By Tom Lynch and Ray Pride

Imagine the cool crisp air, Thursday, February 4, 2010. The temperature’s unseasonable again, creasing 40. Stepping out into the day, deep breaths are taken across the city. The sun shines off the glass-clad skyscrapers along the Chicago River. The Brown Line clatters, clickety-clackety and clean as a toy over the bridge above the waters. A tall boat’s coming through, it’s after morning rush, the bridge tenders point State, Dearborn, LaSalle, Franklin, to the nourishing sunlight. There’s a cloud in the sky, a large white shred, moving west slower than a stagecoach, as if it’s been part of the prairie forever.

The first rumble is more like a grumble. Cheap car alarms on cheaper cars sound. Antsy cats rise to fearful attention. The skies go still. The air stalls, hum of man and nature just hangs for an instant before the rumble comes.

The streets bounce with canisters, like stovepipes, like drains from rooftop water towers. They clatter from the sky: cellular towers shatter in mid-syllable, shrapnel dazzling in the brilliant late winter sun. The projected face in Millennium Park freezes, sizzles to black. BAM! Another punch, another lurch, another roll: the cloud moves to the lake, placid, impassive, several cars crash into several more and into the parked cars along Michigan, rumble, crash: The Bean drops from its mooring, drops, rolls, onrushing down Michigan where the cars have parted, reflecting that one white cloud as it wobbles down—then the center line tears like a paper towel, neatly like a perforation, and The Bean is swallowed by the warm earth. And it shifts again…

It’s always an abstract apocalypse until it occurs next door. Tragedies are what happen through the television screen, the Internet, right, much farther than arm’s length? Read the rest of this entry »

Liars Club, Saturday night, frigid waves of gusty wind keep smokers indoors and the room itself relatively empty. A smattering of dancers shuffle to “Single Ladies” on the floor; something old, 1970s-tinted, is on the television mounted near the ceiling. The bar, dark as a cave as always, becomes paralyzed by new chills each time someone walks through the door, the unreal air having the advantage of surprise. DJ walks a tightrope between Jay-Z, Stones, Rick-fucking-Springfield. He wants to tell her that he loves her but the point is probably moot.

This is a weekend of moot points, as the NFL’s regular season comes to a close and only twelve teams advance to the postseason, the Chicago Bears not one of them. Last April, the Bears traded for Jay Cutler in what was easily one of the biggest and most ambitious deals the franchise ever made. Hopes soared to alarming levels: Would the team make the playoffs for the first time since its Super Bowl run in 2006? The Bears finished 7-9, the team’s worst record since 2004. For fans, disbelief turned to disappointment, which quickly deformed into distaste and resentment. This JC was no messiah, after all.

A familiar guitar note, a D chord. Tom Petty? “Well she was an American Girl…” Enthusiasts flood the floor and move and shake. The night united. An American song, an American bar, as American as cold beer and football. Even the losers get lucky some time. (Tom Lynch)

By Brian Hieggelke

Mile 1
Nike changed my life. Ordinarily, I’m no corporate shill but bear with me.

October 2005, I’m watching the Chicago Marathon on the television in my apartment. Saying the same thing I say every October: “I can’t relate to what they’re doing. I can’t even imagine ever wanting to run 26 miles. Those people are crazy.” October 2009, I’m registered to race in my first marathon, at the age of 47.

What happened? Nike+iPod happened. And I became a distance runner.

Four years ago and fifty-some-odd pounds heavier, I’m at the doctor for a routine physical. High blood pressure. I can either exercise and diet, or I can start the meds now. I think about my dad, who’d had heart-bypass surgery a few years earlier and who’d been on the meds as long as I can remember, adding pills to his diet as quickly as his aging body added maladies. I’m not ready to be my dad yet. My inner self-portrait is youthful, vigorous and thin, like I’d been up until I quit playing football my junior year in college. Up to now, my girth is just a temporary setback. Temporary going on thirty years. The doctor gives me a wake-up call. I’m not in college anymore. Time to change. As soon as I get through the holidays, of course.

