It’s no secret that many people – especially men – have, shall we say, unusual hobbies. My Dad, for example, loved to carve tri-tone train whistles out of solid blocks of wood and then hand the noisy things out to family members, friends and other unsuspecting people. Go figure.
One of my own hobbies is scanning daily newspapers for interesting and unusual or obscure stories. Sometimes I even take the subject matter or gist of the story and use it to write a column around. Like this one.
I read recently about a leading manufacturer of public drinking fountains who has adapted to changing consumer habits by making radical new versions of their best-selling models. The company had realized that more people around the world are using traditional drinking fountains to refill personal water jugs, rather than bend down and slurp as has always been required at drinking fountains. What usually happens with old style fountains, however, is some sort of dance in which the bottle isn’t filled, shoes and clothing get wet, and everyone walks away damp and unhappy.
And so, this company designed all new models that will fill a 16-ounce vertical bottle in 10 seconds or less. The new units, which cost from $700 to $2,075 each, have already been installed in hundreds of colleges and dozens of International airports. And that, thirsty people, is what happens when you add water to American ingenuity and the free market economy.
I have firsthand experience doing the “Nalgene® Shuffle”, trying every contorted move I can think of to refill my hard plastic (BPA-free, of course!) bottle with water from a standard drinking fountain. On the rare occasion when there is enough water pressure for the stream emerging from the fountain to reach the top of the empty bottle, you still have to tilt it at just the right angle in order to get any water inside. But that angle then makes it impossible to fill the bottle to the top. Arrghhh!
Most often, unfortunately, there isn’t enough water pressure to even begin filling a bottle and one must resort to the old school method of bending down and hoping against all hope that the stream doesn’t suddenly give you a nasal enema, or worse, that your mouth actually touches the metal fountainhead. Horrors!
I don’t know about you, but my siblings and I were warned from birth about the dangers of drinking fountains. We were told nightmarish stories about kids just like us who had contracted some sort of pandemic illness merely because their lips came in contact with a fountain of filth. As a result, I would have to be nearly dead from thirst before I would ever go near a drinking fountain.
I remember seeing one of my friends run to get a drink from the fountain near the brightly painted concrete pipe sections at Two-Strike Park. He was so hot and thirsty, he barely waited for the water to start shooting out when – shockingly – his lips not only touched the fountain head, he almost inhaled the thing. For the rest of that summer, I waited to hear news of his hospitalization and impending demise. So sure was I that he had contracted so-called “lock-jaw” or polio or some other crippling childhood malady, I waited and waited for my recklessly unsanitary friend to start foaming at the mouth or for body parts to start dropping off before my very eyes.
Apparently, the mortal fear of catching a deadly disease from a water fountain wasn’t promoted only by my mother. The same company that makes the new bottle-ready fountains was also known in years past for adding anti-microbial agents to the mouth guards of their fountains.
Now that I think about it, though, I wonder why Mom never worried about whose lips had been on all those train whistles Dad used to give away.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
School assemblies are notorious for being many things; boring, lame, tedious, unintentionally hilarious and other even less charitable classifications. But on rare occasions, students get to attend a presentation that is not only fun and fascinating; it winds up being potentially life-changing.
Such was the case for untold numbers of students – myself included – who were privileged to skip classes while La Canada resident and worldwide adventurer, John Goddard, recounted his stories of world travel (he circumnavigated the globe not once but four times, for crying out loud!), exploits among the primitive peoples and accomplishments that would make even Indiana Jones and the World’s Most Interesting Man sit at his feet in rapt attention.
Mr. Goddard’s own web site labels him both “The World’s Greatest Goal Achiever” and “World-Renowned Adventurer, Explorer, Author, Lecturer.” If anything, I would say that’s an understatement.
A man of surprisingly short stature, slight build and impossibly jet-black hair, Mr. Goddard delighted countless audiences with tales of daring do and impossible feats. I’m sure that his hyper-normal physique and markedly un-adventurous appearance made audience members think to themselves; if he can have such adventures, so can I. At least that’s what I remember thinking the several times I heard this mega-adventurer speak over the course of my school years here in the Crescenta Valley.
It wasn’t only Goddard’s tales of adventures that made him so interesting. It was also the list he made at home in Los Angeles in 1940, a list which he would spend the rest of his life trying to fulfill. Sitting at his mother’s kitchen table at the age of only 15, young John made what may well have been the world’s first bucket list.
