Letter From Milo: Six Pack Abs and a Whiskey Ass

The other day my wife got on my ass about the state of my physical fitness, or rather, my lack of it. I had just awakened from a pleasant afternoon nap when the lovely Mrs. Milo came home after a hard day of selling real estate, lunching with her slutty girlfriends, and teaching Pilates classes.

“Have you been lying around in your underwear all day?”

“Ah, no, dear. I was just in the process of…”

“I wish you’d be more active. You’re starting to look sloppy. You need to start exercising once in a while.”

“I took a nice walk today.”

“Yeah, I know. You probably walked down to Swillagain’s and spent the afternoon drinking with all the bums that hang out there.”

“That’s a harsh thing to say. I know for a fact that two of the guys have regular jobs.

“Since when is pot dealing considered a regular job?”

“So, what’s your point?”

“The point is that you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself. You have to start exercising. I don’t care for you that much anymore, but your daughters are still somewhat fond of you. They wouldn’t mind having you around for a few more years.”

“Okay, sweetie, I’ll give it some thought.”

Physical fitness is important to my wife. When I first met her she was a touring dancer, in as good a shape as it’s possible for a human to be. Dancers take strenuous, exhausting classes every day, and often put on even more tiring performances those same evenings. They have to stay in shape. Their bodies are their instruments. I doubt there are many people on this planet, aside from professional athletes, who are in better shape than professional dancers.

When my wife retired from dance, she had a hard time giving up the physicality of the dancing life. She tried taking an occasional dance class but old injuries – knee, neck, ankle – kept flaring up. She fretted for years about her physical conditioning. I mean, God forbid that she should gain a pound or two. Then she discovered Pilates, which, as I understand it, is something the Communists invented to replace sex. She liked Pilates so much that she became a Pilates’ teacher. Now she’s happy. She’s found a physical regimen that can keep her busy and in great shape until she’s 112 years old.

One the other hand, I don’t give a rat’s ass about exercise, physical fitness or anything else that distracts me from the important things in life, like drinking, smoking, drug abuse, eating red meat and entertaining impure thoughts.

That said, I know my wife will make my life miserable unless I start some sort of fitness program. And once the kids start in on me, well, let’s just say things will get interesting, in the Chinese sense of the word.

So, the next afternoon I went down to Welles’ Park, a Chicago Park District Fieldhouse on Sunnyside by Lincoln Avenue. They have a well-equipped gym there which, since I am of a certain age, I can use for free.

The guy behind the counter was a typical Chicago Park District employee – gruff, overweight, with a pack of smokes in his shirt pocket. I thought I smelled liquor on his breath, too, but I wouldn’t swear to it. After I filled out the paperwork and received a laminated Welles’ Park membership badge, the guy offered to show me around the fitness area.

“You ever use any of this shit before?” he asked, pointing out all of the exercise equipment.

“Can’t say that I have. What’s that?”

“That’s called a stationary bike. You gotta watch yourself on that thing. We had a regular customer, used to come in four or five times a week. He’d ride that thing nonstop for an hour. Last week he was riding on it and just keeled over.”

“Was he okay?”

“Fucker died.”

“That’s too bad. How old was he?”

“About your age.”

“Damn.”

“That’s a treadmill over there. It’s like a walking machine. A couple of months ago a guy was on it and had a heart attack. He died, too.”

“How old was he?”

“About your age, I guess.”

“What the fuck!”

“That thing over there is a rowing machine. Last month a guy…”

“Don’t tell me. He was about my age, right?”

“No. I believe he was a bit younger than you.”

I had heard enough. I handed the Park District guy the laminated badge and said, “You can take this badge, give it back to Mayor Daley and tell him to stick it up his fucking ass. This place is a death trap. I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

I was a bit shaky when I left Welles Park. There’s no telling what terrible things would have happened to me if I had stuck around and tried a few exercises. Fortunately, I had to pass Swillagains on the way home, so I stopped in for a few drinks and enjoyed a hand-rolled smoke with my friend, Nickel Bag Bernie, just to calm down.

