Oh, the Stemware!

One of the more entertaining benefits of living in Southern California is to experience our semi-frequent earthquakes and then watch the hilarious news coverage that ensues. Last Monday morning, for example, found our local high def doofuses in classic form.

As the ground shook at 6:25 a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day, many of our local broadcasters went to live continuous coverage for the next hour-and-a-half to bring us every possible breaking non-story so that viewers had all the necessary information to survive the ongoing aftermath of our latest natural disaster. Whew.

Was there damage? Not a bit – unless you consider knocked-over books or a wine glass falling off a shelf catastrophic property damage. Were there casualties to man or beast? Uh, um ... well, no. As I flipped around the channels during the non-stop coverage, broadcasters were pleading with viewers to share their photos, video clips and commentaries about any and all damage caused by the latest earthquake. Nothing. Stations had video feeds from their airborne helicopters showing ... normal traffic. Yawn. No broken water mains. No collapsed freeway overpasses. No panic in the streets. But “stay with us throughout the morning so we can bring you the latest updates on this breaking story!”

Social media outlets were shaking with laughter all day Monday, as links were posted to clips of our crack local news teams reacting on the air – some like grade schoolers on the playground – as the quake hit. One link in particular was reposted many thousands of times, showing KTLA’s morning anchors, Chris Schauble and Megan Henderson panic and duck for cover underneath the desk during the broadcast.

Yes, they did the prudent thing. In fact, during one of her countless interviews, USGS Seismologist and perennial “go-to” expert, Dr. Lucy Jones, even commented on the KTLA couple’s daring on camera dive saying that they did exactly what we are all supposed to do as quakey, shakey California residents. Still, it was pretty funny to watch.

Over at KCBS, the gaggle of gabbers weren’t too much more poised. Although no one dove for the safety of the desktop (there will be disciplinary meetings!) the fearless on-air foursome did provide useful and enlightened running commentary, including: “Whoa!” “Big earthquake!” “Really big earthquake!” “Yes, big!” “Wow!” “We can still feel it!” “It feels really, really strong!” “I still feel it!” “My hands are shaking!” “Again, wow!” and “I agree.”

You’re watching trained professionals, kids. DO NOT try this level of reporting at home.

Throughout the next hour and a half of continuous coverage there were breathless announcements of breaking news like: “This Channel (fill in the number) exclusive just in: we have just learned that the quake has officially been downgraded from a 4.7 to 4.4. When we learn more, we’ll be the first to tell you.”

Crickets.

In much the same way as our dear local media sensationalize and hyperbolize even the slightest amount of precipitation, Southland earthquake coverage has earned us national, if not international ridicule. There’s even an unofficial award given by pundits and provocateurs to the local news anchor who executes the most memorable on-air desk dive during an earthquake. The dubious “Shocknek Award” is named for long-time local veteran of the airwaves, Kent Shocknek, who made news of his own in 1987 while broadcasting during the Whittier Narrows earthquake, making an Olympics-worthy dive under the anchor desk, and continuing to report the news with the camera locked onto an empty chair. Hearty congratulations to the KTLA 5 team for taking this year’s honors!

I’m sure newsrooms all across L.A. County are buzzing with how to maintain ratings now that the latest non-event is already days old. But never fear. I just heard a report that there may be a potential drizzle in our seven day forecast.

Fire up those Dopplers people and prep for live remote stand ups on mist-moistened streets. Things. Could. Get. Damp. 

I’ll see you ‘round town.

iDriving Our New Computer (Pt. 2)

Last weekend as I was making sure all of our assorted clocks, watches, coffee makers, appliances and cars had all “sprung forward”, I remembered that I hadn’t yet written Part 2 of my tale of technological troubles in driving the car we bought last summer. My bad.

To recap; both of our cars were well-over ten years old when we finally caved to the pressures of repairs and reliability and bought a brand spankin’ new, off-the-showroom ride for my dear deserving wife. That was in July, and I’ve been alternately exasperated and amazed every time I get behind the wheel since then.

photo: nasa.gov

For example, even now I have to restrain myself from deliberately driving off the nearest freeway overpass in frustration when I simply try to get fresh air flowing through the vents in this miracle of transportation technology. Back when cars had more horsepower than microchips, to get fresh air you nudged a simple mechanical vent lever to a setting labeled ‘fresh’ and the outside air flowed from the outside to inside. Easy peezy.

