Crazy Crap #258: The part where April is peeping out all over

Those who have been reading my updates for at least a year know that here on Norwood, we have a hallowed springtime tradition. The Peeps Party. Long has it lived in the lore of the block since last year, when I held the first such event.

It's brilliant in its cunning simplicity:

- I buy a bunch of Peeps.
- I amass a bunch of craft supplies.
- I collect all my shoe boxes.
- I Scotchguard my entire house.
- I invite small children and others over to my house to create dioramas of their own design employing marshmallow peeps.
- Eamon looks gaily on.

And so it was that we held the Second Annual Peeps Party on April 17. We had planned to hold said event in the dining room, where it convened last year. But as the day dawned full and fair, we realized that with a few borrowed tables, we could move the festivities out into the back yard, where the children could bask in the early springtime sunshine, and I could avoid countless hours of sweeping up glitter and scraping adhesive-backed googly eyes off my hardwood floors.

In the now-vacated dining room, we set up snacks of all description, a large basin of wine bottles, and other assorted refreshments.

And thus it was that the day fulfilled the glory of celebrations past. The highlights:
- Somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 kids, with attached parents, descended up our yard for a whirlwind of creative outpouring.
- Neighbor Jim Casey helped feed the masses by bringing over an unsolicited roast, fresh of the grill. Delicious!
- We saw an array of themes in this year's displays, with an emphasis on:
* dinosaurs
* violence
* free-form

We were all tickled by a number of creative and accomplished displays, including the darling Peeps-aria pizza parlor, a peeps garden, a particularly bloody rendition of Robin Hood, a lifelike rendition of activism and civil disobedience, a bleak and heart-rending portrayal of the Civil War, a shooting gallery, and Eamon's cunning re-creation of our favorite karaoke bar, the Bong Ho.

Check all the glorious photos!

Festivities wrapped up around 6:30pm or so, and a small merry band retired to the Harris-Watts benches to bask in the glow of a firepit. For me, the spirit was willing for more festivities, but the body was weak, so I crashed in front an interminable "House" marathon until I lost myself in sleep's comforting embrace.

Excelsior Peeps!

Crazy Crap #257: The part where I wax pithy and historical

The 5-and-under boys of Norwood are taking tap class, including James, also known as Casey Brother the Younger. There is some shuffling and stomping involved.

This week, tap class is coming one day after a Casey-family visit to the Chicago History Museum, where stove-pipe hats a la Honest Abe were procured. And thus it is that James is taking his hat to tap class.

Quoth I, "Give my regards to Gettysburg."

Crazy Crap #256: Where Sailor Jack is amusing in the middle of the night

A few days ago, I checked my email first thing in the morning to find missive from my dad, sent at 3:30am. Apparently, rambling emails to one's daughter are a new insomnia cure-all. The last paragraph amused me mightily:

The Pfost's Grandson, Matthew, is marrying next month and much of the energy is directed along those lines. It will be take place in a winery in Temecula. Not even a Catholic winery!

Crazy Crap #255: The part where Ann cracks wise

Today, I emerged from my den of thesauri and style guides into the bright sunshine. My legs needed a good stretching, and the bathroom needed a variety of supplies, which I figured I could obtain at the CVS.

Upon striking out into the great outdoors, I came upon James and Ann, who were just embarking on their daily walk/scooter to school. I offered to accompany them as school was right on my way to the drug store.

As we wandered, Ann brought up the topic of the signing of the health bill (huzzah), and we rambled onto the topic of how insanely immature and vengeful several members of our government had been in their opposition to said bill, and anything else that didn't square with their personal ideologies.

I ventured the opinion that such people were more invested in acting out with great disregard for personal restraint than they were in their actual dogmas, and theorized that they were actually drawn to dogmas that encouraged and validated such immature outbursts.

Ann had a better theory.

"I think it's because the World Wrestling Federation doesn't have enough openings."

Touche.

Crazy Crap #254: The part where Nolan makes his feelings known

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.

Crazy Crap #253: The part where I hope James is not misconstrued

So last night, as Jack was undertaking his first reconciliation, James repaired to my house for an evening of cookie-baking and general mayhem. As part of the night's entertainment, I showed him my brand-new Weight Watchers pedometer, and we spent a good amoutn of time testing exactly how good a job it did counting my steps.

Today, I received this missive from Ann, alluding to our evening of fun:

This morning I was getting the boys ready for school. Jack was complaining of being tired and James was saying he wasn't tired at all. I explained that Jack had a big night out while James relaxed and watched cartoons at your house.

James said "I didn't just relax, I walked all over and kept checking the temperature" I was totally confused by this and asked him "what temperature" and he said "the one on Kay's pants."

That is not what one wants to hear about one's babysitter.

Crazy Crap #252: The part where Jack prepares to cleanse his soul

Jack Casey, believe it or not, has reached the mature age of 8, and thusly has faced the first of many Roman Catholic sacraments, Reconciliation--also known as the scariest of the sacraments.

In preparation for this holiest of events, Ann revealed that Jack had attempted to codify and quantify his sinfulness. She came across a table he had constructed, the left-hand column labeled as "Sins I have done," and the right-hand column labeled as "Number of times." Ann noted that he had nothing written in the left-hand column, but had included a number of mysterious hash-marks in the right-hand column. Apparently, he wants his sins tallied, but not recorded.

