As lifelong residents of Southern California, my wife and I have had our share of out-of-town guests who come to visit, see the sights, warm themselves in our year-round sunshine and immerse themselves in the renowned “Southern California experience”, whatever that is. Like most people, I would think, who have lived in the same community seemingly forever, we love experiencing all-too-familiar sights through the eyes of another.
While it’s always a kick to show these guests around and visit the usual destinations like Disneyland, Sea World, Knott’s and other must-see-but-only-visit-when-company-is-in-town spots, I had a realization this past week that most, if not all of our guests over the years have been So Cal transplants who once lived here but eventually escaped to someplace with more seasons and less traffic. In other words, most of our guests are already quite familiar with all of our usual attractions, crowds, shirt-sleeve weather, etc. Their biggest “surprises” during a visit typically involve what buildings or businesses are gone, or – impossible as it seems – how our roads have become even more congested and how much longer it takes to get from point Azusa to point Burbank and beyond.
A couple of weeks ago, however, our Montana-transplanted son returned briefly for a delayed holiday visit home. He brought along, “Kris” (who arrived as his girlfriend and left as his fiancé, but that’s another column for another time). Having been born and raised amidst the soggy, but beautifully green environs of the Pacific Northwest, Kris had somehow managed to live to young adulthood without ever visiting any part of California farther south than San Francisco. No Disneyland. No Hollywood and Vine. No Venice Beach. Talk about your underprivileged childhood, right?
Kris arrived in Southern California with firm expectations of what she’d see – gleaned from watching countless movies and television shows supposedly set here.
During their visit, our son was eager to show off his home-town “highlights.” Over the course of nearly a week, by car and Metro line (again, another column for another time!) they managed to explore downtown Los Angeles, Union Station, Olvera Street, the Rose Bowl and Rose Parade Route, the Griffith Observatory, Old Town Pasadena, the Santa Monica Pier, Hollyweird and the Hollywood Sign (yawn!) along with various other points of interest, spectacle, shock, awe and enlightenment.
Kris’s first and overwhelming reaction to seeing our immense county up close and personal was to marvel at how far apart everything is here. Upon returning to our home after yet another day of sightseeing and traffic dodging, she commented repeatedly that the media “lie” about everything being nearby. She had no idea that “the beach” is nowhere near a majority of local Southern California communities. Work your way from Knott’s in Buena Park to Six Flags in Valencia? Sure, if you’ve got a few extra days to kill. “TV makes it look like you leave downtown L.A., go a couple of blocks and you’re in the middle of Hollywood!” she exclaimed. “It’s not true at all!”
Not surprisingly, Kris wasn’t often impressed upon seeing many landmarks with her own eyes that she had previously only seen through the skilled (and skewed) editing of the various media. On her last night in Southern California, in fact, we watched the first episode of the new season of American Idol, during which the contestants who make it past the judging panel are told with great fanfare and feigned enthusiasm, “You’re going to Hollywood!” When the first talented contestant of the show that evening was given the good news, I heard Kris comment under her breath, “Don’t get all excited. It’s not that big a deal!”
On the other hand, while she visited our dear Southland, we did manage to treat her to not one, but two of our infamous hours-long freeway police chases and one SWAT hostage/standoff.
Now I just have to figure out how to arrange a minor earthquake for her next visit. I’ll see you ‘round town.
I remember studying something in a history or social studies class (do they even teach that subject anymore?) back in the day about couples begetting many multiples of children so that their immediate family would have a plentiful source of laborers for its farms, or whatever industry the parents were involved in. It’s sort of like the old adage about raising your own baseball team. Keep it all in the family, right? Not that Jon & Kate’s eight or the Duggar’s dozens will ever be employed to operate the family farm, but I can see how this practice once was a valid reason to give birth to your very own demographic group.
With that in mind, and on a much smaller scale, I’ll admit that my wife and I have shamelessly benefited from the labor of our kids, too. Most notably, two of our offspring have worked as Starbucks baristas first during their high school careers and then through their college years. Combined, I’m fairly certain we’ve had a kid working at Starbucks for the past ten or possibly even twelve years. Not that brewing spendy coffee drinks pays all that well. It doesn’t. The shared weekly tips help add to the baristas’ overall income, but for a student who can work only 20 to 30 hours any given week at most, their paychecks are quickly spent for gas, textbooks and the occasional night out with friends.
