Big Mike: Bloomington’s Big Wheel

I have no idea how she does it.

It’s seven-thirty in the morning. The sun is just beginning to send retina-piercing crepuscular rays into Soma coffeehouse. My eyes are slitted against the glare. My brain is operating at a level which would make it difficult, were someone to ask me my middle name, to offer a cogent and accurate reply.

The Front Room At Soma

Yet the force of nature known as Kaka Calienté strides smartly into the place, up on the balls of her feet like the finely-tuned athlete she is, her eyes darting, searching for familiar faces. As always, she finds them. I’ve got to remember to tell her that I bet she’ll be mayor of this little burgh one day. That is, if my pre-frontal lobe ever decides to, you know, work.

There she is, working over Pat Murphy, Bloomington‘s water boss, in the counter line. She’s speaking and gesturing as if it’s 11:00am. His eyes are as slitted as mine. The two may be talking over some infrastructure issue in Kaka’s neighborhood just north of downtown. Or they simply may be exchanging pleasantries. Let me clarify that — she may be talking infrastructure. She may be offering pleasantries. Poor Pat Murphy’s still trying to get his grey matter going too.

Kaka spies me. I love her to death. I do. But right now I loathe each and every member of the human race. I’d sell my mother into interstate slavery in exchange for ten minutes back in my comfy bed. The caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet. Kaka must have some unique gland that secretes caffeine.

She bounces over to my table. “Hey, buddy!” she gushes. “Wasn’t Saturday night fabulous!”

Oddly, the vise that’s been clamping my skull feels as if it’s loosening.

“It was fabulous,” I say. “You are amazing.”

“Pshaw.”

“No. I mean it. I had no idea you were that good.”

“It isn’t just me.”

“You’re the star.”

“We’re all stars.”

Lots of athletes don the cloak of humility. I don’t know why but I believe it isn’t an act for Kaka.

Kaka Calienté

She led the Flatliners, the A-team for the Bleeding Heartland Roller Girls, to a rout of Harley’s Angels from Dayton, Ohio, Saturday night. It was the main event in the BHRG home opener double header (the BHRG’s Code Blue Assassins B-team absorbing a vicious pounding at the hands of Grand Rapids in the first bout.) Kaka was the starting jammer for the Flatliners. She toed the pink line with an air of supreme confidence, a big sister about to teach her little sibs how to play the game. She pulled off three grand slams in the first jam. The Angels were down 15-0 as the opening whistle seemingly still was echoing off the arena walls. That was the closest the visitors would get. The Flatliners won by 119 points.

I was there. I sweated, mumbled, fumbled, and malapropped my way through the inaugural roller derby podcast for WFHB radio. I tell you, man, I was not just nervous — I was scared. At one point, as I was preparing to do play-by-play for the main event of the opening night doubleheader I thought, I can’t do this. It’s all too fast. I can’t keep up. I gotta get out of here!

Swear to god, I started formulating a plan for escape. I figured I’d start telling people I didn’t feel well. Then, the skids greased, I’d tell bout organizers that I was too sick to go on, that I’d have to pack up and leave.

But midway through the first bout, Kaka sat next to me in full uniform for an interview. She commented astutely on the action in front of us, talked about the A-team’s pre-bout preparations, and recounted how she got into roller derby. She sounded as knowledgeable and entertaining as any former jock sportscaster on ESPN. After we finished the interview, I confessed to Kaka that I was nervous.

“Oh yeah?” she said. “You’re no more nervous than I am, I’ll tell you that.”

I couldn’t believe it. Kaka skated off, appearing as if she owned the building. You know what? She did.

I took heart in Kaka’s words. Somehow I got through the podcast. I’ll tell you this: my performance was nowhere near as good as that of the Flatliners.

Then again, it was my first time.

Kaka (In White)

Now, here was Kaka sitting next to me again, this time in Soma coffeehouse.

“Big Mike,” she said, “I wanna ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“You know, the July 23rd bout?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the Flatliners aren’t skating that night. It’s a single bout — just the Code Blue Assassins. I was wondering….” Here, Kaka sounded uncharacteristically timid. “…. Maybe, you know, is there anything I can do for you? When I was in college, it was always my dream to get into radio.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Help me? Hell, you can sit next to me and we’ll do the bout together!”

“You mean, like I’ll be the color commentator?”

“Natch!”

“That’s great. That’s so fantastic. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

At that moment, Kaka Calienté made me feel like the most important guy on Earth. I’m telling you, she’s gonna be the mayor of Bloomington one day.

Letter From Milo: The Readers Speak!

