Three seasons ago, I wrote this ditty on the first day of baseball in San Diego. Mt Rabbi read it and told me I would become a great writer. I've updated "Batter Up" for today's game.
"Batter Up" (c) George Garrett 2012
It is a day game in beautiful San Diego. I feel like singing. Yesterday I was hungry for love, and now satisfied, I need to grab a some hot dogs and buns at Ralph's, between First and Front Streets.
Baseball season begins today, and everything is going my way. Its a Thursday day game. The night before, I spent it with the love of my life at her palace in Rancho Palos Verdes, where on a clear day you can see Catalina from her majestic hill-side house.
At one time, Juan Dominguez received a land grant to the above section of land due to his achievement as a distinguished Spanish soldier. Palos Verdes is an island to itself. Even the American author Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne hold the right-of-way to this island off of the beaten path. It was once home to Marine Land of the Pacific.
The Japanese could not conquer it in World War 2, so as of late, have bought up a good portion of this back lot of Los Angeles. Whenever one sees a bunch of baseball caps walking in a row, you know its the Japanese.
I quit the downtown San Diego "Y" and walk towards G street for Ralph's Market. Love is in the Spring air. Blooming flowers are out showing off their radiant colors. I have a hop to my step, but a middle aged man cuts me off. He wears a Padre t-shirt. His long hair hides the baseball cap. His pants barely hide his bottom.
I ask a Padre shirt "what time the game begins." Mr. Beer Belly ignores me at first. Booze is on his breath.
"Has baseball season begun?"
"Yes sir, it is an afternoon game. I need to be there for batter's practice and buy more suds. The Padres are playing the Dodgers today."
Mr Suds zigzags ahead of me and crosses against a red light at G and Union Street. Flashy cars zip at a fast clip on their way to the stadium. Their life depends on it! Each car tries to out-muscle the other. I walk to Ralph's and cross Front Street. Mr.Toothless Beany runs into me, on purpose. Can you tell me where...?"
I cut him off while he begs. I ignore him and enter Ralph's. What he wants is money. I should have known better than to have dressed up. I look too good. Several kids leave Ralph's and carry cases of beer. Baseball season gives fans the rights of spring and to be dazzled by baseball and booze.
I enter the old store and see some beautiful flowers. I feel like buying a bunch of Easter Lilly's for my girlfriend but she lives far away. I pick up a large can of Albacore tuna along with a small can of sardines and bottle of fresh pulp orange juice. I buy a Ace comb, leave and sit in front of a coffee shop that faces the Horton Center and Nordstrom's.
Sitting next to the corner light, a cute young gal and boy sit with their dog. Their cardboard sign reads, "Needs money to buy Easter eggs." She looks too young to ask for a handout. She produces a radiant smile highlighted with the dimples on her cheek. Neither wear long hair, but do have tattoos on their arms. I drink a few swigs of my sweet orange juice and watch an African American place his hands into a corner trash can. His hands return empty.
I look at the sky and smell the blooming spring flowers. Everyone is stocking up at Ralph's and readying for Easter Sunday. The contrast between the homeless and the dapper looking fans disturb me. I am one of ninety-nine percent who has enough money for food and lodging but not one cent more.
My game starts on Friday night, the first night of Passover. No ball games for me. My stadium is a small shul buttressed up to a Chinese laundry and across from the Horton Hotel My idol is not baseball but God. His presence brings more joy than hitting a grand slam.
I gulp down more orange juice and begin my walk through God's Garden of San Diego.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
San Clemente - Wow!
Yesterday I felt pooped. I had stayed at the rest stop, five miles outside of Oceanside. In no way would I pay $89 for a Motel Six room-My budget would not allow it. I had two options: I could go to Santa Nita on the Gold Line out of Union Station or do some library work downtown.
The only time I have entered San Clemente was when my car needed gas, or there was stop-and-gold traffic on the 5 freeway. But this last weekend, I decided to make it my home town. Its view inspired me.
North County had a golf tournament, and track events inside Carlsbad. Motels had become expensive since families and other retired people make it their home. The middle class had eroded.
So left the rest stop both weekend days and paid for the $10 all day fare.
My car remained in the free commuter parking lot. Henry checked us for our ticket before we climbed aboard the 624 Metro-Link. It left platform number 2 at eight thirty. Earlier, like always, the ticket machines had acted up. The one that worked needed some prodding to take plastic cards. A Japanese college student had trouble making the plastic turn to a ticket earlier.
"Do it quick. Try again..."
Like a horse being saddled for the first time, The machine did not accept the card-that is at first. So I made a suggestion to the college girl.
"Do it fast but with gentile hands." Her plastic card worked now. She retrieved the card and sat to wait with her ticket in hand.
Inside car number one, I took a front disabled seat and unfolded my legs. I took a quick nap and produced my book about Auschwitz. In a few minutes the conductor-who was only one aboard- sent the Los Angeles Union Station on its way.
The ocean and waves and waves of marshy land came into view. To the East Marines were on maneuvers. Tanks and trucks were everywhere. I felt sick-to-my-stomach that so many have suffered tragically from the endless Middle Eastern wars.
After San Onofre, San Clemente came into view. Rather the long steep bluffs caught my attention. You see the City of San Clemente appears like an amphitheater, with every seat with an ocean view. As the number 23 chugged along, crevices and various rainbow colors made up this sea wall.
Yet it was the color of the bluffs and now the sun and ocean gave a different color to each bluff as the train crested its way to the San Clemente Pier. Yellows, rust-colored-reds gave a hue to this wonderful city. Why in the back of my mind I thought how great it would be to live there-knowing that an ocean views could be had from anywhere in this Presidential Beach City. Of course nobody boarded since they lived in their vacation homes and also could afford the triple priced Amtrak.
A large number of families descended as the train made hay to the Petting Zoo inside San Juan Capistrano. The train stopped a few yards from the petting zoo. A Llama stuck its head through the window to sample some of the creamy peanut butter that I was licking.
I smiled after this stop.. I felt relieved that I had taken a long bath on Friday. On black Friday, I bumped-up my Compass card for another thirty days, and on the way to the Green Line stopped at the Internal Revenue. Now I hadn't paid for over seven years and wished to begin. Their war room is off of Front and D Street which was turned into a bridge. (More about that later.)
With your permission, I am going to speak about the Gold Line Trolley to Pasadena on that Saturday and skip Tustin, Orange, Santa Ana and other stops. The Metro is a tunnel from the Gold Line trains. The stops are China Town, Heritage Village, Highland Park...and ends in Sierra Madre. Several passengers left and took a Clairemont train to Santa Nita.
For me, seeing Old Town Los Angeles reminded me of San Diego's. Mainly one hundred or older wooden homes lines the train's trail. Hills, yes miles and miles of hills gave way to the majestic San Gabriel Mountains. Too bad these golden relics gave way to the mansions of Hancock Park and Beverly Hills.
Sunday on the Metro-Link for ten dollars all day. I saw the same sights of San Clemente with one exception. I rode the train back-and-forth as my mind needed to recoup from two sleepless nights at the Rest Stop.
This time I faced the ocean and the sun-worshipers. This time, with the sun above, I saw how far the sets of waves reached. They seemed to be one mile out as their sets of large seven-footers curled slowly towards the small beaches. One surfer caught a wave that took him the mile towards shore where a Frisbee hit him right-in-the-noggin.
Every color in the rainbow bounced off of the ocean as one set of waves cascaded towards shore Volleyball games were played everywhere.
Now I knew-for sure-where I wished to ground myself: In lovely San Clemente where the curling surf cuddles the mind to to sleep.
Nuts and Bolts for today: A good friend is one who does not need to ask if "you need any help." He does it without asking.
The only time I have entered San Clemente was when my car needed gas, or there was stop-and-gold traffic on the 5 freeway. But this last weekend, I decided to make it my home town. Its view inspired me.
North County had a golf tournament, and track events inside Carlsbad. Motels had become expensive since families and other retired people make it their home. The middle class had eroded.
So left the rest stop both weekend days and paid for the $10 all day fare.
My car remained in the free commuter parking lot. Henry checked us for our ticket before we climbed aboard the 624 Metro-Link. It left platform number 2 at eight thirty. Earlier, like always, the ticket machines had acted up. The one that worked needed some prodding to take plastic cards. A Japanese college student had trouble making the plastic turn to a ticket earlier.
"Do it quick. Try again..."
Like a horse being saddled for the first time, The machine did not accept the card-that is at first. So I made a suggestion to the college girl.
"Do it fast but with gentile hands." Her plastic card worked now. She retrieved the card and sat to wait with her ticket in hand.
