By John Digles

I’m seated on the United States Capitol lawn in front of the podium for an extraordinary occasion. A handful of Chicagoans are in my row of seats. In front of us, guests from California to Georgia. Spotted nearby, Academy Award winners Halle Berry and Forest Whittaker as well as former World Boxing Heavyweight Champ Evander Holyfield.

It’s high noon on January 20. Barack Obama, previously junior U.S. Senator from Illinois, former state senator from Chicago’s South Side and arguably now the world’s most famous living person, just became President of the United States of America according to the Constitution.

Many of us were in line to enter before 7am, seated by naval officers just before 8am. Waiting hours in twenty-degree temps this morning, “Hot Hands,” those little packets that heat up when exposed to the open air, are as coveted as inaugural-ball tickets. Guests nearby are stuffing the hot packets into their gloves and boots.

A slew of relentless Obama merchandisers have descended on D.C. for the festivities. With makeshift tents and folding tables lining the streets around The Mall, a potential branch of economic stimulus is in full swing as these mouthy merchants hawk a catalogue of predictable Obama gear: buttons, bobble-heads, pens, posters, paperweights and t-shirts. Some stretch the limits of good taste, pushing items capitalizing on the Obamas’ daughters Sasha and Malia while others shamelessly place our president’s image on items like toilet paper. And, no kidding, nearly every hungry vendor has a crowd. Even those who have strewn rough-hewn Obama t-shirts on the sidewalk are drawing business, fanning out stacks of dollar bills as they cut their gritty deals.

I could have only imagined this day when I first met Barack Obama, back when he was elected to the Illinois Senate in 1996, representing Chicago’s South Side from Hyde Park to South Shore. As a Chicago-based independent filmmaker, I worked with a group of local visual media industry leaders to gain legislative approval of Illinois’ first-ever tax incentive to attract more film, television and commercial production to the state. A state senator at the time, Obama was an important advocate of that legislation to create over 700 new jobs.

For the past two years, I worked in support of this historic campaign, witnessing close up not only the meteoric ascent of one of the most exciting candidates in our generation, but also the rise of a grassroots, community-driven movement that shattered fundraising models (and records).

Several hundred supporters joined Obama at the Old State Capitol in Springfield to announce his presidential candidacy on a frigid February day in 2007. On this even colder day, less than two years later, The National Mall, spanning nearly two miles from the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, is a scene resembling the closing montage of Return of the Jedi. A jubilant crowd, so dense it appears digitally enhanced, their hands and voices raised to the sky, waves little flags wildly.

As our new president rises from his seat to take the Oath of Office, guests nearby are pulling up CNN and MSNBC reports on their iPhones. “They’re watching this live in Kenya,” one says. “People in Europe are sending their best wishes,” reports another. Normally jaded A-listers are giddy with excitement, some holding up their phones to take pictures, like 12-year-olds with backstage passes at a Miley Cyrus concert.

I first arrived at Reagan National Airport on Saturday with several state legislators and Mayor Daley. My visit to Capitol Hill that afternoon included dropping by the office of Illinois’ new junior U.S. Senator Roland Burris.

It’s interesting to see Senator Burris in his office and to watch people greet him the next few days. Thanks to a two-week frenzy of press coverage and appearances on nearly every major talk show, Senator Burris arrived in his Capitol Hill office as a widely recognized member of the senate and even enjoys a bit of celebrity status.

“He’s embraced by nearly everyone we meet. He’s in demand by major talk-show producers and gets a ton of interview requests. Right now, Senator Burris is a fascinating public personality,” says top Burris advisor Jason Erkes.

Police begin closing streets around us as we walk from the Capitol and through downtown Saturday evening. Our cab pulls through an intersection on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, followed by a squad car that sounds a siren screaming like Godzilla and blocks off both lanes, spinning a bright alert of red and blue.

Walking is tricky too. By the time we reach the next corner, it is blocked off by metal fences and we’re rerouted three blocks. D.C. officers and other security personnel are at every intersection. I ask a nearby guard in camouflage how to get to the closest Metro from here.

“I don’t know. I’m from Brooklyn. Sorry. A bunch of us here are from New York,” he says.

By Sunday, the first day of the “Renewing America’s Promise” inaugural celebration, crowds poured into D.C, security amps up and traffic succumbs to a few days of epidemic gridlock.

Getting near the steps of the Lincoln Memorial is tough, even with credentials. Streets around The Mall are blocked off. A ten-minute walk is now over an hour. A lot of attendees are telling me they were in place five hours earlier.

Later Sunday evening, it takes me ninety minutes to hail a cab and push halfway around DuPont Circle near my hotel on the way to Chicago’s Inaugural Reception hosted by Mayor Daley.

We stall in a herd of cars and perturbed horns, so I bail on the cab and jump on the Metro. My Metro stop is closed due to security preparations. I exit one stop after my stop, emerge from the multitude and walk more than a mile to the Mandarin Hotel for the reception where Chicago’s business and political heavy hitters pack the downstairs ballroom.

I chat for a few minutes with Lieutenant Governor Pat Quinn. While few inaugural guests are talking about the Blagojevich scandal here, many are already referring to Quinn as “governor.”

Monday’s focus is the national day of service. Invoking Dr. King, Obama had issued a call to volunteer service weeks earlier and begins the day helping to paint a youth center.

I work with the Veterans for America to help promote the Veteran Survival Guide, a resource to assist vets with navigating the vast requirements to receive full benefits from the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs. We spend the afternoon handing out flyers and talking to veterans about their ongoing education as well as housing and health care.

The Illinois State Society Ball Monday night is jammed to capacity. On the way to dinner, we make our way through what seems to be a thousand formally dressed guests throughout the lobby already waiting for the ball, slated to start in two hours.

After dinner, they stream down the escalator and the stairs while a security contingent scans their tickets and directs the heavy flow of high heels and patent-leather shoes.

Later that evening, it is on to the Newseum for the celeb-heavy Huffington Post party. The logjam at the door steps aside as security whisks in the Jonas Brothers. Teri Hatcher does interviews on the red carpet while comedian Sarah Silverman, activist actor Michael J. Fox, CNN host D.L. Hughley and Emmy-winner Dana Delaney make the rounds. I exchange greetings with a very fit Jennifer Beals (“The L Word”) before having a few minutes to talk “Frost/Nixon” with director Ron Howard. Howard’s latest project is said to be a Best Picture contender. “It’s a hard movie to market, based on a series of interviews,” Howard says. A couple days later, the movie gets the nomination.

