Won – We Lost

I’m pissed. I’m so mad right now you might confuse me with all those rabid anti-Obama-ites in the news these days, only my anger isn’t born of fear and hatred.

Tom Ridge, the former Department of Homeland Security boss, has written a book in which, apparently, he claims he was pressured by the Bush White House to jack up the terror alert color code for reasons other than threats posed by wild-eyed extremists. If Ridge is to be believed the Bush gang was motivated by a far more dangerous threat – democracy.

In 2004, John Kerry came out of the Democratic National Convention with the usual popularity bump that Bush strategists sought to nip in the bud. So they leaned on our man Ridge to scare the poo out of America by painting the whole nation orange. They knew, of course, that a terrified America was far more likely to lean toward a hard-assed, dick-waving, inflexible, mad-as-all-hell militarist like Bushy-boy rather than an effete, intellectual, Massachusetts-commie-fag-abortionist. The election turned out just the way they expected (and manipulated.)

You might think I’m pissed at the former president and his minions led by the billowy Karl Rove. But I’m way past that. Bush is gone and good riddance. I don’t hold hatred and anger in my heart for decades like some people I know (ask a right winger what he thinks about Bill Clinton, then take cover.)

No, my ire is directed toward those bastards who knew evil men were directing them to do wrong yet still did as they were told. Ridge didn’t have to change the color code. He could have refused. He could have quit. He could have called a press conference and spilled all the beans. He could have done anything but what he did – that is, pervert an election.

He’s trying to dry-clean his conscience by penning this confessional but, for my money, it ain’t gonna work. Go talk to your wife, your minister, your shrink or whoever else you unload your sins upon, Tommy-baby. I hope you feel better. I hope the rest of your life is lived in utmost integrity and honor. I really do. I believe in redemption.

What I don’t believe in is blind loyalty. That’s what Ridge exhibited when Rove or whoever whispered in his ear that the country was in great peril of an honest election.

Ridge wasn’t the only Bush co-conspirator to choose loyalty and obeisance over decency. The oft-sainted Colin Powell smudged his eternal soul when he blathered to the United Nations about Saddam Hussein’s imagined nukes, again at the Bush gang’s behest. He didn’t have to do it. He had the same choices Ridge did. He opted for the wrong one.

Ridge, Powell and too many others in Bush’s syndicate were good team players. Yuck. I’ve never been a team player and I’m proud of it. In fact, my feelings on teams were perfectly articulated by one of the finest philosophers of the 20th Century, one George Denis Patrick Carlin:

Teams suck! I don’t like ass-kissers or team players. I like people who buck the system. Individualists. I often warn kids: “Somewhere along the way, someone is going to tell you, ‘There is no I in team.’ What you should tell them is, ‘Maybe not. But there is an I in independence, individuality and integrity.’ Avoid teams at all costs. Keep your circle small. Never join a group that has a name. If they say, ‘We’re the so-and-so’s,’ take a walk. And if, somehow, you must join, if it’s unavoidable, such as a union or a trade association, go ahead and join. But don’t participate; it will be your death. And if they tell you you’re not a team player, just congratulate them on being so observant.”

Randolph Street: Highway 61 — The Mississippi And Beyond

Davenport – Davenport,Iowa

Halloween Parade – Greenville, Mississippi

Pickup — Canton, Missouri

Valu Mart — Vicksburg, Mississippi

Awake — Davenport, Iowa

Skipping Stones – Grand Marais, Minnesota

All photos © Jon Randolph

Big Mike: The Muppets Of Hate

Two old birds hang out in the Barnes & Noble cafe near my house. They’re about 70 or 75, gray, wrinkled and wizened. They would remind me of the two aged balcony Muppets, Statler and Waldorf, but only if Statler and Waldorf were bitter, mean, angry pricks.

The Muppet characters were lovably ornery. The two at the cafe ooze malice out of their pores. They make Pat Buchanan look like Fozzy Bear.