So how have my kids’ Starbucks jobs contributed to our family’s quality of life? In addition to taking advantage of generous employee discounts on espresso machines, mugs, thermal cups and other coffee-related goodies – the primary perq of having a son or daughter work at Starbucks has been the free weekly pound of coffee employees are able to “mark out” and bring home. Oh heavenly caffeinated nectar of life! For more than a decade, our home has been regularly stocked with freshly roasted one-pound bags of coffee beans of all blends and varieties. Yes, even the coveted seasonal Thanksgiving and Christmas blends have been stacked in our pantry like gold bars in Ft. Knox for the past many years.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and there’s no such thing as a coffee pot that doesn’t eventually run dry. (Cue the violins.) As of this month – sadly, tragically, devastatingly – we no longer have even one immediate family member who is employed at Starbucks. There is no joy in java-ville.
When our current cache of caffeine is quite literally liquidated (most likely in the late spring at the rate I down the stuff), we will be forced to purchase coffee like the rest of the civilized world around us. You think Congress has a looming budget crises? Ha. There are dark, dark times ahead, people.
On the other hand, coffee isn’t the only perq we’ve enjoyed due to our kids’ various part-time jobs over the years. Our oldest son was once employed in high school at a nationally known ice cream chain and would supply yours truly with massive tubs of hard-to-find, special-order root beer float ice cream, procured with his impressive employee discount, or course. Those were the days, indeed.
That son is now pastoring a small start-up church in Hawaii and the perqs he can provide are of the spiritual nature, but no less appreciated. Our daughter (the family’s first barista) is now a charge nurse at a major hospital in the San Fernando Valley and her days of no-foam lattes and free beans are long gone.
Even so, I may yet be able to take advantage of perqs from our kids’ careers. After all – once our stash of free coffee runs out and I face the stark reality of how much a pound of coffee actually costs – my daughter can use her CPR skills to bring me back from the brink. And if she fails, my pastor son can always send a some prayers heavenward on my behalf.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
With each new calendar year come a slew of new laws regulating an already over-legislated populace. Last year I incurred the wrath of more than a few readers by merely mentioning a handful of the thousands of new laws that had just been enacted. So heck, let’s have some fun and do it again. With more than 800 new laws taking effect in California alone, it ought to be a wild ride. Ready?
Beginning this month, health insurers, pharmaceutical companies and medical device manufacturers (think pacemakers, stents, artificial hips, knees, etc.) across the country will pay an additional 2.3 percent tax on their sales, expected to total $1.7 billion this year alone. How many of those dollars do you think will get passed right along to the American consumer? You got it. Which, ironically, may increase the sales of pacemakers. And in a related development, the state of Illinois has a new 2013 law requiring middle-schoolers to learn how to use a defibrillator. Coincidence?
Here in the Golden state, drivers can now apply for “legacy license plates” – California plates like they made decades ago. Maybe if I drove a ’65 Mustang or ’55 Nomad, but I’m not sure why anyone would want an old all-blue or black plate with yellow lettering on their late model car. Oh, and it’ll cost you an extra $50 for the retro-privilege. Talk about getting rear-ended.
Unbelievably, foolishly, Californians can now legally text and drive – provided we use a “voice-activated” smart phone to do it. This just proves that the lobbyists for the mobile phone industry are at least as powerful as the ones for the NRA. And I would bet that more people die from the wireless phone lobby efforts than those of the NRA. Maybe we should outlaw phones with high-capacity batteries.
Another new law aimed at California drivers allows our CHP to issue “silver alerts” to alert motorists when senior citizens go missing. Not kidding.
One state law for 2013 raises registration fees for all California boat owners, ostensibly to fight the infestation of Quagga and Zebra mussels in our state’s lakes and waterways. Being the proud skipper of an ancient 14-foot aluminum boat that gets its hull wet maybe twice in a good fishing year, I’m not happy about having to pay more to the state for the privilege. I don’t even eat mussels, much less let them stowaway on my boat.
Lest you think California has a lock on strange new laws, however, read on.
In Kentucky, you can no longer release feral hogs into the wild. In Illinois, you can’t pop a wheelie while speeding on your motorcycle. (But is it okay to pop a wheelie while riding a wild pig?)
