Swept Away By Imagination

 Growing up in La Crescenta, one of my most vivid memories is of a huge, smoke-belching monster that would crawl along the gutter of the sleepy street where I lived. The glow from its sickly yellow, predatory eyes would slice through the pre-dawn mist and darkness on my street. If I remember correctly, this chilling encounter happened at least once every couple of weeks. When the monster came those mornings, I would lie in bed at our family’s home on Harmony Place, just a few driveways away from Two-Strike Park, with the covers pulled up over my head. My bedroom faced the street, so I could all-too-clearly hear the thing approaching, prowling up the street towards my house – a low, muffled growl, rattling my bedroom windows as it came closer and closer.

Beneath the menacing rumble, there was also a continuous sound of hissing that conjured images of a huge cauldron roiling with snakes and vipers and other angry, nasty things.

If it was particularly foggy morning, and if I could build up the courage to leave the safety of my blankets and draw back the curtains – our street would take on an eerie yellow glow that announced the coming of the creature before it actually rounded the corner and roared up our street. The jaundiced light would cast frightening shadows that moved across the walls and ceiling of my room as the beast passed by.

Somehow, all of the parents on Harmony Place would know which mornings the creature was expected to appear, and would move their cars from off the street the night before so the snarling thing could pass by unimpeded in the early morning hours. If a car inadvertently got left on the street overnight, you could see a wet, slobbery trail left behind where the monster had to swerve around the obstacle. Creepy.

Okay, by now you’ve probably figured out that my monster was actually the county’s lumbering, diesel-drinking street sweeper. But even long after I “matured” beyond imagining that the street sweeper was a living, malevolent creature – I continued to tell myself that it was a mechanical contraption hell-bent on my destruction, its all-consuming purpose being to lure me outside and drag me under the massive, whirling brushes of death mounted behind its front wheels.

I haven’t seen a street sweeper on the avenues and boulevards of the Crescenta Valley in a long time. I’m told they still occasionally make their rounds through the Foothills and every once in a long while, if I have to go somewhere very early in the morning, I will drive past the wide, wet, telltale trail of one of the illusive creatures. But as for actually seeing one? Not much chance of that happening. We live at the end of a private driveway that’s so far off the street, even trick-or-treaters rarely find our doorstep, not to mention those clean cut young men in crisp white shirts and ties who roam the neighborhood in pious pairs. I do miss the trick-or-treaters.

But even if I wouldn’t ever see a street sweeper pass our house, I would hear it. And the kid who still lives inside my head would instantly recognize that low gear rumble and snake-like hiss of whirling brushes. I have no doubt the sound would wake me from even the deepest sleep and send me to the window searching for a yellow glow in the darkness, coming closer and closer.

Unfortunately, these days it isn’t imaginary monsters growling past my house that make me want to pull the covers over my head. It’s the frightening reality of things like mandatory, government-run health care and a punitive, petulant President who would gladly spend gobs more money to keep Americans away from national treasures than it ever cost to let us in. Scary stuff, indeed. But nothing a good street-sweeping of Washington, D.C. can’t fix.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Everyone Knows It’s Windy (Especially in So Cal)

Is it just me, or has anyone else had the song, “Windy” blowing around in their head lately? I realize I’m dating myself (something I do all too often, unfortunately), but that song by the sixties group, “The Association” was at the top of the pop charts when I was in elementary school. Today, every time the wind blows – which it’s been doing a lot the past couple of weeks – I start singing the lyrics to myself; “Who’s peeking out from under the stairway / Calling the name that’s lighter than air / Who’s bending down to give me a rainbow / Everyone knows it’s Windy!”

(If you’re wondering who The Association was, well, let’s just say it was a six man vocal group and that pop music back then had very little in common with Miley Cyrus or her soft-porn contemporaries. The group was popular when tight harmonies were considered much more important than tight ... but, I diverge.)

I don’t know if any members of The Association were inspired by our nefarious Southern California winds, but as native, I can attest that fierce, desert-hot winds are not unusual in our little corner of So Cal paradise.

Many years ago, in fact, when our youngest boys were students in Monte Vista elementary school, one of their classmates – a tiny wisp of a girl – was actually blown off the sidewalk in front of school, lifted off her feet and slammed back down into a nearby hedge. Thankfully, she was only shaken up and not physically hurt by the impromptu Mary Poppins impersonation, but we joked with our boys that from then on, they would have to put rocks in their classmate’s pockets or get on either side to hold her down whenever the wind kicked up.

I actually like it when the winds kick up as long as we don’t lose power for longer than a few hours, and of course, as long as trees don’t crush homes and cars, or feed out-of-control wildfires, or ... well, okay ... I’ll admit they can be very destructive and are often an extreme hardship on all of us So Cal residents. That said, to my thinking even a week of Santa Ana winds is better than boring Southern California heat, haze and stillness. Yawn.

It might be odd, but one of the items on my bucket list is to have the experience of hunkering down somewhere relatively safe in the midst of a hurricane or tornado. Not kidding. To be surrounded by the full fury of weather would be an awesome thing. Now, I would never become an obsessed storm chaser, but I watch news stories about people huddled together in boarded-up buildings, reading or playing games by candlelight while rain and wind pummel their shelter and I think, yeah, that would be cool.

