When I was growing up in Chicago in the 1960s, the Old Town Art Fair was a big, fat, hairy deal. I didn’t understand what “unjuried” meant. I didn’t understand what the term “entry fee” meant. All I knew was that my friend, Chicago Jan, lived in a building just off the main drag, that my grandparents (who lived in a building across the street) thought I was a genius and that I was an artist, dammit, why wouldn’t a bunch of complete strangers want to buy my drawings!? And potholders!? For just 50¢!?! They were a far sight better than some stupid lemonade.