Chicago Snapshots

The sunflower that ate Chicago



Elston Avenue, at sunset


The first four photographs were filtered using the iPhone application CameraBag. Photos 1-3 are from the Forgotten Chicago tour of west Pilsen and Little Village. These neighborhoods are largely un-gentrified, and remind me of how the north side of Chicago looked when I first moved here, in 1984. Photo number 2 is an old Schlitz "tied" house. Tied houses were possibly the first franchise concept ever: a tavern where everything from the product and interior furnishings, to the building itself, were supplied by one brewer. The prohibition killed these off, and laws afterwards prevented brewers from owning taverns.

A cluster of Schlitz and Stege brewery houses still stand within blocks of each other in the Pilsen/Little Village area. As we took pictures of a former Stege house, a trio of middle-school-aged girls hung out of the windows of an apartment building across the street. "Is this a famous bar?!!" one of them asked, since a crowd of white people with cameras is not exactly a common sight in Little Village. I tried to explain that it was sorta famous, in the context of things. The girls gazed on at the tavern with a new reverence.



"Tied Houses" Forgotten Chicago. [Link]

Sunday Music: Starship

This gentleman is Vincent Falk, aka Suit Man, Fashion Man or "Riverace." He has only partial eyesight. His day job is as a computer programmer, but after work he stands on the State Street bridge and peacocks wildly colorful attire at passing tour boats. If you ever happen upon him, take a moment to chat and be subjected to some of the corniest jokes outside of a Bazooka Joe gum wrapper. I was kind of down the day I took this photo, but he had me laughing out loud. I asked him where he gets his suits. Roberto's, of course! Roberto's Men and Boys Clothing is the mens' apparel outlet for street-corner preachers and aficionados of "Purple Rain" co-star Morris Day. If you need a fuchsia satin frock coat or an electric-blue fedora, Roberto's can hook you up. The Roberto's store building also has the distinction of being voted one of the "10 Ugliest Buildings in the Loop" by the Chicago Tribune.

I took Suit Man's picture with my iPhone. I just love the iPhone app CameraBag, which allows you to apply filters that can change your photo's appearance to that of an older camera or print process. The top snap is "Lolo," (Lomo) followed by "1974," which captures the washed-out quality of of Dad's Instamatics from that era. Others that I like are "Helga" (Holga) and the b&w "1962" filter. I'll put some of the other filtered pics in my next post.



As I struggled to come up with a topic for today's post, I kept humming a song chorus that had become a persistent brainworm.

We built this city
We built this city on Rock an' Roll!
Built this city
We built this city on Rooock an' Roooll!

Oh dear God...I have had to listen to this song twice a week for the last two months. That's every time I take my fitness bootcamp class. Appropriately enough, I am starting to associate it with physical pain.

"We Built This City," was released in 1985 by Starship, a band that was formed by a couple of Jefferson Airplane...meh, who cares? The song, which is very catchy despite having ridiculously bombastic lyrics that sound like they were penned by someone with a brain injury (i.e, Bernie Taupin), made #1 on the Billboard charts. I didn't have cable in 1985, so perhaps that explains why I have no memory of this hilarious music video. A couple of observations: Grace Slick has never looked worse. Also, if I was the director, I damn well would have gotten more for my money out of the Abe Lincoln statue impersonator. How about having Abe break dance or something? He also should have had a second appearance in the video, perhaps running in front of the giant die.



In closing, as the wise t-shirt said, "A city built on rock and roll would be structurally unsound."

Vincent: A Life in Color [Link]

Roberto's Building (Chicago Architecture Info) [Link]

Run for your life! It's the 50 worst songs ever! [Link]

Fall Back in Fall #2

Did you notice the sky and the light after sunset on Tuesday? The side of a delivery van, a pile of construction rubble, an empty storefront; they all glowed like coals.

More vacay: Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk

I finally edited and uploaded the pictures from my trip to the Bay area. Among my favorites are photos from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, which just celebrated it's 100th birthday. It's a wonderful living museum of amusement; the indoor arcade seems to have every game produced in the last century. I lost four bucks in tokens on Asteroids (c. 1979), proving that my lack of skill has remained intact throughout the decades. Also worth seeing/riding: the Giant Dipper roller-coaster, which has been making 'em scream since 1924, and the Looff Carousel, fully restored to it's 1911 splendor.

