1,001 Chicago Afternoons

When I was in Paris, you were cycling through 184 years of Chicago newspaper history.

When I was exploring Le Puy-en-Velay, you went 9.3 miles into the LGBTQ community.

While I was in Marseilles, you took your bike down our endangered lakefront.

My wife and I are following the Tour de France. You’re taking the Tour de Chicago. And for your last stage, a one-mile jaunt down LaSalle Street.

This one’s going to get weird. » Read the rest of this entry «

The muggles were loitering by the House of Blues. » Read the rest of this entry «

In the spirit of past 1,001 Chicago Afternoons tales “#717: Five Images from Chicago Collections Consortium to Haunt Your Turkey Comas” and “#770: Quack Cures and How Bad They’d Kill You” and because I moved that damn marble-top end table of my grandparents’ by myself over the weekend and my arms feel like someone punched me over and over and over until I gave them my lunch money, I present to you now “#802: A Bunch of Out-of-Context Tribune Archives Artwork Because I Moved Over the Weekend and Everything Hurts.” » Read the rest of this entry «

There’s a point to the ride where you learn to hate doughnuts. » Read the rest of this entry «

Hello, scientists with a story!

Those who read the site frequently know I intermittently produce spoken word events. The most recent was 40 Hours to Trump, which raised nearly $1,200 for local groups working in areas targeted by the then-incoming Trump administration. Speakers included schoolteachers, volunteers, activists and immigrants.

We’re doing it again, but this time, we only want scientists. We want to give a stage — and an audience — to voices the current administration is trying to silence. » Read the rest of this entry «

The entirety of American political history can be found at an old polling place somewhere along the north branch of the Chicago River. » Read the rest of this entry «

Smarter people than me can write your think pieces.

More emotive than me can write about tears.

Less stunned than me can write your rallies and revolution.

I can write right now about disbelief. And how lovely the downtown of Chicago, Illinois, is. » Read the rest of this entry «

I got a new job. I’m a magazine editor now.

I like it. I like the people. I like the work. I like that when I decide something, it’s done.

But this isn’t about that. It’s about a reel of paper, winding through machines. » Read the rest of this entry «

There’s a ritzy stretch of a ritzy stretch.

There’s a high-end Irish restaurant there, something bordering cuisine and pub. It’s lovely, golden lettering on the side and tasteful sidewalk patio area. Even among River North, the swath of condos, hotels, hot bars and beggars, it glitzes.

In 1978, this was skid row. Lines of liquor stores passing the hooch through bulletproof glass. Drunks and junkies slept it off in the alleys.

And the site where this lovely Irish restaurant now sits was the home of one of the most raucous, rowdy and seminal punk clubs in town — O’Banion’s. » Read the rest of this entry «

They and they were of types who usually don’t talk.

The first they were 30s-ish, white and cool, aging punks and hips whose once candy-colored hair was now seeing threads of white come through. A man and a woman riding a rocking, jumbly ‘L’ train toward the Loop. » Read the rest of this entry «