Benny Jay: The Big Game

It’s the night of the Big Game — Young versus Simeon for the state high school championship — and I’m watching it all by myself.

My wife and older daughter were with me. But one had to drive the other to a party in Wicker Park. So they left.

I could have gone with them. But I’d have missed the Big Game. Can’t do that. Haven’t missed the Big Game in years.

I’m sitting in the corner table of a noodle restaurant where we had been eating dinner watching the TV that’s on the other side of the room.

They’re closing down for the night. All the other customers have left except for one guy at the counter eating a big bowl of chicken soup.

The busboy’s clearing tables.

I should be going. The fourth quarter starts. Simeon’s up 15. It’s not even close.

But I can’t leave so soon. What if Young comes back? What if they win? For years, people world be talking about the greatest comeback in high school basketball history and I wouldn’t be able to say I saw it. Oh, I could say I saw it. But that would be lying. Like saying you were at Woodstock when you never really went….

The busboy’s standing in front of me, looking at the dishes on my table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m done….”

He starts gathering the dishes.

“Good game,” I say looking at the TV.

He nods.

I don’t think he speaks English. No matter – language is no barrier when I want to talk sports. I can talk to myself, if I have to.

“That kid — number 24 – is a shooter,” I say. “I love shooters….”

The busboy smiles.

“A lot of people think he’s cocky. But most shooters are cocky. Right? Reggie Miller was cocky….”

He clears the dishes.

The waitress comes by.

“Anything else?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

She gives me a look, like – why are you still here?

I nod at the TV. “Do you like basketball?” I ask.

She looks at the game like she’s seeing it for the first time.  I’m all excited – like her looking at the screen means she’s ready to talk some basketball.

“This is the championship game,” I say.

She walks away.

Oh, well….

The busboy’s stacking chairs on tables.

There’s about three minutes left. Young cuts the lead to 13. Could this be the historic comeback?

The busboy’s mopping the floor.

Nah, Simeon goes back up by 17.

The busboy mops up to my table. I feel him standing over me. It reminds me of what the bartender at that country-western club on Clark Street used to say at closing time: “Don’t care where you go — hotel, motel, no-tell – just get out of here….”

I walk to the front of the restaurant, lean against the wall and look up at the TV.

The busboy mops around where I had been sitting. He’s mopped every inch of the restaurant except the corner I’m currently occupying.

I’m like that old drunk who just won’t leave the bar. If this games goes any longer they’ll throw me out.

At last, it ends. Simeon wins. “What do you expect?” I say to the busboy, the waitress and everyone else who’s not listening. “Young had no offense.”

I put on my hat and gloves. “You can’t win if you’re just running around….”

The busboy is mopping the corner where I had been standing.

“Take care,” I say as I walk out the door. The door shuts behind me, so I can’t hear if anyone says good-bye.

It’s the night of the Big Game – good thing I didn’t watch it by myself….

Big Mike: As The Skin Turns

So, Chancellor Obama has successfully presided over Kristallnacht II. The windows of all freedom-loving, pistol-lugging, god-and-dark-skin-fearing Americans have been shattered. The legal instrument that initiated this crushing tyranny was a watered-down health care reform bill that would have thrilled Chuck Percy or Nelson Rockefeller a few decades ago.

And You Thought The Nazis Were Vicious….

All the country’s bleeding-heart patriots are boo-hooing over the sight of their brothers stumbling down the street, choking on the 1990-page bill that’s been shoved down their throats. (I wonder why that throat image was so popular among Tea Baggers leading up to the House vote over weekend — is there some weird, repressed sexual imagery I’m not quite getting?)

A Real Throat-Stuffer

Anyway, now that Obama has established himself as the 21st Century’s answer to the despots of the previous hundred years, what’s next? Drunk with power, he must be casting about for another group of innocent patriots to flatten under his jackboot heel. Just as the Nazis found convenient scapegoats in the Jews and the commies for the economic woes of mid-20th Century Germany, I feel certain Obama can find a similarly innocent bunch to pin the blame on for our Great Recession.