And what a list it was. Adding up to 127 things to do before he died, from becoming an Eagle Scout to climbing Mt. Everest, Goddard’s list was broken up into categories including “Explore,” “Study Primitive,” “Climb,” “Photograph,” “Explore Underwater,” “Visit,” “Swim In” and “Accomplish.” Of his 127 goals, only 16 would never be checked off. (To be fair, some of the 16 would have been impossible, such as “Appear in a Tarzan movie” and “Visit the moon.”)
Surprisingly, a few of the items Goddard failed to accomplish would seem at first glance to have been relatively easy to do for a man of his determination and experience; like “Climb Mt. McKinley,” “Follow River Jordan from Sea of Galilee to Dead Sea,” or “Become a ham radio operator.” I can’t help but wonder why a man who would “Become proficient in the use of a plane, motorcycle, tractor, surfboard, rifle, pistol, canoe, microscope, football, basketball, bow and arrow, lariat and boomerang,” couldn’t or didn’t learn to operate a ham radio.
I remember, in particular, hearing him say that one of the goals he wrote down as a 15-year-old was to marry a beautiful woman and have children. I’m happy to say that I was able to emulate him in this goal, although I “only” had four kids to Mr. Goddard’s six. As to the rest of his list, I can only say that I have accomplished a mere 20 of his 127.
Then again, the theme of Mr. Goddard’s presentations to students was always to make your own list of goals to strive to achieve. I worry that this sense of adventure and self-challenge may be all but gone in today’s youth. Hopefully I’m wrong.
Goddard’s final goal, number 127, was to “Live to see the 21st century.” Indeed, he did. John Goddard passed away last Friday, May 17, 2013 at the impressive age of 88. I would venture to say he is the embodiment of a life well-lived.
And now, he’s on his last and greatest adventure of all. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that this very minute he’s speaking to an attentive audience of angels and regaling them with his life’s adventures.
Godspeed and safe travels, John Goddard! I’ll see you ‘round town.
As a kid growing up in the Crescenta Valley (a sleepy suburb in the foothills north of Los Angeles), some of the many middle class perks that my friends and I took for granted included living on a quiet, Mayberry-like street (Harmony Pl.) only a few houses away from a beautiful public park (Two-Strike), with my elementary school (Monte Vista) and then Jr. High (Rosemont) within walking distance a little south of my neighborhood, and wild, undeveloped, adventure-filled mountains (I was a kid, alright?) only a long block to our north.
We kids had almost unlimited roaming rights for many blocks in any direction with our only boundaries being the dinner hour (6:00 o’clock sharp) and the setting sun. Even then, a phone call home from a friend’s house could quickly procure a stay of punishment and sometimes even permission to stay overnight or at least until the night’s episode of Gilligan’s Island or the Man from U.N.C.L.E. was over.
Our ability to extend the boundaries of our territory even farther was greatly enhanced by the acquisition of a bicycle. And boy, did I have one heckuva bike. My beautiful, gleaming candy apple green and chrome Schwinn Stingray had a long, white vinyl “banana” seat and high rise, swept back butterfly handle bars and ... well, more about my sweet, youthful ride in just a bit.
Now, my two older brothers naturally had cooler and way more twitchin’ rides than my mere pedal-powered Stingray. Though he was an electronics engineer/computing pioneer by trade, our father also had an amazing way with anything powered by a gasoline engine or electric motor. He and my older brothers would build mini-bikes using old Briggs & Stratton lawn mower engines with pull-cord starters. One year, Dad even built a ride-able hovercraft – yes, hovercraft – in our garage using yet another lawnmower engine, marine-grade plywood, canvas, aluminum and homemade propeller. It was for a Junior High science project for one of my brothers. I’m pretty sure he got an “A.”
(I can say without hesitation that having a father who could design and build any electronic circuitry, weld any two pieces of metal together, make any part on his own private machine shop, rebuild any engine and fabricate pretty much anything necessary from metal, cloth, wood, leather, cement or plastic came in handy whenever a science project was due. Build a hover car? No problem. Demonstrate that sound cannot travel in a complete vacuum? Piece o’ cake. Build a photovoltaic power generator? When’s that bad boy due? But more on that topic another time.)
