Fear the abandoned car seat of suburbia. Fear it!

Baby Car Seat #3

I got a good start on my Borges tonight before Fliptop Pegleg showed up. In the intervening period a Christian men’s group was meeting to plan a “Men’s Breakfast” event. One guy was clearly the alpha and leading the meeting, and he browbeat the others in a brisk, upbeat way about a shockingly long list of items that had to be prepared. He spoke rapidly about food, music, chairs. Periodically he’d come to a decision point and obtain consensus in a flash: “So we’re looking at Wednesday for that, about 7. Is that okay for you Craig? Ryan? How about you, Bill?” The other men responded in respectful monosyllables. I wouldn’t want to hang out with this guy but I bet that breakfast is going to be planned like the Invasion of Normandy.

They closed with the classic O.C. White Guy Evangelical Prayer, which is always slightly too long, full of catch phrases, and begins “Heavenly Father, you are awesome…” Alpha guy stayed for about an hour afterwards talking to another man. Again he was in charge, banging out paragraphs while looking intense and leaning forward; the other man nodded, agreed, chimed in occasionally.

Fliptop Pegleg arrived and ignored my book, sat down, made himself comfortable. The monologue wasn’t as painful this time, because he was talking about diabetes. He has to be real about that stuff, and it leads him to talk about other real things. He told me his father died of diabetes and TB when FTPG himself was only six, in 1949. He saw his father the day before he died, but couldn’t be in the same room; he got to talk to him from outside the hospital window on an outdoor bridge to another building.

I can’t forget that he’s unethical, creepy, probably criminal, and certainly unpleasant to be with, but it humanizes him a bit when he stops talking about video hardware or girls’ butts.

When I got home tonight the neighbors had abandoned a child seat on their front driveway so I took some weird, horror-movie style night shots of it with my house in the background. Baby stuff is generically spooky.

Oh those patio nights in those patio hills?

The '57

Got stuck with Flip-Top Peg-Leg tonight on the patio. He came and sat at my table and talked at me about his home electronics. Listening to a known Peeping Tom/psycho girlwatcher go on and on about his video setup makes me want to sleep in an autoclave tonight. Also, boring. Very, very boring. I gave up on getting rid of him and concentrated on admiring his toupée, which is a perfectly oiled 1963 pompadour in steel grey.

He also showed me what high-quality video you can get on his camphone. OH CHRIST I did not want to know that.

Movie Guy Dan showed up later and we traded punk rock stories. I guess he booked Club Fetish around the time I was working for the Reader. I must have met him back then. I told him this story: The other day I was entering the supermarket and a guy coming out had a Hell Comes To Your House II T-shirt. I almost physically stopped him. “What the hell is that shirt? That was a GREAT album!” He smiled delightedly and told me there were only 75 of the shirts ever made, and that his friends who had them all kept them in collections, but he liked to wear his. We traded a couple of stories and shook hands warmly.