Letter From Milo: Pussy Magnet
I hate to brag, but I’m a real pussy magnet. Even though I’m past middle age, balding, cranky and prone to farting at inappropriate times, I still have equipment that Man ‘o War would envy. Other than that, I’m just a regular guy.
Now, a lot of you may think that being a pussy magnet is all fun and games — lolling around on an oversize bed, wearing silk pajamas, sipping fine brandy, surrounded by adoring women eager to satisfy your every whim. Although in many cases – including mine – that is absolutely true, sometimes being a pussy magnet is just plain hard work.
Take a former acquaintance of mine named Charles. I used to run into him on the North Side Gigolo Circuit. I didn’t know him well. In fact, the only thing I knew about him was that he was the hardest working pussy magnet I ever met. He was the James Brown of pussy magnets. When Charles wanted to get laid he would walk into a bar and hit on every woman in the place. He had no shame, no technique and no taste. If there were a hundred women in the joint he would approach them all and ask each one if they wanted to go home with him. It didn’t matter how often he was turned down, laughed at, ignored or had drinks thrown in his face. His skin was as thick as a water buffalo’s hide. He was as single minded as a junkie, moving from woman to woman until, invariably, he found one who said “Yes.”
Admittedly, it wasn’t the approach that legendary pussy magnets like Errol Flynn, Warren Beatty or the immortal Porfirio Rubirosa would have used, but it worked for Charles. I haven’t seen Charles in more than 20 years. Word on the street is that he found Jesus and now chases salvation with the same fervor he once chased pussy.
I never had a problem hooking up, as the young ‘uns say. I would stroll into a fine watering hole and in 15 minutes I would walk out with two or three of the best looking women in the place. We would then retire to my bachelor pad where we would frolic on an epic scale, engaging in debauchery that would have boggled the mind of the Marquis De Sade.
People often confuse pussy magnets and gigolos. The simplest way to explain it is that pussy magnets fuck for fun, gigolos fuck for money.
I once considered becoming a gigolo. With my devastatingly good looks and awesome God-given physical attributes I would have been a natural. Women would have lined up to have mind-blowing sex with me. As a young man growing up in Gary, Indiana, I knew that I would eventually be an extremely handsome man. I also knew that my looks would be my ticket to fame and fortune. After considering my career options at the time – grave digger, washroom attendant, school janitor, ice cream truck driver or gigolo – I decided the latter was the way to go.
I had always imagined gigolos to be glamorous, suave, polished men who escorted wealthy, older, but still attractive women to theaters, fine restaurants and glittering social events. And after the play, restaurant or party these graceful, refined men would take their escorts to a luxurious penthouse or fine hotel and give them a thorough, professional-grade fucking, leaving them limp and exhausted, with barely enough energy left to write out a handsome check. Sounded real good to me.
As soon as I had settled on my life’s work, I decided I needed to get in a little practice. Unfortunately, there was a severe shortage of wealthy, older, but still attractive women in Gary at that time. In fact, I doubt there was a woman in the entire county who fit that description. I had no choice but to put my gigolo aspirations on indefinite hold.
Like most kids who never realize their childhood dreams of becoming cops, firemen, or cowboys, I never became a gigolo. Life intervened. Something always got in the way. There was the military and college. Later, there were drugs, booze and rock ‘n roll. I was always a lazy bastard (see my earlier post about the Bum Gene), and, from what I understand, being a gigolo can be time-consuming.
Still, even though I never became a gigolo, I became a first class pussy magnet. I cut a swath through the North Side that made General Sherman’s march through Georgia seem like a stroll through the Botanic Garden. Wilt Chamberlain had nothing on me. Even the great Bruce Diksas, a legendary pussy magnet in his own right, was envious of my skill with the ladies. I became so well known for my amorous exploits that aspiring young pussy magnets would come to me for advice.
“Milo, why do women fake orgasms?”
“Because they think men care.”
Once a pussy magnet always a pussy magnet. Even though I’ve been married for more than 25 years and not quite the #2 pencil I was in my heyday, women still find me irresistable. They know that when they have the great fortune to find themselves in bed with me that they are in the hands of a master.
