Archive for the ‘Chicago’ category

Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott

17 December 2010

Two miles south of Chicago’s Loop, just east of Chinatown, in a neighbourhood known today as the Near South Side, stand the Raymond Hilliard Homes. Built in the mid-1960s as one of the city’s last major public housing projects, the complex was designed by renowned architect Bertrand Goldberg, whose most famous Chicago work is the iconic corncob towers of Marina City. Goldberg’s intent was to create something other than the warehouses-for-the-poor that typified other public housing projects, and so he came up with a futuristic-looking quartet of high-rises that even today are striking to behold.

The Bertrand Goldberg Archive boasts that “for many years this was the only public housing complex which needed no constant police supervision.” The Archive wants to attribute this to Goldberg’s revolutionary design, and the National Register for Historic Places seems to agree: the complex was added to the Register in 1999, claiming in its nomination: “even as public housing policy turned away from high-rise developments, the Hilliard Center has seemed largely immune from the problems of other high-rise projects.” Yet even the Goldberg Archive admits, “residents were chosen from records of model citizenry in other housing projects.” This hand-picking surely contributed as much to the success of Hilliard as did Goldberg’s “neo-expressionist” stab at the new urbanism; still, by the late-1990s, the project had succumbed to the same issues that plagued most other public housing and doomed this idealistic attempt. If not for the architectural significance of the buildings, by now they might well have gone the way of most other public housing high-rises.

The Hilliard site, spanning a two-by-two-block area between Clark and State Streets, Cullerton Street and Cermak Road, utterly transformed this landscape, and its curving towers are, to my eye, a little stark, a lot retro, and reeking of a misguided optimism. Don’t take this the wrong way—I like these buildings, in all their mid-20th-Century weirdness, and while I’ll never miss the rectilinear high-rise barracks of Cabrini–Green as they’re gradually razed, I’m glad that this project has seen a major renovation and will stand for decades to come.

Yet for all the talk of architectural significance and progressive ideals, there is little mention of what this site was one hundred years ago, during what we now refer to as the Progressive Era of American history.

In fact, the site itself gives no hint that Dearborn Street and Federal Street (formerly named Armour Avenue after the famed meatpacker) once passed straight through the site, cruising uninterrupted south from 18th Street and well beyond 22nd Street, now Cermak Road. A hundred years ago, this entire area, from 18th to 22nd, Clark to Wabash, and some of the surrounding environs, was known as the South Side Levee. It was Chicago’s most notorious red light district—and its most famous.

In the Progressive Era, prostitution was seen as a necessary evil, and it was widely believed that segregation—a separate, self-contained vice district—was an adequate means of regulation. As a result, the Levee contained dozens, if not hundreds, of “disorderly houses”: saloons, brothels, opium dens, and the like. Many of these were extremely disreputable, kidnapping young women fresh off the train and forcing them into a life of harlotry, employing “enforcers” to beat the girls, often quite severely, if they got out of line or attempted to escape. Knockout drops in drinks were common, and “panel rooms”—chambers with hidden, sliding panels—were used to rob unaware clients. Corrupt police and aldermen received massive payouts for “protection” and kept the whole thriving under the blind—or complicit—watch of various Chicago mayors.

Into this morass of sin came two sisters from Omaha, Ada and Minna Everleigh. Originally from Virginia and born with the surname Simms, the pair had run a brothel in Omaha that was financed, or so they claimed, by a $35,000 inheritance. It seems likely, however, that they had made this money the old-fashioned way. The sisters, above all else, were masters of self-transformation.

