What's CURRENTly Happening in LA

People ask me frequently about Bedlam. What it was like, what the scene was like, what the people who used to come out after 10PM on Tuesday nights were like. Here's an independent film maker's take on our happy little home away from home. For some background, the Bedlam Drawing and Live Model Sketch Workshop (it's official title, not that anyone ever used it) was free to all comers, which generally fell into 3 or 4 categories. Those who came to draw/paint the models in the various stages of undress, the people who came solely to drink at our speakeasy, the people who came because it was scene and weren't really tied to any particular activity, and the pool players. You can see the pool table in one of the shots towards the end.

Oh, and if you look closely, you can see Yours Truly at about 30 seconds into the video, walking up on the sidewalk with TV Terry, who is interviewed near the end of the video.

Enjoy!

http://current.com/items/86890841_living_muses

Happy 17th Birthday Doolittle!!

Wow. The little black ball of fur I adopted way back in 1991 turned/turns 17 today. My cat, Hunteresse Doolittle, more commonly known as Doolittle, was the runt of her litter of 7 or 8 kittens that were found abandoned in an alley on the Westside of Los Angeles in the late fall of 1991.

She was eventually brought along with her litter mates and Mom, Sheba, to the awesome folks at Friends of Animals, also in WLA. Her mom, from all indications of the volunteers and from reports of the people who found her and her litter was a master hunter. In fact, they used the term "hunter/killer" to describe her bird hunting and squirrel destroying prowess. I thought, man, I hate fucking pigeons with a passion, and having a descendant of a known h/k on my balcony certainly couldn't be a bad thing, right?

But before all of that could even take place, a little history is in order. My interactions with cats was essentially OP, other people's cats and up until I was 20 years old and in college, that was fine by me. At the time, I was living with my girlfriend who had had a couple of cats when she was a child, but she hadn't had significant contact with any in years either. That was not to be for long and our neighbor, Crazy Betty the Cat Lady, would be seeing to that.

My girlfriend and I were sharing a two-bedroom place that was fairly large by all standards. At the top of our landing, we were on the 2nd floor of a 2-story 9-unit complex, was our apartment and CBCL's. On most occasions when we saw her, she was surrounded by this purring, figure-eighting posse of fur and claws. She was seriously the closest thing I've ever seen to being a pied-piper of the feline set. At any rate, we got to know her over the first couple of months we lived there, and by association, all of her wonderful cats. It was really funny to see her walk down the stairs and go around the corner and down the side of the complex to the back where the laundry was, the whole time this little trail of 5 or 6 cats following behind her. With some practice, I began to remember names and meows of the various group that she kept and over the months I began to notice a different calico here and a new white one there, but never said anything to her about it.

Her young and quite cute cousin, Julie, who would visit periodically, was an altogether different story. You could hardly get her to shut up once got started and she was "like-omigod!-letz goto the mall now!" kind of LA-crazy, rich and spoiled by negligent parents to be sure. One day as we were passing the time on my balcony I just couldn't resist and I asked her, point blank and in a not so subtle way, "What the fuck is up with your cousin Betty?" I inquired. "Oh, her? She's crazy, that's all. She inherited a ton of money back in the 80s and lives alone in a huge house in Palm Springs, with fountains and pools, you know she even has a Japanese landscaper?"

"No shit? Wow. So she's got it like that, eh? Why does she spend most of her time in that little ass studio apartment in this shitty little has-been neighborhood in West LA?"

"You heard me say she was crazy, right?" Julie replied.

"Oh, right. I see," I said in response, although I didn't really see the point of any of it. And I still don't, but I certainly guess it is more than possible, hell even probable, that some nice fairly well-to-do woman snapped and went bonkers when her wealthy attorney/banker/white slaver husband died in police custody in Fiji, or something like that.

What does this have to do with my beloved cat of 17 years? Everything, actually, because Crazy Betty is the one who convinced me and my girlfriend to go down to the shelter and adopt a kitten. The rest is history, which is currently sitting on the floor chowing down on a fresh can of tuna and salmon chunks.

