This Animal Life: Where Everbody Knows Your Name

Writing the great, American novel can really make a person parched. Well, thirsty enough to go out and drink something beyond the holistic approach of only downing water in the hopes of staying healthy, anyways. While I often take little jaunts into the village proper in order to study the people and their culture; sometimes I selfishly need a cup of joe to warm up my mind, my fingers and occasionally my bladder too. Being the societal oddity that it is, the best hang-out for caffeine imbibment is the Roost; which is tucked away underneath the local museum. Luckily the curator is something of a night owl, so even when the mood strikes in the evening I can stagger down to the basement and enjoy a cup of Brewster's finest.

Of everyone in town, I seem to find the strongest connection with our fine feathered barkeep. He strikes me as someone who hopped into H.G. Wells' time machine during the raging twenties and somehow crash landed in this little burg. He definitely looks the part, what with his glorious handlebar mustache and curiously small spectacles. The stereotype is held convincingly by the fact that he's quiet and observant while he constantly polishes glasses to a sheen. Or maybe I've just seen one too many black-and-white films from the era. I have an inkling, considering his profession and muteness, that he probably knows more of the going-ons around here than even the mayor-cum-don Tom Nook does. Which is why I like to hang out with him on Saturday nights; to pick up on stories and troubles in town. But also for the music...

Being part of an indie scene myself, I've come to appreciate what acoustic guitarist and folk singer K.K. Slider represents. He's able to seamlessly blend his live compositions into well-produced singles that he graciously shares with me after his set; partially to get the word out but silently because we get each other. He's a valiant troubadour; some even liken him to Santa Claus, capable of playing multiple gigs a night. It seems like a lot of work, but when you play for the joy of music rather than the commercialism of it all; it's probably anything but.

Having made the Roost a regular destination on the weekends, K.K. has gotten to the point where he asks me what I want to hear, or even just tell him my mood and he'll play off of it. There is a definite catchiness to the way he warbles, at once exposing his personality yet hiding his true feelings withing alliterations and rhymes. What's also interesting is that he seems to strum and move his hand across the neck to produce a lovely sound; but without it looking as if he's playing. It lends an eerie facetiousness to it; but I'm sure what we can't see is him masterfully picking at the strings with his claws. Either way, I leave the Roost as happy as a clam as well as refreshed and rejuvenated for another week. Or maybe I'm just buzzing from that extra shot of pigeon milk Brewster stirs in for me.