Gray seems to be the new thing these days: there were fifty shades of it in a trilogy of novels that are supposed to be kinky, only…well…um…there’s nothing kinky about the mundane. And then there’s most of the DKNY Collection: though black seems to have grabbed most of DKNY’s attention, the shades of black are actually variations of gray: slate gray, charcoal gray (you know, once it’s gone ashy,) rat-hair gray (DKNY has a NY connection after all), and various and sundry grays… …and so it’s no surprise that Chicago would jump on the gray wagon and…well…gray it up a bit. I guess Herr Übermayor feels that the grand Chicago Market Strategy could use a bit of…burnt-charcoal gravitas. Which brings me to a particular rock garden, lending its market-viability rating to a particularly…blue splinter of steel and glass. People live in it. They walk their cat-sized dogs along the upscale streets of near-Gold-Coast Chicago, picking up their poop with little plastic bags worn like gloves. (I’m always amazed at the smug expressions on the faces of the dogs in question: I suspect that they’re aware of how easily they can control gray-clad human companions with plastic bags on their hands. Look at me, they all seem to say. I’m beautiful. Pick up my poop. Dogs. If this is an aspect of their common agenda, I adore them. There was no dog poop within range of this photo. It was, after all, picked up. But there were…um…fifty shades of something a bit more literary than a particularly humdrum trilogy of novels apparently occupied with the intensity of desire. (**Note to self: OKAY Chip, if you ever write “sexcapades,” make sure that they include actual sex, a “capade” or two, and are at least as exciting as the local yellow pages. I mean, if something involves kink, shouldn’t it then focus something that hasn’t already appeared in a plotline for Seinfeld?) All of this has to do with rocks in a rock garden on the Near North Side of Chicago. There are galleries in the area, and quite a measure of excitement in those galleries. There is sticker art all over the place. There are rusty support struts to elevated train lines and rats taking advantage of the Conceal and Carry allowances now common in gun-toting Illinois. There are actual signs stickered on gallery doors declaring: “No concealed weapons allowed.” Why would anyone carry a gun in a gallery anyway!?!?! And if Galleries require weapon-related signage, why is existential grayness so in-demand? Ah…perhaps grayness is camoflague: guns are gray—mostly—after all, and so maybe the grayness factor in upscale Chicago is a side effect of local conceal-and-carry allowances now in effect. This image has nothing to do with weapons, weapon-toting rats, or people with plastic bags on their hands (doing the bidding of their canine masters). It is, instead, an image of rocks. It is, instead, an exploration of grayness. The rocks, upon first notice are gray, but when dampened, other colors shine forth. I like to think…or hope that this is a sign of things to come. Chicago has become a gray place. It is a shopping mall, rather than a city. But maybe…just maybe…there’s something under all of it. Maybe there’s a city, plotting its escape… * As usual, thank you for viewing, reading and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.