Inside car number one, I took a front disabled seat and unfolded my legs. I took a quick nap and produced my book about Auschwitz. In a few minutes the conductor-who was only one aboard- sent the Los Angeles Union Station on its way.
The ocean and waves and waves of marshy land came into view. To the East Marines were on maneuvers. Tanks and trucks were everywhere. I felt sick-to-my-stomach that so many have suffered tragically from the endless Middle Eastern wars.
After San Onofre, San Clemente came into view. Rather the long steep bluffs caught my attention. You see the City of San Clemente appears like an amphitheater, with every seat with an ocean view. As the number 23 chugged along, crevices and various rainbow colors made up this sea wall.
Yet it was the color of the bluffs and now the sun and ocean gave a different color to each bluff as the train crested its way to the San Clemente Pier. Yellows, rust-colored-reds gave a hue to this wonderful city. Why in the back of my mind I thought how great it would be to live there-knowing that an ocean views could be had from anywhere in this Presidential Beach City. Of course nobody boarded since they lived in their vacation homes and also could afford the triple priced Amtrak.
A large number of families descended as the train made hay to the Petting Zoo inside San Juan Capistrano. The train stopped a few yards from the petting zoo. A Llama stuck its head through the window to sample some of the creamy peanut butter that I was licking.
I smiled after this stop.. I felt relieved that I had taken a long bath on Friday. On black Friday, I bumped-up my Compass card for another thirty days, and on the way to the Green Line stopped at the Internal Revenue. Now I hadn't paid for over seven years and wished to begin. Their war room is off of Front and D Street which was turned into a bridge. (More about that later.)
With your permission, I am going to speak about the Gold Line Trolley to Pasadena on that Saturday and skip Tustin, Orange, Santa Ana and other stops. The Metro is a tunnel from the Gold Line trains. The stops are China Town, Heritage Village, Highland Park...and ends in Sierra Madre. Several passengers left and took a Clairemont train to Santa Nita.
For me, seeing Old Town Los Angeles reminded me of San Diego's. Mainly one hundred or older wooden homes lines the train's trail. Hills, yes miles and miles of hills gave way to the majestic San Gabriel Mountains. Too bad these golden relics gave way to the mansions of Hancock Park and Beverly Hills.
Sunday on the Metro-Link for ten dollars all day. I saw the same sights of San Clemente with one exception. I rode the train back-and-forth as my mind needed to recoup from two sleepless nights at the Rest Stop.
This time I faced the ocean and the sun-worshipers. This time, with the sun above, I saw how far the sets of waves reached. They seemed to be one mile out as their sets of large seven-footers curled slowly towards the small beaches. One surfer caught a wave that took him the mile towards shore where a Frisbee hit him right-in-the-noggin.
Every color in the rainbow bounced off of the ocean as one set of waves cascaded towards shore Volleyball games were played everywhere.
Now I knew-for sure-where I wished to ground myself: In lovely San Clemente where the curling surf cuddles the mind to to sleep.
Nuts and Bolts for today: A good friend is one who does not need to ask if "you need any help." He does it without asking.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Seaport Village
Today we had an heat advisory. I wished to go to the dance at Balboa Park. Without a working air-conditioner, I left the Motel Six and removed myself to the Senior Center in Encinitas.Too bored or tired to write another blog, I stole from my sketch book from the World of George. I edited the story so you would not be too bored.
On my return trip to downtown San Diego, I backtracked to the Grantville trolley station and took the elevator to the rails above. The trolleys came every fifteen minutes during the day. A few homeless entered. Their unruly hair reached their shoulders. Spots covered their jeans and missing teeth made them appear older. One passenger placed his hood over his nose
A few dread-locks came aboard carrying their babies They were too young to be fathers but I guessed they had nothing better to do. Each of the two men showed off their geographical underwear, with the battered jeans sweeping the floor. After placing their earphones on, they checked their messages.
They ignored the sound of their screaming babies. Thus their babies learned to either scream louder or keep their wants inside Several passengers scurried to far-away seat. They spoke in their native guttural tongues using a language only suitable for the drudges of society. One spoke to his older kid.
"What you eating dude. Give me bite. Did you Mama give you money?...Shut up Billy when I talk." Baby Billie made me stick ear plugs inside my ear. I needed more tissue for my bleeding nose Their stench suffocated me.
I took another trolley to my cell at the 500 building. I felt good to have a roof over my head and a place to sleep for a change. The trolley ride, walk, and medication provided me with new-found energy for the day. My head felt lighter. Exhausted, I spent the rest of the day lying down before my stomach woke me up. It needed pasta. My stomach remembered a place by the Harbor that served spaghetti.
Seaport Village is bordered on the East by the Brick Yard Cafe, Hyatt Manchester Regency and the Embassy Hotel.. West is the Harbor and the Fish Cafe and the ship the Midway. The hot day dried my caked nostrils while my body kicked my cold down to my butt. I felt normal. I limped to the Harbor area and turned left.
I ran into monuments to World War 2, next to the big aircraft carrier Midway. The Japanese had flocked to the iconic statue of a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War 2.Yet I smelled the pasta shop inside the village of eateries and shops. My few remaining dollars would not deny my desire for an Italian evening.
After walking a few steps, I found the spaghetti restaurant. I noticed that the meat balls were a dollar more for each. "Can I order the spaghetti with two meat balls please. After a few minutes, they called my number and I picked up my nine dollar Italian treat.
Two skateboarders wheeled in noise. I hastily removed my plate to an outside metallic table. It faced the merry-go-round and other high-priced eateries. A cool breeze came off the ocean and my nose picked up the scent of salt water, and the many assortments of food. No longer did I need sick-bay.
A small baby sparrow joined me for dinner, tipping its beak as if to say "Hello". It beckoned for a tidbit of spaghetti. I disregarded a sign that read, "Don't feed the birds." I placed one string of the dish on the table. All awhile, the grounded pigeons stared up envious of the little birdie. They took straw vote to to who would kick her off the table.
The grounded flock of pigeons looked up and admired the little cock-sure-birdie. The Sparrow poked off a string and spliced it into little strands.But the left over string was too much for the Sparrow A few seconds later, a battered one legged pigeon claimed its rightly spot and kicked the little Sparrow off of his perch.
Now several pigeons perched on the now busy table. Since my Rebbe told me to share my wealth with the less fortunate, I placed more strands on the table. One flew to my plate and placed its beak into the sauce. The pigeons fought over the remains of the day.
Yet the one who ate first got the last laugh. The little Sparrow no longer had to split the spaghetti. The birds above dropped tidbits for this no-longer hungry foul. Just then a hunched over little lady with more wrinkles than an old dollar bill spoke to me using some gibberish.
"Senor, no coma, no coma los Birds. The small little Mexican worker admonished me for feeding God's creatures who once came over on Noah's Arc. I told her the birds drove away my loneliness. I still missed my ex-girl friend Gloria.
Just then a gorgeous blond gal asked if she could sit with me. "Ah, ah" I thought. The rabbi was right. Just maybe he has sent on to replace the talkative one from San Pedro. We spoke for several minutes but who listened. Her plunging neckline made it difficult to hear that her third husband lay upstairs in the Hyatt. She told me her name and what she had on top was nothing compared to her short skirt that revealed a better bottom.
"I have to go now. My husband is waiting for me. Give me your number and we can get together later. My third is boring me to death."
"Why my little Della, a two years ago I wouldn't have hesitated. I would love to make it with you...but today, I am a reborn Jew and Adultery is simply out of the question."
My cold had flown away with the Harbor breezes. I decided to spend my last two bucks on the very Merry-go-round I had been on in Santa Monica beach as a young kid. but I was not alone. The Sparrow had followed me and now was fluttering overhead. and thanking me. The wooden horse didn't seem to mind seeing that many old spectators laughed at my frolic.
They had never seen a real old man ride a horse. Yet they joined me detaching the four dollar fare from their pockets.And guess what sat on the horse in front of me...My friend the Sparrow. It was singing a song of a long time ago: Sparrow in the tree-top, Sparrow in the tree top..."
No longer lonely and with my nose signing off to my surge of bronchitis, I returned to my dingy 500 building with a new found energy. The little bird gave me what I needed and my girl friend could not: a lot of laughter and visions of better days ahead of me. , . .
On my return trip to downtown San Diego, I backtracked to the Grantville trolley station and took the elevator to the rails above. The trolleys came every fifteen minutes during the day. A few homeless entered. Their unruly hair reached their shoulders. Spots covered their jeans and missing teeth made them appear older. One passenger placed his hood over his nose
A few dread-locks came aboard carrying their babies They were too young to be fathers but I guessed they had nothing better to do. Each of the two men showed off their geographical underwear, with the battered jeans sweeping the floor. After placing their earphones on, they checked their messages.