How about Wall Street? I’m a member of the Obama Bund, after all. I volunteered for him in Kentucky during the 2008 primary season. Clearly I despise freedom, pistols, and god. I must be, by extension, a socialist. I’m not quite sure what a socialist is, exactly, but the Tea Baggers seem to have a clear definition of the word, considering they use it in every other sentence they utter. (My theory is it means nigger, but more research on its etymology must be conducted.)

So, as a good committed socialist, I call for the new Final Solution — those who have Wall Street blood coursing through their veins must be rounded up, loaded on trains, and shipped away to the dreaded community service re-education camps that Michele Bachmann warned the nation about last summer. That includes investment bankers, mortgage bond salesmen, equities traders, arbitrageurs and other such undesirables.

Middle America, of course, will have apoplexy. The Tea Baggers will come out in force again to fight us on this plan. They’ll point out that within every average American Main Streeter there exists a bloated plutocrat. We are all cigar-chomping predators, they’ll shout. First they came for the uber-rich oligarchs, then they came for us, their placards will read.

Mein Fuehrer, Herr Obama, I call on you to shove economic reform down the nation’s throat now! If that makes me a socialist, so be it! I wonder if my skin is turning darker.

“Save Us From The Coming Tyranny, Oh Lord!”

Benny Jay: Will You Be My Facebook Friend?

In his never-ending drive to become the world’s richest man by writing a blog, Milo signs up with Facebook.

If you recall, I did the same thing for the same reason a few months back. Thought it would make me so rich I could buy that little red sports car I always wanted.

It hasn’t quite worked out that way. I made about 240 or so friends and then ran out of steam. This Facebook shit is way harder than it looks.  I’m still driving the Taurus.

But I have high hopes for Milo. He’s clever — much smarter than me. I figure he’ll have thousands of friends within a few weeks. Probably have to set up one of those Facebook Fans of Milo sites.

And they’ll all be reading The Third City. We’ll make so much money selling ads, I’ll buy that little red sports car and take a trip to Hawaii!

That’s the plan, anyway.

I hate to admit it, but we’re off to a slow start.

The problem is Milo had a hard time grasping the essential contradiction at the heart of this whole Facebook thing — you’re “friends” with a whole lot of people you don’t even know.

I was leading him through the steps and he befriended a guy named Joe.

“What’s this shit?” he says. “A message just popped up recommending that I ask Bob to be my friend….”

“Perfect,” I say. “That’s how Facebook works….”

“What do I do?”

“Ask him to be your friend?”

“Why?”

“Because you want to get more friends….”

“But I don’t know the little fucker….”

“Who cares? You want friends whether you want them or not. Monroe‘s got like 3,000 friends — he’s lucky if he knows thirty of them….”

Pause. Silence.  Uh-oh. I can almost hear the wheels in his mind going round and round. I know what he’s thinking — he’s trying to figure out a scheme to use this Facebook friend thing to hustle little old ladies out of their life savings. Sort of like Bernie Madoff, his personal hero.

Hey, you can take the kid out of Gary, but you can’t take the Gary out of the kid….

Days pass. Obviously, he’s figured something out cause he’s asking everyone and everything:  Will you be my Facebook friend?

I’m getting emails from my older daughter telling me about the emails she’s getting from her friends asking her who the hell’s this Milo guy who wants to be their Facebook friend.

He asks this one lady, call her Misty, to be his friend. He has no idea who she is. All he knows is she’s a Facebook friend of a Facebook friend. Doesn’t even know which Facebook friend she’s friends with.

But instead of accepting his request for friendship, Misty writes back: “Where do I know you from?”

Like, you know, she actually has to know him, or at least know of him, before she makes him her Facebook friend. Like he’s got to pass some kind of audition….

Pisses Milo off. He figures the lady was lucky he wanted to be her Facebook friend in the first place.

So he writes back: “Where do you know me from? As I recall, you were my third or fourth wife.”

