Clueless in L.A.

After graduating college with a BS degree in economic theory (yes, yes, that’s redundant) I got a job as a management trainee at a local savings-and-loan in Westchester, a suburb of L.A. It was not quite the Bailey Building and Loan in Bedford Falls, but it was small-townish and full of quirky characters.

There were two other trainees who started the same day I did: Debbie and Sam. Sam would sit with me at lunch and tell me about his life, such as the fact that he had joined the Mormon Church and been disowned by his Catholic parents. He may have befriended me just for my height, because he soon invited me to join his team in the local Latter Day Saints basketball league. Before the first game, Sam was clearly worried about something. Finally he explained that the rules were pretty much the same as any other basketball game, except that anyone who cursed would be penalized. Sam was afraid that, as a heathen, I would not be able to keep a civil tongue. I managed to muzzle myself, but one opponent who lacked self-control helped us win a game with foul shots off his foul mouth. Sam Frustaci left the S&L before our first year was up and I never saw him again until he showed up in the news.

At the branch where I spent most of my brief S&L career, Jose was our portly armed guard. I used to wonder whether Jose’s gun was as loaded as he was. I wondered, if we were robbed, would he be able to pull his gun as fast as he could sneak a pull on his flask? Fortunately, that wasn’t the branch that was robbed while I was working in it. Sometimes while I was having lunch, Jose would hang around the break room and chat. I enjoyed his company, though some of conversation may have been under the influence; like his occasional suggestion that I ask Jenny out to dinner or a movie. Where did that come from?

Jenny was a teller who was very tall and slender – well skinny is more accurate – okay, stick-like, actually. Sometimes we had lunch break at the same time and would do crossword puzzles together. She was smart and funny. She told me one of my favorite jokes, a more elaborate and funnier version of this one, and she told it using goofy voices. Eventually I was transferred to a different branch and Jenny left the S&L. I later learned through a round about way that when Jenny had lunch break alone, Jose would hang around the break room and listen to Jenny tell about how much she wanted me to ask her out. Yeah, you figured that out, but I never did. Yes, I was pretty dense.

That branch where Jose and Jenny and I worked had the best customers. There was Will, a tall guy about 25 or so who had some kind of mental condition which left him perfectly capable of functioning in the world – the World of Will, that is. He was socially withdrawn so he was never very talkative, but he was never unpleasant; he just did odd things. One day he got up to my window, stared at me a moment and then deliberately fell over backward with a thud. He then stood up and made a small withdrawal from his account. One day he came in with a maple leaf he wanted to put in his account. Dan the manager told Will he was at the wrong branch.

Mrs. Grabovsky was a very tiny, wiry woman from the Old Country. Which Eastern European Old Country I never knew, but her life there had clearly left her wizened and bitter. I imagined that she was unable to eat since her lips were perpetually pressed so tightly together that her mouth was lost among the creases on her face and I doubted its existence.. She appeared to have only one good eye because she looked at everything with her head cocked slightly to the side and her right eye wide, left eye almost closed. Whatever transaction she needed done on a given visit, she was sure that the teller was doing it wrong and stealing her money. When one of us completed an entry and handed her savings passbook back (passbook: look it up) Mrs. Grabovsky would peer at the book with that one evil eye and then focus the orb on the teller. She never spoke the curses out loud but we knew she was placing them on us.

Bill’s mom would come in often. Bill was a guy I had known all through high school. We were never really close but we shared several classes and several friends. Bill did very well in school but always seemed distant and as if he carried some unnamed burden. After high school we lost touch. I knew who his mother was but she didn’t know me. Always looking grim and a little disheveled, she would hand over her passbook with the dwindling balance totals and take out five or ten dollars at a time. One day I happened to leave on break just as she was going out the door. I was going to the convenience store next to the S&L and so was she. She used her withdrawal to buy a bottle of vodka. I found out that’s what she did each visit.

Eventually I decided to become a CPA instead of a banker and resigned. For my last two weeks they assigned me to the worst branch, out in Hawthorne. Coincidently, I was reunited with Debbie, the girl who started the same day I did. She was working the window next to mine the day I saw the man come in with a shotgun. The guy, in dark clothes was sliding along outside the window and then carefully opened the door; mostly what I focused on what the long barrel of the gun. Turns out he was a policeman. He and his partners had been summoned by the silent alarm that Debbie had pulled when she was robbed. About 15 minutes earlier a customer handed her a note telling her he had a gun and she should give him all her money. Standing right next to her I didn’t even notice what was going on as she emptied her drawer and gave it to the guy, who left without incident. She then stepped on the alarm button and, very shaken, told the manager what happened. Iwas clueless until the cops arrived.

