Notes from Chicago
SUNDAY
Tha-THUNK! The wheels of the 737 hit the ground at Midway Airport right on time that Sunday
afternoon. The flight was mostly uneventful, except for a few pockets of “choppy air” that the pilot
warned us about after we had already gotten through it. And I was too busy eating my six
peanuts and four pretzels to worry about it, actually.
Delta Air Lines is still Delta Air Lines, though. After walking through the tiny terminal that is
Chicago’s Midway Airport – about the size of the Melbourne, Florida airport – we walk up to the
baggage claim. My first bag comes through in a few minutes, then Sheila’s bag. But we wait and
wait and wait for my hanging bag. “Dammit, not again!” That’s right! I’ve been to Chicago
exactly two times. Delta has lost my luggage coming in here exactly two times!
Sheila and I found out that Delta’s presence at this airport is such that they don’t even have a
baggage office. You have to go to the ticket counter to make a claim for a bag. Just like the
other 100 people that were waiting in line to get booked on the next flight. While she waited and
handled the snippy Delta counter agent, I stepped aside and went to the ATM.
Sorry, we are unable to process your transaction at this time.
Wonderful! This trip is off to a great start already!
But Sheila got the “baggage recovery” process started and with most of our luggage, we hop in a
cab, which was driven by a guy I am sure is a member of Hamas! In fact, I’m sure I saw him in
the previews for that new Denzell Washington/Bruce Willis flick. Allah be praised! I’ll kill these
Americans – one taxi accident at a time. Seriously! Hell, I know, well, okay, maybe one Muslim,
but this dude.. Just had a sort of look in his eye, ya know? He’s driving a cab.. That means cash,
not paychecks or direct deposit. Sending cash overseas… To Hezbollah? He had on a long,
simple green overcoat.. Perfect for hiding…. a Kalishnikov machine gun? A couple dozen sticks
of dynamite? I dunno. He just had that “I’m acting like a stupid immigrant, but if only you knew”
look on his face. It creeped me out!
But not as much as the neighborhood we were in near the airport. It’s a fact of life in America that
we put the airports in the crappiest neighborhoods. And, boy, was this crappy! I looked up while
stopped at a light, and noticed a “Hoffa for Teamster’s President” sticker on a lamppost. And saw
another. And another. And yet another. Which also wigged me out! To my Southern
sensibilities, the stickers may as well have said “Fidel for Congress” or “Trotsky for Senate”, but
Sheila seemed unfazed by it all.
After twenty minutes or so, we pulled up to our destination, the Swissotel Chicago. This place,
like it’s Atlanta sister, is swank ! “Don’t forget to try our butt-wiping service, sir! There’s a phone
right by the toilet in each room!” I mean, our room was not that big, but very nice, but the
bathroom …. It was a sight to see: bigger than both of our bathrooms in Dunwoody, this john has
more marble than the Parthenon, a shower stall, a bathtub, and a vanity mirror that’d make Zsa
Zsa Gabor green with envy! And don’t forget the phone!
So, we mellowed out for a while, getting the Delta Air Lines out of our system. It wasn’t long
though before Sheila started the chant: “Hungry – Hungry – Hungry!” It’s a testament to how
sweet this girl is that she coulda wanted to eat anywhere, but she asked if I wanted to go to
Geno’s East. I’m sure my face lit up like a little kid’s!
See, I came to Chicago with the folks back in … 1985? And we asked a taxi driver where the
best place to get pizza was. And he said Geno’s East. And it was the best damn pizza that I
ever had! Think back to your warmest, fuzziest moments… Your first puppy… Your first hit in
Little League.. The time you thought your folks forgot your birthday, only to hear “SURPISE!” and
see everyone there smiling… Well, when I think of that sort of thing, I think of Geno’s Pizza, a
warm, fuzzy memory drowning in pepperoni and cheese.
But apparently not a good memory to our taxi driver! Chicago is a pizza town (as he said), so
asking someone where the “best place to get pizza is“ is like asking someone from Seattle where
the best coffee is.. Or asking someone from Atlanta where the best barbecue is… Or someone
from Miami where the best paella is. You’ll get a million answers! And Geno’s East is to Chicago
what Mary Mac’s is to Atlanta: a restaurant that the locals used to frequent, but advertised in too
many of the “Atlanta this Week” magazines that you always find in hotel rooms, so now it’s mostly
tourists that eat there. And after dissing Geno’s as an institution, he then mentioned something
about sanitation problems, which seemed to make Sheila uneasy, until I brought up Fellini’s. She
laughed and said, “Okay, I guess you’ve got me there!”
Apparently some folks hadn’t heard about the “supposed” sanitation problems! We pulled up to
the address on East Superior and there was a line about thirty deep. Not bad for a Sunday.