Like I mentioned earlier, I’m not the active pussy magnet I used to be, but I still like to keep my hand in. Every one in a while I’ll sneak out, visit a night spot, pick up a couple of the finest women in the place and proceed to satisfy their wildest…
HOLD IT! I’m Mrs. Milo. I saw what my husband was writing and chased him away from the computer with a can of pepper spray. The whole blog is nothing but a pack of lies. To be honest, he’s not even close to the stud he claims to be. In fact, he’s a pretty much of a dud in bed. He knows as much about sex as he does about quantum physics. The only reason I married him was because I felt sorry for him. And that nonsense about his “God-given attributes” is just pathetic. At best, he’s below average in that department, even on the rare occasions when he’s sober.
I’ve already made an appointment with a marriage counselor and I’m checking into some sort of therapy. Rehab is not out of the question, either. Plus, I’m considering talking to a lawyer, just to see what my options are. Believe me, if I had known what I was getting into when I married him I would have stuck my head in an oven a long time ago. God, what a loser he turned out to be.
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Big Mike: Black Comedy Excerpt — “Ambush At Park Nine.”
(Here’s the opening of a novel I’ve been working on for a few years. It’s called Black Comedy. It’s about race, family, fear, and the foulest sin a woman could have committed in Chicago’s Galewood neighborhood on the Northwest Side back in the late 1960s and early 70s. It starts with a murder — a regular riot, no? Speaking of riots, there’s a couple of real ones in the book as well. Abbie Hoffman, Richard J. Daley, Outfit capo Jackie “The Lackey” Cerone, newsmen Walter Jacobsen and Bill Kurtis, and other local celebs drop in now and then. And you’ll meet the next mayor of Chicago — Julian Perdue, the man who’ll break Richard II‘s stranglehold on the Fifth Floor in 2011. I’ll be running installments from now on. Have fun! — Big Mike)
***
Joey lets the Snickers wrapper flutter to the ground from his perch in the elm tree, not because he’s a slob but because he doesn’t want to drop his gun. He’d just finished his second Snickers of the long wait. He has one left.
It’s almost time.
A hint of a breeze rustles the leaves of the tree. It feels good. Joey’s sweating. It’s still hot even though it’s past midnight. He’s well-hidden up in the tree but he can see everything he needs to. He’s in perfect position to check the window of The Shack through which he can see only the lower legs of a man, pacing.
The man drops a cigarette on the wood floor of The Shack and stamps it out with the toe of his shoe. The window’s open a bit, just enough for someone, should he be so inclined, to rest his wrist on the sill and point his gun inside. Joey hears the click of a lighter. The man has been chain-smoking ever since he arrived at The Shack, exactly one half hour after Joey had taken his position in the elm tree next to it.
Joey reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a well-worn list. He reads it for the thousandth time since The Jungle Man gave it to him yesterday:
Wear dark close
Gun
Bullits
3 Snicker bars
Get to the shack at 1
Make sure nobodies aroun
Take care a the window
Joey glances at the window again. Yup, he thinks. Just enough room. He continues reading the list.
Mr Dudek comes at one thity
The shine comes at 2
Give them five minits
Aim careful
Make sure Mister Dude isnt not in the way
One shot to the head
Walk away calm
As Joey refolds the list with his left hand, he notices it’s shaking. He puts the list back in his jeans pocket and looks at his gun.
“Fuckin’ good plan,” he whispers. “Thanks, Jungle Man.”
He looks up toward the unlit, desolate northwest corner of Park Nine, near the Zenith factory. A dark figure with a huge Afro walks into the park. The tip of the cigarette in his mouth glows orange.
It’s really time.
The dark figure has chosen the perfect spot to enter the park. No one would see him there. No one, that is, who wasn’t perched in an elm tree next the The Shack watching for him.
“Smart nigger,” Joey whispers again. He snorts. “As if a nigger could be smart.”
Now the dark figure with the huge Afro drops his cigarette. He stamps it our with the toe of his high platform shoe, shined so brightly it reflects the streetlight from Merrimac Avenue. As the figure grinds the butt with his sole, his neatly pressed bell-bottomed pant leg flaps like a flag in the wind.
The figure comes closer. He glances upward. Reflexively, Joey hunches his shoulders.
“He can’t see me,” Joey whispers. “He can’t possibly see me.”
Now Joey looks through the window of The Shack again. The man inside pacing wears modest Thom McAn shoes. Joey shakes his head and continues to speak to himself.
