The Hood

Meanwhile, Geoffrey and I discuss putting art work to the walls (I think we have to get building maintenance to mount the stuff or suffer consequences). So far, we have limited ideas. I am all for decorating with old pulp-magazine cover prints in thrift-shop frames. Movie posters would also be fine. Original art by friends would be welcome, if they’d part with it cheaply, but I hate to do that. Geoffrey would like his Japanese anime posters tacked up in his room. That’s all right, but he has (unwittingly) generated more promising ideas.

Geoffrey loves to play with language — the apple, you know, falling close to the tree. He’s come up with a few nonexistent (thus far) words that I find interesting. One is “psychigence.” (I told you we’re both at least half mad.) Another is “funtelligence.” I’d like to have Kinko’s print that one up in, say, Gothic, or Old English, or something, anyway, with a bit of gravitas. I’d like a size that would make it easy to find a cheap frame, and I’d place it above the telephone table/desk between the kitchen and living room.

A saying of Geoffrey’s, originated by the lad and re-cobbled by myself, would read: “Luck, good, bad, or indifferent, perpetuates itself.” Kinko’s could do this one in Chinese characters, but with an attribution — “Geoffrey Brizzolara” — at the bottom in English.

The sun is going down invisibly behind us, evidenced in crepuscular coloration to the east. The palms and church spire are backdropped by rose-and-gold cumulus clouds over the Imperial Valley; cirrus stratus formations horizontally bisect those mystic-looking masses, looking like enormous cerulean-gray brush strokes slashed by some cosmic artistic/abstract god called to dinner. As we stand on the balcony, awaiting the roasting of a chicken, the denizens of the 16th Street sidewalk beneath us are, many of them, near their fill of Steel Reserve malt liquor, or Mad Dog 20/20, a kind of wine, and possibly embalming fluid, as potent as the humid night’s promise of violence. It’s coming, I think.

I go inside, into my office/bedroom, and strap on the Gretsch and turn on the Fender Frontman amplifier (an actual gift from Mr. Limpic). I shift its volume to a loud-enough six, with the reverb dial set at the same digit. I begin to play Link Wray’s “Rumble,” and wait. ■

Comments

Ah, Link Wray. Now you're getting downright holy, John.

Sounds like you and your son are in the thick of it down there. Ringside seats for the American version of "Clash of the Civilizations." The well dressed lady from the $600K condo politely walking her poodle around the the homeless guy sprawled on the sidewalk in a puddle of piss. Father Joe and the dyke nun battling for more Village for lost souls, versus the Downtown Development Brigade with their pockets overflowing with our money.

An interesting place during interesting times, John. Bear witness and let us know how goes the battle.

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