Then he calls me to tell me all about it. Cracks me up. I love that line. I love it so much I make him tell it to me twice.  I love it so much I’m writing this whole blog bit just as an excuse to use it. As we like to say — a good line is a terrible thing to waste….

Needless to say, Milo never heard back from Misty. She probably sent out a message to all her Facebook friends warning them to stay away from some creep named Milo.

Sigh….

Like I was saying, this Facebook shit is taking us longer than expected to master. Guess I’ll have to hold off on that little red sports car….

Letter From Milo: Stealing a Car

I haven’t stolen any cars in the last few years, but I’m planning to steal one this weekend. This is going to be a tricky theft, one that’s going to take cunning, nerve and brass balls. The car in question is a rare vehicle, prized for its symbolism as much as its transportation value.

To do this job right I’m going to need a partner, someone ruthless, meaner than a snake and without a shred of conscience. I need someone who is heavily armed and willing to resort to violence, someone who won’t faint at the sight of blood. I want some serious muscle on my side in case things get ugly. My partner has to be cruel, nasty, devious and cunning. Fortunately, I found the perfect accomplice, a savage cutthroat with a long and brutal criminal history.

It’s my sister.

And the car we’re going to steal belongs to my 85-year-old mother.

Now, technically, we’re not actually going to steal my mother’s car. What we are doing is taking the car away for her own good. At least that’s what my sister tells me.

“She’s a menace. Her mind is slipping. Her doctor told me she shouldn’t be driving. And that was a year ago.”

“I don’t know. She loves that car.”

“I’m telling you, she’s dangerous. What if she gets in an accident and kills herself?”

“At least she’ll die in the saddle.”

“Even worse, what if she runs over some kid playing in the street?”

“Teach the little fucker a lesson about playing in streets. He’d be better off hanging out in a pool room like a regular kid.”

“Sometimes you sound like an idiot. Are you drunk?”

“Ah, not yet.”

I’m well aware that my mother’s mind is slipping – and it’s breaking my heart.

She used to be as sharp as Joseph Stiglitz, but time has eroded her keen faculties. Now she’s inching toward the Shemp Howard end of the gray matter scale (no offense, Mom). As much as I hate to say it, sometimes having a telephone conversation with the dear old lady can be a chore.

“Is your furnace okay?

“What?”

“Your furnace. You know it’s very cold outside.”

“The furnace is fine, Mom.”

A few minutes later…

“Is your furnace okay? Maybe you should have it checked.”

“Mom, you already asked me about the furnace.”

“I did? Is it working okay?”

“Works real good, Mom.”

“That’s a relief.”

Another few minutes later…

“Have you had your furnace checked recently? It’s very cold outside.”

Ever since the Old Man packed his bags and checked into Graceland, more than 20 years ago, my mother has relished her independence. She lives in a small apartment about a quarter mile from my sister in Munster, Indiana. Although my sister regularly asks my mother to move in with her, Mom always refuses. She loves her little apartment. She likes the freedom to do whatever she wants and not have to answer to anyone. She says she enjoys the peace and quiet (the Old Man had an aggravating fondness for the Old Rip ‘n Roar). Mostly, though, she likes to get in her car and drive. “As long as I can drive,” she says, “I can take care of myself.”

The car is more than a means of transportation to her. It is a symbol that allows her to believe she is still a strong and vital woman, someone who lives her life according to her own rules. The sad truth is that she can no longer maintain that fiction. She is now a little old lady who needs help.

The next thing to consider, of course, is her housing situation. Soon she’ll have to give up her apartment and move into some sort of housing for the elderly. My sister has already been researching Assisted Living facilities. She found one not too far from her home and has begun negotiations.

My mother will, no doubt, put up a fight about giving up her apartment. She may not be as sharp as she once was, but she’s as feisty as ever. My sister and I will have to plan this next step in Mom’s life very carefully. This could very well be trickier than stealing her car. I just hope I don’t have to blackjack her, toss her in the trunk of my car and drive her to her new home in the middle of the night.