When I got home, a few hours later, I was in the physical and mental shape that I prefer above all others. The lovely Mrs. Milo, sipping a nice white wine, was waiting for me. “Well, how did it go?” she asked.

“How did what go?”

“Your trip to Welles Park.”

“It went okay.”

“Did you try any of the equipment?”

“Let’s say I checked things out.”

“So, do you feel any better?”

“Honey, right now, I feel great.”

Big Mike: My First Tea Party!

I finally met my first Tea Baggers, in the flesh, live, on Tax Day, Thursday. They were staging a protest out in front of the Bloomington City Hall. Hoo hah!

I was covering the event for WFHB, the radio station I write news for. I’d finished up my stories early and volunteered to help lug gear over to the protest so we could air part of it live during our 5:30pm newscast. Chad, the Big Bwana of the newsroom, had been turned into a glassy-eyed zombie by some pain medications he’d taken for oral surgery earlier in the day. He was happy for the help.

I’ll kill the suspense right up front. There were no angry confrontations. I didn’t get in anyone’s face and no one got in mine. Yeah, I had to maintain the veneer of impartial news hound; even so there wasn’t much said or done that would have made my blood boil.

Bloomington, Thursday, April 15, 2010 (Photo from IDS/Patrick Craig)

The weather was so perfect — sunny, about 80 degrees, a comfortable breeze — that the Tea Partiers couldn’t possibly have welled up enough crazy bile to aggravate me.

Maybe Bloomington-area Tea Baggers are more genteel or even more liberal than their national confereres.

Or maybe most Tea Bag parties are innocuous and I’ve just been looking for the most egregious and cement-headed of them in news reports.

All I know is Thursday’s powwow resembled nothing so much as a retirement party. There was more gray hair in front of the Bloomington City Hall than there is in my shower drain on any given morning and that’s a hell of a lot. Most of the coots in attendance had that look on their faces that says I don’t give a shit what you think about me or what I say.

In fact, after listening to the three speakers at the bullhorn and inspecting all the placards people carried, I concluded that was the only thing this gang had in common. More on that later. But this retiree hook, I think, seems to encompass nicely all the harrumphing the Tea bunch has been doing of late.

Hey, they seem to be saying, I spent my whole life knuckling under to one authority or another — parents, teachers, the cops, a son of a bitch boss — and now that I’ve done my share, now that I’m retired, nobody’s gonna tell me what to think or do.

The Obama election means change — change they didn’t ask for. Now they’re going to have to get used to a whole new world — even if the old one was awfully shitty. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.

The Devils The Tea Baggers Knew (Photo from Vanity Fair/Annie Leibovitz)

A guy named Spencer was the ringleader. He gave the keynote address. He stood on his head trying to convince everybody — and maybe even himself — that there was not a single shred of racism in the lot of them. “The liberal media is trying to paint us all as racists,” he said. Which might have been a damning indictment had the crowd not been 100 percent white and had never before ventured out in public to express political outrage until the election of a (half) black man as President.

Spencer may be telling a certain truth. He and the rest of them might not dream of dropping the N-word. They’ve all probably worked with brown human beings and perhaps have even had one or two over to the house for a graduation party or a Memorial Day cookout. But the sight of a dark man at the White House podium can be jarring after the likes of Tricky Dick and Pappy Bush.

Presidential

Before Spencer spoke, three tough, leather-skinned motorcyclists blared Ray Charles singing “America the Beautiful” from their bike stereos. It might have been an intentional choice to show the world how broad-minded they were (although they do seem more comfortable with a brown man as a singer than as a chief executive).

Spencer’s speech was a mantra of contempt for Big Government. He must have said Big Government a couple of dozen times, every time to the cheers of the crowd of a hundred or so. By the time he was finished, I got the impression they believe that before the election of Barack Obama the President used to to answer the White House doorbell in his sweatpants and slippers.

I didn’t catch any placards equating Obama with Hitler or Richard Speck. Actually, the most incendiary thing I saw was a young couple who put bibs on their two tots reading “Obama and Pelosi Need a Timeout.” Glenn Beck would have shaken his head sadly.

