Letter From Milo: The Best Way to Kill a Cat

“Mom! Daddy was trying to stuff the cat into the microwave today!”

“Milo! Is that true?”

“Heh, heh. Now, honey, you know the children have hyper-active imaginations. We may have to adjust their meds.”

“Well, you just better leave that cat alone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of harming the cat. Besides, it’s probably not that easy to stuff a cat into a microwave.”

I don’t like or dislike cats. I am indifferent to them in the same way that they are indifferent to me.

I really want to like cats….

There is one cat, however, that is at the top of my shit list. His name is Otis and he is a sneaky, black-hearted, treacherous bastard with the soul of an assassin and the cunning of Meyer Lansky. He is a cat without scruples, remorse or a sense of pity, and I curse the day that the furry little fucker came into my life.

“Milo, I was talking to Cathy Ivcich this morning. She drove by the house yesterday while you were mowing the lawn and she said it looked like you were trying to run over the cat with the power mower.”

“You tell that slutty Cathy Ivcich to mind her own damn business.”

“Is it true?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. What have I ever done to make you think I’d do a terrible thing like that?”

“The children would be heart-broken if anything happened to that cat.”

“It’s a tough old world. Accidents happen all the time. A cat’s got to take his chances like anyone else.”

The day Otis followed my youngest daughter home may have been the worst day of my life. As soon as I spotted him I knew he was a stubborn, hardheaded bastard. For one thing, he wouldn’t take a hint. I yelled at him, threw rocks at him and squirted the fucker with the garden hose, and still he wouldn’t leave.

He hung around the back porch, mewing, purring, grooming his ratty fur, trying to pass himself off as some sort of respectable house pet. The kids put out food for him. The lovely Mrs. Milo set out bowls of water. In a couple of days he had weaseled his way into the household. And there was nothing I could do about.

“Mom! Dad tried to sell Otis to the guy who owns the Korean restaurant.”

“Nadia and Petra saw you talking to our neighbor, Mr. Choi. You were pointing to Otis and some money changed hands.”

“Heh, heh. I believe our darling children misconstrued the situation.”

“Why did Mr. Choi give you money?”

“He was, ah, paying off an old Mah Jong debt.”

But the thing is — you can’t trust them….

There are a lot of reasons to hate Otis, but the main reason I despise him is that he’s a stone cold, merciless killer. He kills birds, mice, squirrels, anything that he senses he can overpower. He doesn’t just kill them, he toys with them, tortures them and then he eats them, sometimes while they’re still living. Once or twice a week I have to remove the pitiful remains of some small animal from my back yard.

His favorite prey animals, however, are cute little bunny rabbits. Lincoln Square has been overrun by rabbits in the last few years and Otis has had his fill of the helpless little cottontails. At least twice a month, I find the partially eaten carcass of a little bunny rabbit in the back yard.

“Milo, I got a call from an animal shelter this morning. They said someone from this number called and asked if they were a no-kill shelter.”

“So?”

“When they said ‘Yes,’ the caller asked if they had the phone number of a kill shelter.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, dear.”

The other day I was on the back porch, enjoying a whiskey with my morning cigarette, when Otis came trotting into the back yard, clutching a little bunny rabbit in his jaws. The bunny was still alive, kicking spasmodically and screeching, “Eek, eek, eek.” It was more than I could stand.

“You bastard!” I shouted, then ran into the yard, grabbed a trowel and chased the cat into a bed of hostas. He was pretty well hidden, but I flushed him out. He still had a grip on the bunny and ran for the shelter of the grape arbor. I caught up with the fucker, took a good swing at him with the trowel and, even though I missed, he released the bunny and ran off.

The bunny was in pretty bad shape. It sat there trembling for about an hour, then keeled over and died. I used the trowel to pick it up. I put the poor thing in a plastic Jewel grocery bag and dropped it in the garbage can. Streets and Sanitation would give the bunny a proper sendoff on Monday morning.

