Benny Jay: Everybody Loves Barry Manilow!
As uncool as it sounds, I decide I’m going to the upcoming Barry Manilow concert!
Can’t help myself–I just love his songs.
I announce it on my Facebook wall and then head up to my workroom to do some serious writing, when…
My wife walks in.
“I saw your Facebook post,” she says.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I want to see Barry Manilow, too!”
“Really?”
“Oh, my God — yes! Just once I want to see Barry sing Mandy….”
And here, she starts singing.
“`I remember all my life — raining down as cold as ice. A shadow of a man — a face through a window….Oh, Mandy, well, you came and you gave without taking. And I need you….’”
“Wow,” I say. “That was like — totally unexpected….”
“But, don’t tell anyone — on account of the salon.”
My wife runs a beauty parlor.
“I don’t want to turn off my hipper clientele,” she says.
Jus loves Manilow almost as much as he loves….
As she leaves the room, my phone rings.
“Hey, Benny Jay.”
It’s Jus Buckingham, the super-hip rapper/saxman/recording producer behind the burgeoning King Conundrum media empire.
“Hey, Jus,” I say. “What you been up to?”
“Oh, not much. Just finished laying down these Coltrane tracks over some Allen Ginsberg shit.”
“Really? Which poem?”
“America. You know, the one that goes: `America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb….’”
“Oh, yeah — heavy…”
Long pause.
“Anyway, Jus, was there something you wanted?”
“Ugh, well — I saw your Facebook thing….”
“You mean — about Barry Manilow?”
“Yeah, so — I was sorta wondering….”
“You want Barry Manilow tickets?”
“Oh, my God, Benny Jay, I just love the way he sings Weekend in New England.”
He starts singing: “`Long rocky beaches, with you by the bay. We started a story whose end must now wait — and when will I see you — again….’”
“Dang, Jus….”
“I know — Manilow’s the shit.”
“Hey, maybe you can lay some Coltrane tracks over that?”
“I was thinking the same thing. But, ugh, listen. Could you not tell anybody about this — especially, the other guys in King Conundrum….”
The great John Coltrane!
Well, no sooner do we hang up, but the phone rings again. It’s Milo, my whiskey-swilling partner here at The Third City.
“Hey, Milo — how did your weekend go?”
“Got drunk. Got stoned. Picked up some hookers. Got into a fight. Usual shit….”
“Sounds like fun….”
“Look, Benny….”
“Speak up, Milo — I can’t hear you.”
“I’m whispering cause I don’t want the lovely Mrs. Milo to hear me….”
“Oh, she doesn’t know about the hookers….”
“No, she doesn’t know I want you to get me a Manilow ticket.”
“What!”
“If this gets out, it ruins my reputation….”
“You like Barry Manilow?”
“Benny — the man’s a fucking genius. Daybreak. Can’t Smile Without You. Trying to get that Feeling Again….”
With that Milo starts singing….
“I’ve been looking up and down, trying to get that feeling again — the one that made me shiver, made my knees start to quiver, every time she walked in….”
“That’s beautiful,” I say. “I didn’t know you could sing….”
“Thanks. But just one thing….”
“Don’t worry — I won’t tell a soul.”
Soon as we hang up, more calls pour in. No Blaise. Rolando. Matt Farmer. Jon Randolph. Eric Herman. Frank Coconate. Mick Dumke.
With all these Fanilows calling for tickets, I think I’ll have to remove that Facebook message, if I want to get any work done.
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Benny Jay: Under the Wire
I’m starting to become an expert at dealing with Asian restaurants at closing time.
As you recall, a few weeks ago my wife and I just made it under the wire to a Thai place on Broadway.
Here, read all about it.
Just so you know, this is a recurring problem in my life cause I love eating Chinese, Thai and/or Vietnamese cuisine.
But….
I don’t usually get out of my house to eat until around 9 pm, which is when a lot of these restaurants close.
Thus, resulting in the mad dash to get through the restaurant door before the kitchen closes.
Reminds me of the time I went to a Vietnamese restaurant with two distinguished Chicago photographers we’ll call Jon Randolph and Marc PoKempner — largely because that’s their names.
Marc PoKempner — back in the day….
We walked in about five minutes before closing time only to be told by the waiter that the kitchen was only open for carry out.
At which point, Marc — a man who clearly knows his rights in such matters — informed the waiter that: “If you’re sign says you’re open `til ten, you have to serve us at 9:55. Now get me my dumplings!”
As the waiter headed off to fill the order, Marc told us a lesson he learned from his father — or maybe it was his grandfather — who worked in retail many years ago.
