I took my Pokemon-consumed daughter to Louie's this morning and she requested an Oddish, her favorite Pokemon, as the subject of her animal cakes.
Fred, the pancake artist, is always willing to rise to the challenge and thereby challenge his customers. He declared a Pikachu a little too pedestrian so she countered with the less-popular Oddish. She likes to play Pokemon games with anyone who will relent to her charms, meaning me, which usually devolves into her spinning around going "Oddish! Oddish!Oddish!" (Pokemon have the unfortunate linguistic limitation of talking by repeating their name in baby-talk. You'd think if they can develop razor-leaf attacks and there is all this focus on "training" and "evolution" of one's Pokemon, there would be at least some vocabulary exercises. ) He required a drawing, since my description of "he's kinda like an octopus without tentacles with a leafy crown, kinda like an onion" was met with "Dude, then its not like an octopus at all." so it was a win-win-win-"Oddish!" experience.
It should also be said that Fred is, or at least was at one time, a brilliant writer. He had me a once beguiled for an hour at a table at Mr. Gatti's as he read this thing out of his journal about clothing, how he used it to cover his body and his shame, to diffuse his shape, to disappear. Should he ever get off his ass and pen the Great American Non-Fiction Musing, David Eggers will be sent shivering back to the book club circuit and pop-flies will be shot out to land in the mits of every catcher, picking their butts out there in the rye.