“Anthony Aquarius plugs in his battery-powered amplifiers, straps his electric guitar on upside down and belts out Jimmy Hendrix songs to startled passersby. He performs on the Hollywood Walk of Fame about a block from where Hendrix’s own star is encased in the sidewalk’s terrazzo.” - LA Times
Though they do spell Jimi as “Jimmy,” great pictures/great story.
Thanks to Brosher for the link!
I was upstairs in our office doing officey things like updating my blog this morning when my mother knocks on the door. Irritated, I ask her what she wants. Can’t she hear the tip-tapping of the keys - the sound of important things being thought and typed about in here? Sheesh. She informs me that there is a small child playing in our backyard and she doesn’t know what to do.
Poor Sandy, totally delusional, I think as I roll my eyes and proceed to look at what I am sure is a dog or a giant squirrel or something she has mistaken for a child. Nope. There is a child throwing a ball in the air and climbing about on this sun-faded plaything monstrosity my niece abandoned a while ago.
We ask his name, where he walked from, anything and he doesn’t respond. At one point he runs to the driveway and we think he’s going to dart, but he just tries to throw the ball through the basketball goal and runs back to the yard to play next to the dog pen. At one point he climbs up the deck stairs and stumbles. He wails.
Not knowing what to do, I called my father because fathers always know how to handle situations, like barbecue grilling and what do do with errant shoeless 3-year-olds.
He tries to get the kid to talk, but nothing doing. He asks the kid to come sit on the front porch, instructs me to get him a popsicle.
I bring out a pink Pop Ice - arguably the best flavor - and the kid bites off pieces while my mom and dad hold it for him. I like that my parents react to a strange child much in the same way they might approach a homeless and hungry cat.
I call the police, but meanwhile my dad investigates by talking to the mail carrier and jogs across the street and a few houses away. A lady almost runs him over with her car. She is looking for her son. We have found him! we are proud to report. We have given him a popsicle! we gloat. She cries a little and says thank you and leaves without explaining what happened.
The cop arrives 15 minutes later, suspicous, and goes to the other house to make sure everything is on the up-and-up.
I keep thinking about his sweet little face and the way he said bye, no doubt planning his return to the magical world of plastic playthings and popsicles.
Excerpt:
“The editor of Vanity Fair received a letter from Singer requesting, ‘in the strongest of possible terms,’ that I be removed from the story … I sent Singer an e-mail that said, Nice try, but if you think I’m going to be taken off this story, it isn’t going to happen … Singer fired off another letter to the magazine accusing me of ‘threatening’ them. He closed by saying, ‘In the 21st Century, these are not the actions of a credible and responsible journalist.’
That’s when I decided to sneak in.” - Alex Shoumatoff in his May 2009 Vanity Fair article about the Bohemian Club.
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Though the article focuses on the logging practices of the club, I’m more interested in the club itself, whose membership has included Mark Twain, two former members of the Grateful Dead, Jack London and Richard Nixon.