What’s This Tea Party Coming To?

The damnedest thing I saw was the appearance of the third and final speaker, a young kid from Indiana University. He said he was from a group called Young Americans for Liberty and his speech was liberally (hah!) sprinkled with y’knows.

Jeez, I hate to make snap judgments about people based on their outward appearance but, honestly, this kid was a work of art. He was impossibly slight and slim with pale skin. He wore his fine, reddish, mid-back length hair in a ponytail. As he read off a list of the evils of — you guessed it — Big Government, he rolled his eyes more than a hairdresser talking about Kate Gosselin‘s new do. He was so mincing that he made Adam Lambert look like a Hell’s Angel. Christ in heaven, he was a pedophile’s dream come true.

A Macho Man — Relatively

At one point, he hadn’t said Big Government in two whole sentences, so when he finally said it again, the crowd roared. The retired ladies in the crowd hung on his every word — I’m sure they wanted to snatch him away and make sponge cake for him. Their husbands were less in thrall, of course, but they listened politely.

Suddenly, the kid launched into a tirade about Obama’s brand of “crony capitalism,” whatever the hell that is. The husbands sort of cocked their heads to one side like dogs when he said this. By good god, was he forgetting that Obama’s a socialist? The wives continued to grin at him but their menfolk bit their lips until the kid got back around to — yup — Big Government and, like that, they all hooted and huzzahed.

Finally, he was finished and Spencer took the bullhorn again. “I’ve never met that young man before today but I’m sure we’ll be seeing and hearing a lot more of him in the future,” he said as the old ladies clapped their hands over their heads. I thought, Yeah — if we’re into gay porn.

The next day’s story in the Indiana Daily Student described him as “an individualized major in evolutionary perspective on the human diet” — the little prick.

And then, just 25 minutes after the festivities had begun, the party was over. Spencer thanked everybody for coming and suggested they all walk over to the courthouse and march around the square a time or two. Off they went, accompanied by the three motorcyclists who, when they reached Courthouse Square, circled it again and again, tooting their bike horns which had been retrofitted to sound like those from big Buicks.

As Daniel Schorr told Scott Simon on NPR‘s Weekend Edition Saturday, “I just can’t make out these Tea Party people.”

I Love This Old Bird

Benny Jay: Fighting Mad

The recent fight between Vinny Del Negro and John Paxson got me thinking — what the hell was that all about?

You got two old farts — pushing fifty — having a cat fight, flabby bellies, bum knees and all.

For all you non-basketball fans out there, Vinny is the coach of the Chicago Bulls and Paxson is the team’s general manager.

Basically, here’s what happened. They’re in the locker room after a game. Paxson said something to Vinny. Vinny said something back. Paxson didn’t like what Vinny said so he lunged for his chest. And it’s on — Humbug! as the kids used to say. Another coach had to pull them apart

The whole thing’s hard for me to relate to. I can’t stand fighting. Haven’t been in a fight since like forever. Pretty much lost every fight I had so there was never an incentive to have another.

As I understand it, their fundamental disagreement had to do with playing time for Joakim Noah.

Jo-Jo was coming back from a foot injury. Paxson ordered Vinny to play him for 25 minutes in a game. Vinny played him for 27 minutes.

So you might say that the fight was over two minutes of playing time.

That doesn’t sound like a lot to fight over. But you know it really wasn’t about that two minutes.  Fights are rarely about the thing people say they are. There’s generally some unresolved issue smoldering under the surface that triggers the attack.

Vinny Del Negro

One time many years ago my parents were having this big, loud party, filled with all their friends. One lady — call her Dotty — was sitting in the kitchen stoned drunk. Another lady, call her Sue, looked at her with a pitiful smile. Dotty said — fuck you. Picked up a punch bowl and threw it at her. Good thing she had a bad aim, or Sue would have had some serious stitches.

Shocked the shit out of everyone. Ruined a perfectly good punch bowl and probably wasted a lot of punch.

