A Post-Christmas Poem (Please, don’t try this at home!)

(With my annual apologies to both Clement Clarke Moore and the good Dr. Seuss, of course.)

‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the Valley,
The kids were wiped out, every Jeong, Anoosh and Sally;
The gift cards were stacked and the best sales scoped out,
The mall rats were scurrying and hurrying about.

Returns were returned and exchanges exchanged,
The markdowns were posted, loss leaders arranged;
The retailers hoped they could salvage their season,
And entice burned out buyers with price as the reason.

But all the non-shoppers were home in seclusion,
So glad to be done with the noise and confusion;
Yesterday’s paper and ribbons and bows,
Were stuffed into trashcans ‘til they overflowed.

The last of the cookies and candy and fudge
Were quickly consumed, we’re all too stuffed to budge;
With Christmas feasts eaten and appetites sated,
Diets were planned, best intentions were stated

The weather warmed up as it too often does,
Away went the scarves and the sweaters and gloves;
Out came the flip flops and t-shirts and sunscreen,
A white Christmas here is depressingly green.

A tired old St. Nick was now back at the pole,
Another tough season had taken its toll;
With more aches and pains than at this time last year,
He needed a rest and hot toddy or beer.

To make matter worse the elves wanted a raise,
And health care and pensions and 401(k)s;
But the last thing he needed when push came to shove,
Was trying to navigate Healthcare.gov.

Yet in spite of exhaustion he still had to smile,
And he hummed and he chuckled in Santa Claus style;
What caused him to shout “Yippee!” “Woo hoo!” and “Zowie!”?
He had reservations for two at a condo in Maui.

So he loaded his sleigh up with he and the Mrs.
And waved to the elves and blew all of them kisses;
Then away they did soar toward the warm South Pacific
For a week’s R&R that would be so terrific.

He longed to forget the past year’s toils and troubles,
Political scandals and real estate bubbles;
The daily bombardment of glamour and glitter,
Of YouTube and Instagram, Facebook and Twitter.

The Affordable Care Act and government shutdowns,
Twerking, Black Friday and Internet putdowns;
Posting and texting and selfies and tweeting,
It felt like his psyche had taken a beating;

But for now he was one of the jolliest fellas,
Daydreaming of drinks with those silly umbrellas;
And warm sandy beaches and air oh so tropic,
Mrs. Claus in a two-piece, now that would be epic!

When the lights of the islands appeared in the distance,
He banked to the south to escape wind resistance
Then I heard him exclaim as he nosed his sleigh down,
“Happy New Year to all and I’ll see you ‘round town!”

Barking Up The Christmas Tree

It’s official: my dogs think I’m crazy. Since we brought the two of them home as newly weaned pups last February, it’s been a constant battle to keep them from dragging all sorts of branches, pine cones, sticks, bark, twigs, pine bows, palm fronds, potted plants, roots and assorted other foliage into the house through their dog door. After ten months of this daily activity, we have learned how to tell instantly when they are trying to sneak some of this yard debris through their personal portal into our kitchen. If the stick in question is small enough, they will actually turn their doggy faces away from wherever we happen to be in the room so we don’t see what they have.

Getting past us, they will run straight for a less visible area of our dining room, living room or family room where they proceed to chew their prize to pieces and spread it all over our carpet like so much mulch. At times, the two chocolate colored pooches (aka: the brown clowns) will try to drag a two or three-foot long branch through an 18-inch wide door. That particular trick usually has us laughing more than scolding.

This all-too-often shredding of tree parts inside the house doesn’t exactly make my wife happy and, needless to say, the dogs have gotten used to our sometimes strident and often stressful vocal reactions to their shenanigans.

It doesn’t help that they appear to be slow learners. I say that because, even as they both approach their first birthday, one or both of them still bring in something from the yard a couple of times a day to shred. In spite of our best efforts, they manage to sneak by us undetected and wind up creating a nice debris field of wood chips and dirt on our carpet. Such a lovely thing to discover with bare feet. 

So, with this as the backstory, you can imagine the looks on their furry faces when last Saturday, I threw open our front door and proceeded to drag in my own green, branchy, pine-needley, seven-foot tall tree into the house and set it up smack dab in the most prominent corner of our living room. I could almost see their doggy thoughts as they went back and forth between ... “What the heck? He tells US not to bring green stuff into the house and now he’s bringing a whole tree inside?” to “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Jackpot! Chew-a-palooza time!”

As I write this, our Christmas tree has been up and decorated for several days and, so far at least, the pups have yet to chomp on it. But that’s not the only danger they pose to the tannenbaum.

Did I mention that one of our two large, rambunctious, still-puppy-like dogs is a male? And as canines of the male persuasion are prone to do, he sometimes lifts his legs on things – certainly not a recommended activity with electric wiring circling the tree at leg-level and below.

Thankfully, he’s completely house broken. Then again, he’s also never had a real tree inside the house to tempt fate. Hopefully, we won’t see any extra holiday lighting effects this year from electricity meeting liquid.