More in Flickr set [Link]

Birthday

I spent my 50th birthday in San Francisco. My best friend since sixth grade lives in nearby Mountain View, and she's crossing the half-century line a couple weeks after me. It was good to spend the day with someone who has known me for so long. We went to the Marin Headlands, an area just north of the Golden Gate, the strait which is better known by the bridge spanning it. I'm not sure why this beautiful area escaped development, but it probably has to do with the number of military fortifications and weapons sites located there at one time. We parked at Rodeo Beach, and then walked along the edge of the surf. It was perfect weather, at least for San Francisco: mostly clear on low ground, with fog skimming the hills. After our walk on the beach, we drove higher into the hills. Every turn seemed to unfold a new breath-taking view across the bay. Finally, there was San Francisco, framed by the bridge, glowing gold in the last rays of the setting sun.













That evening, we dined at Chez Panisse in Berkeley. The venerable establishment lived up to expectations. I had California white sea bass sauteed with eggplant, and finished with a pear tart and chilled Moscato d'Asti. Two men who worked in the food or restaurant business sat next to us. I caught bits of their conversation: "I'm trying to work with this organic California-grown wheat, and use it for pizza dough. But, the gluten is all wrong..." and "He's a rebel...you know, the James Dean of gastronomie," and my favorite, "What you want is a big, fat, French guy running your kitchen."

Gone Fishin' again

I've been in the Bay area since Wednesday, but will try to check in later today or tomorrow. Here I am grimacing, for some reason, while I photograph my reflection in front of Timothy Horn's "Diadem", a 300 lb. sugar-encrusted chandelier. It's part of the exhibit Bitter Suite, at the de Young Museum in San Francisco.

Balloon Dogs and Astronauts

Show a lot of art with mirrored surfaces, and you're just asking for people to photograph their own reflections. I was scolded for taking this one of me and my friend Linda becoming one with Jeff Koon's "Easyfun...Sheep." The show, "Everything's Here: Jeff Koons and his experience of Chicago" runs through October. It's smallish, but augmented on the fourth floor by an exhibit of Chicago artists who have influenced Koons. I left feeling a little giddy, which is exactly how a 10 foot-high stainless steel balloon dog should make you feel. Huge photos of Koons and his ex-wife, porn star Ilona Staller (or, perhaps more accurately, their body parts), are installed in a concealed area in one of the main rooms. If you have any qualms about viewing a billboard-sized pornographic image, avoid this section.

A recent New Yorker had a good article about the show, and Koon's controversial life and career:
Funhouse: A Jeff Koon's Retrospective. [Link]


The MCA gift store is my personal crackhouse; I rarely get out of there without dropping at least $50 on a book and/or some arty thingamabob. This time, it was a tiny stuffed kitten toy by Marie Maison de Mieux [Link], and a book of Japanese pictograms/icons. I haven't done graphic design in years, but I still appreciate a good icon or symbol. I loved the disco ball and the astronaut, combined below.



Some of the icons depict typical Japanese situations or anxieties. The tiny, perspiring man was in a section titled "Trouble." He hangs his head in abject shame as he's being berated, probably by his boss, something you'll not see in western clip art. And then there's the subway groper. In Chicago, we would need an additional pictogram of him getting a beatdown.



Then, there's the "huh?" pictograms. This one was in a section called "Bussiness"(sic). To me, it looks like someone tossing a baby out of a building. At least I think that's an arm, although other interpretations are understandable. I'll post more in the future.

Lost in translation

I remember when news editors collectively lost it after the release of Sex, Lies, and Videotape, in 1989. Every other headline seemed to be a variation of the title, e.g. "Sex, Lies and Protein Supplements". Just so, this post has nothing to do with the Sofia Coppola film about two American expats in Tokyo. (For the record, I hope to live long enough to see Scarlett Johansson age into a botoxed has-been.)

Once again, a person asked me for directions--in Spanish. This has happened twice before, always outside the Logan Square stop of the Blue Line. Now, I am fairly tall, and also possess the glowing complexion of a vampire bride. If you had recently arrived from El Salvador, and spoke no English, would you approach a giant blue-white woman and ask her for directions? I just don't get it. Perhaps I look kind; or perhaps I look like someone who will actually try to answer, using amusingly mangled high-school Spanish.

