January « 2010 « The Third City

Benny Jay: God Is A Black Man, The Quiz

January 4th, 2010

The news is so good I have to to call Daddy Dee and tell him all about it –- The Message is in the Music got extended for at least another month, through the end of January 31, to be exact.

That’s the show I wrote about a few weeks ago. Subtitled God is a Black Man Named Ricky, it stars Rick Stone, my friend and writing partner, as God. It’s playing at the Black Ensemble Theater.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s the greatest show Jackie Taylor‘s ever staged and that’s saying a lot – she should run it forever.

As I wrote before, it’s about a showdown between God and Lucifer and it features 27 songs from the `60s and `70s. Daddy Dee’s from a younger generation – more of an `80s guy – but he sings in a R & B band so he knows his dusties.

“You have to tell your parents to see this show,” I tell him. “They’d love it.”

“What songs do they sing?” he asks.

“Well, let’s see.…” I rifle through the debris on my desk – gotta clean this stuff up one of these days — until I find the program underneath a pile of old newspaper clippings.

“Okay – let’s see how many of these songs you know,” I say. “It starts with It’s All Right….”

“Curtis Mayfield,” he says.

“You Haven’t Done Nothing….”

“Easy — Stevie Wonder….”

“Imagine….”

“Sing it….”

“Sing it?”

“Yeah, sing it….”

“I can’t sing….”

“C’mon, man….”

He’s silent. Clearly waiting for me to sing. Oh, brother. This is not what I wanted, cause let me let you in on a little secret: I can’t sing….

I open my mouth. But the words escape me. I’ve heard this song a zillion times. I know the words by heart. But I can’t remember them. I can never remember the words to any song. It’s just one of the many things I plan to work on in the coming year.

In the meantime, I sing the first words that pop into my mind: “Imagine no people — it’s easy if you try….”

“John Lennon,” he says.

I’m stunned. “You recognized that?”

“Yeah,” he says impatiently. Clearly, he’s into the game. “Next song….”

“I sang it that good?”

“Yeah, yeah….”

“Wow….”

“C’mon, man….”

“Love Me Like a Rock….”

“Paul Simon….”

“People Make the World Go Round….”

“Stylistics….”

“Ball of Confusion….”

“Duh — Temptations….”

“Fire….”

“Ohio Players.” Here he starts singing: “The way you swerve and curve really wrecks my nerves….’”

“Going in Circles….”

“Oh, I know this,” he says.

“Friends of Distinction,” I say.

“Damn, I knew that….”

“Got to Use My Imagination….”

“Gladys….”

“Did I ever tell you I love Gladys Knight?” I say.

“Next….”

I guess I’ll have to save that story for later. “Tell Me Something Good….”

“Chaka Khan….”

“For ten extra trivia points — who wrote it?”

“That’s easy — Mr. Wonder….”

“And what high school did Chaka Khan go to?”

“High school?”

“She’s from Chicago….”

“I know….:

“Calumet….”

“Oh….”

“Or, was it Kenwood?”

“Give me another one….”

“Ain’t No Way….’”

Silence.

“I’ll give you a hint,” I say. “The singer’s a woman….”

“Sing it,” he says.

“No way….”

“You did John Lennon….”

“Yeah, but this singer’s too good….”

“C’mon….”

I pause. This may be the hardest thing I’ve ever tried. I just wing it: “`Ain’t No Way — to love a man….”

My voice creaks and cracks as I try to take it higher and somehow or other the wires in my brain criss cross and I wind up singing a completely different song. “Lovin’ that man of mine….”

Daddy Dee cuts me off: “What is that?”

“Aretha….”

“Aretha!” He can barely get her name out, he’s laughing so hard.

“Hey, man, I told you I can’t sing….”

He’s still laughing.

“Just go see the show. It sounds a whole lot better when they do it….”

For information on show times and tickets, call the Black Ensemble Theater: 773-769-4451.

Big Mike: Our New Year’s Blessing

January 3rd, 2010

Lenny Bruce once did a great bit about Lima, Ohio, a tiny town that his agent had booked him into for a week. Bruce, a New Yorker if there ever was one, was the quintessential babe in the woods in Lima. He marveled at the cannon in the square, the elderly waitresses at the Woolworth’s lunch counter who wore monogrammed hankies in their breast pockets, and the fact that the “nightclub” he was playing had kids’ bikes parked out in front.

