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.

Support Your Local Pyrotechnician

Well, toast my buns and bake my beans! Next Wednesday is already the Fourth of July. Seriously? How in the name of John Phillips Sousa did we get this far into the year this fast? Will somebody tap the brakes just a little, please?

Be that as it may, the holiday of flags, food, fairs, family reunions and fireworks is upon us. Many will celebrate at our town’s homegrown annual picnic and fireworks show at the local high school athletic field. This has rightfully become a cherished tradition over the years for thousands of locals (my family, included) and non-locals alike.

Fortunately, we Crescenta Valley denizens can choose from several other nearby celebrations including the mother of all fireworks festivities at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, the decidedly more upscale and privileged atmosphere of the Lacy Park Fourth Festivities in tony San Marino and several others. For what it’s worth, my vote goes to the celebration at CV High. Support your local pyrotechnics, I always say.

If you’ve followed My Thoughts, Exactly recently, you know why this will be the first year I don’t have to close up all of the windows in my home and put a stack of CDs in the stereo to blare throughout the house while we’re gone so that our dogs hear less of the bombs bursting in air. We’ve also always left lights on and curtains closed so our canine clowns couldn’t see the bright flashes in the nighttime sky. After all, there’s nothing like coming home from a wonderful fireworks display to find that a pair of neurotic, jittery, freaked out, quaking, mentally unstable, 80-pound hounds have spent the last several hours clawing their way into closets, behind sofas, under beds and any other place they could break-and-enter to try and escape the apocalyptic clamor coming from the valley below. Sigh. I sure do miss those pups.

But back to the holiday at hand; as you probably know (unless you’ve been interviewed by Jay Leno lately) the Fourth of July commemorates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. And in case you’re wondering, there was no annual Fourth of July Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest for all the brand spanking new U.S. citizens back then. Not to step on my colleague, Mike Lawlor’s historical toes, but archival records tell us that before firing off a loud round of artillery to salute the occasion, General George Washington marked the Independence Day holiday by giving his soldiers not foot long hot dogs (or burgers or corn on the cob for that matter), but a double ration of rum. Those colonials knew how to party, right?

Speaking of parties worthy of the history books, the Bristol Fourth of July Parade in Rhode Island has been held since 1785, making it the oldest continuous Independence Day celebration in the U.S. That’s impressive. Then again, I think our own Montrose Christmas Parade is that old, isn’t it? Or maybe it just feels that way when you’re waiting endlessly in between slow moving entries. But I digress.

I can’t let this Fourth pass without mentioning those who continue to make it all possible, our military. There’s a Facebook meme making the rounds this week that shows a bleak photo of an American soldier traipsing through desolate sands of Afghanistan along with a caption that reads: “I was going to complain about my day today, but then I realized … It isn’t 120 degrees. I’m not 5,700 miles from home. I’m not dressed in full uniform. I’m not carrying 70-plus lbs of gear. And there is little chance of me driving over a bomb today. Thanks, to all who serve.”  Amen to that.

So let the fireworks fly! Let the burgers grill and pass the ‘tater salad, please. Let freedom ring – and may God in His boundless grace and mercy continue to bless America. Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a version of my column first published yesterday, 6.28.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Our Year of Living Adventurously

I’m sure my wife would agree that when she married me 26 years ago, she had no idea what she was signing up for. Poor woman. But, lucky me.

On that unseasonably cold, early Spring day over two and a half decades ago, standing together in the outdoor gazebo at the Saddleback Inn in Lake Arrowhead, we said our vows before God, my favorite uncle (who just happened to be a Presbyterian minister) and a handful of family members who drove up the winding mountain roads through pea soup fog for the event. Sometime later, as we planned our future plans and dreamed the dreams of the just-married, we promised each other that upon reaching our 25^th anniversary, we would celebrate by taking a trip to Europe, specifically Austria and Switzerland.

Surely by then our kids would be grown and independent. Surely too, my upward career path in the ad biz would have provided enough financial stability by then to afford such a romantic getaway. Surely we would have the time to relax with an overseas trip in celebration of a quarter century of wondrous wedded bliss (we were newlyweds, okay?).

But as Leslie Nielsen once said in the movie, Airplane, “Don’t call me Shirley.” I’m also reminded of the sage Yiddish saying, “Man plans, God laughs.” If so, they must be holding their angelic sides and gasping for air in heaven.