I had the great and good fortune to be sitting near them Sunday. Hah! Not that it was my choice. They came in after I did and sat one table down. They love to speak loudly about the state of the world, the nation, the presidency, the economy, the assorted wars — any and all of which are going as badly as possible and can be blamed directly on liberals and Barack Obama.

I first ran into them about six months ago. I was carrying my coffee and New York Times on a rainy, chilly Tuesday morning to my seat. Tuesday’s Times is the best because the Science Times insert comes with the paper that day. All seemed right with the world.

One of the two old birds, let’s call him Waldorf, announced to his chum in a loud basso after espying my paper that he too occasionally buys the New York Times.

Statler was taken aback. “What the hell do you give those bastards your money for?”

Waldorf smirked, “I gotta know what the enemy is thinking.”

“Oh, okay,” Statler said.

I mulled advising the two to kiss the largest, fleshiest part of my anatomy but decided against it. After all, I reasoned, they’re old coots, and maybe they don’t know how loudly they’re speaking. They knew.

For the ensuing half year I’ve endured their diatribes against all things Obama, Democratic and, frankly, non-white. One day, they explained how Obama won the election.

“You ask any of these stupid idiots that voted for him,” opined Statler, “they don’t know a damned thing about Obama. They voted for him because of guilt! White guilt!”

“That’s right,” Waldorf chimed in.

“You’re goddamned right that’s right. That’s what Obama and all the rest of them play on: Oh, slavery! Poor us! You have to vote for me!”

My stomach commenced digesting itself. I bit my lower lip. I ripped a hangnail off with my teeth. The two carried on with their psychoanalysis of Democratic voters until, finally, I expelled an enormous huff, meant to convey my distaste. Rather than quiet them, it only made them speak louder.

I endure these little sessions of stultification twice a week or so. Statler is usually at the cafe first. Believe it or not, he spends his time phoning long-winded protests to NBC in New York or some newspaper in, say, Cleveland for having the audacity to defend an Obama policy. Along about a half hour later, Waldorf squeals into the Barnes & Noble parking lot in his little red two-seater sportscar (I kid you not — talk about a phallus substitute!) and joins his partner in wretchedness.

(Maybe Waldorf is just a randy old thing. The manager of the cafe once told me he gave her a coupon for free lingerie from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She said that when she saw what it was, she let it flutter from her hand, as if it were poison. Waldorf pointed out that she’d dropped it. She told him she knew she had.)

That’s how it all set up Sunday, except that Waldorf’s daughter accompanied him. My first instinct was to pity the poor thing. My mistake.

The three of them rattled their newspapers, reading and flipping until their blood started to boil. “These people who believe in global warming are really sick,” the daughter said. She may as well have fired a starter’s pistol.

“Tell me about it!” Statler cried. “My nephew’s getting his college degree in environmental studies. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! What’s he studying? You tell me. What the hell is he studying? How to make lies?”

“And how’s he ever gonna get a job?” the daughter said. “There aren’t any jobs in environmental studies, what the hell ever that is!”

“Oh yes there are,” Waldorf said. “Obama’s giving all these idiots jobs in this environmental studies bullshit.”

Statler and Waldorf’s daughter grunted in agreement.

“Yeah, well first he has to give all the jobs to his people, if you know what I mean,” Statler said, meaningfully.

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Waldorf said. “You can’t get a job in Washington now if you’re white.”

At this point, my eyes were spinning in their sockets. I had to get up and leave, otherwise I’d have taken either Waldorf or Statler’s neck in my hands and given it a good throttling. Hate breeds hate.

Benny Jay Redux: The Keys On Richard’s Chain

Pay no attention to the byline above. This is Benny Jay’s post. He’s on vacation (the bum.) While he’s away, we’re running some of his greatest hits. — The Eds.

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.

