SUMMER 2015 Edition of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE MAGAZINE: Robert FRANK . David BROWNE . Linda TOCH . Maria TRILIEGI . Alex HARRIS + More...

 




Welcome to The SUMMER 2015 Edition of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE MAGAZINE. This Edition contains The BUREAU ICON Essay on Georgia O'KEEFFE, A Photographic Profile on Robert FRANK's Classic Book The Americans, INTERVIEWS with Photographer Alex HARRIS, The Portrait Painter Jon SWIHART, The Legendary SURF Photographer Jack ENGLISH and The BUREAU Summer Guest Artist: Irby PACE. CINEMA: On The Set of The Classic Film RAGING BULL. CUISINE: PALMS Beverly Hills & Pedro INOSCENCIO, Heir to The Throne: Jamie WYETH, BOOKS: David BROWNE's Opus on The Grateful Dead. Herb RITTS in Boston, Charles RAY in Chicago, Andy WARHOL in Phoenix, Peter BLUME in Hartford, FASHION: The Dandy LIONS Photography and New FICTION by Linda TOCH. +An Interview with The Bureau Editor's Mom, Maria Francesca TRILIEGI on her New Book. We are pleased to have New Readers in The SOUTH: Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and Louisiana at our Newest Community Site, BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE: THE SOUTH. Links to Summer Events across the USA including, The CHICAGO Blues Festival, AUSTIN Biker Festival, Scorsese Collects in NEW YORK, 4TH of July Celebrations + so much more. The BUREAU EDITORIAL DIS - Organizations: Are Groups in America Abusing Power ?MUSIC: Lets ROCK at Fahey / Klein Gallery in MIAMI, MUSEUMS: National Gallery of Art, PORTRAITS: Native American Portraits from The YALE Collection of Western Americana. Plus Links to Our Eight Different Community Sites Celebrating The ARTS Across AMERICA . The Social Media Sites serve More as a look back at Previous BUREAU Editions + Features





  ALSO   COMING   IN   AUGUST   2015  

THE FINAL SEASON OF THE FICTION PROJECT 
"THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS" :  PART  I I I
EVERY FRIDAY IN AUGUST 2015 READ NEW CHAPTERS




NEW FICTION THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS: 

THE SEASON THREE INTRODUCTION TO EPISODE ONE / CHAPTER 34 / BREAKFAST 

Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes. BREAKFAST was written on July 20th 2015 

BREAKFAST

The year after The Riots, life in Los Angeles continued. People went to work, children were born, time kept ticking and the story never ended. For those in the heart of the story, for those who were touched by the event, for those who lost and hurt and got burned: life would never be the same. An event that was your life, your experience, your history was being told by newscasters, mainstream publications and radio disc jockeys who knew nothing about what it was really like and never would know. The day after The Riots, a child woke, poured a bowl of Kellogg's corn flakes and watched cartoons on the television. The commercials in between told the child that when the milk was poured into the bowl, that it would, 'Snap - Crackle and Pop,' the child looked around the room, looked around the house, looked around the streets and noticed that every-thing had snapped, crackled and popped. The plastic had melted, the glass had warped, the wires lay open exposing copper, lead and silver, the perfect square box was now imperfect, corners were entirely melted off, the handle that changed the channels had broken and someone had attached a small vice grip tool in its place. The smell of burnt wood, ash and oil permeated the air. Helicopters, sirens and flashing lights became the norm. The curtains frayed at the edges and all along the sides been stained by fire, air, earth and water, the most basic of elements utilized in a fashion that created destruction, instead of construction. The rug was soaked and laden with tiny bits of broken glass, ember and grease stains. Smoke of all color and size wafted through the windows. Angry footsteps inhabited the ceiling, the hallways and alleys. A toy fire truck that lay in the backyard for years was now replaced with a real fire truck that roared incessantly passed its house, at all hours of the night and day. Police car sirens and lights engaged twenty-four hours a day, soldiers from the army reserves of the United States of America in camouflage standing on every corner, an entire world that, 'Snapped - Crackled and Popped.'  And Life went on. 



Houses went up for sale. Lots stood empty, Ashes piled up. Businesses were abandoned. Families were broken. Dreams were deferred. Third strikes were established by the law and people went to prison for stealing a pizza, a pair of shoes, a case of toilet paper. Men and woman in all manor, in all shapes, in all colors and sizes broke. Screaming through the streets, "Why?" But even a child knows that if you want to learn algebra, you don't ask why. You simply work on the equation, by learning the rules to the diagram, in geometry and trigonometry, there was no time to ask why. Even beer commercials directed the child to not ask why and shoe companies reenforced that ideology by telling the child to, "Just Do IT!"  So the child did. Empty slogans had manipulated the population for 100s of years and so the population, in its desperation, in its pain, in it's agony and in its defiance, invented some empty slogans of its own and then quite suddenly, those slogans were inhabited, not so empty after all, for this was not a politician with a team of advisors, this was not a police chief with a speechwriter, this was not a corporation with a dozen brilliant ad executives working on a new account, this was the mother-f*cking-public, these were real people, this was a real event, this was the city of a child who ate corn flakes while watching television every morning before school and when it's family and when it's friends and when it's neighbors and when it's city began chanting the empty slogan that rang through the city like a Bell on Sunday, this child inhabited that slogan: No Justice / No Peace, Know Justice / Know Peace. Dragnet and One Adam Twelve and Police Woman and Baretta and Starsky and Hutch and CHIPS and The Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman, to quote a popular phrase in poetry, "...Will not seem so damn relevant, because the revolution will not be televised,"  and yet, It was televised after all. The transmission of images was blast across the city in the earliest hours of the event. The Parker Center flash-point had ignited hotspots all along the vertical and lateral thorough-fairs through the city of Angels in a giant grid that only those flying in airplanes and helicopters could view. With the exception of those multitude natural forces of life known as the animals, who watched in glee as the humans failed once again at their own game. A game of self extinction, an experiment of too many mice in a maze called Los Angeles. 



Hawks circle overhead, crows cawed, seagulls glanced, thrashers, bluejays, sparrows, woodpeckers, pigeons, hummingbirds and all manner of birds flew overhead, bees returned to their hives, butterfly nestled under branches, spiders strengthened their webs, ants collected bits of this and that, squirrels climbed palm trees to get a better view, coyotes howled through the hills, deer looked on pensively, mountain lions patiently  waited, possums stopped playing dead and walked along the tops of fences, a family of bears escaped from the zoo, an elephant stepped on its trainer in a parking lot downtown, snakes slithered to higher ground, raccoons sensed some easy pickings on the horizon and all the while domesticated dogs and cats sat with their owners, watching television. The first time it rained after The Riot, an inordinate amount of chemicals spewed through the streets, into the gutters, down the sewers, along the pipelines and on into the ocean: Formaldehyde, asbestos, concrete, plastic, tar, asphalt, rubber, fiberglass, aluminum, glass, lead, resin, stucco, lime, drywall, and the entire contents of dozens of 99 cents stores which included: bleach, roach killer, hair spray, comet, windex, baking soda, nylon, air freshener, butane, high fructose corn syrup, polyester, lysol, both the regular scent and the new and exciting pine flavor all rolled into one giant blob of city sludge and plopped itself into the intestines of the City of Angels, rolling through the LA River and dumping itself directly into the sea. Blue fin tuna, albacore, barracuda, lobster, sea bass and even mackerel were no where to be seen. There were no shark attacks to worry about. Sharks were too smart to swim in waters infested by chemicals of that variety. Within their very organism, they have a built in mechanism that can detect one ten thousands of an ingredient in the water from miles away. This device was originally evolved, no doubt, for survival, in search of something to consume, but due to the stupidity of the human race, the callous nature of the corporations, the shortsighted views of the now angry populist, this devise was used to avoid certain areas and avoid it they did.  The chemicals that trickled down through the ashes, through the soot, through the smoke and through the tears had accidentally informed the organism, transformed the organism, reformed the organism and the child, who had sensed all along that all was not well, would never, ever, be the same again. Nor would the place that they call the City of Angels. 



The little plastic box that had for decades transmitted ideas somehow still worked, the device that transferred images, sound and motion on a regular basis, continued  to do so.  Tony the Tiger, exclaimed to the child that the food it was eating, the contents it was consuming, the simple little flakes of corn in all manner of speaking and description could be defined in a two word phrase that was simple and easy to remember: "They're Great!" The big rabbit with the floppy ears was told time and time again that he was indeed a silly rabbit and that, "Trix are for kids!" The Frito Bandito, Captain Crunch, Count Chocula and a Lucky Charm with a Shamrock were also present, representing an old school variety of corn paste, flour, sugar and salt, added preservatives and in some cases food coloring that sometimes caused cancer, with a simple reminder that if you ever ended up in prison, you would indeed have to choose a cereal that represented something familiar to your general genetic make up.  And of course there was the award winning commercial that had Mike-y and his brothers, representing a product that somehow encompassed the child's entire existence, by calling itself, 'LIFE'.  "He won't eat it..." his brothers exclaim, as they put a bowl of blocked wheat style cereal in front of the freckled faced child, "...He hates everything."  Then, quite suddenly, the  boy begins to shovel the wheat blocks into his mouth as his brothers excitedly exclaim, "Hey Mike-y! He Likes IT!" For those with simpler tastes, you had Aunt Jamima and or Quaker Oats, in case you ever forgot who founded this country and what your position in the hierarchy was to begin with. Yes, the little box in the corner with the wire in the wall and the antennae on the roof still worked. And the child watched it. The picture was not as clear, the colors not as crisp, the audio was warped, the depth was foggy, the vertical and lateral lines often separated, but the endless trail of information, disinformation and programming continued on, it taught the child and eventually, the child had learned to transmit it's own programs. The child and it's family and it's neighbors and it's city were all so busy programming, they had no time to wonder, just who exactly was actually eating the giant bowl of cereal that they were all now living in ?  The entire city snapped, it crackled and it popped, surely someone was bound to eat it.  

NEW FICTION THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS: THE SEASON THREE INTRODUCTION TO EPISODE ONE / CHAPTER 34 / BREAKFAST Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes. BREAKFAST was written on July 20th 2015 BREAKFAST The year after The Riots, life in Los Angeles continued. People went to work, children were born, time kept ticking and the story never ended. For those in the heart of the story, for those who were touched by the event, for those who lost and hurt and got burned: life would never be the same. An event that was your life, your experience, your history was being told by newscasters, mainstream publications and radio disc jockeys who knew nothing about what it was really like and never would know. The day after The Riots, a child woke, poured a bowl of Kellogg's corn flakes and watched cartoons on the television. The commercials in between told the child that when the milk was poured into the bowl, that it would, 'Snap - Crackle and Pop,' the child looked around the room, looked around the house, looked around the streets and noticed that every-thing had snapped, crackled and popped. The plastic had melted, the glass had warped, the wires lay open exposing copper, lead and silver, the perfect square box was now imperfect, corners were entirely melted off, the handle that changed the channels had broken and someone had attached a small vice grip tool in its place. The smell of burnt wood, ash and oil permeated the air. Helicopters, sirens and flashing lights became the norm. The curtains frayed at the edges and all along the sides been stained by fire, air, earth and water, the most basic of elements utilized in a fashion that created destruction, instead of construction. The rug was soaked and laden with tiny bits of broken glass, ember and grease stains. Smoke of all color and size wafted through the windows. Angry footsteps inhabited the ceiling, the hallways and alleys. A toy fire truck that lay in the backyard for years was now replaced with a real fire truck that roared incessantly passed its house, at all hours of the night and day. Police car sirens and lights engaged twenty-four hours a day, soldiers from the army reserves of the United States of America in camouflage standing on every corner, an entire world that, 'Snapped - Crackled and Popped.' And Life went on. Houses went up for sale. Lots stood empty, Ashes piled up. Businesses were abandoned. Families were broken. Dreams were deferred. Third strikes were established by the law and people went to prison for stealing a pizza, a pair of shoes, a case of toilet paper. Men and woman in all manor, in all shapes, in all colors and sizes broke. Screaming through the streets, "Why?" But even a child knows that if you want to learn algebra, you don't ask why. You simply work on the equation, by learning the rules to the diagram, in geometry and trigonometry, there was no time to ask why. Even beer commercials directed the child to not ask why and shoe companies reenforced that ideology by telling the child to, "Just Do IT!" So the child did. Empty slogans had manipulated the population for 100s of years and so the population, in its desperation, in its pain, in it's agony and in its defiance, invented some empty slogans of its own and then quite suddenly, those slogans were inhabited, not so empty after all, for this was not a politician with a team of advisors, this was not a police chief with a speechwriter, this was not a corporation with a dozen brilliant ad executives working on a new account, this was the mother-f*cking-public, these were real people, this was a real event, this was the city of a child who ate corn flakes while watching television every morning before school and when it's family and when it's friends and when it's neighbors and when it's city began chanting the empty slogan that rang through the city like a Bell on Sunday, this child inhabited that slogan: No Justice / No Peace, Know Justice / Know Peace. Dragnet and One Adam Twelve and Police Woman and Baretta and Starsky and Hutch and CHIPS and The Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman, to quote a popular phrase in poetry, "...Will not seem so damn relevant, because the revolution will not be televised," and yet, It was televised after all. The transmission of images was blast across the city in the earliest hours of the event. The Parker Center flash-point had ignited hotspots all along the vertical and lateral thorough-fairs through the city of Angels in a giant grid that only those flying in airplanes and helicopters could view. With the exception of those multitude natural forces of life known as the animals, who watched in glee as the humans failed once again at their own game. A game of self extinction, an experiment of too many mice in a maze called Los Angeles. Hawks circle overhead, crows cawed, seagulls glanced, thrashers, bluejays, sparrows, woodpeckers, pigeons, hummingbirds and all manner of birds flew overhead, bees returned to their hives, butterfly nestled under branches, spiders strengthened their webs, ants collected bits of this and that, squirrels climbed palm trees to get a better view, coyotes howled through the hills, deer looked on pensively, mountain lions patiently waited, possums stopped playing dead and walked along the tops of fences, a family of bears escaped from the zoo, an elephant stepped on its trainer in a parking lot downtown, snakes slithered to higher ground, raccoons sensed some easy pickings on the horizon and all the while domesticated dogs and cats sat with their owners, watching television. The first time it rained after The Riot, an inordinate amount of chemicals spewed through the streets, into the gutters, down the sewers, along the pipelines and on into the ocean: Formaldehyde, asbestos, concrete, plastic, tar, asphalt, rubber, fiberglass, aluminum, glass, lead, resin, stucco, lime, drywall, and the entire contents of dozens of 99 cents stores which included: bleach, roach killer, hair spray, comet, windex, baking soda, nylon, air freshener, butane, high fructose corn syrup, polyester, lysol, both the regular scent and the new and exciting pine flavor all rolled into one giant blob of city sludge and plopped itself into the intestines of the City of Angels, rolling through the LA River and dumping itself directly into the sea. Blue fin tuna, albacore, barracuda, lobster, sea bass and even mackerel were no where to be seen. There were no shark attacks to worry about. Sharks were too smart to swim in waters infested by chemicals of that variety. Within their very organism, they have a built in mechanism that can detect one ten thousands of an ingredient in the water from miles away. This device was originally evolved, no doubt, for survival, in search of something to consume, but due to the stupidity of the human race, the callous nature of the corporations, the shortsighted views of the now angry populist, this devise was used to avoid certain areas and avoid it they did. The chemicals that trickled down through the ashes, through the soot, through the smoke and through the tears had accidentally informed the organism, transformed the organism, reformed the organism and the child, who had sensed all along that all was not well, would never, ever, be the same again. Nor would the place that they call the City of Angels. The little plastic box that had for decades transmitted ideas somehow still worked, the device that transferred images, sound and motion on a regular basis, continued to do so. Tony the Tiger, exclaimed to the child that the food it was eating, the contents it was consuming, the simple little flakes of corn in all manner of speaking and description could be defined in a two word phrase that was simple and easy to remember: "They're Great!" The big rabbit with the floppy ears was told time and time again that he was indeed a silly rabbit and that, "Trix are for kids!" The Frito Bandito, Captain Crunch, Count Chocula and a Lucky Charm with a Shamrock were also present, representing an old school variety of corn paste, flour, sugar and salt, added preservatives and in some cases food coloring that sometimes caused cancer, with a simple reminder that if you ever ended up in prison, you would indeed have to choose a cereal that represented something familiar to your general genetic make up. And of course there was the award winning commercial that had Mike-y and his brothers, representing a product that somehow encompassed the child's entire existence, by calling itself, 'LIFE'. "He won't eat it..." his brothers exclaim, as they put a bowl of blocked wheat style cereal in front of the freckled faced child, "...He hates everything." Then, quite suddenly, the boy begins to shovel the wheat blocks into his mouth as his brothers excitedly exclaim, "Hey Mike-y! He Likes IT!" For those with simpler tastes, you had Aunt Jamima and or Quaker Oats, in case you ever forgot who founded this country and what your position in the hierarchy was to begin with. Yes, the little box in the corner with the wire in the wall and the antennae on the roof still worked. And the child watched it. The picture was not as clear, the colors not as crisp, the audio was warped, the depth was foggy, the vertical and lateral lines often separated, but the endless trail of information, disinformation and programming continued on, it taught the child and eventually, the child had learned to transmit it's own programs. The child and it's family and it's neighbors and it's city were all so busy programming, they had no time to wonder, just who exactly was actually eating the giant bowl of cereal that they were all now living in ? The entire city snapped, it crackled and it popped, surely someone was bound to eat it.


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"THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS"  2015 NOVEL PROJECT

BUREAU SUMMER EDITION 2015 EDITED by JOSHUA TRILIEGI 


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We Thank: Da Capo Press, Cantor Arts Center, Stanford University, Pace/MacGill Gallery, National Gallery of Art, Georgia O'Keefe Museum of Art, Fine Arts Center Colorado Springs, Duke University, Andy Warhol Museum, Phoenix Art Museum, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Art Institute of Chicago, Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Crystal Bridges,  United Artists, Spot Photo Works, Nasher Sculpture Center, Dallas Museum of Art, Museum of Fine Art Huston Texas,  Gallerie Urbane, Mary Boone Gallery, Pace Gallery, Asian Art Museum, Magnum Photo, Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art, Fahey/Klein, Tobey C. Moss, Sandra Gehring, George Billis, Martin - Gropius - Bau Berlin, San Jose Museum of Art, First Run Features, Downtown Records, Koplin Del Rio, Robert Berman, Indie Printing, American Film Institute, SFMOMA, Palm Beverly Hills, KM Fine Arts, LA Art Show, Photo LA,  Jewish Contemporary Museum, Cultural Affairs, Yale Collection of Rare Books & Manuscript and  Richard Levy. 

Contributing Photographers: Norman Seef, Herb Ritts, Jack English, Alex Harris, Gered Mankowitz, Bohnchang Koo, Natsumi Hayashi, Raymond Depardon, T. Enami, Dennis Stock, Dina Litovsky, Guillermo Cervera, Moises Saman, Cathleen Naundorf, Terry Richardson, Phil Stern, Dennis Morris, Henry Diltz, Steve Schapiro, Yousuf Karsh, Ellen Von Unwerth, William Claxton,  Robin Holland, Andrew Moore,  James Gabbard, Mary Ellen Mark, John Robert Rowlands, Brian Duffy, Robert Frank, Jon Lewis, Sven Hans, David Levinthal,  Joshua White, Brian Forrest, Lorna Stovall,  Elliott Erwitt,  Rene Burri,  Susan Wright,  David Leventhal, Peter Van Agtmael & The Bureau Editor Joshua Triliegi.    

Contributing Guest Artists: Irby Pace, Jon Swihart, F. Scott Hess, Ho Ryon Lee, Andy Moses, Kahn & Selesnick, Jules Engel,  Patrick Lee, David Palumbo, Tom Gregg, Tony Fitzpatrick, Gary Lang, Fabrizio Casetta, DJ Hall, David FeBland, Eric Zener, Seeroon Yeretzian, Dawn Jackson, Charles Dickson, Ernesto DeLaLoza, Diana Wong, Gustavo Godoy, John Weston,  Kris Kuksi,  Bomonster,  Hiroshi Ariyama,  Linda Stark,  Kota Ezawa,  Russell  Nachman,  Katsushika  Hokusai and  Xuan Chen 

Contributing Writers: Robin Holland,  Jamar Mar(s) Tucker,  Linda Toch,  Maria (Mom) Triliegi
THE BUREAU SUMMER EDITION 2015 EDITED by JOSHUA TRILIEGI 

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Academy Award Winning Actor Robert DeNiro as Jake "The Bronx Bull" LaMotta in RAGING BULL / United Artists


ON THE SET: RAGING BULL


By Joshua TRILIEGI







A man in a hooded, leopard skin robe walks down a long hallway while a group of men push aside those standing in his path. We hear a crowd of thousands cheer the man on, "Jake Jake Jake …" they begin to chant. He is wearing boxing gloves, this is a championship fight, the crowd is dressed in their finest, the men are wearing suits and hats, the women are wearing jewelry, the place is filled with cigar and cigarette smoke, sailors, businessmen, middle aged characters scream the man's name over and over, the women smile as he passes by, his trainers walk in front of and behind the man as he walks down the pathway toward the ring, the volume of the crowd amplifies as the man gets closer and closer to the large roped off square canvas at the center of the arena. The man in the leopard skin robe enters through the ropes, a nondescript fellow with a microphone introduces the man in the robe, the crowd goes wild with frenzy, people are shouting, clapping, everyone is yelling something and then, suddenly, a quiet gent behind a camera yells, "cut" and the place goes silent, the action ceases, everyone settles and a pensive discussion between the crew behind the camera ensues. A few changes are discussed, several people make notations and we do it all over again. I am barely a teenager. It is a first time experience and I am collaborating with the finest in the business. My father and I are working together on the film set of a classic piece of cinema with the Actor Robert DeNiro and Director Martin Scorsese. This is On the Set Raging Bull, thirty-five years later & this is all true.





Academy Award Winning Actor Robert DeNiro as Jake "The Bronx Bull" LaMotta in RAGING BULL / United Artists



I get home from school and, once again, my parents are having a debate and it is about me. This has happened a few times, once, when my brother wanted to take me to an important surf contest on a week day and another time, when we got stuck at the border of Mexico and America late one Sunday night and didn't get home until early Monday morning. Today's negotiation is all about what is more important ? For me to attend school or for me to participate in making a film? The prior debates were also surrounding weather a day in real life would mean more to my education than a day at school. My dad had always felt that real life events had a gravity that would inform much more than the controlled environs of a formal education. In the past, his debating skills would convince mom that this was true and after some heated discussion, he wins her over. Now, we have to figure out how a thirteen year old kid with shoulder length hair is going to fit into a film that takes place in the late 1940s and early Fifties. First, he offers to cut it and I say no. Then, my hair is tied into a pony tail and stuffed up into a woolen cap that my old man had worn since he was a barber down on Prospect Avenue in Milwaukee. Back then, my mother had found herself single, with three kids, she was italian, she was beautiful, she was liberated and although the barber had barely begun his own life as a bachelor and hadn't entered college, when my mom walked in to get my older brother's hair cut, he fell for her and at six months old, he and I become pals. Through the years, we seldom had to deal with any of the father & son bullshit that can ruin a great relationship, we were often, simply friends or roommates or just happened to be living together. We both had to answer to the same lady, for him, it was the love of his life, for me, it was my mom, who made me clean my room, do chores, wash my own clothes and do my homework before running out for the day and get back by nightfall.



Academy Award Winner Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci play The La Motta Brothers in RAGING BULL / United Artists



We have been through some tough times together as a family and come out unscathed. But things are about to get really rough. In about six months, mom is going to move back to Milwaukee for a stretch, my brother and I will stay in California and my sister will go with mom. We did fifteen years without a separation, but my mom is coming into her own and my dad is freaking out. We get up at five in the morning and drive downtown to the Olympic Auditorium, where my old man is moonlighting nights as a security guard. The Olympic was the place, back in the day, where boxing matches happened every weekend. The great American boxing tradition was much bigger and wider spread than most people realize today. A few kids from just about any working class neighborhood, would start fighting in the ring, very early on, certainly kids my age did. There was the Golden Gloves, usually sponsored by a local newspaper and there was the Diamond Belt, often played live on local radio stations. My grandfather fought for these competitions in the late 1920s & early Thirties. He and his friends even started a boxing club, the Battling Bombers. They'd get up in the morning, run along the lakefront, work out at the gym and then go to work all day. He was a great fighter, he naturally had the correct build, could take a punch, had a mean right hook, but one thing he didn't have, was the reach. And if you can't reach your opponent, nothing much matters. In any event, my dad was very aware of my grandfather's history as well as the talent that lay in director Martin Scorsese. My parents had seen Scorsese's early films, but when, "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore," was released, both my parents had noticed that my precocious behavior compared that of Alice's son.The big screen rapport between the boy and Alice had undertones of my own relationship with mom.



Actress Cathy Moriarty plays Jake LaMotta's Wife, Vicki in RAGING BULL / Image Courtesy of United Artists



We get to the set and already thousands of people are filling the auditorium. I am dressed in jeans and suspenders, a cap and tennis shoes. He is wearing a suit and tie. Because my dad is actually an employee, we have all access. The scene we are shooting today is a famous 'single take' that Martin Scorsese will later make into one of his trademark style techniques. A favorite example of which would be the incredible scene in, 'GoodFellas' when Henry and Karen walk into a nightclub through the kitchen, to avoid the lines out front. They stroll through the door, down a hallway, into the kitchen, where Henry greets the chef, past a couple, who Henry chastises for always meeting here and on into the club, where a table is placed directly in front of the entertainer, who then sends Henry and his date a bottle of champagne. It is an amazing and exhilarating piece of cinema. The scene we are about to shoot uses similar elements. The first time we shoot the scene, the camera is behind Jake and he walks from dressing room to hallway to entryway of the arena and down the long path to the ring, where he makes a sharp left, past the judges and a right into the ring. My father and I are seated just above left of camera, the crew is situated below us, to our right. In between takes, and I can only assume that because my dad worked at the auditorium, or because it was meant to teach me something, or because he thought I would 'be discovered,' he began to call over production techies and assistants, asking questions about this or that adjustment. All these years later, having worked on films, directed and produced, I still can't believe what guts my dad had for the way he participated in the actual filming of the day. I mean, we were just extras, actually, we weren't even that, we were bum rushing the entire experience and here he is actually, 'participating' in the filmmaking process.







Actors Frank Adonis, Joseph Bono and Frank Vincent in RAGING BULL / Image Courtesy of United Artists

The first, 'adjustment,' we notice, is when Martin Scorsese moves an extra on the right hand side of the scene from visibility. The man is dressed to the nines, in suit and hat. This is a crowd scene with thousands of people. At any one time, the camera is taking in from twelve to twelve hundred people. This is Mr Scorsese as a master oil painter, creating a giant fresco, placing each individual exactly where he wants them, every now and then, within the single take, an individual character may express an action that will end up on the screen for maybe a second or two. An older, portly man in the hallway, reaches out to Jake outside his dressing room, a middle aged man in a mustache, turns to his left while Jake passes by, clapping, a young woman cheers Jake on as he turns to the left towards the ring. When my father calls over one of the crew members and inquires about the particular change of position, the man simply looks at my dad, then looks at me, then gets on the talkie and finds out. A few minutes later, he comes over to inform us that the well dressed man is in an outfit that resembles one of the main characters and could be confusing to the overall film. This is the first of several inquiries that alerts the crew that either one of Marty's close pals is in the audience or a renegade security guard with kid in tow is taking notes. For now, we are still flying under the radar. We do the scene again, this time, the camera is in front of Jake, the sound of the arena is deafening. This is the moment, in the story & script, where Jake LaMotta finally gets the title fight he deserves. After several editing techniques of a wide variety, mostly, extremely fast and short clips, his shot at the title is pronounced, with this extended, single take and in the final film, it works out beautifully.


Joe Pesci and Nicholas Colasanto, The Neighborhood Don in in RAGING BULL / Image Courtesy of United Artists





We break for lunch. The entire auditorium is practically full with thousands of extras and somehow, my dad is able to situate me right next to Robert DeNiro. To this day, I still don't know how he did that, but I have a few ideas why. All these years later, looking back on that very important day in my life, I can see clearly that he wanted me to have the opportunities that existed here in Hollywood. As it turns out, he was a natural born bum rusher, who, on several occasions had done this type of thing before. One example, that stands out, is the time he got backstage at a concert and handed Waylon Jennings a tape with a bunch of songs he had written with his cousin. I should also say here that my old man was definitely a gambler, but he also had talent, he wrote poetry, painted, he knew music very well, was a master craftsman, he had charisma and the gift of gab, he was handsome and had a great heart, but to me, back then, he was simply the guy I had lived with, that my mom had loved, since I was six months old. That said, here I am, eating lunch with a silent Robert DeNiro, who is donned in hood and robe, no one else dared to sit at that table. While I am chowing down with Bobby, my old man is chatting up the crew, he's, no doubt, getting that high that can easily be had when on the set of a great film, probably doesn't even realize it. I look up and he is now talking to the real life Jake LaMotta, getting his autograph, introducing me to people, we are no longer, under the radar. After lunch, a crew member stops by and explains that because I am not an adult, and there are no tutors on the set, the law requires that half day rules apply to actors under eighteen and so, we will not be able to stay for the full day. My old man tries for a second or two to appease and convince, then realizes, ultimately, that we have already succeeded, it has been a great day at the roulette wheel of life. We walk back to our car and drive home. Ten years later, I buy my first film camera, write my first screenplay & produce my first short film. The screenplay is a finalist for the Sundance Film Festival's writers workshop and the short film wins nominations elsewhere. 




Academy Award © Winning Actor Robert DeNiro as Jake "The Bronx Bull" LaMotta in RAGING BULL / United Artists





Raging Bull, as a film, is ahead of it's time. The critics, who had, just a few years earlier, lauded Sylvestor Stallone's, 'Rocky' as a winning, feel good boxing film, did not know what to do with a film as brutally honest and unapologetic as Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull. The film was actually, a project that Robert DeNiro had been working on, for quite some time. After the success of The Deerhunter and Godfather II, he was able to put projects together which suited his goals and challenged the audience. For the first time in film history, an actor had gained a record amount of pounds, to play a character in a 'later in life' sequence, setting the bar several notches higher for techniques utilizing one's physique. Even the best film critics are not quite ready for the honesty of Martin Scorsese. America wanted another feel good film about boxing, and what it got, was a stark, reality based film that exposed the brutality, realism and masochism that surrounded Jake LaMotta's life. Not to mention the art house aspect of filming the entire project, with the exception of a few color home movies, in classic black and white. A bold, artistic decision that has, since then, garnered "Raging Bull" the reverence and deep respect of film lovers and cinema creators around the world. All one needs to do is study the film stills and camera work of Michael Chapman to realize why this film is a work of Art on almost every level. Even the sound design is especially mesmerizing, specifically how each crucial punch, in every single fight scene, is given a special mix of audio effect. It is a mesmerizing work of art and a testament to great cinema, without a doubt. At that years Academy Awards © Ceremony, Robert DeNiro walks up the isle, people are cheering, they reach out to him, applaud his performance and he gladly accepts the Oscar Award for Best Actor. Although my dad is unable to read this, I would like to thank him, Marty, Bobby and the Academy: We Made IT.
HERB RITTS 

25 YEARS:NOW A CLASSIC

ON VIEW NOW THROUGH TO NOVEMBER 8, 2015

The Herb Ritts catalogue is now over twenty-five years young. A recent Exhibit at The Boston Museum of Fine Arts gives us a chance to reassess the work of a fundamentally commercial photographer who wanted dearly to shatter the worlds perceptions of Art, Commerciality and Fashion. He had access to the worlds best models, personalities and locations and through it all, had the simplicity and potency to create iconic imagery that harkened back to the earliest days of photography. In looking at The HERB RITTS catalogue, we can see the influence of another great American photographer, Walker Evans, whose work was first celebrated 50 years before Herb Ritts would go onto create some of his most exemplary images that actually defined the times he lived in. Although Walker Evans subjects included the downtrodden and the disparaged, due to the very struggles that occurred economically in the 1930s, Ritts takes that clean, straight ahead style and points his camera at celebrities and clothing in the way that Evans might document a wrench or a trowel. The excesses of The 1980s allowed Ritts, budgets and portfolio commissions, that to this day, seem extreme. And yet, he filtered it down into something very basic, taking a creative note from the architect Mies Van Der Rohe's ever famous quote: "Less IS More." 



Considering other influences, we must also mention photographers such as Edward Steichen and Alfred Stieglitz who had both fought a tedious battle to affirm that photography, in the hands of an artist, could indeed be an 'art' and that the by product of this new instrument called a camera, was indeed an Art-form which could rival and compare to great paintings created by great painters and therefore photographs could, should and would be considered: a great art. 


The very fact that Herb Ritts' work is now residing within the walls of an institute such as The Boston Museum of Fine Art is a testament to those early battles.It is often said that an object becomes valuable and collectible at its 25 year mark. Many of the images in this exhibition were valuable the day they were taken, but we can also see, with that mellowing, like a good whiskey in the barrel, that yes indeed, The Herb RITTS Portfolio is gathering a value that is now vintage value and all the while his works are earthy, sleek, deceivingly simple & purely classic.



Madonna, Tokyo Herb Ritts (American, 1952–2002) 1987 Photograph, gelatin silver print 
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Gift of Herb Ritts © Herb Ritts Foundation
Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 

Mick Jagger, London, 1987 by Photographer Herb RITTS at The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 



1.Naomi Campbell, Face in Hand, Hollywood, 1990 2. Backflip, Paradise Cove, 1987 3. Sylvester Stallone and Brigitte Nielsen, Long Island, 1987 Images Related to this Bureau Article : Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Gift of Herb Ritts © Herb Ritts Foundation Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 




               image: Guest Artist Irby Pace                                                                                 Courtesy of Gallerie Urbane

SO MANY ROADS: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE GRATEFUL DEAD
By Joshua TRILIEGI 

David Browne has written a grand opus of a book on, of all things, the greatest rock & roll accident that has ever occurred: The Grateful Dead. No other band in Rock & Roll history can be compared to 'The Dead,' as they have been commonly known by fans and professionals alike. From the early days in Palo Alto California to the later days across the entire world, Mr. Browne has fashioned an exhaustively researched book into an easily readable tome of sorts. The writer for Rolling Stone magazine has taken an original and interesting approach and given us a portrait of the band through a very straight forward concept that fits well with his style, his experience and his day job, writing about music in digestible amounts. Mr. Browne breaks down the careers and characters that make up the Dead, from start to finish, by simply creating complete and utter portraits of various days in the life of The Grateful Dead. Days in which Mr Browne felt that a significant window into the soul of the band could be glimpsed. It is a smart concept considering that Mr. Browne was not an insider. He did not tour with the band, so he was well aware that this book would not compare, nor did he wish to compete with the previous books which have preceded this fine piece of history. Through his research methods, which seem to be exemplary, without all the show off style that can sometimes leave a bitter taste in the reader, and his experience at Rolling Stone magazine, Browne takes us into the forming of the band, their many transformations and delivers portraits of each member with the greatest care and delicacy available. Its a complex story, told with an exacting style.



By the fifth page of The Prologue, the reader is hooked. I personally cannot think of a more easy reading style, chocked with so many actual facts, insights and observations in a very long, long time. Sometimes his acuity is just as strange and off the cuff as the formulas and elements that make up The Grateful Dead's original and one of a kind style of music. For instance, Jerry Garcia's early concerns and fears regarding the Cuban missile crisis in America is a real eye opener, which on first impression seems slightly heavy handed, but upon consideration of Garcia's age and experience, entirely fitting. Browne interviewed surviving members, had access to The Grateful Dead Archive in Santa Cruz as well as a multitude of interviews directly from his office job at Rolling Stone magazine. But he didn't stop there, apparently there has been more literature in connection with the Grateful Dead than one would ever imagine. From sources as diverse as Tom Wolf'e, Electric Kool - Aid Acid Test, written in 1968 to the source that broke Watergate, The Washington Post. Everyone has seemingly spent some time ruminating on the indescribable elements that make up the iconic sound that originated such classic pillars of Rock & Roll History like, Truckin', Casey Jones & Uncle John's Band. Mr. Browne has received attention previously for writing about, brace yourself: The 'Importance' of John Tesch. Lets not hold that against him, maybe, like The Grateful Dead, he was intoxicated or simply mixing and matching inspiration and improvisation. Either way, this author has delved deep down into the facts, the myths and the fiction surrounding Garcia and his band of bad boy compadre's and has surfaced with a nice read that newcomers as well as hardcore fans will surely dig. Mr. Brown has also written about: Sonic Youth, Jeff Buckley and James Taylor. As a writer who occasionally hitchhiked to and from preschool in Northern California, with my mom, and on more than one occasion received rides home from members of The Dead: I wholeheartedly approve of this book. Now available on Da Capo Press. Worth every dollar spent on the 482 pages it offers readers.




 NEW FICTION: KAZUO ALONE 
A Short Story by Linda Toch / Little Tokyo Story Contest Winner 2015


 Kazuo embraced Mondays like no other and that was because of its silence. Mondays were sweet, a sweep of semi-peace in the streets of Los Angeles. The typical street-crawlers were in school and the typical tourists at their nine to five jobs, and so Kazuo chose Monday to roam, map, conquer his neighborhoods unperturbed. Mondays were a convenience only when eighty five of your years had passed and your company along with it. It was nice timing for those who desired solace. The old man had fit this criteria to a tee. People talked about him, of course; no one who walks alone can keep his name out of others’ mouths. They say he had a wife once. They say his marriage was a spectacle, a whirr of harmonies—he, a striking man, she, an incandescent beauty—he, solemn-faced, she, the embodiment of joy. She was his joy. Small talk still lingers about their wedding to date, a legend left for the gossip mill to disperse. 100 brown doves. That was how many they released that day.


Rumor had it, the birds swirled around the couple, drawing a ribbon with their synchronized bodies before soaring up and beyond sight. They called this God’s miracle, God’s blessing on a beautiful union. A year later, when the wife’s cheeks ran out of ruby colors to make room for pallor, they called it God’s apology instead. His solemn face turned sorrow. He hadn’t remarried since. Years past and people trickled in and out of his life, and Kazuo never put forth the efforts to make them stay. He, ever the true Buddhist, held no attachments. Religion had nothing to do with this, of course; he simply couldn’t be bothered with anyone else to begin with. Yet in spite of this, there was something that drew him back to Little Tokyo time after time. Kazuo knew his streets well, but he was mindless when he walked. He lived in his head, in a world far detached from realities, from earth—perhaps that was the sole reason why he enjoyed his solo strolls. When he returned, unaware of the lefts and rights he chose, he found himself wound up on First or Alameda. Always. He’d spot the museum’s large puzzle cube, listen to the paper lanterns crinkle above his head, feel the gust of wind as children breezed by him with an excitement so distantly familiar to him… it was the way wide streets became smaller and then wider again, and the way the tiny shops were cramped so closely. He’d be a dead man before he admitted it, but Little Tokyo had wormed its way into his heart.


The streets were by no means empty on Mondays, but Kazuo didn’t need to bump and squirm his way through crowds among crowds. It was mostly college students flocking to the modernized corners, anyway. The sushi joints. Yogurtland. Anything with bright letters and an appearance that promised a good time. Kazuo rested in a quieter area, a little sector of a street filled with mom and pop shops. He sat in front of a bakery store of the Japanese Village Plaza, listening to a performer improvise a song for a family next to him. The singer’s voice, mellow and pleasant, was a charmer. It was as if people paid for the happy ambience his keyboard brought instead of the performance itself. The tip jar was filled to the brim. High school ditchers passed by him, the corners of their mouth dribbled with ice cream. The infectious bliss that came from the musician seemed to make them younger and younger. Such a gift, to be able to have your keyboard turn the elderly to adults, the adults to teens, the teens to children…and the teens laughed joyously, ecstatically, their heads thrown back the way a seven year old’s would.


Kazuo’s heart stung a little. He remembered how it was, to be young and enamored. No one else existed but the person by your side; nothing else was tangible except the hands brushing against your own. “And you, sir!” the performer called, suddenly, index finger pointed straight at Kazuo. “What is your name?” “Ah, I…no, I didn’t tip you,” Kazuo responded sheepishly, waving his hands to the artist. “No money.” Smiling, his inquirer replied, “I’m here to talk, not much else. How are you?” His words reverberated from the microphone and bounced around in Kazuo’s ears. I’m here to talk…when was the last conversation Kazuo had? It was with his insurers, wasn’t it? Or his doctor? The nurses? “I…I’m fine, thank you.” It felt like all of Little Tokyo stared at him, their eyes digging into his skin. Even the pigeons that scattered among the Plaza seemed to look into the old man. Seemed to look into how he sat, crookedly. How his back hunched and his teeth yellowed even more in bare sunlight. How his forehead wrinkled and sagged his face downward into a perpetual frown. He finally felt like his age in his skin, and he’d never been more aware of eighty five years than that day. “Ah, before I launch into a song, do you want me to dedicate it to someone?” the performer continued. Again with the questions. “A loved one, maybe?” he pressed. Kazuo merely shook his head. “No, no one. There’s no one.” “You were in love, weren’t you? I can tell by the way you look down.” The performer pressed a few keys, his fingers cascading over them with a feathery lightness. The sounds floated melodiously into the air, drawing in more and more of a crowd.
Kazuo shuffled his feet in embarrassment. “Let me ask an easier question, then. How did you meet?” The grin the musician gave coaxed an answer out of the reluctant Kazuo. He stuttered, yelling it half-heartedly, just loud enough for the other man to hear. “We met by the Aoyama tree!” Too loud, Kazuo thought, cringing. I was too loud. Too much noise… The performer’s eyes glinted, and his smile widened. He continued pressing down more keys, more and more, a stream of gorgeous sounds making way to Kazuo’s ears. But he sang nothing into the microphone. Kazuo was startled by the silence, but sat still to enjoy the music regardless. A minute had passed before the man proceeded with more questions. “The Aoyama tree…what a beautiful place to meet a beautiful woman, no?” Kazuo nodded. “It was,” he agreed softly. “It was.” His mind drifted back to a time when his heart was filled with inexplicable emotions, a mesh of pain and thrill, hope and fervor and ultimately: heat. There was the sting of leaving his family behind. He could not touch his mother’s face anymore, or help his father walk in old age. But on another hand, he had made his way into LA. The city of the greats. The giants. The powerful, the dreamers. The city to get lost in, to get found, to be anonymous, to make a name—LA. It was an achievement all on its own, making it there. And then there was her. He remembered meeting her perfectly: the clumsiness that ensued, the awkward exchange of greetings that followed. He stumbled, and she tripped, and he fell, and she toppled over. And he said hello. And she gifted him a smile. “I’ve seen you a couple times, sir,” the performer continued. “You come here often. I want to give thanks for showing love to our little world.”






Kazuo remembered the shops, the nooks and crannies found in them, and the entanglement of histories and modern culture. The celebrations, the festivals. The morning prayers. Kazuo remembered all of it. And he remembered her traversing by his side the entire time, exploring the ‘little world’ that only seemed to get bigger the more they stayed in it. And he remembered the happiness. Where was the crying child in Little Tokyo? The frowning human? They didn’t seem to exist. The streets were flooded with happiness, a happiness like no other. And it was still flooded today. But the idea of joy was so faint in his heart, as time wrung out the euphoria in all his memories, that Kazuo only now began to feel again. There was bitterness locked inside of him, a bitterness that never left him since her passing. And so he exhaled this bitterness with the timing of the music. In and out. Just like the morning meditations she used to accompany him to, around the temple near their precious love-tree. He breathed in the piano notes and breathed out the heaviness in his heart. “The Aoyama tree,” the performer started, “is a sign of resilience. It’s a sign of forever. Of going on. It’s an old, old survivor in the city…much like you, I’d imagine.” Again, the performer smiled. “And much like your love. The tree is entwined with your past, my friend, and that’s a beautiful honor.” Kazuo lifted himself up slowly and walked toward the performer. His hands shook. He leaned forward and put a five dollar bill in the tip jar. It was all the money he had. “Thank you. Thank you. I feel light again,” Kazuo whispered. The performer shoved the microphone out of the way, and whispered back, “Your joy is long overdue…you needed to visit your roots again. Back to where it all started. No thanks are needed for that, my friend.” But with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “I thought you had no money, Kazuo.” It was Kazuo’s turn to smile. He made his way to Aoyama Tree, this time, his mind clear of directions. Somehow, his feet remembered the paths he had taken with her decades ago. Back to the tree’s roots, back to his roots, back to the roots of his first and only love. He felt his heart pump vigorously to keep up with his pace. A part of him wanted to touch the bark. Stroke it. Carve initials into it. He wanted to interact. To feel. But he stayed behind, admiring the piece of art nature invested into this land.



What made Little Tokyo magical was the people around it, he realized. The children, the teens, the adults, the families, the couples. The performer. Her. And him. He was a part of it, the city, the culture. He always was. It was six o’clock by the time Kazuo finished. His legs tired of the walk, he walked in a daze, a wonderment of the new Little Tokyo he was seeing. With every street was a new memory he uncovered once more. There was no more pain heaving down in his chest. He walked a little straighter, stood a little taller. He would visit the tree next Monday, he decided. And the week after that, and the week after that. And forevermore. He would visit the tree for as long as the tree stood there, and as long as he stood alive. There was no more remorse in his reminiscence. Just joy. Kazuo grinned as he thought of the performer. He relived the entire ordeal in his head as he made his way back home. And then it struck him—how did the performer know of his name in the first place? How did the performer know anything at all? And, most importantly, did any of that matter? His spirit felt rejuvenated, youthful. Twenty years old at best. And that was the greatest gift anyone had ever bestowed on him since her smile. For that alone, Kazuo didn’t need the answers to his questions. The sunset settled down and the darkness cloaked the colorful skies with black. He stepped into his house, exhausted by this Monday’s elongated walk. The loneliness always kept on his shoulders had all dissipated by then. Certainly he lived by himself, but that didn’t mean he was alone, no. Not any longer. And before he could lock the door shut, Kazuo could swear he heard the faint coo of a dove outside… a sound that made his eyes dampen. He pressed his palms against his cheeks, surprised. The tears were his own. The emotions were his own. Where was the crying child in Little Tokyo, anyway? Where could you find the frowning adult? He sunk into the comforts of his home and drifted into sleep, his ears filled with the sounds of music and doves. The man was at peace at last.










Linda Toch is a writer and a 2015 Winner of the Los Angeles CA USA Little Tokyo Story Contest. 




CHICAGO EVENTS SUMMER 2015

The CHICAGO BLUES FESTIVAL : June 12 - 14, 2015 Grant Park FREE The largest free blues festival in the world and remains the largest of Chicago's Music Festivals. During three days on five stages, more than 500,000 blues fans prove that Chicago is the "Blues Capital of the World." Past performers include Bonnie Raitt, Ray Charles, B. B. King, the late Bo Diddley, Buddy Guy and the late Koko Taylor. 

The SHEFFIELD Music Festival & Garden Walk : July 18 & 19, 2015 Sponsored by the Sheffield Neighborhood Association (SNA), a non-profit community organization. The "Summer's Best Festival" features self-guided tours of more than 80 Gardens, guided Architectural Tours, live entertainment by some of Chicago's and North America's finest bands, food and drink, and activities for children at the Kids' Corner. http://www.sheffieldgardenwalk.com/

The CHICAGO TRIATHLON : AUGUST 30, 2015 : The new bike course will allow Elite participants the ability to start first, providing unobstructed space along previously congested Lake Shore Drive.The swim is held in Monroe Harbor, with the start line at Balbo Dr. and Lake Shore Drive. International swimmers first head south, swimming parallel to the sea wall.The run course begins at the grass reserve just south of Randolph. http://www.chicagotriathlon.com/
ANDY WARHOL IS IN ARIZONA ! 

How a genuinely curious and simply child-like Individual took over the entire Art World… Is Probably how I would begin a story describing Andy's entire career and trajectory into and then out of the stratosphere of Culture. He used genuine experiences, friendships, new technologies, interest's and even phobia's to reflect on and represent what he saw, but most of all, he used and honored: the experiment. Willing to fail but determined to succeed and sometimes achieving both concurrently. A personal failure could easily become a professional championship win in Warhol's World. A professional failure could lead to personal triumphs. Andy used the world and the world's inhabitants returned the favor. The Story of Andy Warhol can never be told in a single sitting, nor should it be. All good artist's should simply be viewed one image at a time. That is the nature of art and artists, stories and writers, photographs and photographers, musicians and music: One word, One Note, One Image at a time is as ample a device as any to experience what need be.




ALL ART IMAGES: Courtesy of The PHOENIX ART MUSEUM and The Andy Warhol Museum,
Pittsburgh; Founding Collection, Contribution The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc.
Phoenix Art Museum 1625 N. Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85004
TAP TO VISIT MUSEUM EXHIBIT / ANDY WARHOL PORTRAITS at : phxart.org





What is Sacred ? What is Holy ? What is Original ? What is American ? They tell me that Football, McDonalds & The Automobile are American. Although, the only thing that seems to me that is holy, sacred, original and also American is: The Native American. The original ecologists, with a deep understanding of the natural sciences, including astronomy, keeping time, recording natural and spiritual occurrences in regards to evolution. They are the storytellers and record keepers in tune with nature, animals and the planet earth. We are Americans and we are now out of balance. We are struggling with our identity, as a country, as a people and beyond that, as human beings. How will we make peace with one another ? How will we solve the riddles of our history ? In 1492, "Columbus sailed the ocean blue…" 500+ years later, we are left in the dark, regarding race relations, regarding peaceful understanding of our diverse lifestyles, regarding the history of Slavery, regarding how we all speak different languages, regarding our different religions and the fact that all our official political representatives have boiled down each and every argument into a request and or a bequest of financial gain or loss. We are in denial, ecologically, ideologically and in general. Native Americans lost much of this great land and what it meant to them, they sacrificed and they survived. Will we as modern day Americans also experience a similar take over of this Beautiful Country by handing it over to Big Business ? What will be left in the aftermath ? Take a look around, I have a sneaking suspicion that it's happening now or maybe it already did.




ROBERT FRANK: VISUAL POET 


Photographers around the world revere Robert Frank's contributions to the image pool. Museums of the National and International variety create anthologies, catalogues and booklets attempting to put into perspective the precise importance of Mr. Frank's work. Art galleries and private dealers invest tens, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars in reproducing and reselling the Robert Frank catalogue to new collectors at higher and higher prices each year. Robert Frank's photographs have become iconic, the images are American to the core and yet, he was an outsider, a beatnik, an immigrant, a visual poet. It is almost impossible to define why and what and how the impetus, the formula, the motivation surfaces within an individual artist, but within the example of Mister Robert Frank, it is safe to say that this honest man, with a most basic and unadorned tool in hand, was indeed on a quest for that rare and delectable entity known quite simply, plainly & rather straightforwardly as: The TRUTH. 



All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA



Robert Frank travelled the United States in search of America and Americans: he found both. Seeking the truth, leads to knowledge, with knowledge comes responsibility, with responsibility comes wisdom and somewhere within the wisdom, sits some version of truth. What if the truth you find has something in it that is just the slightest bit askew ? What if your parents fled a dictator for a place that was safe and secure and then you were to gamble all that away for a place that spoke of a much larger idea and when you went out to find that idea, it didn't actually exist ? Like many immigrants, like my ancestors and many of your ancestors, we as a people came to discover America and quickly, we realized that America didn't really exist in the way we thought it did. Within that realization also comes a comprehension that although America is not everything we were told, it is now ours and as Americans, we can collectively & individually make a contribution, and in that offering, in that very active step forward into our lives, we make America what it is: You and me. Frank turned his eye on America and took its picture. He did not flinch, he did not turn away, he did not judge, he did not separate, he did not categorize, he did not modify, he did nothing but document, and in that study and within his vignettes, his so-called snap shots, something quite real surfaced, it expounded well beyond the veneer and eventually he found what many of us can only hope to fathom: Mister Robert Frank had simply discovered America & made it his own. He was not the first to, 'discover,' America. Columbus had discovered America in 1492. Washington and his boys followed suit and decided they liked the place more than they did their own homes. Who could blame them ? This place is awesome. The big difference with Robert Frank's discovery is that he did not conquer, nor did he enslave, he just simply captured the image and after all: image is everything. When America actually viewed it's own portrait shortly after World War II and in the decade to follow, it was somewhat shocked at the signs of poverty, the segregation, the somewhat disheveled look. The melting pot of life had seen it's own reflection and turned away, blaming the mirror. The Portrait of America and Americans by Mr. Robert Frank has gone onto have a lasting effect on the populist, the politics, the entire cultural landscape, which in the mid fifties was about to undergo a major shift in values. These images of America immediately influenced an entire generation of writers, artists and activists that had both preceded and coincided with this very new and emerging America. A recent exhibition presented by The Cantor Arts Center at Stanford University unveiled many works from Mr. Frank's famous AMERICANS Series that had never been publicly displayed. 


All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA


At seventeen years of age, Frank learns to develop and print photographs with a neighbor who also introduces him to modern art, the apprenticeship lasted a year. At about this same time, fascism and the rise of Hitler's influence in Germany, where his family emigrated from, his father is German, his mother Swiss, effected the young man's perspectives. Frank, who was of Jewish descent, surely knew, growing up in Sweden, that he was different. His parents were both culturally astute, his father could quote Goethe in two languages, his mother created drawings. When a cousin of Frank's came to visit, her parents, who had stayed behind were eventually victims of the holocaust. The memories of Frank's parents recoiling from the sound of Hitler's hatred remained with him forever. In 1942, Robert Frank studied at Wolgensinger studio in Zurich, where he became influenced by the New Photography and an ethic that, in his teacher's own words, "Photography is the representation of reality - its mission is to convey essence, form and atmosphere." Frank learns to light, print and organize his works as well as contact sheet his 2 1/4 negatives. Two years later, he lands a job developing works for the largest photo studio in Switzerland, by day, he prints their work, by night, he prints his own. By 1946 Frank produces an impressive portfolio entitled, simply 40 Fotos. With the end of World War II, he travels to Paris, Milan and Brussels and by 1947, with a rebellious streak of independence and stories of American culture engrained in his psyche by literature and world events, Mr. Frank boards a ship to America. He recalls sitting between a wild, gangster-hatted American who eats with his hands and a Bishop with rosary and red sash: a scene straight out of a movie. Frank briefly worked for Harper's and a year later, he travelled to Peru and Bolivia. By 1949, he was back in Europe traveling to Spain, France, Italy and later that year is published in Camera magazine, with a prophetic declaration, "We believe Robert Frank can teach us how to see …"



All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA


Robert Frank travelled between Europe and America several times in the early nineteen fifties. He married, had a child, applied for and received a Guggenheim grant & drove across the United States documenting a very real America. He had already captured iconic images in England, Scotland, Peru and Spain, including top hatted Londoners, coal miners in Whales, workers in LaPaz, bullfighters in Barcelona. He was now in search of the American image, outside of the big cities, rural America. It is fitting that the author of, "On The Road," Jack Kerouac and Robert Frank would eventually collaborate on a film. Kerouac also wrote the preface to Frank's seminal mid fifties survey work that was eventually published in 1958, entitled simply, "The Americans." Mr. Franks entry into America in 1947 and his many travels coincided exactly with author Kerouac's own pursuit and invention of a New Prose language in America. It was the perfect alignment. Frank's search for the truth in images, his abhorrence of commercial situations, where he quickly realized that, "There was no spirit there … the only thing that mattered was to make money," was in total unison with the emerging beatnik movement. Which eventually led to the cultural revolution and a new generation of values that included women's rights, civil rights and alternative lifestyles. Frank was also very much in line with the new school of painting that had taken hold by the likes of New York action painter Jackson Pollock, who had graced the cover of time in 1947, the year Frank first arrived in America. He states, regarding the new found style, after a conscious exodus from his New York commercial assignments, "I was very free with the camera. I didn't think of what would be the correct thing to do. I did what I felt like doing. I was like an action painter… I was making a kind of diary." 







The tools Frank selects become even simpler when he begins using a point and shoot 35mm Leica, suggested by his boss and mentor at Harper's Bazaar, Alexey Brodovitch, rather than his 2 1/4 inch box camera. It is very possible that Robert Frank was one of the few modern photographers to be fully conscious of his intuition, utilizing a philosophy of following one's heart as opposed to one's mind. The 35mm camera made this very particular and personal transition that much easier. Frank was also very aware of the myths that had surrounded photography since World War II, with the adventurous roving journalist tradition of photographers such as Robert Capa, who later co-founded Magnum Photo Agency, the first agency to be run by and for photographers. There were times in Frank's early career when lack of sales and rejection from the large magazine publications only fueled his motivation. He strived to break free of the style, story concept and basic mainstream presentation of imagery that pervaded the publishing industry: the beginning, middle & end formulas that LIFE magazine so heartily represented. Frank began to present his layouts and book design works without many words or narration and juxtaposing images such as Christ on the cross with a Ballon at a parade, titled : Men of Wood & Men of Air. Though, even more effective and minimalist are images presented with no text at all and no image juxtaposed, simply an image on one page and a blank page next to it. In this way, Robert Frank elevated the conversation by allowing the viewer to do some thinking, to read the symbols, to project themselves into the image and decide for themselves what was going on. By doing so, he also added a much needed element that had been missing from the photography of the nineteen fifties, Mr. Frank brought back a sense of curiosity to photography and in doing so, he created a new visual poetry with various meanings to each viewer.