I also hope we don’t have to create an ornament-free zone around the bottom several feet of the tree like we did quite a few Christmas seasons when our kids were toddlers and the low-hanging, shiny and oh-so-fragile things would wind up smashed on our tile hearth, stepped on or flushed down the toilet. Ah, precious Christmas memories.

At least with our two toothy tree terrorists in residence, I won’t need to cut up our tree when we’re ready dispose of it in early January. I’ll just haul it into the backyard and let the four-legged wood chippers have their way with it.

Merry Christmas! And I’ll see you ‘round town.

Making It A Choice Christmas

It often seems as if Christmas time is all about making choices. See? I just made one right there; choosing to use the traditional name of the holiday instead of the secularly sanitized euphemism, “Holiday season.” But this column is not an update from that battlefront.

 
The Christmas choices I’m thinking about involve much less weighty decisions. Like whether or not I should put up every string of outdoor lights that we have accumulated in our warehouse of decorations? Do the lights have to follow every inch of roofline and wrap hundreds of times around each tree trunk and porch pillar? Does every exterior window really need to be framed with twinkling lights? Wouldn’t a simple line of lights along the eaves suffice this year?

While I’m making lighting choices, should this be the year I finally acquiesce to my wife’s annual “suggestion” that we try all-white lights instead of our customary, time-honored, it’s-how-our-kids-were-raised, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, the-axis-of-the-earth-will-shift-if-we-break-with-tradition use of multi-colored bulbs? That’s easy. Not a chance.

We had to make another crucial choice last week; whether or not our annual Christmas card will include a photo of our youngest son who, technically at least, is still living here. I say technically, because, while he does still have a bedroom here at home, for all intents and purposes he has lived on campus at his school in San Diego for probably 98% of the past year. Last summer he worked full time and lived on campus and only was home for a week or two at most.

Even so, we couldn’t help but wonder if he’d feel left out if we didn’t include him in this year’s card? Even worse, what if the photo of my wife and I did include our two new dogs – no kids (at least of the human kind), just dogs. Would our son’s feelings be hurt? Would he feel displaced by the new hounds in our home? We’ll soon find out, as the card we chose after much deliberation and handwringing does indeed show just my wife and I and both dogs. Gulp.

In our defense, however, our youngest son simply hasn’t been home enough this year even for me to get a photo of the three of us together. So there.

Debating over our Christmas cards brought up yet another choice that had to be made. Namely, should we include a dreaded “Christmas letter” with our cards this year, or do we give everyone on our list a break? The often-maligned practice of writing these things would make a good subject for an entire column, but again, not today.

Spoiler alert: If you’re on our Christmas card list this will ruin the surprise, but we did finally decide to send a letter along with our photo card this year – in part because so much has happened with our family since last Christmas and even more will be happening in the coming year.

We also chose to include a letter because it solves the problem of not including our kids in the photo on the card itself. The letter that will soon be mailed with our cards has interesting updates (hopefully) about each of four of our adult kids and their respective spouses, families and/or significant others – complete with photos of everyone involved, even the dogs. Problem solved.

Now that that choice has been made, our decision-making is by no means over. We still need to come to an agreement as to how many of our legendary Chase family Christmas cookies will be cut out, baked and overly-decorated this season. My wife would be happy with a single batch of approximately three dozen cookies. I’m leaning more towards two or three times that amount. After all, our kids may not live under our roof any longer, but that doesn’t mean they don’t come back to eat everything in sight.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Trudging Through A Turkey Coma

So how are you feeling? Guys, can you button your pants yet? Ladies, are you still defaulting to sweat pants whenever possible? Is that Ziplock bag of turkey still in your family’s fridge?

If so, it’s likely that most of your family members jet out the front door at the suggestion of yet another warmed-over, pick n’ choose meal of dried out turkey, congealed gravy and rock-hard mashed potatoes. Even our dogs turn up their big noses at turkey now.

I don’t know if I buy into the urban mythology of the so-called ‘turkey effect’. This phenomenon is supposed to be caused by an amino acid called tryptophan which encourages the body to produce serotonin, a brain chemical that is said to create a feeling of well-being and relaxation. In other words, a food coma.

Then again, I’ve also read that it’s not the turkey, per se, that creates this legendary sedative effect, but the plentiful platters of carbohydrates typically consumed along with the bird.

I first learned about the supposed sleep-inducing effects of eating turkey while shooting several TV commercials on location in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. It was the start of a long nighttime shoot, outdoors, and the production company caterer had just begun to serve the forty or so cast and crew members a feast of roasted turkey under the evening stars before filming began.
Hard to believe it’s already been a week since Thanksgiving. But judging from how people are behaving on the road and in stores all over town this week, I have a gut feeling (pun intended) that many of us are still coping with the logy, bloated, semi-conscious after-effects of stuffing too much turkey into our thankful faces.

When our producer arrived on scene, she took one look at the platters of turkey and went ballistic in a way that echoed off the rock cliffs a half mile away. The pretty, petite blonde advanced on the head caterer like an angry Arizona dust storm, smacking turkey-laden forks out of crew members’ hands as she passed them by. The entire distance from her SUV to the stunned chef, she was screaming variations of, “Are you out of your #&@%#*!!! mind, serving a hot turkey meal before a nighttime shoot?!? We’re all gonna be asleep before we roll ten feet of film!”

