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….

These are pictures of the interchange between the Dan Ryan and Stevenson expressways near China Town on Chicago’s near Southside. 

All photos © Jon Randolph

You might say that’s quite an accomplishment. There’s really nothing to it. You just need to keep breathing.

Es verdad that I am weakened and wracked with pain. Walking, even with the aid of a walker, is muy dificil. The wheelchair comes in handy.

For my ninetieth birthday, my daughter has arranged for me a party. She will take me from this frozen land of Chicago back to the sun-baked streets in the village of my youth—Zacatula, Mexico.

I look forward to this. The journey will not be easy so I must rest.

I am here. I am back in Zacatula. My cousins, Eloisa and Yolanda greet me. How old they have grown. Yet, they are still vibrant. Que vibra.

I’m back in Zacatula….

I visit with them and then un otra cousin, Hortensia, comes to take me to her house and her familia.

This is where I will stay during my visit. The home of Hortensia and Lucas is filled with life. Nearby lives their children and the children of their children.

The warmth of their smiles and hugs is enough to fill the sun with envy.

Today is the day. A ramada in the nearby town of Lazaro Cardenas has been rented for the big event. The grounds are beautiful. Tall palm trees, bougainvillea and Birds of Paradise are in abundance.

And the flowers are in bloom….

I am wheeled in under the thatched roof of the ramada and placed in a position of prominence in front of the head table which sits under a halo of white and gold balloons.

The room is filled with family and friends.

Who is this coming toward me? He wears a wide sombrero and a white shirt. He uses a cane and moves very slowly. Can it be? It is! It is my older brother. Several years older than me even. He still lives!

I feel the tears warming my cheeks. We greet, we hug. We sit together as photos are taken. Que buena.

A mariachi band enters. They surround me and play the most beautiful music. I smile and sway. I know all the songs. They are wonderful.

As the mariachis finish and leave, a deejay sets up and plays more musica. It is loud and lively. The floor is filled with women dancing, laughing and singing.

I used to be quite a dancer. I used to laugh and sing and dance at parties too.

All one’s woes and miseries disappear when one dances. It is as if they no longer exist.

I used to dance and dance.

Dinner begins to be served. A young cow was purchased and slaughtered the day before. Fresh beef, rice and green sauce is hand delivered to each guest.

Coronitas are passed around. I am handed one. I drink. It is cold. It is good. Muy buena.

It is karaoke time. My cousins and nieces take turns holding a microphone and singing with the music. Their voices are well oiled from the Coronitas and they sing loudly and strongly.

The microphone comes to me. I sing. The words do not escape me. I remember them well.

Ay dame un poquito
y despacito poquito a poquito
besito a besito
y dame un poquito
besito a besito

It feels so good to sing.

Night has fallen. There is a full moon. Luna llena.

It looks like a balloon that has escaped from my party. It hangs high in the sky and seems to bounce and sway with the music.

It is time to end the party. With the high spirits and the full moon, mischief is sure to take place deep into la noche.

In my day, I was no stranger to mischief either but now that must happen only in my memories.

The party has ended. We are heading back to Zacatula. My daughter has done well.

The moon and my heart are full.

Que buena fiesta.

Editor’s Note: Jim‘s last post for The Third City was Book Signings….

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.”

Next we were instructed to strip to our undershorts and socks and put our clothes, shoes, and personal crap in wire baskets.  Everyone who was ever inducted remembers in vivid detail the hour or two of standing in lines with other nearly naked guys trying not to look at anything while waiting to be poked and prodded at a succession of stations.

Despite my dismal eyesight—I was 20-200 in one eye and completely un-functional without my thick glasses—I somehow managed to clear that hurdle.

I tried to convince the doctor who examined my feet that my foreshortened Achilles tendons, which caused my feet to stick out at 45% angles and made my ankles subject to easy and repeated injury, was debilitating enough to be rejected.

The bored doc was having none of it.  I passed my physical with apparent flying colors.  So did almost everybody else.

I wondered how so many of us, including some guys who looked to be in bad shape by my untrained eye, could have passed.

Then I remembered Audie Murphy’s account of how he finally got in the Army in World War II despite being an undersized runt and 16 years old—it had gotten to the point when they were taking anyone “who could piss a hole in the snow.”

It was clear that in the Vietnam War, the Army had reached that point again.

We were given back our clothes and seated in uncomfortable fiberglass bucket seats to wait to be called for actual induction in batches of twenty or so.  After twenty minutes or so, my turn came.

Audie Murphy….

We were called into a smaller room and told to form two lines along tape on the floor. I was in the back row.  We faced a young Army officer and two NCO’s, one of them carrying a clipboard.  A flag was off to one side.  The sergeant read our names off the clip board.  We were instructed to respond, crisply, “Here, Sir!”

When they ascertained that we were all present, we were instructed to raise our right hands.  The officer read our oath which we were to repeat.  Then we were to take one step forward to seal our entrance to the army.  When the oath was read, I remained silent. And I didn’t step forward.

The officer looked confused.  “You’re supposed to step forward, son,” he said although he was barely older than me.

“I’m refusing induction,” I told him.

