Danish notes #1: Spiral city

 

Church of Our Savior, Copenhagen

     "Leitmotif" originated as a German word, used by critics picking apart the works of Richard Wagner. A fitting term to start my reflection on Copenhagen, as Danish is a Germanic language. It means, roughly, a recurrent theme, and in the case of our recent visit to the capital of Denmark, the theme we kept returning to was, of all things, spirals.

Eliasson bridge

    The overture began hours after we landed, with an enigmatic tower glimpsed from the canal tour my wife cannily put us on, in the sound theory that we'd been traveling all day and would need some low energy activity to introduce us to the city. It worked. We saw all sorts of wonderful sights — a bridge designed by Icelandic-Danish artist Olafur Eliasson that looks like a sailing ship and collapses in on itself to let boats pass. The Rem Koolhaas-designed Danish Architecture Center, which I immediately tweeted at Lee Bey ("EAT YOUR HEART OUT!" I wrote, having decided years ago it is hysterical to taunt Lee, our architecture critic, when I see noteworthy architecture abroad. I can't hope he finds it as funny as I do; but he hasn't asked me to stop, which I take as license to continue). We even locked eyes on the backside of the Little Mermaid statue, sparing us the need to carve out time and face the throng for the obligatory visit.
     Above all, the Church of Our Savior, whose spiral steeple is unlike anything I've ever seen atop a building. Gold and black, we could see tiny figures working their way up the staircase. I wanted to be one of them.

Dragon Spire

     Moments later, we cruised past a second spiral steeple, the Dragon Spire atop the Old Stock Exchange, hove into view, evoking my favorite German saying, Einmal ist keinmal und zweimal ist immer, or "Once is never but twice is always."

     I noticed a trend, but did not expect a third spiral. The next day, however, we were wandering away from the Rosenborg Castle — delightfully downmarket, compared to palaces in Paris and Madrid — and happened upon the Rundetaarn, or Round Tower. We were looking for a particular marketplace, to lunch on their brand of open-faced sandwiches, and I figured atop the tower would be a good vantage point to eyeball it. 

     Don't let the bust of Tycho Brahe outside the tower fool you — the Danish astronomer died in 1601, in exile in Prague, while the Round Tower wasn't completed until 1642.

     The tower has no stairs, but a spiral path  winding seven and a half times around the building, the way the tower of Babylon is depicted. We paid our eight Euros and marched gamely upward. 

     "What's with Copenhagen and spirals?" I typed into Google, expecting all sorts of sites rhapsodizing bout Spiral City. Nothing. A lot about Church of Our Savior.  And that's about it. Nobody seemed to have made the connection before. 

Path up the Round Tower

     So the field is open to me. Readers might remember how in 2015 I used four shapes as a lens to view Chicago — the parabola, the circle, the square, the triangle. A spiral is the perfect representation a city, which also unwinds out from a central point over time — in "The Wizard of Oz," remember, Dorothy starts skipping along a spiraling Yellow Brick Road that leads her to the Emerald City. 

     The Round Tower went up in 1642. The Church of Our Savior spire was added in 1759. So I assumed the former inspired the latter. Not so. The Church of Our Savior website says it is based on the Church of Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza in Rome, and I have no reason to doubt them.

     Those are the only two spiral church towers in the world I could find, which is odd, because spirals are an omnipresent natural design form, from starfish to galaxies. They've been used in architecture since Greek times — the capital of an Ionic column has a pair of spirals. Trajan's Column in Rome, built over 2,000 years ago, still has its spiral staircase inside. Modern buildings use them — Frank Lloyd Wright's Guggenheim comes to mind (though honestly, as a museum warrior, I'm no fan of that ramp). 

    I started to see them elsewhere in Copenhagen, pausing in the middle of the street to snap this spiraling brick chimney, the likes of which I've never seen before.

The Treetop Experience

    The Danes are still twirling. In 2019, a 148-foot-tall spiral ramp the Treetop Experience opened in Gisselfeld Klosters Skove,, a forest an hour south of Copenhagen. The structure is 12 loops around a hyperboloid, for you geometry geeks (an hourglass shape for everybody else) offering visitors a treetop view of the surrounding area. I didn't visit; next time (kidding; there never is a next time).

     My wife wanted to go to Christiana, the hippie commune turned tourist attraction, and I cut short her consultation with bus schedules by suggesting we bike there. 

    On the way, we saw the Church of Our Savior, first in the distance, then looming before us. Turns out, the church is a block from an entrance to Christiana. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. We parked our bikes at the church, and after wandering about Christiana, enjoying an ice coffee, we went up the spire, which, rather than opening out on an observation deck, basically got narrower and narrower until you were jammed into an endpoint below the giant golden ball. It was not something pleasurable to do, but definitely something worth having done.

Fence around the Church of Our Savior.

"Look at this!"

Charlie Bliss

     Some work you can't do at home. For instance, you can't stop by the People's Republic of China Consulate on Erie, to talk to an official from the embassy in Washington, who's in town and asked you to stop by (nor can you decline; the Chinese, they're kinda important).
     Nor can you, in your home office, run into Charlie Bliss — or, rather, have Charlie run over to you at the Northbrook train station, where the retired Chicago firefighter and Maine South legend (Charlie retired as offensive coach in May after 22 seasons leading the highest scoring offense in Illinois) runs the coffee stand. 

     We hadn't seen each other in years, the thousand days that COVID compressed and scattered. He was glad to see me, and I was sure glad to see him. We hugged. He disappeared behind the coffee bar and emerged with the blog poster I'd given him a decade ago — taken down for safekeeping. He put it back up while I watched approvingly, then bought a coffee out of gratitude. So can you, Monday through Thursday. It seems a doable outing for those working at home in Northbrook. Head over to the train station, buy a donut and coffee from Charlie, support local business. I plan to. It's good coffee.
     Another thing you can't do making coffee in your kitchen is walk from Union Station to the Chinese consulate. Or stop in at Atlas Stationers on Lake Street. Where you greet Therese and Don Schmidt, the owners, and their son, Brandon — Brian works here too — and learn about the newest trainee, age 7.

The backing of the frame letters is carpeting 
from before the remodelling.

     "He loved it," said Therese, after we hugged. "The fifth generation."

      You might remember, we met Therese a dozen years ago, running deliveries through the underground streets beneath the Loop. Not much call for that lately. The store has shifted from an office supply store supplying file folders to surrounding businesses to a luxury pen emporium doing huge internet sales. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

     "We ship out so much," she said. "So many people come in."