Recently the editors at The Third City hired a research company to figure out the demographics of our readers. Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this scabby crew of talentless hacks, said it was something we had to do for fiduciary reasons.

“The more we know about our readers, the better off we’ll be,” he said. “Once we know who they are, where they live and their income levels, we can increase our advertising and subscription rates and squeeze even more money out of the dumb bastards. All of the big boys do it — Guns & Ammo, Hustler, The Daily Racing Form, Minnesota Swingers Magazine. We’ve got to do it, too.”

Well, I have to admit that I was astonished by the results of the survey. A surprising number of our faithful readers have been short-listed for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes. More than 70% have advanced degrees from Ivy League schools. 81% of our readers are independently wealthy or employed at the highest levels of government. We attract more MENSA readers than any other blog, by a margin of more than three to one. And more than 90% of our female readers have big tits.

With such a literate, civilized and genteel readership, I feel an obligation to our fans to let them have their say. That’s why I occasionally turn this column over to our loyal supporters. Here, then, are a few letters from the distinguished followers of The Third City.

Letter:

Motherfucker! Where’s my money!

Reply:

Nickel Bag Bernie! Is that you? You rotten bastard, you’ve got a lot of nerve asking me to pay for that bag of lawn clippings you sold me. You’re a disgrace to the pot dealing profession. I could have had FTD deliver something that would have gotten me higher than that shit you foisted on me. As soon as your mom, Dime Bag Betty, gets out of jail I’m taking my business to her.

Letter:

Milo, I’m in a terrible situation at work and don’t know where else to turn for advice. I’ve got a new supervisor and he’s making my life a living hell. He’s the worst sort of bully. He yells at me constantly and calls me all sorts of names. He blames me for everything that goes wrong in the office. He threatens to fire me three or four times a day. Things are so bad that sometimes I go into the executive bathroom and cry like a baby. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep and I dread coming to work. Milo, I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s too important to me. I’ve got three little children and a very sickly wife. What can I do? Please help me.

Reply:

Man, I hate assholes like that. He sounds like a rough piece of work. But, here’s a surefire way to end his reign of terror. It’s always worked for me when I’ve had the misfortune of finding myself in an untenable situation. Get yourself a gun and shoot the cocksucker. Make sure you shoot him a couple of times. You don’t want the bastard to recover. He sounds like a vindictive brute. If he survives he may try to sue you.

Letter:

Hey, Milo, what makes you such an expert on sex? It seems like all you write about is booze, drugs, gambling and sex. Personally, I find your blogs extremely offensive. I caught my wife sneaking a peek at your blogs the other night and immediately made an appointment for counseling with my minister at the Lutheran church.

Reply:

I am a humble man, modest to a fault. I would be the last person to blow my own horn. I prefer to let others blow it for me. That said, there are few men better equipped or as well endowed with the knowledge and experience that is needed to be able to offer advice to the fornicationally challenged. The great ones – Casanova, Don Juan, Sir Walter Raleigh, Porfirio Rubirosa, Catherine the Great’s horse, Errol Flynn, and the immortal Wayne Gray — made it a point of honor to pass on their knowledge of the studly arts to those who followed in their footsteps. Although I am too humble to put myself in their exalted company, I would be doing a grave disservice to aspiring Pussy Magnets everywhere if I failed to do the same. The letter below, from a young man floundering in the sexual widerness, is a perfect example of why it’s important to pass on traditional manly lore.

Letter:

Hey, Milo, it’s me, Benny Jay. This question is not from me, honest. It’s for a friend of mine. Is it true that size doesn’t matter when it comes to sex? Like I said before, this question is not from me. My friend would appreciate an answer ASAP.

Reply:

Benny, let me put your, ah, friend’s mind at ease. Size has absolutely nothing to do with sexual pleasure. The truth is, you can have just as much fun with a fat woman as a skinny woman.

Letter:

Milo, I’ve decided to start my own blog site and get rich and famous like you guys at The Third City. It’s going to be a Christian blog site, dedicated to Christian ideals. I’ll post notices of good, clean, family activities, like hayrides, all-you-can-eat fish fries, spelling bees, corn shucking contests and church outings to Six Flags. What do you think? Any advice would be appreciated. Bless you.

Reply:

Eh, great idea, kid. Add a little good Christian porn, strictly missionary position stuff, of course, and you’ve got a real winner on your hands.

Letter:

What ever happened to your friend Teddy, the bank robber, who spent 22 years in a Mississippi prison?

