Road Trip

Well they've done it again. The people at Budget Rent-a-Car have made me an offer I can't refuse.

$168.40 to rent a reasonably brand new car for the week following Christmas. Better yet, for $24 a day I can put as many miles as I wish on their car. That's a mistake on their part.

Two years ago it was $220 for a 2007 Subaru Legacy with 5000 miles on it. My plan was to retrace the route of the Lewis & Clark expedition, which meant 9 days and about 5500 miles round trip. Only made it as far as North Sioux City, SD but that's a story for the archives.

I'm going to be turning the big Five-O in a couple of weeks and I've decided to treat myself to something. I am in absolutely no financial position to be taking a vacation, at least not the kind of vacation one thinks of when considering a winter holiday. Actually, I'm in no position to be spending $168 to rent a car but I've always operated under a rule that says when you can least afford to take a break from work, that is precisely the time to take a break from work. So that's what I'm going to do. And, my vacation will be spent driving. Got myself a new RCA Small Wonder HD Camcorder as a premium from one of my suppliers, and so I'm going to make a video documentary of my trip and post it here when I come home.

But here's the thing...I don't know to where I feel like driving. Some rough calculations tell me that I can cover somewhere between 4500 and 5000 miles if I just drive drive drive. Not sure I want to do that. I'd like to spend a couple of days driving, a couple of days kicking around, and a couple of days driving home. Whenever I open the Rand McNally Atlas my eye seems to float towards the west. I've done Colorado a dozen times, and it's winter. Not only am I not bringing my skis, I'm not carrying enough cash to lodge in Colorado during ski season.

In fact, I'm in the mood for something warmer. Been southeast a hundred times, ain't no way I'm making Texas my destination (sorry Michael, but that state stinks of Jack), so now I'm thinking southwest. I know New Mexico is high desert so it won't be that warm, but I've always wanted to check out the Very Large Array radio telescope in Socorro.

I've never seen the Grand Canyon, which is just about as far as I'll be able to travel while allowing for a reasonable pace of return, so I'm thinking of hitting those two places.

If I hook north from there I can check out Monument Valley in northern AZ. (Monument Valley was just written up in Vanity Fair. A nice read.) Where's Lono and Duc when I really need them? I could use some Arizona advice.

 If time allows I can swing through the southern part of Utah, maybe see Bryce Canyon and what-not.

That'll allow me to pass through my old friend the Colorado Rockies without dumping $300 for a hotel room.

I can already picture the final leg of my trip across the Nebraska and Iowa plains during winter. Nothing like that stretch of highway to make a person feel real small, but in a nice way.

This is going to be my kind of trip, the kind that involves no reservations, no real itinerary, and no schedule to serve.  Money's tight, and this is the best bang I can think of for $168 bucks. What the hell, you only turn 50 once right?

Windy City Suicide

Couple of months ago, a guy named Christopher Kelly killed himself. Kelly was due to testify in the trial of Rod Blagojevich. Supposedly he was cooperating with the authorities, and was going to spill what he knew about Blago's dirty operations. Being Blago's former bag man, Kelly knew plenty.

Then, Chris Kelly supposedly took about a thousand aspirin and some rat poison, or some such lethal concoction. The rumors began flying immediately. Not like it's outside the realm of conceivability that perhaps the play was foul. The place does have something of a reputation for that sort of thing. But the official cause of death was ruled a suicide.

Back in Sept of '07, a guy named Orlando Jones was at his beach house on the shore of Lake Michigan when he shot himself in the head. Jones was the godson of John Stroger, former Cook County Board President. It was said that Jones had been interviewed by the feds, and was being investigated for his involvement with Tony Rezko and some billing irregularities between the State of Illinois and some hospitals.(ahem)

Now, according to Chicago police, Chicago board of education president Michael Scott has allegedly shot himself in the head.

About 3AM today, behind the Chicago Apparel Center on north Orleans Ave. and he was found floating in the Chicago River not far from where his blue Caddy was parked. Same place where they punched through the floor of the river by Kinzie St.and flooded the city back in the mid-90s. Right by Chris Kennedy's Merchandise Mart.