I felt horrible for the terrified caterer, but grateful it wasn’t me who had to face the wrath of our furious producer.

Not surprisingly, our delicious hot turkey meal was soon winging its way to a homeless shelter an hour or so away in Phoenix. The cast and crew all wound up eating cold ham sandwiches and store-bought macaroni salad that very long, very frigid night in the middle of the Arizona desert. At least everyone stayed awake (and shivering) all night. Ah, the glamour of the film business.

That said, I know some folks who could’ve used a heapin’ helping of tryptophan themselves last week. I mean, what goes through the minds of all those crazy “Black Friday” shoppers shown on the news, storming the doors of department stores in order to save a few dollars on another flat screen TV, video game console or iWhatever electronic device? From full scale brawls to shoppers using pepper spray and stun guns – the bargain-induced mayhem was hard to watch. It’s sad to think that the turkey leftovers were still warm and the football games undecided when many thousands of bargain-hunting bozos cued up to spend, spend, spend.

And yet, in spite of the unprecedented decision made by so many stores to open on the actual Thanksgiving holiday itself, the week-after numbers show a dismal drop of nearly three percent in total combined retail sales from the same shopping period last year.

Gee, maybe the biggest turkey at the table these days is our national economy. Or the administration responsible for it.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

A Face Full of Thankfulness

A trend on Facebook is to post something you’re thankful for every day throughout November. There’s another November Facebook phenomenon alternately called “No Shave November” or “MowVember,” in which male participants pledge not to shave for the entire month.

Having sported a mustache, goatee or full frontal beard since the summer after I graduated from high school, “No Shave November” is a non-event for me. On the other hand (cheek?), I do like the idea of deliberately being thankful for something thing every day.

 
While there isn’t room here to give all 30 thanks, I would like to note a few, as follows:

I’m thankful for my kids – who are now adults, each one pursuing their own unique dream, living (or planning to live) in places distant from their Crescenta Valley roots. Would their mom and I love to have them closer? Absolutely. Would we ever want them to stay local for our sake? Absolutely not.

I’m thankful for five healthy, happy grandkids – each one a beautiful blessing beyond measure.

I’m thankful that tomorrow I can “legally” open up our vault of Christmas music and start the annual tacky-music-athon.

As I face the annual “hanging of the lights” ritual (also known as ‘Dad loses it on a ladder’), I’m thankful that I still have hundreds of spare incandescent Christmas light bulbs on hand. So, hopefully, I won’t have to switch over to strings of those hideously garish, green-no-matter-what-color-they-are, LED abominations for years to come.

I’m thankful for dogs. Big dogs. Manly dogs. My kids call me a “dog dude” which I’m pretty sure is the equivalent of “cat lady.” I’m okay with that.

I’m thankful that – finally – the high profile, disgraced, disgusting and dishonest national politician most in the news this month is not from Washington, DC, but rather, Toronto, Canada. Whew. It’s nice to know that the U.S. doesn’t have a monopoly on stupid.

I’m thankful for love and marriage. Our two unmarried sons are both engaged to wonderful women who make each of them better men in so many ways. One son will be married next May, the other next September. 2014 is going to be amazing. Expensive, but amazing.

I’m thankful for the small group of Christian couples my wife and I have been meeting, studying and praying with on Thursday evenings this year. It’s a blessing to grow through life with you all!

I’m thankful for the new mercies I see, morning by morning.

I’m thankful whenever a heat wave breaks and an infrequent low-pressure system gives us a glimpse of what real seasons must be like.

Which reminds me, I’m thankful that I sweated it out and didn’t turn on our air conditioner during our recent So Cal “nineties in November” heat wave. Not sure I could’ve handled the depression I’d feel from using A/C so close to Thanksgiving.

I’m thankful our family never started the “Elf on the shelf” tradition at Christmastime. Sorry, that little squatter just creeps me out.

I’m thankful that I replaced our old mailbox just in time for the annual dumpage of catalogs. The poor thing is already experiencing metal fatigue.

I’m thankful that the Winter Olympics begin in only two months. I’m not a sports junkie until either the Tour de France or the Olympics begin. Then you can’t pry me away from the daily coverage.

I’m thankful I don’t feel any compulsion to join the mobs of mall (maul?) shoppers during Black Friday tomorrow. I can’t promise that I won’t be shopping online, however.

Finally, I’m thankful for my wife of nearly 28 years, an impossibly patient and grace-filled woman who somehow tolerates a husband for whom every month is No-Shave-November. Love me, love my fur.

And with that, I wish you and yours a tender turkey, creamy mashed potatoes, good drink and conversation, a warm home and even warmer relationships.

Happy Thanksgiving, and I’ll see you ‘round town!

A Wonder-Fall Season

Everywhere I go lately, more people (myself included) are commenting on how fast time seems to be going by – this year more than any other. For example, how could it already be almost six months since I “wondered” in this space? Better fix that right now. Ready?

