Well, I'm back, I'm alive, and I'm safe. Oh, did I mention that I'm also full? Yes indeed. It was a good day today.

I began my voyage to the South Side around 10:45 this morning, as the brunt of my travel would be interstate driving. But, as usual, traffic was all jammed up beyond downtown, as I had to take the Local Routes of I90 instead of the Express. Stupid Chicago traffic.

It was my little Pontiac boxed in by some 2341 semi-trailers on the local route. I felt as if I could be crushed or forced off the road at any point. I guess I could see why I was the only car on the Local Route of I-90 between 14th St. South and 71st St. South -- there was no reason for anyone to go to these parts of town execept if you lived there, and if you live there, you most likely don't venture far enough from home to make use of the interstate. (Now, that's not derrogatory, it's just plain fact. There is NOTHING down there. I mean NOTHING.)

After 30 minutes of 5 mph traffic, I finally exited on 63rd. St. and was met with a smattering of barred and boarded former places of business, streets and chain-link fenced-in empty lots littered with trash and abadoned 1972 Chevrolet Ballbusters -- a far cry from the North Side which I call home. The streets were terrible -- something I've gotten used to in Chicago, but far worse than the pot-holed and bumpy Lake Shore Drive. I was literally weaving into oncoming traffic to avoid potholes the size of my car and plunging into purgatory.

About ten blocks past the interstate, I finally rolled up on Calumet Ave. and the last-standing "project" building at 6217 S. Calumet. Three others had been torn down within the last two years, and this was the last one standing -- and barely. For any who have ventured through Cabrini Green -- this is the same thing, exactly. A 16-story, dual-wing cinder-block monstrosity, with open air concourses fenced in with a steel-grade fence. Some windows were boarded or broken, the concrete above them smoke stained from apparent fires. It is scary. Sixteen stories of Pure Hell.

I parked the freshly-washed shiny rig out front, somewhat hesitantly between two cars with flat tires, looking like they have been parked in the same spot and not driven for years. What the hell. There was nowhere better to park.

I walked around the 10-foot steel fences and through the open gates about 30 yards to the entrance of the building. I was greeted by about 15 loiterers, all African-American males dressed in parkas and do-rags. I got some funny looks, but wasn't harrassed in any way.

Finally inside the unenclosed first-floor concourse, I had to decide whether to go to the South Wing or the North Wing. I had no idea, all I knew was the apartment number. Thankfully, after pacing from North to South, an old woman smoking a joint asked me what I was doing. "Can I help you find something," she mumbled, shaking a bit as she talked. "Sure, I said. I'm looking for apartment 301 - know where I could find it?"

She stared to say something, but before she could spit it out, three men at the end of North Side Wing yelled to me: "Yeah man - it's over here. Here, I'll show you." Much obliged, I thought. The men walked me over to the graffiti-lined stairs and told me exactly how to get to Apt. 301. They were pleasant and helpful, even though I was obviously out of place -- a white kid with a Twins cap on and a new gray fleece jacket. They even gave me a pat on the back when I thanked them.

I walked up the concrete stairs three flights and entered another open-air concourse and knocked on 301. No answer. Shit. I know I'm about 20 minutes late. I was hoping Ms. Dorsey was still there... I knock again. I hear some shuffling in the apartment, and a middle-aged woman opened the door and invited me in. She was too young to be Ms. Dorsey, a 68-year old woman who raised 7 children in the same four-bedroom apartment. "I'm Juanita," she said. "Lillie (Dorsey's) daughter. She's expecting you, but she slipped out to the store to buy some cigarettes. Take a seat and she'll be right back."

I plopped down on a ripped steel and vinyl chair at the old dinner table in front of a 13-inch Samsung TV with Juanita. The room smelled strongly of marijuana smoke, and there was an ashtry filled with smoked Newports on the table. I sat right next to a non-functioning washer, and a dryer sat vacant and unplugged in the middle of the adjacent kitchen. I chatted with the obviously-stoned and Kobe Bryant jersey-wearing Juanita for 10 minutes until her mother returned from the store. She seemed much more interested in the Family Feud program on the fuzzy TV than making conversation with me, but I got some interesting stories from her about her brother Charles, the man I'm writing a story about.

The torn white linoleum on the floors was stained from years of use, now a dingy brown color, and the painted white cinder block walls were also stained a hue of brown. The drop-down particle-board ceilings were full of dust and grease stains from the stovetop, and everything in the house was in a state of relative disarray.

Two couches sat behind the small TV, which was perched on an old, no longer working deep freeze. The smallish living room was clean, and it didn't look as if anyone had sat on the couches for ages.

Ms. Dorsey finally got home, and Juanita immediately disappeared behind a painted cinder-block wall and towards the four cramped bedrooms.

Ms. Dorsey and I chatted for about and hour, much of which she spent shuffling between the day's mail on the table. She was rather disintersted, but at times engaging and emotional. It was evident that this woman had lived a hard life. Born on a farm in Arkansas, she moved to the projects at age 17 with her newborn child, when her mother sought to make a better life for her and her child. Seven children and 51 years later, she still lives in the South Side projects, and "it is what it is. It's my home now," she said. "And that's the way it is. No use in living in the past. This is where I am."

But she won't be there for long. She just received notice today that she has 180 days to move out. Her building is about to be the last project in Washington Park. The city is tearing it down and relocating her to one of two subsidized buildings in the South Loop.

After the hour expired, I gathered my notes, thankfully full of relevant quotes and other information about her son, and headed out. "Now, you be careful," she warned. "Don't talk to anyone. Just get into your car and get out of here. It was nice talking to you."

I traipsed down the stairs, past several lingering, younger men smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. "See you later," one offered. "Take care," I said, still somewhat surprised I was being addressed in the first place.

Walking away from the building, past the same smoking woman I saw on the way in, now talking to her imaginary friend, I heard some yelling from the building. "Hey, Hey!"

"Look up here, third floor, on the 'porch.'" It was Ms. Dorsey, standing out on the steel-open-air fenced in "porch" telling me to 'take care.' "Be safe, now, you hear?"

"Thanks," I yelled up to her. "Take care."

I quickly walked to my car and pulled out, past the empty, garbage infested lots and boarded up brick buildings. It felt good to be out of the projects, and I was only there for about two hours.

What a shame. Chicago's ridiculous idea of "quarantining" all of the impoverished African-Americans in huge cement buildings, stacked on top of each other, far away from the "white" neighborhoods back in the 1950's is disgusting. To think that these places still exist is even more appalling. Racism still exists -- especially in this King-Beast of a Living Hell of Chicago. It's sad, it's eye-opening, and one wonders when and IF this will ever change.

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In other developments:

I found my way over to Pilsen this afternoon to satisfy a deep craving for carnitas, and I was pleasantly accomodated. A little Carniciera on 18th St. S. filled me up with two double-wrapped pulled pork tacos with fresh diced onions, cilantro and jalapenos. Best part about it: the meal filled me up for a whopping $3.00. That's right, $3.00. I'd recommend this any time -- if you live in Chicago, or if you visit -- head over to Pilsen and check it out. It's a bustling Mexican-American business district full of bakeries, restaurants and taquerias. It's a real treat.

By the way -- I lost five points on my broadcast journalism assignment for using the word "purportedly." My professor said it's a word I'd never use in conversation, and suggested that I should have used "reportedly" instead. THESE WORDS HAVE TWO DIFFERENT MEANINGS. Goddammit. I'm pissed off -- but, after today's experiences, it's all relative, by God. It's all VERY relative.