But the engineers who designed our new car’s “climate control system” must detest simplicity. And so, there are settings for feet only, body only, windows only, feet and windows and body and windows. My wife and I can each set our own comfort-zone so that, theoretically, I could be freezing while she rides in sauna-like heat on her side of the cabin. But neither of us can simply enjoy fresh air without rolling down the windows. Apparently, there’s no way to allow air into our car without passing through its HEPA (wha-huh?) micro-filtration system, which as near as I can tell, means I could park in front of the ruined Fukushima nuclear power plant without exposure to lethal radiation.

Our new car has more bells, whistles, beeps, buzzes, dings and chimes than a 1980s video arcade. But surprisingly, one feature it doesn’t have is a GPS navigation system. Apparently, we missed that boat. Very few of the new models that my wife and I researched and/or test drove last summer had such a system. According to the salespeople (and they never lie, right?), the newest of new cars sync up or link up, or otherwise automatically connect with one or more of the smart phones being carried by everyone from grandmas to grade school kids these days. Then, the phone’s own map-app provides voice directions through the car’s audio system with its multiple surround-sound speakers, Dolby noise reduction and onboard digitized algorithm software which analyzed the road noise coming from outside the “cabin” and customizes white noise output to counteract any such unwanted audio signals. Never has “turn left at the next signal. In N’ Out Burgers will be on your right” sounded so good.

Before driving anywhere, however, the car must be started, which poses another challenge. That’s because our car doesn’t have a key, but rather a “fob” that communicates with mission control somewhere when either my wife or I get within a few feet of the vehicle. Supposedly, the car senses whether it’s me or my wife who’s about to attempt to drive it. With this knowledge (hello, NSA ... are you watching?) it should adjust the driver’s seat and both outboard mirrors to our personal settings before we even get inside. More often than not, however, the car thinks I am my wife and that she is me. Even if we switch key fobs, the driver’s seat automatically starts sliding towards the steering wheel as I’m trying to sit down. There’s a reason I call the car, “Crusher.”

Once the seats have been readjusted to non-torture setting, there are certain, shall we say “procedures” to follow in order to start the engine. The Space Shuttle had to be easier to launch than this thing. Key fob in proximity? Check. Transmission interface lever in “Park” position? Check. Safety belt interlock properly engaged on human biomass detected in driver’s seat? Check. Begin ignition sequence. Locate launch, er, start button on the cockpit panel and ... nothing. Houston, we have a problem.

Okay, check Owner’s Manual volume 4, chapter 148, page 10,432. “Starting Your Car’s Engine.” Why of course! My foot needs to depress the brake with precisely 23-foot-pounds of pressure, while my left foot makes slow, lazy circles in a counter-clockwise motion exactly 15cm above the heat-sensitive floor mat while driver’s left hand makes clockwise circles above his/her/gender-neutral head and right hand grips the steering wheel and driver recites the combined CAFÉ fuel economy regulations for imported auto manufacturers out loud. And finally, the car starts.

In spite of my own steep learning curve, I am making progress, however. After sitting in our car for much of this past Sunday with the massive Owner’s Manual in one hand and a yellow highlighter and sticky notes in the other, I was able to set the clock ahead one hour. So, I’ve got that going for me.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

A Wondering I Go. Again.

Because it’s been several months since I last purged myself of mental “wonderings,” please bear with me while I do a little pre-spring cranial cleaning. First up, a few weather wonders left in the wake of our recent record-breaking storms:

I wonder ... which local Southern California newscaster was the first last weekend to ask viewers if we’ve “had enough of this rain”? Unbelievable. Only three days of precipitation after three relentless years of drought and the local news numbskulls were already doing stories about cabin fever, winter depression and worse. 

That sound you hear is the rest of the country laughing at us.

I wonder … what the record is for how quickly after the rain begins the media starts to remind us all that the precipitation won’t be enough to end the current drought conditions? Yes, we know. We live in a desert. Got it.

