June 5th, 2013 § permalink
The cannons fire and the crowds wave flags while, under the ground, Nelly sleeps.
The headless lamb, an ancient grave marker decapitated by time, lets us know that Nelly sleeps. No date. No last name. Just three weatherworn words embossed on white marble: “Our Nelly Sleeps.” » Read the rest of this entry «
June 3rd, 2013 § permalink
“It was at 65th and Green in like the dead center of Englewood,” the reporter started.
The conversation stalled for a moment as the third of our party showed up, followed by the beer the reporter ordered. We were in a package good store/bar at the edge of Logan Square’s gentrification, where old timers mingle with the young and trendy. The can of craft beer a tattooed manic pixie bartender handed the reporter bore a quote from “So I Married an Axe Murderer.”
“That’s random,” the reporter said after I explained where the quote came from. “Whatever it is, I like it. I get it all the time.”
He laughed and took a sip.
“So you’re at the shooting?” I prompted.
“Yeah, 65th and Green and I get there and the guy had already been shot.” » Read the rest of this entry «
May 31st, 2013 § permalink
Like swallows to Capistrano, like Monarch butterflies to Oaxaca, the boobs have returned to Wicker Park.
May 29th, 2013 § permalink
The sound of rain on concrete is unlike any other sound.
That’s not to say it’s a particularly lovely sound. It’s no better nor worse than rain on a tin roof in a warmish part of the world. It’s certainly much worse than the sound of rain on leaves or on a grassy field. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 27th, 2013 § permalink
Cannibals, I kept thinking. They have to be cannibals.
The lady was worried our dinner companions would be boring or might give us food poisoning, but I knew better. They planned to feed us of the longpig.
These are the thoughts as you walk to a house to eat with a total stranger. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 24th, 2013 § permalink
It came together.
It came together with the modern orchestral pieces by Seth Boustead and Amos Gillespie of Access Contemporary Music. It came together with the scripts by Anderson Lawfer, Mike Dailey, Aly Greaves Amidei, Anita Deely and Sean Mallary. It came together with the sound effects by Starr Hardgrove and Jack Rubin. And it came together with the narrations by the Strawdog Theatre troupe, too many to name here.
What came together was the 1001 Afternoons in Chicago stories of old Ben Hecht. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 22nd, 2013 § permalink
The Loop wasn’t busy yet, wouldn’t be for an hour.
It would be the second moment of busyness for the day, the third if you count the momentary fluster around lunch. It would be the flock of the same people who looked so pretty and proper in the morning, now with ties askew and dresses rumpled. The ruby-red lips of the morning commute would be muted and wiped away for the ride home, the one to come in about an hour. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 20th, 2013 § permalink
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly
In the house of Idah Dally;
There were always throats to sing
Down the river bank with spri-
“Hang on a second guys,” Anderson Lawfer broke in. “So one thing I want to try here. Jaz, could you try it with a little more, just more jazz?”
“OK,” Jaz — James Anthony Zoccoli — said as the 1920s barroom scene broke up.
We were in Nowhere. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 17th, 2013 § permalink
Just down the street from a storefront just marked “BEER,” no one was interested in the best margaritas in Wrigleyville.
The windows and doors had been thrown open to let the spring warm patrons who would hopefully come in to watch the Cubs lose badly on the many, many TVs stationed around the bar.
It wasn’t working. I was alone with my Victoria. » Read the rest of this entry «
May 15th, 2013 § permalink
“No, I sometimes go to the barbershops down in Chinatown, but it’s a haul from me,” the Asian man told the black man on the No. 49 Western bus as white I plopped down next to them in the back.
The Asian man was young and professional, wearing a suit and clutching a briefcase with one hand. His interrogator was a young black man with a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a goatee that extended a few inches from his chin.
He was talking about hair. » Read the rest of this entry «
