Hey kids, it’s been almost a year since we last visited my kennel of pet peeves and frankly, they’re getting a little lonely. So let’s go visit, shall we?
Pet Peeve #11: Running out of salsa when there are still plenty of chips left in the bag. Or vice versa. This common condition virtually guarantees that if you open a new bag of chips, there will be too many left when you finally run out of salsa. And if you open a new container of salsa or dip, you’ll have too much of it left when all the chips are gone. There has to be some way of eliminating such a vicious (but tasty) circle. Then again, I never have understood why they sell hotdogs in packages of eight, but hot dog buns come by the dozen. Such are the many mysteries of life in the food chain.
Pet Peeve #12: Young retail clerks who mumble. Especially when “helping” an older customer (And no, I’m not talking about myself. I’ve raised four kids – I’m fluent in teenage.) It’s painful to stand in line behind an elderly person who is being mumbled at by the “sales associate.” It makes me want to interrupt their texting and yell, “Slow down. Enunciate. Look this customer in the eyes when you’re talking and try to HELP them, please!
Pet Peeve #13: The nearly obscene, inappropriate-at-any-hour, anti-smoking propaganda TV commercial from LAQuits.com featuring the disgusting audio track of a wretched man afflicted with emphysema gasping for air. I understand that smoking can result in all sorts of dangerous medical conditions – death being one one – but is it appropriate to broadcast the deeply disturbing sound of a human literally dying for oxygen? I’ve seen the spot in the middle of dinner, in the morning before most kids have left for school and other times when kids would almost certainly be watching. I realize that the health zealots who have a white hot hate for smokers want to scare our children into never picking up a cigarette. (How’s that working, by the way?) But I’d also like to have our youth grow up to never have abortions. Would anyone want to see a similarly gross and inappropriate TV campaign against that horrific practice that kills every time? Didn’t think so.
Pet Peeve #14: When the customized, targeted advertising space on the side of my Facebook home page automatically fills in with ads for AARP, Prostate Health supplements and Assisted Living options. Stop rushing things!
Pet Peeve #15: Advertisers who take a smart, funny, memorable and buzz-worthy TV commercial – oh, say like the current spot for Sprint which features a well-mannered zombie asking about their “value for life” plan. It’s a brilliant concept, perfectly cast and executed. The first few times I saw it, I loved it and laughed every time. Now, after having seen it a dozen times a day for months – not so much. They’ve ruined an effective commercial in the name of reach and frequency.
Pet Peeve #16: Restaurant servers who ask if you want lemon with your iced tea, and no matter how nicely I reply, “No, thank you!” then ignore my request. At Jack in the Box drive through off the 210 freeway at Arroyo, I recently told the voice coming out of the speaker that I definitely did not want lemon in my iced tea, thank you very much. Lo and behold, as I drove on the freeway onramp towards La Canada and took a big sip from the straw, I got a mouthful of ultra-lemony tea. Opening up the top of the cup, I saw not one, not two, but three big, bitter, yellow wedges inside. Maybe I should have mumbled.
And with that, I’ll open up a bag of Purina Peeve Chow to coax the remaining critters back behind the chain link fence until another day. I’ll see you ‘round town.
Last week, television lost one of its pioneering pitchmen, Cal Worthington. The car dealer was an icon of the early, black and white days of the industry when TVs were heavy, wooden pieces of living room furniture and required a minute or more to warm up once you switched on the power. And yes, you had to actually walk over to the TV set and turn a knob. Horrors!
Cal Worthington died at the impressive age of 92 at his ranch in Orland, California. Born Calvin Coolidge Worthington in Bly, Oklahoma, “Cal” was one of nine children born into extreme poverty. Quoted in a recent article (NY Times, 9/6/13), “We were starving and barefooted. I had a very awful childhood.”
Mr. Worthington (he of multiple dealerships including Worthington Ford, Dodge and Chevy, which he pronounced “Sheevy”) was known for appearing on camera with his “dog, Spot” – which was never actually a dog. I remember Spot being a tiger, elephant, gorilla, iguana, snake and I’m sure there were other critters big and small, not one of them being of the man’s-best-friend dog species.