They ignored the sound of their screaming babies. Thus their babies learned to either scream louder or keep their wants inside Several passengers scurried to far-away seat. They spoke in their native guttural tongues using a language only suitable for the drudges of society. One spoke to his older kid.
"What you eating dude. Give me bite. Did you Mama give you money?...Shut up Billy when I talk." Baby Billie made me stick ear plugs inside my ear. I needed more tissue for my bleeding nose Their stench suffocated me.
I took another trolley to my cell at the 500 building. I felt good to have a roof over my head and a place to sleep for a change. The trolley ride, walk, and medication provided me with new-found energy for the day. My head felt lighter. Exhausted, I spent the rest of the day lying down before my stomach woke me up. It needed pasta. My stomach remembered a place by the Harbor that served spaghetti.
Seaport Village is bordered on the East by the Brick Yard Cafe, Hyatt Manchester Regency and the Embassy Hotel.. West is the Harbor and the Fish Cafe and the ship the Midway. The hot day dried my caked nostrils while my body kicked my cold down to my butt. I felt normal. I limped to the Harbor area and turned left.
I ran into monuments to World War 2, next to the big aircraft carrier Midway. The Japanese had flocked to the iconic statue of a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War 2.Yet I smelled the pasta shop inside the village of eateries and shops. My few remaining dollars would not deny my desire for an Italian evening.
After walking a few steps, I found the spaghetti restaurant. I noticed that the meat balls were a dollar more for each. "Can I order the spaghetti with two meat balls please. After a few minutes, they called my number and I picked up my nine dollar Italian treat.
Two skateboarders wheeled in noise. I hastily removed my plate to an outside metallic table. It faced the merry-go-round and other high-priced eateries. A cool breeze came off the ocean and my nose picked up the scent of salt water, and the many assortments of food. No longer did I need sick-bay.
A small baby sparrow joined me for dinner, tipping its beak as if to say "Hello". It beckoned for a tidbit of spaghetti. I disregarded a sign that read, "Don't feed the birds." I placed one string of the dish on the table. All awhile, the grounded pigeons stared up envious of the little birdie. They took straw vote to to who would kick her off the table.
The grounded flock of pigeons looked up and admired the little cock-sure-birdie. The Sparrow poked off a string and spliced it into little strands.But the left over string was too much for the Sparrow A few seconds later, a battered one legged pigeon claimed its rightly spot and kicked the little Sparrow off of his perch.
Now several pigeons perched on the now busy table. Since my Rebbe told me to share my wealth with the less fortunate, I placed more strands on the table. One flew to my plate and placed its beak into the sauce. The pigeons fought over the remains of the day.
Yet the one who ate first got the last laugh. The little Sparrow no longer had to split the spaghetti. The birds above dropped tidbits for this no-longer hungry foul. Just then a hunched over little lady with more wrinkles than an old dollar bill spoke to me using some gibberish.
"Senor, no coma, no coma los Birds. The small little Mexican worker admonished me for feeding God's creatures who once came over on Noah's Arc. I told her the birds drove away my loneliness. I still missed my ex-girl friend Gloria.
Just then a gorgeous blond gal asked if she could sit with me. "Ah, ah" I thought. The rabbi was right. Just maybe he has sent on to replace the talkative one from San Pedro. We spoke for several minutes but who listened. Her plunging neckline made it difficult to hear that her third husband lay upstairs in the Hyatt. She told me her name and what she had on top was nothing compared to her short skirt that revealed a better bottom.
"I have to go now. My husband is waiting for me. Give me your number and we can get together later. My third is boring me to death."
"Why my little Della, a two years ago I wouldn't have hesitated. I would love to make it with you...but today, I am a reborn Jew and Adultery is simply out of the question."
My cold had flown away with the Harbor breezes. I decided to spend my last two bucks on the very Merry-go-round I had been on in Santa Monica beach as a young kid. but I was not alone. The Sparrow had followed me and now was fluttering overhead. and thanking me. The wooden horse didn't seem to mind seeing that many old spectators laughed at my frolic.
They had never seen a real old man ride a horse. Yet they joined me detaching the four dollar fare from their pockets.And guess what sat on the horse in front of me...My friend the Sparrow. It was singing a song of a long time ago: Sparrow in the tree-top, Sparrow in the tree top..."
No longer lonely and with my nose signing off to my surge of bronchitis, I returned to my dingy 500 building with a new found energy. The little bird gave me what I needed and my girl friend could not: a lot of laughter and visions of better days ahead of me. , . .
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
La Mesa on the Orange Line Trolley
Yesterday I made an appointment to meet an editor in a town called La Mesa. I dreaded taking the Orange Line to the city on the way to El Cajon. and this morning I found out why.
At the Imperial Transit Station, I boarded packed train. Latinos, Blacks, and a few relics of anther time, took up seats on the train bound for the El Cajon. Another white man, like me, used a fork for his left-less arm. A tall grizzly black toted two trash bags loaded with cans and bottles. The rest were either asleep or looking at their smart phones ,
Hell, I knew the smart one was a man over 75 - me. Was I on the train out of Linz to Auschwitz? Would a Nazi put a gun to my head? Of course my smart phone lay on my hands. My right eye fed my mind with wisdom while the other looked at the homes along Imperial and then Commerce Streets.
Of course this is San Diego's other city, - the one the city counsel forgot. Tents, Ralph's shopping carts, bags, toiletries lined the street. A few were trading drinks for cigarettes or drugs. These citizens would be inside their tents later in the afternoon-it was only three o'clock. I continued reading about how the French Administrators smiled as they packed young Jews on their way to death and Auschwitz.
A view from the train overlooked a large cemetery. The park must have been two or three miles long. All I saw were markers. Trees and bushes were everywhere. "Next stop is Mississippi." I looked for a river below the train but so nothing but a long long spillway..."Next stop is Lemon Grove." I did not see any homes. Instead, small cottages,or stucco-one beds lined the trains path.
"Next stop is La Mesa." I got off and asked two people the location of Spring Street. My editor wished for me to meet here at Cosmos, a tea and coffee shop on that street. Since I arrived thirty minutes early, I wished to familiarize myself with the city.
Long deep ditches lined the main downtown Artery of La Mesa. An old Latino restaurant got my attention. It looked like a hotel. To cool off, I strode into a Starbucks. But unlike the San Diego Starbucks, the temperature hovered around eighty inside. My appointment time of four thirty had arrived and I returned to the Cosmos Cafe. There now was a good looking young lady sitting on a couch. A few overhead fans tried in vain to wash away the dust and heat of the day.
"Might you be the editor waiting for George?" I inquired. She gave me the once-over.
"No I am not, sorry." She responded in a business like manner.
In the back of my mind I thought that she might be the editor but did not appreciate my wind blown look. Ya see, my shirt tails that hang out signal people that George has arrived. I forgot what my sponsor told me. "You never get a second chance to make a first impression."
I turned left and wished to visit the old colorfully decorated hotel on the corner. Over head the name said "Pour Favor". A young lady greeted me inside. Again all I saw were fans and baseball season had not yet begun. Upstairs were a gentleman and ladies bathrooms. To the side was what looked like a telephone booth.
"My name if Marcia. Can I help you." She introduced herself.
"Was this a hotel once and how old is it?" I inquired.
"It was a saloon once beginning in 1906, but now serves as a restaurant...By the way, we have our happy hour now." I asked for a five dollar salad and wished to know what the telephone booth was.
In the earlier days, a priest would sit inside and a hardy drinker would reveal his sins. A few minutes later, the sinner would continue with his drink and lady friends.
I gave Marcia a two dollar tip and raced back to the Orange Line station. A tattooed man across from me used his bastardized English to call his case worker. "I got out late, so I will will take me twenty minutes to transfer to the number 3 bus..." Only a few Mexicans speak any good English.
The dark haired one seemed in distress. He called his wife and kept repeating, "F...k" you so often I thought that it might be the only English word he ever used. " Did you send me my shirts. I am sitting in dirty underwear...Don't you listen.."F...k you"
The dirty one got off on 38 Street and returned my forefingers to my book. The train now proceeded to the Imperial Station. A line-up of about fifty tents with their owners now inside greeted the train. I wondered how many would walk tomorrow and be carried off by the ambulances. Several appeared so dark they resembled chimney sweeps.
The train proceeded to the City College stop and then to Banker's Corner next to the Santa Fe Station. Back on the 6:25 Coaster, I was tickled to look outside at the picturesque view of the the Ocean and green grass and found a few Jews hid in Catholic churches and survived until the end of the war.
