Randolph Street: Highway 61–People& Places
Beach Boy–Forest Lake, Minneasota
Carnival–Blue Grass, Iowa
Anti-Drug Rally–Dubuque, Iowa
Christmas Sale–Vicksburg, Mississippi
Shoeshine Stand–New Orleans, Louisiana
Taconite Pier–Two 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.
All The Bells & Whistles
The 00s: A Short List of Good Records from the Last Ten Years (Pt. 6)
Yo La Tengo — And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out
To listen to a Yo La Tengo album is to listen to the band’s record collection. If you ever want to know what the Velvet Underground would sound like playing Smokey Robinson, Yo La Tengo shall provide. In concert, they cover songs by the Kinks that even the Kinks don’t know about. Every record feels like an overview.
Except this one. The daredevil move for this release was making it monochromatic. All the references are there, but they’re more like echoes than an homage. With one snarling exception at the start of the second half, these songs are all slow, good-natured and alien. Because of the subdued tone the vocalists sound confessional, which makes these quiet songs so striking.
Also striking: the seventeen-minute hushed, widescreen freak-out closing track that sounds like the launch of a space ship — quiet, massive, buried, and sending out strange waves through the course of the record while we’re waiting for lift off. When it rises, it’s so subtle that it’s easy to miss where the song ends and the billows of dusk-colored clouds take over.
by Timothy Imse
Benny Jay: Vacuum Cleaner Whisperer
The dog hairs are starting to drive my crazy, so I get out the vacuum cleaner and start Hoovering the living-room rug.
I’m working my way up the stairs, when I stumble over one of my younger daughter‘s shoes, which is lying on the landing. The shoelace gets stuck in the vacuum cleaner, which makes a screeching sound. Like it’s in pain. Then it stops.
“What the fu….”
I rip the shoelace out of the suction tube and flip the on-switch. Nope, still doesn’t work.
“Goddamn chicks!”
The thing is I live in a house filled with females — even the dog — and I have a nasty habit of blaming them for everything that goes wrong, even if it’s not their fault. My younger daughter’s always on my case about it. She says I’m a chauvinist. I tell her it’s a coping skill — I’m surrounded — but that I’m working on it.
Still, there’s somethings that only women do. Like leaving a shoe out in the open! What is it about a shoe that’s so hard to put away?
My wife comes home.
“The vacuum cleaner’s broken,” I tell her.
“I just bought it….
“Your daughter left her shoe out in the open and….”
She’s not listening. Instead, she’s staring at the vacuum cleaner.
This is serious stuff. My wife has a gift for fixing things. She’s like a horse whisperer with broken gadgets. She’s got the healing touch.
She’s got a special bond with vacuum cleaners. One time years ago I was watching a football game with my ex-brother-in-law in his living room in suburban New York City. And his wife, my sister-in-law, comes in to say the vacuum cleaner’s broken.
So he gets out of his easy chair and lumbers over to the den. I follow along like, you know, this is a two-man job. He gets on his knees, grunting as he squats, and he plays with this plug and fiddles with that plug, and then pronounces that the vacuum cleaner is broken beyond repair.
“Are you sure?” asks my sister-in-law.
“Of course, I’m sure,” he says indignantly.
“Can I look at it?” asks my wife.
And he scoffs. As in — if a manly man can’t fix it, there’s no way a little lady can….
So he returns to the living room and I stand back to watch my wife. She’s staring at the vacuum cleaner and then she starts taking it apart. I’m thinking — she’s lost her mind. I go back to the living room and sit next to my ex-brother-in-law, and we’re staring at the boob tube and the next thing you know from the other room we hear — Va-room!
Yes, yes, it’s the vacuum cleaner. My wife fixed the vacuum cleaner! I look at my ex-brother-in-law as if to say: Can you believe this chick?
But he doesn’t say a word. Won’t even acknowledge my look. Just keeps staring at the boob tube, like he doesn’t hear a thing. I swear, he’s grinding his teeth.
