At Montana and 10^th there’s a laundry place and across the street is one of those high-end coffee shops where they don’t serve regular drip coffee. Why am I here? I have purchased a sofa bed, a nice one. Modern style. It has a removable grey slipcover. The previous owner, Ram, an East Indian, logged the item on Craig’s List as “moving…sofa bed…good condition…$60…you pick up.” I met him at his place in Marina del Rey. He was kind enough to help with it. I had to borrow a friend’s SUV, a Ford Expedition. So, Ram helped load it and saw to it I didn’t hit anything when I backed out of the parking. I drove with the windows down. It was a nice evening; the sun seemed to be resting on the earth longer than usual. It wasn’t until my roommate, Brian Lloyd, helped carry it to my room that I noticed how this sofa bed smelled distinctly of spice, the far away kind, exotic-like, for example, Bezar. Why am I here? Wash the slipcover.

A Laundromat is one of the most fantastic places, I think. The people you see can be so unique, or so normal; the smells of bleach and Tide, of warm cottons and other fabric. Sometimes it’s too much humanity. I can get very depressed watching people at the Laundromat. Today, I studied an elderly woman. She was wearing a very flimsy blouse, and her lipstick ran up to almost her nose, ran over her teeth when she smiled, but she did smile! Her back was spiked, and her every move isolated me till I was the only one left in the world.

So, no thanks on the coffee from across the street! I walked further east, past 12^th, past Euclid, to Peet’s coffee, my favorite of all chains, on 14^th. Along the way I took note all the shops I hadn’t the money, or the lifestyle to visit. We’re talking nearly every one. Pretty women stood behind every counter: the children’s organic clothing one, the fancy cafés, Brown’s Cleaners, weird looking salons and spas, and there were a few sidewalk-tables along the way. Jesus, you people have funny looking shoes and hats!

Right outside Peet’s, a man working with the Sierra Club solicited at the strays. I remember once I signed up for that. I didn’t make it past the first meeting. There was a gal talking with him, and I knew she wasn’t going to give anything, definitely not her time. As she turned and walked away, it was a face I recognized. She had married someone that I once knew. I don’t think she noticed me, but even so I don’t think she would have turned to say hello. And I didn’t bother, either. It was the first time I ever did laundry and walked Montana for a cup of coffee in Santa Monica. 

Artist Frankie Randal, or “Fuzzy” Randal:

But what triumph! Oh, yes! Joe survived all this, the artist says to hmself. And that’s what’s truly in a smile- the winning o’er evil, the endurance, the wearing-in, the breaking-in, the weathering, the lines on the face like notches, like true scars that pronounce aloud:

You think you’ve beaten me? You think you’re gonna get me? You think you got me? No, siree! You can’t touch me! You can grab ahold of my jacket, but the jacket is made to unzip and, brother, I’m free! You’re left with some oil-stained denim thing. So you got my coat, huh? Well, it ain’t your size anyhow. Whatcha gonna do with it? Brag about it? Brag to the others over a coat? Don’t make me laugh! Or, would you prefer I stand still? I will! No hand that touches me will take anything away. I am impervious! Your ill efforts will slide off all smoothness, and my shoulders are armoured and sealed, like in-betweens of boat planks payed with pitch.

Yes, these scars, however delicate, deep- crowsfeet, or a big furrow in the brow, this is what they pronouce. The artist, if you can even call him that now, allows one last breath in. It is stronger, inconsistent; it came from the blood and from the brains and from the…hardships, both lived and actualized, like the kid who won the race by listening to his dreams. The gods girded the so-called artist in a golden wreath. The cherry smell of antacid? Erased! For as the gods moved, there was something peculiar like frankincense to battle it clean. The smile, that sudden creep of a thing, was a bright, shiny one. The critic was squinting his eyes to see. And the so-called artist opened his mouth, “You know, in your mind you’re right!”

The dog. He is white; a short white-haired guy. I have written about him before, so I will spare any more than this when it comes to his description. He has brushed himself up against a fence, or tire, perhaps. I did not catch this act, but there is a swipe of dirt, or oil, on his leftside over the rib cage. He is a truly handsome beast. He is slightly fatigued from the long walk today. His bones are pushing through the skin.

Most of the people have not yet awoken from their sleep. It is likely they have not been asleep long. It is Saturday morning. We have come to Windward circle and back. There was a blockade for the Go-Green festival. We bought an organic muffin, one made of fresh cranberries and frosting. We bought a large coffee over ice, with half-n-half. The ice, my favortie kind, are in the form of little marbles. When the straw plays hockey with them, it could be screws on a snare.