At the Imperial Transit Station, I boarded packed train. Latinos, Blacks, and a few relics of anther time, took up seats on the train bound for the El Cajon. Another white man, like me, used a fork for his left-less arm. A tall grizzly black toted two trash bags loaded with cans and bottles. The rest were either asleep or looking at their smart phones ,
Hell, I knew the smart one was a man over 75 - me. Was I on the train out of Linz to Auschwitz? Would a Nazi put a gun to my head? Of course my smart phone lay on my hands. My right eye fed my mind with wisdom while the other looked at the homes along Imperial and then Commerce Streets.
Of course this is San Diego's other city, - the one the city counsel forgot. Tents, Ralph's shopping carts, bags, toiletries lined the street. A few were trading drinks for cigarettes or drugs. These citizens would be inside their tents later in the afternoon-it was only three o'clock. I continued reading about how the French Administrators smiled as they packed young Jews on their way to death and Auschwitz.
A view from the train overlooked a large cemetery. The park must have been two or three miles long. All I saw were markers. Trees and bushes were everywhere. "Next stop is Mississippi." I looked for a river below the train but so nothing but a long long spillway..."Next stop is Lemon Grove." I did not see any homes. Instead, small cottages,or stucco-one beds lined the trains path.
"Next stop is La Mesa." I got off and asked two people the location of Spring Street. My editor wished for me to meet here at Cosmos, a tea and coffee shop on that street. Since I arrived thirty minutes early, I wished to familiarize myself with the city.
Long deep ditches lined the main downtown Artery of La Mesa. An old Latino restaurant got my attention. It looked like a hotel. To cool off, I strode into a Starbucks. But unlike the San Diego Starbucks, the temperature hovered around eighty inside. My appointment time of four thirty had arrived and I returned to the Cosmos Cafe. There now was a good looking young lady sitting on a couch. A few overhead fans tried in vain to wash away the dust and heat of the day.
"Might you be the editor waiting for George?" I inquired. She gave me the once-over.
"No I am not, sorry." She responded in a business like manner.
In the back of my mind I thought that she might be the editor but did not appreciate my wind blown look. Ya see, my shirt tails that hang out signal people that George has arrived. I forgot what my sponsor told me. "You never get a second chance to make a first impression."
I turned left and wished to visit the old colorfully decorated hotel on the corner. Over head the name said "Pour Favor". A young lady greeted me inside. Again all I saw were fans and baseball season had not yet begun. Upstairs were a gentleman and ladies bathrooms. To the side was what looked like a telephone booth.
"My name if Marcia. Can I help you." She introduced herself.
"Was this a hotel once and how old is it?" I inquired.
"It was a saloon once beginning in 1906, but now serves as a restaurant...By the way, we have our happy hour now." I asked for a five dollar salad and wished to know what the telephone booth was.
In the earlier days, a priest would sit inside and a hardy drinker would reveal his sins. A few minutes later, the sinner would continue with his drink and lady friends.
I gave Marcia a two dollar tip and raced back to the Orange Line station. A tattooed man across from me used his bastardized English to call his case worker. "I got out late, so I will will take me twenty minutes to transfer to the number 3 bus..." Only a few Mexicans speak any good English.
The dark haired one seemed in distress. He called his wife and kept repeating, "F...k" you so often I thought that it might be the only English word he ever used. " Did you send me my shirts. I am sitting in dirty underwear...Don't you listen.."F...k you"
The dirty one got off on 38 Street and returned my forefingers to my book. The train now proceeded to the Imperial Station. A line-up of about fifty tents with their owners now inside greeted the train. I wondered how many would walk tomorrow and be carried off by the ambulances. Several appeared so dark they resembled chimney sweeps.
The train proceeded to the City College stop and then to Banker's Corner next to the Santa Fe Station. Back on the 6:25 Coaster, I was tickled to look outside at the picturesque view of the the Ocean and green grass and found a few Jews hid in Catholic churches and survived until the end of the war.
Monday, March 23, 2015
The Next Mayor of San Diego
Since Cruz threw his hat into the ring for President on the Republican ticket, I may as well do the same. Since I lived and roamed around the streets of San Diego, I have a rat's view as to what is wrong with this once pristine city.
Just have a look at our new downtown library. Inside the computers are clamoring for more room. Each is placed a few inches from another so that a cough can generate infection as fast as one blows his nose.
On the eighth floor, many have dozed off in heavenly couches since their sleeping bags don't generate this comfort. Can you imagine one urinal for each floor. Stupid? Of course. And unlike other libraries, it is noisy. Families can enter, eat, change diapers and make it a second house.
I would give the homeless vouchers to stay in downtown hotel rooms. Each hotel must be fumigated and beds and sheets removed. Bed Bugs are the scourge of downtown. Shops and classroom can be set up to get them ready for jobs. Yet these dis-cords of today will become music to our ears tomorrow.
Some of the fifty downtown hotels can be converted into air-conditioned housing units. Over ten thousand homeless line the streets of San Diego. Free dental care will also be administered and they will be helped to get free medical attention. Obama-Care never mentioned teeth
The San Diego air quality is among the worst in the nation. The third leading cause of death is Alzheimer's disease today. San Diego will administer three or four day work weeks to get the cars off of the road. Electric cars will park for free in the city. Electrical cars will park for free -- yes for free. A special train spur now go to the airport. The cities of tomorrow will have families work at home, thus thinning out the congestion on the freeways and in their lungs.
Public education no longer works. No longer will I have to read that 70 percent of black's don't have at-home-fathers. Families will carry vouchers for their kids to attend schools of their choice. No student left behind was bush league and George knows it. Skateboards, phones no longer will be permitted. The new schools will preach the three R's: reading, writing and arithmetic. Too many who file-away their lives will learn about Charles Dickens, and be able to name the second president in the U.S.C.
Twice I came to the cities Counsel chambers only to be rebuffed by them. Death was on my door step as last year since Gloria refused to have the 500 building place an air-conditioner in my room and I almost died during the May fires of 2014.
The new owners gave us at the Y a few days to leave. They erred and a few died looking for a new place to live. The HUD's very own did not spray the units for cockroaches and bedbugs They did not give a DAM.
Again, homelessness, bad air quality will finally be dealt with and if I don't run for San Diego Mayor, that person has to have the same platform.
Does anybody know who Charles Lindbergh was?
Just have a look at our new downtown library. Inside the computers are clamoring for more room. Each is placed a few inches from another so that a cough can generate infection as fast as one blows his nose.
On the eighth floor, many have dozed off in heavenly couches since their sleeping bags don't generate this comfort. Can you imagine one urinal for each floor. Stupid? Of course. And unlike other libraries, it is noisy. Families can enter, eat, change diapers and make it a second house.
I would give the homeless vouchers to stay in downtown hotel rooms. Each hotel must be fumigated and beds and sheets removed. Bed Bugs are the scourge of downtown. Shops and classroom can be set up to get them ready for jobs. Yet these dis-cords of today will become music to our ears tomorrow.
Some of the fifty downtown hotels can be converted into air-conditioned housing units. Over ten thousand homeless line the streets of San Diego. Free dental care will also be administered and they will be helped to get free medical attention. Obama-Care never mentioned teeth
The San Diego air quality is among the worst in the nation. The third leading cause of death is Alzheimer's disease today. San Diego will administer three or four day work weeks to get the cars off of the road. Electric cars will park for free in the city. Electrical cars will park for free -- yes for free. A special train spur now go to the airport. The cities of tomorrow will have families work at home, thus thinning out the congestion on the freeways and in their lungs.
Public education no longer works. No longer will I have to read that 70 percent of black's don't have at-home-fathers. Families will carry vouchers for their kids to attend schools of their choice. No student left behind was bush league and George knows it. Skateboards, phones no longer will be permitted. The new schools will preach the three R's: reading, writing and arithmetic. Too many who file-away their lives will learn about Charles Dickens, and be able to name the second president in the U.S.C.
Twice I came to the cities Counsel chambers only to be rebuffed by them. Death was on my door step as last year since Gloria refused to have the 500 building place an air-conditioner in my room and I almost died during the May fires of 2014.
The new owners gave us at the Y a few days to leave. They erred and a few died looking for a new place to live. The HUD's very own did not spray the units for cockroaches and bedbugs They did not give a DAM.
Again, homelessness, bad air quality will finally be dealt with and if I don't run for San Diego Mayor, that person has to have the same platform.
Does anybody know who Charles Lindbergh was?
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Working in Camp Buna- The Horst Cahn Story
For those who have weathered my blogging, you might remember that Horst Cahn came into my life about one year ago. Five others sat at the Oak Cafe in the Encinitas' Senior Center.
