I think a lot about about how to stay organized and keep on top of tasks. It’s not easy, but it’s so important. It’s something I failed to learn. It’s been a struggle, therefore, my entire life. And therefore something I’ve tried and struggled to instill in my kids.

Starting in 6^th grade or so every year during back-to-school time we’d make sure to pick up a small, red leatherish planner called an assignment book. The best ones were from an Evanston bookstore called Chandlers (RIP). It would have space for every day of the school year for me to write down what homework I had to do.

Wesley Willis was a punk rocker in Chicago and also an artist. The LA Times summed up what most people knew about him, describing him upon death in 2003 at age 40, “Wesley Willis, a 6-foot-4, 320-pound former homeless man who channeled his schizophrenia into an unlikely career as a rock music cult hero.”

I had friends who knew him a little bit. Or at least interacted with him frequently. One worked at the Wicker Park Kinkos where he would copy fliers or covers for his tapes. She said he had “demons” but was a gentle guy despite his size. But it was also intimidating that his preferred method of greeting was head-butting people.

I liked his music, at least in some contexts.

I first saw Poi Dog Pondering at a concert on Northwestern’s campus called ‘Dillo Day (it’s on YouTube!). It was an annual outdoor festival on the lakefront right before final exams. The show clearly changed my life. I went right from the show to a Chicago Compact Disc store and picked up “Volo Volo,” and later their other two albums at the time.

I became a fan, and the following summer Poi Dog Pondering was playing at Grant Park on the 4^th of July. I was spending the summer on campus and helping edit the “summer” issue of Art+Performance by night and working in the campus computing lab by day.

I assigned myself to cover the Poi show and wrote a story. I loved writing it, and I loved how it turned out. That story (see below) would lead to both a longstanding relationship with the band and a longstanding misunderstanding.

At first, I wasn’t a Smashing Pumpkins fan. I went through a phase in college where I leaned against a lot of music I would later come to appreciate. But eventually Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness won me over. I covered that tour for Addicted to Noise and shot the Pumpkins for the first of what would be many times.

Eventually I would get to meet Billy and Pumpkins drummer Jimmy Chamberlin. Pretty sure I met Billy initially during the Waltz shows at Metro (see Meeting Nick Tremulis). But after the Pumpkins broke up the first time, I tried to shoot Corgan’s post-Pumpkins project, Zwan in St. Louis. Sean and I travelled down for that show, as it was one of the first announced Zwan gigs. They played a little club called the Galaxy, but didn’t want press coverage yet so we just watched and listened. The Galaxy was hard to find in pre-GPS days, as was pretty much anywhere to eat in downtown St. Louis. Sean and I paid a dollar to a guy at a gas station to point us toward a restaurant that was open. Not great.

One of the first “rock star” interviews I did was with the band, Everclear. While they’ve gone on to ride the success of a couple ‘90s albums into a lengthy career, they were just starting to break in 1995. I talked to them before a sold-out show at Metro. I was interviewing Everclear and, as a favor to their publicist I also sat down with the opener of the three-band bill, Ruth Ruth. In between those sets I caught a little bit of the other band on the bill and was quite impressed. I made a note to keep an eye on them and yeah, No Doubt did pretty well, too!

I was still in college, so this was a pretty cool day. I was even repurposing my reporting or a project called “A day in the life of the Internet” in which people from all over the world collaborated on documenting how the Internet was affecting their lives in different ways. Keep in mind this was 1995 or so. The Internet, or at least the Web, was still very young.

I liked their music, and the singer seemed like a guy who had faced a lot in his life and channeled it into, well, art.

The single moment that most changed my life took place on a street corner off-campus from Northwestern on a random afternoon, much like any other.

It’s a moment that would never have taken place if I hadn’t first had that chance conversation with Dr. Welch about applying for editor-in-chief. Nor if Doc hadn’t have written that letter to Northwestern. Nor if my friend and dorm neighbor Freddie hadn’t suggested I run for President of Willard. But those things happened and they set me up for this moment.

I was standing with Andy Carvin. Andy had graduated and was visiting from D.C. where he lived. He had previously lived in the late, great Willard room 121 years before me. We were waiting for Chris Crone (of which the same could be said) who worked near this corner. If I had to guess we were going to then go to My Bar for a litre of Pilsner Urquell. He was squinting at everyone who walked by because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He squinted at someone he thought might be Chris but turned out to be another recent grad who was visiting from New York, a guy named David Levin.

