E. Carlson, circa 1999

Chicago, city of broad buttocks and padded shoulders. Jack-hammers pop and Buicks, horns blaring, slash through intersections, just missing pedestrians. Thousand-foot-tall buildings cast blue shadows onto the streets. Neon-lit cinema marques snap like malfunctioning bug-zappers, their liquid colors a candy relief against the blackened facades of old brick behemoth skyscrapers.

Tops of buildings are lost in mist. Tourists stare upwards in disbelief. The Celestial Wrigley Guard Cow stares at the skyline across the Chicago River, unfazed by the buildings, or the tourists - like an English Royal Guardsman.