Crazy Crap #251: The part where Jack offers sage insights into sibling relations

I was just about to hunker down and start work on a new project when I was lured outside by the siren song of hockey sticks hitting frozen bricks. The young Caseys, Jack and James, were imitating recent Olympic glory on the brick expanse in their backyard. While I in no way wish to foster any such violent, ER-tending activities, it was quite an amusing spectacle, and required further investigation on my part.

I introduced my coming by demanding to know why they were not in school, and whether they were playing hookey. Strep throat was the culprit, Jack informed me. Inquiries about his current state of pain ("Does it hurt?") received a negatory ("Not right now.")

I watched their rather lop-sided matches, all the while interjecting questions, comments and topics for discussion, such as:

- the fact it was their mother's birthday
- my new haircut, which neither had noticed. Indeed, neither could recall my previous waist-length hair when questioned. I let the matter drop.
- a comparison of our varying levels of involvement in watching the Olympics (theirs extreme; mine minimal)
- a demonstration of a new game, in which Jack blows a designated number of toots on a whistle, which signal to James a series a commands: come here, go away, freeze, etc. When Jack had finally added enough commands to have a 5-toot sequence, I queried how far this system could actually go. To wit, "28 toots mean make me a sandwich." "32 toots mean do my laundry." I pointed out that this way madness lies.
- a series of questions regarding the climate surrounding the Grand Canyon, and whether one could wear shorts in the canyon in the middle of summer.
- a recounting of highlights from a program featuring survivalist Bear Grylls, and estimations of the height of a railway bridge that had in some way threatened his life (anywhere from 25 feet high to 1 million 80 one hundred feet [James' estimate]).
- a concern registered that the very large stick James was wielding was going to poke Kay's eye out, and a suggestion by Jack that if such a tragedy should befall, Kay could always go to the "body shop." A clever witticism.
- a follow-up discussion about colored contacts and the fact that some people have two different-colored eyes.

Eventually, our discussion wound back around to Jack's health, and how he had spent his weekend. It was noted that while Jack had hunkered down with his dad--watching videos, enjoying warm baths, observing the preparation of Italian delicacies by his dad and uncle--James had attended a birthday party and gone to an open gym.

We noted that James attends birthdays nearly every weekend, and I observed that his friends did seem to keep getting older, and that he should look into that.

At this point, Jack volunteered that James had actually gone to the gym at Jack's suggestion. "Sometimes," he noted, "You like to have time by yourself, to spend some time with one of your parents all by yourself."

Cherish these days, Caseys. Soon, there will be nothing but hormones, sass, and angst.

Crazy Crap #250: The part where Norwood Street goes on a field trip

So, some week's ago, a large contingency from Norwood Street embarked upon what has come to be known as "The First Annual Norwood Street Indoor Block Party." To some, it is known as the time I got a bunch of neighbors to go with me to roller derby. In attendance: the Caltos, the Cavitts, the Caseys, the Harris-Wattses, and the Wallers (sans Genevieve). It is to be noted, sadly, that the youngest Waller, Cynthia Rose, did not wear her Wonder Woman costume, as she had at an earlier derby date.

Notable events:

* Delicious pre-show snacks and drinks with the Caltos and Cavitts.
* A trek onto the track to high-five the skaters before the bout. This is a courtesy extended to children who attend the derby. Eamon asked me to shepherd them. Rounding up my wards, I did a quick head count, so that if any of them got lost, at least I'd know how many children I had misplaced. I had 7 in total, which I feel makes me the Maria von Trapp of the derby.
* A delectable cocktail, which was supposed to be a pina colada, but which upon further investigation appeared to be a mishmash of banana, coconut and oodles of rum.
* The consumption of many snacks by one and all.
* The subsequent sickening of young James Casey who, as his mother Ann noted, had not had a hot dog in many a day.
* The slack-jawedness of many small boys at the vision of our be-skated heroines.
* A foray up into the balcony by small boys.
* A blow-out derby victory.
* The winning-over of many new, small derby fans.


Plans for a second semi-annual indoor derby-related block party are in the works.

Crazy Crap Item #249: The part where Jack has grand plans and projects

Today, Ann and I went to lunch, and she informed me that Jack had recently announced, "There have been a lot of interesting things going on in my life lately."

Ann asked for more info, and was told about:

Item 1: The Great Grammar School Graffiti Mystery
Apparently, some unidentified person had scrawled on a desk the message "I like Jack." The owner of the desk is currently out of the country, so she has been ruled out as a suspect. Since then, other scribbled messages have appeared, but their author is still unknown. Jack and his classmate/neighbor Emmett are on the job; the investigation is ongoing.

Item 2: Arizona or Bust
Jack and Emmett have agreed to travel to the Grand Canyon when they turn 16. (They are currently 8 years old.) In preparation, they have begun training. When Ann queried as to what sort of training is required, Jack replied, "Emmett did 40 roll-ups last night!!!!"

Ann: "What's a roll-up?"

Jack: "I don't know, but Emmett did 40 of them!"