One night, he met the only Jewish couple in town so, naturally, they had to invite him over for dinner to introduce him to the only Jewish spinster in town. When he got to the couple’s home, they took great pains to give him a tour that included every corner of the place. They even showed him how neatly they’d folded the towels in the linen closet.

Lenny-Bruce_l

Ellettsville, Indiana, where The Loved One and I spent New Year’s Day, almost makes Lima, Ohio, look like Greenwich Village.

The receptionist at the family practice clinic we go to apparently took a liking to us the first time we walked into the place. The next time I came in to see the doctor, the receptionist greeted me by first name before I even reached her window. She grinned at me and asked me how I’d been as if we’d known each other since the ‘60s.

Me: “Um, I’m fine. Er, do I know you?”

She: “We’ve met, don’t you remember? This isn’t your first time here. You’re sort of hard to forget!”

I nodded, puzzled. On subsequent visits, she again greeted me more warmly than some members of my family who haven’t seen me in years. Okay, most members of my family.

The Loved One told me a week and a half ago that the receptionist had invited us to her Ellettsville home for a pot luck New Year’s dinner. “We ought to go,” she said. “We need to meet more people around here.”

I shrugged and we went. We drove over hill and dale for so long I thought we’d crossed half the nation’s corn and cow belt. Wild turkeys would scuttle away as we’d come up over a rise. Once, we even stopped to look at a little calf who was munching some grass next to the road. We squealed off when some big thing, its mother or father maybe — we didn’t have time to check — advanced toward us in a meaningful manner.

The house was full of people when we walked in. We realized we were still operating on big city time, arriving about 45 minutes late, not figuring there’d be a schedule for this kind of thing. Our hostess, we’ll call her Peggy Sue, a plumpish, ebullient woman about sixty years old, greeted us extravagantly. After hugging the wind out of us, she hollered out to her husband, “Okay, Billy, everybody’s here — let’s get started!”

Billy started lining up crock pots, Pyrex casseroles, and enormous pots filled with steaming food. Everybody was to bring some dish that represented their ethnic background so The Loved One had me make up my famous flatbread pizzas.

As we waited for the spread to be ready, we watched a college bowl game. We really couldn’t help but watch as both the big TV in the living room and a slightly smaller one in the kitchen dominated the place. It took me a few minutes to figure out Ohio State was playing Louisiana State in the mud. Many of the guests whooped after each big Ohio State gain. I asked one of the men why anybody here cared about Ohio State. “Why, it’s the Big Ten!” he said. “If our guys can’t be in it, then we have to root for our conference.”

This fellow, Henry, turned out to be the organizer of the group’s weekly tailgate parties that start hours and hours before Indiana home football games. He took a good look at me and said, “You look like a man who enjoys football. You’re gonna hafta come to our tailgate parties next year!”

I hadn’t the heart to tell him that my interest in football rivals that of “Dancing with the Stars.” That is, it’s non-existent.

“You bet,” I said, grinning. “That’ll be a hoot.”

With that, Peggy Sue circulated among the guests to break the news that some new blood would be joining the tailgate gang. As she bounced from couple to couple, she’d point, tell them about us, and they’d all smile. A few people even came up to shake my hand and welcome me to the club. After a while, I nudged Henry and said, “I feel like I’m a high school senior being recruited.”

Henry roared and replied, “You are! You’re gonna be the new player on our team!”

Henry then proceeded to tell others what I’d just said, eliciting peals of laughter. I smiled and nodded at them all as I tried to figure out how I could make a cameo at a tailgate party and then slip away before the game started.

One of the guests was a guy named Raymond. He’d come from Cleveland years before to work at one of Bloomington’s biggest employers. Since he was from the big city, he was acknowledged as the reigning wine expert. He cornered me at one point and started expounding on sixty-dollar bottles of wine he’d enjoyed. I nodded dutifully. Again, I hadn’t the heart to tell him I, too, take price into consideration when I buy wine. As long as it’s $6.99 or less, I buy it.

There was a nice lesbian couple in attendance, Martha and Melody Jane. “They call us the M&M twins,” Martha explained. “We live next door and we raise boxers.”

A tall, prematurely gray man watched the bowl game from a comfortable seat on the sofa. Every fifteen minutes or so, unbidden and silently, he’d stand up, cross the living room and tend to his wife, a tiny woman named Marie who had a thick accent of uncertain origin.