Sometimes being a smoker pays off, though… The “door dude” (too cool to be a matré d’ ) went
down the line and asked for “two for the bar”, and after each couple in front of us turned up their
noses and made the “smoking?” face, he got to us… Were not proud! We’re not dumb, either!
We’ll let you brave souls face the 40 degree weather (and 15 mph winds)! Were going inside!
Now, dinner was dinner. Nothing noteworthy happened at dinner, except the bewildered look on
the bartender’s face when we ordered a ”large”. “You sure? You gonna take some home?” Hell
yes! I’d come to the right place! As if the folks at Pizza Hut would give you that look if you
ordered one of their large pizzas!
So, without further ado, lemme explain this pie to you:
First of all, it’s thick. When Chicagoans say that this is “deep dish”, they sure as hell mean it.
Take two of those “Domino Hut” pan pizzas and put them on top of each other.. It’s still about a
quarter inch or so too short! Stick a thin crust pizza in between the two pan pizzas.. Now you
understand what we’re talking about here!
Next, there’s the crust. I’m guessing that the crust is made from a 50-50 mixture of corn meal
and flour… The crust is yellow and has a slight flavor of cornbread, but there’s enough flour in it
to give it the gluten structure of crust… So to imagine throwing cheese and sauce onto Mom’s
cornbread ain’t exactly right… But not really wrong, either.
After that comes the cheese. Yes, the cheese. The cheese forms a ¼ inch layer on the bottom
of the pizza. Strange to the uninitiated, but just read on…
We ordered the “supreme”, which comes with either pepperoni or sausage. Sheila wanted
sausage, which the folks at Geno’s pound in to one huge circle. So, instead of crumbled
sausage, like you’re used to, you get the crust, then the cheese, then a solid layer of sausage.
Finally, the vegetables are there to grace the top. On the “supreme” that means onions, green
peppers, and mushrooms, all fresh and all combined with a thick, fresh tomato sauce.
Put these all together and what do you get? A 35-pound wonder that’s the best tasting pizza
you’ve ever had! No kidding, this pizza weighs a ton. You have to eat it with a fork, that is until
you get to the very end of a slice. But even then, you’ve got to apply some gyroscopic principles
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of physics, holding the slice at an angle, to keep the thing from either falling apart or falling into
your lap.
If you and your significant other are really hungry, how much pizza do you usually eat? Sheila
and I usually eat just enough pizza so that I don’t have much in the way of lunch the next day, like
two or three pieces. And Sheila was really hungry. She ate a piece and a half. I ate three and a
half pieces and thought I was gonna bust. So we had the guy wrap up the remaining three slices
and the “to go” bag weighed as much as the last large Dominos Pizza I ordered!
Unlike my pop, who buys T-shirts at every bar, restaurant, gas station, hardware store, and
restroom that he stops at in the Caribbean, I usually pass. But not this time! We went next door
to the takeout stand and I got me one of them “Geno’s East” shirts. I wanted to cry. Well, not
really. But it was like finding your comfort blanket or favorite stuffed animal from when your were
a little kid. “Gosh, mamma! I’m HOME!”
Little Sheila was tired. I wasn’t tired, per se, but that pizza was too much for one man to handle.
I wanted to walk up Michigan Avenue for a bit to work off the pizza, but she was tired and cold, so
we hailed a cab and headed back to the room. Sheila fell asleep in a hurry, so I watched a bit of
free HBO before dozing off, with visions of pizza pies dancing in my head.
MONDAY
Well, today was the day that SmithKline folks were supposed to arrive in Chicago for the “Annual
Investigator’s Meeting”. Some folks, like Mike Jeffries, had been at the meeting in Atlanta the
week before and weren’t gonna fly back to Seattle on Friday just to come to Chicago on Monday,
so he stayed in the Windy City all weekend. Sheila and I came a day early because we wanted
to and also because the only flight available on Monday left Atlanta at 6 something a.m. Not this
white boy, Jackson! You ain’t getting my ass up at 4am for a flight to anywhere!
Anyway, the bottom line is that nothing was planned for the SB folks until 5 that afternoon. So I
decided to make Monday “Sheila’s Day”. Whatever she wanted to do, we’d do…. Which was
shop. Imagine that!
We bundled up and headed out of the hotel.
When you come down Wacker Drive from the Swissotel, the first building that you see on
Michigan Avenue is the Wrigley Building, a huge 1920’s affair modeled after a cathedral in Spain.
I’d love to be more specific, but I don’t have the map in front of me that would tell me just which
cathedral in Spain it’s modeled after. But I do know that it’s made out of hand-polished terra
cotta. Sheila had a taxi driver tell her that the building must be cleaned by hand every two years,
including the intricate clock tower. Wow! Imagine being given a bucket and brush and told to
clean the IBM Tower. Talk about tennis elbow!
