The 411 on 818

[Note: This column originally appeared in a shorter version in the April 16, 2009 edition of the former Crescenta Valley Sun newspaper – a Times-owned publication.]

This Saturday, April 18, the way we make calls from the 818 area code is changing. Yep, because life already isn’t complicated enough, starting tomorrow, every number we dial will require at least ten digits. I’m not kidding, from Saturday on, any and all phone numbers we call from this area code – from your next door neighbor to the gleaming global headquarters of the Crescenta Valley Sun – will require ten digits or more.

What chucklehead thought this was a good idea, anyway?

Actually, the new mandatory use of our own 818 area code in dialing is due to the California Public Utilities Commission’s approval to add a new area code overlay, 747, to the same geographic area covered by the 818 area code. Confused? Join the club.

According to the telecommunications technocrats, we’re close to running out of unassigned 818 phone numbers due to the ever-growing number of new cell phones, fax machines, security systems, pagers, land lines and internet connections coming online every day. (The fact that hundreds of thousands of unused phone numbers are kept “off the market” for possible future sale to specialized groups/companies, etc. doesn’t seem to matter to the bureaucrats who never met an ordinance they didn’t want to pass.)

This has been happening locally since 1957 when the 805 area code was assigned to Ventura, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara and Bakersfield, all formerly in the 213 area code. In 1984, the Crescenta Valley, Glendale and Burbank lost our 213 exchange and – along with the San Gabriel and San Fernando Valleys – have comprised the 818 area code ever since.

However, unlike in 1984, this time we all get to keep our existing phone numbers. So, address books, business cards, stationary – all stay the same. However, since there will soon be new local phone numbers with the 747 area code, we “818”ers need to actually dial 818 to call each other. Whew, it sure is getting complicated to communicate.

Then again, I’m old enough to remember – barely – rotary dial phones, too. I also remember when my maternal grandparents moved away from their beloved but increasingly congested Glendale to the rural south San Diego county town of Escondido, where at the time, avocado groves outnumbered residents.

To visit Grandma and Grandpa required a three hour drive. Calling between our two homes was considered “long distance,” which meant whoever initiated the call was charged extra by the minute. Both my grandparents and parents would do just about anything not to pay that extra cost, so upon arrival home after a visit, instead of calling and saying a hurried, “stop worrying, we made it home!” my mom or grandma would call the other’s home number, let it ring twice – only twice – and then hang up. This was code that they were safely home. And because the other party didn’t pick up the ringing phone, it was not a completed call and therefore, wasn’t charged to the calling party. Can you say, “cheap?” Or, excuse me … frugal.

Considering this, it’s quite ironic that each of my kids had their own personal cell phone before they were out of elementary school. Okay, now can you say, “spoiled”? Then again, social and technological developments like this are precisely why so many phone numbers across this great gadget-loving land are already used up. Guilty as charged, your honor.

Heck, today even my dear mother – the same one for whom a 1-minute “we’re-home-safely” call to Escondido was too expensive – has her own cell phone. The truth is, my wife and I added a line for mom onto our own family cell plan so she could stay in touch when traveling, or if she has car trouble, or whatever. And yet, even though it doesn’t cost her a nickel to use, she doesn’t use it. The thing almost never leaves her purse for fear of spending a few cents that don’t need to be spent.

No matter how often I try to explain to her that her use of the phone is already paid for, whether or not she uses it, doesn’t seem to register. And so the phone stays in her purse, turned off. I guess if old habits die hard, frugal ones are downright immortal. Of course, the other consequence of her inability to take advantage of the technology is that – inevitably – the few times in the past several years that she actually has had a need and/or desire to make a call on her cell phone, it hasn’t worked because the battery was dead when she turned it on. Sigh.

When it comes to communications technology, like many things, I guess change is inevitable. So the fact that we will now have to dial ten numbers to make even local calls should be no big deal. However, I can’t help but think Ma Bell is turning over in her deregulated grave at the thought of neighbors needing to dial a marathon of digits to talk to each other.