Worthington first began broadcasting commercials for his car dealerships in the 1950s and quickly became a pop culture legend known for his antics (along with the fact that he ran as many as 100 commercials a day), which included his many dogs Spot, lashed to the wing of a biplane while talking about the details of cars available for sale, and standing on his head while balancing on the hood of a car. This particular trick was the demonstration of his professional motto, “I’ll stand on my head ‘til my ears are turning red to make a deal!”
This same motto was also included in the lyrics to Worthington’s famous jingle that implored car shoppers to “Go see Cal!” for the best deal by far. And because I don’t want to be the only boomer who can’t get the dang song unstuck from his mind, I can’t help but inflict – er, I mean – remind dear readers of this insidious jingle. (Sung to the tune of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.”) When you need a car or truck, go see Cal.
If you want to save a buck, go see Cal
Get a new car for your wife, she will love you all her life
Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!
If your axle is a-saggin’, go see Cal!
If you need a station wagon, go see Cal!
If your wife has started naggin’, and your tailpipe is a-draggin’
Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!
If you need a better car, go see Cal!
For the best deal by far, go see Cal!
If you want your payments low, if you want to save some dough
Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!
I promise you; that tune will be stuck in your head for the next six weeks. You’re welcome.
Car buyers did, indeed, go see Cal, whose empire reached its peak in the 60s with an impressive 29 car dealerships from San Diego to Anchorage. Today Worthington’s sons still own several of those dealerships.
Watching TV as a kid, Worthington always seemed like everybody’s wild and crazy uncle – you just couldn’t look away wondering what goofy antic he would pull off next. He was the total opposite of another ubiquitous TV car pitchman I remember from roughly the same era, Ralph Williams – “Hi friends, this is Ralph Williams of Ralph Williams Ford (or Dodge, Pontiac, etc.)” Talk about your stereotypical, fast talking car salesman; that was Ralph Williams.
But Cal Worthington was simply entertaining. To this native So Cal kid, he ranked up there with Engineer Bill, Hobo Kelly and Captain Kangaroo. I guess kids today have their icons, too; like Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus and Honey Boo Boo. God help us.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Okay, so this week we’re still in my garage, digging through the accumulated geologic layers of flotsam and jetsam that come from raising four kids and multiple dogs and simply living blessedly full and active lives for over 30 years in the same home. The plan was to clear enough square footage of precious garage real estate to be able to park a new car inside. Sounds easy, right? Right.
I’ve always been blessed – though at times it has felt like a curse – with an almost insatiable curiosity to learn new things. Unfortunately, that trait is combined with an often short attention span and a penchant to be easily distracted. (Squirrel!!)
Add to this the fact that we have raised four active, equally curious kids who were also prone to participate in many hobbies, sports and other assorted interests. This has resulted in a garage packed to the rafters with motorcycles, road bikes, mountain bikes, skate boards, inline skates, bike repair stands, tool boxes, welding equipment, dog kennels, work benches, wood stock, metal stock, plumbing supplies, wiring, model airplanes, golf clubs, backpacks, archery equipment, painting supplies, ladders of every size, a punching bag, lat-pull machine, bench press, slant board, exercise mats, multiple stability balls, multiple racks of free weights, multiple car repair manuals, hydraulic jacks, ammunition reloading press and powder scale, drill presses, stained glass tools, sheets of stained glass, sheets of plywood, sheets of sand paper, sheets covering things wrapped in sheets, stacks of lumber, yard tools, yard games, yard sticks, bicycle pumps, bicycle wheels, tires, seats and parts, and ... well, I think you’ve got an accurate picture of our garage.
As I said, lives have been well-lived here.
And yet, somehow, over the course of one weekend and many discussions about which items had achieved heirloom status and would therefore be saved from a trip to the thrift store, and which items were simply “junk” to be tossed forever into oblivion – my wife and I miraculously managed to clean, organize and clear out enough space to not only park her new car, but to walk all around it and even be able to open two out of four doors. Alert the media!
In a recurring nightmare of mine, I get an unexpected visit from Mike and Frank of “American Pickers” reality TV fame. They pull into our driveway in their iconic white Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van and moments later, as if she somehow summoned them herself, my wife bursts through our front door yelling, “Yes, yes! Thank the Lord, you’re here. Everything can go. Please, make us an offer!” I usually wake up in a cold sweat at this point in the dream. But once, I swear, I heard my wife mumble “Sold!” in her sleep.
