Well, not really early for normal people. More like noon. But that’s early for me. Especially on Labor Day when I didn’t get to bed until about four in the morning.

They were having a big celebration in Millennium Park to honor Don Cornelius for creating Soul Train. I told my wife we had to get there before the gates opened to get a good seat.

Cause everybody who was anybody would want to see the Soul Train concert.

Especially since it was free. As in f-r-e-e!

I know — I tend to think that just cause I love something everybody loves it.

But in this case, people, I think we’ll all agree that 1970s Soul is the best music ever:  James Brown, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, the Spinners, the list goes on and on….

Sure enough — there were thousands and thousands of people waiting in line. I found myself standing next to a retired public school teacher from the south side.

Don Cornelius: 1936-2012….

We got into a mini-argument over who was better: Curtis Mayfield or Marvin Gaye?

I said Curtis and she said Marvin.  At one point, I started singing Superfly, to try to prove my point.

Wound up undercutting whatever point I was trying to prove cause I got all the words wrong, like always.

Eventually, we agreed to disagree about Marvin v. Curtis, while agreeing that I was a terrible singer.

Then we took turns ripping into Mayor Rahm Emanuel for making life miserable for public school teachers. Speaking of things we agreed on.

Not to get all political and everything….

Getting there early paid off cause we had great seats — way up front.

What a wonderful night. The house band was rockin’. They opened with the Soul Train theme. Brought the crowd to its feet.

C’mon, everybody — one more time: “Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo – doo, doo! Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doooo — doo, doo, doo! Let’s get it on – it’s time to get down….”

Richard Steel and Herb Kent were the MC’s. The brought on the Chi-Lites, the Impressions, Jerry Butler, and the Emotions.

That retired Chicago school teachers was dancing like it was 1975.

Eventually, Don Cornelius walked on stage to receive an honorary street sign.

He was kind of loopy. He started talking and you didn’t know where he was gonna go. Like a dinner guest who drinks too much and embarrasses everyone by revealing the family secrets.

Rambled on about this and that. Started talking about the Chess Brothers. Then changed the subject. Dropped the N word. Made a few politically incorrect statements. Jerry Butler — speaking of great `70s singers — came on and out and sort of eased him off the stage.

But so what. That’s Don Cornelius, ladies and gentleman. Born and raised in Chicago. Graduated from DuSable High. Went on out and created Soul Train. Took `70s soul — the greatest music of all time — and broadcast it all over the world.

If he’s a little loopy, he’s earned the right.

Rest in peace, Don Cornelius….

In the game against Washington, Jo-Jo was dribbling the ball like a guard. Centers don’t usually dribble the ball. Instead, they stand in the middle of the court with their arms in the air and yell at the guards: Pass it! I’m open!

Even if they aren’t.

By the way, that’s pretty much everything you need to know about basketball right there.

After the game, a reporter asked Noah if he fantasized about being a point guard.

You know, the guys who actually get to do all the dribbling.

To which Jo-Jo said: “Usually when I think of the word fantasize, I think of women.”

Turns out the inquiring reporter was the legendary Sam Smith.

I know this because I read the exchange on Sam’s blog. I read Sam’s blog cause I pretty much read everything about the Bulls. Like I was telling you.

In his post, Sam provides a transcript of the conversation.

Sam: “I really wasn’t going there. You’ll notice I tried to keep it to basketball.”

Jo-Jo: “I don’t think of basketball and fantasize as the same. It’s not the same category.”

Sam: “I’m a little older than you.”

The great Pam Grier!

As you can see, what we have here is a generation gap. I can see each side’s point since I’m old enough to view the world like Sam, yet young enough (barely) to remember where Jo-Jo’s coming from.

When you’re young, it’s girls, girls, girls, girls, girls!

I know this from my own experiences as a high school student, where I fantasized about girls every waking hour.

At which point, I started dreaming about them.

The girls I fantasized could fill a book. And I’m talking epic, not novella.

From the world of movies, there were, just to name a few: Pam Grier, Raquel Welch, Marilyn Monore, Rita Moreno, Vonetta McGee and Pam Grier.