This post originally ran Saturday, March 14, 2009

Letter From Milo: The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender

Every man wishes he had a bigger dick. No man is satisfied with the load he carries. Every man would like his log to be longer, thicker and more imposing. Even the late, great Johnny Wadd, the gold standard of big dicks, probably wished he had an extra inch or two, just to be on the safe side.

Now, a few of you might say, Milo, how can you say that ALL men want bigger dicks? That’s a pretty broad generalization.

Okay, I’ll give you that much. Maybe not every man is obsessed with the size of his dick. Perhaps there’s a religious hermit living in a cave in the Alps who never gives his dick a second thought. There could be a junkie somewhere who’s so degraded by heroin that the only time he considers his dick is when he wonders how much he can get for it on the black market. There may even be a Talmudic scholar somewhere who considers his dick a nuisance, because every time he gets up to piss it takes precious time away from his studies.

Here’s a simple test that will prove my point. Go up to a man, any man, a friend, relative or stranger in a bar, and ask him this question:

Dude, how would you like to have a smaller dick?

If you don’t get beaten up, stabbed or shot, I guarantee you won’t find a single person who’ll say, Now that you mention it, I think I would like to have a smaller dick.

Recently, I had a few drinks and smoked a joint with my good friend, Professor Wang, who’s head of the Anthropology Department (Online Division) at the Triple A College of Nutrition and Cosmetology in Gary, Indiana. He explained to me that men have been concerned about dick size ever since the first half-monkey crawled out of the mire and discovered that standing on two legs was a pretty good idea.

According to Professor Wang, the earliest cave art ever found, in a cavern near the Quad Cities, was a crude painting of a group of naked Neanderthals comparing their dick sizes. Coincidentally, right next to that drawing is another one of a group of Neanderthal women laughing their asses off.

For as long as man has been aware of his, ah, shortcomings, he has taken steps to remedy the situation. Mankind’s very first invention, predating the discovery of fire by more than a million years, was a primitive dick extension contraption. It was made of mammoth hide, pine cones, pieces of flint and a rabbit’s foot. There is no record of its effectiveness.

Throughout history great minds have spent countless years and untold millions of dollars trying to come up with a mechanical solution to man’s most vexing problem. Aristotle, Pythagoras, Leonardo Da Vinci and Thomas Edison all tried to come up with a male enhancement device — and all failed miserably. Rumor has it that Bill Gates squandered half of his Microsoft fortune in a fruitless search for the Holy Grail of manhood.

In all of recorded history there is only one penis enlargement device that has proven successful. In fact, it works spectacularly well. It was invented a Swede named Sven Loewhangen and he called it, “The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender.”

Due to Mr. Leowhangen’s untimely passing, something about ingesting some spoiled lutefisk, fewer than a dozen of his marvelous inventions were ever manufactured. And they are now nearly impossible to find.

I, however, was determined to find one. Not that I need one, you understand. As far as males attributes go, I’ve been truly blessed. No, my interest in The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender was purely academic. One day I may even submit a paper on the subject to Reader’s Digest.

After years of the most arduous research, I finally tracked down the legendary contraptions. Most of them were in the hands of the Saudi royal family, who refused to part with them under any circumstances. Another belonged to a Chinese soy sauce tycoon who refused to admit he owned it. Yet another one belonged to the estate of the late sportsman, Porfirio Rubirosa, but his heirs claim to have misplaced it.

Just when I had given up hope of ever finding one of the elusive machines, I got extremely lucky. I made the acquaintance of a woman named Ruth Madoff, whose husband, Bernie, seemed to be experiencing some financial problems. She agreed to sell me her husband’s The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender, but the price was steep.

To raise the money I had to take out second and third mortgages on my home, sell my sure-fire horse betting system to Bruce Diksas for a pretty penny, and transfer my interest in The Third City blog site to the Tribune Company.

Well, I sent the check off to Mrs. Madoff and now I’m waiting for the FedEx man to arrive. I’ll let you know if my search for The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender was worth all of the aggravation and expense. I sure hope it was.