I’d call somebody to complain, but … I don’t have time to dial all those numbers.  See you ‘round town.

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Springing to life

Even being the cold weather, dark clouds, rainstorm addict that I am, I admit to having a special appreciation for this time of year. Spring, especially after a winter that brought such impressive rains to the Southland, often takes my breath away, quite literally. Of course, I’m partially referring to the curtain of yellow-green pollen that blows across our driveway (especially if we’ve just washed a car) from the highly productive pine trees in our neighbor’s yard and engages my life-long battle with asthma like a cheap cigar in a small elevator.

However, this time of year I also regularly catch myself holding my breath while watching one of many small springtime miracles unfold before my eyes in honor of the new season.

For example, we have two sycamore trees – a towering, older one in our front yard and a smaller, younger one in back of our house. Not two weeks ago, I looked at the bare branches and thought to myself that it wouldn’t be long until the trees would be covered in green, leafy foliage that would provide cooling shade to our house and yards.

Sure enough, both of these sycamores are now dotted with green measles of small leafy shoots emerging from all across their gray bark skin. The new leaves are growing so fast, I swear sometimes if I stare long enough at the same branch, I can see the leaves grow as I watch. It’s amazing to behold.

A few years ago, about this same time of year and while looking out our living room window, we noticed a couple of small birds (maybe sparrows, or finches?) that were flying from the bare branches of the older sycamore in our front yard to the eaves along the front of our house. They had pine needles, twigs and other organic debris in their mouths and were obviously trying to find a place to build a nest – flying back and forth along the eaves without much success.

The next thing I knew, our middle son (being an exceptionally resourceful craftsman) disappeared into our garage. When he reappeared a short while later, he carried with him a small wooden shelf that he proceeded to attach with brass brackets high up in the eaves above our front porch – creating a simple, safe perch for the little birds to build their nest and keep away from neighborhood cats, raccoons, and other predators. Soon after our son climbed down off the ladder and come back into the house, the birds flew directly to his newly installed avian apartment to begin setting up housekeeping.

Every Spring now, as our trees burst forth with new life, we watch the building of yet a new nest – and eventually – witness a mother bird protecting her tiny eggs while the father bird flies back and forth providing bits of food and – from his nearby perch on the sycamore – protection for his family. Like I said, it takes my breath away.  

Then again, this sort of internal, deeply imbedded programming so readily found throughout all of creation is – to me at least – just another reminder that we do not inhabit a world of randomness and chaos. Rather, we live in a deliberately designed and painstakingly created place of beauty and purpose. 

Whether it’s the vividly colorful flower that pushes up through the last monochromatic snows of winter, or the sudden explosion of bugs just in time to feed all of those new upturned baby bird mouths emerging from nests all across the land – every once in a while, it registers somewhere inside this thick head of mine, that this season of growth and renewal and of life itself is no accident.

No matter how the harsh realities of everyday life may darken my optimism, no matter what injustice, pain and suffering may yet exist throughout a fallen world, Spring – more specifically, Easter – reminds me to believe in a bigger, better, grander plan. And I do. I’ll see you ‘round town.

[Author’s note: An edited version of this essay was originally published in the April 1, 2010 edition of the CV Weekly Newspaper.]

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

A Sunday Quote

While working on my column for next week's paper, I was researching some of the writings of philosopher Henry David Thoreau and found a quote I hadn't heard before: "How vain it is to sit down and write, when you have not stood up to live."  Ouch. Reminds me to get away from my desk more often. 

The beast within

If you’re a fan of scary movies, you’ve likely hunkered down in your seat as a familiar scene plays out on the screen. You know the one; where unsuspecting merchant seamen or long-haul truckers are transporting a huge and not nearly secure-enough enclosure with some unknown “thing” inside. They only know that something live – and very large – inside wants to get out. As these doomed workers move the crate, jostling whatever is trapped (for the moment at least) within, an occasional grunt or bellow or even primal scream emerges from within. Cut to extreme close ups of frightened peasant eyes, nervously glancing at the suddenly flimsy plywood – the only barrier between their very lives and the gnashing, snarling, slobbering beast within.