I think I was clueless the whole time I worked there.

I Feel Just Like a Cog in Something Turning

Maybe it's the time of year, or maybe it's the time of man...

Up until a few years ago I was a young man. At least, in my head, I was still that guy I was in college. I was able to exert myself physically or consume excessive food and drink and still get up in the morning with minimal resistance from my muscles and internal organs.

Now, those problems don’t just follow the nights of excess, I get the same complaints when I get up in the morning every day, and each and every time I get up in the night to go to the bathroom. “No, honey, no one’s breaking in, that’s just my (choose one or more: hip, knee, back, kidneys, colon, excess phlegm) creating that racket.”

Up until recently, I could travel back from Ohio to my old SoCal beach home and feel like I still belonged. Now, even though I don’t sport the plaid shorts, dress shoes and black socks that marked them, I have become the pale, flabby, aged Midwesterner we used to make fun of. I still get in and body surf, but I tend to look more like I stumbled helplessly into the wave than like I know how to ride it. The young women approaching me are not attracted by my style, they are lifeguards checking to see if I am hurt or lost. Since when have they allowed such little girls to be lifeguards?

Somewhere over the past very few years, I got old – I mean, I started feeling old and I don’t like it. And THIS is not helping:

WOODSTOCK: A FLASHBACK
Steven Reineke conductor
Jeans ‘n Classics, guests
featuring guitarist Rik Emmett from Triumph

Cincinnati. Pops. Orchestra. Doing the music of Woodstock. God, take me now.
I get melancholy enough, seeing the original artists from Woodstock (those that are still upright and breathing) doing their own hits.

My god, that picture just makes you think of a PBS tribute to the Big Band Era, does it not?

“We’ll get back to our Prehistoric Rock Revival right after this pledge break. Buzz your assisted living attendant and ask them call our number and make a pledge for you. WE SAID, BUZZ YOUR ATTENDANT AND … Oh, nevermind, you probably dozed off anyway.”

So, I don't need to see the Pops turn them soft and bland.

A pops orchestra tribute to Woodstock. SIGH. But, by golly, they made it hip, what with it being called “Woodstock: A Flashback”. Flashback … like in LSD flashback. See, because, if you remember the 70s, you weren’t really there. Well, um, yeah, when I was young, some people used drugs … but only for the purpose of ending the war. The Viet Nam War. Yes, the one you just studied in history class. SIGH.

I don’t want to see sad old men performing their hits badly. I sure don’t want to see the Pops playing those songs with orchestra instruments. I would much rather go home and listen to the original songs on my vinyl albums. Vinyl albums – the big round flat discs – look like licorice pizza and you put them on a turntable. Part of a stereo. SIGH

Down In Monterey

Today we went to the Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey, which is a boardwalk held together by a row of alternating gift shops and restaurants. You may be aware that my life revolves around food and the restaurants on the pier had clearly been informed of that. They must have had word that I was coming because they all tried to entice us into their restaurant so that they could advertise that I had eaten in their establishment.

What each restaurant had done was to set up a table with samples of their clam chowder. As we sampled each one, the person manning the table gave us a coupon for a free appetizer or a discount at the Earring Barn. They acted like they did this every day for everyone who walked by, but I’m sure it was set up for me.

Cabo’s Cafe had really done their homework. As we downed the clam chowder sample, the young woman serving it up informed me that they had 2-dollar draft beer. Seeing that she had set the hook, she yanked the line to try and pull me on board: “and we have deep fried cheesecake.”

If you have been paying attention, you remember the lesson on cheesecake: being that it is round and has a crust, it is actually a dairy pie that has been improperly named. Deep. Fried. Pie. Believe it or not, we went on to check out the other places before we went back to Cabo’s.

We learned later that Fisherman’s Wharf has a whale watching tour and sailboats and pelicans and sea lions. But cruising for clam chowder and “Carmel Corn” was enough for us. (We assume that Carmel Corn was named for the city of Carmel as opposed to being named for caramel, which it is made with).