So, anyway, here she is, once again fixing another broken vacuum cleaner. She goes into her zone. Just stares at it. I’m staring at it too. But nothing magical is working for me. I think she goes to another place — like into the inner parts of the vacuum cleaner, tracing it’s working parts to the source of its pain. Me, I just see a vacuum cleaner.
“It sucks,” I say.
I walk to the kitchen to start in on the dishes, when all of a sudden — Va-room!
“It works!” she exclaims.
“Oh, my god — you fixed another vacuum cleaner,” I say.
“Can you believe it?
“Your legend grows….”
“Look, it’s vacuuming….”
“I married a genius!”
“I gotta go….”
And she’s out the door and off to work. I head into the kitchen to finish washing the dishes when, wham, I slam my head against the cabinet door above the sink.
“Fuck!”
You have no idea how much that hurts.
My daughter left it open. Or maybe it was my wife. One or the other. They’re always leaving it open. They’re too short to bump their heads against it — so what the hell do they care?
But, me, I’m always bumping my head against it.
“Ah, jeez….”
I’m rubbing my head.
“Goddamn chicks!”
Please, don’t tell my daughter….
Big Mike: Chicago’s Unique Brand Of Child Abuse
Think of all the things you have to worry about when you find out you’re pregnant.
~ Am I healthy enough for this?
~ Will I be able to support the kid?
~ Is the house big enough?
~ Where are the good schools?
~ Will the kid have ten fingers and ten toes?
And so forth.
A lot of men fret, too. Back in my more vigorous days, I even worried that my wife or girlfriend might give birth to a Republican. Yeesh!
An old work chum of mine just disclosed to me on Saturday that she’s pregnant. I don’t want to be the guy who tells the whole world, so we’ll just call her Janey. I’ve always been crazy about Janey. Not that The Loved One ought to worry — I’m crazy about Janey the way I’ve been crazy about my pals Benny, Tim, Sophia, Mikey, Amy and a host of others throughout the years.
One of the things that attracted me to Janey was her artistry with the language. For instance, here’s how she broke the news to me: “… by the way, I’m fuckin’ knocked up!”
Saul Bellow or Mike Royko could only dream they possessed such qualities of clarity and brevity.
After the obligatory congrats and woo-hoos, Janey turned deadly serious. Her pregnancy, she confided, would cause her to make a profound lifestyle change. She may have to give up something as near and dear to her as anything on this Earth — save for the little human being who will spend the next nine months kicking her from the inside.
And, by the way, this near and dear thing that she’ll have to forgo has spent the last few decades kicking her from the outside.
But now, no more.
Janey confessed she’s thinking about giving up the Cubs. One of the rare human beings on this planet who cares as much about the chuckleheads and dopes who’ve been in the employ of the Chicago National League Ballclub as I do, Janey is loath to pass along the affliction to the innocent soul developing within her.
“I don’t think I could do that to a kid,” she stated, frankly.
Imagine. Sane people fear their children might fall victim to illness, tragedy or the horrors of acne. Cub fans actually wonder if they might be abusive should they try to bring their kids into the fold.
They’re right. My brother Joey made it a point to raise his three sons in the Wrigley way. But then, after the kick in the gut that was October 14th, 2003, his middle son went into such a funk that Joey worried for his sanity. “Sometimes I wonder what the hell I did that to my kids for,” he said sometime later.
The rose-colored-glasses types who spew false hopes every day on fan sites like Bleed Cubbie Blue might say that being a Cubs fan really prepares you for the vicissitudes of life. You learn, they posit, how to deal with disappointment and failure.
Yeah, sure. As if life is a constant, year-after-year procession of bitter pills, blunders, fiascoes, unrequited desires, heartbreaks…, um, come to think of it, that’s a fairly accurate description of our time on the third planet.
Nevertheless, my point still holds. Why, when we have to deal with divorces, bankruptcies, auto accidents, jiltings, scam artists and Glenn Beck in our everyday lives, do we have to turn to our beloved ballclub for more of the same? I feel I’ve learned how to deal with disappointments simply by getting out of bed every morning. I don’t need any extra practice. Hearing Ron Santo moan “Oh no-o-o-o-o!” one more time won’t make me any stronger or smarter.