Not to be outdone in the vehicle department, Dad was always building or restoring some sort of vehicle of his own, too. I lost count of how many Frankenstein automobiles he created from various donor vehicles, their components cobbled together into a one-of-a-kind, high-performance, hill-climbing, mud-loving truck/Jeep/4X4 creation.
At one time, we even had a single engine, high-wing Piper Cub airplane in our driveway that dad took apart down to the bare fuselage frame and put back together wings, flaps, ailerons, rudder, propeller and all. To say the least, our house (or at least our garage, driveway and Dad’s workshop) was a pretty cool place to call home.
And yet, no matter what sort of vehicle my dad or brothers were building or piloting, as the youngest of the males in our household, I was still more than happy to swing an adolescent leg over the banana seat on my beloved Stingray and pedal off to adventure at any opportunity.
Memories of that bike came cruising back last week when I read about the death of the bike’s creator, Al Fritz, who died last Tuesday at the age of 88. First sold in 1963 for a list price of just $49.50, the bike quickly earned the title of “America’s most popular bike” according to an L.A. Times story about the passing of Mr. Fritz. As the article explained, Mr. Fritz was a Chicago-based Schwinn manager who listened with interest to reports from bicycle salesmen who said “something goofy was happening in Southern California” with kids customizing their short-frame bikes to look like Harley-Davidson motorcycles and hot rods. Fritz flew to California and immediately saw the potential to design a different kind of bike. That bike turned out to be the Stingray – of which there were 60 different variations during its run as the most successful bike ever made.
I customized my own Stingray with a smooth, extra wide “cheater slick” rear tire (like the rear tires on a dragster or funny car) which was ideal for laying skid marks on the smooth cement sidewalks of Two-Strike park. My friends and I were always holding competitions to see who could put down the longest black rubber streak on the sidewalk.
For added thrills (and sometimes spills), my friends and I would scatter sand from nearby playground areas across the cement to create our own skid pad. Then I’d take a starting position from fifty or so yards away, rise up off the seat and piston my legs as fast and furiously as possible to build up speed, then stomp down on the coaster brakes to lock up the back wheel and hold on for dear life as the bike’s rear end fishtailed to a stop.
Try doing THAT with a stupid ol’ airplane. I’ll see you ‘round town.
On the drive back from San Diego last Sunday night after an exhausting day of moving our son from one college dorm to another for summer school, I heard a woman being interviewed on the radio about how she deals with the growing problem of unwanted telemarketing calls. She discussed her investigative skills in digging up details about the company making the call; like their CEO’s name, address and even personal telephone number. Once she has this information, she then posts it on her own blog and invites readers to call the CEO, preferably during the dinner hour. Oh, my. And well done, ma’am!
This woman also has the tenacity to send invoices to the offending companies for the amount of time they usurp from her day at a rate of $500 an hour. (I’m assuming she is an attorney by profession.) Surprisingly, during her radio interview, she claimed to have been paid many thousands of dollars over the course of the last five or so years.
While I can‘t imagine having the cojones to do either of the above, I applaud her efforts to fight against this contemporary plague of menacing marketers. Last year I wrote about daily the calls I had been getting on our home phone from various people representing this or that home improvement contractor. Every call begins with an almost identical pitch; “Is this James Chase? James, I talked with you back in January about projects that you might be considering around your house. You asked me to call you back after several months and you might be ready to talk.” If I don’t simply hang up on the offending caller as soon as I hear my given name, I ask the person why they think I would ever do business with someone who lies to me with his very first call? Buh-bye.
A year later, these fine folks are still calling at least a half dozen times a week. And they’re not alone. Our home phone (with its supposedly unlisted number for which I pay AT&T extra every month) has been receiving an increasing number of unsolicited calls every day. And yes, I’m on the national “No Call” list. Big whoop. That worthless legislation has more loopholes in it than Bill and Hillary’s wedding vows. Case in point: I’m answering endless calls from “marketing partners” who have obviously been given my private contact information by either So Cal Edison or the Gas Company and who try to sell me some sort of energy efficient, green-this-or-that program to help lower my utility bills each month. The delicious irony here is that, I already know of a surefire way to lower my utilities – cancel my home phone. That alone would cut more than $50 off my monthly overhead.