Will.i.am and Arianna Huffington lead a New Years Eve-style countdown to Inauguration Day, followed onstage by Sting, who opens his set with “Brand New Day.”

Tuesday night, we make the rounds of official inaugural balls. Beyonce sings “At Last” for the First Couple’s first dance at the first-ever Neighborhood Inaugural Ball, an event for Washington D.C. residents.

At the Home States Ball, attendees hop around three different stages. A band plays a bluesy set up front. Then the spotlights hit the main stage in the back where the presidential seal hangs and Vice President Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden materialize onstage. As soon as the Bidens waltz off, a stage to the left side of the ballroom lights up and musician Jack Johnson pops out.

“I just met Barack Obama backstage. I’m star-struck and my palms are kinda sweaty,” confesses Johnson as he tunes up with his band mates.

As the inaugural balls wrap late night Tuesday, streets around the Convention Center are blocked off, downtown bars, in twenty-four-hour mode, are filling up and cabs are nearly extinct. So we walk nearly ten blocks to the D.C Billy Goat for the “Cheeseburger Ball” hosted by former Illinois Dem Party Chair Gary LaPaille.

This party is rocking. A DJ replaces the bands and orchestras. He’s playing “Bust A Move” by Young MC as we enter. Tuxedos and ball gowns line up again, this time for the “double-cheese” and chips.

You can hear the familiar refrain all night as the grill man does his bit. Double-cheese!” “No Pepsi. Coke!”

Back outside, we flag down a private driver in an Escalade and aggressively negotiate a ride back. It comes to forty bucks. Not bad, all things considered.

Not bad at all.

(Photos by Fred Lebed)

Cemita

By Michael Nagrant

Unless you want to be branded a Detroit-Lions-like Super-Bowl-party-throwing loser, you better stay away from the powdered French-onion soup-mix dip this year. Sure, all your friends suggest that the real reason they come over is for your drunken bonhomie and so they don’t have to talk to their cat when they make fun of bad commercials that cost so much that you could bail out a small auto-maker or a mortgage bank with their budgets. But, watch your guests closely and you’ll likely spot a grimace when they spy an appetizer table flowing with cream-cheese-and-veggie-slathered Pillsbury-dough veggie pizza or a crusty tomato-topped jar of Pace picante. But don’t despair, beleaguered ball-lovin’ brethren, in these tough economic times, there are still plenty of affordable tasty party-eat alternatives.

Little Hotties, Take Me Out, 1502 West 18th, (312)929-2509
Though Buffalo wings are a perennial favorite, we believe that chowing down on the tired Buffalo wing gives tacit approval to the Buffalo Bills’ Super-Bowl-losing ways. And trust us, giving up the treasured neon-orange-hued treat invented at Buffalo’s Anchor Bar won’t disappoint the city anymore than Scott Norwood’s Super Bowl XXV wide-right missed field goal with eight seconds left. Better to back a true champion and Super Bowl XL MVP like the Korean-American receiver Hines Ward, who despite a nagging knee sprain is expected to play in Sunday’s big game. The only proper way to salute his courage is raise one of these spicy, garlic-soy hot wings originally invented on a mostly Korean stretch of Lawrence Avenue by Chinese immigrant Nai Tiao at Great Seas restaurant. Best of all, owner Karen Lim and her cooks remove one of the wing joints and push all the meat up to the top—lolli-pop style—so you can keep one hand free for that sloshing suds-filled Solo cup while you dine.

Lumpia and Tocino, Isla Pilipina, 2501 West Lawrence, (773)271-2988
Speaking of Lawrence Avenue, this storefront puts out a Thrilla’ in Manilla-quality egg roll, aka lumpia, or succulent deep-fried fingers filled with oozy garlic-slathered pork, along with a citrusy dipping sauce. A party tray of 100 ($25) might sound like a lot, but no one’s counting calories on game day and rest assured these crispy golden batons will disappear like McDonald’s French fries. Of course, nothing follows a serving of pork better than more pork, and you’d be remiss if you didn’t also walk out of here with a heaping portion of Tocino, deep-fried pork nuggets glazed in a sweet smoky sauce touched with a hint of what tastes like (though they assure me the goose liver gets nowhere near the glaze) foie gras fat.

Sheet pizza from Italian Superior Bakery, 933 South Western, (312)733-5092
Sure Domino’s will be there in thirty minutes, but after one bite of their cardboard crust and substandard sauce, you’ll be regretting your decision for thirty days. Avoid the Noid and hit Superior Italian Bakery instead. Founded in Ozone Park in New York City back in the 1930s and relocated to Chicago’s Little Italy in the 1940s, SIB is more traditional than the Arizona Cardinals’ losing history and the Pittsburgh Steelers’ winning ways. These days, only the second family to ever own the place, the Saccamenos, are making touchdown-worthy bakery-style sheet-tray pizzas. While we got no beef if you top yours with onion and sah-sidge, we implore you to check out the basil, tomato and fresh ricotta (made by a local neighbor lady).

Cemita Atomica from Cemita’s Puebla, 3619 West North, (773)772-8435
Everyone needs a sammie at their Super Bowl party, but not just any sinking submarine will do. Try the cemita atomica, a porcine dream of breaded, thinly pounded, deep-fried pork cutlet, a slice of lean ham, spicy chipotle-drizzled enchilada and fresh mozzarella-style string cheese from Oaxaca piled on a freshly baked sesame-studded roll. Despite the fact that pork fat runs in equal flow with the blood in my circulatory system, know that I laud the sandwich not for its piggy way, but because it is truly one of Chicago’s best.

Dessert Donuts from Old Fashioned Donuts, 11248 South Michigan, (773)995-7420 and Glazed Donuts Catering, glazedchicago@gmail.com
For those of us who grew up on crullers culled from commercial bakeries like Dunkin Donuts, the deep-fried apple fritters at Roseland’s Old Fashioned donuts dripping in tooth-enamel-threatening glaze will make your heart sing or give out, whichever comes first. The fritters are so big, just cut them like apple-pie wedges and enjoy. If your crew is looking for more of a one-stop drinking and eating option, Kirsten Anderson of the underground handmade donut factory, Glazed Donut Catering, recently cooked up some Irish Car Bomb and Champagne Chambord (raspberry liqueur) donuts for New Years. While her flavors change each week (Maple Bacon and Chinese Five Spice chocolate last week), maybe if you ask really nice, she’ll whip up a Miller-Lite-malted version for you.

