Scary, True

Bryan Scary worms into your ear and wiggles for a week. And if you're lucky enough to have a Zappa bone, he'll tickle that too.

Private School Rock

At Colgate, the best band on campus was named after the oft-exploited financial symptom of love, Joint Account. A farming technique made viable by customers ready to pay premiums, Free Range, delivered organic hip-hop. Third, Third Rail: a nod to the heart-stopping energy source no example of which existed within a three hour radius.

Free Kraut and Mustard Smuggling: May Fest in Lincoln Square

We waited until the end to order food, until the most alcohol was in our blood, because all along we’d wanted to gorge, but, prices being what they were, we needed a conscience loophole—“I was drunk.” We waited too long.

“We’re out of bratwurst.”

“What do you have left?”

“Thüringer and sauerkraut, three dollars.”

“We’ll take as many of those as possible, please. One, two, three…” We counted out 11 tickets for the grandma in the apron. “Take a $1 bill?” She grabbed it.

Realizing how much kraut we were about to receive, she came back to double check and put an end to the argument in her head—three drunk kids or serious customers? “All with kraut?”

“Jaaaaa!!!!!!” We clashed mugs and slapped backs.

“What is this?” she must have thought, confused by her own joy. “Kids excited about kraut? I’ve been waiting all day for someone to get excited about kraut! Most people without lederhosen give it a groan, at best. But it’s so good!”

She served up four oily red Thüringers and four fur balls of kraut. Just as we were about to dig in, a guy edged in beside us, seeking mustard, silently scouting around, pumping the dry pump.

“You looking for mustard?” I asked.

“Um…”

“Hold on. We’ve got your mustard. Get this guy some mustard. Gimme the bag.” The little girl of our trio, whom nobody expected to be packing heat, turned around and presented her baby blue backpack. “Here we go now. Mustard, coming right up!”

I unzipped the bag and my accomplice pulled out an unlabeled glass jar half-filled with a sandy paste. “Mustard!” he said, holding it high. “You want some mustard? Here’s the mustard!”

“No, it’s…quite alright, thanks.” The man began backing away, mustardless.

“Hold on! Smell it!” I thrust the uncapped jar within an inch of his nostrils and whispered, “This is Rhinegeld’s German mustard with white wine.”

A low voice from the back: “It’s the secret stash…”

“Smells good,” he called over his shoulder, now three shuffles away.

“It’s right here if you change your mind,” squeaked the little girl with the big beer.

The man turned his back on legitimate, unspiked (well, wine), unroofied German mustard, an hour before the closing of May Fest, directly below the Maypole in Lincoln Square. But don't worry, plenty of Chicagoans can still spot the real deal. Our jar, the only jar of mustard in a fifty-yard radius, started to draw a crowd that previously had been united only in thought: “I could use some mustard on this thing.” They crushed around the jar on the corner of the table, elbowing for a turn with the plastic knife.

“We need more.” I pulled the pump out of what had been given up as an expired tub and dropped it in an empty stein. Peeked inside and, sure enough, there was a tract of mustard down there. I turned the tub over and started to play it like a bongo, but with urgency. What came out was only enough to do justice to one Thüringer.

Another peek. “There’s still mustard in there! We gotta get that mustard out!” I began pounding the tub up and down on the table like a monkey frustrated by a coconut. Taking on the role of fire chief, I demanded a “big, sharp knife” from the counter manager. He took stock of his liabilities, and, luckily for both of us, didn’t hand it over.

“Keys!” Keys appeared in my hand and I jabbed at the tub’s heart. The plastic merely folded. More force! More power! More German! Ja! “We’re in!” I sawed the tub open and four knives descended. Mustard blitz. Let ‘em have it. We still have the secret-secret stash.

Thüringers inhaled, we scraped the remains of our kraut onto one plate and dumped on mustard from our second jar. At the same time, sauerkraut piled up behind the counter. No one wanted it. A surplus?

I caught the eye of the lady in the apron. “I’d love some kraut, but I don’t have any more tickets.” She paused, then nodded in receipt of the password. Two heaping plates of kraut, free kraut, appeared in front of us. But don’t think they were free.

Being able to ask for kraut—to say you want it, you love it—isn’t easy. It’s a privilege that’s earned. It’s two or three times a week over the course of a childhood, probing the kraut, throwing it, pushing it around, hiding it under mashed potatoes, in napkins, in the dog’s stomach, finally forcing it down, in tears, then eating it with ketchup (blasphemy!), then fearing that your parents might find out you actually like it (they’ve been there too…), then, the true milestone of your sixteenth birthday, a whole-hearted welcoming of the kraut. You try it with beer and fully pop through to the other side as a lifelong kraut fanatic, and soon you’re reading every word on the packaging of every brand in the supermarket, trying to engineer the perfect combo of kraut, mustard and beer, speculating on the ratios of no less than seven flavors like a Bavarian Willy Wonka.

