Crazy Crap Item #102: The part where I'm nearly undone by macho posturings, overheard

A set-to outside my livingroom window. Sam, age 5, apparently in the midst of a run-in with Christophe, possibly age 8.

Quoth Christophe: "You want a piece of me, Sam? Bring it on."

This nearly kills me dead.

It's followed by a good deal of posturing in which various neighborhood citizens attempt to assert dominance by proxy.

Quoth Casey, age 5: "Oh, yeah? Well, I have a friend and his brother is TWELVE!"

Touche.

Crazy Crap Item #101: The part where Kristen weighs in on a summer block buster

"everything that you want to see a snake do on a plane, a snake does on a plane."

Crazy Crap Item #100: The part where I love my neighborhood ... again.

This morning, I sent an email to three of my neighbors with the subject line "re. the square dance caller."

Man, I love my neighborhood.

Crazy Crap Item #99: The part where my prestidigitator friend once again demonstrates his remarkable powers

Many who know me know that, for some reason, I am surrounded by psychics. I am like unto a magnet to those who can cast the future, which suits me fine.

Pre-eminent among these is my good friend Mr. Christopher Czajka. For years now, Mr. Czajka, answering occasionally to the nickname "Madame Shi-ka," has been known to all his nearest and dearest as a reader of tarot cards, teller of ghost stories, and insister regarding his own psychic abilities. His abilities are most aptly captured in this chapter of a web-based serial novel he and I co-authored, which uses him as the model for he main character (Will).

Last night, Madam Shikah made frantic call to Eamon and me to recount the latest of his psychic exploits. I will allow Mr. Czjaka himself recount the event (via email):

Ok. Here's a weird one for you.

As you know, Jonathan and I are preparing to take the giant leap intothe world of home ownership (it's proceeding slowly but surely). As we sort through all of the debris in our current apartment, we are making little piles of stuff that we no longer need, but may be appreciated bythose near and dear to us.

Anyway, on Saturday, after finally determining that the cassette tape is dead media, I put together a box of tapes for my friend Billie (who has a tape player in her car). Before dropping the box in the mail, I decided to write a little note.

As I wrote, an unexplained wave of sick-humor inspiration hit me, and I decided to parody another document. Just for fun. For no reason, I decided to base the note to Billie on another note. And so I did.

Last night, I talked to Billie, who had received the tapes and the odd note. And then I realized, yet again, how odd my life can sometimes be.

The note I wrote SATURDAY, and was received in the mail YESTERDAY, was a parody of the JON BENET RAMSEY ransom note!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!I have never before written a parody of the Jon Benet Ransom note. Ever. I haven't THOUGHT about Jon Benet Ramsey in about eight years. But Ialways remembered once reading that the note began with the words "LISTEN CAREFULLY!", which I thought was funny. How do you listen to a ransom note?

So the note I wrote Saturday referenced a ten-year old murder that I really haven't dedicated too much thought to. And yesterday, they arrested the killer. Yet again, I am psychic.

That is all.

Madame Shi-ka. Truly, he sees all.

Crazy Crap Item #98: The part where Eamon amuses me with his dry wit

The scene: My front room. I am sitting on the small sofa beside our front windows, reviewing the course outline for a series of video lectures on "American Political Thought." Eamon is on the couch in the livingroom. His back is to me.

The situation: Jack and Sam bike along the sidewalk, flaunting their burgeoning abilities to ride sans training wheels. Gavin follows behind on a squeaky tricycle.

Kay: Oh, the assortment of vehicles that parade outside my window!

Eamon: Want me to get my BB gun?

And ... scene.

Crazy Crap Item #97: The part where I am stuck dumb by a fried chicken chain

Last night, I saw an ad for "breastmeat boneless chicken wings."

What???

Crazy Crap Item #96: The part where my friends and I do battle on the field of poetry

Today, my morning started with a very unusual freelance ad:

I am the co founder of a tea company based here in Boston. We are looking for haikus to add to our packaging. Ideally, the haikus should be witty. We need haikus for the following three themes. Friendship Thank You and Happy Birthday. Please note; Bag Ladies Tea is a gourmet tea line designed specifically for women. We will pay $75.00 for every haiku we use and the chance to be published on a nationally known tea product! All users will be notified by Friday August 25th. Good Luck!

