Sounds so evil. Here’s a bit of background.

FYI, the snow that is coming down is perfectly spherical. Like small hail but with the consistency of snow rather than ice.

How cold is it in Chicago?

• The midday, sunny high still has a minus sign in front of it.
• I thought my son was bleeding yesterday morning after I kissed him good morning. Only then did I realize that I cracked my freeze-dried lip open and bled on him in doing so.
• The city has a Blade Runner-esque look with every manhole and sewer drain belching steam. So noir!
• Loaning our shower to a friend whose hot water pipes — but not cold, huh? — froze solid.
• My son’s new favorite word is “negative.”
• It is too cold to snow.
• Shit-filled diapers freeze solid on the back deck instantly.
• The Bears have sucked all warmth from our hearts.

That’s how cold it is.

You know he’s watching. Go Bears!

Ash, track, apple, and pigskin. This is how I know it is fall in Chicago.

Though fall is by far the most pleasant season in Chicago, by late September there’s a bite in the wind at times that reminds you that winter is lurking close, ready to slice through your jacket with the meteorological equivalent of spite. And this is why I associate fall with placing my annual order for a cord of wood. That’s a lot of wood, actually, but we’ll use it all by winter’s end. One-half birch, one-half mixed. I look forward to the first fire of the season with something approaching primitive desire. The delivery of the wood also marks the annual conversation with my wife about saving on gas bills this year by heating the homestead from the hearth only. Having a newborn in the house doesn’t really bolster my argument, but we’ll see.

This is also the time of year that we order some new track for our Christmas train set. The train only comes out once a year — to the infinite delight of my boys (and, well, me too) — and each year Santa brings something new for the set. You probably see the problem with track though. It is tough to recall from the previous Christmas what new track we could use. And of course you want to get the order in early enough so that it will come in time for us to build something before Dec. 25. (See, Santa’s worked out this elaborate scheme whereby he enlists Kris Kringle to bring the track on St. Nicholas Day, Dec. 6. And we’re not even Dutch.) So, anyway, to get it ordered I’m forced to take it all out in the fall and do a mock-configuration only to put it all away again — to the infinite dismay of my boys (and, well, me too). This year we decided we were going to break out of our two-loop rut (one around the family room, one around the tree, switched together). Yes, this is the year we pound the spike into the Trans-Dining Room Railway. Problem is that the track is ridiculously expensive. Like the Electric Double-Slip Switch pictured here. That single piece of track will set you back over $100. I tell my wife the track is indestructible, veritable heirlooms for our kids and their kids. Not sure she buys that. (But I bought the switch.)

Fall is also for apples. Picking them from trees, that is. I suppose doing it for five years now makes it a mini-tradition. The kids love it because they get to wield ultra-dangerous picking implements that are crosses between rakes, jai-alai cestas, and Hannibal Lecter’s mask. Plus it is fun to eat stuff right off a tree. It must be especially unique for my city-boy children who think the rocky underside of an overturned piece of asphalt is “nature.” My wife always does wonders with the bushel or so of apples we bring home. Usually the apples end up in cake and pie, but this year we’re going to try something different. I recently dusted off my winemaking equipment last used about a decade ago. So we’re going to make hard cider or, if we can’t figure that out, at least apple wine. And with the cold winter a-comin’ we’ll probably be able to ice-distill applejack. This method of distillation without a still is reminiscent of jailhouse fermentation for alcoholics and it occupies an area of questionable legality. Which is of course why I’m interested. Updates on progress to come.

Lastly, fall is for football. Of course that’s not unique to Chicago in any way. Except that in the city the density of homes makes a Bears game a totally communal event. Sitting on my porch during a game I get 5.1 surround sound commentary issuing from homes up and down my street and the bar at the corner. You can actually follow the progress of the game just by listening to the shouts, claps, and “fucks!” reverberating up and down the street. It is a wonderful thing. Doesn’t hurt that the Bears are looking phenomenal this year. Grab a brat and say yeah!

Wednesday I was the subject of a photo shoot for a magazine that took as its setting the L train system here in Chicago. (More soon on why. For now, you can let your imagination run wild, except to say that it wasn’t for GQ or Model Railroader. Duh.)

