Who is your valentine this year? Mine is John Thompson

February 14th, 1929. Currently, two rival factions of the mafia, one led by Al Capone, the other by Bugs Moran, are battling it out to control Chicago’s illegal liquor supply, gambling action, and “protection rings.” The battle has thus far been bloody, but nothing like the events of this day had been seen in America yet.
On that day, February 14th, seven members of Bugs Moran’s Irish gang went to a warehouse to supposedly look at some cases of bootleg whiskey that could be acquired cheaply. Like most things in life, this turned out to be too good to be true. As the men entered the warehouse, several of Capone’s men entered the warehouse dressed as Chicago police. After placing the men under arrest, the disguised gangsters lined them up facing the back wall of the warehouse, telling the men that they were to be frisked for weapons. Instead, two more men, dressed as civilians, entered the warehouse carrying classic gangster “Tommy Guns,” or M1A1 Thompson Submachine guns, capable of firing six hundred .45 caliber bullets a minute. And fire the guns did. Bullets tore into the men, killing six instantly and wounding one, Frank Gusenberg, so severely that he died a few hours later. Then, all the members of Capone’s gang, fake police and civilians alike, entered a car and drove away, leaving their human carnage to rot in the alley.
No one was ever convicted of the killings. Al Capone was purposefully in Florida on vacation, and although he was suspected of ordering the hit, was never officially charged. According to rumor, Bugs Moran was the target of the assault, but he was confused for one of his men, who looked like him, and survived the day unscathed.
The area of Lincoln Park where the event took place is today a nursing home parking lot. According to legend, sometimes at night, you can still hear the screams of the gangsters crying out in surprise and horror as they realize their fates.
Of course, that may just be the elderly patients, trapped in the nursing home, realizing their own grim fates, in lives nearing their end.

Although the massacre initally sparked public outcry, it soon, like everything else in Chicago, was used for profit.

Chicago's Most Wanted: Benny the Bull

Chicago has come a long way since the blood-soaked years of the 1920's-30's. Remember the good ol' days when the city was known for heinous criminal acts and bullets fell from the sky more often than rain? When Valentine's Day was more than just a lame dinner with your significant other? Unfortunately, criminal masterminds like Al Capone and Bugs Moran are long gone. Nevertheless, the criminal element is still alive and well in Chicago, and the man holding the reigns dons a red furry suit and rides around on a miniature motorcycle: Benny the Bull. That's right, having worked with the Chicago Bulls mascot, I can tell you that this guy is one mad mother. But you don't have to take it from me, just look at Benny's (a.k.a Barry Anderson) rap sheet:

• Charge: Misdemeanor Battery

During the Taste of Chicago in 2006, Benny the Bull took it upon himself to entertain the masses by riding through the crowd on his mini-motorcycle. An off-duty Chicago police officer tried to get the mascot off his motorcycle and Benny refused. After a short slow-speed chase, the officer caught up with costumed troublemaker and Benny rewarded him by punching him in the face, knocking off his glasses. Mr. Anderson argued that he was in character when he punched the officer, and, not surprisingly, the defense didn't hold up and he was charged.

• Charge: $80,000 lawsuit

Anyone whose ever been to a Bull's game before knows that Benny like to get the crowd going by running down the aisles and giving the fans high-fives. However, during a game on February 12, 2008, Benny forgot how strong his was and tore a man's bicep. The only problem was the man, Don Kalant, happened to be a well-known oral surgeon in the Naperville area. Kalant needed to have surgery and missed more than 4 months of work, so he sued Benny for more than $80,000 in back wages.

