1,001 Chicago Afternoons

By the beat-down storefront of an Avondale dive, under the glowing, dancing figures of a light-up Żywiec beer sign, I held an elderly woman in my arms as she wept.

And I can’t tell you why. » Read the rest of this entry «

The beggar sat beneath the overpass, next to one of the pillars that supported the highway above, and counted his take into a plastic McDonald’s cup. » Read the rest of this entry «

The woman in the “Free the NATO 3″ T-shirt served the drinks in the empty barroom.

“She was gorgeous,” the bartender said, gesturing at her own face in what I guess was a mime for pretty. “I know for a fact one of my friends had a crush on her.” » Read the rest of this entry «

Peace to the old man sipping drinks at the VFW bar.

And the bagpiper on the condo roof.

Peace to the newsman, chasing stories for cartoons.

Peace to the lady who jammed in Tunisia.

And peace to the one who makes really sexy ladies’ underthings. » Read the rest of this entry «

You can still smoke in a VFW bar. More likely some bylaw for private clubs than payment for services rendered, but the small room tucked in a brick building on Kedzie has taken advantage of that. » Read the rest of this entry «

This one’s dance protected the food.

With a red uniform shirt, black knee-length shorts, black neckerchief and cat’s eye glasses perched on yellow, coiffed hair, she danced. » Read the rest of this entry «

Someone scrawled “White People” in Sharpie on the highway underpass mural welcoming people to the northwest side community of Avondale. » Read the rest of this entry «