Rule number one in retail — you never, ever turn away a sale.
To which the waiter, who apparently overheard us, told the cook something along the lines of….
“Nobody asked that motherfucker about his grandfather!”
Or something like that — my Vietnamese’s not what it used to be.
Man, I’m getting hungry just writing about Thai food….
Fast forward to yesterday….
My older daughter and I are dashing off to one of our favorite Thai restaurants.
Get there minutes before the 9 o’clock closing time. My daughter breathlessly ask the waiter: “Is the kitchen still open?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Good — we’ll have the Tom Kah soup, pot stickers and Ramen noodles in peanut sauce.”
Doesn’t even have to look at the menu.
“Oh, and don’t forget the chop sticks!”
Man, I raised these kids right — if I must say so myself.
Here’s the thing….
Almost thirty minutes later — after we’ve wiped clean our plates — I see some dude waddle in, take a seat and order the Pad See Eiw.
This is at least thirty minutes after the closing time!
In other words, these cats subscribe to the same motto as Marc’s grandfather.
Or maybe it’s his uncle.
In short: It’s never too late to take the customer’s money.
Another lesson of life brought to you by your friends at The Third City.
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Benny Jay: C.J. Passes the Ball — Noooooo!!!!
Sitting at the bar, watching the Lakers play the Thunder, when….
“Why the fuck did he pass the ball!!!!!”
It’s Pete, the fellow sitting next to me. It’s not really a question — more like a wail.
We’d been talking about the Bull season that just concluded.
Actually, it didn’t really just conclude. It ended many days ago. Thursday, May 10th — to be exact.
A day that will live on in Bulls infamy.
Let me set the scene…
Seven seconds left in a playoff game against the 76ers. Bulls up one. C.J. Watson has the ball. All he has to do is dribble out the clock and the Bulls win, forcing an all-decisive game seven.
But…..
Oh, let Pete tell the story.
“He passed the fucking ball.”
Yes, that’s true.
“To fucking Asik!”
Also true.
C.J., left, on a happier day….
That would be Omer Ask, also known as the Big Turk. On account of the fact that he’s really tall and he comes from Turkey.
Something you should know about the Big Turk.
“He can’t fucking shoot free throws!” as Pete puts it.
That fact’s relevant because soon after C.J. passed him the ball, Omer got fouled. Viciously so, I might add.
And found himself on the free throw line with the game one the line. Where no one — at least, no Bulls fans — wanted him to be.
At the time I was watching the game with my dear friend, Cap, who’s reaction to C.J. passing the ball was….
“What the fuck is that motherfucker doing?”
Pretty much sums it all up.
By the way, Cap earns his living as a chef. But I think we’ll all agree that if Cap ever wants to give up the cooking thing, he’d make an excellent basketball analyst.
Suffice to say, the Big Turk missed both free throws and then….
Omer getting fouled — sure looks like a flagrant to me….
You know, I still can’t bring myself to describe what happened next. Put it this way….
The Bulls lost the game and their season ended and I’m still not over it.
“Motherfuckers!!!!”
As you can see, neither is Pete.
We’re not alone. A day rarely passes where I don’t have a random conversations about C.J.’s pass with random Bulls fans around town.
Some are in denial. Like the man on the train. Complete stranger, by the way. Saw my Bulls cap and says:
“I’m not talking about it….”
I knew exactly what he wasn’t talking about.
“Why did he pass the ball?”
“I said — I’m not talking about it…”
By the way, not all people are so affected. My wife, for instance. A sample conversation with her on the subject goes like this.
“Is the Big Turk the guy who passed the ball or the guy who missed the free throws?”
Ahhhhh!!!!
Anyway, nothing against C.J. From what I understand, he’s a great guy who just made a bad play. It could happen to anyone.
And nothing against the Big Turk. The dude just can’t shoot free throws.
But….
It’s a good thing we all have the summer to get over it.
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Benny Jay: Father Knows Best
We go to our favorite Italian restaurant for dinner. Nobody gets plastered, but we have a few drinks.
The conversation moves to a discussion of Key West in Florida. My father talks about the writers who have lived there. “Hemingway and Wallace Stevens once had a fist fight,” he says.
I shouldn’t say anything, but he has to be wrong. Wallace Stevens is too old to be a contemporary of Hemingway. The old man’s slipping — he’s getting his poets mixed up.
“Stevens broke his fist when he hit Hemingway in the jaw,” he continues.
I shake my head. “That didn’t happen,” I say.
“Yes, it did….”