When we arrived at FoA, I knew next to nothing about cats, much less what I was ultimately getting into. When the volunteer asked us in the lobby, "What kind of cat are you looking to adopt?" my response based on hours of casual contact with the local cat population was simply, "A grey one." Without skipping a beat the lady turns to my girlfriend and says "You must be the brains of this operation." Well, all kidding aside, the volunteer walked us back into this large room full of cats in cages, cats on the window sill, cats on tables, it was just cats cats cats.

In the back, built up onto a little stand was a cage that was 8X16 feet and split down the middle with thick wire. On one side was a very tired looking momcat (Sheba) and on the other was this enormous pile of kittens, all moving around and climbing over each other. On further inspection, I could see that their tiny eyes had opened and they were playing around with each other. Sure enough, kind of off to one side, was a little grey one. I even toyed with the idea of naming him/her "Lego," short for little grey one, but it wouldn't matter. With a little encouragement from the volunteer I gingerly opened up the cage and began to reach over to the side where the grey kitten was, but before I could reach it, this almost microscopic dot of fur jumped up and latched onto my BumEquipment sweatshirt and instantly started to cling. "Well," said the great volunteer, "that pretty much settles it. She chose you."

It's awfully hard to argue with logic like that, and I didn't. After I detached this adorable black fur ball from my sweatshirt and put her back in the cage I knew that I had experienced something wonderful if not altogether magnificent in the truest sense of the word. Now, looking back on those 17 years of torn paper, stray turds in the hallway, hairballs the size of your hand and on and on, I'm certain of the specialness now more than ever.

Last week when I had Doolittle into hospital for a routine check-up I noticed that the Vet had a sign on the wall with comparative ages from humans to dogs to cats. It isn't really 7 years to 1 year human to dog years ratio like is commonly thought but what really struck me as powerful was the top age on the chart for cats: 16 years, which was shown to be 96 in human years. So, by my best guesstimate, Doolittle is around 103 or 104 today. Yeah, kitty!

And Now Rick is Gone Too

From the day Syd Barret died.




July 11, 2006 - Tuesday

The Great Gig in the Sky
Current mood: crazy
Category: Religion and Philosophy

Crap. I'm going to drink and listen to "Wish You Were Here".

It's morning, but I don't need a day starting like this.

Freakin' Tuesdays.--- grabs CD and wine ---

So long, Roger Sydney Barrett, resquiate in pace.

Currently listening : Wish You Were Here By Pink Floyd

What Would Bucky Think?

I was inspired by this poem in college. I came across it again when I was reading more of the ever-inspiring works of R. Buckminster "Bucky" Fuller. What a difference almost 3 years can make.  I am so glad I have the dates and times of these little gems of creation.

-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-

February 22, 2006 - Wednesday

Cosmic Plurality by R. Buckminster Fuller
Current mood: giddy

Environment to each must be
All there is, that isn't me.
Universe in turn must be
All that isn't me AND ME.

Since I only see inside of me
What brain imagines outside me,
It seems to be you may be me.
If that is so, there's only we.

Me and we, too
Which love makes three,
UniversePerme-embracing
It-Them-You-and-We.

Currently reading : Critical Path By R. Buckminster Fuller Release date: 15 February, 1982

Los Angeles is a Trippy Place Naturally

One of the things I enjoy the most about living in a post-industrial part of Downtown Los Angeles is that you never really know what you'll see just by stepping out your door and onto the street, and believe me, even THAT can be a dangerous challenge at times!

So, to wake up one morning hop on my bike and pedal maybe 85 yards and see this awesome graffiti was truly inspiring.

And by inspiring I mean that I actually went and checked to see if this was accurate, and sure enough, it was. From my qwiki-research:

LSD: Pharmacology. a crystalline solid, C20H25N3O, the diethyl amide of lysergic acid, a powerful psychedelic drug that produces temporary hallucinations and a schizophrenic psychotic state.

I'm not so sure about the veracity of the "schizophrenic psychotic state" business, but everything else was dead on accurate.

Better still, in my opinion, is the fact that this pharmacologically correct writing was seemingly randomly placed on the fence support of a local trucking company, seen here:

Nice to know the chemically adept are out tagging in my neighborhood with a head full of acid and a sharpie! Welcome to DTLA!