Scott was a long time pal of Mayor Richie The Corrupt Daley, as well as the Rev Jesse Jackson, and was a very powerful player in city politics for a long time. During Daley's pursuit of the 2016 summer Olympics, local news sources dug up a rather shady real estate deal involving Scott and a vacant piece of city owned south side property. Seems the piece of shit vacant corner lot was going to BAH-LOOON in value if the city got the nod from the IOC, due to its proximity to the proposed Olympic Village site.

People, the cynical type especially, began screaming conflict of interest and insider wheeling and dealing and....well you get the idea. More of the same. Another crooked Chicago politician with ties to god-knows-who, getting caught doing what he wasn't s'posed to be doing.

Three dirty Chicago politicians. Three suicides. Just over two years.

And that brings me to my point.

Rod Blagojevich.

As I watch all this stuff transpire, I wonder what could drive politicians to take part in such, if you'll pardon the expression...shameful conduct, that when caught at it they kill themselves. How dirty could their dirty deeds have been? How bad could it be that suicide suddenly looks like the smart play? Kelly was 51, Scott was 60, and Jones was 52. You do your 5 years or whatever, and you get on with life.

You've all seen Blago on TV. Anybody ever get the impression he's going to off himself? Of all the corrupt politicians in the state, Blago is the poster boy. And yet, when you see him you can tell that he's not despondent. He's writing books, he's getting reality TV spots with Trump, he's going on The View.

I'm convinced now, Rod Blagojevich has the right idea. He knows what modern politics is all about. He gave it his best corrupt shot, he lined his pockets with dirty money, he did sweetheart deals for his cronies, ....and he got caught. So now, he moves on to the next act of his little drama, and becomes a media creature and an author while doing his easy time in Terre Haute or wherever. Then he gets out and does the speaking tour, or lobbies for special interest groups, or becomes an Elvis impersonator. Whatever.

He may be a corrupt scumbag, but Blago is smart enough to know that politics is filled with corrupt scumbags, and there is no disgrace so great that it's worth getting dead over.

I've always found Rod Blagojevich oddly humorous in his seeming obliviousness. The way he'll stare overwhelming evidence in the face and shrug his shoulders. The way he'll look you in the eye and tell you he was the lone voice of reason in a sea of corruption.

Now I get it. In his mind he's just playing a part in what he sees as a big, corrupt game. No way he's going to take the "honorable" way out when surrounded by so many others with no such honor. Not a chance Blago winds up hanging in his cell.

Yep. When it comes to putting political disgrace in perspective, I think Blago's got the right idea.

I'm half tempted to buy his book now.

The Witch of November

A wonderful sad song, and a recurring memory of my youth.

Is it really 34 years ago?




The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.
That big ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the gales of November came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
with a crew and good Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
t'was the witch of November come stealing!

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the gales of November came slashing.
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
in the face of a hurricane West Wind.

When supper time came the old cook came on deck
saying "fellows it's too rough to feed ya."
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
he said "fellas it's been good to know ya."

The Captain wired in he had water coming in
and the big ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized.
They may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the ruins of her ice water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her.
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early.

Gordon Lightfoot 

Walter

Hard to believe it's been 10 years.

In the mid-70s my beloved Bears were shitty. Very, very shitty.

I was 16 in 1975, and very caught up in the sport of football. I was a high school kicker when the Bears picked Walter Payton in the first round of the NFL draft. People think kickers aren't real players. Not real members of the team...until we miss a PAT. Then they get the bigger picture.

I was absolutely obsessed with football, and I followed everything about the Bears. Everything. No idea who this guy was when we picked him 4th in the 1st Round.

That was before the InterWeb TubeNets.

Jackson State?

Whooo-what?

CBS Channel 2 ran some grainy video that night. Bruce Roberts screaming smack and comparisons to Gale Sayers.

Yeah right. But I watched.

Hey, this Payton guy's good.

But maybe he's just running around and over idiots. Maybe he just looks like Superman because his opponents all suck. Or maybe, he's that good. I'm a Bear fan, so I went with he's that good.

