been 50 people there to operate all the equipment and get everything just right. It was a high voltage operation. I
glanced at my hand-held $89 Nikon digital Camera and thought of the contents in its tiny but powerful memory
chip and wondered if I should go searching for Jimi Hendrix after dinner. The waiter had told me that at night, out
on the boardwalk, it could get scary and advised me to be careful if I chose to go back out again. I could come
back tomorrow.

Another couple had entered the area of the restaurant I was seated in, up front and close to the windows. The
two women were tussling over which table to sit at even though there were plenty of empties. Too many choices, I
thought, create confusion. They finally decided as John stood patiently by, and they sat down and settled in. John
took their drink orders, read them the specials of the night, and headed back towards the bar and kitchen. I had
finished my meal by this time and felt fully satisfied. I decided that it would be a good time to take a scroll through
my camera and see how my photos of the day had come out. I had taken many stills and a number of videos. I
didn’t get too far along into them when John suddenly reappeared at my tableside. He seemed eager to continue
our conversation after he dutifully asked me if I was done eating and if I wanted any more wine or dessert. I just
told him that a cup of regular coffee would be fine.

“So, Mike, did you see the weight lifters and the basketball courts? Venice Beach is famous for this area—they
call it Muscle Beach. You can see some heavy lifting going on there and unbelievable body builders, men and
women.”  
“You know,” I explained, “I wanted to go there but I arrived late
in the day and I just never made it over there. I spent most of
my time hanging around where the street artists were and
musicians. I was impressed with the quality of some of the
paintings I had seen. It was interesting work, very professional
looking, and different and odd and thought provoking. Just last
week I was at the Whitney Museum in New York, on Fifth
Avenue. As I walked Venice Beach I imagined some of the art
works I was seeing spread out on the ground for sale if they
were displayed on the wide, white walls of the Whitney. I bet
people would stop and admire their works and ponder their
meaning just like other works of modern art on display there. I
took a few shots and think I made a video of this guy with a long
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Jimi Hendrix
(continued)
beard playing an old piano that had been brush-painted with bright neon colors. His head was down and his fingers
were pounding the piano keys playing Mozart as if he were giving a concert at Carnegie Hall. The classical music
was beautiful and the piano was in perfect tune. I was so impressed that I left $5.00 in his tray after he had finished
his piece.”

“Mike, some of the people out there are amazing. There are basketball players on the courts who could run circles
around professional players in the NBA. The musicians and artists could be getting rich. There are mathematicians,
philosophers, writers, poets… unbelievably creative people and they just don’t care”

“Don’t care about what?” I questioned.
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