As I alluded to on Facebook yesterday, St. Chickalaus Day is upon us. Over the last 23 years, this somewhat fowl patron saint of over-commercialized holidays has rocketed to stardom, certainly on a par with the train with the square wheels in the Land of Misfit Toys.
I have often been asked, on this plucky little holiday that lives in the shadows of Christmas, to recount the humble beginnings of St. Chickalaus Day, something I’ve been anxious to get off my breast chest for a long time now.
It all started (insert harp music bringing me back to the time) in 1988. A bunch of somewhat bored and too creative people at Associated Grocers had a rubber chicken adorning their cubes in the ad agency. Little did we know that he was no ordinary chicken, but a future saint who would one day have a shrine, carols, a slideshow, offerings, tree ornaments, a sinister birdnapping and an eventual ransoming to free him from the evil clutches of his birdnapper – Consuelo Constanza Sophia Valenzuelo Cortez – housekeeper at C-Zerr’s Palace.
The plot to create a patron saint was hatched by Woofy, Doo, Dirt and Mopp, I being Mopp, along with T.P. and C.J. Yes, we all had nicknames for each other. The holidays were fast approaching, all our deadlines had been met and we were tired of writing endless and very insipid Christmas copy for the grocery store ads.
Chickalaus was a cool bird. He had a bow tie, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and Ray Bans. One day, someone had hung him in the chimney with care… a cardboard box with an impromptu hole cut in it. I couldn’t let that go. I took it over to my cube and fashioned the shrine, which took me the better part of four hours on company time by the time I had printed all the brickwork out, glued it on, added a proper chimney.
From there, the shrine took on a life of its own as you can see in the photo. Soon, offerings of chicken feed arrived in front of it along with letters from children from all over the world.
Now, what’s a holiday without holiday songs? Soon, Chickalaus Carols started to pop up, which led to a songbook.
I recount one favorite, which Nat King Cole stole from us, obviously:
“Chickens roasting on an open fire,
Colonel Sanders cutting up some thighs,
Giblets and gravy sim’ring in a big pot,
And folks gobbling up Kentucky Fries,
“Bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you this senseless tale,
So I’ll just quite while I’m ahead.
Though it’s been said many times, many ways,
Ol’ Saint Chickalaus, is dead.”
That was just the beginning, of course, of a week of complete nonsense where nothing got done. The writing team did a tag-team writing exercise called The Chronicles of Chickalaus which told of his origins in the Yucatan Peninsula where the original shrine, Chicken Eatza is, to his time after the war playing “In the Brood” on his sax with the Glen Miller Orchestra.
Others in the agency were very unhappy to see us having any fun at all. Yes, Diane Doherty, I’m talking about you!!!!!
By now, there were daily additions to the Chickalaus shrine, new carols to be sung and other creative machinations. One day Woofy showed up with ornaments for our own trees, a very artful rendition of St. Chickalaus himself wearing a Santa hat.
Me, I had upped the game a bit, disappearing into the bowels of the AV room for mysterious reasons. It was there that I decided I needed to tell the story of how St. Chickalaus became an orphan, and later a saint.
We had several hundred photos I could pull from to create the saga for us all to share. On the appointed day, we all met in the boardroom where I had set up a slide projector and narrative.
We had a few unexpected guests, including the head of the agency, who had been tipped off by tattle-tale Doherty of our activities as “shriners.” Our goose was cooked so to speak.
I decided what the hell, the show must go on. Down went the lights and up popped the first images. The room fell silent as I read the narrative of St. Chickalaus’ journey. I’m not sure it was reverence, but perhaps worry that we were all in a lot of trouble.
Then the laughter started. It was our boss, Annette. Playing in front of her was a tour of a chicken factory, where I explained that Chickalaus’ mother had been lured into it, following a trail of chicken feed. There, she was promptly electrocuted, plucked, chopped and packaged, all at the hands of the evil “Grown in Washington” folks.
The show ended with a photo of an adorable furry chick, yes, St. Chickalaus. The lights came up. There was a moment of silence. Diane stood there waiting for us to get our comeuppance.
After a long pause, Annette spoke up. “Now this is what I want to see from our agency. It’s fresh, it’s creative, it’s fun. Good job.” I could see Diane’s face wither and then turn into a most frumpish frown. We didn’t get into trouble. We got praise instead.
I think the coup de gras was that it was Annette who had shot all the photos of the chicken factory tour. It left a fowl taste in her mouth, one we eliminated with a healthy dose of whacky humor.
When we left the agency, one at a time, I made sure that the shrine came along with us. It was eventually relocated to C-Zerr’s Palace, where it was placed in the St. Chickalaus Suite, where people could follow the ever blinking “Visit the Shrine” sign.
Of course, none of us could leave well enough alone. St. Chickalaus was birdnapped on Jan. 6, 1989, a ransom note left in its place by the housekeeper. I still have the note, just in case the police reopen the case.
We never raised the $3 million in ransom, even though we held a very successful “Chicken & Stars Telethon” that benefitted the “SOS (Save Our Saint) Foundation.
Last we heard of him was that he still being held captive in Peoria, Illinois. Ironically, it was a town from which he once flew the coop, not being able to stand the residents cackling behind his back, calling him “chicken” for going FOWL during World War II. We fear he may have inadvertently ended up feeding a family of four there, but the legend that is St. Chickalaus continues to live on, even though he has shed his earthly wings (and thighs) and ascended to be with his heavenly flock.
Out on the Treasure Coast, singing Chickalaus Carols on this very sacred day,
– Robb