• Charge: Hilarious

Only in Chicago would a mascot shoot players on the opposing team. During a barn-burner against the Boston Celtics on April 1, 2008, the cowardly Celtics called a timeout and Benny the Bull saw his opportunity and took it. Armed with an air-pressured t-shirt gun, Benny shot Kevin Garnett and James Posey in the back as the sissies walked to their bench. Garnett and Posey gave Bennie the Bull a glare, and, said Garnett, “We exchanged words.” After the game, James "Turd Sandwich" Posey made these comments, "I felt threatened,” said Posey, who is considered a villain among Bulls fans for his tough fouls when he played for Miami, and was booed every time he touched the ball last night. “They already don’t like me here already. Two T-shirts were thrown at me and KG. I don’t feel safe. The T-shirts were fired out of that gun or whatever. I feel a little sore in one spot. I might have to get treatment. First, I thought it was a teammate just tapping me. But then I looked down and there were T-shirts and there were only two down there. Let’s see how the league handles this.” Thankfully, then head coach, Jim Boylan, did the right thing and supported Benny's attempted assasination, "It was against Posey so, it’s open season against him whenever he steps on the court in Chicago. I was proud of Benny, glad he took matters into his own hands. He orchestrated it behind the scenes.''

Mary Mary quite....dead. How did you die?

Resurrection Mary. Her name has captivated many people in the Chicago land area for more than 60 years. There is even a song called, “The Ballad of Resurrection Mary.” But what happened to make this ghost so famous? Who was this woman that has supposedly done everything from jump on the running boards of cars passing by to dance with unsuspecting boys at the nearby Willowbrook ballroom?
The answer is….no one knows. Two major candidates emerge from the list of literally dozens of women. A woman named Mary Bregovy is the first candidate, having been killed in an auto wreck in 1934 on the way out to dance with some boys. According to a friend, the boys Mary was riding with the night she was killed were, “wild boys.” This story explains both why she is interested in dancing and why she seems to enjoy riding in cars. The fact that Mary was willing to ride with these “wild boys” shows that she is a free spirit, and the type of person that would rebel at being killed with so much life left to live. The problem with this theory is that Bregovy was killed on the north side of the city, far from the south west Willowbrook ballroom.
Another possible Mary wasn’t named Mary at all. She was named Anna Norkus. She was a 12 year old girl who was taken dancing by her father to celebrate her 13th birthday. The pair went to the Oh Henry, which later became the infamous Willowbrook ballroom. On the way home, Anna and her father’s car spilled into an unmarked and unseen 25 foot railroad cut (proving that road construction sucked long before now) Norkus was killed instantly, and supposedly became the ghost of resurrection Mary, constantly going out to dance and never returning home. The problem with this story is that Anna Norkus at 13 is far from the more mature late teen/20 something most of the men report seeing.
There are various other reports of “Mary’s” being Resurrection Mary, ranging from girls killed outside the cemetery itself after stealing her parents car to visit her boyfriend for some late night dancing to a girl killed on the south side by a passing car on or near Halloween. Personally, and for purposes of the stories I am writing for my final class project on Mary, I am using Mary Bregovy- but this is based purely on dramatic effect, not on any facts. The truth is, we may never know who the real Mary is, or why she keeps coming back to earth to dance and scare teenage boys instead of resting in peace.

Chicago Haunts by Urslula Bielski was used to get the names and facts of the women mentioned above.

So...what's your style?

In August, two good friends from California flew out to visit me - my first real opportunity to play Chicago host since moving back here six years ago. I did the best I could, but as is often the case with Jason and Mike, my antics became a running joke among us. To briefly summarize:

(1) Because my natural sense of direction falls somewhere between "unacceptable" and "deeply retarded", we spent an inordinate amount of time wandering aimlessly through unknown neighborhoods. I tried valiantly to take a positive spin on our meanderings ("Hey guys, it's all about the journey, not the destination, right? Right? Guys?"). They were unimpressed...and occasionally hostile, I might add.

(2) Although I have been living in the city for several years, I normally spend the vast majority of my time either at work or in my apartment. This returns us to the main problem addressed in (1) - I had no fucking idea what I was doing.

Hence, I had to quickly abandon any hope of providing useful, informative, or otherwise appealing guidance, and instead settled comfortably into the role of Meta Host. Rather than clinging to sad delusions of even middling competency, I decided to use my position as a vehicle for delivering ironic commentary on the very idea of being a host. This led to the two main catchphrases of the week: (1) "We are doing it Chicago style!", and (2) "That's just the Chicago way."