All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA


No Less than ten minutes into the documentary entitled, "Leaving Home, Coming Home: A Portrait of Robert Frank," Mr. Frank rejects the films process, unveiling a glimpse into his very true character as a kind of idiosyncratic jazz purist. Up to this point in the film, the filmmaker's have decided to do a, 'connect the dots' biographical take, asking Mr. Frank to discuss and recall all the known biographical facts that have been so well explored before in books and catalogues, such as the very detailed essays by Sarah Greenough of The National Gallery of Art in Washington D. C. where much of Frank's photographic work resides for future study. These biographical essays can also be found in the very extensive book entitled, "ROBERT FRANK Moving Out" on Scalo Press. In the middle of a question and answer session, Mr. Frank is asked to repeat an earlier observation, because the film crew had actually run out of film. He responds with a fiery exchange: "Well, look, forget it. Look, I'm not an actor, you know. I can't go through this shit, you know. I mean… theres no spontaneity in this, it's completely against my nature what's happening here. So, if the crew can't get it together with the film, let's go out to Coney Island, lets play a Beckett play there and lets look at the landscape with my photographs and see that this man is looking for something he did fifty years ago." In the next shot of the film, Mr Frank is seen on the street in Coney Island asking a cop on a horse, "Sir, do you know where this is ? I took this picture almost fifty years ago," The cop answers, "No, I don't know." Mr Frank turns to the camera in response, "Let's find a real old guy, he would know." Suddenly we get some authenticity and a peek into what it Is that Robert Frank does so well: He connects with real people. Eventually, a young african american man points out the location, "It was right there," he points across the way, "So then, you knew it as a kid ?" Frank asks and the young man answers, "Yeah." There is a very heart felt parting glance, Franks says, "Thanks a lot." Then, suddenly, the young man reaches out his hand and Mr. Frank grabs the young man's wrist, their eyes meet and they relate. It's a small, yet beautiful moment where two strangers have connected. We get the sense that 



Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA


Mr. Frank's pictures, his early and entire catalogue were also indeed created with this special human need, for a man, alone with his art and his ideas, to connect with his people, with his immediate surroundings and with the world at large. At another point in the documentary, Mr Frank is riding a bus, looking out the window, recalling an earlier series of works taken from the windows of moving buses. He looks out the window quietly reminiscing in a solitary manner. As an admirer of Mr. Frank and his work, to watch him with no camera in his hands, was literally, for me, quite painful. When a human being you love turns ninety years of age, as Mr. Frank currently has, it is high time to celebrate his life, his work, his experiences. It is also time to ensure that this human being has everything he needs, that he knows how very well loved, well respected and well deserving he is of life's gifts. When both of my Grandfather's had turned ninety, I dropped everything I was doing and focused on them, we made documentary films together, we created images, we conducted interviews, we ate together, we discussed their lives, we set the story straight. Now, both of those men no longer walk the earth, they have moved on to another world. As I look at Robert Frank's world of images, as I look at Robert Frank's life, as I look at Robert Frank's experience at my own 'middle age', I get invigorated, I get inspired, I get turned on to life again and a new phase of creating begins. The power of the Individual is awe inspiring. Very few singular Artists, Writers or Filmmakers have set the bar to a new standard in the way in which Mr. Robert Frank has done. He is stubbornly passionate, defiantly individualistic, decidedly authentic, unabashedly truthful, culturally curious and it is very safe to say that Mr. Robert Frank did not sell out. He influenced and continues to influence The Arts, Advertising, Musicians, Writers, Filmmakers and of course photography, every single decade since his first appearing on theses shores. He is a living legend and most likely, he would shun that appraisal. Which is neither here nor there, the fact is, he did his job, the images remain, end of story.


All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA


ROBERT FRANK 
 VISUAL POET : In His Words

ON PHOTOGRAPHS: "I like images and so to make images became kind of natural."

ON PARIS: "I never really had a concept for something. It was really the intuition before I really saw it. So, Paris was very good for me.

ON LONDON: "It was wonderful, because, they didn't pay any attention to you. Which, today, they would tell you to fuck off or turn away, you know."

ON NEW YORK CITY: "New York is a very good city, wherever you look around, it has a character. and you know, It isn't a pretty life, it isn't a sweet life, it's, it's the real life, that I looked for, and that I got.

ON AMERICA: "In America I wanted to do it differently. There was no more romanticism really, a look at a country that I didn't really know, I had only been here a couple of years. The Americans was the first time I made a trip across the country… I really felt something very strong from the people. I looked at poor people, how they tried to survive, what a lonely time it can be in America, what at a tough country it is."

ON EARLY INFLUENCES: "You grow up in a place and the culture of that place or your parents or your situation, it influences you. There was a war going on, Switzerland was a place that was closed off from everywhere, you couldn't get out and you were afraid that the nazi's would invade … so of course, it had an influence on a jew."

ON RACE RELATIONS: "Also, I saw for the first time the way blacks were treated, it was surprising to me, but it didn't make me hate America, it made me understand how people can be. You know, you learn a lot traveling and you learn a lot when you are a photographer and thats what probably what makes the difference, if you have some brain and some feeling for people, you are going to be a good photographer."

ON PERCEPTION OF HIS IMAGES: "The reaction surprised me, because people thought it was an anti-American story, so then, it took ten years till that changed, but I do like America, so I became an American and thats what I know best."

ON CREATING PICTURES : "The Pictures have to talk, not me, and so be it." 

                 







All Photos © Robert Frank / Courtesy of The Stanford University and The Cantor Arts Center 
Mr Robert Frank is Represented by The PACE / MacGILL Gallery In New York City N.Y. USA
Mr Robert Frank's Images are Archived in The National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. USA




The PAINTER: GEORGIA O'KEEFFE

Georgia O'Keeffe, as a person, was precocious, defiant, intelligent, unwavering and spirited. Throughout her education and early years as a painter, she produced an original abstractionist style that had preceded a group of New York painters of the male variety that has, to this day, remained wholly original, breathtakingly expansive and sexually charged in a way that empowers feminine energy and iconography. O'Keeffe rejected analysis of her works from start to finish, from her early years in New York, to her later years in The West, everyone seemed to get it wrong. So then, let us look again at the paintings and life of Ms. Georgia O'Keeffe and see if we can put this incredible body of work into a new and contemporary context with a fresh eye and revisionist look at this phenomenally bold American. 



THE BUREAU ICON : GEORGIA O'KEEFFE


Georgia O'Keeffe is born in Wisconsin in 1887 to Irish - Hungarian parents. By the time her years equal her fingers, she discovers art. Early study of watercolors leads to college, art school in Chicago and the Arts Student League in New York City. She recalled, later in life, "I only remember two things that I painted in those years - a large bunch of purple lilacs and some red and yellow corn." Subjects and colors she would return to throughout her life. By her twentieth year, she is awarded prizes and still seems to reject the praise, due mostly to the fact that her art education seems to reward technique over originality. Adding, in those later reflections, "… I never did like school." While in New York, she and a group of fellow students visit the progressive Art Gallery, 291, eight years later, her own drawings will land in the hands of 291's founder, Alfred Stieglitz, who will become one of her greatest friends, confidants and legally, her husband. In the interim, Georgia O'Keeffe quits painting for four years straight, then, at the University of Virginia and later while studying for a teachers credentials at Columbia College, she falls under the tutelage of Arthur Dow and is set free to pursue something new and wholly original. "I decided to start anew - to strip away what I had been taught, to accept as true, my own thinking. This was one of the best times in my life. There was no one around to look at what I was doing - no one interested - no one to say anything about it one way or another. I was alone and singularly free, working into my own, unknown - no one to satisfy, but myself." This particular statement is extremely important to the core of her character, as it displays O'Keeffe's disdain for any particular reactions to the work, either casually, by fellow artists or formally, by the art critics. As a woman who was decades ahead of her contemporaries, in terms of abstraction in both form and color as well as feminine energy personified freely and independently in an iconic manner: O'Keeffe took a beating by the critics. Some of the blame often falls on Alfred Stieglitz and his in depth photographic series of Ms. O'Keeffe in all her natural beauty as a young woman. Unfortunately, the public discovered Georgia O'Keeffe as the muse of an older male rebel on the front lines of intellectual battles which included, photography as art, the importance of european abstraction and American art as a whole, before they had gotten to discover the original paintings and watercolors of O'Keeffe as Artist. The timing was off and Ms. O'Keeffe, although celebrated on a national level in art circles, was also widely dismissed through the lens of new psychological trends that included the great Freudian fraud which attempted to minimize the feminine energy that Georgia O'Keeffe's work so boldly personified. Once again, from the beginning of time and written history, the female is minimized by rhetoric & ideology through the powers that be, when all along, Georgia O'Keeffe is actually winning the game. From the modern perspective of 2015, it is time to liberate O'Keeffe's eroticism.




O'Keeffe's journey into public notoriety had all started through a mutual friend in 1916 when Stieglitz famously receives a series of charcoal drawings by a young Miss O'Keeffe and immediately is smitten by the originality, the boldness and no doubt by the fact that the drawings are created by an American who is both young and female. He has seen nothing like it before and in a letter that is formally typed and mailed to O'Keeffe, he expresses his admiration. "What am I to say ? It is impossible for me to put into words what I saw and felt in your drawings. As a matter of fact I would not make any attempt to do so. I might give you what I received from them if you and I were to meet and talk about life. Possibly then, through such a conversation I might make you feel what your drawings gave me. I do want to tell you that they gave me great joy… If at all possible, I would like to show them." O'Keeffe would later describe the 291 gallery, "The things you saw at Stieglitz's place sent you off into the world, just like his conversations did… It was a place that helped you find your own road: It was the only place." 


"The things you saw at Stieglitz's place sent you off into the world…" 



Alfred Stieglitz and his artistic efforts had been on the verge of the vanguard since the early 1890s. In the beginning, through his own photography in New York City and later in Austria, Italy and Germany. His trips to Paris and his friendship with Edward Steichen had exposed him to the works of Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso and Rodin, all of whom would later be exhibited at 291 Gallery. Culturally speaking, there was a fight for the new and Stieglitz had taken the side of The Moderns, "The search for the truth is my obsession." he describes, "The camera fascinated me and photography became my life." While many people enjoyed the new found art of the photograph, there were purists, such as Baudelaire, who hated photography. Although, at the same time, a new group of painters, also in search of truth on American soil, began to create a new type of painting, which became known as the Ashcan School, painters such as Bellows, Shin, Luks and Sloan, who did not shy away from everyday people, subjects and locations of the populist working class lifestyle. 





Alfred Stieglitz walked the streets of New York from 1893 to 1895 capturing photographic images of everyday life. He came from a wealthy family, married into another wealthy family & soon found incompatibility, he took refuge into photography. In 1902 Stieglitz started a magazine, opened a gallery and founded a new group of photographers with Edward Steichen called The Photo Secessionists, by it's very name and definition, it was a rebel act of separation from the norm and it began a steep and unsteady incline towards a peak of cultural defiance that would slowly lead upward to the very top. At the start, Alfred Stieglitz's fight was for photography as art and he indeed found supporters and subscribers. Eventually, he began to fight for modernism at all levels, which included much of the art from the newest and most outrageous European painters. In 1907, while on a ship headed for Europe, Stieglitz has an epiphany through a photographic image that, as he describes was, "A Step in my own Evolution." 


Georgia O'Keeffe Pedernal with Red Hills 1936 oil on linen, 19 3/4 x 29 3/4 inches. Collection of the New Mexico M.O.A Bequest of Helen Miller Jones

While in Paris, Alfred Stieglitz photographs Rodin, he views Cezanne's new cubist watercolors and Picasso's paintings, including, "Madame's De Avegnons." A year later, in 1908, his exhibition of the sculptor Rodin's drawings causes a stir by their very nature and erotic simplicity, again, he is ahead of the pack and slowly loses the photographic subscribers who originally supported 291 Gallery and the magazine. In 1911, Stieglitz's Gallery is the first American gallery to exhibit the drawings of Pablo Picasso.



"Alfred Stieglitz's 291 Gallery is the first American gallery to exhibit the drawings of Pablo Picasso"

The public reaction to Picasso's new modernist and primitive approach is abhorrent and with only a single sale, Stieglitz felt obliged to purchase a work himself. His magazine, "Camera Work," was the very first to publish the writings of Gertrude Stein, who would go onto become a modernist wonder of literature and a champion of Picasso's work around the world. Then in 1913, The New York City Armory Show pierces the veil of modernism and justifies many of Alfred Stieglitz's prior decisions. Soon he realizes that the struggle for American Art is lagging behind the europeans and his next cultural battle is for the validity of an American modernist art form by American artists. 




Why all this history, you wonder ? I thought this was an article about Georgia O'Keeffe, you ask ? Yes, dear reader, it is, but to comprehend the importance of the beauty, the freedom and the defiant nature of Ms. O'Keeffe's work, you must first understand the fight that preceded her grand entry and the very importance of the simple fact that Georgia O'Keeffe was a very solid American woman with ideas and images stirring inside her imagination that would come into existence and be related directly with a man that had been searching for just such an ideal for over a decade. 


"Everyone began talking about the search for… The Next Great American Thing."


When Stieglitze found Georgia O'Keeffe, he had found: "The Great American Thing." As Georgia O'Keeffe herself had described time and time again, looking back at those heady times, "Everyone began talking about the search for the next Great American Novel, the next Great American Poem, the next Great American Painting, The next Great American Thing." Well, my dear readers, I am very happy to inform you that Georgia O'Keeffe not only filled that void, she had been working on the equation, without actually defining it as such, from the time she was ten years old. Now she was twenty-nine years old, had been discovered by Stieglitz and was about to take center stage.


Georgia O’Keeffe (1887–1986) Yellow Cactus, 1929 Oil on canvas, 30x42 in. Dallas Museum of Art Texas. Courtesy Colorado Springs FAC

The world of the 1920s and it could be argued, that the world of today, is a male dominated world, where woman are subjugated to second class citizenship. Georgia O'Keeffe along Steiglitz's other contemporary painters including John Marin, Marsden Hartley and Arthur Dove helped to define a new and original abstract form in painting that had never, ever, been expressed before. Ms. O'Keeffe did not copy, she did not follow, she did not supplicate, she Invented a whole new 'Thing' and it had all been based on her inner life, her female power, her very sexual and erotic nature. 


"The Interesting thing about O'Keeffe is her ability to learn from the Steiglitz gang and the opposing faction of artists commonly called the precisionists ..."


It was new, it was beautiful, it was bold, it was sensual, it was exciting, it was tempestuous, it was authentic, it was avant-garde, it was unblemished, it was purely Georgia O'Keeffe and above all: It was a New American Art Form. The Interesting thing about O'Keeffe is her ability to learn from the Stieglitz gang and the opposing faction of artists commonly called the precisionists group, which culled inspiration from factories, architecture & machinery, leading the way into modern pop such as Andy Warhol's work. O'Keeffe's work includes both a very personal inner emotional and naturally inspired oeuvre and a very precise and overall interest in architecture & modernism. She won by simply using techniques, ideas and methods that did not devote themselves to any school or group. 


Pelvis IV, 1944 Georgia O’Keeffe Oil on Masonite 36 x 40 (91.4 x 101.6) Georgia O’Keeffe Museum


But not so fast, there is still so much to say, so much more to explain, this is really just the beginning and yet, due to O'Keeffe's consistency, in both style and technique, the works she will produce, from 1918, when she moves to New York, up to her big abstract art exhibition in 1923, compare, very much in power, in expression and in composition with the works she will produce for the rest of her life: Amazingly so. Georgia O'Keeffe the artist, was seldom in search of a style, if anything she had abandoned her own original approach briefly, only to return to it and then held steadfast to what has now become the O'Keeffe method, with a clearly recognizable iconic brand in todays contemporary world of art. Her move from teaching in Texas to living with Stieglitz in New York happened relatively easily and her adjustment to the big city, where she had briefly studied was seamless. Having been promised by Alfred Stieglitz that she could work for a year straight, without interruption, the original vow had turned into the pledge of an entire lifetime. Though, there were times when his photographic objectification not only was a hinderance to her personal space, it did ultimately damage her perception in the public's eye and personally, she was hurt by the mainstream reaction, especially by the critics. Two years prior to her one person abstract exhibit, Stieglitz displayed 145 new photo works, many of them were of his new muse and lover, Georgia O'Keeffe. 


Pelvis Series, Red with Yellow, 1945 Georgia O’Keeffe Oil on canvas 36 1/8 x 48 1/8 (91.8 x 122.2) ) © Georgia O’Keeffe Museum


The images of O'Keeffe are comparable, in modern times, to that of, say, a celebrity power couple such as Jay-Z and Beyonce'. The sexualization of Georgia O'Keeffe had begun. Lets remember, this is by no means the 1930s with Clara Bow or the 1940s with Greta Garbo or the 1950s with Marilyn Monroe or the 1960s with Bridgette Bardot or the 1970s with Raquel Welch or the 1980s with Madonna or the 1990s with Sharon Stone or the 2000s with What's - her - name: This is 1921. On top of that, we are talking about a very serious artist, not a broadway showgirl, not a singer, not an actress, an intellectual visual artist who, in the words of Arthur Dove, one of the male painters in the Stieglitz art gallery stable, "…Is Actually Doing What All The Guys are Trying to Do." O'Keeffe's Abstract Art show is more than impressive, but due to the harsh criticisms, she gives up abstraction for the next few years and switches to representational objects. Though, her choice of subjects such as fruit and flowers is a rather subtle change. If we look closely at the psychology behind this maneuver, we can see that it was entirely calculated and was actually a bold move toward flipping the script on the subjective mind-scape that had pervaded the times via Freudian theories that were trendily in vogue. By creating representational works that still contained a fierce and even blatantly sexually charged nature, Georgia O'Keeffe was tempting critics to fall on their own swords. The critics had originally tried to intimate that she was a sensual animal, expressing her hidden desires through her paintings. Two years later, when O'Keeffe showed up with pears, apples, flowers and the like, all incredibly and beautifully rendered, with the definite possibility of being interpreted as orifice - like shapes and feminine curves that one might taste or touch, she had set a trap for the critics and still marched on into the next sixty years doing exactly as she had from the very start. 



Black Hollyhock Blue Larkspur, 1930 Georgia O’Keeffe Oil on canvas 30 1/8 x 40 (76.5 x 101.6) © Georgia O’Keeffe Museum

On the one hand, O'Keeffe had won the battle, on the other hand, we still must wonder what might have been, had the critics not been so foul. It seems that in Georgia O'Keeffe's very nature, there was a sly, humorous, independent human being with a philosophical bent that took each challenge, like a boxer might take a rap on the chin, she simply shook her head and got right back in the ring. A year later, Stieglitz handed her a different type of ring and the two began a journey that would last up until his death in 1949, he was twenty-three years her senior. Many years after his death, O'Keefe described their relationship in the simplest of terms, "I was interested in what he did and he was interested in what I did: Very Interested." Decades later, Georgia O'Keeffe had also taken a much younger lover and partner, shocking those around her and creating the same type of stir that had originally started her career in the first place. Her life had come full circle. Georgia O'Keeffe's first visit to New Mexico in 1929, five years after their marriage, started a new love affair with the landscape, which included annual summer stays and eventually a permanent home that would provide an entirely new style, technique and viewpoint which harkened back to her earliest works, before the critics had tried to sexualize, demonize and project a nasty glaze over her very robust, sensually charged paintings that, to this day, will get just about anyone thinking about the beauty of love. If I find myself looking at an O'Keeffe for very long, well, there is no other way to put it, I get turned on. Anyone who says different is either sexless, afraid or most likely, simply too young or a virgin. O'Keeffe's images simply approve of passion, desire and the art of lovemaking. It is also safe to say that, were she alive today, O'Keeffe would most likely dismiss this entire analysis. The fact of the matter is, for a painter so, 'In Love with Color,' language, words and any verbal communication seemed almost rudimentary compared to the purity of visual expressions by a genius.


The BUREAU ICON : Georgia O'Keefe / Summer 2015 / Written By Joshua A. Triliegi 

To Download The Entire MAGAZINE ARTICLE  FOR FREE SIMPLY Tap This Link : SUMMER EDITION O'KEEFFE 


GEORGIA O'KEEFE EXHIBITIONS AND RELATED LINKS

GEORGIA O’KEEFFE MUSEUM: Georgia O’Keeffe: Line, Color, Composition
May 8 – September 13, 2015 TAP THE LINK: www.okeeffemuseum.org

PHOENIX ART MUSEUM: From New York to New Mexico: Masterworks of American Modernism June 7—September 7, 2015 TAP THE LINK : phxart.org

FINE ARTS CENTER COLORADO SPRINGS: Eloquent Objects: Georgia O’Keeffe and 
Still Life Art in New Mexico June 27 – Sept 13 2015 TAP THE LINK: csfineartscenter.org

SCHEINBAUM & RUSSEK LTD: Representing Photographs by Todd Webb & Myron Wood

TACOMA ART MUSEUM: TAP THE LINK : www.TacomaArtMuseum.org

DALLAS MUSEUM OF ART : Georgia O'Keeffe in The Permanent Collection 




TAP THE LINK : www.DMA.org



THE BUREAU CUISINE : PALM


The Palm Restaurants have been around since the early Nineteen Twenties, first in New York City and then the world. There are very few American establishments that can boast existing for three generations, being owned and operated by the Original Family and retaining a reputation with new trends in cuisine. Palm in Beverly Hills, their newest flagship, does all this and more. 




We recently visited with Chef Pedro Inoscencio over dinner to discuss the Palm in Beverly Hills. The new space is an incredible improvement from the former location in West Hollywood. The Palm regulars will feel they have some spacious new breathing room, while newcomers will simply enjoy the vibe. Comfortable booths, high ceilings, private dining sections, a quiet table in the back, or front and center and a bar that has you easily chatting over the best cocktails money can buy. Many of the famous trademark celebrity artworks and drawings have been tastefully transferred to keep the original flavor intact as well as the tried and true recipes and yet, Chef Pedro Inoscencio, who has worked at Palm for twelve years, climbing the ladder, one rung at a time, is always looking for new ways to entice his budding clientele. Beverly Hills has always been about retaining a tried and true customer with new and consistently healthier recipes. Executive Chef Inoscencio knows very well, from experience, how to do so. "Food is really an Art," he explains over a glass of Fourteen Hands Merlot and a hearty salad made of baby kale, pine nuts, currants and romano cheese tossed in oil, dijon & lemon, "I found out early on, how much I actually enjoyed creating food and so, after working in the kitchen on a summer job, I went back to school and got a degree in the culinary arts." His first job out of school was with the Ritz Carlton, working with the best in the business inspired the young up and comer to continue honing his craft, that was over fifteen years ago and now he is at the top of his game. It's inspiring & a pleasure to discuss cuisine with the best in the biz.



CHEF: PEDRO INOSCENCIO



One of the newest aspects of Palm Beverly Hills is a returning original tradition of the freshest meat and steaks available by having an in-house butcher and closely watched aging process. Chef Inoscencio describes the advantages of this capability, while I simply marvel at and enjoy both the New York Steak and the local selections. "Everything is done in-house, drying and selecting here makes the end result much more tender. All of our meats are hand selected by the president of our company." One of the advantages of working in the culinary industry from entry level to Executive Chef, Inoscencio relates, is a deep comprehension of the entire business, "I appreciate everyone's job, because Iv'e done it, I know what it takes, I know how hard it is and I understand." It is this mix of humble know how and skilled expertise that makes Inoscencio someone special to Los Angeles. An example of Pedro's modest attitude would be the time he was offered Head Chef position and declined. "I simply wanted to learn every aspect of the management side, so I could be successful at the executive position, so, I turned it down." Luckily, Palm's management was patient enough until Inoscencio felt he had mastered his craft and some five years later, he was offered the job again, this time, he was ready. Pedro comes from a large family, he was born in Mexico and travelled to America at twelve years of age. The very fact that his position as Executive Chef has coincided with this new location makes this particular progression that much sweeter. We have to hand it to both the Palm's management for allowing and nurturing an entry level employee to work their way up to the top as well as Chef Pedro for waiting until he felt his time had come. Watching him walk from the kitchen to our table with the gravitas of a seasoned pro, one immediately observes, first hand what over fifteen years in this industry provides: Inoscencio simply belongs here."This new location in Beverly Hills has been a goal and dream come true to the owners of this company for a long time and to be offered this position at this location is an honor and I feel pretty proud of it." As he heads back into the kitchen, I walk into the bar, thinking to myself, "Someone very cool has just made it." 


" I appreciate everyone's job, because Iv'e done it, I know what it takes, I know how hard it is and I understand. "


- Pedro INOSCENCIO 
 Executive Chef 
PALM Beverly Hills 


PALM RESTAURANT IN BEVERLY HILLS
267 N CANON DRIVE BEVERLY HILLS CA 90210 PHONE : 310 550 8811 FAX : 310 278 5334THEPALM.COM





INTERVIEW GUEST ARTIST: IRBY PACE



Joshua TRILIEGI: How did the idea for the Smoke series originally come about?



Irby PACE: I had the idea of starting this project a few years before leaving graduate school in 2012, but initiating the series always seemed to get pushed back because of other priorities I had at the time such as school, teaching, etc., but it stayed in my mind and in my sketchbook. Occasionally... weekly... monthly... I would go back through my sketchbook and just absorb or contemplate new ideas or revisit old ones, even the ones that failed. After graduate school I became part of an artist run collective, 500x, which inspired me to do something new from my previous artworks.



Starting any body of work is complicated, at least for me it is, because I have a specific visual image and I have to see it come to fruition before I can continue to explore within the given work. I failed with the Pop! series more times that I can count and I continue to do so. On average I make anywhere from four to five setups for every successful one final photograph. But this challenge keeps me motivated, I feel like I’m always fighting the elements, wind, lighting, etc.



Another challenge I wanted to explore was to do everything “through the lens.” This is what keeps me on edge and it makes it all of the hard work worth it when everything just lines up perfectly. With the work I was thinking like a painter and a photographer combined. I wanted to add these clouds to these physical spaces much like a painter would manipulate a space with oils or acrylics, but the photography makes it hyper realistic because it’s actually happening. It is in these small split second moments that I really truly live as a photographer.



Joshua TRILIEGI: Experimentation and hard work are always a big part of finding an original idea in modern art, your art catalogue shows clearly that you have earned your position and yet the smoke series seems so simple. Tell our readers a bit about your ' search ' for the art image.



Irby PACE: I, and other artists, live in a time where it is seemingly harder and harder to make an original piece of “art.” Yeah I know... that’s a trite statement. Its the mantra of undergrads and artists and everyone. Well, I can’t say everyone, but how about a majority of people. But, it is surprising to me how common that statement is. Even non artistic people say that, or at least I’ve heard a few here or there say that. Maybe the old adage that “everything has been done before” really is true. Maybe it’s bullshit. Maybe we need to move on from this self imposed pity party and start trying to make some original shit happen. But how do we do this? When I hear “nothing’s original” I step up on a soapbox and let them know that every new piece of technology that is being introduced daily has the potential to be an outlet for an art making practice, tool, etc.Experimentation is what makes this process difficult. We’re conditioned to make something “right” then to continue to rinse and repeat this process. But you have to take the time to deviate from the path, to try something new, and to be willing to fail. Failing isn’t necessarily desirable, but that’s my barometer to know when I’m on to something. 


To Download The Entire INTERVIEW Tap This Link : SUMMER EDITION PACE:




BUREAU ART in AMERICA : TEXAS

Tap To Visit On Line: NasherSculptureCenter.org

DALLAS Art Pick : THE NASHER SCULPTURE CENTER

The Nasher Sculpture Center is located in the heart of Dallas’ thriving downtown Arts District. This summer, the Nasher Sculpture Center will present a major exhibition of the work of British sculptor Phyllida Barlow. Barlow employs commonplace materials—wood, plaster, concrete, cardboard, and strips of colorful cloth or tape—in extraordinary, monumental, ramshackle, hand-built structures that expound a dizzying array of novel sculptural forms. Recent projects at the Tate Britain in London and the New Museum in New York have showcased the prodigious talents of the now 70-year-old Barlow, who, after a distinguished teaching career at the Slade School of Art in London, is finally enjoying the broad international recognition her work has long deserved. Her exhibition at the Nasher will feature new work inspired by, and created for, the unique spaces of its galleries. Like several of Barlow’s recent projects, these new works will challenge accepted notions of sculpture, blurring the line between constructed form (sculpture) and constructed environment (architecture), and providing a powerful counterpoint to the refined surroundings of the Nasher’s Renzo Piano-designed building. More than simply a presentation of unique objects, the distinct sculptures in Barlow’s installations create a coherent, if varied, environment, linking to one another through materials, method of fabrication, or color palette. 2001 Flora Street Dallas, Texas 75201 214 . 242 . 5100





Shigeo Gochō, Self and Others Series, 1975–77, printed 1992, Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Museum © Hiroichi Gochō

MUSEUM OF FINE ART HOUSTON TEXAS

The Museum of Fine Art Houston is home to The Films of Robert Frank as well as a fabulous permanent collection of Art and Temporary Exhibitions that rival any Art Institute across the United States. Currently on View through to July 12, 2015

FOR A NEW WORLD TO COME: Experiments in Japanese Art and Photography, 1968–1979
The late 1960s and early 1970s marked a period of political and social turmoil in Japan. The country was struggling to forge a new identity on the world stage, and Japanese artists were seeking a medium that could adequately respond to these uncertain times. For a New World to Come: Experiments in Japanese Art and Photography, 1968–1979 explores in depth, for the first time, the role of photography in the formation of Contemporary art in Japan. 250 works: photographs, photo books, paintings, sculpture, and film-based installations. The unprecedented survey demonstrates how 29 Japanese artists and photographers enlisted the camera to make experimental and conceptual shifts in their artistic practices during a time of radical societal change.
Tap The Link to Visit: http://www.mfah.org


SUMMER OF 2015 EVENTS IN AUSTIN TEXAS


MONIKA SOSNOWSKA ART: The Stairs Opens MAY 10, 2015
On View at Betty and Edward Marcus Sculpture Park at Laguna Gloria
LAGUNA GLORIA 3809 WEST 35TH STREET AUSTIN, TEXAS 78703 512 458 8191

The Republic of Texas Biker Rally June 11TH to June 14 2015
Travis County AUSTIN: Center & Sixth Street / The state's largest motorcycle Gathering of Bikers for rides, Parades and music. TAP TO VISIT: http://www.rotrally.com

The Austin Fourth of July Fireworks and Symphony
Auditorium Shores: The Austin Symphony hosts an annual concert of Patriotic Music 
culminating in a spectacular fi rework display over Lady Bird Lake. www.roadwayevents.com

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival August 23rd 2015
Fiesta Gardens : If you wanna beat the heat this summer then you gotta eat the heat! Join 
The Austin Chronicle for one of the world's largest hot sauce festivals. www.austinchronicle.com







PHOTOGRAPHER:  VICTORY TISCHLER BLUE 
There are Rock Star Photographers. There are Photographers who shoot Rock Stars. There are even Rock Star Photographers who shoot Rocks and Stars, Victory Tischler Blue is a combination of all three. We discovered this image and knew nothing about the photographer who apparently has been a bass player for The Runaways, made an appearance in Spinal Tap and is a serious photographer with some of the most interesting images of the American Desert Landscape that we have seen lately. Ms. Blue's desert is haunted, hallucinated and hallowed. This is Sam Shepard's desert with long lost gas stations, deserted automobiles from other decades, satellite response gear, dried out cacti and ancient artifacts that still provide the mysteries that behold the great American West. Defunct signage from an old cafe that once hosted stories such as The Petrified Forrest stand defiantly like an erect statue in Time Square. And yes, as is so often the case, there is just a hint that maybe , somewhere out there, some living being has landed, will land or is just passing by on it's way to another galaxy not so far, far away. This incredible Image was originally exhibited at The Spot Photo Works Art Gallery in Los Angeles, California U. S. A.

Spot Photo Works 6679 Sunset Boulevard Los Angeles, CA 90038 USA 
The Gallery: SpotPhotoGallery.com The Artist: SacredDogs.com The Lab: SchulmanPhotoLab.com



ALEX HARRIS : PHOTOGRAPHER


Alex Harris's Photographs are Quintessentially and to the Core: American. He is a Master Photographer with decades of consistently important, relevant and revelatory images. From the early Nineteen Seventies with a socially conscious black and white portfolio and a degree from Yale, Harris captured images on the front lines of culturally significant moments. In The Nineteen Eighties he founded the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University. In the Nineties, he co founded the groundbreaking photographic magazine, Double Take. He has received fellowships from The Guggenheim & Rockefeller, has published fifteen books and is a Professor for the Practice of Public Policy and Documentary Studies at Duke. His work in CUBA was very Influential to many of his contemporaries. We are very pleased to bring you the very first of several Photographic Essays Celebrating The Art, The Experience and The Conversation of One of America's Best and Brightest Living Photographers, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Mister Alex Harris.



Joshua TRILIEGI: What initially attracted you to Photography ?

Alex HARRIS : I was attracted to photography before I really had the words to express that attraction. My grandfather Alexander Eisemann, used his camera with great wit and precision to chronicle my mother’s life before I was born, and then the life of her young children and family – me included. I was so attracted to the stories he told with his pictures and the albums he put together, the stories of an intact family living together, full of joy and humor. In fact I was more attracted to that story than the reality of my family life, which must have been fraught with difficulty as my parents separated and divorced by the time I was six and moved to separate homes. When I graduated from high school, I can’t think of one family in my neighborhood that had remained intact or remained in their original homes. Looking back I see its not an accident that my first projects as a required me to immerse myself in some of the most intact, long-lived communities in the United States, the Hispanic villages of northern New Mexico and the Inuit villages in Alaska. 




Joshua TRILIEGI: Describe how one image leads to another in creating a Series. 


Alex HARRIS : I began shooting color landscapes and interiors in New Mexico in 1979 with the premise that I didn’t want the photographs to be about color so I would try to ignore color with my camera entirely, to photograph color blind. And for about six months I successfully photographed colorblind while making absolutely uninteresting color photographs! One evening at dusk I saw the way the light was hitting my neighbor George Romero’s yellow front porch, and I stopped to photograph it. The porch post visible in the picture was painted blue, white, and red. A shadow from a second post off-camera made it appear that shadows were falling in the wrong direction. I allowed myself to respond to this scene and to color. From then on I looked for color as an aspect of culture, as an essential part of the way the people express themselves with their homes. I was able to go back to the people, homes and fields I had visited over the years as a black-and-white portrait photographer and to photograph would have been the backgrounds to those portraits, now as the foreground and subject of the picture, making what I began to see is another kind of portrait, a portrait without people. I tended to work with one theme at a time:, so bedrooms and other interiors of homes, close-ups of objects and possessions, photographs of villages from a distance, landscapes with signs of human presence, landscapes as seen through automobiles. And I would move back and forth between those series. 




Joshua TRILIEGI: Lets talk about this series we are currently sharing with our readers. Tell us how the dashboard images came about and describe the juxtaposing the interior with the exteriors. 


Alex HARRIS : When I had the idea to photograph the landscape of northern New Mexico through the interiors of the cars of people who lived there, I’d been living in northern New Mexico on and off for almost 15 years and working in color there for about five years with a view camera. I saw myself as making the portrait of this region without including any actual people in the pictures. So I photographed extensively inside homes, whose decoration was primarily the domain of women, and the outsides of homes and in the fields, which was primarily the domain of men. In photographing these spaces, in a sense I was portraying the people who had created or shaped those spaces over the years. I wanted to represent the younger generation, and the spaces they controlled and decorated were the interiors of their cars. It seemed uninteresting simply to photograph the dashboards and interiors wherever the cars happened randomly to be parked. I had the idea that if I could balance the light inside and outside the car, I could use my camera to make a connection between the car interior and the landscape that person lived in or often drove through. I thought my pictures could represent what it felt like for people in the villages to see their own landscape and community, for the viewer of the photograph to see their world through the frames they had decorated and that they themselves often peered through. The best portraits make a connection between a person’s interior world – in a sense their life history – and the world that surrounds them. That’s what I was looking for in these pictures.


To Download The Entire INTERVIEW WITH A FABULOUS PHOTO ESSAY AND TEN QUESTION INTERVIEW WITH ALEX HARRIA Tap This Link : SUMMER EDITION 




North Carolina Museum of Art
James Prosek, American Bison, 2014, oil, acrylic, and mixed media on panel, 45 x 56 in., Courtesy of the artist and Schwartz  Wajahat, New York, © 2014 James Pros  2110 Blue Ridge Road, Raleigh,  NC 27607  www.ncartmuseum.org



Image: Martin Scorsese in London England 1996                  Photographer: Raymond Depardon / Magnum Photo

ON THE SET: RAGING BULL By Joshua TRILIEGI for BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE Magazine / 2015 SUMMER Edition

TAP LINKS BELOW TO VIEW RAGING BULL FILM CLIPS RELATED TO THIS ARTICLE






BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE: Scorsese Collects
THE FILM and ART PICK NEW YORK: May 30 – October 25, 2015

In celebration of New York City director Martin Scorsese’s enduring commitment to the preservation of international film culture, MoMA presents 34 works from the Scorsese Poster Collection. The installation is centered around a rare, billboard-size poster for the 1951 film Tales of Hoffmann, and features other large-format pieces representing the work of directors such as Michael Powell (The Red Shoes, 1948), Max Ophuls (The Earrings of Madame de..., 1953) and Jacques Tourneur (I Walked with a Zombie, 1943), and key designers, such as Italy’s Anselmo Ballester and Britain's Peter Strausfeld. In addition to European art house and American genre films, Raoul Walsh’s silent classic The Regeneration (1915) and Howard Hawks’s Scarface (1932) (represented by a rare lobby card) are included. The Film Poster Art Exhibition will be accompanied by the Film Series, Scorsese Screens in August 2015.

MOMA: The Museum of Modern Art 11 West 53rd Street, New York, NY 10019  Tap To Visit On Line : http://www.moma.org



THE BUREAU PHOTOGRAPHIC ESSAY: YELLOW

 PHOTOGRAPHIC ESSAY : YELLOW ALL IMAGES COPYRIGHT © TRILIEGI STUDIO 2015 LOS ANGELES CA USA 





Image by Guest Artist : Irby Pace                                          Courtesy of Gallerie Urbane 

THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS

The Original Fiction Series: " THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS," began two years ago with Season One. An interesting experiment that originally introduced five fictional families, through dozens of characters that came to life before our readers eyes, when Editor Joshua Triliegi, improvised an entire novel on a daily basis and publicly published each chapter on-line. Season Two was an entire smash hit with readers in Los Angeles, where the novel is set and quickly spread to communities around the world through google translations and word of mouth. Season Three begins in August 2015 and the same rules will apply. The entire final season will be improvised and posted publicly on a weekly basis beginning, Friday August the 7th 2015 and continuing each friday to the stories final completion of Book One. "Improvised," in this instance, means: The writer starts and finishes each section without taking any prior notes whatsoever and publishes the completed episode on all Community Sites. Season III is The Finale'. 


READ A NEW EPISODE EVERY FRIDAY IN AUGUST 2015
BEGINNING ON AUGUST 7TH / 14TH / 21ST / 28TH



INTERVIEW : JON SWIHART 
THE PORTRAIT PAINTER


Joshua TRILIEGI : Lets discuss, Commissions. You were recently commissioned by Brad PITT to create a portrait in relation to his wife's new film project on the American war hero Louie ZAMPERINI. Discuss how this came about, how you approach the assignment and how much time you may spend on a daily basis for each overall portrait. 

Jon SWIHART : The whole experience surrounding Louie Zamperini really felt like kismet, because before I was commissioned by Brad Pitt to paint Louie, I had been approached a few months earlier to paint his portrait for an organization. At that time, I read Unbroken and was enthralled and clearly envisioned how I would portray Louie dressed in his old WW2 bomber jacket and officer's cap, his body deteriorating but his spirit still resilient and unbroken. So,it was hugely disappointing when that first commission fell through. Then out of the blue, fate gave me a second chance when Pitt saw my recently completed portrait of the artist Don Bachardy, which gave him the idea of having a portrait of Zamperini painted as a talismanic gift for Angelina Jolie. Laura Hillenbrand had written the book, “Unbroken”, telling the amazing story of Louie’s life through WWII. After spearheading efforts to bring this epic story to life on the big screen, Angelina Jolie was also directing the picture. While doing her research, Jolie became very close to Louie, admiring him and taking strength and inspiration from his indomitable spirit. I went to Zamperini’s home to do the photo shoot and had the opportunity to visit with him for a bit. It was obvious that behind the 96 year old façade was the same determined and precocious young man from the book. Even in his frail condition, he exuded a zest for life that was inspiring in itself. Louie was known to those close to him, for an expression in his eyes, so with the family’s help, I was able to capture this expression for the painting. Now, inspired by the book, but even more so by the man himself, I set out to do the painting. I was extremely honored and excited, but also, a little intimidated by the task at hand. 


  


I was confident about getting a likeness, but unsure about striking a balance between the reality of his frailness and the dignity of the man and his history. For instance, in reality the bomber jacket was much larger on Louie’s shrunken frame, so I had a friend come over and pose in a similar leather jacket so I could accurately compromise between reality and the painting. The portrait took 6 weeks, working about 8 hours per day. When the painting was completed, I brought it to Louie’s home so he could see it in person and I could get his feedback. I thought I was confident about the final result until I got a big thumbs-up from Louie and felt this huge wave of relief flow over me. His family was also very happy with the portrait, which meant a lot to me. Formalities over, I spent the next hour listening to Louie tell stories and had the opportunity to ask him questions. I had been wondering about the ethereal music he heard late in his time on the raft while marooned at sea and wondered if it would be recreated in the movie. Louie said he did remember the tune for some time afterwards and had been whistling it in the prisoner camp when another prisoner who was a musician asked where he heard that wonderful piece of music. Over time, he forgot the melody and, unfortunately it hadn’t been written down. I made one more visit to bring Louie a framed photo of the painting for his 97th birthday. He was in good spirits, making plans for a birthday dinner and happy to have more visitors. Unfortunately, this would be the last time I saw him. This commission was the most meaningful of my career. I have painted many ‘famous’ people, including ex-presidents, movie stars and astronauts, but I felt that in honoring Louie, in my small way, I was also honoring all of the thousands of men and women in uniform with untold stories of courage, determination and character.





















TO DOWNLOAD THE ENTIRE JON SWIHART INTERVIEW WITH PORTRAIT IMAGES AND TEN QUESTION SIMPLY TAP THE LINK 







THE BUREAU LITERARY SITE

Literature has a Power and a Scope All It's Own. We originally founded the publication and the magazine to become part of the great history of writers, editors and publishers of the world. Interviews with writers Luis VALDEZ of ZooT Suit and La Bamba Fame and The Great Fiction Writer T. C. BOYLE have been instrumental in grounding that original goal. The BUREAU of Arts and Culture Literary Site gathered readers quickly through Google Member Readers and followers/subscribers. We wrote about writers as diverse as Rod Serling, Paddy Chayefsky, Ernest Lehman and offered resources for Writers, Publishers and Booksellers around The World from London to Paris and beyond. Our Coverage of The Los Angeles Book Fair brought us in touch with Art Book makers and small press publishers around the world. We interviewed authors and artist from Germany, Portland, The U.K., and plenty of East Coast booksellers. Now we also create the BUREAU Literary Edition which is e-mailed directly to 100s of Bookstores in the USA and abroad. Contact us with your next Literary Event or Book Reading or have your Publisher or PR firm Request The Bureau Interview.





Archie Thompson and Albert Rudin American, active c. 1935 Shoes, c. 1940 watercolor, graphite, and colored pencil on paperboard overall: 32.3 x 42.4 cm (12 11/16 x 16 11/16 in.) Courtesy of National Gallery of Art Washington D.C. USA

THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART

In Washington D.C. deep inside The Archives of The National Gallery of Art lay objects, images and great works of art that have defined who we are as Americans. For some modern day Americans, a defining object might be the washer and dryer at the local laundromat or a half a gallon container of homogenized milk for the baby or the metropolitan bus that takes them from one end of town to another. The significance of an object is sometimes related directly to the importance of that object in relation to the Artist who creates the portrait, the drawing or the work of art, be it a drawing, a musical composition or a piece of literature. We have chosen several images from the gallery for no particular reason, other than the very fact that these everyday objects are indeed a part of our American history, which we can never forget. The Artists in America have become the heroes of this country, not because they died in it's defense, not because they were forced to actually sacrifice their lives to be remembered, but because they simply loved, adored, reflected on and represented an object, an idea, a rendition of their life in America, in Art, in Music in Words.Today, We salute The Artists of America.


Daniel Marshack American, active c. 1935 Woman's Gym Suit, 1935/1942 watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on paperboard overall: 45.5 x 30.2 cm (17 15/16 x 11 7/8 in.) Archives of The National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. United States of America




JAMIE WYETH : AMERICAN PAINTER

There are very few American Artists, who are self taught, third generation and bent on creating works that are studied, intuitive and strikingly original, Jamie Wyeth, Son of Andrew Wyeth, Grandson to N.C. Wyeth is one of the rare few. In a show that originated at The Boston Museum of Fine Arts and has since then travelled to The San Antonio Museum of Art and will next be in Bennington Arkansas at Crystal Bridges, Mr. Jamie Wyeth exhibits a survey of works, from the earliest drawings to recent projects with a stunning series of paintings and drawings that display a life's work of the highest magnitude. The Wyeth Legacy is one of America's greatest contribution to the arts and through Jamie Wyeth, that legacy is alive and well. I recall my father describing the first time he had viewed a Painting by Jamie Wyeth depicting a man on a motorcycle, facing the viewer head on. He had studied the works of Andrew Wyeth and had grown up reading the literature which N.C. Wyeth had illustrated, but upon viewing the masterwork of Jamie Wyeth, he gladly handed over the reins to young Jamie, then he looked at me and smiled. Since then, I have always respected the Wyeths and their family, their lives, their art at a level which can only be described, not in words, not in metaphor, but simply as it is. 






Maria Francesca Triliegi is an Author with an upcoming book, a personal counselor to a very wide variety of people, from everyday working class folks, to some serious public figures that include both the worlds of politics and entertainment. Maria also happens to be The Editor of this Publication's Mother. So then, the other day, I called my Mom and we discussed her new book, her career and what it is like to do what it is she does by personally counseling people. 

BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE: BOOKS

Let’s discuss the new book that is being released later this summer. Although you have been working on a number of book projects recently, you decided to release The book of forty essays entitled, "LIFE IS GOOD: When You Do The Work". Why this book first and why now?

Maria Francesca Triliegi: I have been doing my work as an astrologer, teacher and retreat leader for over 30 years and have had a myriad of clients with so many different challenges and life changes as well as a curiosity for understanding themselves. Each time I meet with a client, I am excited to share with them their individuality and yet through it all I have noticed we human beings are so similar. There are basic tenets in life that remain certain and trustable. These are what we humans have a tendency to take advantage of and these are essentially what the essays describe. I adore words. I always have. I’ve been a reader since childhood and have kept journals through the years. The reason I decided to write and release LIFE IS GOOD now is because with the speedup of time we can easily lose track of what makes life good. 

"There are basic tenets in life that remain certain and trustable. These are what we humans have a tendency to take advantage of and these are essentially what the essays describe."

No matter our circumstances, situations or challenges there is much about our lives that, if we are willing to pay attention and notice more about who we truly are, collectively and individually; as well as how much the Universe, God, Goddess or whatever we call the essence of life we have been given; we will find that it is possible to choose to live with the mantra that LIFE IS GOOD. The added tagline “When You Do the Work” is, I find, a necessary component in how to live one’s life respectively, responsibly and with a consciousness of alive integrity and passion. The beauty surrounding us in the natural world along with the compassion and kindness innate in each of us is in itself something to strive to protect and enjoy. After that there is so much one can do to pay closer attention to how to honor the gifts each one of us is given. The essays are my way of expressing my thoughts collected through the many years of being an observer of all of life. I see with eyes that care deeply about the simple pleasures that we all have access to. I want my book to be a reminder of how to observe, appreciate, enjoy and take responsibility for all that we have been given at what seems to be very little cost.

TO DOWNLOAD THE ENTIRE INTERVIEW WITH MARIA FRANCESCA TRILIEGI SIMPLY TAP THIS LINK AND RECEIVE THE ENTIRE SUMMER EDITION FREE : 




The Italian Straw Hat, 1952 Oil on paper on board, 22 1/4 x 30 3/8 in.Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, CT, The Schnakenberg Fund, 1955.32 Art © The Educational Alliance, Inc./Estate of Peter Blume/Licensed by VAGA, New York
Peter Blume
Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art 
600 Main Street, Hartford, CT 06103








THE BUREAU IN SAN DIEGO

SAN DIEGO is another one of those Cities that unless you visited more than a few times, you might not realize what a great Community it actually is. As a Photographer, I find the place to have a very special sort of light that keeps me returning again and again. La Jolla, Mission Beach, The Lamplight all with something to offer tourists, locals and professionals. As a writer, visiting San Diego is a boon of simple and earthy characters, with a fine mix of working class individuals, retired professionals and a bevy of wealthy folks. The magazine has taken readers into original design interviews, the Museum of Modern Art, Photographic Essays into Old Town San Diego, Interviews with local Theater Productions, An In Depth Surf Interview with Community Surf Hero Bird of Birds Surf Shack in San Diego, Inside The La Jolla Athenaeum and a constant relationship with Dennis Wills of D.G. Wills Bookstore a legendary location visited by The best Writers in the world. It's been a wild ride San Diego. Next Up: A Photographic Essay of The Coastal Walkabout from Solana Beach to La Jolla, Articles on Eateries such as The Cottage, Mary's English Kitchen and Juice Crafters, Plus an Interview with Roman Palacios Local Opera Singer and Lounge Lizard Extraordinaire ...







BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE 
 presents
SURF INTERVIEW: JACK ENGLISH



Joshua TRILIEGI: Your catalogue is beautiful, diverse and modern and yet, at the same time, your images have an original and purist aesthetic that harkens back to the 1970's. Discuss style in surf photography and explain how you go about 'picturing ' images.

Jack ENGLISH: I love being different and getting a different shot from the next photographer which in the surfing world is so very challenging. If your on the North Shore of Oahu and their are 20 pros out well you're going to have at least 20 photographers on the beach and 20 in the water shooting the same shot and for the most part shooting the same angle. When I do my shoots here in California I always make sure I am the only photographer or if I show up to a place like Malibu on a big swell and their might be 3 other photographers there I will try to sneak down the beach and get an angle in which they aren't getting in hopes that I picked the best location in or out of the water. Every photographer has their own style, but I always try to imagine the shot I am going for months in advance for a specific surfer or location. I rarely show up to a spot and just start shooting. I put everything together with the surfer before he goes out in the water. It's like he is my model and I communicate to him or her what type of shot or move I would like them to do. I like to be involved on what their wearing or what board their riding. I like to direct my shoots and be just as much involved if not more then the surfer. I am not like go out and surf and I will take your picture - it's not like that for me. I am a director of my own shoots.


Joshua TRILIEGI: Surf culture is now a worldwide thing, for those of us on the West Coast, who grew up with it, it was and is a way of life. For the audience, its exotic and a commodity of sorts. Explain how you view the trajectory of Surf culture in the recent decades .

Jack ENGLISH: Maybe it's not safe for me to say this based on [ the fact that] I eat, breathe and sleep surfing and surf photography, but it's kind of boring now to an extreme. Kind of like everything has been done. To me, the late 80's into the early 90's was the best. The 80's had the bright fluorescent wetsuits and the early 90's had the momentum generation: Kelly Slater, Shane Dorian, Ross Williams, Rob Machado, etc… They took surfing to it's highest level. These guy's weren't trying to dress all groovy, they just ripped at surfing. They we're untouchable. You have guy's now that pretty much suck at surfing, but they try to dress the part kind of like, hey I am not that good at surfing, but I will try to be the hipster or groovy guy that way I can still get paid to surf. Companies fall for it for whatever reasons based on their are so many dam brands nowadays and all of them want or think they need to sponsor someone. 



Joshua TRILIEGI: Share your views regarding Digital versus Film and the future of photography.

Jack ENGLISH: Digital is such a f*cking copout. It's like a musician who needs all these machines to make their music for them. Take someone like an Elton John who just needs a piano and he will kill it. All these digital photographers became photographers because it was easy, cheap and mostly no cost for film and processing. I have one friend who told me he would never had shot photos if it we'rent for digital. I think in the past before digital you had the true photographers who really loved photography. The photographers that loved going to the photo lab dropping off their film and then hours later racing back to the photo lab praying they nailed the shot. The photographers that loved the smell of the photo labs or the smell of film. On the flip side I can't speak for the digi guy's and say they don't really love photographer or their not really photographers, that's not it. I mean if I was brought up after the film era I to would most likely just be shooting digital and always question what is film. But I was brought up int he film era and my heart is for film. I have passed a point where I hate digital. I hate hard drives, cords, cards, all that shit just bugs me and then have to worry if my hard drive crashes I loose everything. I can't handle that. How am I suppose to shoot so many wonderful images and then I am to rely on some hard drive not to crash, fuck that. I much rather have a folder full of tangible slides or negatives on my shelves and be done with it.



TO DOWNLOAD THE ENTIRE INTERVIEW AND MAGAZINE FOR FREE 
WITH SURF PHOTOGRAPHER JACK ENGLISH ON COVER  TAP  LINK: 



Santa Barbara California is a very Beautiful Community. Recently, I was asked by someone in the big city, "Why did The Magazine focus on a City such as Santa Barbara ?" I found myself having to defend, rather easily, a place I have grown to Love. So many of our greatest writers and actors have also fallen in love with Santa Barbara, but it's rather difficult to describe why. There is a first class Film Festival, top of the line Wineries, A Coastal Beauty that compares to any coast, in any country around The World. And all the while, It's laid back. With lots of Surfers, Bikers, Real people, living their lives everyday. No matter how respected this magazine gets in New York City or Los Angeles or even overseas, I personally spend more time in cities such as Santa barbara, more quality time than I have ever expected. After all is said and done after the work is over, there is nothing quite like a Glass of Wine or a Swim in The Oceans at Santa Barbara County. So far, we've brought readers into The Santa Barbara Winery with Photo Essays, Audio Interviews at The Lost Horizon Bookstore and Adama Vegan Cuisine and an in depth Interview with Santa Barbara's Award winning Board Shaper Wayne Rich.




BUREAU EDITORIAL DIS-organization[s]

What has happened to today's organizations ? There was a time when being 'organized' meant doing something that improved life for the group of people you were associating with. Is today's society embroiled in a power struggle that allows Members Only to be favored exponentially ? Are organizations and associations wielding their power in a manner that could be abusive ? Have you noticed that individuals and heads of particular departments, including the mouthpieces in media outlets and those in the public eye are using their platforms in a disingenuous manner ? If you have answered, 'Yes' to any of these questions, you are not alone. From Churches to Non - Profits, from Television networks to Newspaper publishers, from Markets to Corporations, from Neighborhood to Region, from States to Cities & Counties: we are now experiencing a shift in the ideology of a Group vs The Individual. 

Of course there are the exceptions, sometimes within an organization, one will find a partial, fair and exemplary individual & even the occasional entire organization as a whole. Though, we should always remember that many clubs, schools, religions and membership style affiliations are exactly created for the sake of empowering that particular group and sometimes rewarding it's members for their behavior within the group. A membership radio station will reward it's listeners with occasional gifts, a membership film festival will rewards its members with discounts to events, a membership museum will allow priority access to its members and a membership religion will go as far as offering jobs, counseling, a social activity and sometimes even life after death. The membership markets offer admission and discounts to products, all sounds fair, yes ? Well, maybe. What happens when non members wish to participate in a related event ? What happens when non members wish to promote or interview or even celebrate something related to this group, be it, radio or museum or marketplace or film festival or even religious ? There is room for abuses of power here and often times exclusive privileges depend on the very rejection of outsiders, non members and 'interlopers.' 

There are times when actually making an example of an individual is all part of the membership and organization game. Either on the grand scale, for instance, when someone like Edward Snowden is admonished for sharing secrets, he is made to no longer freely live in America as an American, he is forced to make choices which drive him away from his country of origin. On a smaller scale, due to the many facets of groups and group thinking that have slowly but steadily spread into industries such as entertainment and publishing, being a member, is now being offered as entry into an industry, acceptance as an artist and eventually: success. Thats a very dangerous game. I recall visiting a small community on a tropical island, where the original group of natives had been, for many, many 100s of years affiliated with a particular religion. Because I was a visiting person with business contacts in the West, many of the people I met exclaimed how they had converted to a religion which is very popular in the West. I saw how there was a connection between business opportunities for converts and it startled me. Since that time, I have become more and more aware of this dilemma and must confess that I would personally prefer failure to success due to affiliation through a group of members of some sort. There are entire Arts Publications whose only contributors are members, graduates and teachers and or students of that school of thinking. There are entire theaters that exist solely to exhibit the talents and works by graduates of a certain school where people have studied art or film or music. 



So then, the financial aspects of this debate now creep into the room. If your parents can pay for your entry into a school or a University, then, talent allowing, you may have a chance. The problem with this dilemma is that, eventually, it sets up a much larger paradigm wherein a whole other group is conversely created, one in which non whites or non asians or non mexicans or non _________ [ Fill - in - the - blank ] are excluded. Thus creating a world of clubs, cliques and collectives without respect, regard or reward for non members. Unfortunately, I believe we have now arrived at this particular destination and within the very borders of each city, state and country, the infantile philosophies surrounding this way of thinking are handicapping our ability to progress as a society, a country a planet: we are in trouble people. Had I not been raised in Los Angeles or travelled throughout the world or even been respectful, curious and a learned student of International films, art and music, maybe I would not even be fully aware of this dilemma. Editing and creating a magazine that seeks to speak with the best artists, actors, filmmakers, culturally aware individuals has indeed been an education in this regard. 