I wonder ... how many irate letters were written to Capital One about their new Quicksilver credit card commercial where celebrity endorser, Samuel L. Jackson, looked straight at the camera and used a swear word. It only took about a week before they felt the wrath of viewers and replaced the offensive spot with a tamer, more civilized version I’m sure they had in the can just for that purpose. Mr. Jackson now says, “ ... every single day.”

I wonder ... how long it will be until nobody notices such language from primetime network advertisers?

I wonder … how many times I’ll be suckered into buying the latest Paul McCartney album? Let the 71-year-old man retire, for crying out loud. He only transformed the world of music and pop culture for multiple generations and will forever be remembered as one of the greatest songwriters of all time. But seriously, if anyone other than Sir Paul had produced such boring, repetitive albums as his last couple of dozen, they would be insignificant bottom-dwellers of the iTunes sales charts.

I wonder … if advertisers are really using more sound effects of door bells in their commercials? Or am I’m just noticing because I have a hyper-active, 90-pound maniac of a Labradoodle puppy in the house who will knock down chairs, leap over couches and move his four furry legs faster than Fred Flintstone at quitting time in the quarry every time he mistakenly thinks there’s somebody at our door. The other morning I counted no less than 8 different commercials using a door bell sound effect in the span of two hours. My poor dog.

I wonder ... if women will ever participate in the national “No-Shave November” event like more and more men do each year? I mean, if our longsuffering lady folk have to put up with our bristly, scratchy faces, it’s only fair that we should have to do the same with their legs, right?

I wonder … if anyone in management at LAX realizes the instant negative reaction their airport receives wherever one travels around the world? This past summer I took one of those shared airport shuttle vans to Dallas-Fort Worth airport from my hotel about 40 minutes away. Two of the passengers crowded into our van began comparing airport horror stories and nominating which one they would least want to travel through. The other travelers soon joined in and eventually, there was a consensus that either Pittsburg or Sao Paula were the absolute worst – until I mentioned LAX. Immediately, there was a unanimous groan of acknowledgement that LAX was the place no one wanted to see on their itinerary due to a combination of rude, unhelpful employees and overused, poorly designed facilities. Other than that, we got it goin’ on, Angelinos!

I wonder … why more entrepreneurs for whom English is a second language don’t have their business signage looked at by someone a little more familiar with the mother tongue before hang it up for all to see? Along Foothill Blvd alone, there are many storefront signs that are, to say the least, confusing. For example, what does “Building your healthy place” mean for a pizza parlor? Beats me. At one time (it’s closed now) there was a Chinese restaurant on Foothill in Tujunga with a deliciously terrible name, the “Poo Ping Palace.” Not surpisingly, I could never get up the nerve to try their food.

I wonder ... if we’ll all be wearing coats or cut-offs for this year’s Montrose Christmas parade? Only the Doppler Nine Thousand Mega Radar Dookickey knows for sure.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

A Reunion with High School Angst

The 40th reunion of the Crescenta Valley High School Class of 1973, my class, was held last month at the Chevy Chase Country Club. I didn’t go.

It’s not that I was out of town. I didn’t forget to put it on my calendar. I wasn’t in bed with a horrible cold or otherwise incapacitated. And the cost of the tickets to attend wasn’t overly ridiculous (although $140 at the door was just a bit spendy). None of those reasons kept me away. I just didn’t go.
 

Why? That’s a question that I’ve been asking myself ever since the morning after.

For at least a year leading up to the big event, I had been getting (to the point of annoying) regular reminder emails and snail mail from the company who organized the reunion. The date was highlighted on all of my calendars, and I had every intention of attending. Then, as tickets went on sale, I hesitated.

Again, I can’t say exactly why, but I never did buy a ticket. Which is too bad. Because, from the photos that were posted on various Facebook pages I’ve seen since that night, the early-October shindig was a big success.

Speaking of big, in many of the photos I’ve seen online, I’m pleasantly surprised that more than a few of my former classmates are also battling the bulge of middle age. I was a little relieved to see pictures online of many of the guys who (in my memory at least) were the studly, babe-magnet types in high school but now – well – look just like any old average Joe. Like me, in other words.

Also much in evidence in the posted photos are plenty of receding hairlines and bald spots. And those were just the women. (Rim shot!) But seriously, apparently I’m not the only male from my graduating class who has lost hair and gained weight.

On the other hand, seeing photos of various groups of classmates who reconnected at the reunion – the very same groups who hung out together on the CV Quad or the lower field or Tobacco Road – brought back many the feelings of being in or out of “the cool kids” club. I could probably go through my dusty CVHS yearbooks and find almost identical photos (but with much younger faces staring back) of the same old cliques.

In the months leading up to the reunion, I often logged on to the organizing company’s web site page that listed who was coming, who wasn’t coming, who had left comments, etc. One of the more interesting lists was who had yet to be located. I would think in this age of Google, Facebook, LinkedIn and NSA surveillance of every move we make, it would be virtually impossible to be un-findable. And yet, surprisingly enough, there were quite a few members of my Class of 73 who simply could not be located. I think that’s more than a little sad.

