Big Mike: I’ll Take The Bum

I wrote about Rick Pitino the day before yesterday. Pillar of society. Perfect hair. Looks great in a suit. Writes books telling people how to live their lives. Guides young men into adulthood. Is as respected as any Louisvillian since, oh, Muhammad Ali or Victor Mature.

Then last night I heard a report on NPR‘s Studio 360 program about a fellow named Del Close. Heroine addict. Drunkard. Trouble-maker. Couldn’t hold a job until the last quarter of his life. Toothless. Often homeless. Had a foot-long scraggly gray beard when he was on his deathbed. Would sooner piss in the alley than take an extra minute to find a public restroom.

I knew one of the two personally. He was one of the greatest influences in my life. I value his teachings above those of all others. Any and all of my so-called schoolteachers can kiss my fat ass — they had nothing on this guy.

I speak, of course, of Del Close. I studied under him at the improvOlympic in the mid-eighties. I shouldn’t type improvOlympic here for fear the International Olympic Committee will sic its LLD barracudas on Benny Jay and me and take away everything we own. Del started the improvOlympic with his partner Charna Halpern in 1981. The two knew how touchy the IOC could be about its name so Del and Charna squished the two words — improv and Olympics — together, shaved the S off and hoped they could dodge any cease and desist orders.

If I know Del, he told Charna the IOC could go fuck itself. He’d have told the President of the United States to go fuck himself even if he’d voted for him, although I doubt he ever took the time to vote.

Soon after Del died, Charna changed the name of the school/theater company to iO. She was always the brains behind the operation, at least in a business sense. Del was the tainted genius. Whereas he would have relished being sued by the IOC, she was, well, sane.

The Studio 360 report featured interviews with comedy big shots like Tina Fey and Rachel Dratch talking about how Del was the definitive self-sabotaging artist. One iO alum, Ian Roberts (late of Reno 911!,) wondered if Del ever felt frustrated that he never could achieve the stardom his pupils did. Del discovered, coached, insulted, handheld and otherwise tutored the likes of Mike Myers, Chris Farley, Jeff Garlin, Stephen Colbert, Vince Vaughn, Jon Favreau, Andy Richter, Andy Dick, Susan Messing and Amy Poehler. If he’d achieved one-tenth the fame and fortune they did, he’d be ten times bigger than he was.

But I guarantee you he wasn’t frustrated by his relative anonymity. Success, to him, would have been failure. Oh sure, he was happy his students got big parts and big bucks. Nevertheless, he never trusted stardom.

I’ll tell you how I know. In the mid-eighties, I wrote a few pieces on Del, Charna, the improvOlympic and The Harold, Del’s long-form improv performance concept that he’d brought down from some mount like Moses. I raved about them all.

I wrote then (and I still believe) that studying improv under Del was the most valuable training I’d ever received. It made me. After Del and Charna, I learned to listen, to think quickly, to play to the height of my intellect, to give myself up to the group, to find the humor in everything, to face down the fear in anything, to get up on stage and make an utter, unmistakable ass of myself and still know I was doing a great job. Studying improv under Del was really more about studying life. Without it, I’d have been a poorer person.

The stories I wrote almost embarrassed me, they were so fawning. But I didn’t change a word because every one was true. One story was for a little magazine called Chicago Life.

The piece had just come out in the winter of 1987. At the time, I was doing a series of pieces on the upcoming Chicago primary election. I’d been tailing the candidates for 42nd Ward alderman. I was walking down Dearborn Street near the old Dr. Scholl museum with one of the candidates, a ditzy, middle-aged peroxide blonde whose main campaign issue was the horseshit left on downtown streets by those carriage rides tourists get suckered into. She was rambling on and on about something that, thankfully, escapes me now when, all of  a sudden, I saw Del walking toward us.

“Hey,” I interrupted the candidate. “I know this guy. He’s big in comedy improv. He was pals with John Belushi and Bill Murray. I studied under him. His name is Del Close.” I think I even puffed my chest out.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s nice.” I could tell she’d never heard the name before in her life.