Crazy Crap Item #248: The part where the Caseys update a holiday tradition

I have remarked in the past that I have a remarkable facility for hanging on to garbage that later proves useful. Not a pack rat, I. I'm delighted whenever I can jettison needless things that are clogging up my space. But I've grown to respect a certain instinct I have for detecting needful things amongst the dross -- a pang that tells me, "Hang onto that. It will prove its worth."

I was struck by just such a pang recently, only to have it come to fruition mere days later. Raking I was, and tidying my backyard in preparation for the winter. As I sorted through the dregs and ends of vegetable matter, I came across the rather sad, bedraggled remains of an old bird feeder. Installed by the previous owners, it hung from a hook on our porch until the rope finally gave way, its mouldering roof and rusting suet baskets too disgusting even for the local wildlife.

Not too disgusting, however, for the local children, who immediately saw its worth. A barn it could be. A house. A tiny fort. The plastic panes that held the seed in could be endlessly removed and replaced. Thus it was played with until pieces of it began to fall off, and Jack, Sam and company discovered other delights.

As I was raking, it was this sad specimen of avian eateries that crossed my path. I picked it up to pitch it in the trash. Then I stopped. I imagined the next wave of wee ones -- Nolan, Caroline, Brady, James, Miles -- and pondered the fun hours I would deprive them of if I gave the birdhouse the boot. It just seemed to hold still too much in the way of wonderment, so I tucked it back under the porch.

Flash forward a week, and I've just returned from a four-day Thanksgiving sojourn. I check my email, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but this missive from my neighbor Ann:

Hi Kay,

Jack and I were setting up the manger scene yesterday and we thought we'd like to get away from the tin foil this year. We went outside to scout for more natural materials to use. We searched in our garage and yard. The Cancillas invited us to search in their garage and yard as well but to no avail. However, on the way back from the Cancilla's we spotted something under your deck. We apologize for not asking your permission but we just couldn't wait, we got so excited. Check out these photos and you will see why. We will be happy to put it back under the deck at the end of the season.

How was your trip? Restful and relaxing I hope.

Ann

Behold the splendor.

p.s. Those keeping track may recall that this not the first time that the Caseys' nativity scene has made an appearance in Crazy Crap. Behold!

Crazy Crap Item #247: The part where I record a wee tidbit about Chicago living

Here in Chicago, we are lucky enough to have a dedicated corps of folks committed to ensuring that all our refuse is hauled away in a timely fashion. I speak not of those valiant fellows of Chicago Streets and San. Their efforts, though helpful and courteous, leave a residue of refuse that still must be contended with. These items are typically claimed by the Chicago alley trash pickers.

An unafflilated band of helpful do-gooders, these are fellows who comb the alleys looking for good things that people are throwing out. Often, the items they rescue are re-sold, or sold as scrap metal. This can be useful, as it means never having to worry about whether the trash man will haul away large or unwieldy items. The trash pickers gain access to an otherwise untapped source of revenue. Everyone wins.

There is, however, a wee problem. These snappers-up of unconsidered trifles have a very loose and generous notion of what is being "thrown out."

To wit:

-- A guy down the street reports that he came upon them trying to haul away his lawn mower. He assured them he was still using it.
-- My neighbor Ruth offered me an in-table sewing machine whe wanted to get rid of. She called to let me know she had just put it in the alley. By the time I had hung up the phone and walked out there, the sewing machine had been removed.
-- Ruth, similiarly, had a rain spout that had become detached, and had leaned it up against the house, still in the gutter. It disappeared like the fine morning mist.
-- My friend Will was working on rehabbing his basement, and had removed the door for easier access. He leaned it against his fence, and when he returned, someone had walked off with it.

My neighbor Ann claims that if you stand for too long in the alley, they will swipe the metal shoelace eyelets right off your shoes.

I hear it's worse in Detroit, though. A friend of ours told us about a guy he knew who was barbecuing steaks in his back yard. He went in to get a beer, and when he returned, the steaks were gone.

Such is city life.

Crazy Crap Item #246: The part where I finally recount the doings of our summer block party

It's October now, and there's a pre-winter chill in the air. Which means it's high time -- well past high time, in fact -- that I recount our most recent block party.

The date was August 29, 2009. The theme: the '70s.

Those of us involved in the planning and execution of this theme had concerns. Was the '70s too vague a theme? Would it even be grasped by the younger set, who bring such hilarity to these events.

Our concerns proved to be ill-founded, as the first ever 1970s block party proved to be, possibly, THE GREATEST BLOCK PARTY IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.

Here's a bulleted blow-by-blow of the doings, viewed, as always, from my point of view. Allowances are to be given for any of my biases or limitations in my perspective, as I am the one doing the typing, and therefore have a right to edit, enhance, or embellish as I see fit.

• Morning started early, as always, at 9am, with coffee and donuts at the Bertogs. The traditional repast was enhanced by a variety of theme-appropriate treats including Honeycomb cereal (Honeycomb's big... yeah, yeah, yeah!) and Pop-Tarts.
• Before visiting the breakfast buffet, however, I slipped outside to construct my "What's Your Sign" house display, the designated design for this party. Some, including the Harris-Wattses, opted for a pictorial display of the astrological signs of family members. I, however, realized that since my sign is Leo, my good friend Lulu the Lion (originally named Frazier on account of mistaken gender) could play a role in my display. And thus she did.
• I then slipped into my costume for the day, a look my father has dubbed pregnant Earth Mother -- which would be fine, if I was actually pregnant. Daishikis, I have found, are not flattering.