In retrospect, it’s obvious. Dotty was going through a mid-life crisis. Picked a fight with the first person who rubbed her the wrong way.

The thing is — it seemed like a completely impulsive act of violence. In other words, Dotty was so drunk she’d have thrown the punch bowl at Mike Tyson, if he looked at her funny.

With Paxson, though, I think it was a little more premeditated. Like he looked at Vinny and thought — I can whoop this flabby fuck. And then he rushed him.

Reminds me of the big brawl Ron Artest — another basketball player — had up in Detroit a few years back. That’s the one where Artest got into it with Ben Wallace, who played for the Pistons. Artest is strong, but Wallace is stronger. The man’s built like a slab of steel. Wallace took a step toward Artest, who took a step back and let the officials and other players come between him and Wallace.

Artest wound up sitting on the scorer’s table. Some knucklehead in the stands threw a drink on him and Artest went wacko — races into the stands and starts whacking away at this flabby guy sitting in a seat.

The next day I’m talking about the fight with my old pal Laverick. I said: Artest’s crazy.

And Laverick — wise man that he is — set me straight. He said: Funny, how he’s not so crazy as to go after Ben Wallace.

In other words, Artest was sane enough not to pick a fight he could not win.

Actually, once you reach a certain age you shouldn’t pick any fights at all. Even Milo, who grew up on the tough streets of Gary, Indiana — has learned this.

The other day, he asks some guy — call  him Billy Bob — to be his Facebook friend. Billy Bob writes back: “I clicked on your confirmation before I knew who you were. Can you explain to me how we are connected.”

Well, as you all know, it pisses Milo off when folks on Facebook ask him to explain why he’s good enough to be their Facebook friend. Like actual friendship has anything to do with this shit.

So Milo fires off a retort: “We’ve never met. You were always at work when I was at your house screwing your wife.”

Great line. He was all set to send it, too, but then he thought better and sent something else.

Good move. If Milo had sent that note, Billy Bob probably would have pulled a Paxson. He’d of looked at Milo’s Facebook picture and figured: This old bum — I can kick his ass!

Probably come over to Milo’s house and throw a punch bowl at him.

Randolph Street: Random Shots

Paulina Station–Chicago

Riverfront Road–Peoria

El Platform–Chicago

Radiator–Carlinville, Illinois

Memorial–Oklahoma City

Lake Street–Chicago

Farm–Virden, Illinois

Big Mike: The Bad Old Days

Those of you who’ve been visiting these precincts for the year and a half we’ve been in existence know by now that I’ve been scared sphincter-less by all the Tea Baggers and other loons who equate Barack Obama with Hitler/Gacy/Stalin/Satan/the 1906 San Francisco earthquake/the Great Chicago Fire/throat cancer/etc.

More than a few of these self-described patriots have made not-so-veiled references to armed uprisings as the only sensible alternative to the tyrannical horror that is universal health care.

Much of the reason I think these goofs are, well, goofs is that their reaction to what they consider to be Obama’s ultra-leftist policies (but which in truth are about as centrist as they can possibly be) is way, way, way out of proportion to any reality. They believe the election of Obama means the end of America, doom for their children and grandchildren, and that soon we’ll all be compelled by federal law to wear turbans and dashikis.

People who never before gave a holy shit that we started a costly war based on faulty and likely falsified intelligence or that the previous administration ran up the biggest deficit ever or that Wall Street bankers and bloated corporate bwanas had been raping us silly for thirty five years suddenly are now panicky over minute clauses in the latest arms control agreement. You know, because ibn Obama is signing away America’s defenses.

I want to holler, Jeez, guys, you only lost the election. There’ll be another one in 2012! Really, I’ve never seen such a tantrum-y gang of crybabies in my life.

But, as the Obama presidency has entered its second full year, I’ve been wringing my hands and singing a tale of woe over these chuckleheads. They’re gonna shoot the President, they’re gonna shut down the New York Times, they’re gonna outlaw abortions and all manner of birth control, and — most terrifying of all — they’re gonna force us to listen to Toby Keith records.

