(title blatantly stolen from Marko, the munchkin wrangler)
Last night Mike and I celebrated his birthday with a quiet dinner at a Turkish restaurant in Cleveland Heights, a hip place notorious for a lively bohemian vibe, artsy shopping districts, diverse neighborhoods full of wonderful old houses and, well...liberals. Visiting is like an adventure for Mike and me, tourists in this land of hemp-wearing Gaia-worshiping vegetarians. We love the tiny, quirky little shops and, of course, the people watching is excellent. The city also is home to some of the best restaurants in the area, so we end up going pretty frequently.
Parking is always a bit of a hassle, as it is in most old neighborhoods that have suddenly become culinary or nightlife hotspots but luckily, and after much circling, we were able to find a spot in one of the public lots. I was busily scrounging around in my purse for loose change for the meter and looked up to see this:
Yes, a crocheted parking meter cozy. Some sort of public art, I suppose, but....but...really? What the hell?
Between being trapped for hours in yesterday's odd architecture and then this, I felt as if I'd slipped down some psychedelic rabbit hole into an alternate, Crayola-colored universe.
The lamb, however, was delicious.