I know I already mentioned Pam Grier, but I fantasized about her so much, I have to mention her twice.

From TV, there was Adrienne Barbeau, Sally Struthers, Denise Nichols and the girl who played Rhoda’s younger sister in the Mary Tyler Moore show.

Come to think of it, I also fantasized about Rhoda.

Did I mention Carly Simon?

Then there were the assorted TV anchor women, teachers, random girls in my Algebra class and hot-looking older ladies who worked in the cafeteria.

With all that fantasizing, it’s a miracle I had enough time to do my homework.

But as I got older, my energy’s waned, and my fantasies moved to less strenuous activities, generally having to do with watching the Bulls.

Sigh.

I do know some old timers who still fantasize about women.

I’ve got this one friend we’ll call Herman — cause his wife will kill him if I use his real name.

Herman happens to be Puerto Rican, but he speaks a little Yiddish on account of his days selling shoes on Maxwell Street.

When we go to lunch, Herman and I usually have a variation on the following exchange.

Herman:  “Hey, Benny, check out the tuchus on the waitress.”

Me: “Herman, that girl’s young enough to be your granddaughter!”

Herman: “Hey, man — you can look at the menu, so long as you don’t order anything to eat.”

I’m in Michigan cause my nephew’s performing his senior recital which includes a whole lot of opera.

Technically, he’s not my nephew — he’s my first cousin’s son. Which makes him either my second cousin or my first cousin once removed. I can never keep those things straight.

But since my first cousin’s more like a brother than a first cousin, I consider his son my nephew.

If you follow….

The opera-singing cousin/nephew’s named Josh Glassman. Kid sings like an angel so remember that name.

Here’s the thing about my family and opera….

There’s the faction that knows tons about opera. And there’s the faction that knows very little about opera.

Unfortunately, I fall into the second category. But I make up for it by caring way too much about the Bulls.

Speaking of which: Fuck the Heat!

After the recital we go to my cousin/brother’s house and eat. Which is something that everyone in my family — opera and non-opera factions included — is really good at.

Happiness is a warm 30 aught 6….

In fact, if you could make it to The Met by eating fried chicken, I’d be up on the stage singing Verdi right now: “Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate — va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli, Okjlkj…..”

Like I know what that means….

At my cousin’s house, Jennie puts out a lovely spread. Jennie’s my cousin/brother’s wife/girlfriend. I know, it’s complicated. Like everything in my family.

Here’s what folks in the family say about Jennie: Dang, that girl can cook!

While I’m eating, I have a conversation about rifles with Ami — who’s a cousin, sort of, by marriage. Like I said — complicated.

Conversation goes like this….

Ami: I have a rifle.

Me: You have a rifle?

Vickie: I have a rifle, too!

Vickie’s Ami’s mother which makes her my — something, I don’t know. You try keeping track of all this family shit.

As you can see, Ami’s right….

Vickie lives in Missouri and owns a 30 ought 6 which she keeps in the back of her truck. Cause, like, where else are you gonna keep your 30 ought 6?

A 30 ought 6 is a rifle. Oh, don’t act like you knew that.

Vickie says she’s gonna take me to the Ozarks and put me in that truck and drive me around so I can shoot some squirrels.

First of all — I’m not getting in that truck and I’m not shooting that rifle and I’m not eating squirrels.

Chicken, on the other hand….

Then Ami and I get into this debate over who played Loretta Lynn’s husband in Coal Miner’s Daughter. Not sure how we get from rifles to Loretta Lynn. But we did….

I say Levon Helm. And Ami says Tommy Lee Jones. Then she looks it up on her smart phone and guess what? She’s right and I’m wrong.

Damn, I hate when that happens!

On the ride home, I listen to Sam Cooke while the fellas — Norm and Cap — text me updates of the Bulls game.

They do an excellent job. It’s like I’m watching the game. I know all the details. Including a certain two missed free throws which I’m not talking about except to say this….

Ahhhhh!!!!!

When those free throws bounce out and a certain team from Chicago loses, I’m listening to Sam sing: “We’re havin’ a party, everybody swinging, dancing to the music on the radio….”

