Today, as I was reading in the yard, James came out with a large, inflatable machine gun. He frantically pantomimed shooting and lobbing what seemed to be imaginary hand grenades.
"Who are you fighting?"
"The Japanese."
I expressed skepticism, and explained that the Japanese are our friends. "They made your car," I told him, referencing his mother's Subaru.
"I'm fighting World War II," he clarified.
I asked why he was not instead fighting Germany or Italy. After some consideration, he decided that the Italians would be his target.
Jack, who had just wandered out, suggested that the Germans would be a better target for his brother's hostility. "They made Hitler," he helpfully explained.
I agreed that Hitler was quite bad, probably crazy, and a failed artist.
"And he tried to kill all the Jewish people," Jack added.
I agreed, and, with his prompting, tried to explain anti-Semitism. To an 8-year-old.
We went through several watered-down explanations, variously suggesting that Hitler was crazy, was using the Jews to get his people to support him (my suggestion), thought the Jewish people were to blame for Germany's weaknesses ("Were they?" "No."), and were blamed by Hitler for his own artistic shortcomings (Jack's idea).
"And then Hitler tried to kill all the Jewish people," Jack summarized, "Which was awkward."
Quite.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Crazy Crap #263: The part where Jack shows a good deal of self-awareness
James Casey is a menace to his own person. First, there was the incident in which the bed caused a horrible accident. Then there was a rogue arrow, thankfully sponge-tipped.
We'd discussed oft and anon how these two incidents had marred James forehead in such a way that he looked like he had horns just about to sprout. "Like a devil," he'd proudly proclaimed.
Just the other day, I encountered young James, cavorting in my backyard, and noted he was now sporting a third red spot, this time in the middle of his forehead. "I'm a three-horned devil!" he announced. "I'm a triceratops!"
I questioned him narrowly about how this had happened, and he gave some vague account of falling and hitting his head. I asked if he'd been leaping about, and he admitted he had.
I noted that he was a menace to himself, and that he always seemed to be hurting himself. He responded with incomprehension, so I pointed out his many injuries, recounting how he had gotten each. "I'd say that you're accident prone."
"What does accident prone mean?"
"It means you hurt yourself a lot." Then, I started to feel bad. Perhaps I was giving this poor child a complex. Perhaps my labeling of him as accident prone would give him a complex. So I softened the blow by pointing out that he wasn't alone.
"Lots of you kids are accident prone. Gavin hurts himself a lot."
James: "I hurt myself more."
"No,Gavin broke his arm. He fell out of a tree."
"I'm more accident prone," he asserted again.
"Jack is..." Then I realized something. "You know, Jack's not accident prone. He never hurts himself." I turned to Jack. "I don't remember you ever hurting yourself."
Jack whispered conspiratorially. "I make better choices."
We'd discussed oft and anon how these two incidents had marred James forehead in such a way that he looked like he had horns just about to sprout. "Like a devil," he'd proudly proclaimed.
Just the other day, I encountered young James, cavorting in my backyard, and noted he was now sporting a third red spot, this time in the middle of his forehead. "I'm a three-horned devil!" he announced. "I'm a triceratops!"
I questioned him narrowly about how this had happened, and he gave some vague account of falling and hitting his head. I asked if he'd been leaping about, and he admitted he had.
I noted that he was a menace to himself, and that he always seemed to be hurting himself. He responded with incomprehension, so I pointed out his many injuries, recounting how he had gotten each. "I'd say that you're accident prone."
"What does accident prone mean?"
"It means you hurt yourself a lot." Then, I started to feel bad. Perhaps I was giving this poor child a complex. Perhaps my labeling of him as accident prone would give him a complex. So I softened the blow by pointing out that he wasn't alone.
"Lots of you kids are accident prone. Gavin hurts himself a lot."
James: "I hurt myself more."
"No,Gavin broke his arm. He fell out of a tree."
"I'm more accident prone," he asserted again.
"Jack is..." Then I realized something. "You know, Jack's not accident prone. He never hurts himself." I turned to Jack. "I don't remember you ever hurting yourself."