What does this cinematic cliché have to do with this column? I thought you’d never ask. During my recent two month-long, self-imposed hiatus from writing the column, “My Thoughts, Exactly”, I’ve had many recurring instances where ideas for possible columns would “grunt and growl” at me from deep within the dark and mysterious recesses of my mind, wanting desperately to get out and roam among the unsuspecting populace of these foothills. Occasionally, column topics would loudly shake their confines, roaring for release. (While not a life-threatening condition, it can be a noisy and raucous one for sure – just ask my longsuffering wife.)

Every time something happened at my house, or a news story would be reported that I digested with more than the usual amazement, I would feel the beast of a column stir within. For example, a voter’s guide arrived last month printed in Korean, Farsi, Spanish and, oh yeah – English, wasting who knows how much money and paper. Why not Japanese, Chinese, Hungarian or Egyptian? After all, I know local residents who are fluent in those languages, too. Growl, scratch, thump.

Also in March, a once-in-eighteen-years opportunity to witness a overly large “perigee moon” in our nighttime skies was wasted due to unseasonably thick cloud cover. Snarl, slobber, bump.

Charlie Sheen made frequent moronic, sad and tragic pronouncements in his downward rush towards obscurity and has-been status. Winning! Even worse, the media covered it ad nauseam while simultaneously obscuring our nation’s continued loss of credibility and relevance throughout Europe and the Middle East. Roar, slash, crash!

Repeated and very much unwanted calls to my unlisted home phone were made by “retired Glendale area school teachers” virtually demanding to know if I will or will not vote in favor of school bond Measure “S” on the April 5 ballot. The only way they could have gotten my number is by poaching it from the emergency phone forms filled out when I still had kids in the local public school system. Whether or not the particular ballot measure is worthy of support, the tactics used to pressure voters into supporting it were annoying if not borderline intimidating. Howl, bellow, shatter!

I even felt compelled to discuss the media-induced hysteria about the possible likelihood of potentially detecting trace amounts of Japanese nuke dust in our west coast air, dairy cows and vegetable crops. No wait, maybe that was the fugitive New York Zoo cobra I should’ve been panicked about. I’m easily confused, you know.

Thankfully (for my sake, at least), after two months away from writing a weekly column, I’m back! So I no longer need to keep my most dangerous thoughts harmless and confined. Be afraid. Be very afraid.  

I can’t wrap up my first column back without thanking the many valued readers of the CV Weekly newspaper for the notes you’ve sent to both myself and to editor/publisher Robin Goldsworthy. Your kind words were encouraging in ways I can’t begin to express. By the nature of the profession, writers tend to work in deep solitude – which makes it even more reassuring to know that so many of you missed my weekly musings and mutterings enough to say as much and to ask when I would be returning to these pages.

It’s good to be back. And once again, I’ll see you ‘round town.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This post is a revised version of a column first published in the 4.7.11 edition of the CV Weekly newspaper.)

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Face(book)d with Finding Friends

[NOTE: the column published in today’s print edition of the CV Weekly will be posted here tomorrow morning.]

Did you see the movie, “The Social Network”? It’s the highly dramatized, brilliantly written (by the way-far-left Aaron Sorkin), based-on-sketchy-facts story of the beginning of the cultural phenomenon known as Faceboook. It’s also a lesson in great moviemaking and myth-creation. I don’t do movie reviews, so I'll say no more.

