Jack.”
“Ami and I got along fine, once I got over my own prejudice. Not about blacks per se. But I’ve had this sense for a long time that the African American community has special trouble accepting gays. You know, there’s all that working-class macho to deal with, and the street culture, and then they’re already oppressed once, automatically.”
“How did Amilcar deal with you being gay?”
“Better than you.”
“Did I say something?” Jack Liffey was a little taken aback.
“You reacted when you saw me.”
“Whoa. Isn’t it a little disingenuous to dress to shock and then be surprised when people are shocked? That nose ring does make you look like Ferdinand the Bull.”
He laughed quite hard. “That’s the spirit, Jackie. Okay: Ami and I were very different. Maybe that’s why we got along so well. I’m doing cultural studies and he’s history. He wants to be a lawyer”—he gave a shiver of loathing—“probably a senator, and I want to be… oppositional. I think we both learned a lot from each other and respected each other. I grew up in Claremont, so you can imagine how little I knew about the black community before I met Ami. We even double-dated. He and Sherry got a kick out of being with me and Jeff. They were good folks.”
There was a buzz from the back of the apartment, and he jumped up. “Oops, some art’s cooking. I’ve got to turn it over. Be right back.”
Jack Liffey watched him swish a bit as he left, probably just twitting his guest. He got up and opened the door to get some air into the hot, heavy room and then studied the wall again. He could feel his shoulders sticking to damp geometric patches of his shirt.
There was a tall red flocked dog on the floor with a printed notice above it:
DISPLAYING A KITSCH ITEM AS HIGH ART IS NOT A CRITICAL COMMENT ON THE COMMODIFICATION OF ART BUT A MEANS OF RENDERING THE DISTANCE NECESSARY FOR THAT CRITICISM NULL AND VOID.
He’d always disliked making fun of kitsch art, because it was making fun of ordinary people and their tastes, but he couldn’t quite discern the attitude here.
There was a snapshot of a German-looking pub on an uphill cobbled street with the legend CAFÉ VOLTAIRE . Beside it was another of Phelps’ hand-lettered signs: DADA SMASHES THE WORLD, BUT THE PIECES ARE FINE .
“Aha, Dada.” He was back, bare-chested now. Jack Liffey was relieved there were no nipple-rings. “That’s its birthplace in Zurich—I did a pilgrimage.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for avant-gardes, but not a very big one,” Jack Liffey said.
The young man shrugged. “Without them, you’d still be square dancing and listening to cowboys yodeling.”
“Fair enough. Were you double-dating when Amilcar had his run-in with the bikers in Fontana?”
“Oh, yes. I think the whole incident has been overblown though. These Bone Losers are just local morons. They didn’t like seeing me and Jeff together any more than Ami and Sherry.”
“What actually happened?”
“Some insults from one of the guys sitting on a Harley with swastikas all over his arms, but they didn’t reckon on a thin black guy with a black belt. Ami got in his face and goaded him into swinging and then flattened him with one punch. The cops came and separated everybody and there was a lot of we’ll-meet-you-later-in-some-dark-alley swaggering. I hear one of the bikers had connections to the Fourth Reich Skinheads. Now those are guys that make your average biker look like a genius. If brains were shoes, they’d be naked all the way to their knees.”
“Pogo,” Jack Liffey said. The second reference to Pogo in two days.
“Actually, I think it was his pal Howland Owl. You know, when these Fourth Reich foreskinheads decided to go after prominent blacks in LA they sent bomb threats.” He laughed. “These guys were so out of touch, the only blacks they could think of were Rodney King and some forgotten rap singer. Imagine. Threatening to bomb poor Rodney
“Ami and I got along fine, once I got over my own prejudice. Not about blacks per se. But I’ve had this sense for a long time that the African American community has special trouble accepting gays. You know, there’s all that working-class macho to deal with, and the street culture, and then they’re already oppressed once, automatically.”
“How did Amilcar deal with you being gay?”
“Better than you.”
“Did I say something?” Jack Liffey was a little taken aback.
“You reacted when you saw me.”
“Whoa. Isn’t it a little disingenuous to dress to shock and then be surprised when people are shocked? That nose ring does make you look like Ferdinand the Bull.”
He laughed quite hard. “That’s the spirit, Jackie. Okay: Ami and I were very different. Maybe that’s why we got along so well. I’m doing cultural studies and he’s history. He wants to be a lawyer”—he gave a shiver of loathing—“probably a senator, and I want to be… oppositional. I think we both learned a lot from each other and respected each other. I grew up in Claremont, so you can imagine how little I knew about the black community before I met Ami. We even double-dated. He and Sherry got a kick out of being with me and Jeff. They were good folks.”
There was a buzz from the back of the apartment, and he jumped up. “Oops, some art’s cooking. I’ve got to turn it over. Be right back.”
Jack Liffey watched him swish a bit as he left, probably just twitting his guest. He got up and opened the door to get some air into the hot, heavy room and then studied the wall again. He could feel his shoulders sticking to damp geometric patches of his shirt.
There was a tall red flocked dog on the floor with a printed notice above it:
DISPLAYING A KITSCH ITEM AS HIGH ART IS NOT A CRITICAL COMMENT ON THE COMMODIFICATION OF ART BUT A MEANS OF RENDERING THE DISTANCE NECESSARY FOR THAT CRITICISM NULL AND VOID.
He’d always disliked making fun of kitsch art, because it was making fun of ordinary people and their tastes, but he couldn’t quite discern the attitude here.
There was a snapshot of a German-looking pub on an uphill cobbled street with the legend CAFÉ VOLTAIRE . Beside it was another of Phelps’ hand-lettered signs: DADA SMASHES THE WORLD, BUT THE PIECES ARE FINE .
“Aha, Dada.” He was back, bare-chested now. Jack Liffey was relieved there were no nipple-rings. “That’s its birthplace in Zurich—I did a pilgrimage.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for avant-gardes, but not a very big one,” Jack Liffey said.
The young man shrugged. “Without them, you’d still be square dancing and listening to cowboys yodeling.”
“Fair enough. Were you double-dating when Amilcar had his run-in with the bikers in Fontana?”
“Oh, yes. I think the whole incident has been overblown though. These Bone Losers are just local morons. They didn’t like seeing me and Jeff together any more than Ami and Sherry.”
“What actually happened?”
“Some insults from one of the guys sitting on a Harley with swastikas all over his arms, but they didn’t reckon on a thin black guy with a black belt. Ami got in his face and goaded him into swinging and then flattened him with one punch. The cops came and separated everybody and there was a lot of we’ll-meet-you-later-in-some-dark-alley swaggering. I hear one of the bikers had connections to the Fourth Reich Skinheads. Now those are guys that make your average biker look like a genius. If brains were shoes, they’d be naked all the way to their knees.”
“Pogo,” Jack Liffey said. The second reference to Pogo in two days.
“Actually, I think it was his pal Howland Owl. You know, when these Fourth Reich foreskinheads decided to go after prominent blacks in LA they sent bomb threats.” He laughed. “These guys were so out of touch, the only blacks they could think of were Rodney King and some forgotten rap singer. Imagine. Threatening to bomb poor Rodney
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