I grew up in Colorado. For those of you faithful readers who have never been to Colorado, the state is a dramatic melody of regions—taken together they form a symphony of the beauty of the wild. The eastern high plains blend seamlessly into the agricultural grasslands of Kansas and Nebraska. The southern parts of the state are deserts—my childhood home straddled the former Mexican-American border in a semi-arid region in the southeast. We received very little rain and huge amounts of sun. Yet for all of this it is the Rocky Mountains for which the state is most well-known. I grew up in those mountains.

Over the years I climbed hundreds of peaks. I walked into ghost towns and skied rutted, old mining trails. I rafted in Class IV white water—canoed long stretches of calmer rivers. I hiked across treacherous passes and watched the fire of the Milky Way alone on the tranquil shores of alpine tarns. I dug snow caves to weather a weekend in January on the Great Divide. There was not a season of the year that I did not spend overnight above timberline.

Now I live in Chicago—in the very heart of the city, mere blocks from some of the tallest buildings in North America. The contrast is astounding.

So it is with this defiant reverence that I now find myself assisting Whirl with her latest, startling project: the Chicago Peregrine Falcon project.

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I’ve sung the blues,
For every broken-hearted lovesick dream for you.
I’ve paid my dues,
Working hard-sweat, blood and tears for you.

I’m back in England. I left Chicago on Thursday. I was to stay for a week. Plans changed last night. I am staying longer—now nearly two weeks.

Due to a tragic series of delays in Chicago—it would be funny if the results were not so damned annoying—I did not get off the ground until three hours past our scheduled departure time. Consequently, I missed my connecting flight in Brussels to Newcastle. I was rebooked on the next available flight which left Brussels about five hours after I arrived. By the time I got into the Newcastle office, the reason for my leaving Chicago Thursday night was no longer viable. I was too late. The people I scheduled to meet had closed up shop for the weekend; I was shit out of luck. The following four days have been dominated by continued fallout, repercussions and recriminations.

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“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.”
~ T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

One year ago I got hurt. One year ago my portion of luck was misplaced. I was struck by a cyclist on my way home. I spent the next nine days in a coma, burr holes drilled into my skull. When I awoke I discovered that I had suffered a serious brain injury. – The term discovery is too gentle a way of describing the experience. Discovery suggests excitement; discovery suggests adventure; discovery suggests invention. Discovery does not suggest trauma.

It was not exciting—nor adventurous, nor inventive. It was Hell. I have written at length about the experience due to my—eerily precognizant—decision to begin keeping this journal. You will find my discussion in the archives. (Unsurprisingly the collection lacks much in the way of organization. I apologize for that.)

To mark this anniversary Whirl and I took a trip with our friends Smokes, Jim, Liz and Dr. Rob to Las Vegas. A year ago I declined an invitation by these same friends to join them on a last-minute plan to go to Vegas. Liz went to run a half-marathon; the others went to cheer her, play some poker and generally have a good time. Whirl was in Washington with her cousin. I decided not to go to Vegas. I decided to stay close to home. Looking back I often wonder what would have happened had I decided to go with them. One half of me—I cannot decide if this is the Optimist or the Pessimist—believes nothing would have happened. I would have escaped. The other half of me believes that being in Las Vegas would have changed nothing. I still would have gotten hurt. I still would have been in a coma. What would have changed is that now I would be 1500 miles away from home in a Nevada hospital.

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In the end of 2005 three announcements were made in Chicago that concerned the closing of three Chicago cultural icons on State Street: Marshall Field’s, Trader Vic’s and the Berghoff. Marshall Field’s ownership has changed twice in the last two years as the department store giant struggled. The killing blow came with the September announcement: once the takeover of the brand is complete in early 2006 the Marshall Field’s name will dropped. The flagship store at 111 North State Street will no longer be Marshall Field’s. It will be Macy’s; it will be New York. Trader Vic’s, the signature Tiki bar and stalwart fixture in the basement of the Palmer House Hotel closed at the end of 2005. We learned of this on December 3^rd. On December 29^th we learned that the historic Berghoff Restaurant will close at the end of February. A 107-year-old business, the Berghoff was the first Chicago establishment to get a liquor license after Prohibition ended in 1933. It has been at its current location—next door to the original 1898 location—for seventy years.

State and Washington: Marshall Field’s, State and Monroe: Trader Vic’s at the Palmer House, State and Adams: the Berghoff. These three locations are located directly in the heart of downtown Chicago on State Street. During the latter half of the 19^th century and through much of the 20^th century, State Street was the main thoroughfare in Chicago, particularly for business and shopping. Marshall Field’s State Street business began in 1868. Field suffered the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 and contracted Daniel Burnham to build the replacement stores: eventually arriving at the one there today—twelve stories tall, and consuming an entire block of downtown real estate.

And now it is gone. – In an article on Chicago architecture, Lynn Becker writes: From their inception, department stores were like a museum, a riverfront, a memorial, or a stadium—something that defined the unique character of a city. Now they’re just roadkill in Wal-Mart America. But the effect is not limited to just retailers. Defining local culture includes a wide variety of icons: from museums and statesmen, to sports, parades and celebrations, to styles in music, food, drink and pastimes.

My friends have argued that I am being overly sentimental. They remind me that things change. Businesses fold. Buildings are torn down. Fashions go out of style. I understand this. I understand that one of Chicago’s great strengths is its adaptability, its ability to change with—and affect its own changes—throughout time.

What I object to is this: the unnecessary replacement of unique cultural icons with mediocrity and monotony—usually in the name of corporate leverage: greed.

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Merry Christmas!

In a speech in Cape Town, South Africa, Robert Kennedy said, “There is a Chinese curse which says, ‘May he live in interesting times.’ Like it or not, we live in interesting times…” It is a nice saying. I like the saying. I will get to why in a moment. First, I must tell you there is a problem with the saying—other than the saying being a curse, of course. This is the problem. No one uttered it. It escaped Chinese literature without ever being written. The possibility of a pair of feckless translations from Chinese to English and back again does exist. However, I find that an unlikely explanation. Truth has rarely stood in the way of powerful rhetoric.

Still the sentiment has some merit, even if the attribution is misleading. I think most people would like to stand at a place and time in which others take interest: to go to a fabled town, to witness an historic event, to meet someone famous, to accomplish the astounding. The more one does this, the better. To travel an entire lifetime this manner would be the pinnacle. In sum– to always live in interesting times. To think that would also mean forgetting the curse. Curses are selfish. Curses are brutal. Curses are nasty. Curses have a way of settling things. This leaves us with a paradox. Interesting times are simultaneously the best and worst of what life has to offer.

If you have stayed with me this long, I will hazard a guess that you are asking something like this question: That’s great, Bingo, and Merry Christmas to you, too. But what the hell does that have to do with anything? And a second thing, why are you writing me this in a Christmas letter?

I will answer: For Whirl and me, 2005 was interesting times.

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