Patou

Patou Cheval at Starbucks in Phoenix, Arizona

Meet Patou Cheval, I did at Starbucks today. But this wasn’t simply meeting someone for the first time, I have known Patou for about 8 years. Not that you could call us friends, our meetings have all been in the realm of chance encounters. Today though, this became downright strange. You see, I first met Patou with her husband, she was pregnant. I was watching my friend Sonal’s Indian grocery when this couple came in and the 3 of us spent some time talking. It is on the rare occasions that Sonal asks me to step in to watch the store for a few hours, or maybe a day. It was again on one of those days that Patou came in with her mom with her newborn daughter.

Some years would pass before on some random day when I was picking up lunch for Caroline that I see Patou in the vitamin shop, where she was working. I stopped to say hi and was quickly off. Again a year or 2 passes and I’m in Whole Foods shopping and guess who is working in the non-foods section? Yep, Patou. I saw here again another couple of times and then a couple of years of nothing. A little more than a year or thereabouts, Caroline and I were leaving Paradise Valley Mall, and guess who should be walking into the mall at the same entry/exit we are using? Right, it was Patou, but this time with her two daughters. We talked a while and said goodbye.

Now here we are a year later and maybe 8 miles from our last chance encounter. I had just sat down to work on my book and over my shoulder, I think I am recognizing someone’s voice – sure enough, it is Patou. We were both astounded and agreed there was something peculiar about how this has now happened nearly half-a-dozen times since our first hello of 8 years ago. Caroline, Patou, and I have sent tentative plans to meet for dinner, how much you want to bet the best-made plans never come to fruition, and 2 years down the road, we’ll run into each other while on vacation in another state?

The American Dream

Maria and Nelson Tello, owners of a local donkey shack.

This is Maria and Nelson, they are the new owners of a local fast-food Mexican restaurant as of today. Yesterday they were workers at this place, now they are living the American dream. Not that this was their big dream, but it is an opportunity to work hard, put some money away, and maybe have a better chance and making something that speaks to their creativity. Nelson and Maria have been friends of ours for over five years now and over that time Nelson has made great progress as a photographer and the occasional graphic designer. Maria has ventured into short video tutorials about makeup and flirted with some photography too. I know their real interests are in the arts and technology, not in working a grill and doing dishes, but we all start somewhere. I wish the two of them much luck.

Tucson Again

Hotel Congress in Tucson, Arizona

Hotel Congress is the place to be.
Criminal livin’ is the life for me.
Jail spreadin’ out so far and wide.
Keep that freedom; just give me John Dillinger.

So it doesn’t much rhyme, so what? It was the first jingle that came to mind, and I’m not about to give any considerable time to writing the opening to a blog entry that really just needs to tell you that we stayed at Hotel Congress, where John Dillinger was arrested along with his gang and sent back to Indiana. Eventually, he broke out of jail there and continued his crime spree, never to return to Tucson.

Cup of Coffee

The day started with coffee, from the same cup John Dillinger drank coffee from back in 1934. We sat at the same table Dillinger ate breakfast at before shooting the place up. I had my eggs, bacon, and toast the same way Dillinger had them fixed, and then I took a much-needed leak in the same toilet Dillinger did before he shot it, too. I went back for more coffee and decided to shoot up the place myself, then left for a bank and robbed it – Dillinger style. After returning to the hotel, it caught fire, I leapt from the window, but the coppers nabbed me and sent me back to Indiana, where I escaped from jail to grab a coffee at a local coffee shop at a nearby hotel before shooting my cup of coffee while eating breakfast, pissing, shooting, and robbing in a cycle that had the feeling of a déjà vu. Then I had a coffee.

Tattooed man on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

Lenny…a guy who should inspire us in our dumber moments to not make characterizations of people we have no idea of who exactly they are.

Scene from the 4th Avenue Winter Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

Free hugs, now there’s something we need more of. Suppose I wouldn’t have had to turn to a life of bank robbery hanging out with people like Pete had I known more hugs, but today is not a day for hugs. I’m fueled up on coffee and ready to look into the eye of mankind and tackle issues larger than the petty emotional needs of love and acceptance. I’m on a quest to answer questions that take things to the next level.

