Benny Jay: Bullock Kisses Streep!

I’m watching the Oscars….

Each year I say I won’t, but each year I do. Can’t help myself. Fact is, I can’t get enough of this shit.

I got a special reason this year. The Coen Brothers‘ movie, A Serious Man, is up for Best Original Screenplay and I want them to win. I love the Coen Brothers. Matter of fact, I sort of wish I were a Coen Brother.  But don’t let that get around.

They’re also up for Best Picture. But, trust me, that’s going to The Hurt Locker cause it’s directed by a woman and the Academy wants to finally give all the big awards to a movie directed by a woman, like they’re all noble and stuff.

I’m not hating, just saying….

Sure enough, they give the script-writing Oscar to Mark Boal, who wrote The Hurt Locker. Nothing against Mark Boal, but who the hell is he? He’s no Coen Brother, that’s for sure.

“Boo!” I exclaim.

“Stop booing,” says my wife.

“If you’re not gonna give it to my boys give it to Tarantino….”

I love Quentin Tarantino almost as much as the Coen Brothers. He’s up for Inglorious Basterds, which isn’t going to win anything either, cause of that woman thing I was telling you about.

I boo louder.

From upstairs my younger daughter, who’s trying to do her homework, yells: “Stop booing!”

Boal gives a great acceptance speech, thanking our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I feel kind of guilty for booing.

They give some award for something to some black guy I never heard of. He’s in the middle of his acceptance speech when some redheaded lady shows up out of nowhere, pushes him to the side and starts talking.

“What the fu,” I say.

“Who’s she?” asks my wife.

“This is like something out of Saturday Night Live….”

It’s Robin Williams’ turn to make a presentation. He refers to the Governor’s Ball: “It’s one of many balls that will be held around town tonight….”

It takes me a second or two – okay, I’m slow – then I get it.

My wife brings in dinner: Greek chicken, oven-cooked potatoes and salad. Damn, it’s good. I’m chowing down – got a chicken bone in my hand – as James Taylor starts singing In My Life, while they show footage of the greats who died last year.

“Taylor’s killing this song,” I say.

“Shh,” says my wife.

“He’s singing it like a dirge — but it’s not a dirge….”

“I’m trying to listen….”

“This sucks….”

“Stop hating….”

For best actress, they bring a bunch of celebrities on stage to give testimonials for the nominees. This one guy’s going on and on about Meryl Streep, like she’s a saint.

“Gimme a break,” I say.

“Shh….”

“This guy’s got her walking on water….”

Oprah starts talking about Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe, who’s nominated for her role in Precious.

“This is my girl,” I say.

“Quiet….”

“I’m sick of all the skinny girls winning….”

“Shush….”

Sean Penn opens the envelope and says: “The winner is….”

I chant: “Precious, Precious….”

“Sandra Bullock….”

“Boo…..”

“Stop it,” says my wife.

“Should have gone to Precious — Boo!”

“Stop booing!” yells my daughter from upstairs.

Bullock gives this fantastically gracious acceptance speech. Total class. Makes me feel salty for booing. I feel guilty all over again. Man, rough night for me.

As she’s finishing, she refers to Streep as a great kisser and calls her “my lover.”

I look at my wife. My wife looks at me.

“They’re gay!” my wife exclaims.

“How did I miss that?”

My wife grabs her cell phone. “I’ll call Sean.”

Great idea. Sean’s a hairdresser she works with. The man knows more Hollywood gossip than anyone alive. His particular specialty is The Golden Girls.

My man Sean knows all about it. Turns out Bullock kissed Streep at another awards show. It’s all a big inside joke. Only we’re not in on it cause we’re out of it.  Good thing we got Sean. This guy knows more stuff than Google.

“Ask him about that redheaded lady,” I say.

Too late, she’s off the phone.

In the end The Hurt Locker cleans up (wins Best Picture and Best Director) just like I told you.

“This sucks,” I say. “The Coen Brothers make one of the best movies ever and get shut out. That’s it. I’m through with the Oscars!”

“Yeah, right,” says my wife.