Although I shudder to even imagine why such a law is necessary, as of last week it’s illegal in Illinois to make whoopee with a dead person. Seriously. In Kansas, a new law limits each household to no more than four cats each. In North Carolina, stealing any unused cooking oil worth more than $1,000 is now a felony. And it’s about time.
In Concord, Massachusetts, the sale of plastic bottles is now illegal. Yes, plastic bottles. (Sacramento Democrats must be drooling with legislative envy.) In New York, minors can no longer purchase electric cigarettes and I’ll bet the entire state is breathing a sigh of relief. In Florida, it’s no longer against the law to warn other drivers of a police speed trap ahead by flashing your headlights. All those Florida retirees speeding to their early dinners to get the senior rate must love this new law. And last but certainly not least, convicted sex offenders in Illinois (what ‘s going on in Illinois, anyway?) can no longer get a job as a Santa, pass out Halloween candy or even dress up as the Easter Bunny.
I already feel a whole lot safer this year, don’t you? I’ll see you ‘round town.
Since the Mayan calendar makers were prophetically dead wrong about 2012 (the Republican National Committee and conservative talk radio blew the call too, but I have no desire to pick at that scab), it seems as though we’ve all been given the blank slate of a new year on which to write.
That being the case, we might as well look ahead to things we’d like to do differently over the next 12 months. In other words, it’s time for resolutions. I’ve seen research showing that only 8% of people actually follow through with their New Year’s Resolutions. I resolve to be in that number. No, really. And in case you’re curious, here are but a few of my other resolutions for 2013:
I resolve to learn how to tweet. But not to tweet like a twit. And to tweet only when necessary – which, I have a strong suspicion, will be almost never. But in case you’re so inclined, feel free to tweet yours twuly at #JAlanChase.
I resolve to never again think that anyone’s opinion will be changed even the slightest by a Facebook post. Reasoned debate is rare among the social network’s millions of users – or even informed discussion, for that matter.
I resolve to memorize at least one verse of scripture each week this year. I’ve tried other techniques to memorize Bible passages before, but the past Father’s Day my son gave me a wonderful daily devotional that has inspired me to learn a new verse each week since then. Such profound joy, comfort and wisdom can be found in those sacred pages, indeed.
I resolve to play my guitar(s) much, much more than I have for far too many years now. Oh, and to get back to writing songs.
I resolve to continue my streak of having not watched a single episode of “Housewives of (fill in the city of your choice here)” or “the X Factor.”
Which reminds me to resolve to never watch even a single minute more of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.” This shameless train wreck of a show is depressingly sad on so many levels. Speaking of which, I also resolve not to waste a minute of my life watching any broadcast in which that buffoonish British blowhard, Piers Morgan, makes an appearance.
I resolve to lift more iron weights and less emotional ones.
I resolve to break tradition and buy those illusive replacement Christmas light bulbs and/or extra strings of lighting when OSH, and Home Depot and Do-It Center still have them stock – between July 4th and Labor Day.
I resolve to take longer hikes to higher places and take more time to enjoy the views when I arrive.
I resolve to NOT make more than $250k this year so my government doesn’t demonize me as a millionaire or “wealthy.” (For the record, this could be the easiest resolution to keep of all time.)
Speaking of low incomes, I resolve to finally, at long last, write that novel that has been taking up space in my head for the past several years. And for good measure, I resolve to write a couple or three short stories, too, just to warm up. Or cool down.
I resolve to not to beat myself up too terribly when I’ve given up on some or all of the above resolutions by about ... oh, say ... Valentine’s Day.
Someone once said that an optimist stays up until midnight to see the New Year in, and a pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves. I can relate to both of those sentiments, so I’m not sure what that makes me.
Finally, there’s one resolution I can already check off my list – to wish you all a happy and healthy New Year. In 2013, may your troubles disappear even sooner than your resolutions. I’ll see you ‘round town.
With the Holiday-That-Must-Not-Be-Named behind us for another year, the secular/politically correct/mainstream media world can at last stop using the politically correct “Happy Holidays” and begin wishing us all a specific “Happy New Year.”