Even worse, though, was the online list with the names of my CVHS classmates who had already passed away. A quick scroll showed something like 25 of my Class of ’73 classmates have already died. How could that be? I mean, we’re not that old yet. Are we? It was a painfully sobering reminder of just how fast and how much life changes once you leave high school.

Not to get all melancholy, but maybe the reason I didn’t attend the reunion was because I didn’t want to see those changes played out in person, in real time. Only my therapist knows for sure. And who knows; maybe in another ten years, I’ll attend my 50th. As long as I can grow back my hair and lose another thirty pounds, that is.

To my fellow classmates who attended the reunion, my deepest apologies and regrets for not joining you. Until 2023, hopefully, I’ll see you ‘round town.

Of Dogs & Daylight Savings Time

Arizona and Hawaii have the right idea. 

They’re the only two states in the union with the collective common sense to ignore the biannual foolishness that goes by the name of Daylight Saving Time (DST). Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that. The Navajo Nation within the state of Arizona does follow DST, as well. Go figure.

I’m convinced that when the history of our modern age is written, the phenomenon of DST will be summarized as a quirky combination of Old World practicality, perpetuated by contemporary good intentions and political stubbornness.
Daylight Saving Time was first proposed in 1895 by New Zealand entomologist, George Vernon Hudson. Mr. Hudson wanted more afternoon daylight hours in which to collect insects. No kidding. Years later, the concept of advancing clocks during the lighter months at the beginning of springtime grew in popularity around the world for other reasons (some more valid than collecting bugs at dinnertime), and was first instituted in the U.S. in 1918. The observance of DST in America has been abandoned, modified and reinstated several times over the past nearly 100 years, most recently during the energy crisis of the early 70s.
Even more recently, with the passage of the Energy Act of 2005, Daylight Saving Time was lengthened an additional four weeks (not taking effect until 2007, however) so that it now begins the first Sunday in March and ends the first Sunday in November. As I researched this topic, I learned that Senator Michael Enzi and Representative Fred Upton actually argued before their colleagues that the DST extension was necessary to give children across the country more daylight hours to safely trick-or-treat. I can almost hear the bloviating bluster in the chambers of democracy, “Hey, fellow lawmakers! Here’s an idea ... let’s mess with everyone’s businesses, leisure activities, traffic patterns, travel schedules, record-keeping and sleep patterns so kids have more time to go trick-or-treating while the sun’s up, I mean, who wants to trick-or-treat in the dark, right?”

And that, boys and girls, is why we all just spent the last week eating dinner at 5 o’clock and waking up before the newspaper is thrown onto the roof. Sort of. 

To be fair, I’ve studied the intended benefits of Daylight Saving Time; that it was supposed to boost energy conservation and help farmers harvest their summertime crops. But I’ve also seen many more recent studies that debunk or at least greatly minimize any benefits in these areas. If fact, some of the most recent data even show an increase in energy consumption due to DST.
Then again, if we can play with time itself, why not mess with the months of the year? I mean, I’ve always wondered why all the big holidays, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years come one right after the other – boom, bang, bing! And then Valentine’s is the next month. But after that? Nothing. Nada. Squat. It’s one long, dry stretch of calendar wasteland until the fireworks fly in July. (Easter is too sacred and solemn, it doesn’t count!) So why not pass a law that shuffles the months to more fairly balance out the holidays?
I remember how goofy the whole time-change thing sounded trying to explain it to our kids were old enough to understand the concept. Then again, I’m still not sure that I understand it myself. I do know one thing; that it’s impossible to explain to a 70-pound chocolate lab and 90-pound Labradoodle why it’s too flippin’ early to get out of bed even though only yesterday at the exact same moment it was time for breakfast.
I’ll just be happy when I’ve adjusted enough that every time I look at a clock I don’t automatically think about what time it “really” is or would have been this same time last week. And now, back to resetting all of our clocks.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Goblins, Ghouls and Grown Ups

(Note: the following column appeared yesterday -- on Halloween -- in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper) 

Do you know yet what you’re going to be for Halloween? That was a question asked of me and every kid I knew back in the day – and I have no doubt it’s still asked this time of year wherever there are excited kids, plastic pumpkins overflowing with candy and neighborhood doorbells to be rung. One big difference today, however, is that parents more often than not are also asked the same question: Got your Halloween costume all figured out?

Increasingly, the adults will have chosen costumes that are much more elaborate and costly by far than the ones their kids will be wearing. Do a search online for “adults” and “Halloween” and all sorts of scary headings appear – many of them including “sexy” or “plus size” or even using both descriptors in their listing. (Now, that’s truly frightening.) But salted between the links to sketchy sites I don’t ever want in my browser history, are multiple news stories reporting how much more money is spent on adult Halloween costumes and activities than on kids.

I don’t want to open a big can of cultural worms (and I’m only given room for 650 words in this space each week) so I’ll let wiser pundits than yours truly discuss the cultural reasons and ramifications of the fast-growing phenomenon that has Halloween becoming nearly as significant a holiday as Christmas.

