October « 2009 « The Third City

Big Mike: Made It!

October 4th, 2009

We made it. The Loved One, two cats, all our worldly possessions — including boxes upon boxes, crates and bags; more crap than any two people can possibly need in this world – and I. We’re safely ensconced in our new home just outside Bloomington, Indiana, on a green acre, with a log cabin and barn visible out our kitchen sink window.

This ain’t East Pilsen.

We watched yesterday afternoon, only an hour and a half after we’d brought in the last of our belongings, as two young deer ate apples that had fallen from our tree in the back yard.

This ain’t Lincoln Square.

There was a traffic jam of monumental proportions in Bloomington yesterday due to the The Big Game — the mighty Ohio State University football team was in town to stomp the bejesus out of our plucky Hoosiers. Last week in our hotel room, I saw a few TV ads imploring fans to come out to Memorial Stadium so the place wouldn’t be awash in OSU’s silver and red. No matter, every hotel room in town has been booked for months, every other car on the street bears Ohio license plates, and Memorial Stadium was awash in silver and red.

This ain’t Wrigleyville.

Last night, despite a brilliant, nearly full moon that lit up the sky and cast clearly-defined shadows, I saw so many stars that I had to stop counting after a million.

This ain’t Grant Park.

It’s been eight months since The Loved One started working here in Bloomington while I held the fort in Louisville. The stress, weekend commutes, fingernail chewing over whether our house would sell or not, worry about where we’d live, packing up and moving to a new city — no more.

Now, we have only those mundane worries and annoyances every home-buyer faces. For instance, after setting up the beds, putting clothes in the closets and scrubbing the bathroom, I decided to take a shower. Brought out the fresh towels, found some soap and toothpaste, started running the water. Then I stood there, hands on hips, tapping my bare foot, wondering where in the hell the shower control was. I poked around for ten minutes and still I couldn’t find a shower lever.

Me: “Honey!”

She (from afar, her voice muffled by the surrounding mountains of boxes): “What?”

Me: “Couldju come here?”

She: “Whaddya want?”

Me: “I need some help.”

She: “Where are you?”

Me: “In the bathroom, hurry!”

With that, I heard her bounding across the carpet-less floors. She threw the bathroom door open as if she expected to see me gasping for breath on the floor.

She (breathless): “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I can’t find the shower knob!”

She: Silence.

She took my measure through slitted eyes for a moment and then began to search for the lever herself. The two of us examined the tub controls like curious chimps. No dice. The Loved One concluded that the previous owner had concealed from us the fact that we had no shower.

She: “The jerk. He screwed us. And that stupid home inspector. He should have noticed it, too. I didn’t like him from the start!”

She threw her hands in the air and walked out. As I say, it’s been a long eight months. I got down on my knees in the tub and peered closely at the apparatus. Finally, after ten more minutes, I discovered the artfully hidden shower control.

Me: “Honey!”

She: “What now?”

Me: “I found it.”

She: “Good.” The Loved One said this as if she’d be happier to hear me going down the drain with the bathwater.

It ain’t Milwaukee and Belmont. But it’s home.

Letter From Milo: Short and Sweet

October 3rd, 2009

This will be my last posting for a while. As I mentioned in earlier pieces, I’m taking a couple of weeks off for surgery. When I told Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this scabby, inept and flatulent outfit, that I needed some time off, he got mean and ugly.

“What kind of surgery did you say it was?”

“Heart surgery.”

“And you want two weeks off for something like that?”

“Maybe a little more. Depends on how recovery goes.”

“You’re being kind of selfish. Two weeks seems excessive.”

“Just following doctor’s orders.”

“Quit being a pussy. Benny Jay had brain surgery and a penile implant and he did it on his lunch hour.”

“Yeah, well, Benny’s tough.”

“Jon Randolph had every single one of his internal organs replaced with Teflon and styrofoam and he was back at his desk the next day.”

“Jon’s tough, too.

“Don’t expect me to hold your job for you. Writers are a dime a dozen. I’ve got a blog to run.”

“I figured.”

“And don’t expect any sick pay, either.”

“I wasn’t counting on it.”

“Other than that, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Bastard.”

“Prick.”

Now that I’ve told the Barn Boss that I’ll be absent for a couple of weeks, I’ll have to notify all of my favorite bartenders, drug dealers, bookies, waitresses, and pool room proprietors that I won’t be patronizing their establishments for a while. I’m sure they’ll understand.

That’s it for now. If there are any old hippies, freaks or New Agers out there, remember to send some good vibes in my direction on October 6th. Be talking to you soon.

Note:

In my absence the Editors are going to rerun a couple of my past blog postings. I hope they amuse, inform and offend you as much as they did the first time around.

