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Published: March 1st 2011
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James Michael Jewell
A recent-ish photo of my late cousin When I returned from Vietnam I found a strange text message on my phone saying that my cousin had died. Mike was a kind of Big Lobowski character who lived in Venice Beach. He didn't allow ambition to run his life, and I admired that. I learned that he had become pathologically withdrawn over the past few years. Although we were once close, I hadn't spoken to him in years. He died alone in his apartment. Apparently his heart just stopped.
Determined to have one last reunion, I'm in Venice for Mike's memorial service.
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I came down a few days early to catch
Robin Mitchell's opening at the
Craig Krull Gallery. Robin is a well-established LA artist who happens to be my ex-wife's cousin. She introduces me as her cousin, then explains that we are not really related, adding, "ironically, he's one of my favorite relatives!"
I'm renting a room from Robin's friend, Barbara, an artist who has lived in the same two-bedroom attic for 38 years! Its chief feature is that it's half a block from the Venice Boardwalk. Barbara is 71, although she wears tight leather pants and looks like she could be 41. When I was
Picket Fence
Barbara in front of her house in Venice. a kid my mother brought my sister and me to Venice to get our portraits done by a street artist. She warned us about the beatniks we would see (I think it was this remark that catapulted my life-long fascination with counter-cultures.) By my calculation, Barbara could have been one of the beatniks we passed in the street that day. (Barbara wants me to say that she was/is a Bohemian and not a Beatnik. But "Beatnik" sounds funnier.)
Until 1:30 in the morning Barbara entertained me with endless rapid-fire stories about her throngs of weird artist friends. All geniuses, she assured me. Like the guy who fillets road kill, then glues their bones to the bones of other dead animals to create new kinds of dead animals; the woman who is allergic to electricity; or the guy who took so much LSD that he grew a cone head. He made an artistic hat to cover his anomalous skull. Later, he was visited by The Space Four (didn't ask). They told him he would never be poor if he made more hats. Today the hats are in high demand and fetch princely sums.
Barbara and I walked down
Abbott Kinney In my room
My room in Venice Boulevard looking for lunch. Five years ago we surely would have been raped, robbed, and murdered walking down this same street, but since that time each shop has been replaced by a trendier shop at least ten times over. We walked by the jewelry shop where Lindsay Lohan supposedly swiped a necklace. We passed Intelligentsia Coffee. People say it's worth the price: $10/cup! We passed a row of fusion cuisine food trucks, LA's newest icon. At a hamburger joint we were told that the wait was only 45 minutes for a party of two.
We finally settled on a Japanese bakery that makes post modern cakes and candies. I bought a box of candies for Robin that were made out of caramel and salt, lots of salt, which apparently is some new confectionery trend. It cost $20 for four aspirin-sized pieces. If they had cost a penny less I would have been disappointed.
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That night Robin's opening was packed with chic LA types; no Birkenstocks here. There were a few minor celebs: a guy who was in the Doors and some famous sports broadcaster. Everyone looked like a movie star to me. I spent a long
Robin
Robin posing in front of her work at the gallery time staring at Robin's art. Using gouache paint on paper, she draws a series of multi-colored horizontal lines. In the foreground, contrasting the message of the horizontal lines, are giant chrysanthemum shapes, or maybe they're sea urchins, or exploding sky rockets. Standing in front of each piece I struggled to find something recognizable: a house, a horsie, a moo cow. I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with me. (The next day, at my request, Robin gave me an enlightening lesson on the evolution of her recent work.)
After the show a bunch of Robin's eccentric friends (she and Barbara know the same people) all went to a taco bar located in a squat, windowless cinder block building in a dark industrial neighborhood. The Mexicans who worked there didn't blink when a crowd of culture mavens wearing all black filed through their front door. After all, it's the new hot place. We were probably lucky to get seated.
Angelinos are really good at ordering Mexican food. My burrito looked stupid and tasteless next to the saucy concoctions they ordered. After dinner Robin broke out the post modern candy. She cut each of the tiny pieces in half and offered
Lew
Barbara's friend Lew performed in theater and movies as a child and now imports the stuff he's wearing from Bali. It was great watching the Oscars with him. them up. Her friends climaxed with pleasure as they slowly savored their molecules of salt and caramel. The wisdom of my $20 purchase was confirmed.
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I watched the Oscars with Barbara and her friend Lew, who performed on stage and in films as a teenager. They knew everything about everyone in the audience. They knew about ex-spouses, current spouses of ex-spouses, drinking problems of current spouses of ex-spouses. It was a tour de force. Curiously, when I asked Lew which nominated movies he liked, he said, "Oh, I don't watch movies."
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My cousin's memorial was held this evening at the
Sidewalk Cafe on the Venice Boardwalk. Mike worked there for many years. Jan, Mike's sister-in-law, arranged a buffet. She invited her family and hoped that Mike's friends, if he had any, would show up.
Shortly after the food was served scruffy homeless people lined up at the buffet. At first we thought they were trying to steal our buffalo wings, but they turned out to be Mike's friends (and not scruffy and homeless, or at least not homeless.) In fact, they were articulate and insightful. They told alarming stories about the last years of
Try this, Jon
Barbara demonstrates the yoga posture of the day in her hall. I was sort of able to do it. Mike's life. Angry, depressed, and withdrawn, he avoided his friends. He locked himself in his apartment, came out only at night, and wouldn't open the door to anyone. Hearing these stories, I wanted to go back in time and erase his pain. But when would I set the dial to? How far back in time would I need to go?
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Maria MacDougall
non-member comment
Howdy Jon!
Jon, I am so sorry to hear of your cousin passing away. Do you remember me? We spoke for 8 or more hours on that infamous plane ride from LA to London. I live in Tustin, which isn't too far from Venice, where you are staying. How long will you be in LA? Maria