At a time when it was possible for a madman to abduct and murder dozens (possibly hundreds) of people and cause them to vanish with nary a trace, when young women were leaving their homes in droves for the first time in history to travel to urban centers and seek employment, when a woman could be drugged and raped and made to believe that she was “ruined” and thus resign herself to a life of prostitution—becoming, quite literally, an “inmate” of a brothel—

—And as moralizing preachers and prosecutors used these realities to foment a widespread fear of the “traffic in white slavery” and abolish the trade entirely, creating the Mann Act and turning the FBI from a tiny arm of the Justice Department into the enforcement juggernaut it is today—

—Ada and Minna Everleigh sought to turn a profit in the world’s oldest profession in an ethical and high-toned manner. Their “butterflies,” as they called their working girls, were all volunteers, working of their own free will, and free to leave at any time. Their clientèle were judiciously selected and held to rules of proper conduct. A doctor was kept on staff to give the girls periodic check-ups, and drugs were strictly forbidden. The rougher element, pimps, and panders were never welcome; and lower-class holiday-makers were asked to find recourse elsewhere in the Levee, something they could do with ease (but rarely as safely, given those knockout drops and panel rooms and pickpockets at other resorts).

For a dozen years, the Everleigh Club was the premier resort, and Ada and Minna the de facto Queens of the Levee. Its rooms were elaborately appointed even by the over-the-top standards of their late-High-Victorian era. The club was, quite literally, world-famous: captains of industry; important authors, poets, and athletes; and even a European prince could be counted among its patrons. And then it all ended, as the moralizers and temperancers gained traction and politicians courted the law-and-order vote. The club shut its doors in 1911 and the sisters retired into obscurity. The double building at 2131–2133 South Dearborn Street that housed the club was razed a couple of decades later.

The fascinating and titillating story of the Everleigh sisters and their lavish business—but not that of the housing project that stands in its place—is told in the delightful book Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott.

My vote for “Month at the Museum”

29 September 2010
Categories: Chicago

The Museum of Science and Industry is about to begin an exciting project: Month at the Museum. One person will live in the museum for a full month—eating, sleeping, exploring, blogging, and educating guests, all within the confines of the big, verdigris-domed roof. For thirty days, they will be the world’s virtual eyes and ears, experiencing on our behalf everything the MSI has to offer.

When the museum announced the competition to become their glorified lab monkey, I briefly considered applying. Briefly. After all, I love the MSI. It is my favourite museum in the entire world, and I hold many fond memories from a lifetime of visits. But then I thought about the more pragmatic aspects of the gig: the disconnect from family and friends, the disruption from the comfort of a normal routine, the sense of living under a microscope in a Petri dish. Oh, and my general distaste for crowds. Yeah, no thanks.

I passed up the chance—but kudos to those who applied and to the five finalists who were announced this week. Until October 4, the museum has opened a public vote that will help them choose the winner. Here’s how I’m voting, and why.

We only have their one-minute audition films, and brief excerpts from their essays, so it’s a little hard to judge the all-important aspect of their personalities. For that reason, I could not vote for either Johnathan or Krispijn. Krispijn’s video is high-concept and humourous, but he never says a single word during it—that rates zero personality points. Meanwhile, Johnathan sings an original song, another example of obscuring personality behind concept (and a guitar). The song is upbeat and witty, I guess, if you like science puns. But by the end of it I was starting to feel like Bluto Blutarsky hearing a rendition of “I Gave my Love a Cherry.”

I gave a point each to Felix and Kate, because they live in Chicago. I like the idea of a local representative, and not only from the perspective of hometown pride. For one thing, they won’t experience the culture shock of a new city, since they already understand it. They might be better able to focus on the museum itself. For another, they should be acclimated to Chicago’s late-autumn weather. I’m not saying a Floridian (not to pick on Johnathan) would complain more than most Chicagoans do about how frakking cold the November wind gets, but I’m certain I don’t want to hear about it. Not when the subject could be Nikola Tesla, or Tom Lehrer’s “Elements” song.

Alex remained in the running. She presents herself well in her video, and being a “secret aeronautics geek” is a plus in my book. (Except perhaps the “secret” part—wear that geek badge with pride!) And she’s been writing a blog for the past couple of years, which gives her some experience with what the day-to-day gig will entail. The trouble is, well…

Ultimately, it all came down to the quality of the vicarious experience that I, as a MATM viewer, would receive. I want to read interesting, insightful blog posts without being distracted by poor spelling or annoyed by grammatical errors. I want a blogger with sufficient experience with wordsmithery that he or she is able to express ideas with clarity and concision, not blather on with random thoughts in thesaurus words that don’t serve the message. (That’s what this blog is for.)