Randolph Street: Along Highway 61

October 2nd, 2009

Phone Booth–Red Wing, Minneasota

Railroad–Luxora, Arkansas

Bluff Tap–East Dubuque, Illinois

Beach–Forest Lake, Minneasota

Bar Guys–Dubuque, Iowa

Ore Boat–Twin Harbors, Minnesota

This is a personal look at mid-America that I shot between 1976 and 1985. These were taken along the approximately 1700 miles of US Highway 61 that roughly follows the Mississippi River from New Orleans to Minneapolis, then juts northeast to Duluth and along the western edge of Lake Superior to Thunder Bay, Ontario. All photographs © Jon Randolph.

Big Mike: None Of My Business

October 1st, 2009

When I was a kid and I’d ask my mother for some new toy I’d seen on TV, she’d offer me one of two responses: 1) Who do you think you are, King Farouk? or 2) What are we, the Rockefellers?

At the age of six or seven, I had a vague notion that the Rockefellers were a rich family. As for King Farouk, I had no idea who he was. What I did know was that both responses meant no. The strongest muscles in my mother’s body were those of her thumb and forefinger, developed over the years by ceaseless penny pinching.

With age I’ve come to understand some of Ma’s penury. Not all of it, though. The Old Girl made famous misers like Paulie Walnuts or George Halas (“He throws around nickels like manhole covers,” Mike Ditka once famously said) look like drunken sailors. In fact, I’ve even learned how not to spend all the cash in my wallet in a single afternoon. Most of the time. Alright, some of the time.

Anyway, The Loved One and I are staying in a cramped room in the Hampton Inn here in Bloomington, Indiana until we can move into our new home (this week, fingers crossed.) We could have chosen a suite, which would make good sense considering we’ll have been here two weeks, but The Loved One — herself the possessor of an iron grip — nixed that idea. I agree with her reasoning but it seems that our room is virtually shrinking with each passing day. By tomorrow it’ll be the size of an iPod Nano.

So, we’re staying in a room that could be a suite but isn’t. That is, had we chosen to unbelt for the higher-priced accommodation, we’d be able to open a door between two adjoining rooms and stretch out in luxury. Sometimes, when The Loved One has decided to veg out in front of the TV (it seems that every single show these days either has a blaring laugh track or features a shrieking right-winger,) I gaze longingly at the locked door separating me from peace and quiet.

One unexpected drawback of the set-up is that the door separating the two rooms isn’t soundproof. I now know far more about the personal life of the man next door than I’d like. And remember, I’m the nosiest son of a bitch you’ve ever met. I consider no visit to another person’s home complete until I’ve peeked into the medicine cabinet.

The night before last, the man — a Texan, judging by his accent — spent hours moaning over the phone to co-workers, friends, family and, presumably, random souls whose numbers he’d picked out of the Bloomington phone book about some unbearable torture imposed upon him by the front office. His tyrannical bosses, he explained in excruciating detail at least a dozen times, had sent him an email that very morning informing him that the M-19 now was to be positioned in a different way in his sales spiels. I didn’t even have to put a glass up to the door to hear all this as clearly as if the man was sitting next to me.

With each recounting of this horror, his voice seemed to be getting a tad more slurred. The penultimate person he called must have mentioned it.

The man: “Well, sure I’m drinking! Wouldn’t you? I got an email this morning….”

After unburdening for the last time, the man made another call. This time he spoke in a hushed tone. I figured maybe he was trying to mask his Jack Daniel’s speech defect. A half-hour silence ensued, during which time I wracked my brain trying to guess what an M-19 might be. A cursory Google search informed me it may either be a kit-built spy plane or a medication for goats. I preferred to think the man was peddling spy planes.

My reverie was broken by a knock at his front door. The voices on the other side indicated he’d allowed a woman into his room. A co-worker, I supposed, and I girded myself to hear of his torment once again. Instead, he and the woman engaged in a nervous, too polite, overly-long kind of chit chat.

Here’s what I learned: he’d never done this kind of thing before, he felt a little nervous — for which he apologized profusely, he wasn’t a cop — he swore it, and, oh yeah, he’d had a terrible day thanks to an email he’d got that morning. I’m not Little Bo Peep so I knew what the score was immediately.

I got a particular kick out of the verbal dance they created out of their simple financial transaction.

He: “So how much were we talking about?”

She: “Two hundred dollars, sweetie.”

He: “Well, that’s fine. I’ve got it right here. But I’m afraid if I hand it to you you’ll whip out a badge.”

She: “Ha ha! No, not me. How about this? You just put it down on the table, then I’ll just pick it up. See? You won’t be giving me anything — I’ll just be taking something from your room.”

He: “Yeah, that sounds good.”

She (after a short pause): “See? That was easy.”

Next, the man stood on his head to make sure the woman was comfortable: “Would you like to sit here or there? Do you want something to drink? Should I lay down here? Is it too cold in here for you?”

The woman told him he was too jumpy, that he needed a nice massage. “Okay!” he said, like a kid who’d just heard it was time to open the presents. “Should I lay on my back or my front?”

It occurred to me I had no desire to listen to the rest of the proceedings. I packed up my MacBook and my crossword puzzle book and headed for the lobby. I figured if a man wants to spend $200 to feel like King Farouk, he deserves a little privacy.