Crazy Crap Item #89: The part where Jack shows off his new duds

Today, on my way to taking out the garbage, I noticed my berries had ripened.

No, that's not a euphemism for some sort of lady business. One of the greatest assets of our house is a teeming garden, complete with rambling raspberry vines lining our fence. Each June or so, they burst forth with berry-ful goodness. And this morning, I found I had quite a foison. My fists soon filled, so I ran to the kitchen for a bowl, and continued picking.

As I picked, I thought, "I shall share these berries with the Caseys." Jim Casey and I have often discussed the wonder of our berry bushes, and I've have oft and anon urged him and Ann to plunder them whenever they wished.

Just as I finished and before I could make my way to the Casey's back door, Jack stumbled out onto their back porch. Seeing me, he spun on his heels and dodged back indoors. He re-emerged with a new cowboy hat on his head and a coy but smug look on his face.

Me, I'd seen the hat the day before, and gotten its history from Ann. During a recent trip to Michigan for a wedding, they'd stopped at a western store, and this had been Jack's takeaway: a real, live cowboy hat, just like real, live cowboys wear. Jack apparently did not realize I'd seen it or him (he'd been deep in hijinx with the other kids on the block and had paid me no mind).

Sensitive lass that I am, I knew what he wanted, and I congratulated him on the splendor of his new hat unbidden.

We then talked of cowboy gear. He informed me he likes all the things cowboys wear. I asked of his trip to the cowboy gear store, and he made mention of lassos which he coveted but was not supplied with. I suggested that he was lucky to have parents who would furnish him with such a striking hat, and the sort that real cowboys wear to boot. I pointed out that now he had a hat, cowboy boots, and holsters, and that he was pretty much set.

He replied that he also had a barn (his garage) and a horse. When questioned, he could not recall the name of his horse. I was concerned, and asked what he would do if, in peril, he needed to call his horse to him. He had no response.

Crazy Crap Item #88: The part where Aunt Sheila pulls a boner

During my visit to Long Beach for my brother's wedding, I had the pleasure of dining at Chili's with my parents, Eamon and my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Frank.

Aunt Sheila ordered the "fajita pita." Just like it sounds, the "fajita pita" consists of fajita-style meat served in, well, a pita. To keep the pita from unattractively flopping over and spilling its meaty goodness, it is served in a metal rack of sorts.

During the meal, Aunt Sheila commented on the cunning rack, which of course led to a rack jokes of all sorts from my rather bawdy family.

And yet, despite that prep, when the waitress arrived to clear our dishes, Aunt Sheila looked her right in the eye, and, without a trace of irony, announced "I just love your nice little rack."

The server, who was, in fact, not terribly well endowed, froze, wide eyed. Then everyone at the table, except my aunt, fell off their chairs laughing.

Sheila will never be the same.

Crazy Crap Item #87: The part where Sailor Jack lives large and likes it

Last weekend, Eamon and I have the pleasure of attending my brother Mike's wedding. It was a splendiferous time, what with bliss-filled ceremony, the opportunity to see friends I haven't seen in years, the rocking reception with a gorgeous view of Long Beach Bay and the Queen Mary ...

... And yet, today, I'm writing not about the wedding, but how we got there. My brother, you see, arranged for a stretch limo to transport my parents and my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Frank from beautiful Banning (just outside Palm Springs) to the Long Beach Hilton. Eamon and I had arranged to fly into Banning's nearest airport, so we hitched a ride with them.

Of the limo, my father was suspicious. But as we traveled on, he began to see its plusses. To whit, a bar stocked with liquor and mixers. Adjustable air conditioning. And a limo driver who will pull off the highway and find you a clean public restroom at the mere waving of a hand. And, for course, the no driving part.

"I always thought limos were snooty," quoth he. "But I think this could work for me."

Crazy Crap Item #86: The part where I explain why I haven't written about roller derby

It's seems natural, right? I go to a bout of Chicago's Windy City Rollers all-female roller derby league; I post about all the zany goings-on.

And yet, nary a peep from me.