In fact, it’s just a punishment I inflict on myself, year after goddamned year. It’s abuse, I tell you.
My old work chum Janey, to her everlasting credit, doesn’t want to abuse her child.
Benny Jay: More Tiger Woods
I’m sitting in the barber chair, getting a hair cut, listening to a song playing on the stereo, and pretty much ignoring the conversation going on in the hair-cutting station next to me….
When the guys having that conversation – a barber and his customer — drop their voices.
Right away my ears perk up cause I know just from the way they drop their voices they’re rolling in the mud. I know they’re talking about — what else? — Tiger Woods.
My barber’s telling me about some new restaurant in town, but I’m just nodding along, pretending I’m listening to her, when really I’m desperate to hear what the guys next to us are saying about Tiger Woods.
The thing is people like to pretend they’re above all this stuff, but c’mon, let’s be real – Tiger Woods is all anyone’s talking about these days. I hear it everywhere I go – trains, buses, bars, restaurants, the bowling alley. Tiger this, Tiger that – folks can’t get enough….
The barber’s telling the other guy he really isn’t paying attention to the scandal. Doesn’t know the details. Turns it off whenever it comes on the news. Couldn’t care less. Thinks it’s nobody’s business what a man does with his wife and vice versa, but….
“Yeah?”
“Well, they say this wasn’t the first time she went after him with a golf club….”
“Who said?”
“The neighbor….”
“What neighbor?”
“There’s a neighbor – Tiger Woods’s neighbor. You didn’t hear this?”
“Where did you hear the neighbor?”
“On TV….”
“What he say?”
“Well….”
His voice drops even lower, like he’s imparting a secret. I’m straining to listen, but with the clippers buzzing my side burns and all I can hear is bzzzz….
I walk home wondering what it was that the neighbor said and how the guy in the chair knew about it if he wasn’t paying attention to the Tiger Woods story and why do people drop their voices when they’re rolling in the mud….
I get home. Greet the dog. Sift through the mail. The phone rings. It’s my mother.
“Did you read Maureen Dowd?”
Instantly, I know what she’s talking about.
“Oh, god, ma – you too?”
“She said Tiger is a cheetah…”
“I saw that….”
“That’s hilarious….”
“Okay, it wasn’t that funny….”
“Your father thought it was hysterical….”
“Dad’s following the Tiger Woods stuff?”
“He was laughing hysterically….”
“Mr. I-hate-popular-culture is following Tiger Woods….”
She launches into the latest. Something about Tiger’s wife having a pre-nup worth up to $300 million.
“She should divorce him and take the money….”
“Ma, how do you know all this stuff?”
“What, you think I live in a cave? It’s all over the news….”
“There’s a lot of stuff all over the news that you don’t pick up on – like Jay Cutler…. “
“Who?”
“Proves my point….”
“Don’t get fresh, smarty pants….”
“Tell the truth, had you ever heard of Tiger Woods before this happened?”
“Yes – he’s that skinny guy….”
“What does he do?”
Pause. I can tell she’s thinking it over.
“A baseball player?”
“Oh, brother, ma — he’s a golfer….”
“Same thing….”
Big Mike: A Bus Stop Called Hope
Maybe, just maybe, this self-advertised holy land is not as screwed up as I generally think it is. I mean, sure, we’re still fighting in Bushy-boy’s Excellent Iraq Adventure and the New York state senate has just saved Empire-Staters from the utter horror of same-sex couples leaving each other inheritances as if, you know, they were married or something. And Glenn Beck still roams the streets unencumbered by a straight jacket.
So I’ve got to grab at whatever straws I can find. I found a couple this morning on a dark, icy road on the outskirts of Bloomington.
South central Indiana was reeling under the effects of a pre-dawn snowstorm. The local NPR anchor announced that news of school and workplace closings would be forthcoming. I padded over to the big living room picture window and noticed my front lawn seemed strangely aglow. State Route 446 was glistening white.