When we returned to our hotel, we decided that we needed to make use of the private balcony and watch the sun go down. It was frigidly cold but, damn it, we paid extra for this balcony and we were going to use it. Sometimes the sun is just … really … slow. After a while we decided we had enjoyed the hell out of our balcony and we needed to go inside and appreciate our fireplace that we paid extra for.

Today we are off to Santa Barbara where we will search for a restaurant at which I can stick my feet in the sand while eating fish tacos and drinking draft beer. And, it is hoped, eating pie.

Travelling Man

Everyone at some time has gone to the grocery store and gotten the cart with the one rogue wheel that goes in a different direction from the other three. What you probably have never seen is the team of researchers who steal those carts and take them off to the lab for study. Their job is to clone those mutant wheels in a larger size and attempt to develop a hotel luggage cart with 4 wheels that go in four different directions. So far they have only been able to breed carts with two coordinated wheels and two randomized wheels. These carts have been distributed to every hotel chain in America (except the ritzy ones with bellhops whom you pay to give your luggage a ride on the Lexus of hotel luggage carts).

You might guess that we are on vacation. We have survived the rollicking trip in and out of the elevator and down the hall with two luggage carts in two hotels. We are in California working with Arnold and Maria to solve the budget crisis. Currently we are staying in Carmel, visiting Clint Eastwood.

We spent our honeymoon in Carmel 30 years ago and have returned to see what they have done with the large sums of money we spent back then. They apparently added more galleries. The place is beautiful but it’s hard to imagine living in this town unless you long to spend your final years eating in expensive restaurants and shopping for jewelry, artwork and t-shirts every day. Where do these people buy hardware, Slim-Jims and Slurpees?

But we are tourists and we are having a good time. Highlights of today:
Sat out on our balcony early in the morning watching the fog swirling around over the ocean and listened to the garbage trucks working through the town. But I didn’t mind – I also smelled wood smoke that held the promise of grilled meat.
We went to the beach and I walked in the frigid water.
I parallel parked on a hill in one shot.
We went to the bakery and had giant rugelach nuts and sweet stuff that is wrapped in pastry to make it remarkably similar to pie.

I am writing this in the lobby of our hotel because the internet does not work in our room. Therefore they gave us a big reduction in our rate. In addition our rental car turned out to cost 15% less than we had been quoted originally. We have taken these savings and immediately plowed them back in to the local restaurant industry so that we don’t have to carry the extra weight of the money home with us. When we return in 30 years we will see what they have done with our investment.

While I am in vacation mode, the humor in this blog will be much more relaxed as you can see. Now I’m off to enjoy the day.

Foul Ball Fever ... Catch It!

From Chris Mauger comes a great essay on the life-long aspiration all (real American) men have to catch a foul ball at a baseball game.
(I discovered Chris’ blog after he left a very nice comment on my previous post. He is an elementary school principal so he can understand the maturity level of my humor and the aptitude level of my writing. He is very funny and you should read his blog).

Reading about his foul ball dreams, immediately sent me back to Dodger Stadium – I’m sitting in the stands with my mom and I have my mitt on, ready to catch any ball that comes near me. Nevermind that I am in General Admission, high above the field (just above the blinking red light that warns away airplanes). A home run travels only 400 feet or so; how is a foul ball going to reach me in General Admission, where we have to listen to Vin Scully on my transistor radio to know what we are “seeing” below? None of that matters; the fantasy of catching a ball from the game and taking it home to treasure is the lure that attracted every male to that ballpark.

Oh, we sometimes sat in the bleachers, which were also cheap seats at Dodger Stadium, so I might have caught a home run. But these were the early 60s Dodgers. Runs were manufactured by Maury Wills stealing 1st then 2nd, followed by a sacrifice bunt to move him to third and a sacrifice fly to get him home. Home runs were things other teams got because they – I’m looking at you, Yankees – were in league with the Devil. (That would specifically be the American League). So I sat in foul territory to increase my chances.

