The DePaul Stadium: Is it a boondoggle?

The South Loop Prairie District is miles from DePaul. Miles. Eight long, city jammed miles.

Most of us in the South Loop couldn't find the school without Google. Nevertheless, for some so far unidentified reason, Mayor Emanual is set to announce that DePaul's 18 games need a NEW stadium and that new stadium MUST be built in our South Loop neighborhood.

Why? It isn't like we have a shortage of destination sites in the neighborhood.

We have Soldier Field to our east, which is fine. We always enjoy watching out-of-the area cars--who foolishly don't use CTA-- park on our permit only streets. The traffic tickets blossom like the trees of spring.

We have the convention center of McCormick Place to our south, which is also fine. We rather enjoy watching the taxis race down Indiana or Calumet only to bonk into the speed bumps. Hey, we were even fine when McCormick was expanded.

New hotels, great. We can put up relatives who aren't keen on sleeping on Aero beds in our living rooms. New stores as Marianos grows on South Clark, great. More jobs.

We get it. We live in a city. Shared space. We mind our Ps and Qs. Pull your elbows and don't wear a big backpack to conk others on the CTA. Don't text while walking. Watch out of each other. We share nicely.

But enough is enough. Push around a polite person and eventually even Miss Manners will bare her teeth.

When the Prairie District Neighborhood Alliance (PDNA), a non-partisan group representing many of the neighborhood, took a poll to see what we thought, they heard. Not much, at least not much good. The vast majority opposed it--vehemently.

Our former, now gerrymandered out-our district Alderman Bob Fioretti opposes it. He knows his people.

And why doesn't DePaul want to be near their flock, in the north of the city?

Dare I say the word, boondoggle?

Color me suspicious, but having just finished Jonathan Eig's delightfully researched book entitled "Get Capone" and reading a New York Times piece on corruption--well....

Why?

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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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