1,001 Chicago Afternoons

I still say Lex Luthor is the worst businessman in modern cinema, but I knew, when I wandered in the hall of posters, shirts, metal music and film after film after film after film that I had found the right place to check. » Read the rest of this entry «

It’s a little wire with a mic jack at one end and rubber earpiece at the other. It came a few days ahead of schedule in a padded manila envelope with a cloying note begging for five-star Amazon feedback rating (don’t worry, Markdown Mania — I did you right.)

And it scares the crap out of me. » Read the rest of this entry «

It was a birthday party years ago, one that hadn’t gone too well.

He was a local boy turning 26, an old friend who had quit a downtown ad job where he was popular and loved to start a new, yet-to-be-defined new life. He was in the process of losing touch with his old friend workmates. His new ones were transient and weird, also filling a lifting-and-hauling job while we figured our own next steps.

None of his old friends showed up at the bar that cold, wet night in an otherwise glorious summer. Only three of his new ones came. So in the wordless way young men have, the three of us decided to make it a night the birthday boy would remember.

Oh we drank. We drank and we talked and we yelled and we bought. The sole married one of the party soon headed home, leaving three men in their 20s spilling out into the night.

I don’t remember who decided to climb up onto the Bloomingdale Trail. » Read the rest of this entry «

Wet from the blattering rain outdoors, they gathered in a glowing gallery storefront to tell lies to each other. » Read the rest of this entry «

He walked about 10 feet behind me, smoking and muttering. Coat over hooded sweatshirt and a black, flat-brimmed baseball cap. It was late. I was alone. I stepped closer to the street and slowed down so he would pass.

“You messing with me, bro?” he said as he hustled past me, taking angry puffs of his cigarette. It wasn’t until he repeated the phrase that I noticed it wasn’t to me. He was talking to himself.

I noticed him slip a ball-peen hammer up his sleeve. » Read the rest of this entry «

“Cold” isn’t the right word. It’s accurate, in the same way “nice” or “fine” is accurate in most settings, but not quite good enough.

It was a brisk, jarring, sobering chill. It wasn’t quite an ice cube down the shorts, more of a splash of water in the face. We both needed it as we ambled out into the night.

“Ah,” I said, taking in the chill. “I have no idea what I’m going to write about for tomorrow.”

“How about this place?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, drawing out the words in that way that implies a guilty admission. “I was thinking about writing about us slapping the shit out of each other.”  » Read the rest of this entry «

“What’s Superman’s lair called?” the older businessman-type in the barber’s chair said.

“The Fortress of Solitude,” a man waiting with a magazine and I said in unison.

“Is that the thing made of crystals? Yeah, instead of that, Chicago Man has a parking space,” he said, and we all laughed.

“And whenever he leaves, he puts a gigantic, 80-foot lawn chair there,” I added, to more laughter.

We were trying to describe the powers of Chicago Man. » Read the rest of this entry «

A road cone. A fallen broom. A white plastic industrial-sized bucket still festooned with the label for “Artisan Chicken” institutional-serving meat.

These are ways Our Lady of the Fullerton Underpass Accident Investigation Site is honored. » Read the rest of this entry «

I wear sunglasses a lot. I guess that’s where to start. » Read the rest of this entry «

A sore throat closed off my adventuring for the weekend. It closed off trips to Christkindlmarket and Marshall Fields and pithy observations about the true meaning of the Christmas season in the 21st century.

But I sure watched the hell out of zombies and Muppets. » Read the rest of this entry «