“Jesus Christ, Pa,” he says. “You could afford better shoes’n d’at.”
He checks the progress of the figure who’s nearing The Shack now.
“Don’t worry, Pa. It won’t be long now.”
The figure is now next to The Shack. He steps around the corner of it, close to the wall. He approaches the door and pauses to look around. Joey aims his gun at him and makes a gunshot sound with his throat. The figure turns up the enormous collar of his lilac sports jacket.
Joey shakes his head. “Whaddya, fuckin’ Shaft? Fuckin’ lombo.”
The figure knocks lightly on the door. The man inside stops pacing. He exhales the last drag off his Silva Thin. Al Dudek just started smoking Silva Thins after having smoked Tareytons for nearly thirty years. He’d been starting to worry about this smoking business, you know, the Surgeon General’s warning and cancer and all. He thought a lot about quitting. He was going to get right on it, maybe next month. He’d been saying that to himself for nine straight months now. Last month he’d hit upon the idea that if he wasn’t going to stop smoking this instant, maybe he ought to smoke a safer cigarette. Then one night his wife Teresa showed him a stack of old Playboys she’d found under Joey’s bed. They giggled and told each other their boy was growing up. They thumbed through the pages, looked at the pictures, and then had sex for the first time in half a year. Al thought about Miss February, 1973, the one where she’s only wearing the tank top with “Rich Bitch” in sequins on the front, when he came. As Al lit up his post-coital smoke, he thought about an ad in one of the issues, for Silva Thins. Long, sleek and cool. Lighter. Less of that tar and that other thing, nicotoni or whatever.
Joey at first was embarrassed when Al handed him his pile of Playboys the next day. “Here,” Al said, “Your mother found ‘em. Put ‘em somewheres safe.” Then he added, as if to explain himself, “I was readin’ ‘em. They got somethin’ about that new Corvette in there. Looks nice. Not for me no more but maybe for you. They’re for the young guys.” Then he flipped one open to the Silva Thins ad. “Lookit this. I seen ‘em on the TV. They’re better for you. I think I’m gonna switch. Might do me some good.”
Joey felt proud that his dad had been inspired to change brands based his Playboys. He thought, See, Pa? I’m good for some things.
Now Al Dudek responds to the knock on the door. “Who’s it?”
The figure answers. “Me.”
“Who’s me?”
“C’mon now. Julian.”
Al cautiously opens the door. He looks Julian up and down. Julian focuses on Al’s face. They’re silent for a long moment.
Finally, Al’s voice breaks it. “So, you’re the one responsible for all this shit.”
“You wanna look at it that way, okay.”
“I’ll be goddamned.”
Julian snorts.
Al’s back straightens. “This is funny?”
Julian rolls his eyes. “Is it?”
“I don’t think so.” Al pauses. His ears feel hot. “Not at all. For what you done to us…, I could…, I’ll….”
“You’ll what? Whaddyou want with me here? You gonna try somethin’?”
Al is taken aback. “What do I want with you? The hell are you talkin’ about?”
Now Julian’s puzzled. “What’s goin’ on here?”
Joey has climbed down stealthily to a lower limb allowing him to look directly in through the window. He rests his sweaty right hand with the gun in it on the sill. He bites his lip. He partially squeezes the trigger. He begins to give himself a pep talk.
“It’s gonna be alright…. We got it all planned out…. I got the Jungle Man behind me…. I got the list…. This is for you, Pa….” Joey partially squeezes the trigger again and again. “This is for you, Pa!”
But he can’t fire. Not yet. Joey forces himself to stare at the dark figure with the huge Afro standing in the doorway, facing his old man. That fucking huge beachball Afro. Those flashy clothes. That collar turned up like he’s fucking Shaft. I wanna kill ‘im!
Now Joey says aloud: “That’s it, you prick! Look at me! Lookit what I got!” He pushes his right hand farther in through the window. Al Dudek and Julian turn in the direction of Joey’s voice. Al hollers: “Joey, no!”
Joey hollers, “It’s okay, Pa!”
An ear-shattering crack. Al and Julian fall, their heads hitting the wooden floor of The Shack, making a sound like bowling balls hitting the lane. Two pools of black, shiny blood begin to extend from underneath them. The separate pools creep toward each other for 30 seconds until, finally, they meet and become one.