Angry cigar smoking Santa Claus in Tucson, Arizona

I’m in Alternative-Ville Tucson, and this is Biker Claus chilling while his stable of Harleys gets outfitted with his sleigh before delivering spark plugs to all the good bikers on his naughty list.

A blur of people

Back to my quest. I have been looking for that thing, that essence, that characteristic of non-conformity called real character. Its appearance is fleeting and rarely found. The 1980s gave way to generic Wal-Mart, and Republicans defined total conformity. The majority of people around me are little more than reflections of some popular TV show, their favorite sports team, and the vernacular of idiots created by media to be used by morons little equipped to find their own voice. Defining one’s style is out. Finding your mind, the meaning of life, or exploring new frontiers is the domain of 60’s sci-fi reruns but not of any interest to the current age. I often find myself lamenting the American people’s rapid trajectory to nowhere and asking, “What happened to individuality?” But today, I figured it out; it is dead, and that’s really no problem. Months ago, I may have found this troubling, turns out that my trip to the Grand Canyon helped provide sense to the tragedy. You see, what was wrong with my search for signs of the individual looking for unique self-expression is that this was a nostalgic desire from a guy who has never had much patience for all that nostalgic stuff. I was looking for the inspiration that I felt when I was much younger – today, it just does not exist for me anymore. Here’s where the Grand Canyon comes into play: people are like individual grains of sand, and instead of these folks growing and evolving to form new sandcastles, they have, in a sense – become extinct. They are becoming part of a new layer of sandstone, a part of a fossilizing conglomerate where an individual grain is of no real interest. Each grain is part of the bigger object needing to be seen as a whole that is being eroded, weathered, aged, stained, and reformed as a monolithic representation of a time past lost in the historical record. So I am now left with the task of changing my focus to learn how to see anew, to not search for life in stone, or to expect the petrified remains of what was, to find reanimation.

Caroline Wise eating on the street in Tucson, Arizona

As I shared my newfound vision with Caroline she doubled over nauseous that I should see myself so elevated above the mass of humanity. Retching uncontrollably, my wife stuck her fingers down her throat, and like a priest of a whacky backwoods religion who reaches into the body to remove a tumor, she began to pull out god-knows-what from her mouth. WTF! Oh, wait, this might be the picture of her eating a burrito, my bad.

Joe Cunningham and Rainy Heath in Tucson, Arizona

This is Joe Cunningham, who was smart enough not to be shoving food into his mouth when I was hovering with the camera just inches from his face. The same cannot be said for Ms. Rainy Heath, who knows how to slurp and gobble like a surly wench – as she’s doing in the background. Of course, these three had totally different experiences than my much cooler adventures. They did things like shop for stuff, browse the arts and crafts from the vendors of the 4th Avenue Winter Street Fair, talk with the sellers, and drink Whoopass while I had all the fun.

Sunset on Interstate Ten between Tucson and Phoenix, Arizona

And then there was sunset. We drove home. Night came. Rainy and Joe retired to their respective homes that are not ours. Caroline and I then teleported to a galaxy where we sought out alien life, explored, and traveled where no man had gone before. It was the final frontier and Caroline’s 43rd birthday.

Tucson?

Ukulele Catfish Keith peforming on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

Ukulele Catfish Keith playing kazoo and ukulele in Tucson (click the link on the left to watch the video) at the 4th Avenue Winter Street Fair. That’s where we found ourselves this weekend to escape the ever-present global warming condition of boredom that has overtaken Phoenix. Maybe with excessive heat and dry summers where monsoons no longer find enjoyment in dropping their rain on the curmudgeonly people of America’s fifth-largest city, the folks that live in the northern desert have had the love of life baked out of their ever-shrinking raisiny minds?

Looking north on 4th Avenue at the 41st Annual Arts & Craft Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

From the size of the crowd and the conversations eavesdropped, it was obvious that many a Phoenician had the same plan of action we did – get out. Just two hours south and funk has been put back on the map. Where has all my conformity gone? Why have they allowed these old shops to remain open with independent owners trying to sell their inferior American-made crafts and services that went out of style so long ago? We people from the north cannot even remember if a product of this type really ever existed. We strode for hours through these crowds without a single chain store in sight; it was Depravity Day in Tucson.

