Chicago Guy's Open Salon Blog

Chicago Christian Church Attacked

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 23:11:59 -0500

They don't know who did it. They don't know why. But sometime between late Friday and early Saturday; someone broke a stained glass window in the church, ran a garden hose inside, turned on the water and let it run.

The church is located in an a well off neighborhood. Both Rahm Emanuel and James Warren, new publisher of the Chicago Reader and long time respected Chicago journalist, live in the general area. As do I.

Last Thursday Warren wrote a piece for the New York Times reporting on the economic disparity in the area.

Speculation from a church official linked the article and this weekend's attack on the church. The police report zero evidence linking the article and the attack.

The church enjoys excellent relations with the neighborhood and the alderman. That is not speculation.

Here's what else is not speculation. Ray and Mike. Two off-duty cops keep watch on the premises. That's a huge reason why the relationship with the community is good. It's also common practice in other churches that do the same thing. Ray and Mike are paid. Money that could go to buying food as the lines get longer and longer and longer.

Part of the cost of running a non-profit. One that is incredibly well managed, lives it's priorities and hands out food to hungry people.

No simple task handing out food.

Lots to consider. Perhaps whoever attacked the church with the garden hose didn't like the fact that there were two good guys, watching the place. Or perhaps not. It's a police matter. And that's who is handling it.

But here's another fact. Sunday morning church went on as scheduled under the leadership of Rev. Bonnie Perry. Her comment:

"It takes more than a puddle of water."

Dance across the mountains on the moon

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 21:11:16 -0500

Just in case you needed to dance. . . . . .

Around the Healing Table

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 15:11:28 -0500

Mike Royko was at the far side of the big table in the back of the smoky old tavern on North Avenue in Chicago just a few blocks from the Lake. Head down. Scribbling in a ten cent notebook. He didn’t say anything when I told everybody at the table why I brought you here. Your rare and very treatable cancer. Royko knows that every cancer story is different. Every one at the table knew that.

But when I told him what you did, he looked up. Nodded slightly. And he said, “Every day? You’re telling me that the column runs pretty close to every day?”

And when I said, “Well, pretty close to it, sometimes there are days when. . .”

“I don’t do math, Roger,” he growled at me. And then he looked at you, still scowling, reached in back of him and pulled in an empty chair. “C’mon over here kid,” he said to you. “You sit here,”

I made the introductions around the table. Some of them you already knew. Guy whose job you took had driven all night down from Minnesota. Sat there quiet with his gangly legs crossed in front of him, pushing the glasses up on the bridge of his nose. His stillness showing that he was writing.

Lot of the folks at the table you didn’t know. That’s Charlie over there. That’s John. Both of them were bosses of mine. That’s my Aunt Mavis. You two start talking Buddhism we could be here all night. And of course you know Ebert. And this is . . . .

“This little punk, he looks over at me, “rips me off on a regular basis.” said Nelson Algren, smiling at me. “But it is good to meet you!”

Some of these folks are pretty hard to get on the phone. And I don’t think they have email where some of them are.

“Never mind email, Roger,” Studs Terkel says and then begins asking you questions. Each one honed like the sparkle of a diamond.

“You’re a healer,” Studs looks at you. “Tell me what it’s like to heal with words.”

I couldn’t quote your answer. But I know you said you had to be very, very willing to reveal who you are. And you had to listen to whatever went between the lines of any given song or story. Trusting the story you create to do the healing.

The conversation started there. Hard to say what everybody was drinking. Mavis had tea. And I know the ginger ale was flowing. More people joined us as the night went on. Over there, a lady from Ohio that I know you know. As the November breezes swirled off the lake, the warmth of the room held promises of good times coming.

Not sure if I’ll be able to make it out to your corner of the forest in January, because the money’s almost gone. But this table, right here, the one where the people who have really taught me. I mean really taught me. Not just with actions or with words, and not just by example---although all of those things are true.

I’m talking about those who have taught me by reaching in and pulling out and singing the very music of the words. I wanted to make sure you knew you had a seat.

Anything I say, write or do that touches someone, started right here at this table.

Where you now have a seat.

You’ll always be able to find the place. Because there’s a song you can always hear playing faintly just outside the door.

Written about 7 blocks straight west down North Avenue, in a cold, bare concrete corner of hell called “Cabrini Green.”

I’ll put it right here so you’ll get the important part, the music, in your mind. They tore down the buildings of Cabrini Green. But the song’s still here. Guy named Curtis Mayfield.

And you’ll hear him when he says, in a voice that’s seen it all, a voice like yours that tells stories of healing. You’ll hear him when he says;

“It’s alright.”

Oprah Will Leave Chicago. . . .sort of. . . .

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 23:11:26 -0500

The doorbell rang. I knew it had to be Oprah. She always showed up at just the wrong times. Like she had some sort of female radar for knowing when my wife was gone. And I felt like being alone.

Usually I didn’t mind. But tonight I had just settled into my chair. The beer was cold. And it was Thursday. All the good TV programs were on.

I knew she’d keep ringing the bell till I answered, so I went and let her in. She did what she always does. Went straight to the computer and started looking through Open Salon.

“O-monster” (it’s what I call her. Long story. Boring. It involves a case of canned cheese and some very ripe tomatoes in a steam bath. But I’ll tell it some other time) “O’monster, I’m just going to be watching The Office and 30 Rock, so unless you. . . .”

“You got popcorn Roger?”