This seemed to confuse all of them.  Evidently none of them had ever had this happen.

The new official recruits were told to march in line out of the room and to retrieve their belongings.  They would be loaded on buses and on the way to Basic Training by the end of the afternoon.

I was taken to a small office and seated by a desk.  After a wait, the officer sat down at the desk, offered me one last chance to change my mind, then picked up the phone to call the FBI to come and arrest me.  Then I was sent back to the same holding area where the recruits were waiting for their busses.  I found a seat off by myself.

A woman moved through the seats with a paper box filled with little pocket sized Gideon New Testaments, earnestly handing one to each of the boys.  She gave me one in a bright green cover.

But when I told her that I was not going into the Army and had refused induction, she angrily snatched the book from my hands.  Evidently I did not need the consolation of the Lord where I was headed.

It was about two o’clock by the two-dollar pocket watch I carried when I sat down.  Time dragged.  At four I began to get nervous.  I knew from talking to American Friends draft councilors that I needed to get to the Federal Building and before a Judge by five o’clock in the afternoon.

I tried to tell the fellas at the draft center I was unfit to serve….

Most hearing magistrates would release a draft resistor on personal recognizance.  But after five, I would have to spend the weekend as a federal prisoner in Cook County Jail until Monday morning court.  Even though I was potentially looking at years behind bars if convicted, I was sweating those two days.

About ten after two youngish agents showed up.  They were pretty low on the FBI totem pole to get duty like this.  They took me into custody.

One of them said if I didn’t cause them any trouble he would handcuff me loosely in front instead of tightly behind my back.  I assured them I was peaceful.  We drove the few blocks to the Federal Building in a big sedan.

I babbled nervously—complemented them on how neatly dressed and groomed FBI guys were compared to the fat slobs of the Chicago Red Squad.

I especially admired their shoes.  They seemed to take it as a complement.  I even expressed my concern about spending the weekend in jail.

They even seemed sympathetic to that.  “We’ll get you in front of judge,” one of them said.

I was unloaded in the basement and taken up a secure elevator and buzzed into a holding area.  I once again surrendered my coat, cowboy hat, and personal items—a wallet, keys, change, the pocket watch, a shirt pocket address book, cheap cartridge fountain pen, and an old Boy Scout knife.  In those long ago days no one even blinked at the weapon.

Then with the remarkable efficiency for which the FBI was famous, I was finger printed and mug shot in a trice.

After a few moment of waiting I was escorted through a hall way to judge’s chambers.  The clock on the wall read 5:55.  The magistrate was as eager to be done as I was.  An underling from the Federal Attorney’s office had no objection to my release on personal recognizance.  Trial was set for March 17, 1973, by coincidence my 24th birthday.

After signing once again for my property, I was on the street joining the rush hour crush in minutes.  I climbed on a packed El car and was home for dinner.

Friday was usually a work night—pay day in fact.  But this week Cecelia drove me to Glascott’s Groggery at Webster and Halsted, half a block from the new IWW Headquarters storefront office.

My Wobbly friends were out in force.  We took up a huge round table and then some.  Pitchers and shot kept coming.  I didn’t pay for a thing all night.  We laughed.

We sang at the top of our lungs.  I got blind, stinking, falling down drunk.  Cecelia hauled my sorry ass home in her VW bug and manhandled me up the stairs and into bed.

She was not happy.

Editor’s Note: Patrick’s last post was mentioned in the first sentence.

Going from no meat, to McDonalds meat? GOOD CHOICE!

Since then, I’ve been on and off with meat. I never want it in my salads, it’s great in pasta, and I could never ever deny a good cheeseburger. This all comes down to not me being a vegetarian, just me having food mood swings.

When I’m eating something without meat, or if I’ve opted for a tofu-something, I’m all “Ohhh yes, this is so refreshing that there’s no sort of meat in this. I love being a partial vegetarian.” Then the next night, I could be eating a cheeseburger, and I’ll be all, “Oh my goddddd this is good. I could eat one of these a day!” So on, and so forth.

So, obviously, my commitment to a meat free life has fluctuated.

A couple months ago, my now-boyfriend Ted, and I go on our first date. We’re talking, then it gets to what we’re ordering, and Ted starts describing his food habits. Talking about how he’s trying to eat only fish, stay away from all other meats, he usually can do it, etc etc… It’s sounding more and more like what I’ve been gearing my food habits towards, though he seems slightly more committed to a meat-less palette. I coined our food intake style as “flirting with vegetarianism”.

Awww, flirting about flirting with vegetarianism, isn’t that just the cutest thing? I finally found someone who eats the way I eat!

Ted and his similar eating habits seal the deal for me, since we’ve been dating ever since.

Our dates nowadays will occasionally happen at places like Native Foods, which is vegan, or we’ll get a tofu or seitan sandwich from Bon Bon, and feel very proud of our vegetarian meal.

Other times we’ll go somewhere and I’ll get a cheeseburger, or Ted will get a giant hot dog…sometimes made of an exotic meat, and both of us will try and pretend like we don’t know what we’re eating.

I had a salad yesterday, it’s fine!

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!