Moving on, it’s next to the Wrigley Building that you’ll find one of Chicago’s finest ironies.
See, there are two daily newspapers in the Windy City: one is the Sun-Times, which is sort of like
the New York Post, only more… ‘reality-based’. There is also the Tribune, a bastion of “serious”
journalism, Chicago’s own New York Times. And the buildings that they inhabit reflect this
distinction. The Sun-Times building is a fine example of crappy 1970’s American “office
generica”. It could substitute for the East Utah State library, the municipal building of Fort Worth,
Texas, or – better yet - that ugly green box that blots the landscape of downtown Decatur,
Georgia.
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Across the street, the Tribune Tower, on the other hand, may well be the most beautiful office
building in America – or the world. Imagine a gothic cathedral that goes up, up, up instead of out.
Imagine that Cologne Cathedral or Notré Dame took up only one city block, but was 36 stories
tall. According to an info sheet, the building’s design was decided on by contest, which was won
by John Mead Howells and Raymond M. Hood of New York. They split the $50,000 in prize
money – hardly chump change in 1922 dollars!
And so, the building rises from the street, crowned at the top with flying buttresses, spires,
gargoyles, and just about everything else that you might think of when someone says “cathedral”.
But that’s not even the best part! Down at street level, there are “the stones”. Actually, they’re
not all stones, but I think that that’s what the office workers call them. In any case, along at least
two sides of this gorgeous building are 134 stones and bricks and pieces of doors from world
landmarks from all over – built in to the wall as if it were just another part of the building - with an
inscription telling you what it is. Sheila and I walked down two sides of the building, making a list
of all the stones, which include, but are not limited to:
The old General Post Office Dublin, the site of the 1916 Easter Rising; the Taj
Mahal; the Coliseum; Notré Dame; Cologne Cathedral; the Parthenon; the
Forbidden City; David’s Tower, Jerusalem; Westminster Abbey; the White
House; Edinburgh Castle; The Alamo; the Berlin Wall; the Great Wall of China;
Hamlet’s Castle, Denmark; Arch of Triumph (listed as such, in ENGLISH!);
Lincoln’s home; Ft. Sumter; Bunker Hill; the Kremlin; the 1983 Chicago World’s
Fair; St. John’s Church, Richmond (where Patrick Henry gave his “Liberty or
Death” speech); Great Pyramid of Giza; the Dome of St. Peter’s; the Houses of
Parliament; the House of Commons (different part?); Mammoth Cave, KY;
Independence Hall, Philadelphia; the Wall of Londonderry, where James II was
defeated in 1689, starting this whole “Northern Ireland” mess); Princeton
University; Antarctica; Omaha Beach, Normandy; Aachen Town Hall,
Germany; Anzio Beach, Italy; Mt. Rainier, Washington; Hans Christian
Andersen’s home; part of the doors to St. Peter’s; the Nelson House, which
had something to do with the Battle of Yorktown; the Banteay Srei Hindu
Temple in Cambodia; Floddenfield, Northumberland, England (site of a 1513
battle between the Scots and English); Custer’s battlefield from the Little Big
Horn; and, of course, a piece of a wall from Andersonvile Prison, right here in
our own home state.
You knew that was coming.. They just couldn’t have take a piece of the old wall by the river in
Savannah, or maybe one of the burned-out cornerstones left from when that bastard Sherman
came through! No – “fiddle-de-dee!” They just had to get that thing, didn’t they?
Anyway, also of interest in the Tribune building is WGN radio, whose studio is right one the
corner of the building. There are two huge windows that allow any moron on the street – like me
– to look in and see who’s on the air and what they’re rambling about. Since it was early still, we
saw “Terry and Judy” or “Jenny and Judy” or whoever WGN’s morning “feel good” show features.
You know, like “Good Morning Atlanta”, just on the radio. Pretty Cool.
We started making our way down Michigan, which is also known as the “Miracle Mile” because
it’s a miracle if you can afford anything there! We walked past Tiffany’s, Gucci, Saks, and a
bunch of other stores with French and Italian names that we couldn’t afford when I noticed
something interesting… The pamphleteers!
They always say “damn South.. Bible Belt.. it’s stupid” under their breath, but I tell ya, I’ve never
seen more religious freaks in one place like this… EVER! The sign at the airport outta read:
“Welcome to Chicago! More copies of ‘Awake!’ and ‘The Watchtower’ than you can shake a stick
at!” Some of the folks were members of the “homeless” (of course), but others were nice-looking
suburban folks in Casual Corner clothes, and they were all handing out salvation by the sheet. At
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least they were nice and polite, not like Atlanta homeless folk. Imagine if one of the bums down
near Five Points got religion: “I said FIND JESUS dammit!”