Anyway, I spent four hours on various platforms and trains as the subject of what would amount to over 20 GB of photos. I could no longer smile when it was over. In fact, I couldn’t make any countenance except what you’d associate with one who’s lost complete muscular control of his face.

A photo shoot on an L platform is an odd thing indeed. As the subject of the lens you’re a static target on a plane of constant motion. Occasionally my position right at the edge of the platform (which I could not budge from for matters of lighting) would align perfectly with where the train doors would open. Commuters would spill from the train right into me as I stood staring far in the distance at the photographer. I was jostled and shoved, a clear obstruction to exit from the train car — but I was smiling broadly, yessir! I looked like an escapee from a sanitarium I am quite sure. Oh, the muttered obscenity. Move you stupid fuck. Is that guy famous or something? Hmph, no!

At one point a CTA official told us that they were receiving reports that the flash canopy was blinding the drivers as they pulled into the station. It is true that the photographer hit the Gatling gun just as trains arrived (it was a good shot), but c’mon, it isn’t like the train would run off the tracks. It was basically stopped at the station.

Even funnier were the shots actually on the trains. There are many unwritten rules of decorum on the L, most of which are violated frequently to the delight of train-bloggers. Eye contact, loud talking, overt acts of sexual penetration … these are a few of the rules to which I will add having your photo taken by a crew. Commuters did not know what to do. At one point the photographer was getting so many crazy looks that he just stopped it all and declaimed to the car “We’re from ….* . He’s not famous. Nothing to see here.” Or something like that.

It was a grueling day, actually. And I know I sound like a spoiled actor or something saying that. The crew said none of the photos they took for this feature (a-ha, a hint!) was as difficult as balancing the lighting, incoming trains, and crowds that were integral to this shoot. But it could have been worse. It could have been the next day when the L system had a serious breakdown: power outage, suicide, and track gap — all in the same day. Ouch!

[*] Thought I’d trip up, eh? Gotcha!

Sub-titled: I didn’t intend a treatise on diversity, but here you go.

Today the newest CTA train line, called The Pink Line, begins service, bringing more folks from the west side into the swirling mix of commuters known as The Loop. Chicago is a diverse city of course with hundreds of neighborhoods and ethnicities, but the truth is that the white collar bustle of the Loop doesn’t really convey that sense. Even the L trains offer only a glimpse: tubes of demographic diversity snaking through relatively homogeneous neighborhoods on their way to the business district. The best way to get a sense of the diverse makeup of the city is to visit the beach on a warm summer day. The urban beach is the ultimate public space. It isn’t owned by anyone; it overlaps community boundaries (enforced by the street grid which obviously has no relevance on the beach); it is basically a blank slate with no dilapidated buildings to convey a sense of blight or McMansions to convey the other sense of blight. But most of all, everyone loves the beach. It’s just human. When you’re frolicking in the water it is hard to care about which block someone else is from. I’ve never seen such a harmonious amalgam of nationalities, languages, and habits.

Last week Team USA lost to Ghana in the World Cup. This didn’t occasion much soul-searching among regular Americans beyond the “hey world this is what you’re going to have to do to make us care about this sport” silliness. Luckily I had a unique window into fans who really do care. Our former nanny and many of her friends who’ve babysitted for us are all first-generation Ghanaians. During the match her husband called me a few times. You’d have thought every Ghanaian in the city was in a single room, shouting deliriously. It was infectious. I won’t say I was rooting against my countrymen, but I know I cared a lot less (than not much at all, admittedly) about who won. The better team should always win, of course, but sometimes it just feels right when the team with more devoted fans wins. Onward Black Stars!

We live near Boystown, a section of the Lakeview neighborhood that today hosts the flamboyant Gay Pride Parade (and will be ground zero for the Gay Games that come to Chicago in a few weeks). Boystown is festooned with rainbow flags of course so as we were driving through (home from the beach in fact) my four-year-old son asked my wife and I what the the flags meant. We stammered a bit, started to explain, rewound, then just sat there thinking of all the ways this conversation could spiral out of control. Finally I said “The flag means that in this part of town there are no rules on who you can love.” As soon as I said it I realized the fatal flaw in the line. If he asked me what the rules were we’d have a thornier conversation on our hands. He didn’t ask, thankfully. It was the best I could do no the spur of the moment. Ah parenting.

[*] Cleverly sprinkled with references to today’s events to seem more timely.