"Every now and then, I meet an incredible individual 

            who seeks only to offer the beautiful thing that 

                                    their institute is actually there to offer…"


As was mentioned, every now and then, I meet an incredible individual who seeks only to offer the beautiful thing that their institute is actually there to offer. An example of that would be every image you see in this edition of the magazine from a gallery or museum. Though, unfortunately, more often than not, we receive a cold reception or worse a manipulated, contrived and down right embarrassingly false set of circumstances that include denial of full access, a series of bureaucratic levels which hinder the goal or simply being lied to or delayed or ignored, resulting in a particular due date having since than expired, thus creating the inability to sponsor, participate or include a contribution of some sort. Sometimes, non members are offered some form of limited access, which is than manipulated to show the 'non-member,' how great life could be, if only they joined the club of conformists, believers, non-believers, etc… Playing the game to get what you want. These social traps are set on a daily basis. More often than not, walking away is the best bet, though, as a publication, with a goal oriented schedule to promote, affiliate and sponsor social events that surround art, music, film, science, culture and eventually receive advertising dollars to provide a service to the institutes, organizations and companies or non profits, my concerns sometime lead me down the path to investigative journalism: where I am often aghast at the quote un-quote 'members' of some of these organizations. Sometimes this includes a local market or a non profit or an art gallery or even a member of my own government. How far will all of this member versus non member go before it blows up in our faces ? Or is that the point ? Look around at your world. Look around at your organizations. Look around at your own religion, your own so - called group. If you like what you see. Cool. But, if you notice that your superiority is based on the fact that you are a so-called 'member' of a group, that is either based on belief, income, non-belief or lack of income, race, color, age, sex, education, admission fee, a particular lifestyle or some other in-crowd superficial aspect, it may be that you are not superior at all. Quite possibly the exact opposite may be true. 






Norman Seeff : The Ramones New York, 1977 © Norman Seeff Courtesy of Fahey/Klein Gallery, Miami

LET'S ROCK
Now Through JUNE 13, 2015

Rock & Roll Music has always been affiliated with the medium and Art of Photography. Performances only last a few minutes, hours or the duration of the current tour. Musicians found early on that the power of the image from last years tour could sell tickets and albums to next years tour and the fusion or marriage between the camera and the music was complete. Let's Rock, the current exhibit at Fahey / Klein's new Gallery in Miami, Florida takes us through the History of Modern Rock and Roll with photographs by the best in the biz. Including: Jim Marshall’s iconic shot of Johnny Cash flipping the bird, Barry Feinstein’s  image of fans peering into the window of Bob Dylan’s limo, Frank Stefanko’s Bruce Springsteen at the beginning of his career and Harry Benson’s playful photograph of a Beatles’ pillow fight. 


Led Zeppelin (In Front of Plane) New York, 1973 © Bob Gruen, Courtesy of Fahey/Klein Gallery, Miami


Lets Rock, is an important photographic exhibit because it balances the grit with the glamour, the guts with the glory and the guys with the gals in all that bare truth that Rock and Roll Music was originally meant to express. Lets not forget that this was a music in touch with it's anger, in touch with it's passion, in touch with it's feelings, it's roots, it's working class upbringing. Surely Mick Jagger is the face of the Stones, but without a working class pal such as Keith Richards, The Rolling Stones might just have been another Hermans Hermits. As Rock & Roll becomes more and more appropriated by millionaires, museums and extremely wealthy non profit entities, it may be a good time to remind them all, that Rock & Roll, belongs to The People. We saw these same trends with William Shakespeare, who originally wrote for the people and Classical greats such as Ludwig Van Beethoven.We The People Own Rock & Roll, we own Rap, we own Country, we own The Blues, we own Jazz. This is All Peoples Music, much of it originated in America, so then, we own America. Take pride in great music America, you made it happen. It's Yours : Lets Rock.


Norman Seeff Keith Richards Los Angeles 1972 Courtesy Fahey / Klein Gallery Miami



Gered Mankowitz : Jimi Hendrix (Classic), 1966 © Gered Mankowitz, Courtesy of Fahey/Klein Gallery, Miami

FAHEY / KLEIN GALLERY in MIAMI 4025 Northeast 2nd Avenue Second Floor Miami Florida 33137 U.S.A

On 2nd Avenue, between 40th and 41st St. In the Miami Design District. Across 2nd Ave from the newly established Institute of Contemporary Art, Miami. Fahey/Klein Gallery Miami is on the Second Floor of the Chrome Hearts building. Gallery Hours: Tuesday-Saturday, 11am – 7pm.



The BUREAU of Arts and Culture Seattle Community Site will be featuring neighboring Cities such as Tacoma and Portland's Museums, Galleries, Music Events and Special Cultural happenings as well as ALL The Subjects that The Magazine brings you regularly: ART . FILM . MUSIC . DESIGN . CULTURE . ARCHITECTURE . ECOLOGY . INTERVIEWS + More …Coming Soon : Exclusive Interviews with local Artists, Musicians and Museums Including Rock Hushka Chief Curator at The Tacoma Art Museum. In Depth Articles on Seattle & Washington's Cultural Touch points including: Jimi HENDRIX, ECOLOGICAL Concerns,  The PORTS of Washington, Native American Issues and Historically significant Moments in it's History. 




BUREAU FASHION: The DANDY LIONS
Dandy Lion: (Re) Articulating Black Masculine IdentityNow Through July 12, 2015 
All too often in America and across the world, we are exposed to a negative image regarding people of color. Within the mainstream media and often times in films and publications, we are given cliched versions of life on every level. Stories and images are pushed in our faces with a determination to send a larger message to the populist about the populists.Anyone who is pretty hip can see through this device and yet, after a while, we have to simply oppose this tool by simply showing the world a whole other side of the coin. These images from the Exhibit, Dandy Lions:(Re)Articulating Black Masculine Identity, are on View at The Chicago Museum of Contemporary Photography.




Dandy Lion: (Re)Articulating Black Masculine Identity features work from emerging and renowned photographers and filmmakers from the US, Europe and Africa, including Hanif Abur-Rahim, Jody Ake, Laylah Amatullah Barrayn, Rose Callahan, Kia Chenelle, Bouba Dola, Adama Delphine Fawundu, Russell K. Frederick, Cassi Amanda Gibson, Allison Janae Hamilton, Akintola Hanif, Harness Hamese/Loux the Vintage Guru, L. Kasimu Harris, Jamala Johns, Caroline Kaminju, Charl Landvreugd, Jati Lindsay, Devin Mays, Terence Nance, Arteh Odjidja, Numa Perrier, Alexis Peskine, Radcliffe Roye, Sara Shamsavari, Nyugen Smith, Daniele Tamagni, Richard Terborg and Rog Walker. This exhibition is guest curated by US-based independent curator Shantrelle P. Lewis. 

The Museum of Contemporary Photography Columbia College in Chicago 600 South Michigan Avenue Chicago, IL 60605 USA  Tap to Visit the Exhibition online Now : http://www.mocp.org


Charles Ray: The American Sculptor

Charles Ray is one of the very few artists alive today to combine both humor and pathos in a way that is equally foreboding as well as strangely understated. Unlike Jeff Koons, who is considered one of Ray's contemporaries, Mr. Ray comes off as just a bit more modest, not just in scale and subject, but in the actual, 'Selling' of the idea. Mostly due to the size, surface and finishing styles of the actual sculptures. Mr. Koons, whose work is magnificent in the same way as, say, a Salvador Dali, is what we might call a 'Hard Sell'. Koons' candy coated surfaces are reminiscent of a famous 1950's Car Commercial by Earl Scheib who promised to paint any car for $39.95, of course the prices went up as time went on and so too for these Sculptors. Ray is represented by Matthew Mark$ and Koons by Larry Gago$ian. This retrospect entitled Charles Ray: Sculpture 1997-2014, had us thinking he passed away last year. But, like The Art World, the title is deceiving & this is simply a survey of those years. Charles Ray lives in Los Angeles and as Dr. Frankenstein exclaimed, "IT'S ALIVE!"

ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO 
Charles Ray: Sculpture 1997 - 2014  




Tap to Visit On line: http://www.artic.edu



Images Related to this Bureau Article : Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Gift of Herb Ritts 
© Herb Ritts Foundation Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 





THERE ARE FIVE ALTERNATE COVERS FOR THE SUMMER 2015 EDITION HERE ARE THE FREE DOWNLOAD LINKS TO EACH MAGAZINE EDITION : 

















THE BUREAU SUMMER EDITION 2015 EDITED by JOSHUA TRILIEGI 

WE CELEBRATE ART MUSIC FILM FASHION SURFING BIKING INTERVIEW ARCHITECTURE FICTION DESIGN PHOTOGRAPHY CUISINE BOOKS CULTURE


When You Download The FREE Edition it will open on your computer or device, It is an Electronic Interactive Version of BUREAU of Arts and Culture Magazine. We suggest you view the pdf in the [Two Page with Cover] and [Full Screen Mode] Options which are Provided at the Top of your Menu Bar under the VIEW section. Simply choose Two Page Layout & Full Screen to enjoy. This format allows for The Magazine to be read as a Paper Edition. Displaying images and Text in Center-folds. When reading on a computer, utilize the Arrows on your keyboard to turn the pages. Be Sure To Download A High Resolution Version at BUREAU of Arts And Culture's Official Magazine Website or any of Our Community Sites with Links Provided Below.



We Thank: Da Capo Press, Cantor Arts Center, Stanford University, Pace/MacGill Gallery, National Gallery of Art, Georgia O'Keefe Museum of Art, Fine Arts Center Colorado Springs, Duke University, Andy Warhol Museum, Phoenix Art Museum, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Art Institute of Chicago, Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Crystal Bridges, United Artists, Spot Photo Works, Nasher Sculpture Center, Dallas Museum of Art, Museum of Fine Art Huston Texas, Gallerie Urbane, Mary Boone Gallery, Pace Gallery, Asian Art Museum, Magnum Photo, Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art, Fahey/Klein, Tobey C. Moss, Sandra Gehring, George Billis, Martin - Gropius - Bau Berlin, San Jose Museum of Art, First Run Features, Downtown Records, Koplin Del Rio, Robert Berman, Indie Printing, American Film Institute, SFMOMA, Palm Beverly Hills, KM Fine Arts, LA Art Show, Photo LA, Jewish Contemporary Museum, Cultural Affairs, Yale Collection of Rare Books & Manuscript and Richard Levy.



Contributing Photographers: Norman Seef, Herb Ritts, Jack English, Alex Harris, Gered Mankowitz, Bohnchang Koo, Natsumi Hayashi, Raymond Depardon, T. Enami, Dennis Stock, Dina Litovsky, Guillermo Cervera, Moises Saman, Cathleen Naundorf, Terry Richardson, Phil Stern, Dennis Morris, Henry Diltz, Steve Schapiro, Yousuf Karsh, Ellen Von Unwerth, William Claxton, Robin Holland, Andrew Moore, James Gabbard, Mary Ellen Mark, John Robert Rowlands, Brian Duffy, Robert Frank, Jon Lewis, Sven Hans, David Levinthal, Joshua White, Brian Forrest, Lorna Stovall, Elliott Erwitt, Rene Burri, Susan Wright, David Leventhal, Peter Van Agtmael & The Bureau Editor Joshua Triliegi. 



Contributing Guest Artists: Irby Pace, Jon Swihart, F. Scott Hess, Ho Ryon Lee, Andy Moses, Kahn & Selesnick, Jules Engel, Patrick Lee, David Palumbo, Tom Gregg, Tony Fitzpatrick, Gary Lang, Fabrizio Casetta, DJ Hall, David FeBland, Eric Zener, Seeroon Yeretzian, Dawn Jackson, Charles Dickson, Ernesto DeLaLoza, Diana Wong, Gustavo Godoy, John Weston, Kris Kuksi, Bomonster, Hiroshi Ariyama, Linda Stark, Kota Ezawa, Russell Nachman, Katsushika Hokusai and Xuan Chen

Contributing Writers: Robin Holland, Jamar Mar(s) Tucker, Linda Toch, Maria (Mom) Triliegi


      Georgia  O’Keeffe  Black Patio Door, 1955 Oil on canvas, 40 1/8x30  in. Amon Carter 
Museum of American Art,  Fort Worth, Texas.  (O’Keeffe 1283) © Copyright 2015 Amon 
Carter Museum of American Art Special Thanks to Crystal Springs Fine Arts Center 

INTERVIEW: BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE EDITOR: JOSHUA TRILIEGI

Writer Joshua Triliegi discusses his most recent Fiction Project, "They Call It The City of ANGELS," creating beliEvable characters and the challenges therein. Season One & Season Two are available on line at most of the 10 various BUREAU of Arts and Culture Websites & translatable around the world.
Discuss the process of writing your recent fiction project, " They Call It The City of Angels ."

Joshua Triliegi: I had lived through the riots of 1992, actually had a home not far from the epicenter and experienced the event first hand, I noticed how the riot was being perceived by those outside our community, people began to call me from around the world, my friends in Paris, my relatives in the mid west, childhood pals, school mates, etc... Each person had a different take on why and what was happening, I still have those recordings, this was back in the day of home message recorders with cassettes. So, after 20 years, I began to re listen to the voices and felt like something was missing in the dialogue.

" I noticed how the riot was being perceived by those outside our community ..."

Some of my friends and fellow theater contemporaries such as Anna Deveare Smith and Roger Guenvere Smith had been making bold statements in relation to the riots with their own works and I realized that there was a version of original origin inside of me. I felt the need to represent the community in detail, but with the event in the background. Because, I can tell you from first hand experience that when these events happen, people are still people, and they deal with these types of historical emergencies differently based on their own culture, their own codes, their own needs and everyday happenstances.



You originally published each chapter on a daily basis, explain how and why ?

Joshua Triliegi: I had been editing The BUREAU of Arts and Culture Magazine for a few years, we printed thousands of magazines that were widely distributed throughout Los Angeles and San Francisco and had created an on-line readership.The part of me that had dabbled in fiction through the years with screenplays and short stories had been ignored for those few years. On the one hand, it was simply a challenge to create a novel without notes, improvising on a daily basis, on the other hand, it gave the project a freedom and an urgency that had some connection with the philosophy of Jack Kerouac and his Spontaneous Prose theories. One thing it did, was forced me, as a creator, to make the decisions quickly and it also, at the time, created a daily on line readership, at least with our core readers, that to this day has strengthened our community sites and followers on line. Season One was a series of introductions to each character. Season Two, which happened the following year, was a completely different experience all together.

Describe Season Two of They Call It The City of Angels and those challenges.

Joshua Triliegi: Well first of all, the opening line of Season One is, " Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing were usually from out of town, " That opener immediately set up an insiders viewpoint that expresses a certain struggle and angst as well as an outsider — looking — in — perception that may be skewed. In introducing characters throughout season one, I was simply creating a cast of characters that I knew somehow would be important to set the tone surrounding the riots of 1992 in Los Angeles. With Season Two, and an entire year of gestation, which was extremely helpful, even if it was entirely on a subconscious level, I had a very real responsibility to be true to my characters and each persons culture. I had chosen an extremely diverse group of people, but had not actually mentioned their nationality, or color in Season One. By the time season Two rolled around, I found it impossible not to mention their differences and went several steps further to actually define those differences and describe how each character was effected by the perception of the events in their life. This is a novel that happens to take place before, during and after the riot. The characters themselves all have lives that are so complete and full and challenged, as real life actually is, that the riot as a backdrop is entirely secondary to the story.  I was surprised at how much backstory there actually was. I also think my background in theater, gave me a sense of character development that really kicked my characters lives into extreme detail and gave them a fully realized life.

How do you go about creating a character ?

Joshua Triliegi: Well, there is usually a combination of very real respect and curiosity involved. Sometimes, I may have seen that person somewhere in the world and something about them attracted my attention in some way. In the case of They Call It The City of Angels, I knew the people of Los Angeles had all been hurt badly by the riots of 1992, because I am one of those people and it hurt. One minute we were relating between cultures, colors, incomes, the next we were pitted up against one another because some people in power had gotten away with a clear injustice. So with season two, I personally had to delve deeper into each persons life and present a fully realized set of circumstances that would pay off the reader, in terms of entertainment and at the same time be true to the code of each character. Once they were fully realized, the characters themselves would do things that surprised me and that is when something really interesting began to happen.

Could you tell us a bit more about the characters and give us some examples of how they would surprise you as a writer ?

Joshua Triliegi: Well, Jordan, who is an African American bus driver and happens to be a Muslim, began to find himself in extremely humorous situations where he is somehow judged by events and circumstances beyond his control. I thought that was interesting because the average person most likely perceives the people of that particular faith as very serious. Jordan has a girlfriend who is not Muslim and when he is confronted by temptation, he is equally as human as any of my readers and so, he gets himself into situations that complicate his experience and a certain amount of folly ensues. Fred, who is an asian shop owner and a Buddhist, has overcome a series of tragedies, yet has somehow retained his dignity with a stoicism that is practically heroic. At one point, in the middle of a living nightmare, he simply goes golfing, alone and gets a hole in one. Junior, who is a Mexican American young man recently released from prison really drives the story as much of his backstory connects us to Fred and his tragedies as well as legal decisions such as the one that caused the city to erupt as it does in the riot.

You talk a lot about Responsibility to Character, what do you mean and how do you conduct research ?

Joshua Triliegi: Well, if I make a decision that a character is a Muslim or Asian or Mexican or what have you, if I want the respect of my readers and of those who may actually be Muslim, Asian or Mexican, it behooves me to learn something about that character. As a middle aged man who lives in Los Angeles and has done an extensive amount of travel throughout my life, there is a certain amount of familiarity with certain people. But for instance, with Fred, I watched films on the history of the Korean War and had already respected the Korean Community here in Los Angeles for standing up for themselves the way they did. I witnessed full on attacks and gun fights between some of the toughest gangsters in LA and I think even they gained respect for this community in that regard. Fred is simply one of those shop owners, he is a very humble and unassuming man, in season two, he finds himself entering a whole new life and for me as a writer, that is very gratifying and to be totally honest, writing for Fred was the most bitter sweet experience ever. Here is a man who has lost a daughter, a wife, a business partner and he is about to lose all he has, his shop. Regarding Junior and Jordan, I grew up with these guys, I have met them again and again, on buses, in neighborhoods at school. Jordan has a resilience and a casual humor that has been passed down from generations, a survival skill that includes an ironic outlook at life. He also has that accidental Buster Keaton sort of ability to walk through traffic and come out unscathed. Junior on the other hand is a real heavy, like any number of classic characters in familiar cinema history confronted with the challenges of poverty and tragedy. He is the character that paid the biggest price and in return, we feel that experience. There is a certain amount of mystery and even a pent up sexuality and sometimes a violence that erupts due to his circumstances. In season two, within a single episode, Junior takes his father, who is a busboy at a cafe and repositions him as the Don or boss of their original ranch in Mexico.

There seems to be a lot of religion in They Call it the City of Angels, how did that occur and do you attend church or prescribe to any particular faith ?

I never intended for there to be so much religion in this book. But, if you know Los Angeles like I do, you will realize how important faith is to a good many people and particularly to the characters I chose to represent. With Jordan being Muslim, it allowed me to delve into the challenges a person might have pertaining to that particular faith. Fred's life is so full of tragedy that even a devout buddhist would have trouble accepting and letting go of the events that occur in his life. Junior found god in prison as many people do, upon his release back into the real world, he is forced to make decisions which challenge that belief system and sometimes go against his faith, at the same time, he finds himself physically closer to real life events and objects of religious historical significance than the average believer which brings us into a heightened reality and raises questions in a new way. As for my own belief system, I dabble in a series of exercises and rituals that spring from a wide variety of faiths and practices.

You discussed Jordan, Fred and Junior. Tell us about Cliff and Charles and Chuck.

Joshua Triliegi: I don't really believe in secondary characters, but in writing fiction, certain characters simply emerge more pronounced than others. As this project was a daily serial for the magazine, I did try my best to keep a balance, giving each character a fully realized set of circumstances and history. That said, some characters were related to another through family, incident or history and later, I felt compelled to know more about them and see how they would emerge.

Charles is one of those legendary rock and roll guys who was on tour with music royalty and simply disappeared. He's the missing father we all hear about and wonder what would happen if he were to suddenly return into our lives ? His son Mickey, his wife Maggie, his daughter Cally have all gone on with their lives, when Jordan, accidentally runs him over while driving his bus, Charles returns home and a new chapter in their lives begins again.

Chuck is a cop who just happened to marry Juniors sister and they have several daughters. When Junior returns from prison, he and Chuck clash simply because of their careers and history. I felt it was important to include authority in this story and once I decided to represent a police officer, I wanted him to be as fully realized and interesting as any other character, though, clearly Junior drives much of this section of the novel and Chuck is simply another person that complicates Juniors arrival. I should also explain that the arrival of Junior from years in prison is really the beginning of events that lead up to the basic thrust of the story and somehow almost everyone in the novel has a backstory that connects in some way.

Cliff is absolutely one of my all time favorites. He is a mentally challenged boy whose father happens to be the judge on the case that develops into the unjust legal decision and eventually the actual 1992 riots. I have always felt that challenged individuals deserve much more than the marginalized lifestyles that we as a contemporary society provide. Many ancient societies have relegated what we dismiss as something very special. Cliff is challenged, but also happens to be a very intuitively gifted human being whose drawings portend actual future events. Even though his parents are extremely pragmatic, they are forced to consider his gifts.

Cliff is a young upper middle class white boy who is entirely obsessed with the late great comedian Richard Pryor and at very inopportune times, Cliff will perform entire Richard Pryor comedic routines, including much of the original risqué language. Cliff is an innocent who pushes the societal mores to the edge. I have found through fiction the ability to discuss, develop and delve into ideas that no other medium provided me. And as you may know, I am a painter, film maker, photographer, sculptor, designer, who also edits a magazine reviewing art, film and culture.

As a man, do you find it challenging to write female characters ?

Joshua Triliegi: To some extent, yes. That said, I have spent a good many years with women and have had very close relationships with the female gender, both personally and professionally, so on average, I would say that I am not a total buffoon. In They Call It City of Angels, Jordan's girlfriend Wanda and his mom both appeared and bloomed as fully realized characters that I really enjoyed writing for. Cliffs mother Dora is also a very strong female character that I am very proud to have created. Season two presented a special challenge with dialogue between characters that was new territory for me. I have written screenplays in the past, sometimes with collaborators, once with my brother and more recently with my nephew and in Angels, I found it, for the first time, very easy to imagine the conversations and action in a way that was totally new to my process. I would most likely credit that to my own relationships and possibly to the several recent years of interviewing and writing for the magazine in general.

When will we see another season of They Call It The City of Angels ?

We have set a tradition of it being the Summer Fiction Project at the Magazine and since August is a relatively slow month for advertising and cultural events, we will most likely see a Season Three in the summer of 2015. As you may know, I do not take any written notes at all prior to the day that I actually write the chapter, so the characters simply develop on a subconscious level and then during the one month or two week process, I pretty much do nothing at all, but ponder their existence, day to day. This can sometimes be nerve racking as I do plot things out in my head and sometimes even make extreme mental notes, though even then some ideas simply don't make it on the page. During Season Two, I omitted a section of a chapter and later revealed another chapter into a different sequence of events, but besides that it has been a rather straight ahead chapter a day experience that simply pushed me to invent, develop and complete the work of fiction that might have otherwise never existed or possibly taken much more time. I am curious to see how my next project will develop. 

What is your next project ?

Joshua Triliegi; I am working on a couple of things of historic importance. Though I can't say much about them. One is an actual event that I have been given permission to portray by the actual estate and I don't know yet if it will be an ' Inspired by ... ' type of Novel or if it will be creative Non Fiction. The other is a fiction piece I have been developing for sometime now.


" I have been writing consciously since I was fourteen, stories, journals, poetry, lyrics, screenplays, but as far as fiction goes, They Call It The City of Angels is probably my first successful project with a major readership and I am very thankful that it happened. Better late than never. "


After that I have a sort of family opus that is probably the most researched project I have ever undergone. I have been writing consciously since I was fourteen, stories, journals, poetry, lyrics, screenplays, but as far as fiction goes, They Call It The City of Angels is probably my first successful project with a major readership and I am very thankful that it happened. Better late than never.


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" They Call It The City of Angels " 
A  New  Serial  Novel  by  Joshua  A.  TRILIEGI 
 Season One AUGUST 2013   and    Season Two AUGUST 2014 
      
SEASON ONE CHAPTERS 1 - 22
CHAPTER 1   : LOUIS             Written & Published  Aug 25TH 2013 
CHAPTER 2   : MICKEY         Written & Published  Aug 26TH 2013 
CHAPTER 3   : JOSIE               Written & Published  Aug 27TH 2013 
CHAPTER 4   : JORDAN         Written & Published  Aug 28TH 2013 
CHAPTER 5   : CLIFF              Written & Published  Aug 29TH 2013 
CHAPTER 6   : CHUCK           Written & Published  Aug 30TH 2013 
CHAPTER 7   : CHARLES       Written & Published Sept   2ND 2013 
CHAPTER 8   : RYAN               Written & Published Sept   3RD 2013 
CHAPTER 9   : WANDA           Written & Published Sept   4TH 2013 
CHAPTER 10 : STAN               Written & Published Sept   5TH 2013 
CHAPTER 11 : JUNIOR           Written & Published Sept   6TH 2013 
CHAPTER 12 : MOON             Written & Published Sept   9TH 2013 
CHAPTER 13 : FRED               Written & Published Sept 10TH 2013 
CHAPTER 14 : TURTLE          Written & Published Sept 11TH 2013 
CHAPTER 15 : DORA              Written & Published Sept 12TH 2013 
CHAPTER 16 : HOME             Written & Published Sept 13TH 2013 
CHAPTER 17 : STONES          Written & Published Sept 16TH 2013 
CHAPTER 18 : HOLE              Written & Published Sept 17TH 2013 
CHAPTER 19 : ROOT              Written & Published Sept 18TH 2013 
CHAPTER 20 : HEART            Written & Published Sept 19TH 2013 
CHAPTER 21 : JOB                  Written & Published Sept 20TH 2013 
CHAPTER 22 : ASHES             Written & Published Sept 23RD 2013

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 LOS ANGELES  SAN DIEGO  SANTA BARBARA SAN FRANCISCO NEW YORK CITY  LITERARY 

       

Chapter One: Louis  

Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing were usually from out of town. Louis was a busboy down at Old Ma Fritters Cafe & Saloon, the longest running truck stop in the Harbor.  He had been a busboy for almost twenty - six years, before that, he washed dishes, before that, he attended the parking lot. Directing the truck drivers where to park, making sure the working mom's could get in and out without missing a beat, knowing the difference between regulars who ate at the counter and the new comers who were most likely in town to visit the Queen Mary or take a cruise to Catalina Island for the day. All in all, Louis was a quiet, hard working man with a simple view on life. He was happy to have a job, never missed a day of work, except the day his son was sentenced to seventeen years in the penitentiary for manslaughter. That was over fifteen years ago and today was the day that Louis Junior would come home, this made him nervous.Since that time, his wife had a stroke, his daughter had married a local cop and he had three beautiful grandkids. So much had changed since louis junior had gone away. In 1976, it was a old world, now it was nineteen-ninety-one. 


The Dodgers entire team had been replaced, there were new presidents, everything was different. But still, he showed up to work on time and already the word had gotten out that Louis Junior was back in town and heading this way. He had reservations. He knew that Junior was a good kid, got caught up with the wrong friends early on, had been picked on and turned tough gut mostly for his own survival. The accident had been complicated, it had involved a rival member of another group of kids as well as one of Junior's ex- girlfriends and to top it off the first cop on the scene was Louis' s new son-in-law, Chuck, who happened to be white. They all lived in a big victorian style house just above the port, which had a guest house where Louis senior lived and in the big house, his daughter, Celia, Chuck and the three girls, Cindy, Donna and Francine. It was a good life, most of the time. Louis wondered exactly what he would say, where junior would sleep and how all of this would play out. He figured junior could stay on the couch in the guest house and later he could break the news that after all was said and done: Chuck had met Celia after that day in court and one thing led to another, as things like this often do and well, here we are, a family. He couldn't know exactly what Junior would think, say or do, but he knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition. Junior had been saved in the joint and had found god. He belonged to an outreach program that was ready to offer him a chance to work and go back to school, but housing was not provided. So, Louis said, " Yes son, of course you can stay with us while you get back on your feet. " 


And so the day started, as these days often do down in the port. Up at 5 AM, to work by five thirty, he'd have an early lunch and since everyone knew junior was coming home, had the choice to go home early, but had already decide to stay the duration. Work was his way of dealing with the troubles of life. It steadied his resolve, gave him roots, kept him calm, kept him centered, even if deep down inside, he knew that this was not an ordinary day and that things could go bad. No one was more aware of the impending problems than Chuck, who worked at the front desk office directly across from the loading docks at the longshore pick up and delivery. He hadn't seen Junior since that day in court and before that the terrible rainy night on the street with bodies mangled, wind swept asphalt, palm trees bending to the ground and a fierce full moon reflecting anguish, pain and death, in his eyes. He couldn't sleep all that morning. For a cop, he was, not a total square, his own brother had been a pot dealer back in the nineteen sixties and since then, he himself had imbibed more than a few glasses of whiskey a night. He was hip to jazz music, loved the various cultures in Los Angeles and more than anything, adored his wife and three girls. His family was his everything. He was thinking about junior as he pulled into the cafe to get breakfast to go, and three cups of joe for the boys at the office, who secretly hated the coffee served in the back room. Ma Fritters Coffee was made with a pinch of cinnamon and was generally strong compared to the instant regulation joe that the knuckle heads made. Nobody said a word as Chuck pulled into the cafe, but everyone knew what was on their minds as Louis and Chuck exchanged words in the parking lot. The waitresses and line cooks stopped what they were doing and saying for just a second or two and sure enough a hush drifted through the place. Those who didn't know the score figured it out pretty quick. The cop and the busboy, who was actually a fully grown man with grandkids, chatted quietly about the day. Neither had figured out what was the best way to deal with it, nor did they fully understand how junior would take it: both understood it wouldn't be easy. Life in the L.A. Harbor never was. 




Chapter Two: Mickey 

Look left, then right, then left again.  What the hell is so difficult about that ? Mickey muttered out loud to some mindless quack as he skidded around the car and cranked his wrist an eighth of an inch, which meant he was now riding from a basic twenty-five miles per hour to the preferred forty-five along the coast of Malibu and on into Venice beach where he kept a shop that tended strictly to Harleys. Mickey was a third generation  biker, his Dad had known some pretty serious guys back in the day. His grandfather had driven a Harley from Washington State clear down to Southern California back in the nineteen forties before going off to war, with the rest of his generation. Back when Mickey was a kid, bikers were hated and or feared by the general populist. Now, everybody and their grandma wants to claim some piece of this heritage. His old man fixed bikes for some of the well known biker gangs throughout California, but he never actually signed up, if you know what I mean. What they call a civilian.When his old man left town for a month, which turned into a decade, Mickey finally took a crow bar to the lock on the old man's wood shed, found his tools and started a business of his own. It wasn't one of those places with a big neon sign or anything like that, he just fixed bikes for guys in the neighborhood and eventually had a couple dozen regulars and that was it. He had been offered partnerships before by local shops, investors, squares with enough money to set him up well, but simply didn't want the hassle. " As soon as you take their money, they own you."  That was his usual reply, but lately he'd gotten tired of the bullshit. Guys not paying what they owed, insurance companies not releasing the funds on time, just cause they knew he was an unofficial Harley repairman, as opposed to the guys with the big signs out front. Part of him rejected the whole idea of middle America embracing the Harley phenomenon. The other part of him knew it was good for business and just might bring the company back into a thriving system, where bikers could get some respect again. 


So, when a local rich kid offered him 10,000 dollars to expand the shop, he took it. Reluctantly, accepted a chance to buy some new tools, get bonded, insured, even had the business officially certified with a doing business as 'Mickey's Motorcycles' license. Some people said Mickey's old man had gone to Mexico, others figured he got caught up in some kind of deal gone awry. There was talk that he was overseas, Amsterdam maybe. No one knew for sure. He had stopped thinking about it a few years back. Mickey made the house payments, took care of his grandmother and tolerated his Mothers new boyfriends as best he could. So much had changed since they were kids, growing up in Venice beach. Back then it was mostly poor folks, now the place was turning into something else: well known actors, architects, airline pilots. It was a good thing his old man bought the place otherwise Mickey and his girlfriend, Moon, would have been out of that neighborhood years ago. They lived a block and a half away from Dennis Hopper's house & when Hopper bought a Harley, Mickey was the guy he brought it to. Who didn't want to hang out with Dennis Hopper? Mickey had creds on the street and in the hills,which was kind of rare. He had clients up and down the coast and didn't mind much making house calls, even if it took a couple days. He'd crash out on the couch or garage or guest house until the job was done. Most guys liked his company and liked to hear him wax poetic about the early days of Rock and Roll, his mom had been the manager of several bands up in the bay area and he knew just about everyone from Jerry Garcia's to The Moby Grape's. 


People would say that Mickey was made from a kind of American counter culture royalty. But, he shunned all that talk.One of those quiet throw backs, except when it came to Moon, his only truly admittedly obsessive relationship. Whatever she wanted, she got. Moon was his first and only love. Once they had broken up for a day and a half during high school graduation. A Friday night and all of Saturday,by Sunday morning, they were back together and never looked back.As he pulled into the driveway, he glanced over to find his mother's new boyfriend's red convertible, the passenger side windshield was riddled with what looked like bullet holes, upon closer inspection, he realized the holes were made with stiletto heels kicked from the inside out. "Here we go." he thought, as he turned off the bike and figured, o.k. this generator is fixed. He knew there was something brewing, so he quietly strolled past the front house and headed straight for Pop's shed. Always a safe refuge. But there in the back yard was the boyfriend wearing nothing more than a pair of Ray-Bans and in a see through nighty, his Mom attending the barbecue.  " For christ sake Mag, what if Calley walks back here ?"  who momentarily turns in his direction,  " Oh Mick, grow up will ya ? "  She had been telling him that since the time he was ten years old :  "Your not a kid anymore mick, your ten years old now, grow up."  He did. Mickey got back on the bike, which he hadn't planned on returning to his client till tomorrow, ripped up Pacific Coast Highway and on into Zuma Beach, collected his fee and instead of getting a ride from Jay, simply hopped on the Bus and called it a day. That's when he noticed a beach comber who sure looked a lot like his dad. "That's impossible. Must be going nuts. I gotta get out of here."  He did.      


Chapter Three: Josie

Josie was an artist. They had noticed that right away. By the time she was three, she could sing a tune. By the time she was nine, she could mimic any dance movement. By the time she was twelve she could draw realistic pictures that were up to scratch with any adult. Today is Josie's birthday. Her room is covered in teen beat posters. Packs of Bubble-Yum chewing gum on the dresser. Photographs of her girlfriend's at school, at the beach, at the park, award ribbons from art, dance and singing contests, a letter of recommendation from an art teacher at the local university, a pair of tennis shoes in the corner and of course her dozens of sketchbooks filled with classic portraits of friends, people she observed, objects, places.Her parents had immigrated in the early nineteen sixties, they gave her an American name, things were going to be hard enough for her as it was, they figured, she was born here, she's the first American in our family, lets go with the flow. Her Dad worked at a local factory, her Mom was a homemaker of the old world style, she sewed, cooked,gardened and kept the books. Josie was wide open when it came to discussing friends, school, dreams and the future, but when it came to her boyfriends, she never ever told a soul. Not her parents, not her girlfriends, no one. So when she started dating Louis, who was a few years older, no one had anything to worry about, because no one knew. He had that protective quality that some guys have, she felt safe around him. He was knocked out by her talents, even had her design tattoos for him and his friends. It was a taboo sort of love, the kind that couldn't last longer than a summer and it didn't. 


Louis eventually started dating girls his age and Josie rebounded with a kid from her own school and neighborhood. But deep down inside, she still had a love for Louis and even though he didn't know it, he too was still in love with her. By the time winter came along, they found themselves in the awkward situation of having to see one another, sometimes in the company of each others new playmates. At first this seemed easy, smile, wave, a simple hello or how ya doing ? But after these moments, Louis found himself troubled, confused, sometimes even angry. He didn't know who he was angry with, Josie, the new boyfriend or himself, he just knew that something wasn't exactly settled and it really confused him to the point where sometimes he couldn't sleep. So, he started to call her up just to say hi, then Josie's new boyfriend got word of this and reacted accordingly. One thing led to another and now the boys were talking about a showdown. The kind that spreads quickly, the word got out, after a dance at school, they were going to meet and settled this thing. Josie freaked when she found out, felt guilty, felt responsible and had no one to tell because this was a part of her life she had always kept to herself. So the pressure mounted until the night of the dance. 


At first Josie said she wasn't going, then she changed her mind and told Ryan, her new boyfriend, that she was going with friends and they could talk after the dance, hoping this would diffuse the pressure and by then she could help avoid an actual fight. Though, the way things went only worsened the situation. Instead of avoiding a fist fight the entire event became a drag race through the boulevards of Los Angeles and by the end of the night a car flipped in mid air, up an over the railroad tracks.Josie's Dad knocked on her bedroom door, no one answered. He called her girlfriend's parents, no one knew what happened. Eventually they got a call from officer Chuck of the county police department explaining that there had a been a terrible accident and could they please come down to the Harbor hospital to help sort something out. They were unsure about the identity of a person and needed verification. When Josie's parents arrived, Chuck was standing in the hallway, clipboard in hand, this was the most difficult part of his job. He could handle the tough guys, the smart aleck public, the other cops on the squad, but he couldn't hold his water when it came to telling parents that we think your child is dead. Josies' s parents were led into a well lit room, two bodies were laying on aluminum stretchers with sheets covering each. The bodies had been washed of all blood, but there was nothing that could be done about all the torn and mangled flesh. Josie was under one of the sheets, Ryan was under the other. It was the first time their parents would ever meet.  Today is Josie's birthday and if she hadn't died back in nineteen seventy-six, she would have been thirty years old. Her dad closed the bedroom door, which he kept exactly as it had been the day she died, wiped his eyes and promised himself that someone was gonna pay for this pain. By then, he'd lost his wife and by now he began to lose is mind. 


Chapter Four: Jordan

Jordan is a bus driver, it didn't define him, he's also a bass man, a basketball coach,  a bit of a poet too. He is the youngest bus driver in all of Los Angeles County. Came out here to get away from a seriously tragic family history. Born in Detroit, the week of the famous riots, his dad was a serious player and took the fall for being a member of an elite crew of dudes who actually helped to start it. His Mom was in and out of town so much, he hardly knew her. Came out here alone on a one time musical scholarship. Recently, he ended up hocking his bass, a red fender given to him by his uncle, still had the pawn ticket in his wallet, been meaning to get over there to extend the loan voucher another ninety days so he could get it back after paying up in full. Wanted to buy his girl a pair of earrings and figured he could always get the bass back, but with his car payment, rent and all the rest, he just let it drift. He was two weeks away from getting off probation from the transit authority. Six weeks of training and almost a year driving and finally he would be able to exhale. His first route started near LAX Airport, up La Brea, over to Crenshaw, past Leimert Park & around Rodeo, down Martin Luther King to The Sports Arena and back around again. He liked it. reminded him of his parents, his heritage, his people. But now, they had him driving from Venice Boulevard onto the 405 freeway, up through Santa Monica onto Pacific Coast Highway, past Pepperdine University and all the way up to Malibu Pier and back again. Most people would have loved that route, but Jordan always said the drivers were snobs, the kids crossed the street without looking, carrying surfboards, lawn chairs, tourists from all corners of the world, asking directions to places he never heard of, in languages he never knew. 


He was hoping to get his old route back, but as the odd man at transit authority, the chances were mighty slim. Most of the drivers, managers, supervisors and radio dispatch persons were steeped in the Jesus thing: Baptist, Christian, Catholic, Protestant, you name it. Jordan was a third generation Muslim. His Daddy, his Granddad, his Uncles, some of his Aunts and him. He had already made his four rotations by seven o'clock that evening, grabbed a cup of coffee and was looking forward to seeing his lady for a late dinner at her place. Just past the Malibu Pier, an area where he was always extra careful, he slowed down a bit and coasted around the curve through to the next straight away stretch, the sun was setting a golden, peach - like glow, palm trees silhouetted in an all black design that looked like a postcard. It wasn't Crenshaw, but it could of been  worse. Some routes were very tough on a driver, others were easy street. Looking down the highway, he noticed a small dark circle along the horizon line, couldn't figure out what it was. A trash-bag? A backpack ? As he got closer, the object came into view, it was a turtle, a rather large sized turtle crawling from left to right, he swerved to the right avoiding the turtle, as he did so, a camper van parked on the right pulled out in front of him, and as it did, that is when he noticed the eachcomber standing directly in his path, hit the brakes, skidding several yards and slamming into the beachcombers several bags and eventually knocking him to the asphalt, he turned to ask the lone passenger if he had seen what just happened, but not a soul was on the bus. " Could have sworn that cat was still on." 


The first thing you are supposed to do is call it in. But Jordan, just on reflex jumped off the bus to see what happened. He looked down and splayed across the highway were several small packages wrapped in brown paper and masking tape. He looked closer at the corner of one of the small bundles and noticed it was full of currency, unmistakably dollar bills. All day long he had to watch people putting bills into the slot on his bus, the corners always bending, creating a problem. If anyone knew what the corner of a dollar bill looked like, it was Jordan. The beachcomber, was out like a light, but when Jordan put his ear to the man's chest, he could hear him breathing. He could also smell his breath, whiskey and onions. Why a man does what he does is always a mystery, mostly to the man himself, so when he reached to pick up one of the bundles and put it in his inside left pocket, it seemed pretty natural. He got back on the bus and called it in. By now the sun was down. The highway was closed. Ambulance, cops, transit authority, the whole shebang. When radio reporters, traffic helicopters and the local television stations came out, he figured that he was not only going to be late for dinner. There was a good chance he was going to be fired, even if it wasn't his fault, even if the guy was drunk. To top it off, the turtle was no where to be seen, that was his whole defense.Wanda heard about it on the radio before he even got home. 


Chapter Five: Cliff  


Cliff was psychic, not for a living or anything like that. Just had a knack for reading people, had a way with animals and a sort of connection with the elements that was, let us say, out of the ordinary. Like a lot of so-called handicapped persons, he had some hidden gifts that made up for the fact that he couldn't speak very well, had trouble with motor skills, would never be able to hold down a job, keep a home or cook his own meals. He was disabled as people like to say, remedial or worse even, retarded. Cliff's father, Stan, was a judge, he always winced when his colleagues used that term. His mother, Dora was a retired lawyer who ran her own legal advisement company and would actually correct people whenever they denigrated her son with those types of labels. "Cliff is challenged, but he's no dummy." or  "He may need some help, but he's got a great heart." or "He has his problems, but he's never said a bad thing about you."  She was nobodies fool. And by god she wasn't about to let people get away with any mean spirited conversation about her only child.

He attended a sort of day care type of school. One in which there were daily outings in between lessons, classes, working with sound, colors, sometimes simplified mathematics and social sciences, to a degree. In the classroom, his teachers were all certified practitioners, but on daily social outings, volunteers were often on staff. Retired widows, stay at home wives, middled aged women who were unmarried, this kind of thing. They often took a group of kids to the park, out to lunch or even to a museum every now and then. One day, one of Dora's clients recognized Cliff walking with his schoolmates and a volunteer up past the L.A County Museum of Art. She specifically remembered Cliff because her own daughter had some issues which led her to seek legal advice and Cliff happened to be in the office with mom. Some time later, the client mentioned in passing, that she ran into Cliff at the museum and couldn't help but notice that the kids were wearing shirts and jackets of a wide variety with disparaging comments of all sorts. Cliff's T-shirt, said in bold black letters : YOU STINK ! Another kid wore a hat that said, ' LOSER ' , another with a jacket that stated, ' I never Loved You '. The client chuckled, asking Dora where she bought it. Cliff's mom didn't buy it. In fact she had no idea why he was wearing it. Well, after some looking into, it turned out that the ' volunteer ' had recently broke up with her boy friend who happened to be a security guard at the museum, so she made the kids wear these hats, coats and t-shirts  unbeknownst to any of the kid's parents or the kids themselves. Further investigation revealed that it had become a common practice among the volunteers to do such a thing. The kids were being used as props. When Dora found out about it in full, she brought it up to Stan and they decided to do what any good legal family would do. They decided to sue. 

Stan was a judge in high profile cases. Through the years, he had watched his more liberal contemporaries end up in disparaging posts such as traffic court in Compton or settling housing issues Downtown, the Judge Judy type of detail. He had played his cards right, literally. He was a kind man, patient, quiet, respected by his bailiffs and well liked buy most of the people he worked with, not necessarily by those he had sent to prison, but most everyone else.Dora became a lawyer and later a legal advisor partly because they were working in the same circles and partly to sort out the issues they were having with Cliff early on. They loved Cliff immensely. More than the usual parent might love a child and definitely more than if he was, quote-unquote-normal. They had a nice size home in the Valley and Stan drove North to work just a few miles away. He tried not to bring his work home, but when your wife is a legal advisor, a top notch lawyer really, it was almost impossible, cases concerning children or abuse of authority or murder were always a sticky issue, they both tended to lean pretty hard on the accused. He was older by a few years, but Dora was mature for her age, so it worked out pretty well. They all vacationed together twice a year and during the holidays often took a cabin in the snowy topped local mountains. Considering the situation with Cliff, they handled it well.


Around the time that Cliff became four, five and six , they noticed he had a way of sensing what was going on , not only in their inner lives, but also in the lives of people they worked with. If Stan had a high profile case concerning an auto accident, Cliff might create a drawing with unexplainable details. When Dora's mother was close to death, he had drawn a picture of her final resting place two months before they had chosen it. He was somehow reading the inner lives of his parents and at first it freaked Stan out. Some days, before a big trial, Stan might peruse around cliffs room, looking for an image that might help him with the case. Dora put a stop to it, but hey, who could blame him? There son was psychic and they knew it. Wether Cliff knew it or not didn't matter. Once, when Cliff was twelve, they woke up one early morning to find Cliff nestling with a Deer. He had no food to give it. He was just holding the deer, when they opened the door, it ran away. Another time, a hummingbird flew into Cliffs room, sat on his finger, just sat there . There were all kinds of encounters such as these. Dora thought maybe she should mention it to a friend of a client who had written a book on shamanism in the modern day, but Stan said no. He didn't want his son ending up on some television show or story on NPR. It was their secret. When Cliff got home that day, he took out a sketchbook and drew a stunning and startling portrait of a man that Stan would never forget, someone he hadn't thought about for fifteen years. 
  








Chapter Six: Chuck  

Chuck wanted to make detective, so did half the guys in his division. He had been working on it actively for three and a half years now. Had a friend downtown who advised him on what to do, how to lay the groundwork. He started by making friends on the street. If he found a tough guy, say, smoking pot while driving. He'd pull him over, get his information, talk to him a bit, instead of citing him, he'd tell him that smoking while driving made no sense. He'd chat him up a bit, make a friend. Later, after hours, he'd look up the kids record, run a check on his family, find out where, when and how he hustled and made it a point to meet him again. He did this for the past three years and had connections all over Los Angeles, not just in his area. He spent one day a week doing research, talking to other guys who had made detective, even hanging around the division. Everyone on the force knew he was angling, if it didn't interrupt his local quotas, his desk duty and any other assignments, no problem.


 When word got out that his brother-in-law was getting out of the joint after a fifteen year stint for manslaughter, people started  talking. Chuck realized that this was actually his chance to make detective. These days everything on the street was controlled by a unit of men incarcerated for decades and sometimes for life. They gave the orders. Chuck knew that after fifteen years, his brother-in-law, Junior had learned a few things, things that could help Chuck move in on what they call, the ' Big Dogs '. No detective would bother with some small time peddlers, they all wanted a big catch, something that would get some ink, something that would help them up the ladder a few rungs. Recently, there had been a new crime spreading through the city of Los Angeles. Somebody or a group of people were torching palm trees in designated areas. At first, they thought it was a kid or pyromaniac. As it spread throughout Southern California, other theories popped up. The burnt palm trees were a signal that certain local business had not contributed to a certain individual or it was, 'a warning' sign, 'a don't shop here' sign or a ' your on the list ' sign. Chuck was in agreement that it was not random, he noticed when, where and how it was playing out. Since making the goal to become a detective, he had transformed the den into an office. His wife and the girls knew Daddy was serious about his work, so they watched television in the living room and shared the master bedroom with bunk beds. While Chuck and his wife Celia had what they commonly call a guest bed room. Celia had an entire room to herself for dressing and basic women's stuff with a vanity set Chuck bought when they first got married. 


In his office, which he always kept locked, Chuck had a map. He followed murders: There had been over twenty-two in the past ninety days. Drug busts: there had been three big ones in the past forty-five days and dozens of small one's. Lately, he'd been following the palm tree burnings. Even started reading up on other incidents through history, from cross burnings to lynchings. Looking for something that might give him one up on what was going down. The Mayor of Los Angeles, in an official statement, directed to law enforcement had said that, " The Palm Tree Burnings " were a scar on the city, were bad for business, bad for tourism and had to be stopped. He wanted a new kind of cooperation between departments wherever the incidents had occurred. Incentives were given to both cops on the street, detectives on the beat and even the local feds, since several of the incidents had happened on federal property. One happened on a reservation near Joshua Tree National Forest and another happened directly in front of the Federal building downtown. Some people said it was a scam, just another distraction from the real crimes that were happening in L.A. : drug smuggling, child prostitution, underground pornography. The so - called sanctioned crimes that made money. Chuck didn't care what it was about, he had been told to get something important on it and he'd be given a serious opportunity to make detective. If he could crack the case, it was a total guarantee.


Several weeks earlier, Chuck went downtown to ask a couple friends, one was a lieutenant detective, if they would give him permission to tap the phones in his home.His brother-in-law was getting out of the joint and maybe they could find out a few things. The word would most likely come back officially as a no. On his way home, he cranked up John Coltrane's a Love Supreme, while flying down the 110 freeway, he realized that no one could stop him from recording any conversations in his own home. He could drive out to the local Circuit Station, buy some basic over the counter devices and wire the place up.  Chuck came from the generation that actually was offered shop classes in junior high school. He had taken both wood shop and electric classes, so, setting up the whole thing was not a big deal. He wired the entire guest house in three hours and did it all for less than what it would have cost to tune up the station wagon. He couldn't tell Louis Sr. or Celia , they wouldn't understand. It was his job. He knew that if they ever wanted to take another vacation together, he'd have to make detective. Three days later, Junior got out of prison and Chuck drove down to Ma Fritters to get breakfast and check in with his father-in-law Louis Senior. They talked about how to deal with Junior's Coming Home party. 'Are you heading back to the office ? '  asked the waitress,  ' Yep.'   Afterward,  while driving back,  he  thought, ' Not for long babe. '






Chapter Seven: Charles  

When the bus hit Charles' bags, his cart had lodged underneath the front tire and saved his life. Although it tossed him several yards, no bones were broken, no internal bleeding, just a few road rashes and most likely, a concussion. When he finally came to, there he was, sleeping in an actual bed with clean cotton sheets and two pillows, the first time in several years. He hadn't been in a hospital since Mickey was born. His first thought was, "I gotta get out of here." , then he realized that none of his possessions were anywhere to be seen. Where were his clothes , his personal belongings, his savings ? Most likely, he was going to have to answer some questions to the man. Another thing he hadn't done in years. If they had gone through his things, they would have found his dog tags and maybe even contacted his family. Another thing he hadn't done in the past few years. Damn, what had he done in the past few years? Drifted. This was nothing compared to the many times he had to lay down his Harley because of some god awful drivers not checking their blind side, pulling out of the driveway without looking or simply not paying attention to others on the road. He had to lay his bike down at least a half a dozen times because of other peoples stupidity. Being a biker in Southern California was no easy task in the nineteen seventies. After losing a handful of friends to total idiots, someone's wife started a campaign to help Bikers who had been wronged on the roads and highways. 


She ended up creating some kind of legislation and took it all the way to the high courts. Charles admired her tenacity, but that was not his style, he couldn't stand any of that legal stuff. He was a simple man, enjoyed nature, food and a simple bottle of wine.  Those were the three things he had been able to partake in for the past few years, come to think of it, that was all he had done lately. He lived in the wilds of the coastline, drank a good bottle or two of dago red a day and ate well, for a beachcomber. No one ever suspected that he carried thousands of dollar bills. When he opted out of all the side dealings that went on in his world, his partners were glad to pay him out and let him go. Charles had been getting too old for the game and although he had respect, it was a young man's game now. He retired.When Mickey picked up the phone and the voice on the other end of the line simply stated, "This is the Venice Beach Police department."  He figured, it was either something to do with his Mother's new boyfriend, the serial numbers on a recent bike sale or some kids breaking into the shop. When they said Mickey's father was in the hospital and they needed to reach someone in the family, his ears began to ring, his heart beat doubled and he broke into a sweat. They explained what had happened and asked if he could come down to the station before visiting the hospital. They had some of his possessions and also had a few questions to ask. Mickey said he'd be right there. He himself had more than a few questions to ask. Hadn't seen the old man in almost a decade. Had thought he was dead. Now he's about to have a family reunion in the very same hospital where he was born. 

There was no way he was going to call his mother, sister or Moon. It was something he had to do alone. When he got to the station, two detectives sat at a table with his Dad's four remaining bundles of cash in front of them. Through the years, Mickey himself had been in and out of this particular police station. Sometimes to bail out friends, other times to sleep one off, after a fight, but this was the first time he had been summoned to ask questions about anyone else and actually showed up. He had never gotten involved in anyone else's business nor did he want others involved in his: the biker code of conduct. A long list of unwritten ways of living life. This was a pedestrian Q & A.  "When was the last time you saw your Father?" , "What do you know about his business partners ?" ,  "Why is your Dad carrying over thirty thousand dollars in cash ?"  Mickey didn't know anything and wouldn't have said, even if he did. He was simply glad to know that Charles was still alive and if they didn't mind, he wanted to talk to him in person. The detectives expressed their concern regarding the release of Charles from the hospital with all this currency. They thought it best to contact a family member. Mickey knew better, but he played along, thanked them and said he'd meet them at the hospital in thirty minutes time. 


That gave him just enough time to call Moon, he had tried to handle this on his own, but decided he needed to talk to her. Called her at the bookstore from the phone booth in the hallway and without explanation, " My Dad's alive. I'm going to see him. I don't know what to expect. He's in the hospital. I'll call you later. As soon as I know what's what."  Moon was in the middle of selling five old paper back books to a couple on vacation from Europe. There wasn't much she could say, "Wait a minute. What ?" Mickey realized this was a mistake, "I'll call you back." Moon was a stickler for details and in this case, he had none to offer. When he got to the hospital room, Charles had just finished telling a story and the two detectives were laughing out loud. That's the way it always was. Charles had a way with people, especially men of the blue collar variety.  "Hey Mick, How the hell are you ?" Mickey just shook his head, as a long, slow, single teardrop fell onto his jean jacket vest's upper pocket and sat there before hitting the linoleum tile and splashing into a miniature Jackson Pollack like splatter that he stared at for a few seconds.  "I'm fine Dad, just fine. How the hell are you?"




Chapter Eight: Ryan

Ryan was a good kid. Aced his grades in school, held down two jobs, was an excellent athlete, always the courteous type. A throw back who held doors open for old ladies, was always respectful to women, looked after his little brother, everyone liked Ryan. He had known Josie since the third grade, they had last names that started with the same letter, so, all through grade school they sat next to each other. Back in the seventies, public schools used an alphabetical system for seating and year after year, they found themselves next to one another. Ryan's mother came from the same country as did Josie's parents, so whenever she complained about her parents, he knew exactly what she was talking about. The so-called generation gap loomed large between them and their parents. Between the sexual revolution of the nineteen sixties & the hang loose style of the nineteen seventies, many immigrants had no idea that their new American children would leap forward so quickly into the modern age. 

Ryan always told Josie to have more patients with her parents, "They're coming from all whole different world."  Instead, she began to keep her inner world more and more private. When Josie & Junior split up, within days, she attached herself to Ryan. He had always been there as a friend, someone she could talk to, now she began to depend on him. Quickly, they became an item. If Ryan went surfing, then Josie sat on the shore, either studying, reading or just reflecting on life. When Ryan was working on his car, Josie would hang out in the garage, playing records and sometimes quizzing him on an upcoming test at school. They were both, what some kids called 'squares', they didn't attend ditching parties or smoke, but they did go to concerts and dances and it was safe to say that most of their friends would never have guessed that they had a serious love life. Josie was a very passionate person. Ryan was always very responsible, they talked about taking their time and Josie always felt at ease.  He had been saving his money for a new wet-suit for the winter surfing season and decided instead to by her a ring, it was getting serious. When a group of students asked Ryan to run for class president, he declined. It was safe to say, he was, in more ways then one, the unofficial president of his class. Josie was glad he turned it down. She was very much attached and although mature, still didn't entirely understand her feelings. She was possessive of Ryan, having someone of your own to a girl such as Josie was everything, in her mind, he belonged to her and they belonged together. They were one of those couples that just about everyone figured would be together after graduation. When Ryan found out that Louis Junior had been calling Josie, he freaked. Although he was a surfer, he had plenty of friends from the other side of town, where Junior lived. One of his pals had written in his yearbook, 'To a cool punk, for a surfer.'  

