Shortly after midnight we rendezvoused with Brennan’s friend Feffo, at a restaurant in Lujan.  His parents own a small hotel and restaurant which he does food deliveries for, as well as adorning the interior and exterior with his paintings, murals, and sculptures.  Feffo was just getting off work, and I hopped into his jalopy, a thirty plus year old Citron, while Brennan followed behind in his car.  I would be hard pressed to remember a more rickety car ride.  It was a rag top, and Feffo popped it open a bit to let the night air in and his cigarette smoke out.  I was sure not to put my weight on the door when he made left turns, out of a genuine fear of flying out.  He lived in nearby Chacras, and we pulled into his long, bumpy, dirt driveway in no time.  Feffo is a bit of an eccentric.  He built his house, or is in the process of building his house, it’s about 90% complete, with only a couple missing windows at this point.  The windows the house does have are reclaimed antiques, the front door a beautiful, old, eight foot tall, peeling pair of French doors.  All the doors inside the house are specialty homemade gothic arches, a form for which Feffo has a particular affinity.  

             His wife and kids were having a sleepover at his inlaws, so the house was empty except for the dog and cat.  He opened a bottle of cheap wine, and we got to some music making.  Feffo was on the guitar, I on the bongo, and Brennan on a wooden xylophone type instrument Feffo had made.  There was also a homemade ukulele, crafted with noteworthy skill, which had to sit idly by; because of its peculiar tuning I doubt anyone besides Feffo could play it.  More than a couple times, a bat flew into the living room due to a general lack of glass in the windows, did a couple laps and took off.  Feffo didn’t even seem to notice, the only time the bats seem to border on an annoyance is when they fly into his room while he’s sleeping and startle him.

                The objective of the evening was for Feffo to do some painting, his primary “occupation.”  He showed us some photos of previous works, all incredibly extraordinary.  Many he had done on a painting excursion to Arcadia, California some time before, where he was able to draw inspiration from the general Humbolt vibe.  He had done two painting the previous night, he seemed to be on a native peoples kick at the moment.  One painting was of a Bolivian type face, the other of a Black Foot Chief, Bear Bull, whose picture he had found in a book on American Indians.  He cut canvas in preparation for the evening’s session; I felt I was watching Van Gogh or Picasso work, admiring his strange genius.  Efficiency is not a character trait of Feffo’s, and Brennan got a call from Nadia around 3:30am summoning us home, just as the real painting was about to begin.  Feffo bade us good bye and returned to his hands and knees, and canvas spread on the floor, to paint and create until morning.