On my way to bed, I stop by the computer just to, you know, check out the latest on that redheaded lady. Turns out she and the black guy had been partners on the documentary before they had a falling out. The Academy designated him to pick up the Oscar if the movie won. Apparently, she said forget that and went for the glory. Said the dude’s mother stuck her cane in the aisle to block her from reaching the stage. I like that detail about the cane so much I read it twice.

Told you – I can’t get enough of this shit….

Benny Jay: Drinking With Nelson Algren

Flipping through the pages of the Sun-Times, I see a story that says Johnny Depp’s making a movie about Nelson Algren.

Perfect. First of all, I love Johnny Depp – seen a bunch of his movies. Sometimes twice.

Second of all, it’s about time Algren got his due. He’s one of Chicago’s great writers. He tells it like it is. His prose poem, City on the Make, is all about how Chicago’s run by hustlers and con men. Nothing’s changed since he wrote it back in 1951.

As talented as he was, Algren made a mess out of his life. He lost most of the money he made and he drank too much.

He used to hang out in seedy Wicker Park dives, back in the day when Wicker Park was a really seedy place.

He felt the local literary elite didn’t appreciate him. So he moved to New Jersey.

That’s the part of his story that always gets me. You figure Algren would go somewhere warm – the Florida Keys maybe, or Mexico — once he leaves his hometown. I know I would.

But, no, he went to Jersey and never came back. Wound up in Long Island. Died in 1981.

I’d like to tell you I hung out with Algren at those seedy Wicker Park dives, but we never met — he moved out of town just as I was moving in.

Besides I hardly ever hang out in taverns.  I don’t like to drink. Oh, I’ll nurse a beer or too, but basically alcohol makes me dizzy. Especially white wine. I can’t stand white wine. Just the smell of it makes me want to throw up. Not that I’d be drinking white wine in a seedy Wicker Park dive with Algren. I’m just saying….

The point is you can’t be much of a drinker if you don’t like to drink.

The closest I came to drinking with a famous writer happened on St. Patrick’s Day 1978. I was at O’Rourke’s, the old pub on North Avenue, looking at Roger Ebert, who was sitting at another table. I was too in awe to say a word to him. I just watched him talking to his friends.

Oh, wait, one day in about 1978 I was walking down Lincoln Avenue and I saw Tom Fitzpatrick stumble out of a bar. Well, that doesn’t count as drinking with him. I wasn’t in the bar. And he wasn’t even drinking, at least not when I saw him. But still….

You probably never heard of Fitz – he died years ago. He used to write a column for the Sun-Times. When I was a kid, I idolized him. Not as much as I idolized Mike Royko, but close. I still own All Together Now, a compilation of Fitz’s columns.

In particular, I like his column about the Days of Rage. That’s when dozens of radicals went on a rampage through the Gold Coast, smashing windows, throwing bottles and overturning cars. Happened in 1969.

Reading that column puts you in the middle of the riot — like you were there. As a matter of fact, one time I told someone I had been there. It wasn’t true. I made it up. Probably using information I remember from the column. Just trying to make an impression.  In my defense, I had a few beers. If you’re out there, sorry.

As a rule of thumb, I suggest you not believe anything anyone tells you over drinks in a bar. Especially if he says he was at the Days of Rage, or Woodstock for that matter. Yes, I know someone must have been there, but it’s probably not the dude you’re drinking with.

Another time, I did a late-night radio show with a couple of newspaper guys. Afterward, we went to the Billy Goat tavern and I watched them knock back beer after beer. Never seen two guys drink so much.

They were swapping tales about the girls they’d screwed and the guys they’d beat up. The more they drank the more girls they screwed and the more guys they beat up. They were probably making half of it up, like me with the Days of Rage.

Now that I think about it – maybe so many writers drink to cover up the fact that they’re afraid to give powerful people the bashing they deserve. Conversely, maybe I bash so many powerful people to cover up my fear of drinking.

Well, it’s a theory anyway.

The thing about Algren – he drank like a fish and he beat up on the big boys.

That’s why he’s one of the greatest. Like Royko. And Fitz.

I can’t wait to see the movie….

Benny Jay: Roll Me Away

Driving south on Clark Street, leaving Evanston and heading into the city, when Bob Seger comes on the radio.

Roll Me Away….

Aw, yeah, gotta crank this one up.

To the drivers in the passing cars, I may look like some old coot in a grimy old Ford, but inside my ride it’s 1980-something and I’m in my prime.