Oak Park’s Jane Zawadowski wants to start a green cemetery. The pursuit of a green cemetery in Illinois began in May of last year, when Zawadowski and her family decided to make a will and trust. She pulled out an article she had saved for years on funerals at home, and after reading it, she came to the conclusion that a home visitation and all other natural things for her after death were completely consistent with her personality.

“The consumer will have their need for a ‘green’ lifestyle fulfilled, even after their official ‘life’ as we know it has ended,” Zawadowski says. “It is the continuity of an ecologically based life, and completes the circle of life. People who are ‘land-based’ feel a deep need for connection with the earth and view their bodies upon death as the ultimate gift back to the earth.”

More people are moving toward the new trend of eco-friendly or “natural” burials in recent years. According to a 2007 AARP survey, twenty-one percent reported that they would be “very interested” or “interested” in a burial that is more environmentally friendly than the traditional burial that involves embalming. But Mark Harris, environmentalist, journalist and author of “Grave Matters: A Journey through the Modern Funeral Industry to a Natural Way of Burial,” says the interest has doubled in the past year. He cites a Kates-Boylston survey that found forty-three percent of Americans were now interested in green burial.

These burials are the opposite of traditional burials, where the corpse is embalmed with formaldehyde and then placed in a steel or wooden casket for viewing. After the funeral, the casket is lowered into a concrete vault and buried. Green burials involve no embalming, no plastic-coated caskets or cement vaults and no chemical lawn treatments. Once underground and covered by tons of dirt, there is no opportunity for the casket to become a mini-landfill of non-biodegradable waste.

Eco-friendly burials are less costly than traditional burials. According to the National Funeral Directors Association, the average cost of a traditional funeral is $7,500, plus cemetery costs. Natural burials can cost up to $4,000. Zawadowski is currently educating possible partners about her desire, about what green cemeteries are, and engaging in conversations with many allies and interested parties.

“To be clear, this effort is a combination of a business venture but also a spiritual quest,” Zawadowski says. “I am driven by the need to create transformation, enable change, make art and educate and connect community.”

The cemetery will be more than a sacred place, but a place for all types of gatherings and ceremonial events. “Gatherings such as weddings, family reunions, camping and picnicking are examples of other uses of the land.” Zawadowski says. “There will be an environmentally friendly gathering space adjoining a kitchen space.”

Most of all, the emotional investment of where a final resting place should be is an important factor. “People who visit their loved ones seek spaces that comfort them, and this cemetery will be life-affirming and nourishing of the body and soul of visitors,” Zawadowski says. “Traditions may be begun or continued with this cemetery that will be fulfilling for entire families and multiple generations.” (Kenshata Harris)

If you’re interested in contacting Jane Zawadowski, you can reach her at zawelski@sbcglobal.net.

“It is the peculiar lowness of poverty that you discover first,” George Orwell
observed in “Down and Out in Paris and London,” the book he wrote after he
decided to see what poverty was like from the inside. “The shifts that it puts
you to, the complicated meanness, the crust-wiping.”

Orwell’s litany, however, is just the beginning of what Joon, the banged-up
teenage orphan who narrates Nami Mun’s startling debut novel, “Miles From
Nowhere,” encounters in her life on the streets.

Joon squats in burned-out buildings, sleeps on the subway, is sexually assaulted
on an abandoned city block and cadges wisdom from street poets. She works door
to door, fishes newspapers from the trash and sells them to commuters. She
doesn’t eat for days.

The story of how Joon survives all and more has the beaten-metal feel of
autobiography hammered into fiction in the best way. Told in a flat,
matter-of-fact tone, the book leapfrogs across Joon’s early teen years, jaggedly
illuminating a life lived close to the ground, a life in which numbness is a
virtue.

Perhaps that is because the worst thing that can be imagined for a child happens
to Joon at the start of the book. Her father abandons the family after a series
of affairs, and her mother slides into madness as a result. Faced with a choice
between a broken home and no home at all, Joon chooses the later.

And so she winds up at a shelter falling under the sway of a tough, morally
compelling young woman who goes by the name Knowledge. She leads Joon out onto
the streets, where they stay for the next few years—their paths crossing and
doubling back on each other as they slide into prostitution, drug use and drug
pedaling.

This is a sadly familiar story. But Mun’s prose has so much casual energy and
such a rough edge that Joon’s tale feels incredibly fresh. Many of the images
are disturbing, almost otherworldly.

For instance, Joon works for a night at a brothel, where she sits behind a booth
with a big plastic number around her neck. “Inside Club Orchid all the girls
were chickens,” Joon describes, as if they were trussed up with numbers waiting
for hungry customers.

After a brief, battered life of experiences like this, one can see why a
teenager might alight on such a metaphor. And yet, after this tale, she will not
be forgotten. (John Freeman)