Our walk down Michigan took us to Marshall Field’s, which Sheila seemed to smell from a mile
away, like a hound dog after a fox!
It’s odd, those Yankee department stores. Having lived in Atlanta, I’m used to stores that go out,
not up. You can fire a shotgun at one end of the Lenox Square Macy’s and the shells will just fall
to the floor before finding the other side; not so here. The Field’s store is only about as big is 6 of
my living rooms (well, okay maybe a bit bigger), only it goes up for 8 floors. Hell, my ol’ Granny
Ewing could’ve lined up on one wall and spit her snuff to the other. But maybe that’s not a good
example, since she could hit a spittoon from fifty feet! Anyway, we couldn’t afford nothin’ on 7 of
those 8 floors and Sheila was hungry. She wanted to eat at the Field’s Marketplace.
Which we did. It’s funny. As I was eating my chicken sandwich, I looked around a noticed that
myself and this other guy that had been dragged in against his will were the only two men in the
whole deli. The other 45 people were women. I just can’t picture myself getting hungry and
calling my pal James up to go eat at Nordstrom, ya know? Don’t get me wrong, the food is good
– except for that “paella salad” that Sheila got that looked suspiciously like… cold paella. When I
asked her about it, Sheila hissed (so the other 45 women wouldn’t think that she was dating a
moron) “it’s salad, dummy”. Sorry, maybe I’m just a dumb guy, knuckles dragging the ground and
all, but… it’s not salad, it’s cold paella. Other couples would’ve argued. Others might get into a
fist fight. I just looked at her and we both laughed. One of those gender things. She can tell the
difference between cold paella and paella salad, and I know that muffler problems have nothing
to do with the car not starting.
Next it was Filene’s Basement, which I gathered (correctly) to be a … nice Marshall’s. I know that
I’m getting old when I go to a clothing store and come out with four pairs of socks, a pair of
boxers, and a belt. I mean, when you’re a kid the last thing that you want is clothes. Then you’re
a teen you define yourself with your clothes. Now you’re 27 and… I need some new socks. How
lame!
Next stop: The Sears Tower! We took a cab there, totally unprepared for the sticker shock we’d
get upon arrival. When I last went (granted, 13 years ago), it cost like $2 a person. How it’s $7!
Seven lousy bucks just to get to the top of the Tower! Damn! Sears needs to make some easy
cash, I guess. I mean, unlike paying $899 for a fridge, what are you gonna say when you get to
the Tower? “$7? That’s too steep! It’s only $4 to get up to the top of the John Hancock Building!
Let’s go there, honey!”
The best part of all may be the elevator ride to the top. Stomachs heave, ears pop. That elevator
sure feels like it’s moving faster than the 19.2 mph one of the guides told us it moves. But then
you get to the top and.. whew! What a view!
“See that blinking light over there? You can just barely make out the tower that holds it up… See
it? That’s the air traffic control tower in Caracas, Venezuela!”
Okay, okay, I’m lying… But you can see forever AND four states on a clear day. Recorded
messages give you information on the buildings and land on each of the four sides of the
Skydeck, some of it obvious (“Behind the grey building in front of you is Lake Michigan”) some of
it is not (“The people of Chicago decided to reverse the direction of the Chicago River in 1891”).
But it’s only from up here, 1500 feet in the air, that you can appreciate the immense size of this
town. It’s flat as a pancake and just goes on and on and on… Imagine if Atlanta suddenly
contracted, and all of the houses from downtown to Buford were laid out in a grid on flat land with
all the empty space taken away. It’s that big. Well, bigger. Duh. But nevertheless amazing. It
seems exponentially bigger, but as I say, were Atlanta flat….
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After stopping at a poster shop across from the Art Institute, we headed back to the hotel for her
reception. I had nothing to do during that, so I just decided to take a nap. Sheila came back a
couple of hours later and rustled me up to go out to eat. Where to? Harry Caray’s.
Yup. Ol’ Harry owned a restaurant before he kicked the bucket this year. In case you wanna call
and make reservations, their number is (I’m not kidding) 773-HOLY-COW. Harry’s serves up
Italian, and Sheila and I went with six of her co-workers, which made for an interesting time. For
example, one of the games that SmithKline employees like to play is “pretend to order the wine”:
Mike and Javier quickly glanced over the wine list and Javier “ordered” a $140 bottle of wine. He
lost because he missed the $160 bottle of red. Poor guy. I guess. And the pharmaceutical folks
call us IT people “geeks”. As a group, they really have a strange sense of humor….