This is the song where Seger gets tired of living in Michigan and hops on his motorcycle and heads west. Doesn’t even pack. Well, maybe a duffel bag or something. All the obligations of middle-class America be damned. Forget the house, the car, the kids. Just hop that Harley and ride….

Twelve hours later he picks up a chick he meets in a bar where’s he’s stopped for a brew. She has no name. Who needs names? Probably didn’t even ask her for it — cool guys don’t need names. She hops on the back of his big two seater and sets off with him. Probably left a husband and two kids behind her. That’s how it goes when chicks fall under the spell.

They wind up on a high road deep in the mountains — it’s all cold and everything. She has second thoughts — the wimp. Says she misses her home. So my man Seger just heads out on his own.

Just like me, as I cross Devon in my gray Taurus.

At the end of the song, Seger’s all alone at the top of a mountain staring out at the Great Divide. He could go east he could west, it’s all up to him to decide.  Then he sees this hawk — this young hawk — and he’s has a moment of inspiration. He’s just gonna fly which ever way he wants. Like that hawk. And me. I might just drive this Taurus all the way to Memphis. Go visit Graceland.  If that’s where the road leads me.

Man, I love this song. Can’t hear it enough. Every time I hear it I want to hear it again.

Funny thing is women don’t like Roll Me Away. Well, at least my wife. And I think she speaks for thousands of women everywhere.

First time I heard it with my wife, I said — “isn’t that a great song?”

And she said: “What about the girl?”

And I said: “What girl?”

“The girl he picked up at the bar and left on the mountain top….”

“What about her?”

“Well, he just left her….”

“So….”

“So how’s she gonna get home?”

“How’s that Seger’s problem? It’s not like prom night — where he promises to pick her up and drop her off….”

“So, she’s just supposed to stay up on that mountain forever?”

“I dunno — she probably hitched a ride with a truck driver or something….”

“Oh, so she has to depend on another man….”

“Maybe it was a woman truck driver — ever think of that? Look she should have thought about that when she hopped onto Seger’s Harley. If  you don’t wanna to be a mama hawk don’t fly with the man hawks….”

“Huh?”

“Forget it….”

Yeah, well, anyway. She probably won that argument. But I still love the song. Matter of fact, I got it cranked so high the car’s shaking. I’m almost sad when it ends.

On comes James Taylor. Fire and Rain. Boring….

I’m not really much of a James Taylor fan. I mean, he’s okay. Women, on the other hand, they love James Taylor. It’s those big brown sensitive eyes.  He was probably a player back in the day. The guy was married to Carly Simon and then he dumped her. Think about that — he dumped Carly Simon.  When I was 17, I had a crush on Carly Simon as big as the Great Divide. And he dumped her. How the hell can you dump Carly  Simon?

For all I know, he took to the top of a mountain and left her at a truck stop. Just like Seger.

The thing is — my wife’s not mad at James Taylor. That’s cause of those eyes. A guy can get away with almost anything if he has sensitive eyes.

No one said life was fair….

Benny Jay: X-Ray Man

The call from the eye glasses doctor comes in the early afternoon: Your new glasses are ready.

I walk to the store. I try them on. Oh, my God!

“Do you like them?” the sales clerk asks.

“Do I like them?” I say. “I, I….”

I don’t quite know what to say. My view of the world’s changed. It had been fuzzy, dim, distorted. Now it’s sharp and clear — I see details I’ve never seen before….

It makes me feel oddly empowered, almost intoxicated with joy, like Maria in West Side Story.

I rise from my chair and sweep across the showroom of the eye-glasses store, singing as I dance:

“I feel pretty, oh, so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright….”

And all the clerks join in, rising from their chairs to sing chorus:

“See that pretty guy in that mirror there — what mirror, where? — who can that attractive guy be?”

Okay, none of that singing/dancing stuff really happens. But that’s how I feel. And the song really comes to my mind, stays there too. I hear it now, as a matter of fact.

“I feel stunning, and entrancing — feel like running and dancing for joy….”

Cause I see things — everything….

