1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Hoyne Avenue is special to me.

Hoyne was the home of my first real apartment in Chicago, a converted storefront we called the Bodega. The floors were so warped, my significant other at the time would laugh herself to tears rolling a baseball down it and watching it return to her. The wiring was so dangerous the old Lithuanian electrician the management company finally sent after three weeks of prodding started yelling “Is stupid! Is stupid!” when he got behind the outlet to see how it had been set up.

I was 23 and it was heaven. I found out a few months later that my great-grandparents were living a few blocks south when my grandmother was born. On Hoyne.

So it seemed especially fitting when I discovered that my street of stupid joy was named after a man involved in a story that now brings me stupid joy. I now bring you the story of Thomas Hoyne, who for 28 days claimed to be the mayor of Chicago. » Read the rest of this entry «

I presume the calligraphed words running down his well-hewn triceps said UNTOUCHABLE and UNSTOPPABLE. » Read the rest of this entry «

Over the winter, I met with a bright, energetic, early-20s writer who wanted to do a story on me for a local arts website.

I think I made him sad. » Read the rest of this entry «

He had a contemplative look on his face, as if someone he trusted had hold him 2 + 2 = Aardvark and out of respect he was trying to see if there was anything to it.

Then a vein bulged in his forehead. His mouth pulled back in a grimace and hiss, he took two steps back and made a noise that was a combination of “Whoo!” and a deflating inner tube.

My cousin had tried Malört. » Read the rest of this entry «

Years ago, I visited a creationist dinosaur dig.  » Read the rest of this entry «

“When written in Chinese, the word ‘crisis’ is composed of two characters — one represents danger and one represents a weaving machine, or small chair.”

– John F. Kennedy, Remarks at the Convocation of the United Negro College Fund, April 12, 1959 » Read the rest of this entry «

“It’s with a heavy heart,” the e-mail read, “that I tell you that my endeavor as a freelance journalist is in its final months.” » Read the rest of this entry «

The stage is set.

I mean, it’s not a stage so much as a microphone at the back of an artsy-funky dive bar in Bucktown.

And the performers are readying.

I mean, they’re not professional performers with headshots and acting credits and feelings on “the theatre, darling” so much as men and women from the community who have stories to share.

And we’re going to take on the president-elect of the United States of America in the last few hours we get to say “-elect.” » Read the rest of this entry «

At 7 p.m. Jan. 18, 2017 — 40 hours before a dangerous man ascends to the highest post in the nation — come to Gallery Cabaret at 2020 N. Oakley Ave. to drink some beer, hear some stories and raise some money for groups that are going to need it.

But before then, here’s how your words can help a few good groups survive the next four years. » Read the rest of this entry «

I tell stories. A lot of them.

I tell stories of a city, or at least the North Side, I grumble to myself when not feeling up to task. I tell stories of people and places and that time an alderman bit off another alderman’s ear.

I’m working on a project that, if all goes to plan, could be the first to quote both U.S. Appeals Court Judge Abner Mivka and Nadwuar the Human Serviette.

But is it wrong that the only story I want to tell today is the snow? » Read the rest of this entry «