When Del got to within ten feet of us, I called out, “Hey Del, howdja like the story in Chicago Life? Pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah,” Del snorted, “pretty fuckin’ good. I was just on my way to see my attorney so we can file libel and slander charges against you and that shitty magazine. Fuck you.”

He was dead serious. I thought I was going to break down and cry.

“Well, that was interesting,” the candidate said after a few moments.

I forced a laugh and replied, “Oh, you know these comedians….”

Del hadn’t trusted my paeans. Nor would he have trusted any real success.

No matter. I trusted him and his teachings.

Benny Jay: Burn Out

I’m walking the dog and talking on my cell phone — telling Milo about my big plans to take a break.

I’m beat up, worn out and on the brink of break down.  Gonna go north — way north — far from this madness and re-charge my run-down batteries.  Yes, sir, that’s just what I’m gonna do….

Soon as I finish Milo tells me about this guy he knows who did twenty-two years hard time on a prison farm in Mississippi. They had him picking cotton in the hot sun all day long — didn’t even let him wear gloves to protect his fingers.

Pause.

Well, don’t I feel like the big wimp — complaining about my easy existence while this guy’s picking cotton in the broiling sun?

Guess it goes to show you what we already knew — as bad as we may have it, someone, somewhere has got it worse.  It’s always good to have a little perspective on life.

That said, I’m not giving up my vacation time just cause Milo’s friend did twenty-years of hard time.  Oh, no, I’m gonna lie on a sand dune and watch the clouds meander across the blue sky. And then when I get hungry, I’m gonna get up and make me a cheese sandwich for lunch — slather it with Mr. Mustard. Man, I love Mr. Mustard!

When I come home, I’ll be like a marshmallow — all soggy and soft.  People in Chicago will be going one-hundred miles per hour, and I’ll be going ten.  I’ll be the slow car in the fast lane. It’ll take me at least a week to catch up to speed.

And then I’ll start dashing until I can dash no more and I need to take a break.

Like I said, every battery needs a re-charge when it’s running low. That’s just how it goes. No need to apologize. Even in that prison farm, they got Sundays off.

See ya’ soon….

Big Mike: Morality In Louisville

Flash from Louiville: The King has no clothes. Here in the River City, the King is one Rick Pitino, coach of the University of Louisville men’s basketball team, the highest-paid employee of that redoubtable institution, a man whose face graces a healthy percentage of the Louisville Courier-Journal‘s front pages. His is the face of the city and, boy, is it red. The cardinal Cardinal is in the hottest water of his life.

Usually, when I’m trying to be cute, I’ll call this place Luigiville but I hesitate to do so today for fear that readers will think I wish to slur Italian-Americans. Believe me, I have no such intention. I only wish to slur major college sports coaches and the knuckleheads who slobber all over them. The sane among the species Homo Sapiens sapiens realize Pitino’s inner thoughts are meaningful only to the obsessive-compulsives who worry about point spreads and the couch slugs whose idea of a day well-spent is to watch teenagers play games on TV. That would be a plurality of Louisvillians.

Good old Rick Pitino. He made the rounds of the bookstores last fall and winter, signing copies of his book, “Rebound Rules: The Art of Success 2.0.” Big stores like Barnes & Noble as well as well-respected little local operations like Carmichael’s Books were jammed with fawners trying to touch the hem of his garment. His book lays out his very straightforward roadmap for life. Here’s a quick sample of his sagacity:

So as my friend Bill Parcells says, you are your record – and my record in Boston was 102-146. We never made the playoffs. I had never taken losing well, and now it was my identity: With the Celtics, at least, I was a loser. I was stumbling through the darkness of doubt.

So, if you follow Pitino’s train of “thought” and wish to employ it to run your life, you define your life in terms of National Basketball Association wins and losses. And then, when things look darkest, you quit (which is what he did.)

I had no stomach to read much farther. I bet he goes on to say that life is more than a box score, yadda yadda yadda. Gee thanks, Plato.