At first I thought there was simply frost on the ground. It wasn’t until I trundled out my front door, bundled up like a chubby, bearded snowman that I realized that a mere quarter of an inch of snow had blanketed the area and threatened to paralyze the metropolis. Blades of grass poked out from the whisper thin sheet giving the terrain a five-o’clock shadow.
Naturally, motorists operated their vehicles as if they were convoy drivers in Afghanistan’s battle zones. The bus slowly lumbered up the hill to my stop. Still, its wheels locked up the micro-second its driver brought his foot to within an inch of the brake pedal.
The driver jumped out and quickly lit up a smoke since he was about five minutes ahead of schedule.
“Well, you’re gonna earn your dough today,” I told him.
“You ain’t kiddin’,” he replied. “There’s wrecks all over the place. I passed a six-car smash-up on my way here. I had a scare myself. When I was gettin’ to the intersection of Moore’s Pike and 446, I started brakin’ real early but I still went into the intersection as if I had no brakes. I thought I was gonna go down the ravine on the other side of the road and turn over. Luckily, I hit a patch of gravel and just stopped.”
With that he took a long drag off his cigarette like a soldier who’d just returned from a mission in Tora Bora. “But we’ll be alright, though,” he said, breathing out the smoke. “Go on, get in.”
I dug around in my pocket and realized that I’d changed to my winter coat this morning and that my bus fare was still in my fall jacket. “Holy shit,” I said. I whipped out my wallet and discovered it was empty (cash-wise, as the fetching Fran Kubelik might have said) as well. “Man, am I a dope!” I spluttered.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my money!”
“Don’t worry about it. Go on in.”
I stared at him as if he’d tossed me the keys and told me the bus was mine.
“Huh?” I said.
“Go on, it’s okay.”
I climbed on the bus with my head aswirl. The driver stepped on his cigarette butt, followed me aboard and we commenced along the route. He drove ever so slowly and as he turned, I could feel the bus slide like a boat cutting a turn on a smooth lake. We descended the little hill approaching State Route 46 (I love confounding people by telling them I live near routes 46 and 446 — it always takes them a squint-eyed moment to figure out what I mean.) We sat at the light for a few seconds and then — BAM. My eyes shot up form the New York Times Book Review in time to see all my fellow passengers’ heads recoil slightly from the blow.
A car had rear-ended us. Even though the bus had barely moved with the impact, the car was totaled, it’s air bags deploying. The bus driver leaped out to check on the car driver. After a few minutes, he climbed back aboard and announced, “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’re all gonna be late for your classes or for work.” His eyes looked sad as if he’d hurt us deeply. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
The rest of us opened our laptops or closed our eyes and disappeared into our iPods. Then the car driver came on board to get out of the cold and rummage through her purse for her license and registration. She turned to us and said, “I’m so sorry for hitting this bus.” Her hair was tousled and she looked to be on the verge of tears. She dug through her purse a bit more and then the cops arrived. She headed for the door but turned to us again. “Really, I mean it, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” With that she dashed out to jump into the squad car.
Within a minute, we were back on our way.
I mean, really. In Chicago, passersby would have been scrambling to get on the bus so they could claim they were injured. A good fraction of my fellow passengers would have been lying on the floor waiting for a fleet of ambulances to rush them to the emergency room or their lawyers’ offices. Instead, here in Bloomington, Indiana, the bus driver hadn’t even asked us if we were alright. He knew we were and that only a cad would claim not to be. And the car driver! Had the accident happened at the corner of Madison and Wacker, she’d never have apologized, implying something so naive as responsibility. In fact, she’d already be formulating a strategy for her lawsuits against the CTA, the City of Chicago, the manufacturer of the bus and, for all I know, me for getting on board without paying.
Maybe there’s hope for this world.
Benny Jay: Mazel Tov, Miles
On Saturday, I attend the Bar Mitzvah of Miles, older son of Cap, my bowling-team brother.