And maybe, just maybe, if you happen to have returned from Germany within a week of May Fest, you can slip a silent German accent on your request, only perceptible through the efficiency of the movement of your lips. Then, smile with a crinkled nose and a benevolence in your eyes nodding to the fact that, far enough back, you and the kraut dealer are probably related, or at least had relatives who suffered through the same bad winters, defended raids and raided, held onto a scrap of ground, and, at some point, decided to scrap the scrap and move to America because accepting the conditions at home had become a less appealing option than starting from scratch.

If, upon recognizing an asymmetry in the kraut market, you can pull off the above maneuver and make it look easy like walking on a barrel, then you, German-American, have earned your free kraut. Just make sure you’ve brought your mustard.

---

[I recently talked (pre-May Fest) with someone about how it's hard to get in touch with your German-American heritage. It is tricky, but I think I've finally done it.)

One Step Closer

Nobody published my story while it was current, so I present it to you (see above). If any mustard fans out there need it for a mustard fan club magazine, I can always make a few touch-ups to broaden the appeal.

Back when I said I had kraut on the brain, this is what I meant.

Chicago - Lakeshore Path

(lately it's been nice)

Camino de Chicago, the Lakeshore Path,
Rollerbladers, bikers, spandex ass
Joggers, walkers, dads behind strollers,
Golf carts with lazy park controllers.

Where are you starting today?

For Montrose Beach I’d impeach most plans,
But there’s 18 miles of land
To pick from, pick one, show up, start
Practicing any of the motion arts.

Photo by MerlinsMan.

The Future

To the seven, six, five, four, three, two and one year-olds out there: I know you can do better than we did. (Eight year olds, step off. You got nothing.)

The Future

Preface – In the Future

In the future there will be cars that fly. You will not walk, you will fly by jet pack. In your house you will press a button and talk into a speaker next to the button. You will say what you want to get and a robot will bring it to you.

The planes will go a million times faster, and you can get from New York to California in five minutes.

It will make your brain wild with tacky new clothes, new inventions, and much, much more.

Four kids journey to outer space!

Chapter 1 – Ventures to Outer Space

When they wake up in the morning they will take one pill that has different flavors of foods. Then they unplug their vacuum and start vacuuming—except they call it pounding! After they pound they get on their jet pack and go to school or work.

Their worst enemies are clouds and rainstorms. They do not like it because it messes up their jet packs.

If their jet packs run out in the rain, they have special shoes that have little rockets on them.

There are not fifty states, but there are one million because the states are only six acres big. Only one to five houses on a state and one town. The town has one store which is divided into little sections that sell things like jet packs or food pills.

They wear weird clothes that are red or brown, and they have buttons that are able to change things into anything they want.

And now is when the story begins because that is just the start.

One day four kids went to get new jet packs because it had just rained. When they got them they saw that they were MAGIC, but they didn’t believe it. They asked the storekeeper if they could test the jet packs. The storekeeper said, “Yes.”

One kid’s name was James. When he started his new jet pack he went straight up, and he disappeared into outer space. Then, one by one, they started their jet packs and disappeared like James.

When they went up they saw James on a planet just like Earth. When they landed, they saw lots of familiar things.

Then Sally yelled, “Maybe it’s heaven!”

What they did not notice was that it was Halloween. Then Sally saw a kid dressed up as an angel.

Then Sally yelled again, “It is heaven!”

As you may have noticed, it wasn’t Halloween on Earth. That got them even more mixed up. And you know that you go trick or treating at night and it was day there.

Their pocket calendars said it was a day ahead.

“Let’s get out of here!” yelled James.

So they went to the edge of the planet and stood on their heads, started their jet packs, and flew right back down to Earth. Whichever side their head is pointing to (up or down) is the way the jet packs go. The jet packs that they have at home (the type that is not magic) have four buttons that have arrows on them that point forward, backward and to the sides.

When they looked at the ones on the magic ones, they saw that they said they were going to the right! Not down!

The storekeeper had forgotten to tell them that if you tell the jet pack to go down it will go right. If you tell it to go up it will go left.

They looked on the jet packs to see where they were made. Then they jet packed over to where the jet packs were made (with their old jet packs). They were made in a factory called ABRACADABRA.

The company made magic things. James, Sally, Guthrie and Melissa went in.

They said, “How do these magic jet packs work?”

The storekeeper said, “They run on special dust found inside of the sun.”

James said, “Can I see some of the dust?”

The storekeeper said, “Yes.”

The storekeeper was wearing gloves and was holding an iron thing that had an iron handle and a big iron thing on the end like a square pancake. And on that it had a big basket.

The storekeeper said, “You must never touch it with any part of your body.”

“Ok,” said Sally, Guthrie, Melissa and James.

Chapter 2 – Poison Pills for Guthrie

One day Guthrie was eating his pill. Then he noticed something different about the pill. It was blue, but it was supposed to be pink.

“Mom!” called Guthrie. “My pill is blue, not pink!”

His mother ran downstairs and said, “Honey, honey! Did you eat it yet?”