The divide between surfers and low riders was wide back then. Not for everyone though, certainly not for Ryan, who knew about all kinds of classic cars, sports, music.He was a bit of a crossover, culturally speaking. On several occasions he had helped guys with their car projects: chopped tops, pin-striping, dual carbs and manifold installations. His old man had been big on custom cars back in the day, even won some awards and made a few bucks reselling fix ups. Ryan's life did not involve the kind of built-in drama that Juniors did. Juniors Uncles and Aunts were always coming into town with one problem or another and his Mother tended to let them stay longer than his father would have liked. This created an uneasiness at home and always gave Junior an excuse to get into trouble elsewhere. His old man was a dish washer at the local cafe back then. Junior hated to see his dad relegated to this position. As a young man Louis Senior had studied to be an engineer and later ran an entire warehouse with a dozen guys working under him. This was before Junior was born, but it still put a thorn in his side at times. 


To know that his old man had been passed by, just to be an American and have a family here, seemed like a sacrifice. Sometimes, Junior thought they would be better off going back to where his grandparents were from and several times he himself had done just that. Spent time on the farm, he loved it. This was the side of Junior that Josie fell in love with and it was also the thing that made Ryan jealous.  He himself had come from a good family, had been given things,was considered upper middle class, never knew hunger. He had no real drama to speak of, before Josie, he had never even felt much of anything. Josie made him feel things, he was suddenly vulnerable, jealous, passionate and even angry. When Junior began to contact Josie again, Ryan began to swim in a new sea of emotions that he figured had everything to do with growing up, "This is what life is about." He could hear his Dad say, in some imaginary scene.That night was not at all unlike a film that occasionally played on late night television. Ryan saw himself as the James Dean character, if he backed down to Junior's  challenge, he'd be disgraced. Maybe Josie didn't know it, but she was the Natalie Wood character and Louis Junior was well aware of his role in all of this. He had always been the 'bad boy'. Had found it easier to get attention by screwing up rather than doing good. Nobody seemed to notice whenever he did something well, but if he ever made a mistake, it was hell to pay. A family dynamic that had been played out for generations and he was no exception. 


If the boys had only gotten into a fist fight, everything might have been better. Instead they settled things with machinery, in this case, with their cars. Some of the guys Junior hung out with used knives, bats and even pistols. He was old school, didn't believe much in weaponry. Plus, he was a good fighter, he didn't have to settle things like that. The whole thing happened spontaneously. Ryan had promised Josie that he would avoid any altercations . But when Junior pulled up at the stop light, only Ryan could hear what he said and thats when it happened. The boys began to rip down the boulevard, side by side, running red lights and stop signs in a reckless  abandon that teenagers are known to do. By the time they got to the old bridge underpass, which crossed the oldest rail road tracks in South Bay, just past the skating rink, two kids in skates were crossing the street into the trailer parks across the way. To avoid the kids, Ryan swerved to the left, hit the curb at the curve and flipped his car into mid air, it tumbled several times before the final landing, which crushed the entire cab taking both their lives.  Junior looked into his rear view mirror and saw what he thought hell might look like. The bridge was like a giant gateway, the fire, flames and smoke were all he could see. When he looked again, he saw the two kids on skates and remembered the first time he had ever seen Josie. He drove off and wasn't found until the next day. By then, he too had been consumed by a sort of fire. Sifting through the ashes in his mind was the single memory of the only girl in the world who had ever looked him directly in the eyes and simply said, "I Love You."  


Chapter Nine: Wanda

Wanda was educated. She never suffered fools and had no time for any man who was looking to fill her nights with excitement only to leave her at breakfast alone, she told Jordan the first day they met.  That was fine by him, he had learned to cook breakfast for himself early on in life. Could make a great omelette, a mean cup of coffee and had even learned to make french toast as good as anyone this side of the Mississippi. He knew she was talking about much more than food and he wanted more than a girlfriend too. Jordan was a self confessed , 'Momma's boy without a mama' , so it worked out fine. He had few friends in Los Angeles and no relatives to speak of. The guys in the quartet had disbanded a summer ago, when their main man went on tour with a big band that had gone off to europe. He hadn't touched his bass for a while and even stopped coaching b-ball at the park. It was time to settle down and all the ingredients were there. 

When they first started dating, it was always an all day thing. A trip somewhere early: the beach, the museum, a ball game, a movie, a poetry reading, a walk in the hills, then dinner. He often cooked at her place. Three course meals with special sauces, exotic salads and always some freaky dessert. One of the dudes in his band had also been a chef at a creole restaurant & after gigs, all the cats would descend upon his pad with their girlfriends, dates and such. Jordan picked up pointers quickly. He was a sponge for good habits, a fast learner and wanted to better himself. They moved in together and never looked back. She looked at the clock and knew something was up. Jordan was never late, he was one of those bus drivers who prided himself on being poignant. After a while, his regulars began to appreciate that fact. They could always depend on Jordan to keep his time spots. One out of a dozen or so stops is considered a time spot, it lets you know that your either ahead or behind the schedule that thousands of people depended on to get to work, to school, to the doctor, to church or to some event that was going to start or finish, wether his riders got there on time or not. He tried his best to get them there. If you were going to do something in this world, wether it was cook a meal, play a tune, shoot hoops or drive a bus, Jordan thought you ought to do it well. And he did.  


Wanda turned on the television to kill a little time and there on the eight o'clock news was the lead story, all about the shutting down of Pacific Coast Highway because of an accident between a bus, a turtle and a pedestrian. She knew that was Jordan's route, chances were one in four that he was the driver. News shows were always talking about traffic in Los Angeles, then they'd actually cut over to the man in the helicopter high above the city. Wanda always thought that was a put on, as if they really needed some dude in a helicopter actually talking on television. She minored in journalism and knew very well that any on camera announcer could handle the job, but L.A. was full of stuff like that. Half of it didn't make any sense at all, a quarter of it was for show, and the rest was for entertainments sake. It didn't leave much to the imagination. That was partly why she dug Jordan so much, he was real, fun to be with and was dependable. She didn't care if he was muslim, baptist or hindu, for her, it was more about the man rather than any one group, belief system or way of living life.He finally walked in the door after the Ten O'Clock news hour, he was a mess, had been questioned for several hours and had a strange look in his eye. Wanda had never seen that look before. They never had any secrets between them, but it sure felt like they had one now. "You heard about it?"  He pointed to the television. "Dude standing right on the side of the highway, nothing I could do. Some giant turtle crossing the road ? Cops asking questions, highway patrol, local sheriffs, radio reporters, some cats from the L.A. Times and all the heavies from Transit Authority. They docked me for two weeks. Two weeks while they investigate. Turns out the dude on the road was connected to some old gangster stuff. One of my boys in transit told me, off the record. probably gonna fire me. I don't know what I'm gonna do."  " You'll be fine. Come here." 


She grabbed him and he pulled away, that was a first. In the past, at times like this, she was Mama and he was the little boy from Detroit with no one to look after him. Wanda figured he was just shook up a bit. She never dared to think that he was sitting on ten thousand dollars in hard cold cash and it was making him sweat. If Jordan told her, she wouldn't even come close to understanding. Now it was some gangsters money? Why would some old bum on the highway be carrying that kind of cash ? How could it have anything to do with mob stuff ? Jordan had never been an avid reader, but he had started to buy old paperbacks from a bookstore located in Venice Beach, not far from his break stop. He'd go in there and the girl who worked there would suggest stuff. He had bought and read Alex Haley's famous 'Autobiography of Malcolm X', on her suggestion. "Did you know that he was a writer for Playboy Magazine back in the day ?", she asked him, " No I didn't." She continued, " The Playboy magazine editors once sent Alex Haley to interview the head of the k k k, at his home in the South. He went right up to the front door and interviewed the guy. That takes guts, don't you think?" Jordan answered "Yeah, that takes some doing don't it ?" They became friends, whenever he'd break for lunch, she would have already pulled a few books aside. Poetry by Maya Angelou, obscure art books and early ephemera regarding L.A.'s edgy art scene in the sixties, guys like Charles White. Wanda would come home and there on the coffee table were books she had read in college. She was proud to be with a man who had good taste in literature. Jordan had once read a book by a dude named Chester Himes, it was called, "Cotton Comes to Harlem" where some homeless guy carts around a bevy of cash with a bunch of gangsters on his trail. Now, here he was, in the middle of a weird scene out of a detective novel. He had become a character in a book.  His name and photograph in the newspapers and on the radio. Damn. 






Chapter Ten: Stan

Stan made decisions that effected other peoples lives. He was well aware of his moral obligations and had not been the only person in his family to become a judge. There was a long history of legal professionals who had created legislation, legal precedents, cooperation between groups, unions, affiliates and social movements. His first visit to the White House had included a lunch engagement with a second Uncle, who had made it up the legal ladder from lawyer, to cabinet member to a supreme court justice, appointed in the nineteen sixties. Back then, most of the people in his lineage were liberal or at least democrats, but the tide had turned and now, most were republican or conservatives. Though, it was hard to find anything being conserved lately. Ever since Cliff was born, Stan had become numb to world affairs. Even a bit ambivalent towards party politics. He had settled down late in the game and having a kid was Dora's idea. She was considerably younger than him. They had lived together for several years before marrying, heaven forbid they make the same mistakes their parents had. He was an extremely cautious man, not the type to jump into anything, even as a child, his parents noticed that he had a wisdom beyond his years, sometimes had more common sense than many of their adult friends.When Cliff began to lag behind the other kids in class, they figured out rather quickly that he had disabilities. Dora immediately began looking for reasons why this could have happened. She handled cases where pesticides had effected children's health, chemical companies had been negligent in their social responsibilities, building codes had allowed asbestos to be exposed, local energy companies had polluted the water, electrical wires hung to close to housing tracts and even the local government had sprayed DDT, which had entered the blood stream of unsuspecting residents. And of course, fluoride scandals. She started with their diet. Where had the restaurants theyfrequented prior to Cliff's birth purchased their meat ? What kind of cultivation had the vegetable growers used at the local grocery store? What type of soap had she used to wash their clothes ? Everything and everyone had become suspect for inspection. Although this never led to any final discoveries, it did become a transformative period. From that point on, they lived entirely different lives. 


Dora began to buy her produce directly from local farmers. She wanted to know exactly who grew it, how they grew it and where they grew it. She became extremely aware of artificial colors, flavors, dyes, man made fabrics, fillers, additives, and all the rest of it. Stan sometimes felt responsible for Cliffs health. He had been a smoker in his youth, was older than Dora, thought maybe it was his fault. Though she never did blame him for anything. They couldn't find anything in their family history and eventually concluded that this was just something that happens. But deep down inside, Dora never quite finished her inspection, it was an ongoing situation that at any time just might reveal itself. Dora began to specialize in cases where large companies had been responsible for damaging individuals. Dora was becoming a sort of social hero, whereas Stan was posited in direct opposition to her newfound community post. He was about to preside on a case that would make the Palm Trees burning throughout the city seem like a cigarette burn.Most people thought that a jury was mostly responsible for the final decisions made in courtrooms. But those on the inside, lawyers, investigators, court appointees, even bailiffs, cops and sheriffs all knew very well that the judge had as much to do with final outcomes as the case itself. What information was admissible, how a witness was to be questioned, when evidence was so-called valid and any number of opportunities could either be allowed or objected to, in one way or another, it often came down to the judges decision. Time was always a factor. Another element that often flew directly over the public's knowledge, was all of the inner connectedness of the legal system. For instance, Dora and Stan's connection. When they had just begun to date, there were times when she had brought cases into his court room. No one knew that they were involved. In fact, he never would have fallen in love with Dora if he hadn't witnessed what a brilliant lawyer she was. For a man like Stan, love was much more than attraction, beauty, sex, for him it was about a mutual respect, and to have that, he needed to appreciate the skills involved, Dora had it all. So when things got serious, Dora knew it was either step down or leave yourself open to a series of conflict of interest cases. She opened her private practice as a consultant and they moved in together. But they were the exception, all throughout the court system, relationships such as theirs existed, someone's sister might be married to a cop, who was a regular witness in another guys courtroom, who happened to be from the same church as the sister. Elsewhere, lawyers, secretaries, highway patrol, detectives and others had often been connected in some precarious situation where the fine line between justice and injustice was difficult to decipher. No one person was to blame, it was just a part of the system. Humans got to know the people they worked with, they got involved & they favored their own.But in a city as large and diverse as Los Angeles, this was a dangerous game with lives in the balance. Your life maybe.  


Stan was responsible for putting away a good number of hardened criminals. So many, in fact, that it was difficult to even keep track. For the protection of Judges like Stan, the court system began to track the releases of certain criminals, so they could avoid retaliations which had been on the rise in the past few years. Some guy who may have lost his entire family, his home, his self respect, his youth and even his position and power within a larger group might simply come out, retaliate and go right back into the system for the rest of his life. So, on a monthly basis, judges were now given a file to read, some read it, others didn't bother. Although Stan seldom bothered to review his monthly file, when he found the startling portrait of a familiar face in Cliff's bedroom, the next day, he read the recent releases. Sure enough, a man he had convicted in a high profile case had been released and Cliff's portrait was spot on correct. It was a manslaughter case in which the prosecuting lawyer had decided to try the teenage man as an adult, that was the first red flag. The second was proof of malicious intent to kill. The convicted man had told a fellow worker that he wished a certain guy would get into an accident. They were able to prove that he not only intended to, but was actually the cause of the accident. The third count, he fled from the scene. This was used as a divisive way to influence the jury that the defendant was not only guilty, but also a coward who didn't even stop or attempt to help his victims. There was no way in the world that the kid could have ever helped them out of the car prior to the explosions, it all had happened on impact. Had the boy been able to speak on his own behalf, he might have had a fighting chance, but the entire event had sent him into shock, he lost it, had nothing to say in his own defense and was easily tossed away for more years than he had even been on the planet. Which meant that he had now spent over half of his waking life inside the prison system. An all white jury sent the teenage boy far and away. Stan noticed a letter in his in-box, opened it & realized it was an official communication from the officer and witness involved in the case, requesting to wiretap the recently released criminal under a special circumstances situation. Usually, this type of thing seemed almost routine, but for some reason Stan got a terrible feeling about all of it. He granted the request. What a life. 

Chapter Eleven: Louis Junior  

The day you get out of the joint, they bring you into a room, and bust out a bag of things that were in your possession the day you got arrested. Fifteen plus years was a long time. He didn't even recognize the things they pulled out of the bag, kids stuff, some cash, the keys to his car, the key to his Mom's old house, a leather belt with his name inlaid, a pack of smokes, they didn't even make that brand anymore. A wallet with a velcro strap along the top, inside it, a picture of his car, his mom and a school picture I.D. card of Josie. He look at the wallet and tossed it back in the bag. 'F*%#'. He walked outside and was waiting for a feeling of relief, some moment of freedom, but nothing happened. He looked at the sky and for the first time in a decade, he felt safe enough to cry, so he did. That was his freedom, the ability to show his feelings and not care who saw him. Junior had built up his armor, he was untouchable, nobody could get to him. He had been tested at every level. 

He'd been betrayed,robbed, beat up, stabbed, lied to, yelled at, locked in the hole, stripped naked, reprimanded, punished & poisoned, but he had passed every test that came his way. He learned about loyalty, strength, inner silence, concentration, focus and to some degree, friendship. During the first few years, people entered and left, that was difficult. He later realized that the only people worth getting to know were those who were doing as much time or more than you were. They'd always be there. You had to bond with someone dependable. Not that you could ever really depend on someone, but, having a connection in the kitchen or laundry or yard helped out. Most of the stuff couldn't even be understood by anyone on the outside. He had become an animal in a human zoo. It took him a couple hours to get use to the fact that no one was watching him, no doors were shutting in front of and or, behind him. It didn't matter what time it was anymore. He had lived a life of clockwork bells, alarms, shouts and announcements on a p.a. system from the nineteen thirties.It was hard to fathom that he could do whatever he pleased. Louis Junior had not been the first or only member of his family to do time. Many of his Uncles and cousins had done a few years, here and there. But nobody had ever spent more than a decade. 


The first day in prison, he remembered a story that his uncle Ray had told him about spending time in prison. "The first guy who even looks at you sideways, or calls you out, no matter what color, no matter how big, no matter how crazy, no matter if he's a prisoner or a guard, no matter what, you have to beat the living s+*t  out of the guy, no matter what." So that's what he did. It worked, everyone left him alone, for a while. He eventually gave his mom permission to sell the car when she needed some money, as long as she promised to send him a few bucks every now and then. A guy needed things and you had to pay someone sometimes just to get by. Years past where he wouldn't even hear from anyone on the outside. Not even his dad. After Juniors Mom had a stroke, things were hard for Louis Senior, when he recovered, they began to write each other regularly  and Junior would find that the old man had deposited a few dollars in his account. Which meant he could buy paper, stamps, a candy bar, this type of thing. Junior had been someone who really loved women. He had always loved his Grandmother, his Aunts, his Mom & of course Josie. During his stretch in the joint, it was the worst thing in the world to not spend time with a woman or a girl. All those years deprived of the basic and simple touch of a woman's hand, the sound of her voice, the smell of her clothes. Junior built up a world in his mind that was like a television show or a film or movie that he could repeat over and over: "The Summer of Junior and Josie". 



Not unlike one he saw in school during a social studies class, the teacher wheeled out a television and everyone watched a show that had been produced for boston public television, he never forgot it, it was called, "James at Sixteen", where this kid is trying to get through life and he's in love with this girl. One night, they steal away and spend the night together out in the wild. He and Josie had done that, they'd gone swimming, they'd gone to see The Shylites, they'd seen Fernando pitch for the Dodgers, they even went to a freaky punk rock concert at a burnt out church in Hermosa beach one night. So, in his mind, he just relived it all, night after night, day after day, month after month, year after year. It was like a regular show with different episodes, a mix between "Chico and the Man", "The Partridge Family"  and  "James at Sixteen". That was how he survived it all. There were about a dozen or so episodes & he just watched them over and over again. Of course there was that tragic last episode & unfortunately, he was forced to watch that one just as many times as the rest.The one thing he realized right away was the fact that he had no friends, knew nobody and nobody really knew him. Alone. He had his dad, but that was not very solid. He had his sister and now she had three girls, but all they had heard of him was probably tainted. People feared ex-prisoners, mistrusted them, were suspicious and often blamed them for whatever went wrong in their lives. He had heard a thousand different stories through the years about guys returning home and coming right back due to some family member who dropped a dime because something had gone wrong, a valuable item had been misplaced or any number of things. He promised himself that he would never, ever go back, no way, no how, no, no, no. So as soon as he hit the street he headed straight over to the outreach where he had been receiving letters from a priest. It took him half the day to get over there by bus and the other half to get back down to the harbor where his Dad, sister and little nieces lived.  The priest had explained that they needed guys like Junior. Everything on the streets of Los Angeles was changing. There had been a truce between several rival gangs and guys like Junior had a place in the church. "All right Father", he had said. " We have work for you, come back and see me tomorrow morning, we have a lot of work to do." The Father gave him five dollars for bus fair home, they shook hands and Junior walked back out into the street, a bit blinded by the light. He'd been living in dark grey hallways and closed quarters for years now, all this sunlight and open sky was new.He wasn't ready to see his old man and hadn't seen the old neighborhood where they had grown up, so he made it a point to check it out. When he got there, the house was gone, in fact the entire block was gone, it had been razed by the city and nothing at all had been built on it, just a chain link fence. Then he remembered hearing about how the local chemical factory had been polluting the fields directly behind their home and had to pack it in. They bought out anyone who could prove that they or their property had been damaged. 


They had never even owned the property and by the time his mother found out she had ddt in her blood, a year had passed and it was too late to collect. She had been visiting a sister in Texas when it all went down, never even heard about until after the fact. "Mom", he said out loud. He stared at the open field & looked above him. A red tailed hawk circled over his head several times, it landed on the only tree left in the entire field and screeched at him. The bus dropped him off in the harbor well after dark, he had been given the address and knew it was blocks away from where his Mother was buried. His old man had written that he would walk to her grave all the time. When Junior found their house, it was fully lit. A big house out of an old movie. He could see the table set for dinner through the windows and what must have been his niece's bicycles and toys splayed across the front yard. Music could be heard from the house next door and then he saw his sister Celia in a white cotton dress and what must have been her new husband, bringing food from the kitchen into the living room. The house glowed with a picturesque energy that looked like something he couldn't relate to. It was almost too perfect to the point where, it seemed fake to him. He became scared that maybe he would say the wrong thing. What did he have to talk about ? 

Junior realized all of this was happening too soon, he wasn't ready for this at all. He walked back down the street toward the waterfront and stared at the water for the next few hours. When it got past midnight, he strolled back up the hill, opened the front gate and found a yard chair under the tree in the backyard. He didn't really sleep anymore, so he just rested, looked at the stars and wondered what he would do with his life. After all the planning and scheming to stay alive and out of trouble while inside, Junior hadn't had much time to plan what to do when he finally got out. Well, he had his appointment with the Father tomorrow morning, guess he'd just take it one day at a time, as those dudes in the program say. Then, he couldn't help it, just like clockwork, he decided to watch an episode from "The Summer of Junior and Josie". The one where she can't stop laughing at his stupid jokes and they end up asleep in each others arms. When Junior awoke , it was morning, his new brother-in-law handed him a cup of coffee in a big white mug that said ' Support Your Local Police ', he looked kind of familiar.



Chapter Twelve: Moon

Moon was once a lifeguard. Her older sister had been a forester and later joined the piece corp. They were a Venice Beach family from as far back as the late 1950's. Moon was what they now call old school, she baked pies, mixed her own essential oils, her special patchouli, sandalwood, mint and lemon with a touch of rosemary, was especially popular.  She sewed quilts, grew her own tomatoes, and occasionally imbibed a few herbs, but only for ceremonial purposes. One late Summer or was it early Fall ? Moon had been working the coast as a junior lifeguard, she was still in high school when a giant swell hit the Southern California beach side. It was strange to have such big waves so early in the season, tourists, locals, amateurs & professional wave riders all came out to try their luck. Every registered junior lifeguard was called in to watch the beaches. Already several kids had drowned along the coast. From Swami's surf spot down South, to the County line up North, there were reports of near drownings, accidents of all sorts. Moon had only been working officially a few weeks when the waves hit Venice Beach. She knew the locals were not going to sit this one out, swells in Venice were gigantic. Boards were being split in half by the pylons along the piers most notorious break. It was not unusual to see even the most seasoned locals washed up along the shore with a wound of some sort. Some of these boys considered it a right of passage. One of them would soon become her most intimate companion.  Mickey was not the best surfer in his crew, in fact he was most likely the worst. But he had guts. No one could judge him on style or bravery, he just needed a few more seasons in the water. Having been more of a so-called, grease monkey, rather than a beach bum, delayed his experience as a kid. While his dad was still around, he could always be found just about two or three yards from wherever and or whatever the old man was doing. Usually, fixing someone's Harley. These were not regular motor cycles, per se, these were incredibly complicated Rube Goldberg type contraptions that just happened to also be vehicles. Were talking about choppers with chrome beyond chrome, candy coated paint jobs with more coats of varnish than anyone could imagine. These were complete works of art. Upon inspection, it was hard to believe anyone actually rode the things. There were a good number of bikers who actually parked their bikes, inside the house. That was how important a man's bike was in his life.  If their wives or girl friends ever got jealous of anything, it was seldom another woman. Time, money, care, pride, attention, all seemed to be focused on the ride. 


When Mickey's old man disappeared, he started hanging out with the older surfers in his neighborhood, gravitated towards the older brother types, most of them had been surfing since childhood, many had even started shaping their own boards and some had gone professional, suffice it to say, he had some great teachers. But every man rides the waves alone, having a good teacher only got you so far, in the same way that having your bike tuned by another man only meant that if it broke down out on the highway, you might not know how to get it home yourself. The day Mickey paddled out on eight foot waves with ten foot swells, none of his pals could teach him the lesson only mother nature could provide. He dropped in on a wave that was so powerful, so beautifully shaped, so massive, that it gave him the ride of his life. People were shouting from the coastline, tourists took pictures and locals were in awe. And then, he had to pay the piper, hadn't gaged his exit properly, just by a few seconds too many, like cinderella, boom, way past midnight pal. The wave picked him up, about six feet mid-air, swiftly and without warning slammed his body into the grey sea, he might as well have been dropped from a roof onto concrete. That was just the beginning, from there, he was thrust under water, hit the bottom, bounced back up to the surface and back down again. And then, as if being spit from the mouth of giant, he was thrust upon the shore, like an octopus might shoot out the remains of a recent meal. Onlookers gasped, he was, as they say in the movies, dead in the water. 
Moon was the first person to reach him. She lifted his arms, cleared his breathing canal, pumped his chest three times, and for the first time in her life, began to push the life force from her body into another human being. Alternating the three point pressure pushes on his chest with the air in his lungs, for all of twelve minutes, she had been taught well. Mickey coughed up a half a gallon of salt water before coming back to full awareness. Looking up to see what appeared to be an angel of some sort. He was overcome with a strange mixture of fear and thankfulness. He reached up like a child might reach out of a crib, wrapped his arms around Moons waist and cried. He cried just like a new born baby. She joined him. Some years later, Mickey would claim that he did the whole thing on purpose, just to meet her, some of his pals believed him, but Moon knew better. He had almost died on the beach that day and she was well aware of his appreciation. Not just for his actual life, but for all of the other things she was. Moon was the type of person who completes a man. Respected by women and admired by men. A lot of people fell for her. Mickey's family had never been able to deal with the girls he had dated in the past. But, to his grandmother, Moon was a homemaker. To his Mother, Moon was loyal and trustworthy. To his little sister, Moon was supportive, caring and didn't judge her for being such a tomboy. She fit right into their family. The only thing she had to give up was being a lifeguard. 


Mickey became extremely insecure. He thought that maybe everyone who she might save would have the same reaction he did and begged her to quit. She eventually, a Summer and a half later, granted his immature request, on one condition, they move in together. She moved in with him and together, they looked after his grandmother. Mickey's Mom was often on tour with bands during those early years. So Moon and Mickey were like parents to his little sister. Grandma added a bit of old world spice to the mix. She was the original rebel. Grandma had opened one of the first and longest running bookstores in the beach area. Moon started working there part time and slowly began to manage the place. It was one of those historical literary spots where all the beat poets had read their work. There were two literary institutes in Venice beach, Beyond Baroque and their store. European writers, New York writers, San Francisco writers, Chicago writers, all had done readings there through the years. From Henry Miller to Arthur Miller, it was a great place to buy a book and had a long standing tradition with edgy, respected authors of all sorts. Moon became a familiar fixture. She was the go - to - Gal.  When the phone rang, Moon answered it, she had been ringing up a couple from Europe who had heard about the bookstore from their hometown of Paris France. There had been a poster in the window of a bookstore up the street from their apartment called Shakespeare and Company. The two stores were like sisters. They shared an equal history and created an unofficial exchange program. Moon didn't know what to think of Mickey's quick and deliberate statement that his dad was alive and he would call her back later. 


She had never met the old man and wondered what it would do to Mickey. For years, that was all he talked about. His old man this, his old man that. She packed up the couples five vintage paperback novels and hoped he'd call back. All of the stories she had heard through the years about Mickey's infamous dad began to sift through her mind. She knew that everything was about to change. The entire life they had built up together. Moon got the sense that a new storm was about to hit the beach, she could only hope that Mickey wouldn't paddle out the way he tended to do when things got crazy. How many times could she save him ? When she got home that night Mickey and the old man sat at their table in their kitchen. Talk about Shakespeare and company. Moon got the sense that a king had returned and a prince was handing back his crown. She didn't like it one bit. " Moon, this is my father." His Old man looked up, smiled and said, with his trademark sarcasm, "The Son and the Moon ? Now all I need are the stars and I'm good to go." He took a shot. Moon tilted her head and quietly stared like a cat might look at a sparrow. She smiled & poured herself a shot, " Heres to you."







Chapter Thirteen: Fred

Fred was not his real name, but like a lot of immigrants, he had wanted to represent America, by becoming a real American and so, he started going by Fred. You know, like Fred McMurray, he would say to people. He knew three different guys from his region who had taken the name Sam. You know, like Uncle Sam, they would say. Mostly unaware that not everyone in America in the late sixties & early nineteen seventies related very much to either Fred McMurray from the television show, 'My Three Sons' or Uncle Sam, who had just sent thousands of young men to their deaths in Vietnam. But, these new immigrants had to believe in America, and they did. Many bought property, businesses, and encouraged their first born to join the armed forces. Fred and one of his partners from back home had invested in a liquor store located in the center of Los Angeles. When they first purchased it, they had both been working in the local factories in the day, and by night, they held jobs as security guards. Full time all day, part time all night, for about a decade. Finally, they bought the store, put up a big neon sign, Fred & Sam's Neighborhood Market. Since the initial purchase the neighborhood had changed. Los Angeles had grown into the proverbial melting pot that is always talked about in Sociology classes at big universities. 


In the old days, its was New York or Chicago that was often used as the example of a new America, now it was Los Angeles and Fred was happy to be a part of it. That was until Sam had a heart attack and Fred was left to not only run the store full time, which meant he often had to pull all nighters, but also keep the books, order the product and find a way to either, buy out his dead partners in-laws, who knew nothing about the store or business in general or continue to cut them checks. He was in a quandary and more and more the relationship between he and his wife became strained. Losing Josie was the beginning of a chasm that only deepened in time. On somedays, they worked in tandem.  When Fred got word that Louis Junior was to be released from prison, he started thinking of ways to deal with it. Imagined the worst things he had ever imagined, that he would like to run him over, shoot him, stuff like that. It was terrible, he knew it. The boy had been locked up for years and had paid his debt to society and still Fred was unable to forgive. Every thing he had ever been taught, philosophically speaking, had been thrown out the window. He just couldn't get over it and it began to gnaw at him. The liquor store was situated in a part of Los Angeles that bordered three different groups of people and within those three groups, there were sometimes factions between the groups themselves. There might be three rival territories for one particular group. Which meant his customers were sometimes clashing over issues he had no knowledge of. For instance, The Strolling 40's might come into the store at say, 1:30 AM before closing, to buy a case of Cold Duck for a Ladies Night party that just wouldn't quit. Well, if it just so happened that some dudes from the 12th Street crew were looking to buy a pack of blunts and a tall sixer of Malt Liquor, 'Don't let the smooth taste fool you' , the advertising stated just above the register, with a half naked woman who had probably been paid less than a months rent to bare her body for the sale of this fine, cold beverage, than, there might be a problem. One night, just before closing, a Chevy Impala, full of locals, rear ended a group of kids in a VW, while one of them was exiting from the back seat through the drivers side door. The VW was thrust forward and the door slammed shut while the kids arm was still in its path, so he was standing outside the car, but his shoulder was pinned between the window and the door jam. No matter what they did, the door wouldn't open up. The kid is screaming, the dudes in the chevy don't want to stick around to meet the man, and all this is happening in Fred's parking lot.  What could he do about it ? Nothing. These incidents became more and more frequent and he became well schooled in the ways of street life in L.A. He had left his country to get away from things like this and here he was in the middle of a territory not at all unlike the very place he was brought up in. Killings in his region were rampant, there had been fields of dead bodies eventually discovered. Sometimes he would get home and have nothing to say, just plain numb from the day, didn't even want his wife to know about what was going on out there in the world.  


Eventually, he was forced to buy bullet proof glass, cameras and a permit to buy a gun. Then he had to learn how to shoot. On Saturday mornings, from eight to ten in the morning, he went to a local shooting range and slowly began to meet some of the local cops. When he told them where his store was located, they started to fill him in on a few inside tips. Fred learned about 'sweep days', certain days of the month when local cops scrutinized certain areas. He learned about quotas, and which days would be especially, what they called on the streets, ' HOT '. Fred had heard his customers talking about these things through the years, but it was like a code he didn't understand, now he was in on it. Fred was wising up. Through the years, Fred would be forced to call the police. He knew there was a code and yet there were times when he absolutely had no choice but 'call the man'. He had met a bunch of these guys in the parking lot of his store in the early days and later would see them at the shooting range. Fred and Chuck became friends outside of their official business and realized that they both had things in common. Namely: Louis Junior. It was a high profile case, Chuck was a witness, but Fred had been in shock, he didn't really remember the faces of his lawyer, his judge or even Chuck. The only face that stuck in his mind during that entire ordeal, was that of his dead daughter, "Daddy", he could hear her say. There was nothing comparable to losing a child to Fred. He had lost a piece of himself. That child, to him, was his Mother, his Grandmother, all the women in his family, it was his future and all of it had been taken away, over nothing at all. Fred called Chuck at his home office the week before Louis Junior was released. He thanked him for the good work he had done and expressed that maybe they should talk some time soon. When Chuck got the message, he remembered the scene that night, thought about his own daughters and realized that no matter what, he still had to follow through.Chuck got in his car, drove downtown & requested a wiretap. He couldn't go directly to a judge, but he went to his pals at the division and they put forward a formal request. On the way back home , he exited the 110 freeway and walked into Fred and Sam's Neighborhood market, he was in plainclothes," I got your message and don't worry, were working on it. " Fred smiled for the first time in a few months, said nothing. He didn't charge him for the soda pop either. It was a 'HOT' day.  





Chapter Fourteen : Turtles

Turtles lived a long time. Ancient and modern Native Americans know that some turtles live over a hundred years. In fact, if circumstances allowed, just about any living being could live an extraordinary amount of time. Jordan had been given a set of brushes that was his grandfathers from the early nineteen thirties. It came in a black leather case that housed two or three brushes, a glass container for some type of hair tonic, a stylized scissors and a container that might have held a bar of soap. He had never used the family heirloom and now that he had some time off, he unpacked it. He decided that this would be a safe place to put this newfound package of dollars bills he had recently acquired. When he opened the container for soap, what appeared to be the oldest and largest daddy long legs spider ever, peaked from out of the soap container. It was ancient and had a vibe to it like no other animal of its kind. It's eyes had lids and lashes, it's face, expressed some kind of emotions: pain, regret, loss, just plain tired. Jordan right away knew that this was a spider that must have been living in the kit as far back as the nineteen thirties, when his own granddad was just a boy. 


He'd heard of things like this and immediately and quite carefully put the spider back into the soap case, zipped up the brush kit and as far as he was concerned, that spider actually was his grandfather. Jordan drove up the coast to where the accident happened, pulled over and just sat there. He began to study the landscape from every imaginable angle and point of view, there was the derelict in the trailer who pulled out without looking, there was the beach comber, there was the turtle and of course his own point of view. He'd been having some strange dreams ever since the thing with the turtle happened. It all had something to do with nature and his connection or maybe disconnection with the elements, the basics. Maybe he just had too much time on his hands. Or, maybe it was the money. Either way, he was noticing things that had never meant much in the past. Jordan had never gone to the bookstore in Venice Beach when he wasn't driving a bus, but for some reason, he decided to head down there. They had a whole section on native americans and animal medicine, he bought a book on turtles. He had been experiencing a recurring dream of swimming with a group of turtles, but the image was from a whole other lifetime, it was weird, you know how dreams can be, a whole other set of rules. Apparently, animals had been popping up all over Los Angeles in strange and unexpected places. There had been a coyote sighting in the middle of downtown, a family of raccoons had been seen swimming across a pool which had been built for the nineteen-eighty-six olympic games, a rattle snake on the streets of Westwood, these were not your run of the mill animal sightings, something was going on. What was the deal with that turtle and where did it go ? As Jordan was walking out of the store, he noticed Moon getting off the back of a motorcycle in the front of the store. This was probably her boyfriend and he didn't want to make a big deal out of anything, so he just smiled and waved, but she jumped off the bike and pulled him over to the edge of the street. "Hey, I want you to meet my old man, Mickey." Jordan was a little embarrassed but felt obliged, " Mickey, this is one of our customers ..."  He extended his hand, looked into Mickey's eyes and said, "The names Jordan, nice to meet you." But he was thinking, 'Damn, that's the dude who was on the bus that day.' Mickey recognized the face, but didn't make the connection right away, "Nice to meet ya." Mickey drove off thinking that maybe they had met somewhere before. Jordan drove off thinking that life was pretty weird and getting weirder by the day. 


When he pulled up to the stop sign, he looked down at the cover of the book and noticed that the tile on the turtles back was the exact same shape as the stop sign, it had eight sides. Like a Pythagorus pattern he had admired. Some of the ancient tiled patterns through the centuries utilized the octagon as a sacred symbol. They hinted at the idea that we are all connected in one way or another, the patterns of life. He hadn't smoked anything for over a year, not since the quartet disbanded, but he was beginning to feel kinda, out there. He looked left, than right, then left again, put his foot on the gas pedal and noticed a group of fire trucks parked a block down, they were spraying water onto a giant palm tree. He didn't know what to do with himself, nor did he make any decisions as to what he might do with the money. He hadn't counted the bills but he did peel back the brown paper, which, upon inspection had lots of little designs and was broken up into squares in perforated form, like a postage stamp. They were hundred dollar bills, so he had to guess that it was a hell of a lot of money. He got nervous thinking about it. When the cops had showed up, he had seen them scoop up the other packages along with the guys other things, a bag of clothes, a few blankets, they gathered  everything into a bag marked 'evidence' which had been dated with a black marker. When they tossed it in the trunk he wondered if a guy like that would even miss it. Since then, he had been talking to some of the more experienced drivers about incidents such as these and several had suggested that he ought to get a lawyer. You could never be too careful. Jordan figured that he could definitely afford one if he needed to and wouldn't it be ironic that he would be using the funds to protect himself from the very dude who he might go to court with. But that wasn't what the other drivers meant. They were suggesting that he get a lawyer in case the transit authority fired him. They might just use this as an excuse to can him, even if it wasn't his fault. He was already the odd man out. What his fellow drivers didn't know was that Jordan had gained a few franklins recently and didn't really care about his job driving a bus. He had become fixated on the turtle. He was tripping.





Chapter Fifteen: Dora  

Dora worked for a very big firm, right out of college. Their clients were large corporations, food chains, car dealerships, hospitals, major sports teams and entertainment personalities. She would often be one of a dozen different lawyers assigned to a case. They were extremely powerful people who had ways of influencing decisions that went far beyond what everyday people could even comprehend. If her firm had been defending a food chain for say food poison, then they had the power to have articles placed in newspapers, opinion pieces on the radio, even news stories on how that particular company was doing good community work and improving its nutritional value or helping kids with polio or donating funds to a particular recent tragedy. She learned a lot about how things worked and after five years, became so disgusted with the firm, that she flat out quit. Dora had watched hundreds of individuals cheated out of situations. They had been poisoned, they had driven cars that were ill equipped, they had been plagiarized, they had been injured and still sent out to play the game, they had been operated on the wrong bodily organ. 

There were all sorts of situations where the individual was wronged and her firm defended the large company. She realized that after all she had learned in school, she had been working on the wrong side, for the wrong people. So she went back to school for three years and came out a new human being. She had learned in those first five years how the big boys wielded their power and was ready to take them on for the sake of the individual and she did. Dora took on cases that involved most of the same types of issues that she had worked on those first five years, but now, she was working for the person who had been wronged. When a football player had been injured, an employee had been crippled, a resident had been stricken with a disease which had been prolonged by chemicals, she prosecuted the big companies. She never spoke about cases in public, was aware of illegal wiretaps, never met her clients in public places, she had learned well. Dora knew that there was nothing the large firms wouldn't do to win a case. During the first five years she had seen it all. Placing individuals at designated locations to get information on a witness, getting the low down on a certain assistant's personal habits and indeed utilizing any technical device to further the source of information for one side or the other, it was a game of one-up-man-ship with no regard for the law. At least not until the actual day in court, prior to that day, anything was possible and just about every one could be influenced, scared, cajoled, even bought.As soon as she found out who was being sued in a conversation with a new client, she would hold up her hand and pass the victim a blank sheet of paper, as if to say, 'Here, write it down for me.'  She trusted no one. That is why she won so many cases and became well known for being extremely dedicated. Even feared. She had friends in the universities, forensic scientists, professionals who trusted her opinion on wether the fight was worth it or not. People knew that if Dora thought it was a worthy cause than, it was indeed, a worthy cause. When she got a call from a bus driver who said he had recently been in an accident that was entirely the other persons fault and feared he was actually being fired for his religious beliefs, she met with him. Sure enough, as soon as he mentioned the Transit Authority, Dora raised her hand and passed him a piece of paper with a pen. There had been a series of cases involving the transit authority and most of them had settled out of court. There waseven a current case involving a group of people suing over the schedules not being met, a union had been created among the actual riders and they were seeking to keep the transit authority honest about the hours in which they claimed to be servicing.Dora knew that religion had become a point of reference in not only the united states armed forces, but also in many large companies, corporations and even in schools. She had been raised believing that church and state were a separate institute all together. Dora had once been surprised, even shocked to find a sculpture of Moses and the ten commandments attached to the side of a courthouse where she sometimes worked. 


After a few days of investigation, she told Jordan that if indeed he was fired, that she thought he may have a case. She was not a trial lawyer anymore, but knew one who had specialized in this rather successfully in the past.  The events he had sited in his casual deposition had exposed a system of favoritism that was based on affiliations and not on seniority or performance. She wanted to know if some of his friends or fellow workers would back him up. She called a friend who had tried this type of thing in the past, some were race related, others were systematic. They needed to get witnesses who had been retired early for the same type of charge. Witnesses who had nothing to lose by testifying for a just cause. Dora put the word out among her circuit.That night, after picking up Cliff , Dora and Stan discussed how best to handle this recent event at Cliff's school. They decided it was best to correct the school and request a change of policy before taking it any further. They liked the school, it was close to home and her office. If the school were to utilize trained employees with certifications during outings, then they would not sue. Cliff had friends there, they felt it was more important that they make changes rather than waves and indeed they did. The school swiftly rid the volunteers and hired three new employees to handle the excursions. Dora was disgusted that someone would do such a thing, who were thesepeople that would dress her child a certain way to send a personal message to someone else ? Unfortunately,one of the volunteers got a copy of the letter Dora had drafted with her letterhead and the address of her office. 

Not only was Dora about to find out what kind of person does such a thing, she was about to find out just how disgusting some people will go to attempt to make two wrongs a right. There was a sickness in society and Dora had always been someone who had worked to heal that disease. She had been tested thousands of times and had almost always achieved her goal, but coming up against a vindictive ex volunteer would soon prove to be more challenging than her previous accomplishments. This particular volunteer was insane. Dora put Cliff to bed and her and Stan shared a glass of sherry as they had done customarily for many years. He told her about the recent release of this kid he had put away fifteen years ago, the boy had been Cliff's age and had been tried as an adult. He was now having some second thoughts about the whole case. Dora reminded him, ' Once the decision has been made, there is no turning back, your a judge. Evidence is presented, a jury made a decision, end of story.'  He didn't want to tell her about the wiretap request, so he simply let it go. He was good at that. He also knew, deep down inside that the only places where stories actually ended were in movies, plays and books. This was real life, where the story never really ended, it just lingered. 


Chapter Sixteen: Home 

God had a lot of different definitions to a lot of different people. Junior wasn't exactly sure if he totally understood the concept of what god was. He had seen how people who believed in god had sometimes transformed themselves. He had been accepted by a group of firm believers and felt a certain amount of gratitude for being accepted.Deep down inside, he still had some real doubts. For the past two weeks, he had settled into his new home, had been given a key, so he could come and go as he pleased, but had no idea of the kind of culture shock that pervaded his every thought. That many years away, locked up, had taken away his identity as a person. He had become a unit within a machine and was now searching for who he actually was.Louis Senior had brought out boxes of old family photographs that junior sifted through. He rebuilt his existence by putting together a sort of road map of his life before the accident. He had taken a series of odd jobs, but none of them seemed to fit. The priest had introduced him to a social worker who gave him a bunch of temporary job options, a program wherein you could work for three days at various jobs to see if you had the skills. He had tried his hand at cleaning windows on skyscrapers downtown with a crew of guys, but the height prove too much for him. He spent a few days cleaning out the public bathrooms all along the harbor, grunt work that only reminded him of prison. 


He had gutted fish in one of the last canneries that still existed in the harbor, came home smelling of guts. None of it meant anything to him, but he was thankful for the opportunities and had, on several occasions spent time in the church to show his gratitude. The priest explained that, on some days, even he had questions about faith that could not always be answered directly. He would tell Junior that, "It's an ongoing relationship, have patience my son." Junior had seen a lot of different types of faiths, while in the joint. There were all types of believers, he was very interested in the native american dudes who believed in the animals, let their hair grow long and had ceremonies that allowed them to practice their own belief system, they fasted, held prayer circles and chanted during certain moon and sun phases. He had also respected and became friends with a group of Buddhists who shaved their heads, meditated and had found a way to tolerate just about any type of abuse that the system or other inmates could dish out. There were plenty of Muslim's who had strict rules on what to eat, when and how to bathe, what direction to pray. Of course, he had plenty of friends who were down with the Jesus thing and having been raised in that faith himself, naturally gravitated toward it. Most of the people in that circle believed that Jesus was the only way, but somewhere in Juniors mind, he had built a map that had more than one way to get home and he quietly tolerated those who felt differently about it.He had a common sense about him that allowed for there to be a, 'constant maybe', to just about anything. There were no guarantees in this world, that was clear. One of the big boys had given him an address, that if, in case of emergency, he could go to, for work. He had done enough favors, cooperated enough with heavies to gain their trust and respect. He had the address memorized. It was the kind of work that no one actually talks about, no applications to fill out, no supervisor to report to, no waiting two weeks for your first check. You were paid in advance and you did the job quickly. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Since finding out that his brother - in - law was a cop, he became cautious about anything he said or did at all times. He still hadn't put it together that Chuck was the cop who had testified against him. Back then Chuck was clean shaven, with a full set of hair, no glasses. Now, Chuck was balding grey, with a mustache and specs. Junior had come to admire what his sister had done, built a family, bought a home, taken in their father after his mother had passed away. His little nieces were funny, sarcastic, nerdy, the way that kids can sometimes be, they said stuff that had more truth to it than some of the adults. He respected people who told the truth more than those that put up a front. Chuck and Celia had done something with their lives, they had created a family. Junior was almost positive that he would never do such a thing.One day, while Chuck was at work, Celia and Junior were having lunch in the main house, she ran out front to catch the delivery driver who was just down the street. Junior had walked down the hall towards the bathroom and accidentally opened the door to Chucks office which was normally locked. 


Louis Junior entered the room to find himself surrounded by a litany of facts and graphs regarding the things going on the city. Recent arrests, murders, rapes, drug busts and the recent palm tree burnings that had pervaded L.A. with news clippings, photographs and police reports. When he looked at the top of Chucks desk he read a tear sheet that had been faded and worn. It was a headline that read, 'Local Teen Tried as Adult for Manslaughter'. He had never even seen the paper the day he was convicted, but there it was in plain sight. He looked closer and studied the photographs, one of him, the day of his arrest, one of the vehicle, a picture of both Josie and Ryan from the high school yearbook and a picture of a young Officer Chuck. 'MotherF*#@'. He looked out the window which faced the guest house and saw a cord that ran from the guest house roof over to Chucks window and into a phone jack unit that looked freshly installed, pieces of paint had been scraped away, exposing wood slivers around the jack. He closed the door and rushed to the dinner table before Celia came back in with a big box containing some dresses she had ordered for one of the girls upcoming birthday party. He smiled and said he had some work to do down at the church. It wasn't a total lie, he had promised the father that he would stop by and mow the lawn sometime in the next few days. But instead, he got on a bus and headed for the address he had been given. He was scared for the first time since leaving prison and it wasn't the fear of god.Junior remembered a story he had been told long ago. It was about the town where his people had come from.Back when his grandfather had been a small child, there had been a sort of Robin Hood, who was an outlaw, but had protected his townspeople, had gotten rid of a local merchant who had been abusing his power. When the authorities came to arrest him, the people of the town got together and decided to do what they could to assist. From his window in the local jail, they would put on a sort of show, 'Teatro de la Calle'. By wearing certain costumes, affecting certain body types, they were able to send him messages about what was really going on. It didn't take him very long to learn how many days he had left and where and how his fate was to be sealed. It was an amazing effort how the citizens were able to communicate in this way and he felt honored. He did escape, but was eventually killed in cold blood. Since that time, the system that had been created was still in existence. Whenever there had been an injustice by the authorities, the people had gathered to help inform, in one way or another the Robin Hood's of the region. Word got out and this way of communicating became well known. It was exported and utilized throughout the regions where oppressed peoples had little power. Junior began to relate to that story and decided that he had to tap into that same type of tradition. How could they have not told him? His own father ? His own Sister ? He felt betrayed and indeed, he had been. He walked up to the house, checked the address again, rang the bell, the door opened, he walked inside, the door closed. 'Welcome back', a voice softly said. He was finally home.   


Chapter Seventeen: Stones

The Stones had been reunited. For the past few weeks, with Charles back at home, the house became full of energy. For years, it had been more like a place with a large memory. Now it was, once again, a real home. Charles, Maggie, Micky, Calley, Grandma and Moon found themselves thrust into the public eye, due to the sudden return of Charles 'Big Daddy' Stone, as he had been known throughout the art world all those years. He had been a part of the nineteen sixties counter culture revolution that included guys like Robert Crumb, who had famously designed the 'Keep on Truckin'  image which had been tattooed, reprinted & even bootlegged ever since it's inception. Charles had been made famous around the time that Andrew Wyeth' s son Jamie had painted a biker riding one of Charles' famous choppers. Charles began to sell drawings and became collected by the top notch musicians & later by everyday hippies. Mickey had kept the legend alive by reprinting his fathers famous, 'Dude on a Chopper' logo on stickers, t-shirts and posters. It was the family business, helping to pay the bills, as well as make ends meet at Grandma's bookstore and of course, it payed for the house they were all now living in. 

Since Charles' return, a slew of interest in his art had created a bit of a controversy. When an artist either retires or dies or in this case disappears, the value of the work goes up, since there will most likely be no more new works. Charles 'Big Daddy' Stone's sudden arrival had coincided with an interest in counter culture art and graphics worldwide. His generation' s contribution to the art world was now being celebrated, accepted, lauded. A new credibility was being attributed by the current art critics. Due to his mysterious disappearance and sudden return, the 'Dude on a Chopper' logo was slated for the cover of Artforum magazine, he was about to be rediscovered. Charles had disappeared in nineteen-eighty one. At that time, there was absolutely little to no interest in his work. Since then, people began to realize that American Rock & Roll and the images that defined it, were valuable. His generation had changed the way we think about our lives. People all over the world had been influenced by guys like Charles and the bands that his wife Maggie had taken on tour. It was a new world and for whatever reason, Charles was being welcomed back with full honors across the board. Rolling Stone magazine had called recently for an interview.Before the kids were born, Charles had been a roadie and later handled security for bands up in Woodstock. He had met Maggie while she was managing Bob Dylan. It was rumored that Dylan had written the famous lyrics, ' Everybody must get stoned ... ' for Maggie and Charles. They had become an item after being married on the road, with Robbie Robertson as their witness in Nashville, they had become known as ' The Stones '. When the film, "Easy Rider" hit theaters and Peter Fonda was seen riding one of Charles' trademark choppers, he became the man, with a new waiting list for client orders and enough financial security to actually have children. When Mickey was born, they moved  to Venice Beach, closer to Maggie' s mom. The center of the music business, by then, was shifting from New York to Los Angeles and they moved with it. After the disaster of Altamont, the last place they wanted to be was in Northern California. They had plenty of friends there, but by nineteen sixty-nine, the whole movement peaked & Maggie was touring with a new group of bands. By the time Calley was born, she was working with a new writer who just penned a tune that personified everything that had happened in America in the past ten years. ' Bye, bye Miss American pie, drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry and good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing this will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die. For ten years we were on our own and moss grows fat on a rolling stone ...' . Music now, had a sadness. Vietnam, the Kennedy's, Martin & Malcolm, Hendrix, Janice, Kent State, had all left it's mark and artist' s like Carol King, Burt Bacharach & Don McLean were explaining to the world what we were going through. Bands from the sixties, like the Rolling Stones, the Who & the Beatles were all going through a transitional period. Phil Spector and his 'Wall of Sound' vibe ended, Brian Wilson & the Beach Boys took it's place. Maggie had managed Wilson's tours, up until he lost it. The person most happy to see Charles was his daughter. 


Calley had recently become a hair dresser & esthetician. She sat Charles down, trimmed his hair and beard, cut his nails, soaked his feet and even gave him a pedicure. His toe nails had grown over his toes like talons. Like so many homeless men who drift through life unnoticed, Charles had let himself go. Calley had immediately forgave him for disappearing. 'You bad boy, how dare you run off like that.', she said to him jokingly. Maggie was struck by how handsome he still was. A full set of hair, tan skin, he'd lost his beer belly and after Calley cleaned him up, Maggie got rid of the boyfriends and found herself admiring Charles in a way that she had years ago. By the first week of his return, they had slept in the same bed together. That Sunday morning the entire family ate breakfast together. The only doubters among the group were Moon & Grandma, like a couple of birds on a wire, that chortled and fidgeted their way through the morning, before driving off to the bookstore together. They had wanted to ask Charles the obvious questions like, "Where the F@%! have you been for the past ten years ?" But they didn't want to ruin the family reunion, so they talked about it on the way to work. 

Calley was so happy to see Charles, she brought her girl friend to the house for Sunday breakfast and announced they were moving in together. Everyone knew that Calley had been more than disinterested in men. Mickey always figured it had more to do with the line of men his mother had brought home since Charles' disappearance. In any event, Charles' return gave Calley a new found strength and she used it to be herself immediately. She announced that they wanted to open their own shop and needed some help from the family. Charles donated five thousand dollars on the spot, it was the least he could do .Mickey and Charles sat in the back yard playing catch up. Charles' old studio had been preserved with a few minor updates which included a modern hydraulic rack to lift the bikes six feet high. Mickey had poured a slab of new concrete inside and out. They had an account with Snap-On tools & endorsements from a dozen small companies that had created accessories of one sort or another. Charles explained where he had been and what had happened.Mickey didn't really want to know, "It doesn't matter." But Charles knew it did , he had abandoned the kid without word, without warning, just up and left the boy to fend for himself. Charles had been around the world and back again. He had a post office box in five different cities where his partners sent him his cut of a business he had long since walked away from. Charles had been a dealer of various substances back in the day. Nothing lethal, never anything heavy, he didn't believe much in poison. 



Charles had once taken the fall for a famous rock & roll star. He did a year & a half for possession of illegal substances while crossing the border from Canada into the United States. Since then, he had been supported and respected by that particular person. By taking the fall, Charles saved the entire North American Tour which netted over eighty-five million dollars. It was well known, among the underground, that he was royalty and because if this, received royalties. He had spent a good amount of time in both Amsterdam & Mexico, finally drifting closer to home along the coast of California for the past few years. Once, he told Mickey, he saw a group of kids wearing his art on T-shirts. When Charles inquired wear they had gotten them, the kids said, 'From a department store'. That's when Charles knew that Mickey had preserved the catalog. But, it wasn't that simple. Charles had no idea how hard Mickey had fought boot -leggers and rip off artists. Constantly sending cease and desist letters to protect Charles' legacy. Mickey didn't bother to set him straight. Not now anyway. Father and son sat in the back yard, drinking beers & telling stories late into the night. The Stones had finally been reunited. 
  





Chapter Eighteen: Hole

Fred hadn't been home in days. He had no reason to be. Running the store on his own now was his only purpose. When he did go home, it was just a reminder of what once was, a daughter and a wife that he had survived. Fred had set up an old army cot in the back of the store. It was easier to just stay there, especially since he had begun to smoke and drink. He hadn't been golfing for over a month and his pals began to get concerned. He was a great golfer, the best in his circle of friends. They all owned shops along the central portion of Los Angeles: serving the community by supplying liquor, furniture, toys, glass, sporting goods, all kinds of small businesses. Fred's ex-partners in-laws had been pressuring him to buy them out. But he had no way of keeping the store together and buying them out at the same time. He would either have to sell his house or sell the store to do so. Fred and his wife had never been particularly close to his ex-partners family. Through the years and especially since her death, his relations with them had gotten worse. He had no idea how desperate they had become for money. They had a bunch of grown children who knew that if Fred would buy them out, that they could put down payments on their own homes. One of the young men was especially distraught about his own dilemma, he had recently gotten engaged and was expecting a child in the next few months. Every one in their house seemed to blame Fred for their problems.The young man had been hearing his mother & uncles talk discouragingly about Fred ever since their dad had died. The young man had been rummaging through his dead dad's legal documents for the past year, thinking of ways in which he could get Fred to buy out their partnership. They had made a false complaint a few years back, which got Fred audited by the Internal Revenue Service and only ended up hurting their own income. His books were clean and in the end, he proved to be an upstanding and loyal business partner. When the young man came across the insurance policy, he noticed that they had full coverage for theft, disaster and for fire. Strangely enough, the policy, which had originally been drafted way back when, also included the parking lot as well as any living creature on 
it's premises. That would include a security dog, which they once had, back when the store first opened and the giant palm tree which was not like the other trees that were planted along the sidewalk. Those trees were owned by the city. Their palm tree was situated behind the store, it had cost them a pretty penny to trim it once a year and in itself had raised the value of the property by about fifty thousand dollars. The insurance on the tree would give Fred enough money to buy out the partners, or so thought the young man, who was not entirely educated. He heard about the famous 'Palm Tree Burnings' in the papers and on the news and got a bad idea in his head. Fred was awoken by the rattle of the chain link fence. It was four in the morning. He took out his pistol, climbed the ladder in the rear supply area & unlocked the skylight.

