1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Text exchange between subjects Paul D. (left) and Nathan I. (right), 8:13 a.m. Tuesday, Dec. 16, 2014:

A trillion pigeons in this city and I’ve never seen a pigeon egg.

Or a baby pigeon.

Or a nest. What the hell, pigeons? » Read the rest of this entry «

In 2009, I was driving by Cermak and Ogden and saw a license plate that said GOLDIGR. It was on a Dodge Neon.

Someone’s not doing their job. » Read the rest of this entry «

“Feliz Navidad!” he sang into the microphone positioned above the keyboard in the fifth-filled Mexican restaurant on Western. “Feliz Navidad y prospero año y felicidad… y Lazo’s Tacos!”

He chuckled a bit at his own joke, which was ignored by the smattering of people choosing to nosh on Sunday night Mexican food rather than wander the light, dripping rain outdoors. » Read the rest of this entry «

Two ticket takers on the Metra stood in the divot where the stairs lead down to the still-closed outer door. They had been talking for about 10 minutes about a co-worker who died two years before retirement.

One was older, fatter, black and patient. The other was younger, taller, wiry and white. The younger one looked around with fight in his eyes, as if every person, ticket, metal wall and announcement voice was making him angrier.

They were leaning back on the partition walls, facing each other.

“What would you do if you didn’t have to do anything?” the older one asked. » Read the rest of this entry «

Shh. Listen. » Read the rest of this entry «

In that projected tone where the speaker wants to be overheard, a male voice called me over.

“Let’s see. Maybe he knows.”

He was a young Hispanic man, maybe in his late 20s. Short but muscular, he was wearing a tight shirt that said “Cherries R Da Bomb.” His hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail cinched twice – once at the back of his head, once toward the bottom so the ponytail didn’t flare out.

He was sitting, sharing the step of a doorway with a middle-aged black woman who looked at me with amused, commiserating eyes.

“What’s half of two plus two?” the man asked me. » Read the rest of this entry «

“To the person (or persons) who stole my bike seat on Friday, September 19th:” the note read. » Read the rest of this entry «

The sun shone that early summer afternoon as the masses streamed off the platform and a voice from the speakers above declared for the Nth to the Nth power time that “DUE TO THE WORLD CUP VIEWING PARTY IN DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, ALCOHOL AND GLASS BOTTLES WILL NOT BE PERMITTED ON METRA TRAINS ALL DAY.”

A handsome man stood in disbelief, a backpack at his feet, a dinged-up WBEZ pledge drive water bottle in his hand. Shocked. Stunned. Very good-looking in a comfortable sort of frumped-up sexy way. » Read the rest of this entry «

As some of you might recall, I’ve been out of town for the last few weeks. I loaded up the site with as many new stories as I had ready, but to fill some gaps I’ve been tossing in occasional “favorites” from Getting Strange, a blog I ran from 2008-10 on the late, lamented WindyCitizen.com.

The blog was a search for Chicago subculture and acted as sort of a protozoic 1,001 Chicago Afternoons. I’ve already rerun stories of nude bicycling and Boystown during my trip, so for this the last of the Getting Strange flashbacks, we go back to June 25, 2008, for a tale of dark matter and darker porter. » Read the rest of this entry «

I passed a game of bags on Saturday. Plywood boards made into boxes, hole in the top to toss beanbags into from a distance. Underhand lobs. The beanbags spun a bit as they arced through the air before coming down with a maraca wham on the plywood. » Read the rest of this entry «