Since I've mentioned my costume, I feel I should enumerate the get-ups of others.

• Rose Cancilla appeared resplendant in her costume as a Venice-beach visiting roller disco queen, sometimes appearing instead as a roller derby maven.
• Not to be out-done by his wife, Chris Cancilla donned his best '70s-era porn star costume.
• Ann borrowed every last bit of my pale blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick to emerge as a flower-loving flower child.
• John Calto took a simple, understated approach to the era, and let his hair do the talking.
• Megan Calto was also not to be outdone, and is seen here with Kim Cavitt and Annie O'Neil as a trio of '70s sitcom lovelies.
• Later, Chris Cancilla emerged with a fantastic '7os 'fro, a chick magnet if ever there was one.
• Eamon thought outside the box, and outside this realm of consciousness, taking a guise as Hunter S. Thompson.
• Thankfully, I had the good sense to purchase a large number of fake mustaches for distribution, to enhance the appearance of those had not opted for full costumes. These were overtaken by the 8 and under set, seen here, here, here, and here. This also led to a misapprehension of the mustaches as contributing to an Old West theme.
• There was also tie-dye in abundance, as evidenced here, here, here, and here.

Now, on with the day, and the next big event:

• After breakfast, Eamon re-emerged, bursting from our front door with his Thomspon-esque cigarette holder clamped tightly in his lips. "Want to see my pet?" he bellowed. He called to all the children, insisting only the bravest among them to view his pet ... a pet rock, which he displayed with a flourish to the suitably amazed children.
• After ascertaining that they wished themselves to capture their own pet rocks, he led them down the gangway and into our backyard.
• There, he instructed them that they were in the very midst of pet rocks, who could be captured and tamed as pets, and the hunt was on!
• Captured rocks were inspected and approved, and then taken out front for decorating.
• Then followed a training session, in which the new pets were taught to "stay" and "sleep."

Lunch followed, a psychelic hot dog fest offered by Megan Calto, and then an afternoon of lounging and hijinks, which included:

• Participation in a very difficult Brady Bunch quiz.
• Examination of a posterboard filled with photos of neighbors and our neighborhood as they appeared in the 1970s,
• Leisurely enjoyment of anecdotes and frosty beverages, seen here, here, and here.
• The decoration of vehicles large and small, seen here, here, and here.
• A visit from the City of Chicago's Bicycle Ambassadors, who amassed our small pedalers for a lesson in bike safety, and then ran them through a challenging and competitive obstacle course.
• Groovy tattoos and body adornment for all!
• Daring and dangerous versions of vehicular madness.

As afternoon shifted to early evening, the mood changed, the tunes cranked and we enjoyed:

• Era-appropriate hors-doevres including my patented rumaki and cheesy delicacy smuggled from Wisconsin by the traitorous O'Connors.
• Live jazz hits offered up by Jon Hey and one of his many fantastic musical ensembles.
• An aborted cocktail contest, which ended up being merely a frenzied binge of exotic liquors hosted by Kevin.

Also to be noted are the creative activities of some of the young ladies of the block -- namely Bridget Verdon and the Brenner twins, Claire and Simone. In addition to enhancing my astrological display with a romantic dinner salad crafted from grass clippings and an exploration of the possibilities of the questionable beaded curtains I had purchased from Uncle Fun, these young ladies craftily constructed a "hippie van" from cardboard boxes, a wagon and embellishments, seen here flanked by me and my good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt.

The cocktail hour was followed by a potluck dinner buffet featuring taste treats from the era, many in casserole form.

Afterwards, we premiered an all-new and soon-to-be repeated tradition, our rendition of The Gong Show. Sadly, no photos or video exist, as the event took place after hours, but here are some highlights:

• We constructed a gong, consisting of the Daly trash can lid (painted gold) hanging from a ladder.
• Chris Cancilla donned his best Chuck Barris wig and a fine be-ruffled suit for his role as emcee.
• Celebrity judges included Mark Spitz (aka Tim O'Neil), Jamie Farr (aka Christopher Piatt), and JP Morgan (Katie Heilman, seen here with me).
• Winning acts included Calvin Keyes burping the alphabet and teeny Caroline Verdon dancing to her mother's ring tone.
• James and Jack Casey also treated us to a jaw-dropping magic act, while Jim sang and accompanied himself on the guitar. Ann Casy, however, trumped them all, placing among the prize winners with her singing of the Coke song and God Bless America to the accompaniment of a lit sparkler while donning a costume approximating the statue of liberty.
• Gonged acts included: mine (fish riddles told via ventriloquism with a barracuda puppet); Sam's amazing sock-and-ball maneuver (ball in sock, swung around); a duo of pre-teens attempting "Who's on First"; Rose and Annie presenting "Pigs in a Blanket" (oinking loudly while wrapped in a blanket); young Matthew Waller and Casey Cancilla clashing in light-sabre combat. Many other also, too numerous to recount.
• Bridget and the Brenner twins dazzled many of us with their original song about the '70s, which I am still humming.