From my own observations and admittedly limited research, it’s apparent that both kids and adults have more costume choices available than ever before. Along with the usual monsters, mummies and other malevolent nasties, there are sure to be legions of pop-culture icon lookalikes ringing doorbells and attending parties tonight – from Duck Dynasty’s quirky Uncle Sy to the sadly lascivious Miley Cyrus.

I even saw an online post showing a ridiculously clever costume made from a full body stocking with hundreds of paint chips like the kind you pick up at the hardware store attached to the fabric. Every chip was a series of graduated gray colors, some almost white, some almost black and all tones in between. Can you guess what the wearer was? Yep, 50 Shades of Gray. Hopefully the person wearing this bit of ingenious creativity is an adult and not a fifth grader. But nothing would surprise me any more.

Every year my wife and I tried to be as creative as possible with our kids’ costumes when they were trick-or-treating age. The standing rule in our house was you could be as weird or whacky as you wanted to as long as the character wasn’t evil, bloody, flesh-eating or gaggingly gross. It also had to be something we could make, not pre-packaged or store bought.

My wife was one of the last Glendale Unified students fortunate enough to learn the fast-disappearing art of sewing, so she was always willing and able to create amazing costumes. And I have always loved the challenge of making costume props – from a 4-foot long, chicken-wire and papier-maché alligator for a Steve Irwin, “Crocodile Hunter” character to a wooden sword and shield for a Legend of Zelda “Link” costume.

My all time favorite, however, was the good ship “Trout-anic” which we built as a wearable fishing boat (your legs and feet poked through the hull and suspender-like straps over the shoulders supported its weight) for our fishing fanatic son who went door-to-door in his waders trolling for candy.

If for some reason my wife and I were dressing up this year, I think it would be fun for her to go as HHS Secretary Kathleen Sebelius carrying a Commodore 64 computer and a stack of “100 Hours Free AOL” startup disks. I would wear a really bad hairpiece and walk alongside of her as a short and stumpy version of Donald Trump. Every few minutes I’d point my finger at her and say, “You’re fired!”

Happy Halloween! Be safe and I’ll see you ‘round town.

Mowing Down Personal Responsibility

“If you want children to keep their feet on the ground, put some responsibility on their shoulders.” – Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby)

I thought of this quote when I read a letter to the editor of the paper in which my column (this blog) appears.  "Dude, you are so not immortal" 10/3/13  The writer took me to task for an earlier column in which I expressed incredulity and eventually anger over a Crescenta Valley High School student who purposefully walked in front of my moving car on the main drag in front of the school.

Briefly, the primary point of my column was not that the kid was simply careless or had absentmindedly wandered into traffic as he was distracted by friends or texting or simply a glitch in his teenage programming. I get that kids do that all the time. Oops. Been there, done that myself, in fact. But when that happens and they dodge death by mere millimeters – most typical kids will react with shock and make apologetic gestures at the driver. None of that happened this time. Nope, this clown’s condescending smirk and absolute refusal to acknowledge that my truck was within inches of his awesome self (how do you ignore a horn?) telegraphed that he knew exactly what he was doing and could not have cared less.

In her letter to the editor, however, the woman writing about my column was loath to judge the young man as being anything but “goofy and lovable.” And yet, she was quick to suggest that I was surely driving above the speed limit (I wasn’t). She also recommended that I attend anger management classes. To that I can only say – the fact that I was able to restrain myself from circling the block, hunting down the loveable chucklehead to pummel some sense into his bad self speaks to my obviously impressive ability to control my anger, thank you very much.

Speaking of impressive, I’m fascinated that the letter writer had the skill to discern what really happened without being a passenger in my car. After reading the letter to the editor, my immediate response was, well, now I know whose kid was hell bent on become a human hood ornament.

But then I began to wonder how it is that so many folks today are reluctant to judge the actions of people (especially teenagers and young adults) or make excuses for their behavior. Instead, they point the finger of blame at other people, situations, supposed inequalities, injustice, economic conditions, and on and on and on. It seems to be a national epidemic.

Take, for example, the recent syndicated column by veteran reporter, John Stossel. In the column, “Longing to Be A Victim” Stossel recounts that Vice President, Joe Biden’s niece was arrested last month for throwing a punch at a cop. Although major media reports had detailed the woman’s well-known addiction to alcohol and pills, even this wasn’t given as the reason for her attempt to deck the cop. Nope. Rather than take responsibility (or even acknowledge that her substance abuse played a part in the incident), the niece excused her actions saying she is a victim of the “pressure she faces” because her uncle is vice president. Poor baby. I’ll be she’s really just a goofy and loveable gal.

Another quote I like is from Ann Frank, who said, “Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.”

What worries me is that too many parents (and adults in general) refuse to take responsibility for correcting and guiding upcoming generations. When excuses are automatically made for our kids’ behaviors, or if responsibility is deflected to others, how will they learn responsibility?

Even the new Federal mandate that “kids” can stay on their parents’ health insurance policies (those who still have a policy, that is) until age 26 is part of a troubling trend. News flash: if you’re 26, or 21 or even 18, you’re not a kid. Sorry.

