1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Every month, a parking garage in Uptown is turned into a cavalcade of old.

It’s called Vintage Garage and it’s wonderful. Amazing clothes, books, vinyl, dishware, photos, machinery, furniture — everything the lover of the old can want. The Sept. 20 market was themed “Retro Chicago.”

I’m gushing over the flea market now because I’m going to make fun of it. » Read the rest of this entry «

She swung the hula hoop around her neck as she talked, around her arms, curled it between her legs and whipped it back and forth so the LED displays would change and whirl and display technicolor patterns in the dark.

“It’s a Hyperion,” she said.

She bought the hoop online. $320. She was a young hippie type, maybe early 20s or late teens. Hard to tell in the jam-packed park lit only by the whoosh of spinning hula hoops, the distant twirling of fire and the light of a full moon. » Read the rest of this entry «

Mother’s Day was the first day this year that weather, free time and a willingness to put on special padded spandex shorts conspired to let me get out on the bike for a substantial ride. » Read the rest of this entry «

OK, I lied.

This is Chicagoana to the extent that I read it at Chicago’s own live weekly magazine, The Paper Machete during their Nov. 2 show, but mostly it’s about a fascinating study put out by researchers from the Republic of Georgia. Because I wanted to spend Sunday eating pizza and doing laundry instead of chasing down the last artisanal radish farmer in Schorsch Village or somesuch, here it be for your Monday storytime. » Read the rest of this entry «

The wooden carving covering the bar’s mirrored back had a poem about an Irish cop raiding a speakeasy because he didn’t get his cut.

The Waits-voice band was jazzy and gruff.

The entirety of the Green Mill kept its distinctive Prohibition flair, that time of class, grace and utter adult cool. Save the bald guy making up his own little dance to a 1940s novelty show tune.

And god help me, I’ll be doing that in a week. » Read the rest of this entry «

Between the lapping waves and the late summer trill of the crickets, you can almost convince yourself you’re not in a city when you’re by Montrose Beach.

If you close your eyes. » Read the rest of this entry «