Daley settles (not entirely) into life as a regular Chicagoan
Mary Schmich  April 28, 2013   He still gets up early.  He could
sleep in. He no longer has a big staff to deploy. No public
crises nipping at his mind and time. He lives alone.  He gets up
at 6 anyway, and sets off to the gym before breakfast. He likes
it there, feels safe in the easy, sweaty, humming society that
exists in the land of treadmills and weight machines, a place
where people call him Rich.  Except the ones who still call him
Mayor.  A lot of people, in the gym and outside of it, can't
think of Rich Daley any other way. Seeing him out and about,
they respond, if more quietly, like the startled young guy who
spotted him ambling near his downtown high-rise condo a while
back and shouted, with high-fives to his friends:  "It's the
(expletive) mayor!"  Daley enjoyed that so much that he called a
friend to tell her.  For 22 years, from the rusty late 1980s
through the sparkling '90s and into the shape-shifting new
millennium, Richard M. Da