Previous to this post, the profile has existed solely in my mind. Well I guess it’s more appropriate to say it existed in my dreams, as the possibility that a man fitting all, if any, of the following qualifications is not all that likely.

Here’s a list of what I’ve come up with so far:

-complete emotional ability, without being overly emotional

-group of friends, who get along perfectly with my friends

-above 6’2″

-well dressed

-ridiculously conscious of matters of social justice

-passionate about music, art, etc.. without being a total elitist

-again, above 6’2″

-able to deal with a wide spectrum of (occasionally extreme) emotions, calmly

-in shape

-hilarious without being obnoxious

-self confident, but not cocky

-have I stressed the importance of his being tall, yet?

-animal lover, well, minus birds, because they freak me out

-foodie, who hates bell peppers

-steady job

-enjoys children, and talking about how cute both they and baby animals are

-loves to read/talk about books

-fairly good dancer, enough to not be awkward while standing at a concert, at the very least

-speaking of  concerts, he’s gotta love concerts

-an appreciation for a good pair of sneakers

You know, just to name a few…

“Nothing, why?” I say.

“The Temptations and the Whispers are playing at The Venue. If you didn’t have plans, I was going to get tickets for you and Mom.”

“Hey, that would be great! Even if Michael had made plans, I’d be willing to change them to see the Temps. Let me know.”

Because my birthday is close to Mother’s Day, Sharon can knock out two gifts in one outing and I get to see the Temptations, one of the lead architects of my life’s soundtrack.

I’m surprised at how intimate The Venue is. We have great seats on the floor, last row, directly in front of the stage.

A mature crowd has come out for the Temptations Revue featuring Dennis Edwards. (Founding member Otis Williams owns the rights to the name “Temptations” and performs with his own rendition of the original group), and The Whispers.

After positioning my coat on the seat back, I rise and announce a trip to the bar. “Mom, you want a glass of wine?”

“No,  she would be better with some cranberry juice,” interjects Sharon, the doctor. “I’ll go with you.”

“Mom, what do you want?” I persist.

“I think I’ll have some wine,”says mom.

The Temptations — `Look out, baby, cause here I come….’

Behind us, the seats rise in a gradual incline to a balcony. At eight p.m., the posted show time, plenty of seats are showing through the crowd.

In line, a man announces that this is “the first concert I’ve ever been to. I hope this is the one Otis Williams is in ‘cause he’s an original Temp—they sound better.”

Two cups of Cabernet and a straw later, we’re back at our seats.

“Mom, here’s your wine.” Gently I place the cup in her hand. “There’s a straw for you and some napkins.”

“Thank you,” she says.

Two seats to my right, a bald, older gentleman sporting a diamond stud tells the gray-haired couple seated a row in front of him and his date: “I’m from Virginia. The Temptations used to come to my house.”

On that same row, a few seats down from the gray couple, a man channels Frederick Douglass—he is tall, brown-skinned with a big bushy Afro and luxuriously thick gray/black beard.

When I say mature crowd, that’s what I mean.

About 8:20 p.m. the emcee, a portly guy in a black fedora, enters the stage. I’m glad he doesn’t do a long, drawn-out introduction—we know who we’ve come to see.

The Temptations Revue band explodes into Get Ready. The crowd is screaming — maturely.

Dennis Edwards looks good for a 71-year old. Somewhat rotund, it’s clear he’s not missing any meals, and he is keeping up with the Temps’ trademark choreography.

Edwards announces that Paul Williams, Jr. — the son of founding member, Paul Williams — is singing with the group.

We clap and whoop it up in our seats ‘cause that’s what you do at old skool concerts—mostly party with your butt in the seat.

The only exception’s when your jam is sung. All bets are off then.

The Whispers just keep getting better with time!

In quick succession—Revue-style—the guys run through old faves: My Girl, The Way You Do the Thing You Do, Cloud Nine, Let it Rain, Ain’t Too Proud to Beg, Ball of Confusion.

Immediately in front of me, a couple dances side to side. The husband’s arm is around his wife’s shoulders as he sings in her ear: “The way you do the thing you do!”

So cute.

At intermission, a big smile and addressing the waiter by name gets me a full plastic glass of Cabernet and two bags of chips.

If you’re marketing to the “old skool” crowd, The Venue must be included in your distribution mix—as a popular local bankruptcy attorney has discovered.

He and his staff are out in force, distributing free calculators and pens—the better to enlist you as prospect, m’dear.