These catchphrases could be used in an astounding array of circumstances, no matter what their shape or form. When riding the El, for example, I would often (and for no discernible reason) gesture at Mike and Jason with monumental grandiosity and bellow, "Boys, I'm telling you - we are doing it Chicago style right now!" However, on the frustrating occasions when we barely missed a train (and there were many), I would instead shake my head sympathetically, pat one of them on the back, and say (with a touch of sadness), "Don't take it personally, my friend. That's just the Chicago way." Regardless of the situation, I managed to find a reason why it was perfectly and unequivocally Chicago, even for actions as mundane as methodically trudging down Irving Park Road, or entering the public restroom in Grant Park. Although my insistence on repeating these catchphrases ad nauseam lead to periodic threats of violence, they were, for the most part, received with good cheer, and served as an effective smoke and mirrors job to cover up my deep inadequacies as host. Also, I bought them a lot of booze. That helped, too.

At some point, it occurred to us that some cities absorb the monikers "style" or "way" exceedingly well (Chicago appears to stand head and shoulders above the rest, one of many reasons why we live in such a kick-ass city); others, though, seem to fare rather poorly. We could often pin-point specific reasons for this, but not always. Consider the following examples:

"Boston style" works reasonably well, although it's hard for me not to think of a rotisserie chicken when I say it. "The Boston way", though? Pretty damn cool, I have to say...pretty damn cool. "Philadelphia style" (Or "Philly style", for those in the know) brings to mind a steak sandwich with cheese whiz (not necessarily a bad thing), but "The Philadelphia way?" Come on - that sounds like a bad cop buddy film from the 80's. "Seattle style" is pleasingly alliterative, while "Sacramento style" is not. ("The Sacramento way", though? Intriguing!) "Vegas style" is inherently and unassailably cool; the very phrase implies an exciting, illicit, and quite possibly insane journey to the wild side. "New York style" and "The New York way" summon an intense rage that I didn't even know existed, exceeded only by the infuriatingly vacuous pomposity of "L.A. style" or "The L.A. way." If anyone ever said the latter two phrases within earshot, I would have no choice but to punch them in the face.

For brevity's sake, let us momentarily abandon "way". "Cleveland style" is weirdly appealing, as are "Memphis style", "San Antonio style", and "Denver style". By adding one word, these cities instantly become more fascinating to me, whether deserved or not. If somebody said, "Buffalo style", I would immediately demand a plate of chicken wings drenched in hot sauce. "Milwaukee style" trumps any of the food-themed cities by recalling the holy trinity of bratwurst, cheese, and beer. "Montgomery style" and "Jackson style", on the other hand, somehow conjure the image of Ned Beatty being viciously sodomized as an inbred banjo player strums vacantly in the distance. Is this a blatantly unfair characterization of the Deep South, based entirely on a long-outdated Hollywood film? Yes, it is. Next!

Many other cities inevitably set themselves up for ridicule or self-parody in this fashion. "Bismark style?" Gloriously insipid. How about "Tulsa style" or "Dover style?" Now there's a good one. "Orlando style?" You have got to be fucking kidding me. I long for the day, though, when I hear the following words: "Boys, get ready for a very special evening, because we are doing it Montpelier style tonight!"

Ramble - My College Career

I am a mother of three and I decided to raise my children and put my goals on hold. Once they reached a certain age I decided that it was time for me to go back. I was ready and excited. Boy or boy was it a challenge. I juggled my family, a part-time job, and full-time school schedule for the past six years. This is the last semester of my journey and I am thrilled.

During this time, I have lost the only father I've ever known, Grandpa. My oldest has had surgery and my mother a stroke. How did I make it, I can't tell you. But I am grateful to say I have made it to the end. As I reflect back on my life I wonder why must things be so difficult when you are trying to do better? I am curious to know why poor people suffer the way that they do. I tried to understand the difference in high-and low brow literature. I needed to know why Hip-Hop had such a bad reputation. I have thought about Michael Jackson's numerous surgeries and how a man that was loved by millions, died "lonely." I have questioned the use of a Bachelor's degree in English for a young Black girl? How can I be this close to graduation with so many unanswered questions?