Miles from Nowhere
By Nami Mun
Riverhead, $21.95, 288 pages

By  Rob Brezsny

ARIES (March 21-April 19): Don’t tell me you have nothing to be thankful for, Aries. Your parents could have named you “Hooligan” or “Lightsaber” or “Flu,” and they didn’t. There are no photos floating around the Internet that show you riding a pig in the nude. No one has ever broken up with you via text message. Now please keep going in the direction I’ve pointed you. Count your blessings up to at least 101. Create an ongoing list of all the things in your life that work pretty well and make you feel at home in the world. Why do this now? Because it’s Massive Explosions of Gratitude Week for you—a time when you can attract even more good fortune into your life by aggressively identifying the good fortune you already enjoy.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Sometimes a great idea whose time has come springs up in two or more places at once. In the 1850s, for instance, Charles Darwin and Alfred Russell Wallace independently happened upon some of the key concepts of evolution. And in the 1840s, mathematicians Urbain Le Verrier and John Couch Adams virtually duplicated each other’s predictions of the previously unknown planet Neptune, although they knew nothing about each other’s work. I suspect a similar phenomenon is about to happen in your own sphere, Taurus. Act fast if you’d like to get as much credit as you deserve, like Darwin and Le Verrier, and not suffer the fate of Wallace and Adams, whose efforts were more invisible.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): Before she died at the age of 101, photographer Ruth Bernhard attributed her longevity to her restlessness. “Never get used to anything,” she advised. I recommend that approach to you right now, Gemini. You’re in a phase of your astrological cycle when thinking big and wild and free will be rewarded. To improve your physical health and boost your mental hygiene, unfamiliarize yourself with the people and things you’ve grown accustomed to. Sneak away from your habits. Disrupt and tamper with your normal responses. Find good excuses to be unpredictable.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): “We are all stupid,” wrote Mark Twain, “just on different subjects.” Ain’t that the truth? Sometimes I get overwhelmed when I think about all the blanks in my education and the ignorance that pockmarks my understanding. The good news for me—and for all of you, my fellow Cancerians—is that we’re now in an astrological phase that’s ideal for getting a crash course in any subject we’re dumb about. If you’re brave and humble, you could fix several holes in your intelligence.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): You should definitely not attempt to re-route a mighty river anytime soon. I don’t recommend trying to change the location of a mountain, either, or commanding the wind to obey you, or shooting a flaming arrow at the sun. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to turn one of your so-called liabilities into an asset or use a stumbling block as a shield. And you might have pretty good luck if you try to convert an adversary into an ally or move sideways in order to advance your pet cause. In conclusion, Leo, seek modest gains that involve reversals and switcheroos.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): “If you removed all of the homosexuals and homosexual influence from what is generally regarded as American culture,” said author Fran Lebowitz, “you would pretty much be left with [the TV game show] ‘Let’s Make A Deal.’” That’s an exaggeration, of course, but it contains a large grain of truth. I offer this as a prod for you to deepen your understanding of the complexities of gender, Virgo. Astrologically speaking, it’s an excellent time to do so. If you identify yourself as a heterosexual, meditate on the qualities you express that are commonly thought of as the specialty of the opposite sex. Consider the possibility that you are actually sixty-five percent female, twenty-five percent male and ten percent neither, or maybe fifteen percent female, seventy percent male and fifteen percent transgender. If you regard yourself as gay, explore the hypothesis that a part of you is secretly kind of straight. Open your mind to the possibility that human beings come in hundreds of different genders.

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): Poet Jack Spicer was a native Californian who wrote most of his poetry while living in the San Francisco Bay Area. He did, however, spend a short time on the East Coast. “Like most primitive cultures,” he reported after returning home, “New York has no feeling for nonsense.” I don’t agree with that assessment. Some of the best nonsense I ever experienced transpired during a November night in 2005 on New York’s West 23rd Street. In any case, Libra, your assignment in the coming week is to avoid primitive environments that have no feeling for nonsense. You need a maximum dose of silly, goofy, loopy bursts of diversion. I promise it’ll make you both smarter and wiser.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): Your world is going to get very wet in the coming days. At least I hope it will. There are wrong moves you could make that would keep things pretty dry, or else move you away from the imminent deluge. But I hope you will go with the cosmic flow and allow yourself to get the full benefit of the replenishing flood. In my astrological opinion, you need to feel the deep moisture that’s beyond language. You need to be carried along in the fertile surge and returned to the source of your emotional life.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): “If your actions speak louder than words,” rants TV pundit Stephen Colbert, “then you’re not yelling loudly enough.” That’s a funnier variant of the advice I have for you, Sagittarius, which is as follows: The coming week is a time for crafty talk, not impulsive deeds; a time for intense discussion, not brash exploits. Engaging in almost any kind of negotiation, even if it’s heated and convoluted, is better than leaping into an adventure prematurely. It’s my opinion that you and yours will have to express a lot of ideas and feelings in order to uncover the understandings that should be at the root of your next moves.

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Studies suggest that one out of every ten men and one out of every twenty women carry around an excess of anger—so much so that they’re capable of damaging property in an outburst. If you’re one of these rage-aholics, Capricorn, you now have a window of opportunity to calm way, way down. The cosmos is conspiring to relieve you of a significant amount of your chronic aggravation. And even if you’re not among the world’s most furious people, I hope you will take advantage of this grace period. You have the power to purge at least twenty percent of the ever-simmering agitation that you accept as normal. How to begin? Meditate on what it would mean for you to love yourself better.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): “The seed cannot sprout upwards without simultaneously sending roots into the ground,” says an ancient Egyptian proverb. Keep that thought in mind as you head into the thick of your new phase of growth, Aquarius. What part of you needs to deepen as you rise up? What growth needs to unfold in the hidden places as you gravitate toward the light? How can you go about balancing and stabilizing your ascension with a downward penetration?

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): According to Harper’s Index, an Iowa farmer can generate an annual revenue of $300 per quarter acre by growing corn to produce ethanol. If the farmer instead puts a wind turbine on that same patch of land, however, he could earn $10,000 per year. I urge you to meditate on that scenario as a metaphor for your own life, Pisces. Are you underutilizing one of your resources? Are you failing to fully capitalize on your potentials? Have you accepted a low-yield reward in a situation that could bring you much, much more? If so, what are you going to do about it?

Homework: Explore the possibility that there are things you don’t know about your deepest desires. Testify at FreeWillAstrology.com.

This Week’s Biggest Gainers

1 Barack Obama
The newly minted President of the United States received acclaim for his immediate action to close Gitmo and ban torture.

2 George Ryan
The imprisoned ex-governor was nominated (again) for the Nobel Peace Prize.

3 Tina Fey
More accolades for her work on “30 Rock,” this time from the Screen Actors Guild.

4 Michael Shannon
The longtime Chicagoan and thespian at A Red Orchid Theatre was nominated for an Oscar for his work in “Revolutionary Road.”

5 Rod Blagojevich
Was given the chance to plead his case on shows “Good Morning America” and “The View,” but…

This Week’s Biggest Losers

1 Rod Blagojevich
…completely flubbed it when he compared himself to Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.

2 Chicago Police Department
A 14-year-old kid reported for duty as a police officer at a South Side station and, before he was discovered, even answered some distress calls.

