Street Smart Chicago

Dime Stories: A Christmas Story

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

He stayed upwind of the doe, and exhaled slowly, without sound. He’d have liked to have gotten closer but, as far as he could tell, she’d not caught on to any of his scent yet. From this distance, eighty yards or so, the wind might play hell with the flight of the arrow. He wanted a clean kill; he didn’t want the doe to suffer unnecessarily. One through the ribcage would end it quickly. All vital organs right there—heart, liver, lungs (any one of them would do) would put meat in the refrigerator for a winter or so. His family wouldn’t be hungry—job or not.

He only hunted for meat. Food on the table. He never understood trophy-hunters and kind of regarded them the same way he thought of the guys who drove Porsches and joined  the country clubs—always needing to prove they had some sack. It reminded him of the line in “Full Metal Jacket” when R. Lee Ermey asks one pathetic recruit: “What’s the matter numb-nuts? Didn’t Mommy HUG you enough?”

He laughed to himself for a second and then thought, “Say this for the assholes, at least they’re not out here, tromping through the slush, looking to kill their dinner. Fuck me.”

He sighted the arrow almost at the same time. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: Talking to Drunk Girls

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Illustration by Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration by Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

This, another of my “Lunch Drawings,” came from an encounter with some drunk girls at Black Dog, the greatest gelato place in Chicago. These young women were shit-faced and trying to eat gelato, string noun and verb together, and play with my dog, Chooch, who ate their gelato and they giggled until one of them puked like a fire-hose. It was a serious puke with the projectile force of a jet engine—even my dog got the hell out of the way.

I was terrified her friends might be tempted to join in with a “sympathy puke,” seeing as they were all pretty hammered. Though I feared it might turn into a group puke-a-thon, luckily it was just the one poor girl, so I decided to help.

I held her hair so she wouldn’t puke in it, and then they cried and told each other they loved each other and they loved me for not letting their friend vomit in her own hair. There was some puke on my shoes but it was no big deal. I felt bad for her; I can remember many a night this also afflicted me. It also occurs to me that women are nicer drunks than men—or at least the men I knew when I drank. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: Nature for Reals

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

As a kid, I liked making imaginary animals, beasts—lions with eagle heads, snakes with baby heads and naked women with bird heads. I had more fun drawing things and animals that didn’t exist except in the curious neighborhood of my own head. I remember Johnny Carson would have Jim Fowler, the animal expert from “Wild Kingdom,” on his program. Fowler often brought odd and frightening creatures to scare the shit out of Johnny—pangolins, vultures, hyenas and all manner of large constricting snakes. Once he brought a Bateleur eagle that took a monstrously slick, sticky shit on Johnny’s desk and Botany 500 suit, and Carson about puked before cutting to commercial.

Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom” was one of the highlights of my childhood. The show’s host was the avuncular and kindly Marlin Perkins, who was at one time the director of the Lincoln Park Zoo. He may not have looked it, but he was a badass: his specialty was reptiles, particularly venomous reptiles—the best kind! This staid, genial older gentleman had survived many bites from poisonous snakes, including a Gaboon viper—which is lovely and deadly in equal measure. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: So Long Lou

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Lunch Drawing #20 Kid Satellite of Love (Magic Cat for Lou Reed) by Tony Fitzpatrick

Lunch Drawing #20 Kid Satellite of Love (Magic Cat for Lou Reed) by Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

Everybody has something to say about the passing of Lou Reed. The past couple of days have yielded an outpouring of love for the man that quite honestly might have surprised even him. Particularly from music journalists, some who never had a kind word for him in life, who have written fawning eulogies that say a good deal more about themselves than they do about Lou. It is a curious thing.

And right about now? He is probably laughing his ass off. One of the things I treasure the most in this life is that Lou Reed was my friend and, for more than twenty years, we shared meals, dirty jokes, stories and a lot of friends.

People would often complain to me that Lou was rude or nasty to journalists, but I never once saw this. I can believe he could be formidable and thorny with some in the ink racket. Do I condone this? Yeah, every goddamned bit of it. When some asshole with a notepad decides to make a punchline out of you, the last goddamned thing you are obligated to do is help them. So if Lou messed up their hair a little bit, good for him. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: Drugstore Girl on Halloween

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

Few memories evoke as much giddy joy for me as Halloween.  For me and the collection of miscreants, juvenile delinquents and future felons that comprised my peer group, Halloween meant that we owed our community some smashed pumpkins, obscene renderings, trees full of toilet paper and, of course, the odd flaming bag of dog shit on the front stoop. Halloween untethered us. It was the day we more resembled the beasts we were to become. Halloween was the day we handed some of the horse shit back to the adults. Halloween was AC/DC, a monster sugar buzz, stolen liquor (in my case, my father’s fifth of Jim Beam) and getting some payback.

My friend, Rick, made a full-scale dummy so lifelike that when it was hurled from the top of a building into oncoming traffic, you honestly thought some poor dildo had fallen or jumped to his death. The “body” was loaded with mushy pumpkins to assure a fairly decent spray of guts upon impact with the car. It was a hoot. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: The Draft Horses

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

There were no horses on the American continent until about the 1680s or so. The Spaniards brought them and in no time they became one of the most ubiquitous animals in the new world. As went the American experiment, so went horses. As a beast of labor, transportation and food source when things got lean, the horse has served us well.