Musician performing on 4th Avenue at the 41st Annual Arts & Craft Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

What, hippies? Long hairs playing instruments in the fashion of buskers on the street making music? What’s next, Tucson, love-ins, marijuana, art movies, CULTURE??? I saw no less than a few policemen walk right by this guy without even pausing to throw him the evil eye. Well, trust me here, and believe me later, in my mind’s eye, I spit on this girly man with the fake mustache. People from Phoenix would never stand for this kind of decadence. I think it’s high time we slice off the good state of Arizona south of Casa Grande and give it to Mexico.

Long exposure of the crowd on 4th Avenue at the 41st Annual Arts & Craft Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

Ok, I think I’m starting to get into the vibe as the day got later, but as evidenced by this photo, I am starting to believe that there must be LSD in the water because not only did we not drive right home, but even the photos I was taking began to disembody themselves from my view of reality. What was Tucson doing to me? Could it have been that girthy wiener of considerable heft that Joe and I had gladly stuffed between our lips earlier – each our own, mind you, as I wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a wiener with Joe, or any other man for that matter? That must have been it; we’d been drugged by an evil $8 wiener laced with god knows what. How else could someone justify charging that much for a dog?

Rainy Heath on 4th Avenue at the 41st Annual Arts & Craft Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

And then it comes on hard. The world blurs out, and trails radiate in pulses with cascades of flowing color. The human form shifts and goes all monsterish. Rainy’s teeth elongate before her clothes morph into a latex body wrap that starts doing its own thing that is better left untold due to its rather exotic nature that should only happen in the world of dreams.

Joe Cunningham on 4th Avenue at the 41st Annual Arts & Craft Street Fair in Tucson, Arizona

No, Joe, not the eye of the crab. I don’t want to know what comes next. White light has already started flowing from his left ear and cheek; his one good eye is talking to me in silent acknowledgment that in seconds, what is about to come next will “Belie Urgency’s Known Arcanely as Kata-Eugenics,” loosely translated as “he who gives false impression of the need of man to exercise the rituals of improving the hereditary qualities of his breed through coming to grips with the crab claw of life-giving waters” – who comes up with this stuff? I scream, dude, I’m not into your modern primitive, pierced, and tattooed culture just let me go.

Caroline Wise, Rainy Heath, and Joe Cunningham in an elevator across the street from Hotel Congress in Tucson, Arizona

Next thing I know we must be on the elevator to hell because this journey to Tucson shows no mercy in where it is taking me. Into the bowels of Satan’s lair, we descend. For this brief moment prior to what will likely be considerable pain and discomfort, life feels normal. The stainless steel box is plain. There are no adornments or weirdos here with us. But unlike in Phoenix, where, if we were going to hell, I would think would be warming up, it is strangely cool, pleasant even.

Caroline Wise, Rainy Heath, Joe Cunningham at the Surly Wench on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

The doors open to a retro black-and-white world Joe and Rainy seem familiar with; they call it the Surly Wench. Music blares from the past; is that Siouxsie and the Banshees? No one listens to Siouxsie and the Banshees anymore. Oh my god, the Clash??? The walls are painted black, there are no energy drinks, and people are drinking beer. I think we even passed a jukebox – WHAT IS THIS PLACE?

Joe Cunningham playing pool at the Surly Wench on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

Walking outside helps, not a squat; it may have made matters worse. Joe is playing pool, and so is Rainy, since when does my wife play pool? Sure, she has a crap form, but my nerdy knitter has given up the needles, which would make for poor cue sticks, and has firmly grasped the shaft and butt and is aiming the tip at the cue ball. We don’t play pool, what’s next, World of Warcraft?

Rainy Heath and Joe Cunningham at the Surly Wench on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

I think the worst of being in Tucson might be approaching an end; tater-tots, hot and greasy, have been delivered. Who knew that those little tater-tots could taste so good? Better order a second basket. The music hasn’t improved a bit; nostalgia is not my cup of tea, and the devil must know it. Is this Peter Murphy we’re listening to?