Anyway, this great titan of epistemology, ontology and ethics has been under siege in recent months. Many in the town of Louisville have leapt to his defense against the broadsides of a woman named Karen Sypher, variously described by locals as a bitch, a whore, a golddigger, a scam-artist and a psychotic. Oh, and not a few randy young L-villians have made special mention of the fact that she has breasts the size of spaghetti squashes.

Sypher became a household name here because she’d tried to extort our Plato in exchange for her continued silence about a purported tawdry affair back in 2003. My heavens! You’d have thought she was trying to take away his gun.

The panel of experts down at Dick’s Pizza shook it’s collective head and concluded she was lying, greedy and clearly insane. Poor old Rick Pitino, they warbled.

Oops. The Plato of the Hardcourt was forced to hold a press conference Wednsday night, admitting his affair with the woman. During her current divorce hearing, the court has heard accusations that Pitino essentially raped her, that he paid for her abortion, that he bribed the man she’s divorcing to marry her in the first place, and that Pitino and the husband paid former federal agents to spy on her.

I wonder what Bill Parcells would have to say about all that. Sounds like a poor won-lost record to me.

The Louisville Cardinals men’s basketball team has been rated by some Las Vegas oddsmakers as a probable Final Four team next March. The odds were set before this latest round of Sypher-mania. The hullabaloo may adversely affect the team’s chances. She must be insane.

Randolph Street: Highway 61

“Four Girls” Grand Marias, Minnesota

“Shoeshine Shop” New Orleans

Benny Jay: LaSharon’s Wedding

A long, long time ago, when my oldest daughter was nine, she switched schools and found herself walking into an unfamiliar classroom, filled with fourth graders, who’d known each other since kindergarten.

In other words, everyone knew everyone else, and she didn’t know a soul. You get the idea.

The teacher — an old-school type named Miss White — had them sitting alphabetically. Scared out of her mind, my daughter turned to the girl sitting behind her and asked: “Will you be my friend?”

That girl was LaSharon Jones.

Now LaSharon could play this one of two ways: Nasty or nice.

She went with nice.

“Yes,” she said with a smile, “I’ll be your friend.”

And just like that my daughter wasn’t so scared anymore.

I love that story for all the obvious reasons. I must have told it a zillion times.  For her part, LaSharon’s probably heard me tell it, oh, at least one hundred times.  She was always way too polite to roll her eyes, but inside she had to be thinking — oh, no, not again!

Anyway, one thing leads to another, and here I am — many, many years later — sitting in a church, watching LaSharon’s father lead her down the aisle.

Mr. Jones is a big, strong, quiet guy — if he says two words, that’s a lot. He’s a deacon in this church, so they call him Deacon Jones, like the football player from way back.

As he and LaSharon come down the aisle, one of the parishioners, Clifton Barnes, is singing “You Are So Beautiful.” I swear to God it’s the best rendition I’ve ever heard — the man has an amazingly soulful voice. Gives me chills.

They stand before the preacher, Reverend Edward Whitehead, who happens to be the father of the groom, Stephen Whitehead. The reverend talks about how this is one of the most profound moments in the life of a father and his daughter — when the father must turn his baby over to another man.

There’s a pause.

Deacon Jones is showing no signs of turning his baby over to anyone.

“You can return to your seat now, Deacon Jones,” says Reverend Whitehead.

Everyone laughs and, just like that, Deacon Jones goes to his seat and LaSharon joins her groom.

With that the official ceremony begins.  Reverend Whitehead tells LaSharon and Stephen that marriage is serious stuff — “not stacking and shacking, but one flesh.” He reminds them that they will face temptation in their lives, “but the good side of you can surpass the human side of you.”

He goes on and on, like preachers tend to do, and then he apologizes for going on on. After all, you must understand — this is the wedding of his son.

They exchange vows they wrote themselves. LaSharon says something like, I just got something I want to say — and then, backed by the chorus, she breaks into “Love and Happiness.”

Throughout the church people  clap, laugh and sing along cause, as anyone will tell you, it’s only the greatest Al Green song — ever!

