The winters are like a preview of the center of hell. The newspapers are in straits. The average person on the street is just 85 percent as attractive as the average New Yorker. It's a sprawling spill of a grid, with nothing resembling a hill or mountain to keep it from tumbling out, out, ever outward. But oh, Chicago is still one bumpin' little cow town, and without peer as a summer city. And the folks I know here are some solid sonsabitches.
Red Line: the Harrison stop, July 10, 2010