Summer in the suburbs was sweet. On a half acre sheltered by towering oaks and dense shrubs we could perform whatever outrages we wanted and never see a neighbor without a formal invitation. Our daughter would sunbathe topless on the veranda roof with impunity, our errant son would hold drug-infested raves in the far back that the police pretended not to notice, and our artsy friends would commit abominations all over the lawns and porches free from public scrutiny.

When we moved to the city summer changed. Now we have a deck instead of gardens and terraces—a large deck, granted, but encroached on every side by other decks and porches and balconies, leaving us exposed and vulnerable. On one flank barely twenty feet away a sexy twentysomething sunbathes topless while her aging potbellied boyfriend wears an obscenely skimpy Speedo. On another side consultants from Chelsea Clinton’s firm host multinational MBAs with little in common but their True Religion jeans who chat with us across the void rather than face each other.

Deck etiquette challenges us daily. Do you greet your neighbors when they are relaxing five feet away, or respect their privacy and ignore them? Can you sit out in your pajama bottoms to read the morning paper? Is the bottom of a two-piece bikini adequate cover-up for women of a certain age? Do we introduce our guests, and do we need to muzzle our more outlandish ones? Do neighbors’ wind chimes assaulting our ear drums constitute a justifiable condo association grievance? Can I shoot my neighbors’ garrulous father-in-law, Cheney-style, when he peppers us with reminiscences of his life as a Houston orthodontist? Just because our deck offers the best views, does that mean the neighborhood kids are entitled to invade for every fireworks display and air show?

It’s trying for everyone. A fast-track young exec and his gorgeous girlfriend have to share an atrium patio with a family that includes two ADD boys under eight. A techie abandons his patio to his pugs, leaving angry neighbors retching. A misplaced social conservative across the alley emails me that we are all bound for hell.

I wish I could offer solutions, but there’s no Emily Post for decks. Navigating deck etiquette, like much else about summer in Chicago, seems just another trade-off for the excitement of living here: what you like most about it is also what you like least about it. (Burt Michaels)

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

After the debut of Lollapalooza in 1991, two friends and I decided on a resolute course of action for the follow-up in 1992: we would spend the day loaded on LSD. After all, the first one had practically been made for hallucinogenic drugs: Jane’s Addiction, Siouxsie, The Butthole Surfers prior to their alt-metal change-up. The crowd had been laid back—a relatively critical component of acid use—and we’d had such a good time, the only way to top it, we figured, would be to take more for Year Number Two.

A worse idea, we could not have had. The lineup was decidedly not hallucinogenic-friendly. Sure, the likes of Lush and Pearl Jam weren’t negative, as such, but the scene took a sour turn when Soundgarden took the stage. Huge pits of flailing, high-testosterone apes took shape everywhere we, um, could see. The venue, Fiddler’s Green in Denver, is composed of huge swaths of graded lawn, separated by twenty-foot flat sidewalks. Needless to say, the sidewalks were occupied by an angry army of the very non-acid friendly, buzzing in circle-pits. By the time Ministry took the stage, it was chaos. At one point, two sizeable lads crushed into us, conferred briefly with one another, relocated their spiked wristbands to their fists, and launched back into the circular fray. I couldn’t really hear what my friend said, but I’m pretty sure he mouthed “not cool.” As the Red Hot Chili Peppers began, we’d had enough.

“We’re never going to do this again” we agreed in unison as we left. And by that, of course, we meant take acid at Lollapalooza. We were scarred for life though—none of us ever ventured to another Lollapalooza. (Dave Chamberlain)

Before you can say “cold front” it’ll be September and you’ll be wishing you hadn’t spent all summer watching reruns on TV. There’s a whole world around Chicago, and for three months, it’s not as icy, bitter and unforgiving as a jilted lover. The sun glistens of the concrete, steel and glass menagerie we call home. But since it’s such a pain to find out what’s going on, and to plan things, NewCity did the work. From hot air balloons to Binti the ape who save lives, we tell you where to go to make you want to sing like Brian Adams about the Summer of ‘97. Read the rest of this entry »