Otis was pretty proud of himself. He was lolling around on the back porch like an Animal Planet lion that had just done in a wildebeest. Enjoy it while you can, I said to myself. Your time is coming, motherfucker.

One of the days I’ll get you, that is, if you don’t get me first.

Letter From Milo: Drunks, Dopers and Losers

I enjoy the company of low-lifes, eccentrics, misfits and disreputable people. Some of my best friends are folks that wouldn’t be welcomed in polite company.

I don’t know why I developed a fondness for the shady side of life. I suppose it’s in my DNA (check out one of my earlier blog posts titled “The Bum Gene”). I come from a long line of people who have a gift for excess and a healthy contempt for custom.

I’d rather spend time with a failed musician than a successful banker. I’d rather chat with an old whore than a North Shore matron, although there’s probably not much difference. I’d prefer Reverend Ike’s companionship to Pope Benedict’s. I believe Joey “the Clown” Lombardo might be a more interesting drinking buddy than Bozo the Clown. And I’m pretty sure a night on the town with Keith Richards might be a bit more fun than a pub crawl with Donny Osmond.

You choose: Sinners?

A while ago I made friends with a man who spent 22 years in a Mississippi prison. He had been out for just a few months when I met him. He was one of the gentlest, best natured men I had ever met, not at all what I would have expected from a hardened convict.

When I asked him what he had done, he replied, “Robbed four damn banks. I should’ve stopped at three.”

Now that’s a line you’ll never hear from a Sunday School Superintendent (apologies to Mr. Clemens).

The point I’m trying to make is that convention and conventional people bore me. As I grow older and note that the pages are flying off the calendar a little faster than I’d like, I’m finding that I have less tolerance for boredom – and no tolerance at all for boring people.

Or Latter Day Saints?

This anti-social attitude of mine, as the lovely Mrs. Milo refers to it, has caused no end of problems in our otherwise happy home.

A few months ago my wife told me that we were invited to a dinner party.

“When?”

“Tonight, a couple of hours from now at Jack and Jill’s house.”

“Sounds good. I like Jack and Jill. Who else is going to be there?”

“Walter and Wanda.”

“They’re okay. Is anyone else coming?”

(Silence)

“Honey. Is anyone else coming?

“Dan and Don and their wives are going to be there.”

“Ah fuck! You can’t be serious! I’d rather gnaw off my own foot than spend 10 minutes with those two ignorant cocksuckers.”

“Why do you say stupid things like that? Dan and Don are highly educated, well-known and accomplished men. Just because they’re not drunks and dopers and losers, like most of your friends, doesn’t make them bad people. Besides, they like you. They think you’re kind of interesting.”

“Well, I just wish you would have told me about this sooner.”

“Why, so you’d have time to figure a way to weasel out of it?”

“Ah, fuck.”

A couple of hours later I found myself at an oh so civilized dinner party. We dined under a tent in a beautifully maintained yard. The lamb chops were superb, the wine was plentiful, the laughter was subdued, the conversation was polite and the background music was smooth jazz. Everyone was well-dressed, expensively coiffed and hygienically presentable.

I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there.

As is usually the case with boring people, Dan and Don dominated the conversation. And, to be honest, I don’t remember a thing either of them said. I do, however, recall that neither of them said anything that contained wit, interest or originality. I kept waiting for someone to fart or pull out a joint or tell a good dick joke, but it never happened.

I was never so glad to leave a party in my life. The next time Mrs. Milo wants…

HOLD IT!

This is Mrs. Milo. I just passed by the computer, saw what my husband was writing and chased him away from the keyboard with a ball peen hammer. What he’s writing is just a pack of lies. Here’s what really happened at the party.

As soon as we walked in the door, Milo got into the booze. In a couple of hours he was roaring drunk. He couldn’t seem to operate a knife and fork so he ate most of the meal with his hands. And, since he neglected to use a napkin, most of the meal ended up in his lap.