Back in my seat, my neighbor and I trade conversation about the Weight Watchers app for smart phones.

She’s just learning her way around her new Nokia phone and hasn’t incorporatedW²’s e-Tools into her tracking. Turns out, she and her auto dealership-owning husband drove in from Pittsburgh for the concert. Who knew The Venue was such a draw!

The Whispers come out blasting Keep on Lovin’ Me and they don’t let up. I love their faster hits—Rock Steady, And the Beat Goes On and at each familiar chord I am out of my seat. Mom is patting her foot.

During intermission Sharon purchased a two CD-set of their slow jams—she is waiting for them to sing her favorite—Just Gets Better with Time.

So much of The Whispers music is linked to my life’s soundtrack that listening to them is like time travel: Olivia (Lost and Turned Out), ’78: Tallahassee; And the Beat Goes On, ’79: Pontiac, MI; In The Raw,’81: Springfield, MA; Keep on Lovin’ Me, ’83: Chicago.

So many memories…

When finally, they have wrung the last bit of nostalgia out of me, it’s time to go home. We surge into the lobby, our favorite songs ringing in our ears.

As we make our way to the elevators, I notice the patrons in wheelchairs, using walkers and other mobility aids. Unbidden, a roll call of compatriots who didn’t make it to middle age begins. And I am grateful that for this birthday, I am sound enough of mind and body to enjoy live listening to the music of my youth.

It’s a very good day. Thanks, Sharon!

Editor’s Note: Cee Vee‘s last post for The Third City was The Office Closet….

“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.

Dickie and I were high school classmates and friends. As teenagers, we enjoyed some of the same low-life pleasures – hanging out in pool rooms, drinking cheap beer, trying to get lucky with the local girls, and smoking reefer when the Serrano brothers had some available.

We were classic bad influences, the kind of guys that parents warned their children to stay away from. As a result of these well-intentioned parental advisories, Dickie and I never lacked for company.

Dickie was always up for a good time. Everybody liked him. He was a lot of fun, but sometimes, when he was drinking, he would get mean. He’d start arguments with people for no reason and sometimes those disagreements turned into brawls.

Dickie was scrawny, about 140 pounds, and not very tough. But he had a big mouth and it regularly got him into trouble. Fortunately for him, some of the boys in our crowd were genuine tough guys. They saved Dickie from taking a lot of beatings. They liked and protected him. Dickie may have started the fights, but the big boys finished them.

After graduating high school, Dickie enrolled in a college. He lasted about two months. Shortly after dropping out, he got drafted into the United States Army and sent to Vietnam, where, I believe, he served as a mechanic or a truck driver.

A year in a war zone didn’t do much to improve Dickie’s temperament. If anything, his time in Vietnam made him even feistier, and he was drinking more than ever.

He tried college again, on the G.I. Bill, enrolling in Indiana State University, where I happened to be studying. Again, he only lasted a couple of months. Despite a few unpleasant incidents, it was fun having my old friend around.

I was in a fog most of my college years and don’t remember much of Dickie’s short stay, but I do recall that he once asked me to call him Rick, instead of Dickie. Apparently, the name Dickie wasn’t dignified enough.

I said, “Sure, Dickie, whatever you want.”

He went to work in his father’s tavern for a while, but argumentative bartenders are bad for business and the old man fired him. Dickie wasted a few years knocking around the country, spending time in Florida, the West Coast, and then back in Indiana. The last I heard, he had relocated to one of the southwestern states.

In the mid-1970s, I had settled in Chicago, sharing a coach house on Burling, just south of Armitage, with my dear friends Bruce Diksas and Wayne Gray. One afternoon, about two o’clock, I was awakened by a phone call from my sister.

“I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Dickie Kaiser.”

“Ah, shit. What did that crazy fucker do now?”

“He’s in a hospital in Phoenix. He got beat up in a bar. I heard his skull was fractured in several places. If he lives he’ll have serious brain damage.”

I made a few phone calls, trying to find out what had happened. The story, as I heard it, was that Dickie had gotten into an argument over a game of pool in a seedy bar in Phoenix. The argument quickly escalated into a fight and Dickie was nearly beaten to death with a pool cue. He had 11 fractures in his skull, which meant that some brutal bastard smashed Dickie’s head 11 times with the cue stick.