Jack whispered conspiratorially. "I make better choices."
Monday, May 31, 2010
Crazy Crap #262: The part where I never thought about it that way
It's Memorial Day Weekend. On Norwood Street, this is a holiday replete with neighborly interactions. Being, as I am, a roller derby widow, I found myself the recipient of much fine hospitality.
While I could expatiate upon the bench-side snacks provided by Megan on Friday afternoon, or the delicious backyard barbecue hosted by the Harris-Wattses, for the purposes of this blog, I will pause only on the impromptu offer of a spare-rib dinner by my dear neighbors, the Caseys.
The dinner, itself, was delightful, garnished as it was by Jim's homemade, ketchup-free barbecue sauce and Jack's many witticisms. But a standout of the evening was a small performance by James, age 5.
In a particularly wriggly mood--and who wouldn't be, with such a scintillating guest as myself present--James enacted some very strange writhings and facial spasms that caught my attention.
Fortified by several glasses of the Caseys' excellent red wine, I said the first thing that came into my head.
"Are you favoring us with your Elephant Man impression?"
In the sober light of day, I realize this is not the question you ask of a 5-year-old, or his precocious 8-year-old brother, who will demand an explanation.
Thankfully, Ann leapt into the breach, describing the disease Elephantiasis and all its accompanying horrors. Naturally I feared the inevitable follow-up, queries about the likelihood of contracting this disease.
As it turns out, this should not have troubled me.
Upon hearing the explanation, James leapt onto his seat, stood with legs apart, fists on hips, and announced, "Never fear, Elephant Man is here!"
Then there was some booty shaking, but I think that has more to do with James himself than the pachyderm superhero he was portraying.
While I could expatiate upon the bench-side snacks provided by Megan on Friday afternoon, or the delicious backyard barbecue hosted by the Harris-Wattses, for the purposes of this blog, I will pause only on the impromptu offer of a spare-rib dinner by my dear neighbors, the Caseys.
The dinner, itself, was delightful, garnished as it was by Jim's homemade, ketchup-free barbecue sauce and Jack's many witticisms. But a standout of the evening was a small performance by James, age 5.
In a particularly wriggly mood--and who wouldn't be, with such a scintillating guest as myself present--James enacted some very strange writhings and facial spasms that caught my attention.
Fortified by several glasses of the Caseys' excellent red wine, I said the first thing that came into my head.
"Are you favoring us with your Elephant Man impression?"
In the sober light of day, I realize this is not the question you ask of a 5-year-old, or his precocious 8-year-old brother, who will demand an explanation.
Thankfully, Ann leapt into the breach, describing the disease Elephantiasis and all its accompanying horrors. Naturally I feared the inevitable follow-up, queries about the likelihood of contracting this disease.
As it turns out, this should not have troubled me.
Upon hearing the explanation, James leapt onto his seat, stood with legs apart, fists on hips, and announced, "Never fear, Elephant Man is here!"
Then there was some booty shaking, but I think that has more to do with James himself than the pachyderm superhero he was portraying.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Crazy Crap #261: The part where Jack stumbles on a bit of wisdom
The boys of Norwood are squirrel hunting. In my backyard. This explains the sticks and rocks that have mysteriously appeared on my garage roof in the past few weeks.
This evening, a flash of white caught my eye as I passed our backyard-facing windows. Young Jack Casey was building a trap. Well, not really a trap, he explained. He had set some bird seed in a small fragment of flower pot, directly beneath a very large and heavy board held up by a stick. A rope was tied to the stick. You do the math.
As we discussed the efficacy of this engine, Jack lit upon a new topic.
"Do lots of people get bitten by squirrels?"
"I don't know if lots do, but some do."
"Have you ever been bitten by a squirrel?"
"No, but I stay away from them. "
"Do people ever touch squirrels?"
"I'm sure they do. Jon Hey does," I noted, referring to our neighbor who is notorious for hand-feeding his squirrels, and, occasionally, inviting them into his house. "But I don't. They're germy."