It's a little known fact, but my friends and I have been known to engage in what I like to call competitive poetics. Our weapon of choice: Haiku. So clearly, the gauntlet had to be thrown down. Thrown down it was:

Reading my tea leaves
I see a future of pain
You ungrateful bitch
- Eamon Daly

So, you’re drinking tea.
Why not just give it up now,
And adopt some cats.
- Kay Daly

try to remember
what it was like before
you drank tea alone
- Kristen Freilich

Charming epitaphs
Printed on a tiny tea
Get a frickin' life.
- Chris Czajka

Drink up, moon mother
Sip the sweet mystery here
And take a Quaalude.
- Chris Czajka

I would like to know
Just who it was who told you
Tea’s a chick magnet.
- Kay Daly

One cup of tea and
One pot of scalding water
For that bastard's nuts.
- Eamon Daly

Tea’s not addictive
So pour me another round.
Must … not … light one up…
- Kay Daly

spend your cash on tea
instead of birth control pills
since you won't need them
- Kristen Freilich

Enticing package
Promises vanilla mint
Tastes like shit to me
- Kay Daly

Hey! Watch what you say!
I'm a woman that drinks tea.
Oh ... I'm still single.
- Roxana Hadad

Pour boiling water
Over tea bag in a cup.
Really? Instructions?
- Kay Daly

airport madness here
what could ease this damn drama
tea with whiskey please
- Nicole Hudson

tea is for pussies
drink a beer and be a man
you english bastard
- Cameron Hollway

Too busy Monday
Tea for you and not for me
Sad times for Shatty
- Michael Shattner

Try your own!

Crazy Crap Item #95: The part where Jack registers some impatience with me

This morning, I enjoyed a very pleasant episode of quasi-gardening with young Jack and even younger James. I say "quasi" because with these two trundling about, I get precious little actual gardening done. I kind of like it that way.

During the fun, I noted once again my uncanny ability to start conversations and improvised games that tend toward dangerous outcomes. I don't mean to -- it just seems that I always hit on interactions that are unbearably attractive to the five and under set, and which, if left untended, will lead to death and dismemberment. Mind you, nothing so bad as "let's see what happens when we stick our hands down the garbage disposal," but seriously, not too far off that either.

Aware of my tendency, I've been trying to be just a bit more cognizant of where these things can head and nip it in the bud, however clumsily.

So this morning, Jack had picked up a toy rake and inserted the handle through the links in our chain link fence. So, naturally, I had to try to grab at it whilst he tried to pull it back. A few repetitions of this game, and soon the rake was flailing in the air.

Aha! I thought. This is not good. This will lead to injury. I am the grown-up. I can make it stop.

So, said I to Jack, "Let's not wave the rake in the air." He stopped, rake in air, staring at me. "Because," I continued on, "It could hurt someone. It could fly over and hit someone on the head. And that would not be good."

Jack calmly brought rake down, and deadpanned, "I didn't ask you why."

Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition

At long last, I'm recording the doings of this summer's block party on 1500 Norwood. Epic, they were.

The overview:

The theme: the Olympic Games
The duration: 9am until after midnight
The weather: thankfully glorious
The aftermath: Eamon and I slept all day Sunday, and only crept out in the evening to grill some brats and blow off the last of our fireworks with the neighbors

But clearly, no simple overview could capture the splendor. So here, I will try, with my humble skills, to paint in words all that transpired. God help me.

Morning starts early for the 1500 Norwood block party. By 9am, families began to emerge, here and there, wiping sleep from their eyes, blinking dazedly in the morning sun. Donuts and coffee were our first repast, supplied by Nancy (our former nun), the charming 80-something couple Manny and Lucille Eckert, and the now famous Delores McDermott.

As I strode toward the donut table, I was greeted by a cheerful if incoherent hello from young Gavin Calto, nearly two years old, who was hailing the entire block from his upstairs bedroom window. I waved back.

But although donuts were consumed, the block party could not truly be said to begin until the opening ceremonies. Mind you, we don't usually have opening ceremonies, but this year's being an Olympic-themed party, ceremonies there must be. And, of course, Eamon must be in charge.

Rather than try to describe the amazing display that followed, I will direct your attention to his video recording of the event, made on my brand-new digital camera. Some things to note:

* A number of my neighbors seem not to realize that I am filming, and try to stop me to chat as I chase Eamon up the street.

* I am new to video technology, and at one point, I seem to think that I can simply turn the camera on its side to better capture the vertical splendor. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the gears turning in my head, as I think, "Wait, that won't work ...!"

