Chicago Public Square: I built it for free, and you can do the same

Saturday, September 24, 2022
On Sept. 22, 2022, I was invited to talk to members of the Oak Park Temple B’nai Abraham Zion congregation via Zoom about the story behind the story of the creation of Chicago Public Square. The thrust of my message was this: Virtually for free, I created this email newsletter for people who live in and care about the Chicago region, and you—or anyone you know—can do the same for any subject matter about which you’re passionate.

You can see edited video excerpts here or read the rough transcript below.

Why I should never sing in public

Saturday, June 11, 2022
Chicago Reader
columnist Ben Joravsky was kind enough to invite me on his show this week—we talked Wednesday, the podcast was published Saturday—to answer questions about how and why I do what I do for Chicago Public Square.

I was honored along the way to express my admiration for columnists Neil Steinberg and Robert Feder, Reader critic Jack Helbig, The Onion, WXRT-FM News pioneers C.D. Jaco and Linda Brill, Square reader Angela Mullins, radio DJs Bob Stroud and Marty Lennartz, my college radio station WPGU … 

… and to deliver an ill-advised musical tribute to my alma mater, Carl Sandburg High School, whose fight song I was—for reasons that elude me now—moved to butcher.

You’ve been warned. Here it is.

If you like this, check out more of my conversations with thought-leaders through the years on this website, in Apple Music, on Pandora or Spotify, via your favorite podcast player and at Chicago Public Square.

1995: Peter David, Chris Claremont and Gary Colabuono discuss the comic book industry’s flirtation with disaster

Wednesday, June 1, 2022
[It’s been a while since we dove into the archives. But now that hour’s come round at last—again.]

In 1995, the comic book industry was approaching what later became known as “the Great Comics Crash of 1996”—triggered in part by Marvel Comics’ 1994 purchase of the business’ third-largest distributor, converting it to distribute Marvel’s stuff exclusively.

So that was a significant topic June 30, 1995, when I sat down at WNUA-FM in Chicago—just ahead of the 20th annual Chicago Comicon*—with acclaimed comics writers Peter David and Chris Claremont, maybe best known then for their work on Marvel’s The Incredible Hulk and The Uncanny X-Men, respectively; and the convention’s CEO, Classics International Entertainment President Gary Colabuono, also then the proprietor of Moondog’s comic shops.

Here’s how it went.

Looking back on that time now, Colabuono recalls: “Marvel’s decision to distribute their own comics was not only the death knell for direct market distributors, it was also the beginning of the end for the vast majority of comic book specialty shops in the U.S. Of the 21 stores in the Moondog’s chain, 20 were out of business within a year of Marvel’s move.”

I’ve also asked David and Claremont for their perspectives on that time. I’ll share them as they arrive.

But here’s David’s July 28, 1995, reflection on that year’s con: “If Gary Colabuono … asks you to be guest of honor, two words—Do It. Gary is the consummate host, making sure that you want for nothing and taking care that every need is anticipated.”

If you like this, check out more of my conversations with thought-leaders through the years on this website, in Apple Music, on Pandora or Spotify, via your favorite podcast player and at Chicago Public Square.

* For a show that was broadcast July 2, which explains David’s joke at the end, “Boy, am I exhausted from that!”

‘120 Miles on a Bike’

Wednesday, August 25, 2021
That was the headline bestowed on an “Off the Beat” column I wrote as a college student and occasional stringer for the southwest suburban Star-Herald newspaper, Aug. 26, 1976 (Page 10, to be precise). Here for historical purposes is the full text, lightly edited. Because I’m a little smarter now.

Now that the numbness has left my fingers, the callouses have left my legs and the dust has been washed out of my hair, the story can be typed:

How my friend Roger and I bicycled 120-plus miles from Champaign-Urbana to Orland Park via Route 45—[with me] on a Raleigh Record 10-speed—in just 14 hours and 15 minutes.

And lived.

Despite the 20 mile-an-hour winds from the north, large trucks and small compacts alike edging us off the highway, broken glass and dead skunks in the middle of the road.

IT WAS originally a “let’s get some exercise and discover America” proposal.

I got the exercise–even if Roger, in much better shape and with a much lighter bicycle, had to wait for me to catch up (puff, gasp, wheeze) every two or three miles.

And we discovered America, too.

Two of them.

ONE AMERICA is full of friendly people like the nice grocer in Ashkum (“Where you folks comin’ from and goin’ to?) who sold us lunch (a quart of milk and a box of Pop-Tarts apiece) and let me—a bearded, hippie-type stranger—change clothes in his restroom; the curious high-school kids in Onarga; and the friendly, courteous and curious gas-station attendants in Paxton, Loda, Buckley, Kankakee and all the rest.

I confess: Before undertaking that Illinois odyssey, I had visions of middle-American lynch mobs riding Roger and me out of town on a rail.

It just didn’t happen. People are nice. But there’s another America. And it’s not so nice.

Something happens to all those nice grocers, gas-pumpers and gawking kids when they get behind the wheel of a car or a truck.

I tell you, they’re killers.

FINGERS AND TOES aren’t enough to count the number of times Roger and I nearly lost our left ears to vehicles passing us without giving us even half the leeway they would have given the smallest of cars.

(You’ve got to understand that bicycles—especially racers—can go sprawling any which way if they hit even a little pebble.

(So the gravel shoulder along most of Route 45 is unnavigable for two-wheelers. But there's nowhere else to go when those passing cars barrel past.)

Fortunately for cyclists, we’ve got a little more highway savvy than the average animal wandering down the street.

Lots of our furry friends get cut down mercilessly by that other, sinister, motoring America. Mashed animal, it seems, lined our path, from Urbana all the way to Orland Square.

IN A NUMBER of instances, Roger and I almost joined them:

You’ve never looked fear in the eye until you’ve bicycled toward side-by-side cars zooming at you 55 miles an hour on a curving, two-lane highway.

That strip of shoulder may have been pitifully narrow, but Roger and I were glad we could cling to it as those motorists motored merrily along.

Had we been driving a Volkswagen, you might be able to slide us into your toaster today.

BUT WE made it.

Once we rolled our bikes into the comfortable haven of my garage and showered, Roger and I slumped on a couch, heaving sighs of relief.

“Well,” he asked me in his best sarcastic Glencoe drawl, “did you discover America today?”

The answer is yes.

I discovered America, all right. But I’m not sure I like all of it. It’s a strange society, split by this gas-powered schizophrenia.

For all its commitment to cutting down on fuel use, America still doesn’t provide the basics to its bicycling public.

WE WHO pedal don’t waste fuel and put far less wear and tear on roads than our gas-guzzling fellow travelers.

But we’ve still got to look far and, unfortunately, not so wide to find roads with even a token strip of pavement—not gravel, mind you—that we can call our own.

In a nation where the highway death toll has long since exceeded the number of citizens dead in all our wars, I think it’s time we took a long look at bicycling as one cure to our motor madness.

In the meanwhile, I’m risking the perilous trip back to Champaign with my bicycle.

The bike will be strapped to the trunk.

I hope we both make it.