    A thousand people came to their sidewalk sale. Yes, there was a person threatening to jump off building next door and that kind of got in the way for a while It's still Chicago. But the jumper was coaxed back inside and the sale was a great success. 

     We talked about the traditions of Atlas, founded in 1939. She showed me a table built by Don's father in 1948, and the one they had recently constructed — by an 80-year-old carpenter, which makes it kind of an honorary antique. They're covered with interesting notebooks and pens. 

     "I need to buy a pen," I said — not really needing to buy a pen, but wanting to contribute to the cause. She showed me some brawny $10 pens, and, being me, I picked out a promising orange Caran d'Ache pen from some cups holding less pricey pens, tested it to see the ink was indeed blue, paid the $6 or so, and tucked it into my sport coat pocket.

     Therese was so happy to see me, she followed me in the street when I left, talking about how the city seems to her from the perspective of running a business on the corner of Lake and Orleans.
     "People are nice," she said. An 'L' train rumbled by on the tracks directly above our heads, down Lake Street.
     "Look at this!" she said, gesturing toward the train and the tracks and the buildings beyond that and the sky above, the great big frenetic world. I understood what she meant, and headed toward the river and the consulate. I had walked several blocks when it struck me: next time, buy a more expensive pen.
     You can't figure that kind of thing out at home.

A brick shy of a load

      Lots of construction in my neighborhood. Fences go up, small humble Monopoly houses come down, equipment arrives, and far larger edifices go up in their place. With two nearby projects, to my amazement, the owners of large, attractive new homes have bought the lot next door to theirs and built secondary additions as large as the original home. I'm tempted to knock on the door and demand, "Why....?" But haven't gathered the courage yet. 

     Anyway, I have an idea as to the answer: because there's a lot of money in the world.
     At least the previous fashion — faux Norman mansion — seems to have fallen from favor. Now the style is American Gothic on steroids — someone's idea of a farmhouse, all vertical clapboard and metal roofs, but grown huge, perhaps due to exposure to radiation, like those ants in 1950s horror movies. How they resisted putting in a symbolic patch of real corn in front yard — I would — is a mystery.  The corn would pull everything together.
    Living in an actual 1905 farmhouse, one built when the surrounding area was an apple orchard, I sometimes envy the owners of these new places. How pristine they must be. How huge. How perfect. Our house has all sorts of idiosyncratic quirks — the bottom of the closet in one bedroom is three feet off the floor.  They bedrooms range from modest in size to small. If I don't duck strategically while walking through the basement, I risk smacking my head into a beam. The garage, which once held horses, is not designed for our modern bloated SUVs. My car just fits. That kind of thing.
      Thus I welcome reminders that the owners of these new homes have troubles of their own. I watched this particular neo-farm house go up a little south of my place. It seems aesthetic enough, if a little soulless. At least they left themselves a little bit of a front porch; a lot of places don't, I'll never understand why — well, actually, I do understand: because they are never going to sit out there, and if they did, there are no people walking by to greet. 

     Not quite. I was walking Kitty by there Tuesday night, and notice that the freshly laid steps had already lost a brick, smack in the middle. The construction couldn't have finished a month ago. Two, tops. And look. 

     This isn't schadenfreude. I hope. I'm not any better or smarter than the owner of this place. Probably a lot less. And when we bought our place, the front steps were also bricks. They also promptly began to fall away, so much that it was dangerous to go in through the front door. We ended up having to put on a new set of wooden steps which, 20 years on, are rotting in all sorts of alarming ways. I'll start to remove a rotten part, so I can patch and paint it, and the next thing I know a section a foot square is gone and I'm making custom molding in the basement. I should probably just rip the entire thing off and put on a new one. But that would be a big job, and if I can patch and delay another year, well, that works for me.

      Anyway, I paused to snap a photo. I intended to blur the address of the place, so as not to cast derision on any specific individual.  But when I took a look at it, I noticed that the pillar had been unintentionally lined up to block the address. As I always say, sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. 

Works in progress: "Good for somethin': A Twitter Tale"

     Writing for publication is hard. I sometimes forget that, because writing for publication is about all I do. But this Saturday feature, Works in Progress reminds me. Even professional writers can have a tough time with it — I had a pal whom I asked to write a single sentence about a current project. Just one; I'd fill in the rest. The pal phoned me, genuinely panicked, stuck. Couldn't get a handle on it. I of course replied there was no need. But it was surprising. Then again, I've always had the gift of facileness. Or maybe the curse.

     So it didn't surprise me when the Saturday "Works in Progress" spot began to go unfilled. Until this week, when there were two offerings — it never rains, it pours. One, from a fiction writer, went into the weeds over a comment on the Tylenol killings column, and I decided the matter had been aired enough. 
     But this, by perennial reader Jakash, I'm happy to share. "Jakash" isn't his real name; he asked if I could preserve the fig leaf of anonymity. It IS daunting, to hang your identity out there — another reality that often flies past me. Sure, I said, why not? Take it away, Jakash:

     Almost exactly a year ago, my wife and I were taking a casual Saturday stroll through one of the non-descript parts of Lakeview in Chicago. As we walked south on Ravenswood, we noticed workers on scaffolding taking the siding off a building near Addison. Crossing to the south side of the street, by Dunkin Donuts, we turned back to see that an old advertisement was being revealed as the siding was pulled off: "Ward's Soft Bun Bread," certainly unfamiliar to us. My wife took a photo of the partially uncovered sign, and we figured we'd come back later to see more.
     Everybody knows that Twitter has its problems. More so since having been picked up at the bargain price of $44 billion by that emerald-encrusted champion of free speech, Elon Musk. (It was recently characterized by our genial host in the Sun-Times as "a toxic hellscape run poorly by a right-wing South African egomaniac..." Personally, I never signed up for it, since a) I realized that it would be a huge time sink and b) I'm not really what you'd call a joiner. 

     However, enough people I respect are on it that I've haphazardly sought out maybe a dozen  accounts. Looking at just those is also a time sink, of course, but not to the extent of becoming the time drain it could if I were actually participating.
     At any rate, many of the folks I follow are local history, architecture, infrastructure or nature-minded Tweeters who are frequently posting interesting ephemera or more significant news about under-reported goings-on in the city. I knew from them that the sign we'd seen was a ghost sign, i.e., a sign painted on a building that used to advertise something which has either been blocked from view by a newer building, or covered up by renovations. 