Joey stares at his gun. He wonders, Is this what it’s like to kill a guy? Like you didn’t even pull the trigger? He checks the cylinder. None of the bullets has been fired. His sphincter muscles disappear. His Pa lays on the floor, his eyes open, staring. At him. Joey’s eyes fill with water.
He says, “What the fuck?”
(Next: “Bizarre Bazaar,” Wednesday.)
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Benny Jay: State Champs
On the day of the big state track meet, I’m up and at `em early, long before the alarm clock rings at five a.m.
Hop out of bed, shower, shave, drive to the Dunkin Donuts on Montrose. Get a big cup of coffee – cream and sugar too – and a bagel with cream cheese. Take the drive south to the Andersons – Alonzo, Cynthia and their younger daughter Ashley – as the sun’s still climbing into the sky.
You got to love track `n field to get up this early to see a meet. And trust me — the Andersons love track `n field. Matter of fact, their older daughter, Alexandria, is one of the greatest runners in Illinois history. The girl won sixteen – that’s right, sixteen – first-place medals in four years of running for Morgan Park High School.
How the Sun-Times managed to leave her off their list of Chicago’s greatest athletes, I’ll never know – but that’s a different story for another time….
Anyway, the big meet’s in the football stadium at Eastern Illinois University in Charleston, two-hundred-something miles south of Chicago.
Takes us under three hours to get there cause I’m flying – it’s a miracle a state trooper doesn’t pull us over. We arrive just before ten, and take seats high in the stands overlooking the finish line. Best seats in the house.
Cynthia buys a program and keeps score – winners, times, which team’s up in the overall standings — like a kid at a baseball game. I’m telling you, the Andersons are serious track-and-field fans.
The two big races of the day feature girls we know from Coach Bob Geiger‘s team at Whitney Young High School: Lavinia Jurkiewicz in the 3,200, and Raena Rhone in the 400.
Lavinia, who’s a senior, won the state championship in cross country so all the girls will be gunning for her – she might as have a big X on her back.
The Great Lavinia!
Around and around they go until they’ve finished seven laps with one to go. Lavinia up front. No one’s even close. But, wait, her comes Ackerman, the freshman from New Trier – breaking away from the pack.
It’s the rookie and the champ, heading down the stretch, spectators rising, like it’s the final leg at Arlington, cheering so loud, you’d think we had money on the outcome. Maybe some of us do.
The freshman pulls even. They’re going at it stride for stride. Looks like the kid’s might push ahead. But, no, here comes Lavinia! Digging deeper to find the final burst she needs to race across the finish line an inch or two ahead of the rookie.
“Great run by that freshman,” I tell Alonzo. “I thought she might catch her….”
“Oh, no — not today,” he says. “It takes a lot to beat the champ….”
It’s a different race for Raena. She explodes from the start like a rocket and as she crosses the finish line, the other runners are way behind her — like she’s running alone. Up in the stands, her proud parents – Denise and Ray – are accepting congratulatory handshakes, hugs, and pats on the back.
The Great Raena!
All told, we spend six hours at the meet, broiling in the heat. On the way out, I see Maggie — Lavinia’s mom — redder than a lobster from her day in the sun, and grinning from ear to ear.
As we head to the car, I realize I haven’t eaten much since that bagel at Dunkin’ Donuts. We drive to the Wendy’s out by the highway.
Little tip about fast food at Wendy’s. Get the baked potato. Why? Well, I’m glad you asked. First of all, it’s not greasy and, second of all, it’s uhm, uhm good. Especially if you put on a dab of sour cream and mush it all up.
I’m trying to eat it slow cause I want it to last forever. But I’m so hungry I’m gobbling it down.
Plus, I get the crunchy chicken sandwich – damn, I love chicken — and the chocolate frosty. Not quite as good as chocolate milk, but almost.
After that we hit the highway for Chicago. Alonzo’s driving. I’m in the passenger’s seat, playing disc jockey and doing an excellent job, if I must say so myself, playing the Beatles, Aretha, Isleys, Hendrix, Earth Wind & Fire….
We’re having the time of our life hearing those old songs. Cynthia’s singing along — I swear, she knows every word to every song. When Evil comes on, well, I can’t help myself. I look back at Ashley, who must be thinking – these old folks are crazy. And say, sorry, but this one’s got to go louder.
