The name conjures. Up. Images. Of Long Lost
Child Hoods.
It's a campus, it's a "native learning center". It's
drums whistles, long expresso's, people who don't belong, people
who wished they belonged, peoples' lost belongings.
And other assorted baggage.
I lost my hope, my convenience, my longing, my brown suede
suit, my hypocrisy, my toenails. They're all on a poster
on the corner of 1st and Venerables. See you there.
I can
go no further on this Sacred Journey without Liquor Store Fish
Paint. Okay listen: I went
to a Sweat Lodge; ordered a 26-er of Something, then got some ginger-ale,
some LSD,
and some Fish Sticks. Not in that order. Then I decided
I was a "native" of something or other. I couldn't
help it. We ate something and smoked something, and it's
all on that goddam wall.
It's both Spiritually-correct and Politically-defect. If
I had a tow truck, I'd tow the whole building away.
It's
a Vietnamese Organic Grocery Gang. It's
a Painted Plumber with No Crack Showing. It's Pablo Fiasco
(who is NOT dead yet puh-leeze!!). It's organic Virtue
Juice showing up in it's platinum and polyester jumpsuit, talking
on its cell phone and driving its SUV. Times of change,
humanity of the disappearing days.
It's a
Dumb Baby. Staring
out of his mother's birth canal. He doesn't want to come out. Was
that not the case for some of us, Charlie? He looks pensive. Like
the movie's about to end before it's begun. It's a fast fetus
in the world of aborted imperitives. Is he watching you or
you watching him?
Musicians
On Fire. Non-Unionized Street Charm. He doesn't
belong to anybody, and nobody belongs to him. His music
is silent, but his nudity screams across the street. A
picture of health, he is losing his "inner skin", trading it
for a more trendy, but less politically-correct Polar Bear Fur
Coat.
He knows winter is coming. And he knows that "Animal Activists"
are too cheap to put a dime in his outstretched cup.