He could see a young man pouring water all around the base of his palm tree which sat just feet away from the cinder block store and inches away from the power lines up above. He shouted to the figure, "Hey you, what are you doing there?" The young man lit a book of matches, tossed it on the ground and the entire base of the tree lit up in flames. Fred was a perfect shot, he could have easily, taken the life of this person, but instead, he shot him in the leg. The bullet passed through the young mans calf and entered the palm tree. The young man ran toward the fence. Fred climbed back down the ladder, opened the back door and ran toward the young man, "Stop right there."  Fred ripped the hat off the young man's head & recognized him right away. He was the splitting image of his dead partner Sam. " What are you doing ? Why would you do this ? Why ?"  The young man had no proper answer. 

The roar of the fire was immense, it was reaching the top of the palm tree and was beginning to melt the power lines. Fred opened the padlock on the back fence and instructed the boy to leave. He owed it to Sam, who had been a life long friend, to take care of the boy, even under this type of circumstance. " Don't go to the hospital, you'll have to just sweat it out. Don't tell anyone you were here either. Don't even leave your house until you hear from me. Understand ?" The young man said nothing. "Understand?" Fred repeated, the boy was now openly crying, he shook his head, yes, that he understood and limped down the side street out into the darkness, leaving an orange orb of light that could be seen from miles away, it lit the sky like a giant torch, by now the power and phone lines were on fire and fred had to run across the street to call for help. By the time the fire department showed up, all the power lines had been downed and half the block, including the street lights, had gone dark.  Fred explained what had happened in all it's detail, except for the last part. There was a police report. Several detectives were assigned to the case. Because it was a part of the famous, "Palm Tree Burnings", he also had, not only the Feds, but a local reporter for The Weekly, which had been following the case since it's original inception. She had solved a series of cases through the past ten years and got the sense that something was different about this particular burning. Fred didn't get to sleep that entire next day and the store had to remain closed for the next few days. Of course, all the news teams came out and it became another item for conversation. 

When the insurance investigators came out, they asked to view the video. Fred had installed three video cameras, one inside, at the register, one out front and one out back. The cameras took stills every ten seconds or so. Fred could only hope that the power lines had been severed before he had opened the gate and let the boy run to safety. When he finally got back inside the store, he looked up, there on the wall, was a picture, it was a snap shot which had been enlarged and framed, a smiling image of both Fred and Sam, with cigars in their mouths, wearing sports shirts out on the golf course. They had both been so hopeful of their new enterprise. Fred looked closely at the picture, Sam seemed to be looking at his partner from the grave, saying, "Thanks."  Sam had always been lecturing Fred about this new generation. "You have to believe in these kids Fred, their the future."  Fred thought to himself, 'If this was the future than were in a hell of a lot of trouble.' Little did he know, that this was the future and yes, he was in a hell of a lot of trouble. He closed up and for the first time in a month or so, he went golfing. Fred hadn't golfed alone for years. But he was in no mood to talk to the other members of his unofficial golf club. He would have to lie to them and didn't feel like acting. He had done so over five times since the fire and hadn't the energy to do so over a game of golf. He had repeated the story to the fire department, the police, the feds, the detectives and the insurance guys. Later,he had the choice to talk to reporters & had a feeling that the lady from The Weekly knew her stuff. Maybe it would be good for business, he figured that he would do as he had always done. 

Go with the flow. Fred had always prided himself on only needing three clubs while playing golf. He used a putter, you had to have a putter, a Three Iron, for Bogies and the like & a Nine Iron. He had an awesome swing that seemed to utilize all of his frustrations and anger and loss into a single guided focus that harnessed his concentration. He had been called a lot of names through the years. The kind of monikers that people gave to foreigners. Things that had enraged his friends only solidified his resolve to be successful, to be good at what he did, to be what he considered a good American, a good father and in the case of Sam's youngest son, to be a good partner. His pals were enviable. Fred was not the jealous type, if a guy was better, he would simply study his technique. The sun was setting, Fred was the last guy on the course. He had the green all to himself. The course was peppered with palm trees and he had to laugh, otherwise he would have to cry, he laughed and laughed and laughed. If anyone was there with him, it was the spirit of his pal Sam. They had been golfers from the first week they came to this country. It was the thing you did in America. They had seen it in the movies and on television. All great business men in America played golf. Business deals all went down over a game of golf, everyone knew that. They had decided to buy the liquor store together at this very golf course and had made a pact that they would get the hell out of the warehouse together. He stepped up to the Eighteenth Hole, the sunset glowed, the sky seemed to speak to him. Fred swung, he watched the ball as it hurled toward the green. It landed in the hole. The flag shook for a second or two and settled. He slowly and methodically walked toward the green. Fred was an American.









Chapter Nineteen: Roots

Gimme some skin., his Dad's friends would say as they walked in the door. Jordan would put out his palm flat and the dudes would slide their hands across his as they walked past and into the living room to hang with Pops. Jordan had lost touch with all of that in the past decade and was now making up for it. He had ' Gone Native '. That is what the fella' s in the park called it. Shook off all that urban vibe and was searching deep for his roots. He'd been dipping into his new found savings in the past few weeks. Every time he opened the black case where the money was hidden, he would unwrap the brown paper that it was encased in and, like his dad often did, hewould lick his thumb and count out a few bills, than he wrapped the money back up, in that funny paper design and stashed it away where it couldn't be found by Wanda.Jordan had no idea that the bundle of cash was actually wrapped in a very precious substance that had not been on the market for decades. It was a sheet of the purest L.S.D. that had ever been produced, the very best. The money had originally sat in a post office box before the beachcomber picked it up and had been carrying it for the past few years. 

So, although Jordan didn't exactly know why he was having strange new ideas about life, he was actually, 'Tripping - the - light - fantastic' as it was commonly known in the old days. Every time he even touched the paper it absorbed into his skin. He had never partaken in anything like that voluntarily before, so he had no reference point for what was going on. It wasn't like he was ingesting it fully, but this stuff was so strong that he was definitely 'Out There'. So much so that, when he went to the pawn shop to pick up his bass guitar, he saw a ring, bought it for Wanda and totally forgot about the instrument. Another time, he had gone down to the park to pick up that incense she liked and ended up buying a drum that had been made in Mali and stretched with a real goat skin by an ancient shaman, or so he was told. He bought a bunch of fabric and some rugs, original bamboo tiki lamps and started digging up a fire pit in the back yard. Wanda had seen this kind of thing before, but she was still concerned for him. He borrowed Old Man Withers truck the day they were cutting down an Oak tree, grabbed a bunch of the stumps and created what they called a tribal circle around his new drum-circle-fire-pit. When she got home, he was in the back yard stripped down to almost nothing, playing his drum with a bunch of cats he had met in the park. The house was full of new plants, a few sculptures, he had even redesigned the living room with all of this original fabric from the motherland. Bought a bunch of weird vegetables that even she was unaware of, some kind of macrobiotic root vegetables made from lotuses. When he gave her the ring, she really got scared. It was a real diamond with little rubies set all along the top and emeralds all along the bottom with some kind of amber along the sides. She hoped he wasn't doing anything illegal, getting into trouble or messing up. Of course, she was also elated, proud, even turned on by this new identity thing he was going through. When she asked him where it all was coming from, he said that one of his uncles had passed away back East and had left him some money. "What Uncle?" she asked. "On my Daddy's side, he had a piece of property that they sold and I got a piece of it, just in time too."  It sure was on time, because the Transit Authority still had him waiting for an answer. Wanda made good money, but they depended on his income too. During the past year, Jordan had seen a lot of weird things and heard a lot of strange stories related to bus driving in Los Angeles. There had been a stabbing on Alameda, a lady had broke water up on Wilshire, an old man had a stroke down in the Harbor. Some times a group of people would aggravate someone, all along the route, a different person would bump, push, start an argument with some unsuspecting person. The drivers were sometimes aware of it and even worse, they were sometimes a part of it. It was a battle ground for all kinds of people. Homeless folks used the night lines to have some shelter, they would ride all night, and who could blame them ? Religious groups used it to recruit stragglers of all sorts. Drug dealers were sometimes peddling. A Driver was some times briefed by the Transit Authority prior to a shift, if there had been any recent or on going incidents. 

The drivers were expected to do a whole lot more than simply drive a bus, they were expected to role play, ask questions of certain riders and even get information. Jordan wasn't interested in being a soldier for the man, he simply wanted to drive a bus, take a check and have a regular life. Half the dudes he grew up with were being shipped out to fight a war in The Gulf. Now he got a call to have his vision tested again. He had already done all of that before. The beachcomber was not even pressing charges, it turned out that he had been missing for years and the entire incident had reunited his family. Why were they stressing me ? He wondered. He knew drivers that were cool, but he also knew some pretty mean dudes that, one way or another, for whatever reason, just didn't like the job and therefor didn't like the people and ultimately,  were not good drivers. Maybe they were just unhappy at home or were going through a tough time or had recently had some illness. Whatever it was, they would tend to take it out on the passengers. If a driver was a racist, he or she might just pass someone by, in the middle of the night, in the rain, on the last route. Or if they saw a mixed race couple or some regular passenger who had once complained, they might not make a stop. Jordan was the youngest driver and so he was most likely the least jaded. Some of his fellow drivers had been doing it for thirty years, they had been either burnt out or had become excellent. He knew both types. He wanted the certification after sticking it out for a year, so he played along with the process. Jordan was told that the goat skin would eventually speak to him. Drums were the original way that people would communicate with, back in the day. "Get in touch with yourself." , the dude had told him, play that skin." Skin. Skin. Gimme some skin. Give - Me - Some - Skin. He kept thinking about his Mom and Pop and all that sh*t they had gone through. All that history. He had some deep history, part Indian and part French, they had all kinda names for it, be it didn't matter to him anymore. He stared to get in touch with his roots, not just H-I-S roots but the real roots, the roots of primal energy. Sound, light, color, taste, the sky, the wind, the earth,fire, back to the elements in a big m*%$+*@&!ing way. His lovemaking had become absolute. Wanda had always appreciated his attentiveness, his sensitivity and all of that. He had once shared a story with her, the first time they had ever stayed the night with one another. Jordan had been just a boy, his mother was in the kitchen making breakfast, she looked down at him & said matter of fact, " Jordan, when you become a man, don't you ever pass out on the woman you love." He looked up at her and although he had no idea what she actually meant, he looked her straight in the eyes and said, "I won't."  It was one of the few pieces of advice he had ever received from the woman. Now that he was rediscovering this whole new way of being, he would look at Wanda like she was the first woman who had ever walked the earth. The women at work noticed how she began to carry herself. "What's up with you?", they'd ask, "Oh Nothing", she lied. Jordan was 'up with her', sometimes late into the night. 

Now that he wasn't working, he would make breakfast, a salad for her lunch and when she got home, he already had dinner on the stove. Not always. There were some nights where he was off on some adventure. He'd gone to some sweat lodge with a bunch of guys or went walking clear across the city. He'd gotten in the habit of using a walking stick and wore a pair of old sandals.One day, he drifted downtown, walked into a bank, got change for a hundred dollar bill, "Gimme-a-bunch-a-ones." The teller gave him the change and walked the hundred dollar bill over to her manager. She explained that she was having second thoughts about the recent exchange. He took down the serial number and made a call. The bill had been put on a circulation list twelve years ago. By now, Jordan was down on Main street handing out dollar bills to every person on the street. People were downtrodden all up and down that area: homeless, run-a-ways, hungry, strung out, drop outs, stragglers, drug addicts, the forgotten. Who knows what had possessed him to do such a thing. Maybe the goat skin had spoke to him. The man at the bank called the authorities and they downloaded a picture of him walking out of the bank. It wasn't a very detailed rendition. You couldn't see his face. With his ancient outfit and walking stick, he looked like Moses parting the Red Sea, one of the disciples or even Jesus himself. The image was reprinted & sent out. It became another item for the strange and regular events that seemed to happen only in Los Angeles. 

A week later, the photograph was reprinted in The National Inquirer, right between an article on a recent UFO sighting and a baby that saved a dogs life in the family swimming pool. The headline read in bold letters, "Jesus Passes Counterfeit Bills to Feed Homeless". They had never actually found 'Jesus' and Jordan never even knew what had happened. He got home late that night. The Moon was full. A few clouds had splayed across the sky. He had been reading the clouds and the landscape like a student might read a textbook, it all had a new meaning. One of the clouds was shaped like a giant turtle, he smiled. After all, he had recently found himself. Jordan had finally found his roots.



Chapter Twenty: Heart  

Cliff was up all night. He'd been working on the largest painting he had ever created. The entire wall had been covered with large sections that he would attach with stickpins. It was Sunday morning and Dora had several appointments at the office. Many of her clients were nine to fivers who were unable to visit during the week, so she had begun to take hours during the weekend. Plenty of days, Cliff would accompany Dora, he would draw, listen to music on his headphones, he had a little area in the back with toys, a table, a stereo system with a lot of Stan's old records: live recordings of the L.A. Philharmonic, The Who, Oldies but Goodies, Early Jazz, all kinds of odd recordings from The Poetry of Robert Frost to Stan Freibergs satirical stuff. There was even a recording of Richard Pryor Live at the Forum. Once, while Dora made pancakes and Stan grabbed a cup of coffee, Cliff looked up and said,"The God Damn M*$%#@^&F+!@# just sat there staring at the B*&^%!, Now what you gonna do with a White C*^&%$#@!%* like that, F*&^!" It took them by surprise to say the least. They eventually had to remove that particular album. Cliff was funny like that. He had a lot of heart, is how Dora put it. Stan decided that he wanted to take Cliff for the day. He hadn't spent much time with the boy and wanted to maintain an open channel of communication. So, after Dora went off to work, Stan and Cliff made breakfast. Cliff would crack the eggs into a big bowl and Stan would stir them up. They made it a point to do things with Cliff instead of for Cliff. Stan hadn't gone into the boys room, so he had no idea he'd had up all night creating, 'a new masterpiece', as Dora often put it. After breakfast they jumped into Stan's car and headed through Topanga, down towards the coast. Stan had been a professor at U.C.L.A. after receiving his law degree. It was a wild time to be teaching there. You had Vietnam, Richard Nixon, Chicano and Afro American Cultural Issues, Kent State, The Hippies, Tune in turn on and drop out, The Black Panthers, Patty Hearst and a sort of Native American resurgence. One of his former students had become a Professor there and he invited Stan to the campus. He was receiving an award and felt that without Stan's help, inspiration and guidance, he might not have made it out of his neighborhood, let alone, become a teacher. It was to be a short presentation and then Stan figured, he and the boy would drive down the coast to a place where Dora and Stan had spent a lot of time prior to Cliffs birth. The radio was blaring, '... Roll down the window, take down the top, crank up the Beach boys baby, don't let the music stop, look at these women, ain't nothing like 'em nowhere, I love L.A. ... ' Cliff sang along until Stan joined in. They both kept singing the chorus together. He loved this kid. 

They drove down the coast, past the Malibu pier and into Sunset Boulevard, a sharp left hand. They drove down a few miles and a quick right into the campus. There were signs that read, Native American Pow - Wow Weekend. Not much changed around here, Stan thought to himself. They parked in the faculty only space and headed inside. Cliff could hear the drums and immediately tapped into it. They walked over to the law library and sat in the back row. The presentation was short, an introduction had been made and Stan's ex student came to the podium and made his acceptance speech. Stan had not been expected to make a statement, but when his ex student asked him to step up to the microphone, he looked at Cliff and said, "Hold tight kid, I'll be right back." Stan told an anecdotal story about the first time this particular student had walked into his class and how he knew right away that the man had potential. Stan was honored to see that some thing good had come from those first few early years. He met the man's family, added a few more stories to round things off, then looked in the back row to see Cliff. But the back row was empty. He looked around the library, ran out front, than back inside, checked the restrooms, then out back. The boy was nowhere to be seen. 



Stan ran outside to the kiosk and asked the security guards, had they seen a young man ? No they hadn't. "Would you like us to call it in sir ? What was he wearing ? Could you give us a description ?" Stan could hear the drumming from the Pow Wow and said, "No, thats o.k ." He ran to the other end of the campus, the Pow-Wow was taking place on the football field. Teepee's had been set up in a circle and in the middle, Native American dancers were competing from all across the U.S. They alternated between the Fancy Dancers competition, the blessings & donations and then onto to best drummers, costumes, singing, chanting and honoring the elders. Stan ran down the hallway which was normally an entry way for star quarterbacks and entered the field. He asked the guard if he had seen a young man with long hair, wearing a pair of blue jeans, white converse tennis shoes & a black turtleneck sweater. The guard, who was giant, looked like the classic model of what people all over the earth had thought of when they pictured what a Native American Chief might look like: dark skin, deep, thoughtful eyes, a nose like an eagle, long hair, in this case, in a pony tail, strong hands, with just a touch of sorrow on his forehead's brow. The man laughed at Stan and pointed to the center of the teepees. Stan slowly walked towards the middle, the drumming  became faster and louder as he approached the circle. He could smell burning sage, meat and the sounds of instruments here and there: flutes, rattles, sticks. A group of women were clapping and chanting. Furs, dream-catchers and antlers hung along strings that surrounded each teepee. He got closer an there in the middle of the circle, dancing among the best fancy dancers in the entire country, was his son Cliff. No one seemed to mind. The young man was dancing next to a very famous dancer who had been in movies and on television. The men were wearing giant eagle, hawk  and turkey feathers. Their costumes were extremely colorful. They danced in elliptical semi circles. Cliff was holding his own and then the drumming ceased. The dancers began to walk back to their respected tribes teepee's, Cliff looked around and walked over to Stan. The man didn't know what to do, he reached over, grabbed the young boy and lifted him high. A Woman walked by and handed Cliff a piece of fry-bread on a paper plate. "This is for your son, he's got a lot of heart."  With her accent, Stan had thought she said, He's got a lot of Art. "Yes, he does, thank you." Stan and Cliff got back into the car and drove down the coast. There had been a Lighthouse down at the edge of the harbor. It sat high on a cliff at the southern most point of the city. He and Dora had spent a lot of time there and had thought that maybe they had conceived Cliff the weekend they had been invited to stay with Stan's brother, who had been working there. There was a beautiful guest house attached to the main house and then the actual lighthouse tower with a powerful beacon light that once had guided ships  through storms along the rocky coast. They had named him CLIFF because of this particular place. A beautiful and picturesque location that somehow defined their welcoming life together as a family. They were jumping into the ocean of life and had promised to weather the storm together. 

Stan pointed to the lighthouse and said to Cliff, "We made you here."  Cliff looked back at him, cocked his head, looked back at the giant white house and smiled. They walked down toward the cliff and Stan pointed at the rocky mountainous edge, this is your cliff. This is where we came up with your name. The boy smiled again and said nothing, but he knew exactly what Stan was saying. They had lunch at a local cafe, it was the longest running Cafe in the Harbor. Truckers, cops, locals & tourists frequented this spot. When they got ready to sit down. Louis, who had been a busboy there since way back when, cleared their table and smiled at Cliff, He remembered when his own son had been that age, before all the troubles had started and he lost Junior to the system. The two men looked at one another , neither men had any idea how their lives had originally intersected. By the time Stan and Cliff had made it back home, the boy was sound asleep. Stan lifted him out of the car and carried him to his room. He put the boy on the bed, turned around and noticed the giant work of art on the wall. It was an entire mural of Los Angeles. Stan's heart began to beat when he saw that the boy had painted everything they had just experienced. The entire day had been crudely documented, the freeway drive along the beach, the lighthouse to the south and in the middle a circle of teepees. Stan didn't know what to think. When he looked closer, parts of the city were on fire, a multitude of buildings were topped with orange and red tipped flames and whirls of black and grey wafted high above like smoke signals. He looked closely at the image in the middle of the teepees. There, in the center was a small drawing, a self portrait of Cliff. He appeared to be dancing right in the middle of a giant heart. Stan looked over at his son, sleeping in the corner and said to himself out loud, "He sure does."







Chapter Twenty One : Job

Junior had been invited into a world that he had only heard about through, sometimes, unreliable sources. Fifteen years locked into the system and who knew what to believe anymore. He had no idea what to expect by entering into it. On day one, he was briefed on what was happening in his father and sister's house, of course, he had already figured most of that out for himself, that's how he ended up making the decision to make a left instead of going straight. Who could blame him ? If you saw a disaster up ahead in your path, would you keep going, stop or make a quick swerve ? Junior flipped a U turn, straight out, burned rubber, foot to the peddle, peeled out quick. He still had to keep things cool at the family house, so that no one became suspicious. Louis Junior was directed to keep a somewhat regular schedule and stay close to his new brother-in-law, whom had recently made a big mistake. If Chuck had only waited for his wiretap request to come through from the boys at the division and the judges downtown and throughout the circuit, everything would have fallen into place, but because he jumped the gun, installed his own version of a wiretap, Junior got hip to what was happening and Chuck ended up squashing his own better interests and the interests of the State. He wasn't the first person to 'push the river'  as it was commonly called and probably wouldn't be the last, but one thing was sure, he would never make it to Detective, if this was how he planned to get there. One might do this sort of thing 'after' you made detective, but to overstep on your way into it, was disastrous.Chuck was going to learn this lesson the hard way. 

Junior's first assignment was a three day experience. He was given a series of envelopes and directed to use the one way bus ticket that was in envelope number one, which also had a new identity card that he would use in the event that anyone hassled him. When he got into town, he was to report for work as the janitor of a large hotel on the strip. The identity card was that of a man who actually was the janitor and had also been instructed to, 'Take a day off '. They had searched for look-a-likes for Junior, ever since he had been released and had found a dozen or so, from here to half way across the world. Look-a-likes were extremely important, everything was switching from physical enforcement to psychological. In the old days, it was all strong arm, more and more, things were being done differently. Junior had tapped into that mythical story he had been told about, the old world robin hood character, or so he thought. He had been given a room number and a time of day in which to enter the room. He was directed to give envelope number two to whomever was in the room, tell the person that their services were no longer needed,  they were free to leave town by using the bus pass and the currency as soon as possible. Then he was to stay in the room and wait for another visitor. When that person arrived, Junior was to empty the contents of envelope number three and explain to this person that if indeed  he was interested in staying in his current position than he should highly consider a reversal on his current case. Junior would return the contents of envelope number three, hand it to the second party and exit the hotel room. 

It all sounded matter of fact, to the point, step by step. And, for the most part, it was. When Junior got into town,he checked in for work, spent the morning emptying trash cans and at noon, he walked up to the designated room, opened the door with his pass key and saw, laying on the bed, a twelve year old girl who looked like she had been dressed for a beauty contest. She looked at him, became startled, she had been expecting someone else & ran into the bathroom. Junior slid the envelope under the door and told her that she could leave, it was all over. This wasn't what he had expected at all, he found himself sweating.  

The little girl began to cry, Junior tried to assure her that she could leave, go back home, use the bus ticket, as he was directed to tell her. She was scared, explaining that the people she had been living with would hurt her if she left without telling them. Junior assured her that she was safe to leave and that there would be no problems. Even as he spoke the words, he knew that people didn't just let others walk and he became conflicted by the situation. Speaking through the door didn't help any. When party number two arrived, Junior instructed the girl to stay in the bathroom and everything would work out. Already things were getting complicated. Such was the job. Party number two entered the room. When he saw Junior, he backed out and looked at the number on the door, Junior assured him that this was the correct room, pulled him in and threw him to the floor. Junior slapped him around simply out of reflex, lifted him up and sat him on the edge of the bed. He hurriedly emptied the envelope & together they viewed it's contents, a series of photographs with party number two and other lunch dates such as the girl in the bathroom. Now Junior really lost it. He had been directed to simply empty the contents, suggest a reversal decision and hand the envelope to party number two. Instead, he began to beat the man about the face, Junior was disgusted by the photographs, he began to pound the man with every ounce of anger that had built up over the years. 

Junior realized that he had swayed from the assignment, he had lost control and had to get out of there quickly. He convinced the girl to open the door, she saw the man on the bed, his face was swollen, bloody, he was passed out. Junior, washed his hands, noticed the little girl and whispered to her, "Don't you dare cry for him." He had to put on the janitor gloves to hide the broken skin on his knuckles. "If anyone asks, your my niece, I'm taking you to the bus station to send you home, understand ?" She nodded yes. He had no idea where her ticket had been bought for, nor did he know for sure where she was headed. He had to put his trust in the assignment now and found the resolve to do so. When she got on the bus, his work was completed. Junior did as he was directed and returned to work, he completed his duties as a janitor and clocked out at the end of the day. The whole thing had been a lot more complicated than he had imagined. He promised himself not to cross the line next time, be in control. Wether there was to be a next time, he didn't know. When Junior returned, he was taken to a room and given a copy of a video cassette with a visible time code. He watched himself beat the man to a pulp, then he watched himself deliver the girl to the bus station. When the movie was over, he was told that if he ever veered from exact directions again that he'd end up back in the joint. They'd toss him over to Chuck and the boys downtown so quickly, he wouldn't know what happened. Then they had congratulated him on a job well done. Gave him his payment & suggested he lay low for a while, "Get out of town, take a breather."  

What they didn't tell Junior was that after he left party number two in the hotel room, an entire clean up team had been brought in to fake the man's car accident, some how explaining his recent facial injuries. It turns out, he'd gone right through the wind shield. Lucky for Junior, the man was well enough to return to work and reverse his decision as directed. The little girl, who had been working for a rival group had been returned to a trusted family member who had promised to care for the girl privately. Junior's bosses had paid her families debt and they had killed two birds, so to speak. Maybe cleaning windows downtown wasn't so bad after all. At least now he could put a down payment on a car. They didn't want him moving out of his fathers guest house. A plan was being cooked up involving Chuck's phone line.  After a few days, Junior returned home driving an early model car not unlike the kind he drove as a younger man. It was a straight standard model. Nobody at home had suspected anything. He brought flowers for Celia and some trinkets for the girls. 

The people Junior worked for wanted him to start making phone calls about deals that were supposed to be happening in the city. He was given phone numbers to three different phone booths and a very simple and easy to remember schedule. They directed him to small talk for a few minutes, then begin to discuss exact times, locations and describe participants. They were setting Chuck up. A situation would be discussed based on an everyday 'Joe Citizen type' who held a regular schedule. So for instance, if a particular up standing person was known to frequent a certain bar on his lunch break and could be relied on like clockwork, then Junior and the person on the other end of the phone would begin to discuss how that person, with a full description, was involved in some illegal action. At first they started with small stuff, "Oh yeah, I heard about that guy. Isn't he the dude supplying so and so with such and such ?" 

Usually their targets were totally straight people who had never done anything wrong in their lives. Entirely false leads that confounded whoever was listening to them. What better way to get back at people who shouldn't be listening to private conversations, than to bullshit ? It was beautiful, Junior was good at it. They did this for the past few weeks and already several people had been hassled for no reason at all. The boys downtown got word that Officer Chuck had implanted his own wiretap system just days before the judge actually granted them permission and he was docked. Junior had to play it cool at home and he did so. After all, Junior had a job to do.





Chapter Twenty Two: Ashes

By the Fall, Mickey and his extended family had adjusted to Charles' return relatively well. Except for his grandma, who had been waking at odd hours, sometimes leaving the house, wandering about the streets of Venice aimlessly. On Halloween, she had taken a walk along the beach, on her own and somehow fallen into the water. Now she was in the hospital with hypothermia, in and out of awareness. Moon spent most days at her bedside, Mickey spent most of his evenings there and everyone else dropped in when their schedules allowed. Calley and her new girlfriend were taking care of the bookstore. Maggie, who had always had a tempestuous relationship with her mother & had mixed feelings about her parents relationship and the early death of her own father, went awol. Moon could never understand this part of Maggie, nor could she adjust to Charles new presence in their lives. She had always been torn between Mickey's adoration of the man and Maggie' s stories of the man's neglect of his responsibilities as a father. Moon was stuck between two viewpoints and couldn't find any middle. Grandma's most recent incident had brought all of these issues to the forefront and Moon finally confronted Mickey. "Your grandmother's in the hospital and your own parents, can't find enough decency to come to her side. What the f@#$ is wrong with them ? Jesus christ Mickey, do something." 




He just looked at her, "Do something? Like what ? Everyone in this family has a different relationship with a history all it's own. What can I do about it? You and I are doing all we can. You can't change history or people or what they've been through or how they do or don't relate. Look, I love the way you can stand up for what's right, but my parents come from a whole other world. I can't even pretend to understand what they went through. Either can you. So if you've had enough, if you don't want to be here or put up with it, I understand. But Charles is my dad, he put me on the planet. I have to respect that." Moon just stared back at him for all of a minute. "Were not talking about respect here, were talking about an old woman who is on her way out. Your parents need to get it together enough to overcome all their bulls*&% and stand by her side."  Now he was upset. "Stand by her side ? Who do you think helped that bookstore to survive ? Do you know how many times my Mom and Dad bailed that place out through the years? When Maggie couldn't make a payment, Charles gave her the money. It was always a big secret, because Gram wouldn't take any support from  him, so he did it on the sly. They've been there for her all along. I don't know why things are the way they are, I just know that it's our turn to take care of her and that's what were doing. Stop trying to change everyone else, these people won't change, so forget about. To be honest, I don't think the old gal even cares about them being here. So lets just deal with it ourselves."  Moon wasn't satisfied with that response, she walked back into the room with grandma and sat next to her side. Mickey followed her.  The last place in the world the old girl wanted to die was in a hospital. A week later, they took her home and she gladly let go of her body while sleeping in her own bed. It was the same bed she had created the child who had created Mickey who had met Moon and so on and so forth.  "We are gathered here today to pay tribute to a woman who singlehandedly championed the great writers, poets and artists of her time ... " Everyone was present at the ceremony. Moon had insisted on it.

A few days before Thanksgiving, Fred got a call from the detectives downtown, apparently, the video camera had captured more than a few seconds of the exchange between Sam's youngest son and Fred, the night of the fire. If Fred didn't come clean about what really happened, they were going to charge him and the boy together. They knew Fred had no part in the burning of the palm tree, but how else could they get him to cooperate? He had  opened the gate and let the boy escape. He had lied to everyone including the feds. The insurance company had it's own investigating team and if they got word or were given the videotape, any number of things could happen. Fred came clean and explained what had happened. He said that if worst came to worst, he did not want to press charges against the boy, it was his dead partners kid, how could he ? The detective explained that the situation had become much more dire than Fred realized. The boys downtown, the Mayor and the federal team were going to pin more than this palm tree burning on the boy. They needed to wrap the case up and were willing to provide evidence that would put him at more than several of the burnings. "You'll lose your license. You'll lose the store. It's not just about your property here Fred. This is about solving a much larger issue. Are you willing to lose it all over something you didn't even do ? You are going to have to testify in a court of law about everything that happened that night."  Fred shook his head in disbelief, "The boy made a mistake" The detective countered, "He sure did. Thats a fact. But you made a bigger mistake. You tried to cover it up. That makes you an accessory. We need you to come with us downtown." Fred closed up the store and locked the back gate. The detective took out his handcuffs, placed them on the man's wrists, put him the back seat. The boy, who was actually in his early twenties, was already in lock up. He had denied the entire event, even while watching the footage. "That's not me." He had said. The scar on his leg begged to differ. Before Fred even got downtown, a call was made to the reporter at The Weekly, the headline read: "Palm Tree Burnings, Case Closed ?" Hardly. The Weekly had a tendency to dig a little deeper, they felt that something wasn't right about the official story. It would be just an opener to an ongoing series of articles. Fred was out on bail the same day, his golfing pals had  pitched in, the boy, on the other hand, was sweating it out.


Stan was given a high profile case that had been moved to his district. The lawyers had chosen their jury carefully, cautiously, selectively, judiciously. Stan knew very well that this was a case that everyone was watching. He had seen the footage as had everyone else in the world. Dora and he had discussed the case almost everyday of the trial. It was hard not to. the man had been beaten by clubs more times than stan would actually pound his gavel during the case. the pounding of the gavel and the pounding of the man had become an image in Stan's mind. He had been through so much in the past year that sometimes he thought of doing something else altogether. But these were ideas that quickly came and went. He had made it to the big time. Presiding over a case like this was every law students dream. Stan knew very well that when the dream becomes a reality,all the real work begins. He was presiding over a trial that the entire world was watching. Every question, every answer, every objection, every ruling would be scrutinized by law professors and students for years to come. Not just here in the United States, but around the world. This had become a human rights issue. He knew exactly where Dora's heart was, on this particular issue, but, as a judge, he felt the need to separate his own personal opinions. 



Stan was the king of departmentalizing, always had been, even as a kid. He would never judge his dad for being distant, nor his mom for being authoritarian. Stan had a keen sense of equal balance. But when the jury announced their verdict, Stan was flabbergasted. He looked over at the jury and his eyebrow lifted several inches. He did a sort of comic double take, but there was nothing funny about it. He looked over at the man who had been beaten. Visible scars both physical and otherwise were obvious. The men had been found not guilty of overstepping their authority. Their lawyers had argued that the man had struggled. The man had threatened. The man was dangerous. They argued that what you saw on camera was not the entire story. They had explained carefully, quietly, diligently and they had won their case. It was over. The men were given back their jobs and that was the end of the story. Or so  they thought. When Stan and Dora had dinner that night, they watched the reaction with everyone else, on television. Well, not everyone, those on the streets: the angry, the poor, the forgotten, the struggling, the downtrodden were in it. Dora felt terrible for Stan. She hated to see the city divided into sections and colors and categories that would put it back for decades. They stayed up all night. Cliff was surprisingly quiet, peaceful, rested. He had already seen and drawn it the same week that Stan had been appointed the trial.  By now, Cliff was way ahead of the game.


In early Spring, Wanda got tested and came up positive. Jordan was gonna be a Poppa. He had been back on the bus line now for several months. Certified at last. Things had mellowed out in their lives and with a regular paycheck, he had no reason to dip into his new found savings account. They did all the things that couples do when expecting, except for marriage. They made a list of names, they had a few customary parties and they notified their parents. Well, Wanda notified her parents, Jordan wasn't so sure he wanted to open that door just yet. So, he told the dudes down at the park and over at Transit and Old Man Withers. They had rented the place and had jokingly told the old man that if he ever wanted to sell, they were interested. Now it wasn't a joke. Jordan thought that whatever happens to animals when that ol' stork comes to town was not a myth. He was feeling the roots pretty strong now and the idea of having his own place was tugging hard at him. Wanda was all for it. She was not a young woman and saw this is a sorta pleasant surprise. Everything was falling into place. Jordan was back on his regular route when the verdict in a high profile case was announced on the radio. A man had been beaten severely by authorities, someone had actually caught it on camera and it had been played over and over and over on news channels and outlets through-out the world. It was brutal. The man had been pulled over, resisted arrest and was beaten with clubs by a group of men mercilessly. It had been talked about for the past six months and when the verdict was announced that the men had been innocent of any charges. 


The people of Los Angeles, everyday citizens became confused. Every person, no matter what color, what age, had seen the footage. It had been the focus of conversations since the footage had been released and repeatedly shown everywhere. Jordan heard the news on his break and instinctively knew that something was going to happen. He had five more rounds to make before his shift was over. Already people were talking about it on his bus.By the time he made his second to last round, the sun was going down and their were now several reports of protesters who were doing more than carrying signs. A kiosk at a police station downtown had been turned over, several bricks had been thrown through windows. As the local news channels reported each incident, the people of Los Angeles watched and eventually, joined in.Quickly, the reports of violence became a sort of map, people watched it spread, stores were sent ablaze and the decision had exploded into a full on riot. Jordan's bus was empty, he had one more round to make before heading back to Transit. When he got word that people were attacking and burning liquor stores, pawn shops and 99 cents stores, he immediately thought of the bass guitar that his uncle had given him. It still sat in the window of the pawn shop. He made a left hand turn, veering from his routes schedule on Martin Luther King Boulevard and onto Crenshaw. Three blocks away, he could see a pick up truck ramming into the front door of the pawn shop. On the first try, it broke open the metal gated door, on the second try, it broke off the corner of the stucco beam, by the third try, the entire corner of the building had fallen away, leaving a gaping hole large enough for a group of people to enter and exit. That's exactly what they did. Jordan pulled the bus to the curb directly across the street. He ran up to the shop, climbed in and over the pile of metal, stucco and broken wood. He jumped up and over the glass barrier, grabbed his uncles red bass guitar, strapped it on his back, climbed back over the bullet proof glass window and out onto the street. While Jordan ran back across the street to his bus, a news camera transmitting live footage pointed its lens directly at him. He was back in the spot light once again. He climbed back onto the bus and headed straight for the transit authority. The fact that he had a pawn ticket for the item in question sitting directly in his wallet didn't mean much to his superiors. To Jordan, the red bass guitar was a precious item that would one day belong to his son. It was an heirloom. He and Wanda watched the city burn to the ground. People elsewhere couldn't understand why anyone would do such a thing. Jordan and Wanda didn't. They knew exactly why. Some time later, they bought the house from Old Man Withers for a fraction of the price it would have gone for the year before. This was their 'hood, this was their city, this was their country. They were here to stay. Jordan plugged in his bass and played a lick he had learned while working with a rock band back when he was a kid. Some dudes who were deep into the MC5. Doot - Doot - Doo - Doot - Doot - Do - Do - Doot - Doot - Do - Doot - Dooooo , and the lyrics went, 'Smoke on the water, Fire in the Sky, Smoke on the Water', Doot - Doot - Doo - Doot - Doot - Do - Do - Doot - Doot - Do - Doot - Dooooo . 


Louis had kept busy in the past few months. The recent strike down in the Harbor hadn't affected business much. But it sure was affecting everyone else. The Longshore Locals had gone on strike for its dock workers. It had been years since they had a pay raise. More ships lined the Harbor than had been seen since the beginning of World War II. Full of product: Electronics, toys, house-hold goods, automobiles, leather goods, just about every thing you could think of that was imported came through the port. Ever since the Air Traffic Controllers union had been busted up, the powers that be had been attempting to dismantle every union in it's path. What was once a proud American tradition was now being trashed by a group of powerful entities, including some in government. Why would anyone ever try to break up a union that ensured people a safe place to fly a plane? Safe for the worker, the controller, the pilots and ultimately the passengers ? It took everyone by surprise and was really only the beginning. The longshore union was strong. Several ports along the West Coast decided to back up the harbor workers. It looked like the entire public as well as distributors were going to learn a serious lesson this Christmas. No new cars, electronics or toys. It was as if Santa Claus wouldn't be coming to town. Maybe it was time for Celia and the girls to appreciate the elves that did the hard work. Louis had bigger problems, his cataracts had gotten so bad, he could hardly see. He had begun to walk to and from work because he was afraid to say anything. Of course there were operations for this sort of thing, but he had concerns, had never been in a hospital a single day of his life. Besides the day his wife had the stroke. He was of the generation that sweated it out. When Junior noticed that his father was having trouble, he looked into it and found a place that would do the operation, which was a relatively new process. He paid for it himself. When Louis Senior asked how he could afford it, Junior said he had an old friend who would help out. The truth was, he had a new friend. She was a divorced lady he had met at a meeting recently, he was now in the program. All the stress of his new job had given him concerns about falling into some bad habits that he needed to avoid. She lived in the Palisades. They didn't seem to have a whole lot in common, but as they began to discuss things, they slowly realized that his fifteen years in prison & her fifteen years in marriage, were somehow corollary. When Juniors girlfriends asked what he was like, they didn't mean his personality. Louis senior had the operation just days before the union settled its differences and that was just as well. The cafe extended its hours, due to the now twenty-four hour a day work load to get the long armada of ships onto shore and products into the homes of citizens, not just in Los Angeles, but from here to the Mid West. Millions of dollars had been lost on a daily basis. Officer Chuck had learned a serious lesson about overstepping his boundaries, but was at least back in a patrol car. When the verdict came across the air-waves, he and his buddies had all cheered in celebration. But within a matters of hours their district was being overrun by angry protesters, several stores had been vandalized and the department was once again put on alert by the people who paid for that coffee he drank everyday. When Chuck drove up into Ma Fritters that night, Louis senior had put his order together. "Tell Celia, I 'll be working late tonight. How did the operation go, everything All right ?"  Louis Senior stared into Chucks eyes and yes, "Yes my son, Yes. I can see clearly now." 







SEASON TWO : WRITTEN AUGUST 2014


THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
Each Chapter is Written in a Twenty - Four Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively
SEASON TWO / EPISODE ONE / CHAPTER 23  

LIGHT  

Louis was beginning to see the light in a whole new way. All  day, things appeared different. Every object in the cafe seemed more colorful, he was seeing details and distance like never before. He stared at the chrome napkin holders, ketchup bottles, mustard containers, forks, knives, spoons and napkins as if they were sacred objects: studied their details, using his new found eye sight to take in the landscape. Why had he waited so long to get the operation ? If Junior hadn't returned, Louis may have never seen the light. He would have just slowly faded into the darkness with old age, maybe eventually seeing nothing but a clouded world of tunnel vision or worst: total blindness. It was Juniors idea to have the cataracts removed, he paid for the operation, Louis thought about all the years the boy had been ignored, all the years and months and days that nobody in the family, neither he, nor Celia or their extended family wrote a letter or visited. When Celia married Chuck, he had become the son, totally replaced Junior. Now that Junior returned, everything seemed to be changing. Louis was grateful to his son in a way that he could not describe. He seemed to care for the man in a way that was different from Celia or Chuck, he cared for the man in a direct way, not as some sort of responsibility, but because he loved him. Louis hadn't been loved since his wife died, really truly loved and cared for, he'd actually forgotten what that was like: to be loved. 



The Cafe was busy, the strike in the harbor was over, trucks were moving in and out, waitresses were working double shifts, when they asked if Louis could stay on a few more hours, he agreed. He had always agreed when his employers had asked for this, asked for that: How had he become so damn compliant through the years ? As a young man, he had fire in his gut, even a sort of bravado, a keen sense of rebellion. But that was long ago and when they asked, he did as he had done for the past twenty-five — something years, he answered, "Yes". Besides all the usual conversations like, "Louis, They need water on table seven," and his reply, "I Got It" or "Clear off the corner booth honey, I got a family of five waiting' out front" and his reply, "You got it." There wasn't a whole lot of talk in his daily routine. So, whenever somebody actually took the time to stop and converse with Louis, it was often a memorable experience that he would think about after the fact, at the end of the day or some time later. As things settled down that late afternoon, Louis was clearing a table along the windowed booths. Ma Fritters was a mid century establishment with big red booths along the front window and a counter to the rear with tables strewn all across the center and sporadically along the walls. A television was mounted above the counter, though it usually was turned off, on this day, due to the recent controversial decision in a high profile legal case and the controversy surrounding the decision by an all white jury, the TV was on, the volume was turned down. The Cafe was located just between the Harbor City Hall and adjacent to the truck stop port authority, so all types of people frequented the place. Gumshoe private detectives, lawyers, bailiffs, cops, an occasional snitch, or the recently paroled, or those who were proven innocent and plenty who were proven guilty and done their time accordingly. A familiar face sitting in a booth next to the table Louis was clearing sat and watched the silent television, a now, iconic image of a man being beaten by a circle of cops played on the screen, followed by images of four men in suits walking down a long row of steps, followed by angry groups of people screaming at the camera, then shots of helicopters and angry protestors who seemed to be running wild in the middle of the streets. "It's a shame whats going on down there, ain't it Louis ?" 




He was referring to the television. Louis looked up at the TV expecting to see a football, basketball or baseball game of some sort. As he glanced at the screen, the shot of a man fleeing a pawn shop with a musical instrument, a red electric bass guitar flashed across the screen, followed by a group of people, smashing the windows of a liquor store, prying open the accordion metal gates and ransacking the place. Louis never payed attention to current events and hadn't been following the case very closely, so he was surprised to see the footage of what looked to be the beginning of a full on riot. He figured it was happening in another country or city, "Wheres that ? " he asked the customer, "Thats Downtown." Louis looked again. They watched a news reporter on the street, stores were going up in smoke. The sun was setting now and the color orange permeated the harbor. "Well, thats what happens when you got an abuse of power, at least thats what happens, some times."  


The man gestured for Louis to sit down, Louis looked around, the place was empty, so he put down his white rag and bucket and sat with the man. "I heard Junior finally got out, hows he doing ?"  "Very well, he's doing good" he replied The man continued, " It's a god damn shame what happened to that boy, god damn shame." Louis noticed that the man was a little stoned, maybe drunk."That boy had everything going for him, he was handsome, smart, had a great little girlfriend, I remember that boy very well, very, very well."  Louis looked at that man, really looked at him, stared at his face, his eyes, listened to the voice and something began to click, something in the man's voice was suddenly quite familiar. " It was too bad that nobody had found out about that other kids car. You remember that other boy that night ? He was a good kid too, but the law is the law, and Junior would have never done time if only someone had reported the facts." 


Louis couldn't entirely understand just what the man was trying to say. "Ya see, the regulation on those cars are very specific, that boy was hot rod crazy, he had all kinds of unregulated gear on that vehicle. Now, it is  not illegal to have say, dual manifolds or even dual carburetors, but if a car flips over due to the height of a vehicles unregulated distance from surface to passenger weight capacity and entry position than it is a fact of science and it can't be refuted. Did you know that in Juniors case the other boys car was three and a half inches higher than the regulated stock car height ? Furthermore  …", The man stopped for a minute and chewed his sandwich, Louis now realized that this guy was a lawyer of some sort, but he couldn't exactly pinpoint why he seemed familiar.  "Furthermore, it was noted on the legal evidence and recognized by all the officers and District Attorney's office that the boy who died drove a vehicle that was not street legal and may have had everything to do with the cause of those kids death. 


Why was that not brought up in the case ? Why ? You wanna know why?"  Louis looked at the man and nodded , yes, "Cause I am, well, I was once, one of the best damn prosecuting lawyers in this port and I made damn sure that that little fact was not brought to the juries attention. But that was my job, thats what I was payed to do. Juniors lawyer should have done better, Juniors lawyer took a dive, they railroaded that kid and all they had to do was mention the deregulated vehicle inspection forms and case closed, over, done with, end of the story. Every single cop on the scene knew that kid's car was not street legal, all of 'em. If people had known, they'd be doing exactly what there doing now, out there on the streets, they'd have been rioting for your kid."  Louis just looked at the man. The waitress brought over the check and refilled the man's coffee cup, Louis looked up at her but did not move from his seat, he turned back to the man. Now he realized who this man was, this was the rat bastard son of a bitch that prosecuted his only son. Threw him away, tossed him in the trashcan of life, the sewer for fifteen years. 'Cabron', he thought to himself. He stared at the man one last time, looked at his face, his cheap polyester suit, his wrinkled tie, his unshaven face, he smelled the cheap cologne, the years of unwashed bull shit that had surrounded the man's very aura and simply stood up, grabbed his rag and bucket from the table next to him, placed the plastic tray along side the edge of the man's table and cleared it entirely, except the coffee cup, in one complete gesture. The man blinked. Louis didn't say a word. He was not an important man in town, he wasn't worldly, he didn't speak the best english, he was one of millions of little men who worked hard every day of his life so that his kids and grandkids could have a better life: all of that was true. But this little man knew what trash looked like, this little man knew when the meal was over and this little man cleaned that table, wiped it down and walked away from that man's table like a professional and never once looked back. 

Junior had been told to get out of town and take a breather, no one expected him to leave the country. He hadn't been to The Ranch in decades & needed to see his home land. It had been his grand fathers farm back when Juniors father Louis was born there and his fathers before that and so on and so forth and on down the line. Louis had been renting it in a partnership deal that hadn't paid off in the past decade, he himself had not been to the ranch in over ten years, simply stopped visiting ever since his wife had passed away. It hurt too much to see that land. Originally, he had rented the plot to a man and his family who were simple farmers, the lease came with a dozen cows, an orchard of about 100 mango trees, a handful of goats, chickens, sheep, pigs and a couple old dogs. When Junior was a boy, every summer from the time he was five to the time he was fifteen, he would learn things from  locals. He had learned to bullfight, he had learned to dismantle a cow, he had learned to irrigate, plant and even skin a pig. Junior loved the traditions of his heritage:  simply had farming in his blood and related to it deeply. At the end of each summer, the boy would sit high atop a mountain just to the north of the property, they called it The Mesa, because it was shaped like a table top and he would cry. 

" Junior  had  been  told  to 
            get out  of  town  and, take 
                         a breather, no one expected  
                                  him to leave  the  country."

He did not ever want to return to America. McDonalds and Bugs Bunny and Coca Cola held no sway with his spirit. He was an Indiano Puro! He would tell his parents, "I want to stay here with grandpa, he needs my help, let me stay  please, please, the boy pleaded with his parents. But returned he did, every year. It was always a painful transition. He would dress his room in blankets, ropes, artifacts he had found on the ranch or nearby. Once he had been given a sacred bowl by a local Indian that had bears carved all along the sides. He would bring mangoes, a chicken, some corn to the Indian every day and eventually, the Indian repaid him with the sacred bowl. Recently, while digging through the garage, he found a box of things that belonged to him from the summer of 1976, the year he had been sent away. Nestled in the center of the box was the Bear medicine bowl. Also in the box was an eight track cassette player with a bunch of the family music they had once listened to: Greatest Hits of 1976, Freddie Fender, Pedro Infante, Santana, Ritmo Latino, Novenas De Amore, Recuerdos Romantico, someone in the family had even taped the skits and early films of Cantinflas. They would load up the car and drive to The Ranch every summer until the summer of 1976, when everything had drastically splintered their lives into nothing at all. Junior installed the eight track player into his car. Loaded up the car with pillows to sleep along the way. He hadn't said a word to anyone about the trip and suddenly realized that he didn't want to go alone. Junior packed up a few of his fathers regular items from back then, his old wooden guitar, a foldable wooden lawn chair, a hammock, his fishing poles and a big straw hat as well as the Indian Bear Bowl. 


Junior drove into The harbor towards his dads place of work and noticed Chucks Patrol car pulling out of the parking lot as he was pulling in. Junior simply waved his hand and parked the car  right up front. Louis was staring out the window thinking about what the lawyer had said as Chuck drove off. And suddenly, Junior pulled into the driveway "Dad, I've come to take you home". "OK", Louis replied, "Are you hungry ?" "Lets get sandwiches to go." While Louis gathered his things in the back room, Junior walked up to the work schedule that was posted in the hallway and looked for Louis' name, he took out a pencil, and erased Louis' scheduled work days and scheduled in the other two busboys names Franky & Paulo sporadically during the week. When Louis finished gathering the sandwiches Junior was already in the car and the motor was running. When Louis got in, Junior said he had to go use the restroom, he reentered the Cafe, and shouted to the waitress, "Hey sweetheart, make sure someone calls Franky to remind him of the schedule changes." She looked at him kinda funny. He took out a ten dollar bill and thanked her, "Hey, Your Dad don't have  to  pay  for  those".  "I know, it's for you babe.", he smiled and headed for the door, "Call Franky and Paulo, good nite." As he turned to the door she put the bill in her apron and headed towards the hallway where the schedule was posted. By the time they pulled out of the lot and up to the stop sign, he could see her pick up the phone. The eight track cassette began to play an old familiar ranchero they had often listened to while driving down south back in the old days. The song started with one of those fast mariachi style riffs with a big oomp-pa-pa base and drum line, a fast fiddle with a quick stop and suddenly the singer would howl like a Rooster at sunrise, "Aaahhh-Haaaaa-Haaaa-Haaaaaaaaa" and suddenly the song would do double time into a frenzied pace. "Where the hell did you find that ?" Louis asked his son. Junior just smiled and turned the music up, he put the petal to the metal and they roared down the coastline. When they hopped on the freeway instead of the normal route home, Louis, turned down the music and asked, "Where are we going ? ",  "We are going HOME dad, home, our real home, were going to The Ranch. Junior looked at the kid and laughed. "Are you f*%+ing crazy?" He shook his head in disbelief, looked back at this kid of his, this beautiful boy who had endured fifteen years of captivity and simply laughed until the laughter stopped. Then he wiped a tear from his eye, turned the music back up and said, "All right then, Vamalos." 


Louis was thinking hard about what that lawyer had said, he kept stealing glances at Junior and could feel nothing but regrets. He suddenly thought about work, "But what about my job, I am on the schedule all week.", Junior assured him, "I spoke to the waitress back there, she's calling those other busboys right now with a new schedule. I knew if I told you ahead of time, you would never have come with me."  Louis looked at Junior and just shook his head, "Your just like your mother, you know that ?", "Yeah, I know."  Junior reached into the back seat, pulled off the Indian blanket, revealing Louis' things: His hat, fishing poles, chair, clothes, sandals and together they laughed all the way to the border. One of their traditions was to stop and fill up the gas tank as well as several other tanks with the gas on this side of the border and buy water and any other items needed while traveling.  Junior decided that he should make a call and let his circuit know where he was going, he used a phone booth and said he was leaving town as directed. When he told them where, he was put on alert, given directions & an assignment while he was visiting.  That was exactly what he didn't want to do, just wanted to visit the ranch, see the old property. What Junior didn't know was that every thing had changed and some surprises were up ahead, if he played his cards right on this one, there would be some serious rewards, if he did not, the results could be devastating or worse.  They told him that when he got to the ranch, not to be surprised by any of the changes and wear a long sleeve shirt, buttoned from top to bottom. They had been trying to put the squeeze on the people who had been partners with the family that rented the ranch, they would toss Junior and his dad a serious bone if everything went well  He was also directed to be at the border exiting and reentering at a particular time and place, it was very important that he be there on that exact date and at that exact time, no matter what. They asked him if he understood and he did.  Then they said he was to stop in at a particular spot with a very specific address and have his upholstery redone. When he told them that he already had leather seats in perfect condition, they told him that it was strictly business and he would be rewarded later. Junior agreed and understood what he needed to do, he listened intently as they explained in detail what was happening and what he needed to do to make sure that nobody was hurt and that they ended up with the profitable side of the exchange. By the time they hung up the phone Junior was completely sobered by the conversation. He also called his sister Celia explaining that he and dad were going fishing for a few days.  When he got back into the car,  Louis noticed his composure, "Is every thing all right ?", "Yeah, everything is cool. I just forgot to call Celia and let them know that we would be out of town for a few days and I wanted to make sure everything was o.k.",  "Well, is it?" Louis asked again. "Yes, every thing is going to work out fine."  As they drove up over the border, they both noticed how different everything was.   What was once a gateway with tiny wood kiosks strewn across an invisible line in the sand was now a chrome plated machine that looked like a giant row of appliances, the border had changed and so had they.   They looked at one another and drove on in. Entering in the old days meant simply driving across, now they were asking questions and asking for identification sporadically, Junior grabbed a long sleeve shirt covering his ink from top to bottom.   When they got to the borderline, Louis did all the talking, he was always good with people, especially his people.  Louis answered several questions and then they struck up a conversation about a particular district they both knew of with an old fishing spot.  Louis waved to the man in the kiosk and suddenly they were on their way. Junior understood spanish to a certain degree, but he couldn't follow everything. "What did he say?" Louis slapped his son on the back hard and exclaimed, "He said, Welcome !"    




The journey to the ranch is a twelve hour drive, Louis slid the seat back and slept through the last six hours. When they got into town, they went directly to the property, but passed it twice because it was so unrecognizable. There was now a giant security gate, with an intercom and an eight foot barbed wire fence around the entire front section all along the highway. Originally the property itself was about ten acres split into thirds: one part for cattle, one part for mangoes and the other for corn, livestock and living quarters. The original house sat to the North with an adobe to the West & another to the East, just after the hilly entryway. When they rang the buzzer, a voice answered that was unfamiliar to Louis. " Is Rafael there ?", he asked in spanish. "No. Are you making a delivery?"  "No, I am the property owner from America, my son and I are here to visit the ranch."  The gate buzzed and it slowly opened inward, they drove the car up to a check point and immediately Louis was flabbergasted by the modernity of the place. Six visible silos, water tanks on every hillside, lush rolls of mangoes, machinery that he had never seen before, a large tractor the size of his guest house back home. Louis turned to Junior, wider eyed, "Take it easy, this is your place, you're the American, your part owner, don't give away your power so easily dad. Were going to take a tour, then were going to talk business, I have some friends back home who told me all about these guys, don't worry about anything at all."  Louis said nothing, he just couldn't believe his eyes. "When it comes to business, you let me do the talking: yes ?" and Louis replied,  "Yes, son, absolutely, yes."  They drove up through the cattle section past a pack of beautiful cows, where there was once a dozen cows , there were now easily a thousand. On the hillside, grazing, were dozens of goats, in corrals, a half a dozen horses, in pens, dozens of pigs and an entire barn that had been modernized for chickens, easily a thousand. 


