You Won’t Have Nixon to Drink Around Any More

So we’re in Riverside Saturday night for an art opening (next door to the museum where Our Beloved Hamster was photographed), and after everybody’s done celebrating The Artist (and — ahem — his Book Designer, whom The Artist christened “Norwegian Jim” many years ago, which was quickly shortened to “Nojo”), the crew heads down the block to the Mission Inn, a swanky pile that was the destination back in the day when Angelinos took the train east to feel good about their wealth.
We’ve gotten shitfaced at the Mission Inn before, but it had been a dozen years, and we completely forgot about the exclusive Presidential Lounge, where, it is told, if you take in more than you can handle, Richard Nixon’s eyes start following you around the room.







Who is the Artist? Do tell, please. (And can you explain about your reference to the photographing of Our Blessed Hamster? Wha? Clearly I’m clueless about something important.)