1,001 Chicago Afternoons

The North Side was a blur, as it should have been. I tried to play catch-up after lingering so long on the South. I was out of energy, out of sweat, felt bile rising in my stomach and my legs burned. I do OK for what I am, but I was not in shape for this weekend warrior nonsense.

And I couldn’t stop laughing.

Down some water. Laugh. Dip among traffic. Laugh. Cram an energy bar and stop by the tampon boxes, fast food wrappers and museum-pimping statuary that pool along the spot the Roosevelt Road bridge overlooks both river and the vacant Rezkoville and I laugh laugh laugh. » Read the rest of this entry «

For those of you who missed Friday’s story, the missus and I are backpacking through France following the Tour de France for our honeymoon. If everything went according to plan, we’re currently in a little town called Le Puy-en-Velay.

Since I don’t want to miss a moment of this, I loaded up the site before we left with Le Tour de Chicago, four bike routes through famous sites in the city’s history. I’m not posting these as thought exercises — get out there and explore this city.

We rode through Chicago’s newspaper history on Friday, and later this week will learn about lakefront encroachment and something I’m just calling “A Warhellride to the Goddess.”

Today’s bike tour is going to go through some of the spots connected to Chicago’s gay and lesbian community » Read the rest of this entry «

Anyone who’s been in a fight with a significant other knows the code and hears the invisible follows. It’s a language you learn in your 20s and stay fluent in for life.

If someone yells “One day,” you can hear if it’s “One day” (I’ll dump your sorry ass), if it’s “One day” (you’ll realize what we had) or if it’s (I just wanted) “One day” (without having to deal with your shit).

That’s how I knew the way the woman in the black Honda Accord said “Bob” was a bad one. It was burning and resentful, should be underlined, italicized and maybe written in that drippy red blood font from horror movies.

It was “Bob” (you jackass), not “Bob” (the sweetiekins light of my life). » Read the rest of this entry «

As some of you might recall, I’m currently traveling the Caucasus and Asia Minor with my dad, as one does.

I’ve loaded up the site with stories to run while I’m gone (social media and newsletter handled by the amazing Benji Feldheim), but there were still a few gaps, gaps I’m filling with revamped and refurbished stories from Getting Strange, a blog I wrote from 2008-10 for the now-defunct Windy Citizen.

So, from Aug. 5, 2008, here’s a tale of friendship, Speedos and the dreamy eyes of Colin Firth, a piece originally entitled “And now, the gays.” » Read the rest of this entry «

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly

In the house of Idah Dally;

There were always throats to sing

Down the river bank with spri-

“Hang on a second guys,” Anderson Lawfer broke in. “So one thing I want to try here. Jaz, could you try it with a little more, just more jazz?”

“OK,” Jaz — James Anthony Zoccoli — said as the 1920s barroom scene broke up.

We were in Nowhere. » Read the rest of this entry «

Huddling from the wind in a doorway across from a transient hotel in the northern tip of Boystown, I pressed the second-floor buzzer.

A giggling pixie of a young woman opened the door and wordlessly flitted upstairs for me to follow. Pausing only to peek back and giggle, she gamboled up the stairs, finally gesturing me to walk through a doorway. » Read the rest of this entry «