I’ve often heard that mental health professionals encourage their patients to relax and de-stress by imagining a place of beauty, peace and serenity. I have a few places like that where I can “go” in my mind. These settings typically feature towering, white capped mountain peaks, lush, fragrant forests and me laying on a large, flat sun-warmed rock, a hat shading my eyes and my bare feet dipped into an almost painfully cold, snow-fed alpine stream.
Oddly enough, however, one of the most calming environments I can ever imagine is right inside my own garage. It’s a cold and cloudy (maybe even rainy) day, with the garage door flung wide open, talk radio playing loud enough to be heard above my power tools, the rows fluorescent work lights flickering overhead in the cold air, and some sort of project – almost anything I’m building or repairing that is wood or metal, I don’t care – before me on the workbench. That, my friends, is my own personal paradise.
Of course, after our recent relatively successful clean up weekend, I now have to ignore the new car parked right in the middle of this scene.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
For those following along at home, you’ll remember that we recently sold our old SUV. And yes, we did replace it with a new car.
Now ideally, a new car should live in a garage, of course. But here’s the thing; since the vehicle we got rid of was 14-years old and the one we still have is 11-going-on-rust-bucket, keeping one of them – much less both of them – in the garage hasn’t been a priority for years.
And because nature abhors a vacuum, when there isn’t a car in the garage, other things just naturally fill in the space. In the case of our garage, all of those things brought their relatives. And friends. So, before our new car came to live with us, my wife and I had to undertake what turned out to be nothing less than an archeological dig – right there in our garage. But before I regale you with details, I should explain why garages hold such a special place in my heart.
Growing up in my childhood home only a few blocks from where I now live, my second-favorite place in our house was the garage – first favorite was my bedroom with its entire ceiling painted as a giant American flag. (Don’t ask; it seemed like a good idea at the time.)
The garage was where my Dad and a brother or two always had some fascinating project in progress; from welding a dune buggy out of VW parts to creating a Frankenstein 4X4 from a mishmash of other vehicles, building a hover-craft Jr. High science project and even rebuilding an honest-to-goodness Piper Cub airplane from rudder to propeller. All in our La Crescenta garage! I learned how to use and maintain tools of every kind in that garage, from wood and metal lathes, to drill presses, band saws, grinders, welding torches and enough power and hand tools to stock a hardware store.
We organized camping gear and food packets for our many backpacking trips on the floor of that garage. Besides being neater and cleaner than most homes – my Dad painted the garage floor with a shiny epoxy coating so that it could be easily swept clear of any and all debris, and oils, fuels or other liquids wiped up without a trace. I’ve been in kitchens less sanitary.
That same garage was also where my band – truly a “garage band” – rehearsed as often as possible; which meant rehearsals were preferably scheduled when Dad was gone and had to be wrapped up before he returned. (“Jim, loudness is not goodness!) I remember playing for hours with the garage door down and when we finally took a break and swung the heavy, wooden door open, there was a small crowd of neighborhood kids in our driveway who had come by to see what all the racket was about. Once there was an L.A. County Sheriff’s car parked there, but that’s a story for another time.
Dad’s garage was more organized than the Library of Congress. I spent many a weekend day in that garage doing a list of chores as long as my arm in order to earn allowance money or simply free time. One summer in particular, those chores included sorting through many thousands of nuts, bolts, washers and other fasteners and separating them into their own coffee cans (remember those?) by size and type; ¼-inch vs. 10 mm, slotted vs. phillips, carriage bolt vs. lag screw, allen vs. hex head, star washer vs. lock washer, ad nauseam. That task took the better part of an entire summer, but it earned me a new backpack for our scheduled hike of the John Muir Trail a month later.
So, having been raised to appreciate the merits of a neat, clean and well-organized garage, you might logically ask how my own garage became the largest, most cluttered time capsule of all time? We’ll sort through that mess next week.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
I don’t do movie reviews, leaving that particular art form to folks who spend more time in the dark than I do. That said, I recently saw “The Way, Way Back,” a wonderful movie that has it all; a uniquely interesting story, unusually smart writing, a satisfying mix of wonder, drama, pathos and humor all delivered by an excellent cast led by Steve Carell (of TV’s “Office” fame) in a role completely unlike any he’s played before. I’ll just say that he’s surprisingly good at playing a character you love to hate.