The best-remembered high point, I believe, was the quickly gonged original sketch featuring a hot-tempered John McEnroe, who jeered the crowd after his defeat. At the end of the show, he returned to the stage, and berated the audience, whipping the children into a frenzy. Soon, he took chase, with the entire contingency of Edgewater children on his feet. As judging and prizes were determined, he and his hooting, angry mob swept up and down the street, and included among their ranks a pogo-sticking Casey Cancilla. It was surreal, to say the least.

After prizes were awarded, a screening of the Brady Bunch followed for the kids. The remaining grownups, now in high spirits, retired to the benches to enjoy a wood fire, frosty beverages, and an extended booty dance by Megan. And thus, the '70s party ended as the '70s themselves had, in a haze of debauchery and shoddy pop culture.

Crazy Crap Item #245: The part where James ensures his own survival

Halloween is less than a month away and, as such, I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon decorating. I've yet to document this year's splendor, but it's very similar to last year's, which can be seen here.

As always, I was assisted by many small "helpers," who offered up useful suggestions, sage opinions, and dubious hand-eye coordination, all in support of my efforts.

Young James Casey, newly turned 5, was particularly assiduous in offers of "help," viewing my decorating activities as an opportunity to slip into my house, harass Eamon (who was ailing on the couch), bang on our keyboard, and otherwise explore. So bold he was, in fact, that as I was rooting in the basement at one point, I heard tiny footfalls on the floor above me. I was, as a result, not surprised when he appeared, cautiously working his way down our rather rickety and cobweb-festooned basement stairs.

James: Watcha doing?

Kay: Talking to Pumpkinhead.

For those unaware, Pumpkinhead is a legend in a neighborhood, a figure of mystery and terror. He made his debut some years ago, on Halloween. Appearing at first as a large pumpkin perched upon a festive holiday display, he would leap up when approached and menace costumed passers-by, to terrifying effect.

Pumpkinhead's first arrival inspired nothing but terror on the block. But soon, cooler heads prevailed. Around age 5, the smaller denizens of Norwood begin to suspect that Pumpkinhead is indeed Eamon. But they aren't quite sure yet, and there's too much at stake to assume he does not, indeed, exist.

On one occasion, James' brother Jack discovered the pumpkinhead itself in my basement, and loudly announced, "See! Pumpkinhead is Eamon!" To which I replied, "...Or, Eamon defeated Pumpkinhead, captured him, and trapped him down here to keep you all safe." This gave Jack much food for thought, and he soon began proposing the rules by which Pumpkinhead operates. To wit:

"If you say Pumpkinhead's name while in Kay's basement, he will come to life and chase you."

Now, at age 8, Jack seems pretty assured that Pumpkinhead is but a costume. James, however, is not so sure. Which brings us back to last Sunday.

James: What are you talking about with Pumpkinhead?

Kay: I'm asking him which child he intends to grab on Halloween.

James (decidedly): He should grab Sam.

Kay: No, he wants a smaller child.

James: Well, if Miles and Nolan come to our block, he should grab Nolan.

Kay: He says he wants someone a little bigger.

James: Then he should grab Miles.

Kay: No, he wants someone with lighter hair.

[James begins to nervously stroke his blond forelock.]

James: He should grab Jack.

Kay: I think he wants someone a little smaller.

[Pause.]

James: Are you giving me clues?

Kay: Yes.

James: I want to decide. Tell him to grab Sam.

James may not know if Pumpkinhead is real, but he surely knows how to save his own bacon.

Crazy Crap Item #244: The part where I receive an amusing request and a delightful compliment, both by way of Mr. Czajka and Laura Ingalls Wilder

Incident #1

So, as I have mentioned before, my good friend Mr. Czajka is more than just a little fond of "Little House on the Prairie." He has virtually memorized all the Little House books, and wrote fantastic online reviews of all season of the television show. He has traveled to all the major Laura Ingalls Wilder tourist traps, investing at each a small fortune in books, souvenirs and other praire-bonnet paraphernalia. (He's also obsessed with the Mormons, but that's another story.)

As an, I guess, not unexpected result of his fanaticism, coupled with his remarkable connections in the world of public television, Czajka was recently offered a plum side project: to act as historical consultant for a new musical of "Little House," starring Melissa Gilbert in the role of "Ma." He negotiated a deluxed compensation package, which included samples of all the show's branded souvenirs and a new I-Phone, which he claims was payed for by Ms. Gilbert herself. (Get a load of the excellent educational guide he produced for the show.)

Coinciding with the premiere of the show in Minnesota, Mr. Czajka was quoted in a CNN article, saying this and that about the history behind the production, half-pint, and other related topics.

Some weeks later, what should appear in my inbox but an intriguing missive begging to be forwarded on to Mr. Czajka himself. The writer of said email identified himself as an author who had published articles on one Ms. Anne, the lass of Green Gables, Canada's answer to Lil' Laura. He had found my multiple mentions of Czajka in this very blog, and wished to apprise him of a poll designed to determine who was more popular: Anne or Laura. I, of course, forwarded it on immediately.