But the food was excellent. I decided on Veal Scaloppini: heavenly thin medallions of veal
smothered in a spicy tomato sauce with crunchy vegetables. For once, I was bummed out at not
getting a salad, though. I mean, for $17.95 you’d think that you’d at least get 89¢ worth of lettuce
and dressing, right? I was hungry, man! But alas, I contented myself with the veal and house
pasta – ziti in marinara sauce. Someone at the other end of the table ordered calamari, which
were absolutely delicious – though breaded a bit thickly for my taste. Sheila ordered linguine with
seafood, which included shrimp, clams, mussels, and their like. It was quite good, as I was to find
out later. I forget what Mike ordered, but Javier ordered a 13-ounce Fillet Minion, and he ate it all
– gristle, fat, you name it. The way that boy ate, you’d think that I’d have to stop him when he got
to the plate!
Things were winding down, and we were lucky to get a limo back to the room for only $20, which
when split amongst 6 people, 5 of whom will expense it anyway.. well, why the hell not? And I’d
need sleep too, ‘cos I had plans for Tuesday!
TUESDAY
Ahhhh. I love traveling west! I got up, fully refreshed, at 8:30, a full 45 minutes before my wakeup call. I enjoyed lounging around, eating a pastry, drinking a Diet Coke, having a smoke,
reading the USA Today they left at the door, and watching CNN. Which is funny. Because I
normally HATE the kind of person that gets up an hour early just to have “quiet time” before going
to work. Sheila would be busy all day, and thanks to the Internet, I had a whole day planned for
myself. I eventually showered and dressed, hoping that the fleece pullover would be enough
against the cold winds of Lake Michigan.
“Damn!” I’d walked maybe four blocks and the @!&% fleece was burning me up! I felt the sweat
pouring off my back. I stopped and took off the fleece en route to my first destination, The Field
Museum of Natural History.
I walked and walked and walked. The tourist map made it look as if the museum were only a few
blocks away. In reality, it was a few hundred blocks away. I passed the second stop of the day,
the Art Institute of Chicago, and saw the huge line to get in. I thanked my stars that the ‘Net told
me that I should go to Field first, as it was open from 9 to 5, for the Art Institute was open until 8.
And so, I walked. I’ve read of WWII refugees that didn’t walk this far. My feet ached as I passed
Grant Park. I ignored the feet as I finally saw the outline of Soldier Field in the near distance. I…
was totally confused. For such a pedestrian-friendly town.. things were awfully complicated.
Apparently when one gets close to the Museum Campus, the shortest distance between two lines
is… elliptical… no, wait.. diagonal? There are no signs at the intersection, except for “NO
PEDESTRIAN CROSSING” signs. Instead, you get to walk on this “pedestrian” path I shared
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with three or four pickups, walking under the street in a huge circle until I finally arrived at the
Field Museum.
But, there I was finally, and boy was I in for it at Field. This museum is smaller than the
Smithsonian Natural History Museum, but not by much. The first thing that I saw was an
extensive exhibit of American Indian artifacts. Which makes you wonder. I mean, who’s worse –
the cavalry soldier that came to kill you, or the intellectual that came to “preserve” you? I know
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that sure as hell hate to have all my minutiae on display (“Here’s a late 20 century American
toothbrush, and here’s what those primitive folk called a ‘nose hair clipper’…”), but I digress
before I fall into a pot of liberal mush. I mean, all personal feelings aside, how many bows and
arrows can you look at before fatigue sets in? The Field Museum must have a thousand bow and
arrow sets. After a while, they all meld and merge and become all swimmy in your head. I can
see this exhibit being used in a “kinder, gentler” China for torture: the subject walks alone down a
hall… There are nothing but 10,000 sets of bows and arrows on display.. Which is interesting at
first.. but soon he starts to panic.. he feels out of breath… he closes his eyes and visions of bows
and arrows swirl around in his head… his throat tightens… He confesses!
Seriously, though, One of the more interesting things I noted was that the Cherokee artifacts that
the Museum has are all… rough. The bows and arrows they have on display are far sturdier than
those of other tribes, but are not decorated in any way. Totally utilitarian. I thought that the
Cherokee were supposed to be about the most refined tribe on the continent… Hmmm… Does
the prejudice against Southerners extend to the Indians, too?
Next up: the “Inside Ancient Egypt” exhibit, which took place inside a complete mock up of a
pharaoh’s tomb. You walk in to the foyer (?) of the tomb and descend into the bowels of the
mock-up, which does include some actual decorated stones from ancient Egypt. There’s a spiral
staircase that leads down, made out of that steel with the “jellybean x” patterns on it, like a
parking garage might have; to which some smartass kid that shoulda known better asked his
teacher “did they have this in the real tomb?” Our Children. Our Future.