And I crank it full blast.
We got Cynthia singing in the back – “Evil, running through my brain” – and Alonzo singing in the front – “we and evil’s about the same.” And I’m keeping beat on the dashboard, like I’m Maurice White playing the kalimba.
And into Chicago we roar, like Lavinia, Raena and all the other state champs, racing for the finish line….
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Randolph Street: Colors
Door & Window–Nebaj, Guatemala
Chickens–Cotzal, Guatemala
Curtain–Nebaj, Guatemala
Church Ribbons–Cotzal, Guatemala
Restaurant–Cotzal, Guatemala
Streetflower–Chichicastenago
All Photos © Jon Randolph
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Big Mike: Lemme Tell You A Story
I was talking yesterday with a woman at The Book Case where I peddle Bill Bryson and Billy Collins three days a week.
We got on the topic of newspapers and magazines. I told her my theory that in five or ten years there will only be a few newspapers left, mostly nationally-oriented ones like USA Today, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and a couple of others. I pointed at the countless magazines stuffing the racks.
“Mark my word,” I said, “within ten years none of this will exist. Pretty much all these magazines are available online. All this paper and ink and all the expenses of printing and shipping and returning unsold copies — none of it makes any sense anymore. And younger readers think newspapers and magazines are fossils.”
She shook her head sadly. “I don’t consider that progress,” she said. “Everybody’s online. None of it interests me. What do I care about these people and their blogs and what they have to say about every little thing that’s going on in the world or in their lives?”
I hadn’t the heart to tell her that I’ve been spewing hot air about every little thing that’s going on in the world or in my life since Benny Jay and I started The Third City a couple of years ago. Sure, my portfolio of opinion and feelings is superior to that of the average blogger because, well, I’m a good writer. The same can be said for Benny Jay and Milo, Gary’s Greatest Writer. Hell, that’s why we continue to run this communications colossus despite the fact that we’re three of the most disparate characters you could ever throw together in a pot.
But the woman was right. There’s not a single goddamned thing I can say about Rand Paul, Viagra, dogs shitting on neighbors’ front lawns, Lady Gaga, my fear of aging, or the Gulf oil spill that some cocky bastard who can hit the publish button quicker hasn’t said already online.
Let’s take Rand Paul as an example. I was going to do a post on him today. I was thinking I’d play around with the word Rand — as in his given name and the surname of a certain lunatic, obsessively anti-communist, sexually-manipulative, pathologically narcissistic “philosopher” who seems to hold the generation that gave us the Age of Reagan in thrall. I’d make the connection between the two and conclude that they have (or had) no compassion, concern, or even awareness of anyone else on this planet save for Me, Me Me!
Did I mention that Ayn Rand was also a horseshit writer?
Anyway, just as a lark, I googled Rand-Ayn-Paul-blog to see how many other bloggers have made the connection. I got more than half a million results including one guy who wrote about Mrs. Ayn Rand Paul’s Fishiness Sticks.
I sat back and sighed. Fuck it, I said, not only does the woman at the Book Case not give a shit about this, neither do I!
It hit me: If I don’t give a shit, what’s my purpose on this site? Why have we worked our typing digits to the bone to keep this thing going? Yikes.
Benny Jay wants us to become fabulously successful so he can buy some little, red phallic symbol sportscar. Milo wants us to make piles of money so he can keep up with the payments to his assorted bookies, bartenders, and pot dealers.
Me? Oh, I’m so much better than that. I am an artist. Nay, an artiste. I’m not just some blathering, bloviating blogger, like so many others that the whole of us constitutes nothing more than a teeming electronic anthill. I’m an author. The signature line on my gmail account says so.
So, I’ve been working on a book for the last three years or so. It’s called Black Comedy. I haven’t been as disciplined and committed to it as I have to this communications colossus. The thought occurs to me, What if the excesses of pizza, pasta, wine, and other things I put into my belly and lungs come together to make my heart explode suddenly in the middle of the night? Wouldn’t it be a crying shame if I keeled over before finishing this Magnum Opus?
Yes it would. Ergo, I’ll be running excerpts of it, sequentially, in this space from now on. Every other day or so, when it’s my turn to spout, I’ll put up another episode from the manuscript. The whole process will force me to get it done. Then I can die happy.
