Small Town Man

Woke up early this morning and am now officially on West Coast time . . . And hating every second of it.

More tea for the kids this morning. It appears that they are slowly returning to normal which I credit to my level temperament and tyrannical approach to Gameboy use (as in, none at all). But Mitchell, my youngest nephew, has a knack for finding my hiding places . . . so the Gameboy still finds its way into the hands of the Young Darkness from time to time. Am considering merely breaking them with a hammer (the Gameboys, not the hands). But it’s a long plane trip home.

Drove down into town this morning with my father to have the overheating car looked at. Trailing behind him in the suspect vehicle, I saw the temperature gauge hit red almost immediately. We stopped and switched cars, took us an hour to get into town . . . stopping along the way to let the car cool off. Spraying the radiator with a gas station hose. Boots soaking wet by the end of it, covered with dead bugs washed down from the radiator.

Dragged around in a used bookstore for a while, killing time. Disappointed to see twenty-five copies of Gaiman books on the shelf — lots of American Gods and a handful of Neverwhere next to one lonely copy of Stardust which, ironically, I bought last week for a friend.

The woman at the front of the store was delighted when I asked her where the Poetry section was. Picked up a book of San Francisco poetsd (Ferlinghetti, Brother Antonius, et al) and a copy of The Bell Jar.

It’s a small town and my father, the archetypical old-school salesman, knows everyone’s name.