Sauer-Doubt

I was at the grocery store yesterday, and a bearded, ponytailed, middle-aged man in a fedora and vest stopped an employee to ask, "Is there such a thing as sauerkraut?" I wanted to interrupt and say two things:

1. Yes! Yes there is! And it's the most wonderful food in the world!
2. You've clearly spent a good six decades or so living on this planet; I judge from your accent that you are a native English speaker;* and though your beard-ponytail-fedora-vest combo might be judged mildly eccentric, you don't appear obviously demented and show no signs of having just emerged form a half-century-long coma: How can you not know what sauerkraut is or if it even exists? What sauerkraut-less rock did you just crawl out from under?!**
   

But maybe that's just my sauerkraut-centric prejudices talking, and there are wide swaths of the populace that don't know the glories of "rotten cabbage". Poor dears, what other sublimely salted and soured members of the vegetable kingdom are they ignorant of? ("Excuse me, is there such a thing as a pickle?") Bless their hearts.

* Not that "sauerkraut" is English, but you know what I mean.

** His sartorial choices had a sort of Euro-Gypsy vibe and gave the impression that, if anything, he should be more sauerkraut-savvy than the average consumer.

Our lovely Audubon Zoo resides in our lovely Audubon Park, and one of the curious consequences is that one can be traipsing around with kids on some mild Saturday, doing park-ish things, and can spot, over some unassuming fence, a wayward giraffe stealing illicit nibbles of some almost-nearly-beyond-reach vegetable delectables.

Eesh!

I woke up today with those terrible name puns from the closing credits of Car Talk—you know, "Russian chauffeur: Picov Andropov..., Head of Working Mother Support Group: Erasmus B. Dragon...,"* etc., etc.—running through my head on continuous loop. What the hell is that about?

* Or whatever. Shouldn't it be "Picop Andropov"? That's how and I remember it and that would make more sense, but I've listed it above as it appears on their web site. Dunno. Don't care. Just want it out of my head.

Hog lot field, Poplar Branch Farm

Sheep

Happy concentric circle shoe dance

Streetcar

"Breathe... Breathe..."

A bunch of our friends just had babies,* and more than one used a doula. I'm inspired and have decided to hang up my shingle as a:

dude·la
n.

1. A doula for dudes.

I'll help freaked out newbie dads develop their personal birth plan and provide emotional and physical support during the birth process: "Okay, don't forget to breathe. Breathe... Breathe... Very good. Now remember your birth plan: contractions every five minutes, time for your second double martini. Easy, okay... Don't forget the olive. You need your electrolytes. No, no, don't pass out. Now smile and tell her she looks radiant. You're doing great..."

* Yay! Go babies!

Return of Les Living Brusiers: Pumpkin Rock!

Les Brusiers return from the dead—or more precisely, from a lengthy hiatus (various life journeys: living, loving, learning, etc., etc.)—for an ultra-spooky* Halloween Spooktacular at the Circle Bar this Saturday. See you there.

Pumpkin rock!

* Well, as spooky as loose and dirty garage-country played by enthusiastic goofballs can possibly be.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Recently, on something-close-to-a-whim,* Sarah and I switched designated sides of the bed. And I don't mean like just for a few minutes or just for an evening. I mean like permanently. Like I used to be on the near side and she used to be on the far side, but now it's vice versa, and like we took all the stuff from my nightstand and put it in her nightstand and took all the stuff from her nightstand and put it in my nightstand, and it's a done deal.

How often does this happen? How often do couples switch sides, not because of some external circumstance—moving to a new house where the room is arranged differently, or now there's a baby and mama's got to be near the crib, or what have you—but just plain old because because? I suspect, if anyone actually bothered to collect the data (which I don't know why they would, but...), the answer would be: not very often.** Sounds like there's a thesis in Spouse-ological Studies waiting to be written.

* Full disclosure: I initiated the switch. As the aesthetic dogmatist in our house, I tend to have way more opinions than Sarah about what and who should go where and why, and I've always quietly coveted her side: it's close to the balcony, better light, further from the closet and the armoire (both of which give off a subtly unpleasant crammed vibe), further from the door, more in the room. And then I learned that, though Sarah really doesn't particularly care, she found my side slightly preferable: closer to the door, closer to the closet and armoire, further from draft that blows under the balcony door in chilly weather. And so, well then, hey! It's a beautiful thing.

** Though maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there are couples out there who regularly swap sides as the mood suits them. Maybe there are couples who don't even have designated sides (though I find this hard to imagine). I dunno. You tell me.

Cute smile and everything, but I swear they used a Bumpit on my child. (Warning: That link plays the genuine as-seen-on-TV incredibly irritating ad, so think twice if you're at work.)

"Pads on Ice Cream"

I was playing with some musicians the other night, not earnest amateurs like myself, cobbling together scant scraps of knowledge into some elemental semblance of a musical construct, but genuine semi-professional and professional hepcat gigging musicians, the kind who travel places to play in front of large groups of people and quite convincingly fake it on songs they've never rehearsed before and casually talk about the octave on top of the dominant five and whatnot. The keyboard player wanted to know how his part went, and the saxophone player told him to just play "pads on ice cream".

I had to ask, "Did you just say 'pads on ice cream'?" Indeed he did:

pads = big fat chords played on the 1 beat and sustained for the duration of the measure (or something like that)

ice cream = that classic doo-wop 1, 6, 4, 5 chord progression ("At least that's what we called it on the East Coast," he explained)

Whodathunk? I want to say stuff like that, "Just lay down some pads on ice cream, daddy-o". Maybe I'll just make up my own slang: "Gimme some couplets on gravy." "Throw down some backbeats on butter." "Try it with some quarter notes on quinoa." They'll be like, man that guy is far out, he must really know his stuff.

Yeah.

"ONE WAY"

I second that emotion.

On the Goat Walk*

Today I saw a well dressed and by all appearances sane man walking a goat on a leash down Esplanade Ave.:



The man was carrying some hay and what I took to be an industrial strength poop bag. The goat didn't seem particularly inclined to cooperate, clearly preferring to dawdle and munch grass, and the man had to give it a rather stern nudge with his knee to get it moving again. It takes all sorts.

* Complicated self-reference.

Note: I believe this fulfills my long neglected obligation to provide a photograph of a "colorful freak".