So if you’re following, I’m on a corner a ways from campus. It’s not a highly trafficked area to start with. I’m standing with someone from out of town and someone else from out of town walks by and amazingly enough, these two guys know each other pretty well. How’s that for coincidence and chance?

My parents used to leave the Detroit Free Press on the kitchen table. Sometimes just lying there because that’s where papers went when they came in the house. Sometimes open to something they wanted me to read. Kids will read most anything you leave out while they’re eating breakfast it seems.

I read through most of the paper while I had my cereal or yogurt in the mornings. But I loved reading about the Tigers so I’d look at the sports and of course the comics. I’d read Dave Barry’s essays too.

I also just loved good writing and there were few, if any, newspaper writers in Detroit at that time than Mitch Albom. He was first and foremost a sports writer. But he also had a column where he could clearly write about most anything he wanted to. He told great stories and he told them well. About the biggest athletes of the time and also more human and personal pieces.

This is a story of a great piece of advice, and one of those nudges that can change your life.

Dr. Jeffrey Welch was my freshman year English teacher and my advisor. He was wicked smart, super literate and didn’t put up with my slacking. Yes, I slacked. He once commented on an assignment I turned in “Were you watching TV when you wrote this? Were you alive?” And he wrote something about continuing to water the my word horde so it would grow, etc.

The reason he was hard on me (I think? I hope?) was because he knew I could do better, but wasn’t trying very hard.

I had a lot of amazing teachers along the way. But as a student, if you get even one who is anywhere near as special as my high school Latin teacher, Dr. Stephen “Doc” Rosenquist, you will be lucky indeed. I suppose I met him on the first day of school my freshman year. Latin 2A was a small but staggeringly intelligent group of humans who went on to lead fascinating lives. Doc lived in the freshman dorm on campus and I remember visiting his apartment early on. His cat Athena (she was grey, like the goddess’ eyes) took a liking to me. Which flabbergasted Doc. Athena was a rescue and was exceedingly skittish around other people. Her vote of confidence, I think, was important in winning over Doc, much moreso than my grades in Latin ever could.

Here’s something I wrote when he passed away, which was read at his memorial service on campus. Side note, take pictures with the people who matter in your life. You won’t regret it.

-==-

I grew up, of course, watching Mork and Mindy, which oddly was a spin off of Happy Days. I assume the episode where an alien visits the Cunningham’s was after the show “jumped the shark.” But Mork was an alien played by Robin Williams, one of the most amazing comics and actors ever.

My younger self memorized Robin Williams’ routine, “Live at the Met.” Night after night I listened to the cassette with headphones after bedtime. Tethered to the boombox radio by my bed. A lot of it was over my head at that age. Years and years later I was still finally understanding some of the jokes in moments of inappropriate enlightenment. But man, it was always funny.

Perhaps one of the first heroes I met was literally the hero next door.

I know it’s hard to imagine now, but when I was growing up if you wanted to listen to a song, you had to own a record (or tape of it.) Or you could call a radio station that played that type of music and request that they play your song, which they might or the probably wouldn’t.

That’s what I spent a lot of the money I’d earn mowing our lawn on: music, from Harmony House, Sam’s Jams, Repeat the Beat and other local record stores.

Growing up I lived next door to Tom and Joan Sankovich. They were a nice couple, with a cute dog named Dooley. I would walk him sometimes. Tom was better known as Tom Ryan, which was his DJ name. He was half of a long-running morning show team with Dick Purtan on WNIC and WMOC, which broadcast out of Windsor, Canada. Every morning Tom would get up before the sun and drive his Corvette over the boarder, slowing slightly and waving at the customs agents who all knew him well.

There are any a number of reasons why I liked Culture Club. First and foremost, their songs were good, ‘80s pop that has stood the test of time. Which is not to say it’s timeless. It’s very ‘80s. But then again so am I. Colour by Numbers dropped in the magic year of 1984. The Tigers won the World Series going wire to wire in first place.  The A-Team was on every Tuesday night as I recall. And lying on the living room floor listening to Casey Kasem was non-stop hits. Thriller. Van Halen. Purple Rain.  The Replacements. And this guy named Boy who dressed not just like a girl but like Cindy Lauper at that. She was big that year too. He wore bigger hats though.