Reply:

Teddy turned up about a week ago. It seems that he had spent the last four months in the McHenry County Jail on a forgery charge. Teddy assured me it was a bum rap, a simple misunderstanding, something about a questionable signature on a check. That’s what happens when you rob banks. You get on all the authorities’ shit lists. Make the smallest mistake and they come after you. It doesn’t seem fair. A man robs a few banks and he’s considered a criminal. Yet, when the banks rob us, the bank executives end up getting a free trip to Washington, D.C. so they can spend a pleasant afternoon amiably chatting with Senators in an air-conditioned room. What they should do is take the motherfuckers outside, put them up against a wall and…

Note from the Editors:

Due to the flood of angry calls, letters and emails to The Third City, we are suspending Milo without pay indefinitely. He will not be allowed to write for us again unless he agrees, in the presence of witnesses, not do any more letters or advice columns. We want to assure our loyal readers that The Third City does not officially endorse or condone drug use or drug trafficking, indiscriminate sexual activity, pornography, bank robbery or armed violence of any kind. On the advice of our attorneys, we can say no more.

Benny Jay: Sex, Sex, Sex — And Lesbians!

I’ve been really trying to do the right thing and live this good, clean upstanding life, without falling for temptation, but, lord, lord, lord it’s hard – everywhere I go it’s sex, sex, sex….

And more sex.

Case in point… wake up this morning, go to my room and turn on my computer to find a message from our blog server telling me: Good News! The Third City broke all records, drawing more readers for a single day than ever before.

And what, pray tell, was the blog post that drew all those readers? Why, Milo‘s opus on The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender.

That’s the one where he tells men what they have to do make their dick’s bigger.

And what record did The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender break?

Why, the old one that it set about a year ago — the first time Milo posted it.  You see, The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender is a rerun. Guess Milo’s running low on ideas.

In other words, a lot of horny fucks liked The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender so much, they read it twice!

Like I’ve been trying to tell you – people can’t get enough sex.

Anyway, after breakfast I go for a ride in my new car. Turn on National Public Radio. Hear a couple of eggheads going on and on about Elena Kagan, President Obama’s Supreme Court nominee.

Apparently, the woman’s a genius – knows more about the law than just about anyone alive. Yet what are they debating: Is she or is she not a lesbian?

I’m not making this shit up. They got this law professor from some fancy college out east talking about how it’ s really important to know if Kagan’s a lesbian so we’ll know if she’ll have an open mind on discrimination cases involving gays.

I’m telling you — these lawyers are shameless. They’ll make up any old bullshit to talk about lesbians.

Can’t take it anymore. Turn the radio to sports talk. They’re talking about whether LeBron James will leave the Cavaliers and come to the Bulls.

Ah, a topic I can get into. But, oh no — they got a sportswriter from Cleveland talking about whether LeBron’s 41-year-old mother has been screwing LeBron’s 27-year old teammate.

They’re trying to be all high and mighty by putting it in the larger context of how will this  effect LeBron’s decision to stay with the Cavs. But, c’mon, they’re not fooling me. Just another excuse to talk about Cougar sex.

Back I go to NPR. Guess what? They’re still talking about lesbians. For real. They got some chucklehead saying Kagan’s got to be a Lesbian cause – get this – she’s really good at softball. You know, like the only good women softball players are lesbians.

Are you kidding me! Clearly, this dude’s never seen the Sunday Lesbian Softball Leagues in Lincoln Park. Man, those are some of the worst softball players I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen a lot of softball players. As far as I can tell, most of the best players in that league are the straight women that the managers bring in as ringers.

But this dude’s can’t stop talking lesbian softball players. I guess NPR’s gotta to do something to pick up the ratings.

Anyway, I get home.  Go to my computer and find a report from my server giving me the daily run down of keywords people use to get to The Third City.

These are the words or phrases people type into Google or Yahoo or some other search engine.

Here’s some of the cleaner things (even I have standards of purity) on the list: “nude female marines;” “Laura Bush nude pics”; “gay piss slave”; “sexy tractor ladies”; “women with big butts in track and field”; ‘women big asses”; “women who can kick your ass”; “vacuum cleaner in pussy”; and then assorted to Swedes, such as “Swedish cock size;”  “Swedish blow jobs;” “Swedish dicks” and so on and so forth.

Aren’t they cute?

I mean, the Internet’s supposed to be the greatest invention of recent times. But as far as I can see most people are only using it for sex.

Forget it — that’s it. I’m giving up in my fight against temptation. Can’t beat `em, so join `em. From here on out, I’m only going to write about sex.