When Don started talking about his favorite episode of “Lost,” Milo interrupted with a disgusting story about a donkey show he had seen in Tijuana in the early 70s. When Dan brought up the subject of his new golf clubs, Milo started talking about his new scheme to get access to medical marijuana.

It got worse after that. As we were leaving, Milo pinched the hostess on the ass and whispered something nasty in her ear. She looked shocked and I was mortified. The problem is that now Jill sends Milo emails all the time, which the bastard deletes before I get a chance to see them.

When we finally got outside, Milo refused to give me the car keys. He insisted that he was more than capable of driving. I had to use pepper spray on him to get the keys.

I don’t know what I ever saw in Milo. I’m sorry I ever married him. What a loser he turned out to be.

Letter From Milo: Real Good Advice for Married Men

Every few years the lovely Mrs. Milo becomes dissatisfied with the state of our marriage. And, of course, it’s all my fault.

I don’t pay enough attention to her. I’m uncommunicative. I drink and smoke too much. My hygiene is not what it should be. My gambling debts are mounting up. My friends are beastly. I’m inconsiderate to her friends. I snore. I say and do stupid things. I fart at inappropriate times. I’m a hopeless loser whose Lazyboy in hell has been reserved for years.

Okay, so I’m not perfect. I’ll be the first to admit that I have a couple of minor faults. I mean, who gets through this life without developing a couple of character flaws? Even the great ones have chinks in their armor. Winston Churchill was a drunkard. Barack Obama smokes. Michael Jordan is a degenerate gambler. Bill Clinton is a liar. JFK was a womanizer. Louis Armstrong was a pothead. Catherine the Great was overly fond of horseflesh. The list goes on and on.

When I point out these facts to my wife she just laughs at me.

“While you’re at it, why don’t you compare yourself to Jesus and Mother Teresa.”

“Sweetheart, you’re missing the point.”

“There’s no point, you’re just trying to bullshit me.”

“Angel, be reasonable. All I’m saying…”

“I know exactly what you’re saying and I’m not falling for it.”

“Honey…”

“Don’t honey me. We have serious problems in our marriage and we need to do something about them.”

For the next few days after this conversation there is a distinct chill in our household air. Silences, cold shoulders, slamming doors, angry muttering, ugly looks, sleeping on the couch — my lovely wife throws her entire arsenal at me. And that’s just the beginning. I know what’s coming. I’m a scarred and battered veteran of the marital wars. She’s getting ready to drop the big one on me.

“Milo, I made an appointment with a marriage counselor.”

“Shit, not again.”

“If you love me you’ll cooperate.”

“Can I love you and not cooperate?”

“That’s not an option.”

“Shit.”

In nearly three decades of marriage we’ve been to three different marriage counselors. The one thing they all had in common was that they were expensive, charging an hourly rate that would make Bill Gates consider rewriting his business plan.

Our first counselor was a very attractive woman who we quit seeing when she began going through an ugly divorce, leaving her husband for a much wealthier man. We gave up on the second counselor when my wife got the impression that she was too sympathetic toward me. The third counselor lasted the longest. She was a young, heavily tattooed woman who seemed to have a good grasp of the marital condition. I sensed she understood that marriage is an unnatural state, a con game foisted on humanity by a pitiless, vengeful God. We had to stop seeing her when she and her musician boyfriend moved to California.

Milo, the anti-Ann Landers….

It recently occurred to me that there are plenty of other poor souls being dragged off to marriage counselors by unappreciative wives. It also occurred to me that I owe it to my fellow married men to help them out in their times of trouble and woe. Therefore, I have compiled a few tips, suggestions, and defensive stratagems that will help them survive even the most savage counseling session.

