Described by Janz as


adolescent,” but art is

an adult sphere for

those who end

being in

among the swarms of

color-flingers, bright

bulb idea guys,

women with

a brush to grind, you

still wear the

fedora, still hang, Weaver

Street itself knows your

foot beat, smell

laugh. The Louvre

Shack  was an art piece

in itself, socked-assed

puppets, some nudist

handed his


to sophomoric coeds who

snapped away

anyway. Your stash

of music was one

of many

lures ladies young and old could

rely on.

Dennis Oppenheim

never had this life.

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