One morning while I was waiting for the Diversey bus, two men who looked like laborers asked me for the time. Actually, one man said "Excuse" and pointed at his wrist. Sure, I could have just shrugged, or shown him the time on my cell phone. But why waste an opportunity to speak another language poorly? "Esta...soy..uh,never mind...Diez!...y...y...cinquenta. No, no...QUINCE!" I pumped my fist in the air, and they applauded.

photo: Julio's Auto Supply, at Diversey and Sacramento

Vintage Cross-dressing

From Least Wanted, a collection of police photos going back to the 19th century. Warning: You will become mesmerized and spend at least an hour in here.

Have a good weekend.

Hi Mom

My mom wanted to know how my hair was coming, so here ya go. It grew back curly, which I have heard is common with post-chemo hair. It should eventually return to it's normal texture. There's quite a bit more gray in there than is evident in the photos, but for now I'm leaving it as is. Time for a haircut...the first I've had since July.

Public Service Announcement

Graduation Day, June 1981. L to R: Mom, 22-year-old knucklehead, Dad

The flurry of correspondence among my former art school classmates is heating up. I just had nice convo with my ex-sorta boyfriend, who reminded me of stories and people I haven't thought of in 25 years. The brain is a funny thing; how can something so profoundly forgotten suddenly be accessed? Now, I'm starting to dream about art school.

A call went out for old photos, and I found the above. If I remember correctly, I had terrible problems in 1981: A "C" in Design II (or was it III?), a guy had dumped me, and I had a pimple on my chin. Not to trivialize the angst of youth, but I can't help but make a comparison to my current situation. I've just survived eight months of cancer treatment. And, I'd give anything to hug my Dad again.

This is where the public service announcement comes in. My father died of metastasized prostate cancer. We just recently lost a friend to the same, at the young age of 57. Gentlemen, please go and get a checkup and a PSA test. I know a lot of men put off getting an examination because it's unpleasant, but prostate cancer is very insidious. If it isn't detected early, it can easily spread to other organs. Remind yourself that you're doing it for everyone who loves you.

Sunday Music: Elvis Costello and the Attractions

The girl wearing the purple pants on the left is me, circa 1980. I was attending art school in Columbus, Ohio at the time. The photo is copied from a blog set up by one of my former classmates. It won't mean much to any of you, but if you'd like to see lot of regrettable hair and some very good drawings (not mine!), you can check it out at: http://ccadclassof1981.blogspot.com/

I'd like to pretend that my musical tastes at the time were cutting-edge, but honestly, like a good small-town girl, I was a huge Bruce Springsteen fan. I even drove all night with friends to see him in Indianapolis, possibly the only time I've ever been to the city. I had classmates with more sophisticated taste. My friend Jon even talked me into buying the single Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division, a decision I've never regretted.

The party was outdoors, probably in the back yard of one of those remnants of residential neighborhood just east of downtown. A subwoofer was probably propped against the screen of the back porch, blasting the kind of ambiance that nearly always brought a visit from Columbus' finest. After the cops left, the volume would just creep up. Along with 70's big-arena rock, a few records reflecting the punk and new wave explosion (so far from Columbus) were ending up on the turntable. I'm sure one of them was Elvis Costello and the Attraction's 1979 album Armed Forces. Man, I know I wore my own copy out. Here's Oliver's Army, as performed on a Brit pop show.

Radiation: The end is near

Sorry for the spotty posting. Radiation has been kicking my butt, and I haven't felt like doing much of anything other than sleep. Fortunately, my last treatment is on Monday. I don't know about you, but I like my Elisa done medium-well. I now have a dark tan in my armpit, and a dusting of tiny blisters on my chest. Compared to other patients, my skin is doing great. One woman, who looked to be in her late 20's, told me that her incision had opened and was infected. I asked her how long it had been since surgery, expecting a relatively recent date. "In August," she said. She had sixteen cancerous lymph nodes, so they decided to give her a second blast of chemotherapy, before starting radiation. She looked drawn and frightened, her baldness covered by a bandana.

Late twenties sounds awfully young for breast cancer, but I have discovered that it's not that uncommon. Nia*, a woman who has her appointment right after mine, is only 33. We both had time after our treatments last week, and lingered in the waiting room. She overheard me saying to a nurse, somewhat bitterly, that HIV can be managed better than cancer. The nurse countered "well, we need give you a pep-talk, and then maybe you can feel more hopeful!" No, she's right, Nia said. She's an oncology nurse herself, and the daughter of a woman who died of breast cancer at 29. Her mother was diagnosed when she was 25, and had a metastatic recurrence barely a year after her mastectomy. Nia has two young daughters, both terrified that this could lie in their future. To make matters worse, her long-time boyfriend broke up with her two weeks earlier. "He stood by me through surgery and chemotherapy, so I couldn't believe it when he ended it." Her eyes filled up. "I'm so tired of people telling me to be brave. They don't have to go through this." We are both near the end of our treatment, and now the waiting begins. Waiting to prove a negative, to not have it come back.