The Third City will be the platform from which I can launch a wildly entertaining best-seller. Then I can buy a fleet of little red phallic symbol sportscars and set up a syndicate of bookies, gin joints, and pot dealers. That would be my idea of success.
Sigmund Freud would have told us we’re all scrambling for success just so we can get laid. Since the three of us are already happily married — well, let’s just say married — and, presumably, don’t have to worry about finding someone to disrobe in front of us anymore (I understand Milo’s been banished to the sofa again), maybe we’re striving to reach the top so our wives no longer give us that look that says Goddamn it! Why didn’t I stay with that drop-dead gorgeous, poetry-reading college boyfriend of mine, the one who became a neurosurgeon and then wrote the book that became a smash hit movie starring Johnny Depp playing the role of him?
I can’t tell you how unfair that expectation is. George Clooney would be far more appropriate playing the role of me.
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Benny Jay: Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings!
On Friday my wife calls to tell me the big news: “Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings are playing at The Vic tonight!”
“No!” I exclaim.
“Yes….”
“We’ve got to be there.
“Tell me about it….”
You have to understand – I love Sharon Jones. She plays these funky R&B jams – big horns and all – that are straight out of the `60s. Sounds like Aretha Franklin, or dare I say it, James Brown.
The only thing is this. I didn’t discover Sharon Jones, you know, like I was listening to new releases on the radio or talking with young hipsters in a club or however it is that cool people discover new acts.
No – True Confession Time – my wife discovered Sharon Jones. As hard as this is to admit, when it comes to music my wife is way hipper than me. She actually listens to new music — while I’m still playing and replaying my old Earth Wind and Fire CDs from 1974.
The great Sharon Jones!
A few years ago my wife tells me: “We gotta see Sharon Jones at the Park West.” And I’m like: “Not more of that John Mayer crap?” And she says: “She’s nothing like John Mayer. Trust me, you’ll like her.”
Well, I made such a fuss about not wanting to shell out all of that money to see some talentless singer I knew I wouldn’t like that we didn’t go.
Then one day months later we’re driving in our car and this funky tune comes jumping out of the radio and I go: “Who’s this? And my wife says, “Sharon Jones.”
And, well, you know what comes next….
“You mean, that lady you wanted to see at the Park West?” I say.
“Yes.”
Silence. “Oh,” I say.
Then my wife says those words husbands loathe to hear: “I told you so….”
Anyway, back to Friday.…
“Call the box office and get some tickets,” my wife tells me. “I’d do it myself but I’m at work….”
“Yeah, yeah – I’m on it….”
So I call the box office, and some dude says: “Sorry, sold out.”
And I check the website and the message says: “Sharon Jones — sold out.”
When my wife comes home, I tell her – “Bad news, they’re sold out….”
And she says: “Let’s just go anyway, maybe someone really nice will have some extra tickets and give them to us….”
And I’m like: “Are you kidding me?” As I try not to laugh. “That’s not the way the world works. People just don’t give you things cause they’re nice. They might sell you some tickets – but you’re gonna have to pay twice the face value….”
“Let’s just see,” she says. “You never know….”
“No, I know. When it comes to scalping tickets, I know way more than you. I’ve scalped tickets for Bulls, Sox, Cubs….”
We cut a deal. We’ll take the train to Belmont and walk to the Vic. If we can’t get in, we’ll go to Pompeii for dinner. And I’ll get to eat that lemon chicken I love so much.
So off we go. Sure enough, there’s a long line of people outside the theater, looking to scalp tickets to get in.
“Told you,” I say.
“Just wait,” she says. “Don’t be so impatient….”
I move down the sidewalk – at least fifty feet – cause I don’t want anyone to think I’m even remotely associated with this foolhardy waste of time.
A few minutes pass. I look up to see my wife standing next to this big guy with a thick neck – looks like an undercover cop. He’s motioning me over.
I walk over, expecting him to tell me that she’s being ticketed for blocking the sidewalk. But my wife leans forward and whispers – “follow me.”
And so I follow her as she follows him and he leads us through the door and into the lobby and past the ticket takers and just like that we’re in!
I look at my wife. She looks at me.
“Did that just happen?” I say.
“I know – right?”
“Unbelievable — did you slip him some cash?”
“No – I just told him how much we wanted to see the show. I think he felt sorry for me. You see, there are nice people in the world….”