He was that good.

For the first 10 years of Walter Payton's career, he was essentially the only reason to watch the Bears games, and I watched every damned one of them.

I had never seen, nor have I seen since, a better football player than Walter Payton. The only other runner I'd put in Wally's class is Barry Sanders. Another guy who could break your ankles.

As a 5'10", 205lb rookie, Walter still had the speed of youth. He could get to the corner. And, because he was Walter, he'd turn that corner, and cut north looking for somebody to run over.

Run out of bounds? Walter Payton? Uh, no not so much.

He'd gain a first down, stiff-arm you into a neck brace, insult your dog, and then help you up off the ground.

For a decade, Walter was the face of this somewhat oldish football franchise while they languished.

The Bears sucked out loud, and yet they'd sell out. People wanted to watch Walter run. He'd gain 100 yards, and people would be happy. Loss? Who gives a shit, did you see that over-the-top springboard thing Walter did?

Walter was also the Bears backup punter, kicker (Yeah baby!!!), and 3rd string QB.

I think one year Walter threw (as a running back) 3 touchdown passes, or maybe it was 10.

They tell me he punted a ball 80 yards up at Lake Forest one day.

But he was always on shitty teams.

And then it happened.

10 years into Walter's career, the Bears defense had one of those weird time-space things where suddenly everyone is a beast.

The line, was Hampton, Fridge, McMichael, and Hartenstein.

The LBs, were Otis Wilson, Mike Singletary, and Wilbur Marshall.

No need to name the D-backs, because nobody ever got through the first two gears of the meat-grinder. (Fencik, Frazier, Richardson, and I forget...Terry Schmitt?)

Heck, even a sucky QB like Jim McMahon had a decent year.

Anyway, finally Walter Payton got to play in a Super Bowl. The 1985 Bears were a force of nature. Best I ever saw. Walter had slowed a step, but he'd given this city so much joy by then, that everyone saw the 46-10 trouncing of the Patriots as the culmination of a career for Walter Payton.

There was some grumbling afterward about Ditka letting Fridge score a TD, and Walter being left with his dick in his hand, but you rarely heard Wally even talk about it. When asked, he'd dodge the question and then stiff-arm the reporter in the mouth before gaining a first down.



In his astonishing NFL career Walter Payton:

Ran for 16,726 yards.
Rushed for 110 touchdowns.
Caught 15 touchdown passes.
Threw for 8 touchdowns.
And, when combining kickoff/punt returns, rushes. passes and catches....accounted for just under 22,000 yards of Bears offense.

On mostly shitty teams.

Twenty two thousand yards. About 13 miles.


Back in the day, for awhile I drove a limo.

It was after Wally had retired.

I was parked in front of the Oak Brook Hills Hotel, when who came walking out the front revolving door but Walter Payton. As he approached me on the sidewalk, I quickly pulled out my airport numbers and jammed a 3 and a 4 in front of my usual number 80.

Now I was American 34.

He saw what I'd done, I made a big production out of it, and he just pointed at me as I saluted him from the driver's seat.

Walter was the shit.

And then it happened.

Walter Payton got sick.

At first he'd kept his illness quiet, but word got out.

We all knew.

10 years ago today, Walter Payton lost his battle with a rare autoimmune liver disease. Even though we knew, it shocked the shit out of this town. People cried when they heard the news. We'd lost family.

While Walter was never a candidate, his wife Connie and their kids have stayed front and center in raising awareness of organ donation, with the help of our Secretary of State Jesse White.

Hey folks, consider organ donation, okay?

Save a life on your way out of the party.

Point Beach~

I've been talking to some friends about the Colorado Rockies lately, and mentioned that I've been avoiding a return trip there for about 20 years now, because it brought back memories that I've been keeping buried. Memories of a happier time that now just make me feel sad, and old.

But that's just fucking stupid. Avoidant behavior is stupid. They're just mountains right? Fuck it, I'm going back. There are other places I travel that remind me of her, and I don't go all to pieces.