3 William Cozzi
The police officer pleaded guilty to charges that he excessively beat a wheelchair-bound man.

4 Jay Mariotti
“Roger Ebert can kiss my ass,” says Jay the Joke.

5 Kanye West
Had to publicly reject reports that he made statements indicating he’s willing to perform in bisexual porn scenes.

By Tristan Deerman*
*pseudonym

I’m like most Chicagoans you know. I get up every day, stumble a few blocks to the Division Blue Line stop in Wicker Park and ride a packed subway car into the Loop, where my office is located. I work hard, but, like most, would rather be spending my day in some other leisurely fashion. However, unlike most Chicagoans, especially of the professional set, I am a heroin addict.

For me, heroin has been remarkably effective in eliminating all of the anxiety, pain and stress that I feel, be it the daily stresses of life, or the deeper wounds I carry from childhood. The amazing part is that it does so before you even have dope in hand, because no matter how much emotional pain you might be experiencing, the need to obtain heroin trumps it. Everything else becomes trivial when you don’t have heroin. And when you do have it—how to describe?—it’s just smooth sailing. The endorphins already start rushing when you hit that first vein and watch the blood curl up into the syringe’s chamber. Then, when you push it in, it takes only seconds before you feel the rush simultaneously in your heart and mind. It’s a quick rush of euphoria, followed by an absolutely all-encompassing feeling of satisfaction.

The magnitude of the amazing high is matched only by the depth of the low that comes with not having any. And in recent months, it has become progressively more difficult to find heroin in Chicago.

And so now I’m on a mission, one which will lead me from the relative safety of my home in Wicker Park to the more dangerous neighborhoods that make up Chicago’s West Side. The reason for the journey: my conventional sources have either been eliminated, or become ineffectual, and as each moment goes by, my body cries out for its medicine.

For reasons unknown to me, the city of Chicago has changed. It’s likely tied to local politics, and as each area affected slowly dried up, I followed the trail left by other addicts in search of their fix. First the North Side, known for its brown heroin served wrapped in tinfoil, and rumored to be smuggled into Chicago by Nigerians. As the police set their sights on the most active areas located in East Rogers Park and Evanston, the dealers have been forced to move indoors.

Initially, this was not a problem, as I could simply call ahead and arrange for delivery, or if I was feeling impatient, arrange a meeting up north. But one by one, my dealers were arrested. I tried to meet new ones, taking the Red Line up to Morse Road, and canvassing the area looking for anything resembling an open air market, but due to my skin color, I was greeted with suspicious looks at best. Usually I was ignored altogether.

Because I lived down the street from the infamous Cabrini Green housing projects, I figured that my prospects were good for scoring closer to home. Because of the high police presence, coupled with my reluctance to enter the towers where most of the trade was conducted, I had to try another tactic. I needed to find runners willing to cop for me in exchange for a finder’s fee. After much trial and error, I established relationships with a few trustworthy individuals; people who actually returned with my precious dope knowing that more business would be had the next day. Over time, I found that middle-aged women tended to be the most trustworthy with my money. And they didn’t ask much in return.

For several years the area was teeming with dope. There were so many different kinds, but I preferred the kind called “Anthrax” sold out of the building located on Larrabee, just across the street from the police station. Sometimes the wait was long, as buyers lined up waiting for the “pack man” to show up with his “jabs.” The gang-bangers running the towers took business seriously. When the police raided the building, lookouts would yell “B up!” and the workers would quickly make their way into apartments designated as safe houses.

It seemed as if the police only raided the buildings while my runners were in there with my money, which caused me much anxiety, making it all that much sweeter when the runner would finally return, always smiling at a job well done, ready to collect their payment in return. Over time, I came to know some of the runners well enough to begin paying them up-front, saving them from having to make a risky second trip into the building to get their own drugs of choice.

Sometimes, the runners would take as long as an hour to get back, having traversed from building to building searching for someone working. Those days were the most difficult for me. One day, I met my favorite runner, Vicky, who was anxious to make her run. She had heard that the Anthrax bags were huge that day, and that the dope was very pure. Standing on Division Street, we turned to the building, only to see flames and smoke pouring out of the windows on one side of the building. Police and firefighters were beginning to arrive en masse. I was disappointed, assuming that the building would be shut down. “Let me go check things out,” Vicky said, and took off in the building’s direction. I walked into the nearby Starbucks, expecting a long wait, but just as I was getting settled in, there was Vicky marching back, fist clenched. It took more than a raging fire to shut down the heroin trade in that particular building.

“The Greens,” as residents referred to the projects, served me well for a couple of years, but soon the wrecking balls came, and one by one the towers came down. So many towers came down that Vicky and I had to start making the trek all the way to Halsted, where they sold powerful white dope that came in five dollar capsules. But the police began raiding the building so frequently that it no longer became feasible to shop there, especially once the capsules disappeared.

Another of my runners, Camille, suggested the South Side. “The dope there’s better anyway,” she said. True to her word, over the next few years Camille dutifully returned time and time again with dope from the various buildings located in the Ickes, Dearborn Homes and Ida Wells projects. Over the years there was: Reaper, Big 50, Drop Dead, USDA, Mike Jones, Fantastic Four, Purple Haze, Renegade, Opium, Girls Gone Wild and many others.

As my addiction progressed, I spent more time on the South Side. In any given week, I may have spent the equivalent of a full business day waiting at the eastbound Cermak bus stop located at 22nd and State, a dangerous area. Just as was the case at the Greens, I didn’t dare enter the buildings myself. I knew that any white person seen exiting any of the buildings by the police was guaranteed to be stopped and searched. And since I was usually at the beginning stages of withdrawal when I went south to shop, the strong police presence pretty much assured that if arrested, I would spend the next twenty-four hours in jail progressively getting more and more dopesick. Cook County only provides methadone to inmates already formally enrolled in a methadone maintenance program. I was therefore more than happy to pay the finder’s fees my runners charged.

It seemed like a good situation, excluding the broader issues surrounding the problems in my life that my addiction to heroin was causing. My finances were in tatters; my social life nonexistent. I was no longer sexually active, or even dating, being hesitant to even begin any relationships for fear of the inevitable moment when my track marks would be revealed.