The alleyway at Marina del Rey. It differs greatly from Speedway. Speedway is full of freaks, of homeless, of dirt and the discarded; the unwanted things like swivel fans, styrofoam coolers, fishing line and lures, people on bikes, people in cars, walkers, runners; there are those in corners puking, others huddling around weed, those whose backdoors are open, whose grills are smoking; there are cellualr phones held up to ears, or black strings coming out of ears, i-pods, etc. It is exciting. It is disheartening. It is a real dose of humanity, of anthropology, of education. It is an example of how systems work and thrive. It is a showing of what goes on behind the scenes.

There is a community garden. It is fresh and full of color. Many things are growing there, the branches and limbs of which poke out of rabbit fencing. There is no one ever around. I think this community garden is run by ghosts, or something. But the dog loves it! He gets his nose into every corner, pulls the lead so I’m following him. It is one of his favorite stops! And further on up the alleyway at Marina, there is part of a severed succulent. I do not know what family. It is white, red at the tips, and covered in tiny black dots. Even though I know what it is, from afar my mind sees it as a soft, partially dehydrated and hollowed-out crustacean.

Artist Frankie Randal, or “Fuzzy” Randal:

That smile…that darned smile! If a distant drum is heroic, then this is the smile; if a distant drum gets closer, then this is the smile; if a distant drum means lives were lost, then this is the smile. The room, again, smells like cherry. Joe has been gone, dead, buried in a plot of land for more than 15 years. At this time year, the artist is sure the grass is too much to handle. It grows so fast and the rains are plentiful. The grass isn’t just grass. It is prairie grass, grows in waves, is whispy and tall. Ticks hide in this grass! This grass is lime-green and it whips with the wind; it whispers with the wind. This grass grows from the ones that have fallen. Its roots have spikes in the eyes, in the chests, in the knees of the fallen. It is living grass, you see. If you pluck one, a cry bellows. But if you pluck one, better pull real hard, right! Better get down on them knees, son, and put your back into it. Prairie grass? Doesn’t come up so easily. It’s living! That smile? Hardships, the artist says inside. Hardships. Think of it as before you do this, you have to’ve first gone through this- crawl before you walk, walk before you run. And then, the smile. It isn’t happiness. It isn’t pleasure. It isn’t joy. Hardship. One more breath, the artist takes. The same consistent kind. The smile is slightly defined now, barely noticeable. Joe? Naw, no pleasure from watching his kids grows. He is an unaffected man, and no way to get through to him- too many hardships. The artist thinks, I know about the time some cattles became plagued with disease. These cattle, their legs became wobbly and their balance was thrown. It was something to do with the nervous system. They were walking jellies. Their legs broke at the ankles, at the knees, and some of them were a feast for the flies, unable to swoosh their tails, or keep their skin busy. You could hear them call out, and Joe was forced to put each plagued being down. There one would be, the artist thought, alone, under the moonlight. The eyes? Empty sockets. The legs? A thriving community of maggots. Now hold still, the artist pictured Joe saying. Hold still. I won’t hurt you. This won’t hurt at all. You won’t feel a thing. And then Joe’s ears would be pierced from the sound and other fallen cattle would call out under that moonlight, the killing moonlight. The smile? It is a learned-thing. Onto the next fallen being. Joe has been dead for over 15 years.”

Artist Frankie Randal, or “Fuzzy” Randal:

The kid, the artist, has waited calmly, is cool and collected, gently rubs his hands together, and looks up at the portrait of Miles Davis on the wall. Miles Davis, the artist thinks. Miles-fucking-Davis! The artist takes a breath, not unlike every other breath he has drawn. No, the same kind. It is consistant. It is not one of those breaths that when exhaled relieves stress, or something. It is a very normal breath, the kind an elderly woman would do. And so there the breath goes. It is given back to the ether. The artist is smiling. Where does he get that smile? It’s from the artist’s Grandmother’s brother, a fella by the name of Joe. In a way, he has summoned Joe, has taken on his personality, has put on the Joe mask. Joe was a farmer- all his life he farmed. Farming, the artist thought. That’s work! Where does he get that smile? Joe! Joe: a man who spoke in pleasantries constantly. Joe had kids. Did Joe’s kids bring him pleasure? Did he marvel at their growth? Does it matter? No. It does not! And slowly, little by little, that smile became his. What about hardships? The artist thought, I know about when those horses froze standing up that one terrible winter. I know about how when they finally made it to the stable after it cleared two days later those horses had tipped and were leaning up against the stable wall like a chair under a doorknob. Hardships? The artist thought, I know about when one of the other sibblings was driving a tractor up that hill and it turned over, crushing every bone, killing that sibbling instantly. Hardships? The artist thought, I know about when the eldest sibbling, a young lady at this point, went in for a simple procedure of removing a splinter. You see, this one was deathly afraid of hospitals. The splinter was in one of the toes, one of the big ones, and the doctors eased her mind by giving her anesthesia. They gave her a lethal dose; they eased her mind too much. She died. Hardships? Who hasn’t got them, the artist thought. The artist leaned in a little closer to the critic, to this Damascus. There was a smell of cherry in the air, like the cherry of a cough drop.”