God, I love that song!

So it’s like getting stabbed in the heart, but feeling no pain.

Anyway, to all my cousins/brothers/sisters in Michigan — opera and non-opera factions included: Thank you, thank you, thank you!

He wants to know: “Did you see what my boy Darko did last night?”

Darko being Darko Milicic — the starting center for the Minnesota Timberwolves.

I say, “no,” though I know whatever Darko did must not have been bad. Cause I never hear from Milo about Darko unless he’s done something good.

Which means I hardly hear from Milo about Darko at all.

“He scored 20 last night,” Milo says.

Something else you should know about Milo — he scans the sports section every day to see how Darko did.

“That’s nice,” I say. “But he’s still a bum….”

“Yeah,” says Milo, “but he’s my bum.”

Can’t argue with that….

It was love at first sight for Milo with Darko cause Darko’s Serbian. As is Milo. Milo loves all the great Serbian basketball players — Vlade Divac, Pistol Pete Maravich, and, well, I’m sure there are others.

Just as I love all the great Jewish basketball players: Dolph Schayes, his boy Danny Schayes and, well, I’m sure there are others.

Milo loves Darko even when he bounces the ball off his nose….

When I was a kid, it used to bother me that there weren’t more Jewish basketball players to love.

But then the Reverend James Bevel told me something that set me straight.

Bevel was a demented genius — one of Martin Luther King Jr.’s top lieutenants during the fight against Jim Crow.

It was Bevel who came up with some of the most sophisticated strategies of non-violent disobedience in the civil rights movement — like filling the jails with young people in Birmingham, Alabama.

If you don’t believe me, look it up….

By the time I met Bevel he was starting to lose his mind — running as a Republican in an all-Democratic congressional district on Chicago’s west side.

He was wearing a yarmulke. I asked him: “What’s with the yarmulke?”

And he told me: “All Jews eminate from the motherland Africa. And all blacks descend from the Hebrew tribes of Abraham.”

In other words — “all blacks are Jews and all Jews are blacks.”

You might say Sammy Davis, Jr. was way ahead of his time.

I love Sammy Davis, Jr!

If you take Bevel’s theory into account, it’s been a pretty good run for Jews. In Barack Obama, we have a Jewish president. The world’s greatest golfer — Tiger Woods — is Jewish. As are the five greatest basketball players of all time: Michael Jordan, Wilt Chamberlain, Oscar Robertson, Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

Well, until he converted to Islam.

Conversely, it’s been a great run for black people….

A black man — Albert Einstein — discovered the theory of relativity. Another black man — Sigmund Freud — invented psychoanalysis as we know it. And a third black man, Woody Allen, is arguably the funniest man alive.

My advice to Milo is to take Reverend Bevel’s world view to its logical conclusion. If all civilization started in Mother Africa and all religions descend from father Abraham — than all of us our black Jews.

Even white Serbian-Americans named Samardzija.

In short, Milo, it’s time you switched your allegiance to the great Jewish ballplayers of modern time — starting with most sensational Derrick Rose.

Or “Shlomo” Rose, as his Jewish brothers and sister call him.

Shabbat Shalom, everybody!

Being The Third City’s movie critic and all.

Let’s start with Best Picture….

Well, there’s The Artist. Oops, didn’t see it. But my sister did. I’m not sure how relevant that is — just thought I’d tell you.

Anyway, there’s The Descendants. Didn’t see that one either. I was going to, then Anika told me it’s depressing.

Anika being one of my oldest daughter’s best friends. What’s up, Anika?

My feelings about depressing movies is simple: Avoid them at all cost. Life’s depressing enough without having to see a depressing movie.

Or as Cap from my bowling team once put it “Fuck that depressing movie shit!”

Actually, Cap never said anything like that. Just wanted an excuse to say — what up, Cap!

Back to Best Picture….

Raquel and Jim — give `em the Oscars!

I did see Moneyball. That’s the one where Brad Pitt plays this guy who puts together the really good Oakland A’s baseball team of 2002.

Great flick.