The highlight of the Egyptian gig was, as always, the mummies. Field has 5 adult mummies, 3
children, 2 infants, and a dozen or so cats preserved as mummies. Perhaps the most disturbing
is a small sarcophagus that the museum had X-rayed, only to find out that the poor thing’s arms
and legs were severely broken to get it to fit into the box. See, mummification started out being
for the pharaoh only. Then it filtered down to the upper and middle classes, like plastic surgery.
By the time poor Timmy ended up in the box, sarcophagi were being mass-produced and such
things as having your arms broken to fit in the box weren’t uncommon. Also of note in this exhibit
were several copies of the “Book of the Dead” on papyrus and Egyptian “death masks” that
changed dramatically around 320 BC. The Greeks, remember? The masks went from looking
akin to King Tut’s to looking like David, all in one generation.
Next up: “Life Over Time”, a unique exhibit that began by asking “what is time?” and then
branched off into the development of planet earth. First there was nothing, then there were
bacteria and their ilk. Next came photosynthesis and after that came.. well, you know the story.
On it went until you got to the dinosaurs. The Field Museum is proud of “Sue”, their latest
acquisition, the world’s most complete T. Rex skeleton. And aside from the dinosaur skeletons,
the coolest thing there is that all of the work on Sue’s fossil is done “out in the open”, that is,
behind glass. On this particular day, I saw a grad student with his headphones carefully working
either one of Sue’s teeth or part of a knee joint, I couldn’t tell which. He got up and went over to a
machine that spits out an air and baking soda mixture that gets all the dirt off the bone – much
like the machine at the dentist.
The final stop was the Hall of Gems, which had as its main attraction a 5,987 carat blue topaz. It
was BIG – 2.5 lbs. – and looked like a shimmering blue softball. The museum has displays of
jewelry from around the world which, while beautiful, confirmed my long-held suspicion that
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whether made in 2 Dynasty Egypt or 1100 AD’s Uganda – jewelry all looks the same. One other
thing of interest is that I learned that Tiger’s Eye is just petrified asbestos. Hmmm.
I’d been at Field for a couple of hours, and now it was time to hit the road again. I cut through
Grant Park, which is an odd place. It’s rectangular in shape, bordered on one side by the lake,
and on the other by the train tracks. Running right through the middle is six-lane Columbus Drive.
Imagine Piedmont Park with Jimmy Carter Boulevard running right through the middle of it. It
makes for a very skinny park. In fact, the space in between Columbus and the tracks is barely
wide enough for a baseball field. I wondered how many poor schnooks have had their
windshields smashed out by weekend Mark McGuires at that place. Hehehe!
I came out on Michigan Avenue, and I knew that I was in the right place when I saw packs of
those “so damn cute, but so damn dumb” art-girls that used to make my guts go all squishy when
I was a strapping buck. Well, they’re still cute, but they haven’t gotten any smarter. I guess. I
mean, I didn’t talk to any of them or anything, but some of the “flowers, trees, and sunshine” talk I
overheard made me cringe. Does God make you artsy by sucking out half of your brain? If we
get to choose before we’re born what we are to be, does God say: “OK, Karen, you can be artistic
or you can be smart. Which do you want?”
And the art-girls weren’t alone either. There were also the art-womyn and art -dudes there, too. I
dunno which one had more hair on their legs, either! Throw in a mix of tourists from Nebraska –
going to the Art Institute only because the hotel guidebook said Mary Cassat was a great artist
and that you too should go see it – and a healthy share of foreign visitors, and that’s what’s
outside the Art Institute.
What’s inside is a different story. I came on Tuesday, which is “free day” for Chicago museums.
A huge thronging mass of folks moved in everywhichaway. Exasperated ushers were pointing
patrons in this way and that, and the general picture was of Grand Central Station at rush hour. I
made my way through the mass of humanity, half of which seemed unfamiliar with standard
American codes of etiquette for large crowds, like ‘stay to the right’. Almost by instinct, I made
my way up the stairs to the European collection.
And what an effect! The huge stone building looks just how you would expect it to from the
outside (check out their web site for a picture!). Inside the massive stone foyer, one climbs up
some broad stairs and, to get to the European collection, one is forced to turn around. And the
first thing that you’ll see is a massive El Greco painting. Originally painted as the backdrop for an
altar, El Greco The Assumption throws all your perspective out of kilter with its huge scale. IN
this case, Mary is truly larger than life. By about three or four feet, I imagine.
Beyond this, I cannot give justice to the collection of European art the Institute offers. I spent 4
and ½ hours at the museum, going through this part of the museum’s treasures. The collection is
housed in chronological order, beginning around 1220 AD and ending up with… well, I didn’t
bother with anything after 1920. Rembrandt, Vermeer, Degas, Rodin, and a thousand nameless
artists line the endless walls. Oil on canvas, Oil on panel, lithographs, etchings, and
woodcarvings. I saw so many Renoirs and Monets that I’m sure the AIC owns most of the artists’
works! Hell, I never even got the chance to see American Gothic.