To back up: As I've mentioned before that Eamon participates in the roller derby as head of Stats and Rules & Regs. (He goes by the moniker "Scorey Feldman." Check out his staff photo!) I've attended a bout before, and this past Sunday, I returned for the first bout of the new season. My good friend Mr. Christopher Piatt, theater editor at TimeOut Chicago, joined me. We met at the Liar's Club, the derby's unofficial bar of choice, and boarded the "party bus," which took us to Cicero Stadium, the new derby venue. We ate funyons and sipped diet coke. We reveled in the Windy City tagline, "Talk derby to me." We cheered for Piatt's two coworkers who skate in the derby, and were amazed at how easy it was to follow the action. We re-boarded the party bus for a return trip to Liar's Club, bidding a fond farewell to Cicero and its majestic watertower.

So why am I so circumspect on the matter of derby madness? Am I under duress from the Cicero mob to keep my doings under wraps? Is it true, as they say, that what happens in Cicero stays in Cicero?

Or am I being circumspect out of a caution about gilding the lily? Why out-Caesar Caesar with shrill declarations of kitch when the original so far outpaces any pithy witticism I could spin?

But that's not really it. After giving it some thought, I think I've lit upon the reason. The derby, you see, is oddly earnest. Yes, the ladies wear fanciful uniforms. Yes, they adopt punny names ("Tequila Mockingbird," "Val Capone"). There's a spirit of carnival.

But there's also a straight-faced seriousness to it. Family members bring signs to cheer on their skaters. During warm-ups, the women don't showboat; they skate. The colormen provide witty banter, but the audience is more concerned to know the score. We watched older women in the stands (apparently mothers of the derby rollers) wearing t-shirts emblazoned with slogans such as "Mama Bier" (Anita Bier's mother) and "Crusher's Mama."

So that's why. In case you were wondering.

Crazy Crap Item #85: The part where I get proof, once again, that I married the right man

Last saturday, Eamon and I ventured out to Midsommerfest, Andersonville's annual summer street fair allegedly commemorating the Scandinavian holiday. Aside from a prominently displayed maypole, it's pretty much like every other neighborhood fair in Chicago.

Anyhoo, I'm not in the market for Swedish authenticity, so the generic quality of the fest bothers me not one iota. So we stroll, him with a beer, me with a plastic cup of wine, down the length of Clark Street, marveling that so many crappy artisans live and breathe in the Chicago metro area.

Eamon stops me suddenly. "What are you doing?" Puzzled, I explain I wanted to inspect samples of a new power drink.

He shoots me a "do I have to do everything" look, and turns me, physically, toward a booth I'd just passed. Tarot card readings. Then he points me toward the booth, tells me he's going to get a beer and he'll meet me back here.

There's a 45 minute wait for readings, so I text him, and he arrives, almost as I hit send. I explain the wait, and he takes my arm and says "Come here."

Tap dance troupe. On stage. Dancing to David Bowie.

Clearly, I married the best man ever.

Crazy Crap Item #84: The part where Jack proves some things are just hard-wired

As is well known, lately I am given to garden beautification.

Well, imagine my glee when I spotted a wee "kiddy park bench" on sale for $20 at Jewel! I was in bliss, and I snatched one up as quickly as my little hand could snatch. Once home, I assembled it and placed it in the far corner of our garden, thinking maybe to use it as a picturesque shelf for potted plants (it being much too small for even a wee adult such as myself to fit on it).

Well, later, Jack had spied said bench, and coyly asked who I had made it for. I'm no slouch at coy, so I indicated that it would be for any small children that wanted to sit in my yard. More direct this time, he asked if he could come over and sit on my bench.

I assented.

As he sat on the bench, he examined it more carefully, noting a foursome of animals in wrought iron that serves as the back of the bench. He pointed to what I think is a squirrel, on the far right.

"Look, he's holding a gun."

Mind you, while Jack does love his cowboys, no one could claim he's been assaulted by an onslaught of media images of guns. His parents are very responsible on that count. But, like most boys, he seems to know about -- and be fascinated by -- guns instinctively. While he owns no toy guns, he frequently makes recourse to large sticks or other detritus from my yard to stand in as makeshift guns.

