West Oakland.
We used to sit on the stoop inside the giant metal fence surrounding our house and watch Fat Albert ride the electronic cart we guessed he stole from the grocery store...he'd usually have a skinny kid wearing a beanie hanging off the back to complete the picture. If we were out late enough, we could catch the cats sliding down the windshields of the cars leaving the smeared paw print smudges we'd find on our windshields almost every morning.
I moved from a giant 1 bedroom apartment in downtown Denver to a small room in an old Victorian house in the ghetto. My friend Matt had rented another room in the house. The rest of the rooms were occupied by an athlete/Stanford grad from NC, a super stoner/DJ (? -- don't get me started) from MN, and a couple Brazilians. Bon Dia!
I loved and hated the ghetto. Matt and I would listen to bosa nova and flick cigarette butts out his window while about 15 cats would congregate in our backyard. Cops would tear up and down our street with the ghetto bird (helicopter) never far behind. We could hear gunshots echo in the night, and the smells of cats and piss were always in the air. We always took anything extra we had to Jacob -- our local Rastafarian who lived on the streets. Our streets.
Dogtown. Named after the dogs in every yard but ours, the wild packs -- but mostly to define the old gang territory.
I will never forget the criminal who hid out in our house. The drug dealers next door. Matt playing his saxophone. Aaron attempting to DJ in his room... Jon, Dave(id), Brendan, Fernando. The Brazilians greeting the cats. The poverty, the absurdity, the brilliance, the sadness, the dreams, the frustration, the laughter....
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