With next week’s big celebration in mind, the only time I’ve ever thought it would be fun to live anywhere near the city of Las Vegas is on New Year’s Eve. I mean, if you’re looking for a good time, that place must throw the mother of all parties to ring in the New Year, right? The blinding bright lights, the head-pounding music, the human crush of drunk-out-of-their-skulls party goers … um, never mind.
On second thought, what happens in Vegas can happen to someone else, as far as I’m concerned. Our family’s own New Year traditions have always been much milder and, well, subdued. How mild? Let’s just say they usually involve Dick Clark on the tube, a few minutes pre- and post-midnight standing on our balcony overlooking the Crescenta Valley, a bag of “exploding” confetti poppers and a glass of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling cider for each of us. But wait, there’s more. If we’re really feeling festive and rowdy any particular year, our big celebration may even include the banging of pots and pans with wooden spoons. I know … woo hoo! We don’t exactly need a doctor’s clearance to participate.
It’s not like we don’t ever socialize, though. The past couple of New Year’s Eves we’ve actually spent the evening with some great friends in Altadena and haveenjoyed a wonderful dinner, excellent conversation, a somewhat sedate card game or two and a quick side hug at midnight. Then it’s back home to warm, flannel sheets and hopefully enough sleep to get up early enough to watch those shock-jocks, Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards do the pulse-quickening play-by-play on yet another Rose Parade. Again, woo hoo!
Least you think I was born old and boring, I have been known to camp out all day and night along the Rose Parade route on several past New Year’s Eves. Yep, there’s nothing like sitting for days in a broken down lawn chair and “sleeping” on a damp grass median or filthy concrete sidewalk with the soothing lilt of air horns lulling you to sleep and Silly String wafting all around you through the cold night air like flying neon-colored spaghetti.
Then again, being right there when a 200-plus member high school marching band passes by close enough to count the pimples on the tuba-players’ cheeks has always been worth any hypothermia, loss of hearing and superficial wounds inflicted by flying tortillas and stale marshmallows. Good times, indeed.
My all time favorite way to welcome in any New Year, however, is to do it in the mountains above Mammoth Lakes. I like nothing better than to leave the warmth of our family’s log home a few minutes before midnight, walk out into the middle of the street – usually lined with shoulder-high berms of snow at that time of year – and simply gaze up at the inky blackness of the midnight sky while one year ends and another begins. That high up in altitude, the nighttime sky is filled with a blanket of stars that are simply not visible down here in Southern California. As I look up, I like to say thank you to God for the grace that helped me make it through the past year and to pray for His blessings throughout the new one.
Next Monday night, we unfortunately won’t be up in the Sierras or at our friends’ home in Altadena, and thankfully, nowhere near Las Vegas. Barring a surprise invite to a party, we’ll likely be out on the balcony again with our sparkling cider in one hand and a party horn in the other. But the prayers for the coming year will be the same, nevertheless. Happy New Year, and I’ll see you ‘round town.
Maybe I can blame it on bad eggnog, but the other night I dreamed that I bumped into Dr. Seuss and Clement Clarke Moore while we were all searching for Christmas lights at OSH. (they were sold out, of course). For some reason, the three of us got to kvetching about the holidays. When I awoke from my slumber, the poem that follows was scribbled on the notepad on my nightstand. Yeah, that was some funky eggnog:
Deck the (Empty Nester) Halls
‘Twas the week before Christmas, when I said to my spouse
“It’s probably time to start decorating the house.”
“Ya think?” she exclaimed with a roll of her eyes
And then walked away while exhaling loud sighs.
Our neighbors had all done their homes weeks before
With lights on their shingles and wreaths on their door
Inflatable snowmen stood poised on their lawns
But passing our house produced nothing but yawns.
It’s not that I don’t want to join in the fun
And I certainly love the whole look when it’s done
But the boxes and crates and assorted gewgaws
All the lights and the garland – it gives me such pause.
I can’t climb a ladder with speed like I used to
And hanging from rooftops? Well, why would I choose to?
Our kids are all grown, it’s just me and my mate
This old empty nest is one great big blank slate.
And here’s something else that is no longer fun
Those new LED lights that are bright as the sun
They use much less power and help save the planet
But the glow they emit is as stone cold as granite.
So we scrounged and we hunted like highly trained canines
‘Til we found enough strings of the old-school type C-9s
We hung them all up and we turned them all on
And I have to admit, my reluctance was gone.