“It couldn’t. Stevens is twenty years older than Hemingway. That’s like you having a fight with….”
I try to think of someone who’s twenty years younger than my father.
Wallace and Ernie went at it!
“They had a fight,” he says.
“No, they didn’t,” I say.
“Yes, they did — you can look it up….”
“No….”
“Yes….”
And so on….
Later that night I go to my computer and look up Wallace Stevens and Ernest Hemingway. I’ll be goddamn — there it is.
They quote a letter that Hemingway wrote: “Mr. Stevens hit me flush on the jaw with his Sunday punch bam like that. And this is very funny. Broke his hand in two places. Didn’t hurt my jaw at all.”
Just like the old man remembered.
By the way, I think we’ll all agree that Hemingway’s an arrogant ass.Really made me want to hear Stevens’ side of the story.
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Benny Jay: A Delicate Matter
So I go to the doctor’s the other day — nothing too serious, just a preliminary visit before I have a procedure.
Okay, the procedure’s a colonoscopy.
All right, stop laughing! How come everyone’s laughing when I tell them about my forthcoming colonoscopy?
Anyway, the doctor’s a nice guy. Smart, reassuring. He’s telling me not to worry. It’s a routine procedure — everyone gets one.
“I had one,” he says with a smile. “You can say I’ve been on both ends of it.”
To which I say: “Did you self administer it?”
Rim shot.
I tell you, me and the doc got a million of `em!
Anyway, he goes on to say the worst part comes the night before the procedure when I have to take some sort of elixir that clears out my system, euphemistically speaking.
“Make sure you’re near a bathroom,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
Gazillions of people get colonoscopies — like Katie Couric….
Which reminds him….
“How have your bowel movements been?” he asks.
Kind of catches me off guard with that one — not a question I get every day. But, then, this would be one of his concerns.
So….
“Good — real good.”
He’s taking notes.
“Well….”
He looks up.
“Nothing too serious — I just had a little bit of the runs.”
He purses his lips. I start to backtrack.
“It really wasn’t a big deal. It’s over. Might have been something I ate….”
He cuts me off. “What was the consistency?”
“The consistency?”
“Yes….”
“Ugh, you know — like the runs….”
“What color was it?”
“Hmm, sort of — ugh….”
“Was there blood in it?”
“No, no — oh, my God, no….”
“How is it normally?”
And Dave Barry!
Now he really has me off guard. “You mean — like most of the time?”
“Yes….”
I’m trying to draw a picture in my mind. “Well….”
“What’s the shape?” he asks.
I go back in time to this morning to help facilitate an accurate representation….
“Ugh….”
“Is it square?”
“No, not square….”
“Round?”
“Yeah — kind of….”
“Like — a marble?”
I look at him, just to see — is this guy fucking with me? But, no, he’s very serious.
“Not really like a marble. More like a log.”
“A log?”
“Yes, a log.”
He senses my uncertainty. “Like a log or like a marble?”
Pause.
Until that moment I hadn’t thought of the distinction.
“Well, I’d say — sometimes it’s like a log of marbles. But just sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Yes, it kind of varies.”
“I see….”
He keeps writing notes.
Inspired by memories, I press on….
“Sometimes it’s more like — a cigar.”
“A cigar?”
“Yeah, you know….”
He keeps writing on my patient chart. I’m wondering — what he’s writing that captures the essence of this exchange?
He looks up, smiles, reassures me once again and puts my patient chart in a file. Which will go into a file cabinet. If all goes well, no one will ever have any reason to consult it.
Folks, I’m going to tell you something you already know — getting old’s a bitch.
Let’s hope this is the least of it.
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Benny Jay: Foreign Man
My wife and I are in the car, racing down Broadway on a Friday night, having just seen a show….
And we’re hungry — very hungry.
“Let’s get a pizza,” I say.
Pizza being the sensible choice, since pizza joints are open at all hours of the night.
But, nooooo…..
“I don’t want pizza,” says my wife. “I want something — Asian.”
“You mean, Chinese?”
“Well — I’m kind of in the mood for a Chicken-flavored soup.”
Here’s the problem. It’s after ten. Most Asian restaurants close at ten. Not sure why — guess the proprietors like to go to bed early.
“I don’t know where we’re gonna find chicken-flavored soup at this hour of the night,” I say.
Long pause, like she’s really thinking hard. And then….
“I want Pho.”
“Pho?”
“Yes, Pho….”
“Where am I gonna find Pho?”
“There’s a Pho restaurant on Argyle — keep driving!”
We’d just seen After the Revolution and we were hungry!