Men love action, thrills and violence and yet baseball was still our national pastime when I was a kid. Basketball offers fast-paced action – hockey even more so. Football offers physical contact, maiming and death – hockey even more so. Of course hockey is hard to follow and surely you couldn’t do that on what passed as television in the 60s. Baseball you can turn on at any point and get caught right up to the moment:

"Willie Davis at bat now. Gaylord Perry gets the ball and looks in to the catcher. Davis got the base hit in the first inning and scored on Gilliam’s double, providing the only run in the game. Perry shakes off a couple signs. Koufax has struck out 4 in the first three innings. Perry winds and throws. Of course, Gilliam made one heck of a catch on a hard line drive by Aaron in the second. The ball is approaching the plate now. The Dodgers have three hits, one run no errors. Davis looks like he might swing at this one. The Braves have 4 hits, no runs and one error which … Davis grounds back to the mound .. .put Davis in scoring position for that run … Davis is out at first.”

So baseball is easy to keep up with, which is why your girlfriend goes with you: you can explain all the rules between actual player motions on the field. But it is the foul ball that brings in the guys. You never hear this at an NFL game: “Fans are welcome to keep any errant passes thrown into the stands…” Hockey does let your next-of-kin keep any errant pucks you catch with your face, but you aren’t going to come back for more.

The promise of a caught foul ball indoctrinates kids into baseball worship. Sitting there with your glove on makes you part of the game. So I sat there as a kid, waiting. And waiting. Years later, in Cincinnati, I sat in Riverfront stadium (too embarrassed to wear my glove) waiting. One day I took a friend to the game. About the 5th inning I got myself some ice cream: a sundae served in a miniature, plastic replica of a batting helmet. I looked down to scoop up a mouthful. When I looked up, a foul ball was coming directly toward me. Things began to happen in slow motion – okay, everything was already in slow motion, this was baseball – I saw my friend’s arms reach out and I saw his hands catch the baseball. God had sent ME that baseball … but he was really punking me by making me get that ice cream first. The point is I’ll never forget the roller coaster ride of emotions from seeing the ball finally come and then losing it. I’ll never get the chocolate sauce out of my shorts either.

I don’t know if kids today build the same dreams. There are so few day games, and the night games are so late, it’s hard to bring kids. Without as many young boys learning to reach beyond hope for that ever-elusive foul ball, the popularity of baseball has declined. They try to attract us with hot dogs or t-shirts fired out of a canon, but, come on! That doesn’t make you one of the players like catching a real ball. And the “kiss cam?” Ew, gross! (if you’re a young boy there with your mom or dad, I mean).

Thinking about that, I just had a recovered memory. About 3 years ago, I did get a ball in the stands. There was a foul that bounced around the seats and came to rest in front of the guy next to me. Being that he was a five-year-old, my arms were longer than his and I reached down and snatched the ball right from under his little, 5-year-old feet. Oh my God, that is horrible! No wonder I blanked that out. But, come to think of it, had he got the ball, his dream would have been fulfilled and he could have put aside baseball for one of the other sports. My quick action established one more lifelong fan of America’s pastime.

Shaking Things Up

People in California today participated in the largest disaster drill ever. The massive mock drill tested preparedness for the consequences that would befall the state if Proposition 8 were overturned. At the sound of warning sirens, couples simulated the breakdown of their traditional marriages and staged sham divorces. Some smeared themselves with acrimony and disgust such as might be spread throughout the state if gays were to join in real matrimony.
In schools, teachers scrambled to distribute materials to instruct students in tolerance, promote rejection of the bible and demonstrate the benefits of homosexuality.
State police rushed to churches, synagogues and mosques to point unloaded guns at clergy and simulate forced performance of nuptials for same sex couples.
State officials addressed the people, saying that an actual crisis was unlikely but that they were proud of the readiness displayed in today's drill.