January 1, 2006, I start exercising daily. Read the rest of this entry »

By Tom Lynch

A couple weeks ago I received a CD at Newcity’s office, out of the blue, a compilation disc of local artists performing covers of Catholic hymns. “Crosswalk,” it’s called, and features bands like Office, The M’s, Canasta and The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir. The idea intrigued me immediately—when I took a closer look at its cover and realized that the purpose of the comp is to benefit victims of priestly sexual abuse, plus has sponsors like Wicker Park institutions Reckless Records, Earwax, The Silver Room and Moonshine, my eyebrows could not have raised any higher.

I grew up on the Northwest Side of Chicago, near O’Hare, a neighborhood technically labeled Dunning, though not many still use the term. Surrounded by Park Ridge and Norridge to the north, River Grove and Elmwood Park to the south and the Des Plaines River to the west, the relatively serene neighborhood has always had an abundance of city employees and their families: policemen, firemen, school teachers. Most Irish, but with a good amount of Italian and Polish. Growing up, there was even another Lynch family  just a  few doors down from us. My father is a Chicago policeman, and now my parents have several policeman neighbors lined up all next to each other down the block, creating what some jokingly call “Copland.”

As kids, we felt safe. Rarely did any element of real danger enter our naïve and, in retrospect, severely innocent worlds Read the rest of this entry »

By Monica Westin

The 2009 Illinois Yoga Asana Championship just took place, for the second year in a row, at Navy Pier. When I first heard about it, the competition troubled me. After all, isn’t yoga supposed to be about our own path to development, done at our own pace and with a sense of higher consciousness rather than egocentric comparisons with others? I asked to cover the event hoping to know why enlightened yogis would want to sit around judging each other’s asanas (postures).

The competition is also a good starting point from which to consider the explosion of yoga in America, which doesn’t show any signs of slowing down soon, what its popularity might mean, and if our wholehearted inclusion of yoga in the new American lifestyle has robbed the practice of something in the process. One thing I learned while researching this article is that yoga message boards are some of the most charged and sometimes inflammatory I’ve read, and arguments about the relative purity of various practices are the easiest to find. Have we corrupted yoga so that the postures done in a 105-degree room, or in the yoga gym class we’re taking (that promises to strengthen our core and give us a tough workout more than a higher level of spirituality), are no longer yoga? What about yoga with the advertisement of a glass of wine afterward, even though strict yogis are teetotalers? Okay then, what about doggie yoga, where you hold your dog in poses that you do together? At some point, is yoga simply being used as a brand to get people to buy a new product? Read the rest of this entry »

By Jill Jaracz

I’ll be on time for my appointment, if I can just get on this bus. Problem is, my bus stop is at Belmont and Lake Shore, the last stop before several routes go express. The express bus is a great timesaver, but it can be its own circle of hell.

In this scenario, which plays out on most express buses that run along Michigan Avenue or LaSalle at all times of the day (and plenty of other routes during rush hour), a bus will barrel up to the stop. As I and twenty other people mob the door, I don’t see anyone standing in the bus yet, so I should be able to get on.

We all slowly trickle on, but those of us at the end of the boarding line start getting smashed in up front. It looks like I’ll be playing “identify the perfume/cologne/deodorant (or lack thereof)” for most of my ride. When I look down the aisle, I see plenty of room in the back of the bus. The standers have decided they don’t want to move past the back door. Heaven forbid that anyone actually goes up the two steps to the back of the bus and stands in the rear. Read the rest of this entry »

By Lisa Grayson

Dear Petulant Investing Acquaintance,

I’m so sorry to hear that your portfolio is worth a fraction of what it was last year. Really. I can’t imagine the agony of watching the evaporation of all that spare cash. You were planning to retire at 50, and now you may have to put it off until 55. Pity.

Governor Quinn sends me money every two weeks to help me feel better, and believe me, I’m grateful. But call it a simple lack of imagination, failure of empathy, Schadenfreude, whatever you want: I am tired of rich people whining to non-rich people. I’m talking about non-rich Americans, and we’re still better off than ninety percent of the world, which makes your whining all the more irritating. Sure, some of us are desperate, but most of us are trying to maintain an optimistic attitude because anxiety can lead to high blood pressure and ulcers, and our COBRA ran out seven months ago.