The love of my life, Lady Barbara is no more. She played the piano by ear, and we made quite a pair. Abe is gone. He grew up in East Los Angeles and earned his degree at Hollenbeck Jr High where I had taught for 18 years.
No longer is Gregorio alive. He sang God Bless America and was a premier clarinetist and conductor for Russia's president Joseph Stalin. Stalin. Thomas who received a pass from Benito Mussolini to come to America before the war. Yet he might still be alive and kicking.
But so what? A little crunched-up 88 year old man made up for the four at Table Five. Immaculately dressed, the, then, 88 year old sat down with a sardonic grin and and had an answer to every question. He showed us his tattooed number on his left arm and confessed he was the sole survivor of Auschwitz.
Most of all, I do miss Barbara. Would you believe she took piano for six weeks but could play by ear. I will miss her rendition of Ave Maria this Easter. In my blog of a year ago, I stated that she worked for the Roger Wagner Chorale. So I guess that I am stuck with Horst Cahn.
Hell, I was never ever able to get in that last words in when he invariably interrupted me with, 'I want to tell you something." This son-of-gun just just always has to get the last word in.
You might remember from a previous chapter that he mentioned he worked in a camp making rubber. Now I found out more about that camp from a good friend. He presented me with the greatest book I have ever read.
I had returned from a two day trip to see my daughter in West Los Angeles. I had entered the Encinitas Parking lot the next morning and placed two cartons of breakfast for Ron. I heard my name.
"George, I have a present for you. Here, this is the book I have been pleading for you to read. It is a thorough history of Auschwitz."
"Well, this must be my lucky day. I had wished to buy the book. It should make good reading on Metro-Link or the Coaster trains."Another friend showed me how to get a phone-hook up with Google and still another gave me a navel orange from his yard.
The next day I yearned to get on the Metro-Link to visit my brother. He lives in Midway City, California. well as often happens, I removed my shoes and took out my book about Auschwitz. The two hour train ride to the Los Angeles Central Station was a breeze. I could not put down the book.
So entranced in the reading, I too became Horst Cahn laboring in a synthetic rubber camp five kilometers from Auschwitz. And, the SS and Himmler had no control over this I.G.Fabian Company. You see, the Germans thought the war should have been over, and didn't for-see the bombing of their cities. The German army needed more rubber. rubber. The head of the camp would not accept slave labor. They wished Ethnic Germans to make the rubber.
My Metro-Link train had just passed Laguna Niguel. But I didn't look at how green the landscape looked. Instead I saw Horst Cahn working on the plumbing and doing electrical work.
I could now see how his six buddies wrapped torn cotton over his the blood when he tried to take his life. I understood how he threatened the Commandant in an early blog. "You shoot me and your son will be shot in the Russian front."
The book Auschwitz by Laurence Rees brings the camp life to life. No wonder why my Grandmother Jenny cry when the forty dollar checks to Poland never get to their four sisters.
Mr. Horst Cahn is proud of the art work on his left arm. "If thousand of Nazis couldn't kill me, nobody cahn!..A lady told me that the Holocaust never happened. I could have kicked her in the ass but I didn't wish to get my shoes dirty.
He survived since he could sell light bulbs for food. He replaced old light bulbs with older ones and traded for food with the Poles.
"Synthetic rubber was produced by taking coal and subjecting it to a process called hydrogenation..." Page 32. My time is up and a bastard next to me is banging the keyboard. (Not edited.)
Laurence Rees' book Auschwitz should be in every library
Nuts and Bolts from San Diego: There is nothing like reading a good book on train. Your mind can swim in fantasy land. You can become the protagonist in the story.
The love of my life, Lady Barbara is no more. She played the piano by ear, and we made quite a pair. Abe is gone. He grew up in East Los Angeles and earned his degree at Hollenbeck Jr High where I had taught for 18 years.
No longer is Gregorio alive. He sang God Bless America and was a premier clarinetist and conductor for Russia's president Joseph Stalin. Stalin. Thomas who received a pass from Benito Mussolini to come to America before the war. Yet he might still be alive and kicking.
But so what? A little crunched-up 88 year old man made up for the four at Table Five. Immaculately dressed, the, then, 88 year old sat down with a sardonic grin and and had an answer to every question. He showed us his tattooed number on his left arm and confessed he was the sole survivor of Auschwitz.
Most of all, I do miss Barbara. Would you believe she took piano for six weeks but could play by ear. I will miss her rendition of Ave Maria this Easter. In my blog of a year ago, I stated that she worked for the Roger Wagner Chorale. So I guess that I am stuck with Horst Cahn.
Hell, I was never ever able to get in that last words in when he invariably interrupted me with, 'I want to tell you something." This son-of-gun just just always has to get the last word in.
You might remember from a previous chapter that he mentioned he worked in a camp making rubber. Now I found out more about that camp from a good friend. He presented me with the greatest book I have ever read.
I had returned from a two day trip to see my daughter in West Los Angeles. I had entered the Encinitas Parking lot the next morning and placed two cartons of breakfast for Ron. I heard my name.
"George, I have a present for you. Here, this is the book I have been pleading for you to read. It is a thorough history of Auschwitz."
"Well, this must be my lucky day. I had wished to buy the book. It should make good reading on Metro-Link or the Coaster trains."Another friend showed me how to get a phone-hook up with Google and still another gave me a navel orange from his yard.
The next day I yearned to get on the Metro-Link to visit my brother. He lives in Midway City, California. well as often happens, I removed my shoes and took out my book about Auschwitz. The two hour train ride to the Los Angeles Central Station was a breeze. I could not put down the book.
So entranced in the reading, I too became Horst Cahn laboring in a synthetic rubber camp five kilometers from Auschwitz. And, the SS and Himmler had no control over this I.G.Fabian Company. You see, the Germans thought the war should have been over, and didn't for-see the bombing of their cities. The German army needed more rubber. rubber. The head of the camp would not accept slave labor. They wished Ethnic Germans to make the rubber.
My Metro-Link train had just passed Laguna Niguel. But I didn't look at how green the landscape looked. Instead I saw Horst Cahn working on the plumbing and doing electrical work.
I could now see how his six buddies wrapped torn cotton over his the blood when he tried to take his life. I understood how he threatened the Commandant in an early blog. "You shoot me and your son will be shot in the Russian front."
The book Auschwitz by Laurence Rees brings the camp life to life. No wonder why my Grandmother Jenny cry when the forty dollar checks to Poland never get to their four sisters.
Mr. Horst Cahn is proud of the art work on his left arm. "If thousand of Nazis couldn't kill me, nobody cahn!..A lady told me that the Holocaust never happened. I could have kicked her in the ass but I didn't wish to get my shoes dirty.
He survived since he could sell light bulbs for food. He replaced old light bulbs with older ones and traded for food with the Poles.
"Synthetic rubber was produced by taking coal and subjecting it to a process called hydrogenation..." Page 32. My time is up and a bastard next to me is banging the keyboard. (Not edited.)
Laurence Rees' book Auschwitz should be in every library
Nuts and Bolts from San Diego: There is nothing like reading a good book on train. Your mind can swim in fantasy land. You can become the protagonist in the story.
Friday, March 20, 2015
The Metro-Link train for Los Angeles
Wednesday I needed a break from Reality. I felt happy my buddy Sam, not his real name, got the go-ahead to sink the Titanic. But the case against Twentieth Century Fox will begin in August. God spoke, "George it is time to visit your daughter."
Well who am I to disagree with my God. Besides, a magnet was drawing me to daughter number 2 - which means I felt like it and wanted to visit her.
The afternoon commuter train Metro-Link left the Oceanside Transit station at 3;00 for the Riverside spur or 3:20 for the one headed for Los Angeles. I felt over-excited that Sam's case would proceed, finally in a San Diego courtroom setting. Twentieth Century Studios never credited him for all of the flower decorations on four sets. He knew everyone on the set of the Titanic. The case begins in August.
As always, I had trouble with the Metro-Link ticket machines. One took only plastic while the other handled green-backs. I bought my one-way seven dollar ticket and took up a seat. I wished to finish my Lindbergh book and view the landscape. (A downtown supervisor told me all their machines had trouble as they needed to change the server.)
I sat in the quiet car so as not to disturb those with cell phones and chatter. I needed quiet in my old age, although some take me for sixty-five or even younger. The train was almost empty and I again traced the life of Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis. My back-pack had two water bottles and a Ralph's fried chicken inside on compartment.
Graffiti-painted building told me the Grand-Central-Station would be our next stop. Inside the building I tapped, placed one dollar and seventy five cents into the machine, tapped again and walked to the turnstiles where I tapped again.