* Eamon's splendiferous toga is my sole contribution to the opening ceremonies. The night before, my weary boy sighed noisily, and said he couldn't go to bed until he had created his toga. To which I replied, "What create?" He indicated that his understanding was that togas were time-intensive affairs that required much in the way of complicated stitchery. To which I replied, "Do you have a sheet? Do you have a belt? Then you have a toga." Apparently, Eamon hails from the post-post-Animal House era during which high school students no longer had toga parties at the drop of a hat, and so did not fully grasp the rudimentary nature of toga construction. He's so lucky he married me.

Once the ceremonies had dazzled the masses, the block reconvened to pursue a wide variety of activities -- most, at this point, geared to the five-and-under crowd. These included:

* Riding every conceivable form of vehicle up and down the street. That is, in the street. THE STREET, I TELLS YA!!!!! If you don't understand what a mind-blowing experience this is, then you haven't been four years old in awhile.

* Decorating aforementioned vehicles at the "bike decoration station." Mainly, that means streamers of crepe paper taped to the handlebars.

* Creating FLAGS OF ALL NATIONS at the flag-decorating station. Megan -- she who gets thirsty -- worked her fingers down to very nubs creating blank banners to be decorated by, ahem, the children. You should have seen mine. It depicted a freeform sunrise. You know, as a pun on "Daly." Like, "Daily." Get it?

* Snake petting. You heard me, snake petting. Our neighbor Gretchen has many pets. Strange, strange pets. Including a snake. So we petted it. At one point, said snake heeded the call of nature, there, on the Calto's lawn. We grownups all stared, shocked. "I guess I knew snakes did that," quoth one adult, "but I just never pictured it."

* Pint-sized sports -- including soccer and basketball. This devolved into madness as Eamon and our neighbor Chris turned it into a battle to see who could make baskets using the most absurd approach. I think Chris on the tricycle won, but I'm sure Eamon will have something to say about that.

Did I mention that many households chose to participate in the family flag "contest" (it being a contest only in the sense that we created entries; not in the sense that we did any judging or gave any awards. We just got too tired)? The idea was: the Olympics involves many countries. Countries have flags. Our block has many families. Families ... have ... flags? Or they could. And should. And for one glorious day, did.

But what, you ask, adorned the Daly family flag. As you can see, we decided to commemorate a dominating theme of family life here at casa del Daly. So if you're in the neighborhood, be sure not to peek in the windows. You've been warned.

At lunchtime, we desisted our fun-having to eat a delicious smorgasbord of hot dogs, donated by the Patio Beef stand on the corner, chips, and sody pop.

Afterwards, the small boys of the block disappeared. I got a tip that they were sequestered in the "train room" of our kitty-corner neighbors, the Burtogs. A train room is, just like it sounds, a room dedicated to a remarkably intricate model train. And if you are a 4-year-old boy, you chant "go, Thomas, go!" just to ensure the train keeps moving.

The train room was topped only by a visit from a real-live fire truck, attended by real-live firemen. They offered opportunities to swarm all over the truck and spray water all over the street, and occasionally, on others.

Me, I was more interested in the firemen. Eamon did not agree.

The firetruck visit was so exicting that we all retired for naps. I awoke to find that Eamon had prepared the back yard for our contribution to the evening entertainment... but more on that later...

Naptime was followed by happy hour, potluck din din, and a performance by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio. We were delightfully well received, especially by some of our youngest audience members, who provided a tribute of fabulous dance moves, as recorded here. Keep your eye on the small blond boy.

After our performance, there was more eating, and the playing of adult games. These included Ruth and Kevin's brew bottle toss, a polo match involving small inflatable horses (hosted by the O'Connors), and the Keyes' watermelon seed spitting contest (both distance and accuracy were factors).

Sadly, I have no photos of these events as I was busy documenting our entry into the games category. The Mexican Triathalon.

Dubbed by some a collection of the most pervasive Mexican stereotypes, the Mexican Triathalon consisted of, naturally, three events. First up was the Mexican Hat Dance, in which contestants were required to improvise a dance of their choice around a sombrero, while staying within a border of 5 flags arranged in a circle. Points were awarded by judges.

Next up was the Margarita Dash. Using contestants had to fill a pitcher with water from an ice chest located at one corner of our yard. Then, they would dash to a table covered in plastic margarita glasses, fill the glasses, and take as many as possible to a third table, and pour said glasses into a vase. Repeat. It was a timed trial; contestants were judged according to the amount of liquid they were able to transport.

The third and final event was the adult pinata. Eamon purchased four pinatas -- the numbers 1 5 0 0 in honor of our block -- and we filled them with adult treats, including beef jerky, shot glasses, mini bottles of liquor, and alka selzer. Contestants each took several swipes. When a definitive blow was made, all contestants would make the mad dash to collect the items, and earned points for each.