I wonder … why we all say “thunder and lightning” when lightning has to happen before there can be any thunder produced? Shouldn’t we say, “lightning and thunder”?

I wonder … how the first responders interviewed after inevitable white-water rescues can keep a straight face while describing the common-sense-challenged citizens that they have to fish out of the L.A. River every time it rains around here. I’m sure they’d much rather discuss the concept of “thinning the herd.”

Next, the deluge of rain this past weekend gave me the dubious “opportunity” to catch up on some TV watching, which prompted these wonderings:

I wonder … what ad agency came up with that droning doofus in the Eliquis pharmaceutical commercial who has “... always tried to give it my best shot.” Maybe so, but he blathers on about his many medical ailments while his wife sits nearby in her own semi-conscious stupor (Really, Bob? We’re going to hear all about your flippin’ atrial fibrillation ... again?) and his adult son kills time dribbling a basketball outside on the driveway, rolling his eyes and waiting to bond with “Best Shot Bob” in a game of hoops. The commercial is only a minute long, but it feels like hours.

I wonder … who at Time Warner Cable thought a TV campaign using some completely irrelevant football coach would be a good idea? The current commercial running ad nauseam features a snooty psychic and makes me want to grab his umbrella and pummel him about the head and shoulders until he just shuts the heck up and goes away. But then, he already knows that.

I wonder … speaking of beyond-terrible commercials – who in Old Navy’s marketing department should lose their job for green-lighting that jaw-droppingly annoying new commercial featuring freakishly over-the-top TSA agents going ga-ga over a woman’s skinny jeans. Ga-ga, no. Gag-gag, yes.

And a few random wonderings before we say adieu for the week:

I wonder … why so many drivers insist on getting into the HOV/Car Pool lane and then drive noticeably slower than the flow of traffic in all the other lanes? News flash: You don’t have to drive in the car pool lane just because you’ve got someone in the car with you.

I wonder … why the makers of audio CDs still shrink wrap and triple seal the hard plastic jewel cases as if the cure to cancer is carried within? Then again, I also wonder why I’m still buying CDs in this age of digital music downloads and entire music libraries on a USB drive the size of my little finger.

I wonder … how I could have gone through so much of life without knowing that I was a certifiably incurable pluviophile? (Don’t worry mom, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This time, at least.) Actually, I’ve always known that I find great joy and happiness from rainy weather, I just didn’t know there was a term for my condition. 

But I feel better now. Thanks for reading and I’ll see you ‘round town.

Who Won, Who Lost, Who Cares?

(Note: I will continue soon with Part 2 of my lamentations on the technological tempests involved with operating our new car. But first, this commercial break.)

Last Sunday there was an annual televised spectacle that millions of viewers tuned in to watch. In every corner of the world, large and small groups of people gathered in front of their wide screen TVs in rapt attention as the competitors gave it their best shot in hopes of winding up a winner.

Oh, and in between the commercials I’m pretty sure a football game was held, even though every time I actually paid attention to the game, the score seemed to indicate that one of the teams didn’t show up. But I digress.

Since my primary career is writing advertising copy for clients all over the country, I couldn’t let the mother of all advertising events pass without at least minimal commentary – especially since this year’s marketers paid a whopping $4-million for every 30-seconds of TV time that aired. That’s $133,333 per second, good or bad. And there was a lot of bad.

For example, the much-hyped Budweiser spots featured a non-celebrity named Ian Rappaport who is whisked away for an evening of strangeness including ping pong with a wig-wearing Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was just that – strange. As was the 60-second mess promoting Maserati’s “Ghibli” car. At least I think it was a car.

The Honda recap was only a painful reminder of all the annoying “Helpful Honda Guy” ads we suffered through last year. Help me by going away, please. T-Mobile used Tim Tebow (get it, “T.T.” for T-Mobile?) in a spot I rated ‘T’ for terrible. In other spots, the cellular company spent a lot of green simply to promote the color pink.

Toyota’s commercial crowded a bunch of Muppets into their Highlander SUV only to remind everyone watching of how much Jim Henson’s imagination and creativity is missed. H&M treated us to David Beckham without his clothes on. Yawn.