I did go through the “way TOO French” Impressionist collection, as well as the Arms and Armor
Museum. Now THAT was interesting! Really! Trust me! You often see those modern suits of
armor at home decorating places, but they cannot compare with the originals! Breastplate more
often than not was decorated with fine detail, usually crosses or something Biblical. Contrary to
popular belief, I learned that suits of armor only weigh in at about fifty pounds on average, which
is less than a modern US soldier’s backpack, with the added bonus of being distributed all over
the body instead of one lump on your back. I also saw my first true Damascus steel sword, finely
worked with Islamic symbols. Those of you in the know will understand that “Damascus steel”
and “finely worked” are sort of redundant. It’s still interesting to look at something lost in history,
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something that still stumps scientists to this day: Arabs made swords of steel several hundred
years ago that are a hundred times stronger than any steel manufactured today. Anywhere.
Technology lost.
th
After glancing at some relics of the Church, including a cope from 13 century England in
remarkably perfect condition, I visited the Museum Store, which I mention only because it’s bigger
than the High Museum. Not the High Museum store. The High Museum itself. Just kidding. But
not by much. I got myself a Renoir T-shirt and two books, including a guidebook so that Sheila
could see all of the stuff later.
After the AIC, I headed back to Filene’s Basement to exchange the belt I had bought, because
the stupid piece of plastic that they put on them to “hook” them to the display rack always gets in
the way and you can never tell if it fits right or not. Well, thank God I don’t need a 38 belt anyway!
Well, dear reader, if you have been paying attention so far, you might have noticed that I haven’t
mentioned anything about food. Here it is, 5pm; my poor belly was screaming. And I had one
long walk back to the hotel. And Michigan Avenue just ain’t the place for McDonald’s. A quick
glance down a side-street (actually underneath Michigan Ave., like how Decatur Street runs
underneath Courtland Street) ten blocks up showed a sign: “Gyros”. Like Perceval looking for a
sign of the Grail, I had finally found it. And what a place it was! Imagine an older Mo’s and Joe’s.
Make it ethnic. Move it to a sketchy part of town. THAT’S where I ate and I had the best Italian
sausage sandwich ever. “Hot Italian Sausage” means “Hot” in this town, unlike Atlanta where
“Hot” means “we put 1 oz. of cayenne per ton of ground pork in our spicy sausage!”
I finally get back to the hotel and am told that I am being dissed. I’m not allowed to go to the
dinner at the Museum of Science and Industry. I guess that I was only cheesed at having nothing
to do for a couple of hours. I mean, I was museum-ed out! So, I decided to eat the leftovers from
Harry Carey’s and watch the Padres get spanked again by the Yanks. The food was still good 24
hours later (and unrefrigerated) and soon Sheila was back!
We went out to two places, The Back Room and Excalibur. The Back Room is a jazz club and
NOT a gay bar, as you might imagine from the name. Excalibur has a huge website and looked
pretty cool on the ‘Net. Come to find out, it’s like Masquerade for the square crowd. They played
“You Shook Me All Night Long”. Which you can’t dance to, even if you were sick enough to want
to. Granted, it was Tuesday night and all, but it was full of people too hip to be accountants but
too square to go somewhere that might actually play decent music. Whatever happened to
Techno, anyway? A couple of drinks and a chat with a guy that leases cars for a living were all it
took to get us the hell outta there!
WEDNESDAY
Yawwwwnnnn. I’m late! But that’s OK. I slept in a bit, because my task today didn’t require me to
be out the door until 11. I was bound and determined to find a poster of any artwork by my
current fave artist, the American portrait artist John Singer Sargent. Ok, Ok, I know. Sargent is…
the Camille Saint -Saens of the art world. His work is.. well, pretty. He was mostly a painter of
portraits in the heart of the Edwardian era. Not controversial. Not groundbreaking. But his
competent eye fully captured the splendor of pretty people doing pretty people’s things. I always
thought that most women have at least one thing about them that’s attractive, and apparently so
did Sargent. Unlike someone like, say Picasso, who might have exaggerated certain unattractive
bodily features, Sargent’s fat women have gorgeous eyes, and his ugly ladies have beautiful,
pouty lips.
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Having said off of that, though, Sargent is also the Rodney Dangerfield of American art. Since he
didn’t do anything “creative” like, I don’t know, paint Campbell’s Soup cans or shock us to death
with crucifixes in all manner of blasphemies, he’s not “cool”. That’s why you can’t find posters of
him anywhere. Which is odd, because I think that the only reason that Ansel Adams is so popular
is because his posters look so good on the walls, you know? Think about it – enviro-weenies like
him because of his subjects, photography freaks love him because, well he was a good
photographer, guys love him because they can put a poster of his on the wall of the dorm and be
“sensitive” but not “faggy”.. He’s a great “non-threatening artist” – and so is Sargent.