In the end, I am proud of my accomplishments but ashamed to say so. Pride is not something I'm proud of having. I'd rather say I am grateful for this privilege, this opportunity to do what many Black people are not fortunate to do, graduate from a university. Wow! Look at me. I am the first one in my entire family to do so, I am the only one that knows this type of struggle. My mother knew different struggles. Her White/Black/Indian grandmother would not allow her in her front door on a Sunday morning because her "skin was too dark." Her biology teacher said lets use a strand of Helen's hair as a specimen under the microscope because it should be filled with dirt." My mother knows of different struggles. So am I proud? I don't think my emotions or questions can be equated with pride but I feel something.

If someone asked me to sum up the last six years of my life, I would say:

M - arginal

A- ltered

S- urreal

T - ough

E - xplicit

R - ough

E - xquisite

D - ONE

Graduate Application

Why am I so frightened? Why Am I in fear? Why do I feel discouraged before the deadline is here? Why do I feel less adequate than others that are near? Why do I feel ashamed to be tested in this year?

I am so afraid to take the GRE and submit my graduate application. I know that I have had a rigorous undergraduate education and have learned quite a bit. I have studied hard, read a great deal, and absorbed an extreme amount of information. However, I have taken a GRE prep class and it frightened me more than words can explain.

What is fueling my anxiety is my current workstudy position. All day I open GMAT scores and transcripts of applicants applying to the MBA, MSA, or MIS programs their scores are through the the roof, especially from the international applicants. I have to tell applicants all day long that "although we do not have a minimum score our applicants are averaging a 610." Wow, many say that the score is high, other schools are in the 500's. I apologize and wish the applicant luck. Now, I am scared to death! I have been told that my GRE will not be the only determinant of the application but I am still scared. WHY?

"Maybe the Whole Town Went to Work too Young"

I loved the tone of this book for many reasons-- not least of which is the way he manages to critique Chicago while still clearly (to me at least) professing his love for her. Nevertheless, one of the things I really appreciated about Chicago: City on the Make was the chapter Algren did from his own kids-eye-view. I took it to be autobiographical when he described the move from the South Side to the North Side in the context of the 1919 Black Sox season. Since I'm not a Chicago native, I really appreciated this sketch-- made visceral with the slang of the time and the sense of childish proportion-- of growing up in Chicago. Delivering papers, sneaking into Comiskey, negotiating with his new North Side neighbors, Algren drags us around the city of his youth like the little red wagon he uses to deliver the Saturday Evening Blade.

What is striking aside from the whimsical shift in perspective--for instance, imagining all of the North Side alleys leading straight to Wrigley--is the way that this chapter is definitively a description of a Chicago child's introduction to what it means to be a "hustler's town." From the goings-on at the shady South Side tavern that Uncle J. frequents, to the national story of World Series-level fraud of the 1919 Chicago White Sox-- the narrator of this chapter is learning the language and logic of Chicago's streets. After his team is found to have purposely thrown their chances of victory, the narrator learns how dangerous a game loyalty in Chicago can be. His new North Side acquaintences immediately throw him in with the tarnished South Side team. The grilling is reminicent of a Chicago Sun Times article on clout abuses or mafia meddlings in Chicago politicians, as Algren describes, "I was coming around Troy Street almost a year later pretending I believed Risberg to be an honest man. I'd gone out to the ball park, seen him play in person and was now insisting I'd seen nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all [...] And I still pretended I hadn't suspected a thing?" (Algren 37). And concludes with the ultimate question, "What kind of American are you, anyhow?" (Algren 37). This questions rings throughout the whole book-- and the answer is a resounding-- I'm a Chicagoan, that's what kind.

"I guess that was one way of learning what Hustlertown, sooner or later, teaches all its sandlot sprouts, 'Everybody's out for The Buck. Even the big-leaguers.'" (Algren, 39).