No, No, Not That!

Luckily, I’ve been reading a book that puts things into a little perspective. Nixonland, by Rick Perlstein, chronicles the ascent of the biggest muttonhead ever to occupy the White House. Richard Nixon opened his arms wide for all those former southern Democrats who couldn’t bear the idea of a world without Jim Crow. His speeches cast the nation’s fat and blissfully ignorant middle class as a repressed, persecuted minority. He and his venal vice president, Spiro Agnew, portrayed war dissenters and civil rights activists as nothing more than spies and saboteurs.

The book reminds me that much — maybe even most– of the country despised the counterculture. Revisionist historians will have you believe everybody in the ’60s had long hair, wore beads, carried flowers and dropped acid. Not so. Post-Summer of Love America was as benighted, ill-informed, and jingoistic as the Tea Baggers are today.

Your Parents Weren’t Out Protesting, Kids…

Here’s an example. Playboy magazine did one of its famous interviews with John Wayne in 1971. In it, The Duke said this: “I believe in white supremacy until blacks are educated to the point of responsibility.” There’s more: “Our so-called stealing of this country was just a question of survival. There were great numbers of people who needed new land the Indians were selfishly trying to keep for themselves.”

Yikes.

Guaranteed, John Wayne would be a regular guest on both the Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh shows today. Oddly, I don’t recall much of a firestorm of reaction to the interview at the time. Maybe because it was John Wayne and what the hell else did anybody expect him to say? Or maybe because one hell of a lot of people agreed with him.

… They Were Busy Conflating John Wayne Movies With Reality

If a Beck/Limbaugh guest — say Chuck Norris or Craig T. Nelson — said anything near that incendiary in 2010, the Earth would probably fly out of its orbit. The shrieking would be deafening. And I’d be shrieking the loudest.

Even though the Tea Baggers are lovingly and tumescently polishing up their shootin’ irons, they’ve really been nothing more than bark.

On May 8th, 1970, their forebears actually bit. That day, construction workers in New York City staged an organized mass beating of high school and college kids who were holding a memorial for the four Kent State students who’d been gunned down by the Ohio National Guard four days earlier. It would have made Nazi Brown Shirts proud.

Dubbed the Hard Hat Riot, hundreds of construction workers converged on the group of protesters from all four compass points at — ironically enough — the intersection of Wall and Broad streets and proceeded to beat the living hell out of them. They chased anyone with long hair or appeared otherwise to be sympathetic with the protesters and brained them with their fists, hard hats, clubs, and crowbars. They took over City Hall and ran amok in it. They vandalized a nearby university building — naturally — and ripped down flags from the Red Cross building and a local church.

National Dialogue, May 8, 1970

Believe it or not, more than a few Wall Street lawyers and traders tried to protect the kids. The Hard Hats beat the hell out of them, too.

The riot was planned and carried out by leaders and members of New York’s building and construction trade workers union. The violence was tacitly approved of by the New York City police. Mayor John Lindsay criticized the city’s cops for allowing the thing to happen. The rioters and their supporters called him a Commie rat, a faggot, and a traitor at a rally two weeks later. Union boss Peter Brennan presented Tricky Dick Nixon with a shiny hardhard at the end of the month. Nixon went on to win reelection in 1972 in one of the greatest landslides in history.

Somehow, we survived. Maybe we’ll survive the Tea Baggers, too.

You Think Things Are Scary Today?

Benny Jay: Twelve Angry Men

On Saturday, I hook up with the judge — eat Chinese, see a play, have a great time.

My wife and the judge’s wife are there too. But mostly I talk to the judge. The man’s a great conversationalist. He knows how to tell a tale — and he’s got a million to tell.

He presides in a courtroom at the Juvenile Court. Every day young offenders come before his bench: Truants, shoplifters, runaways, car thieves, or worse.

Every now and then he runs into one of them at a movie, the park, the grocery store or some other place outside the courtroom.

