Rosemary By The Sea
I lived alone, a hundred yards from the Pacific Ocean that Rena was afraid of. I owned a hawk. I was seventeen.
As Rosemary drove her rebel teenagers to Los Angeles, I got the impression she did not want her four brats here. We cramped her style. We were rugged Oakland Bohunks, a name she applied to the German branch of our family from where Victor hail. Victor? Is that a Slavic name? Rosemary was a L.A. Woman born in Ventura By The Sea. She went to UCLA in Westwood, and conceived me on Greenwood just down the street. She had gone on a couple of dates with the actor, Errol Flynn, and begged Victor to stay down south.
My mother was going to try to get Vic in a Hollywood movie, as an extra, until he got discovered. He was mistaken for Jimmy Stewart coming out of the Westwood theatre. Victor William Presco was born in San Francisco. His father was a professional gambler. Rosemary got her Gone With the Wind stencil out, and framed my father as the next Clark Gable – because he had swept her off her feet after knocking out a Naval Officer.
“I hate L.A. It’s full of phonies!” growls my father.
Rosemary knew this would be my opinion – the minute she drove her Ford Anglia under that walkway that leads to Santa Monica Beach.
“Is this where all the phonies live, that Victor told us about?” ask her fifteen year old Beatnik Son who is sporting a swank Errol Flynn chin-hair, thing.
Rosemary loved the shit out of La La Land. She was a L.A. Mermaid, one of the Neriads. She grew up with four beautiful Neriads in Ventura. Mary, June, Bonnie, Lillian, and Rosemary had soft blue sea-vibes about them. The biggest mistake my mother ever made, was getting in bed with Victor up in Seatle, and then marrying the Son-of-a-Bitch! So, she made it clear when we got onto Santa Monica Boulevard, that she wasn’t going to take any Northern Bullshit from us, because, we reminded her of – him! We ruined her childhood ambience. He took away all her innocence, and left her with Four Reminders.
“You’re just like your father. But, I see my father in you, also!”
“And where does Greg dwell………………..mother?”
I told my Doctor and the young female therapist she sent me to that I should have never read that lousy biography of my famous sister, written by a phonie who was hired by other phonies.
“This total stranger tackles the Extreme Identity Crisis my family owned, and he leaves us more fucked up than we ever were – for an eternity! He demonizes the Famous Dead Artist, and, demonizes Our Other Dead! What for?”
“Do you want to hurt him?” she aks with pen and pad at ready.
I calmed down, and tried to explain my feelings.
“Imagine if a total stranger promised he would slime your family in his book, that other strangers hope will be made into a movie so that they will be rich. Would you be alarmed, especially after you read the lies? And then, he calls you – and laughs in your face!”
“Did you get a call from him? Did he laugh in your face?”
I looked at this novice, and gave up. There is no real psychology up in Oregon, because there is no Social Status, except the intricate rules the downtown homeless people employ as taught to them by their masked and dangerous anarchist advocates.
“Are you video taping me?”
“May I ask why?”
Ken Kesey outlawed mental illness in the State I now live in, with his famous book. I made the mistake of telling several therapists that I had been on the bus. Millions of sane folks watched Stormy Daniels slime our crazy President on T.V. and, then they ask;
“Is this true? What does it all mean? Will this hurt the President – and the Nation? How about me? Will I lose my job at Walmart? I feel queasy, sick to my stomach. I must get to somewhere safe. I must hide. I feel………………….EXPOSED!”
It was the summer of 1961. I marveled at the LAite’s need to go get half-naked by the sea. They loved exposing themselves. They wanted others to have a good, even great opinion of them, even though none of them knew how to carry on a conversation. I executed works of art. I wrote poetry and made existential notes about how I felt being in a commercial artists rendition of a car advertisement. This was a Car Culture, with Swank Balconies and sliding glass doors. Heavy beige curtains conceal the Hot Fornicating. There were tall glass phallic symbols everywhere. Just open one up – and out pop a fresh Erection Jinn!
Phonies fuck like crazy after pulling the chain on their fake hanging Womb Lamps with phony rubies and sapphires on the rim, they all aglow, and wedged in a corner. Phonies hate fucking alone. They want everyone to know they are going to fuck. Check out the image below. Bob has snagged a hot LA chic, and drives her past his neighbors.
“Hello Bob! How are you doing?”
“I’m doing great! I just picked up this blonde dish at the beach. I’m going to close my drapes, put on some Perry Como music, get her drunk – and fuck the hell out of her!”
To be continued
When I came back to California after living in Greenwhich Village for eight months, I got a job at May Company and moved into a studio at the back of a house on Ocean Park Blvd. The year was 1964. I was seventeen. I bought a hawk, and drove the 1958 For Fairlane my uncle Vinnie gave me. I explored Venice that was a mile down the beach but do not recall if I went into the Gas Light.
The house I lived in is the second from the end of the street. My Fairlane was dark and light green like the one on the lower left. This was the life. My boss was going to make me the manager of four art supply stores. Then my ex-girlfriend showed up and bid me to come back to the Bay Area because there was something wonderful going on. She hung with the Beats in Venice when she was sixteen.
I just talked to Joanne in Prague Oklahoma where Meher Baba had a car accident. She told me 200 Baba Lovers from all around the world came to Prague for a Baba Accident Festival. Twenty minutes away, my grandfather had a auto accident in Saint Louis Oklahoma – in a Chevrolet. Did Baba and Royal listen to the same tunes on the car radio? It is said Baba became a big fan of Jim Reeves while crossing America. I would have liked to been in the car with God, at 3:00 AM, the glow of the car radio sweetly singing out brief moral and love tribulations. Country Western Music is huge in India.
Here are videos of the Fairlane Ford that belonged to Marijee and was shipped to India. I used to own one, my first car.