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Icon the Town

The Photographer calls throughout the week, leaving funny and rambling voicemails about his gallery bender and running around town with distinguished peoples. Somehow I am able to convince him that he should live it up in The Valley. He arrives with a Mercedes loaded down with a bajillion dollars worth of personal artwork / historical artifacts and is relieved to find that the garage is not only empty but lockable. He gives me a Picasso lithograph. The tag says it’s one of the Portrait of Jacqueline series but I have reason to believe it’s called something different. It’s unsigned and has a retail value of about $300 to $500. Not to shabby since he bought it for $3. We take dinner at Vitello’s, the notorious Italian restaurant where Robert Blake went berserk. The Photographer orders a very complicated drink at the bar and we have a five course meal. Later that evening, I witness (only the second to do so!) an amazing, white-gloved mono e mono presentation of The Photographer’s lifework which is truly relevant, rich and astounding. At 2:45 AM I know exactly what everyone means by how the hours pass when engaged in a conversation with this creature.

The Photographer hopes to hit up the Rose Bowl Flea Market but he is a week early so we go to the wonky one in Santa Clarita which proves super windy and an overall bust, aside from a handful of flashbulbs and a Marilyn Monroe magazine. We eat at the trendy place with good food and purple-haired patrons. The Photographer orders steak and eggs. I find this choice to be retro. We hit up the independent bookstore so he can peruse antiquities for his spawn-expert. After two hours, he emerges with a few selections, a rare book about Bohemia, the highlight. He lived it, after all.

Back at the pad I am uber-tired, having squeezed a lifetime of art-worthiness into 24 hours and counting. I embark on a siesta and fall asleep watching THE ILLUSIONIST which is entertaining, in a non-consequential sense. Somehow The Photographer has accumulated the vim of a continent and in the evening we motor into suburbia where he gets sucked into the Dollar Bookstore and finds a choice ethnographic tome. I also end up with an armload of books and am, for the second time today, reminded why I am not allowed to take a credit card into a bookshop. (The first time resulting in a beautiful, but expensive, book about beadwork around the world.)

We eat a lot of tofu and vegetables at the Chinese restaurant and catch a late-night screening of THERE WILL BE BLOOD. We are both impressed with Daniel Day Lewis and find the film to be a quality work, in a strange way. (For example, instances abound where the characters actions are so ludicrous and wrong they’re comical yet somehow the film retains its validity. Also the music is an entire creature in and of itself. Rare kudos, electronica!)

Alas, this would be lame if it were a fairytale and The Photographer must press on to find a studio in which to bake more incredible projects than humanly possible (I’m working on a theory) and liaise with the movers and shakers of the world. Before he leaves, he makes a phone call and just about secures me some future digs up north and a future BFF. My brain is entirely overwhelmed. Off The Photographer goes, south and west and north and east.


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