Dickie survived, but he would be hospitalized for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he was a veteran, so his medical costs were covered. When he was well enough to travel, his family had him transported to Hines V.A. Hospital, just outside of Chicago, where he would be closer to his loved ones.

When I heard that Dickie was at Hines V.A., I decided to visit him. I had told Bruce Diksas about Dickie’s misfortune and Bruce said he wanted to come along. Bruce and I were both Vietnam vets, living somewhat ragged and uncertain lives, and figured that while we were visiting Dickie we’d check out the hospital’s emergency room facilities, just in case.

I was shocked when I saw Dickie. He was slack-jawed, drooling, and pacing the hallway like a zombie. His head was misshapen, as if his skull had been squeezed in a vise. His hospital gown was stained and he smelled of piss. It was one of the saddest sights I had ever seen.

I was even more surprised when Dickie recognized me. As soon as he saw me he became animated, rushed up to me and grabbed my hand. “Tell my brother to come and get me real quick,” he said. “I got hurt in Vietnam. Tell my brother to come and get me real quick.”

“Sure, Dickie, no problem. I’ll tell him.”

When I introduced Bruce, Dickie recoiled, fearfully, at Bruce’s offer of a handshake. Then he turned to me again. “Tell my brother to come and get me real quick. I got hurt in Vietnam. Tell my brother to come and get me real quick.”

Bruce and I left the hospital pretty quickly. We didn’t have much to say on the drive back to Chicago. Finally, when we got close to the City, Bruce said, “Man, Dickie is in real bad shape. What was he like before this shit happened?”

I shrugged. “He was always a bit of a fuckup, but he was my friend. We grew up together. He and his brother, Danny, once put up 35 bucks to bail me out of jail on a disorderly conduct charge. He didn’t deserve to end up like this.”

“Nobody does.”

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.

Maybe it’s the scent of Top Ramen that gets my mind going, a government experiment to control the minds of the general public, gone awry.

Maybe it’s just the end of a long day, and my rationale’s dwindling. My interest in the slightest is expanding.

The guy who cleans the place always say “Hello.”

Every time he passes, I swear, he says “Hello.” So I say hi back, even if I’m not used to it.

This city can board up your social windows sometimes. It’s a late night at So-and-So Laundry, but there’s a woman, with a friend and a bunch of girls.

What do you call that? A gaggle? A gaggle of girls.

They’re apart in age by 2 or 3 years, from the 2-year-old, to the 15-year-old. What initially catches my attention is the youngest, a gremlin with a ponytail.

A cute gremlin with a ponytail.

She’s reaching into the hamper of freshly washed clothes, taking out a sock, walking to the dryer, and throwing the sock in, overhand. As hard as she could throw a sock, I’d like to imagine.

She goes through the process again with another sock, and shuts the dryer door. She’s got a good point, that load is set.

Lil’ Gremlin was as cute as a button….

I’m emergency washing tonight. Wedding coming up, and you know I gotta look good for that Hustle.

My favorite shirt’s soaked. Soaked in a good way. Soaked like it’s in a spa getting it’s little shirt feet rubbed.

The mother finally gets the gremlin to stop by ordering one of the older sisters to intervene. Not the oldest — the oldest’s texting.

When the intervenor intervened, she picked the gremlin up, and didn’t plop her in a chair, or bring her closer to the others. No, she began handing her the wet clothes.

OVERHAND THROW!

OVERHAND THROW!

Clothes were falling here and there. I noticed because the opposite thing you want your clothes to do when washing them is to fall on the filthy floor.

“Hello!”

“Hi.” I respond as he passes with a mop. Okay, not a FILTHY floor.

As my mind computes, I hear the two sisters laughing.

I suppose the floor’s clean enough.

Off to the driers. I move closer to the gaggle.

The second youngest, Hannah, approaches me.

“What’s your name?” in English that she’s just getting the hang of.

I swear, Americans’ underdevelopment of language education is gonna hinder some shit in the future.

Hermano. Perrito. Excellente. That’s about it for me, folks, and it’s a thing I aim to fix!

“What’s your dad?”

“His name?”

“Yeah”

“Vincenzo.”

“Your mom?”

“Lori.”

“Sisters?”

“No, you took up all the sisters.”

We were all having fun at the laundry….

She blushes and she laughs.

My wedding digs are on perm press. Them digs’ll look gooooood. Twenty-one minutes to go.

The gremlin found the mop bucket. Boy, is that thing filthy.

AHA!

Two things I’d like to improve about myself: Judging things and being so damn pessimistic!