1. Agree with everything your wife says. If she tells the marriage counselor that she caught you cooking and eating one of the neighbors, just say, “I can see how that would upset you, dear, and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

2. Never admit to affairs, gambling debts, drug habits, or that minor indiscretion with Sarah the Slut at last year’s New Year’s Eve party.

3. In the rare case that you actually like your marriage counselor, immediately begin complaining about her. The more you complain, the more your wife will think the counselor is doing a fine job.

4. Try to moderate your bad habits for a couple weeks at the onset of counseling. Bring your wife flowers and chocolate. If you can stand it, try to watch Oprah and the Lifetime Channel together, at least twice a week.

5. Avoid lesbian marriage counselors at all costs. They won’t succumb to your manly charm, are notoriously hard-headed and nearly impossible to bribe.

I’m not saying that these five tips will turn your counseling into a walk in the park. That’s impossible. Marriage counseling, by its very nature, is a brutal, take-no-prisoners assault on your manhood. It’s designed to break you down and reshape you into the wimpy, neutered wuss that your wife has always wanted for a husband. What I am saying is that by following these rules, you might, just might, come out of counseling with your manhood and dignity intact.

Ignore them at your own peril.

Letter From Milo: Jimi Hendrix — War Hero

I guess I’m just an old rocker. My musical tastes were formed in the late 60s and early 70s. I still listen to the old warhorses – Dylan, the Stones, Janis Joplin, the Dead, Cream, Marvin Gaye, Traffic, the Doors, Otis Redding, Van Morrison. If I’m driving down the street and hear one of my old favorites on the radio I turn up the volume until the car vibrates.

That said, there is one musician I esteem above all others, a musician whose music still sends chills up my spine, someone who took the electric guitar to places it’s never been before and created sounds that have been copied but never equaled.

I’m talking about Jimi Hendrix, genius, guitar god and war hero.

The greatest….

I became aware of Hendrix in 1967. His first hit, “Purple Haze,” was all over the radio. The sound was like nothing I had ever heard before – big, bold, discordant, but undeniably different. It was alien to my unsophisticated ears. I just didn’t get it. But, you have to understand, I had not started smoking pot yet.

A year later I was in Vietnam and I got it. Boy did I get it. The Vietnamese conflict has been called the Rock ‘n Roll War. Music was everywhere. It seemed that every soldier had his own cassette player and collection of cassette tapes. I remember my first day in-country. I had just gotten off an airplane along with 200 other new fish and was standing on the tarmac at the Da Nang air base, listening to a bored 2nd Lieutenant welcoming us to Vietnam. While the 2nd Lt. was droning on about the noble mission we were about to undertake, I heard music in the background, coming from a collection of raggedy tents just off the runway. It was the Doors.

This is the end/
This is the end/
my friend

Welcome to Vietnam.

Just like in the good old USA, there were racial problems among the American soldiers in Vietnam. If you recall, the late 60s were when King, Kennedy and Malcolm were assassinated. There were riots in the streets of our major cities. Students were forming revolutionary cells and plotting to overthrow the government. Lines were drawn between the races, the generations and the body politic. It was a time of supreme tension and nobody could say with certainty what the future held.

What was happening in the States was mirrored in Vietnam. It was like a bizarre reflection of what was occurring on the streets back home. Lines were also drawn, political and racial. Black guys hung with black guys, white guys hung with white guys and Latinos kept to themselves. There were actually mini race riots in some of the division base camps like Chu Lai and Da Nang. We didn’t have these problems in the field because, as infantrymen, we had more pressing concerns, like trying to keep the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Regulars from killing us while at the same time trying to kill them.

It was a different story back in the relative safety of the division camps. The REMFS (Rear Echelon Motherfuckers) had more time on their hands. And they spent some of that time fomenting racial discord. I’m not saying that all the soldiers were like that, but there were enough of them, both black and white, to create serious and often lethal problems. After all, when you mix young men, ethnic strife and automatic rifles together, there are bound to be a few, ah, misunderstandings.