I go to the rap concert featuring SB. Great rapper. Love his band. It’s a benefit. The room’s filled with gloriously handsome, fabulously dressed young men and women. I see a man meet a woman. They shake hands. He buys her a drink. He goes to the bathroom, she pulls her pocket mirror out of her purse, and slathers her lips with lipstick. Puckers them. Checks herself out. Looking good. The man returns. She puts her hand on his back. Leans forward so her face brushes his. Whispers in his ear.

It’s a hustle — all a hustle. I see it all….

I come home, turn on the TV and watch the Olympic figuring-skating finals. Joannie Rochette is about to skate. The announcers keep saying she’s the skater’s whose mother just died. They say it over and over, like she has no other name. Like they’re afraid we might forget if they don’t remind us. Cause they know we need a reason to watch this stuff we don’t really like watching. It’s all about selling a product. They can’t sell it if you’re not watching it being sold and the way to get you to watch is to make you think you care about the skater whose mother just died.

The commentators are so catty and cruel, like girls in the high-school cafeteria. They gush about the skaters as they whirl round the ice. But every chance they get they stick the needle where it hurts.

As they play and replay the replays, they say: The jumps look flawless, but if you look close — I mean, really, really close — you’ll see, she didn’t quite make it. Oh, too, bad.

Yeah, like they really care….

Oh, yes, I see everything — hear it, too….

Kim Yu-Na (from South Korea) wins the gold — Mao Asada (from Japan) the silver. As Mao Asada steps to the medal stand, the commentators point out that she’s from Japan and Kim’s from South Korean and the two countries have a long history of hatred. Then then they say — I hope Asada’s not too upset with her second-place finish.

Ha, ha, ha, ha — right. Like you’re not happy that’s she’s unhappy.

Yes, now I understand why so many people — not just the announcers — love watching this shit. They get to hate while pretending to like.

It’s the glasses. They’re so strong — they turn me into X-Ray Man. I see into the souls of my fellow men and women and I don’t like what I see: Depravity, deceit, delusion, selfishness, spite, envy, blind ambition, naked greed — hate!

I take off my glasses. The focus blurs, details disappear. Ah, better — more reassuring.

I go to bed. Sleep for hours. Wake feeling rested. Waddle downstairs in my pajamas and slippers. Open the door. Retrieve the daily papers.

The front page of the Sun-Times says it all: “Skater Whose Mother Died Wins Bronze….”

Ahhhh! I see too much — I see it all….

Benny Jay: Computer Genius

So here’s the deal…

No Blaise writes a bit that I want to post on Sights and Sounds.

By the way, No Blaise is one of the brightest young writers around. So remember that name. Well, actually, it’s a pen name. So it won’t do you any good to remember it if she’s writing under another name — like her real one — when she becomes an international superstar.

But, anyway, No Blaise does this bit about a picture she took with Joakim Noah.  And now my challenge is to post the picture into the bit.

Which everyone in the universe can do.

Except me.

It’s like I have a mental break down when it comes to posting pictures. With computers, as in life, to get from A to C you need to pass through B. And I have no freaking idea how to get to B. I know you have to put your picture in a folder and then take your picture out of the folder, but where’s the fucking folder?

Sorry, `bout that language. But this is serious. I got issues. By the way, I’m not alone.  One time I was in a bar watching a Bulls game with this kid named Sam Adams – real name, I swear — and I ask: Are you good with computers? He says pretty good, why? I say: Do you know how to make one of those little folder things where you put pictures? And he looks at me like I’m an idiot and says: “You sound like my mother….”

So, you see, maybe it’s a generational thing.

Anyway, I figure I’ll post the picture the old-fashioned way. I cut and paste it into No’s bit.  Did it. Done. Looks great. I’m the man — just call me Billy Gates. I call No Blaise and tell her — you’re post is up, girl — picture and all!

I get on the phone to talk to someone about the Bulls when I get this text message from No Blaise, who’s sitting in an English class far away at the University, telling me: “Hey people are saying they cant see the picture?”

What!

I call J Dub and say: “Do me a favor, man — go to Third City and click on Sights and Sounds….”

“I did it,” he says.

“Do you see a picture of Joakim Noah?”

“No….”

“No?”

“No….”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure….”

“Fuck!”

“There’s just a blank space and when I click on that space it’s trying to get to AOL….”