Kia was the latest advertiser to produce yet another lame sendup of the ancient Matrix movies (“choose the red car key or the blue car key”). Speaking of rehashing old ideas, Axe Peace body spray spent a huge amount of money to encourage world leaders to make love not war. It stunk.

One of my least favorite commercials promoted Subway’s new “Whole Enchilada” menu item (I’d bet Jared Fogle won’t be eating this doozy). The spot was stale and cheesy, to say the least.

On the other hand, some of the TV spots were engaging, funny, memorable or different in such a way that they brought a smile or a tear (or both) to this ad veteran’s face. In this category I include Volkswagen’s “Wings” spot in which a German engineer earns his wings each time a VW hits 100,000 miles on the odometer. It’s a brilliant concept perfectly executed and the creative team at Volkswagen’s agency deserves its own set of wings for the effort.

Radio Shack produced a brilliant spot announcing that “the 80’s called and want their stores back!” (Sure, but is my Free Battery Club Card still valid?) Doritos – as has become the tradition – aired a couple of “homemade” commercials which were far superior to many of the professionally made spots. Heinz Ketchup also had a funny entry that earned bonus points with me for the fart noise coming from granny’s almost-empty ketchup bottle. Gets me every time.

The most popular commercial of the game turned out to be Budweiser’s “Puppy Love/Best Buds” entry telling the heartfelt story of a too-cute puppy and his Clydesdale companions. Completely predictable but perfectly produced. The only way to improve the spot would have been to have the puppy find the ETrade talking baby who was missing from the commercial lineup this year. Maybe he knew it wasn’t going to be a good year for football or commercials.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Our All-Wheel-Drive Computer (Part 1)

I love computers. I couldn’t practice my profession without them. I write on one seven days (and far too many nights) a week. My wife and I are able to see and talk with our kids and grandkids thousands of miles away thanks to computers. The phone in my pocket is an incredibly versatile computer. Computers are an integral part of so much of contemporary daily life, I would be the first person in the choir loft to sing the praises of programming and profess the miracle of microchips.

I’m just not sure I want to drive one.

I say this because – if you remember – early last summer my wife and I sold her lumbering, limping beast of an SUV and bought our first new, off-the-lot car in over ten years. We got something smaller, lighter, more nimble and fun to drive. We got something with a luxurious interior and seemingly every bell and whistle available. As such, we drove home what is essentially a computer with wheels. Driving has never been so frustrating.

For example, a week or so ago, we headed out for a date night at the movies in Pasadena. I decided to bring along a CD that we’d recently bought. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details, but from the time we backed out of our garage in La Crescenta, until we pulled into the garage at the Paseo in Old Towne, Pasadena (typically a 20-30 minute drive) these two technologically savvy adults could not figure out which buttons to push, which dials to turn, which digital deity to invoke in order to simply listen to a flippin’ CD in a car we’ve owned for six months! I swear, the instrument panels on a Space Shuttle have to be more intuitive and less complicated than the center console in our new car.

And that’s just the beginning of my frustrations. With all of the infrared and sonar-based sensors embedded in the body of our car, it beeps and buzzes and brrrrrrs and bongs and otherwise makes annoying noises at us if even so much as a leaf drifts in front of us as we’re backing out or pulling into a parking space. It sounds like the inside of a pinball machine if someone in the car doesn’t have their seatbelt buckled, if you get too close to the outside of whatever lane you’re in, if you’re fuel level is low, if you’re fuel consumption is excessive, if you’re driving distracted, if you have a bad attitude or even poor posture.

Okay, those last two might not be part of the car’s programing, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

Worse than that, our new car has a “safety” feature that automatically slams on the massive rotors on the antilock brakes if you’re driving under 20 mph, don’t have your foot on the brake pedal and the car senses an object in your path. I’m not kidding. The car actually stops itself – rather violently, in fact – without you, the driver doing a thing. Now, in theory this might be a good idea. But when the car’s array of forward-looking sensors determines that our still-retracting roll-up garage door is actually a person in danger of being run over and bring the car to a sudden and immediate stop while we’re still pulling into our garage, it’s not a fun experience. I’m just thankful that one of the many air bags embedded in God-only-knows-how-many-places throughout the leather-clad interior (with contrasting hand-stitching, don’tcha know!) of the car didn’t deploy to save us from certain bodily harm.

