Culture
Mystery at The Modern Wing
Nothing says Art Institute of Chicago like black scarves and leather boots. So when my friends and I met for coffee over the weekend dressed the same, we decided to finish up our cappuccinos, hop the Blue Line and head downtown for a little look-see at the Contemporary Post-Modern Impressionistic Minimally Symbolic galleries in the art institute’s new modern wing. MORE...
Roseland
Where the Dan Ryan Expressway divides at 95th Street into the Bishop Ford Expressway and the I-57 route to Memphis, there’s a little piece of Chicago no one seems to know exists. It’s called Roseland, one of those forgotten neighborhoods that has sunk so low on the city’s social-economic map it can be called, literally, the place where dreams go to die. MORE...
Dad Loved Opera, And Beethoven Too
Chicago Sun-Times columnist Neil Steinberg blew the cover off my dad’s tough guy image last week with the startling revelation that Mike Royko loved opera. With some assistance from my own reservoir of memories, he reported that Dad had season tickets to the Lyric Opera and, no surprise, strong opinions about what constituted a good and bad opera.
If you read Dad's column, there were many hints about his passion for and knowledge of classic music: like the time he offered to conduct the Chicago symphony performing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – but only if they would hoist him into the air so he could use all four limbs.
His true feelings for Beethoven's Ninth were anything but comic. He adored it. It was almost sacred to him (almost, because he was an atheist), as were the rest of Beethoven’s great symphonies. MORE...
Gone Fishin’
As Carl Sandburg once wired home to the city desk: "A lot going on. Will write when I get a chance." MORE...
The Facts of Fiction and Facts
Some of my smart-ass newspaper friends insist I’ve been writing fiction for years. But I couldn’t have made up some of the true stories I’ve reported and written: A man strangles a deer with his bare hands. Another guy goes undercover to catch karaoke jockeys who use counterfeit discs. MORE...
Chatty Cathies
I lost my credit card the other day, which when you think about it, is not hard to do, and got back in touch with my favorite oxymoron in the business lexicon: customer service. MORE...
Potty Boot Camp
When I turned 60, the last thing I expected was to spend a weekend locked in the house with a naked 3-year-old and a dying dog for potty training boot camp.
The dog defecated anywhere she chose. After 12 years, with a tumor the size of a grapefruit attached to her liver, Gracie knew what was expected of her. She just couldn’t do it. My son was a different matter. MORE...
An Open Letter To People In Their Twenties
At a breakfast joint last week in Des Moines—I buy all my suits in Des Moines—an oldish fellow came up and made conversation with our table. He started talking about how great it is to be old, saying that as soon as you turn 50, most of your cares fall away and life becomes a series of easygoing outings with grandkids, peaceful naps and (apparently) pleasant breakfast-table raps.
A glue-sniffer perhaps, but I desperately wanted to believe.
Then my own inner coot got to wondering: What would I tell very young adults about what life will be like in their forties? MORE...
The Family Reunion
In preparation for my wife’s family reunion, I spent four days fishing with my father-in-law in Canada where I sat in a boat all day listening to stories that went something like this: Your Uncle Paul’s cousin Annazette married a fella who works over at Rubbermaid. Nice guy. His father and I were in Troop 38 together at Marmion and he’s in an investment club with your brother Eddie. Well, they don’t really invest in anything. They just get together once a week to drink and shoot the shit. But anyway, they came up here fishing and he caught a bass in that bay over there. A very nice fish. A real beauty. MORE...
Thank You, Blackhawks! Thank You, Dad
Thanks to my dad, my brothers and I were raised on a steady diet of hopes and dreams of Chicago hockey glory. It showed up in our street hockey playing all the time. Every game... a game seven. The dinner bell ... the start of overtime. Next goal wins! MORE...
Gloria Steinem (at a Columbia College presentation): We all know what a chick flick is. Why doesn’t anyone call the violent-chase-scene movies prick flicks?
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