1,001 Chicago Afternoons

The young girl in the red T-shirt got the next verse.

She was an indeterminately aged blonde teenager. A big smile and ponytail, maybe a bit of acne but not too much. Happy, sunny, laughing. And about to heft her banjo for the second verse to bust out in a clear, pealing and deeply Czech-accented alto.

“Oh ven ze sun, begins to shine, oh ven ze sun begins to shine,” she sang, strumming along on her banjo, her perfect voice curling around the audience of jazz fans, commuters and the lady selling cupcakes. “Oh ay vant to be in zat number, oh ven ze sun begins to shine.” » Read the rest of this entry «

“My sister’s a cop! My sister’s a cop! My sister’s a cop!” he screamed in that way people in fights do, as if the other person just didn’t hear them the first time. “If you touch me, I’ll get you arrested!” » Read the rest of this entry «

Alex is short and funny. She laughs and whirls, cracks wise on tangents, then smiles a big flashing, mile-long grin to bring it back home. She goes to shows, teaches young girls to play the bass, jokes and giggles and wants to bring about real reform in immigration policy.

Ed is tall and also very funny. It takes a while for his funny to come out. It’s dry, witty. His deep voice sounds serious even when he’s not. It takes on an urgency when he’s talking about music, writing, music, cinema, music. Anything he loves, he stresses the words. He wants you to feel what he feels.

Together, Alex Fryer and Ed McMenamin are the team behind Dumpster Tapes, a cassette label of punk, garage and other DIY bands. They want you to listen to their music. » Read the rest of this entry «

The following is a response to story #291 by Industry of the Ordinary, who contacted the site earlier this week. » Read the rest of this entry «

“It is my pleasure to extend to you an offer of employment on behalf of _____. We are all very impressed with your professional skills and your interpersonal talents. We believe you will be an important contributor to the continued development of our programs and a key member of our team.”

People leave the damndest things at Kinko’s. » 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 «

There are a series of smaller freestanding counters behind the big counter at a Kinko’s or a FedEx or a FedEx/Kinko’s Office or whatever they call themselves this week. » Read the rest of this entry «

On a wall at the corner of Ashland and Julian in the “Is this still Wicker Park?” northern section of Wicker Park, there’s a remnant sign from an art exhibit I didn’t think was very good. » Read the rest of this entry «

Through a window, a bald man in a luxury farm-to-table, antibiotic-free, sustainably sourced restaurant mimed the fistfight that earned him that raging black eye. » Read the rest of this entry «

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 «