However, the police began stepping up their sweeps in the buildings, driving the drug dealers either further indoors, further south or out of business. It may have been a delayed response to the well-publicized spike in overdoses caused by fentanyl-tainted heroin. I was fortunate enough to have a good source at the time who regularly bought the “Reaper” brand of dope for me, which was served in an ugly, brackish-colored bag that was jam packed with dope. The dope was so strong that any longtime user would have thought their money well spent on bags half the size of what was actually being sold.

Another possibility is that the police were responding to a number of murders that had taken place in the buildings. Gunplay is common all along State Street in that area, but several of the locals I spoke with stated their belief that, because a white man had recently been killed in one of the Ickes buildings, the police were responding with a heavy hand. Upon hearing this, I was shocked simply to learn that a white person had had the guts to even walk into one of the buildings. Even in my desperate state, I would never consider this. It’s a simple numbers game—if the police see a white person exiting a building, said white person will get stopped and searched. And the area is absolutely crawling with police in marked and unmarked cars. The ones in the unmarked Crown Victorias are referred to as “slick boys” by area residents due to their uncanny ability to show up at the worst possible times.

It was not uncommon for me to witness several unmarked police cars screech to a stop at the entrance of the building closest to “my” bus stop, and for police to burst into the buildings, guns drawn, yelling for their targets. On one occasion I watched as police broke up a fight taking place in the middle of Cermak. One of the combatants was cuffed and on his knees, prompting the other to take advantage of his vulnerable state, and strike him with great force. My stomach turned from the sound of the crack of the fist connecting squarely with face, loud even from fifty yards away. One of the arresting officers responded by nonchalantly kicking the assaulter in the crotch and cuffing him in one swift motion, as if he had done this countless times before.

Over a period of several months, the South Side projects, which had been so fruitful for so long, became barren. I would arrive in the mornings in the hope of catching an open window of activity only to find a group of would-be customers anxiously grouped around the doorways, waiting in vain for someone, anyone, to show up with a jab. I often overheard the other customers discussing their situation, “Well, I guess I’ll go west. Should’ve went there to begin with.”

Unfortunately, I had no contacts on the West Side, but out of desperation, decided to make the trip. The conventional wisdom for heroin addicts who move to a new city and need to find dope is to go to a methadone clinic several hours before it opens, where dealers are known to hang out. Many methadone clinics employ security guards to monitor the area outside the clinic during business hours. I also knew to look for the universal sign of the presence of drug dealers—tennis shoes hanging from phone wires.

I researched and planned carefully, using the Internet to find out where most arrests for heroin possession occurred on the West Side. I was inadvertently assisted by the Chicago Police Department, which posts a geographic histogram of narcotics-related arrests on its Web site. I noticed that Pulaski Street seemed to be the epicenter of drug activity on the West Side, but Pulaski is a long street, and I had to narrow my focus. This was accomplished simply by choosing my mode of transportation, which was to be the Blue Line train, which stopped at Harrison and Pulaski.

I boarded the train, nervous yet optimistic. This was my last chance. The methadone clinics closed shortly after noon, so if I was unable to score on this trip, I was destined to spend the rest of the day feeling worse. I would be unable to sleep that night, which would prolong the agony, and would be unable to eat, which gave me headaches. The combination of all the elements of heroin withdrawal would make that night miserable.

As the train left downtown and rose above ground, my first view was of the Eisenhower expressway, and the surrounding buildings. As the train continued west, the atmosphere became more desolate. The streets seemed empty of residents, and the houses appeared run down. Many of the homes that caught my eye seemed abandoned, yet I could see the former grandeur within them. They were large stone structures, seemingly no different from the multi-million dollar brownstones and greystones that line the streets of the prestigious Gold Coast neighborhood in which I had once lived. Individually, the homes could appear beautiful, but within their surroundings, they looked bland and unattractive.

As I exited the train at the Pulaski stop, I was thankful that it was early, as I would have been hesitant to make an appearance in this area at night. At the same time, I realized that I was more easily identifiable as a white person during the daytime, which could attract the unwanted attention of the police. Already I was attracting strange glances from the area’s residents.

While debating which direction to head in, I spotted a panhandler familiar to me from the Loop. I considered tailing her as she turned south on Pulaski, but then decided against it. Then, a stroke of luck—another familiar face. And this time it was someone I knew was in the area to cop, as I had seen him numerous times near the South Side projects. I hesitated for a moment and then began following him, staying ten, twenty yards behind. The area seemed desolate though, so I took a seat at a bus stop on Harrison, and twisted around to watch the man from afar. The man walked quickly, passing a grocery store and then turning left towards the alley. He stopped to say a few words to a few transient types seated at the alley’s entrance, and then disappeared. I lit a cigarette and contemplated my next move. As I debated my options, one of which was to approach the crowd loitering around the gas station across street, I saw a young white girl, dressed in a long green jacket, follow the same path that the other man had just taken. She, too, disappeared down the alley.

I decided to head that way, not sure who or what to ask for. I would play it by ear, probably just being honest in the end, as I had so many times in the past with residents near Cabrini or the South Side projects. The difference with the West Side was that there were no projects, so the dope spots could literally be anywhere.

I walked towards the alley, ready to ask the people seated there to point me in the right direction. I was unsure as to what kind of response I would get. I was careless about watching for police, because the area seemed so empty and desolate, that I was lulled into feeling a sense of security. I got to within fifteen feet of the alley. At that point, auto-pilot was kicking in. A middle-aged man stood up and asked me “How many?” Could it really be that easy? After all these years of getting beat on the streets, and playing the waiting game near projects, was it really just a matter of taking the train to Pulaski and walking a hundred yards to the nearest alley?

The answer was yes. I asked for eight bags. “Alright then, come on,” the man responded. I followed the man a few feet into the alley, at which point he reached under a fence behind someone’s garage and pulled out a crumpled paper bag, in which was a sandwich bag absolutely packed with dime bags of dope. Upon seeing this I felt a tremendous burden lift from me. The man handed me the bags, receiving eighty dollars in return, and he recommended the safest way back to the train, which was to walk further down the alley and then cut back through to Harrison, keeping my head down and pace quick back to the train station. The entire process took about a minute.

I smiled and exhaled as I walked through the turnstile in the station. While waiting for the Loop-bound train, I noticed that I could see the dope spot, and customers arriving, from the platform. Every station on the West Side must have a spot nearby, I thought to myself, let alone all that real estate in between.

