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About Chicago

Lemme tell ya, I scoped some corners once, back in ’89. Chicago, cold as hell, steam risin’ from grates. This chick, “Candy”—real name prolly Susan—rockin’ fishnets, shiverin’. I’m like, “Girl, you freezin’ for what?” She laughs, says, “Gotta eat, big man.” Pissed me off—system’s trash, leavin’ folks desperate. But she had grit, ya know? Reminded me of Irene in the movie, holdin’ her own. “A guy can change anything—his face, his home…”—but Candy? She wasn’t changin’ shit, just playin’ the game.

Home Is Where The Whore Is

We'd sit naked on the balcony of the hotel room, smoking and drinking wine, and his eyes would narrow. He'd get quiet, tighten his body in a way.

I get so mad sometimes when people trash the vibe – disrespecting a hand-painted mural on Church Lane, or messing up the manicured lawns at Garrison Park. I mean REALLY, have a little heart! But then, oh man, the sun setting over the Hudson stops everything – it's magic, like in “Under the Skin,” all strange and beautiful. And I find myself thinking: life is art, and you gotta take your seat, watch the show.

Mixed signals: How the brain interprets social cues