Critic Whitworth Damascas of New York:

“No, it was not Jules. It was Marcy, and Marcy is a tough one! She controls the sod, if you know what I mean. Sorry, I had to get that. It would have meant my ass! Ok, where were we? Oh, yes! Bobbie D. and Woody G. Well, you get the point, right? Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about…? You know, all of a sudden I get the impression I’ve steered this whole thing into a pep talk. Shit! I’m sorry! Genetic, OK. The oldman, well, he gave them all the time, and we kids never appreciated it! Well, here I am, after all these years, giving a pep talk. Funny, right! Sorry, kid. Sorry. My biggest problem is giving you the review I’m going to give you. I know what you’re doing. I can taste it. I can feel it. I can see. I can even smell it! It’s too far out. It’s too below-the-suface. It’s too whiny in some spots, too loud in others, and barely there at all in the middle. Original? No question! You are original! But you’ll never be out front, not in your lifetime, certainly not in mine. No, you’re the kind others will pull from after no one knows you, and let me tell ya, that’s coming up soon! Except this, OK, not as a compliment, not as a slap in the face, but as reality. I had the apples, kid, tons of them! I’m on the other side. You? You’re a nobody, a zero, OK. The review? In terms of stars, 1/2 of one; in terms of numbers, a 2; in terms of grades, a D. You’re dead in the water. Why? Because I said so, and what I say counts! I know I’ve done all the talking, and if you have something to say, if it’s something heated, forget it. I won’t listen! If it’s too windy, better scale it back. If it’s too smart, hey! Who’s the master here, right! Let me say one more thing, the album art. What’s the deal there? Wait, dont answer! I know! It’s some weird-slash-cool-slash-indie thing, right? Well, I don’t get it! What’s wrong with a photo, a plain old photo? You’re a handsome enough individual, you could do that, but this strange image? This painting? Who painted this painting? It looks slightly obscene to me. It looks dull. Don’t get that either, kid, too different for my taste. But who are you going to trust on this? Now, before you speak, remember nothing you have to say will change my mind. No, and nothing you say anyone will listen to, will even ever hear. Once I print what I want it doesn’t matter. You’ll have been too dead, too cold, too stiff for anyone to care. Sorry, kid, that’s how it works. But you know that, c’mon! You telling me you dont know that? You made it this far, your record was placed on my desk, and you dont have thick skin? Sure you do, we all do in this racket! Shit, I’m so thick-skinned I’m actually thin! You can see my veins, look! Look here on my neck. Do you see that one bulging out? Look here on my arm. Do you see that one? It’s green! I’ve another one popping out on my leg and it’s Navy blue! When you have thick skin long enough it turns paper thin! But like I said, you know that already, don’t you. Oh, I need an antacid! Gimme a sec, will you. Let me call my secretary to bring me one. Want anything, kid? No? A Coke? Some water? You thirsty? OK, then. Sue, bring me a Tums. I’ll take the cherry if there’s one left. Stomach, kid. I got balls, I got brains, I got power, but the stomach? Forget it! Hard to hold onto to that one! Rather it the tummy than the buttons, if you know what I mean! I’m glad I still got the buttons! Don’t know what I would do if I lost the buttons! Thanks, Sue. You found the cherry. Kid, this is Sue, my secretary. OK, Sue. That’s all. So! Have you anything to say?”