Music played a role in the racial divide. The music you listened to defined who you were. Black guys listened to soul and funk from Motown and Memphis. White guys listened to rock and country. And some poor souls just paid attention to their own demons. There was one musician, however, who crossed all boundaries, someone who both blacks and whites idolized.

That was Jimi Hendrix.

Jimi — back in the day….

Whenever you saw groups of blacks and white partying together, sitting around bonfires, drinking warm beer and smoking pot, the chances are that the music blaring from cassette machines was played by Jimi Hendrix. There were several reasons for this adoration of Jimi. The first, obviously, was that he was a supernaturally gifted musician. He simply had no equal. His audacious combination of rock riffs, deep understanding of the blues and soulful stylings (he once played guitar in the Isley Brothers band) spoke to everyone.

Another reason he was loved by the troops was that Jimi had once been a soldier himself. Before becoming Jimi Hendrix, he had been James Marshall Hendrix, a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division. That simple connection made it seem that Jimi was one of us. We felt that he understood us and our terrible plights in ways that British fops like Jagger, McCartney and Clapton never could.

On Highway 1, near the South China Sea, there was a hill near the village of Sai Hyun called Hendrix Hill. This particular hill was strewn with huge rocks and boulders. On one of the largest boulders someone had painted, in letters that seemed 10 feet high, the word Hendrix. The boulder was easily seen from the highway and every time I passed it I couldn’t help but smile. It was our Hollywood sign.

When Jimi came out with his “Electric Ladyland” album, there was a song on it that became seared into the mind of practically every soldier who heard it. The song was called “1983… (A Merman I Should Turn To Be).” There’s a line in that song that’s guaranteed to bring a tear to every Vietnam veteran’s eye. The line is:

Well, it’s too bad/
that our friends/
can’t be with us today

The line evokes memory, pain and loss. It brings back memories of old friends and comrades in arms, young men who died far too young, in a country 10,000 miles from home, often in circumstances too gruesome to relate.

To this day, when I hear that line, I have to stop whatever I’m doing and spend a few moments recalling those who made the supreme sacrifice. Faces and names run through my mind – Captain David Walsh, Sweet Jimmy Ingram, Stony Deel and many others whose names are etched on a granite wall in Washington D.C.

I’m going to wrap it up now. I’m going to put on “Electric Ladyland” and try to find some comfort on this rainy day. Jimi had a way of comforting a lot of souls. That’s what heroes do.

Letter From Milo: The Ballad of Mickey and Bonnie

Mickey came home from Vietnam in February of 1970, just a few days short of his 21st birthday. He had been an infantryman, a rifle-toting grunt who had slogged through mountains and swamps, bombed out rice paddies and impenetrable jungles. He had seen and done things that no person should ever see or do. Some of the memories would never leave him.

Back home, Mickey was at loose ends. He didn’t know what to do. He was lost and confused. His old friends, high school buddies, seemed like childish strangers to him. He wasn’t sleeping well and was eating poorly. Even his mother’s cooking, which he had always relished, was tasteless to him.

Mickey spent most of his time in his car, driving aimlessly, listening to the radio and smoking lots of marijuana. Sometimes he’d pick up a six-pack or a pint of whiskey and drive out to the beach, where he’d find an isolated spot near the shore of Lake Michigan, park his car, and watch the waves roll in and out for hours at a time. The sound of waves lapping at the shoreline soothed him and often he would fall asleep, lulled by the rhythmic play of the waters.

Mickey knew there was something wrong with him but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem. The term Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder hadn’t been coined yet. If he had known about PTSD he might have tried to get some help, although Mickey was by nature a self-contained type and probably wouldn’t have asked for help even if he knew he needed it.

After being home for a few months, the time had come for Mickey to make a decision. He could either get a job in one of the local factories or do something else. He opted for something else. He decided to take advantage of the GI Bill and go to college for a year or so, just to clear his head. Maybe he would get a new perspective on things. Maybe his demons wouldn’t follow him to southern Indiana. Maybe he could outrun his past. Maybe.