Several observations:
* Liquor bottles, even plastic ones, tend to shatter when hit with a broomstick. Ooops. Thankfully, there were no casualties.
* A few of the bottles were glasses, and I had carefully entombed them in bubblewrap. This turned out to be a good things, since even though these bottles did shatter, their bubbly casings tended to hold the shards together.
* John O'Connor, the winner of the pinata event, got a serious and even frightening amount of air as he leapt to smash the pinatas. Alarming.
* Contestant Ann Casey spent much of the competition on the ground. But maybe that was because she and her husband Jim hosted their own competition, which involved tasting several bottles of wine and trying to identify the country of origin. Mayhap Ann undertook too many demonstrations.

After the triathalon, I had to miss some of the other games (described above) as I was busy reviewing entries for the "When They Were Olympians" competition. Using submissions from various and sundry of the block, I constructed a poster full of baby photos, numbered but otherwise unidentified. The object was to identify the latter-day neighbor according to the baby pic. Hilarity.

The evening ended the traditional way, with much drinking in the middle of the street, and a special innovation: closing ceremonies, orchestrated (naturally) by Eamon. The great state of Wisconsin (where fireworks can be purchased) is to be thanked for its star-spangled glory.

Crazy Crap Item #93: The part where I'm puzzled by a summer blockbuster

I know what you're thinking. You know the annual summer block party extravaganza was this weekend, and you're wondering why, in lieu of telling you all the news, I'm babbling on about some movie I saw.

Well, the 1500 Norwood Block Party was a massive event, of Biblical proportions, and it's clear I won't be able capture all the splendor during my 15-minute noon-tide tostada nosh. So until I get the energy and leisure to give a truly full account, I'll entertain you with more modest musings.

To whit: Spielberg's War of the Worlds. I'm not given to watching these sorts of blockbusters, but there was nothing else on, and it was on Comcast On-Demand, so Eamon suggested we fire it up. Much to my surprise -- and despite my loathing of Tom Cruise on-screen and off- -- I found myself rather drawn in. The effects are quite dazzling, and as Eamon noted, it's rather laudable how Spielberg makes no attempt to "lighten the mood" with comedy relief. Instead, it's just a tense heaping on of scenes of dread and terror. Fun.

Until, that is, ole Steve seems to have rounded the 2-hour mark and thought, "Oops, gotta wrap this up," and subsequently substitutes any real conclusion with a strange, terse voiceover by (sigh) Morgan Freeman which rockets right over any actual narrative to sew things up in the stupidest and most pompous fashion imaginable. (And seriously, folks, can't anyone but Freeman do voiceovers anymore???)

Way to lose me in the 11th hour, Stephen. WTF?

Crazy Crap Item #92: The part where I'm all for religious education, but ...

So one of my latest gigs is writing long-form brochure copy for a video course entitled "The History of the Bible." It's all about Dead Sea Scrolls this, and King James version that, and it's all very interesting. Or, at least, I assume it will be, as I haven't started viewing the course yet.

What I have done, however, is begin researching my copy proposal. This is an odd document required by the company before copy is submitted to ensure that we writers know which end is up. It's actually not a bad little exercise, and has enabled me to explore the wonderful world of educational publishing.

You see, part of the proposal involves a sort of competitive review. For each course, I have to go out and find similar products offered by competitors, and then cite the reasons indicated in the competitors' marketing why this particular topic is worth studying (and paying big bucks to study, natch).

Anyhoo, this part of the process is usually only garden-variety interesting. But as you can imagine, when your topic is "The History of the Bible," you're opening a pretty big can of fundamentalist worms.

I'll spare you the many readers' comments about various Biblical scholarship books that decry such works for questioning the literal truth of the Good Book. What I'd like to share, instead, is a strange breed of Bible videos for kids.

Take, for instance, this handy little video review of "Wild and Wacky Bible Stories," in this case centering on the theme of jealousy. Or maybe, on child molestation. The creepy fellow on the cover makes it too close to call.

Or consider this retelling of the Samson and Delilah story, in which the famed, be-ponytailed strong man is apparently played by He-Man, master of the universe.

And who wouldn't want their kids viewing the erotic adventures of Adam and Eve? Check out the voyeuristic giraffe.

That's it. I'm going atheist. If only for the good of the children.

Crazy Crap Item #91: The part where Jack finds a kindred spirit

I wrote before about how July 4th weekend was kicked off at 1500 Norwood. But I neglected to include an episode that occurred earlier in the afternoon.

