1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Peace to the old man sipping drinks at the VFW bar.

And the bagpiper on the condo roof.

Peace to the newsman, chasing stories for cartoons.

Peace to the lady who jammed in Tunisia.

And peace to the one who makes really sexy ladies’ underthings. » Read the rest of this entry «

On the long slog chunk of a September afternoon, getting to that time of year when 5 p.m. means slanting light and a sky yellowing into sunset, tired workers in shirts and ties or skirts and jackets slouched through River North on their way anywhere else.

A bubble wafted down. » Read the rest of this entry «

His earliest memory was realizing his penis looked different than his brothers’.

“The doctor who did my circumcision has been called incompetent,” the now-white-haired man said as the crowd whipped by to get to the Red Line Grand stop. » Read the rest of this entry «

My biggest professional shame is when I chickened out on writing a story where I knew I was right.

It was in the ‘burbs, so it wasn’t a Chicago story, but the themes of friend-friend deals, smiles and handshakes and winks and timing on contracts that they don’t want anyone to put together are the same. This one just happened in bucolia, where people are smiling and happy and rich and THINGS LIKE THIS don’t happen here. » Read the rest of this entry «