Don’t get me wrong, overall this new car of ours is a thrill to drive. And yet, I can’t help but long for the days when, to get fresh air for example, you simply pushed a lever toward a setting labeled “vent” and voila, outside air! With our new car, well, I’ll tell you about that next week.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Playground for the Pooches

So far at least, 2014 seems to be my year for visiting new places around town (or rediscovering them, as I wrote last week about our trip downtown to Olvera St. and Philippe the Original restaurant).

This past weekend, my better half and I took our two young and shall we say, “high spirited” dogs to try out the relatively new Crescenta Valley Dog Park. The park officially opened a year ago last October. Why we hadn’t visited yet is beyond me. But time doesn’t just fly these days, it rockets by on afterburners.

To sum up our dog park experience; we all loved it. The pups ran themselves into a panting, slobbering frenzy up one side of the chain-link-fenced enclosure and back down the other. They had a great time “meeting” the dozens of other dogs of all sizes that were there during our visit. Surprisingly, all the dogs were very well behaved (even their owners!), too.

The CV Dog Park is actually two parks that parallel each other; one side for larger breeds and the other side for smaller dogs – each with more than enough room for any rover to run over, chase balls, sniff out the competition and all the other doggy stuff they do so well. The one slight negative for me was how warm it is with all the exposed dirt. Even though there is plentiful natural shade provided by the resident oak trees, it felt warm and stifling. That said, there are well-working drinking fountains with cool water for people and pooches near the entrance to either side of the park, so it’s easy for both two- and four-legged guests to stay hydrated.

Watching our dogs play at the park reminded me of the many times we took our own kids to various “playlands” inside fast food restaurants. These often sketchy facilities typically have large, brightly colored plastic tubes connected to big bubbles with lookout portals and junctions into other tubes, and slides that empty into massive pits filled with an ocean of plastic balls. If they pay attention at all, parents typically stand just outside the play area and watch helplessly as their kids tried to keep from being trampled by the more aggressive kids.

My wife always called these play areas “Petri dishes” due to the myriad of bodily fluids left on the well-worn surfaces. With the passageways of these kid-sized habitrails too small and narrow for any adult to crawl through armed with spray bottles of disinfectant, one can only imagine (and believe me, we’ve imagined!) how many germs and viruses our young ones were exposed to for a half-hour of fun and distraction. Even so, that half-hour of relative calm while our kids crawled inside the Petri dish was sometimes all that kept us on the rails of sanity, if you know what I mean.

But when I think about our visit to the dog park last weekend and compare it to most “play lands” for kids of the human persuasion, I’m actually quite impressed at the relative cleanliness of the dog park. There were more than enough shovels and bag-lined trash cans stationed throughout each of the two sides of the dog park and nary a canine land-mine in site. I’m sure peer pressure has something to do with how quickly dog owners remove any doggy deposits from the ground. I only wish parents of kids at fast food playlands would be as responsive in cleaning up after their progeny.

I have no doubt we’ll be taking our canine kids to the CV Dog Park on a regular basis. It’s not only a great place to wear the pads off the pups, but it’s a fun place to watch a wide and wonderful variety of shapes, sizes, personalities, temperaments, attitudes, quirkiness, styles, and grooming habits.

And the dogs are fun to watch, too! I’ll see you ‘round town.

Tourism At Home

Since he moved to Missoula to attend the University of Montana a few years ago, we have been able to lure, cajole, beg, trick, bribe and otherwise entice our son to come back “home” to Southern California only once a year at most. Suffice it to say, he took to the outdoor wonders and wilds of the Treasure State with complete abandon, being a fisherman/hunter/outdoorsman/adventurer at heart.

This past week, said son made his annual compulsory return home with his fiancé, a young lady who was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She has been to the Southern California only once before. Although her hometown is close to the metropolis of Seattle, it doesn’t begin to compare with the size, density and geographic variety of Los Angeles County. While there wasn’t time to do much sightseeing on her first visit to the southland a year ago, this time we were able to do some sightseeing and, frankly, wound up feeling like tourists in our own hometown.