As is well known, my neighbor, Jack, is a cowboy. I've previously reported supporting evidence here and here.

During yesterday's extravaganza, he was decked out in full cowboy regalia and entertained himself by reclining against the roots of a tree while twanging "Home on the Range" on an imaginary guitar. Like cowboys do, you know.

It suddenly dawned on my that he might enjoy seeing a photo of my father decked out in similar regalia. You see, my dad -- also coincidentally nicknamed Jack -- aspired to greatness on the range at about the same stage in life as neighbor Jack. And I have a photo to prove it. It's a wondrous, Depression-era photo of my dad, age 5 or so, clad in a plaid shirt, chaps, a holster, and a 10-gallon hat. He holds a six-gun aloft. I showed it to neighbor Jack's mom, Ann, and she noted that he seems all too aware of how cool he looks.

So I showed to Jack, and explained it was my dad when he was little. Jack's eyes grew big as saucers. He grasped the frame and, staring at it, muttered, "Does he have a real gun?" I suggested that it was probably just a toy. But look!, I said, he's got chaps and a holster! Jack added, awestruck, "And a lasso."

He held it in his hands for many moments, studying it, until James, his little brother reached for it. I turned it to him. James gazed at it puzzled, the jabbed my dad's photo with his finger. "Jack," he asserted. "Jack."

And he was right, in more ways than one.

Crazy Crap Item #90: The part where we all thought this sort of thing only happened in the movies

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I live on the best block in the world.

Prior to moving in, I used to scope out our neighborhood, strolling by to see what life was really like on 1500 Norwood. And seriously, I thought they were putting me on.

More often then not, there were small children gathered on the sidewalk, cavorting. Mothers sitting and chatting. Butterflies alighting on fingertips, and bells softly tolling the hour from Lutheran church one block south.

Seriously, all except the butterflies.

After moving in, Eamon and I quickly learned this was not a bill of goods. Our neighbors are ridiculously nice. The kids on the block are ridiculously funny. We have a block fund, used to fund two annual block parties and purchase welcome gifts for new neighbors. And of course, we have our legendary badass squirrels.

Which brings me to the antics of last friday night. This weekend, as I'm sure you're aware, is a fantastic, four-day holiday weekend. Which means the week prior is all just a vamp leading into four days of glorious nothing-doing. Not surprisingly, we on Norwood started to get the holiday itch a little early.

"I'm thirsty," my neighbor Megan announced on Thursday afternoon. To the uninitiated, this seems to mean Megan needs a glass of water. For denizens of the 1500 block, this means, "We're getting together to drink tomorrow afternoon, right?"

Which we did.

You see, in addition to our several planned gatherings, here on 1500 Norwood, we play host to a variety of spontaneous shindigs. Typically, they grow out of the afternoon play period, which occurs sometime between nap time and dinner time. Small children explode onto the sidewalk, propelled by scooters, small firetrucks, and bikes with training wheels. Mothers gather wherever there's space to sit. If her work schedule allows, a feckless freelancer joins in, just for fun.

Playtime is so well established that one of our neighbors, Ruth, has even created a permanent location, consisting of two park benches, two pottted plants and a small glass table, all chained to the tree on her parkway.

You never know when playtime will erupt into something more, like a pizza party on the Daly's lawn. But this week, I had Megan's advanced warning, so I alerted Eamon, and got myself in a party frame of mind.

At about 2pm, I wandered out to playtime. We chatted of this and that, then decided to take up residence on Ruth's benches -- this despite the fact that Ruth and her family are out of town, and are hosting guests for the duration of the weekend. If the guests were puzzled that the neighborhood descended on the benches even when Ruth is not at home, they kept it to themselves, initially sequestering themselves on Ruth's enclosed front porch, where one of the children serenaded us with violin practice.

By 4 pm or so, Megan cracked a beer, and I brought out some Mike's Hard Lemonade. Sheila, from the block over, brought wine. We snacked on Megan's guacamole and cheese and crackers.

Soon, daddies came home and joined us. We ordered pizza. Then Jim (Jack's dad) brought out his fiddle and serenaded us Civil War-era folk tunes. The violin-playing houseguest joined in, as did his sibling. John O'Connor -- whose wife Ann and triplets were out of town -- brought out his drum kit, and Chris Cancilla took out his guitar. Eamon took tambourine.

And ...

Cue fireflies.

Cue small children with sparklers.

Seriously. Best neighborhood in the world. The 1400 block can bite us.

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.