In which case, Felix’s 6,700-plus blog posts strike me as putting him somewhere above the five-foot mark of Dave Sim’s metaphorical six-foot stack of paper. In other words, his blog—even when it’s about the particulars of his life, which is most of it—is well-written, witty, personality-driven, and easy to read.

What sealed it for me was the following essay excerpt:

I am excited at the prospect of being able to wander the corridors, documenting the exhibits as well as the minutiae of the Museum. I’d like to talk with both the curators and the cleaning staff, the gift store clerks and the interns. To me, living at the Museum means getting to know the people as well as the structure. And of course, I look forward to exploring the hidden nooks and crannies of the building…

That is exactly what I would intend to do if it was my gig. Get to know the people, not just the artifacts, for they are what truly make a museum. (That said, I have an artifact quest for the winner: find a piece of the first atomic pile that Enrico Fermi and company built in the racquets court under the Stagg Field stands at the University of Chicago. Hint: it’s graphite, not uranium, and it’s quite small. It’s my favourite item among the museum’s holdings.) Also, the museum is much more than its exhibit space, and a look behind the scenes would go a long way toward bringing the experience to life. Of the five finalists, this entry was the one whose potential for interesting results really got me excited.

My vote: Felix Jung.

What I did during my summer (non-) vacation

24 September 2010
Categories: Chicago, Film buff

It was an eventful summer in downtown Chicago. On a steamy Friday in June, the Blackhawks celebrated their Stanley Cup victory with a midday parade and rally. A few million of their friends and fans showed up, turning the Loop into a scene of mass pandemonium. We had a clear and (relatively) safe vantage point from our office and spent the day looking out over the crowd, allowing random clouds of confetti to drift in through the open windows.

We might have thought that would be the height of excitement this summer, but aside from the sheer volume of people involved, the parade was a mere warm-up for the main event in July and August.

That’s when Transformers 3 came to town.

For several weeks, Michael Bay and company took over several blocks of downtown—in discrete one- and two-block areas at a time, not all at once—to film the climactic scenes of next summer’s blockbuster. Huge chunks of styrofoam faux-concrete littered the streets. Propane mortars fired off giant fireballs. Hydraulic rams tossed and flipped cars around like toys. Helicopters (both as in-scene vehicles and camera platforms) roared up and down the Chicago River. Actors in Special Forces gear ran through the debris, firing automatic weapons at imagined adversaries.

Where my office is located, we were pretty much in the thick of it. Time and again, an ordinary day would be suddenly punctuated with roars of noise and clouds of smoke pouring from the street just half a block away, tantalizingly just out of sight beyond the buildings across the street. As a film buff, I could not resist heading out to the street to try and see some of the action.

That’s when I learned a simple truth about movie-making, especially big-budget action-movie making: going to look when you hear the big noise is the best way to maximize the time you’ll waste waiting around for the next take. Thirty seconds of action are often followed by an hour (or several) of resetting work.

Since I was supposed to be working, and my time was not unlimited, I decided to get serious about watching the production. As a result, I learned a few guidelines that, for me at least, produced some terrific results.


1. Do your homework

Look around online for information related to the production. There are a few decent websites that post notices (and rumours) of locations. In the case of Transformers 3, some of the work was so major—such as the blockage of Wacker Drive from Michigan Avenue to Wabash Avenue—that the newspapers all published the street closures in an attempt to alleviate traffic problems. (This might have actually been counter-productive, since it widely publicized the locations and many people came to town for the sole purpose of watching the spectacle.)

Expect to find temporary signage in the vicinity of a shoot, since the drivers and crew will need guidance to base camp, extras holding, lunch, and the set itself. Often these signs are in code, and not immediately recognisable for their intent. For example, the Transformers 3 signs did not use T or 3, an Autobot logo, etc.

2. Know the terrain

Again, here’s another place where the Internet comes in handy. Knowing that a scene was being filmed at a certain location, I looked at it on Google Street View and was able to scope out potential vantage points outside the cordoned-off perimeter. Another time, I parked in the Trump Tower ramp and stayed put, having a clear view (or as clear as it gets through the exhaust-stained windows) of the action at Wacker and Wabash.