"So is Jon Hey germy?"
"If he touches squirrels, I guess he is."
"So I shouldn't touch Jon Hey?"
"In general, no."
Thus from the mouth of babes.
This evening, a flash of white caught my eye as I passed our backyard-facing windows. Young Jack Casey was building a trap. Well, not really a trap, he explained. He had set some bird seed in a small fragment of flower pot, directly beneath a very large and heavy board held up by a stick. A rope was tied to the stick. You do the math.
As we discussed the efficacy of this engine, Jack lit upon a new topic.
"Do lots of people get bitten by squirrels?"
"I don't know if lots do, but some do."
"Have you ever been bitten by a squirrel?"
"No, but I stay away from them. "
"Do people ever touch squirrels?"
"I'm sure they do. Jon Hey does," I noted, referring to our neighbor who is notorious for hand-feeding his squirrels, and, occasionally, inviting them into his house. "But I don't. They're germy."
"So is Jon Hey germy?"
"If he touches squirrels, I guess he is."
"So I shouldn't touch Jon Hey?"
"In general, no."
Thus from the mouth of babes.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Crazy Crap #260: The part where Jack suckers me in
There are three things you need to know about Jack Casey. He is 8 years old. His favorite show is Bear Grylls' Man vs. Wild. (Incidentally, he does a remarkably adept Bear Grylls impersonation). He has taken the Dangerous Book for Boys as his own personal Bible.
And so it was that this past weekend, when we held a block party in honor of his and neighbor Emmet Calto's first communion, Jack came to me with not-entirely-unexpected request.
"You need to help me make a knife. I have the instructions. It's for survival."
In previous years, I might have jumped in without looking on this one. A knife? Let us proceed. But five years of watching the small ones of Norwood fall from trees, collide on scooters, and endanger each others' safety--sometimes with my unwitting encouragement--has led me to be a bit more discriminating in my indulgences.
So it was that I took the tactic of delay and indirection.
"How would I know how to make a knife?" I asked.
"I have instructions." Jack laid the aptly titled Dangerous Book open on the grass. "It's for survival."
I indicated that I could not participate in the construction of any knife without the sign-off of his mother. Disaster averted.
Or so I thought. Ann's response, "Sure, if Kay's helping you, you can make a knife."
This was unexpected.
So now, I had to make a knife. We examined the two proffered designs. The first, carved entirely from wood, made entirely no sense to me. "Why," I asked Jack, "would they give you directions for an improvised knife that required you to have a knife so that you could carve an improvised knife?"
Jack, skilled logician that he is, immediately grasped the paradox and agreed to follow the other design. All we needed, he pointed out, was something sharp, such as a sharp piece of metal, or a sharp piece of glass. Sighting an empty beer bottle (this was, after all, a block party), he posited that we could simply break the bottle.
"We are not breaking the bottle," I assured him, and steered him to the safer option of searching my rotting, tumble-down, rat-invested garage, now with Emmett in tow.
This promising setting offered surprisingly little fodder for knife building, so I offered that locus of all bounty, my basement. A search of said environ yielded a tile, which I broke into a small piece, and a very promising fragment of plaster which had chipped, presumably, off the wall. Emmett located a paperclip, and suggested it would make a good handle. I gently dissuaded him, as his suggestion in reality, made absolutely no sense. We gathered a few stick-like items, thinking one might serve as a handle, and nice length of rope. Grabbing a roll of electrical tape for good measure, I ushered them outdoors for construction.
At this point, we realized none of our handle options were workable, and the boys scavenged for better options. At last, Emmett brought forth the most wondrous of items--a stick of sturdy diameter and length, cunningly split by the elements at one end. I felt he had redeemed himself from the embarrassment of the earlier paperclip suggestion.
I took Jack's hunk of plaster, wedged it into the split, then wrapped the end of the stick with black tape. Emmett and Jack were duly pleased.
Jack took it from me with a palpable sense of awe, brandished it, then announced, "Let's go attack the princesses!"