His first months at college were not much different from the life he had been living in his hometown. Mickey wandered around in a daze, keeping his head down, unable to reach out to people, unwilling to expose himself more than absolutely necessary. He attended classes sporadically, spent time drinking alone in the local taverns and smoked pot to take his mind off of, well, who knows what. He may as well have been a ghost, his presence unnoticed except for those whose senses were attuned to the high and lonesome end of the misery spectrum.

And then Mickey met Bonnie.

She was a beautiful, long-legged art student, a farm girl from southern Indiana. She saw something in Mickey that he thought had been lost and gone forever. She saw a spark of intelligence, a glimmer of humanity that he thought no longer existed. For some reason she decided that he was someone worthwhile, someone she wanted to know better.

Bonnie took Mickey under her lovely wing. They became friends, and then they became more than friends. She had a kind and generous nature and, more than that, she seemed to have an intuitive sense of how to deal with Mickey’s damaged psyche. When he went into one of his funks, she knew how to lift his spirits. When he woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, she soothed him with hugs and kisses and gentle words until he was able to fall asleep again. She was comfortable with his silences and listened patiently when he felt like talking. Although Mickey didn’t realize it at the time, Bonnie was exactly what he needed at that point in his life.

When Bonnie brought Mickey into her life she also introduced him to her world. As an art student, Bonnie’s social circle included other artists – actors, writers, dancers and musicians. Mickey, who was used to the rough world of soldiers and working men, found himself enjoying the company of his witty and creative new friends. They made him laugh and think and look at the world differently. He was changing.

Slowly, Mickey began to come out of his shell. He felt healthy again. He was sleeping better, too, his dreams less vivid and frightening. He took pleasure in good conversation, good music and even began enjoying some of his classes, although it must be said that Mickey had a low opinion of organized education. He no longer had a sense of dread when he woke up in the morning. He had the odd but welcome sensation that he was becoming a human being again, reconnecting to the person he once was and seeing intimations of the person he might become.

Mickey understood that none of this would have been possible without Bonnie. She had literally saved his sanity and, possibly, his life. She had lifted the darkness from his soul and replaced it with dawning hope. Mickey knew that he could never explain to Bonnie what she had done for him. He could not find words that adequately expressed what she meant to him. In fact, he doubted that the proper words of thanks existed in the English language. The only thing he knew for certain was that without her he might have remained a ghost, a blue-collar Flying Dutchman, doomed to spend eternity wandering. He would never forget what she had done for him.

All stories have a beginning and, sadly, an end. When she finished school, Bonnie decided to move to New York City to pursue her artistic dreams. Mickey’s future lay elsewhere. They went their separate ways, but Mickey always kept Bonnie in his heart, safely tucked away in a place where a person’s most precious treasures are kept. He thought of her often, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Always, when he thought of her, he wished her peace, love and happiness. There was nobody more deserving.

And there was absolutely no doubt in Mickey’s mind that when Bonnie thought of him, she wished him the same.

Letter From Milo: The Chicago Chainsaw Massacre

A few years ago some rotten bastard broke into my garage and stole my chainsaw. It was a loss of staggering proportions. I have yet to recover.

Now, losing a chainsaw may not seem like much of a problem to the sissified, cheese-eating, ballet-going, opera-loving, Prius-driving readers of The Third City, but any real man will tell you that, next to castration, losing a chainsaw is about the worst thing that can happen to a guy. It’s like a Hell’s Angel losing his Harley or a bluesman losing his Mojo – the symbol of his manliness, the totem of his tribe is gone and a vital part of his spirit has vanished with it.