That said, nothing beats first-hand knowledge of the area. At one point I unintentionally stumbled onto the set, deep within the perimeter. Using stairwells, side streets, and an alley, all of which were completely open to the public (but seldom used by pedestrians at any time), I found myself no more than twenty yards from where Michael Bay was rehearsing Patrick Dempsey in what looked to be his big Götterdämmerung scene.

To reiterate, this was unintentional. I wasn’t trying to be particularly sneaky, I was just looking for a clear view of the action. I simply followed a path through an area I knew far better than the film crew, and was never stopped or questioned along the way. I managed to snap a few photos before a production assistant (PA) noticed me and asked me to move on, and I apologised sincerely for the trespass and quickly exited the area. (q.v. point #4, below)

3. Use technology

By far the most useful tool—more than Google Maps, more so even than my camera with its entry-level zoom lens—was my trusty little Yaesu VR-120D handheld receiver. I suppose even small productions use two-way radios to some extent, but on a major job like this—where the set spans a couple of city blocks, action is both outside and inside buildings, and the enormous base camp is several blocks away—they are nothing short of indispensable. Everyone on the crew carried one: producers, directors, location managers, the on-set medic, and all the PAs guarding the perimeter, listening for traffic control instructions, and calling out “fire in the hole” moments before a big, explosive scene was about to start.

It didn’t take long to locate the frequencies in use by the crew, and so I settled into my desk at work and listened to an interesting, often-hilarious, live, unscripted radio show. The star of the show was 1st assistant director Simon Warnock, a logistics wizard who seemed to know every detail of what was happening and what was needed at every given moment. He was the General Officer commanding the troops, leaving Field Marshall Michael Bay to focus on the creative side of the endeavour. (For a while I wondered why Bay didn’t use the radio, until I heard him, just one time. Someone had dropped the ball on something important and he was severely pissed off about it and threatening to fire everybody. I hope the FCC wasn’t listening, because those expletives were anything but fleeting.)

As an aside, most people who see my receiver ask the same question: “can you talk to them?” I always answer no, it’s only a receiver. But the real answer is threefold: unauthorized transmission is 1) illegal, a felony I believe; 2) disruptive, dangerous and potentially life-threatening; and 3) a real dick move. Besides, what on earth would I want to say to them?

In any case, the biggest benefit to listening to the crew was that I had continual updates on how long it would be until the next big event, enabling me to grab my camera (and, in some cases, signal co-workers who had brought their cameras too) and head outside to stake out a good vantage point—just moments before the call to “roll cameras.” I suppose some people around me were puzzled to hear me say “fire in the hole” before the PAs shouted it, and then count down in sync with Warnock’s call as he cued everything to go boom.

4. Above all else, be polite, courteous, and cooperative

I heard and read a lot of grumbling about how “arrogant” and “mean” the film crew was to ordinary citizens, and I have to object vehemently to that aspersion. Over the course of several weeks I had numerous occasions to interact with the PAs working the perimeter and traffic control, and they were, to a man, friendly and polite, and easy-going when they could be, firm when they had to be.

Well, actually, there was one guy who threatened me a little, telling me I was lucky he didn’t smash my camera. But the truth is, that’s the exception that proves the rule, because he had asked me to move along, agreed to let me take one last shot, and said what he did after I took three shots, not one. I abused the leeway he gave me, and he let me know it.

I firmly believe this: attitude is a two-way street. I was friendly, welcoming, and cooperative to them, and got the same respect in return. The people who complained about the crew’s attitude were probably the same people who were inflexible, indignant jerks about the temporary disruption to their normal routines.


All in all, it was great fun to have the film crew in town. Apparently the feeling was mutual: producer Lorenzo di Bonaventura was quoted as saying, “It’s gonna spread like a virus around Hollywood about how great [a time] we had here. All of us felt like this was the best city we’ve ever shot in.”[Chicago Sun-Times, 25 Aug 2010] I really enjoyed seeing first-hand the process of making movie magic. Despite the so-so first and atrociously bad second films in the franchise, I’m actually looking forward to seeing the third installment—if for no other reason than to see how they piece together all the bits I saw them filming into one continuous set-piece of destruction in downtown Chicago.