It was just about 30 years ago, a few months removed from my first trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in Minnesota, that I stumbled across Point Beach State Forest up in Door County, Wisconsin.


On an autumn Sunday, my then girlfriend Mary (later my wife) and I decided we'd take a drive up Sheridan Rd. along the shore of Lake Michigan, and follow it north for as far as time would allow. I was living in Evanston at the time, tiny little $268 a month studio apartment not far from Northwestern's campus. Mary was an undergrad there, but to tell you the truth I don't think she spent one night in her dorm room.

Sundays were road trip days. We'd just get in the car and go. We'd drive around the midwest, and talk. Most of the time, we didn't even turn on the radio.

I loved those days. I guess I still do.

As you leave Evanston driving north on Sheridan, you pass through Chicago's fabled North Shore. That's where the late great John Hughes shot all of his 80s vintage teen angst movies, and home of Neil Page in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Ever notice how familiar that neighborhood looks in Home Alone? Same place.

Just beautiful. Long winding tree lined streets. Beautifully maintained homes. Lake Michigan is just to the east but at that point you rarely see it due to the fact that Sheridan Rd is a few blocks west of, and runs parallel to the shore. The side streets that go the water are where the real money lives.

It isn't until you get 30 miles or so north that the trees become more sparse that you understand how close you are to one of the Great Lakes. It might surprise people to know that most Chicagoans rarely see Lake Michigan.

As we worked our way north into Wisconsin, it became difficult to hug the shoreline. Most roadsigns were urging us to slide west a bit and grab I94, that great 16 lane slab of highway leading into the great Northwoods. Bah. Keep it. I prefer the little road.

Once we cleared Milwaukee and Kenosha and Racine and all those Supper Club towns, we finally got into what can be called the Kettle Moraine of Wisconsin. Lush and fertile are two words to describe Wisconsin, and they don't quite hit the mark. There's a peacefulness, a tranquility when driving through the dairyland that must be felt.

Winding north along Lake Michigan through Wisconsin is an absolute pleasure. The small towns you pass through really do have just the one "stop n go light." It's just amazing to see these beautiful old frame houses, built back in the 40s and 50s, with a front yard facing the 2 lane road, and a back yard that ends at Lake Michigan.

You pick those houses up and move them down there to the North Shore of Chicago and you're multiplying "value" by a factor of 20. $150K in Winnebago County translates to 3 million bucks in Glencoe, for the exact same fucking house.

I've often wondered who valued their home more, the guy up there or the guy down here. I'll bet they value their homes about the same.

As we got up there around the beginning of the thumb of Door County in northern Wisconsin, we came to a town called Manitowoc. Very historic as it turns out. They make actual submarines there, and ships and yachts and stuff, in addition to the porn and cheese.



It's a pretty big town as Wisconsin goes. Maybe 40,000 people. They're into something called "twinning" with their neighbor Kamogawa. Twinning combines their populations which then swells to well over 60,000. Maybe it feels better saying you're from the greater Manitowoc/Kamogawa area. Hey, what the fuck can I tell you? it's Wisconsin. We put up with them as neighbors because they're good people. Who cares if they don't get the Cheesehead joke?

It was as we were heading north from Manitowoc that we began thinking about turning around, but I felt pretty fresh so we decided to keep going for a bit longer. Mary was always great on long road trips. She understood that I don't do the passenger thing, never did, never will. Every trip we ever made, Colorado a dozen times, Florida a few, Wisconsin about a hundred, I drove every mile. She was great company, and at first, a great wife.


About 20 or 30 miles north of Manitowoc, we came to a wonderful little town called Two Rivers. Mayberry meets Milwaukee. Red Owl grocery store. Flynn's Mens store. Shneuder's Hardware. Fuckin' awesome. Fell in love with the place instantly, despite all the Green Bay Packers shit.

I noticed a sign on the east side of town, just past the Red Owl, that said "Point Beach State Forest." We decided to check it out, and then turn for home. We were about 200 miles north of Chicago by then.

