lost and found

My friend Adrienne posted a great photo she took of a gutted drive-thru menu from the shuttered Kwik-Way hamburger joint in our Oakland neighborhood. I recalled learning about someone else’s affected nostalgia for this spot that was, for me, just a wrinkled old rhino near its end.

Over a Thanksgiving weekend a few years ago, I was riding back to Oakland on the bus at night. I met an aged hippie named Art Bizarre who grew up in Oakland in the 1950s and 1960s. He had not been back here for awhile and was really excited to see the Kwik-Way still lit up and hopping.

Art said, “I used to run across that park there near the lake to go get a hamburger at that place. That was in 1969. Man.”

“Where have you been?”, I asked.

Art was an Artist. He lived in a small town in the mountains of Northern California where he made his art. I suspected, however, that he made more profit by growing green weeds than selling objets d’art.

He described how his family was angry at him for being the enigmatic uncle. After tuning them out for several years, he dropped in at Thanksgiving without warning. He had no respect for their lifestyle and enjoyed visiting them at his own free will rather than by obligation.

When I said that my bus stop was coming up, he offered to get off with me to share a joint. Imagining Art Bizarre’s free will exercised on my couch for the next three weeks, I politely turned down his offer.

I asked, “Where are you gonna get off, Art? This bus goes to the Oakland airport.”

Art said, “I think I’l go hang out there.”

I said, “At the airport? I’m not sure you’ll enjoy it much anymore.”

This was a post-911 world. He didn’t realize that you can’t just go to the airport, smoke a joint and hang out.

While I was parting, Art exclaimed, “Hey check out my band: Cosmic Dissonance!”

“OK, ya. I’ll look out for you guys.”

Google turned up nothing of Art Bizarre and his band. I respect someone who is really that far off the grid. Art assumed, however, that I would somehow be able to “check out” his band. I’ll take that assumption as a compliment.

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Victor chided me one night because our subscribers have no clue who the hell I am. I have little motivation to show off my wares. Cheers to wrinkled old rhinos making precious things you’ll never see and playing in bands you’ll never hear.