I Love LA

My vacation in California is over but I will savor the memories of another week in that land of crazy people. I saw, or, actually, smelled the hotel manager and desk clerk smoking marijuana in a room behind the front desk. I saw a bride in a full length, traditional wedding dress traipse across a hundred yards of beach to stand with her tuxedoed husband in wet sand having their picture taken. I saw a store called "Grant's for Guns", with crudely painted pictures of handguns on the exterior and a large sign saying, "Great Halloween Ideas" (I imagined a suggestion that starts with the question, "Are you tired of gaggles of costumed trick-or-treaters on your doorstep? Well....."). I saw a man get a ticket for riding his bike on the Redondo Beach pier where there are no fewer than ten signs imploring him to "Walk Your Bike In This Area". No doubt bike walking will be the subject of a proposition in the next election there.
California governs by propositions. I don't know how many there are on the ballot this year but there are numbered ones and lettered ones that go as far as "Proposition DD", leading me to believe there are at least 30 lettered ones. The one getting national attention - and national contributions - is Prop 8 which seeks to ban same-sex marriage in California.
One of the arguments used to promote the proposition is that, if same-sex marriage is allowed, any church which refuses to perform such a marriage will be sued by the gays. And they'll win because of the liberal (i.e. immoral) judiciary, you betcha. Just like all those lawsuits against clergy for refusing to perform legal interfaith marriages and those lawsuits against the Catholic Church for refusing to recognize legal divorces.
The most compelling argument for legally forbidding same-sex marriage is that God intended marriage to be between a man and a woman for the purpose of procreating (Proposition 9 on California's ballot is the Pro Creating Amendment). Yes, clearly allowing gays to marry will undermine this purpose and cause heterosexuals to stop having children. Or, wait, is it that denying gays the right to marry will force them into heterosexual unions, producing children like "normal" people? Either way, it is a clearly logical point.
Following on this lead, I am proposing an amendment to the Constitution to ban sex outside of marriage, masturbation, contraception and childless marriages, all of which controvert God's will that marriage and sex are intended for procreation, not random, hedonistic pleasure and any variation hinders my ability to have a real marriage.
They must be stopped at all costs. We must get funds from throughout the nation and we need passionate volunteers. To heck with spending money, time and energy fighting poverty, or helping people find jobs or get medical care. Forget being passionate about helping people - let's direct all that toward stopping people from being happy because their happiness makes us itchy and cranky.
I feel sorry for that poor couple I saw on the beach, having their wedding degraded by knowing that somewhere in California, two homosexuals are getting married at the same time. It will probably render them unable to consummate their marriage and have babies.

Surfin' Safari

I grew up along the coast of Southern California – lived here until I was 30 - but I have never ridden a surfboard. It’s not because I never got around to it like people who live in New York and have never been to the Statue of Liberty. I deliberately never surfed on a board. I prefer to body surf like a real man.
I confess that one reason I didn’t board surf was that you have to buy a board and then some accessories like a tether that straps the board to your leg so that your board can drag your lifeless body to shore after a particularly rough wave. You also, for some reason, need a wet suit, I presume that's because it keeps you warm in the cold water of the Pacific. This is your first confirmation that today’s surfers are not real men; body surfers don’t need no stinkin’ wet suits. (Note: to see board surfers who are real men, watch “Endless Summer” and the early parts of “Riding Giants”, featuring surfers from the 50s and 60s.).
The equipment, accessories and apparel make surfing somewhat like golf, which I don’t do either. Furthermore, when you surf on a board, you catch a wave, then fall off and get pummeled by said wave. When you body surf, you are in the wave from the start and get pummeled relentlessly without having to fall off first, which is why body surfing is superior to board surfing in the same way as luge is superior to skiing.
Today my friend Marshall and I were riding the waves in Newport Beach. The waves here were bigger than the waves in Redondo were on Wednesday, which is to say that there were actual waves here: 2 – 4 feet, breaking at 12 second intervals on the SW facing beach with late night and early morning low clouds and fog, burning off by noon. Back in the day, I would have been riding the 4-footers, but I’m a little slower and less agile now, so I stick with the smaller ones.
After the first round of surfing, we got out and started throwing the Frisbee. At this point my legs said, “Wait, what? You’ve been walking around beach cities all week and now you want to run after a flying disk? I’m sorry, no.” So we went back in the water to surf some more and punish the upper parts of our bodies. It was about noon and the tide was going out. As we got further out, we turned to each other and almost simultaneously said, “the undertow is really strong.” Within seconds I was out where I could barely stand up and I hadn’t gone there by choice. I started swimming directly back to the shore, without making much progress. A huge wave broke behind me and I let hit hit me and tumble me mercilessly because it was tumbling me back to safety. When I got ashore, I looked back and saw Marshall still too far out. I knew he knew what to do: just float on his back and paddle to a safer spot; but I was worried. Right then a couple of surfers just happened to be heading out to a spot near Marshall. I saw him swim to one of them and hitch a ride on the board back to shallow water.
We both had recognized the danger of the strong tide and gotten out of it. It scares me to think what can happen to someone who has never been in the ocean and encounters that. I also realized that the board surfers are pretty good guys – real men I might say.
(Yes, yes, I know that they could also be real women.)