As we worked out way north on County Route O, that's right the capital letter O, it's Wisconsin, we came to a stand of pine trees flanking both sides of O, and a sign that welcomed us to the forest.



Point Beach State Forest was created in 1938 as part of the whole CCC, WPA thing that Roosevelt launched to get people back to work during The Great Depression.(Should we treat that depression as sort of the WWI equivalent of the depression to end all depressions? We need to be more careful when assigning the word "great" to shit.)

When they planted the red pine saplings at Point Beach State Forest back in the day, they were probably 18" tall. By the time Mary and I arrived in 1979, they were something closer to 80-100 feet tall.

Driving into any forest always gets me jazzed. I loves me some trees. Point Beach is an exceptional example. They planted these things so closely together that you wouldn't dream of just running into the forest. You'd be knocked on your ass in 3 strides. It's thick man. Dense. Heavily wooded. And it takes up a couple thousand acres.



We were absolutely enchanted as we drove through the campground, which was pretty much empty because of the season. The fall colors were everywhere despite the presence of all of the red pines, which were of course, still green.

We spent about an hour just looking around the park. I was into camping, and Mary was willing to give it a shot so I really was scouting for the following spring.

Describing the natural beauty of Point Beach State Forest is a very difficult task. It sits right on the shore of Lake Michigan, and so the eastern part is basically a big sand dune that runs about 3 miles north to south, or south to north if you're ...well you understand.

There's an old white lighthouse that towers over the beach, and at night its metronomic beam of light is powerful enough to penetrate the forest. Perhaps it's because the campsites are carved into little forest clearings, and it's so damned dark at night, that it's a relief to see some light.




Mary and I agreed that we'd return the following spring with our tent, and our bags, and our wine, and our weed, and our books.

Over the course of the next ten years, we camped at Point Beach State Forest at least 20 times. We checked out the Mississippi Palasades, Starved Rock, and a few other campgrounds, but Point Beach was the only place that really stayed with us after we'd packed up our gear headed for home.

Mary and I loved our trips to the forest along the lake. We'd drive up Friday afternoon, pitch our tent (Fuck Winnebagos), and get all situated at Site #121. That was our spot. We'd reserve it months in advance. It's perfect.

121 is the last site on the north end of the grounds. You can walk through the trees in the back, and after about 50 yards of thick forest you come to a clearing, and a small baseball diamond. I don't recall ever seeing anyone plating baseball in that field. Mainly it was a place for people to let their kids run around, and to let their dogs do what dogs do. Beyond the ball field is the entrance to one of Point Beach's several nature trails.

We used to spend hours in the forest walking these things. You can walk for 100 yards, and suddenly you might see a small plaque at the foot of a huge tree.

Ship Masts.

"If you place your cheek against this tree, and look straight up, you'll quickly see why the Red Pine was the tree of choice when shipwrights needed a straight log for the mast."

It's true. They can be 100 feet tall, but they're as straight as a pool cue.

After my divorce in the summer of 1990, I took a trip back to Point Beach, alone. That was rough. The quiet that we'd always sought out was still there. The lake breeze still wafted through the forest, and the birds still chirped and cheeped and darted around. The campsite looked the same. Felt different. Felt older. I didn't care so much for the quiet then.

I took a few years off from camping. And the longer I stayed away from Point Beach, the more I dreaded going back. But around 15 years ago, I got a sudden urge to go back. Don't ask my why, because I can't even begin to explain it. For some reason I wanted to be in that spot again. I wanted to see if my avoidant behavior had salved my wounds. I wanted to see if I'd still get as sad as the last time I'd gone. Alone.

It's true what they say I guess, about time. She passes. Not only was I not as saddened by returning to a special place I'd shared with someone in a former life, I wasn't saddened at all. I regretted taking those years off from camping. And, I've gone to Point Beach every year, save a couple, ever since.

I adjusted. Same gear, with some additions. I bring more wine now, and more books. Generally I'll leave the office on Friday afternoon, and have my campsite in order by dark. 121 of course. The main activity the first night is sitting in my Coleman folding chair, sipping wine, smoking a little, and staring straight up through the clearing in the trees. Stars man. Fuck-in stars.