I held the bags in my hand for the entire train ride back to the Loop, lest they fall out of my pocket unnoticed. At work, I rushed to the bathroom, and finally found the relief I had long been denied. It may seem petty to many, but the ease with which you can get heroin on Chicago’s West Side just made my life substantially more tolerable—in the short term. I was aware of this, but the short-term versus long-term tradeoff was far from my mind. The last few days had been hell. It’s just another one of the ironies of the dope game that is probably emblematic of the city’s drug problem.

The spot near Harrison and Pulaski became my spot. I’ve returned repeatedly, sometimes more than once a day. Only once was one of the workers hesitant to sell to me, not having seen me before. But thanks to the magnitude of my habit, it didn’t take long for the whole neighborhood to become accustomed to me, which is good because, as I later discovered, that block is controlled by two or three teenagers who put neighborhood residents to work, as they periodically patrol the area by car, circling the same block over and over again.

Not long ago I showed up late one night only to find nobody working. I decided to circle the block, taking me off of Pulaski into the darker side streets. I got robbed, but I left feeling fortunate that I suffered no serious bodily harm. As I rode the Blue Line home that night I realized that I would have been better off exploiting the earlier loss of my heroin connections by going to rehab or entering a methadone program.

Do something. Anything.

I fear not having heroin in my life. In the earlier days of my addiction, whenever someone I met on the street offered me a phone number and a steady connection, I turned them down, for fear of having a steady supply of dope nearby, knowing how easily my habit could take off. But over the years, I lost that sense of urgency—the fear of being a full-blown heroin addict. By now it’s a function of inertia. Even on those rare days when, for whatever reason, I just don’t feel like using, I still go out and cop, simply because using again is inevitable. It’s a difficult cycle from which to extract yourself.

I decided to admit myself into a detox program and spent two weeks sweating it out as the drug left my system. During that time I was able to put things into perspective. In spite of all the misery I had inflicted upon myself, my family and my bank account, maybe I was lucky. In detox, my roommate’s luck had almost run out—he was served up heroin that had been cut with meat tenderizer, causing him to suffer a minor stroke while driving on the Ike. When I asked him where he had copped, he replied, “On the West Side.”

Still, today, I wake up every morning with the notion of jumping on the train and heading west, but as the day goes on, the craving diminishes as I slowly convince myself, “Not today.” I usually achieve some level of inner peace by the afternoon, and I am slowly beginning to find joy again, mostly in the little things life has to offer. I suppose that as long as Chicago has a drug problem, so will I. But as an addict, I try not to spend too much time thinking about tomorrow.

By Rob Brezsny

ARIES (March 21-April 19): In “The Devil’s Dictionary,” Ambrose Bierce defines history as follows: “an account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools.” Bear that in mind as you interpret what I mean by the following: You won’t make history in the coming weeks. Instead, you will help generate an interesting and important story that will involve unfamous people who have little political power or military skill but have a great deal of potent grace and nuanced strength and soulful intelligence.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): “Dear Rob: Are you holding back some painful truth from us Tauruses? I feel like you’re going too easy on us, and as a result I’m missing some clue I desperately need. Please tell us what it is so we can face it and get on with life. – Semi-Elegant Bull in a China Shop.” Dear Semi-Elegant: I’m not aware of having withheld a painful truth from you Tauruses. The only thing I can think of is that maybe I haven’t been forceful or clear enough in saying the following: One of your primary tasks is to study hard and think deeply as you learn more about how to create peace and serenity in your life.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): Kenneth Koch wrote the poem “The Boiling Water.” Read this excerpt: “A serious moment for the water is when it boils / And though one usually regards it merely as a convenience / To have the boiling water available for bath or table / Occasionally there is someone around who understands / The importance of this moment for the water — maybe a saint, / Maybe a poet, maybe a crazy man, or just someone temporarily disturbed / With his mind ‘floating,’ in a sense, away from his deepest / Personal concerns to more ‘unreal’ things.” In the weeks ahead, Gemini, I encourage you to be one of those crazy floaters—someone who tunes in to the serious moments that are normally outside your personal concerns. You need a strong dose of the hidden reality behind the obvious reality.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): “When I grow up,” writes Ramona McNabb, “I want to be a river.” In the coming year, that would be a worthy aspiration for you as well, Cancerian. You’d generate a flood of benefits, some unexpected, by cultivating your ability to be perfectly yourself as you flow ever onward in rhythm with the sky and earth, unimpeded by the fluctuations of light and darkness, and in love with the ceaseless movement of your own strong currents.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): For the citizens of Switzerland, it’s immoral to absentmindedly pluck wildflowers out of the ground and throw them aside. That’s because this enlightened country has a Bill of Rights for plants. The twenty-two-page document, drawn up by a panel of theologians, philosophers, geneticists and lawyers, strongly urges respect for the feelings and dignity of all vegetation. I wish you would think about including this mindset in your ethical code, Leo. It’s high time for you to expand and refine your sense of right and wrong—not just in relation to plants but to everyone and everything in the world.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): “Many people feel guilty about things they shouldn’t feel guilty about,” wrote journalist Sydney J. Harris, “in order to shut out feelings of guilt about things they should feel guilty about.” Your assignment is to figure out whether this description applies to you. If it does, be brave as you expose the truly guilt-worthy stuff you’ve repressed. Helpful cosmic energies will flow your way if you uncover what you need to atone for and then atone for it.

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): While working on his first draft of the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson hung out at a tavern in Philadelphia and drank beer. While contemplating how best to motivate you Libras to seek more autonomy and self-determination, I was strolling along a California beach sipping a piña colada and watching windsurfers. In the grand tradition of Jefferson and me, I hope you will put yourself in a relaxed and playful mood as you dream and scheme about all the things you could do to emancipate yourself in the coming months. For God’s sake, don’t make it a grave and ponderous meditation.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): If you use a cell phone, you have in your possession a metal called coltan, a component that’s essential to the phone’s function. Most of the world’s coltan comes from the Congo, and is mined by Rwandans who survived their country’s genocide in the 1990s. They often work for militias that sell coltan illegally to finance their military operations. It so happens that the land where this metal lies is also the home of the Mountain gorilla, an endangered species that is being decimated as the miners and militias kill them for food and savage their habitat. Keep this in mind the next time you call a friend. While you’re at it, Scorpio, use Google and your imagination to meditate on the origins of all the important resources in your life. It’s prime time to know more about their origins. You will benefit from getting familiar with the roots of whatever gives you power.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Ninety-seven percent of all youth play video games, dwarfing the number of kids who participate in activities like basketball, track and javelin throwing. That’s why I’m an advocate of making video games an Olympic sport. We should recognize where the real future of competitive sports lies. I mention this, Sagittarius, because it would be a good time for you to start upgrading your video-game prowess in preparation for a possible berth in the 2012 or 2016 Olympics. In fact, the moment is right to plan on getting the training you’d need to become a master of any skills that may eventually win you rewards, even if they’re not yet getting their rightful due from our culture.

