Neighborhood street fairs in Chicago squish into a sliver season following snow and preceding  snow, the time when our city is stunned to see street.

We fist-rub our winter-nap eyes to get a gander at each other.

Each other is the purpose of a street fair. Art? Produce? Crafts? Optional.

This is us. A street fair is a fashion statement that clearly states we don’t have any. It’s a family outing that shows how baby strollers have evolved into habitats. These likely were designed in Sweden where children hold political offices.

It’s a music hurricane that displays what happens when guitars are sold to anyone, willy nilly. Bands land like parachuting Elvis’s on intersections that yearn for the usual peace and quiet of commuter traffic.

Dogs navigate fine. I’ve never seen one show attitude. But then, dogs like the smell of feet.

Those who are paid to DO something, such as sell health club memberships, pout in their rented tents, rethinking their career choice.

Once, a marketing team handed out cowboy hats. Free. This brought out the John Wayne in several octogenarians. A crowd grouped to watch them point finger guns at each other. Very cool.