They call out  a greeting, like:  “Hey, judge.” Or, “that’s my judge.” Or, “hey, Chernoff.” Sometimes they get it wrong and call him Chekov, instead of Chernoff. Whatever….

Some judges would get upset. Take it as a lack of respect. But the judge doesn’t see it that way.

As he sees it, they really don’t know better. Don’t know the protocol. Don’t know you’re supposed to call the judge judge. Or your honor. Or whatever it is you’re supposed to call a judge.

They’re just expressing their rough-edged appreciation for an authority figure who’s shown them compassion or at least taken an interest in their lives.

He tries to do the right thing. Sometimes you have to come down strong. Other times you got to give them a break. The border line cases require the wisdom of Solomon. Never said it was easy being a Judge.

Reminds me of stories by old pal, Johnny Lira, used to tell me. Johnny was a tough kid who grew up in the Patch, the Italian neighborhood by Grand and Western.

As a kid, Johnny was always in trouble.  Got kicked out of virtually every school he attended. Did time in the County Jail.

One particular judge — the honorable Saul Epton — showed him some compassion. I forget the offense, but it was serious. Judge Epton could have put Johnny away for some major time. But he didn’t. Gave him a second chance.

Johnny went on to become a good boxer. Won more than he lost. Fought for the lightweight championship against Ernesto Espana. As Johnny tells the story, he knocked Espana down in the fifth round. For an instant, he thought he was going to be the champ.

But Espana got up and the fight continued. By the eighth round, Espana had opened a cut over Johnny’s eye. The ref eventually called the fight. Too much blood. Johnny never won the championship. But at least he got his shot.

That fight was over thirty years ago. But Johnny still credits Judge Epton for helping him turn his life around.

After dinner we go to the Raven Theater and see the play — Twelve Angry Men. I love that play. You probably saw the movie of the same name. The twelve angry men are jurors arguing over the guilt or innocence of a young man accused of murder. If they find him guilty, he gets the chair. His life is literally in their hands.

The case looks open and shut. At the start of the show, eleven of the jurors say they’re ready to vote the defendant guilty right there and now. But one man — the juror played by C.L. Brown in the play and Henry Fonda in the movie — says hold on now. Let’s at least evaluate all the evidence….

The other jurors grumble and gripe. Call him names.  One guy wants to hurry up out of the jury room so he can get to the ballpark. He’s got tickets to the big game.

But the Henry Fonda character won’t bend to the pressure. He forces the others to at least reconsider.

I won’t tell you what happens. You probably know anyway, having seen the movie a zillion times.

After the play, the judge and I were talking about how much we love that Henry Fonda character. The man’s unafraid to take a stand even in the face of pressure from his peers. Half the suckers in this world would have quit without a fight. Got to get to the ball game and all that.

Sometimes one man taking a tough stand can make all the difference in the world. If you don’t believe me, ask the great Johnny Lira….

Big Mike: The Right Way To Believe

My next door neighbor, Maryann, stopped by the other day. Her teenaged son had mowed our lawn and she wanted to make sure we were satisfied.

I have to confess here and now that I’m only partially satisfied. Check that — I’m mostly unsatisfied.

Oh, the lawn looks fine. The kid did a great job. He even peeled himself off the seat of his tractor mower and used his old push mower on the steep berm leading up to State Road 446 next to our yard.

Long Grass

I was perfectly willing to do it myself. The Loved One and I even priced out some tractors last fall at Sears. They were on sale at the end of the season. But she nixed the whole idea. She was afraid of what the heat and the sun would do to me. Hah! If I hadn’t had to sit down to catch my breath at that moment, I would have told her a thing or two.

So now I have to pay a kid to cut my grass. I am, officially, an old bastard.

Anyway, Maryann said she’d just got back from church. She’s a Catholic and attends Sunday mass, well, religiously. She’s also a loyal reader of these screeds. I immediately fell all over myself apologizing. I’ve come down hard on Pope Benedict and the Church for the latest priest/boy sex scandal. Il Papa and his mouthpieces, I’ve written, have stood on their heads to deny charges, exonerate themselves, and even blame critics for the whole ugly mess. Sheesh, Bushey-boy and his gang could have taken lessons from these guys.

