So general blog antagonist Frosty is visiting the PJs for a story tomorrow. I give him 2 in 5 chances, especially as I (finally) wrap up Alex Kotlowitz's There Are No Children Here. Written bout 15 years ago, the book chronicles Pharoah and Lafayette, two brothers growing up in the Henry Horner projects just due west of the Loop in Chi-town.

It's more mind-blowing stuff.

A couple of weeks ago I was driving down Division St. with a native Chicagoan. I happened to look up, and I saw the most terrible awe-inspiring fleet of towering dilapidated gray monstrocities, like nothing I'd ever seen - they just grabbed the eye. Like a resort hotel in Hell. Their appearance wasn't helped by the dark nor the horrific white fluffy stuff pouring down, either.

"Christ, what's that?" I asked.

"Cabrini Green. What's left of it," she answered.

Ah, so this was the Cabrini I kept hearing about, its demolition started in the mid 90s and gradually chipped-away at ever since, like the Sagrada Familia in reverse. Apparently, the sixty-thousand-dollar investigative question is where all the tenants have dispersed to since then.

I tell you, the projects are a nasty beast in this town - they tower menancingly 15 stories high, something they don't do back home. Blatantly crumbling, boarded up, sticking out like a sore thumb. It's really a defining characteristic of this place, in a bizarre, once-promising but now-unfortunate way.

And this is why Kotlowitz is Kotlowitz, and Dickie is Dickie. Both of us visited and wrote about the happenings at Skokie District II Courthouse. Let's compare.

First, Kotlowitz:

"Judge Francis Mahan's six-year-old courtroom in the Skokie branch of the Cook County Courts is clean and well lit, a stark contrast to the musty courtrooms in the main fifty-nin-year-old Criminal Courts building in Chicago. Handsome dark green carpeting matches the cushioned jury seats. The three rows of varnished benches shine.

"For many young men at Horner, their only contact with the world outside with their own immediate environs is the courts. It can be a cold and humiliating liaison. No one has enough time."

Next, Dickie:

"Hello my name is Dickie.
I went to the Skokie court-house.
It was fun.
It was nice.
I saw the judge. He was mean.
He told the black boy to go to jail.
The end."

Okay, so my style needs a little work.

It takes me back to last quarter, though. On more than one occasion at that building, the sheriff's officers approached me and asked who I was, what I was doing, why I was writing - even though we're sitting in a courtroom open to the public. Clerks who refused to hand out case files. 20 year-old men put away for life on cases that were less-than open-and-shut...I dunno.

'Just on the mind, I suppose.