You see, over the decades and centuries, symbols of manliness are slowly being erased from human society. Trophy scalps are frowned upon, high noon shoot-outs on Main Streets are illegal in many municipalities, dueling scars are relics of another era, Detroit has not made a decent piece of iron since the GTO and high stakes poker is played by nerds on the internet. Even tattoos, which were once the province of sailors, circus freaks and wild South Sea Islanders, are as common as braces at Chicago’s Latin School.

In my opinion, the only remaining symbols of masculinity are power tools.

And the unrivaled king of power tools, the epitome of macho-osity, the defining symbol of manhood, is the almighty chainsaw.

Some of you may say, “As usual, Milo, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. A gun is much more of a masculine symbol than a chainsaw.”

Bullshit! The only thing a gun is good for is killing people and animals. You can’t cut down a tree with a gun. You can’t clear brush with a gun. Plus, has there ever been a better horror movie prop than a chainsaw? There is absolutely nothing better than the sound of a chainsaw sputtering into action for scaring the shit out of a bunch of horny teenagers camping in an isolated spot in the north woods.

Back in the days when I was still a proud chainsaw owner I would look for any excuse to use it. If there was no reason to use it I would take it out of the garage and mess with it – clean it, change the oil, check the spark plug. The smell of the chainsaw, a combination of oil, gas, grease and sawdust, was intoxicating. It sent my testosterone levels soaring.

Then when I was satisfied that it was in top condition, I would pull the ripcord and start the bad motherfucker. When it roared to life, the vibration of it ran up my arm, through my shoulder, down my side and settled in my nuts. It was beautiful.

I was a wreck in the days and weeks after my beloved chainsaw was stolen. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, and my already considerable consumption of alcohol and drugs tripled. The lovely Mrs. Milo, always sensitive to my every mood, and tenderly solicitous of my well-being, was worried.

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is this about that stupid chainsaw?”

“It’s more than a chainsaw, honey. It’s a symbol of…”

“Quit acting like an idiot. Just go out and buy a new one.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not meant to have a chainsaw. Maybe this is a sign from…”

“Oh, my God! You need serious help. Have you been drinking already?”

“I may have had a smidgeon of vodka with my bacon and eggs this morning.”

As the years passed I thought I had recovered from the emasculating loss of my chainsaw. But, then, something happened a few days ago that sent me back into the depths of despair.

An uncommonly violent storm hit Chicago, heavy rains, rumbling claps of thunder, lightning flashing as often as a disco strobe light, and winds that gusted to 70 miles per hour. Power went out in many parts of the City. Downtown office buildings had windows blown out. And trees were knocked down by the fierce winds.

On the block where I live, large branches were torn from the trees that line the street. It seemed that every yard was littered by broken branches, including mine.

Then, the morning after the storm, I heard sounds that opened a wound that I thought had healed. It was the sound of chainsaws roaring to life. It seemed that all the manly men on block — the accountants, the insurance agents, the lawyers, the hair dresser, and the restaurant owner – had pulled out their chain saws and were preparing to clean the debris from their yards. They were doing what men do best, fiddling with power tools and cutting wood.

And what was I doing? I didn’t have a chainsaw. There was nothing I could do.

I pulled the drapes, turned off the lights and retreated to the basement to lick my wounds and try to salvage the ragged remnants of my self esteem. That’s where the lovely Mrs. Milo found me, all alone, sitting in the dark, feeling extremely sorry for myself. She took one look at me, nodded knowingly, and patted me gently on my receding hairline.

“It’s the chainsaw thing, isn’t it?”

I didn’t bother answering. Who cares what a broken and defeated man has to say?

Letter From Milo: Yard Work

“Milo, honey, are you going to mow the lawn today?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“The lawn looks pretty bad. The grass is almost knee high. You haven’t mowed it in a month.”

“Fuck the lawn. I’ve got more important things to do than worry about some goddamn lawn.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, I’ve got finish my blog piece for Monday. People are counting on me.”

“You can’t be serious! You been writing for that stupid blog site for a year and a half and you’ve got, like, 12 readers.”