I’d say give it the Oscar except I hate the Oakland A’s on account of the fact that they’re always beating the White Sox.

In fact, I rooted against the 2002 A’s.  So watching Moneyball win the Oscar would be like living through that miserable season again.

Wouldn’t want to do that.

Here’s an idea — make a movie about the 2002 White Sox and give that movie the Oscar!

You know, I’m kind of tired about talking about Best Pictures, so let’s move on to another category.

For best actress give the Oscar to Raquel Welch. I love Raquel Welch, especially in 100 Rifles.

That’s the one where she plays this gorgeous Indian chick who hooks up with Jim Brown and Burt Reynolds and takes on the whole Mexican Army — the American army, too. As I recall, they beat both armies.

Cause they roll like that!

There are so many great scenes in that movie. Like the one where Jim Brown and Raquel Welch have this steamy sex scene.

Hello!

And the one where Raquel Welch takes a shower.

Whoa!

Burt also got some action in 100 Rifles….

And the one where Burt Reynolds and Jim Brown are facing a firing squad and Burt looks at Jim and says: “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

And Jim says to Burt: “Not as sorry as me.”

Now that’s great dialogue!

You know, as long as we’re giving Raquel the Best Actress award, give the Best Actor award to Jim Brown and give Burt Reynolds the one for Best Supporting Actor.

What’s that you say — 100 Rifles came out in 1969? So what. They should have won the Oscars back then. It’s never too late to right old wrongs.

That leaves us with Best Supporting Actress. Give it to Melissa McCarthy from Bridesmaids. I love Bridesmaids.

There you go — that’s the one that should win Best Picture.

Huh? Bridesmaids didn’t get nominated for Best Picture?

Are you fucking kidding me! What a joke!

All right — here’s what we do. Give an Oscar to Bridesmaids whenever you can. And when you can’t give it to Bridesmaids, give it to Woody Allen.

Cause I love the Woodman!

So that’s about it on the Oscar beat.

Oh, wait, best documentary….

Give it to Hoop Dreams.

What? It came out in 1994?

Well, it should have won it back then.  Like I said — it’s never too late to right old wrongs.

Now for the explanation….

As everyone knows, I’m a big fan of Ozzie Guillen, the former White Sox manager in part because of his wildly entertaining eruptions.

At The Third City, we encourage people to express themselves. As in: Fuck the Heat!

Ah, felt good….

As far as we’re concerned, Ozzie was the only exciting thing the Sox had to offer last year.

In short — please come back, Ozzie!

In September, Ozzie, sensing he would not be rehired, went on a verbal rampage against the Sox.

My favorite part was this:  “If I leave here, I will say, `I leave here because I want to make my [bleeping] money.’ You know why? Because no [bleeping] fans, no [bleeping] Jerry Reinsdorf or [bleeping] anybody is going to take care of my grandkids and put me in a 62-foot boat.”

Two things you need to know….

One — Jerry Reinsdorf owns the White Sox.

And two — by replacing the entertaining words with “bleeping,” the Sun-Times left what Ozzie actually said to the imagination of its readers.

Apparently, that was a heavy load for many readers to bear. Because the next time Ozzie erupted, the Sun-Times felt compelled to help us out by giving us the first letter of each bleeped-out word.

Ozzie’s back!

Turned it into an Ozzie crossword puzzle.

As in this sentence: “I stuck up for my coaches like a m———–.”

Hmm, 12-letter word starting with m? I spent the better part of the morning trying to figure it out.

Finally gave up and called Milo, who knows a lot about swearing on account of the two years he spent in the Army.

“Benny,” Milo said. “I believe the full word is mother fucker.”

“Dang — I thought it was menstruation….”

“Close enough, Benny.”

At this point, I’d like to humbly suggest that the Sun-Times print the whole word.

I know the editors probably want to shield readers from nasty words. But, editors, let me break something to you — most of your readers use these words every day.

In fact, I’d say about half of your staff’s using them right now.

Back to Ozzie’s latest eruption….

It has to do with a contention made by Sox pitcher Jake Peavy that Ozzie quit on the team last year.