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Most art critics long regarded Gustav Klimt (1862-1918) as a second-tier modern painter, writes Don Thompson in his book “The $12 Million Stuffed Shark.” But that estimation got upgraded in 2006, when one of Klimt’s paintings sold for $135 million. Art history was rewritten with a checkbook, says Thompson. According to my reading of the astrological omens, there’s a possibility that your worth will also jump to a higher octave in 2009, Capricorn. But unlike Klimt, who didn’t do anything new, you’ll have to take action to earn your rise in status. How? Some suggestions: 1. Practice forgiveness with more intensity. 2. Be more tolerant of imperfection in yourself and others. 3. Expand your capacity to give.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): In the ancient Chinese book “Poets’ Jade Splinters,” Lu Ji says: “Avoid the morning flower in full blossom and gather instead evening buds which are not yet open.” He’s telling his fellow poets not to rely on what has already ripened, but rather to concentrate on what’s still in embryonic form. Lu Ji’s colleague Song Zijing adds a complementary thought: “If you always use a compass to draw a circle and a ruler to draw a square, you will always remain a slave.” Both Lu Ji’s and Song Zijing’s counsel will work very well for you in the coming year, Aquarius, even if you’re not a poet.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): Once every few years, a panel of Hindu and Buddhist judges in Nepal chooses a new “living goddess,” a young girl who serves, until she reaches puberty, as an incarnation of the deity Taleju. One of the tests each candidate must pass in order to be eligible for the role is this: She must show no fear as she spends a night alone in a room filled with the bloody heads of ritually killed buffaloes and goats. I’d like you to consider the possibility of carrying out a more humane equivalent of that ceremony, Pisces. For one night, keep symbols of what you’re afraid of in the place where you sleep. To do so would be an excellent way to earn the right to graduate to the next level of your spiritual evolution.

Homework: What would be most fun and interesting thing for you to make next? Testify at FreeWillAstrology.com.

This Week’s Biggest Gainers
1
Barack Obama
On a great day in this nation’s history, the former Illinois senator was sworn in as the forty-fourth President of the United States.

2
Rahm Emanuel
Officially began his new gig as the White House Chief of Staff.

3
Roland Burris
It’s official…call him Senator.

4
Jennifer Hudson
The Oscar-winning actress was tapped to sing the National Anthem at this year’s Super Bowl.

5
Bartolo Colon
The veteran pitcher signed a one-year, one-million-dollar contract with the White Sox.

This Week’s Biggest Losers

1
Rod Blagojevich
His lawyers quit and likened the impending trial to a “lynching,” and it was revealed former Chief of Staff John Harris is cooperating with prosecutors.

2
Georgio Dukes
The 18-year-old was arrested and charged with the shooting that occurred outside Dunbar High which left five wounded.

3
James L. Orrington
The alleged Scientology-wielding, sexually harassing dentist dished out $462,500 to settle a civil suit against him.

4
Donna Dunnings
The Cook County Chief Financial Officer gave the finger to the Sheriff’s Department’s budget director during a meeting in the Cook Country board room, prompting national media coverage.

5
Dan McNeil
One-third of ESPN 1000’s “Afternoon Saloon” broadcast was let go by the station.

Within walls lined with blue-green tile, the Chicago Park District puts on its Fourth Annual Polar Adventure Days, partially sponsored by and located at Northerly Island on Museum Campus. Upon arrival there is a line of people waiting for hot cocoa served in cute, tiny mugs—available to the first 500 to arrive.

In a back room of the building, storyteller Mark Kater weaves tales from around the world—mostly folk tales from Africa and China and the Native American tradition, all about enjoying life and chewing food slow enough to savor it. He even brings out a harmonica and a drum to add flare to his storytelling, embellishing his vivacity to the children looking on mesmerized. In the middle of a story about a boy named Jack, a woman stands and drags her son into the ladies’ room because the stalls in the mens’ room are too high for him.

Outside, things are different. A “Snow Play Station” is set up for children to build snow people, snow angels and have snowball target practice. Down on one knee, a man from Nadeau Ice Sculptures eloquently carves a raccoon from a 20x40x10 block of ice. Chiseling away at corner after corner and then using a sander, he rounds the rough edges until his figure is complete and an audience applauds.

When not watching the ice sculpting, participants check-out free snowshoes (some even learning to put them on for the first time) and trek through an open field, hopefully wearing an extra pair of socks. While some of them trek to the “Snow Play Station,” most of them make their way to a group of sled dogs all tied to a rope and highly excited to be pet by spectators.

“We’re doing demos today but these dogs are all rescued. We rescue these dogs and then put them through sled training in Harvard [Illinois],” says Kathleen, a member of the Free Spirit Siberian Rescue. As she speaks to the crowd a little girl walks up and pets Zeus, a white-as-snow, cerulean-eyed Siberian Husky who loves to sing and take “snow baths.” Zeus, like all the other dogs, becomes playful and energetic when approached.

Toward the end of the day and back inside, the Flint Creek Wildlife Rehabilitation staff unveils a group of its birds to prepare for a Birding Walk. Those watching stare at a Barred Owl perched atop a woman’s leather-gloved finger, and she explains to them that it’s a bird of prey—that it hunts other birds and rodents and small creatures in fields, using its exceptional hearing to triangulate sounds and locate its prey. It turns its head a full 270 degrees as it stares at the crowd with its wide-open eyes. “It doesn’t like to be touched, and it’s very dangerous,” she warns. It seems that owls may not be as friendly as Siberian Huskies. (Micah McCrary)