If I run out of ideas, I’ll just re-post The Fabulous Swedish Dick Extender. Hey, it worked for Milo. What the hell — let’s run it once a week. We’ll be making millions. Probably get more hits than the Huffington Post….

Big Mike: Fishnets and Quad Skates

Water bottle — check. Binoculars — check. Folding table and chair — check. Scorecard — check. Pens and pencils — check. Marantz PMD661 Solid State Professional Recorder — check.

Huh?

It sounded at first as if I were gathering gear for an outing at the county fair park to see a horserace or something. But no, I’m busy getting ready to do the first broadcast of the Bleeding Heartland Rollergirls tonight at the Twin Lakes Recreation Center in beautiful Bloomington, Indiana.

Tough Guys — (from IDS)

Lucky I made friends with a woman who styles herself Ka Ka Calienté over at Soma coffeehouse over the last few months. I can’t tell you her real name. That’s the rule.

Anyway, I found out Ka Ka skates for the BHRG. She’s the star of the A-team, the Flatliners, in the North Central Division of the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association. That’s the WFTDA — Wiffda in the vernacular — the governing body of one the fastest-growing sports around, roller derby.

Notice I didn’t say women‘s roller derby. You know, like Women’s National Basketball Association or Ladies Professional Golf Association. A little sop thrown the distaffers’ way, somethin’ t’keep the little gals happy, y’know what I mean? Girls playin’ sports — ain’t it cute?

“That’s Nice, Honey. Now, Let The Men Play Through.”

Cute this isn’t. This is serious shit. Wiffda is a women-created, women-run sports league featuring — what else? — women. The fact that it’s not on ESPN or TBS is probably just because there isn’t some impossibly gorgeous star like Jessica Gysin or Elena Dementieva in the league.

That’s okay. We’ve had the mainstream media’s vision of “beauty” shoved down our throats long enough now. Give me Anita Fingerbang or Terror D’Bits. Both are starters for the BHRG Flatliners. But the star — the star of stars — is Ka Ka Caliente.

Hot Pants

The more I heard her talking about rigorous practices, skills tests, the number of women who were dying to join the league, I knew I had to find out what this game is all about. It’s about pure competition — sweaty, rough, tough, sometimes bloody competition. Add a heaping bowlful of theatrics — ergo the catchy, colorful nicknames, the multi-hued hair, the fishnet hose, the tattoos that’d make a merchant marine blush — and you’ve got an evening of fun for the whole family. Although a parent or two might have a time trying to explain to the seven-year-old why that skater is named Anita Fingerbang.

Well, they’ll have to learn some time or another. Why not now?

So I’m going to be doing the first podcast of a BHRG bout tonight. It’s a doubleheader. The Code Blue Assassins, the BHRG’s B-team, takes on the Cedar Rapids Rollergirls in the first bout. The Flatliners go up against the Gem City Rollergirls from Dayton, Ohio, in bout two.

It’s the home opener for the Bloomington skaters. The women expect to pack the Twin Lakes grandstands tonight. Crowds in the thousands are common for teams throughout the North Central Division. Bet you didn’t know that. I sure didn’t — until recently.

I’ll say this: I fully expect the Code Blue Assassins and the Flatliners to put on a more exciting show tonight than will, say, the Cubs who are going up against a real baseball team in Philly.

We’re going to see if this game is right for live radio broadcasts. We’re doing a demo tonight. We’ll engineer it next week. Then we’ll put it up on the WFHB website. If all works well, we’ll be doing the next bout live.

I can’t imagine that Anita Fingerbang is any more nervous than I am.

Randolph Street: Guatemala

City Square–Nebaj, Guatemala

Meat Market–Nebaj, Guatemala

Red Wall–Nebaj Guatemala

Three Men–Nebaj, Guatemala

Blue Door–Nebaj, Guatemala

Hammock–Nebaj, Guatemala

This starts a series from Guatemala–these are from the Ixil triangle In the Central Highlands.  All Photos © Jon Randolph.

Benny Jay: Hyde Park

Great blog bit yesterday by Big Mike about Richard Blumenthal, the senatorial candidate in Connecticut who’s got himself in a heap of trouble telling people he’d served in Vietnam.

Blumenthal was a Marine, but he not in Vietnam. He served in a reserve unit based in Washington, D.C. Spent most of his war years doing things like handing out toys to tots at Christmas Parties.

Now he’s in so much trouble – with veterans groups mad at him – he might not win the election.