     "The ghost sign people are gonna love this!" I thought. 

      Since the corner of Addison and Ravenswood is not exactly in an uncharted wilderness, I figured I'd be seeing tweets about it soon. So, I waited, checking my usual suspects each day, pretty sure that if anybody posted photos of this sign, they would go viral, at least among the select group of like-minded Chicagoans. 

      We saw the workers on Saturday morning, July 9. By Tuesday evening, still nothing to indicate that the building had been discovered. I felt people were missing a treat, and figured I had 3 options: a) keep waiting. b) Join Twitter and post about the sign myself. Or c) pick somebody that I followed and hope that he'd visit the location and put it on his timeline, to then be seen by others. 

      I went with the third option. That night I decided to email Robert Loerzel, a journalist and photographer whom I consider the King of Local Twitter (editor's note: he is correct. Robert Loerzel is indeed the King of Local Twitter). He has over 20,000 followers and maintains a very robust and interesting timeline, thriving in the midst of the hellscape.

     I was pretty sure he'd be interested in this sign. Alas, for whatever reason, he didn't jump at the chance to visit the site and I went back to waiting for somebody else to stumble upon it.
     By the following Sunday, still nothing about this building. I couldn't believe it. Especially since we'd gone back and there were a number of other ghost signs now uncovered on the north side of the building. I knew from looking at his interesting Twitter account that Bill Savage, a professor at Northwestern and a lover of local historical minutiae (and literature) (and baseball) (and bicycling) (and...) (editor's note: and hot dogs, and editor of my Chicago memoir) sometimes rode his bike on Damen Ave., which is two blocks away from Ravenswood. I thought perhaps he might make a slight detour sometime if he was riding by to see the signs. So I emailed four photos to him, specifying the location. 

     That worked. Within hours, he had stopped by, taken several of his own photos (much better than ours) and posted the news of these ghost signs to Twitter.
     And from there, it was off to the races. They were quite popular, among the people who find something like that appealing. Bill's tweet went viral in a low-key, non-Obama version of viral. (No doubt assisted in this regard by being retweeted by Robert Loerzel...) The signs were reported about and photographed by Colin Boyle on the news website Block Club Chicago and even made the TV news. Many folks took their own pictures and posted them. We had thought the building would most likely be torn down within a week. But the signs stayed up for over a month. People who are interested in preserving such historic material got involved and proceeded to painstakingly remove them. "Local experts dated the ads to the late 1920s and early ’30s," Colin Boyle wrote on Block Club. "They were painted directly onto wood panels as opposed to the common practice of painting onto brick, adding to their rarity.
     The moral of this tale is that Twitter contains multitudes. It's not just a free-fire zone for anybody with a wacky conspiracy theory to promote. There are a lot of folks who use it as the most efficient way to broadly share information. Though currently I don't even look at it, because Elon Musk, flashing his galaxy-brained brilliance, has decided that you must sign up in order to browse tweets now. And pay, if you want to enjoy certain features of the site. He's talked in the past about his wish for it to be a virtual town square, but doesn't seem to recognize the disconnect when it comes to his desire that people should pay one of the richest men on Earth in order to step onto the village green.
     Anyway, it was quite enjoyable for my wife and me to see what happened once this discovery became better known, and the signs ended up in good hands. As for the "Wards Soft Bun Bread" sign that we originally glimpsed? It's now in the possession of the American Sign Museum in Cincinnati.

https://blockclubchicago.org/2022/07/19/rare-decades-old-ghost-signs-revealed-on-ravenswood-building-facing-demolition/
https://blockclubchicago.org/2022/08/12/rare-lakeview-ghost-signs-saved-just-days-before-demolition-thanks-to-donations/

Works in progress: Monica Eng

      Writing with a co-author is an entirely new gear for a writer. At least it was for me — whereas I usually write based on my own gut, now there was a second, exterior voice, one I was obligated to listen to, understand, respect. 

     Which wasn't a problem when I was writing "Out of the Wreck I Rise" with Sara Bader, who inevitably was right, or at least had a point, particularly when dialing back my more flowery prose. I remember her saying, "You're competing with the poetry."

     It was fun, educational, productive.

      So when I approached my former Sun-Times colleague, Monica Eng about her writing something here about her new book, "Made in Chicago: Stories Behind 30 Great Hometown Bites," I asked her to address how she came to collaborate with her co-author.

    The only thing better than eating great local food is reading about it, and this book seems a natural summer read for those of us bouncing around the suddenly-warm city, eating stuff. Monica and her co-author will be at the Highland Park Public Library Monday, talking about their book. Take it away, Monica:

     After years of reporting on Chicago-invented dishes, I was having lunch with a food historian friend who suggested I collect a bunch of their origin stories in a book. The University of Illinois Press was launching a 3 Fields imprint on Midwest culture and he thought it would be natural fit.
     I was barely keeping up as a mom, radio journalist and podcaster — much less a person who regularly washes her hair. So it seemed nuts to add a book deadline to the chaos. But at a book party in late 2018, I was talking to my pal and fellow food writer, David Hammond, about the difficulty of the project and he agreed to take on half the writing. We cooked up a book proposal and finally signed a contract right before the pandemic hit. I don’t think we saw each other’s faces in person for four years after that party.

     When it came to figuring out the 30 foods to feature we used these rules: All the dishes (or twists on them) had to be invented in Chicago, served in more than one place and tell an interesting story. To meet our 18 month deadline, I worked during vacations, on weekends and at night, mostly wishing I’d never agreed to do it. But like most of my big babies, this one has left me with nothing but pride as the memories of labor pain fade away. The book designers did a nice job of making this perfect for the your bike basket and glove compartment, so you can whip it out anywhere in the city to learn that a tasty bite and story are right around the corner.
      But more than just making an eating guide, I wanted to highlight these inventors, almost all of who were recent arrivals from other countries or the South. Our hot dog toppings tell the story of early 20th Century migration to Maxwell Street. The Pizza Puff comes from Assyrian immigrants from Iran crafted hot dog carts from baby buggies and manufactured corn roll tamales. Rib tips hit menus because Chicago barbecue masters from Mississippi didn’t want to waste a gnarly bit of the rib that many threw away. And the Akutagawa omelet represents Japanese-Americans in Wrigleyville who held onto small part of their culture even after the U.S. government told them to leave it behind.
    Beyond the happy stories, though, I found a bigger depressing story of persistent cultural segregation. Few South Siders have ever eaten the Akutagawa or gam pong gi, and fewer North Siders have tried Sweet Steaks, Jim Shoes or Pizza Puffs covered in mild sauce. My naïve hope, though, is that this book might change that a little — that these stories might intrigue readers to the point where they bust out of their own neighborhoods to try something new across town that gives them a little better understanding of the people who share their city.