She always wanted popcorn. And she always pissed me off because her hands would get drenched in butter. It would slather all over the keyboard. I’d have to spend an hour cleaning up after her. So I lied.

"No O’Monster. Fresh out. And I’m gonna be watching these shows, so unless you’ve. . . ."

I’m leaving Chicago, Roger. Leaving the show. Ending the run.

"So you off to Santa Monica? Maui? What?"

“No I’m leaving. Kaput. Finito. It’s been 25 years, that’s enough.”

“You don’t think people are catching on do you?”

“Shut-up.”

“No more free cars huh?”

“I mean it. I’m leaving.”

“Hang on. There’s gonna be a commercial in a minute or so. Tell me then, OK?”

Oprah always knew how to get along. Always. So she waited for the commercial to start. She opened up her bag and pulled out a giant tub of buttered popcorn that she had brought with her. Munched quietly in the corner in front of the computer. I couldn’t win tonight.

The commercial came on. So I tried to muster up some interest.

“So, O’Monster. You’re doing a Jim Belushi thing huh? Gonna be one of those faux Chicagoans who lives on the coast and flies in to throw out the first pitch at a Cubs game or something, right?”

“Don’t mock me Roger. I could do a show on you. I know where your ex wives live.”

“Sorry O. So when are you leaving. Wait, let me guess. Like a year from now or something, right? Plenty of time to milk it.”

“Damn I hate you. Don’t know why I come over here. Yeah it’s Sept of 2011.”

“Ok then. I guess there will be a whole lot of farewell shows and stuff. And maybe you and Hef could get together in LA?”

“Roger, if you ain’t careful, I’m gonna tell the world that you have ISSUES!”

“No one would care, O.”

“I’m thinking going away parties, I’m thinking the city will stand still. . I’m thinking chaos, rioting, people running through the streets.”

“You want me to check and make sure we still have phone service O? Make sure the electrical grid is still humming? Trains are still running?"

“Shut up Roger. There will be cable shows. I'll invent some new form of TV brain chip implants. I won't really leave Chicago becuase. . . ."

"Because you really don't really do anything?

"You know, she said, ignoring my remark (she never listened) taking another handful of popcorn and chewing with her mouth open (I hate when she does that) I'll still keep houses here, so no one will ever say I deserted them."

"O-Monster what's the difference, you just jet in when the sushi supply runs low in Santa Monica now anyway?"

"You obviously know NOTHING of new media."

"You need a beer O?"

"I mean it this time Roger. I am leaving, not leaving, exploring new directions, wait, I gotta get a copywriter on this. Tomorrow on the show. We'll have it all tomorrow on the show."

"Great, O-Monster. Can't wait." Oh, hang on. 30 Rock is starting. Can we continue this later?”

“You got issues Roger. Issues. You watch me. I swear I’m shutting down the show. I am leaving Chicago.” Oh I might keep a cloud computer here. Maybe a house or two. Make a few speeches about how I love the place. And at least keep ONE house here. But I am leaving."

"Better get somebody to write that up for you O. I'm not really sure what you're saying."

And with that she smiled and said, "Thank you!"

Chicago's Loneliest Death Scene

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 14:11:29 -0500

You could once smell chocolate shimmering through the air at

the spot they found the body, face down in the river. Otherwise,

at this death scene, you’d be alone. A kind of alone that’s unique

because you’d also be smack in the middle of 8 million people.

At the spot they found the body in the river, next to the grotesquely upright bridge stuck pointing at the sky; you’d walk a little faster. Because you’d feel yourself shivering. Even if it wasn’t dark. Bare trees grey November late one Sunday night. You might even start to run.

Throw a stone one way from the spot, and you’d hit the East Bank Club. A mecca of healthy play for those still rich, where the President plays basketball whenever he comes home. A place where there were once two coat rooms. One to house the fur coats that take a bit more space. Stand and look another way, right where he stood before his body tumbled down into the shallows and covered up the gun; and you’d see a sturdy large Holiday Inn, you’d see the offices of the Chicago Sun-Times. And you’d hear the lapping of the water on the glass and trash strewn rocks of the lonely river bank.

There are spots like this in any big city where you are perhaps more lonely then you’d be in the very middle of the Sahara Desert because everywhere around you is the electrical hum of the action of millions of moving souls, and boats and delivery trucks backing up and sirens and noises unrecognizable by anyone then a gun shot. And that’s where he died. At an exact tiny piece of riverbank that is completely isolated. Even in the midst of all the city rattle and hum.

Stand right where he did and you are totally alone.

He was a public figure. But he was, for the most part, behind the scenes. He wasn’t on the front lines. And he didn’t spend a lot of time in the glare of the TV lights. The official cause of death is listed as a suicide. And when the mayor spoke of him, his voice was hushed and shook.

This is still a breaking story. It is likely there will be more. Lots of weighing in with all sorts of judgments. Or the unfathomable final mystery of suicide---where blanket generalizations mean so very, very little. If they mean anything at all.

Man’s name was Michael. I didn’t know him. I have no judgments. And if there is more to the story, I doubt I’ll spend much time or any thought on judgments then.

But I do know that shivering grey alone tiny spot on the river. And the next time I walk by there, I’ll hurry even faster, running through that spiritual desolation. Remembering a message I saw in reading comments on this news story. Here’s what it said:

“Michael ran a trade skills program in the 70’s. I learned how to be a carpenter there. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have been able to feed my family.”

So I’ll remember that carpenter. And listen for the river water lapping at the lonely shore.

(Photo Credit Alex Garcia. Chicago Tribune)