It seems Marie had recently undergone foot surgery and had to wear an odd pressure boot that had to be filled with ice water. Like clockwork, her husband took care of filling the boot with fresh water, never uttering a complaint. I watched this and shook my head. Most big city guys, I’m sure, would have had to grouse at least some of the time. As for me, I might have suggested to The Loved One that she had one good leg, so why couldn’t she just get up and refill the boot herself?

I found out later, over dinner, where Marie was from. I was in the middle of explaining how The Loved One and I had spent some seven months apart while she worked in Bloomington and I tried to get the Louisville house sold. “Oh, doan tell me about d’at,” Marie said. “D’at’s nut’ting! My husband and me had to travel t’ree t’ousand miles to see each udder! ‘E was here in Indiana and I was up in Canada. I’m an Acadian. I lived just a fifty miles below d’e tundra.”

I wondered if she’d have ever found a man fifty miles below the tundra who’d refill her boot like clockwork.

After dinner, Peggy Sue grabbed me by the arm and said, “Don’t you want something to drink? You know, just because we’re Catholics doesn’t mean we don’t like to have fun!” She giggled and winked at me. “Yup,” she added, “I’m a Catholic but I like to have a drink now and then.”

I’d heard some references to church get-togethers already. I nosed around and found out that many of the guests were members of Peggy Sue and Billy’s church in Bloomington. Suddenly, I wondered if The Loved One and I weren’t in line to be recruited into something other than the tailgate party gang.

About an hour later, Peggy Sue grabbed me by the hand and crooked her finger at me. “Come with me,” she whispered. “I want to show you a secret.” She led me into her bedroom.

I began to sweat. Panicking, I thought, What the hell’s going on here?

“Here’s my beautiful maple bed,” Peggy Sue cooed. She stilled clasped my hand. I thought, Oh Christ in heaven! How am I gonna get out of this? This is some Catholic, football-worshipping, wife-swappers’ club. Help!

Peggy Sue led me to the bathroom off the master bedroom. It was huge and was dominated by a brand new Jacuzzi. “Voila!” Peggy Sue said with a sweep of the arm like a game show hostess.

“Well now, that’s something!” I said, my voice cracking.

117jacuzzi

She crooked her finger at me again. “Let me show you something else.”

I repressed the urge to scream, No, no, please don’t start taking your clothes off! Please, please!

She opened a cabinet door and showed me a bottle. “You take just one capful of this and pour it in the Jacuzzi, turn the water on and you’ll have bubbles this high,” she said, positioning her hand a couple of feet above the tub.

“Well, hehe,” I said, “too bad I took a good shower before I came.”

“Oh,” Peggy Sue grinned. “You’re so funny!”

No, I wanted to say. No, I’m not. I’m cranky. I’m boring. I don’t look good without clothes on. And I’m sure you’re a wonderful gal, but, really, I don’t want to see you without clothes on. Oh, sweet Jesus, let me out of here!

Then it hit me — what if The Loved One walked in at that moment? I scrambled for potential alibis. Honey, I swear, this isn’t what you think it is. It’s all innocent. Honest. Please believe me!

I turned to admire the fancy woodwork of her sink and cabinets. “Such fine craftsmanship,” I said.

With that, Peggy Sue launched into a lengthy description of how she came to choose the wood and the design. The more she talked about it, the more my heart slowed down. Finally, she pulled out one of the vanity drawers. It was filled with neatly folded towels. “Look at how deep these drawers are!” she said. I could only think of what Lenny Bruce once said in a similar situation.

“Yep,” I nodded, “those towels sure are neatly folded.”

Peggy Sue suddenly bounded out of the bathroom, leaving me alone. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and thought, Yikes, and here I was worried about how I was going to slip away from a football game!

Moments later, Peggy Sue reentered, dragging The Loved One with her. Before I could start making excuses, Peggy Sue launched into the same spiel she’d given me about the Jacuzzi. She concluded this time by saying, “So anytime you two want to come over and have a little private time here in the tub, you just let us know!”

I was fully clothed but I felt naked as a jaybird when Peggy Sue said that. “Just because we’re Catholics doesn’t mean we don’t like our fun,” she added. “Or that we don’t want our friends to have fun either!”

Peggy Sue grinned at us. We grinned back. But when Peggy Sue turned to leave the bathroom again, The Loved One caught my eye. As Peggy Sue pranced on ahead of us, The Loved One leaned close and whispered, “I think she wants us to join her church. She gave me the church bulletin to take home.”

“Oh, ah,” I said.