Backlash over eyeliner just more anti-‘woke’ folly

     Myself, I’m proud to live in the state of Illinois. A hardworking, mind-your-own business kind of place. We wake up, do our various things, whatever they are, whether parking cars or assembling them, without constantly looking over our shoulders, worried about what everybody else is doing.

     Why are we so blessed? A legacy of freedom, I suppose, walking the same soil trod by Abraham Lincoln. Sure, there are dissenters, those downstaters who wish our wise and benevolent Gov. J.B. Pritzker had just allowed them to quietly die of COVID — honestly, sometimes I find myself agreeing with them, before the better angels of my nature object.
     Which brings us to other parts of the country, not as far along the Noble Eightfold Path as Illinois. Places to the south and west that seem a permanent carnival of anxiety over anyone unlike themselves.
     From a distance, it can seem simply nuts. Places like Florida, where they passed a law designed to gag school teachers from discussing sexual orientation, because parents are so good at that. The Walt Disney Co., burned by the backlash to the $250,000 it donated to backers of the bill, cleared its throat, raised an index finger and quietly objected. Setting Gov. Ron DeSantis on a mad, endless vendetta against Disney — using the full power of the state to punish the Magic Kingdom, Florida’s largest employer, which is now suing in federal court, trying to make them stop. You’ve probably read about it.
    The Bud Light tempest is even weirder. Every beer company has an endless amount of promotions and sponsorships. Hundreds — minor league ball teams, stock cars, barn dances, you name it. But let Bud send one custom can to one trans influencer, a certain Dylan Mulvaney, and red states have mounted one of the rare boycotts that actually works — sales of Bud Light are down 17%.

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Mail bag

National Postal Museum

     The reaction after my column on not going to the Congo was overwhelmingly positive. In fact, there was only one negative email, this one, a prime example of what I think of as "You-suck-can-I-have-a-dollar?" letters from readers who simultaneously complain and request, which is not the most effective mix. Enjoy:

Mr Steinberg,

     I've just read your April 16 article.
     I suppose you mean well, but this piece will do nothing for the people of eastern DRC or to bring awareness to westerners who are unwittingly exploiting them.
     I am a Canadian.
     My son is a World Vision International senior director who leads their humanitarian efforts in the eastern DRC based in Goma. He has lived there with his wife and two small boys for two years and leads a team of over 300 employees and volunteers. They are trying to look after the needs of the vast community and 200,000 refugees in an environment with kidnappings, murders, guerrilla warfare, massive displacement, earthquakes and an active volcano. He has led similar projects in South Sudan, Zimbabwe, the CAR, and the Middle East. He doesn't have time to be afraid.
     If you want to continue to shine a light on this conflict zone (Heaven knows, it needs it), I could give you his email address. I'm sure you could get it through World Vision as well.
     Sincerely,
     Ron M.

     I try to be kind but firm in replying to such letters.

Dear Mr. M.:

     While I disagree with your belief that my column did nothing to alert people in Chicago to the situation in Congo — I have received dozens of emails that suggest otherwise — I'd be happy to correspond with your son and put his thoughts in the paper. Perhaps they will resonate more than my own meager efforts.
     I've worked for Canadians and am familiar with their weird blend of aggression and entreaty. So your mixed message — your column was pointless, maybe you'd like to write another about my son — was not as off-putting to me as perhaps it should have been. Please do send his email, if he's interested; it might make for a nice follow-up. Besides, I have two sons of my own; they're far better men than me, and one can hope yours is also a marked improvement on his sorta tactless dad. Thanks for writing.

NS

     I detected a distinct tone shift in his reply.

     My goodness. Thank you for the prompt response.
     I'll reach out to David to see if that works for him.
     He has done lots of media, but I didn't seek his permission.
     

      Ron M.

     I didn't have to respond to this, but did, bringing an end to the exchange. Of course I will never hear back, for reasons alluded to in my final comment.

      Thanks. My experience is that most people who are recommended for stories by third parties decline the opportunity. But perhaps he will be an exception.

     NS

Works in progress: Cate Plys

     Caren Jeskey stepping up to pinch-write on Saturdays helped the EGD community to see many things. For me, it became clear that there is a benefit to a weekly breather, both to myself and to the readers: a different perspective, a palate cleanser after six days of Neil-Neil-Neil-Neil-NEIL-Neil. So when Caren decided to step away and start an audio blog (which you can find here) my first thought was that I should keep the tradition of Somebody Else Saturday going.

     But how? With whom? 

     Luckily, I know many creative folk, few longer and none better than my Northwestern classmate, Cate Plys. We were on the college humor magazine together, and have been close friends ever since. She's had a wide-ranging career — columnist at the Chicago Reader, the  Sun-Times and Tribune, and more. Since October, 2021, she's been exploring the complex world of "Roseland, Chicago: 1972." I invited her to tell you about it. In coming weeks, I'll turn Saturday over to other friends with interesting projects. If you'd like to nominate yourself, you know where to find me. Take it away, Cate:

     Thanks, Neil!
     Full disclosure, I can’t quit Neil, and vice versa, because he came to my Gramma’s house in Hegewisch for Thanksgiving in 1982. That, and we know where each other’s bodies are buried.

     “Roseland, Chicago: 1972” started as the serialized story of Steve Bertolucci, a 10-year-old Roselander in 1972, and what becomes of him. But Roseland, Chicago, and 1972 — they all demanded more. They got it. I’m just a girl who can’t say no.
     The thing is Steve and his friends live in a strange world called 1972, a place so far removed from 21st century Chicago that even those of us who once dwelt there may barely recognize it when we catch a brief glimpse of it now, whisking around a corner or disappearing into a crowd, always just out of reach.
     I was there. I saw it. But the more I wrote, the simplest things began to feel like science fiction in reverse. I had to ask myself: Would anyone who wasn’t there believe it?
     It was a brave old world:
     Every expressway into Chicago was guarded by a massive set of neon red lips, looming 80 feet in the air on black steel pylons, blinking electronic messages underneath like “Celebrate National Secretary’s Week!” and “Happy Birthday, Eddie Barrett!” The Dan Ryan lips, which Steve’s family passed on rare car trips downtown, kept vigil over the city at 85th Street.