So there was this curiosity about him. Dee Snider was around in this era. David Bowie had had his Man who Sold the World days and was now one of the best dressed and most dapper gentlemen in rock. Was Boy George gay? No one was really gay to a 10-year-old in the suburbs in the ’80s. Tipper Gore and Reagan were leading social voices of the day, after all. Boy George was unusually daring and flamboyant but still didn’t quite come out and say what was in hindsight rather obvious. Or maybe he did. It’s not like you could ask Google at the time.

I didn’t know what to make of him. Or if I should even make anything of him. And it’s hard to make sense of what I did or might have thought then from the perspective of today. Or from the perspective of a young pre-adolescent who had his gender roles questioned and challenged by the school bullies.

One of the other people whose heroes I met is… my younger selves…

I didn’t have a lot of heroes that I remember, when I was growing up. I certainly didn’t consider “super heroes” to be my heroes. Looking back, I’m not sure why. Maybe because they weren’t real and their powers were impossible, no matter how much we all wanted to fly. Maybe it was because the things that made them heroes, like massive strength, were traits I would never begin to posses. Not sure.

But I have rarely, if ever, been disappointed in efforts to try to impress my younger selves. I’ve had that opportunity a few times. These next few issues will tell those stories:

One hero I remember having was Hannibal Smith, the leader of the A-Team. The A-Team was a TV show that was big when I was in 4th grade. It aired on Tuesday nights and on Wednesdays we would all talk about it at school. It was about a group of former war heroes who had been falsely accused of some crimes. The police wanted to arrest them, so they were always on the run. But they would help people solve their problems, especially if they were being bullied. The A-Team would show up, build a crazy contraption and fight off the bad guys just in time, before they police showed up. Hannibal would create these elaborate scenarios to trick the bad guys. He’d get all excited and caught up in the preparation and his teammates, like B.A. (Bad Attitude) Baracus would say, “Watch out, man, he’s on the jazz,” which basically meant that he was embracing his passion for helping others. Everything would usually go haywire but work out in the end because he had such a great team working behind and with him.

Once, I got to introduce one of my parents to one of their heroes. Because sometimes meeting your heroes is as easy as buying a ticket.

My mom talks about Rick Kogan the way I talk about John Richards. That’s the thing with radio: it’s so personal. Just their voice in your kitchen or living room or ear buds. It’s easy for their voice and stories and baseball calls and music to live in your head. Garrison Keller was like that too, until he wasn’t.

Rick Kogan is a Chicago institution. Both at the Chicago Tribune and on WGN radio. He’s a second generation newspaperman. His dad co-wrote Lords of the Levee, which is an amazing history of Chicago’s 1^st ward politics centered on the colorful Bathhouse John and Hinky Dink. His mom also worked for the Tribune. He counted as friends and collaborators the likes of Royko, Ebert, Siskel and Studs. Kogan tells stories of the present, too of course. And he especially likes telling the stories of other story tellers, like the piece he wrote about the Frunchroom, a south-side story-telling series my friend Scott hosts.

In short, Rick Kogan is a storyteller’s storyteller. He’s the last of greats standing and has had what must be the bitter sweet honor of crafting the obits for many of those legends around him. He is better off for having this colorful city to chronicle, and Chicago is better because he tells its tales.

Sometimes it’s unclear why someone is a hero. Why, for instance, would a shark from IKEA suddenly develop a fascination for a guy who writes European travel books? I mean, yes, Rick wrote a guide to Sweden and mentioned IKEA in it. That, it seems, was enough. And thus began Blahaj’s obession with Rick Steves.

Blahaj joined our family in January 2023 after a period of intense lobbying from Jane. And that fall, after discovering the IKEA/Sweden reference Blahaj started sleeping with Rick Steves’ books. He read to me at bedtime. And demanded that I feed Rick. Threats were made. And it’s a good idea to take threats seriously when they come from an obsessed apex predator.