I’m pretty sure we were at least right about our kids. Yes, our four progeny are healthy, independent, wise beyond their years and, for the most part, well on the way to realizing their own dreams of family, faith, careers and a fulfilled life. May it be ever so. Amen and amen.

As to my career? Bwah-hahaha. Chortle. Guffaw. Snort. Titter. That’s a good one. You know that steep, upwardly mobile rise to a creative corner office on Madison Avenue West I mentioned above? It quickly began looking more like a dive off a steep cliff not long after I left the ad (mad) agency world and went freelance nearly 16 years ago.

And so a year ago this week, our 25^th anniversary was upon us and there was no way in financial fantasyland that we would be going on any European adventure. I mean, if we couldn’t afford the gas to drive to San Diego, flying to St. Moritz was absolutely, ridiculously out of the question.

So, instead of letting the 25 year milestone pass like “just” any another anniversary night out with a nice dinner, some flowers and a card –  we decided to celebrate in an unusual way for an entire year – by attempting to complete 25 low cost, semi-local mini “adventures” during the 12 months until our next anniversary. (Yes, ladies, I did the dinner, flowers and card routine, too. I may be challenged in the disposable income department, but I’m not an idiot.)

One year later, how’d we do on our adventure quest? We made a valiant attempt, to be sure. Although we didn’t quite make it to 25, we came awfully close, including making several long bike rides (one as far as 65 miles round trip from Duarte to Long Beach and back), an attempt to summit Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the continental U.S., cross-country snowshoeing in Mammoth Lakes, hiking to the top of Mt. Baldy, riding with the CV Weekly team on a “float” in the annual Montrose Christmas Parade and quite a few others. It’s been an adventurous year, to say the least.

So, how did my wife and I celebrate our 26^th anniversary this week? Here’s a clue: it wasn’t in the Alps, but it did involve the Matterhorn (which, unfortunately was closed for renovations … arrrghhh!!). And even though the gas to Anaheim cost almost as much as airfare to see the real thing, can you really put a price on true love? (Men, the answer to that one is “Absolutely not!” Got it?)

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 4.12.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Unplugged & Unhinged

That’s it. I’ve officially changed the lyrics of the classic Christmas song, “Let It Snow” to “Let It Blow!” I’m mean, chill out, Mutha Nature. That Santa Ana event our county weathered last week was nothing short of epic. In my many years here in Southern California, we’ve  made the national news several times due to spectacular wildfires that make for riveting video footage. But never (at least to my knowledge) have we received network coverage for our windstorms. Until last week.

Listening to the winds as they ripped through the trees around our home last Wednesday night, I kept looking at the clock on my nightstand so I’d know when we lost power. In the backyard, I could hear pine cones dropping like heavy mortar-fire onto our lawn from a neighbor’s pine tree that towers over our back fence. With nervous laughter, our family has always called these football-sized pinecones “widowmakers” because of their wicked, talon-sharp scales and impressive weight. The thuds as the cones hit the turf made me thankful our dog was sleeping fitfully alongside our bed and not outside in the line of fire. Thankfully, no animals or small children were lost in the pinecone barrage.

We eventually lost our power sometime early Thursday morning and didn’t get it back until Saturday. Which meant, of course, that we also lost a significant amount of food from our kitchen fridge and the separate freezer in which we store all those great Costco buys out in the garage. Sigh. As frustrating as it was having to throw food away, I have to admit to feeling a sense of adventure as I dusted off our ancient Coleman gas lantern (and had to remember how to replace the fragile cloth mantles) and hung it from the ceiling fan in our den to read by. Without Facebook, email or TV (among other e-distractions), I read more in the few days we were powerless than I’ve been able to read in months. In fact, I almost finished author Stephen King’s latest cinder block-sized novel (all 800-plus pages of the beast) released only a few weeks ago. I was sure the book would last me well into the New Year.

Yes, it was cold in our house, but we bundled up and made the best of it. And to be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to resetting all of the digital clocks in our house when the power returned. For me, however, the worst part of the power outage was witnessing how dangerously ignorant (or willfully reckless) many of our fellow Crescenta Valley drivers were in blasting through busy intersections where the signals weren’t in operation (which means almost every intersection along Foothill). Did the DMV change the law about treating an intersection as a four-way stop when traffic lights aren’t working? I lost track of how many times I waited at an intersection – watching the dance of the drivers try to figure out whose turn it was to creep out into the no-man’s land – only to have some clueless chucklehead blast through it without so much as tapping their brakes. How there weren’t more head-ons or destruction derby-like collisions is a mystery. Note to the DMV: make it more difficult to pass the driver’s test from now on, please.