Caroline Wise and John Wise at the Surly Wench on 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

I stopped to take Caroline’s and my photo. If this is not truly hell but a reversal of time where nostalgia travels into what was painted in black and white, maybe in the photograph, I will see that I am getting younger and thinner. Strange, I look happy down here, but am certainly not younger, not thinner, and not only is the hair still gray so is the rest of me. Except for those red glittery shoes, I suddenly become aware of down on my feet under the table as I begin to tap them…

The Loft Cinema in Tucson, Arizona

We are teleported back to reality, where we don’t find ourselves in Kansas but at The Loft Cinema. Stepping inside, we buy tickets to the next movie about to play, which just so happens to be Duke Mitchell’s Gone With The Pope from 1976. Far-out movie for a far-out day if you ask me. OK, wtf, is it legal to laugh at this stuff? Whose crazy idea was it to drag this movie out of the toilet of nostalgia? Grindhouse Releasing must be Tarantino. Nope, this masterpiece of exploitation was resurrected by Sage Stallone and Bob Murawski – that’s right, the same famous Bob Murawski who edited Spider-Man 1, 2, and 3. I’d like to tell you about the scene that references Brillo pads or the one where our hero is going to take vengeance for Nazi atrocities, but those guilty laughs are better experienced by the intrepid moviegoer who isn’t standing in line for the midnight opener of Twilight. Not bad for our first day in Tucson.

Pillow Talking The Devil

Artist Dion Terry holding his most recent work, Pillow Talking The Devil - photo taken in San Diego, California on October 1, 2010

Sitting in San Diego, California, with his newest work, “Pillow Talking The Devil,” is Navajo artist Dion Terry. His newest piece is also my newest acquisition, as when I saw the snapshot of the completed canvas on Facebook, I gave him a call, telling him it was sold to me. I got in the car to drive five and a half hours from Phoenix to San Diego for the express purpose of collecting this extraordinary painting. I arrived early enough for Dion, Tassia, and me to share lunch at the beach and visit a hidden garden before exchanging cash for art.

My interpretation of Dion’s “Pillow Talking The Devil” is that he has painted a self-portrait of sorts, a powerful and inspiring image that, in the years to come, will prove to be one of his greatest works. The fierce raven is only a part of Dion, with his worn body marked with moments from his past, graffitied and tattooed. Over his head is a halo of innocence, which I regard as his questioning of nature and trying to deal with the subject at hand: honesty. In hand is the snake, also known as the devil. In the Navajo belief system, the snake is inherently evil; it is the devil. The snake is not only in hand confronting Dion it is also a yoke around his neck. So maybe it’s his beliefs that are a burden that he’s trying to confront. This introspection is made all the more vulnerable in that his chest is wide-open and his heart exposed as if to imply that, “I challenge you to prove you are more than a chimera. I think it might be that you simply enslave me with fear, and if I am to truly know myself and my heart, I must ascend and throw off this yoke of mythological superstition while I attend to exploring the heavens through my art – but first, I must pillow talk this devil before me, I must overcome.”

Regardless of what its true meaning may ultimately be, if there even is one, I feel that Dion is on a path of creativity that is uniquely his and is on the cusp of breaking through the art world’s exclusive fortress.

A Day in Tucson

Joe and Rainy at the Surly Wench of 4th Avenue in Tucson, Arizona

With some free time available today and a tinge of boredom, the road south delivered us to Tucson. Also included in our world of possibilities this Thursday was a side trip to San Xavier Mission, maybe the Titan Missile Museum, and some other sights around Tucson; instead, we got stuck on 4th Avenue for a day of shopping. The lament for the day is the old tired song about why is there nothing like this in the Phoenix area. Mill Avenue in Tempe lost its funk long ago; the giant malls are generic corporate shells with a dozen empty stores and more people walking for exercise than shopping. But Tucson still has its funk on with small independent shops selling tattoos, platform shoes, drug paraphernalia, used clothes, new clothes, lots of  Frida Khalo-inspired art and images, and beer. The fact of the matter was that we had to shop until 5:00 because it wasn’t until this hour that the Surly Wench Pub opened, and we weren’t leaving Tucson without a visit to the Wench. Good thing we made the pilgrimage because as we walked through those black doors down the wood floor to the bar, Starfish from Bikini Kill was playing, and behind us, on the lone TV high overhead, they were showing Human Centipede. There could be no doubt this was going to be the perfect endpoint to the day.