Missing You-th

I’m in the midst of my 3rd annual pilgrimage back to the beach.
My sister and I sat on the sand at Redondo, looking at the ocean, listening to the waves, feeling the warm breeze, smelling the salt spray and thinking how much we missed it all. We wondered why we ever left Southern California. Oh yeah, nobody would pay me to sit on the beach. Even when I lived there, the need to pay for a house, groceries and a car to drive to the beach, kept me too busy working to actually go to the beach. And my wife and I vacationed with family who lived elsewhere because we could stay for free. Now that I am a wealthy corporate executive, living off the sweat of hard working, middle-class Joe-the-Architects in Ohio, I can afford to come back and vacation at the beach cities I used to live near and sit in my own sweat on the hot sand, doing nothing.
My sister and I sat on the deck of Kincaid’s at Happy Hour, sipping $4 Happy Hour wine, eating half-price expensive appetizers like buffalo prawns and baked brie with nuts and sweet goop on it, listening to the waves lap against the pier, smelling the salt spray, watching the sun go down and thinking how much we missed it all. No, wait, when I lived here I couldn’t afford Kincaid’s, even at Happy Hour. The budget for the house, groceries and car to go out with left us about $25 a month for “entertainment”. My wife and I went out for pizza and iced tea.
I drove South on the 405 from the LA airport toward Newport Beach, in the middle of five lanes of sun-bleached asphalt, bounded on either side by fried, brown foliage; up ahead were overpasses of gray concrete, with a backdrop of bluish-brown haze, all stitched together by black electric wires strung across frames of steel. I could feel the hum of traffic and electricity and see the heat shimmering off the road. I realized I was passing El Segundo as the thick odor of crude oil enveloped me and I thought how much I missed all that too. I guess when certain things are imprinted on you in youth, even the foul odor of El Segundo or the LA Harbor, they can evoke nostalgia for the idiotic joys of lazy youth from 40 years ago. I think Proust said that.
Maybe I can convince the architects to give me cell phone network hookup for my laptop and I can direct their finances from just south of lifeguard station 7 on Redondo Beach from now on.

I Feel the Earth Move

Early this morning we (in the greater geographical vicinity of West Salem, IL) experienced an earthquake.
To my peeps in California and Nevada, that is like reading “the Democrats had a debate yesterday” or “the Republican Governor from PickaState, an avid campaigner against RandomSexualProclivity, was caught engaging in RandomSexualProclivity”. Ho hum (note: that’s an expression of ennui, not the name of a sexual proclivity).
MSNBC reports, “The 5.2 magnitude earthquake rattled skyscrapers in Chicago's Loop and homes in Cincinnati” (because, of course, to the media, Cincinnati is a cow town full of “homes”, not a real city with them big buildings like Chicago).
To my friends and coworkers in Cincinnati, an earthquake is a big deal. For me it was nostalgic. When we moved to Cincinnati from LA, the most common comment we got was, “I would be so scared of the earthquakes out there.” This from people who had had houses blow away in tornadoes: apparently just a quaint Midwestern frolic involving encounters with little people, witches and talking scarecrows; so it’s more like a funky Haight-Ashbury acid trip than a frightening San Francisco quake. (The second most common comment was, “I would be so scared up in them big buildings.”)
My personal favorite earthquake was the one that occurred during the Rose Bowl in 1979.
NBC opened their broadcast with a beautiful view of the clear, blue LA sky. It was 75 degrees and it had recently rained to clear out the smog. LA looked like a house for sale with fresh paint covering the water stains in the ceiling and a cinnamon-spiced apple pie baking to mask that odd sulfur smell hovering in the living room. The announcers invited all the viewers from Michigan to the Oklahoma dustbowl to pull up stakes, move out west and jack up the housing prices for young couples like me and my fiancé. I was lying on my couch in LA when the earthquake struck and the terrified New Yorker announcers swiftly swallowed their SoCal hype, “Stop! Go back! The devil be present here!” At that point, we cheered louder than when USC eventually won the game.
For the sake of my friends and family remaining out there, I don’t try to disabuse people here of their fear of earthquakes.
”…said David Behm of Philo, 10 miles south of Champaign, “For people in central Illinois, this is a big deal. It’s not like California.” Ain’t that the truth.