ANYWAY – I called about four places and finally the last place referred me to the Terra Museum
of American Art on Michigan, who indeed had a Sargent poster for sale. I hauled it down there
and after having the sweet but furry-legged saleschick go to the basement, realize that she
needed some keys, track down the person with the keys, and go back down to the basement, I
was in possession of one Sargent poster.
Which now presented a problem. The only poster tube that the museum store had was, I think,
actually a cardboard replica of the water main just under our feet. You could put a whole
billboard in there! And I trust Delta Air Lines about as far as I can throw one of their 737s.
I remembered a photography store just up the street that had tubes in the window, so I headed
there when a strange thing happened.
As soon as gum-smacking “Lisa Goodservice” tore herself away from the phone I asked if they
had any tubes to fit my poster. While the checking and eventual denial were going on, an older
blonde lady came into the store with a handful of brochures that I was too busy to notice.
Come to find out her name was Stephanie Leese, and she is the Director of Community Relations
for the Terra Museum. She heard what was going on and told me to follow her back to her office,
because she was sure that someone up there had a tube that would fit.
She wouldn’t let me into the office bit of the Museum, but told me to go next door and tell the
person checking admissions that “Stephanie said to let me in and look at anything I wanted”. And
so I did. And so the person working the door did. “Ok, no problem”, she said, and pointed to the
elevator. So up I went, amazed at my luck, and enjoyed the museum that I had only planned to
stop in.
I have this thing for American art lately. I mean, in between the painful beginnings in Virginia and
Massachusetts and the debacle that is “modern art”, Americans made some damn good art.
Take Whistler, for example. You probably only know of that one painting he did of his mother – a
dour work with Momma in a rocking chair facing to the left and looking like she’d rather be
anywhere else. Or Hopper. We’ve all seen the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” – a tired old work
available in Spencer Gifts everywhere and most Atlanta street corners on the weekends. But you
know what? BOTH of those guys painted other things that were much better than the hoi polloi
claptrap you see everywhere nowadays. How about Charles Courtney Curran? William Merrit
Chase? Frederick Hassam? Henry Ossawa Tanner? Any of those names ring any bells? All
four were FINE American painters that get dissed just ‘cos their names start with “mister”, not
“monsieur”.
And the Terra Museum is all about them. I don’t know why I didn’t plan to go! The museum is
small, maybe High Museum-sized, and it didn’t take long to get through the two floors of
American painters. Gosh, I just love American Impressionism. Like most things, the French
come up with something that may be pretty, might possibly be interesting, is probably silly, and it
takes Americans to make it something worth a damn. If I walked in to a guy’s apartment and he
has a Monet poster.. well, I have questions for that guy, ya know? But if he has a Hassam or
Tanner poster – definitely refined but manly.
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The lower two floors were showing an exhibition of Robert Capa’s WWII and Vietnam era
photographs. They were amazing! Funny how the surreal quality of black and white sometimes
makes things so much more real in our color-soaked world. Capa spent a lot of time in Spain
during the Civil War and time in Italy after the Allied landing and Anzio Beach and also in Berlin at
war’s end. He also went to Vietnam when it was still mainly a French conflict. Here he stepped
on a landmine and died, but not before taking some famous Hollywood shots in between the
wars. Ever seen that shot of Ingrid Bergman on the set of Notorious when she’s standing there in
a long black dress, looking beyond the camera, with Hitchcock and his crew a few feet away?
That was Capa. Gary Cooper on a fishing trip, walking across a river on a fallen tree? Capa
again. How about Picasso holding up one his boys while making a “Gover” face? Once again,
Capa.
His gritty war pictures, especially those of Omaha Beach on D-Day, and the light fun of the
celebrities of his age make his early death all the more tragic.
But, then, I had to get back to the hotel. I went downstairs and went to the coat check to get my
bags. Sure enough, Stephanie had found a tube for me, and also gave me an “American
Impressionists” postcard book, and a couple of catalogs that featured Sargent’s works. It was a
sweet thing to do to hook me up like that, and I hope to get a “thank-you” card on the way soon!
EPILOGUE
Here, the story mercifully ends. Not much happened after that. I went back to the hotel, sat for a
couple of hours, Sheila (who was in meetings) came by to see me off. I shared a cab with
Jennifer Olsten.. Olsten? Something like that. She’s a CMA like Sheila.
Anyway, I got home OK and Delta didn’t even lose my bag.
Which would have given me something new to bitch about.
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