Thankfully, the winds seemed to shut off just in time for the annual Montrose Christmas parade to go off without a hitch – or at least without spectators and participants alike having to be tied down like so many warmly dressed balloons. I hope everyone who made it out to the parade route had as much fun as all of us on the CV Weekly float did waving to you all. Oh, and thanks for all the much appreciated shout outs of support as we passed by. We love you too.

With my LED flashlight and a boatload of AA-cells close at hand these days, I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my edited column first published Thursday, 12.8.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Winter Wonders

Thanksgiving is over and I can “legally” play and sing Christmas music. However, I have to fess up and admit to singing one of my favorites, “I Wonder As I Wander”, no matter what season the calendar says it is. In addition to loving the beautiful melody of this classic carol, I probably like this particular song because I do, in fact, wonder oddly disconnected thoughts every waking hour of every day. Like these for example:

I wonder … if anyone else sees the irony in our usual post-Thanksgiving SoCal heat wave occurring last weekend, the very weekend so many of us put up outdoor Christmas lights and decorate for what’s supposed to be a wonderfully wintery season? It was actually painful for me to drive along Foothill this past Saturday and see live Christmas trees for sale, withering in our mid-80-degree temps. Now, I realize many people love our climate more than ever this time of year because of this very kind of summer-like warmth. All I can say is, bless your heat-loving hearts. Maybe I can interest you in buying our house when we load up the moving van and head for the Yukon. Bleh.

I wonder … if we’ll ever see an actual bike parked at one of those new racks all along Foothill Blvd. So far, a not one. 

I wonder … if anyone else is as creeped out as I am by that LensCrafters commercial with the guy on the bus who is reading over the shoulder of the lady several rows ahead of him and laughing out loud like a recently escaped patient from the Happy Home? Stop the bus, please. I really want to get off. 

I wonder … (speaking of commercials) if other people respond as negatively as I do to that whacked out lady in red who stars in the onslaught of Target commercials airing lately. How do those spots make me feel? Well, imagine taking a big bite out of an old, moldy lemon hours after the Novocain from your oral surgery wears off – then finding half a worm inside the lemon. It’s kinda like that – only worse.

I wonder … how lazy does someone have to be to actually think electric salt and pepper grinders are a good idea? I saw them for sale last week at an upscale cooking store in Pasadena. Really? Have we become that lethargic? What’s next, a remote control TP dispenser?

I wonder … if I’ll ever be in decent enough shape to wear a cycling jersey and pants without looking and feeling like a large, brightly colored kielbasa link on wheels? Why do the makers of bike clothing assume every cyclist is a recovering anorexic or native of Munchkin-land?

I wonder … if anyone else out there is repulsed by the shopping mania that overwhelmed the Thanksgiving season this year? To watch TV news or read the newspaper last weekend, you’d think that scoring a smokin’ hot deal on a humongous, flat-screen TV or video game console was the only thing many Americans live for. Sadly, maybe it is.

I wonder … who knows the identity of the “electric elf” who every year magically makes Christmas lights appear along the footbridge that connects the west end of Two-Strike Park with Henrietta Ave. I know, but there’s no way I’m spilling Santa’s little secret!

I wonder … if anyone else thinks the title of the new blockbuster in the werewolves vs. vampire movie franchise should have been “The Twilight Saga: Breaking Wind”? (Sorry, that was just too easy to pass up.) 

I wonder … speaking of wind – if Southern California has ever had a windstorm like the one we’ve been experiencing since this past Wednesday? Trees down everywhere. Power out for days at a time (which is why this post is late). Roofs blown off. Houses and cars crushed. Traffic accidents up the wazoo because drivers don’t know enough to stop before blowing (sorry) through intersections where the signals are dark. Stores closed during the busiest shopping season of the year because cash registers won’t work. Fun times.

I wonder … if you’ll see me waving as I ride along with the rest of the CV Weekly crew in the annual Montrose Christmas Parade this weekend? Please come out and enjoy this wonderfully small town tradition and give us a wave and a yell.

And if I don’t see you along Honolulu Avenue Saturday night (or we all get blown away in the process!), I’ll see you ‘round town.  

Note: This is a post of my edited column first published Thursday, 12.1.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.