I certainly don’t want to turn one encounter with a jerky kid into an indictment on society. But seriously, if we can’t even agree to call the act of purposely walking in front of a car a dangerously stupid thing to do, we’ve got big trouble.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Swept Away By Imagination

 Growing up in La Crescenta, one of my most vivid memories is of a huge, smoke-belching monster that would crawl along the gutter of the sleepy street where I lived. The glow from its sickly yellow, predatory eyes would slice through the pre-dawn mist and darkness on my street. If I remember correctly, this chilling encounter happened at least once every couple of weeks. When the monster came those mornings, I would lie in bed at our family’s home on Harmony Place, just a few driveways away from Two-Strike Park, with the covers pulled up over my head. My bedroom faced the street, so I could all-too-clearly hear the thing approaching, prowling up the street towards my house – a low, muffled growl, rattling my bedroom windows as it came closer and closer.

Beneath the menacing rumble, there was also a continuous sound of hissing that conjured images of a huge cauldron roiling with snakes and vipers and other angry, nasty things.

If it was particularly foggy morning, and if I could build up the courage to leave the safety of my blankets and draw back the curtains – our street would take on an eerie yellow glow that announced the coming of the creature before it actually rounded the corner and roared up our street. The jaundiced light would cast frightening shadows that moved across the walls and ceiling of my room as the beast passed by.

Somehow, all of the parents on Harmony Place would know which mornings the creature was expected to appear, and would move their cars from off the street the night before so the snarling thing could pass by unimpeded in the early morning hours. If a car inadvertently got left on the street overnight, you could see a wet, slobbery trail left behind where the monster had to swerve around the obstacle. Creepy.

Okay, by now you’ve probably figured out that my monster was actually the county’s lumbering, diesel-drinking street sweeper. But even long after I “matured” beyond imagining that the street sweeper was a living, malevolent creature – I continued to tell myself that it was a mechanical contraption hell-bent on my destruction, its all-consuming purpose being to lure me outside and drag me under the massive, whirling brushes of death mounted behind its front wheels.

I haven’t seen a street sweeper on the avenues and boulevards of the Crescenta Valley in a long time. I’m told they still occasionally make their rounds through the Foothills and every once in a long while, if I have to go somewhere very early in the morning, I will drive past the wide, wet, telltale trail of one of the illusive creatures. But as for actually seeing one? Not much chance of that happening. We live at the end of a private driveway that’s so far off the street, even trick-or-treaters rarely find our doorstep, not to mention those clean cut young men in crisp white shirts and ties who roam the neighborhood in pious pairs. I do miss the trick-or-treaters.

But even if I wouldn’t ever see a street sweeper pass our house, I would hear it. And the kid who still lives inside my head would instantly recognize that low gear rumble and snake-like hiss of whirling brushes. I have no doubt the sound would wake me from even the deepest sleep and send me to the window searching for a yellow glow in the darkness, coming closer and closer.

Unfortunately, these days it isn’t imaginary monsters growling past my house that make me want to pull the covers over my head. It’s the frightening reality of things like mandatory, government-run health care and a punitive, petulant President who would gladly spend gobs more money to keep Americans away from national treasures than it ever cost to let us in. Scary stuff, indeed. But nothing a good street-sweeping of Washington, D.C. can’t fix.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Everyone Knows It’s Windy (Especially in So Cal)

Is it just me, or has anyone else had the song, “Windy” blowing around in their head lately? I realize I’m dating myself (something I do all too often, unfortunately), but that song by the sixties group, “The Association” was at the top of the pop charts when I was in elementary school. Today, every time the wind blows – which it’s been doing a lot the past couple of weeks – I start singing the lyrics to myself; “Who’s peeking out from under the stairway / Calling the name that’s lighter than air / Who’s bending down to give me a rainbow / Everyone knows it’s Windy!”

(If you’re wondering who The Association was, well, let’s just say it was a six man vocal group and that pop music back then had very little in common with Miley Cyrus or her soft-porn contemporaries. The group was popular when tight harmonies were considered much more important than tight ... but, I diverge.)

I don’t know if any members of The Association were inspired by our nefarious Southern California winds, but as native, I can attest that fierce, desert-hot winds are not unusual in our little corner of So Cal paradise.

Many years ago, in fact, when our youngest boys were students in Monte Vista elementary school, one of their classmates – a tiny wisp of a girl – was actually blown off the sidewalk in front of school, lifted off her feet and slammed back down into a nearby hedge. Thankfully, she was only shaken up and not physically hurt by the impromptu Mary Poppins impersonation, but we joked with our boys that from then on, they would have to put rocks in their classmate’s pockets or get on either side to hold her down whenever the wind kicked up.

I actually like it when the winds kick up as long as we don’t lose power for longer than a few hours, and of course, as long as trees don’t crush homes and cars, or feed out-of-control wildfires, or ... well, okay ... I’ll admit they can be very destructive and are often an extreme hardship on all of us So Cal residents. That said, to my thinking even a week of Santa Ana winds is better than boring Southern California heat, haze and stillness. Yawn.