I can’t believe this moment has come. Seems like the lead up’s been going on for eternity. At least that’s how long Cap’s been telling us about Miles and his mighty struggle to learn Hebrew.
The thing is — Miles is a great kid. Tall, handsome, smart. A great baseball player, by the way. The kid can hit the ball a country mile and throw it faster than a bullet. One day, you watch, he’ll be playing in the Big Leagues. You heard it here first, folks….
But learn Hebrew? Oh, my goodness, that’s another thing. And not just any Hebrew – but the Hebrew that’s in the Torah, which is the Old Testament, for all you non-Jewish readers out in The Third City land.
To complete your Bar Mitzvah, you have to stand in front of a whole congregation of people – everyone your parents invited to see you sweat – and read all these funny little letters scrunched together and going from right to left instead of left to right – what’s that about anyway?
For the last few years at Cap’s house it’s been a steady refrain of Miles pleading:
Do I gotta go to Hebrew school?
Or: Why do I gotta go to Hebrew school?
Or: How come I can’t play baseball.
Or: Life is not fair!!!!!!
And now it’s come down to gut-check time….
He steps to the podium….
Hey, I can relate. I truly can. Two hundred years ago, when I was 13, my parents decided that I too must have a Bar Mitzvah. They sent me to a Hebrew class filled with knuckleheads who took pleasure in tormenting the teacher – a heavily accented European refugee – by pretending they were hard of hearing.
As in: “Could you repeat that – I didn’t hear you?
“Repeat what?”
“What?”
Drove the teacher crazy — no one learned a thing.
I may have been the biggest dummy to ever take a Hebrew class. On the eve of my Bar Mitzvah, the school’s principal called me to his office and broke the news: “It’s tradition to chant the Torah portion. But in your case….”
Pause for emphasis….
“Maybe not….”
On the day of the Bar Mitzvah I was a wreck. I stood before the congregation, which seemed packed with thousands and tried to avoid the stares of my friends who were trying to make me laugh by making funny faces. Then I started reading my Torah portion. How I finished, I do not know. But finish I did. When it had ended, I let loose a mighty sigh. As in, phew, I’ll never have to do that again….
So, yes, Miles – I can relate…..
He briefly looks up. Sees cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, friends of parents. Plus his pals from Chute Jr. High School, filling up the back left corner, and trying to make him laugh by making funny faces — hey, some things never change….
The rabbi stands to his left, the cantor to his right. They’re acting like they’re there to lend him support. But I know the real deal – they’re there to make sure he doesn’t break for the exit….
He looks down at the Torah’s sacred text – in this case the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel. For all I know, he offers up his own silent prayer. And then he starts….
At first he stumbles. Like he’s lost his place. The rabbi and cantor lean closer. All sounds in the congregation cease. At this point, a lot of kids will pull the old routine – oldest trick in the book – of lowering their voices to a murmur, so no one can hear what they’re saying.
But not Miles. His voice actually rises. I can hear him and I’m sitting in the back.
He finds his place. And starts to pick up steam. He sees daylight and he’s off, like Gale Sayers running across the muddy turf of Wrigley Field. Look at him go. Reading that Hebrew. Like an ancient sage from Babylonia. The little train who can – I can do this, I can do this….
Done! He’s reached the end of the text. Mercy, mercy me! It’s over! Hallelujah! I swear I hear angels singing and trumpets blaring….
He looks up. His eyes blink.
The cantor smiles. The rabbi smiles. Everyone’s smiling. His proud parents have tears in their eyes. I want to jump to my feet and yell: Bravo!
And Miles? He’s got the biggest smile of all. As in – wow, I did that. I actually did that!
Yeah, you did it, Miles Isaiah Porter. You certainly did.
Hey, man, if that baseball thing doesn’t pan out, you might consider becoming a rabbi…..
Guest Blogger:
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Candyman. Written by Benny Jay. Read by Joel Reitsma, Lorenzo Toia, Ray Jay 3000, Andy Orscheln and No Blaise. Produced by Jus Buckingham of King Conundrum Productions.
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