You can’t judge a mop bucket by the stains along the… the sides… and the mop hairs…. Stuck in the wheels covered in… black mold.

Noooo, I’m sure it’s a fine mop bucket! Just fine!

And the gremlin agrees…

She’s reaching into it, pushing it around. Hannah keeps my attention and I look away from the action for a moment.

When Hannah’s done impressing me with how well she can fold, I look for the gremlin. She’s joining the party, and she’s soaking wet! It’s adorable. Her hair’s pressed down onto her little gremlin head, and she’s smiling like she just got off a water slide.

My shirt’s spreading, getting dat heat!

I wave as she approaches. Well, a half wave half stay-over-there.

“This is my baby,” Hannah informs me.

Like I mentioned, they’re two years apart.

The gremlin’s very forward. She wastes no time in the blushing game.

She reminds me of my brother, Santino, at that age: Fearless.

My shirt’s having the time of its life. Fifteen minutes to go.

“We help you.”

“Help me with laundry?”

They both nod. One nods and one copies, let’s say.

“Sure! But it’ll be hot!!”

“READY!”… And some other gremlin version of “READY!”

The shirt has made it. It’s expanded to the point that it covers the inside of the dryer door, creating this pillowy hot air balloon look.  The coolest part of laundry time.

The two female hermanos help me fold a small portion of my clothes.

I fold the wedding shirt. I can’t wait for this weekend.

Hannah helps me carry my bag across the shop. I stop at her mother, and shake Hannah’s hand. We done good business. She follows me to the door, and opens it for me.

Hannah and the gremlin wave bye to me.

The joy people can bring others sometimes. It’s irreplaceable.

After a day like today, it was nice to share that time. To open up, air out.

Life is full of these surprise vignettes. Hold on for one more day, y’all.

Editor’s Note: Lorenzo‘s last post for The Third City was The Dry Cleaner….

I pack my laptop and grab a couple of beers from my fridge.

Why not? I’m off and don’t have anything to do. I’ll knock a couple back at the lake with my shoes off and a full, sunny afternoon ahead of me.

I jump on the path by Foster Ave and start burning it, pedaling as fast as I can.

The sun is shining on my face. The wind is blowing against my body. Lake Michigan is shining bright blue and I can see boats in the distance traveling north and south.

I’m loving being a Chicagoan today. I’m feeling real good.

As I’m taking in the beautiful day, I start to think of things to write about. I’ve been doing a lot of humor stuff lately. I want to write about some other things.

My life isn’t all humor and fun.

I get to Milton L. Olive III park, just north of Navy Pier. I hop off my bike, kick my shoes off and set up on the lawn overlooking the lake.

I’m laying in the grass with my shoes off….

Plej’s “You” is playing on Pandora. It’s a smooth Swedish house track. I’m feeling it.

I start to write. Actually, I open up a blank page, stare at it for 15 minutes, but nothing comes out.

What should I write about?

God, it’s beautiful out.

Met a lovely lady the other day, maybe I’ll write about that.

Nah, write about something else.

She is a lovely lady, though.

How about that one thing my brother did a couple days back? Shit was funny as hell. Damn near busted a gut laughing at it.

Is that girl wearing a bikini on the beach? It’s beautiful out, but, damn, not that nice. Put some clothes on, chick. It’s 70 degrees out.

I’ll write about the Live King Conundrum show I just did. Nah, that The Legend of Milo bit I did tanked.

Man, those King Conundrum dudes are a wild bunch. And their parties are insane. 

How about turning 30 or Benny Jay’s obsession with Iceberg Slim?

Did that already.

Gotan Project’s “Notas” is on now.

Damn I wish I spoke Spanish like the Argentineans. I have to plan a trip to Argentina.

I imagine myself in some park in Buenos Aires. Instead of cold beer, I’m sipping red wine and instead of the city’s skyline, I see wide, tree-lined boulevards with little cafes.

I’m set up somewhere along this boulevard….

Words start to pour out of me now. These words. The ones you’re reading right now.

The sun still shines, the weather is still beautiful, Chicago is summer-bound and I have words to share now.

Except I’m thinking of Buenos Aires, and life is good, only it’s not only Chicago, summertime good, it’s Buenos Aires, summertime good, too.

And the Chicago skyline is still glimmering in the early summer sunlight.

And I pack up my laptop, hop on my bike and ride home thinking of southern hemisphere summers.