This past weekend was our annual neigborhood festival. Just a few short blocks of food, bands, kid stuff, carnival games, and beer. By day relatively laid back with neighborhooders milling about; by night some 50,000 Chicagoans pack in to hear the headliners, normally just above-average tribute bands. Great fun, though.
Saturday night I was ambitiously over-served. So waking up with the kids on Sunday morning was especially painful. But it wasn’t until I reported for my volunteer shift that morning and was told that I had been put in charge of the children’s entertainment stage that I learned just how cruel a turn my life had taken.
So there I was, still legally intoxicated, surrounded by a few dozen sugar-addled children and their Starbucks-addled parents, chatting it up with Mary Macaroni and the Jabberwocky Marionettes. It was too surreal to be hellish. All I recall is that Mary’s real name is Karen and that the Jabberwockys don’t like to be called puppeteers.
Not sure I’ll be invited back to volunteer next year.