"I thought this was only for survival." But I said this only to the back of his head as he skipped merrily and murderously away.
And so it was that this past weekend, when we held a block party in honor of his and neighbor Emmet Calto's first communion, Jack came to me with not-entirely-unexpected request.
"You need to help me make a knife. I have the instructions. It's for survival."
In previous years, I might have jumped in without looking on this one. A knife? Let us proceed. But five years of watching the small ones of Norwood fall from trees, collide on scooters, and endanger each others' safety--sometimes with my unwitting encouragement--has led me to be a bit more discriminating in my indulgences.
So it was that I took the tactic of delay and indirection.
"How would I know how to make a knife?" I asked.
"I have instructions." Jack laid the aptly titled Dangerous Book open on the grass. "It's for survival."
I indicated that I could not participate in the construction of any knife without the sign-off of his mother. Disaster averted.
Or so I thought. Ann's response, "Sure, if Kay's helping you, you can make a knife."
This was unexpected.
So now, I had to make a knife. We examined the two proffered designs. The first, carved entirely from wood, made entirely no sense to me. "Why," I asked Jack, "would they give you directions for an improvised knife that required you to have a knife so that you could carve an improvised knife?"
Jack, skilled logician that he is, immediately grasped the paradox and agreed to follow the other design. All we needed, he pointed out, was something sharp, such as a sharp piece of metal, or a sharp piece of glass. Sighting an empty beer bottle (this was, after all, a block party), he posited that we could simply break the bottle.
"We are not breaking the bottle," I assured him, and steered him to the safer option of searching my rotting, tumble-down, rat-invested garage, now with Emmett in tow.
This promising setting offered surprisingly little fodder for knife building, so I offered that locus of all bounty, my basement. A search of said environ yielded a tile, which I broke into a small piece, and a very promising fragment of plaster which had chipped, presumably, off the wall. Emmett located a paperclip, and suggested it would make a good handle. I gently dissuaded him, as his suggestion in reality, made absolutely no sense. We gathered a few stick-like items, thinking one might serve as a handle, and nice length of rope. Grabbing a roll of electrical tape for good measure, I ushered them outdoors for construction.
At this point, we realized none of our handle options were workable, and the boys scavenged for better options. At last, Emmett brought forth the most wondrous of items--a stick of sturdy diameter and length, cunningly split by the elements at one end. I felt he had redeemed himself from the embarrassment of the earlier paperclip suggestion.
I took Jack's hunk of plaster, wedged it into the split, then wrapped the end of the stick with black tape. Emmett and Jack were duly pleased.
Jack took it from me with a palpable sense of awe, brandished it, then announced, "Let's go attack the princesses!"
"I thought this was only for survival." But I said this only to the back of his head as he skipped merrily and murderously away.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Crazy Crap #259: The part where Nolan is open to suggestions
The boys of Norwood are dinosaur-mad. "Dinos," they call them.
I try to support this craze by purchasing every tiny, inexpensive twelve-pack of dinosaur toys I can find.
Recently, wee Nolan, but three years old, was displaying to me many of the dinos he had purloined from my toy basket. I asked their names, as is my wont. To my surprise, rather than loudly asserting that animals have no names, and telling me "You're driving me crazy," as is his wont, instead, he pointed to each in turn.
"This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky and Ducky."
I suggested that Cocoa is also a good name.
He pointed again. "This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, and Cocoa."
I try to support this craze by purchasing every tiny, inexpensive twelve-pack of dinosaur toys I can find.
Recently, wee Nolan, but three years old, was displaying to me many of the dinos he had purloined from my toy basket. I asked their names, as is my wont. To my surprise, rather than loudly asserting that animals have no names, and telling me "You're driving me crazy," as is his wont, instead, he pointed to each in turn.
"This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky and Ducky."
I suggested that Cocoa is also a good name.
He pointed again. "This is Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, and Cocoa."
Saturday, May 01, 2010
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!
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!
Thursday, April 08, 2010
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."
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."
Saturday, March 27, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 01, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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!"
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!"
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
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.
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.
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