So, there is this wall down on Fairfax. It runs along the side of a vacant lot. It is covered in various, unrelated, spray-painted images and letterings, that make up one whole body of work. The list of folk responsible for these individual pieces, reads like a who's who of local and international Street Artists.
The other day 'they' partially buffed that wall. There is a whole story to who 'they' are and what 'they' did and what may now happen to 'they'. It's actually quite interesting. But that's not the story I wanna tell today. So I won't. It's really just an introduction to the one I do wanna tell.
You see, I went down to that wall to see the damage done. A bit like Mr Jagger in that song, I wanted “to get my fair share of abuse”. 'They' were attempting a salvage mission upon the privately commissioned and owned work of art. When I got down there, the mission was about halfway through. I suppose you could say that I only got about half of my fair share of abuse.
A few stores down from the vacant lot is one of LA's most iconic restaurants. It's been there for years. Its a huge, New-York-Style Jewish Deli, that somehow exists as the spiritual center for the city's Western European communities, as well as the white-trash, rock & roll communities. On the tables, sits a little plastic card, standing erect in a small silver holder, telling you that the lunch special is Matzo Brai and on the other side advertising Slash's new book. There can't be too many venues on this earth that seamlessly combine such a disparity of cultures like that.
I wandered down there for lunch. I took a table for one and ordered eggs. Sometimes, when one is confused by a fork in the road, the best thing to do is replicate that confusion to one's stomach. I had the Fear and Loathing heavy that day, my friends. My head and my heart where offering strong and convincing arguments either way. So, I mimicked that confusion and ordered breakfast for lunch. Later that day, I would start my dinner with dessert and end it with a single, green olive.
I ate up quickly, paid my bill and headed for the door. Now, you don't get to survive for as long as these guys have, without some savy business minds, making some savy business decisions. They know that many of us Jews dine in their restaurant. They also know, that there ain't a Jew on this planet that can resist cake. It's a burning, cultural crave that is a part of our insides , just like the Irish pine for whiskey, the French live to surrender and a Texan loves an execution. So, these savy business minds, have set up a massive cake counter that runs alongside a sort of front lobby area. In order to exit, one must pass a colorful and extensive panorama of cake.
I couldn't resist. I stood no chance. At all. I wasn't even hungry. But as my grandmother once told me, after spending ten minutes trying to offer me any and every kind of food on the planet:
“Oh, you're not hungry? Ok. Well then, have some cake.”
I chose a slice of this marbled, chocolate and soft yeast mess, that weeks earlier, had lead to an argument between the Pocket Redhead and I on one side and an irate old Russian lady on the other side of the counter. We had ordered 'Bubbkah', but she refused to slice until we acquiescented and called it 'Russian Cake'. It got quite testy there for a moment, especially when I somehow upset another customer by telling them it wasn't that hot in Australia at the time. Apparently, my dear mother must have been lying when, earlier that day, she told me about a torrential downfall, that led to a flooding of their basement. (Now, to the Gentiles out there, this will all sound like unnecessary insanity, but you must understand that Jews at a cake-counter, are like heroin addicts waiting for the dealer to turn up – rational just flies out the window...)
So on this day, not in the mood for any more conflict than the internal one swirling around, I asked for the 'Russian Cake”. I felt quite insincere, but whatever......
Not satisfied with just one purchase, I felt the urge for one more selection. My eyes scanned the thick, neck high glass in front of me and came to a rest on a similarly messy cake. This one was a two inch high, square conglomeration on cheese, raisins, cinnamon and some other indistinguishable 'stuff'. Even though I hadn't seen it for over fifteen years, I recognised it immediately. This was the exact same type of cake, that my parents 'used' every Saturday morning of my formative years.
Back then, I had tried it and the combination of a tart, sour cheese with the sickly sweet raisin and dough, had always made my taste buds curl up in disgust. I couldn't work out why my parents took such delight in it's consumption. I put it down to, as children often do, the insanity of their parents – and adults in general – and never thought about it again.
Until this day. Until this lovelorn, confused, half-abused by a wall, fifth writer searching, song writing, single green olive eating, blues heavy day.
So much had changed for me from those childhood years. So much had changed even over the past year alone. So much that I had believed in, I no longer did. So much of what had believed in me, no longer did. So much of that I wanted, I no longer even thought of. So much that I had once held, I no longer wanted. So much of which I never even considered, I obsessed upon. So much of who had once been there, I no longer knew even how to contact. So much of what I poured a career into, I no longer saw the same way. So much that I had crossed oceans for, I no longer spoke to. So much of the roads I had walked, no longer existed.
So perhaps, that which I had once found so unpalatable, now would run to me like moreish nectar.
I ordered the cheesecake.
Back out onto Fairfax, I got my first bite in. It tasted superb. Uplifting. It tasted like progress and change. It tasted like cake.