“It’s going to my email — what’s that all about?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll see you at bowling….”

I hang up and think about everyone I know who knows something — anything — about  computers.

I call Randolph, the world’s greatest photographer. Not in. Call Big Mike, aka The Barn Boss. Call Mickey D, the writer.  Bob, the track coach. Monroe, the blogger. Dave G, the radio man. Nope — no luck.

Call Sam Adams.  Call No Blaise.  Call one daughter. Call another daughter. No one’s in. Damn! What’s the deal with people not being in! I hate computers. Hate `em, hate `em, hate `em. I hate the weasels who make them and hate the weasels who know how to use them. It’s a conspiracy. The whole world knows how to use these mother fuckers except for me!

By the way, I’m really enjoying this new swearing phase I’m going through.

The phone rings. I leap. It’s my mom. Perhaps the one human being in the universe who knows less about computers than I do.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Losing my mind — I’ll call you back after I find it….”

I hang up. I look out the window. Look at the wall. Look at the computer. The phone rings. I pounce. It’s Randolph! I almost weep.

I lead him through the process. Go to Sights and Sounds. Do you see a picture?

“No — it says `objects not found’….”

“Yeah, well, they can kiss my ass. I need to get a picture posted!”

“I can do this,” he says.

I hearing him muttering to himself as he goes from step A to B to C.  “Done,” he says.

I look. It’s up — the picture’s up! I almost weep with gratitude.

“Stop groveling,” says Randolph. “It’s beneath you….”

I hang up. I check my email. Got a message from Randolph. It shows a picture of Bob Dylan greeting President Obama at a White House reception for Black History month. What Dylan has to do with Black History I don’t know — other than inspiring Sam Cooke to write A Change is Gonna Come — but it’s a great picture.

I want to post it on the blog. Who can I call?

I pick up the phone and dial a familiar number.

“Yo, Randolph, old buddy, old pal — guess what….”

Benny Jay: The Pros Go Shopping

It’s early Friday afternoon and I’m sitting in the doctor’s office struggling with a particularly perplexing crossword puzzle.

“Benny Jay?”

I look up to see the nurse. She leads me to the examining room and asks me what’s the problem.

I tell her my glasses broke. The lens fell out of the frame. Cheap frames. Got them at a place down the street – won’t go there again.  They charged me an arm and leg too. But I think they got these frames off of a truck down at Maxwell Street.

Pause.

You know — the old flea market….

No smile. Okay, bad joke. Won’t make any more — promise.

She gives me some tests — flashes things in my eyes, makes me read little letters on a chart. Tells me I’m near sided. Writes a prescription for new lenses. Leads me to a salesman in the showroom who takes me to the display rack and shows me the frames. I barely pay attention. Never liked shopping – except for books or records. Bores the hell out of me. I’m going through the motions. Thinking about that crossword puzzle. I agree to buy one of the first frames he shows me.

He tells me they’ll send the frames to the lab, the lab will fit in the lens and I should have my glasses in a week.

I nod. Pay. Walk out the door. Call my wife. “I got my glasses.”

“What do the frames look like?” she asks.

Pause. Hmm, what do they look like? “I dunno — I can’t remember….”

“You can’t remember? You just bought them….”

“I think they’re metal….”

“Are they gold?”

“Gold?”

“Don’t tell me you bought gold-colored frames?”

“What’s the matter with gold?”

“You did buy gold….”

“I didn’t say I bought gold — I said what’s the matter with gold?”

“Oh, my god, how could you buy gold? Those are old man’s glasses….”

“Okay, I didn’t say I bought gold….”

“I’m coming over….”

“What!”

“I got a break at work….”

“You’re kidding….”

“Don’t go anywhere….”

“No — no more shopping….”

Too late. The phone clicks off. I stand on the sidewalk and work on my crossword puzzle. Several minutes pass. I look up and see my wife coming up the street. She’s got her shopping game face on and everything.

She marches into the store and up to the salesman. “Can I see the frames my husband just bought?”

The guy holds up the frames. Phew, at least they’re not gold.

“Try them on,” my wife tells me.

I try them on.

“We can do better,” she says.

We go back to the rack. The salesman’s demeanor has changed. He realizes he’s in the presence of shopping greatness. He’s bringing his A game.