Then out on the street, there arose such a clatter
I ran (okay, walked) down the driveway to see what was the matter
Our mailbox was bursting, its door off its hinges
The mailman was there with his face full of twinges
He had mountains of catalogs stashed in his pack
With a gruff, Grinchy voice he intoned, “Oh, my back!”
He was sweating profusely and starting to quiver.
It was sad the poor soul had so much to deliver
But I thanked him and wished him a world of good cheer
(Though I’m sure he would rather I gave him a beer!)
Then I went up the driveway and back to our house
To finish my chores and make happy the spouse
Once the house was aglow and my wife, she was too
Our progress was good, but we’d still lots to do.
There was fudge to be fudged and eggnog to be spicing
And cookies to bake and then painted with icing.
We trimmed up our tree with ornaments so shiny
Was it festive and cheery? Oh, you bet your hiney!
We wrapped enough presents to fill up a sleigh
Then hung up our stockings and called it a day.
We were tired and sore and I needed a nap
When there came at the window a soft tap, tap, tap!
I looked up and saw him, that Jolly Old Saint
With his snowy white beard and his costume so quaint.
He gestured at all of our trappings outside
Then flashed a “thumbs up” and got back in his ride
Ol’ Rudolph and company then put it in gear
And took to the sky that was so cold and clear
I was feeling quite good (for one who is older)
When Santa turned back and looked over his shoulder
Then I heard him exclaim, as he turned back around
Merry Christmas to all, and I’ll see you ‘round town!
It’s that most wonderful, horrifying time of the year: time to decide who gets a Christmas card and who doesn’t. Do we send a card to everyone in our address book, or just close friends and relatives? Do only those people who sent us a card last year get one this year?
I’m not quite sure, but I think that’s how it worked in my childhood home. I remember that mom had this special hardbound address book with a rubber band around the outside and tattered pages inside. Every year sometime after Thanksgiving, she would bring it out from whatever super-secret place it hid all year, blow the dust off the thing, carefully remove the aging rubber band and slowly lift its faded green cover.
Don’t hold me to it, but I could swear I heard the sound of angels singing each time mom opened that book, revealing pages of beautifully hand-written names of chosen family and friends. Talk about your naughty and nice list. This thing was like the Christmas Card Book of Life. There was a small square in the columns next to each name to check off the years not only when our family sent that person a Christmas card, but more importantly, whether or not the recipients sent one to us that year, as well.
Again, I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure that if there was a blank square in the “received” column for last year, that poor schmo was gettin’ squat in their mailbox from us this year. Booyah and bah humbug.
I’m not even sure if mom still has that book. If she does, I live too far away from her house these days to hear the angel chorus when she opens it up. But times are changing when it comes to sending traditional cards, anyway. With the near universal use of the Internet, more people are sending e-cards or my personal favorite – custom-printed photo cards from one of several online services that let you insert your own family photos into pre-designed card formats. You can even upload your own address book data and have each card preaddressed and mailed for you without ever touching the things. It’s certainly convenient, if not exactly personal and heartfelt.
I still prefer to hand write each address and include some sort of note with our cards. Although I do dread each year when we address the last of the envelopes (I have a tendency to order exactly the number of cards on our list), affix the last of carefully counted “holiday-themed” stamps from those politically correct folks at the U.S. Postal Service, and drop the entire stack into the mailbox.
So why such trepidation? Because it never fails that – when all the cards and stamps are in the mail – I’ll go home and find a card or two from someone who hasn’t sent us a card in years, or ever, and who we didn’t send one to this year. Arrrghhhhh! Will they hate us now because they aren’t getting a card from us? Should we rush out and buy one just for them? Grit our teeth and hope they don’t notice and be sure to send one next year? What if it’s too late and they cross us off their card list? Oh, the pressure.
As I write this, my wife and I haven’t decided if we’ll even send out cards this season. With our kids spread out further and further across the country each passing year, it’s almost impossible to get a photo of all of us to put on a card. Last year for the first time, in fact, our “family” photo card featured just my wife and me. No kids. Quite honestly, it made me feel less than holly and jolly to send them out.
Yep, it looks like we may be on several naughty lists next year. I’ll see you ‘round town.