 "… he was a very wealthy man and yet  
                 minutes ago had absolutely no idea 
                           how wealthy he actually was . " 

The original house was still intact and had been kept up, it looked as if the roof had been recently replaced. Louis was amazed at the entire set up, he was a very wealthy man and yet minutes ago had absolutely no idea how wealthy he actually was. By the time they got up to the main house and out of the car, several employees had come out to greet them. Rafael was no where in sight. "Welcome, a man with a cowboy hat and boots exclaimed. We've been waiting to hear from you for quite some time. How long will you be staying ?", Junior stepped in, extending his hand, he had been told to keep his shirt sleeves rolled down until the proper time. "I am Louis Junior, my father and I just came down to do some fishing and we have been so busy with our businesses in America that we have not had much time in the past few years."  "What kind of business are you in there ?" the man in the cowboy hat asked, Louis replied, "Comida". "Yes, my father has his own restaurant in the harbor and my partners and I are diversifying stocks," he continued, "the economy in America is going through some interesting changes and we think that Mexico is going to be in for a big surprise with some new trade deals on the table. But, lets not talk business so early in the morning. We just got here.", "Thats exactly right, lets have breakfast and we will take you and your Padre on a tour. Later, we will call up Rafael and we can discuss many things that will be of a concern to you and your fathers property."  They sat and ate one of the best breakfasts they had both had in several years. Everything they ate was made fresh on the ranch: juice, eggs, meat, tortillas, everything. Louis was simply amazed. Junior kept calm and played it cool, just the way he was directed. After all, It was this same kitchen that Junior sat with his grandfather every year. 


Louis and Junior took a grand tour of the property by jeep and when they returned Rafael was waiting at the main house. "Don Louis, Oh my god, it has been so long, what a wonderful surprise." The men entered the house and sat in the library, drinks were served. Rafael, the man with the hat, Louis and several other men sat in large leather chairs, several smoked cigars. Everybody imbibed except Junior. "I like your son's style, he's all business and has a great head on his shoulders,," he said in spanish. "Yes, he has learned of the worldly ways in America."  Rafael started in, "So, you must be wondering about the transformation of the ranch ?" "Yes, of course.", Louis replied. "Do you remember the old indian who lived on the other side of the Mesa ?" Rafael asked. "Yes, my son was very close with him. As child, Louis Junior felt a very strong natural affinity with the locals here."  He continued, "Well, one day, about ten years ago, he showed up at our door with a machete and said that he and his people needed food and that the owners of this property had always been helpful to the man and his family. He promised that if we supplied his family with food for the season, he would share many ancient secrets with us that would double and triple our fruit trees, our cattle stock and our vegetation. I had never been a real believer of such tall tales, but I felt sorry for the man and so, I gave him what he needed, when he needed it. He, in return did many things that somehow did seem to deliver his original promise and within five years we began to transform the property into what you see today. 


"... I promise you, in the middle of a drought, it rained on this property for seven days straight…" 




My own son went to University in Mexico City studying science, biochemistry and modern  horticulture, with his help and the help of a few of his classmates family investments, we have what you see here today.", "Amazing," Louis replied."  Junior chimed in, "Tell me more about the old Indian, what exactly did he do ?" "Well, this is going to sound crazy, but he and his family dug three natural water pits at the top of each hillside where the water towers now stand and then he simply danced for one week straight, I promise you, in the middle of a drought, it rained on this property for seven days straight, he then dug an irrigation canal and splintered the mango tree branches from single flowering stems to triple flowering stems, he trimmed the trees so they produced more fruit, he kept the cows away from the bulls until certain moon phases, he planted and picked on days that were specific and then just like that, he was gone, they all left, just like that."  When my son Rafi came home from university, we added many of the machines with the profits from what the old indian had provided the place. We now have some very wealthy investors and contracts with three major exporters."  



Now, it was Juniors turn. He pulled the Bear Bowl from the inside of his bag and sat it in the middle of the table. "This was given to me by the old Indian. My friends and partners in America come from both the stock market and the streets and there is soon going to be a total transformation of the American export business in the next five years. Right now a plan is in force to bring American goods to Mexico that is going to make things very difficult for the local farmers. Junior slowly reached down, unbuttoned his left sleeve cuff and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a world of imagery that when read by the men in the room, seemed to give him the floor. He went on, "My father and I highly respect science, machinery and everything you have done with this ranch. But we have seen no profits in ten years, we know you have investment costs … ", he rolled up the right sleeve, which was equally as daunting as the left. These were not roadside tattoos, nor army or souvenir images, this was straight out, hard core prison symbology.  "So, we want to make it easy for you to continue everything you're doing. But we are going to need to see some serious money as well as a renewed partnership as of now. We also want you to know that, although we have no intention to do so, at any time, we can take this property with the improvements you have made and end this contract within a ninety day period as per my fathers original agreement. Junior  looked out the window towards Mesa Mountain. "Funny how that old Indian just disappeared, ain't it? His people had been living on that property for generations." 


"He hopped on a horse and rode to the top of  The Mesa Mountain, there were no  teardrops  this  time. " 


One of the men took his cigar and ashed it into the bear bowl. Junior looked at the man from top to bottom. First he eyed the boots, they were un-scuffed, had never seen a horse or a dirt road in their lives. Then he looked at the man's hands, soft, no scars on the knuckles, he noticed that the man's shirts were pressed professionally. He knew what he wanted to do the man and instead, he lifted the bear bowl, walked into the kitchen, washed it out, walked back into the room, grabbed the handkerchief from the man's suit coat pocket, wiped the entire bowl clean, handed him back the soiled fabric and sat the bowl down in the center of the table. "Someone could make it very difficult to get trucks in and out of here if someone had decided to ever do such a thing." Junior then rolled his sleeves back down and began to describe a plan that was acceptable to both himself, his father and his partners in America. The man did not ash the cigar a second time and by eight o'clock that evening, a crisp contract was hand delivered by a hot shot lawyer arriving for Don Louis to sign then and there. In a single day the busboy had died and Don Louis had been reborn. For Junior this was only step one, he still had work to do. He hopped on a horse and rode to the top of The Mesa Mountain, there were no teardrops this time. He looked over the horizon wondering again about the Indian.  



Published at BUREAU of Arts and Culture Sites in: New York City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, San Diego, Santa Barbara and The Bureau International Literary Site On August 1 2014 Written by The Bureau Editor Joshua Triliegi. Each Chapter is  improvised  within a 24 Hour period. Fine Art Paintings Appear Courtesy of New York Painter David FeBLAND with a featured Art Interview in The Summer Edition of Bureau Magazine  at BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE . com 



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
Each Chapter is Written in a Twenty - Four Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively
SEASON TWO / EPISODE TWO / CHAPTER 24  

RIDE  

Charles had gained some serious peace of mind in the past decade out on the road, along the highways, in the parking lots and alleys and subways and parks and open spaces where homeless people are known to dwell. His health had faltered a bit, he wasn't as young as he once was, but neither was anybody else. He had missed out on a lot, some of it was well worth missing and some of it was a lost treasure: watching Cally grow up into a woman for instance.  No amount of effort would make a difference there, except to be present now that he had returned, and that he did. 

The long lost tradition of Charles making breakfast for anyone and everyone in the house had returned. In the old days, Charles the Roady was also Charles the Chef. He had been minding his own business one early morning up in Northern California during one of those big monster festival tours with ten different bands : The Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, Cream, The Band and a bunch of early blues bands from The South, John Lee Hooker and all of that. Charles got up to make breakfast for himself and suddenly, Dylan walked into the kitchen for a glass of milk, he asked Charles what he was making and said that sounded good, could he have some, then Robbie from The Band heard Dylan playing with his harmonica and he became hungry too, all of the sudden, Charles is making omelets for Jerry Garcia, poached eggs for John Lee Hooker, hashed browns for Cream's drummer, how could he turn them down ? He was the roadie who had quickly become much more than that. When they discovered his drawings on little pieces of scrap paper, he designed album covers, tattoos, and began his art career. The big breakthrough album being his cover for Janis Live. Since then, Charles had become the family chef and his breakfasts were epic. He learned how to cook for an entire band, their crew, the girlfriends, groupies and sometimes even the teamsters, depending on where and when the tour was happening. So, when life off the road became a normal activity, Charles cooked breakfast. Upon his return home, that role was quickly expected and he fulfilled it. For Moon it was buck-wheat pancakes with blueberries and Cinnamon. For Cally and her new girl friend,  who went by the initials 'J.D.' and had just moved into Grandma's room with Cally, so they could save money for their new salon, it was yogurt topped with berries on wrapped crepes with cream cheese and maple syrup, for Maggie, his estranged wife, it was a no nonsense cafe throwback: two eggs over easy, toast with jam. But this toast was made from fresh bread and the jam crushed from fresh organic berries. Even the most basic stuff was made special in Charles' kitchen. Mickey was not a morning person and often missed out on all the illustrious A.M. activity. Charles was often back to bed after serving everyone, he tended to be a nite owl, so his morning cooking sessions were usually after staying up all night, in the old days with the band and now simply reflecting on life, or a long walk or maybe reading an old paperback all night. He was happy to be home, back in Venice, where he was loved, respected and admired by most.  If anyone had asked him where he had been all those years, why he went homeless and what was it like to be back, there is a good chance he would not have an answer readily available. It wasn't really a drug drop out or a financial fallout or even a relationship failure, with Charles' situation it was more about the big f*ck you. It was a simple : I quit. 

 " He  took  an  early  retirement 
             is  how  they  put  it  whenever   
                                     discussing  Charles." 

And what a perfect time to do so, especially for a counter culture guy like Charles, he had practically missed the entire nineteen - eighties. The music, the fashion, the values were in complete opposition of every thing he and his generation had stood for, everything they had rebelled against and much of the artifice that his parents had presented resurfaced and was celebrated: materialism and the all mighty dollar. Charles had  experienced the 1950's as a boy and besides rock & roll and motorcycles, he hadn't much use for the rest of it. When he first started drifting into homelessness, he had been touring with a band in Amsterdam and the lead singer had become such an asshole that Charles simply walked. One of those Rock & Roll Revival show Tours with seven bands in seven different countries within seven days, it was, by then, a joke, he noticed that the whole scene had become a parody of itself and he couldn't stand to see it slowly die, so he walked. He bummed around Europe for a while. Word got out that Charles had quit and he was eventually approached by some of his old partners who set up a post office box for him in several different locations. He was in good standing, had delivered on many occasions whatever was promised and more. He took an early retirement is how they put it whenever discussing Charles. 

The fact that he took the fall and saved a multi million dollar tour some years back had put him in a heroic category to much of Rock & Roll's real true royalty: Dylan, Jagger, Bowie, they all knew Charles. When he dropped out no one thought about it more than once, the drop out rate for members of the rock and roll underground was in the majority, thats what makes those still in the game so valuable to begin with. Back at home, he was missed mostly by his son Mickey, though his constant life on the road had helped take out the sting. The thing about Charles was that his presence was strongly felt wherever he was and upon his return from any such tour, a sort of St. Nicholas type of ritual would ensue. He would bring back outrageous objects of all sorts. Often at the end of a tour,  someone like Dylan would say, "Hey Charles, lets go to Turkey, I know a place in Instabul that has the best steam bathes in the world, we can scrape this tour off and get back to our lives, how 'bout it ?" or Jagger would invite him to India and so by the time Charles got back home, he would walk in with strange artifacts for everyone at home, exotic dresses and shoes for his wife Maggie, whom he always referred to as Sally. He brought home all sorts of games and foreign pastimes like backgammon and musical instruments from Australia.Once he even brought Cally a Shetland pony after having toured with Dylan and The Rolling Thunder Revue, she was five years old and ecstatic. Charles had always been magic to Cally, a ghostly figure of a man, an earthy, bearded, father time type who seemed to show up at the most opportune times in her life, gone enough to not be authoritarian and present enough to be the kind of father she could talk to about anything. So when he returned, they immediately discussed her latest plans to create the hair salon for 'girls who like girls' and he agreed to help her establish the place. Cally was a gorgeous redhead with long legs and a sharp nose, like Charles' mother. Her girl friend was chocolate brown,with big green eyes: both were girly girls. Charles had simply asked, "So, Girls huh ?", "Yep" she replied and that was that, he said no more. Charles had been born in the Midwest, he was a country boy, hadn't seen much of America before he did a tour in Vietnam. Thats where he got turned on to music and drugs and life on the road. He was the perfect Roadie, due to his experiences overseas. When he came back, music was the very thing that had helped him survive and he wanted to be around it as much as possible. Had he been a writer or a musician himself, because of his situation, there is no doubt that he could have been another Doctor John or ZZ Top or Country Joe, but he was a Roadie and a damn good one at that.  Maggie or 'Sally' as Charles like to call her had always been an independent person. They had what people call an open relationship that had gone along with their lifestyle in the early days. Traveling with high profile personalities had a heightened reality that they were both well aware of before they even entered into their lives together, so there was none of that, learn as you go stuff, they knew what could happen on tour and they accepted that whole heartedly. They both had a keen awareness that none of what they were doing was going to last, and they looked at one another as a place to go once it all ended,  They had the kids and the house and that was the anchor. 


When Charles disappeared, went A.W.O.L. Maggie seemed to take it in stride, on the one hand, he had not been pronounced dead, on the other hand, he had not resurfaced with anyone else, he was missing in action, so she filled her time with  others and kept up her usual intense work schedule working with bands and raising the kids, caring for her mother and the bookstore. When Charles returned, Maggie was glad he had not died somewhere, but mad as hell that he had not attempted to communicate during those past years. The doctors said that he was healthy, but may have experienced some kind of medical condition they were calling Post Traumatic Stress, from his several years of sleeplessness, his prior drug use, coupled with his traumatic experience decades earlier in Vietnam. "Bullshit, That's a bunch of bullshit.", she was pissed. When Maggie complained about Charles not raising the kids, Mickey and Moon just looked at one another, Mick felt that he had raised himself and they both knew that their time with little sister Cally was practically like an Uncle and Aunt. But after a while, the complaining stopped and seeing the kids in the kitchen with their dad was always a good thing. When Charles agreed to help the girls build out the Salon, Maggie completely loosened up and finally felt that he was stepping up. She looked at him sitting at the table, his full set of longish hair slicked back wet, streaks of grey in between the light brown and reddish tone. His long beard and mustache, recently trimmed by their daughter, "Damn that man looks good", she thought to herself. Ten years on the streets and he came back trimmer and more peaceful than he had been before. She couldn't understand how he could do that ? The guys she had been seeing had been gaining weight, losing their sense of self, they were more like boys than men. Charles was a solid gentlemen type, old school mid west country boy with a barrel chest and a solid, healthy laugh that shook the beams. She knew then that no matter what, she had chosen the right man to love, even if he had been gone all that time, he was a real man, he was sensitive and brash at the same time, had all those rebellious qualities wrapped inside a warmth and gentleness that she had always loved and admired in men. He had pissed off all the right people through the years, people Maggie knew were phonies, fakes, fools. She had never let any man cook her breakfast except Charles and as she got to the bottom of the steps she ordered her usual, "Two Eggs, Toast and Jam. Sir." 

Cally and J.D. had been dating for almost a year before they decided to move in together. Having tested the waters on their own, they were now living with the family to save money for the salon. When Charles asked Cally what the initials J.D. stood for, she said, "Jezebel De Simone, but don't call her that. She hates it."  "When I was a kid, J.D. meant Juvenile Delinquent."  Cally just smirked and rolled her eyes. Sometimes she called him Charles. "Charles, when you were a kid, if you brought home J.D. and claimed she was your new girlfriend, what would have happened ?"  He just looked at her and smiled. "Well, my parents would have flipped their lids, but all my buddies would have been jealous. Don't forget that the year you were born, your mother and I were on Tour with Mick Jagger and Ike and Tina Turner, your mother and I didn't have to march on Washington, we were on the front lines presenting mixed race musical groups all along. We took some heat for that on the streets and at the record companies, everybody freaked when that happened and then suddenly, it was normal.", he sat quiet for a minute, "The day that Frank Sinatra claimed that the only genius in out Industry was Ray Charles was a day I will never forget. I don't know why but, that just meant something to us in rock & roll."  Cally just looked at him and smiled quietly. They talked about the salon and Cally explained that because it was a hair and nail Salon geared towards girls who dig girls that they had decided on a discreet location that was not on the main thorough fair, sort of like a private club or a speakeasy, it was once a garage for cars, but had all the right codes and was just around the corner from a popular bar where a lot of the girls frequented. Instead of a big front window, they decided on skylights and privacy for clientele, "Not every girl who digs girls is 'Out' if you know what I mean ?", Charles countered, "Hey your pretty hip for the daughter of a bunch of white, jive - ass - hippies."   "I'm serious, we have a great location and I want you and Mickey to help us put in a bunch of little sinks and we want to buy some vintage barber chairs from the 1930s' and have them redone. This is gonna be cool, it'll be a family business that you will see a return on." Just then, J.D. walked in like a cat at dinner. 


" Charles cracked a knowing smile and laughed to himself.  "
 

"So whats going on here ? "  Cally replied, "My Dad was just saying that he thought you were a delinquent and that Jezebel is beautiful name and you should go by 'Jezz', he said its got a nice ring to it. Did you know that Charles here and Tina Turner had a thing going back in the day ?"  Charles just sat quiet enjoying his daughters repartee. J.D. looked at the two and saw the resemblance in the eyes, nose and lips, she walked up to Charles and said, "I love this daughter of yours and I want to thank you for creating her as beautiful as you did." She kissed him on the cheek and then she took Cally's hand and led her upstairs. Charles cracked a knowing smile and laughed to himself. 

Charles looked at The Bike in Mickeys shop out back and  realized that he hadn't ridden a motorcycle in several years, he sat on the bike, turned the key, started the ignition, kicked the lever twice, on the third time it turned over, that unmistakably all American, one of a kind rumble created only by a Harley. The smell of gasoline and the vibrato, got to him, he pushed forward the stand and the bike was now on its wheels, he revved the motor, it was a beautiful and familiar sound, he put the machine into gear and turned his wrist a quarter of an inch and the bike began to move forward. Charles took a ride. In the old days, Charles and his Biker pals had routes they frequented with stops along the way.  Biker bars, biker friendly cafes, he had about a dozen spots that he had known through the years in Southern California that were part of the ride, but most of them were Sunday biker type of places and today was a week day. He hopped on the freeway and ripped East going way above the speed limit, this bike was fast, he was proud of Mickey for learning so well. When he got downtown he exited and headed east on Third, went over the bridge and parked it in front of a place that was once called Cisco's. It was an old bar and cafe with a dance floor in the back. An old factory lunch place back in the forties and through the years had different owners, but had often kept the same workers who were locals. Charles  pulled up and the place was empty, he let the motor cool, ordered a beer and sat listening to the old time jukebox. The Television was on and a newscaster was reporting from a helicopter high above the city, people were protesting and it had the look of a situation in development as opposed to one that was ending. 

Charles had been to Vietnam, he could surmise pretty well what a building tension looked like from a helicopter, he could see when one group was outnumbering another, he could pinpoint a soldier in distress and he didn't like what he was seeing at all. If this was a live telecast, than Charles knew that L.A. was in for some real war. He got back on the bike and instinctively drove into the shit, as they use to call it. He took the back way South and then headed West along the streets and noticed that, here and there, little skirmishes were popping up, a trashcan on fire here or a car on fire there, isolated events, it was evening now and as he entered the hot spot, he could see a small lady in front of her shop, swinging what looked like a harpoon at a crowd of people in a circular motion, as he drove up closer it appeared that the crowd had already ransacked the shoe store down the way and had decided to take her place next. It was an ugly scene. 


" Charles took the chain from the back of the bike, and swung it three hundred and sixty degrees above his head with his left hand and with his right, he drove the cycle in circles around the woman." 


Charles had seen this kind of thing before, a group of people harassing a single individual, not only in Vietnam, but also at concerts, he had been at Altamont when a group of people that he knew turned on a few individuals and things went bad, people died. When it was all over the band got in a helicopter and everyone else was stuck on the ground. He saw that happen more than once overseas and now he was seeing at home. Something in Charles went from curiosity to combat in a matter of seconds. He drove the bike into up into crowd, who were really just everyday people simply pushed to the limit with poverty and injustice and had decided somebody had to pay. The brave little woman with the harpoon, was startled, then she realized what Charles was actually doing and suddenly, she stood erect, defiant even. Charles took the chain from the back of the bike, and swung it three hundred and sixty degrees above his head with his left hand and with his right, he drove the cycle in circles around the woman, an impossibly beautiful act, he went from doing circles to figure eights and then larger circles until the entire lot had been cleared and the crowd cooled out, realizing there was another store up the block that was unprotected. When he made sure the lady was ok, and the storefront secure, he drove off up the street to another situation. 


" … For the first time in his life the decorated soldier from Venice Beach California received a heroes welcome. " 


If the news helicopter had not caught the entire episode on television and aired it live for all the world to see than Mickey and his friends, Moon and Maggie, Cally and Jezz would never have known. Charles returned home and by the time he drove the bike up into the yard, the word had already gotten out, for the first time in his life the decorated soldier from Venice Beach California received a heroes welcome. And from the look on Maggie's face, it appeared that he was about to ride again.



Published at BUREAU of Arts and Culture Sites in: New York City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, San Diego, Santa Barbara and The Bureau International Literary Site On August 4 2014 Written by The Bureau Editor Joshua Triliegi. Each Chapter is  improvised  within a 24 Hour period. Fine Art Paintings Appear Courtesy of New York Painter David FeBLAND with a featured Art Interview in The Summer Edition of Bureau Magazine  at BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE . com 



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
Each Chapter is Written in a Twenty - Four Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively
SEASON TWO / EPISODE THREE / CHAPTER 25  

PAIN

Fred had hired a lawyer, one of the best, to help negotiate a deal for the boy. He felt he owed it to Sam, to look after the family now that their father was dead. Most anyone else, including Fred's many friends and associates in the community would have simply let the boy, who was actually a young man, simply do the time and possibly be prosecuted for a much larger circle of crimes, even though the boy had nothing to do with the others. Fred was beginning to lose faith in the system.  Because of the events that were about to happen in their lives, many of his fellow business owners and pals from the old country were about to feel the same. Although not all of Fred's friends had come from the same country as him, most had experienced the same type of history. A civil war, followed by or even precipitated by a larger abuse of power and sometimes several or many years of bloodshed and actual fighting on the ground in a country torn in two by two larger countries, then a reconciliation and finally an offer to immigrate and start anew. It happened that way in Korea, Vietnam and Cambodia. Now it was happening in Fred's own life, with Sam's family and the boy attempting to burn down the place. Thanks to Fred's lawyer, the boy had been released and due to his behavior early on in life and a few incidents at school, Fred's lawyer was able to claim that the boy was not working with a full deck of cards. Several forces in authority would have been glad to throw the boy away for several years, local, state and federal branches had all been looking to find the person or group who had been responsible for the Palm Tree burnings. The fact that Fred's lawyer claimed the boy was slightly insane did not necessarily exempt him from prosecution, it just meant that he might not have to do time in the penitentiary. Sometimes a plea like that could actually work against the defendant and suggest to the jury that the boy had done the crime and might have done others too. Fred had been to Sam's family house on several occasions since the incident and his lawyer had assured them how lucky they were to have a man like Fred on their side. He was now looked at by Sam's family and by many in his community as a very honorable businessman. But the recent events had taken their toll and Fred was feeling wiped out. On his own accord, he had begun to investigate the man responsible for his daughters death, ever since his release from prison. The results were worse than not knowing anything at all. When he called the prosecuting attorney at the time, who had become a broken man, both morally, financially and otherwise, he was given a file that had facts in it that only brought revelations of sorrow. He discovered that his daughters boy friend Ryan, had been smoking marijuana the night the accident happened. He also found out that Ryan's car was not street legal and the fact that the height of the cars rear was not regulation, may have caused or helped facilitate the accident. As he delved further into the case, he received the address of the man who was prosecuted and when he parked out in front of Junior's house, he saw, of all things, Officer Chuck of the local police department drive up to the house and enter with a key. How could that be ? Chuck had never once mentioned that he was actually married to Cecilia, the sister of the man who the courts claimed was responsible for his daughters death. Fred started to get paranoid. What if they were out to get him ?  As he looked into the case even further he found out something that he wished he hadn't. Josie was three and a half weeks pregnant when she died. It was right there in the autopsy report. Someone had withheld that fact to protect Fred and his wife  from more pain than was already inflicted, but now, for Fred, the pain was only delayed and amplified. 

Fred went to visit Ryan's parents, but only Ryan's younger brother was home. It had been fifteen years, but the young man recognized him at first glance. "Your Josie's Dad", He said immediately upon opening the door, "Yes, I'm Fred." The brother welcomed him in. "I'm Ryan's bro ", he said without mentioning his name. "Come in, please." Without even asking he went to the fridge and opened to cans of beer, handed one to Fred, and took a drink. They walked into the back patio and then into the yard. Instead of a grass lawn, there was a traditional asian zen garden with the sculpture of a Buddha near the back and pebbles and rocks placed accordingly. Fred was surprised. "Yeah, my parents were always into stuff like that.", he paused, reflecting  on the past, "Sometimes I think thats why Ryan and Josie had gotten along so well. She loved it back here. I really liked her. I don't mean like a brother is supposed to like his future sister in law, I mean I was just plain in love with her. But, I think a lot of people were. She was really very special, not just beautiful, but kind, funny, respectful. Ryan would be in the garage working on his car and Josie would be out here laying in the sun. I adored her to the point where Ryan would have to tell me to go and play. I was just a kid, but there was something magnetic about Josie. She was so laid back and easy to talk to …" Fred began to drop tears underneath his sunglasses and Ryan's little brother said he was sorry for bringing it up. "No, its ok, I actually came here to talk about it. Did you know that Ryan smoked marijuana ?"  "Yeah, everybody did, in fact, most of my brothers friends were doing a lot more than that sir."  "Josie and Ryan were total squares compared to the rest of their friends, they would sit here in the garden doing their home work, while everyone else was out doing who knows what." Fred continued, "Did you know that Josie was pregnant ?"  Ryan's brother just looked at the man and had trouble responding, "Yeah I did, but I thought I was the only one who did know that. In fact my parents don't even know about that. Ryan told me that he was trying to convince Josie to marry him, but that she was afraid to tell you and your wife, so they had quarreled about it for a week or so. Look, if you talk to my parents, don't mention that will you? I don't think that would bring them anything but pain. Ya know Fred, 'knowing' is not everything it's cracked up to be."  "Thats a very wise statement young man."  Ryan replied, "If you promise not to say anything, I want to show you something". 



He led Fred into the hallway and opened a door that had been Ryan's room, everything had been kept as it was for all those years, just as Fred had preserved Josie's room, they had preserved Ryan's. Hot rod posters, snap shot pictures of Josie that Fred had never seen before, albums, books and images here and there that Fred identified with his now dead daughter. When he had seen enough, they closed the door and walked back into the living room. The door bell rang, and a girl that looked a lot like Josie walked in, "Hey, I thought you were coming over ?", she said as the door opened. "I was, but… an old family friend came by and we got to talking about the old days."  Fred just looked at the girl, he was stunned by the resemblance, frozen in time. "Fred, this is my girlfriend", he didn't mention her name. "We have our own band and we are rehearsing for a gig tonite, Hey, were allowed to have guests, can we put your name at the door?"  Fred, just stood there and stared at the girl. "Yeah, I know she's a knockout, huh?"  The girl became embarrassed and excused herself. Fred said that he had to go now, he was sweating. "Wait a minute. If you ever need someone to talk to, I want you to call me. Ryan and I were close, very close, not a day goes by where I don't think about him. I know what your going through and you just have got to let it go, not forever, but just right now, let it go." He led Fred into the back yard to sit, then walked back inside and explained to his girlfriend what was going on. After a few minutes, the two entered the patio to join him. The girl sat next to Josie's Father. "It must be terrible to lose someone like that, so… young. Just because they're gone doesn't mean they're not with us. He never stops talking about Ryan and somehow, that means that Ryan is still here. Right?", "Yes", Fred replied, They got up and walked back into the house and toward the front door, as Fred exited, The young man handed him and invitation to their gig, Fred turned and asked the girl, "By the way, What do you do, in the band ?", She replied matter of fact, "I'm the singer, but I also play guitar".  Fred just smiled and shook his head in the affirmative, as if to say yes of course. He waved and walked away. 


When Fred got all this new information, he was reeling. He got home, called his new lawyer exclaiming that he wanted to know why he had originally not been informed of all of this to begin with?  The lawyer was surprised by Fred. "Did you request any this information at the time? The lawyer began to bulletin point for the sake of clarifying the situation. "One: The autopsy would have had gruesome pictures that you and your wife probably had avoided for obvious reasons. So you were never informed about the marijuana or pregnancy. Two: Ryan's car was not regulation and your lawyer did everything he could do to prosecute the other boy because that was his job. Fred, the American legal system is not a perfect system, but, sometimes it works and that depends on a bunch of factors that are difficult to pinpoint. What are you gaining by digging  up all this past information ? What has it done for you so far, realistically ?" Fred thought about it, then replied "Its made me dubious of everything. I don't know who to blame anymore."  "Well, maybe thats a good thing. What if the kids were actually to blame for what happened that night ?"  Fred sat quiet, the lawyer continued,  "Now you have information that leads you to believe that a boy who went to prison for fifteen years may have been innocent. And here we are in an attempt to save another young man from doing time for something we know that he actually did do, simply because he was your partners son. So is this about justice or is this about right and wrong or is this about using the law to your advantage ?"  Fred sat quietly thinking. The lawyer added, "I have a feeling this whole thing is going to blow over and we won't even end up in court. Its just a feeling in my gut. Some thing much larger and more important could put this whole thing to the wayside."  Little did either of the men know that something larger was about an hour away from making the Palm Tree burning look like kids stuff compared to the kind of devastation that was about to bust loose. Fred got off the phone, he had been listening to a traditional language station that featured music, news and sports concerning people from his country here in Southern California. He was about to relax, when news reports began interrupting the usually scheduled programs. Shop owners all along the corridor where Fred's Liquor Store was located were put on alert. Fred jumped into his car and headed up to the store, by now it was evening. He had no idea that anything was happening in regards to the recent high profile court case. Fred had been so immersed in his own personal dramas that he had no time to consider the larger issues involving the city and it's reaction to another bad legal decision. 

By the time he even got close to the store, he knew there was trouble, stores, cars, trashcans were on fire all up and down the block, cars were racing in and out, people were running across the streets without even looking, not just across the streets, but at all angles, with hands full of merchandise of all sorts: radios, televisions, toasters, even toilet paper. Fred had never seen anything like it except 
when he was a little boy and witnessed a battle on the streets of his little village. All that helplessness he felt back then, he now felt again. As he got closer to the store, he could see a truck pulling out of the parking lot with boxes and boxes full of stock from the store, rival looters tried to grab at the contents of the truck and the man sitting in the passenger seat, got out a pistol and shot towards those in the lot. When Fred pulled into the lot , people were streaming in and out of the place with anything they could get for free, bottles of vodka, chewing gum, toothpaste, potato chips, a six pack, he recognized some of his regular customers taking things that they normally purchased on a daily basis. The little girl that he sold a daily popsicle to for 50 cents walked out with a box of a dozen popsicles. 


"… People were streaming in and out of the place with anything they could get for free, bottles of vodka, chewing gum, toothpaste, potato chips, a six pack …" 


They had pried open the steel gates, busted the front windows and eventually, drove a truck straight through. He called the police, waited a half hour, there was no response. When he walked to the back room, he noticed that his pistol was not in the holster. The men in the truck must have taken it. When there was nothing left to take, someone threw a flaming bottle into the store and a fire burst in its center. Fred reached for the extinguisher, but it was gone. He went to the back room grabbed his business reports, his license, his insurance and original personal papers of ownership and on the way out looked up at the image of him and Sam, it was partially in flames. He jumped up onto a shelf, ripped the frame off the wall and ran out the front door. He watched in dismay as a firetruck pulled into the lot, unravelling  water hoses and for the next hour proceeded to put out the fire. 

Fred sat in the lot holding the picture, just holding it to his chest while the entire business became a pile of molten earth. As the fire died down, a car came by and  shot towards the fireman on the ladder, he was hit in the shoulder and without even getting off the ladder, they dropped the hose and pulled out of there in less than a minute. Fred stood in the lot alone. The little girl, who normally bought her daily popsicle walked back up to the front of the store, her dress was now soiled with syrup. She looked at Fred and reached her hand out, when she opened it up, two quarters sat in the center of her tiny hand. He stood there, unable to let go of the picture. Tears were running down his face, he looked at the little girl and bowed. The girl put the two quarters on the ground and ran home just as fast as she could. She knew something bad had happened and that she had been a part of it. Shame was something even a child could understand. Fred waited another hour, but no police responded. He then had no other choice but to get into his car and drive home. Fred was now in shock. His hands were cut and burned, his face was scratched, he had lost it all. He entered the house, went straight for Josie's room and looked around, there on the dresser was a picture of Josie and Ryan, in the corner, her guitar. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the invitation that the kids had given him, "The concert.", he said out loud, "I have got to get to the concert."  


 " He  reached  into  his  pocket  and   pulled  out  the  invitation  that  the  kids  had  given  him,  The concert …    he said  out loud, I  have  got  to  get  to the concert …"  


He got cleaned up, put on a fresh suit and hat as he had whenever attending Josie's recitals in the past. He looked at the invitation and recognized the address, it was a popular spot that had been around for years. As Fred walked up to the theater, he could here the music playing and a girls voice say, "This is our last song, we want to thank everyone for coming out tonight." Fred walked into the club, it was packed. He walked right up to the front of the stage. The young man added, "We also want to say that we hope that everyone in this city can find a better way to settle our differences, theres some real insanity going on out there right now…",  the girl looked down and saw Fred standing in the front row. She looked directly at him and grabbed the microphone, "This song goes out to a very special man who is with us tonight and to two other beautiful people that couldn't be here, but their presence is felt."  Then they broke into a slow and soulful rendition of a classic Beatles song that Josie had in her record collection, It was a song called: In My Life. The girl on the stage, who, as far as Fred was concerned, was his daughter Josie, began to sing, "There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed, some forever not for better, some have gone and some remain, all these places have their moments with lovers and friends I still can recall, some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all… " 

Then she played a guitar solo and continued , " … But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you, and these memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new, though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them, in my life I love you more.", The young man who in Fred's mind was Ryan played a piano solo, then the girl continued, "Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them in myyyyyy life I Love You More." Then the song ended, the audience applauded and the lights in the theater came on. The girl raised her hand to her brow, looking in Fred's direction, but by then, Fred was long gone. 

THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written in a Twenty - Four Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively

SEASON TWO / EPISODE FOUR / CHAPTER 26  

PRIMETIME 

Jordan went primetime when he made a split second decision to get his Uncle's family heirloom from the pawn shop during the first few hours of the riot. He was on duty at the time, so the image of a municipal bus driver looting a pawn shop, while on duty made news. Of Course, he was not actually looting at all, it was his guitar and he just didn't want anyone else to get his only sacred historical object: The Red Bass Fender from the early days of Soul and Rhythm and Blues. Many of the images that were broadcast during the first night of the riots were simply local and live, but Jordan's escapade had gone National. When Ted Koppel and The Nightly News ran with the image as the opening of that evenings news telecast, everyone across the nation picked it up. 
The image of Jordan running across the street with a Red Guitar in his hand and the streets ablaze behind him, eventually ended up on the cover of a popular national news magazine and he was forced to come out and tell his side of the story. His first statement was to a local newscaster: "I just would like to say that I do not condone looting, or this riot. What happened was wrong and the courts have made a bad decision, but my act of retrieving a family heirloom from a store that was being overrun was by no means and unequivocally unrelated to the acts of defiance we are currently seeing throughout the city. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the pawn ticket, I own that guitar and I was simply saving it from being stolen by somebody else, it's as simple as that."  But that is not how the Transit Authority saw it,  they promptly fired him. When his mother saw the image on television in a bar located in Detroit called, Cozy's Corner Corral, which had been a Motown hang out back in the early days, she recognized him immediately,"Thats my Boy, that is my son right there, you here me, that little f*cker is my Boy!" Nobody in the bar cared or believed her, but when the interview came on and his name was flashed across the bottom of the screen while he spoke, they couldn't deny her observation. "You see ? Just like his daddy, right in the middle of a m*ther f*cking riot, a goddamn revolutionary sonofabitch !"  She ran all around town borrowing every scrap of change she could find, packed up her few items in a single little pink suitcase, she told Shep up in that tired old apartment that she was leaving to see her, 'famous son' out in L.A. and got on the first train to Los Angeles. Baby never flew, she was more than 'Old School', she was what they now call, 'an original'. 


  " Jordan  never  found  it  very  comfortable   
    having well known parents, every where he 
    went, people had some idea of who he was,  
    supposedly because they had heard this or 
    that  about  his  family.  " 


Her real name was Florenze, but because Jordan's dad had always called her 'Baby', it then became her official handle.  They were a real ruff and tumble couple back when Jordan was born. Factory people who graduated into power with the street politics of the time times. Everybody in Detroit knew Baby and Little Mac as they were respectively known. As a young child, Jordan never found it very comfortable having well known parents, every where he went, people had some idea of who he was, supposedly because they had heard this or that about his family. Mac had been rolling with some very heavy cats back then, Panthers and such. In and out of prison, community protection, food programs for the poor, big time black liberation people on the front lines of all sorts of activities for the rights of the people. They were very well respected for going to the degree with which they did for other people and for the community at large. Mac and Baby had a selfless attitude that gained them popularity, but it didn't do much for Jordan, whose spent most of his time at Uncles and Aunts houses as a kid, just regular factory folks.

Many of Jordan's people were third generation Muslims and although praying five times a day was often for survival, food, a new job or in hopes that a loved one would come home unscathed, they did practice regularly. When Wanda got pregnant, some of Jordan's stricter friends at the mosque suggested that the girl convert, so the child could be assured a place in heaven with Allah. Wanda loved Jordan and would do most anything for him, but converting seemed a bit much to her. Wanda was a middle class working girl with a flair for fashion. She had an earthy style that was very cultural, but more in a reggae style rather than a strict way of living and eating and dressing. Jordan said it would be good for the family as a unit, but Wanda resisted.  Some of his friends at the mosque suggested that he bring Wanda for a visit on a day when many of the ladies would be having a sale of all kinds of fashions for Muslim women, lots of scarves and accessories for the modern muslim woman. Jordan agreed that he would try. 


" Wanda believed in a heaven on earth, in the grand  Rastafarian sense, that, like the Jewish people who were chosen, so too were the Rasta" 


Soon enough, he had persuaded her to visit. Wanda met other muslim ladies, they ate, talked, welcomed her.  Jordan bought Wanda a few new outfits with scarves and the plan seemed to be working. But then the guys at the mosque said that if Jordan wanted Wanda to be certified officially that she would have to make a statement that Allah was god publicly and then she could be given a piece of paper from the mosque stating that she was Muslim. Jordan knew that this was going to be difficult. Wanda believed in a heaven on earth, in the grand Rastafarian sense, that, like the Jewish people who were chosen, so too were the Rasta and that returning to Africa was equivalent to visiting Mecca for Jordan. "Why can't our baby be part Muslim and part Rasta ?", she wanted to know. Jordan laughed so hard that he fell off the couch, he rolled on the ground roaring. She was so beautiful and funny and sexy and smart and dedicated that he actually didn't really care what she was: this woman was giving him a baby and he was so damn in love that he was giddy. "Half Rasta and half Muslim ? Whats he going to do smoke all day and pray all night ?", Jordan joked.  "Thats not funny, The Rastafari pray by their actions of righteousness.", she replied, "Yeah, but neither eat pork and I see you eating baby back ribs whenever possible.", "Jordan you a punk sometimes. You know that ?" He just shook his head, "I love you. I'm in love with you. I will do anything for you anytime, anywhere. Can't you just say that Allah is god and we can get on with our lives. You don't have to wear a scarf every day or change your fashion. It is just a symbol of unity between you, me and the baby." Wanda looked at him, "You just don't give up do you?", "Not on you I don't and never on this baby."  They looked at one another for a long time, neither spoke, finally, Wanda said, "Yes", that she would visit the mosque and say the words. But she wanted him to know that the baby was going to have to decide for his or her self what to believe. Jordan agreed and the negotiation had ended. 


" But she wanted him to know that the baby was going to have to decide for his or her self what to believe. "


The day that Wanda had made the official statement, she had met more of the families of Jordan's friends. Several of them lived just a few blocks away and they had assured her that they would be  there to support Wanda through the pregnancy and that one of the friends sold organic foods and would it be all right if they periodically dropped of fresh fruits and vegetables to the house?  "Yes, of course, you are always welcome in our house", Wanda had said, trying to be kind and considerate of their offer. All of these events transpired over a period of time just before the riot. When Jordan  went primetime with his Uncles guitar, everyone at the mosque was surprised at his actions and when he lost his job shortly thereafter, things looked even worse. Wanda thought it was embarrassing, but she also realized it was typical of Jordan and there was something slightly funny about it. The fact that he pulled the bus over, ran into the shop and then hopped back on the bus with his, 'family heirloom', as he put it, or as the guys in the band called instruments, 'his Axe', was downright humorous. But when Ted Koppel and other national news shows ran the image, she was hoping he could handle that kind of exposure. After all, Wanda had minored in journalism and when the station called for Jordan's side of the story, it was Wanda who helped him write his official statement. When the station wanted to conduct the interview in front of the burnt out remnants of the pawn shop, Wanda said no. Jordan eventually had made his statement in Leimert Park instead, with a group of Jordan's supporters and a group of people protesting  the unjust decision that actually caused all the problems to begin with. It came off like a civic statement, instead of some ghetto style interview that normally was presented and the community rallied behind him. 

Wanda was several years older than Jordan, she had been in this neighborhood back when the riots of 1965 happened and it brought back some terrible feelings. She had forgotten that Summer and now some of the memories were creeping back into her consciousness.  Terrible images of racism, hatred, destructiveness and that feeling of simply being helpless. She remembered looking up at the adults and realizing that they weren't actually smarter than her, they weren't doing the right thing, they were hurting themselves and everything around them. Now the actual smell of ash and soot and wood and rubber and asphalt and sulphur mixed together began to make her nauseated. She remembered thinking that, back then,  it was somehow her fault that the riot had started. Her parents had been quarreling over wether to visit relatives out of town or to stay in town for the summer. If they left town than none of Wanda's friends would be able to come to her birthday party. So, she made a big scene while her dad was out back burning trash. In those days most homes had a place to burn your trash, it served as a bbq  on holidays and an incinerator whenever leaves or trash needed burning. After her little burst out, Wanda had ran off down the block to the park in tears, she had been spoiled by her mother and adored by her daddy, so these little outbursts were common. 


   " When it was time to go home,  Wanda  found  road  blocks  obstructing her usual path home.  Police cars  and  firetrucks  were  everywhere.  The entire block was  going up in flames and smoke was everywhere."


Like most kids she was easily distracted and had a large imagination, so when she got to the park, several hours passed quickly. When it was time to go home, Wanda found road blocks obstructing her usual path home. Police cars and firetrucks were everywhere. The entire block was going up in flames and smoke was everywhere. She stood on the corner while two big policemen began talking, one of them sat in the passenger side of the car with the door open, while the other stood on the sidewalk attending to the road block "So, what's this all about ?" the cop standing asked. "I'm not exactly sure.", the cop in the car answered, "But It looks like some crazy bastard got pissed off and decided to burn his own f*cking neighborhood down."  Wanda heard that and ran as fast as she could to her Aunts house, which was a few blocks down. She had heard her Mom  call her Daddy a 'crazy bastard' a whole bunch of times, so she knew for sure who them two cops were talking about. 
Wanda  ran into the back door and into the kitchen, "Auntie, Auntie, help, help, my daddy's burning the neighborhood down cause mama don't want to leave to the lakes on account of my birthday. Help, we gotta put out the fire…", She collapsed into her Aunts apron and Uncle Milt walked in, "Whats this all, about ?"  Aunt Mae just shook her head and said she didn't know, but that Milt better call over to the house and find out. Milt had been watching the beginning of the uprising on television and he and Wanda's dad talked about it a while, "Terrible Ain't it, gonna set us back a few years this kinda thing…", he handed the phone to Aunt Mae. Then Uncle Milt turned to Wanda, "Your Daddies house ain't on fire, sugar, were in the middle of an uprising girl." 


  " Your Daddies house ain't on fire, sugar,  were in the middle of an uprising,  girl." 


He picked her up and they watched the television coverage together. Aunt Mae came in a few minutes later and said that little Wanda was staying the night and that they was gonna be baking a peach pie together, "How does that sound ?" She just shrugged. Aunt Mae's patience only went so far, "You get your little butt upstairs and wash that face for dinner right now young lady." Then she added, "And by the way, your mother wanted me to tell you that you will be having your birthday at home this year. Wanda finally smiled, ran over and gave her Aunt a hug. All these years later, Wanda wished there was someone like that to hug right now, the doorbell rang and her wish came true. One of those, ' Watch - what - you - wish - for ', moments. 


Baby was able to scrape up a one way ticket and enough money to get her hair done, buy a dress and a new pair of heels. When she got to Los Angeles, she already had Jordan's address from the Transit Authority, having lied and said his father was sick in the hospital. She hadn't seen Jordan's father in years, he could have been in prison for all she knew. By now, military soldiers were camped out everywhere, but the damage had already been done. Baby stopped into a local grocer who had somehow survived the uprising and picked up a big gallon jug of red wine, a large bottle of Southern Whiskey, a bunch of collared greens, peas, potatoes, a giant rack of ribs and a chocolate cake. When the cab pulled up to Jordan's, his Mama payed the driver, but asked him to wait until the door opened before he drove off. Just in case her 'famous son' was not home. When Wanda answered the door, Baby waved at the taxi driver and said, "I'm Jordan's Momma, Baby, and you are… ?"  "I'm Wanda, Come on in, it's Florenze right ?", "People call me Baby." She walked right into the kitchen and started unpacking the groceries as if she had been living there her whole life.  "What a pleasant surprise, Jordan is always talking about you and his daddy." Baby replied, "He may be talking 'About' us, but he ain't been talking 'To' us for quite some time."  Wanda just let that barb go and helped to unpack the groceries. 

"Then, I don't suppose you knew that we are expecting."  She held up her shirt and exposed a tiny bump of a tummy. Baby just looked at it and said ,"Girl, you better get to eating if that kids gonna have a fighting chance. I am going to cook up the best damn southern style meal you ever had in your life. But first I need to rinse off a thousand miles of railroad tracks, if you don't mind. Feel like I just went to town with John Henry himself. Wheres the bathroom honey ?"  Wanda led 'Baby' into the den and suggested she put her things in there for now. She gave her a quick tour of the place and started a bath. For the next few hours Baby was holding court, playing music from their collection, making her original recipes and telling Wanda all those stories that mothers like to tell about their kids. Though, there weren't too many to tell, since Jordan had mostly been raised by Aunts and Uncles. Baby smoked cigarettes on the patio and continued to tell her stories without missing a beat.Talking through the screen at Wanda, who by now was falling into Baby's routine comfortably. Wanda hadn't consumed any alcohol in a couple months and decided to pour herself a glass. Baby was drinking whiskey on ice pretty regularly and continued to play Jordan's extensive collection of rare jazz, blues and soul records. "The kids got great taste in music, thats for sure." then she added, "I think he got a lovely lady here too." And she gave Wanda that hug she'd been wishing for. The two women were having a time. Wanda got tipsy from the wine, the music and all of the energy coming off of Jordan's Momma, who hadn't stopped talking since she walked in the door. 


" For the next few hours Baby was holding court, playing music from their collection, making her original recipes and telling Wanda all those stories " 


As evening set in, Jordan came walking down the block from having recently visited a lawyer about his being fired, he decided to fight it on principle. As he came down the block with a bouquet of flowers, several of his friends from the mosque stopped to ask him how everything was going and they talked a bit.They had a box of fresh food for him and Wanda and Jordan immediately invited them over. The men, several dressed in traditional garb, hats, scarves, beards all discussed Jordan's recent response on television as they walked down the street toward the house. They were both excited and proud of the way he had handled himself on camera. Some of them were saying that maybe he had the type of leadership skills that could be good for the community. Jordan opened the front door to their place and the men walked in to find the two women dancing to James Brown and singing, "…Stay on the scene, like a sex machine, the way I like it, is the way it is … Get up, Get on up, Get up, get on up …".  In her right hand, Wanda held a giant baby back rib, in her left, a glass of wine, she was wearing a bra and an african quilted skirt while dancing about the living room. Jordan's Momma had a cigarette dangling from her lips and was pouring a tall glass of Whiskey on ice. By the time James Brown was, 'Takin' it to the bridge', the two ladies turned to the front door and Baby screamed out, "Oh My God, theres my goddamn little revolutionary", Jordan stood there in the doorway, holding the box of organic vegetables in one hand an a bouquet of flowers in the other, his friends stood behind him: aghast. "Fellas", he said, "This here is my Momma." The men all looked at one another, the music stopped and Jordan's show had just gone primetime. 



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written in a Twenty - Four Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively

SEASON TWO / EPISODE FIVE / CHAPTER 27  

STROKE

Stan got a call that surprised him. From what he knew of protocol regarding this type of thing, there were three ways it could go, one: You were told that a call was coming in at such and such a time, two: You were told, who was on the line and then you spoke or three: You simply answered the telephone and someone said, "Hello, Stan, this is the President of the United States, Ya got a minute ?" If it had been one, he could prepare, if it had been two, he at least had an idea, but since it had been three, he simply said, "Yes, Mister President, what can I do for you?"  "Well Stan, it's not what you can do for me, It's what you can do for your country. Wait a minute, that sounds like I'm paraphrasing Kennedy."  Stan laughed, he figured, if the President of the United States could tell a joke under theses conditions than Stan could laugh at it. "Listen, Stan, this whole decision has blown up in our faces. I've been on the phone with the Governor and we're about to send in the troops and the national guard. Would you do me a favor and just tell me what the hell happened out there ?"  Stan paused, he didn't know where to start. "Sir, Mr President, as the presiding judge, I was just as surprised as the public at this decision."  The phone was quiet, then the President continued, "Well listen, were going to have to do this all over again and I just want your opinion, just your personal opinion: what are the chances of getting a conviction in a second trial, if the facts are presented with a jury that reflects the populist of the city and state you serve ?"  Stan thought a second, responded, "Well, Sir, Mister President, I think several of the officers could be found to have abused their power and I believe convictions could be had."  "Fine, now, off the record, I want you to have a casual meeting with a group of guys including the governor next week, just a simple golf game, nothing official. These men are going to be discussing plans and I want you to add any information that you can in a totally unofficial capacity, do you understand ?" Stan answered in the affirmative, "Yes, I do Mister President."  "OK. Fine, I know were not on the same side of the aisle, and looking at the Presidential log, it appears that you have not been to The White House since you were a young boy during Kennedy's Presidency, is that correct ?"  "Why, yes it is, Mister President.",  "Well listen, the next time you are in town, you drop by and see us." Stan was surprised, "Thank You Mr President."  Then the president added one last detail, "You are going to have to drive up to Sacramento or thereabouts for this golf course. How is your game ?" Stan replied, "Terrible Sir, to be honest.", then he replied, "Well good, that'll work out fine for those boys perfectly. Stay in touch now."  The line clicked just before Stan said, "Thank you Mister President" and then he hung up the phone. When Dora got home Stan said, "Your never going to believe who called today." When he told her who, she said, "Did you ask him about raising the minimum wage or the imbalanced levels of unemployment among people of color or how could he send people into war without proper protection ?" Stan just looked at Dora and walked out of the room, at times like this, there was no use talking about it.  "Wheres Cliff ?", he shouted from the hall. "He's out back.", she shouted back.  Then he replied,  "Listen, I have to drive up to Sacramento next week to meet the Governor about this second trial,"  That peeked her interest,"What second trial ?" He walked back toward Dora in the kitchen, "There is going to be, and all  of this is unofficial, there is going to be another trial, the President wants this cleared up for the public's sake."  "Oh what a load of crap." Dora exclaimed, "The entire inner city is burned to the f*cking ground, race relations have been set back decades and now there's going to be another trial ? Amazing."   Stan then asked her matter of fact,  "Look, I'm taking Cliff with me next week, is that o.k.?  Dora stopped what she was doing and turned to him, "What do you mean, I thought you had to work ?" Stan looked down avoiding Dora's eye sight,  "No. It's a casual golf game and they want me to fill in facts."  


Now she was visibly upset, "You mean to say that you are going to golf with the Governor and his cronies to fill in the facts so that a bunch of wankers  can find out how to do a job that was yours to begin with ?"  Stan replied, "That's not really fair of you to put it that way, but yes, thats exactly what I will be doing."  She slammed the cupboard, "Good, and while you have that bastards attention, you tell him that the farmers in this state need support from his establishment or their not going to survive the year. Also, you tell him that if teachers don't get a  raise, education in this state is going to be a joke and public schools will close." Stan had to laugh, "I don't think it's going to be that kind of meeting." She peeked from out of the fridge, "Oh yeah?  Well  you make it, that kind of meeting.", and she punched him in the chest with her little fist. Stan grabbed her and gave her a hug, "Get away from me.", she half joked and went back to preparing the meal, "You know Stan, when you're not on the bench, you are allowed to speak your mind. You vote, you're an American, tell them how you feel."  Stan replied, "I feel like the system we work in is broken, that's how I feel."  Then she set the table and said rather sternly, "Than it's our job to fix it. Now sit down and lets have some dinner."  Stan sat down and Dora tousled his hair. "Thats what I get for getting involved with a girl like you." They both turned and saw Cliff smiling at them, he had a blissful look on his face. It was seldom that he saw his parents playing and to him, it was a beautiful thing. He walked up to Dora and pantomimed that he wanted his hair tousled too. Dora gladly obliged the boy and the family sat down to Dinner. After dinner, Stan walked into Cliffs room and studied the big painting on the wall. He couldn't make sense of the fact that Cliff drew things that seemed to occur in life in a way that was exacting. The painting of the city on fire was crudely executed in terms of style or technique, but the exact details were rather amazing. That night, Stan brought it up to Dora, "How do you think he does it ?" he continued, "How does Cliff create images that seem to correlate with a future reality ?"  Dora was quiet, then she said smartly, "Oh does he ? How interesting, I guess every parent likes to think that their kid has something special to offer the world."  

" How  does  Cliff  create  images  that   seem  to correlate with a future reality ?"

Stan carried on, "Oh come on, you're the one that wanted to send him to some shaman interview." Dora sat straight up, "That's not true, I simply suggested …", Stan interrupted her, "You said that if he had a special talent than maybe we should share it with the world." Dora sat quiet and Stan just looked at her. "So where are you going with this ?", she finally asked and after a minute of silence, he retorted, "I am just wondering why or how something like that occurs ?" Now Dora was frustrated and she raised her voice, "I don't have any idea and half of the people we know or work with would think we were both insane for even pondering the issue. Why don't you ask the President ?" Stan laughed and asked, "What about the other half ?", Dora replied, "What other half ?"  He continued, "You said half the people we know would think we were both insane, what about the other half ?"  She thought about it, "Well, if presented with the facts including images, dates and correlating events, it is possible that a jury would find that the boy was not only funny, sensitive and gentle, like his father, but he was also cute, attractive, daring and adventurous like his mother. And if pressed further, they may even decide that the boy was not just one of the best fancy dancers in the indian nations, as we recently discovered, but that the boy could actually draw the future."  She looked at Stan and gave him a kiss, he kissed her back. After a moment, Dora asked, "So, what exactly do you propose we do about this ?", "Well, we could get all the artwork together and put the dates that he created them, with titles that suggested the locations or subjects and show them publicly, let people see for themselves if anything is there, meanwhile, maybe it would be nice for Cliff to share his work with a larger audience." Dora thought about it and asked,"You mean at like an arts center or a school ?" And Stan said, "No, at a real professional art gallery. We could find one that deals with the spiritual or other worldly aspects of art. I know it sounds weird, but, what if he ended up working to solve cases someday ? What if he could help someone ?"  They looked at one another and a tear ran down Dora's face. Cliff walked into the room, saw his mothers face and tilted his head, his brow furrowed, Dora held her arms open and Cliff flew into them."We love you so much little man." Then Cliff replied in his raspy little tone,"I love you, too".  


Stan and Cliff drove up to the private members only Country Club and gave their names at the gate. Forty years earlier and they would have been excluded because of giving that name. They entered into the lot and Cliff pointed up to a small helicopter that was landing on a private pad across the hillside, 'That's the man we are going to be playing against.", Stan said. Cliff's eye's widened a bit. "Ok, So here the deal", Stan explained, "This is a game where you take a bunch of clubs, sort of like big sticks and you hit a small ball with the stick in an attempt to sink the ball into the hole. Everyone gets a turn and then we go onto the next hole, understand ?" Cliff nodded yes. "Good, now this is your first time, so you are going to be my partner on this understand ?"  Cliff nodded in the affirmative. You are going to push my sticks in a little basket with wheels on it right behind me. Whenever I need a stick, I am going to hold out a certain number of fingers and you are going to count how many, then grab the stick with that number in the basket. Understand ?" Cliff looked worried, but was able to spit out a "Yes". Then Stan added, "I know your going to do fine, we're going to do fine.", and they walked up into the clubhouse. Stan picked out a basket of clubs and walked into the foyer. Cliff watched him shake hands with a group of men who smelled like a forest in a cartoon and after the men drank their glasses empty, the game began. While walking up to the first hole, Stan took Cliff aside and said, "Think about your drawings, maybe something interesting will come to you.", Cliff  peered up at Stan with a puzzled look, the boy was already concerned with having to count fingers and find the right stick and now Stan was asking him to think about his drawings too. Then Stan clarified, "What I mean to say is that, if you get any ideas for drawings about these guys, remind me later.", now Cliff was really confused. 