My wife, on the other hand, hates the wind because of the super-low humidity it usually brings with it. During Santa Ana events, we break out the 50-gallon drum of Lubriderm or some other moisturizer bought by the pallet-full at Costco. Dry skin is not her friend.

I will admit, however, that I don’t like the way the wind strips every pine tree in La Crescenta of needles and deposits them like a four-inch thick blanket of compost all over our yard. Just as there is truth in the old So Cal saw that you should wash your car if you want it to rain; it also seems to be true that if you want to summon a near-hurricane wind event, spend a weekend cleaning every last pine needle and fallen leaf from your lawns and planters and cram them all into the “green” waste bin (the bin that for some inexplicable reason is actually black). Guaranteed, the wind will kick up within a day or two at most.

My dogs also don’t like the wind. There is hardly a more pathetic sight than an 85-pound, bear-of-a-dog laying on the kitchen floor with his snout resting on the bottom of the doggy door frame, the flap pushed out just enough so the brave beast can peek into the yard. The big goofy fur ball wants desperately to go out and play, but as soon as a gust of wind blows noisily through the trees, he comes barreling back through the door like he’s being chased by a pack of vicious badgers. Makes me so proud.

And with that, I’ll put down the keyboard and pick up my gloves and rake. After all, there are about 35 million pine needles out there calling my name. But first, I’m gonna download a certain song onto my iPod. No, not “Windy” ... another song from the same era; “Blowin’ In the Wind.” 

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Dude, You Are So Not Immortal

I don’t know your name and can only make a logical guess at your age given that you are a Crescenta Valley High student. (I've taken to calling you the "Tall Teen Twerp" lately.) But your smug face and stupidly reckless actions will be hard to forget. You are tall, with an average build and longish, blondish hair that you probably love to flip away from your eyes with great disdain at anyone without your level of awesomeness.

You probably didn’t give a second thought to our little encounter two weeks ago, so I’ll refresh your memory. That Tuesday, on a typically beautiful late Southern California summer afternoon, long after most of your classmates at CV High had left the campus, you and maybe seven or eight of your friends were on the sidewalk in front of school, just above the auditorium. As I drove down Ramsdell Avenue (in front of school), I noticed your group walking, laughing – happy to be finished with classes for the day, heading towards hump-day.

Almost at the same moment as your group was about to step off the sidewalk and onto Ramsdell (nowhere near a crosswalk, of course) you all noticed my vehicle heading towards you. Everybody stopped in their tracks and didn’t step off the curb. Except you. You saw me coming. There was no way you didn’t. Your friends all yelled at you to stop. But you kept walking without a hitch in your swagger. And so, dripping with cool and staring straight ahead, you walked across the street and directly in front of my oncoming 11,800-pound pickup truck.

I thought of so many things within the milliseconds that followed. That you were an idiot, of course, but also that you were somebody’s son. Maybe someone’s brother. As my right foot stomped on the brake and I straight-armed the horn button, my staccato thoughts continued – that this was likely going to be really bad, was going to ruin your school year at the very least and holy crow what will happen to my insurance rates and how ironic will it be to see a news story about this tragedy in the same paper that publishes this column and I hope his friends will back me up that he walked right in front of me and what could this chucklehead be thinking playing chicken with an oncoming truck?!?

Thankfully, I was somehow able to stop before bouncing you off my hood and changing both of our worlds forever. But here’s the thing, even coming within inches of getting hit – even with my horn blaring at you for a full minute at least – even with your friends screaming from the sidewalk and me yelling things out my open window that I would never want my pastor to hear – even then; you didn’t flinch, didn’t slow down, didn’t so much as glance my way.

Your “I’m so badass I can’t possibly be hit” smirk didn’t falter. You weren’t listening to music; no cords dangled from your ears. Most likely, you were listening to some inner narcissistic soundtrack that continuously affirms your greatness. In your mind, you walk on water, I’m sure.

Maybe your friends or a teacher who saw what almost happened that day ripped you a new one after I drove on. I hope so. But I’m pretty sure you would ignore them as easily as you ignored my blaring horn and screeching tires. (Was it just your dumb luck or mine that I’d had new tires installed literally the day before? I wonder.)

Enjoy this season while it lasts, buddy. There’s a big (way bigger than you), hard reality waiting for you beyond the insular bubble of high school life. The next time you pull some stunt like that, the person behind the wheel may not be paying such close attention to his or her surroundings. Or he may be changing the music on the stereo. Or, God forbid, doing something even more potentially lethal, like texting as he careens towards your foolish, arrogant little self.
Dude, it’s going to take many years for you to grow up and learn that you’re not nearly as invincible (or cool) as you think. I only hope you stay alive long enough for that to happen.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

More Petting of the Peeves

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.

So Long Cal (& His Dog, Spot)

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.

Garageology, Pt 2

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.

Garageology, Pt. 1

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.