Saturday morning is campfire breakfast, something I do with greater skill than any other living human. Beating around the campsite sipping coffee on cool sand and dewy grass is one seriously underrated activity. Saturday is hiking the trails. Saturday afternoon is listening to Sox games on the radio, and looking at red pine trees. Saturday evening is steak, corn, spuds, and chianti.

Sunday is more of the same, usually a walk along the beach, and by 3PM they're politely cruising by in the official Wisconsin Dept of Whatever car to remind us all that checkout is at 3PM.



Since it's Sunday, there is not a lot of chance that Monday's campers for 121 are waiting impatiently for me to vacate, because by Monday the park is near deserted. So usually, I can kick around until 4 or 5 when it's time to head back to Chicago and get ready for Monday at work. It's become a ritual again. It's my escape place.

So now I look forward with great anticipation to my trips to Point Beach, alone. Just booked another 2 weekends for next summer. 2nd week in June, and the 3rd week in July. Already looking forward to it. (Thank god for Reserveamerica.com)



And so, I've decided to go back and see the Rocky Mountains again. I miss them. It's been too long.

Cool Way Up, Fast Way Down

Unfortunately they've muted the music from Loveland Pass Street Luge due to a copyright beef. I like something that starts out smooth and tasty and then gets whipping. Like this.

God damn I miss Colorado.

Indian Summer

We're having one of those October days in Chicago, the kind that make Snowbirds homesick.



As I was driving to the shop, I thought this might be a great opportunity to get started on that "Doors of Park Ridge" poster.

East of the Pickwick Theater, any turn north off of Touhy Ave. brings you through the older section of town. Some of these houses have been here for a century. In most cases, the old houses that remain were the larger houses back in the day. Nice big Georgians and Mediterraneans and Victorians, houses with some fucking charm. There are some modest sized homes that remain, but they were fairly large back when they were built.




Sadly, almost all of the Cape Cods are gone. My favorite.

Late in the 20th century, and through the first decade of this century, it was decided that small houses are stupid. Everyone had to have 3800 sq ft. Everyone needed 6 bedrooms, 4 baths, a "Great Room" with a vaulted ceiling to greet visiting heads of state or some fucking thing, oh and don't forget the solar frickin' greenhouse.

So now, the old section of my adopted home town is a mix of great old homes, and McMansions.

And I watched it happen. Outside of my brief foray into the glamorous world of executive transportation, I have worked on the homes of this community since the day I graduated from high school in 1978. With absolute honesty I can say that I treat all my customers the same way, but I take extra satisfaction when I work on an old house. I pay more attention to details. I hate McMansions. Every time I saw another old, smallish home torn down I got bummed out. Whenever I get a call from a McMansion owner, I just shake my head.

It's not that I half-ass my way through a McMansion window replacement job, but I am also well aware of the fact that those windows should not need replacement. Not yet. They're only 20 years old. The windows on the older homes, the hundred year old homes, are still functioning beautifully. Wood prime windows protected by wood storm windows that were manufactured with such quality that it still boggles the minds of the wonks at Pella.

And the doors, they had character.

They had stories. Like this one here.





Can't you just feel the history? Imagine the thousands of times children ran up those steps and dashed in the door with great news or a cut knee.




Or that one. I picture some pimple faced kid carrying a flower in a box, wearing his first tux, got the old man's 57 Chevy idling on Elm, nervously edging his way up that sidewalk.


A look across the street, and I know with certainty that history lives there. I know now that a young girl, and then a young woman walked through that very door, every day of her life, loaded with ambition, and visions of greatness. That was 40 years ago, and I'll bet you a trillion dollars that if Hillary found her way to my little blog here, the memories would come flooding back.

Doors.

Back in 1992 we flooded Chicago. Well, I didn't but the people at Great Lakes Dredge and Dock did. While working on the Kinzie St. Bridge, near the Merchandise Mart, they punched a hole in the floor of the Chicago River, and we all learned that our high-rises have basements. We also learned that if you have a series of antique coal delivery tunnels connecting all of the basements, and if you allow the Chicago River to begin flowing into those tunnels, the result is chaos. Bedlam.