On the first hole Stan held out his fingers, Cliff counted them and looked for the stick with that number, Stan pointed to the number and after that Cliff was fine. This went on for quite some time. The men discussed the case, the riots, the cops, the public, the jury, the president and the election coming up in the fall. Stan added a few comments here and there. Cliff was so busy counting fingers and finding the proper stick that the afternoon passed quickly. It was hot and several of the men smoked cigars and drank from shiny little metal containers. On the last hole, Stan swung too far and his ball ended up in a pile of trees to the left of the green. He and Cliff climbed up over a sand trap and down into a flat area that sat between a bunch of trees, Cliff looked at Stan whose face was all red and became worried. Stan found the ball, when he reached down to put the T in the ground, he fell to the floor. Cliff ran out on the green, but the other men were talking and didn't look over, he tried to scream, but nothing came out, he ran back over and turned Stan on his back, he slapped his face lightly, but Stan did not move. The boy was beginning to panic, he got frustrated with himself and didn't know what to do. Just then, a piercing beam of light shot down from between the trees and landed on his dad's left hand, Cliff stared at the hand that now sat in a circle of light. When he followed the beam of light upward, a giant bird sat on a branch and it screeched so loudly that Cliff had to cover his ears. He then reached down, grabbed his fathers left hand and bit the tip of his pinky so hard that the man sat up straight and said, "What happened ?" Cliff had tears running down his face, he couldn't express himself. Stan stood up and brushed off his pants, he saw the boy and assured him that everything was o.k., "Take it easy son, I must have fainted." He placed the T, hit the ball and landed it directly on the green. "See that, I told you everything was going to be all right.". Cliff looked up and the bird was gone. 


They walked up to the green and everyone was talking about Stan's save. After the game ended, they thanked Stan and congratulated each other on a great afternoon. The Governor held out his hand to Stan and he suddenly decided to speak his mind. "Governor…", he said, all the other men were now listening, "I came here today because the President asked me to and I hope my presence has been useful. But goddamn it, don't the kids in this state deserve to have teachers that can afford proper housing? And what about the farmers in the central valley, don't they deserve subsidies while the economy flattens as it has ? This case I presided over is not just about justice, it's not just about an abuse of power, it's not just about a bunch of cops who almost beat a man to death. The people reacted to a much larger problem and that problem is poverty, that problem is hunger, that problem is education, that problem is institutionalized racism, that problem is property taxes, that problem is inner city schools, that problem is the cost of living, that problem is public transportation, that problem is unemployment and the minimum wage. Now, I apologize for speaking out of turn here, especially in front of your advisors, but my wife and I have been through hell and high water because of this case and I couldn't sleep at night if I just sat by and said nothing about it. I know we are on the other side of the aisle, but we must get some progress done to create peace in this state and a conviction is only going to be the beginning." The Governor and his men just looked at Stan, everyone was completely quiet, "My god son, we should run you for office.", he joked, and all the men began to laugh out loud. "I think we can use some of that in your speech next week Governor," one of the men said. Stan continued, "You use whatever you like, I am just a simple Judge, but my wife walks among the people and those are her sentiments exactly."  The Governor then remarked, "Oh, yes, you married Dora Wendell didn't you ?  Quite a spitfire that girl…", he continued  "Well, you tell her that the message was delivered and received."  Then the Governor added, "That was quite a stroke."  Stan heard the word 'stroke' echo in his head, he peered right through the man and realized what had occurred. Stan looked back toward the trees one more time, grabbed his son's hand and walked away. He had survived a stroke.


THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written in a 24 Hour Period without Notes Published Consecutively
SEASON TWO / EPISODE SIX / CHAPTER 28  


GIRLS 

Every now and then Chuck would have doubts about his occupation. He had always felt that he was a natural detective, but being a cop on the beat was not his 'specialty'. At times like this, in the middle of a full on riot, he would come home and tell Celia that maybe they should start their own business, "We could buy a bar or start a gym," he knew plenty of guys who would frequent either. But Celia would say, "Honey, you're a police officer and your one of the good cops in this town. Just stick it out and follow through with your commitments." Another day would pass and Chuck and his partner were back in the patrol car. Chuck was always scheming to get his transfer as detective, now that the the riots broke out, the palm tree burnings were a blip on the map. Chuck would have to come up with something much bigger than that, if he was ever to graduate and run with the big boys. His research over the past few years had given him a wide variety of leads, but you needed witnesses to get a conviction and once you had a witness, you had to find a way to keep that person safe from harm and make a case that the detective squad would deem valuable and worthy of prosecution.  

A few weeks back, while Chuck was off duty, he saw a girl in the park, that couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, she was strung out, dressed in heels, looked like she hadn't slept in a week. She was also a very beautiful child, someone that was his daughters age. When he walked up to see if she was o.k., she propositioned him, said she needed some money. He said that he would give her five dollars, if he could simply walk her home. "It's too late for you to be out here alone. Girls get hurt out here, some of them even get raped or killed."  She simply stared at him and said, "Do me a favor." Then she replied, "If I go back there without any money, they will beat my ass silly."  "Where do you live ?" Chuck asked, "Not too far from here," she answered. By the way, you're being watched, "Just thought I should tell you, you see that row of house over there, well they got eyes on this park and people back at my place is in touch with them eyes."  Chuck sat quiet for a minute, "How many girls do they have ?"  "At my place or everywhere ?" she answered. "Everywhere ?", Chuck asked. "Yeah everywhere, they got houses all up and down, probably just under a hundred girls,"  then she added. "Your a square ain't you ?" Chuck shook his head no, "I'm a father of three girls that are home in bed right now." Then she asked him point blank, "And you mean to say you ain't never jumped in one of those beds ?" Chuck was taken aback by the comment, "Of course not, those are my girls." She just looked at him in disbelief. Then he said, "Listen, why don't I go get my car and enough money so that you can go home for the night ?"  "Would fifty dollars do it ?", she just looked at him blankly, "A hundred ?" She then said, "Yeah, that'd do it ?"  Chuck walked back to the house, drove his car to the park and picked up the girl. "What do you want ?", she said. "I want you to get a bite to eat and them I am taking you home." 


He picked up a couple burgers and fries and a malt shake and they sat in the car. Chuck began to slowly grill the girl. "How did you end up at that particular house ?" And the girl began to tell Chuck her life story, which was harrowing and sorted. She'd never had this type of man be so interested and kind and she said so,"At least not without wanting something in return anyway."  Then Chuck said, "But I do I want something in return. I want you to consider going after these people."  She became visibly scared at even the mention of such a thing. "I know some people who have friends that might want to help you, if you ever decided to do something about these people."  She looked at him differently now. Then he added, "Look, it's getting late, I better take you home. Chuck withheld the money until they got to the house, and then he gave her the bills. "I'm going to be watching you, I want you to be careful. You're better than this."  The girl looked at him and then looked away, she got out of the car and walked up into the house. Chuck remembered the house, street and address and headed back home. Since then, he had staked out the place several times. Eventually eyeing an older man and woman, who got into a beat up old station wagon and drove up into a local market. Chuck followed them into the market, bought a six pack, followed them around the store, then got in line directly behind them. That took a while, because they had filled the shopping cart with enough instant food items to feed a girl scout camp. The couple didn't say a word, but at one point, the lady looked up and glanced at Chuck, who simply feigned a smile. She smiled back,  revealing a terrible set of front teeth, that were grey and beige, the kind that Chuck had associated with speed freaks through the years. He wrote down the plates, ran a check on the car and began one of his many detective routines, even though he had to be to work on his usual beat soon enough. 


Sometimes, his desire to become a detective affected his performance as a regular boy in blue and his partners through the years had always noticed whenever he was putting too much time into something else. "Watcha working on Chuck ?" Became a familiar phrase around the station. He figured there would always be a group of underachievers  willing to hassle someone like him, who actually took the job to heart. Chuck took the job home, sometimes even crossing the line, as he had by taping his wife Celia's little brother's phone calls when he had been released from prison and had come to stay with them. That had backfired on him. When Junior found the recording device in Chucks office, he began a series of calls that were fakes and Chuck waisted a lot of time trying to follow false leads. Now that Junior and his Dad were now back on the ranch, Chuck was about to pay a serious price for that misstep. He'd already been reprimanded by the force and was about to catch hell from his wife. Celia had always been a homemaker from the get go.  She had dreamed of finding a good man and having kids most of her life and so, the dream had come true and she was a very contented person. Her daughters were smart, rambunctious, funny, and sometimes downright mischievous, not unlike the way she had been as a child. She kept up the house and the garden, had her hands full with the girls, cooked, did the laundry and through it all seemed to have found the perfect man to share her life. To her, Chuck was hard working, honest and cared about the world. So the day she found the recording device in his office, which she normally did not clean because it was usually locked when Chuck was not home, all hell broke loose. She pressed play and immediately a series of calls between Junior and his girlfriend began to play, "So what are you doing right now ?", "Nothing" "Can you come over ?" "No, I can't, maybe at the end of the week."  "I miss you." "I miss you too."  Celia fast forwarded to the next and the next and the next, she freaked. When Chuck got home that night, Junior and Lewis were gone on a fishing trip and the girls were already asleep. He walked into the kitchen and she said without hesitation or reservation, "I want to know why you had been recording my bother's f*cking conversations."  Chuck just looked at her. "Look, When a guy gets out of prison, theres a chance that he can get involved in stuff that could end him right back in the joint. I did it to simply monitor him, make sure that he's not getting involved with the wrong people. "Oh yeah, well what If I got involved with the wrong people Chuck ?" She looked at him. "What if you got involved with the wrong people ?" He didn't respond. "This is my family, this is my brother, how could you do that ?" he said nothing, Celia continued, "Why, when there is a whole world of evil and ugliness and very bad people would you bring that type of scrutiny into my house ?"  Now he got fired up, "Hey, this is our house. We have daughters. You don't know what kind of things even go in  prison. I don't even tell  you a small percentage of the stuff that I see everyday on the streets because I don't want you to become jaded."  She just shook her head and crossed her arms, "We grew up here Chuck, my family has been through a lot. I lost a lot of friends before I even graduated from high school, did you know that ? So don't try to tell me anything about the goddamn streets. My first boy friend was killed by a kid from another gang simply because he answered the question, "Where are you from ?" to the wrong group of kids, "They blasted him in the back, Chuck. Understand ? You didn't marry some little white girl from Pasadena here. Junior is my only brother. I will not condone any type of surveillance of my family whatsoever: Do You understand ?" He looked at her directly but said nothing. "I will take these girls and go away from here so quick if I ever see or hear anything going on between you and my brother. He just did fifteen years for something that happened when he was a kid. He paid his debt to society. Now go out there and protect the public from harm. And I don't want to sleep with you tonight. I'm staying in the girls room." Chuck was devastated. He had never seen Celia so upset. Well, at least not in a couple of years. On top of that, Chuck had been assigned to handle riot crowd control tomorrow and didn't do very well on the job without the support of Celia, who was his rock of personal security. He sat in the kitchen and cried like a baby. Then he slept on the couch, got up early and was out of there before the girls awoke. 


Chuck and his partner were assigned to Long Beach at Signal hill, the night before, they had lost an entire row of shops to angry protestors and things were heating up. They were getting so much flack from people on the streets that is was more than discouraging, it was denigrating. Four cops had beat the hell out of a guy and got away with it in a court of law and now every cop in the entire city was being blasted with more hatred, more humiliation and down right aggression that many of he cops were feeling defeated. Chuck was among that group. He knew a few real assholes on the squad and thought: Why should I be talking abuse because someone else can't do the job properly. They spent the afternoon showing their presence to not much effect. People still looted and pillaged, even in front of the show of force. At one point, things got so bad that a group of police were forced to simply stand by and watch things burn to the ground. Chuck told his partner, "I am not going to arrest some kid for stealing a pair of shoes that cost five dollars and ninety-nine cents on principle alone. I won't do it,"  and his partnered just looked at him. They got back into the squad car and headed into down town. They got a call to visit activity up on Pine Street. On the way over, Chuck, who was sitting in the passenger side, noticed  the beat up station wagon three car lengths ahead of them, "Wait a minute, drop back, drop back."  His partner asked, "What is it ?" Chuck replied, "This guy in the station wagon, follow him, stay way back, keep a couple cars between us."  "What is it Chuck ? Were supposed to get to Signal hill."  "Trust me on this one."  His partner replied, "I've heard that one before.", "Just follow this guy,will ya ?"  They followed him as he drove down a few streets and up another and parked the car in the drive way of a home. The man grabbed what looked like a twenty-five pound bag of rice, put it on his shoulders and carried it through the back entrance. Chuck wrote down the address and cross street. When the man exited, two girls got into the back seat of the station wagon and they drove toward the bridge. Chuck said to follow them. Now his partner was getting upset. "Chuck, you better know what you are doing here."  "I do, now just follow this guy."  

They drove up and over the bridge, the man headed directly to the house where Chuck had dropped off the girl.  Then Chuck ran the sirens, cranked the lights, and called it in. "We've got a random traffic stop at …" he gave the address. The two girls panicked and ran into the house. Chuck asked for back up and also requested coverage at the address on the house on the other side of the bridge. He pulled out of his gun, asked the man to raise his hand sand exit the vehicle. He told his partner to watch this guy and kicked in the front door, the girls started screaming. The woman sat in the kitchen watching the riots on an old television on the counter, "Put your hands on your head and stand up with your back against the wall."  He saw the back door was wide open and when he looked in the yard, noticed an entire chemistry lab with  metal barrels,  all sorts of giant vats. He kicked in the door to the back structure and discovered two and a half pallets of meth. By then, his back up had arrived and the house was discovered to have eight different bunk beds crammed into three small rooms and a handful of underaged girls scattered throughout the house. When they included the contents of both houses, it became one of the biggest drug busts to date. The girl that Chuck had met in the park was the first to testify and the arrest of the couple led to the biggest ring of child trafficking cases and it busted the city wide open. Because of the Los Angeles riots, an arrest that would have normally made the front pages was relegated to a brief mention. Chuck didn't care, he wasn't looking to be a hero, he was looking to become a detective. When he got home that night, Celia had made a special dinner and all the girls were dressed in their finest. The living room table was set and the seating arrangement had been formal. He walked in the front door and Celia announced, "Girls, I want you to come in here, your father is home."  The girls came running in and kissed and hugged their dad. Chuck looked at Celia, he was still unsure. She grabbed him and said, come here, "I want to see what its like to make love to a detective," and she gave him a kiss that even made the girls react. Chuck had finally made detective.     


THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written Consecutively in a 24 Hour Period without Notes & Published 
SEASON TWO  /  EPISODE 7  /  CHAPTER 29  

BOOKS

The only person who really gave Charles a hard time was his son Mickey's longtime girlfriend, Moon. She saw her boyfriend go from the king of the castle, to the simple son of a man who had been gone, missing in action, for a decade. Charles knew how Moon felt and he liked her for it that much more. He started to joke with her by saying things like, "Don't hold back now," or "Tell me how you really feel," and she did. Which was all the more frustrating for her because he could take whatever she could dish out. Finally, one afternoon, not long after Charles' escapade in the middle of the LA riots, Moon cut the man some slack and they talked heart to heart. On the days that followed the riots, Moon told Mickey, that she wanted to keep the bookstore open all day and all night and have local people, writers and some of the poets do a full days readings of the works of revolutionary poets, writers and works of social justice. She said it might be a good idea to have Charles and some of his biker pals camped out in front of the store to insure security and Mickey thought it was a good idea. "We need to teach people that a true revolution happens with education over time not in three days with fire."  People got up and read Le Miserables, Angela Davis, John Reed, Russell Means, Allen Ginsberg, Sartre, The Bill of Rights, The Constitution, Thomas Paine, Black Elk Speaks, Bob Dylan, Malcolm X, Ken Kesey, Nelson Algren, William Seward Burroughs, Buddha, Amiri Baraka, The Abolishment of Slavery, Poetry of Struggle, Artaud and on and on. While the city was burning itself to the ground and the National Guard was marching in on the Presidents request, The Bookstore was teaming with words and music and a subverted energy that simply said, "We understand your frustration, now lets express ourselves to make real change."  A group of younger readers got up and read songs as if they were poems, including the works of punk rock bands like The Circle Jerks, Suicidal Tendencies, TSOL, Black Flag, Red Kross, The Minutemen, Sex Pistols, The Clash.With lyrics like, "Wild in the streets, running, running, wild in the streets … " they brought a social commentary and an angst and expression that was wholly appropriate. During all this, Moon turned to Charles and said, "Well, what do you think ?"  "About this ?", Charles asked, over the loud readers, crowd and general hum. "I think it's beautiful."  She nodded in agreement. "What made you stay out there so long ?" Moon asked him.  He breathed in a deep slow breath and then breathed out a long slow exhale, looked at her with his eyes beginning to well up, and said, "I am not entirely sure." Then he thought about it and continued. "There was a silence out there that became very necessary to me. Just a silence of the mind that seemed to make time itself pass rather quickly. I once sat in the same spot under a tree in the middle of a crowded intersection for at least a year.  And to me, it seemed like about three or four days. Ya gotta understand, my life had happened at a tumultuous speed. The music, the bikes, the drugs, the times themselves, it was just all to quick and had happened all to fast and then it ended even quicker than it had actually happened. Maybe the thing it Vietnam didn't help. All I know is that, it all had passed so swiftly, I didn't even realize the time."  Moon stared at him. She saw something in him of a small boy. Then asked, "Did you ever think of your family ?" Charles replied, "Yes, All the time. The mind is a strange and interesting place to stay for ten years. I would gaze into the distance and recreate  all my favorite people and just watch an interaction in my mind. But there would be no words, simply a beautiful interaction. Like making love or playing on the beach or walking through the forest and then my skill pattern became so focused that I could literally be in the middle of say a battlefield or a busy intersection or anywhere at all, in any weather condition and totally zone in on things. It got to the point where I could sit and watch the Civil War or the Meeting of the Great Chiefs or the entire concert at Woodstock, wether imagined or based on a real experience. I was out there, really and truly, out there. That doctor at the hospital said that if it had not been for the 'shock' of the accident with that bus driver, I may have just spent the rest of my life in that state of mind. He said it 'woke' me up."  "Would you like to meet him ?", Moon countered. "Who ?" asked Charles.  "Would you like to meet the bus driver ?" she replied. He thought she was joking with him. "He is actually a customer of ours. His rest point on that bus route was just around the corner. We had become friends long before the accident. Mickey rode that bus route into Malibu and even thought he saw you on the beach a week before the accident. He came home thinking that he was seeing things."  Charles added, "Mickey's a hawk, he has  always been a keen observer. As for meeting the bus driver, Yes. Maybe it would do him some good to know that he actually 'woke me up from a ten year slumber'. We should have someone read, 'Rip Van Winkle'.  Then she added, "Charles, I know I've been giving you a hard time…"  

Just then Mickey and a few of his friends came walking in and interrupted, "Dad, I want you to meet a good friend of mine…" Charles got up and excused himself from the conversation with Moon. He didn't like sentimental apologies and knew that she was correct in criticizing his long absence. So he simply pretended not to know where she was going with that one. Moon watched the man and the son and his friends discussing something or other and she began to like the fact that a King had returned and maybe Mickey wasn't giving up his crown so quickly after all. When Moon invited Jordan to meet Charles, she had decided to do it in a covert way. Jordan had given her the home number when Moon had convinced him that he should preorder a special  collection of Maya Angelou Poetry and said, "We will call you when the books arrive."  She was a savvy salesperson and made it extremely easy for people to buy books, either by order or layaway or any way she could. To her the bookstore experience was personal, life was personal and even her business style had become personal. Moon called the house and left a message saying that they had some new books put aside that Jordan would like and could he call the store sometime soon. When he finally got around to it, Moon answered the phone and Jordan said, "Someone called the house about some books I ordered." She replied, "Oh yes, this is Moon from the store in Venice Beach. I put some books aside for you and your lady that I thought would be good for your collection. I hope It's o.k. that we called you."   Jordan said it was fine. In fact he explained that he had been thinking about her boyfriend. "You mean Micky ?", "Yeah" Jordan explained that he wanted to talk to Micky about possibly buying a motorcycle. "Well, thats interesting because were having a party at the new family salon next week. Maybe you and your lady…"  She paused so that Jordan could fill in the blank,  "… Wanda."  He added.  "Yes. Maybe you and Wanda would like to attend ? It's sort of an investors party, but I think it would be a great time for you to talk to Mick." She gave him the details of when and where and they both said goodbye. 


A week or so later, Jordan, Wanda and Jordan's mom, who went by the name of 'Baby' entered the Venice beach hair salon, which was not yet open to the public.  This was an investors party,s o people were invited to consider investments in the new establishment and those who had already invested were present to see the progress and development so far. The salon itself was the brainchild of Mickey's sister Cali and her girlfriend JD or Jezz as Charles had begun to call her.  Jordan had been feeling strange about what had happened out there on the coastline that day. It was bad enough that he had struck a pedestrian, but he had also grabbed a wrapped bundle of bills that had spilt out on the highway, just on reflex and was now wondering if keeping the cash was the right thing to do. The cash had been wrapped in paper that had once been dipped in LSD. It was part of Charles' leftover stash from one of his many post office box drops. So every time the bills were handled, there was always a chance that Jordan would begin to have light hallucinations and this had happened several times since the incident. He decided to bring the entire bundle with him to the salon, not knowing exactly what he would do. Jordan figured that if he ordered a motorcycle from Micky than he would be putting the money back into his hands, so to speak. He had  originally been told by his lawyer who the man was and the background of their family, in the event that something such as a lawsuit were to occur, so there was no surprise when he found out that they owned the bookstore and that luckily, he knew Moon. Jordan believed in these types of occurrences and although he was not one to quote his beliefs system publicly. His friends would have easily said, "It is up to Allah." Jordan had a modern way of looking at his tradition. He felt a man had as much to do with the actions of the world as god himself and there were times when that belief both rewarded and seem to challenge his life. 
The party was already on its way when Jordan's camp arrived. Moon immediately saw them enter and greeted the trio with beverages, found a seat for Wanda and Jordan's mother and led Jordan over to meet Mickey, who was standing with Charles. "Mickey, this is Jordan, you've met at the store once or twice." Then she turned and notice that Jordan was visibly nervous about meeting Charles. Jordan, "She said, "…this is Charles, Mickey's father."  She had already told Charles about Jordan and so he was already well prepared to meet the young man. "So you're the guy who woke me from a ten year slumber." Charles stated rather loudly.  "My doctor said that had I not been struck that day, I may not have even returned to the living. So after discussing  it with Moon, we decided that a meeting was in order."  Jordan didn't know what to say.  "I felt terrible about what happened out there sir."  Charles responded, "Well it wasn't exactly your fault now was it. Not only was the other driver in the wrong, but as I recall, my little shopping cart was out in the street. We would often do that so cars would not veer so close to the edge of the highway. 'We,' meaning,  me and my other roving compadres." Jordan felt a sigh of relief and began to reach into his pocket to give the man his money back. Just then, Cally and Jezz brought the meeting to order and announced that investments in the business would provide a return on the money within eighteen months and a percentage of the profits thereafter at such and such a rate. She had drawn out proposals and charts and projections as well as paper kits for attendees to take home. Investors would also be provided services at half rate for them and their loved ones. Then Mickey stepped up and said that the first person to invest over five thousand dollars in the business would also receive one of his motorcycles for half the price and he would provide a custom paint job to order. Now Jordan saw his way out of this without difficulty. He walked into the restroom, counted what was left of the bundle of hundred dollar bills, roughly about eight thousand dollars. He put the wrapper in his coat pocket and walked back into the salon. Jordan waived to Moon expressing that he wanted to talk to Mickey in private. 


They walked out back away from the crowd. "Hey man, I just want to say how sorry I am about …"  Mickey interrupted him, "My dad would  maybe never have been discovered if it wasn't for you. The hospital would never have called the house. Who knows how long he may have drifted, were grateful to you."  Jordan said, "Well in that case, lets talk business," he pulled out a wad of bills, "I don't want my Lady or my Mother to know about this, so lets keep this in-house. Here is eight thousand dollars for the bike and the salon. I don't want anyone to know about this. Just say its by an anonymous investor. We can start an account for my kid with whatever comes back."  Mickey looked at the money and laughed out loud, "All right."  Jordan felt relieved, he shook Mickey's hand and mentioned that all the details could be settled at another time. Then he said goodbye to Charles and noticed that his Mother and Wanda were talking up a storm with Cally's girlfriend, Jezz. Jordan said he was tired and wanted to go home. Wanda and Baby said they wanted to stay. Then Cally announced that someone had invested a major amount anonymously and that the shop would be open in the next thirty days. Everybody cheered. Mickey held up his beer in Jordan's direction and Jordan took his left fist and held it in the air. They both smiled at one another.  Jordan walked over to Moon and didn't exactly know what to say. Then he remarked, "You don't actually have any books for me at the store do you ?" She laughed, "Of course I do." Jordan looked her over, "But that's not why you invited me here is it ?"  She giggled, "Not exactly."  Then she added, "We all saw what happened to you with the transit authority, losing your job and all of that."  He just looked down. Moon continued, "Jordan, your pretty well known now, maybe it's time you got into a new line of work. How would you like to sell books for a living ?"  Jordan lifted his head up, he thought about the question more deeply and simply said, " BOOKS ?"



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written Consecutively in a 24 Hour Period without Notes & Published 
SEASON TWO  /  EPISODE 8  /  CHAPTER 30  

HEAL

Fred had a community that was very tight. When the word got out that his store was the first to go up in flames the first night of the riots, a panic occurred. Fred's lawyer who happened to be the best in the community set up an emergency meeting. No one knew better than this group of first generation immigrants that the right to bear arms in protection of one's property was the right of the people. Sometimes the immigrants knew more about the constitution and the bill of rights than everyday Americans. When Fred's calls for help were not responded to quick enough to save his property, everybody rallied to save their own property and the community lawyer suggested that they bear arms and stand up for themselves. They had every right to do so and that he was willing to represent their cases after all was said and done. No one on the other side of the law had ever expected this community which was quiet, reserved and even conservative, to come back with as much fire power as they did. In a riot situation such as this one, it starts with protesting, but it develops into something very different, very quickly and when the big dogs came rolling through this district, they came to get what they wanted, which meant whatever was there: Televisions, Radios, Furniture, all the way down to the last item of stock that had any value. This particular riot was a poverty riot. Poor people filtered out of their homes, their apartments, their bungalows and basements hoping to return with something new. 

The consumerism of the 1980s had left its mark on society. The promoting and selling of video cassette recorders and home movie cameras and big screen televisions was in full swing, everyone had been bombarded with commercials that had said, 'Get your new TV Now, Come on down to Circuit City Today !', and like people will do, having been told something twenty-five times a day, in rotation, non stop, they did just that. Once the big electronic chain stores were emptied out, those who got a taste of that free item, had an unquenchable thirst for the victory of receiving another and they wanted more. If it was that easy to take a large store, it should be even easier, to take a Mom and Pop store. But what many of the professional looters found out, was that this Mom and Pop community was a lot damn tougher than anyone expected. Fred's community figured, If they go 'gangster' on us, we'll go 'gangster' on them. On the second day of the riots, wild west shootouts occurred that made cop shows on television look like a joke and old style movie westerns seem tame. It became a challenge to 'take a store' and conversely just as much a challenge to protect it. Whole teams of professional looters took turns against storeowners, testing their veracity and sometimes even their will to survive. A good many of Fred's friends had passed the test, many did not. Protestors on television made statements like, 'We don't need a liquor store on every corner.'  Fred had never even thought that he and Sam were doing anything but being good new American business men. Now, he had to actually rethink his responsibility on a whole other level. When the women in his community found out what happened, they brought food to his home and tried to support him with small everyday gestures and slowly he recovered. For weeks, he sat in his home listening to his daughters albums and reviewing old films and family snapshots of his life. Fred had always been a survivor. He believed that transformation was always possible. He knew that if he didn't reinvent himself quickly, it might never happen at all and he would be branded as a broken man. But that was never Fred's style. He plotted a return. 


Fred had never paid much attention to Josie's music collection until recently. He sat around the house playing The Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, James Taylor and compilation albums with dozens of different artists.The albums said, 'K-Tel presents Top Star Festival Dynamic Hits' including: Donovan, Bread, The Bee Gees, Aretha Franklin, The Guess Who, Elton John, The Osmonds, Rod Stewart, Three Dog Night and More!"  Although he had never seemed to notice, as soon as the music hit his ears, his memories all came back to him. Fred had found a way to connect with his wife and daughter through the music and a sort of healing occurred. When one of his friends wife came by, he opened up his wife's closet and said, "Please take these things, what you don't want, give to your friends." Many of the fashions from back then had returned and so the woman obliged. He did the same with many of Josie's things. But with that, Fred called Ryan's little brother and asked that he and his girl come by his house sometime soon and they eventually did. Fred invited them in and thanked them for their recent concert. He then said that he wanted to show them something and he walked them down the hall and opened Josie's room, it had been preserved as it was the day she passed away. "I would like you to have some of her things," he added, "I understand that these fashions have come back in style." Ryan's girlfriend looked around the room and said, "No. I think you should keep these things, sir." Fred looked at the girl and said, "I just can't do that anymore." He grabbed Josie's guitar and said, "I am giving you this and you cannot refuse it." Ryan's little brother said that he understood and he took the guitar case in his hands.  Fred added, "A silent guitar, a formless gown means nothing to me in this world." He led them back down the hall and into the kitchen and in much the same way that Ryan's little brother had done during their first meeting, Fred opened two cans of beer and a soda and offered his guests a drink. 


They sat in the living room quiet. Ryan's little brother looked in the corner and there, leaning against the wall, was the burnt out picture of Fred and Sam. He grabbed the guitar case, opened it, gave it a quick tuning and began to play an old classic tune he had learned long ago. He played a simple riff and then sang, "Love love love, Love love love, Love love love,"  His girl then joined in, "Theres nothing you can do that can't be done, Theres nothing you can sing that cant be sung,  theres nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game, Its easy." Then they both sang the chorus, "All you need is love, All you need is love, All you need is Love, love, love is all you need." They repeated it again and on the final chorus Fred joined in, The three of them sat there singing, "Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need, Love is all you need..." It became a mantra that helped Fred to heal.    Sam's family had rallied behind Fred ever since his lawyer began to support their son, who had made a dire mistake by attempting to collect on the insurance deed on Fred and Sam's store: by creating a fire. This little event complicated and  slowed down the eventual process of Fred being able to collect on his insurance due to the damage caused during the actual riots. Because Fred's store had been entered into first, this allowed for him to collect a full insurance payment for theft and damages. After all had been said and done, it was strange for both Fred and his dead partner's family that, 'a fire and insurance', would somehow end up settling their differences. It took months of waiting and processing, but eventually, Fred received a check and split the value accordingly with Sam's family. Surprisingly, he and the boy had become friends. Ever since his father Sam has passed away, the boy had drifted into loneliness and despair, which led him to do the kind of things he did to the store. They had named the boy Alex. Fred and Alex spent a few afternoons together, boarding up the front of the store directly after the riots, his mother demanded it. But after a while, the two became close. Fred began to tell Alex stories about his father that made the boy laugh. Things that Sam had done to deflect abuse that happened to just about every immigrant class to enter America. He explained how they had worked in the factories and warehouses and canneries, the back breaking work, the dismal pay, the names they were called and when they were actually offered money by the government to start their own jobs and businesses, they had jumped at the chance. Back then to own a liquor store was a tried and true respectable business, it was a corner market, a convenience store, as they were once called. Now, Fred explained people were saying there were too many liquor stores in that part of town. Fred looked around and eventually had to agree with them. He and the boy went fishing and eventually decided that they would go into business together. Fred had his sights on the next big wave of services to provide. Everybody was talking about yogurt being the next big thing, second to that, water infiltration. Both were good for people and both could be sold to folks from low and middle income families. Fred knew that on his own, he could only afford to open one store, but if he and the boy as well as Sam's wife went in together, they could have a few very small stores throughout the city. Fred said that he was getting too old to run the places himself and that if Alex and his siblings stepped up, they could have their own places to run and eventually have their own stores altogether.  Alex asked the man point blank, "Why would you want to go into business with me ?" Fred stared long and hard at the young man, but said nothing.   Then he simply stated, "Anyone willing to do what you did to get what you wanted has the guts and the tenacity to deal with the challenges that will come our way with this business. People are sometimes hard to deal with. The stores are sometimes vandalized. All kinds of things can happen. Just the fact that you and I have become friends is a sign that we can transform this into something better. Besides that I owe it to Sam, too."  Then Alex said, "I think I would make a good American business man, if you show me how." Fred put his hand out and the two men shook on it.  When everyone in the family found out that Fred and Alex were going into business, it sent a ripple of hope through their community. 

"The Entire  Fiasco  Transformed  Law enforcement in the City of  Los  Angeles  Forever."

They were back in business within eighteen months and now had three stores, two for water and one for fresh yogurt that was served with berries and other fresh fruits, Fred called it Josie's, they played a constant track of hip retro music and designed the place with her favorite colors. Fred enjoyed being around Sam's family, the young adults and their kids became his second family in a way and if anyone had a problem, needed someone to talk to, they went straight to Fred. By now, the second trial prosecuting the police officers who had originally been found innocent had been completed and two of the officers had been found guilty, they did time and lost their jobs on the force. The entire fiasco transformed law enforcement in the city of Los Angeles forever. For the opening of 'Josies', Fred called Ryan's little brother to play live music. Since that original meeting, the band had been signed by a record label and had actually gotten lucky with a hit single that played on alternative pop stations. So their appearance at Josies became an event. The band's label had demanded that Fred hire extra security for the opening night concert which was to happen in the parking lot of his new business. He couldn't really understand why, but when he drove up to the store at nine a.m., a group of about a hundred kids had already lined up. By the time, the band showed up, the entire street was flooded with young music fans. Apparently, Ryan's little brother and his girlfriend had become a total out and out hit. They now had a full band that was part reggae, part punk and a touch of soul. "Hey everybody, welcome to the grand opening of Josie's. This city has been through a lot of tough times, but no matter what, we are a city and we need each other. We don't play cover tunes anymore, as you all probably know by now, we play originals. But for the sake of remembering a beautiful person who couldn't be here with us today, we would like to sing one of her favorite songs, her name is Josie and that song goes like this … "   



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written Consecutively in a 24 Hour Period without Notes & Published 
SEASON TWO  /  EPISODE 9  /  CHAPTER  31 

SPEECH

Dora had her hands full with a slate of cases that she was overseeing, not as a lawyer in the courtroom, but as the head person at the table behind the scenes. She had originally consulted with Jordan regarding his case with the bus accident and the beachcomber. Since that time, he had been caught on camera retrieving a bass guitar from a pawn shop, during the first few hours of the riots. He had owned the guitar and feared it was going to be looted, so he secured the object. Unfortunately, he was on duty, in uniform and the footage was played on national television news outlets. He had already made a public statement in his defense and Dora found a local lawyer who said he would take the case on principle. 


When Jordan visited Dora's office Cliff was playing in the back room and Dora was with another client. Jordan had become curious about kids ever since he was told by Wanda that one of his was on the way. He watched Cliff for a while, who was pushing a small motorcycle through a traffic zone he had created with a bunch of toy pieces. "Just before you get to the railroad tracks," Cliff said out loud, "…be careful, because this particular light is not working properly. See this guy in this truck here…"  Cliff grabbed a toy truck, "…he doesnt know that this is a stop."  Jordan thought Cliff was funny, he had the voice of an old man. Then Cliff continued, "When you see this guy here…"  he grabbed a plastic figurine of a man in a suit and hat, "…then you should go this way." And he took the motorcycle and made it turn left, instead of going over the track.  Jordan sat watching Cliff play, then Jordan noticed the drawings on the walls, lots of the same animals that he had actually fixated on: a Spider, a Turtle, a Hummingbird, a Deer. Cliff walked up to Jordan, "Do you like the animals ?"  Jordan answered, "Yes."  Then Cliff said, "Do You like Richard Pryor ?" and Jordan was taken aback. He answered, "Yes."  Would you like to hear his concert live from Washington DC ? And Jordan assumed that Cliff meant a recording, "I would, but I'm here to see your Momma."  Cliff said she was going to be busy for at least another ten minutes. So Jordan said, 'OK' to the Richard Pryor recording. Instead he watched as Cliff grabbed his Mr Microphone radio attached frequency toy and began doing the entire concert routine, verbatim, word for word, including intonations and audience reactions. It was an amazing performance, Cliff had Jordan in stitches.  



 " Cliff just stayed in character and answered her into the microphone as if she was in the audience of the concert,  all the while doing his best impersonation of Pryor ." 



He did not edit the routine, because he did not know, nor did he care that certain words were attached to certain meanings. So, exactly as Richard Pryor had done, Cliff utilized more cuss & n-words than Jordan had heard since his own childhood. When Dora and her client were wrapping up, Cliff was just getting to the part where a girl in the audience says to Richard, "What happened to the hair on your chest ?" and he says in return, "I never had any hair on my chest," then he asks her, "What happened to your face ?" and the audience roared, Cliff made the sounds of the audience with the microphone. Jordan was loving it, he hadn't laughed like that for at least a year. Dora saw what Cliff was up to and said, "O.K. thats enough Richard."  Cliff just stayed in character and answered her into the microphone as if she was in the audience of the concert, all the while doing his best impersonation of Pryor. "Oh, so we been waitin' for twenty minutes and now the white lady show up and is ready to get down and do her thing. This ain't about you baby, this is live from DC ! Got that sister, this is some real shit here, now if you would be so kind as to let the brother here finish this here concert, me and my man Jordan here, will be with you in just a few minutes." Then Cliff went right back into the routine. Dora walked the client to the front door and out into the parking lot. She looked back at Cliff with a look of impending danger. He was so caught up in Jordan's appreciation of the routine, that he didn't really give a damn. "Ya, see, we got a whole lotta brothers up here in DC, now most of the cats can't even vote, but imagine if they could ?"  


Dora walked in and turned off the Mr Microphone stereo, and Cliff just snapped out of it. "Sorry mom," he said quietly.  Jordan's eyes were watering and he couldn't stop laughing, it was the funniest thing he had seen, maybe ever. He couldn't stop laughing and the more he tried to stop, the more it would start back up all over again. Cliff had never had an audience that appreciated his performance and understood it so well. It made him just slightly aware that he actually had a skill. Dora stood there while Cliff sat quietly and Jordan attempted to regain his composure. Then Dora said, "I will be in my office as soon as you two brothers finish up." She walked back into her office.  Jordan stood up and said, "I know some dudes in the park that would really dig to hear that concert live."  Cliff, looked up and said, "Really ?" Jordan nodded yes and wiped the tears of laughter from his face. "You got some real chops there, son." Cliff had never received any admiration in that way. "Thank You. I really like that album alot. But, they wont let me listen to it anymore, so I had to memorize it."  Jordan replied, "Yeah, well you definitely did that."  Then Jordan added, "You know, some of them words is not really for kids." Cliff looked at his feet, "Yeah thats what my Mom and Dad said."  Then he added, "But don't get me wrong, with the right audience, that would fly."  "Thank you,sir,"  Cliff held out his hand and Jordan shook it and then taught him the latest cool cat handshake. "You're a special little dude."  Then Cliff said, "Maybe me and my dad can visit you and those dudes in the park sometime."  Jordan walked into Dora's office, turned back and said, "Anytime you want." Cliff stood there looking into the distance behind Jordan and cracked a tiny smile. Dora got up from behind her desk, walked out to check on Cliff, gave him another stern, knowing look and then shut the door and her and Jordan began to discuss his case.  


That night when Dora and Cliff walked in, Stan was laying on the couch watching the ever present commentary after the riots. Fifty some people actually died and the city was in shambles. The Governor was scheduled to make his public speech. Dora noticed a pile of presciption bottles on the counter. "Whats all this," she asked ?  "Well, do you remember that day  Cliff and I went golfing ?"  Dora's voice became animated and cat-like, "Do I remember ? Why, it was a shining moment in you career, as far as I am concerned." Dora exclaimed and she jumped on him. Stan added casually, "Well it turns out that my golf catty here saved my life out in the bush. Turns out I had a minor stroke while planning my attack against the opposition. Little man here turned me over and instead of applying mouth to mouth, he used a new scientific technique and bit the tip of my pinky so hard that it brought me back to earth.  Dora  thought Stan was playing, looked at Cliff and said, "Did you hear that sweetie, you saved your dad's life." Cliff got worried and began to cry, he held tight to both his parents. And than blurted out, "But why do we have to die ?" Dora and Stan had never heard Cliff ask anything like that before. Dora looked at Stan, realizing that he was not kidding, she walked over to the counter and looked over the prescriptions. Stan tried to console Cliff, "Well, maybe it's a way of making people appreciate one another."  Then Cliff responded, "But I already, I already…" he was having trouble with pronouncing the word. In the past, either Stan or Dora would have said it for him, but this time, they knew he had to say it for himself. "…I already Ahhh-Preeesh-eeee-ate-you."   "I appreciate you too, little man."  Cliff stood next to his father, Dora came over and they laid next to one another. Cliff snuggled in between them. 


" Stan just laughed, and said,   'Welcome  to  politics  son.'   Cliff was dumbfounded, he  
  knew  that  those  were  his  dad's  words. " 


Then the Governor and his cronies showed up on the telecast. Cliff's eyes perked up, he walked over to the television and turned it up. This was the official statement to the public. Then the governor began to speak. "I want everyone to know that I have spoken directly with the President and he has assured me there there will be a retrial, there we be justice and there will be peace. But let us all remember," and heres the part that shocked Cliff, Stan and Dora,  "…that this is not just about an abuse of power, it's not just about a bunch of cops who almost beat a man to death. The people reacted to a much larger problem and that problem is poverty, that problem is hunger, that problem is education, that problem is institutionalized racism, that problem is property taxes, that problem is inner city schools, that problem is the cost of living, that problem is public transportation, that problem is unemployment and the minimum wage. And I want to say that we in government are doing everything we can to alleviate those problems. We are currently working on an eight point plan to solve these issues, but we cannot do it without your help,"  "That son of a bitch," Dora shouted.  Stan just laughed, and said, "Welcome to politics son."  Cliff was dumbfounded, he knew that those were his dad's words. Cliff had watched Stan tell the man on television exactly what was now being espoused to the public that day on the golf course. The boy got up, turned off the television. He grabbed a tall glass that had been sitting on the table and said, "My name is Richard Pryor and I just want to know what made all you crazy motherf*ckers come out to see this concert in the goddamn snow ? Ain't ya got no where else to f*cking go ? Goddamn ! I have never seen so many crazy ass people in one room together in all my motherf*cking life and you paid to get up in this shit ! You DC brothers and sisters is some tough some bitches I will tell you that."  




THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written Consecutively in a 24 Hour Period without Notes & Published 

SEASON TWO / EPISODE TEN / CHAPTER 32  
BLOOD

Junior and Louis had done the impossible and yet, for Junior, it was only the beginning. He still had to follow through with his assignments. The first was to visit an upholsterer just outside of Mexico City. That was going to take a day, then he had to get back up to the border, which was another 30 hour drive. He talked Louis into staying on at the ranch. The adobe abode to the East was made available and Louis could live comfortably there for the time being. There was no reason for him to return to work as a busboy at this time, he had been given a new bank account and was now just soothing into the idea that he was now a Don. This was his Ranch and he was now an active partner as opposed just the guy renting the place to someone else. Because of the fact that Rafael and his family had started their business entity with Louis' original stock of animals, trees and machinery, it gave him an actual interest in the advancement of that stock in a financial way as mentioned in his original rudimentary contract. Now, the new contract included a salary, a percentage breakdown of stock at various levels and allowed for Louis to stay on the property as long as he desired. Junior had done well by his father and when he called the members of his circuit, they told him that the reward he had been promised had now been delivered and he would have to work hard to retain that reward. He agreed to do so and they gave him the exact address and location of the upholsterer outside of Mexico City. He was told to order the new seated upholstery in red leather with white piping and to be sure that he was there at the opening hour. 

Then Junior was to drive back up to the border and enter back into the United States at five in the afternoon, two days after the upholstery had been completed. Which meant he would be driving fifteen hours a day. Junior was told that an event was going to happen at the border. His job was to delay the officials from apprehending a group of individuals who will be crossing into America at the same time. Which could mean any number of actions depending on the day's circumstances: keep the attention of other guards, distract through some form of activity, obstruct the pathway of anyone in pursuit and if all else fails, if you see an action happening elsewhere, to make a scene for no reason at all. Junior said he understood. Junior got into his car and headed for Mexico City. Junior was parked out in front of the upholsterers when they opened up. He began describing what he was looking for: red leather with white piping. The man looked at him kind of funny and repeated very slowly,"Rojo and Blanco" ? Junior shook his head yes, "Front and back. Right away."  The man ran to the back of the store, he got on the telephone, made a quick call and grabbed his tools to begin removing the seats from Juniors car. While Junior sat in the front of the store a man dressed as an old style monk entered the store carrying a small leather bound object wrapped in a roll. The two men talked and then the man sat next to Junior. He spoke in a broken english, "So you are getting your seats improved ?" "Yes," Junior replied. "Have you seen our church yet ?" "No, I just got into town." The man continued, "It is going to take most of the day, why don't I show you around and give you a tour ?"  Junior sussed up the guy, "I would like to see the church. Are you a Father," he asked the man ?  "No, I am more like a brother, you might say."  He continued, "This is the best leather craftsman in all of Mexico City, How did you come about utilizing his services ?"  Junior was hesitant, "My father owns a ranch near Centro, we heard that this was the best place to get saddles long ago."  "And so you choose red leather with white piping. How did you come to make that choice ?"  Now Junior was unsure of this guy,  "Well, I have always liked that particular combination. You know, the purity of white and the passion of red."  Now the man became animated and asked if he would like to see the church now.  Junior agreed and the two men walked a few blocks and entered through the side. "You know that long before the churches were built, before the spaniards came, the Indians used this exact same location for their ceremonies. Prayer, music, healing, deep thought, meditation, marriage, community, ecology all stem from the original Indians."  Now Junior was getting interested, he had been thinking much about his experience with the Indian from his childhood and he spoke up quickly, "As a very young boy, I experienced many things with a local Indian, he gave me lessons, including bear medicine," he added the word, "brother."  The man from the church continued, "There is a new movement that is happening here in Mexico and around the world. Indigenous peoples are rediscovering their history and making a direct link with the pre conquistador experience. It is not a rebellion, it is an awakening, an awareness of our power. Many people both within the church and without have come to a major realization that the individual is the power. Yes, we are a group of people. But each person must find their own personal power, as Jesus found his…"  and he pointed up at the crucifixion. "But what kind of power is that, to die in such a way ?" He looked at Junior, placed his hand on his shoulder and said, "Every man and every woman and every animal and even the plant life, must die, but what did you do with life ? What did you do with death ?  To inspire so many millions of people, was that not a death worth dying ?"  Junior looked at the man as he went on, "The Indians have made peace with the church and with themselves, but we are not fools, we are not puppets, we are not living in fear of crucifixion as we once did.  When men in boats rode horses into our villages and exposed us to the image of a man tied to a cross. Can you imagine how that image was originally interpreted ?"  Junior thought about it. Then the man continued, "That image scared the original Indians, it was an illustrated threat that said: This is what we will do to you, if you do not cooperate."  


Junior had misjudged the man, he was actually a radical.  "Where do you live ?", the man asked.  "In America", Junior replied.  "Where in America ?" the man asked.   Junior then answered, "I live in Los Angeles."  The man said out loud, "The City of ANGELS" and pointed to all the paintings on the walls. "Have you been to Broadway ?" he asked. Junior thought he meant Broadway in New York, "You mean the street ?", he asked. "Yes, that street is actually called, 'Eternidad', it was a Mexican Street in a Mexican City and State and Country, long before Pico and Sepulveda pushed the Indians off their property, so they could gain some for themselves. You recognize those names too, eh ?"  Junior replied "Yes, brother." The man continued, "Long ago, a man came to this church and he brought a box of sacred objects from Europe, from Italy and from the Middle East. It is said that he had travelled the world to protect the ancient objects and relics and so, many were replicated, so that the actual original objects could stay in the hands of the people, instead of the many institutions and when I use the word, 'institution', I am actually referring to the very place that you and I are standing. The people of this planet feel that they own the right to their great teachers and Gods: Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Sellasie, Muhammad, Yahweh, the great one, all mighty god and to some, to the Indians, the very earth itself. You are now apart of something. This is bigger than you and me and this church and anything you could have ever imagined."  Junior didn't say a word. The two men walked up the stairs to the top of the bell tower and looked over the city. "Imagine all this before conquistadors. Villages, teepees, ancient astrology,  sciences, medicines, sports, agriculture, time systems: we are a noble people. You are a man with a very important mission." Then the old man halted his speech, turned to Junior and said, "Now, lets get something to eat, I'm starving."  And the two men walked back down the steps. Junior began to like this guy. He had spent the entire day with the old man and his imagination was now swirling with ideas. He didn't know why, but he was feeling very much alive. When the man walked him back to the upholsterer, the work had been completed. Junior was amazed, how could one man do all that in eight hours? When he walked into the back room, he saw a team of men sitting around a small table playing cards and laughing up a storm."I have come to pay for the work." Junior announced in spanish, the owner told him the cost again and Junior paid the man. "Well, Brother…," he told his tour guide, "It has been a fascinating afternoon and I appreciate your company."  The man was visibly touched by Junior's leaving, "You have a long journey ahead of you. So I want you to be very careful. As you had recognized long ago, this place here makes the best saddles in all of Mexico City, but only a great man can handle great power. Remember, the conquistadors wielded their power over us with horses, but now, we have learned to ride. Handle your power well young man. Complete what you have bargained to do and be very careful as you enter back into America. You would not have been be the one chosen for this task had you not already been tested. Any man who lives in the dark for so many years is sure to recognize the light. If blood is spilt, be sure it is not yours, but if it be yours, do not fear for god is on your side." The old man had gotten so worked up that tears began to stream down his face and as Junior drove off, he began to wonder what the f*ck this was all about. As he looked in the rearview mirror, the group of men had come out from the back room and a small argument broke out between the men. It appeared that his tour guide was being chastised by the upholsterer, but he couldn't be sure. He had a job to do, so he got back on the road and headed north. He was just a day or so away from completing his mission. 


All along the highway that first night, he noticed people along the sides of the roads with candles and alters. Whenever he passed a church, groups of people knelt on the side of the road, whenever he passed a rural area, several people held candles again and again. Junior thought that there must be some form of holy day happening, but he could not think of what it might be. He drove for twelve hours straight and at sun up, pulled to the side of the road and rested. He found a small cafe and got breakfast, the husband and wife smiled as if they knew him, while he ate, their daughter played on the ground in a corner. He noticed the picture of the saints on the wall and was reminded of what the brother had been saying back there. Again, Junior asked himself, "What was this really all about ?"  He finished his meal, exited the cafe, and turned the corner to find his entire car was covered with ravens. "What the hell ?", he found an old broom alongside the cafe and shooed the birds away, but they just landed back on the car until he started it up and drove away. He drove another twelve hours. Now he was six hours away from the border and needed to get some rest, a wash, a shave and prepare for whatever was about to happen. He pulled to the side of a small riverbed and washed his face, he rinsed his shirt in the river and hung it to dry on a tree. Junior sat under the tree and fell asleep, when he awoke it was night. He looked at the car and the entire cab was lit up, "Did he leave the door open ?", he was wondering as he walked up to the car. He noticed that the windows were wide open and that the entire cab had filled with fireflies. It was a startling and beautiful sight. He looked in at the new red upholstery and again began to wonder what was really going on here. He walked back to the tree, grabbed his shirt, then back to the car again and all the fireflies had gone. 


 "He was so nervous about the coming event at the border  and making sure that he was there at the exact time and   place,  that  this  was  just  a  way  to  bide  his  time." 


He got into the car and drove into Tijuana. Junior was  half a day ahead of schedule, it was now Sunday. He hadn't seen a bullfight since he was a teenager and decided to attend. Plaza del Toros was a giant arena, the size of Dodger Stadium. It was beautiful cylinder shaped structure that sat just a mile or so from the coast and could be seen by those driving both south and north. Bullfighting was not just for the tourists, nor was it just for the wealthy. Not unlike other sports, a seat up front went for more than a seat in the bleachers, but when Junior was a kid, he noticed that to watch the bullfight from above, gave it a sense of ceremony and even majesty that a seat up front could not provide. He was so nervous about the coming event at the border and making sure that he was there at the exact time and place, that this was just a way to bide his time. He had always loved the pageantry of the event and found it a hypocrisy when people who ate red meat, wore leather belts and shoes and in general approved of the killing of bulls for food and fashion, but not in an ancient ritual. Most of the people who claimed to dislike the sport had never attended and had no idea that if the bull actually gored the toreador and won, then he was saved and set free to roam the ranches at will. Junior had never actually seen a bull win, but that possibility was always imminent throughout the ritual. 

"Everybody  laughed.  They  shook  
    hands and now the girl with the  
     deep black eyes was trying to get 
      both of their attention. It looked to 
         be quite an interesting bullfight."

He parked the car up front and noticed, for the first time in his life, the wealthy people of his fathers homeland. A group of men and women entered in their Sunday best, it was an entire family. The daughter was a healthy girl with a beautiful face that was both adorable and despicable at the same time. She was extremely attractive, the kind of woman that a man like Junior had never been close to, but had always been curious about. She wore a dark dress, her eyes flashed deep black that matched her hair which was braided in a way that looked like a work of art. Her skin was light coffee and she was obviously a woman, not a girl. Her eyes and lips were painted tastefully and Junior fixated on the girl. Then he saw that she was trying to get the attention of a young man among her friends, when the young man turned around, Junior saw the man next to him was Rafael, the younger man must have been his son Rafi and this was most likely the family that had invested in Junior's father's ranch. Junior saw Rafael and tried to avoid him, but Rafael had already caught his eye and excitedly, waved him over. "Junior," he shouted, and Junior waved and walked over to meet everyone in the group. "Everybody, I would like you to meet the son of Don Louis, the American businessman who owns the property and is now a partner in our family business," he said in spanish. Louis Junior shook hands with the men, said hello to the girls and the older women and when introduced to the Lady he had fixated on, he grabbed her hand, bowed, held it to his lips and handed it back to her. This was a very antiquated and dignified tradition he had seen in the movies when he was a boy and it caught the attention of the older folks. The women giggled and the men smiled. Then it came time for Junior to meet Rafael's son, "So, you're the crazy American Indian I've been hearing so much about from my father." He said in pitch perfect english. Junior laughed and to match him, tried his best to respond in proper spanish, "And you are the brilliant young scientist who went to University in Mexico City." Everybody laughed. They shook hands and now the girl with the deep black eyes was trying to get both of their attention. It looked to be quite an interesting bullfight. 



THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS
New Fiction By BUREAU Editor Joshua TRILIEGI
Each Chapter is Written Consecutively in a 24 Hour Period without Notes & Published 
SEASON TWO / EPISODE 11 / CHAPTER  33 

RING

Maggie and Charles originally met in a coffeehouse in Greenwich Village exactly thirty years ago: the spring of Nineteen Sixty-Two. Their kids got together and decided that since Charles' return, a party was in order. Moon had invited their friends, Cally dressed up the house, Mickey rented a keg and asked some local musicians to stop by throughout the day. Charles and Maggie had been spending their nights together and rediscovering the things they both had originally admired about one another. Apparently, Charles, although out of commission for a decade, still had that magic touch. Maggie's demeanor had changed and everyone noticed it. She became, quiet, reflective and available. Jezz remarked to Maggie, "You're so mellow lately". Maggie replied, in hush tones, as if a secret were being told, "I think I'm in love again, after all these years. Can you believe that ?" Charles was out in the backyard with Mickey and the two ladies watched them through the window. "Yes, I can see why."  Mickey had been preparing the motorcycle for Jordan, who had chosen an upright model that carried two comfortably with a front shield and a major audio component. He painted it black with gold pinstripes. Cally and Jezz had opened the hair salon successfully. The business was brisk and constant. They had recently decided to add nails and pedicure services as soon as possible. Then it could be a one stop shop. One day, a guy walked in and asked for a trim. Jezz,  who usually sat at the reception, looked over at Cally, who looked at the man and said, "We can take care of you in fifteen minutes, would you be a dear and run next door for a cup of tea, Jezz will give you the money and get yourself one too." The man was surprised, "Oh, sure, thank you."  Jezz gave the man a bill from the register drawer, looked over at Cally, who simply kept cutting hair and suddenly, they doubled their customers by fifty percent. After all, this was a business, not a private club. Jezz looked at the cash, closed the drawer and they both had to giggle. 