All this is to say that, with today’s growing options for social networking (Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, et al)  being “connected” in multiple online ways is not just important in our personal lives, it’s becoming increasingly necessary for survival in our professional lives.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post – namely, to invite those of you with a Facebook account (you DO have one, don’t you?) to “friend” the brand new, freshly unwrapped My Thoughts, Exactly on Facebook.  Without further ado (whatever an ado is), here’s the link to my FB page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Thoughts-Exactly/208646979162044

Mark Zuckerberg (and I) thank you.

Tech Time

I spent the better part of two hours a couple of weeks ago waiting for my wife’s delayed flight to come in to LAX. At least I think it was two hours. Few builders of public spaces seem to bother installing clocks on the walls these days. And like a majority of people, I stopped wearing a wristwatch years ago. Who needs one? Every cell phone I’ve owned as far back as I can remember has been able to give me the precise time whenever I need it. It’s just one of the amazing benefits of ever-improving wireless technology – when I can find the clock/time function, that is.

Let me explain. Last month, it was time for our entire family to upgrade our wireless phones to newer models (which not surprisingly always seems to “upgrade” our monthly bill, too).

And therein lies the problem. Because, every time I get a new phone, the learning curve to make a simple call seems to get steeper and steeper. Heaven forbid I should want to check emails, send a text, check a voicemail, or any of the 63,452 more advanced things the phone will do. We all know about the dangers of texting and driving. But sheez, I’m not even sure I should breathe and use my phone at the same time – I might suck in a low flying finch while I’m so distracted.  

In my defense, it’s not like I’m some technological mouth-breather or anything. As a once serious musician/songwriter, I could record songs using state-of-the-art, multi-track reel-to-reel tape machines. I wouldn’t bat an eye doing sound-on-sound recordings, ping-ponging tracks and running a wall full of outboard gear including parametric equalizers, or compression and noise reduction hardware. In other words, I’m not afraid of – nor am I in any way a stranger to – the use of bleeding edge technology.

Nevertheless, there I was at the airport, simply trying to figure out how get the #!*%&^! time/clock function visible on my cell phone screen. While currents of arriving travelers ebbed and flowed around me, I sat there on a hard plastic chair in the baggage carousel waiting area, staring at that stupid, mocking screen of my cell phone -- pushing buttons and opening and closing menus and trying to bring up the clock. I was so intently focused for so long I almost didn’t see my wife walking right past me on her way to the baggage carrousel. And she didn’t see me because I was looking down and engrossed in trying to decipher what should have been a straightforward function on my phone.  

The thing is, when making our recent upgrade, I had tried to choose the simplest phone available. Not wanting or needing the latest and greatest 4G touch-screen i-wonder (or its expense!), I looked for a phone that would merely survive the next two years in my presence. My last phone barely functioned after spending 30 minutes in the pocket of my board shorts while soaking in a very hot tub on the good ship Celebrity Millennium bound for Ketchikan, Alaska two years ago.

The replacement phone I chose was even listed in Verizon’s “simple phone” category. Little did I know that its manufacturer also assumed I would regularly be lost in the wilderness and need additional features like a digital compass, emergency lighting, GPS orienteering apps and many other bells, whistles and survival tools – all of which, it turns out – are much easier to find than the stupid clock. Sigh.

However, the same weekend I nearly chucked my phone onto a runway at LAX, my technologically advanced son – he who was born with a sterling silver flash drive in his mouth – was delightfully dumbfounded when we dragged out an old portable record player to hear what some of our old vinyl LPs sounded like after all of these years. With great hesitation, my young wizard of the web and all things digital, put a big round, black vinyl platter on the spindle of the turntable and turned on the power. As the disc turned at 33-1/3 rpm, he lifted the tone arm off the post and … was stumped. He looked at the slowly spinning LP, looked at me, looked back to the record, back at me and said, “You start this needle thingy at the center, right?”

The poor lad. Such blissful naiveté. Dear old dinosaur Dad was, of course, happy to instruct the boy in the old ways, although I must admit the most difficult part was not chuckling under my breath the entire time. Nearly an hour later, my son was still sitting in front of that turntable, listening with newfound appreciation to the scratchy sounds of my youth.