I rush of excitement shook me since I would again see daughter number two. The underground train put me face to face with the old Wiltern Theater and Western Avenue. I took the 720 red-rapid bus into Beverly Hills. The #14 Metro bus brought me face to face with the old Ralph's Market. My mom Edith bought our meats and produce there many years ago.
Pico Blvd had undergone big changes since the forties. The larger cars were bumper-to-bumper and each were in a hurry to go nowhere.
I walked up Pico Blvd and knocked. She didn't expect me but told me I could sleep in the bedroom-that is for twenty dollars. She played a DVD of my Bell-and-Howells old 1940's movies. Costco had placed the super-eights on DVD's for me for about twenty two dollars.
And on her digital T.V. there was my Mom and Dad swimming inside the Highland Springs Pool-our vacation spot every summer. Mel and I were swimming too, and showing how well we understood ow to do the back stroke. Those were the days, my friends, my grand-kids Summer and Spring will have to see as they grow up.
Of course the next day I took the #14 into Beverly Hills and purchased half of a regular cut seeded rye and a quarter pound of their fresh chopped liver. You guessed it, it was Nate n' Al's Deli off of Beverly Drive. I sat in front of Starbucks and enjoyed the view of the large black cars fighting-always fighting- for a curb parking place.
I spent the next two hours at the Beverly Hills Library. Afterwards, the number 16 bus took me to downtown where I did my Tap dance with the underground again, but this time in reverse. The 3:30 Metro-Link back gave me a kick-in-the-pants when a young stranger got off at Orange. It looked like an accordion at first but later turned into a Scooter.
"Sir may I ask you a question...." he turned to look at me. "Does that scooter work on electricity?"
"Cost me one dollar a month to charge it. I go twenty miles an hour. My wife calls it our second car. When my wife gets made at me, she screams and says, "Scoot..and return with chocolate ice cream." " It is called an EcoReco Electric Scooter and is powered by a Lithium battery."
Now the train descended on Oceanside and I knew I needed to save up for this magical way to travel. (Not edited)
Well who am I to disagree with my God. Besides, a magnet was drawing me to daughter number 2 - which means I felt like it and wanted to visit her.
The afternoon commuter train Metro-Link left the Oceanside Transit station at 3;00 for the Riverside spur or 3:20 for the one headed for Los Angeles. I felt over-excited that Sam's case would proceed, finally in a San Diego courtroom setting. Twentieth Century Studios never credited him for all of the flower decorations on four sets. He knew everyone on the set of the Titanic. The case begins in August.
As always, I had trouble with the Metro-Link ticket machines. One took only plastic while the other handled green-backs. I bought my one-way seven dollar ticket and took up a seat. I wished to finish my Lindbergh book and view the landscape. (A downtown supervisor told me all their machines had trouble as they needed to change the server.)
I sat in the quiet car so as not to disturb those with cell phones and chatter. I needed quiet in my old age, although some take me for sixty-five or even younger. The train was almost empty and I again traced the life of Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis. My back-pack had two water bottles and a Ralph's fried chicken inside on compartment.
Graffiti-painted building told me the Grand-Central-Station would be our next stop. Inside the building I tapped, placed one dollar and seventy five cents into the machine, tapped again and walked to the turnstiles where I tapped again.
I rush of excitement shook me since I would again see daughter number two. The underground train put me face to face with the old Wiltern Theater and Western Avenue. I took the 720 red-rapid bus into Beverly Hills. The #14 Metro bus brought me face to face with the old Ralph's Market. My mom Edith bought our meats and produce there many years ago.
Pico Blvd had undergone big changes since the forties. The larger cars were bumper-to-bumper and each were in a hurry to go nowhere.
I walked up Pico Blvd and knocked. She didn't expect me but told me I could sleep in the bedroom-that is for twenty dollars. She played a DVD of my Bell-and-Howells old 1940's movies. Costco had placed the super-eights on DVD's for me for about twenty two dollars.
And on her digital T.V. there was my Mom and Dad swimming inside the Highland Springs Pool-our vacation spot every summer. Mel and I were swimming too, and showing how well we understood ow to do the back stroke. Those were the days, my friends, my grand-kids Summer and Spring will have to see as they grow up.
Of course the next day I took the #14 into Beverly Hills and purchased half of a regular cut seeded rye and a quarter pound of their fresh chopped liver. You guessed it, it was Nate n' Al's Deli off of Beverly Drive. I sat in front of Starbucks and enjoyed the view of the large black cars fighting-always fighting- for a curb parking place.
I spent the next two hours at the Beverly Hills Library. Afterwards, the number 16 bus took me to downtown where I did my Tap dance with the underground again, but this time in reverse. The 3:30 Metro-Link back gave me a kick-in-the-pants when a young stranger got off at Orange. It looked like an accordion at first but later turned into a Scooter.
"Sir may I ask you a question...." he turned to look at me. "Does that scooter work on electricity?"
"Cost me one dollar a month to charge it. I go twenty miles an hour. My wife calls it our second car. When my wife gets made at me, she screams and says, "Scoot..and return with chocolate ice cream." " It is called an EcoReco Electric Scooter and is powered by a Lithium battery."
Now the train descended on Oceanside and I knew I needed to save up for this magical way to travel. (Not edited)
Monday, March 16, 2015
Huntington Beach Revisited
The Latino lady holding a cane took too long to register. The more the Indian manager tried to expedite her registration, the more she wished to speak about her tall boy Miguel. As it was going on one o'clock on Friday, I heard the voice of God.
"Get your ass away from the Motel Six. It is time for you to visit Mel."
Now my God Hashem never needs to tell me twice. It was going on one 0'clock. I gassed up and took the freeway. We had one small hitch at going through San Clemente and a larger, and meaner one about four miles from my destination, the Westminster Motel Six.
I paid my 64 dollars and took a nap. I planned to see him over dinner at the Rustic Assistant Living Center. My lungs struggled to clean out its engines. Mel looked relieved after I consented not to break bread with him.
"You know Mr. Miser will become belligerent and maybe throw me out if he sees you eating at my table." I left and wasted-away my time later at a Huntington Senior dance and a poo-poo meal at Norms.
On Saturday, I felt much better. There is nothing like air-conditioning on a sizzling dry day. Mel was in better spirits the next day when I called up to his room. Still he could barely see out of his better eye so I became his vision for the-day. We drove down Beach Blvd. and parked two blocks from the strand. Mel looked eager to catch some sun and told me that their manager Mr. Miser did in fact come to Mel's Tale of four to see if I had stolen a myopic dinner
The disabled license plate came in handy. At ten O'clock I found a place not far from the strand. Why it was so clear you could almost eat lunch in Catalina. In front of the large island various colored kites swung and danced in the air. Apparently there was a kite contest.
I sat Mel down on the concrete bleachers. I needed to sit under the large pier and watch the volleyball players. In fact, I volleyed a bit with a player before returning to my beach chair. In front of me the waves crested just right for the boarders.
The Asians did not play volleyball. I saw none in the surf. They held high-end cameras and wished to catch, not the waves, but the contrast of the blue, blue sky and colorful kites. It felt good to unwind. A California Aggie band danced to the sound of football music I felt overwhelmed with the sound of music and scenery that Picasso would have been proud of. Not finished)
"Get your ass away from the Motel Six. It is time for you to visit Mel."
Now my God Hashem never needs to tell me twice. It was going on one 0'clock. I gassed up and took the freeway. We had one small hitch at going through San Clemente and a larger, and meaner one about four miles from my destination, the Westminster Motel Six.
I paid my 64 dollars and took a nap. I planned to see him over dinner at the Rustic Assistant Living Center. My lungs struggled to clean out its engines. Mel looked relieved after I consented not to break bread with him.
"You know Mr. Miser will become belligerent and maybe throw me out if he sees you eating at my table." I left and wasted-away my time later at a Huntington Senior dance and a poo-poo meal at Norms.
On Saturday, I felt much better. There is nothing like air-conditioning on a sizzling dry day. Mel was in better spirits the next day when I called up to his room. Still he could barely see out of his better eye so I became his vision for the-day. We drove down Beach Blvd. and parked two blocks from the strand. Mel looked eager to catch some sun and told me that their manager Mr. Miser did in fact come to Mel's Tale of four to see if I had stolen a myopic dinner
The disabled license plate came in handy. At ten O'clock I found a place not far from the strand. Why it was so clear you could almost eat lunch in Catalina. In front of the large island various colored kites swung and danced in the air. Apparently there was a kite contest.
I sat Mel down on the concrete bleachers. I needed to sit under the large pier and watch the volleyball players. In fact, I volleyed a bit with a player before returning to my beach chair. In front of me the waves crested just right for the boarders.
