It’s fish fly season in the Pointes:
I think these are very cool, as bugs go — non-biting, non-pooping, mellow and beautiful — but they drive some people crazy. It’s the numbers. There is something a little unnerving about a cloud of huge bugs swarming every light, or even anything vaguely light-colored. Frequently you hear of cars sliding through intersections on a road covered with their carcasses. And then there’s the smell, which is distinctive but not overpowering. They bring the odor of the bottom with them to the surface. To me, it’s the smell of early summer.
This is from Saturday morning, under a security light at ThreeCapitalLetters Bank. I expect there’ll be a new fee for their cleanup on my next statement.
Seeing as how we were discussing him only last week, it seems fitting to kick things off today with the recent unlucky turn of events for the Painter of Light (registered trademark, all rights reserved). Which was? Oh, a little drunky-drivey over the weekend. No word on his BAC, and the story says the California Highway Patrol isn’t releasing it, although it does say he submitted to a blood test. Around here, they ask you to take a breath test, and you may refuse, although if they think you’re drunk, they can easily get a warrant for a blood draw, and then they add a refusal ticket to the mixed grill of misery you just ordered.
I’ve known quite a few people who’ve faced DUI charges in their time, and about half were the wakeup call that yes, you have a drinking problem. Here’s hoping Kinkade seeks help for not only his drinking, but also for the voice from the yawning void inside him that shrieks, YOU SELLOUT, YOU FILTHY WHORE at him in the wee hours. Yes, the one that drives him into the arms of the lady on the neon sign, the one under the blinking COCKT IL , the S and the A having burned out years ago. Strength and courage, Painter of Light.
Fun fact to know and tell: When Susan Orlean was writing her profile of Kinkade for the New Yorker, he challenged her to a wager that he would have a show in “a major museum,” sometime in their lifetime. Money on the line: One million dollars. She told this story at a seminar at Wallace House during my fellowship year at the University of Michigan, and at the time, and we all had a laugh over a) the ridiculousness of the boast; and b) the chance, however slim, that Orlean might be called upon to pay up, because of course even successful journalists are poor, relative to art tycoons like Kinkade. (Obviously, this was before the world learned about her house.)
Thanks to the first link in that previous paragraph, I found this LATimes story, which suggests Kinkade has not only a drinking problem but an impulse-control problem, too, even allowing as how the two go hand in hand:
And then there is Kinkade’s proclivity for “ritual territory marking,” as he called it, which allegedly manifested itself in the late 1990s outside the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim.
“This one’s for you, Walt,” the artist quipped late one night as he urinated on a Winnie the Pooh figure, said Terry Sheppard, a former vice president for Kinkade’s company, in an interview.
Oh, well. A fellow human being’s delamination should not be cause for glee. So let’s not.
I don’t know if any of you noticed, but Holly Haimerl, Duncan “Whitebeard” Haimerl’s daughter, stopped by in the comments yesterday to direct us to the Legacy.com obituary on her father. She adds, It is very heartwarming to keep finding positive comments about my Dad on the net.
I got caught up with “Treme” yesterday, and I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t, but let me just say this of Creighton Bernette, the character inspired by our own late community member, Ashley Morris: Lovely. And if you’re not reading the Back of Town blog, that’s your go-to place for Treme discussion. Dexter, do not miss Ray Shea’s excellent post on the use of music as a counterpoint to the narrative. I had an early inquiry about participating in this blog, I never really pursued it, and I’m glad I didn’t, because I’m not good enough to hang back of town. Also: Dark Brown Waffles, doing much excellent analysis.
Touchdown Jesus burns, spectacularly. Who knew statues could burn? When they’re made of fiberglass, they burn like the fires of hell. Thanks, Cooz.
Another redonkulous day of chores and obligations. Have at it, all. I’m off to, among other things, find out how two teenagers drove their car into the lake at 5 a.m. Kids, a tip: Tell your dad you lost control in a cloud of fish flies. Even money says it’s true.