“You Got Nothin’ On Me, Coppers!”

Still, I hate to offend honest, innocent church-goers like Maryann. Here she is trying to find a little solace in this crazy world and the next thing you know, her next door neighbor is launching broadsides at her faith. She said she was unfazed by my written darts but who knows? She might have gone home and told her husband that she never wants to speak to me again. Time, I suppose, will tell.

Since then I’ve been thinking about religion. The whole idea encompasses a dizzying range of commitments, from the trivial to the downright terrifying.

Let’s start with the trivial. I’m a proud member of a self-described “Chicago Cubs fan community” called Bleed Cubbie Blue. A big lug named Al Yellon, who haunts the bleachers on a daily basis, has been running the thing for five years. It has hundreds, maybe thousands, of members. Yesterday, for example, was the 2010 home opener for the Cubs. As of this morning, there were 371 comments appended to Al’s post on the game. For perspective, understand that The Third City has not gotten 371 total comments in the entire year and a half we’ve been in business. Hell, I doubt we’ve had 371 readers.

And make no mistake, Cub fandom is a religion. It has deities (Ernie Banks, Ryne Sandberg, and Ron Santo are the Holy Trinity), priests (Al Yellon, of course, and Bill Murray — actually, Murray’s more of a bishop), and apostates (Sammy Sosa and Steve Stone). Within the church of Bleed Cubbie Blue, there are satanic figures as well. The mere mention of a of guy with the screen name Blou is enough to send the faithful into paroxysms. He’s sinned by making light of the blind optimism of the majority of Bleed Cubbie Blue members. Last I heard, he was banned from the site. He should change his screen name to Blucifer.

The other day I predicted on the site that the Cubs in 2010 will be a losing team, going 72-90. Now, most BCB-ers have been speculating on how the Cubs can win their division and make it to the World Series for the first time since World War II. The mere fact that I’m pessimistic about the team offended people. Someone named Katie Casey replied, “Way to spoil the party.” Another, named Wrigster, wrote, “If you want to be a Cubs fan, ‘cheer’ for the Cubs.”

They reacted, in other words, the way overly-pious Christians or Moslems might when confronted with a heretic. Heresy, to the religious, is far more frightening than atheism. Heretics chip away at the fragile structure that is faith by pointing out weaknesses in the structure itself. Had I been an atheist in the Bleed Cubbie Blue world — a Cardinals fan, for example — the faithful could simply brush me off as a lost soul.

Just A Little Dispute Over Details

I realize now why true believers throughout history have become angriest with members of their own religions who don’t hew precisely to the divine word.

Speaking of anger, let’s jump now to the terrifying end of the religious spectrum. Leaders of the Hutaree of southeastern Michigan are in the clink right now because they were preparing for a shooting war with, well, anybody who isn’t one of them. These characters are so frightening that even other crackpot militias in Michigan are saying, “Whoa, they’re not really our friends.”

Just out of curiosity, I googled Michigan militia and the first listing was for, mirabile dictu, a gang called the Michigan Militia. It’s a consortium of dozens of individual militia groups who wish to paint themselves as reasonable and reasonably innocuous. Their whole purpose, they say, is to arm themselves in order to “deter crime, invasion, terrorism and tyranny.” Gulp.

But even these guys are running from the Hutaree. “The Michigan Militia has no affiliation with this group,” its website trumpets in big bold letters. Friendly souls that they are, the Michigan Militia provide a link to the Hutaree website. Go there only if you’re not interested in sleeping for the next couple of nights. Here’s a picture of the Hutaree, a fun-loving bunch if there ever was one:

The Hutaree At Worship

So, on the spectrum of religious believers, my next door neighbor Maryann ranks somewhere in the middle, between those who worship something as silly as a baseball team and others who want to splatter your brains all over the forest floor for not folding your hands in prayer just right.

Is it my imagination or are there only a precious few people like Maryann?