“Yes,” squeaked Guthrie nervously.

Guthrie’s mom said, “Quick, hop into the car!”

“Where are we going?” asked Guthrie.

Guthrie’s mom was in such a hurry that she didn’t answer. She ran into the doctor’s waiting room.

“Doctor, doctor! Get me in right now! HELP! Guthrie has swallowed a blue breakfast pill!”

“Okay, he’s empty now,” said the nurse.

Guthrie and his mom went into the room.

The doctor said, “Well, look who’s here. It’s old Guthrie!”

Then Guthrie noticed that he couldn’t talk.

The doctor said, “The only cure to this is a rare operation. The operation is called ‘the inserting of the laser.’”

Then Guthrie wrote down: “Lasers, yeah man!”

But the doctor meant that they were going to cut him open for an operation with a laser. Bad news for Guthrie!

Then the doctor said, “Can you be brave enough to stay here from next Sunday to next Friday?”

“Yeah,” wrote Guthrie, now figuring out what the doctor meant. He showed what he wrote to the doctor. Next, Guthrie wrote, “Do you have to cut me open and operate on me with a laser?”

“Yes,” said the doctor.

Inside, Guthrie was really saying, “Oh no!”

Guthrie was back to normal in no time at all. The four kids were all happy together again, too.

THE END

About the Authors

Brett is seven and a half years old and lives in Goldens Bridge with his parents and his sister and two brothers. Brett enjoys playing with his yellow lab, Kayla. He likes to sled surf and ride his bike. Sports that he plays are soccer, street hockey and baseball. Reading is also one of his favorite pastimes. [Still into sled surfing. Books are kinda cool, too.]

Thea is almost eight years old. She has a little sister, Emma, and a best friend named Dustin. Thea likes to write stories and draw pictures. [Noble.]

Hot Dogs by Thea

Once upon a time, Thea and I invented our own language. Bam!

Her hot dogs rock. And not just because I've had kraut on the brain lately.

Lincoln Square's May Fest - Notes

America has a lot to thank Germany for. We saw the way they consumed at their festivals, then took the idea and applied it to everything, riding it all the way to the world’s strongest economy and greatest national wealth.

We had intergenerational slurred conversations. “Nobody’s bought me a beer yet,” said the wobbling seventy year-old lady. “Nobody’s bought me a beer yet either, you can be the first,” said the object of her romantic interest, a twenty-three year-old German-Italian.

They priced the beers perfectly. The first one is painfully expensive, but if you get the large glass of the strongest beer, the price becomes affordable as soon as the glass is empty, so you go back for another, spurred by the dollar refill discount, and by the time that’s done and you're buying your third, you know it's a good deal.

Renters inevitably ran into property managers. The property managers silently computed and filed away each renter's odds of puking in the stairway, as to know who to curse this morning, depending on the size and location of the mess.

Sandal wearers can comment on the puddles of black beer water making moats around the bar.

Cops wore bulletproof vests in case a beer maid exploded out of her bodice.

Please, God, spare the soul of the man who loaded French’s yellow onto his bratwurst.

Thoughts While Waiting For The Zurich-to-Chicago

Square in the path of the jet lag stun gun,
Headed for a pillow filled o’ subletter’s shunned,
Shaken shook-off dead skin mess,
Maybe hints of perfume, hair of seducer chest.
Back to the full flight, US-bound plane
Calibrated to tighten screws again:
People I see look like people I know,
The average waistline, I’m way below,
From a full-pockets blazer he sighs out stress—
I don’t want to be in America yet.
Unisex-dressed women, sporty, sloppy men,
Do we need to rehash fashion again?
Flatter yourself, then share it around,
Guys, don’t expect fishnets with your cuffs on the ground.
No off-the-shoulder sweater’s getting wedged behind a headboard
’less you wear that denim with the measure you were set for.
I don’t know, speculating a bit—
Surely much more gets zipped zippers unzipped.
But remember, if it weren’t for the opposite sex,
We’d all be big and plain-looking, like government checks.

Photo by thecolourblue.

The Clean House

Matilde, Machuge, Machichi,
The Clean House sweeps you easy,
Orders your head like Virginia’s hands
To remember and forget like jokes demand,
White and color, OR and ocean,
Snow and sunglasses, bad apple tossin’,
Super-subtitles, glances of admiration,
Facial contortions, Arctic exploration,
Laughing till kissing, back again,
Can opener blaming, lack of a friend,
Storm cloudy skylights, Jobim-blue skies,
Silent primal moments, euthanize,
Borrowing women, obvious daydreams
Explained, “Just my imagination…”
Ruhl peels back skull seams:
It’s like coming off sedation the morning after
As you reexamine your prescription for laughter,
X-ray your glow and ask, “Who asked for this task?
The perfect joke day is coming up fast.”

(Saw The Clean House by Sarah Ruhl last night. Here's more info for those who haven't seen it: Windy City Times review)

The Clean House, Sarah Ruhl, Goodman Theatre