Later, I received another missive from said Anne expert, pointing me to the outcome of his tussle with Czajka and Half-Pint. Let the games begin!

Incident 2

As Little House, the Musical, just had its first public appearance at the Paper Mill Playhouse, Mr. Czajka was on hand to see how things went. He notes, "They've done alot to it since last summer and it's looking pretty good. I cried four times. . .while taking three pages of historical notes for the director."

But his report on the Little House opening included a curious note for me personally, one that put quite a little bounce in my step, I must say. To wit:

Anyways, the artistic director of the Paper Mill Playhouse is Mark Hoebee. 'Memba him. I've got to say that he has a mind like a trap. Iwas talking with one of the producers and he came up to me and said,"Did you go to Northwestern?" Mind you, I recall having two conversations with the man. Never took a class with him.

He asked me when I was there, and I told him, and rattled off the shows I worked on. And he said, "Oh! Meet Me in St. Louis! There was that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers number with that guy. . .Ben. . .and that woman. Cute short brunette." To which I replied "Yes, Kay Peterson." And he said, "YES. She was always so great on stage. She did Nunsense, didn't she?" And I said yes, and he said, "Is she here now? Is she acting?"

And I told him that you had given up the wicked stage and were a matron in Chicago.

Even we matrons like a little recognition now and again.

Crazy Crap Item #243: The part where Lisa offers an apt descriptor

Recently, there's been a new addition to the hijinks on Norwood, a young lady whose antics I've yet to describe.

And that is too bad, as this young lady has much potential for mayhem and hilarity. She is Caroline, our resident toddler-ish young lady. I'm awful in guessing kids' ages, but I'm going to estimate that she's in the terrible twos. She is the third -- of four, mind you -- children of our neighbors Lisa and Don Verdon. All of the Verdon children -- four, mind you -- are adorable -- but Caroline has a special, and some might say remarkable, charm.

In looks, she is commercial-grade pretty. Big blue eyes, a flirtatious grin, a sweet shy air. At neighborhood events, I end up taking photo after photo of her because I always seem to catch her just in the midst of Gerber-style adorableness.

But do not be deceived. This little cookie is tough as nails. She stomps around on solid, slightly bowed legs like a little bulldog, barking orders at her siblings in some incomprehensible form of gutteral English I've yet to decipher. "Little Mama" is her moniker in the family. "Go tell them to come in," Lisa will tell her, referring to her older siblings, Bridget and Brady. "Braaaahhh! Cahhhh wahhh!" she will bellow as she staggers down the street at them, pointing accusatory fingers.

She is also a lady her knows her own mind. This came to the fore just yesterday at the benches. Megan had brought out a delightful repast of mini Nilla wafers, which soon took centerstage as the focus of all attention, wheedling and surreptitious cookie-stealing the main objectives.

"Maaah!! Wahhhh!" Caroline repeatedly told Lisa, holding up a finger to indicate "Mother, I feel that due to my efforts on your behalf, I deserve one meager cookie." This was repeated something like 20 times, at which point, Lisa cut young Caroline off.

Undeterred, Caroline kept an eagle eye out for Lisa, and when it was determined that "Maaaahh" was intent upon a conversation, she sidled up to the bowl and whisked away a cookie, saucer-like blue eyes never leaving her mother.

Of course, I had to rat her out, just for comedy's sake. "She had her eye on you the whole time," I informed Lisa.

"She is cunning," was the reply.

Crazy Crap Item #242: The part where Halloween holds new thrills

As is well known, Jack is a bona fide Halloween fanatic. 'Round about May, he starts asserting that Halloween is next week, and suggests that we start planning our costumes and other hijinks.

So when a catalog arrived from a Halloween costume company -- in the high-summer season of late August, mind you -- I knew what to do with this.

"Can I have it?" Jack asked with wonder in his eyes as I handed it off. I assured him he could.

He immediately plunked down under a tree on our parkway with catalog in hand, accompanied by Sam and James. I went on my merry way.

Later, I passed by, only to hear Sam leading the trio in cries of, "Sick! Gross!" I had to investigate.

My inquiry led to a furious whipping of pages, accompanied by "Show her! Show her!"

At last, they lit upon their quarry. It was a photo of a cheery model wearing an adult-sized Wonder Woman costume.

"SICK!" they cried out.

"But that's Wonder Woman!... WONDER WO-MAN!" (This last sung from the theme song from the 1970s TV show.)

"But look what it says!" Sam directed, and I beheld standard-issue costume catalog copy.

I looked at him, puzzled, and he continued, "It says she's sexy."

"Yes?"

"Ewww. That's sick!" Sam asserted, and Jack and James chimed in assent.

There was a long pause. Then, Sam continued.

"What does sexy mean?"

And... scene.

Crazy Crap Item #241: The part where Jack joins the dance

It's been very busy of late, and I've not been able to frequent the benches and lounge with my neighbors, as is my wont.

Earlier this week, however, I was able to steal a few golden moments, and headed outside. Before I could even make it out to the benches, I encountered Jack and James, who were loitering on their front steps with a languorous air.

My inquiry into their doings returned the usual "Nuffing" from James, but Jack had things to tell.

"We're looking for Sam and Emmett, but we can't find them. They haven't come out. They're keeping something from us."