“Yeah, but they’re discriminating readers, people who appreciate fine writing and lofty thinking.”

“No they’re not! They’re just a bunch of idiots who like those dumb dick jokes you always put in your blogs. Be a sweetheart and mow the lawn today, okay.”

I hate mowing the lawn. I hate yard work of any kind. As a matter of fact, I hate all forms of work. Whoever the cocksucker was that coined the term “Protestant work ethic” should be working in the PR department of BP. The slick bastard could probably convince the world that dumping millions of barrels of oil in the Gulf of Mexico was a fantastic public relations stunt. You simply cannot buy that kind of publicity.

I briefly played with the idea of NOT mowing the lawn, but decided against it. The lovely Mrs. Milo had THAT look in her eye, which meant she was not to be trifled with on this day. She grew up in the Dakotas and has a rustic’s easy familiarity with weapons and violence that I wish I would have known about before I married her.

Anyway, I spent about 45 minutes mowing the front and back lawns then went back into the house to work on my blog piece. I just started getting into a good rhythm of character assassination, slander, vile language and outright lies, when I was interrupted by a phone call from Benny Jay, another of the scabby, talentless halfwits who toil at The Third City.

“Hey, Milo, I need a title for this blog I’m writing.”

“What’s it about?”

“The Blackhawks.”

“I thought you hated the Blackhawks?”

“I do. I’m writing about how much I hate them.”

“I’ve got an idea. Call it ‘Fuck the Blackhawks.’”

There was a slight pause at Benny’s end of the line, as I knew there would be. You see, folks, the great Benny Jay is still a bit uncomfortable with profanity. Don’t get me wrong, Benny loves a good dick joke and laughs his ass off at some of the creative ways I try to use foul language in my blogs. It’s just that he’s hesitant to use curse words himself, both in conversation and in his writing. On the rare occasions when he does resort to profanity in his blogs, he usually quotes someone else spewing the filth.

In my opinion, Benny’s lack of cursing skills is due entirely to the fact that he was raised in Evanston, where, I believe, there is still a statute on the books prohibiting cursing within 50 feet of a church, school or North Shore matron.

“Heh, heh, that’s a great title, Milo, but I don’t know if it’s, ah, right for this piece.”

“Benny, it’s perfect. It’s got attitude, it’s got punch, and it leaves no doubt about your feelings for the Blackhawks.”

“Yeah, I see your point but…”

“Don’t wimp out on me, man. This could be your moment of greatness. This could be the time when you leave your footprint on the blogging world.”

“Jeez, I don’t know…”

“C’mon, Benny, be a man, act like you’ve got a pair.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. You’re absolutely right, Milo. This is no time for half measures. You can count on me.”

“I have all the faith in the world in you, Benny.”

Of course, Benny chickened out, just like I knew he would. He posted the blog piece the next day and it was called “Gulp – Congratulations, Blackhawks.” I was disappointed but not surprised. If anything, Benny is always true to his character. Still, I had to call him on it.

“Great piece you posted today on the Blackhawks.”

“You liked it, huh?”

“Oh yeah, great writing, nice concept. It was fine, everything except the title.”

“Heh, heh, I was going use your headline, had it in the draft and was going to hit the publish button when my wife came by and saw it. She didn’t like the title.”

“Your wife didn’t like it. What’s the fuck’s wrong with you. Our wives are not supposed to like anything we write. If my wife likes anything I write I immediately erase it and start all over.”

“Well, there were other considerations…”

“Like the fact that you’re a disgrace to the blogging community. You’re lucky the Barn Boss doesn’t take back your company car and toss you out on your ear.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Benny, let’s you and I get together this afternoon, have a few drinks, smoke a joint and discuss your wimpiness. You’re starting to give The Third City a bad name.”

”That sounds great, Milo. I’d love to, but my wife wants me to mow the lawn today.”