     Chicagoans believed in God and the devil so viscerally that when “The Exorcist” played here to massive crowds in ’73, Tribune film critic Gene Siskel saw a teenage boy faint at one showing. Six more terrorized teens retreated to the lobby, one literally trembling for a full half hour.
     Knowledge was distributed to the people each morning and afternoon by young boys who threw onto their front porches folded wads of cellulose which had been boiled, mashed, and flattened into sheets later embedded with information. These were called “newspapers,” and everybody read them. Everybody. Even kids like Steve.
     Who’d believe kids used to read newspapers? Yesterday I saw two parents pushing a stroller. The approximately 18-month-old child seated inside was clutching an iPhone with both hands, focused on it to the exclusion of all else.
     I realized I’d have to persuade readers that the 1972 world had, in fact, existed. Marshal the evidence. So Steve’s story became an immersive project on Substack for anyone who’s game enough to take a dunk in 1972. To start, each chapter is followed by Chapter Notes explaining points of interest covered, ranging from MAD Magazine  to Jays potato chips.
     Optional Chicago History Chapters delve deeper into places, people and pop culture as they emerge in the story, so far including the Wrigley Building, Chicago before it was Chicago, and a look at Chicago newspapers circa 1972.

     For those brave enough to jump in the deep end without a lifeguard, there are two additional sections to explore: THIS CRAZY DAY IN 1972, and Mike Royko 50+ Years Ago Today. As I warn readers on the About page, however, enter at your own risk. No sensitivity reader has combed through any of it. 1972 isn’t a safe space--though frankly, neither is any other year with which I am familiar.
      TCD 1972 goes through the year week by week, pulling fascinating pieces out of all five of Chicago’s daily 1972 newspapers. This material is the news--and so to a great extent the reality--that Steve and everyone he knew swam in. If you dip a toe into the roiling 1972 waters regularly, the first cold shock of sexism, racism, and teenagers getting expelled for long hair begins to wear off. You get used to the water, you see beyond the splashing, and you start to feel what the world looked like to 1972 Chicagoans.
     And the letters are hilarious.

     Why Royko? 1972 newspapers are peanut butter, and Mike Royko is the chocolate that elevates the peanut butter into a delectable treat. You can have one without the other, but why would you? Royko dominated the Chicago newspaper landscape in a way that can’t be overstated, and uniquely in the city’s history.
     Also, 10-year-old Steve’s family subscribed to the Daily News. That meant they got an afternoon newspaper thrown on their front porch by a paperboy, and the first thing a Daily News reader did was open the paper to page three and read Royko in a long, thin column next to the fold.
     Each Royko 50+ covers a week of columns, pulling the best quotes and providing the sociopolitical context that Mike’s contemporaneous readers brought to his work--so you’ll even get the inside jokes. For instance, Mike’s column from September 19, 1972:  

     Mike proposed a new statue for the Civic Center Plaza—now Daley Plaza—which was already home to the Picasso. Mike’s statue idea was based on two recent news events he assumed his readers knew all about. First, the city and its newspapers were going nuts over the recent announcement that Marc Chagall would create a huge piece of public art for the First National Bank plaza, rivalling the nearby Picasso.
     Second, the Better Government Association (BGA) had just completed a hilarious investigation with the Daily News in which reporters followed CTA workers around and documented their busy work days. The pièce de résistance was a worker named Tad, photographed on the clock carrying five cases of beer from a liquor store to his CTA truck.
     Mike's readers had all seen the BGA's picture of Tad in the Daily News — it would have been like a viral Tik Tok video. Mike's column, then, only included Tad's statue, created by the paper's art department. For Royko 50+, I hunted down Tad's original infamous picture so readers today can see him in all his glory, compare with Tad's statue, and appreciate Mike's delicate wit:
     “Before all of our downtown plazas are covered with great works of art by Picasso, Chagall and other international artists, we should set one aside for a statue that would have meaning to Chicagoans,” wrote Mike. “Unlike our famous Picasso, there can be no confusion about who Tad is and what he is doing: He is a man carrying five cartons of beer….It is inspirational, because most of us would like to have a job in which carrying one armload of beer gives us our daily sweat. But the fact is, most of us don’t have the gumption to get out there and find a city job that allows us to flop down and rest.”     

     As I recall, Mike Royko threatened to break Neil’s legs once (editor's note: he did, and not in a joky, "ha-ha, I'll break your legs fashion" but in a "next time asshole I'll break your fucking legs" fashion), or something like that. I cover extra-column Royko doings in a Weekend Edition, and we’ll have to get Neil’s story in there soon.

     Lastly, sometimes an item in the news or Mike Royko sends us down an unexpected Chicago History Rabbit Hole, and then anything can happen. Take Mike’s February 25, 1972 column, in which Mike gets a tip that a has-been mobster named Louis Tornabene is scheduled for a small-time hearing at the Chicago Avenue police court. Mike shows up to mock Tornabene, because he used to be a tough guy running a mob strip joint called Eddie Foy’s, and now he’s a used car salesman.
     This rabbit hole leads us through FBI wire transcripts to the seedy strip joints that used to line the South Loop streets, on to one of the most famous entertainers of the late 19th century-early 20th century, and finally to the worst single-building fire in U.S. history, the Iroquois Theatre fire. That’s all thanks to Mike mentioning Eddie Foy’s, seen here in its 1950’s-60s heyday courtesy of John Chuckman’s Photos on Wordpress.

     Come over some time and take a stroll in 1972. It’s easier to appreciate when you can get out any time you want.

How can we miss Elon Musk if he won't go away?

