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About Chicago

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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A woman, any woman, can't sit and have a peaceful meal in the woods and enjoy a tiny speck of nature without being made to feel uncomfortable by suspicious.

Oh, and a little tidbit: There’s this hidden mural in an alley near Elm street – graffitied by local artists around 2005, I guess. Not many know, but it kinda sums up the city’s weird magical heart. It’s like the movie lines: “It's all a grand, messy caper, precious, we swears!” And I reckon the mural is a shoutout to that vibe.

Charles Robert “Charlie” Rutherford