Well, besides the fact that I don't want to further encourage this fascination with guns, the fact was THE SQUIRREL WAS NOT HOLDING A GUN. It was, in fact, holding a fiddle. I told Jack as much.

No, Jack disagreed, it's too big for a fiddle. His dad plays the fiddle, so young Jack knows from fiddles.

I agreed, it was an oddly large fiddle, but if he looked closely, he'd see that all the squirrel's friends were holding musical instruments. Look, I said, the cat has a tambourine! And the dog has a bass fiddle!

In reponse, he pointed again to the squirrel and said, "And he's holding a gun."

I gave up.

Crazy Crap Item #83: The part where Eamon and I live the dream

I'm quite the flibbertigibbet these days. No sooner do I return from NYC but Eamon and I plan yet another trip, this time to Madison, Wisconsin, and areas thereunto abutting.

Why Madison, you ask? While I could answer with a simple and snide "Why not?", I feel in this instance the need to elaborate. Eamon's work schedule has been quite overwhelming, and he needed to get away. And we didn't want to fly. And we wanted to be far enough for it to feel like "away," but not so far as to exhaust ourselves with the rigors of the road. We'd heard good things about Madison, and in light traffic, it's a mere 3 hours away. Perfecto.

Also, it's a state capitol and a college town! Which means it has a sense of grandeur alongside a lot of coffee houses and hemp stores. An unbeatable combination.

And how was the weekend? The weekend, dear friends, was an exercise in doing whatever the hell we wanted. And it was lovely.

First off, our hotel -- the Madison Hyatt. Rumor has it, it has a heated pool. We never found it, but we weren't looking. It did have a fantastic view of Lake Mononoke (that wasn't the actual name; that's the title of an anime film; but it was something like that) and the beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright terrace overlooking it. While strolling along the banks of aforesaid anime-named lake, I got an extra added bonus: a glimpse of the world's biggest rat swimming parallel to the shore! I felt like Jacques Cousteau!

The eating in Madison was mighty fine. Day one, we ended up at The Tornado Club, an odd, old-school-ish sort of supper club suffering from the sort of identy crisis that results from thinking cosmopolitans on the menu and Old West rifles on the wall go together. But the food was great, and the service fantastic, so all was well. Dinner on day two was not nearly as funny, but just as tasty. Eamon glutted himself on surf and turf, and I grazed on salad and French onion soup at an upscale eatery called Johnny Delmonico's. In between, we partook of ice cream and chocolates, chocolates and ice cream.

A high point of our stay in Madison? We bought no fewer than three hats. A bucket hat and a hemp hat for me, and a bucket hat for Eamon. It was hot, you see, quite hot, and we needed relief. We started looking for a hat for Eamon, then for both of us, and nearly gave up, until a Gap gave me relief with a charming, casual bucket hat. Then, wouldn't you know it, we stepped outside and saw -- yes! -- a hat store, right next door. It was there we discovered my hemp masterpiece.

All this took place while strolling down State Street, a promenade, in some places blocked for through traffic, which links UMadison with the capitol building. Along the way, we browsed an art museum, stopped for refreshment at UMadison's lakefront student union, and window-shopped for frocks. In the process, I managed to try on a dress that looked cute on the mannikin but on the body transformed into one of the cheapest hoochie dresses I've ever seen. Yes, hoochie, there in the shadow of the capitol. I was shocked.

Some observations:

* Madison is quiet. Eerily quiet. To whit: on the afternoon we arrived, I took a stroll over to State Street while Eamon napped, and noted it was quite quiet and empty -- due, I assumed, to the fact it was Memorial Day weekend. But then I noticed that it wasn't empty. There were numbers of people around me. And as I turned on to State Street, I noticed it was actually pretty darn packed. But quiet. Eerily quiet. I don' t know why.