I knew Rick Steves from the first time I visited Europe, traveling with my sister and brother-in-law who lived in Italy at the time. We used his books to help us navigate and it all went well, except for that one hotel…

Three generations of my family have been college and/or high school DJs, myself and my wife included. Music – and radio – are important to us. If my family has a mutual hero, it’s John Richards. 

KEXP, 90.3 Seattle, was one of the first stations to stream all its content. It’s listener-supported radio. It’s all music. And it’s programmed in real time by humans. The morning show is spun by a DJ named John Richards whose show is part Gen-X warm blanket comfort food nostalgia, part new music discovery and part therapy session. He can weave a set from Mozart to punk rock to hip hop in a way that really only a human can make work. Wait, did I just hear the Muppets? Was that really Ministry? Before 8am?!?

My grandfather, B, took my family and me to my first baseball game. It was June, 1981 at Tiger Stadium. A foul ball came right at us, and even though I had my glove, I missed catching it and it wedged itself between the seat and the leg of the man behind me. He didn’t even try to catch it, but the ball was his. I was so sad, and B was probably disappointed in me.

I’m sure Ernie Harwell had something to say about it on the radio. He was the long, long, longtime radio broadcaster for the Tigers.

From the mini-series, Meeting the Velvet Underground: Lou Reed, John Cale, Moe Tucker, and Sterling Morrison

Moe Tucker of the Velvet Underground was touring and Sterling Morrison, also of the Velvets was in her band. I, a devoted fan and keeper of the first Web site about them, couldn’t believe it. Even better, they were playing in Madison with Jonathan Richman. Richman was a devotee and fanboy of the Velvets when he was a young lad and grew up to have his own quirky place in the rocknroll family tree with his band, The Modern Lovers. Madison was only a couple hours from campus so I begged Linda, a friend of my dad’s from college who lived near campus, for her car. I promised to return it with a full tank of gas. Jon Michaels, my roommate joined me for the road trip.

It was an amazing night in which I got to spend some serious time huddled with half of one of the most legendary bands ever.

Thankfully, I was on assignment and wrote it allllll down. This is maybe one of my favorite openings I’ve ever written.

From the mini-series, Meeting the Velvet Underground: Lou Reed, John Cale, Moe Tucker, and Sterling Morrison

I was lucky to be at the height of my Velvet Underground fandom and my music journalism career at a moment where the band was firing on all cylinders – just mostly not together, sadly. Lou Reed had put out a string of great albums. John Cale was on the road a lot. Moe Tucker was even touring as a solo act including a tour with Sterling Morrison.

All of that meant that I got to meet each of the Velvets and interview all but Lou Reed.

They were all quirky in their own ways, as you can imagine.

From the mini-series, Meeting the Velvet Underground: Lou Reed, John Cale, Moe Tucker, and Sterling Morrison

John Cale was of course one of the original Velvet Underground. His influence is felt in every chord of the first two albums. I interviewed him in college by phone (see below) which was a big deal to me at the time. I was slightly more seasoned when I interviewed him again a couple years later. It was a phoner again, and early on a weekend. I did the interview in my pajamas. Before that was a thing that people did all the time when they worked from home. I remember one story that didn’t make it into the piece I wrote at the time. The opening line to his song “Guts” is a caustic commentary on the protagonist’s wife. Later in his absolutely live flawless recording, “Fragments of a Rainy Season,” he changed one word that totally altered the meaning. I asked him about it. He said when he wrote the song he was really mad at his recently-ex wife because while he was on tour she sold his piano to buy drugs. Which for anyone is kinda rude. But John Cale is a pianist (and violist and guitarist, but still…) she sold his PIANO. So yeah, angry lyrics ensued. He’d softened by the time “Fragments” was recorded…

I met him at the Double Door a while later. He signed my copy of “Fragments,” and we chatted a bit. And in one of those Chicago rocknroll moments, I wound up drinking with his band back at the rocknroll Days Inn on Diversey into the wee hours with, as memory serves, Ernesto (whom you met in the Lou Reed story) and Monica (who still has my signed Lou Reed book). John didn’t join us, sadly, because he wasn’t feeling well and went to bed to rest his voice. But it was a fun night and the guys in his band were a trip. I wish I remember their stories better, but that’s a function of age and distance, not of the drinking.

Shooting that show, which Monica wrote up, got me my first printed photo credit – in the Reader.