For Oliver on his Birthday

favorite picture of oliver in moma

 

First of all, you were born on Mother’s Day and I cannot think of a better gift.  Ten days late with full chubby cheeks, you could lift your head up, which would blow the nurses away.  You never stopped blowing me away.

By four months old, your dad and I were walking you in and out of New York museums.  You also inexplicably turned orange which alarmed your parents so much that I made an unwell baby visit to the pediatrician.  He looked at you and asked right away if we were feeding you a lot of carrots.  Oops my bad.  Yes, WAY too many jars of strained carrots, your favorite.   By age one, I knew you already appreciated art.  You could also finish sentences in your baby books.  Well, to be fair, one-word sentences.  This was very impressive to the other mother’s in Washington Square Park where we played every day.

Turning you orange, one bite of carrots at a time!!

Turning you orange, one bite of carrots at a time!!

 

In fourth grade, we were called in for an IEP.  Apparently your paintings had concerned some teachers who thought, no assumed you might be disturbed.  In a rare moment, your father and I were united in our defense of you.  We tried our hardest to convince the faculty how creative you were, laughing in their faces as they pointed out your blood and gore.    They stood their ground that you needed a psychiatric evaluation.   I thought (aloud) “Fuck them!!!”

At fourteen, knowing you were into beat culture; I took you to a gallery to meet Ferlinghetti.  He signed a book for you and posed for a photo op.

You with Lawrence Ferlinghetti

You with Lawrence Ferlinghetti

At the same age, younger even,  you eternally wore a camera around your neck, capturing images, some if not most, dark.  Lots of graveyards.  In fact your first date with a girlfriend at that age was in a cemetery.  My favorite image is a self-portrait.  Its you, half naked with a gun to your head and a cane in your other hand.  Genius.

Self portrait, love the cane!!!

Self portrait, love the cane!!!

In high school, you dyed your blond hair black and often wore dark lipstick, black nail polish and two different color contact lenses.  I heard rumors that when I was out of town you sported a black suede Pamela Barish dress of mine with fake fur trim to school one day with combat boots.  Stylin.  Very proud moments indeed.  As a toddler, before you started school, each day you wore costumes, green Peter Pan tights with cowboy boots, a holster with guns and to top it off, you would paint your face.  I was encouraging all your creativity.  Your dad accused me of trying to “turn” you gay.  If only.  Kidding.  No really, I’m open.

 

Goth stage

Goth stage

You have always been both a cat and dog whisperer.  The first job you got was as a dog walker at age 11.  Two English Bull dogs, one that wouldn’t budge and the other, always up for a brief walk.  You took this job quite seriously and would spend a half hour walking and then a half hour playing in the yard with them.  It led to another job on the same block, walking an elderly dog.  You rigged something to be able to get that dog around.  Then all this early training led to your first proper job at a vet’s office.  Your exceptional skills at dog whispering also got you a free guest house on the most coveted street in Santa Monica canyon which you turned down at first because a friend of yours was in greater need of free housing than you.  That kind of giving spirit of yours blows me away, though this time– “What?”  “Take the fucking free guest house, Oliver!!!!!”  were the exact words that I screamed.  You had already spent all the money you made on a national commercial on feeding every homeless person you ran into or providing designer clothes for ex-girlfriends.  I thought it was time to take care of yourself.

Okay, here is the story you will be telling your own children one day about having me as a mother.

Since I only and exclusively saw foreign or indie films, it was normal for me to take you to see movies with subtitles that often had a lot of sex and nudity.   Yep, I win the mother of the year award.   Sex to me is natural but violence is not.  So, I was furious with your dad for taking you kids to see mainstream schlock like The Terminator with all that gratuitous violence.   That said, I had seen a terrific documentary about the artist, Robert Crumb.  I sent you in alone because I had already seen it.  An 11:00 am screening at an art house on Second Street in Santa Monica that had only recently changed hands from being a porn theater.   I never realized this about the theater’s porn history.   You were eleven years old.  You looked eight.   You sat alone with only three or four other faintly pervy looking men watching a pretty sophisticated documentary.  I picked you up and you appeared undaunted.  Years later you would describe to me in details how shady the whole scene seemed to you that morning in your youth.  And we think this is some hilarious shit.  I love your way offbeat sense of humor and how you see the world in a twisted quirky way.  I could listen and laugh with you for hours as you play back your childhood to me.  You and your first best friend Taylor getting into your grandpa’s tacky collection of porn.  The famous Playboy model and actress June Wilkinson giving you naked shots of her as a gift at thirteen years old.  Wow, no wonder your own magazine has such an edge.  You are a storyteller and love to make shit up.  I believe most of what you say because I’m gullible but I wonder what your roommates thought of the tale you told them about me.  That I was a famous singer from an all girl band in the 60’s and I still perform but need assistance getting on the stage.  Where does your brain even come up with that?  I love when you visit and I can get a glimpse of looking at life through your eccentric eyes.

Some days when I had gotten just the right amount of sleep, I would feel ambitious enough to drive us to– the zoo.  A real full nights sleep enabled me to have the temperament for the drive and the experience.  Or maybe travel town or even Disneyland but those days were rare.  So even to this day in your twenties (not anymore because now you’re 30) and you are visiting and you sense I’ve had enough sleep you will say “Are we going to the zoo today, Ma?” which has become short hand for —today could be a good day!

 

Oliver is such a fan of breakfast that he can sometimes eat breakfast for all three meals of the day and then he pours himself a few bowls of cereal late at night as a snack.  A favorite place to go with him is Elite Cafe in an art deco building on Fillmore Street in San Francisco.  We go for Saturday or Sunday brunch and I recommend an order of beignets.  The rest of the menu is very southern like oysters, biscuits and deviled eggs.

Swinging in Washington Square Park

Swinging in Washington Square Park

Camera eternally around your neck

Camera eternally around your neck

These days

These days

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