It might be odd, but one of the items on my bucket list is to have the experience of hunkering down somewhere relatively safe in the midst of a hurricane or tornado. Not kidding. To be surrounded by the full fury of weather would be an awesome thing. Now, I would never become an obsessed storm chaser, but I watch news stories about people huddled together in boarded-up buildings, reading or playing games by candlelight while rain and wind pummel their shelter and I think, yeah, that would be cool.

My wife, on the other hand, hates the wind because of the super-low humidity it usually brings with it. During Santa Ana events, we break out the 50-gallon drum of Lubriderm or some other moisturizer bought by the pallet-full at Costco. Dry skin is not her friend.

I will admit, however, that I don’t like the way the wind strips every pine tree in La Crescenta of needles and deposits them like a four-inch thick blanket of compost all over our yard. Just as there is truth in the old So Cal saw that you should wash your car if you want it to rain; it also seems to be true that if you want to summon a near-hurricane wind event, spend a weekend cleaning every last pine needle and fallen leaf from your lawns and planters and cram them all into the “green” waste bin (the bin that for some inexplicable reason is actually black). Guaranteed, the wind will kick up within a day or two at most.

My dogs also don’t like the wind. There is hardly a more pathetic sight than an 85-pound, bear-of-a-dog laying on the kitchen floor with his snout resting on the bottom of the doggy door frame, the flap pushed out just enough so the brave beast can peek into the yard. The big goofy fur ball wants desperately to go out and play, but as soon as a gust of wind blows noisily through the trees, he comes barreling back through the door like he’s being chased by a pack of vicious badgers. Makes me so proud.

And with that, I’ll put down the keyboard and pick up my gloves and rake. After all, there are about 35 million pine needles out there calling my name. But first, I’m gonna download a certain song onto my iPod. No, not “Windy” ... another song from the same era; “Blowin’ In the Wind.” 

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Dude, You Are So Not Immortal

I don’t know your name and can only make a logical guess at your age given that you are a Crescenta Valley High student. (I've taken to calling you the "Tall Teen Twerp" lately.) But your smug face and stupidly reckless actions will be hard to forget. You are tall, with an average build and longish, blondish hair that you probably love to flip away from your eyes with great disdain at anyone without your level of awesomeness.

You probably didn’t give a second thought to our little encounter two weeks ago, so I’ll refresh your memory. That Tuesday, on a typically beautiful late Southern California summer afternoon, long after most of your classmates at CV High had left the campus, you and maybe seven or eight of your friends were on the sidewalk in front of school, just above the auditorium. As I drove down Ramsdell Avenue (in front of school), I noticed your group walking, laughing – happy to be finished with classes for the day, heading towards hump-day.

Almost at the same moment as your group was about to step off the sidewalk and onto Ramsdell (nowhere near a crosswalk, of course) you all noticed my vehicle heading towards you. Everybody stopped in their tracks and didn’t step off the curb. Except you. You saw me coming. There was no way you didn’t. Your friends all yelled at you to stop. But you kept walking without a hitch in your swagger. And so, dripping with cool and staring straight ahead, you walked across the street and directly in front of my oncoming 11,800-pound pickup truck.

I thought of so many things within the milliseconds that followed. That you were an idiot, of course, but also that you were somebody’s son. Maybe someone’s brother. As my right foot stomped on the brake and I straight-armed the horn button, my staccato thoughts continued – that this was likely going to be really bad, was going to ruin your school year at the very least and holy crow what will happen to my insurance rates and how ironic will it be to see a news story about this tragedy in the same paper that publishes this column and I hope his friends will back me up that he walked right in front of me and what could this chucklehead be thinking playing chicken with an oncoming truck?!?

Thankfully, I was somehow able to stop before bouncing you off my hood and changing both of our worlds forever. But here’s the thing, even coming within inches of getting hit – even with my horn blaring at you for a full minute at least – even with your friends screaming from the sidewalk and me yelling things out my open window that I would never want my pastor to hear – even then; you didn’t flinch, didn’t slow down, didn’t so much as glance my way.

Your “I’m so badass I can’t possibly be hit” smirk didn’t falter. You weren’t listening to music; no cords dangled from your ears. Most likely, you were listening to some inner narcissistic soundtrack that continuously affirms your greatness. In your mind, you walk on water, I’m sure.

Maybe your friends or a teacher who saw what almost happened that day ripped you a new one after I drove on. I hope so. But I’m pretty sure you would ignore them as easily as you ignored my blaring horn and screeching tires. (Was it just your dumb luck or mine that I’d had new tires installed literally the day before? I wonder.)

Enjoy this season while it lasts, buddy. There’s a big (way bigger than you), hard reality waiting for you beyond the insular bubble of high school life. The next time you pull some stunt like that, the person behind the wheel may not be paying such close attention to his or her surroundings. Or he may be changing the music on the stereo. Or, God forbid, doing something even more potentially lethal, like texting as he careens towards your foolish, arrogant little self.
Dude, it’s going to take many years for you to grow up and learn that you’re not nearly as invincible (or cool) as you think. I only hope you stay alive long enough for that to happen.

I’ll see you ‘round town.