There’s a house down the street from me that doesn’t make sense. I live in a totally normal neighborhood in Chicago—lotta old Ukrainian people, plus a bar with tattooed dudes who like hockey—but someone just uprooted a full corner and plopped this enormous obsidian mansion in the middle of it. The weird thing is, it looks great; I don’t think anyone minds its meticulously tended little stone gardens and tastefully tinted windows. The other day I saw the dude who lives there emerge to take out his trash, and it was as God decreed: tailored, soft-purple button-up, gray slacks, dense…