I feel like a high-priced model working with Parisian designers.

I try a bunch of them – on, off, on, off, on, off….

“I like these,” says my wife.

“Me, too,” says the salesman.

“They’re sharp,” says my wife.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I like how they sit on his nose….”

“Do you like them?” my wife asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah….”

Okay — it’s a deal.

The salesman fills out a new sales slip and out the door we go.

“Do you realize that’s the guy who sold me the first glasses?” I say.

“So….”

“So if they were so bad for me why did he sell them to me in the first place?”

“He wasn’t paying attention,” she says. “He didn’t see you the way I see you — he sees you like an old fuddy-duddy….”

“And how do you see me?”

“Cutting edge – hip….”

“Wow – that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me….”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – don’t get all excited. I’ve got to get back to work….”

“You know what that salesman’s problem is?”

“What?”

“He needs a new pair of glasses….”

Benny Jay: Big Fan

I see this really scary movie the other night. Called Big Fan. It’s the one written and directed by Robert D. Siegel (the guy who wrote The Wrestler) about this parking lot attendant (played by Patton Oswalt) who’s a freaking lunatic about sports.

It’s not scary in the traditional way — like Willard or Candyman — where creepy things jump out at you in the middle of the night.

It’s scary in a more personal way, like Siegel puts a mirror to my face and makes me think: Holy shit, is this pathetic little nutcase like me?

The parking lot attendant — AKA Big Fan — lives for his favorite team, the New York Giants, sorta like me and the Chicago Bulls.

So when the movie ends, I sit in the darkness of my living room, while everyone else in the house is asleep, and count the ways that I’m different from Big Fan….

1.)  Big Fan lies in his bed at night and listens to sports-radio talk shows, waiting for the moment, when they’ll take his call and he’ll read his comments from a script he’s prepared….

I don’t do that. None of it. Don’t even listen to sports radio. Well, at least not in my room. Hardly even listen to it in the car anymore cause the antenna’s broken and I can’t get AM radio and neither my wife nor I will take the time to get it fixed. The radio antenna, that is.

2.) Big Fan wears a New York Giants replica football jersey with his favorite player’s name and number on the back….

I own no replica jerseys. Never have, never will. The closest I got is championship Bulls T-shirts from the Michael Jordan Glory Days back in 1990s. Got all six of them, bought them at the celebratory rallies in Grant Park. Wore them so much they fell apart. Now they’re great for sleeping. Call them sleeping T-shirts. They’re soft and comfy. The older ones are tattered and torn and one of these days I’ll have to throw them out. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Does that sound nuts? Maybe. But at least I don’t own any replica T-shirts.

3.) Big Fan is obsessed with his favorite player. He accidentally bumps into him at a gas station and follows him around all night. Winds up buying the player drinks at a sleazy strip club in Manhattan. Something happens. The player gets angry and….

I won’t tell you. Don’t want to give the movie away. Great scene, though. Really, really creepy.

Here’s the good news. I’m not obsessed with any player on the Bulls. I swear. If I see a Bulls player on the street, I wouldn’t ever follow him around. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t even let on that I knew who he is. I’m like that. One time my wife and I saw Matt Dillon — you know, the movie star — at a pizza parlor in suburban New York. He was sitting in the next booth over. My wife was like — “Oh, my God, don’t look now, but isn’t that Matt Dillon.”

I cut her off. Asked her to pass me the red peppers. Changed the subject. Didn’t even look. Had my back to Matt Dillon the whole time. Like he wasn’t even there. Had to prove a point. I don’t worship celebrities! Though now that I think about it, I kind of wish I’d at least taken a peek — just to see what he was eating.

There are other obsessive sports-crazy things that Big Fan does that lead to his….well, I won’t tell you what it leads to. Like I said, go rent the movie yourself (if you live in Chicago, get it at Darkstar).

There’s a great line in the movie where one character tells another character who’s been hit on the head: “How can you have a concussion if you don’t have any brains?”

I love that line. I don’t know how it relates to anything I’m saying, but I love that line so much I just had to repeat it.

Anyway, bottom line is this: Big Fan’s got lessons for us all. Not just sports freaks, but everybody. Cause, let’s face it, we all have something. Some just got it worse than others….