Critic Whitworth Damascas of New York:

“I’m back, and lunch was swell! I had the pastrami, with mustard, side of kraut, and one of those pickles, the wholemade kind, you know, not too tangy. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes! The miracle, right? Yes, the miracle! It must have been placed on my desk, you see, for there’s not any other explanation. Aside from being totally annoyed I haven’t a clue as to who this person was, or perhaps it was He, the great One, who set it there? I don’t know, who knows, doesn’t matter! I listened to it, and it’s not something I would say is out in front. It possesses Thatotherthing, my other point. Why? Because I notice it, that’s why. Sound is what I get paid the big ones for, don’t forget, and Sound is invisible, scentless, weightless, hell, the only reason you know Sound is becasue of Thatotherthing. What you have is noise, is low-grade, is garage, is dirt, not dirty, is grungy, not grunge- do you get my point? It’s not professional, it’s lofessional, and it cannot be out in front. Remember, I cannot get behind what’s not out in front! I read on the back it is a compilation of older material, right? Well, you sound like you’re trying to be like Bobbie D. Now, I’m not saying Bobbie D. didn’t try be like Woody G., because he did, and he is! Bobbie D. is Woody G. But are you saying you’re Bobbie D.? Hmmm, interesting! That would make you Woody G. You need to discover your Sound, friend. That’s what you need. Thatotherthing is, well, it only goes so far. Do you want to be underground? Do you want to be cult? Do you want to be the tears and eyeliner stained cheeks? Do you want to be the scribbly lipstick on the lips? Are you the ratted hair, the jagged fingernails, the sympathy cuts on the arms? Are you the darkness, friend? Ok, admittedly, a little of all this may be cool, may have some market value, but only as shallow as a dry river bed, friend. In that one song of yours, and I’m sorry I do not remember the name, track 5, I think, you talk about a woman and the ground. Ok, what’s that all about? And, now this is just a question, have you thought of putting a beat behind anything? Perhaps I’m getting away from the point on that, so let me move on by saying…hang on, hang on. Let me answer this call. It’s probably Jules.”

The fruit man. He’s of medium height, medium build, Mexican-American in looks, with a black mustache, and I am downwind from him and can smell the laundry detergent on his clothes. He smiles. He has nice teeth. It is one of those broad smiles and I can see a little gold back there. We are standing on the corner of one of the main thoroughfares west of the 405, Lincoln Blvd. The sun is behind a thin marine layer, but I can still feel rays. Before now, and with great humility, I had some business in one of the strip malls and decided to lunch at Baja Fresh. I ordered the Diablo Shrimp burrito. I took a few bites, and while I chewed I realized I paid $7.50 for this piece of shit! I asked for my money back. The fruit man. I wonder does he own his vending cart? Is it his? No matter, really, just a silly thought. The cart sports the finest fruit Cali has to offer, and I have ordered it all for 5 bucks. First, some pineapple, then bits of watermelon, canteloupe, half a think cuc, half a mango, jicama, and coconut. My least favorite is the coconut, but I like to play along. I loathe shreded coconut, never been a fan, and am otherwised turned-off by the meatiness of the fresh stuff, but I like the composition of it all. The coconut is the only thing I do not consume. My favorite it the jicama. It is the root of a vine, sometimes called the Mexican Turnup, or yam bean. It is a nice crisp, hard crunch, and tastes the best, in my mind, with the fresh squeezed lime juice and chili powder the fruit man douses on top for the finale.

Critic Whitworth Damascas of New York:

“Let me first start off by saying,
That last bit written didn’t come from me.
There are different grades to everything:
Like profession, school, main drags, and steel.
The simple fact remains everyone on my side wears the same fatigues
And I have on a fresh set, with decoration, rapier, and white gloves.

I first take a look at what’s out in front,
And though I understand, I know I need not be so impressed.
You have skinny little things I wonder what they eat,
Male Country & Western singers prettier then them;
Fashion doing most of the talking, most of the paying,
And age going for it all way before age should.
There are these single recurring tattoos on backs, arms, ankles,
Of butterflies, of barbed-wire, of flowers.

I will admit my road is a similar one to the eager, hero-candidate
Who gets wet to save the workingman and Brasso equality.
There were certain distractions and apples- hell, baskets!
Anyhow, it makes sense to me. I do not feel bad, nor do I feel sorry.
I know what is original, but what’s not out in front I can’t get behind.
Somehow you’ve been brought to my attention.
And that’s the miracle here!

My biggest asset, why I am paid the big bucks, what I am gifted in
Is knowing the difference between Sound and Thatotherthing.
Thatotherthing? Thatotherthing is the difference between your rock
And the most precious stone ever known…
But listen, it’s already noon and I haven’t eaten!
Let me do that and I’ll return to all this.”

It’s a Tuesday. I’m driving from the beach. There’s no real time to miss traffic. From Lincoln I take Venice Blvd. I pass Versailles. I remember once I met my friend John Doe there for something to eat. I was getting over laryngitis. Every time I spoke it sounded like air slowly being let out a balloon.