Sometime I’m going to ask him how to find the dang clock on my phone. But not yet. I’m enjoying this too much.

I’ll see you ‘round town. 

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This post is revised from a column first published in the March 11, 2010 edition of the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper -- www.cvweekly.com.)

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

The Porta-Potties Are In Bloom

I know Spring has arrived in the foothills of Southern California not because of the clouds of yellow pollen that waft through the air with even the slightest breeze (or leaf blower), turning our cars a bright, powdery shade of saffron. It’s also not because our family pops antihistamines like Tic-Tacs during these days.

No. I know when Spring has sprung because of all the Porta-Potties popping up on neighborhood lawns from Sunland in the west to Flintridge in the east of our quaint suburban valley. Our all-too-brief rainy season is essentially over, with months of bone dry, hot-as-a-muffler weather just around the corner. Mortgage meltdown and shrinking home equity lines of credit be damned, homeowners everywhere seem to have pulled the trigger on long-awaited remodeling projects.

So, up go the Porta-Potties set far out by the curb. In come dumpsters to driveways like ships to berth. And out come the sledgehammers, crowbars, saws and enough power tools to dim the lights two counties over.

Homeowners who wait until Spring to begin remodeling are smart. Unlike my wife and me, who foolishly began our first, and last, major home remodel at the beginning of winter many years ago – a winter of near record rainfall. And cold. And wind. And what were we thinking?  

Within days after our contractor and his horde of hairy-handed helpers arrived, half of the roof and at least a third of the exterior walls in our house were gone, leaving most living areas exposed to the ravages of winter.

Our Christmas tree that year was on wheels. We had no undemolished corner of a living room in which to put a traditional tree, so we bought a small, live tree in a planter and sat it on a 4-wheeled moving dolly. Then, whenever rainwater breached a new location in the ceiling and threatened to short out the decorative lights festively strung on our tannenbaum like spiral slices on a holiday ham, we would simply roll the entire yuletide display to a less-damp location elsewhere in the house.

I spent the better part of the next four months waking up during the night to the sound of howling wind, flapping tarps and flowing water. I would jump out of bed, dash outside with a flashlight in one hand and hammer in the other, and climb up onto the remains of our roof to frantically refasten blue tarps that had become unfurled sails.

I have pictures of our then school-aged son and daughter, standing on a rough plywood subfloor in what would months later be a beautiful new kitchen. They are bundled up in their bathrobes, with a “hurry up and take the picture, Dad, it’s freezing in here” look on their faces. Behind them where a wall should be, is more half-inch plywood, temporarily nailed onto 2x4 studs – a laughable (yet in no way funny) imitation of walls to keep at least some of the wind and rain out of the “kitchen” until real stucco and wallboard versions could be installed. In the picture, rainwater can be seen pouring through the gaps in the plywood.

How we made it through that period without a visit from Child Protective Services, I’ll never know. Seeing the many blue and white plastic porta-potties dotting the streets around town today, reminds me all over again of that unforgettable time when the porta-potty in our front yard was the only place to go to get out of the rain. Ah, good times.

But then, really – aren’t Porta-Potties all about good times? I mean, what other industry (other than hair salons) has companies with so many clever names? You just gotta love “Happy Can Portable Toilets,” or “Best Seat In The House,” “Johnny On The Spot,” “Royal Throne,” “Gotta Go Potties,” “UrinBiz,” “Willy Make It?,” “Ameri-Can,” “Tanks Alot,” and my personal favorite, “Doodie Calls.” I’m not making these up, folks. Then again, if your business is Porta Potties (What did you do today, Daddy?), you find your fun where you can.

With that thought, I’ll officially welcome the new season by taking yet another walk through the neighborhood, where the scent of Spring – and other things – is in the air.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This post is an edited version of a column first published in the April 3, 2008 edition of the Crescenta Valley Sun newspaper.)

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.