Sadly, the Chicago leg of the production ended on a down note. On one of their last days in town, a young extra was gravely injured during a stunt. The producers immediately cancelled the remaining schedule, pulled up stakes and left Chicago. It was disappointing to see that it took Paramount Pictures almost two full days to issue a standard, boilerplate statement saying, “Our thoughts and prayers are with [the extra], her family and loved ones. We are looking into what caused the accident.” I would have expected something like that to come out first thing in the morning after the incident, and it gave me the impression that they either didn’t care or had something to hide. An erroneous impression, I must add, for just yesterday a spokesperson for Paramount confirmed that the company was covering all of the extra’s extensive medical bills. Unfortunately, her life will never be the same.

On a brighter note, the Transformers franchise is famed—or notorious—for its pervasive on-screen product placement, and this film is no exception. I was quite entertained to see some of the creative ways in which corporate names appeared in the scenes, and hereby nominate some winners and losers:

  • Vienna Beef – Winner. An abandoned hot dot cart with a bright red-and-yellow Vienna umbrella sat prominently amid the destruction—never mind that a city ordinance prohibits street food vendors in the real world.
  • 7-11 – Loser. The shop at the corner of Wacker and Wabash, at the heart of the action, was disguised and obscured with temporary awnings reading “Dimmsdale Market.”
  • Waste Management – Winner. One exciting sequence of vehicular mayhem took place in a parking lot strewn with WM-logo trash bins. WM even sent along a full-size garbage truck for set dressing. In the photo at right, I count at least six examples.
  • Veolia Environmental Services – Loser. Any other day of the year, trash collection at that parking lot is provided by Veolia, not Waste Management.
  • Hotel 71 – Winner. Following up its appearance in The Dark Knight, the hotel acted as center stage for much of the action, even allowing the producers to replace a row of ventilation grates with windows in order to shoot them out with machine gun fire. Apparently Hotel 71 has received quite a lot of business from tourists who stayed there specifically because Bruce Wayne had a party on its roof—and having Optimus Prime parked next door will likely continue that trend.

Finally, the Grand Prize winner for creative brand-name placement must go to the insurance company Unitrin. In the course of the action, the top of its headquarters building at 1 East Wacker Drive will take a direct hit from something big and destructive. The result: its big blue corporate signage winds up scattered upon the street below. That’s a good one.


For more shots of the action, check out my Transformers 3 filming” photo set on Flickr.

Bridges that separate, bring together

6 May 2010
Categories: Chicago

A year ago today, I posted a rant about Chicago’s movable bridges, and how their infrequent movement seems to lead to unreliable operation. Upon further consideration, I have to change my tune. Not that I’m retracting what I said. I still contend that opening the bridges over the Chicago River more frequently than they do now would be less disruptive in general to street traffic.

But here’s the difference: I have come to think that this disruption is actually a good thing.

Sure, every time a bridge lifts there will be some people stranded, stuck on the wrong side of the river, impatient to cross and get on with their day. So it goes. In all the time I’ve lived in Chicago, I’ve never once been seriously inconvenienced by a bridge lift. Sure, there have been times I’ve forgotten it was a lift day, or been surprised by an unscheduled lift, where I’ve turned a corner and discovered an enormous steel wall where I expected a clear passage. Each time, I adjusted my route and found one of umpteen other ways to cross the river and get to where I needed to go. So I can’t say I have a lot of sympathy for those who are too inflexible to find other options, or too uptight simply to relax and enjoy the show.

On Wednesday I watched yet another sailboat flotilla head out to the lake. On this breezy, sunny spring day, there were plenty of people around. As the signal bells clanged, the gates closed, and the bridge raised to the sky, dozens crowded the railing along Wacker Drive near the Michigan Avenue bridge. Tourists raised their cameras. Heck, so did some locals, seeing something different during an otherwise routine lunch break. Down along the new riverwalk, people sat on benches to watch the “big event.” At least half were locals; this was probably not their first time.

