Letter From Milo: Loser City

July 28th, 2019

Due to the fiduciary lawlessness of Mitt Popovich, my sleazy fucking brother-in-law, The Third City Blog site has fallen on hard times.

That lousy mother fucker was the accountant of this scabby barely literate outfit. He claimed to have a degree from an esteemed online university, but the truth is we only hired him because my wife made me.

Now he’s run off to Argentina with our corporate assets, including $33.14 from petty cash.

The sad truth is that The Third City is broke. My last two paychecks have bounced. Yesterday, someone posted an eviction notice on the door of our Michigan Avenue corporate office. Our fleet of company cars has been repossessed. The company tab at the neighborhood bar has been cut off. The local whorehouse won’t take our checks anymore. And, worst of all, my drug dealer won’t return my phone calls.

I never thought it would come to this. When I left my last job, as Ethics Professor at the Moody Bible Institute, to join The Third City, I thought I was set for life.

After all, Big Arnie Raven, the Barn Boss of this flatulent outfit, had assured me that The Third City was one of the most popular and respected blog sites in the world, averaging close to a million readers a week. He told me that the site was on the short lists of both the Nobel and Pulitzer Prize committees, in several different categories, including news, sports and porn.

“Stick with The Third City, kid,” Big Arnie said, when I was hired. “The sky’s the limit.”

Well, the sky has fallen in on us. The Third City is in dire straits. Sadly, this may be the last blog we ever post.

But, I’m not a quitter. I refuse to let The Third City go under. This blog site is too important to the American people. In the words of some political dumbass, The Third City is “too big to fail.”

That’s why I’ve decided to hold a fund raiser. Yes, if NPR, Jerry Lewis and the Kiwanis can hold fund raisers, why can’t The Third City? We are every bit as deserving of feasting on the public tit as the above named organizations.

I have been working hard to keep this site afloat. I’ve been in contact with the new owners of the Chicago Cubs about using Wrigley Field as the venue for a fund raising benefit. My good friends, U2, the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan have agreed to appear. Prince Charles is considering acting as emcee. Steven Spielberg has offered to create a 60 second TV spot to publicize the event. Monica Lewinsky has offered her services, in a capacity yet to be determined.

Despite the big name talent that has offered to help, it’s going to be you, our faithful readers who will make the difference. It is your contributions that will help keep The Third City a beacon of civilized discourse in a world of idiotic chatter.

That’s why I’m asking each and every one of you to reach into your wallets and purses, pull out a 20 dollar bill, place it in an envelope and mail it to me. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Big Arnie or Benny Jay. I want to, ah, surprise them.

I’m counting on you good folks out there to come to Third City’s rescue in this time of need. Just put that 20 dollar bill in a plain white envelope and address it to Milo Samardzija at 262…

HOLD IT! This is Mrs. Milo. I was just passing by Milo’s desk, saw what he was writing and chased him away from the computer with a broomstick. All he’s doing is trying to scam people out of money. Anybody that sends him money is a bigger idiot that he is. As for that crap about company cars, I doubt if Big Arnie, Benny Jay, Milo or that creepy Jon Randolph have enough brains between them to pass a driver’s license test. And the only corporate office they have is the corner coffee shop. Jeez, what a bunch of losers.

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Randolph Street: Vegetation

July 26th, 2019

1aDSCF0280Greens

 

2DSCF0296Two Greens

 

4DSCF4784Yellows

 

All photos © Jon Randolph

jonrandolph.com

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Letter From Milo: China Or Canada

July 22nd, 2019

You can imagine my absolute shock when, just the other day, I learned that there were gay people living in China. I had no idea. I thought the only gay people in the world lived in the lower 48 states, with a few owning condo timeshares in some of the ritzier neighborhoods of Paris and London.

The Chinese are pretty tough on their gay population. Just the other day I read that the police broke up a parade that was to celebrate the coronation of Mr. Gay China. It must have been pretty tough picking one guy out of a population of a billion and a half people to represent gay Chinese, especially when, just a few years ago the Chinese government claimed that there were no gay Chinese at all.

The Iranian government also claims there are no gay people in their country. That must be the reason that Iran has terrible food, ugly architecture, no fashion sense, shitty haircuts, and no decent boutiques or antique shops.

I consider myself an extremely intelligent man, but there is one thing about gay people that confuses me. Where did they come from? If I remember correctly, there were no gay people at all in the USA until the early 1970s. They just appeared one day and made themselves at home. I was determined to find out where all the gay people came from, so I called my friend Benny Jay, who’s smart as a whip and asked him.

“Hey, Benny, have you noticed that there are an awful lot of gay people around?”

“Now that you mention it, I have seen a lot of them recently.”

“Well, where the fuck did they all come from?”

“Canada.”

“Canada? Are you sure?”

“Positive. It was all part of that NAFTA deal.”

“Makes sense to me. By the way, do you know anything about this Mr. Gay China?”

“Guy China? Yeah, he’s on my bowling team.”