Another patient, Barbara*, said to me "Every time I get a headache, I wonder-is it in my brain?" In a way, isn't it, already? The young woman wearing the bandana had the same facial expression one sees in photographs of war refugees: the fifty yard stare of deep trauma and hopelessness. I've been there, and will probably visit again. The only solution for me has been anger, a deep burning rage. Why do they have to wait until a bone breaks before diagnosing metastasis? Unacceptable. Why are young women getting breast cancer? Completely fucking unacceptable! Why isn't there a cure? WHY ISN'T THERE A MOTHERFUCKING CURE?!!

*Names changed

Second Opinion

Last week, the new oncologist's nurse phoned me. "Can you come in next Thursday?" That was quick. I took it as a good omen. My husband worked from home that day so he could accompany me.

Ah, back to the good old Cancer Center. It was late afternoon, and most of the chemotherapy patients were gone for the day. The remaining patients in the waiting room looked unremarkable--perfectly healthy, actually. I guessed that many of them were waiting for regular post-treatment appointments. Outside, the snow fell in a thick curtain, blocking our view of the lake.

An oncology fellow examined me, first. She took my history and summarized the findings from the scans. "We don't see any obvious signs of metastasis in either your bone or CT scan." Tears of relief welled in my eyes. However, there were a few things which demanded closer scrutiny. The abnormalities, located in my lung, hip and uterus, were likely due to arthritis and other common, but non-lethal conditions. I was going to need further testing to eliminate any doubts.

Dr. C arrived and introduced herself. She was dressed in an attractive sweater and skirt, with black patent pumps. "I have to tell you that I'm allergic to wearing white coats. You'll never see me in one." My husband had some questions for her. "When will Elisa be cancer free?" Dr. C shook her head. "I never use the term. There is no such thing." Even with chemotherapy and radiation, she explained, there was no way to kill all of the cancer cells that may have entered my bloodstream. Therapy from now on would focus on keeping them in such small numbers that they could do no harm. After my radiation was finished, I should start taking Tamoxifen, a drug that inhibits the growth of ER+ breast cancer cells.

I think it shocks many people when they first really understand that it's impossible to "cure" cancer. Cancer will go into remission, a state where no disease is detectable, but that in itself doesn't mean that all the cells are gone. Most researchers don't hope for a cure per se; they look to a future where cancer will be manageable as a chronic disease, much the way diabetes has become.

I won't go into the rest of our visit with Dr. C, other than to say that I felt she addressed my fears with respect and candor, and yet left me with much hope. My husband asked her how she felt about my long-term prognosis. "Knowing what we do now, I am optimistic," she said, smiling.

Pilsen at Dusk

Near Cermak and Halsted, December 28, 2007.

Week from hella

Stop the world, I want to get off. Well, not really, but I'd like to pause the ride for a little while.

Early on Christmas eve, I had a festive visit with Dr. K, the radiologist. Before I consulted with her, a resident took a history and examined me. "Dr. B did your surgery? Oh, he's good. His patients usually don't have much scarring." Afterwards, Dr. K came in to complete the examination, and to describe the course of treatment. I'll be getting six weeks of radiation, five days a week. Each treatment will take about fifteen minutes.

The first step was to create a treatment plan, part of which would be to determine if it was safe to zap the lymph nodes lying along my sternum. If the lymph nodes overlap the lungs, it's a no-go, since radiation can cause damage to lung tissue. Dr. K checked the schedule that day. "There's been a couple of cancellations. Would you like to get your planning CAT scan right now?" Six months of cancer treatment has taught me a couple of things. First, if they give you a blanket, do not give it up until they allow you to get dressed again. Second, if they offer you an appointment for the same day, accept it immediately.

Off we went to the CAT scan thingy. After looking at the images, Dr. K came in to speak with me. Unfortunately, my lungs were partially under my sternal lymph nodes, so she recommended against targeting that area. Instead, they would hit my axillary, mammary and clavical nodes. A technician tattooed three blue dots at target points on my chest and armpit, and then photographed my naked torso. Tattoos and nude photos all in one hour! It was like mini spring break, only without beer bongs.