     Hunkering down is a survival skill. There are times to fight, and times to flee, and times to keep your head low and wait.
     That last option seemed the only thing to do when Tesla mogul and Space X founder Elon Musk rode into town as the new boss of Twitter in late October. Yes, I began ballyhooing my stuff on Mastodon, or whatever they call their imitation of tweets ("PUBLISH!" the purple button says). But the service is even more random and ineffectual than Twitter, which is saying a lot, given how little traction my work gets there. Mastodon seems more like storing a few gallon jugs of water stashed in the basement — a symbolic gesture that won't really help much should  disaster occur.
     Besides, whatever change Musk was fomenting — inviting antisemites out of their holes to strut around in the light of day, banning a few journalists who had the temerity to write stories about him — didn't affect me in any direct sense. Twitter has always been a free-fire zone of malice and 99.999 percent of the stuff flying around I never see anyway. It's a breeze upon which to send my little balloons of writing wafting off into the aether.
     Honestly, I wouldn't have noticed a change except that I lost about 400 followers. I was closing in on 10,000, which is nothing in the larger picture, but a milestone in my dusty corner of the Sunset League. Now I've sunk below 9,500 and falling steadily, though I can't tell whether those are people more moral than myself fleeing the service, or robot followers being evaporated by some more efficient purging system put in place by the new regime.

    Now Musk has done one of his spurious polls to see whether he should step down as the head of Twitter, and the answer was a resounding "yes"—57 percent of 17 million voters said, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass, Elon." Never mind that those polls can easily be manipulated by the spambots and web robots that supposedly proliferated after the people in charge of getting rid of them were fired, or quit, when half the staff left upon Musk's arrival. It seems as if Musk will ignore the result anyway, in classic MAGA it's-only-fair-if-I-win style.
Last week I did ask myself if, by staying, I'm passively enabling evil, the good German sweeping his front step and not looking at the smoke coming from the crematorium. But all human systems are freighted with bad, and tweeting once a day doesn't seem like participating in wrongdoing any more than paying taxes or buying products. Leave reaching for moral purity to the vegans. Donald Trump was president for four years and I didn't go anywhere; how is this different?
     Musk has said he will abide by the people's choice, and maybe he will. Hard to tell when you're dealing with such an established hypocrite and liar. He could always bring in some even bigger asshat to run the thing. One hopes he goes back to running Tesla's, whose stock cratered in his absence, losing a third of its value over the past six months (including the 5 percent leap for joy it did Monday on learning Musk might stop spending his days sniping at people on Twitter).
     The poll strikes me as a fig leaf. With both Twitter and Tesla hemorrhaging value, the farce is bound to end sooner than later, as adults nudge Musk aside to a setting better suited to his ranting and preening.

     There's a reason children are warehoused in schools and not put in positions of authority. Ego is poison, attention an addictive drug, and people without the moderating influence of humility, maturity and good sense should avoid flailing around in public. Elon Musk spent $44 billion — most of it other people's money, of course — to cement his reputation as a bully with the impulse control of a toddler. From the public point of view, that might be a service, long term. Now we know. At least he was born in South Africa, and so can't be elected president of the United States. It's happened before.
     And then Trump went away. Or at least is in the painful, protracted process of going away. Waiting works. I've worked for my share of bad bosses before. They tend to move on down the pike if you just are patient. They arrive, manifest their inability, flail around, and then head off to explore new horizons while those behind heave a grateful sigh. The model I used was a previous classic business disaster, when Quaker Oats bought Snapple for $1.7 billion in November, 1994, twice its actual market value, ran the brand into the ground, and sold it for $300 million, half its actual worth, in March 1997. The entire fiasco didn't take three years to unfold, start to finish. I can't imagine Musk lasting that long. Heck, at this rate, he'll be gone by springtime.

Northshore Notes: I love you, Gene Hackman

     And if you suspect I was pleased to find a photo that includes both Gene Hackman AND luggage, well, you're right.

By Caren Jeskey

     “The Nanny costs $29.95 and is available at Chicago Trunk and Leather Works.” Somehow, this electronic babysitter that beeps when your child wanders too far never really took off, as far as I know. Luckily, Chicago Trunk and Leather Works at 12 South Wabash also sold Tumi suitcases and leased-out aluminum Halliburton briefcases. The shop opened back in the days when local phone numbers started alphabetically: 312-FR2-0845. By the time I found them in the late 80s, the store was owned and run by Ken and Ron Levine, whose grandfather created the business.
     Selling luggage and leather wallets in an old-school storefront on Wabash was the ultimate Chicago job as a teen. I felt urban and cool when the Red Line screeched towards downtown from my north side digs. “Watch the closing doors!” the ever cheerful conductor Michael Powell called out. (Yeah, so I was groped once in a CTA station, but I'd say just once counts as fortunate). Exiting somewhere on State, piss soaked tunnel air — tinny and cold in the winter and acrid in the summer — chased me from the platform all the way up the escalator. Mouth breathing was worse because then you could taste it. The reward came as olfactory senses yielded to the aroma of Garrett’s popcorn at street level. The fetching aroma of caramel and real cheddar cheese beckoned me into the shop to bag up and weigh out a portion. If I was sad, the bag was bigger. If I was happy, just a nibble would do. 

     The store hosted a gang of misfits, sitcom style. There was Betty, who seemed quite mature to me at all of 30. Her daily costume included perfectly coiffed finger waves, matte red lipstick, and a smart two piece suit à la Mad Men. There was Tom, who mostly stocked but would pitch in wherever needed. Tom and Betty (not their real names; I wouldn't want to injure somebody, even at this far remove) would fly apart from each other if I climbed the stairs to the storage loft too quickly and caught them in a tangle.
     Brad was the sweet, funny guy with smiling eyes. A member of the family. My kind boss Ken seemed to bring the best out in everyone. Ken and his wife Shelley took me under their wing and we became friends. When the store opened a second location, I happily took my station at 900 North Michigan in the new Bloomingdale’s Mall, as we called it. One day Ken, always looking out for others, pulled me aside. “Caren. We have a very special guest here. Gene Hackman. I want you to take care of him. Focus on what he wants, and don’t make too big a deal of it.” I did as I was told. Parents out there, I BET you wish your teens listened to you as willingly as I did to Ken.
     I helped the poised and respectful Mr. Hackman — who knew how to treat the help — pick out a wallet for his wife. As I handed the star his bag, I said “Mr. Hackman. My mother always tells my father that you are the only man she’d leave him for.” He laughed, of course, and offered “would you like me to write her a note?” We found him an 8x10 lined piece of notebook paper. He wrote “Dear Myra. I love you. Gene Hackman.” I wrapped it up and gave it to her as a gift for Christmas.

     "Dear Friends: As one who has experimented extensively with life in the home and community, using real people in true-life situations, I doubt that any playthings could prepare a child for one millionth of what is going to hit him in the teeth, ready or not." 