A Shameless Plug For a Friend

When we lived in LA, our friend David came to live with us for a while. My wife had met David at IU. He was originally from Dayton, Ohio and left there for LA to try and get into show business. I told him I thought that Southern Ohio was an entertainment Mecca and a comedy gold mine. To prove it, my wife and I moved to Cincinnati, leaving David on his own. In some cosmic rebalancing of the universe, we had traded places and I ended up gaining fame and fortune writing short humor pieces for a radio star in Cincinnati. David struggled along writing music for the “Young and the Restless” (for which he won an Emmy) and eventually writing for some sitcoms. Now David has resorted to writing a book. Because I feel sorry for him and somewhat responsible for his plight, living in California, writing and producing sitcoms, I want to help promote his book. Besides, he begged me to do it, knowing that my vast readership of 3 or possibly 5 humans would respond. So go here and check out his book.

Born in Arizona, Moved to Babylonia

In 1963, when I was 8, we moved to Inglewood, where I attended nearby Highland Elementary School. I remember my first day of 4th grade; I met a guy who became one of my best friends for over a decade, though I haven't been in touch with him for the past 30 some years. The first thing I remember about him is playing "robots" during recess. Everything we knew about robots came from "Robby the Robot". My friend lived in a small bungalow on Venice Way, directly across the street from Highland school, so it was easy to hang out with him in the afternoons. We both got paper routes and would sit on his front porch folding papers and waiting for the Helms Bakery truck so we could get doughnuts, cream puffs and miniature pies for nourishment.
My friend's family and my family both moved away from that neighborhood a few years later. Then some other stuff happened and then, a few days a go, I received a copy of "Born Standing Up", by Steve Martin as a gift. Steve Martin was never as much an influence on my comedy as, say, Bill Cosby, but I really liked him when he first started and I saw him on the Steve Allen show. His "let's get small", balloon animals, and nose-on-the-microphone parody's of stand-up were so innovative at the time, I've never forgotten them. On page 16 of his book, Steve Martin is writing about his childhood: "A few months later, we moved from Hollywood to Inglewood, California, and lived in a small bungalow on Venice Way, directly across from Highland Elementary School." So if you've been paying attention, you now know that Steve Martin was my best friend in elementary school.
No, actually, Steve Martin is about ten years older than I am and his family lived there only a couple years, before I was born, then moved to the Oak Street School area. But maybe, just maybe, my friend's family moved into that house directly across from Highland School right after Steve Martin's moved out. And then, I spent time in that house. Is that an amazing brush with fame or what?

What it Was Was Football

When I first became interested in college football, I was a teenager living in LA and OJ Simpson was still a hero, not a killer. The only slashing he did then was running for touchdowns, leading USC to victory over rival UCLA and Heisman winner, Gary Beban. OJ later won the Heisman and a Rose Bowl, but then lost to bitter rival Ohio State. Back then the Rose Bowl was exclusively a contest between the Pac 8 (either USA or UCLA) and the Big Ten (either Ohio State or Michigan). At that time Ohio State was coached by Evil Incarnate, Woody Hayes.
As years passed, I became more interested in pro football. Yes, children, LA actually used to have professional football teams. The Chargers left LA for San Diego before my time; but the Cleveland Rams replaced them and I was an LA Rams fan. Then the Rams left for Anaheim, the Raiders arrived from Oakland and then went back. I can't really critisize these teams; I myself left LA for Cincinnati and became a Bengals fan (Bengals current quarterback, Carson Palmer, is a USC grad and Heisman winner who has not killed anyone yet).
I never followed college football during those years and I certainly was not about to root for the Ohio State Buckeyes.
When my neice went to Cal I paid a little attention to their football team, which challenged USC a few times and I also checked in on the University of Cincinnati when they made it to a few minor bowl games. But I never watched any games. And my wife never watched even more games than I never watched.
I've told you all this so you will understand how bizarre it was that Karen and I were intently watching LSU play Arkansas yesterday and we really cared about the outcome. Why? Because if LSU lost, it was one of the steps needed for Ohio State to get back in the running for the national championship. Yes, Ohio State. See, our daughter is going to Ohio State. Even SHE, my almost fashion designer, sports hating daughter, has become a college football fan. And all 3 of us knew the teams involved and the scenarios that needed to happen for The OSU to get into a championship. It's still possible, but, even though LSU did lose (great, 3 overtime game!) Ohio State will probably end up in the Rose Bowl playing USC. And I'll be rooting for Ohio State. That's like if I switched from being a Dodger fan to being a Yankee fan. But you know, Woody Hayes is long gone and OJ is in jail and I'm paying tuition to Ohio State. So my money's on them.

