First, Washington, D.C., held the Million Man March. Then, on May 21, Chicago hosted 1,000 Walking Strong, an “economic empowerment” march on City Hall by African-American contractors and small businesspeople. That’s a pretty steep drop-off, but it’s nothing compared with the skimpy protests we might see during the dog days of summer.

Keep an eye out for:

• 500 Strolling By, a Lincoln Park action by nannies who want wider bike paths for their baby strollers.

• 100 Standing Still, a protest at CTA headquarters, by commuters angry about long waits at bus stops.

• 50 Taking a Seat, a sit-in outside Wrigley Field decrying the fact that most of the rooftop bleachers have gone condo.

• 25 Lying Back, a half-baked action in favor of nude sunbathing at Oak Street Beach.

• 10 Snoring Soundly, a City Hall sleep-in for affordable housing.

• 1 Dead in the Street, a posthumous protest on Daley Plaza by a miser mad about the high cost of funerals.
(Frank Sennett)

The scent down south at the tail-end of summer is more than fields of corn and soybeans, more than the stink of liquescent tar on the road, the choke of coal dust from freight trains coiling toward the last languorous parch of August and September—a more complex prescription than the dull, savorless fry of suburban heat wave. My favorite recollection of summer is one smell that comes with the near-full moon waxing in the brilliant Kentucky nocturnal sky. Here’s how to find it: Walk barefoot through the damp grass clippings alongside the perimeter fence, laced with wild blackberry and honeysuckle vines. Pause to listen for the eccentric holler of the insomniac dog on the next hill. Take one of the honeysuckle blossoms, pinch it at the bottom and draw its stamen through the flower. On its tip will be a drop of intoxication, sustenance for bees, fuel for honey. Sip the nectar. Read the rest of this entry »

As summer hits, I must admit a certain fetish for deodorant. There is nothing more pleasing to me than standing that aisle of the grocery store, resolute on finding the one that will finally satiate my desire. My mind races: Do I want anti-bacterial or fresh scented. Oooohhh—the clear stuff. That one has aloe-vera and bacteria fighters. That one conditions—hmmm, I didn’t know my armpits needed conditioning. Isn’t there a clear, fresh scented anti-bacterial, aloe vera that doesn’t condition? Because for some reason, I’ve decided that conditioning is a frill I just don’t need.

While the Puritans preached cleanliness as near-godliness, today’s America insists on taking it a few steps further. Clean ears and neat hair? Well, that man must hold a respectable position with the bank and pay his taxes on time. Fear of rejection has always driven advertising. Veto, a popular deodorant in the 1950s, had an ad that urged women to “double check your charm everyday—you are the very air he breathes.” Men were not immune, and still aren’t. Mennen provides “proof positive” in the form of a leggy blonde—as long as their product is used. The equation for men: buy this stuff—get laid. And with the sweat season arriving, Madison Avenue’s gearing up to stoke the fires of our fixation. Read the rest of this entry »

For summer’s first al fresco meal you may have carefully chosen the thickest peanut butter, the sweetest jelly, the freshest bread and the coldest beer. But if you haven’t put as much thought into the site of your outing, you may find yourself left with little more than sticky fingers, a sore butt, and a headache from all that squinting. Luckily, as a public service for Chicago’s picnickers, the Newcity investigative team scoured the metropolis for the most appealing spots to roll out your red-and-white checks and pull up an Igloo. Read the rest of this entry »

By Mary Ann Williams

The steam rose off the damp sidewalks. My house smelled like heat and books. And so, rather than toil on another well-intentioned act of journalism, I picked up a garden tool—the one that ends in a vicious-looking V—and went outside to murder some dandelions.

I was kneeling in the deep green grass when I heard shrieking. Further investigation revealed a bad business in progress. The corner of my front porch—home to two raspberry finches and their nestlings—was being sacked by a group of surly sparrows. By the time I arrived, nothing much was left but shreds of dried grass and feces. A week before the young finches were supposed to try their wings, they were learning to jog instead and scuttled for shelter in the yard. Read the rest of this entry »

In summer, the gap between rich and poor widens into a great gaping gulf. The swells sip G&T’s under the A/C, while the saps simply swelter. The Brahmins disappear to cottages, camps and the Cote D’Azur. The rest of us work summer jobs.

Now, granted, just having to working during the summer sucks. But some jobs can really turn your psyche to a pit of blood. In our ever-expanding effort to serve Newcity’s readers, here’s an ultra-scientific cheat sheet of gigs to avoid at all costs. (Just remember, there’s always work at the ward office. Just tell ‘em Little Richie sent you.) Read the rest of this entry »