At that moment, I happened to glimpse Sam as he poked his head out of his front door, and informed Sam. Jack's cries, alas, were not heard, and Sam popped back inside.

At that, Jack shifted his focus. "Bridget and Claire and Simone are keeping secrets. They keep coming over her, and then I have to chase them."

"Well," I started in, hoping to be helpful, "You could just ignore them. Then they'd get bored with it and leave you alone."

Jack's face shifted.

"Sometimes I like it when I have to chase them."

"Adds a little drama to your life?"

"Yes."

And so it begins.

Crazy Crap Item #240: The part where I learn a new excuse

As is known by some, I just had a birthday. In the Daly household, birthdays are things that stretch out into experiences of remarkable longness. Birthday, we ask? Nay, birthmonth.

My celebration started the day before my birthday (August 8), and took the form of a friday-night block-party planning meeting. As it was raining, we met inside the Daly household. I provided a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, and we whet our palates on a delightful pre-mixed sangria, straight from the box. Such class.

My birthday proper, the following day, dawned sticky, hot, and nasty, so we sealed off the house, turned on the AC, opened out the sofa bed, made a grocery store run for junk food, and spent 48 birthday hours in icy isolation. Delightful.

But the shenanigans did not end there. You see, some time ago, Eamon and I attended a charity fundraiser, at which we won in silent auction a "luxury Chicago weekend": one night at the fabulous Fairmont Hotel, a gift certificate for dinner at the French bistro Marche, and another certificate for $75-worth of spa services at Mario Triccoci. My birthday wish was to add another night's worth of stay and call it a birthday. The Fairmont was all booked up on my birthday (Lollapallooza-ites apparently having swarmed even the swankiest of luxury accommodations), so we opted for the weekend following.

It turned out to be a lucky thing -- a very blessing in disguise -- as the weather was slightly less horribly hot and stinky than my birthday weekend proper, and we had only the moderate crowd spillover of the Air and Water show to contend with, as opposed to swarms of drunken concert-goers.

Behold, the festive times that were had:

* A deluxe CTA bus ride to the hotel from our Edgewater home.
* A complimentary chocolate cupcake-ish sort of thing, with "Happy Birthday" written on the plate in chocolate.
* A delicious nap.
* Attendance at Mission: Red, a cocktail fundraiser for the Red Cross, where we supped on tasty hors d'oevres, browsed the "candy bar" and sipped many a signature cocktail.
* A marathon night of rest, arising only at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch on the outdoor, open-air terrace of Sixteen, the restaurant at the new Trump Tower (the perfect location for witnessing some of the airborne mayhem of the Air and Water Show).
* A stroll through Millenium Park (with a dipping of the toes in the spitting face fountain) and down through Grant Park to the Museum Campus.
* A sumptuous dinner at Marche, capped by our very favorite of desserts, ice-cream filled profiteroles.
* An early evening of hotel lounging and TV watching.
* Late arisal at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch at the Park Grill, located just below the famous Bean (though we were scandalized to learn that they no longer serve my most favorite of cocktails, a sweet blue martini garnished with a silver-plated jordan almond. It went by the fabulous moniker of the "Bean-tini." R.I.P. Bean-tini. You served us well.)
* Considered shooting a game of miniature golf in Grant Park, but were dissuaded by rain and general ickiness.
* Retired to the hotel for a sumptuous afternoon snack of champagne, a flight of chocolates, and a huge chocolate brownie sundae.

All in all, and excellent birthmonth.

But, friends, the weekend was not just one of festivities and hijinks. Great knowledge was also shared. You see, at the charity event we attended, there was ... a tarot card reader. Those who know me well know that I cannot turn down any offer to read my cards. And when said reading is free with admission, well, that just about seals the deal.

And blissful I was, waiting in line for my reading, until it became clear that this reader -- a psychic numerologist, it turns out -- was not kidding around. One would expect speedy five-minute readings at such event. One would be wrong. This scrupulous individual lavished a full 20 to 30 minutes on each reading. Do the math, and you quickly discover that you are in for a very, very long wait.

Once this fact became clear, I suggested to Eamon that I could miss my reading. To which he replied, "What else have we got going on?," alluding to the fact that we would either stand here, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat while we waited, or we could leave the line so that we could stand somewhere else, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat. His logic was unassailable.

So stood we did, some two hours (this is not an exagerration), chatting, nibbling, sipping and so forth. We joked with the fellow in front of us, when he returned from the men's room, that he was not allowed to cut in line. He indicated he understood far too well what sort of dire straits cutting in would cause, and that he would defend the integrity of the line to the very end (well, that was the jist of it, anyway).

And so it went, until a glamorous blond came bouncing up and started chatting with this fellow. Hackles were raised. It was easy to see that her game was to chat her way to the front, where she could bypass the rest of us. I overheard her wheedling with the fellow in front of us who, sweet as pie and dimpling charmingly, indicated that she was shit out of luck.

Still, she hung on, and I rankled as only a plain little brunette can when a frowsy blonde tries to trade on her charms. I expressed my concerns to Eamon, who assured me, "Don't worry, I've got this."

