WHO ONE? (pt. 1)

“Nice pad,” says my date, as we pull up to the sprawling red tile roofed Pacific Palisades hacienda in her crimson Mini-Cooper. She was driving, and just as well I thought, mindful of the Xanax and the 3 or 4…or was it 6 or 7 glasses of wine? Oh yeah, almost forgot about the hash brownie. Wasn’t looking to get totally wasted or anything, but who could turn it down?

I seemed able to extract myself from the Mini with reasonable grace, and was now walking in what could pass for a straight line in Hollywood. It wouldn’t do to be seen comporting oneself with anything less than the requisite composure and sprezzatura expected. This was Nino’s place. Big Time West Coast art scene. Nino has clout. Big Buyer. Big spender. Big gallery owner. Pretty much top of the heap on the West Coast, and a lot of pull on the East.

Everybody who matters is here.

Upscale, downsized, fin-de-siecle culture vultures amid the redlining tanlines and cosmetically sculpted silicon voluptuousness, in the hardcore competitive do-or-die desperation of the Hollywood art marketing demolition derby between the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired. May the best act win.

Everybody’s on.

It’s showtime.


Nino was exhibiting some recent purchases, and had the juice to compel five out of six of the artists to attend. It was a very shrewd career move to attend Nino’s functions and be nice. And it might surprise you to know, gentle reader, that some were willing to show up and do a whole lot more than that.

“For god’s sake,” sez my date, with a medly of awe, surprise, envy, and disgust, scanning the signboard at the compound entrance, “did Nino buy one of Clara’s works? Is she going to be here?”

Clara. My date’s ex. There are issues.

“Well, maybe she’s the one that didn’t show up,” I say perkily. “I see it as a sign of integrity, yes, that’s the way I see it,” I finish in sarcastic mocking tone of paid political announcement.

My date breaks her frown with a quick grin, and then a smile, “Well, maybe you’re right. Let’s go see. But if she’s here, I really do need to be somewhere else. OK?”

So we trudge up the winding gravel driveway, which is parked solid with vehicles, leading up to the parking lot which is, of course, full to bursting. We don’t really mind, since we’re wearing some outrageous specialty sneaker footwear designed by an artist friend of ours. My date’s feet look like a pair of Op-art zebras, while mine appear to have been devoured by exotic, luridly-colored alien flowers.

The driveway resolves into a meandering candle-lit walkway leading eventually to the front door. On the left, as we enter, I notice a work by my neighbor Timothy Byron, who at the time, lived a couple of blocks away from my ramshackle, dilapidated, paint-peeling, mouldering cottage out by the beach. I was just beginning to realise that in the churning chaos of the swirling crowd just inside the door, I had staggered in an orbit deviating from the trajectory of my date, who was now mingling and melting into the ongoing hipster hootenanny out on the patio. On the west side of the room I can see Byron holding forth with a gaggle of Art Chicks as he takes occasional hits from a pocket-flask of some small batch Southern designer bourbon, like Rebel Yell, or Maker’s Mark, while looking every bit the personification of the ultimate, iconic all-American Rockstar/Cowboy/Hipster.

Even as he entertains the Art Chicks, I can see TB’s eyes shift toward the open sliding-glass door adjoining the atrium, and briefly lock in mutual contact with Trudi, his Significant Other, a composite sketch of all that is lusciously blonde, wickedly smart, and eternally elusive, even to herself, looking impossibly elegant in blue, while her mouth, a scarlet pouting rose, then breaks into a diplomatic smile as she turns back to the ongoing Small Talk with her carefully selected audience of potential Art Patrons.

They are working the room.



12 Responses to “WHO ONE? (pt. 1)”

  1. Elijah (excerpt): If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it’s up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Guatama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You got me? It’s a lifebrightner, sure. The hottest stuff ever was. It’s the whole pie with jam in. It’s just the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates.
    I know and I am some vibrator.

  2. http:/www.matrifocus.com/LAM04/myturn-sisalfish.htm

  3. “the Aeon is a child at play with colored balls”–Heraclitus

    “Merry go raum”

    To be born again…

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