It was about this time of year almost exactly one decade ago. My son, Clark, was just a month old, and my golden retriever, Simon, jumped up on the bed next to him. Simon, just three years old at the time, had to see the baby. He wasn’t usually allowed on the bed, but with camera in hand, I made an exception. And I got this excellent shot.
From 1994-1997, I drove a Chicago cab. It was the perfect complement to a University of Chicago education. I freelanced for a large corporation, I saw the seedy underbelly of the Loop and I rubbed elbows with hardworking immigrants from two dozen different countries. One thing I learned quickly is that white cabdrivers were rare. So I wrote a poem about it (back in 1997). Here you go.
It was 1997 and I rented a basement room in a ground floor apartment in Chicago’s still-questionable Wicker Park neighborhood (2300 block of West North Ave) with a friendly couple and a high-class drug addict.