              —Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

"Everybody hates the Jews"

 

Lindsey Liss (Photo courtesy of Robert Chiarito)

     Fish don't feel wet, or moist, or clammy, or any of the other sensations we associate with water. Or so I assume. It isn't as if we can ask them. Though it would make sense. The water surrounds them, they're immersed in it, always. It's what they swim in. Fish can't always be thinking, "Look at me, I'm submerged."
     I feel the same way about antisemitism. My friends are fretting about it being on the rise, and it certainly is. But being alarmed or outraged or offended or even irked — it's kind of the reaction they're going for, no? How about being bored instead? Antisemitism is so dull, always the same plots and libels, the same ooo-scary cabal running the world. I wish. To me, antisemitism is like the price of gas: it goes up, it goes down, but you're always paying something. You're never free of the cost. Sometimes Jews are singled out and hated and harried more than other times. But the pilot light is always burning.
     A friend posted on his Facebook page a cri du coeur by David Telisman called "Anti-Semitism Hurts So Badly That It's Hard To Put It Into Words," and while I understand that people are entitled to their reactions, I also wanted to say, "Really? You're hurt? So badly? By Kyrie Irving?" 

     To me, Kyrie Irving doesn't even register on the antisemitic scale. If you're hurt badly by the various nutteries expressed by a basketball star, then how do you process Dachau? 
     Maybe because I'm of the first post-Holocaust generation that had this stuff really ground into me. At times the religion seemed a death cult; pushing back again antisemitism — and the antisemitism of previous generations at that — was all we did. The religion itself was an afterthought, the way we passed the time, waiting to be killed.

      I was born 15 and a half years after Auschwitz was liberated. That was antisemitism. Kanye and Kyrie is mental illness, focused on Jews, vented freely thanks to the liberation of wealth and fame. Think of all the people who feel the same way but never make a peep. Prejudice is so universal, such an easy high, emotional heroin for the lazy and stupid, that almost everybody shoots up some bigotry at one point or another. And hating Jews is so easy, so consequence free, generally. The shocking thing to me about West and Irving is not that they said what they did, but that they actually had real world repercussions for saying it. That isn't worrisome; that's good. 

      But I also don't think their censure is going to change anything, except maybe make antisemitism worse, by provoking the aggrievement that feeds it in the first place.  The old Louis Farrakhan two-step: say loathsome things about the Jews, then point to the alarmed reaction to what you said as more evidence they're out to get you. Talk about a vicious circle. 

     To me, antisemitism draws not so much fear, as a grin of recognition. There's no need for me to draw attention to it, because either you already understand it too well, or you never will.  Besides, it's a self-own. Anyone who expresses that kind of garbage has already undercut themselves. Who cares what they think? I mean honesty, with Kanye West, you could wipe away every remark he ever made about Jews, and he still seemed crazy, years ago. 

     Maybe I just got in the habit of shrugging it off. I grew up in a completely gentile area. Some years, I was the only Jew in my school. Antisemitism has been rearing up, now and then, since I was 6, and Bobby Koch told me I was going to hell. I wasn't hurt, never mind badly. I was slightly confused. Hell? What's that? And why? You believe that? Really? Gosh.

     It isn't as if Bobby Koch, 6, was an antisemite, just aping whatever his parents or priests or both told him. Can't really blame him for it. Kanye West is emotionally 6 years old. How much mental space do I have to spend on his personal problems? And he's one guy. Think of how many others there are.
     What's the classic Tom Lehrer refrain from "National Brotherhood Week."
   

               Oh the Protestants, hate the Catholics.

               And the Catholics, hate the Protestants.

              All the Hindus hate all the Muslims.

              And everybody hates the Jews.

     That's funny. Because it's true. More or less. Who can really tell? The guy down the block who's walking his dog and sees me walking mine and bolts in the opposite direction, every time. Antisemitic? Socially awkward? Upset by some column I wrote nine years ago? Could be. Could be because I'm a dick and don't know it — they never do — and am being justly shunned. Some combination? Who can tell? He might not even know himself. Though I do suspect that if we had bonded at Bible camp, we'd be chatting it up while our pooches sniffed each other.
     What to do about it then? I push back by not being ashamed of being Jewish. I've written about every aspect of being Jewish in my column — holidays, bar mitzvahs, brises. The best refutation to those who want to cast Judaism as something malign is to portray it as a benefit, a boon, something wonderful. Which it is. 

     Generally, I sidestep haters and bullies. No need to let the poison in, to react. Too many of them anyway, and they want you down in the gutter with them, where they feel at home. I'm not one for symbolic acts, but I do admire people who take the trouble to try to confront evil, to do something about problems in the living world, feeble though those gestures be. So when a reader sent me photos of Chicago artist Lindsey Liss draping some altered Chicago flags over the Kennedy, as a little push back for the antisemitic displays in Los Angeles, I felt like talking with her.

     "What really made me think I really need to do something was seeing those banners over the freeway in Los Angeles; the white supremacists. Just crazy," she said. "Seeing Kanye, and his number of followers continue to rise, was absolutely shocking."
     Liss doesn't think you can be a bigot and claim to love Chicago.
     "He says he's from Chicago, he even named one of his kids, 'Chicago,'" she said. "We're taking in refugees now. Thinking about the rich history of our city. It's not just about Jewish people and antisemitism. It's about equality. Think about the great migration of Blacks from the South to the North, to our city. It just doesn't jibe with us. It's not who we are."
    Pretty to think so. While the great migration aspect is certainly true, as is the sanctuary city aspect now, Chicago also has a tradition of racism as wide and deep as can be found in any Southern backwater. It might be the most segregated city on the planet. Antisemitism was so strong here that the Standard Club was one of the few Jewish organizations to discriminate against Jews, the Germanic founders turning up their noses at their unwashed Eastern European brethren.  Louis Farrakhan is based in Chicago. Eugene Sawyer had staffers telling the media that AIDS was a plot by Jewish doctors. 