And he’s really mad at his old pal, Jerry….

Ozzie went on the offensive, tweeting: “I will kill peoples felling no mercy I turn the page but they no let me a long then get ready going to be bad”

Apparently, Twitter doesn’t employ proofreaders.

Sensing a scoop, Sun-Times columnist Joe Cowley called Ozzie to get the good shit.

Or, the good s—, as the Sun-Times might put it.

But this time around — not so entertaining.

There was: “Now that the truth is out there, I can look people in the face and tell them, f— themselves.”

And….

“I f—– up. When you f—– up, take responsibility.”

And then — “all that bull—.”

By the way, it’s good to see the Sun-Times is printing more than one letter. If this continues, by the start of spring training, they’ll be up to “bullsh–.”

Actually, the most interesting part was Reinsdorf’s response….

“Regarding Ozzie Guillen’s departure, I want to make it clear that that country cocksucker left with our organization’s blessing because I didn’t want to see that sorry mother fucker one more day!”

Oops, that was the first draft — before the Sox cleaned it up.

Sorry, White Sox, my bad.

First time I’ve done that. Already watched them in Indian, Thai and Chinese restaurants. All that’s left is Korean….

Walk in midway through the second quarter — my wife and younger daughter are already seated in the corner.

Can see right away that there’s a problem. The restaurant’s got a big, beautiful TV right over the Sushi counter. But it’s tuned to the Orlando-Lakers game.

No offense, Kobe and Dwight Howard — but this is the Chi!

So….

I ask the sushi maker: “Can you please turn the TV to the Bulls game?”

He nods and smiles.

I realize — the man speaks no English.

So I speak louder and start pretending I’m shooting a basketball. “Bulls,” I say. “Watch Bulls.”

Not sure why I think the pantomiming will work. But I’m into it. Start faking a crossover dribble.

He smiles and nods. Probably thinks: This mutha fuka’s crazy!

Thank goodness for the Mexican Sushi maker.  His English’s a little better than the Japanese guy’s.

By the way, have you noticed that there’s a lot more Mexican guys working in Sushi restaurants?

Brian Scalabrine: Greek or Italian?

He points to the channel changer sitting on the counter.

The channel changer’s huge — got like a zillion buttons. I’m thinking: What the fuck am I supposed to to with this?

“Push the red button,” says the Mexican Sushi maker.

I’m standing in the middle of the restaurant, pointing the channel changer at the TV, pushing the red button.  Go through a bunch of different shows: Wrestling, car racing, rock concerts, Chicago Wolves hockey, finally — my boys!

Everything’s great, except….

My wife and daughter are sitting in the corner. I can see the game, but only if I turn my back to them and look through and over a couple of plants.

Which I’m willing to do, but my wife’s having none of it.

“That’s it,” she says. “We’re moving our table!”

So she calls over the waitress and tells her: “My husband wants to watch the Bulls game.”

The waitress smiles and nods. Apparently, she speaks English about as well as the Japanese Sushi maker.

So I start pantomiming jump shots. Cause, you know — that worked so well with the Sushi maker.

Somehow or other the message gets through. And we pack up our water glasses, chopsticks and pot stickers and move to a table perfectly aligned with the TV.

Ah, yes, contentment.

James Caan as Sonny Corleone….

Bulls are killing the Cavs. It’s such a blowout that they bring in Brian Scalabrine early in the fourth.

As opposed to really late in the fourth, seconds before the buzzer.

“Scalabrine,” says my wife. “Is he Italian?”

I’m so excited. I love it when my wife talks basketball.

“I’m not sure — he might be Greek….”

“He doesn’t look Greek,” says my wife.

“I didn’t say he was Greek. I said he might be Greek….”

“You don’t see a lot of Greeks with red hair….”

“Okay, he’s not Greek! He’s probably Italian….”

“Are Italians usually this tall?”

Hmm, good question. I try to think of a tall Italian. The only one I can think of is Sonny Corleone.  And he’s not really Italian.  In fact, he’s not a real person at all.

All in all — great night. Bulls win!

The Sushi wasn’t bad either….