Crazy Crap Item #236: The part where Jim Croce follows me wherever I go

Lately, my life has been a veritable whirlwind. I've been researching and writing about Iceland, Italy and Scandinavia for various and sundry travel brochures. I started on a new pro bono project with Taproot Foundation. I've been girding my loins for a weekend away with Mr. Chris Czajka and company for a tour of all upstate New York's most glamourous phenomena, including attendance at the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant (a fabulous outdoor presentation documenting the founding of Mormonism; I've got my fingers crossed for the Angel Moroni suspended on fishing wire); private medium consultations with a psychic at the center of American Spiritualism, Lily Daly, NY; and (yawn) a visit to Niagara.

This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.

Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.

Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.

Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.

On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).

So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.

The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"

Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."

After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.

#14: "Roller Derby Queen"

Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.