My wife's aunt and cousin lived in a small apartment building at the base of that bridge as it came into Long Beach, and I can't see that picture without thinking of them. Her cousin was a real Palooka, a handyman who didn't work as often as he worked. We would stand around in his backyard by his tool shed and have beers, I'd bum cigarettes off him. He was very much like Bukowski, similar attitude, similar mannerisms, except he was better looking, an old 1940s pretty boy gone to seed, and he didn't write. He did paint a bit and had some luck selling his pictures. They were usually south seas beach scenes. I wrote a pair of long stories about the guy, one of which has been published. "Shopping for George" I think it was called. Anyway, just thought I'd throw that out there.