On Sunday, for example, we joined the throngs of folks visiting the California Science Center near USC to see the space shuttle Endeavour. As one of only three so-called ‘space planes’ that are viewable to the public (not to get uber-nerdy on readers, but a fourth shuttle, the Enterprise, never actually flew in space. So there.) the Endeavour is an inexpensive experience that shouldn’t be missed by residents or visitors. Personally, I’ll never forget the excitement of watching (along with tens of thousands of our southland neighbors) the Endeavour fly over the Crescenta Valley (the suburb of Los Angeles where I live) on its final flight that sweltering September day in 2012. Being able to see it up close closes the loop, so to speak.

Another “touristy” spot our houseguests had wanted to see during their time under the So Cal sun (the temperature back home in Missoula was near zero and snow had been falling for days) was Olvera Street, perhaps the most historic of all Los Angeles destinations. So after our necks were sore from looking up and gaping at the space shuttle, we headed north on the Harbor Freeway towards the heart of downtown.

Having worked up an appetite, however, we decided to first make a refueling stop at another not-to-be-missed L.A historical hot spot, the home of the French dip sandwich, Philippe, the Original, located on Alameda, just north of Olvera Street. There were already dozens of hungry customers ahead of us at the counter even though it was almost three in the afternoon, but any time spent waiting would have been worth it to indulge in a classic hot beef sandwich dripping with au jus. Oh, my.

Once sufficiently sated, we waddled south to Olvera Street, a landmark I last visited with my Cub Scout pack sometime shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth. I distinctly remember using every nickel of my saved-up allowance money to buy a leather bull whip. (The leather shop is still there!) Even though the legendary Indiana Jones bullwhip scene was decades away, I treasured that souvenir of my childhood visit to Olvera Street long after it had gotten me into a world of trouble both at home and elementary school. But that’s a story for another time.

Olvera Street is a uniquely kitschy and touristy collection of crowded stores and restaurants all selling pretty much identical wares, but I had forgotten how fun it is to go and experience a culture endemic to Los Angeles.

Without moving our car, we could have also taken our guests on a walking tour of nearby Chinatown or viewed the incredible art deco architecture of Union Station, but frankly, by then we were walked out and more than ready to head home.

What a day it was. Then again, what a place we locals are fortunate enough to live in. Who knew there was so much to see and do around here?

I’ll see you ‘round town.

New Year, New Laws

It’s that most wonderful time of the year when I get myself into trouble with some readers simply by pointing out a handful of the staggering number of new laws that have been foisted on Americans in general and Californians in particular as the New Year begins.

How many laws, you ask? Buckle up because there are more than 40,000 new restrictions, regulations and statutes that became law at midnight on Wednesday, January 1, 2014. So much for the so-called gridlock in Washington, DC and other seats of government. (And we know which body part sits in a seat, am I right?)

On the national front, some of the new laws (including some that were passed years ago but did not become law until this year) include one that makes it illegal to produce 40-watt and 60-watt incandescent light bulbs for sale in the USA. This comes after the banning of less frequently used 75- and 100-watt bulbs beginning in 2012. Thank you, control-freak government zealots for keeping us in the dark when it comes to choice.

The mother of all new federal laws, however, that will affect every man, woman and child (not to mention doctors, nurses, hospitals, clinics and medical device manufacturers, to name just a few of those afflicted) is the legislation that dropped on January 1st like the trap door on a gallows; “Obamacare”, officially known as the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. Sadly, with every passing day we’re seeing more incontrovertible evidence that this mind-numbing 10,000-plus-page swamp of legislation protects no one, is neither affordable, nor does it provide any improvements to care (quite the opposite) and everything promised to the American public in order to drum up slightest modicum of support was, indeed, just an act. “If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor. Period. If you like your health insurance plan, you can keep your health insurance plan. Period.” Not hardly.

