Parking Lot Art
Help! I’ve fallen into a BarcaLounger and I can’t get up.
But it’s not just any BarcaLounger. It’s the first parking lot/lawnchair BarcaLounger, plopped in my apartment building parking lot like a giant Naugahyde weed. Needless to say, I love it and intend to keep it forever.
My horrible landlord disagrees. He believes the BarcaLounger is inappropriate for his pristine little parking lot. He believes it is only temporary. Like my lease, I suppose.
This showdown started out innocently enough. The chair was left behind during one of the many monthly tenant move-outs. Trashmen hired to regularly clean out the dumpster area simply left it behind, intending at some point, I assume, to retrieve it later. They forgot.
I cursed when I first saw it. Effing slobs. Then one day, weaving home from the Gay 90’s, I flopped down in the chair for a short rest before heading for the back door. A week or so later, and I’m still here.
True love is like that, I guess, always catching you be surprise.
(Hi. This is Julie’s landlord speaking. I’m interrupting this column to swear before the court and state of Minnesota that she has not budged from the BarcaLounger in maybe a month. The neighbors think she’s a hideous piece of art-sculpture. When I complain, all she does is mutter: “Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can recline.”)
Don’t mind him, he’s just jealous because he didn’t claim the chair first. Besides, you think I planned this? I’ve never wanted a recliner. To me they were icons of American tackiness, like fuzzy dice. BarcaLoungers were beneath me.
Well, there is one beneath me at this very moment. It is a lovely piece of furniture, maybe 20 years old and weighting slightly less than Kirstie Alley. It is orange-yellow, which is what makes it so striking against the black tar.
This chair has many fine features as well. For instance, it is impervious to nacho cheese spills. In fact, I think it is impervious to almost everything. If you dropped it on the surface of the sun, it would probably float.
Best of all, is the way the chair moves. Big as a first-class airline seat, it tilts back into three wonderful positions. Let me briefly describe them:
Wonderful position No.1: Slight reclining. Blood circulates up from my feet, where my brains are mostly located. And pools in the middle of my body, where my middle is mostly located. I start to lose consciousness.
Wonderful position No. 2: Total horizontal. My pulse rate drops to about five.
Wonderful position No. 3: Lift off. My feet are now actually higher than my head. I’m either in heaven or in shock. I don’t know which. In seconds, I am asleep in the first degree.
(Hi. This is the landlord again. She’s not exaggerating about the sleeping stuff. The neighborhood children can’t even wake her. They try everything, tilting her back and forth in the chair so fast that she looks like a dead bag lady on a roller coaster. They’ve even begun leaving little Post-it notes stuck to her sunglasses. One time she finally awoke and—seeing nothing but a blanket of little yellow notes—assumed she’d fallen head first into a pitcher of lemonade.)
OK, so I lost my bearings for a minute. Anyway, if he knew how much fun this chair can be, I’m sure he’d lighten up. I may look like a bag lady. I may look like a bag lady asleep in a big ugly recliner. But in my head, I’m Kate Mulgrew steering the Starship Enterprise.
(Hi, me again. If things don’t improve, my security staff is setting the Starship Enterprise on fire.)
Wait till he hears my latest plan. I’m going to round up a bunch of old recliners from parking lots all over Minneapolis.
Just imagine, an entire BarcaLounger fleet, just in time for summer—for when friends drop by.
Oooo…We can drag them down to Loring Park in front of the Pride Festival stage!
Well, hey it’s just a thought and consider the source.
Bye for now.