There’s a novelty to the movable bridges that doesn’t wear out. As old as the Michigan Avenue bridge is—its admirers will celebrate its 90th year next week—it remains a marvel of engineering. It can be awe-inspiring (and perhaps a little frightening) to stand, as I did, underneath it as it opens. The near-silence with which its motors actuate the spans just adds to the stateliness of its movement.

One moment, you’re underneath a solid expanse of iron, capable of supporting untold numbers of buses, cars, and pedestrians…

…the next moment, you’re looking into the gaping maw of Lower Michigan Avenue, suddenly truncated and hanging out into open space, as the sky opens up above your head and the Tribune Tower, Wrigley Building, and other landmarks of the skyline are revealed.

Raise the bridges more often, and it becomes less of an event—a unique, uncommon occasion for people to experience together. As often as I’ve seen the bridges move, I still find the first-timer’s exclamation of “wow! look at that!” to be contagious, and a joy worth catching.

An open reply, not that you deserve it

27 April 2010
Categories: Chicago

Last week the following hand-written postcard was mailed to our home:

You have the ugliest front yard on [this street]—probably in all of Chicago. Garbage all over. Bottes all over. Get your lazy Ukranian asses moving and clean up your garbage dump. It is repulsive. All the other neighbors take pride in the neighborhood. You are absolute pigs.

[All misspellings and emphasis—in purple highlighter, no less—are in the original.]

In what way exactly did you expect us to respond to this angry, hateful, anonymous missive? Did you think we would leap up and run to the yard, tools in hand, and make drastic changes? Tear it all up and put down a nice, even layer of sod? Because truth be told, my initial reaction was to respond to your anger in kind, and decide that under no circumstances would I undertake any effort that might bring you any satisfaction.

Not that I would anyway. You see, the front garden is not my bailiwick—it is under the direction of my septuagenarian mother-in-law. You have attacked a senior citizen. She is, far from being lazy, one of the most hard-working and industrious people you could meet, at any age. Her gardening style may be a bit unconventional, perhaps, and her budget is limited, but her results have been both interesting and beautiful. We offer to help, but more often than not she prefers to do the work herself.

The garden you see is not the result of laziness, it is a work in progress. The “bott[l]es” you mention, unless they were the transitory garbage of passing drunks—a commonality of any urban environment, and something we clean up whenever we see it—were probably the Mason jars that she had upended over the shoots of tender perennials, as impromptu “cold frames” to protect them from late-season frosts. Meanwhile, the area near the street—which is city property—is still recovering from the city workers who cut down a dead tree last year, but left the roots behind. (And who got off their asses and called the city about that tree? Yes. We did.)

Sure, in early spring the lack of grass makes it appear as if nothing is growing there, but that could not be further from the truth. It’s late April now and things are changing rapidly. The ground cover is filling in neatly between plantings. The hostas are sprouting thick and healthy. A neat row of day lilies is getting ready to do its thing. The rhododendrons are blooming now, and the roses will later. All this did not occur without significant effort.

Is our front yard a boring, generic mass of lawn, like that of every other house on the block? No—and I’m glad it’s not. If you want dull, thoughtless uniformity, I know of more than a few suburbs that might suit you.

Your accusation of laziness, and your implication of unneighborliness, are without any merit. Who has stood in the street in drenching rains, working to clear blocked drains along the entire block before the curbs overflow and dump rainwater and sewage into nearby basements—drains that have clogged with debris that remains in the gutters thanks to other residents who have been either too lazy, too self-absorbed, or too oblivious to move their vehicles on street sweeping days? That would be me. To my knowledge only one other neighbor on the block has even attempted to pick up what the street sweeper could not reach.

By the way, we are not Ukrainian; but would be proud if we were, for on the whole they have shown themselves to be good people who have been both friendly and welcoming to us. This neighborhood is called Ukrainian Village for a reason. If you have a problem with Ukrainians, you are most assuredly in the wrong place, and you need to go somewhere else. The sooner the better.

I really only have one question for you. Who has brought more ugliness into the world: my family, with our front yard filled with flowering plants; or you, with your hateful, insulting, race-baiting, poison-pen postcard?