The story opens with 14-year-old “Duncan” and his divorced mother heading to the coast with her also-divorced boyfriend (Mr. Carell) for what is supposed to be a long summer vacation at the boyfriend’s beach house.
Besides being great fun to watch the progression of poignant, life-changing events unfold onscreen, this special movie reminded me of the many summers I spent (for one or two weeks at a time, that is) at one of Southern California’s premier family beach destinations of the 60s and 70s – Balboa Island in Newport Beach.
Technically, Balboa is more like a spit of land that was separated from the mainland by a channel dredged around it soon after the turn of the 20th Century. Once not much more than tidal mudflats and marshland, in the early 1900s, Balboa was developed into a tiny island only 0.2 square miles in size with lot sizes only 30 wide by 85 feet deep. (Today those itsy bitsy lots represent some of the most expensive real estate in America, second in cost-per-square-foot only to lower Manhattan.)
In my youthful summers, we’d load up our family land-yacht, aka: station wagon, with its faux-wood vinyl sides and rear-facing third row seat (just like Duncan sits on in the movie as he rides sullenly to the beach) and head south on the 605 freeway, already smelling of Coppertone bronzing lotion, or for the hard-core tanners in our party, Johnson’s Baby Oil (sunscreen was still years away from being mandatory for beach trips).
We’d take the Jamboree Road off ramp and head due west towards the coast. Back then, Jamboree wound its way to the ocean through many miles of undeveloped rolling hills covered with tall grass. Where Jamboree ends, we’d drive over the narrow two-lane bridge that connects the island to the mainland. Balboa Island is crisscrossed by narrow cement streets with names that will forever remind me of walking in bare feet from one side of the island to the other and back; street names like Agate, Pearl, Opal, Coral, Topaz and Ruby. Just writing those names, I can feel tiny grains of beach sand rubbing between my toes and ground into the tar on the heels of my summer-tough feet.
We’d walk everywhere during our summer visits to the island, whether to the ferry landing where my friends and I would sit on the seawall and watch the “Admiral,” “Commodore” and “Captain” ferry boats slowly churning across the channel to the Peninsula and back. Of course, when we weren’t watching the ferryboats, our young male eyes were glued to the coveys of young females barely wearing bikinis and pretending not to notice us noticing them as they giggled and jiggled by.
After walking to the center of the island where shops and restaurants lined Marine Avenue, we’d walk past the cue of tourists waiting for a table at the Jolly Roger restaurant and head straight for the nearby walk-up window to buy chocolate-covered bananas and “Balboa Bars” – a big slab of vanilla ice cream on a stick, dipped in melted chocolate and slapped into waiting toppings like crushed peanuts or rainbow sprinkles. Such good times. And even better memories.
I doubt they’ll ever produce a movie about my summers on Balboa Island, but if they do, I’d like Ben Affleck to play me. Just sayin’.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
For many reasons, both business and pleasure, I’ve had the opportunity to travel far from home at least a half dozen times so far this summer. From Vancouver, BC to Dallas, Texas, Mammoth Lakes, California to Missoula, Montana and destinations in between – my comings and goings have allowed my over-curious mind to wonder in places I don’t usually go; literally. For example:
I wonder … if women aren’t buying pairs of the popular (and super expensive) Lululemon yoga pants for flying across the country more than for sessions on a yoga mat? The ubiquitous black stretchy pants would seem to be a part of every other female flyer’s wardrobe these days. Maybe in addition to the “Downward-Facing Dog” and “Cobra” poses, they are practicing a new pose called the “Flying Sardine.”
I wonder … who ever thought that switching to electronic hotel room keys was a good idea? At our hotel in Missoula last week, the cards that were supposed to be programed to open our room had to be re-set at least twice a day if not more. The code would be scrambled and useless if you put the card near anything electronic (like a cell phone) or even another credit card (like in your wallet). Gee, now who would ever put a plastic, credit-card-sized card into a wallet for safekeeping? Call me old school, but you never have to reprogram a metal key.
I wonder … what committee of bureaucratic chuckle-heads decided that the best time to repave miles and miles of The Going-To-The-Sun two lane highway in Glacier National Park would be during the month of August, otherwise known as the peak of tourism season when more cars than at any other time of the year are pouring into the park on the only road from Apgar Village to Logan Pass? Sitting and waiting – and waiting – parked on fresh, hot asphalt for up to an hour at a time under the sweltering summer sun, waiting for traffic coming the other direction to clear so you can finally move another mile or so to the where the next flagman is stopping traffic, does not make for fond vacation memories. Just sayin’.