“Hey,” The Loved One added, “your forehead is sweaty — why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Not long after, we started saying our goodbyes. We really did have a nice time with some awfully friendly people despite my scare in Peggy Sue’s bedroom and bath. I started feeling a little guilty about what I’d been thinking. The Loved One and I crunched through the frozen lawn to our car, wordlessly, exchanging glances every few feet. Suddenly, we heard a high-pitched, sing-song voice coming from the front door.

“Yoo hoo! You two!” We froze in our tracks. “You forgot your church bulletin!” We turned around and saw Peggy Sue running toward us. She placed the bulletin in The Loved One’s hand. “We loved having you two over,” Peggy Sue said. “We consider it a blessing to have company. It is a true blessing.”

catholic-mass

We waved, got in our car and peeled away.

Cartographers may tell you that Indiana is right next door to Illinois. They may even add that the city of Chicago shares a four or five mile border with the Hoosier state.

That, of course, is a delusion. Indiana is as far from Chicago as the island of Madagascar. Or Lima, Ohio.

Benny Jay: Chinese Porn

January 2nd, 2010

If I have an enduring image for 2009, it’s this….

It’s Milo, Jon Randolph, Merlin, the computer genius, and me huddled around a laptop screen in a coffee shop on the north side of town. (With Big Mike, calling in on a cell phone from Kentucky).

At the computer terminal is a lad of twenty, who looks like he’s sixteen – tops.

His name is Andy, but we call him The Kid. As in – we’re meeting with The Kid at noon.

The deal is this: He’s a computer-design genius from Columbia College and he’s designing a new look for our site cause we’re too dumb to do it ourselves.

Actually, we had no choice. We’d been doing this blog thing for about six months, when I sent a link to Mark, the smartest businessman I know. He made his first bundle selling roach clips to hippies back in the `60s and he’s been rolling in the dough ever since.

“What do you think?” I ask him.

“It looks like it was put together by a bunch of writers who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing,” he says.

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“It looks like a piece of shit….”

“Okay, that’s more specific….”

Then he gives me some great advice: “Stick to the writing, Benny. For the design, get yourself some college kid who knows what the fuck he’s doing….”

So one things leads to another and here we were, huddled around The Kid. We’re all telling him something different at once. How he makes sense out of it is a miracle.

For better or worse, these are my boys. I’ve been hanging with them like forever. Matter of fact, when I met them, they looked as young as Andy. Imagine that. And then — well, you know how it goes — one day bleeds into another and the next thing you know we look like the Rolling Stones, circa 2009: Bald spots, lined faces, gray hair, slumping shoulders, wretched posture, coffee-stained teeth, acne scars. But enough about me.

The Kid couldn’t be nicer. Smiles at our jokes. Patiently explains the most basic of computer concepts. Then explains them again as we ask a few more stupid questions. I’m sure he’s thinking: God, these guys are old.

Later we gather outside the coffee shop and talk about something we know nothing about – how to draw more readers to our blog. Of course, the fact that we know nothing about it doesn’t stop us from talking about it. That’s just how we roll.

In fact, the guy who knows the least — Milo — does most of the talking. The key to building readership, he explains, is the headline. If you write the right headline, you’ll draw in computers from all over the world.

We’re nodding our heads, like he’s Bill Gates.

“That’s why you gotta put the the name of a country in the title,” Milo says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Like China,” he continues. ” Put China in the headline and you’ll have a billion Chinese fuckers reading The Third City….”

“Makes sense,” I say.

“Or porn — everybody loves porn,” says Milo. “You’ll never go broke writing headlines about porn….”

“Chinese porn,” says Randolph.

“Perfect headline, Jonny,” says Milo. “You keep coming up with headlines like that and we’ll be rich…..”

Over six months have past since that momentous meeting with The Kid. Somehow or other The Third City’s been around for over a year. You’d have thought a bunch of old farts would have run out of things to write about. But so far we haven’t missed a day. Amazing!

You watch — one of these days we’re gonna hit it so big, we’ll have three billion readers. That’s my resolution for 2010 — along with bringing peace to the world and a championship to the Bulls, of course. Hey, I don’t ask for a lot.

As Milo says, we’ll be rich. We’ll be hanging poolside with LeBron James’ mother and Barbra Streisand’s husband. I’ll buy a little red sports car, take a trip to Hawaii, and give The Kid a raise.

In the meantime, Happy New Years everybody. From me and my boys…..