I drove home and started cleaning the house in preparation for my in-laws arrival that evening. Christmas is sort of a mixed blessing for those of us afflicted with seasonal affective disorder. I could feel my mood darkening along with the days, but the flurry of activity preceeding the holidays kept me too busy for a free-fall into the Abyss. One serious misstep was, while shopping for gifts, to purchase the book Cancer Made Me A Shallower Person, by Miriam Engleberg. I had read about Engleberg's collection of cartoons a couple months ago, and all of the reviews were right on: the book was an often very funny account of what its like to be a cancer patient. However, I secretly hoped that Engleberg was not like me. You see, she died last year, after cancer spread to her bones and brain. As I read the book, I couldn't avoid noting the eerie similarities. She had the same type of breast cancer as me. She had a lumpectomy, with chemotherapy and radiation. In 1979, we both had a boyfriend named Roger. OK, I had a boyfriend named Roger in 1980, but you get the idea. If she were alive, we would be the same age.

After I read the book, fear lay in my heart like lead. Between her first diagnosis and death, Miriam had only five years. I am already enduring the bittersweet realization of midlife. Much is behind me, and what is ahead will pass quickly. What if the cancer comes back? In Greek mythology, the three Moirai, or Fates, determine the length of life. Atropos,"the inexorable," cuts the life-thread spun and measured by the other two goddesses. I feel like I've glimpsed the shears, still without really knowing the measure.

Like my father before me, movement through space provides me some respite. If my dad was anxious, sad or angry, he would drive and drive and drive until he put some distance between himself and his troubles. Being a city-dweller, the train is my neurotransmitter of choice. Pink Line, take me away...to Pilsen, which is where I took the photo above. Pilsen is an old Bohemian (as in Czech and Slovak) neighborhood on the south side of the city. It's now Mexican, with a growing art gallery district in its eastern section. The main drag, 18th street, is heartbreakingly beautiful. Tall Mittel-european stone and brick buildings line the street, while little houses off of it reflect a more peasant vernacular, with charming, crude flowers carved in the window lintels. One is prevented from complete transport back to old Bohemia by some of the eye-popping exterior paint jobs, mostly in shades more common to Oaxaca. The colors could cheer even Kafka. And so it did me.

Fuzz

My hair is now visibly returning, although it will take a while for the stuff on the head to look like "hair." Downy eyebrows and eyelashes are sprouting as well.

Other good news: Dr. B, the surgeon, called today. He had the results of the pathology reports. The perimeters showed no additional cancer. Eleven lymph nodes were removed, and of those, six were cancerous. He told me this was not surprising or necessarily bad news, since they presumed that several lymph nodes would be involved. So, in his words, "no addition excision is required." That means, no going back for a mastectomy, at least not during this particular battle with the disease. Now, I have to look forward to radiation and hope that cancer will never return.

Reading Gestures

from the Site Unseen exhibit of time-based arts, Chicago Cultural Center, November 13, 2007

Fall Back in Fall

Mosmi's Coin Laundry. Avondale, Chicago.

Chemo: The End

Goodbye, Baxter 6300 I.V Pump. I'll miss hearing you erupt into loud alarm after I exercised the utmost care while rolling you into the toilet. You always waited until I was seated on the throne, you joker. But most of all, I'll miss the way you drip, drip, dripped poison into my veins. May we never meet again.

I completed the 8th and final chemo today. I told Nurse L that she was the only thing I was going to miss about it, and she gave me a big hug. Dr. G, who I'll see again after my radiation, examined my breast and said that the tumor looked "good," and that it was hardly palpable. Tomorrow, I call the surgeon* and try to get a tentative date. However, he'll probably want another MRI before proceeding. The process of arranging cancer treatment is reminiscent of using more than one contractor on a home improvement project. You have to do all the coordination with the different trades, continue to monitor the work quality and progress, and then the flooring guy (or oncologist) suddenly doesn't show up for a month. I need to hire a general contractor--one that specializes in cancer.

There's one more plus to ending chemotherapy: I won't have to buy a yet larger pair of "fat" jeans. I stepped on the scale to be weighed today, and discovered that I had gained another three pounds since my last visit. I weigh more than I ever have in my life. And I'm bald. Fortunately, both are reversable.

*Yes, my husband and I both are positive the oncologist told us his office would contact the surgeon. You have to get it in writing from these people.