I wonder … how dogs seem to instinctively know when their owners will be going out of town days before the suitcases even come out? Our two young pups (7 & 8 months) started shadowing my every move and watching me like a 32-ounce slab of prime Angus beef about a week before leaving for Montana this month. And when I finally did drag our suitcases out from the attic? Pure puppy pandemonium.
I wonder … why every hotel room planner insists on positioning a massive, wall-to-wall mirror directly opposite the bathtub/shower enclosure. I mean, give a middle-aged guy a break! For my own safety and mental health, I make it a habit to look anywhere but at the mirror whenever I get into the shower. Then, I make sure to turn the water temperature up high enough that the cursed mirror will be good and fogged when I shut the water off, draw back the flimsy curtain to grab a towel. By the time any reflection can once again be seen in the mirror, I’m well on the way to being fully dressed. One morning last week in Missoula, however, when I was bending over the tub to check the water temperature, I thought something had fallen over on the hotel room sink so I looked back and accidentally caught a glimpse of the mirror. I’m pretty sure I let out a yelp of horror. How did a Tolkien-worthy troll/goblin-thing get into the bathroom with me? And why was it getting into my shower? Oh, right. Never mind.
After all of my travels this summer, there’s one thing I definitely do not wonder about at all; why people always say “there’s no place like home.”
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Last week I wrote about selling our family’s beloved 1999 Chevy Suburban, aka: “The Beast.” To recap, the supersized SUV was simply too old, too big and too costly to keep on the road. Too bad.
It’s not like we didn’t get more than our money’s worth from the old girl. And I doubt you’ll ever see a fully restored ’99 Suburban at a classic car show (it wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of Detroit design, after all) so why hang on to it?
The likelihood that our not-so-trusty, vintage kid-hauler would likely wind up being bought for parts is something I suspected, but didn’t want to think too much about. I mean, our kids had practically grown up in it and many a family vacation had begun and ended with a turn of the key in its ignition.
But if I making the decision to sell The Beast was difficult, actually selling it turned out to be even harder.
Now, I’ve always sold any car we’ve owned to a private party. Trading it in to a dealer was something you just didn’t do in our family. My dear departed Dad ingrained in his kids that trading in a car is tantamount to strolling blindfolded through a carnival with a wad of cash in each hand and a sign around your neck that says “I’m stupid, rob me!”
But this time, for whatever reason, I just didn’t have the energy or desire to sell our Suburban on my own. Maybe the thought of once again having to tell complete strangers where we live and then handing them the keys to our car and sweating out the anxious moments while they take it and drive it who knows where and do who knows what was too much.
And so, we decided to first try and sell The Beast for cash – as several people had suggested – to one of the huge, national chains of used car dealerships. We made an appointment online to have our car appraised, then drove it out to their location in Duarte, where we sat and waited while a “trained appraiser” went over our car and a sales associate repeatedly told us how we were choosing the superior way to sell a car and that whatever the appraisal came in at, it would be our easiest, most secure, fastest way to sell a car – particularly one of such “advanced age” as ours was.
The more our fast-talking associate prattled on about how pleased we would be with the entire process, the more I began to worry that I was about to get hosed in a most disappointing way.
Sure enough, he suddenly walked out of his office and came back with an appraisal/offer to purchase our Suburban. When I saw the laughably low offer printed in big, bold numbers at the top of the form, my eyebrows went up and my jaw went down. The sales associate asked, “How much higher were you expecting?”
“Seriously?!? The gas in the tank is worth more than that!” I sputtered, trying not to sound like a scorned high school coed.
“Actually, our offer takes that into account, sir” he said without a trace of sarcasm.
That I was able to drive away without mowing down the smug little motor-mouthed dipstick is testament to my self-control. And maybe I was more than a little worried that I might damage The Beast and lower its value even more.
Anyway, a week or two later, for the first time ever, I traded her in to the dealer from whom we bought another car. On the plus side, we got almost twice the amount that the used car dealership had offered. Nevertheless, I’m sure my Dad, bless his soul, rolled his eyes and elbowed the nearest angel, saying, “Can you believe what that kid of mine just did? He needs a sign around his neck.”
I’ll see you ‘round town.