Well, let me tell you – that was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. Sharon Jones – “110 pounds of soul and excitement,” as the stage announcer put it — just rocks the joint. Sings all her great ones: Give It Back, The Game Gets Old, and my all time all time — She Ain’t a Child No More….
I walk out on a cloud, singing those songs in my mind as we head down the street.
“Well,” says my wife. “What do you say?”
“What do you mean?” I say, even though I know just what she means.
“You know….”
I gulp. “You were right,” I say.
“And?”
“I was wrong….”
“One more time….”
“You were right and I was wrong….”
Fellas, as much as I hate to say it, you know it’s true. On those rare occasions when a woman actually is right, you might as well come right out and admit it.
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No Blaise: Namaste
So, ever since not graduating college a week ago because of credit-hour issues, I’ve been home for the summer.
Because I have a laundry list of things that stress me out while living with my oh-so-lovely family, I decided to start myself on a workout routine.
You go girl!
I actually have kept up pretty well. Besides the fact that I’ve missed the last two days. And had a Venti caramel frappucino yesterday.
Oops.
The point is, part of my routine has included yoga.
Tuesday I was too embarrassed of my being completely out of shape, so I found some yoga video on TV and tried it at home.
The name of said video was Yoga/Fitness/Fusion.
Enough said.
I gave myself breaks in between downward dogs and the randomly incorporated push-ups. These push-ups, I guessed, were the “Fitness/Fusion” part of the whole thing.
During such breathers I’d lay on the mat like a dead fish while my dog sat on top of me.
Feel the burn.
After that challenging 45 minutes, I worked up the nerve to attend a real class on Friday.
Woke up at 10:50, got on the train towards downtown, and was on my way to class that started at noon.
I realize most people wouldn’t leave an hour and ten minutes early. But, that’s just kind of how I work.
I sat in my seat on Chicago’s Brown Line, yoga mat in hand, looking at people smugly. Considering the mat to be the equivalent to shouting that I was on my way to do something physically challenging.
You see this purple yoga mat? Yeah, I know you know that means I’m going to yoga. Mhmm…I’m a yogi. You should be assuming I have a six pack and am a vegan. Who lives on a ranch with my other yogi friends.
Back to reality. I get to class and lay my mat down on what is now my territory.
Turns out they have a million mats for people to use and there was no reason for me to bring my own. Of course, this won’t stop me from toting mine around to each class for the simple satisfaction.
Teacher arrives, turns down the lights awkwardly low, and begins.
We’re sitting there cross-legged, eyes closed, connecting with our breath.
Lovin’ it.
Then we go into the Vinyasa Flow. A bunch of Upward Dogs and Downward Dogs, other things I don’t remember the name of. I expect these poses, I’m rolling with it.
Now, this is how you do Downward Dog!
Then we progress into positions that kill my legs. I have to stop every so often to shake out my long limbs.
I look around the class as I do so as if to say, “It’s alright guys. I do this all the time. Just sore from my other workout. I’m so in shape.”
Class moves on, and the poses are not getting easier.
Dolphin Pose: my forearms stay on the mat, but my ass is supposed to “reach up through the ceiling.”
That’s not happening.
Half-moon is something where you’re elevated on your side, one leg bent in mid-air, hand on hip.
I am not a pretzel, thank you very much.
The teacher is walking around correcting people during this. Touching them.
Don’t touch me.
I just stand and do my “just shaking out my arms” thing.
I don’t even bother trying to catch the names of any other ones. Then we get to the end of class and go into a sequence that consists of essentially rolling into a ball then laying on your back with your eyes closed.
I could get used to this…
Class is over. I go to the locker room and just sit in the steam room. Letting out sighs like I just ran the Chicago Marathon.
Then walking back towards the train, mat propped purposefully under my arm as to provide a full 360 view for all who pass by. Symbolically slapping them all in the face with my athleticism.
Boo ya.
I get to my friend Hannah’s house and demonstrate what I can of the more difficult poses. She’s been doing yoga way longer than me, and knows most of the names so I try and get her to name them all.
One particular pose, though, I don’t need her to name. I already guess it.
It can only be labeled, “Shoot me.”
By No Blaise
Editor’s note: We’re happy to welcome back the great No Blaise who promises to write for us when she’s not practicing all that yoga….
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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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