Last friday, I had the pleasure of attending a neighborhood shindig at the house of Megan, she who gets thirsty. The party was in honor of the traitorous O'Connors, who some years ago moved away from this sylvan paradise of Norwood to the barren outlyings of the Milwaukee suburbs. We mourn them to this day.
So it was we gathered for pizza, snackings, cocktails, and sips from the half-keg of Sprecher's rootbeer (the last thoughtfully provided by the traitorous O'Connors, straight from their new home town).
When not entertaining myself with grown-up chit-chat, I, of course, amused myself with the teasing of small children. Thus it was that Nolan, age 3, and I were were having jolly good times in the family nook. After some cavorting, Nolan took my hand, and told me, quite earnestly, that he wanted to take me somewhere.
"To funky town?" I asked. "Are you taking me to funky town?" Then, of course, I had to sing. "Won't you take me to ... FUNKY TOWN????
Won't you take me to ... FUNKY TOWN????"
Ann Casey, Nolan's mom Mimi, and others joined in, singing us out as Nolan dragged me down to the basement. There, all the other children were sitting slackjawed, watching cartoons on an enormous television.
I stood, awkwardly, for a few minutes, then thought, "Nuts to this, I have a cocktail upstairs," and started to edge toward the door.
This movement caught Nolan's eye, who adjured me:
"Kay! You can't leave funky town!!!!"
Indeed, you can't.
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