* Madison is lesbian central. They all stroll around, clad in clamdiggers, with hemp hats plopped atop their short haircuts, two-by-two, clasping hands on one side and clutching small shopping bags from the local candle shoppe on the other. I felt quite left out.

* According the logic of syllogism, I may postulate that lesbians are quiet. Eerily quiet.

* Madison is home to a feminist bookstore and cafe called "A Room of One's Own." See point above about Madison lesbians.

In addition to the joys of Madison proper, our hotel offered considerable charms, including a very friendly and helpful staff. But I regret to report that the "dueling piano" act that plays the hotel bar failed to make good on their claim that they could play anything. In response to our request (accompanied by a crisp $20 bill) for "Our Love is Here to Stay" (Gershwin) and "Back in Black" (ACDC), they played only the opening verse and half a chorus of "Someone to Watch Over Me" -- badly -- then gave up. Then followed an interminable series of Elton John and Billy Joel songs. When Eamon called them to account, and slipped them another $10, they managed to crank out a jazzy "Summertime." Points for effort, none for execution.

On the last day of our sojourn, we left Madison and headed west -- not east!!! -- for what would prove to be the ultimate high point of (and the actual reason for) our journey. We were on a mission. A mission to visit... The House on the Rock.

In case you are not aware, The House on the Rock is the mother of all roadside attractions. Not being from the Midwest, I'd never heard of it until I recently read Neil Gaiman's American Gods. (A fantastic read; do pick it up.) In it, the protagonist is taken to HOTR by a modern-day apotheosis of Thor and a wide array of other gods for their council meeting, which take place on the attraction's carousel.

Yes. I said carousel.

When I finished reading this section of Gaiman's novel, I carefully laid the book down and narrowly questioned my husband as to the whereabouts of this house on this rock and the reasons we had never been there. He assured me we would someday remedy this situation.

Someday is now, and I must say, my life now has meaning. All that passed for my life prior to visiting this temple to all that is fantastically tacky and overblown shrinks in comparison. I am a Kay reborn.

I can in no way capture in words the delight of this landmark, so I will offer but a few, brief comments.

The carousel room was MAGNIFICENT and lurid, two things I love. It is covered in red lights, and the ceiling of the room is hung with life-size manniquins DRESSED AS ANGELS. And there are enormous, self-playing kettle drums that accompany the neverending loop of calliope music. Fantastic. The carousel itself holds something like 3 million creatures -- none of which are horses. Madness.

Then there's the organ room, which is filled, top to bottom, with various mechanical devices, some relating to organs, others NOT AT ALL. To whit: there is part of an engine from a whaling ship. And the room is cross-cut by catwalks and paths, some of which you can stroll, and some of which are purely decorative, and loaded with strange medieval figures. I have no idea what it all meant, but I was in bliss.

The circus room, armory display, replicas of crown jewels, dollhouse rooms, and doll carousel I will pass over without comment. But I must gloss one last bit of the display. The last part of the circus display (which fills several rooms) is lined, most unaccountably and without explanation, wall cases filled with charming sculptures depicting a variety of tableaux, often emblazoned with poems. About diamonds.

Upon further investigation, Eamon surmised that these were old fashioned advertising displays for the jewelry industry. Subsequent investigations have proven him correct. We browsed them, row on row, bemoaning the fact that, although mechanized, none of them seemed to be in working condition. Until we got to a series of cases -- with on-off buttons! And we pushed them! And whole rows of these devices lit up and lurched into movement!!! It was remarkable.

One last note on the Madison odyssey, then all will lapse into silence.

The area surrounding House on the Rock is just as fantastically splendid as the House itself, teeming with more tourist traps than you can shake a stick at. I happened to pick up a free tourist guide at the local A&W (we needed rootbeer floats), and was tickled with what I found. Apparently, within the region, you can visit:

* The House on the Rock
* Taliesin (a famous F.L. Wright structure)
* Norway Town (which, for some reason, features a lot of trolls. The guidebook I found had pages and pages about trolls.)
* Cave of the Mounds (for all your spelunking needs)
* the Mt. Horeb Mustard Museum

Clearly, we'll be going back there soon.