Ah, fuck it, might as well add kidnapping to my long list of felonies.

Big Mike: A Shot At The Dark

I was going to explain my decision to quit Facebook today. I haven’t been on the damned thing in more than two weeks. I have my reasons but you’re going to have to wait now.

Quickly checking my email before I began to clack away, I noticed a message from The Loved One. The topic line read: “I’m so angry….”. Oh hell, I thought, what’d I do wrong now?

Take Cover!

She’s a great looking tomato, smart and sweet. But when she gets mad, Monroe County’s emergency sirens ought to blow. Her message continued: “…Your blog topic should be on this!” Phew! It wasn’t me she was mad at. That’s a relief.

The Loved One went on to provide a link to a news story about yesterday’s demonstrations in Washington DC against health care reform. Funny thing is, I’d been thinking of writing about them myself but then decided to go with Facebook. The Loved One’s email put me back on my original track. Thanks, babe-elah!

So, the righteous white people of this holy land descended upon our nation’s capital to voice their extreme displeasure with that unmistakable sign of fascist tyranny, universal health care. Many of yesterday’s demonstrators described themselves as Tea Partiers or Tea Baggers or what the hell ever they’re calling themselves. Coffee Urns, I don’t know. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care. Only this gang promises to be something more than an annoying collection of uninformed, semi-literate jerks. We’ve had plenty of those and we’ve survived just fine, thank you.

As congressmen climbed the Capitol steps, headed for a vote, demonstrators called Barney Frank a faggot and a homo. They spat on Emanuel Cleaver. They called Cleaver, Andre Carson and John  Lewis nigger. Again and again and again. They shouted the mantra, “Kill the bill,” emphasis on the word kill. These people were, I remind you, righteous whites claiming to represent the majority in this holy land.

The Spitting And Slurring Field

The mainstream media, naturally, is tut-tutting the whole thing. This kind of behavior, they say, just won’t do. Of course, it’s nothing compared to Tiger Woods cheating on his wife or Kate Gosselin getting an ugly new hairstyle. Those are outrages! But this fag/nigger/spitting business, well, it’s not very cricket, is it?

Somehow, though, the news anchors wearing handsome suits and contrived appropriate looks on their faces didn’t mention the most chilling of the un-cricket exhibitions yesterday. Signs like these went pretty much ignored by television reporters, wags, and wits:

If Spit And Slurs Can’t Stop Obama, Maybe Armed Warfare Can

I can’t quite figure out why this kind of messaging isn’t scaring the poo out of us. Maybe it’s so jarring that we want to pretend it doesn’t even exist. Maybe, on the other hand, it’s just a journalistic decision — some producer says, Aw, we’re not gonna worry about those signs, it’s just a few wackos in the crowd, let’s not tar the whole bunch of them.

Neither option makes me feel quite comfortable with the judgments of mainstream media news decision-makers. Then again, anybody who has ever felt comfortable with the calls of those lunkheads needs a long vacation.

A third option comes to mind and it makes me want to retch. TV newscasts might have soft-pedaled these signs because, well, they just didn’t want to insult or alienate the rabid anti-Obama-ites of this holy land. The producers are afraid the Tea Baggers or Mr. Coffees or what the hell ever they are will howl that the commie media is trying to portray them as loons. We’re just good, solid Americans trying to have our voice heard, they might complain, and if we have to call a few congressmen fags and niggers and maybe spit on one or two of ‘em, we’ve got the right.

If we’re worried about the fragile sensitivities of people who dress up as Betsy Ross and Sam Adams and think a brown President and a gay congressman equal Nazi Germany, then we’re fucked, folks.

More than a few of yesterday’s Tea Partiers or Prune Juice Drinkers or whatever agree with the sentiments displayed on the above sign. Their rage is going to turn into something uglier than it already is. Someone’s gonna take a shot at somebody sooner rather than later.

I’m not saying the news departments of NBC, CBS, and ABC would stop it from happening. Only that they should remind us it’s right around the corner.

