Considering the title of this blog, it should not be surprising that poop is recurring theme. This was not intentional. And yet, as the months have passed, and my scribal duties have continued, I've actually found it necessary to include a tag for aggregating all poop-related entries. It's frankly a little alarming.
But with this entry, I may need to designate a new tag, something along the lines of "poop/Christmas." The last entry of this designation involved a particularly apt gift I supplied to the Casey boys.
This time, I'm reporting of an oddly similar poop/Christmas decoration, this with a century's old European heritage: The Caganer. I heard of it via email from my good friend and generally non-poop-story-telling associate Christine Gaiden. Learn more about this fun holiday tradition here!
And if you're still planning to send me a late holiday gift, add it to your list!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #152: The part where my neighbors redefine the nativity
I just returned from a five-day Yuletide sojourn in sunny SoCal, followed by a cozy overnight in Grafton, Wisconsin, with many tales of amusement and photos to upload. But since that will take awhile to process, I will, in the meantime, regale one and all with an account of a Casey Nativity.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #151: The part where I start a new holiday tradition
During the long, cold winters, I see very little of my small neighbors. Which is too bad, because they are remarkably entertaining.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
Crazy Crap Item #150: The part where Eamon is the champion!
At this point, I will pause to update a story previously begun here. This concerns Eamon's involvement in Mustaches for Kids, the fundraising effort supporting Chicago's Off the Street Club.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
Crazy Crap Item #149: The part where James masters a new skill. Kind of.
Three years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the acquisition of skills vis-a-vis jokes. Young Jack, then three years old, made a huge semantic leap forward by learning the form of the riddle. Question? Answer. The form he had down pat. The content was less certain. Generally, his riddles consisted of questions followed by nonsense answers, and much giggling on his part.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Crazy Crap Item #148: The part where Piatt cracks wise
My good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was kind of enough to take me as his "plus one" to a sneak preview of the movie Sweeney Todd. The game plan was that he was to arrive at the Thorndale El stop at 5:45. I would pick him up and we would fly, on wings of doves, up to Evanston for the screening.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #147: The part where housecleaning raises questions
This Friday, I'm hosting the first-ever Daly household Cookie-Party (tm). The concept is simple. I clean the house. I prepare sugar cookies. I stock up on frosting and sprinkles. I spread a tarp. Small people come over and create their tributes to the holiday season. Moms attend along with, eat snacks and sip wine. Simple brilliance.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #146: The part where I wonder why Christmas thinks it has something to prove
When Christmas time rolls around, I listen to Christmas music. Probably more than is healthy or prudent. And in my listening, I've noticed something strange. A remarkably large number of Christmas song express the fact that Christmas is, in one way or another, the best time of the year. This is often followed by some meta-carol, Russian doll moment, where the image of groups of children caroling is evoked.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Crazy Crap Item #145: The part where I find the perfect holiday gift
On a recent trip to the market, while perusing the "seasonal" aisle, I found a most remarkable item. A plastic reindeer. Filled with candy. When you press down on it, it emits a piece of candy and drops it into a sack marked "Santa's 'presents.'" As you can imagine, it's quite classy.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
Crazy Crap Item #144: The part where I get delicious chills down my spine
Anyone who has visited Chez Daly knows this is a delightful abode. They also know that it is in sad need of refurbishment.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #143: The part where Eamon is spurned by lesbians
As many of you know, Eamon is, once again, participating in Mustaches for Kids. It's a fundraiser in which participants (called "growers") pledge to shave any existing facial hair and grow in a non-ironic, corner to corner mustache. Friends and well-wishers--desiring to witness such absurdity--pledge money to reward these mustachioed do-gooders. Proceeds go to a local charity; in Chicago, the designated charity is Off the Street Club.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #142: The part where I receive a most unexpected compliment
Last Friday night was date night at the Daly household. Eamon and I bought tickets to see a performance by comedian Kristen Schaal at the Lakeshore Theatre. We supped beforehand at a local Moroccan restaurant. That's where it all started to go gloriously awry.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
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