And just like that, they’re married, and we’re walking through a reception line to offer congratulations. I’m gearing up to tell that story about the first day of fourth grade.

But as I approach LaSharon and Stephen I think — ah, give the girl a break. You can’t go back in time. Can’t live in the past. Like Reverend Whitehead told Deacon Jones — sooner or later you got to let go.

Big Mike: Who’s The Madman?

Here we are around good old Nashville, Indiana, seat of Brown County, and perhaps the center of the Midwest arty/crafty world. It’s an Indiana that I never even knew existed, with gorgeous vistas, deep woods and dizzying hills. The area is essentially a Great Smoky Mountains-lite.

The Loved One and I are on vacation with our good and great pals Sophia and Danny and their two kids, Arianna and Matty. We’re renting a cabin high on a ridge with a spectacular view of a succession of tree-covered ridges to our south. At about ten-thirty, when it becomes almost totally dark, the planet Mars gleams some 20 degrees above the tallest of the ridge lines. We stand on the deck and stare at it, listening only to the hoots in the woods and, perhaps, the odd hoof trample of a twig somewhere. It’s heaven.

Last night, we went into town for dinner at the Muddy Boots Cafe, a coffeehouse that also serves food. Our good luck – last night was also the regular Tuesday appearance of  the Nashville Saxophone Company, a quartet of ancient reed-blowers whose repertoire pins them at perhaps 75 years old minimum and whose ability to keep time puts them at about 85 or 90. They huffed and puffed through the old standards like “Over The Rainbow” and took lengthy breaks after every two or three numbers. Poor Matty, who’s 15, the music was torture to him. Of course, the quartet’s cracking wails sounded no more dulcet to my ears, but I – an old bastard in training – was able to revel in their ability to maintain regular respiration and heartbeats at their advanced age.

After dinner, we shoveled in pie ala mode. Scoops of rich homemade vanilla ice cream atop homemade peach/blackberry pie – the ensuing sugar crash was well worth it. While we labored over dessert, a hairy bird named Sam (Danny insists on referring to him as Mr. Woodstock) took up a post nearby and regaled us with tales of the wonders of living deep in the woods of Brown County.

“I used to live in Chicago,” Sam said after we’d told him where we were from. “I worked downtown. Hated it. It was crazy. It got under my skin.

“I was a structural ironworker. There isn’t a big building or bridge I haven’t worked on. When I started out, I was afraid of heights. But I’ve always lived my life on the edge, you know, pushing boundaries. I love motorcycles and racing cars. So I saw it as kind of a dare. Every day, I’d push myself to go higher, walking along those girders. I worked with a lot of Mohawk Indians. Heights are nothing to them. Before I knew it, I was as comfortable up there as they were.”

The skin on Sam’s hands and fingers was as hard as lobster shell. His hair was Moses-like, long and tangly. His salt and pepper beard was a good six inches long. His blue eyes were piercing.

Sam told us he has to cross two creeks to get to his home. Sometimes the creeks flood and as a result he has to stay home until they recede. He and his wife raise just about all their food. “When we want meat, I just shoot a deer out my kitchen window,” he said, casually, like me saying I’m heading out to Dominick’s.

“Whydja do it, whydja move out here,” we asked.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” Sam replied. “The stress was too much. The traffic, the noise, the pressure. Plus, working for The Man – ‘Ya gotta do more, we need more, work harder!’ – no matter how much you’ve done or how long you worked that day. Forget it!”

Now Sam has his home in the woods, he’s got his own blacksmith shop behind it, complete with forge and welding machines. Whatever he needs he makes. He’s also a sculptor and sells his artwork here and there. To supplement his income, he does metal work for his neighbors. According to Sam, his expenses are about as close to zero as they can be.

For my vantage point, he looks awfully happy.

It made me think of the Age of Reagan which, of course, has just been laid to rest, thankfully. Like any passing, there’s grief and panic. But I say Good riddance, ya bullying bastard.