Oswald’s Window

Benny Jay: Front Row Seats

I go to the Bulls game with my old buddy Jeff, his wife, their two sons and my daughters.

Gonna see Lebron James — big sold-out game. Been planning this outing for weeks. Only despite all the planning, we don’t have tickets.

Well, let’s be accurate — we don’t have seats. What we’ve got are standing-room only tickets. And we don’t even have those for everyone. Jeff and his wife are going to scalp tickets on the street. It’s complicated. I could explain, but who has time….

The point is the kids and I are wandering around the nose-bleed section, looking for a place to stand. Jeff’s son, Sam — not quite twenty — leads the charge.

“We’ll sit in some empty seats,” he says.

“What if the people with the tickets show up?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m the dummy that I am and says: “Then we’ll move to other seats….”

With that he heads for the first open seats he sees. We’re talking prime location — front row, center court. As good as it gets in nose-bleed land….

To get to there, we have to pass four or five people, making them stand to let us by. Doesn’t bother Sam in the least. He’s the picture of confidence and certainty, striding toward those seats without hesitation or doubt. In his wake we follow, like the ancient Hebrews trailing Moses through the desert to the promised land.

There’s a life lesson here: The secret to success is taking what’s yours even if it’s not yours. Damn, if I only knew half the stuff Sam knows when I was his age….

They play the national anthem. They start to introduce the players. A pregnant lady and her son show up. She’s holding two tickets. She says to Sam — let’s figure this out.

Sam plays the role to the hilt — I mean, Brando has nothing on this kid. He chuckles and smacks his head as if to say: Oh, brother. Silly me. Must have made a mistake and sat in the wrong seats.

We move down two seats, so the pregnant lady and her kid can sit.

Now the row’s filled. The next legitimate ticket holder evicts at least one of us.

“We’re so outta here,” I whisper to my older daughter.

As on cue, a crew of people arrive, tickets in hand. See ya’. Down the aisle we shuffle. I got my eyes averted — can’t bare to look at the people who have to stand again to let us pass.

We gather in the lobby. The game’s started. We don’t know where to go.

“This is your fault,” says one daughter.

“Yeah,” says the other.

“You were supposed to get us tickets,” says the one.

“And we don’t even have seats,” says the other.

Okay, tag teaming the old man. That’s how they’re playing it….

I feel like I’ve gone back in time to 1973 and my high-school buddies and I are trying to sneak past the Wrigley Field ushers to grab a box seat by the dugout.

Actually, it’s a little dispiriting. If access to prime seats is a sign of success than I am a failure. Heading into my sunset years, and still trying to sneak by the ushers….

Reminds me of a game back in 1981, when I took my wife — then my girlfriend — to the old Chicago Stadium to see the Bulls play the 76ers and the immortal Julius Erving — aka, Dr. J.

I’d been talking about taking her to see Dr. J for days.  Only by the time I got around to buying the tickets, the only seats left were obstructed view. We wound up sitting behind the big pipe organ in the second balcony. I told my wife — it’s not so bad. If you stand, you can see the court.

She was steaming. She saw an empty seat a few rows over and took it. Didn’t even sit with me. Sat next to some seedy old drunk. Despite it all,  she married me. I guess there’s more to life than getting front-row seats….

By the way, this episode also has a happy ending.  Jeff and his wife wound up with tickets for great seats on the second level. I don’t know how they got them — didn’t even ask. That way I have plausible deniability, if the feds launch an investigation.

We had a blast, even though the Bulls lost. The high point came when these fat guys came on court and danced a jig on account of it being St. Patrick’s Day. They stripped off their shirts and danced bare chested, flab jiggling to the beat. They had green tassels hanging from their nipples. Kinkiest thing I’d ever seen, at least at a Bulls game. Too bad Milo and Big Mike weren’t there. Horny bastards – they’d of loved it.

Randolph Street: Spring Training

At Wrigley Field, 17 March.  All photos © Jon Randolph 2010