Veni, Vidi, Vedding

One day back in 1977, I picked up this girl in a Greyhound station in a seedy section of downtown Los Angeles; she's been my wife now for just over 30 years. The story of how we got there involves coal miners, a large measure of snow and an ancient Latin teacher.

The genesis of our meeting was the moment my sister, Susan, decided to take Latin in high school. I don’t recall the reason she chose to study a dead language when Spanish might have served her better in Southern California. If I did, I might place the causality earlier, but, in our family history, that is where my road to marriage began.

Miss Kron was the last Latin Teacher that Inglewood High School would ever have. She was a most excellent instructor in the classic tongue because it was her native language. Based on her knowledge and her state of advanced withering, we knew she must have grown up under the rule of Julius Caesar and had undoubtedly had a torrid affair with Cicero.

Miss Kron not only taught Latin, she organized and sponsored Latin Club. Susan, always power hungry, became President of Latin Club and traveled to a state Latin convention. There, perhaps inspired by tales of Anthony and Cleopatra, she fell into a romance with another attendee, John E.

Omnia California divisa in tres partes est: Southern, Central and Northern. John E. was from Northern California; Susan was from the South. Fortune smiled on them because John was planning to attend Occidental College, near Pasadena, a mere 30 miles (or 3 hours drive) from our home. A couple years later Susan also matriculated at Occidental.

Meanwhile, as either an adoring younger brother, or an aimless youth lacking initiative and imagination, I copied my sister and took Latin at Inglewood High, became President of Latin Club and enrolled at Occidental College. Like the narrator in "A Prayer for Owen Meany, John E.'s only function was to bring together characters and set things in motion. I stopped short of falling for John E. and instead I met Pam, who became my girlfriend for most of our college years.

A few years after graduating, Pam went off to Indiana University for graduate work, where she served as RA in a dorm and met Karen, one of the residents.

In 1978 a blizzard hit the Midwest and, seizing an opportune time to make their point, coal miners went on strike. Faced with a shortage of coal and a glut of freezing temperatures, IU decided to give students an extended spring break. Pam was returning to SoCal for the break and invited anyone interested to join her and Karen was the only one to take her up on it, L.A. being someplace she thought she might live one day. They set off on a Greyhound bus.

Pam and I had been in kind of an on-again, off-again relationship. While I was thinking we were in an off-again phase, Pam thought we were on-again and spent the cross-country trip regaling Karen with tales of our impending engagement.

Pam had asked me to pick them up at the bus station and I did, transporting them to Pam’s mother’s house in the foothills. During the spring break visit I got to know Karen. She was intelligent, attractive and artistic. She laughed at my witty remarks and humorous comments which proved one thing: she was easily amused (my kind of woman).

When she returned to Indiana I tried courting her by mail (this was in early American times when email, IM’s and text messages did not exist). In deference to Pam, Karen resisted my wooing. But who can long resist the charms of a shaggy-haired, acne-faced accountant who could spout Latin mottos (Semper ubi sub ubi!)?

Eventually I won her over. What clinched the deal was that Karen was 5’8” and knew mostly short guys. I was 6’6” and thus it was the first time she had the opportunity to date a guy while wearing 4 inch heels. It’s always about the shoes with women, isn’t it?

Karen returned to LA for the summer, traveling this time with her high school best friend Marti. They stayed temporarily in the small apartment with me and my roommate and best friend, Marshall. A year later Karen and I were married and Marshall and Marti were wed a year and a half after that.

And thus Latin, the root of all romance languages is also the root of a love story for four people brought together by foreign language, labor strife and Greyhound bus.

*In the classical Latin taught by Miss Kron, "V" is pronounced as "W", so veni, vidi, vici, (I came, I saw, I conquered) becomes way-nee, weedy, weeky.