Reminds me of a story Milo tells about a conversation he overheard in a Lincoln Avenue bar many years ago. One guy was telling another guy about the time “he was out with his platoon in Vietnam and a tiger jumped out of the bushes and dragged one of the Marines away.”  Milo didn’t believe it – if for no other reason than a platoon’s got thirty to forty well-armed soldiers who’d have blown that tiger away.

Fast forward another month or so after Milo told me that story and I’m watching Apocalypse Now – hadn’t seen it in years — and there’s this scene where Martin Sheen’s walking through the jungles of Vietnam when a big tiger jumps out at him.

Soon as I saw that tiger, I knew that bullshitter at the bar had stole his tiger story from Apocalypse Now.

Which reminds me of another time over thirty years ago….

I’m sitting in the locker room at Evanston Township High School listening to this boy named Bubba going on and on about this chick he’d been banging. Said he just put her up against the door and was banging her so hard that the door was slamming against the wall while she was calling out his name: “Oh, Bubba, Bubba, Bubba….”

Well, guess what? Months later I’m watching The Godfather and I see  Sonny Corleone – played by the great James Caan – banging some girl against the wall so hard that the door’s slamming against the wall, while’s she’s calling out: “Sonny, Sonny, Sonny.”

In other words, Bubba didn’t bang a chick against the wall. He just made it up after he saw Sonny do it in the Godfather.

After fifty-odd years of living, I’m starting to realize you can’t believe half the stuff people tell you. Not content with their own lives,  they just invent new ones, usually based on stuff they see in the movies.

But I shouldn’t get so high and mighty. When I was a high-school freshman, I told this boy – call him Josh – that my father was Al Spangler, a back-up right fielder for the Cubs.

Fooled ya’, Josh….

Why did I say that? Envy.

Josh was new to town from Hyde Park, the integrated neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. I didn’t know much about Hyde Park — had never been there more than once or twice — but it sounded like this really cool inner city neighborhood. A helluva lot cooler than boring old Evanston, anyway.

I’d hear Josh tell his tales and I’d think: Why can’t I be from somewhere cool?

And, let me tell you, Josh really laid it on. Said he graduated from Ray Elementary –  at 56^th and Kimbark – where the coolest of the cool went to school. Talked about his grammar school classmates like they were rock stars. He said he’d been slated to go to Kenwood High School – which is even cooler than Ray – but his parent’s made him move to Evanston. So even though he was in Evanston, he would never be an Evanstonian. He would always be a Hyde Parker. Get it?

Well, what could I say in return? Every time I tried to tell him something cool I had done at Nichols Junior High, he’d say, oh, yeah, well, back in Hyde Park….

So, fuck it – I trumped his ace. I told him my father was Al Spangler. Just made the shit up. (Cut me some slack – I was desperate.) Figured it would impress him to think my daddy played in the majors. Can’t remember why I picked Spangler – as opposed to any other major leaguer. Probably just the first name that popped into my mind.

To my shock, Josh fell for it. He stopped bragging about Hyde Park and started begging me – please, please, please — to introduce him to his father. (By the way, I used this all as a the source for a scene in The Greens, which, as Milo will tell you, is the greatest book ever written.)

Finally, I confessed. Not only wasn’t Al Spangler my father, but my real father was a college professor who didn’t even like baseball, much less play it.

Josh was mad, but he got over it,  and we’ve been friends ever since.

Funny thing is – years later I had an impulse to impress a girl at a party by telling her that I was from Hyde Park.

But don’t worry. I stopped myself before I started. The thing about lies is that they have lives of their own — after awhile you start believing your own bullshit.

Even coming from Evanston is cooler than that….

Sharday Cage: Moon

Take notice upon the moon,

Hanging effortlessly,

Lacking strings to hold its place.

Above me, it glows from the freedom it is given.

Jealousy is all I feel.

Here I am bound,

With endless rules,

Moving only by the conditions of control.

I have no will of my own,

Fulfilling desires that are not entirely my own,

Even while I drive, it is because I must.

The world has become more of a burden than happiness.

O, moon,

Help me,

I follow you yet cannot reach you,

But there you are,

Never too far that I cannot see you.

Is it your wish to torment me?

To expose your carefree face,

Upon my tired soul?

Tonight you light yourself a more fluorescent color,

Turning a shade yellow,

Like a lamp from inside a window,

I see no shadows lurking inside you,

Perhaps you are just as lonely as I am,

For there is a vacancy within you,

That possibly I could fill,

The woman inside the moon,

I could be as free as you,

I would revel in it.

Only you run when I run to you,

Though you appear frighteningly still,

Moon, do not fear me

By Sharday Cage

Editor’s note: A new poem from the great Sharday Cage.