“No, no. Mr. Gay China. He’s this dude that supposed to be the epitome of Chinese gayness. They were going to have a parade to honor him but the Chinese police broke it up. They broke a few heads, too.”

“They must not have had a parade permit.”

Someone once said that the quality of a civilization can be judged by the way it treats its elderly. A better measuring stick, in my opinion, would be judging a civilization by the way it treats its minorities.

So, what’s the problem with gay people? Why do countries as varied as China, Iran, and, yes, the good ol’ USA, discriminate against gays. As far as I know, gay people do not commit terrorist acts. They rarely agitate for separatist states. Their hygiene standards are above average. They throw great parties. And if they move into your neighborhood that usually means your property values are going up. Other than an aggravating fondness for Broadway show tunes, they are generally good citizens.

I was still confused about the origins of gay people after I got off the phone with Benny Jay. So, I thought I’d call Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this scabby, low-life outfit. Big Mike knows everything. The man’s a walking encyclopedia, an oasis of wisdom in a desert of ignorance. He knows more shit that Professor Irwin Corey.

“Hey, Big Mike, it’s me, Milo.”

“Make it quick, asshole, I ain’t got all day. I’ve got a blog to run.”

“Ok, no problem. Have you noticed that there are a lot of gay people around?

“So what.”

“Well, I was talking to Benny Jay and he said they all came from Canada, part of that NAFTA deal.”

“Benny Jay’s an idiot.”

“I thought so, because I know a gay guy and he’s from Ireland.”

“You know what, Milo?”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot, too.”

“Good talking to you.”

“Always a pleasure.”

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Randolph Street: Mother & Child Reunion

July 19th, 2019

1DSCF1273Downtown Chicago

 

2DSCF0604John–Lac Seul, Ontario

 

3DSCF0848Trestle–Chicago

 

4DSCF0211Mother & Child–Guanajuato, Mexico

 

5_MG_6331Two Girls–Wrigley Field

 

6DSCF1245 copyCouple–Uptown

 

All photos © Jon Randolph 2016

jonrandolph.com

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Letter From Milo: Living To Learn

July 16th, 2019

You’d think that someone who had heart surgery a few months ago would know better. You’d think that the person would have learned a lesson. You would suppose that someone who came this close to riding shotgun with the Angel in the Sharkskin Nightgown, would consider changing his wicked ways.

Well, I had open heart surgery recently and the only change in me is that my body has a few more scars to show off at the beach.

Against all common sense, against all medical advice, despite the anguished pleas of my wife and children, Ol’ Milo is at it again. Yes, folks, I’m drinking, eating red meat, sneaking the occasional cigarette, toking on the occasional joint and, once again, enjoying impure thoughts. Yes, sir, the Bum Gene (see one of my earlier posts) is in full roar.

Now, the obvious question is: How fucking stupid does a man have to be to continue a lifestyle that nearly killed him?

The obvious answer is: Very, very fucking stupid.

A short while after coming home from the hospital, my good friend, I’ll call him Bruce Diksas to spare him undue embarrassment, came by to visit. He brought along a few bottles of wine, a joint and a pack of Camels.

“You look pretty good,” Bruce said, uncorking one of the bottles. “Got some color in your face.”

“Yeah, I feel pretty good,” I replied, though I was still sore from the surgery where they had cracked me open like a lobster tail, then sewed me up like a hog being prepped for the barbeque spit. “Should be as good as new in a couple of days,” I added, lying.

“Here, have a drink. You’ll feel even better.”

“Good idea.”

As we sat at the kitchen table talking about the White Sox, the economy, pussy, the criminal incompetence of the Bush Regime, and Bruce’s upcoming trip the Bali, it occurred to me that just a few years ago Bruce had undergone some pretty serious surgery himself. I won’t go into details, but he came through it with his flag waving high.

It also occurred to me that many of our friends are suffering health problems. Granted, most of my friends have lived rather checkered lives, overdoing just about everything there is to overdo. But the undeniable fact is that they are all aging baby boomers, living at the tail end of the great post-war bubble . If our lives were basketball games, we would be entering the fourth quarter. Although there is always the chance of overtime, the sad truth is that you can’t count on it. I’ve had good friends die in their teens, 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. In one case a good friend died at the biblical age of 101.

They’ve died in all sorts of ways — car accidents, gunshot wounds, explosions, diseases, drug overdoses, jealousy, broken hearts, suicides and poor judgement. The common thread running through all these deaths is that, except for suicide, most people don’t have a say in the time and manner of their passing. It’s a lottery where the main prize is oblivion.

So, I suppose living into your 60s is an accomplishment of sorts. Although it’s a piss poor accomplishment, at best.

As Bruce and I started on the second bottle of wine, toked on the joint and lit up Camels, we smiled at each other, both of us aware of the game clock but happy to still be in the game and able to partake of some of our favorite vices. We clinked glasses and made a toast.

“To your health,” Bruce said.

“And yours, pal.”

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