On the state level, there are far too many troubling new laws to begin to cover in this space. Just here in California, for example, the chuckleheads in Sacramento have gone well above and beyond their usual social engineering and legal bullying to inflict more than 800 new laws on citizens of the Golden State. These include the wildly dangerous mandate that students as young as kindergarten must be allowed to use whichever bathroom is consistent with their self-proclaimed gender identity on any given day regardless of what’s listed on their school records or birth certificate. This self-selecting choice also applies to participation in school sports. Think of the implications of such moronic foolishness. Got a daughter in high school? Or a son who wants to visit the girls’ locker rooms unhampered? You can thank Jerry Brown and his bullying band of boneheads for one more parental nightmare to keep you up at night.

Another new law that defies any sense of logic is one that allows the licensing of “qualified” lawyers regardless of their immigration status. In other words, in California you can theoretically practice law even though you are here illegally. Hello ... is this thing on?

Finally, and in a delicious irony of timing, given the recent reports of local pets being killed and dragged from their backyards by mountain lions, the dangerous beasts have even more legal protection against elimination or even relocation thanks to a new law restriction such actions by California Fish & Wildlife wardens. Drag a beloved family pet out of its own backyard to certain death? No problem. Tranquilize and remove a killer predator from the community? Not so fast, bucko.

I can only explain these and other such legal lunacies with the possibility that California’s legislators must have spent too much time in Colorado, where as of January 1st it is okie dokie to buy and consume up to an ounce of marijuana at a time. Rocky Mountain high, indeed.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

New Year Notes to Self

It’s popular this time of year to make profound personal pledges – more commonly known as resolutions – to self and significant others as a way to set a corrective course for the upcoming 12 months. Whatever. I’ve learned through first-hand from experience that the sad majority of these resolutions are all too often ignored, diluted, broken or otherwise abandoned by the time the Martin Luther King holiday rolls around in mid-January, if not sooner.

 
While I wouldn’t call what follows resolutions, per se, it still seemed like a good idea to start out the New Year with a few – well, let’s just call them “notes” to myself. For example:

Next year, I’ll take official power outage notices from Edison with a grain of salt. In the two weeks before Christmas, we were notified on at least four separate occasions (via robocalls, through the mail or with notices left on our door) that we would be without power on a specific upcoming day any time between 8 am and 7 pm. As someone who works from a home office bristling with computers, fax machines, scanners, printers, wireless routers and other technology, it takes a whole lot of planning and inconvenience to prepare to continue working without power or an internet connection. And so, four different days I made the many necessary, time-consuming arrangements, notified clients that I may be difficult to reach and have limited access to emails, etc. – only to have the entire day pass without even a flicker of our lights. Frustrating.

Speaking of lights, next year, I need to remind myself to shop for new Christmas lights and decorations in September. If I haven’t done it by Halloween, it’ll be too late.

Also, I really should play my guitars more. A lot more. And write songs. And sing. That said, this New Year I want the gift of music play a much, much bigger role in my everyday life. Hold me to that one, okay?

On the subject of music, singing and songwriting, next year I really need to write a song that becomes the soundtrack for every other TV commercial like “Home” by Phillip Phillips has been this year. So, yeah ... let’s make that happen. 

Then again – I’d have more time for music if I didn’t watch the first hour of NBC’s Today show on weekday mornings. The morning yak-fest is worse for my blood pressure than an entire 12-cup pot of dark roast. I’d love to have a word with the NBC execs who think it’s hip to have a minimum of five or more people on camera at once with each one clamoring to talk louder than the other until no story can be enjoyed, much less understood. And can we please put an end to this silly fad of having the show’s talent stand next to a big touch screen monitor and swiping images during a story?

Looking ahead to next December, I’m going to try not to walk around singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I recently paid attention to the actual lyrics and it seriously creeped me out. The writer, Frank Loesser, didn’t include a reference to roofies in any of the lyrics, but he could have. He did, in fact, list the male singer as “wolf” and the female part as “mouse” on the original sheet music for this 1944 ditty, thus raising the creep-factor even higher.

Over the next 12 months I will try my best to Tweet on at least a somewhat-regular basis. Because Lord knows I need to spend more of every day staring down at a glowing screen.

He also knows I need to get back to memorizing scripture – one verse a week – something I did religiously (sorry, just too easy) the first half of last year, but somehow stopped as life got busier.

And finally, I hope that – this year more than ever – I’ll see you ‘round town.

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 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.