Continuing the trend of late, the area covered isn't really an intersection per se, but more of a general location. I suppose there's an intersection of some sort somewhere in Jackson Park – a footpath or a road or a bridge or something else – so this is the Omnibus Jackson Park Intersection Section.

As a quick history lesson, the World's Fair of 1893 was held in Jackson Park. The Fair was one of the seminal events that made Chicago into the world-class city it is today, but the vestiges of the event are largely forgotten. So I recently read Erik Larson's Devil in the White City , under the guise of research. While I could go into its merits and non-merits as a piece of literature – OK, you've convinced me: I felt cheated by the title, as I was suckered into thinking there was a killer literally stalking the World's Fair of 1893, killing unsuspecting victims by, I don't know, asphyxiating them with an extra-large cotton candy or something. The general story set forth was about t he huge expo in Chicago at the end of the nineteenth century, and how the serial killer with the most victims in U.S. history happened to live a few miles down the road, which is hardly causal enough to really call him the “Devil” that prowled the “White City” since most of his killing was done at his custom-built boarding house– but suffice to say I learned a great deal about Chicago. Example: The world's first Ferris wheel was built here, specifically for the World's Fair by a man named – ready? – George Washington Gail Ferris Jr.

So like I said, the area isn't technically an intersection, but I covered most of Jackson Park, the huge green expanse bordered on its north side by the Museum of Science and Industry.

The shelter on the beach, or lurking death. Rating: 3.2.
The creatively named Jackson Park Beach House played host to one of the more interesting scenes I've ever witnessed in a public place: Every available square inch of grassy area surrounding the shelter was covered by a person, a tent, a cooler or a grill, but the Beach House itself was deserted. Completely empty.

I decided to get out of there, let some alien creature leap from the shadows and drag my body to its lair, leaving no trace of the struggle that occurred. Or maybe there was an outbreak of a deadly disease that affected only those standing under the open-air shelter. Whatever your conspiracy theory, I wasn't sticking around long enough to figure it out. We were getting the hell out of there.

One of the only good things that came from the shelter was the bird's-eye view it afforded of the nearby beach. I t made me think I was living in a high-priced beachfront condo for a minute. Then I noticed the lack of furnishings, the apparent oversight on the part of the architect to install a bathroom and the hard, unyielding concrete ceilings, walls and floors. And I remembered that alien and that deadly disease. It was time to leave.

The Jackson Pavilion, or playing in your Underoos. Rating: 8.7.
There's a lot that will get you in trouble – or at least some disapproving stares – that were considered normal activities ten years ago. Listening to Vanilla Ice, for example. Or watching a group of small children play in a fountain. Sad that some pastimes that were once so pure can now be considered slightly, well, off.

But the circular fountain at the Jackson Pavilion contained 20 or so kids doing what I only dream about now: dragging their mothers to a marginally interesting concrete plaza that every five minutes erupts with jets of water. The dress code didn't apply, since there were a good number of boys and girls in their Underoos, happily waiting the five minutes for the jets of water to start. This is even more remarkable when you remember how never-ending five minutes was when you were a kid – in five kid-minutes, the Cold War ended, peace in the Middle East was secured and your mom always called you to dinner just before your favorite cartoon was over. And of course there was no TV watching during mealtimes.

So we find these children staring intently into the fountain's jets from a good six inches away, wondering when the water is going to start. I couldn't help but think of one of those clown flowers that squirt when you get too close, but even when hit in the eye – “You're going to poke your eye out,” more than one mother was saying of her child's hovering above the spout – they shrieked with delight and did kid things, romping in the fountain.

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