an impromptu lesson on chord theory in the glassstrewn backyard of baby haus
That’s right. With Tino. Dark-eyed third of the soon-to-move Baby Haus kids. Scabby kids, self-described by other third David Allen. And Trevor, of course. Good kids all. Filthy scabby Inspirations.
Tino’s been wearing his now-collectible LaiLai shirt of four or five days I notice, sitting there on the thin edge of a two-by-four set rigid into the soil, one edge in a rectangular frame meant to hold a garden box (neglected, unless you go post-modern zen about the cigarette buts and broken bike parts) ((bikeguts)). Noticed the LaiLai ’cause sometime last week was the last day for it, too. Found out while skimming the Book, searching for clues in the zombie-apocalypse of pre-summer session Tuscaloosa. Skimming and scanning for flashes of activity, so that I might shuffle through the wreckage and twisted scrap metal towards a nice peopled pocket and hang out. By which I mean, chomp some organmeat. Some things end; others never change. Like Tino’s teeshirt holding his caramel-colored torso along with days worth of sweat and hubris.
It was Thursday maybe, the last day of Lai Lai. It’s a local noodlehouse on The Strip, UA’s campus-closest public arena (assumedly. although it may be telling that the reason for LaiLai’s tragic untimely end is not to do with lack of student demand or weak lo mein, but rather because the expired lease was not again extended for reuse. The Strip and other real estate flanking campus seem to be being slowly usurped by the creeping colonial expansion of Empire Alabama). I had summer special spicy beef. Pointed to it with my index, piled in glorious heaps and mounds and glistening with capcaisin on the openfaced styrofoam box that serves as go-box as well as in-house finery. Being consumed by a contendedly glaze-eyed and face-sweating Asian man at one of the small tables inside. Gotta trust a local? Anyway, he looked happy. And it was delicious, naturlich.
That was Thursday the 12th, a week after returning to Tuscaloosa. Been sorting baby lotion and folding size fives pants for teeny girls. Doing my part in the retaliation against catastrophic Acts of Nature. Folding size fives, taking extras from the enormous pile of food for the volunteers at the behest of the Super, cause “it’s all just gonna go bad anyway, take what you like.” Odd, seems like a lesson and an Irony there somewhere. But nevermind. Today walked from near the breadfactory across Fifteenth Street into the residential grid leading to Forest Lake. Forest Lake is totaled. Walked along in the eerie emptiness, grasping at the scope of destruction. Gaping at eighty-foot oaks peeled open like bananas. What force of coiled wind.
The last Baby House show was all day and night on Friday the 13th. We walked up Tenth Avenue, past the fields of rubble that used to be Rosedale, picking our way through the tossed salad of metal and scrapwood until we made it to the tracks and East toward Hargrove. Walked along barefoot side by side on those twin polished rails. Concentrating and trying to break into a jog. Noticing severed bikechain lying about, robot intestines; metal medusa pasta. The surface of the metal underfoot gleaming clean and opaquely reflective like rocks on a shore where seals come. Polished dark and shiny by bellies of the beasts. Suspended in the concentration of that daydream, he forgets his imbalance and lopes effortlessly along the shiny, narrow footbridge.
Baby House loud all day. Was there for some of the earlier bands, during-daylight groups Hawn, David-Allison-Tino, Dale Petty the soft-spoken harmonica/banjo/acoustic guitar player better known in Europe and on his Voodoo-produced vinyl album. Copy of which I found on kitchen floor of BHouse the day afterwards, signed. Makes me wonder what’s around. Legit, legit acts punks and party that final Friday. Well received. Night was The Dead Balloons and Piss Shivers, eventually decomposing into a broken messy ruckus in the early morning, everyone playing something roughly and simultaneously. Beautiful Disaster.