There used to be a great spot in Culver City called San Gennaro. There was a guy there would sing, had a great voice, too. Most of the patrons were elderly, but I’m such an old soul I felt at home. They served Chicken Parmesan thin as a towel. You could buy a bottle of Chianti for $12. People would slow-dance.

I have brought a compact disc of Huddie William Ledbetter entitled Lead Belly Sings for Children. Lead Belly was born in Louisiana. He had a reputation. He was jailed a few times. He met Tex Ritter in New York. Tex later got Lead Belly signed to Capitol in Los Angeles. He died of Lou Gehrig’s.

I first lived in Echo Park. I only knew a few people. I rented a cottage behind my landlord’s house on West Kensington. Mark and Jackie were patient and merciful. What money I was short in rent I made up by landscaping. I got parking tickets all the time.

Jackie ran a business from home called Jackie Jewels. She is a taller gal, skinny-minny model material, brown hair, serious eyes, and made strong coffee. She would invite me in for a cup every so often. She only had flavored creamer, and odd flavored creamer like banana, so I was forced to drink it straight. The first sip was the worst: hot, acidic, burned the tongue and throat.

She is from Rhode Island and has a low, sometimes scratchy, Land’s End utterance. She nicknamed me Salami.

“Hey, Salami. When are you gonna cut back that bougainvillea? And the avocado tree, what’s the deal with that thing?”

I landscaped most all of the property at West Kensington. In the back, under the avocado tree, I lifted the red cement tiles, stacked them neatly, and tilled the earth smooth and soft to where things would grow again. I dug up these bulbs, I don’t know what they were, really, but their rank-dirtiness made my eyes swell. I had to cover my mouth, too, for they seemed to give off a vapor; you could taste it! I remember one brushed against my forearm. It felt like scour wool. I took sick in bed for a week, lost my appetite, ran a fever, had recurring dreams I was made of stone.

I started reading John Fante. John came to Los Angeles in the late 1920s, when most of the boom happened. One of the places he lived was Bunker Hill. Back then there were all those Victorian houses. Cars and busses were slowly replacing the rail lines. And the fashion! It’s hard to say which of Fante’s novels I’d recommend; they are all very so good! His short stories are just as excellent, and so I might say read “The First Time I Saw Paris” and/or “My Dog Stupid.”

I began performing at 432 North Fairfax while still living in San Diego. I would drive up the days I played. I didn’t mind this. It was new to me, kept my interest. Sometimes I’d pull off to visit the Mission in San Juan Capistrano. I met a girl there one time. She was beautiful. She told me the history of the Mission, the famous painters that traveled and stayed there, and she sang to me the most unusual rendition of “When The Swallows Come Back To Capistrano” I ever heard, in a voice just like Bill Kenny.

Sometimes I would try getting to Fairfax as early as I could. I’d park on Rosewood. I’d just walk around. I walked streets like Melrose, Santa Monica, Sunset, Fairfax, La Brea, Wilshire, explored neighborhoods like Yucca Corridor, Fairfax Village, Thai Town, Little Armenia, Virgil Village, Little Ethiopia, Carthay, Picfair Village, and Spaulding Square.

I got to know Lisa Germano. Off the bat, I liked her. She’s very sweet, kind of dark, but optimistic, by golly! I listened to this record of hers called Lullaby for Liquid Pig. She was at the Jon Brion piano when we met. She was playing one of those secret chords. She smiled at me. It made me smile back, and I don’t like smiling.

“Hi, Tommy! I’m Lisa.”
“Hello, there.”
“You’re starting the show tonight?”
“Yes!”
“Well, isn’t that nice. I look forward to hearing you play.”

I am at Venice and La Cienega. People are laying on the horn, someone’s stuck in the middle of the intersection, happens all the time. Lead Belly is singing We’re In The Same Boat, Brother. Lead Belly, world’s greatest liner, world’s greatest lover, world’s greatest cotton picker, world’s greatest drinker, and king-of-the-12-string.

The day has gotten hotter. I feel I’ve stopped and started so much the brakes are going to explode. I’m surprised they haven’t! In the rearview I can see the cane. It’s her car, you see. She is no longer able to, and wants me to drive it around for her. I drove it all the way from North Dakota. She doesn’t talk much anymore, but when she did she always asked me how the car was doing.

“How’s my car, Thomas?”
“Oh, real good, real good. I’m taking good care of it for ya.”
“That’s good! And my cane?”
“Still there, still up in the back window.”
“Now, don’t you go lose that cane! That belonged to Patrina.”
“I won’t, I won’t. I’ve been taking good care of the cane too.”
“Say, you didn’t happen to find a pair of Isotoners, did ya?”