The latest almost daily annoyance is from an irritating robo-recording whose first words are “Do not hang up!” I have no idea what the pitch is going to be for because, of course, I immediately hang up.
But the telemarketer who wins the mirror ball prize for demonstrating the ultimate in chutzpa, is the firm who called me just yesterday. I answered our landline like I always do and – after a few second pause – heard the following recording, “This is an important offer from XYZ Company. All of our representatives are busy helping other customers right now, but please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.”
I kid you, not. I almost didn’t hang up so I could learn what company had taken the art of interruption and irritation to unprecedented new lows. I say almost because after listening to music-on-hold and a second and third message reminding me to hold on for an important message, my attitude flipped from curious to furious and banged the handset down.
Next time they call, however, I’m going to stay on hold and invoice them for my time. I’ll see you ‘round town.
Back in September of 2005 during a briefing with reporters, Army Lt. General Russel Honore had reached his limit answering foolish questions about Hurricane Katrina evacuations. “Don’t get stuck on stupid,” he admonished the mouth-breathing media monkeys chattering at him.
Well, I’m sorry to report that more of our fellow Americans are not only stuck in full blown stupid mode these days, they’re drowning in dumb and flailing in foolishness.
Exhibit A: The increasing influence of the politically correct language police. Because of this linguistic lunacy, someone cannot be bald. He is follicly challenged. A person is not deaf but hearing-impaired. That bunch of young thugs is not a gang, it’s a youth group. There are no terrorists on planet PC, only insurgents – or better yet, freedom fighters. One is not handicapped (unless one is golfing), but differently abled. And here’s good news, we no longer have drug addicts in America. We do have a whole mess of chemically dependent individuals, however.
Someone doesn’t have a large nose, they are nasally gifted. That out-of-work cousin isn’t lazy, he’s motivationally challenged. You don’t detour around the ghetto or barrio, you avoid the ethnically homogenous areas. Refugees no longer wash up on our shores, but asylum seekers do. Students don’t live in dorms, they cohabitate in residence halls. Oh, and many of those students are no longer Freshmen, they are first year students.
We no longer have janitors, but sanitation engineers. The title of stewardess was grounded long ago in favor of flight attendant. Your mail isn’t delivered by the postman, but rather by a letter carrier (for as long as the USPS still exists, at least.) Those openings in the street are not manholes, they are maintenance access points. Sigh.
I’m likely stepping onto a linguistic landmine by pointing this out, but someone who lives in the U.S. without the benefit of citizenship, green card or visa is abso-posi-lutely NOT an illegal alien. Woe unto any knuckle-dragging cretin who even thinks of using such a vulgarity. Until recently, the correct handle for such a person was undocumented alien. Now even alien is verboten and the acceptable label (at least until something even more benevolent and condescending comes along) is undocumented worker. Huh. Here’s a thought, why not call that individual an undocumented benefits recipient? Sounds truly positive, doesn’t it?
Millions of Americans today are not unemployed, they are involuntarily leisured. That blob of fur on the highway isn’t road kill, it’s a vehicularly compressed life form. It ain’t plagiarism, it’s previously owned prose. Okay, I may have made up those last two. But we’re certainly approaching the day when saying anything to anyone is to risk offending some group or another.
If you still think common sense will eventually win out, consider the news report just last week about homebuilders in Washington D.C. who have stopped using the description of “master suite” and/or “master bedroom” due to implications of racism and/or sexism.
Wait … what?
Apparently, enlightened thinking has it that because the word “master” was once used to describe slave-owners or dominant males in a relationship, the word should be forever banished to the land of never-ever-spoken-again.
What’s next, an angry movement for the elimination of those blatantly racist terms “master cylinder,” “master copy,” “master plan,” “master of ceremonies,” “master key,” “masterpiece,” “master chef” and “master work”?
What if someone is a master of politically correct speech? What then?
The hilarious flip side to this foolishness is the word these buffoonish builders are using instead of “master.” That word is “owner.” As in, “owner’s suite.” I’m not kidding. Forgive me if this sounds progressive, but … isn’t “owner” even more imbued with negative connotations?
Maybe they’ll eventually have to resort to calling the space in question the “Really Big Sleeping Room,” or “VIP Suite.” Or how about the “Place Where the Mortgage Holder Sleeps”?
It all makes me want to go hide in my master – oops – closet and not come out. I’ll see you ‘round town.