Charles and Mickey had recently bonded over an incident that had everything to do with the money that Jordan had given him for the motorcycle. The bundle of cash was originally wrapped in a very strong and archival sheet of LSD that Charles had been carrying for too many years to remember. When Jordans bus hit Charles on the coastline, Jordan had picked the bundle up and since then had found a way to return it by investing in the salon. Apparently, the bundle had been rained on and soaked through each and every bill, especially the edges, so that if perspiration or any form of humidity occurred, it actually activated LSD and could effect the person handling the currency. Mickey who was responsible for serving everyone refreshments the night Jordan handed him the money, had activated the paper bills and when he got home that night, began a twelve hour journey into the mind. Charles had stayed up all night with him, guiding him through. He had done this plenty of times and was the perfect guide to do so. Since then, Mickey and Charles had finally broken the ice and most of the barriers that existed because of Charles' ten year absence. Mickey assumed that one of his friends had slipped him something as a gag and had no idea that every time he gave somebody a piece of that original currency, there was a very good chance that they were about to, 'Trip the light fantastic'.  All a person had to do was touch the dollar bill, then rub their eyes, or any area that might be susceptible and they would be tripping. Mickey did business with a lot of people. Some of them were total squares who were most likely, about to become: well rounded.  Jordan could see that his mother was not here to visit, but to stay. He didn't exactly know how that was going to work out and one day he returned home to find a letter from his father. It was from Lompoc prison with a number printed in the upper left corner, instead of a name. The letter explained that Little Mac had been seeing the recent events on television and in the papers and he wanted  Jordan to know that he was proud of him. Jordan, put the envelope in his coat pocket and just wasn't really ready to deal with these feelings that had gone unchecked all these years. He was generally pretty dissatisfied with many of the things that had played out in his life as a child, he had not looked back and didn't wan't to start now. Here he was starting a family of his own, doing it right, and now, his parents showed up. Half the time, he felt like the parent during those early years. They were beautiful, but they had let emotion override common sense and it hurt them as a family, it hurt him and, ultimately, it hurt the common goals that they fought so hard to achieve. He didn't say anything for a while and then at breakfast one day, he mentioned casually, "I got a letter from Mac." Wanda and his mother, who went by the name of 'Baby' stared at Jordan. "Well, what did he say," Wanda exclaimed ?   Jordan just shook his head, ran his fork through the eggs on the plate in front of him and mumbled, "Not much, the letter is in my coat pocket." Baby got up and pulled out the letter as well as a piece of paper that was crumpled underneath it. She pulled out both items and brought them to the table. Jordan looked and saw that the other piece of paper was the brown wrapping paper with the funny designs all over it. It was the original wrapping paper that had covered the money bundle that he took the night he ran into Charles on the coastline. It had a funny little design all over it in faded multi colored blocks that looked like little stamps with perforations in a grid. He had never really paid much attention to the pattern, but here in plain view, it was full of animated details. Baby read the letter aloud and she cried. Mac was a good man and although they had not been close lately, she hated to be reminded that he was still paying a big price for who he was. 
Baby had never met a man like Mac and knew he was an original and had given her a boy like Jordan who was now providing her with a new life and a grandkid.  Then she wiped her eyes and looked down at the other, crumpled sheet of paper. She opened it up and recognized what it actually was : a sheet of vintage LSD.  "What the f*ck are you doing with this," she screamed. Jordan jumped in his seat as if he were six years old. "What," he looked at her blankly ?   "Do you know what this is,"  she asked him ?  Jordan shook his head, meaning no. This here is enough L-S-'f*cking'-D to turn on Jimi Hendrix for an entire tour. "Have you ever heard the song, "Are you Experienced ? Well, this is exactly what he is talking."  Jordan just stared at her, Wanda was quiet this whole time, but now she joined in,  "Well, lets have it boy. Whats the story ?"  Now he had two angry mothers at the table and there was no way out, he had to come clean. Jordan started in and described everything that had happened from beginning to end. Then he explained that the night they visited the salon in Venice Beach he had returned the money as an investment in the new business and was setting up an account for their child with the profits. 


"Jordan sat up, excused himself from the table, he walked over to the stereo, pulled out an album, dropped the needle and the sounds of John Coltrane reverberated through the household: A Love Supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme  …"


He didn't mention the part where he was also given a motorcycle just yet. Both of the women sat silently and stared at Jordan. He didn't know if it was admiration or anger. Then he looked at the crumpled paper and said, "Well that explains a lot of things."  Baby busted out laughing and Wanda couldn't help but join her. "You mean to tell me that you're not just a revolutionary, but your also experienced," she asked matter of fact ?   "Yes, Momma," Jordan admitted. Then she cackled, "Now I know for sure you is Mac's boy."  Wanda looked at Jordan, Jordan looked at Baby, Baby looked at both of them and simply said, "You kids will never really know what life was like back then, and I don't wanna hear another word about it." She got up from the table but couldn't stop shaking her head and smacking her lips in amazement at the boy's story, the house was quiet. Jordan sat up, excused himself from the table, he walked over to the stereo, pulled out an album, dropped the needle and the sounds of John Coltrane reverberated through the household: A Love Supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme  …    Later that evening Jordan explained that one of the perks to his investment in the salon was half price at the salon and a new custom hand built motorcycle. He then suggested that they drive over to Venice Beach tomorrow, he would pick up the bike, while the two ladies had their hair done and had a second look at their new investment. The ladies agreed. He had created a future and Wanda was seeing this thing in a whole new light. 
Jordan dropped the ladies off at the salon, gave them the keys to the car and walked over to Mickey's shop. He was still not entirely aware of his own notoriety, but, because of the incident on television, people knew who he was. Mickey was happy to see him and said the bike was ready.  Jordan was impressed, "It's beautiful man." Mickey smiled, "Yeah it is." He handed him the keys. Jordan started the motor, cranked his wrist an eighth of an inch and felt the power of the road underneath his feet. He headed straight towards Lompoc prison. While Wanda was getting her hair done by Cally, Jezz and Baby were talking up a storm, then Jezz looked down and saw Baby's toes. They were perfectly groomed and painted flawlessly with little designs and flourishes that Jezz had never seen before. "Who did your nails," she asked and Baby answered, "Oh I did, been doing nails for me and a family of girls since I was twelve. Done Wanda's too."   Cally heard the girls talking and noticed that Wanda's toes had been perfectly designed with a triple french tip in three tones of light pink. They were gorgeous. Cally said out loud, "You did that ?" Jezz and Cally looked at one another, they looked over at Baby and both agreed quietly. "Why, what is it," Baby asked ?  Jezz replied, "You see that section over there ? How would you like to run our new nail department ?" They described the hours and the pay as well as the tips and Baby said that if Wanda and Jordan didn't mind her staying on, until she could get a place of her own, that she would be glad to have the opportunity. Wanda chimed in, "Baby, you know you have always got a place with us." The woman had been through so much agony and struggle and degradation in her long journey, that it hit her all at once: she had actually landed safely. She was beautiful, she had a son, she had a home and now she actually had something to offer. Her eyes welled up, then she asked what time did they open tomorrow ? "Fine, I will be here." 

Stan had taken Cliff's drawings around to a few of the art galleries and finally found one. They thought it would make an interesting exhibition as well as a great promotional back story that leaned in favor of the idea that everyday people, as well as professionals, had the ability to envision a future happenstance. The art gallery owner was also a clairvoyant. They sold books and the accessories that go with the territory: sage, essential oils, crystals, ceremonial items from around the world. But first and foremost, it was an art gallery with a large exhibiting space that Stan could definitely envision as a first show for Cliffs current works which included the giant centerpiece drawing which depicted the riots and had been drawn long before, as well as a series of works that were connected to cases involving people that Cliff had predicted, through pictorial reference, some particular outcome. When Stan brought the works, he also brought images and articles of the actual people. One of them was a portrait of Junior, so Stan then brought a picture of Junior. He explained that the works involving public cases would not come with a reference, as that would be encroaching on the privacy of those people, but for the sake of convincing the gallery owner, he brought the source proof.  Other images were more date related, the day he had executed the work was juxtaposed with the event later occurring. And still others where Cliff  had drawn an animal and later that animal had shown up in Cliffs life in some way. Stan had explained the incident with the hummingbird, the dear and a family of foxes, wherein the drawing had appeared first and the occurrence not long after. It was an impressive story and what appeared to be an interesting body of work. 

Once Stan had seen the art work out of the house and the images laid on the floor of the gallery with clean white walls, he saw something totally different. Cliffs artwork had a raw, expressionistic, emotional style. He had a keen eye for detail with a great sense of rhythm and an overall composition that was interesting to look at both up close and from a distance. Something that couldn't be said of many of the professional artists working in the contemporary field of Modern Art. The gallery owner likened the work to Max Ernst and the German expressionists, even William DeKooning. Recently an artist from out of state had cancelled a show that was slated for next month, so the gallery owner suggested they move to frame the small and medium works and the large centerpiece would be attached directly to the wall utilizing museum style specimen attachments as they do with butterflies and the like. The main work had over a hundred small pieces of paper that equaled one giant overview of the city from above with all of the freeways, neighborhoods, the beaches, the mountains and the deserts of Southern California. " Strangely enough, this is the exact combination I prefer to display,"  the man explained, "You want one very large impressive work that only a major collector can afford, than a few mediums for the mid - range or blue chip crowd and then some small works for the everyday buyer." Stan was pleased with the gallery and they set the dates and signed a simple contract that was a fifty - fifty split. The works would stay up for six weeks and then the gallery owner had a year exclusive regarding any new works or commissions that might come the artists way through whatever promotion had been generated in the way of advertising and editorial attention. "Were also going to need a one page bio and some quotes from the artist," 


Stan didn't know how that was going to work out, but he figured to cross that road when he got there. He wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, so went he got home that night he didn't say a word. It didn't feel exactly right because there were no secrets in their home. But this was special and Stan felt that driving up to a room full of people with Dora and Cliff would simply be the best way to celebrate. He also felt that it was his turn to deliver something special to the boy and this was his way of doing it. Although the gallery owner didn't say much about it, he became fixated on the image of Junior and decide to use that as the main promotional image. It was a striking portrait that looked like an Indian. Stan had created the biography page, but still needed some quotes from Cliff. So one day, after school, Cliff was sitting in the backyard and Stan came home early and just started asking Cliff questions about the art. "What do you think about when you draw ?" Cliff responded, "When I draw, I don't have to think about anything, thats why I like to draw, it's a way to have something that is mine." Then Stan continued to delve, "What makes you draw something like a particular animal or a person ?"  "Sometimes I have a dream," Cliff explained, "…and other times its like a thing in my head."  Then Stan asked, "What about the really large piece ?"  Cliff looked over at Stan and said, "Gee dad, when did you get so curious ?"  The man laughed and said, "I've always been curious."  Cliff looked at him with a smirk as if to say, 'I don't think so.'  Then Cliff humored his dad and said that, "The big one was like that time I was sick in bed with a fever. There was no stopping it, even when Cliff had wanted to sleep or to get some graham crackers and milk, the drawing told him not to stop. It was a scary dream,"  then he added that, "…the animal dreams are always happy, even when it's a weird animal."  Stan had the boy now, "What do you mean weird ?" Cliff thought about it, "One time, this giant snake came crawling out of a rock and every time it bit me, I became stronger, then more and more snakes appeared and they also bit me and each time they did, I grew taller, by the time they had all bit me, I was way over the city and thats when I did the large drawing. 'Cause I got so tall that I could see everything from above."  Stan looked at the kid and had to hold back his emotions, he took a breath and simply said, "I think we should have these man to man talks more often,"  then Cliff hugged his father and said, simply, "Me too."   

Eventually Stan had to tell Dora and Cliff that he had a surprise for them and that next friday night he wanted to take them somewhere. Invitations were sent out and people were told not to mention it as this was to be a surprise. The gallery owner had promoted the show and it happened to be a big art weekend because of a big international art event at a neighboring gallery the same night. People walked back and forth between the shows and Cliff's art was getting some play. Stan, Dora and Cliff went out to dinner and then drove to the gallery. They parked across the street. The place was fully lit and it was now after dark, the gallery was packed with artists, buyers, hipsters. Stan had decided not to put the year of Cliffs birth on the bio and even if he had, most people would have surely assumed that it was the year the works had been made. As they crossed the street, Dora saw the name on the window in large letters: CLIFF GOLD New Drawings and she let out a hoot. "Look at that, what does that say ?"  Cliff looked at the words on the window and said, C - L - I - F - F , that says Clliiifff," and then he got a little confused, "Why does it say my name on that window," because tonight your drawings are being shown to people and your dad wanted it to be a surprise."  Cliff just stood there. He wasn't very impressed with the idea and then he said, almost irritated, "O.K. Now what ?"  Then Stan stepped in, "Now we go inside and mingle with these people who came to see your artwork."  Dora led the boy behind Stan and they walked into the brightly lit gallery. The noise level was immense, everyone was talking animatedly about the work, the Los Angeles Times art critic and some of his hangers on stood listening to his every word. An old lady was spouting soliloquies about the majestic honesty, the passionate execution, the deep and intellectual new take on the city. Stan and Dora were extremely proud and impressed. For Cliff it was the equivalent to a Charles Schulze Peanuts cartoon on television. All the adults simply sounded like. " Whaaa - Wha - Whaaaaa - Wha - Whhhhhaaaa- Wa - Wa -Whaaaa- wawaaaa." Cliff had a great sense of authenticity and he couldn't find it anywhere. 


Then he looked up and there was Jordan. "Little man, you did it. This is cool stuff. We are thinking of buying the turtle."  Then Cliff looked at him with a strange furrowed brow as he often did under circumstances such as these. "Whattya mean ?"  Then Jordan kneeled down and said, "I want to pay you money so that I can have the piece in my home."  Cliff just looked at him, "You mean to take it, away ?"  Jordan sensed something wasn't going the way he had expected, he called Dora over. Then the gallery owner came over excitedly and exclaimed he had just sold the major work to one of the most important collectors in Los Angeles. She owned works by all the majors and many of the up and comers, half her collection was on loan and toured the world museums, it was a major sale. He had been working on this collector for years and it finally paid off. She wanted to meet the artist. Cliff was now unsure of all of this. He didn't even know if he wanted the works to be 'away' from his home, either temporarily or forever. The major collector and her husband and a few of their friends stood with cocktails in hand  expecting to meet some brilliant young art student or a grizzled old discovery and up walked Cliff. The gallery owner said, "Madame and Messieurs, I would like to introduce to you : The Artist, Mister Cliff Gold.  They thought it was a joke and then they looked back at the giant drawing and again at the boy and realized that it was not a joke at all, it was a wonderful surprise. "We have bought your drawing," the lady said, and to Cliff, again, it sounded like, "Whaa - Wha - Whaa - whaa - whaaaaaa."  Then Cliff said, "Wait a minute." It was one of the things he liked to say whenever he was trying to figure stuff out. "So Jordan's taking the Turtle and now you're taking the City," he asked irritatedly ?  The art collector responded, "Well we are going to pay for it and we will take very good care of it and you can even visit it if you ever want to."  That didn't so too bad, then he looked at Jordan and suddenly thought about Richard Pryor. 
Stan and Dora hadn't even thought about asking Cliff if he cared to sell the works and they became a little concerned about it. Then they sold two more pieces and now Cliff was not sure about this at all. He walked up behind Stan and pulled on his coat. Cliff became very shy and said he wanted to talk. They walked out front and he looked at his name again on the window.  "Dad, they are taking away my drawings." Then Stan looked at the boy and said, "Yes isn't that wonderful, they really like them," and Cliff just looked at him. "I don't know dad, what if the big drawing gives that lady a bad dream or something. Not everyone can survive the snake bites."  Stan looked at the boy in bewilderment, Dora came out to check on them, "Hey guys what's up ?" She was ecstatic and decided to have a cocktail. Stan explained,"Well, uhm, well, Cliff is having some reservations about letting a few of these pieces go 'away'.  Dora kneeled at the boys eye level and said, "You don't have to let any of them go if they mean that much to you, understand ?"  He slowly shook his head up and down a few times and then Stan added, "…but if you let these pieces go, new ones will come to you and then we can do this again sometime." Then Cliff looked at his name again, he looked at his parents and said, "Our name is  G - O - L - D, Goooooaaaalllllddd ?"  And Stan said, "Yes."  "But how could that be," he asked ?  "…everyone knows that G-O-L-D is the color of a crayon."  Stan said they would explain it to him later. "Look, all these people came to see you." Dora remarked. Cliff looked inside and the only person that caught his attention was Jordan, he really liked the man. "Could we make a deal ?"  The two adults looked at one another and saw that their son had some lawyer in him after all. "What kind of a deal," asked Stan ?  Cliff was working on this one, "Uhm, the kind of deal, it's the kind of deal where you let me do something that I want to do and then I let you do something that you want to do."  

"Cliff looked at the man, who was his 
          father, held out his hand, they shook 
                   on it and Cliff ran into the gallery."

For Cliff, this was a major accomplishment and Dora was beaming. But Stan, being the Judge and all, was still caught up in the negotiation, "So whats the proposition ?"  Cliffs eyes opened a bit, "The prop, the prop - uuuhhh  - zissshhh - unnnn is this."  And he said matter of fact, "They take the art and I do Richard Pryor live from Washington DC"   Dora looked at the crowd and wondered how it would go over with this group. Stan was impressed with the boys ability to even negotiate but was torn. He wanted to tell his friends that the boy had sold major works of art to big time collectors, but he was concerned about the words. Then  Stan said."You know that word that starts with an N ?" And Stan drew an N on the window. Cliff thought about it and said, "Yeah."  "You can do Richard Pryor live from DC but you cant say that word, o.k?  and that's my final offer and it's not negotiable"  Cliff looked at the man, who was his father, held out his hand, they shook on it and Cliff ran into the gallery. He pulled on the back of Jordan's shirt, "Hey re - member how you said that with the right dudes that the Pryor thing would fly ?"  Jordan shook his head yes, then cliff added, "Are these the right dudes ?"  Jordan looked around and then shook his head no. "But why not ?" Cliff asked.  "I don't know how to explain it, but these are definitely not the dudes I had in mind."  Cliff looked at Jordan and was puckering his lips to the side thinking about it. Then he looked back toward the window at his mom and dad through his name on the glass. "Look, these dudes are white and I was thinking of some dudes with a little more color in their palette."  Then Cliff got all excited, "These dudes are WHITE ?"  Jordan shook his head in the affirmative. Now he knew exactly what to do. 
Cliff walked to the back of the room looking out towards the street and announced, "Ladies and Gentlemans, my name is Cliff Gold and this is Richard Pryor live from Washington DC …"  and then he got into character and started in, "I see that even some of you White people came out tonight," and he looked at Jordan. "…Yeah, its funny to watch White people around the brothers. especially when they come walking back and see that their seats have been taken. Pulling out their ticket stubs and shit… then the brothers say, Ticket stub ?  Mother f*cker I ain't seen this dude in three and a half years, now go sit your ass down somewheres else … Yeah, White people are something else, you ever notice how they cuss ? It's like, 'You Damn Peckerhead' or  'Son - of  - a - bitch' and the brothers just let it out. My dad was a great cusser, he could cuss like no man I have ever seen and he was tough too. They dont make dudes like that anymore. And if they do, they got 'em all locked up. 'Cause they so damn honest, have told too many truths and shit …  I was even surprised to see so many white people came here tonite. And they all sittin' together, ever notice that ?  Just in case something happens to the motherf*ckers, they'll be ready…  just in case we start something, you know, like a meeting or something … cant have none of that … and they got all kinda long words for shit, like commiisserrattting, what the f*ck is that ? the brothers is just talking in the park and some c*cks*cker in court says they was co-misser-ating…  Damn, that will confuse some brothers too …  We was doing what ? I ain't never done non of that, he told his lawyer, never , ever , ever, nope, ain't done none of that…"  Then Dora gave Cliff the signal, Jordan clapped, everyone joined in and Cliff ended his routine. He walked up to Jordan and asked, "Did it fly ?"  Jordan looked at him and said, "Dude this is your show, you do what you gotta do and wether it flies or not, well, who gives a damn ? I thought it was great."  Then they shook hands and Cliff said, "Cool, I gotta go home now,"  and he walked out. 

 "Jordan looked at him and said, "Dude this is your show,   you do what you gotta do and wether it flies or not, well,  who gives a damn ?"

Fred had been spending much more time at home, now that Alex and the rest of Sam's family had learned how to run the new business' on an every day level. He would show up a few days a week, keep the books, write the checks and deal with all of the license's, warranties for machinery and the like. He began to redesign the house to fit the tastes of a man living alone, as opposed to a husband and father. He turned Josie's room into a music room, with her record collection and original player, some instruments he had found from the old country, an old square banjo looking guitar and some wooden flutes that he remembered being played from his childhood. After the riots, many of his partners began to sell old items due to the fact that their business had been ransacked or just simply trying something new. One of his friends sold him an old jukebox that was stacked with old songs from his country. They were classic forty-five's on vinyl that included folk songs, pop tunes, big city modern stuff and old school classics from his parents generation. He had no idea what the machine was going to mean to him and how many great memories it brought back about his family, his childhood and his country. In his bedroom he hung a collection of swords that he had gathered through the years. Fred was a samurai in the way that he did business and he believed in a code. He bought new everyday machines for the kitchen and made the place his own again. He even began to transform the yard into a zen garden, somewhat inspired by his recent visit to Ryan's family's home. He even took off his ring. 

On Saturday evenings Fred began to frequent a small restaurant that was within the same market place as his new yogurt shop. The lady who ran the place had always flirted with him and he simply assumed that she was being kind and probably was just a person who knew how to make her customers feel welcome. One day, she stopped by his table and asked how everything was going at the shop and did he know that there was a lovely new spot just a few blocks down that had live acts from overseas, then she simply said, "Why don't we go over there tonight and take a look ?"  Fred peered up, took off his glasses and said, "Take a look ?" "Yes," then she added, "I let the manager close up on Saturdays. I will bring you a pot of tea and then we shall walk over there together and see if it's as good as they say, o.k. ?"  Fred shook his head, yes.  He had to admit she was beautiful and had a voice that was easy to listen to. Fred had watched her move from table to table for the past few months and noticed that she moved like a dancer and was the perfect hostess. He had never loved anyone but his deceased wife and a girl that he knew in school as a boy. Then he stopped to realize that he had never even attempted to see women after his wife's death. Maybe he was incapable of loving again. He drank his tea and the lady grabbed her coat and waited for him at the door. When he reached into his wallet, she laughed, don't be silly. She waited for him to open the door and together they walked east a few blocks and entered into a darkly lit lounge. "My name is Ta," she told him. She ordered drinks and they enjoyed the live music. Fred began to loosen up, they spoke in their native language and he completely opened. They talked about surviving the early wars, the recent riots, local politics and he eventually told her about his wife and daughter. 

Of course she had already known most of those facts because she had already been asking around about him from the time he bought the new place.  Near the end of the evening, they walked upstairs and danced to a singer who specialized in ballads. Fred explained that he had recently purchased an old jukebox with all the songs from their childhood and he had forgotten how important music was to one's identity. At the end of the evening, they took a cab back to the marketplace. Fred, held the cab for Ta and began to say goodnight. She stared at him disappointingly and looked at her watch, "It's not even past ten-thirty, I'm not ready to come down and what will my girlfriends think ?"  Fred didn't entirely understand, he'd been out of the game so long, he had forgotten how to play. "We most go out for dessert and a nightcap," Ta announced and the taxi driver gave Fred a big smile, as if to say, 'you lucky bastard'.  Fred felt like an old man, he paid the driver, opened her door and walked her over to his car. When he opened the door for her, Ta reached over and kissed him, "Thats better," she said and sat down. Fred closed the door, got inside, started the motor and backed out of the parking space. 

Ta turned on the radio, but it was all modern music for kids. "Hey, why don't you show me this jukebox you were telling me about. I want to hear some music from back in the day. We can pick up something for dessert on the way."  At this point Fred simply let Ta run the show. He had never known a woman who had been so independent and he was beginning to enjoy the fact that he didn't have to lead. When they pulled up to the house Ta said, "Oh I love it."  He gave her a tour of the place and saved the music room for last. When he opened the door and Ta saw Josie's picture on the wall, Fred said, "This is Josie," and she simply responded, "Oh Dear … Oh, I am so sorry."  "It's OK, that was a long time ago" Fred replied and turned on the jukebox. Then Ta reached for Fred and squeezed him tightly to her, he hugged her in return and they danced to the music until they both became tired. Ta grabbed Fred's hand, led him down the hall and began to undress herself under the window light of his bedroom. He began to speak and she simply held her finger to his lips and for the first time in a very long time, Fred fell into the arms of a woman and made love as if it were the last day on earth. He couldn't stop himself and she didn't want him to. 
Their lovemaking was overwhelming and as the sun came up, she said to him, "I think we should do something totally reckless." He answered, "We just did." Then Ta confessed, "Well then, I think we should keep doing something totally reckless, because that was the most beautiful I have experienced ever."  Fred looked at the woman. She was lovely, she was modern, she was funny and she knew what she wanted: she wanted him. Fred  thought about what Ta had said while staring directly at her and slowly shook his head in the affirmative. Eventually saying, "Yes, I think you are correct. Yes." and then he repeated what She had said, "We must go on doing something totally reckless: together. It's the only way."  She laughed and rolled all over the bed like a child. Ta had been looking for a real man for years, someone honest, someone strong, someone to love and now she had finally found him. Ta and Fred had fallen in love.  



When Fred had cleared out all of Josie's things, he held onto a few items that he could never let go, her sketchbooks, her diary, her albums and all of her scrapbooks. One day, for no reason at all, he did the unthinkable, he opened her diary and began to read it. In it were deep descriptive passages of her longing and her love for Junior. How she was afraid to tell her parents and about the times they would steal away to be with one another. One of the sketchbooks was entirely dedicated to Junior with photos, ticket stubs, napkins from places they had eaten, cards from him and letters saying how much he loved her. A ticket to Catalina island. Fred remembered that she had told he and his wife that she was going on a field trip with her girlfriends. He was starting to realize that he didn't really know much about women and maybe he didn't know much about anything. He took out the original file and autopsy reports, the Diary and the scrapbook on Junior and put them on the living room table where they sat for over a week. Then, he simply grabbed the contents got into his car and drove down into the Harbor. Fred knew where Junior was staying and he had also found out that Chuck, the original cop on the case, had since then married Juniors sister Celia, complicating matters. 



He pulled up to the house and didn't know exactly what he was going to do. Fred grabbed the three items and walked to the front door which was open. When he knocked, a small girl peered through the screen door.  "Mom…"  She said, "…theres someone at the door."  "Is Louis Junior home ?" Fred asked.  "Celia was working in the kitchen and shouted, "No. he's not can we take a message …"  then the little girl looked at Fred and said, "My Uncle Junior disappeared and their worried about him. He's been gone a long time. But don't say anything."  Fred nodded in agreement and Celia came to the door. "Can I give him a message ?" Then Fred said, "Is Chuck home ?" which startled Celia, she knew that her husband Chuck who had recently made detective and her brother Junior, who had friends on the other side of things, did not run in the same circles. "Well. Yes, he is, he's in his office, just a minute."  She knocked on Chuck's door, "Honey, theres a man here asking for you."  Chuck opened the door, he had recently shaved off his mustache and she was still getting use to it, she kissed him. "Babe, he was asking about Junior."  Chuck walked down the hall and then exclaimed his surprise, "Fred, good to see you. What the hell is going on ?"  Fred had his hands full and nodded that he wanted to speak in private. "Step into my office here. Babe could we have a couple beers, Please ?"  The two men walked down the dark corridor and entered Chuck's home office. "So what can I help you with ? I heard you bounced back with a couple of new businesses. I also heard we let you down out there. I'm sorry"  "That's ok, all things happen for a reason," Fred responded. "I lost a daughter, you gained a wife."  

" Then the man walked down the dark  
     hallway, out the front   door, down the  
        steps  and  into  his  car.  He  started 
              the engine and didn't  look back."



Chuck looked at him and wasn't sure where this was going. "You know Chuck, the other kids car was not street legal." Fred continued, "In fact, since then the regulations on those cars have been updated to specify such. That model car is now known to flip at high velocities." Chuck was confused, Fred was doing a total reversal. "This kid Junior, he had no prior record, he was smart, he was funny and my daughter was deeply in love with the kid."  Fred opened the scrapbook and displayed all the adornments. Chuck looked at the scrapbook and saw pictures of Josie and Junior at the beach, in the parking lot of an old cafe, at a punk rock concert in Hollywood. "Look, I don't know what I'm doing here," Fred said, "But, I think it has something to do with the way in which a person like yourself or a person like myself or the system as a whole could actually get things wrong."  Chuck looked at Fred, but could find no words. "Everything has changed, Chuck. I see things differently now, I see things from a much different viewpoint and I just want to say that I wish things could have been different, for Josie, for Ryan and especially for Junior." 

The two men sat there quietly. Celia brought in the beers and the room was dead silent. The sound of the girls in the backyard could be heard, they were screaming and playing loudly. Celia opened the office window and told the girls to quiet down, "Your father is working, now quiet down,"  Fred stood up, "No, let the girls play, our work is over." He dropped the file report on Chuck's desk and simply said, "This case is closed."  Then, he turned to Celia and said, "This is for Junior," Fred handed her the diary and the scrapbook, "It's from my daughter Josie, she was the love of his life and he to her. If there's anything I have learned in this lifetime Its that love is the only thing we can keep when it is over." Then the man walked down the dark hallway, out the front door, down the steps and into his car. He started the engine and didn't look back. Celia and Chuck looked down at the scrapbook and wondered where the hell Junior was ?



Junior entered the bullfight arena to the sounds of trumpets in the background and  the plaza was just as he had remembered. He had planned to simply sit alone and bide his time until the final portion of his assignment was ready for completion. But on the way in, he ran into his fathers old business partner Rafael, who had introduced Junior to his son Rafi and a very magnetic young socialite they called Ezzie as well as a group of wealthy friends of the family. Everyone insisted that Junior sit up front in their section, he felt somewhat obligated and complied. Rafi sat on one side of Ezzie and Louis Junior sat on the other. "What does Ezzie stand for," Junior asked ?  Their eyes met and she said, "Esmerelda. My father was a big fan of Victor Hugo."  Junior didn't know who Victor Hugo was but he had seen the original Hunchback of Notre Dame and remembered the gypsy girls name was one and the same. "Esmerelda, like in the hunchback." and her eyes flashed. She had assumed he was referring to the book and now she was impressed. "I have always liked that name."  The men were all talking about the very recent controversy surrounding the authenticity of an item in the news. When Junior asked what they were discussing, she grabbed the paper from one of the men and explained that there had been either a swindle, or a robbery surrounding a recent artifact that was, " Described to be the actual original cloth that Jesus had been wrapped in directly after the crucifixion."  It had travelled to Mexico City to be studied by a group of scientists who had claimed it was a duplicate. Some said that the real cloth had been delivered to Mexico from Europe, but that it had been replaced by a fake. The fabric had been identified as authentic to the proper dates, but that the blood could not have been that old. Now true believers are claiming that the real cloth has been lost. So the controversy continues. " Rafi is a scientist, so he does not believe in such things." she concluded.  "And you," Junior asked ?  "I am very open to the possibilities," she said, through a subtle smile. Then added, "They say you are an Indian ?" Junior looked over at Rafi disapprovingly and whispered in her ear, "Arn't we all ?" 

"They say you are an Indian ?" Junior looked over at Rafi disapprovingly and whispered in her ear, "Arn't we all ?" 

Junior explained further, "My father owns a ranch, when we were children, I played nearby a spring where an old Indian lived. He was able to perform rather unnatural or I guess you might say supernatural things that had astounded me. He eventually shared his medicine with me. I know how that must sound to you." She played coy, "Oh, do you ?"  Junior had to laugh, she was sophisticated. "Your english is very well spoken," he commented. Then she parried back, "Yes, we are taught at a very young age that to speak english means we may one day marry a rich American gringo like you."  Junior corrected her, "I am not exactly a rich American gringo, more like a pocho, isn't that what you call us ?" He grinned. "So, you did do your homework last night," she replied, then she turned the newspaper over and Junior saw a picture of the old man who had given him the tour the day he had started his assignment in Mexico City. She looked at him and noticed his composure drop, "What's wrong," she asked ? "What does the paper say about this man ?" Junior inquired. Esmerelda read and explained  "It says that he fell from a balcony." Then one of the men added, "More than likely, he was pushed."  Then Junior asked, "Do they relate the story of the lost artifact to the death of the man ?" Esmerelda read on and said, "No, I don't think so. Why ?" Junior had to keep his cool, then added "Just curious. Junior needed to check in with his people. He needed an excuse to step away, the first fight had started, but it was a young matador and a very small bull, so nobody paid it any mind. Junior excused himself and ran to find a telephone. By the time he got change, found the phone and made the call he was starting to panic. He got his people on the phone and was told that everything had changed. Junior was no longer there to distract from the main event. He was the main event. 
Junior was supposed to be carrying a replica, but the old man had given him the original and now his life was in grave danger. Then he reported that he had seen the local paper and that the old man, who had been his guide, had been killed. A voice on the other line simply said, "Do you believe everything you read ? Your new assignment is to cross the border just after sunset, as soon as it gets dark. There are going to be some distractions and if you don't get over in time then you will not get out alive. Do you understand ?" Junior said that he did. A group of people who expected to receive the original item will now do anything to shut the border down and ensure that the item does not leave Mexico. Be ready for anything. If you make it across, within three miles of the American border, you will see a replica of your car along the freeway, when you do, drop back and let it take the lead. Then we will present an opportunity for you to accomplish, I cant say what it is, you will know when you see it. Understand ?" Junior said that he did and then the voice on the other end clicked. 

He checked on the car. Then he ran back up the steps. "Did I miss anything ?" Junior asked the girl. "I don't know. Did you ?" she replied. He gazed through the audience for anything that looked obvious. If his life was in danger, then the safest place to be was exactly where he was. Then he answered in a whisper, "Well, maybe just a little. I had to call my father," he lied. Then Rafael said aloud, "Your father says you were trained as a bullfighter at nine, ten and eleven."  "Is that so," remarked Ezzie ?  "Well, I played around during those three summers, but unfortunately, I never followed it past childhood."  Junior had always identified with the toreador, but for some reason he was now identifying with the bull. Sitting among these refined people after all he had been through, now his life was in danger, he looked at the bull and saw Quasimodo. The crowd cheered and the picadors marched out and stabbed the beast. Why was his life the way it was ?  Maybe it was true, that he was an Indian in a world full of overly educated non believers who could explain away any natural or supernatural phenomenon. He had seen unexplainable acts with the Indian and he knew there was a force of life. Most notably experiences with animals. Wild animals in unfathomable numbers appeared and disappeared, weather, light, healings and so forth. Was that all just a natural occurrence or a trick ?  

Now he began to look at Rafael and wonder what had really happened to the Indian ? They said he had just disappeared. "You're awfully quiet," the girl stated. "Yes, I was thinking about what Rafael said about those early years. It was a very magic time for me. But, I guess that childhood is like that." then he added, "I feel good sitting next to you. Does that sound ridiculous ?"   "On the contrary," she whispered.  Then he changed the subject, "What else does it say about this cloth of  Jesus ?"  The crowd began screaming, 'Ole', ole', ole' as the second toreador made his lunge and gracefully, ceremoniously landed his sword directly into the heart of the bull. A man on horseback marched out and dragged the animal out of the ring. The girl answered, "It says that the original cloth had come from a church in Italy, a place called Turin and before that had travelled throughout the middle east. The borders have changed so many times that they don't know if was traced back to Persia, Iraq or Iran." She added, "All the places where your Presidents are constantly fighting."  Then Junior remarked , "My presidents ? You make that sound so personal. We have no power over presidents anymore than you do."  "I guess thats true." Esmerelda agreed. "Of course its true," added one of the college boys. Now the headliner appeared. The man was respected by everyone and this is why they came. The bull entered the arena and the toreador dropped to his knees.Rafael explained the history of this particular type of bull. He knew where and what and for how long it had been bred. A fierce beast created for only one purpose, to pummel a man down. Than Rafael explained."This is the first man this bull has ever seen unmounted by horse."  

When Junior looked up, he noticed that the sun was slowly fading behind the other side of the arena and he gauged the time by eye. The picadors broke the beast momentarily, but instead of tiring, it became more enraged. He held up his capote' and stood erect in the classic style of Belmonte, an antiquated approach that was formal and dignified, then the bull had turned and the audience was aghast as the horn entered his left hand on the inside of the palm and extended through the other side six inches. The toreador lifted his hand from the horn, as a group of his comrades came out to carry him away, but he said no. He walked over directly to Juniors party, his composure was astounding as blood simply poured from his hand. The toreador asked Esmerelda for her scarf and Junior grabbed it, folded into fours and then wrapped the scarf around the man's hand a number of times and knotted it on the outside tightly. The toreador bowed, reentered the center of the ring, requested his sword and the audience went wild. Seldom does a toreador continue after a pierce from the bull to a hand or a limb. He must hold the capote and the sword to create the illusion that will allow the bull to distract itself and accept the sword to the heart and succumb. The toreador took several turns successfully, the bull was tiring, he had the beast exactly where he wanted him and when the bull lunged forward, his sword entered the perfect position and the bull had dropped to the floor. The audience reaction had given the toreador both ears and the tail, a rarity. He strolled around the arena holding the honors and thanking the crowd. When he walked over to hand the tail to Esmerelda and an ear to Junior. Esmerelda hadn't noticed that Junior was gone. Rafi teased her, "Where's your new lover ? Did he get queasy at the sight of blood ?"  She took out the roses, handed them to the Toreador and accepted the tail. A roar filled the Plaza del Toros as Junior got into his car and drove north. 


It was still an hour away from sunset and a good ninety minutes from total darkness. His father had a stopping point in the old days where you could park and find out what the border wait was going to be, sometimes if you pulled up at say three pm, you might be in line till five thirty, but if you waited till four or five, you might only wait twenty-five minutes. Junior remembered it was just east of the plaza and slightly south of Boulevard Revolution where he would run to look at all the strange things going on as a kid. He surprised himself by finding it. He parked the car next to the bell tower that sat in the center of the park. As soon as he did so, a group of men wheeled out a freshly forged bell on an old wooden cart. Junior sat on a bench and asked the man shaving ice what was going on ? The man explained that somebody had stolen the bell long ago and they finally had melted down enough brass handles and objects to re pour a casting and replace the object. A pulley lever had been placed at the top of the tower and a rope had been threaded running both up one side and down the other. They tied one side to the bell loop and then the men wrapped their hands around the other end of the rope and they began to pull. As the bell got closer to the top, it became harder and harder for the men to hoist it, even with the assistance of the lever. The men had gotten the bell just feet away from the top and then they tied it off. The man shaving ice said that these men needed his help. It was almost complete, they just needed one last pull. Junior looked around, but there were nothing but young boys and old men. He grabbed hold of the rope and the men all began to pull, just as it reached the top, one side of the lever gave way, the other men let go of the rope and as the bell came hurling down, Junior was hoisted eight feet into the air and landed flat on his back, he heard the bell land seconds later, it missed his head by a few inches. he stood to brush himself off and noticed that the thumb from his right hand was missing. He looked down to the floor like a man would do as if he dropped his keys and there sat Juniors dismembered finger. He walked over to the man shaving ice and grabbed a bucket that was full, he threw the finger into the ice, wrapped his hand in a bandana and turned to see that the men were fumbling around his vehicle. Junior took the ice bucket and swung it at one of the guys, then took his bandaged hand and backhanded the other, blood splattered all over the man's face. 


Now the trunk was open and the last two men were rifling through it. Junior opened the drivers seat door, tossed the bucket inside, he ripped the eight track cassette player from the dashboard and swung it at the man closest to him, who dropped to the floor and the last remaining man simply ran away. Junior walked back over to the man shaving ice and handed him a hundred dollar bill. He took another bucket full of ice and simply said, "No Habla" The man looked at the bill and assured Junior that he would not speak of this to anyone. He then got into the car, started it, shoved his hand in the bucket and drove toward the border. The wait looked to be thirty minutes or so, the sun was setting. Junior jockeyed for a position and waited in line with everyone else. The lines are football fields in length. All along the way,  people are selling blankets, plaster sculptures, cigarettes, tequila bottles, all kinds of artifacts as last minute sale items. A duty free, last stop from Baja California. This was the part that he had always hated. At the end of each summer he would cry his way down this steel snake pathway back to America. Every car next to him, now seemed suspect. He looked terrible and was sure to be rousted if he didn't clean up quick. He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a plastic bag, wrapped his right hand and taped it at the edges. Then he removed his shirt, put on a clean sweatshirt, wetted his hair and refreshed his face which was sweating profusely. His body was no doubt in shock, but the ice was helpful, his entire hand was numb and the cold began to crawl up is forearm. Junior prepared his i.d. and registration on the dash and attempted to conceal all signs of distress, which included the other bucket with his thumb. He put it on the back seat floorboard next to his fishing tackle box, looked in the rear view mirror and a warrior looked back at him. 


He was now ten minutes from the kiosk. Three cars back a group of people in a beat up car to his left were rustling through some packages and Junior had become alerted. They pulled up to the left of him. Some cars get searched and some cars don't. It all depends on the border patrols individual intuition. Junior pulled up to the barrier, she checked his i.d. ran the plates on the car, which was registered in his dad's name. "I'm an American citizen, my father holds dual citizenship and he and I have been fishing. He's staying on and I'm coming home. We own a produce ranch outside of Centro Province."  When she walked around the car, she noticed the trunk was shutting improperly. "Somebody tried to break into it while we were fishing, but I never keep anything in it so … "  She opened the rear door, peered inside the bucket  and saw the thumb, Just as she was saying, "What the hell is that ?" The car to Juniors left busted through the kiosk barrier and opened fire on the border patrol, they blasted their way through, jumped over the concrete island and were now entering America up the wrong side of the freeway. All entires into America were now on lock down. Junior knew he had minutes to cross over or that was it, he was dead. He ripped the plastic from his right hand exposing the bloodied hand, "I lost my thumb on the side of a fishing boat and if I don't get to a hospital in America within an hour, I'm going to lose it."  She looked at the bloody hand with the tenons hanging and the extended raw bone stub and threw up on her own shoes. Then she got on the phone and said, " I need a motorcycle escort through Chula Vista into San Diego Medical center, an American male in a red 1976 Le Sabre has a dismembered hand that needs urgent care."  



A voice came over the dispatch,  "Can he drive ?"  She had to wipe her mouth, "Sir can you drive ?"  "Yes, I just need to get over the border."  "That is affirmative," she spoke into the phone, "Pull up to that lane on the right with the yellow lights. Two motorcycle cops came zipping up around and waved Junior onto the lane, the lights turned green and Junior crossed the border with escorts. The fog rolled in and now it was pitch black. The motorcycles kept a steady lead and were traveling a good eighty miles an hour. Junior stayed several paces behind and waited for the duplicate of his car to appear as he had been directed. 


"As the door rolled shut behind him, he pictured the bell, slowly falling from the top of the tower, it hurled itself through space in his direction and as the instrument hit the ground, on impact, a lightening bolt fissured up the side of the instrument and forever and ever: The bell's first ring would be only his to hear."


And then, just like that, a car identical to his raced up in front of him, he dropped back and within a minute, a diesel truck cab pulling a long enclosed trailer container pulled in front of Junior. The back pull up doors were open and a full steel ramp with shock absorbed wheel extensions trailed along the rear of the truck. He clocked the speed of the truck at a consistent fifty-five miles and hour and then dropped back to forty-five. Then he gunned the peddle back up to seventy-five and his vehicle shot straight up into the back of the cab. Junior slammed the brakes, as the door rolled shut behind him, he pictured the bell, slowly falling from the top of the tower, it hurled itself through space in his direction and as the instrument hit the ground, on impact, a lightening bolt fissured up the side of the instrument and forever and ever: The bell's first ring would be only his to hear. 


EPILOGUE : PART TWO

Los Angeles had gone to war, with itself.  A member of the tribe had been beaten down, for all the world to see and then the perpetrators simply walked down a row of steps, as if they had just received a medal of honor and that was that: or so they thought.  History is sometimes written in books, it is sometimes written in stone, it is sometimes written on the wind, but it is always etched in the minds and memories of the people who were there. Deep within the layers  and  the consciousness of the populist of Los Angeles lay fears, pain, abuse and a knowledge of what was right and what was wrong. Confusion sets in when a person, place or thing just does not make sense. Confusion, the great inventor of all new ideas. On the one hand, confusion means, 'to become bewildered', on the other hand, it also means, 'to mingle together'. The people of Los Angeles went from bewilderment directly to mingling together and someone had to pay for this injustice. The people of Los Angeles tested each others skill, they tested their own power and realized ultimately, that Los Angeles belonged to them, not the politicians, not the police, but to the people. Power is a mighty force that, at any time, can be misused. The people of Los Angeles had grabbed their power from deep within the very roots of their humanity and they quickly did what the four man had originally done to a single individual, they beat the living shit out of their own city. They punched it, they taunted it, they pushed it, they took what it had to offer and then they burned it to the ground. How could that be ? How could a group of people protesting an obvious injustice create a much larger injustice ? Is it because, as is often the case through history, that the oppressed become the oppressors ? Or is it simpler than that ? An eye for an eye ? These were modern times and yet the most medeival events were occurring.  The people of Los Angeles, those who had taken public lashings, those who had suffered abuse, those who understood oppression, those whose relatives had been lynched, railroaded and tar and feathered, collectively and unconsciously simply said: NO.  The first declarations and protests happened directly at the proper place, the police department. It is every citizen's right and responsibility to communicate with our city officials and service employess what our needs are and if they have been met. But again, deep within the mind, the body, the soul, if you will, is a record of events, celebrations, defeats, triumphs and injustices that have befallen not just the individual, but their ancestors. The People of Los Angeles happen to carry a very heavy historical code that include past histories of genocide, civil war, slavery, prejudice, massacre, colonialism and in some cases annihilation. It is unfathomable to even imagine the collective pain that these people had gone through to get to Los Angeles, to deliver themselves to the West, to create a future for their children and grandchildren and their children and their grandchildren. This was a poverty riot, just as much as it had been a riot of reaction of reason and of circumstance. This city was going through a series of transformations like never before, after this event and, in the end: it became stronger. It survived, it learned more about itself, it accepted its faults and began to celebrate its accomplishments. It realized that to truly fly, it would have to become one. Which is often why, "They Call IT The City of ANGELS." 


INTERVIEW: BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE EDITOR and Feature Writer Joshua Triliegi Discusses The Novel, "They Call It The City of ANGELS"

Discuss the process of writing your recent fiction project, " They Call It The City of Angels ."

Joshua Triliegi: I had lived through the riots of 1992, actually had a home not far from the epicenter and experienced the event first hand, I noticed how the riot was being perceived by those outside our community, people began to call me from around the world, my friends in Paris, my relatives in the mid west, childhood pals, school mates, etc… Each person had a different take on why and what was happening, I still have those recordings, this was back in the day of home message recorders with cassettes. So, after 20 years, I began to re listen to the voices and  felt like something was missing in the dialogue. Some of my friends and fellow theater contemporaries such as Anna Deveare Smith and Roger Guenvere Smith had been making bold statements in relation to the riots with their own works and I realized that there was a version of original origin inside of me. I felt the need to represent the community in detail, but with the event in the background. Because, I can tell you from first hand experience that when these events happen, people are still people, and they deal with these types of historical emergencies differently based on their own culture, their own codes, their own needs and everyday happenstances. 


You published each chapter on a daily basis, explain how and why.

Joshua Triliegi: I had been editing The BUREAU of Arts and Culture Magazine for a few years, we printed thousands of magazines that were widely distributed throughout Los Angeles and San Francisco and had created an on-line readership. The part of me that had dabbled in fiction through the years with screenplays and  short stories had been ignored for those few years. On the one hand, it was simply a challenge to create a novel without notes, improvising on a daily basis, on the other hand, it gave the project a freedom and an urgency that had some connection with the philosophy of Jack Kerouac and his Spontaneous Prose theories. One thing it did, was forced me, as a creator, to make the decisions quickly and it also, at the time, created a daily on line readership, at least with our core readers, that to this day has strengthened our community sites and followers on line. Season One was a series of introductions to each character. Season Two, which happened the following year, was a completely different experience all together. 




Describe Season Two of  They Call It The City of Angels and those challenges.

Joshua Triliegi: Well first of all, the opening line of Season One is, " Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing were usually from out of town, " That opener immediately set up an insiders viewpoint that expresses a certain struggle and angst as well as an outsider — looking — in — perception that may be skewed. In introducing characters throughout season one, I was simply creating a cast of characters that I knew somehow would be important to set the tone surrounding the riots of 1992 in Los Angeles. With Season Two, and an entire year of gestation, which was extremely helpful, even if it was entirely on a subconscious level, I had a very real responsibility to be true to my characters and each persons culture. I had chosen an extremely diverse group of people, but had not actually mentioned their nationality, or color in Season One. By the time season Two rolled around, I found it impossible not to mention their differences and went  several steps further to actually define those differences and describe how each character was effected by the perception of the events in their life. This is a novel that happens to take place before, during and after the riot. The characters themselves all have lives that are so complete and full and challenged, as real life actually is, that the riot as a backdrop is entirely secondary to the story. I was surprised at how much backstory there actually was. I also think my background in theater, gave me a sense of character development that really kicked my characters lives into extreme detail and gave them a fully realized life.


How do you go about creating a character ? 

Joshua Triliegi: Well, there is usually a combination of very real respect and curiosity involved. Sometimes, I may have seen that person somewhere in the world and something about them attracted my attention in some way. In the case of They Call It The City of Angels, I knew the people of Los Angeles had all been hurt badly by the riots of 1992, because I am one of those people and it hurt. One minute we were relating between cultures, colors, incomes, the next we were pitted up against one another because some people in power had gotten away with a clear injustice. So with season two, I personally had to delve deeper into each persons life and present a fully realized set of circumstances that would pay off the reader, in terms of entertainment and at the same time be true to the code of each character.  Once they were fully realized, the characters themselves would do things that surprised me and that is when something really interesting began to happen. 




Could you tell us a bit more about the characters and give us some examples of how they would surprise you as a writer ?

Joshua Triliegi: Well, Jordan, who is an African American bus driver and happens to be a Muslim, began to find himself in extremely humorous situations where he is somehow judged by events and circumstances beyond his control. I thought that was interesting because the average person most likely perceives the people of that particular faith as very serious. Jordan has a girlfriend who is not Muslim and when he is confronted by temptation, he is equally as human as any of my readers and so, he gets himself into situations that complicate his experience and a certain amount of folly ensues. Fred, who is an asian shop owner and a Buddhist, has overcome a series of tragedies, yet has somehow retained his dignity with a stoicism that is practically heroic. At one point, in the middle of a living nightmare, he simply goes golfing, alone and gets a hole in one. Junior, who is a Mexican American young man recently released from prison really drives the story as much of his backstory connects us to Fred and his tragedies as well as legal decisions such as the one that caused the city to erupt as it does in the riot. 

You talk a lot about Responsibility to Character, what do you mean and how do you conduct research ? 

Joshua Triliegi: Well, if I make a decision that a character is a Muslim or Asian or Mexican or what have you, if I want the respect of my readers and of those who may actually be Muslim, Asian or Mexican, it behooves me to learn something about that character. As a middle aged man who lives in Los Angeles and has done an extensive amount of travel throughout my life, there is a certain amount of familiarity with certain people. But for instance, with Fred, I watched films on the history of the Korean War and had already respected the Korean Community here in Los Angeles for standing up for themselves the way they did. I witnessed full on attacks and gun fights between some of the toughest gangsters in LA and I think even they gained respect for this community in that regard. Fred is simply one of those shop owners, he is a very humble and unassuming man, in season two, he finds himself entering a whole new life and for me as a writer, that is very gratifying and to be totally honest, writing for Fred was the most bitter sweet experience ever. Here is a man who has lost a daughter, a wife, a business partner and he is about to lose all he has, his shop. Regarding Junior and Jordan, I grew up with these guys, I have met them again and again, on buses, in neighborhoods at school. Jordan has a resilience and a casual humor that has been passed down from generations, a survival skill that includes an ironic outlook at life. He also has that accidental Buster Keaton sort of ability to walk through traffic and come out unscathed. Junior on the other hand is a real heavy, like any number of classic characters in familiar cinema history confronted with the challenges of poverty and tragedy. He is the character that paid the biggest price and in return, we feel 
that experience. There is a certain amount of mystery and even a pent up sexuality and sometimes a violence that erupts due to his circumstances. In season two, within a single episode, Junior takes his father, who is a busboy at a cafe and repositions him as the Don or boss of their original ranch in Mexico. 

There seems to be a lot of religion in They Call it the City of Angels, how did that occur and do you attend church or prescribe to any particular faith ? 

Joshua Triliegi: I never intended for there to be so much religion in this book. But, if you know Los Angeles like I do, you will realize how important faith is to a good many people and particularly to the characters I chose to represent. With Jordan being Muslim, it allowed me to delve into the challenges a person might have pertaining to that particular faith. Fred's life is so full of tragedy that even a devout buddhist would have trouble accepting and letting go of the events that occur in his life. Junior found god in prison as many people do, upon his release back into the real world, he is forced to make decisions which challenge that belief system and sometimes go against his faith, at the same time, he finds himself physically closer to real life events and objects of religious historical significance than the average believer which brings us into a heightened reality and raises questions in a new way. As for my own belief system, I dabble in a series of exercises and rituals that spring from a wide variety of faiths and practices. 

You discussed Jordan, Fred and Junior. Tell us about Cliff and Charles and Chuck.  

Joshua Triliegi: I don't really believe in secondary characters, but in writing fiction, certain characters simply emerge more pronounced than others. As this project was a daily serial for the magazine, I did try my best to keep a balance, giving each character a fully realized set of circumstances and history. That said, some characters were related to another through family, incident or history and later, I felt compelled to know more about them and see how they would emerge. Charles is one of those legendary rock and roll guys who was on tour with music royalty and simply disappeared. He's the missing father we all hear about and wonder what would happen if he were to suddenly return into our lives ?  His son Mickey, his wife Maggie, his daughter Cally have all gone on with their lives, when Jordan, accidentally runs him over while driving his bus, Charles returns home and a new chapter in their lives begins again. Chuck is a cop who just happened to marry Juniors sister and they have several daughters. When Junior returns from prison, he and Chuck clash simply because of their careers and history. I felt it was important to include authority in this story and once I decided to represent a police officer, I wanted him to be as fully realized and interesting as any other character, though, clearly Junior drives much of this section of the novel and Chuck is simply another person that complicates Juniors arrival. I should also explain that the arrival of Junior from years in prison is really the beginning of events that lead up to the basic thrust of the story and somehow almost everyone in the novel has a backstory that connects in some way. Cliff is absolutely one of my all time favorites. He is a mentally challenged boy whose father happens to be the judge on the case that develops into the unjust legal decision and eventually the actual 1992 riots. I have always felt that challenged individuals deserve much more than the marginalized lifestyles that we as a contemporary society provide. 


Joshua Triliegi: [ cont -] Many ancient societies have relegated what we dismiss as something very special. Cliff is challenged, but also happens to be a very intuitively gifted human being whose drawings portend actual future events. Even though his parents are extremely pragmatic, they are forced to consider his gifts. Cliff is a young upper middle class white boy who is entirely obsessed with the late great comedian Richard Pryor and at very inopportune times, Cliff will perform entire Richard Pryor comedic routines, including much of the original risqué language. Cliff is an innocent who pushes the societal mores to the edge. I have found through fiction the ability to discuss, develop and delve into ideas that no other medium provided me. And as you may know, I am a painter, film maker, photographer, sculptor, designer, who also edits a magazine reviewing art, film and culture. 

As a man, do you find it challenging to write female characters ?

Joshua Triliegi: To some extent, yes. That said, I have spent a good many years with women and have had very close relationships with the female gender, both personally and professionally, so on average, I would say that I am not a total buffoon. In They Call It City of Angels, Jordan's girlfriend Wanda and his mom both appeared and bloomed as fully realized characters that I really enjoyed writing for. Cliffs mother Dora is also a very strong female character that I am very proud to have created. Season two presented a special challenge with dialogue between characters that was new territory for me. I have written screenplays in the past, sometimes with collaborators, once with my brother and more recently with my nephew and in Angels, I found it, for the first time, very easy to imagine the conversations and action in a way that was totally new to my process. I would most likely credit that to my own relationships and possibly to the several recent years of interviewing and writing for the magazine in general. 

When will we see another season of They Call It The City of Angels ?

Joshua Triliegi: We have set a tradition of it being the Summer Fiction Project at the Magazine and since August is a relatively slow month for advertising and cultural events, we will most likely see a Season Three in the summer of 2015. As you may know, I do not take any written notes at all prior to the  day that I actually write the chapter, so the characters simply develop on a subconscious level and then during the one month or two week process, I pretty much do nothing at all, but ponder their existence, day to day. This can sometimes be nerve racking as I do plot things out in my head and sometimes even make extreme mental notes, though even then some ideas simply don't make it on the page. During Season Two, I omitted a section of a chapter and later revealed another chapter into a different sequence of events, but besides that it has been a rather straight ahead chapter a day experience that simply pushed me to invent, develop and complete the work of fiction that might have otherwise never existed or possibly taken much more time. I am curious to see how my next project will develop.


What is your next project ?

Joshua Triliegi: I am working on a couple of things of historic importance. Though I can't say much about them. One is an actual event that I have been given permission to portray by the actual estate and I don't know yet if it will be an ' Inspired by … ' type of Novel or if it will be creative Non Fiction. The other is a fiction piece I have been developing for sometime now. After that I have a sort of family opus that is probably the most researched project I have ever undergone. I have been writing consciously since I was fourteen, stories, journals, poetry, lyrics, screenplays, but as far as fiction goes, They Call It The City of Angels is probably my first successful project with a major readership and I am very thankful that it happened. Better late than never. 




JOSHUA  A. TRILIEGI    Office  Contact  323 734 2877

Email Contact : JOHNNYMILWAUKEE@earthlink.net 
The Website :     BUREAUofARTSandCULTURE.com 
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