Marcial Froelke Coburn begins her August, 2001, Chicago Mag story this way:
At 55, Bill Ayers, the notorious sixties radical, still carries a whiff of that rock ‘n’ roll decade: the oversize wire-rim glasses that, in a certain light, reveal themselves as bifocals; a backpack over his shoulder—not some streamlined, chic job, but a funky backpack-of-the-people, complete with a photo button of abolitionist John Brown pinned to one strap.
Yet he is also a man of the moment. For example: There is his cell phone, laid casually on the tabletop of this neighborhood Taylor Street coffee shop, and his passion for double skim lattes. In conversation, he has an immediate, engaging presence; he may not have known you long but, his manner suggests, he’s already fascinated. Then there is his quick laugh and his tendency to punctuate his comments by a tap on your arm.
Ugh to the tap on arm. Yuck.
Double yuck, however, to the pic of Ayers standing on the flag, which is what’s going to be run in lots of places and in fact was just run on Hannity’s show on Fox.
He’s a friend of O.? Held one of his first fund-raisers in Hyde Park? Someone he met at Aldi’s? Questions, we got questions.
Blithe Spirit 