The Asians did not play volleyball. I saw none in the surf. They held high-end cameras and wished to catch, not the waves, but the contrast of the blue, blue sky and colorful kites. It felt good to unwind. A California Aggie band danced to the sound of football music I felt overwhelmed with the sound of music and scenery that Picasso would have been proud of. Not finished)
Huntington Beach
Whereas San Diego offers many more attractions than Huntington Beach, it can't compete with Surf City, U.S.A. Yes I love Little Italy, the Gas Lamp, Seaport Village and many other venues. But for me give me Surf City's Huntington Beach anytime. Now I had no intention of driving south to this surfing beach, but the Spanish lady took too long to register at the Carlsbad Motel Six. "God spoke. George, get your ass out of Carlsbad and visit Brother Mel-at once!" I did not need to be asked twice by God.
It took me over one hour to register at the Westminster Motel Six. My co-pilot God was with me every every step of the way as my car inched up towards our exit on he right side of the 405. I needed a nap as my shirt was soaked. I did not know it then but the beginning of a Santa Ana was looming up ahead.
I did see Mel at his Assistant Living Apartments. He was relieved when I granted his wishes and did not sit with him in the first sitting in the dining area. A Latin assistant had pointed at me from the outside of the administrators room Of course I did not wish to have Miser Edward get a kick out of flicking me out of the dining area. Edward, like many Assistant Living managers, they quake when anything does not go there miserly way. But that is a story for another day.
After I parked, Mel followed me close behind. He is almost to totally blind. It was so clear I could hold hands with Catalina Island A bevy of colorful kites did the swing and two step overhead.
I sat Mel down on the concrete bleachers and made my way to the sand. I wished to huddle under the shade of the pier. I watched a few volleyball games and relived the time I played almost as well. good.
Without any fog, everything was in 3 D. A California Aggie band gave pomp and ceremony to the sound of rally music. They played their horns while walking around the bleachers. Brother Mel seemed to be happy. Of course he just loves music.
While on the strand, bikes, surreys, runners and walkers enjoyed the day. I turned around but saw no Mel. I thought he must have gone to the bathroom. One hour later, i saw no Mel but turned it over to God. In my mind I thought this beautiful day was a good time to bet lost.
It was my brother Mel who had first discovered these beaches about forty years ago. The beaches were covered with black gold, tar, and derricks worked everywhere without a rest. Today, it is a gala parade of sun worshipers who wished to flee their hot abodes for a place in he sun.
People of every race and color had migrated to the beach to get cool. They were unaware that the temps on the beach were as high as those in land. The temperatures approached ninety degrees-quite high for only March.
Several Asians pointed their long cameras towards the kites and then the surfers. Some must have wondered about the large mass o land in the ocean.
Way back in the twenties, Catalina had the Casino Ballroom and also the Phil Wriggly's Chicago Cubs practice on the island for spring training.
After locating my brother who had gone to Jack's fpr a much needed toilet break, we celebrated the day by going to the In-and-Out Burger.
My body had more zip to it today. There is nothing like Huntington beach on a hot summer day-Yes, the summer began early.
It took me over one hour to register at the Westminster Motel Six. My co-pilot God was with me every every step of the way as my car inched up towards our exit on he right side of the 405. I needed a nap as my shirt was soaked. I did not know it then but the beginning of a Santa Ana was looming up ahead.
I did see Mel at his Assistant Living Apartments. He was relieved when I granted his wishes and did not sit with him in the first sitting in the dining area. A Latin assistant had pointed at me from the outside of the administrators room Of course I did not wish to have Miser Edward get a kick out of flicking me out of the dining area. Edward, like many Assistant Living managers, they quake when anything does not go there miserly way. But that is a story for another day.
After I parked, Mel followed me close behind. He is almost to totally blind. It was so clear I could hold hands with Catalina Island A bevy of colorful kites did the swing and two step overhead.
I sat Mel down on the concrete bleachers and made my way to the sand. I wished to huddle under the shade of the pier. I watched a few volleyball games and relived the time I played almost as well. good.
Without any fog, everything was in 3 D. A California Aggie band gave pomp and ceremony to the sound of rally music. They played their horns while walking around the bleachers. Brother Mel seemed to be happy. Of course he just loves music.
While on the strand, bikes, surreys, runners and walkers enjoyed the day. I turned around but saw no Mel. I thought he must have gone to the bathroom. One hour later, i saw no Mel but turned it over to God. In my mind I thought this beautiful day was a good time to bet lost.
It was my brother Mel who had first discovered these beaches about forty years ago. The beaches were covered with black gold, tar, and derricks worked everywhere without a rest. Today, it is a gala parade of sun worshipers who wished to flee their hot abodes for a place in he sun.
People of every race and color had migrated to the beach to get cool. They were unaware that the temps on the beach were as high as those in land. The temperatures approached ninety degrees-quite high for only March.
Several Asians pointed their long cameras towards the kites and then the surfers. Some must have wondered about the large mass o land in the ocean.
Way back in the twenties, Catalina had the Casino Ballroom and also the Phil Wriggly's Chicago Cubs practice on the island for spring training.
After locating my brother who had gone to Jack's fpr a much needed toilet break, we celebrated the day by going to the In-and-Out Burger.
My body had more zip to it today. There is nothing like Huntington beach on a hot summer day-Yes, the summer began early.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Downtown Los Angeles
The tooth fairy kept me alive and allowed my temporary to fill the canine gap. God had never left me but was mad at me for chewing too much candy. Even though my Mom took us to our dentist for a cleaning, she never made - yes made us brush before bed time.
The temporary felt fine this morning, and I could eat without pain. The cracked tooth had bothered me for a long time, but I had been in denial. I wished to celebrate. I felt like taking a train ride to Old Los Angeles, meaning downtown.
The ten-dollar-all-day Metro-Link was in effect. It always is on a Saturday or Sunday. My fix is riding on a train. And why not? I can read, look at the breathless view of San Clemente and San Juan..and so-forth. Of course there is nothing like a dame or the blue Pacific Ocean.
I arrived at the station at about seven thirty. My breakfast consisted of two Naval Oranges, a extra large avocado from the 99 cents store, a banana, and a box of cheerios. It was a beautiful sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. Why I could look to the west and see Japan in the distance. It appeared that the train's pilot had been delayed, as he probably over-slept. We left the station at eight forty five, thirty minutes late. I removed my Lindbergh Sandwich and began to eat his biography.
Two blond gals in back of me sound like Lucille Ball and her friend Ethel. The duo could not stop jabbering. Whey even Lindbergh's plane lost its Spirit and told Charles to wait before taking off from Dutch Flats, in San Diego 1727. I jumped up and asked them if they wished any cereal - of course only to change their political topic .
'"I told the gal in the furthest of the two seats not to jab at Obama so much. "Yes," I told her, "He does not know shit about politics but as an American, at least gave him a change to play golf and fly anywhere at anytime in the world."
She apologized, and told me that "Orange County is conservative." My response was simple: "Only , in American does any color have a chance to rule. That is what makes our country so great!"
I continued to read and eat my fist Navy Orange. I felt overjoyed when the #664 passed through Irvine. A few weeks back, the grey-looking orange trees looked dead. The Orange groves today smiled back since their children bore bright yellow fruit. .
We made over twelve stops but I didn't have a care in the world. With a happy mouth, a great book, and luscious green vegetation, nothing could bother me. Yes I was still homeless, but the blue skies and happy surroundings made me feel like a king for a day.
I arrived at the downtown Union Station at about ten fifty, twenty minutes late. I hurried to the men's toilet and got into a little line. A father in front of me told "Joey to hurry up...others were waiting while a disabled man had pants down to his knee.
Of course the men's and ladies toilets had been installed over one hundred years ago. At least I did not need to wait in the long-lady lines. It was twenty-five deep. I can assure you the builders of the Station didn't give a dam about installing more toilets for the ladies. Thank God I had been born a man.
I took the underground to Seventh Avenue and Wiltshire having paid almost two dollars for a train card. AT&T were filming a commercial. I bought a salad at the Central Library and requested information about from the Daily News and N.Y. Time microfilms. The mega Gas and Bank of America buildings looked so high-up I could not see the top.
I ordered a couple of micro-films from the fourth floor. I needed more flavor about the miracle at the Coliseum at the 1939 Rose Bowl and got it. I took a few JPG's and relaxed. My research also confirmed that the Jews were still in concentration camps after the war. The British, at least, allowed them to eat. They too did not give-a-dam. Over 20,000,000 Germans could not go home. My relatives, if alive, were trapped. Many died having contacted typhus, or perforating their stomach due to eating too much at one time.