More problems. The more I drive, the later it gets. The later it gets, the more restaurant’s close. The more restaurant’s close, the harder it is to find something to eat.
Oh, how I suffer!
Also, I’m getting grouchy on account of being hungry — a pattern that runs in my family. Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near my sister when she gets hungry….
We pass a Chinese restaurant.
“Fuck the Pho,” I say. “Let’s eat there….”
“It’s not open….”
“Yes, it is — the lights are on….”
“But they’ve put the chairs on the table….”
“That doesn’t mean anything — a lot of times they put the chairs up even though they’re still open.”
The restaurant’s lights go off.
Mercifully, my wife resists the temptation — strong though it is — to say I told you so.
I channel my inner Manuel….
On and on we go. Grumpier and grumpier I get.
“There’s no fucking Pho restaurant anywhere near here,” I say.
Long pause. Then she says….
“You know, I think it might be on Sheridan.”
“Oh, great!”
Up ahead, I see a Thai restaurant. Lights on. People at booths. No chairs on tables.
“That’s it,” I say. “We’re eating there.”
I pull the car over and hop out, yelling back to my wife as I enter the restaurant: “I’ll get the table.”
The waiter approaches. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The kitchen’s closed.”
I’m not proud of what follows.
I pretend as though I speak no English. Not sure what language I’m supposed to speak — a blend of Spanish, Polish, Chinese and Greek. Sound like Manuel, the waiter in Fawlty Towers.
By the way — great show!
I smile, nod and say: “Two.”
As though I thought he’d asked — how many in your party?
“No, the kitchen’s closed,” he repeats.
“Yes, two….”
I’m starting to sound like Borat.
I hold up two fingers. I smile, nod my head many times and sit at a table: “Thank you, thank you….”
Only it sounds like: Tank u, tank u….
My wife joins me.
“Don’t say a word,” I whisper. “The waiter thinks we don’t speak English.”
“What?”
“Shh…”
He takes our order.
As he brings the food, I realize my wife and are talking in English.
Ooops.
If he notices, he makes no mention.
Good man — very discreet.
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Benny Jay: Maurice Sendak
When my kids were very, very young, I used to put them to bed on the nights when my wife was working.
Well, it was never as simple as that.
As you parents out there know, you can’t just tuck a kid in bed and say: Now, go to sleep!
Oh, no — you got to read them a bed time story.
And the bed time story of choice for the longest time in the house of Benny Jay was Where the Wild Things Are by the great Maurice Sendak.
You know the one. Probably read it yourself. About the kid whose mother sends him to his room without dinner for doing something or other. And he lies on his bed seething over the unfairness of it all. Until he falls asleep and has this dream in which he sails off on a boat to the wilderness of his fantasies where the Wild Things live.
And when I got to the part where the boy confronts the Wild Things, I indulged a few fantasies of my own.
I turned myself into a rock star, heavily pattered after Jimi Hendrix.
Started playing air guitar — left handed, of course, just like Jimi. And singing the words to Wild Thing, the rock `n roll classic.
“Wild Thing, you make my heart sing, you make everything — groovy!!!’
And so forth….
Maurice Sendak: 1928 – 2012
To my utter amazement, my kids loved it.
I mean, they ate that shit up! Clapping. Cheering. Calling for more. Suddenly, I had an inkling of what it was like to be Jimi up on the stage.
As time wore on, I embroidered the act. Began playing the guitar behind my back. Or with my teeth. I even pretend lit it on fire. A few times I got my rock `n roll fantasies mixed up and smashed it — like Pete Townshend.
The more I did, the more the kids loved it. Man, I was killing! You hear me — kil-lin’!!!!!
Well, you know how it goes. One day leads into another. Next thing you know, weeks, months and years have passed.
The kids got so old, they didn’t want to hear bed time stories anymore. And so the Sendak’s classic got stashed away on a shelf. Don’t even know where it.
What the hell — it was a great run.
Anyway, I was thinking about all of this the other day when I opened my newspaper and read that the Maurice Sendak had died.
I didn’t know the man. Never met him. But I’d like to think that he and I and Hendrix were collaborators on what proved to be my greatest hit.
I got a feeling that when my kids have children, they’ll also read them Where the Wild Things Are.
Maybe they’ll even add a little Hendrix flair of their own.
Why not?
The good shit never gets old….
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Guest Blogger:
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Pull My Finger. Written by Milo. Read by Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, Joel Reitsma, Nels, Laura Korn and introducing Benny Jay as Rolando. Produced by King Conundrum.
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A wholly owned subsidiary of The Third City.
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