News flash: Most of us didn’t lose money in the stock market. We never had money in the stock market. The closest we might come is a small 401(k) or union pension fund. You don’t hear us complaining about the hundreds of thousands (or millions) we lost—because we didn’t have much to begin with. I’m sure it hurts to have your investments lose their worth. But what about all those years when they were gaining insane value, when you were earning easy money? When everything you touched turned to gold, with little if no effort from you? I figure you’re probably still ahead of where you started. Which is more than a lot of us can say. So please accept my condolences and kindly shut the fuck up.

By Rob Patrick

My girlfriend has a list of every guy she kissed from the time she was 14 until she was 22. I have no idea how many names are on that list (or if any are followed by an asterisk). She offered to tell me, but frankly I don’t want to know. And that’s pretty much how I feel about all lists: Keep them to your fucking self. So in the interest of a little Independence Day irony (and after all, what is the Declaration of Independence but a list, albeit a very well-written one), here is my list of lists I loathe.

1. “To Do” lists—I once read a children’s book about an anal frog and a toad who are best friends. One day the frog makes a long list of things to do—wake up, eat breakfast, visit Toad, etc. His whole goddamn life is that list, and he checks off each thing he does. Then the wind blows his list away, but he can’t chase it because chasing the list isn’t an item on the list. And without that list, he can’t function at all. I know people exactly like that frog. They wake up, sit with a cup of coffee, and write their “list of things to do today.” They even buy notepads with pre-printed numbers, which is typical of people who need lists. Not only are they forgetful and neurotic, they’re also lazy. Read the rest of this entry »

By John Greenfield

It should be easy to travel Chicago, especially the Loop, without a car. The flat grid makes walking a breeze. We’ve got over 100 miles of bicycle lanes and more than 10,000 bike racks. CTA, Metra, taxicabs and even water taxis and pedicabs offer eco-friendly options for getting downtown and around town.

So why is the Central Business District clogged with cars that foul the air and endanger walkers and cyclists, while transit faces perpetual budget shortfalls? Answer: while the City of Chicago fails to invest in green transportation (Federal money paid for those bike lanes and racks, and the city spends a measly $3 million per year on the CTA), it continues to encourage driving, especially downtown.

Mayor Daley lifted a longtime ban on new Loop parking garages and built Millennium Park on top of a three-level garage with room for more than 2,000 cars. Recent zoning changes force developers to provide a parking spot for every housing unit. The Traffic Management Authority has changed traffic signal times to favor cars over pedestrians, and removed crosswalks on Michigan Avenue and Lake Shore Drive, making it easier to drive and harder to walk.

Instead, Chicago needs to start discouraging driving and promoting healthier modes by charging motorists a toll for the privilege of driving into the Loop, and using the cash to fund bike, ped and transit projects. Read the rest of this entry »

By Damien James

I spent more time than I’d like to admit wondering what you were thinking as you walked the halls of the smART Show in the Flat Iron building between 10:30pm and midnight a few weeks ago. I’m curious because in that time, you managed to swipe one of my drawings right off the wall and abscond with it.

My initial reaction, not surprisingly, was anger. Intense, red piping-hot anger. “What the fuck!?” were my words, to be exact, extra emphasis on the “f.” Who steals art at a small neighborhood show? From an “emerging” artist? (“Emerging” = “starving”) Even more, who steals a piece of art that’s already been sold? Now, I know it was small, and as you passed by maybe you thought it would fit perfectly in your bag or pocket or whatever, but did you not see the sticker above the drawing that said “sold”? Could you not have chosen a piece that hadn’t already been paid for? Because you see, some artists who do shows in the Flat Iron, especially in the halls of the Flat Iron, are struggling; they’re artists who are desperately trying to carve out some tiny, peaceful existence. We’re trying to do something good, to make and share something outside the ever-present web of invasive insanity-breeding consumerism. I get (but don’t condone, of course) stealing an iPhone, an X-Box, cash; but a drawing? Not only did you steal something I made, but you took money out of my pocket. And I’ve got other people to take care of beside myself. So: what the fuck!? Read the rest of this entry »