For years they were slaughtered for dog food and sundry other industrial uses as well—brushes, hides and various gluing compounds. It seems that there is no bottom to the ugly cruelties we can levy on the equine species.

The history of our own city is also rich with the labor of horses. In the stockyards, horses rounded up cattle and drove them into pens, and to the slaughterhouse. Horses helped build bridges and roads as well as canals.

Our city’s first police force, enforced the law from horseback—and in many cases, to this day, still do. Just watch on those rare occasions when one of our sports teams wins a championship. The corner of Clark and Division has more horses and cops than a John Wayne movie. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: Who Killed Cock Robin?

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Who Killed Cock Robin?_300By Tony Fitzpatrick

All the birds of the air
fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
when they heard the bell toll
for poor Cock Robin.
– English Rhyme

The name Cock Robin has its origin in this morose little poem written around 1744, for children. Leave it to the English to imbue a perfectly lovely bird with a truly horrid fate. A million laughs in “Jolly Olde.”

The Cock Robin I am familiar with was the name of a chain of hamburger and ice cream fast-food joints that were all over the western suburbs when I was growing up. The two I remember the best were in Lombard and Villa Park.

As a kid, I preferred their burgers to McDonald’s or Burger King, which is not to say that they were good; they were gut-bombs of the rankest order. When you are a kid though, they seem to taste good because you are a walking garbage disposal with a monster metabolism. Today? I wouldn’t eat one. They were kind of like bigger versions of sliders–the kind of burger you should just take home and throw in the toilet. Me and my brother got a huge charge out of the fact that a restaurant had the word “cock” in it and, like every other eleven-year-old, we’d look for excuses to say it in front of teachers, especially nuns. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: A Black Angel

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The Black Moth_300By Tony Fitzpatrick

I have to laugh when I hear the code words the Tea Party brain trust bandies about. “Loud Tribesman” was Newt  Gingrich’s euphemism for the “what-can-we-say-besides-n-word” code that identifies this large, scary and vocal American street gang. It is what they are. They come to our President’s speeches strapped. They engage in a just-above-the-white-linen-and-hood rhetoric that aims to point out at every juncture that Barack Obama is black, and they “got” theirs. The huge, angry, and incredibly entitled white middle class is their target. In fact, I’m their target audience.

Among other white guys, I do notice a more disheartening and cavalier use of the n-word. When I point out it isn’t acceptable, the conversation halts and I get the hurt look of betrayal back in exchange. It is a careful meter of “us and them.” There is this feeling out there in white America that people of color have reached the promised land; that all of the inequities of 400 years of pigment-based subjugation and oppression have suddenly gone away. Such are the petty delusions of the Tea Party folk. Oh that, and the idea that they are the only ones in America paying too much in income tax. Welcome to the big world, whitey. They didn’t seem to mind taking this fucking when George W. Bush was creating the biggest deficit in the history of the Republic.

My favorite playwright right now is probably one you’ve not heard of unless you live in Chicago. J. Nicole Brooks was born on Chicago’s West Side and grew up tough with a single mom on the South Side. Besides plays, she writes a withering blog called “Close Captioning for the Jive Impaired.” In it she skewers white racists, black racists, rappers, the vain, the rich and the richly deserving–there is nothing PC or out of range for her bitterly funny barbs. It is a destination blog. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: An Autumn Dream of Blue Jays

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

A number of years ago, the bird population of Illinois and other Midwestern states was nearly devastated by West Nile virus. For reasons I never quite understood, crows, jays and magpies, which are all part of the same family, were particularly hard hit.

When I was a caddy, I loved the pugnacious behavior of bluejays and also finding their feathers on the golf course—that other-worldly blue of the tail feathers, which you’d find on the ground after the spring moult happened.

They were like finding small treasures. Other caddies would pick them up for me when they spotted them, knowing I liked birds. The idea of the bluejay population being damn near wiped out made me immensely sad. They’ve come back some, but not like they used to be. When I caddied, if a golfer got too close to a bluejay nest, the female would dive-bomb the poor fucker and peck at him. I laughed my ass off many times watching grown men run away from these birds trying to shield their heads with a putter. Read the rest of this entry »

Dime Stories: The Art Racket

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Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

Illustration: Tony Fitzpatrick

By Tony Fitzpatrick

Every once in a while I try to get on the “Chamber of Commerce” side of art fairs. They bring in a lot of money to the city and everyone benefits: hotels, restaurants, clubs, bars, pedicabs and hookers. Everyone.

Artists? With a few exceptions, which varies every year—not so much. Dealers? Again with some exceptions, and if they’re being honest—not so much.

One has to admit that last year’s Expo Chicago did very well, considering the deep hole it had to crawl out of courtesy of the Merchandise Mart’s assiduous “branding” of all things art fair. In their incarnation, the phrase “art fair” became a dirty word to me—and remains so.

Still, in fairness, one must credit Tony Karman for resurrecting what had become a moribund concept in Chicago: a Chicago art fair. With sheer moxie, unflagging salesmanship and brutal optimism, Karman pulled it off. I don’t know him well, but well enough to tell you that he is impossible to dislike. Believe me, I’ve tried. The guy is eternal sunshine. Show him a barn full of horse manure and he’ll tell you to look for the pony. Read the rest of this entry »