west washington had a name change during my absence of nearly twenty long years abbott kinney snuck in adding its own modern ardour to the venice sideshow while subtracting more of my rememberance of the past from its new equation..
the monied color smell of green and prosperity now covers those once-crumbling sidewalks erasing the memory of the old impoverished west washington blvd. now the newly-named puffs up its chest like a strutting peacock and wears its namesake’s moniker with pride the scent of new cash reeks lays as pungent as the grapevines that replaced apple blossoms here in the northbay smirking, tossing sideways glances out of the corners of its eyes it stared at me a new street, sure of its shifty self and certain that it got away with something this trendy abbott kinney sits sleek and shiny wrapped up in all the coffee house modern coolness that its five blocks could possibly muster up for show, it sat entwined in this new era of 2000 ish hip, showing off its pretty face while the stench of poverty forced to the backdrop stood still visible around its tarnished edges in spite of all attempts to glam it up with a thin layer of LA’s finest make-up, west washington/abbott kinney still looked slightly unsure of its own destination……
the studio still stood, to my surprise surviving multiple earth quaking, rattling and rolling even the crumbling brick wasn’t crumbling anymore and it stood, freshly painted with new-ish woodwork looking like a smaller cartoon version than i’d remembered and minus the 1940’s ad that once blanketed its tattered sides in all its faded glory…some genius must have decided to paint over it in brick color a cleaner line erasing more history so that all that used to be could be wiped clean from another old venice slate
in the 70’s, this building was simply another cheap, vacant falling down dump the studios, we called them our middle one of three held no art but that of machineryand tools to create eventual wooden beauties….also tucked away within the studio walls was a stack of hidden notebooks and two, maybe three secret journals filled with poetry and writings some overflowing with the angst of lost love all scrawled for no others eyes to see and in a much younger hand..
saws roared out their own brand of art in the front of the studio a dead harley’s guts lay splayed on dirty newspaper its shiny innards in constant state of surgical repose while three long, sturdy wooden tables held center court standing heavy ready for the occasional lathing for chuck’s woodworking … wood turned to beauty on sharp steel cut smooth wall and stair design for wealthy beverly hills housewives whose symphony directing husbands stayed unaware of their shameless flirting with the long-haired workers on site..the studio’s walls grinned as tales of wealth and boredom and unpaid bills eventually brought the workhouse saws to silence the work dried up like the smiles on the scorned wive’s faces..
we weren’t the only inhabitants of this broken space roaches the size of gophers had permanent resident status in a never-used, ancient broken stove in the back ‘ living’ area and when they scurried too close we threw nightly tea parties for them no white gloves and pretty china cups only an inevitable midnite scald, the water’s heat heading them off at the pass from and out of our immediate, stoned out line of vision …
in the corner stood an old sparklett’s water cooler filled with red mountain vin rose’ which yes we drank from like thirsty fools cattle to the trough a circle of old funky chairs wrapped their torn arms around a makeshift phone company cable spool coffee table that was covered in dripping candle wax and there, we laughed and laughed the night away like hyenas while music blared from the small stereo in the corner, blasting and echoing the tunes of the day sound richocheted off the high concrete walls while volume was set and never controlled..
when nightime fell, two of us climbed an old rickety ladder to sleep in upstairs loft ledge on a small mattress another one of us slept, ravaged by dream snippets caught between nightmares of a war that had chewed up his innocence and spit him out newly returned from uncle sam’s freebee tour of vietnam we watched him sometimes from above, as he tossed and turned in the night his memories of killing fields and tortured deaths strangling his sleep’s peace he remained the one in the studio with little to laugh about.. the exception was the foolish grin he wore when the venice post office brought word of the final return of a soldier’s duffle bags unbeknowst to our civil servants, the multiple pounds of killer weed shipped back from the mekong delta had arrived safe and sound a parting gift and timely arrival put that grin on and the happy back…
for the first six months the upstairs evening dancers came naked feet pounded on the studio ceiling ’til all hours a modern dance troupe perfecting their art were our invisible neighbors heard but never seen while the wild dykes fighting at all hours in front of their bar across the street, did their own sort of dance hidden in the dark of the night and early morning, they slipped quietly into their private watering hole until last call brought some out brawling into the streets usually over the last cutie standing hoping for love..
we beat a constant path between art/studio space and 27th avenue taking shortcuts through the canals and over the bridge to a kind sister’s pad at the beach necessary showers and home cooked meals were shared each day domino bones slapped ’round tabletops after a family meal and this, a true and comfy ‘home’ provided respite from the studio’s constant feel of boy’s club/
awhile later the new upstairs neighbors moved in music and bass line thump replaced the stomping feet tim from the old days of ocean park blvd and richmond’s bookstore moved upstairs with wife and young kid… then eventually, the stench of discord and relationship screamin’ added to the din a heavy unhappiness lay across the studio’s ceiling like a thick new rug while a torrid sadness quietly became the new dance steps unheard the occasional blare of a weird jazz horn yowled into the night and soon after, only lonely silence remained…
i heard tim died too another upstairs casualty one strong hit that took him out of this world with a needle stuck in the flesh of his too-thin arm he OD’d taking his brilliant musical genius off to another plane then years later his son as a young man in his own newly discovered and talented rite took a late-night swim in the murky swirling shadows of the mississippi river and disappeared too soon at the height of his own brief buckley legend a sad hallelujah
we from the studio survived those days and eventually gave up the space and headed back to the avenues for a seventy-five dollar a month pad at the beach……venice’s ease and magic was slowly losing its shine friends were moving to big sur northern ca and washington while small islands in the pacific beckoned with tales of white sands turquoise seas and pristine valleys rumors whispered on the soft lips of wayward tradewinds from fellow travelers who spoke of a new and still pristine paradise and many of us listened knowing a change was in the air…the venice we knew was becoming more and more unrecognizable and looking over your shoulder on once comfortable streets was the new state of the art…
yes, we paid attention and listened as the death knoll of impending doom
tolled loudly reminding us that what was once feelin’ like home
was about to reinvent itself and it increased these forlorn dirge-like tones
and hallelujah…
we escaped just in time
