An email from my mother, early Tuesday morning:
“When she was a little girl in Chicago, Grandma wondered why there were men pulling carts through the streets yelling, ‘Rex, a lion.’ » Read the rest of this entry «
#421: Keys That Work
January 5th, 2015 § permalink
When you walk in, you look for the parakeets.
You look around and around and around, not realizing until the door slowly shuts and the chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp falls silent that it was a recording, an avian version of little bells that jingle when someone walks in.
Then you stand in a room filled with keys and the ticking of a loud clock. » Read the rest of this entry «
#420: Land of Sky-Blue Waters
January 2nd, 2015 § permalink
A blue-gold can of Hamm’s Premium exploded in foam against the wall.
One of the men on the Clark/Lake Blue Line platform had whipped it through the closing train car doors at the last possible moment before they shut entirely. It was impressive timing undercut by the doors immediately re-opening.
The old black street person and the young white college kid stared at the open doors and the mess of foam and domestic pale lager one of them had created. » Read the rest of this entry «
#419: Accommodating Passengers
December 31st, 2014 § permalink
A ratty man with a ratty, chest-level wisp of a beard reminisced with a well-dressed acquaintance about a laundromat in Southport “where you could drink beer and have a burger.”
“It’s gone now, I think,” the well-dressed one responded.
The trick is not making it sound like you’ll miss it more than you really will. » Read the rest of this entry «
#418: The Calling Birds
December 29th, 2014 § permalink
Under the glittering Macy’s trumpets jutting from the department store, an old man’s saxophone trickled down the darkened street. » Read the rest of this entry «
#417: The Obligatory Christmas Poem Column: Hermit Edition
December 26th, 2014 § permalink
In honor of the longstanding journalistic tradition of columnists punting it on holidays with shitty poems (lookin’ at you, Schmich), a work penned while waiting for my parents and sister to leave for Aunt Mary’s without me:
I truly love my family,
A love both earthly and ethereal.
But this Christmastime, I’ll sit alone
And binge-listen to Serial. » Read the rest of this entry «
#416: Selfies in the Great Hall
December 24th, 2014 § permalink
The goddesses shade themselves under cloaks.
Gold-tinged women standing over the Great Hall, each with one arm pulling a waving cloak over her head to shade from the barrel-vaulted skylight above. Each goddess hoists a bird with her free arm. One, an owl to symbolize night. One, a rooster. For day.
The goddesses stand hiding from above, overlooking a massive marble room of Corinthian columns, Christmas decorations and people taking selfies. » Read the rest of this entry «
#415: Quiet
December 22nd, 2014 § permalink
A sore throat closed off my adventuring for the weekend. It closed off trips to Christkindlmarket and Marshall Fields and pithy observations about the true meaning of the Christmas season in the 21st century.
But I sure watched the hell out of zombies and Muppets. » Read the rest of this entry «
#414: The Baby Pigeon Conspiracy
December 19th, 2014 § permalink
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 «
#413: The Firebird Suite, Part 2: City of Lights, Fields of Corn
December 17th, 2014 § permalink
On Monday, we met trapeze artist Camille Swift. Once you read that illustrated tale, here’s part two of her story.
…
Don’t wrap your hands, the small woman said as we sipped coffee at a shop beneath the rumbling Blue Line.
The woman, Camille Swift, has only known two trapeze artists who wrap their hands — one had eczema, one was a Parisian flight attendant whose bosses wanted silky-smooth femininity whilst handing out drinks. That slight separation dulls your sense of touch and body awareness; even a fraction might be dangerous.
“Even if it involves a crazy amount of pain, you want your skin to be in contact with the apparatus because that way your body knows you’re in contact with the apparatus,” she said. » Read the rest of this entry «
