Circa 2:30pm, Oct. 18. Crossing Chicago River eastward on Lake Street.

Something’s up at the Division Street Baths, last of the venerable public steam and sauna houses in the city and one of my favorite wintertime retreats. The door is shuttered, the phone number is disconnected, and there’s no notice of any kind about why it is closed. The baths have such a loyal following and checkered past that the complete silence seems very odd.

My pal Greer who is both a bath devotee and a novice gumshoe emailed Jesse Jackson, Jr. — like his dad, a long-time fan of the baths — who replied that he had no idea what had happened but that he was not pleased about it. Greer then called Alderman Flores whose office replied that the bath house building is undergoing complete renovation and should reopen in the spring.

But why no notice on the building? Why is the phone number disconnected? Something is not right here. Health code violation? Mafia?

Last year I wrote about running to the lake just ahead of the street-by-street drawbridge openings. I thought it’d be a fun thing to do with kids so yesterday we did the reverse. Being fall, the boats were all coming back in for winter docking and we were poised at 9AM at the Lake Shore Drive bridge. Up it went and in they came as we raced the stroller against the boats to the next bridge westward. That one — Columbus Ave., the largest movable bridge on the river system — was fun since you can actually stand on the shore path underneath as it heaves upwards. You’d probably not be surprised by how much crud comes raining down when you are standing right next to the base of the bridge fulcrum, though I’d wager you wouldn’t think of it until the last second. We had to huddle underneath the double-stroller’s sunshade to hide from the pummelling of street detritus: dirt, pebbles, cigarette butts, and other things probably left best unconsidered.

Only 18 boats at a time can be let up the river because of limited idling space between the bridges in the loop. That makes for a hectic season for the CDOT. Still, there’s nothing quite as cool as the sight of three consecutive bridges going up — except maybe watching the mix of horror and exhiliration on the face of a four-year-old who thinks the roadway is going to topple straight over on him.

Disruption to traffic? Of course! But well-heeled yacht-owners have rights too and since the the Chicago River is a federal waterway Da Mayor ain’t got no say.

This past weekend was our annual neigborhood festival. Just a few short blocks of food, bands, kid stuff, carnival games, and beer. By day relatively laid back with neighborhooders milling about; by night some 50,000 Chicagoans pack in to hear the headliners, normally just above-average tribute bands. Great fun, though.

Saturday night I was ambitiously over-served. So waking up with the kids on Sunday morning was especially painful. But it wasn’t until I reported for my volunteer shift that morning and was told that I had been put in charge of the children’s entertainment stage that I learned just how cruel a turn my life had taken.

So there I was, still legally intoxicated, surrounded by a few dozen sugar-addled children and their Starbucks-addled parents, chatting it up with Mary Macaroni and the Jabberwocky Marionettes. It was too surreal to be hellish. All I recall is that Mary’s real name is Karen and that the Jabberwockys don’t like to be called puppeteers.

Not sure I’ll be invited back to volunteer next year.

550
feet
taller
than
the
Sears
Tower.

Wow.

I like this design for three reasons.

(1) Trump hates that it would overshadow his latest homage to himself.
(2) The City of Big (Square) Shoulders needs more curve, less quadrilateral in its skyline.
(3) It shares elements of what the the now-fortified Freedom Tower once was (and still could be).

Maybe this will knock some sense back into that design.

For Father’s Day I received a behind-the-scenes tour of Wrigley Field with my wife and oldest son. What a gift. If an unsanctified place can be holy, Wrigley is it.

One thing that struck me is how completely devoid of advertising the park is. You sense this when watching a game, but that’s the thing about a lack of in-your-face advertisement: when it isn’t there you focus on what matters and don’t consciously register its absence. In fact, you have to look really hard to find any advertisement. Up until a few years ago there was none, zero, zip. But now it exists on seat-back cupholders (which, if you are looking at that during a Cubs game, you got bigger problems), occasional scrolls on the three small LED boards, and — during big games — on the green screen in back of home plate. The green screen is particularly Wrigleyesque in that visitors to the park don’t ever see the superimposed ads. Only the shleps at home.

The other thing that really strikes you is what a shit-hole Wrigley is off the field. Built in 1914, the park is just a tad younger than Fenway — and it shows. The press rooms are like veal pens, the visiting team locker room is laughably awful — it actually smells like mildew, and I bet the Cubs clubhouse is less spacious than many minor league locker rooms. But hey. It is a ballpark. For ballplaying. No reason to dally in the locker rooms. Just get out there and play on the best field in baseball.

Fans on the rooftops. The L clanking by. Sailboats on the lake visible from the cheap seats. Manual scoreboard. Old Style beer. Amen.

Terminus of one of the tubes that form the lattice “dome” above the great lawn at Millennium Park with the ribbon-like Gehry bandshell behind it.

“911 emergency services.”

“Yes, hello. I just passed under Montrose Ave. in a canoe and the bridge is on fire.”

“In a canoe?”

“Yes, on the Chicago River. In a canoe. The bridge is on fire from underneath. Smoke’s billowing out across the river.”

“Ah … ok. We’ll have the fire department out right away.”

“Will you send fire boats that shoot water from giant nozzles?”

“Probably not, sir.”

[frustrated grunt] “I’ll keep paddling then. Good night.”

Some yahoo climbed up the tallest crane at the Trump Tower construction site (no ladder, mind you) and is threatening to splat himself. Some intellectual property gripe, perhaps involving Oprah — or so the buzz at ground level says. The construction crew couldn’t be happier at this forced break and of course most of the pedestrian traffic is playing armchair negotiator or calculating his survival chances if he dives into the drink. (Um, that’d be zero.) I just want to know what the CPD Underwater Search and Rescue Unit can do.

UPDATE: After a slow descent the jumper decided he didn’t want to face the cops and he stalled. At this point I am guessing the subtle negotiation techniques used by the CPD turned to profanity-strewn yelling. Someone told the crane operator to lower the whole thing and the almost-suicide was apprehended. He sure didn’t like the structure going horizontal though. Probably scared him more than being 100 feet up. No lives lost, but oh the billable hours wasted!