     I asked Liss: isn't hatred as Chicago as deep dish pizza? 
     "That's what we were," she said. "I like to think, with all these refugees coming in now, that's who we are."
     And who she is demands action.
     "If felt like if I don't do something, say something, who will?" she said. "My kids are the great grandchildren of Holocaust survivors. So are my nieces and nephews. If you're not outraged..."
      I'm not outraged. To me, being outraged is like being pregnant. You can't be a little outraged. If I'm outraged that Kyrie Irving tweeted out links to an antisemitic film, what am I going to be when jeering Red Hats make me clean the streets of Northbrook with a toothbrush? Which I can very well see happening in 2026. I'm hoarding outrage for when I truly need it. Hopefully never; maybe soon. I can see the argument that by piling on every slight now, we avoid worse. I'm not sure if that's how it works though.
     One of Liss's signs said "Honk if you believe in equality." There were many honks, much support. And much opposition.
     "Lots of people gave me the finger," she said. "I was shocked."
      I'm not. She's lucky she didn't hang that banner in Mount Greenwood. 

     Liss is 47, lives in Lakeview, has four kids.
     "Raising kids in the city is tough," she said.
      I told her I seldom experience what I consider antisemitism, perhaps because I so thoroughly screen it out. Readers venting outrage doesn't count — they'll say anything mean. I discount it. It's a meaningless buzz.

     Not so her.
     "I can't even tell you , how many times people say things inappropriate to me," she said. "Microaggressions. not knowing I'm Jewish. Saying, 'But you don't look Jewish.' What does that even mean?"
     Maybe that's what insulates me. I look as Jewish as the leering moneychanger on the cover of a copy of Der Sturmer. Maybe people put on their best there's-a-Jew-right-over-there behavior when I'm around. Ix-nay on the ew-Jay atred-hay.
     Maybe I find the whole thing is so ridiculously stupid that I can't believe it's real. Would have a hard time carrying on if I focus too much on its reality. Maybe that's the problem. Because I also know, intellectually, it is indeed very real. All too real. Always has been.




.

Northshore Notes: Accidentally Perfect

     I'm back, after a pleasant break overseas, just in time to read this lovely ramble into Chicago by EGD's Northshore correspondent, Caren Jeskey. (I wonder if your takeaway will be the same as mine: "Joan Cusack has a store?") One of the delights of Chicago is there are always new things to learn about it.

By Caren Jeskey      

 

    Keeping up with professional licensing boards is one of those joyous tasks of life. For those of you in regulated professions, you know what I mean.
     Every two years, LCSWs (licensed clinical social workers) must acquire 30 hours of continuing education units. Required CEUs are a good thing. Therapists such as myself ought to be keeping up with education. It connects us with experts in the field and helps us keep up with the times. Attending these classes with fellow clinicians reminds me of the importance of our vocation. It also gives me cutting edge information that I can use to enhance my own well-being.

     Eight weeks ago, one client felt they were spiraling out of control and had hit rock bottom. Just a couple of weeks later, they were feeling less depressed and more hopeful. This past week they shared feeling “a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I am feeling ease. I am not all the way fine, but I have some peace.” Yes, a plug for therapy. There is no shame in asking for help. Not only does it take a village to raise a kid, it takes a village to care for ourselves sometimes.
     I dotted all of the i’s, crossed the t’s, and paid the fees for my Texas license. (Illinois’ comes up next year). Renewed for two more years. Yee-haw! Or so I thought. Late last Friday afternoon I received an email, letting me know that my TX license was delinquent as of the next day, October 1, pending fingerprints and a criminal background check. This a new requirement, which I had missed.
     I panicked briefly then pulled myself together. I put on my big-girl (work from home) comfy lounge pants and read through the instructions. I was given one option —  IdentoGO on Roosevelt Road, just east of the river, with a boastful 2.4 star rating and lots of scary stories about rude, disorganized staff.

     I cleared my Monday morning calendar and headed out down Hunter Road in Wilmette, which turns into Crawford Avenue. The road where “a streetcar conductor who announced ‘Crawford Avenue’ was slugged by a Polish passenger” in the 1930s. Oh, Chicago. You’re so scrappy. At that time a battle between those who wanted the street to be named after Casimir Pułaski, and those who wanted to preserve the history of the road, which was named after pioneer Peter Crawford (who founded Crawford, Illinois— now known as Lawndale), ensued. It’s nice to see that both sides kind of won.

     What a great way to start the week — rolling down the street in my trusty steed (aka Cosmica, the Honda Civic), windows down on a sunny day, with the sights, sounds and smells of the city. Orange vested construction workers and cement trucks peppering the road. Cars with thumping bass overtook me from the bike lane. Men on bicycles with white buckets bungee corded to their two-wheelers, off to find windows to wash for a buck or two.
     Entering the city from the north on a diagonal street is exciting. I followed Elston past the iconic Morton Salt warehouse that’s now slated to become a music venue. As I rounded another bend, there she was. Lady Chicago. Glass skyscrapers sparkling with mid-morning sun. I almost stopped for a hot dog. Taking DesPlaines Street is the perfect antidote to the bumper to bumper traffic I’d have found just a bit east in the Loop, which dead ended me to “the only national furniture store that started because of a motorcycle crash” on Roosevelt. I turned east. Once over the river, I turned north on Delano Court. I felt I was on vacation somewhere new, no idea the area had been so developed. After an hilarious venture into IdentoGO, where there seemed no rhyme or reason to the “system,” I now had hours to roam.

     Walking over the Roosevelt Bridge made me feel small, in a good way. The skyline view to the north is impressive, and the steel bridge to to the south speaks to the power of the iron and hard work that has built the bones of our town. I stumbled upon a blanket in a plastic bag, tucked away behind the piss soaked watch tower and decided not to spend too much time back there, alone. I headed to the well-stocked Whole Foods and got a snack, contemplating my place here in this big city.
     After day-tripping for long enough, Cosmica and I headed north down Michigan Avenue, then skirted onto the inner drive. I realized that Joan Cusack’s store was close by, a place I’ve always wanted to go. I popped in, and there she was behind the counter. I resisted fan-girling— she is one of my all time favorites — and said “hi! I am looking for a rubber chicken.” Without missing a beat, she said “I may have some in the back.” I told her that I wanted to buy a small gift for a friend who works around the corner at the Latin School. They had a bomb threat a few weeks ago, and I wanted to bring her a little pick me up to undo some of the stress.
     Joan came back out with a small bag of mini rubber chickens. Perfect. She also handed me a bag of orange jelly candies, the kind my grandma always had. Just the right touch to add to a small paper goodie bag. I suggested that she carry Neil’s new book, and she seemed interested. (I embarrassingly fan-girled a bit, took my bumbling leave, and headed to Latin). A very nice day in our very cool city.