There's a chapter of Behind Black Glass devoted to an evening I spent driving a man named Witt Barlow from local TV station to local TV station. It was the night of The Flood. That charter was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Mr. Barlow was the boss at Great Lakes Dredge and Dock. The honcho. I had Satan in my car.

Witt was in defensive mode. He had 3 young publicists traveling with him, and they had charts and graphs and all kinds of visual aids that were being passed around the back seat of my car.

Oh, and I was totally eavesdropping.

At one point Witt motioned towards the blowup up a picture taken in the flood zone and said "But you can see right there that those are the creosoted piles. We didn't drive those! Here's the ones we drove right here. THOSE AREN'T OURS!"

And one of the publicists said, "Yeah. Yeah. Say that. That sounds good."

And Witt said, "It's the truth."

And the publicist said, "Even better."

I'll never forget that exchange for as long as I live.

Shortly after that, although not shortly enough thanks to Richie and his merry band of morons, a man named James Kenny and another guy named John Kenny came along and made a management decision.

While Daley and his fellow criminals cowered in the corner of an office at 121 N. LaSalle, the kids at Kenny Construction decided to stuff a very large fucking cork in the hole in the floor of the Chicago River. Then, they went upstream and sealed off the tunnels thataway, and then they went downstream and sealed off the tunnels down there, and with that the basements of Chicago stopped taking on water.

Genius. Pure, simple, stupid, genius. Grace under fire.

Kenny Construction became local heroes. Kenny Construction took its place in the history of Chicago. Rightly so. Kinda.

Some years later, a man walked in my shop, looking very much like Arnold Palmer.

Dude dripped class, although he tried to hide it. Jeans, blue oxford, Polo windbreaker, Johnston and Murphy loafers. Looking closer to 50 than 70.

"Are you related to the people that saved the city from the flood?" he asked with a strange grin.

"Uh, no, I spell it differently."

"Bet ya get asked that all the time."

"You have no idea. I hear James Kenny got the Irish Ambassador gig."

"He did. He's a friend of mine."

"Then why did you ask...."

Just grinned at me. He was testing.

"Ah."

His name is John O'M. Turns out he worked for the company that laid the foundation for Trump's new tower by the river. Actually, he's sort of in charge at that company, but you'd never know it unless I told you.

"What can I do for you Mr. O'M?"

"Call me John."

"Thank you."

"I need you to fix my door. It's on an old house, and I don't want to replace it."

"I can do that."

"I know. How's your dad?"

"He just retired."

"I know."

The son-of-a-bitch was testing me the whole time, the bastard. I guess I passed because John and I have become friends. Not like every day friends, but in the last decade I've spent many hours sitting at my desk and talking with him. Not exactly a father figure, I have one of those, but a real solid guy who has seen far more than I have. I'm lucky to know him.

I told him my Witt Barlow story.

(For awhile John, I drove a limo. My dad and I were fighting..... "I know." Fuck!)

Turns out that my friend John and his company had plenty to do with plugging the leak too, although they didn't carp about Kenny Construction getting the face time on WGN.

Oh, and he trusted me enough to let me work on his door. He wanted to keep the old wood, but put modern storm protection over the entryway to keep the elements at bay.


That's John's front doorway. The side-lites and the storm door were easy. The transom window not so much.

And they have a great tree on their parkway that always goes code red around now. It's one of the reasons I took this picture. The girl walking up the sidewalk with her lab tried to step out of the picture while I tried to include them.



"Beautiful tree isn't it?"

"It sure is."

"Hi buddy!"

"That's Riley."

"Hi Riley. Gooooood dog. Stop sniffing my balls Riley. I've been watching that tree turn colors like this for over 30 years now. I never get used to it. I love the house too. Friends of mine."

"What a shame. Terrible news."

My fucking heart sank. Oh no. Don't tell me this. Not my friend.

"They moved."

"Oh."