Friday, September 7, 2007

Is you is, or is you ain't my constituency?

Have I ever told you about my weird neighbor, Captain Ron? Well, we call him such because his name is Ron, and he stands on the steps up to his house in a captain’s hat, hands on hips, feet spread wide, as though he is Captain of the neighborhood.

He’s a strange character. See, my neighborhood is right on the edge of a pretty intense ghetto. (Did I mention there was a fatal shooting on the next block when Xtian’s friends were in town? Oh, I didn’t? oops.) So, Capt Ron “looks out for the neighborhood.” Now, I’m not sure what this all entails. Apparently, yelling loudly at anyone who lives around there, pushing his non-functioning 70’s Mercedes back and forth across the street, and pulling guns on my relatives.

You see, one of my cousins showed up a month early for my wedding. While looking for my house, at about 1 pm on a Tuesday (ok, who gets married on a Tuesday? Or at least has the party on a Tuesday? Probably should have been my cousin’s first clue, but whatever), my cousin was driving slowly and looking for the right address. Capt Ron lives directly across the street from us, and apparently thought my cousin looked suspicious. So, he did what any good neighbor would do, PULLED A FUCKING SHOTGUN ON MY COUSIN! When my cousin explained that what he was looking for, all Capt Ron had to say was, “Well, trust me, your cousin doesn’t live here. Now get out of here!”

Good stuff, right? I’m not sure he’s ever thwarted a crime, but he’s certainly irritated/endangered most of the people I’ve invited over. He means well, but he’s just nuts. Xtian maintains a civil relationship with the Capt, and often gives Capt Ron leftover containers of the organic orange juice his company sells. Apparently, this has led to Capt Ron feeling the need to reciprocate.

So far, he’s brought over home made barbecued Chicken and a home smoked salmon. Now, I get that he’s being nice, but it’s still weird.

Lately, he’s taken to leaving flowers on our doorstep. As Ron explained to Xtian, “I like seeing men treat their women well. So, here are some flowers for you to give to your wife.” Nice, right? Yeah, but also kind of weird and creepy. So, every few days or so, we’ll find some assortment of flowers wrapped in newspaper propped against our door. I’m not really sure how to react to this, or what will be the next step here. Are we required to bring him increasingly elaborate, but still bizarre things? A bucket of cleaning supplies? Or a half eaten sub sandwich?

Tomorrow is Sarah’s birthday, so tonight I’ll be heading down to scenic San Leandro to join her and some other folks in various forms of eating and merrymaking. Of course, since this stuff doesn’t get rolling until 7 pm, how long do you think I’ll make it before falling asleep, facedown in the appetizers?

New development: I forget the whole “there’s a human living in my abdomen” thing sometimes, and it leads me to move in ways I really can’t anymore. For example: bending over. From my office chair, I attempted to pick a pen up off the floor. To my dismay I found that trying to bend at the waist/hips causes me to half vomit. What with the kid and all my internal organs being pushed up into my ribcage, the added pressure forces a whole lot of upward movement. This is not a fun discovery.

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