So eventually, some 2 hours plus after first getting in line, we near the very front, and I seat myself on some cushions that indicate you are in the home stretch. The frowsy blond asserts to Eamon, "I'm next!" To which Eamon replies, "No, you're not."

She insists she is with the dimpled fellow in line ahead of us. Eamon laughs (aforesaid fellow had spoken of his absent girlfriend), and assures her she is not with him.

Seeing that her charms are getting her no where, she drops all pretense and queries, "Why do you have to be an asshole?"

Eamon chuckles again, and tells her that we've all been in line for a very long time, that we know she is simply trying to jump the line.

Eamon's assholishness is once again surveyed.

To which Eamon says, "Where are we? At a charity event. How about behaving with some charity?"

It is then that frowsy blonde delivers her coup-de-grace.

"But I'm a cancer survivor!"

To which, Eamon simply laughs and says, "I don't see how that's relevant."

Seeing her wiles, her blonde locks and her most likely fictious hours logged in arduous chemotherapy will get her nowhere in the face of Sir Daly, off she flounces.

(In fact, she makes a beeline for a fellow who had been in line behind us, but gave up to go mingle with the singles, and tells him "That guy stole my place in line," in response to which she received a silent and slack-jawed stare. Apparently, her cancer-survival was no longer relevant.)

I finally did receive my reading, some 2 1/2 hours after getting in line, and my faithful fellow defended my right to psychic insight to the very end.

But all of this raises a question for me. Apparently, cancer survival gets you a free pass to cut in line. I've not had cancer, but I did have benign fibroids removed. What does that get me? The right to pull someone's chair out as they're about to sit down? The ability to push over one senior citizen with impunity? A lifetime of wet willies to anyone who comes within finger-distance of me?

I only want what's coming to me.

Crazy Crap Item #239: The part where I come face to face with carnage

So, some several months ago, my dear friend Mr. Czajka came to visit. He was in town to provide a conference hall of bored holy folk with educational materials to enhance some PBS show on religion that is watched by a grand total of 3 people nationwide. His presentation was scheduled for a Tuesday, so he flew in on Saturday to spend a leisurely weekend with the Dalys and his other Windy City buddies.

The weekend held many delights:

• An arrival during a backyard fete at the Caseys, just in time to roast marshmallows and watch children merrily cavort on my good friend, Lulu the Lion.
• Dinner at the always delightful Pizza Antica with Kristen Freilich, at which we got to ogle the outlines of a naked man showering in an apartment bathroom just across the street.
• A visit to the ever-popular Bong Ho (actually named Cafe Bong) for tunes late into the night.
• A sumptuous breakfast at Walker Brothers Original Pancake House with Ms. Katie Heilman.
• An attempted bus trip to Boys Town, that was stopped by some sort of traffic accident snafu, leading to a leisurely stroll down the Southport Corridor.
• A sidetrip to a resale/retail shop in Boys Town, where I tried on some odd piece of clothing that looked like a cross between a dress and a bathing suit, and would have suited Betty Boop quite nicely.
• Drinks and bar food at Castaways of North Beach (it looks like a boat, but it's a restaurant! Imagine!)
• Attendance at Ms. Freilich's improv show at Second City, joined by Mr. Bryant Dunbar and his sometime swain Rich.
• A trip to Sidetrack, where we enjoyed sights of burly men and '70s disco videos, all accompanied by fruity slush drinks.
• A visit to Northwestern Campus, for a walk down memory lane, and the witnessing of a daring rescue undertaken by a passer-by climbing into the lagoon to free a fish trapped in the rocky breakwater. (It was quite thrilling.)
• Dinner at Gullivers with Mr. Dunbar and the lovely Ms. Carrie Houchins-Witt (one of the ladies from the famed Rochester Odyssey), accompanied by raucous theater and road trip war stories.

But of all these travels -- fascinating and varied as they were -- the most psychologically and aesthetically impressive was our trip to a newly discovered font of all that is fabulous, "Lost Eras." When Mr. Czajka told us to travel east on Howard from Clark to find this fabled storefront, we thought him mad, and we told him as much. Nothing was on that stretch of Howard. Nothing of worth.

But lo to our wondering eyes should appear a remarkable place--a wonderland, really--of vintage antiques, costumes, props, used books, and all other manner of flotsam and jetsam. They rented props, you see, to theater students at Northwestern. $50 to fill a bag with all you can carry.

We perused the front room of antiques; browsed the swords, guns, and other tools of mayhem; examined a wall full of monocles and cigarette holders and pirate hats. Then we wandered through two or three large rooms stuffed to bulging with racks and racks of costumes -- Henry VIII costumes, hippie costumes, superhero costumes, Southern Belle costumes, a dizzying array.

It was only then that we discovered...the downstairs. Rooms and rooms of vintage clothes -- wedding dresses, smoking jackets, christening gowns, tuxedos -- all lining racks in dusty, low-ceilinged rooms. And antique props of every description -- old roller skates, irons, bicycles, and more.

As we perused the ladies' wear, Mr. Czajka and I came upon an alarming rack of white, fluffy suits. Bunny costumes, you see. Scads of them. But the biggest shock was to come, a disturbing vision of horror glimpsed just at the end of the aisle.

I'll never be the same.