Starting a quarter of a century ago, the era presided over by Saint Ronald and gleefully nurtured by a couple of Bushes and Clinton nearly drove us mad. No amount of money was ever enough. Anybody who worked a 40-hour week was a lazy bum. We became so obsessed with buying, buying, buying that our homes became as disposable as plastic garbage bags. We needed flat screen TVs in every room of the house. People hired coaches to get their precious darlings into the finest business schools.

The dick-wavers at Goldman Sachs, Salomon Brothers, Morgan Stanley, Lehman Brothers, Bear Stearns, IndyMac, Enron and the rest felt they were being deprived if their yearly bonuses slipped below seven figures. They – and we – all became ugly Americans.

Sam, on the other hand, hardly spends a dime. I must disclose that his water pump went out the other day. His drinking and bathing water comes from a pond next to his house. He can’t call a plumber to fix it. He had to wade into the pond, pull out the pump, tinker with it, get it working, wade back in and reinstall it. As of last night, he was waiting for his hot water heater to fill up. “It’ll be nice to take a shower,” he said. “I haven’t had one for a couple of days.”

Some people might think Sam’s lifestyle is far too harsh. I only know this: he doesn’t appear mad.

Benny Jay: Ben Gordon’s Sidekick

At about three in the morning, I’m just drifting off to sleepy land, when my older daughter and her friends come tromping in from Lollapalooza.

They’re banging and clanging, like the troops coming home — slamming doors, carrying on some inane argument. Don’t know what it’s about, nor do I care. All I know is this — I had been sleeping. And now I’m not.

Worse — within ten minutes, they’re sound asleep and I’m wide awake. And I have to get up really early to drive across the state to visit my cousin.

Aw, fu….!

I stumble downstairs, flop on the couch and open a book….

Fast forward three hours. I’m half asleep, staggering around the kitchen, searching for a cup of coffee. My older daughter gets up early to say she’s really, really, really sorry.

“Look, I got up early just to tell you that,” she says.

Yeah, like she’s not going right back to bed as soon as I leave. I figure I’ll play this guilt trip thing a little longer.

“You know how hard it is for me to get back to sleep….”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Pause. “By the way, did I tell you I saw Joakim Noah at Lollapalooza?”

Ooh, slick move — diverting me with some Bulls talk.  She knows I’m weak for Bulls talk — especially in the long off-season months of  summer.

Stay strong, I tell myself — don’t be manipulated.

“You know how much I really need sleep,” I tell her, ignoring the Bulls bait.

“Did I tell you I know a girl who knows Joakim Noah?”

I can’t help myself. I’m weak.  I go for the bait.

“Who?”

“Some girl….”

“I don’t believe you….”

“I’ll show you on Facebook….”

She walks to the computer and goes to Facebook and, sure enough, there’s a picture of this girl with Joakim Noah.

“Wow,” I say.

My daughter sits back, looks at her fingernails, and tries not to gloat — like she’s da’ shit.

“And — this other girl I know is dating Ben Gordon’s sidekick.”

“Ben Gordon’s sidekick?”

“He’s like the assistant who drives for him or something — I really don’t know what he does….”

I pause to wonder what exactly does Ben Gordon’s  sidekick does — laugh at his jokes, tell him: “you the man” — and how did he get the job?

Anyway, fast forward even further to the end of the day. I’m sitting around the living room with my older daughter and her friends, talking about — you guessed it — Joakim Noah, Ben Gordon and Ben Gordon’s sidekick.

“The girl told me that Ben Gordon’s sidekick can get her tickets to Bulls games.”

“Dang,” I say. “I’d like tickets to a Bulls games….”

“Yes, and she said that he even introduced her to Ben Gordon….”

“Wow,” I say.

I mean, is this a great conversation or what?

“Okay, so one more time — how did they meet?” I ask.

My daughter and her friends launch into the story. I sit back and take it all in.

Okay, okay — it’s not me and Milo or me and Norm going on and on about Bulls versus Boston. But, hey, it’s the off-season — I gotta take what I can get.