At three o'clock I went to the Panda Express on the first floor and ate the usual consisting of rice and Chow Main and an orange chicken. I felt excited that I would see Zelda again at the train station. This Yugoslavian had sat in back of me on the trip from the Oceanside Transit Station.
The #666 curled around the station and set sail for Oceanside. I found out that Zelda, not her name, had been born in a section of Serbia called Kosovo. She confessed that it was Tito that screwed up her country and split up her state. She also said that King Alexander did more than anybody in defeating the Germans
She had a great education and spoke Hungarian as well as her native language. I could not believe all of the hard classes she took when her country still was caused Yugoslavia. "That Ass-Hole Tito screwed up the country by splitting it up. And Mr. Clickton bombed our house." I asked about her job in the plastic business.
"We have a factory in Minnesota. We ship plastic cups to Target and several other big stores. I work out of my computer. That means I can visit my Mom and keep my fingers on the business. My lab top goes everywhere with me. It never complains and when I feel too-alone, I can dial my friends. Who in the hell needs a husband? My Carlsbad boss makes the decisions and I implement them. I get paid well and am always reading. There is no T.V. in my house. T.V. watching is the problem with this country!"
"Well Zelda, what are you going to do when we get to Oceanside.?"
"I will call my friends and go on a dog-walk with them."
Nuts and Bolts from San Diego! The Bolts might be leaving San Diego but this Nut is staying. My biography of the greatest U.S.C. football player is ready to go. Anybody can refer me to an editor or publisher. My e-mail is chicagoallstar@gmail.com
The temporary felt fine this morning, and I could eat without pain. The cracked tooth had bothered me for a long time, but I had been in denial. I wished to celebrate. I felt like taking a train ride to Old Los Angeles, meaning downtown.
The ten-dollar-all-day Metro-Link was in effect. It always is on a Saturday or Sunday. My fix is riding on a train. And why not? I can read, look at the breathless view of San Clemente and San Juan..and so-forth. Of course there is nothing like a dame or the blue Pacific Ocean.
I arrived at the station at about seven thirty. My breakfast consisted of two Naval Oranges, a extra large avocado from the 99 cents store, a banana, and a box of cheerios. It was a beautiful sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. Why I could look to the west and see Japan in the distance. It appeared that the train's pilot had been delayed, as he probably over-slept. We left the station at eight forty five, thirty minutes late. I removed my Lindbergh Sandwich and began to eat his biography.
Two blond gals in back of me sound like Lucille Ball and her friend Ethel. The duo could not stop jabbering. Whey even Lindbergh's plane lost its Spirit and told Charles to wait before taking off from Dutch Flats, in San Diego 1727. I jumped up and asked them if they wished any cereal - of course only to change their political topic .
'"I told the gal in the furthest of the two seats not to jab at Obama so much. "Yes," I told her, "He does not know shit about politics but as an American, at least gave him a change to play golf and fly anywhere at anytime in the world."
She apologized, and told me that "Orange County is conservative." My response was simple: "Only , in American does any color have a chance to rule. That is what makes our country so great!"
I continued to read and eat my fist Navy Orange. I felt overjoyed when the #664 passed through Irvine. A few weeks back, the grey-looking orange trees looked dead. The Orange groves today smiled back since their children bore bright yellow fruit. .
We made over twelve stops but I didn't have a care in the world. With a happy mouth, a great book, and luscious green vegetation, nothing could bother me. Yes I was still homeless, but the blue skies and happy surroundings made me feel like a king for a day.
I arrived at the downtown Union Station at about ten fifty, twenty minutes late. I hurried to the men's toilet and got into a little line. A father in front of me told "Joey to hurry up...others were waiting while a disabled man had pants down to his knee.
Of course the men's and ladies toilets had been installed over one hundred years ago. At least I did not need to wait in the long-lady lines. It was twenty-five deep. I can assure you the builders of the Station didn't give a dam about installing more toilets for the ladies. Thank God I had been born a man.
I took the underground to Seventh Avenue and Wiltshire having paid almost two dollars for a train card. AT&T were filming a commercial. I bought a salad at the Central Library and requested information about from the Daily News and N.Y. Time microfilms. The mega Gas and Bank of America buildings looked so high-up I could not see the top.
I ordered a couple of micro-films from the fourth floor. I needed more flavor about the miracle at the Coliseum at the 1939 Rose Bowl and got it. I took a few JPG's and relaxed. My research also confirmed that the Jews were still in concentration camps after the war. The British, at least, allowed them to eat. They too did not give-a-dam. Over 20,000,000 Germans could not go home. My relatives, if alive, were trapped. Many died having contacted typhus, or perforating their stomach due to eating too much at one time.
At three o'clock I went to the Panda Express on the first floor and ate the usual consisting of rice and Chow Main and an orange chicken. I felt excited that I would see Zelda again at the train station. This Yugoslavian had sat in back of me on the trip from the Oceanside Transit Station.
The #666 curled around the station and set sail for Oceanside. I found out that Zelda, not her name, had been born in a section of Serbia called Kosovo. She confessed that it was Tito that screwed up her country and split up her state. She also said that King Alexander did more than anybody in defeating the Germans
She had a great education and spoke Hungarian as well as her native language. I could not believe all of the hard classes she took when her country still was caused Yugoslavia. "That Ass-Hole Tito screwed up the country by splitting it up. And Mr. Clickton bombed our house." I asked about her job in the plastic business.
"We have a factory in Minnesota. We ship plastic cups to Target and several other big stores. I work out of my computer. That means I can visit my Mom and keep my fingers on the business. My lab top goes everywhere with me. It never complains and when I feel too-alone, I can dial my friends. Who in the hell needs a husband? My Carlsbad boss makes the decisions and I implement them. I get paid well and am always reading. There is no T.V. in my house. T.V. watching is the problem with this country!"
"Well Zelda, what are you going to do when we get to Oceanside.?"
"I will call my friends and go on a dog-walk with them."
Nuts and Bolts from San Diego! The Bolts might be leaving San Diego but this Nut is staying. My biography of the greatest U.S.C. football player is ready to go. Anybody can refer me to an editor or publisher. My e-mail is chicagoallstar@gmail.com
Friday, March 6, 2015
A Day at the Dentist
Dentistry has come along way since the stone ages when rocks took the place of missing teethe. Yet today at the Better Smiles, visions of the stone ages hit me right in my face.
It has been awhile since I had seen Dr. Death at the Better Smiles Dental Clinic in Oceanside, California. Of course I would have rather have my gall stones removed, or a head tumor than to sit in a dental chair. Yet there I was, almost a half hour early for my three thirty.
I signed an insurance sheet giving away my undeniable rights. Any mistakes by Dr. Death would be billed to God. I needed to pay what my insurance couldn't. At least I had them provide some water for my dry mouth and turn off the cartoon show on the T.V. Next to me sat a man reading a magazine with his companion, a walker, by his side.
It had been a long day and I felt confident I could survive another hour or-so. It was the 'or-so' that became my nemesis. My appointment was set for three thirty. I took my buddy, a book, to keep me company. It was the story about Charles Lindbergh and his Spirit of St. Louis.
Charles Lindbergh had built the Spirit in San Diego for a bit over $10,000. The plane had covered over 2,000,000 miles without an accident. In May of 1927, he made the flight over the Atlantic and landed in Paris, France. Reading that story made time fly while I waited for Dr. Death to dig up a canal in a front tooth before taking an impression for a bridge.
At exactly three forty-five the office manager informed me it would be another fifteen minutes, or so, before I would be placed in the cockpit. Well I knew exactly what she meant, by her comforting words, "or so". The four dental cubicles were full of patients. I continued to read about Lindbergh and found it interesting that his grandfather invented porcelain inlays in about the 1900's in Detroit. At the time only gold was used to fill the hole.
I felt proud to have come this far, although the ride on the El Camino Trail took me a bit too long. Finally at four o'clock I was ushered to cuticle number one. She placed a bib over me and I continued to read my book, although the Spirit of St. Louis became mighty bored. It wished to fly away. She took a little pick and poked around my gums. I let out a loud scream!
"Are you working on the correct tooth" I asked the dental hygienist. Sorry we made an error. I thought we were working on #27 but it should have been #16. I can't not account for the error. The doctor reentered but the assistant was not ready for the root canal. I had not idea I would be inside the cockpit for three hours.
I have never seen such awful gums. I defused the remarks while I read about Lindberg overcoming oxygen deprivation, sleep and the thought the reliable plane would run out of gas. Instead of gas, the good Dr. Death slithered into the room and shot my gums up with Novocain. By that time Lindbergh had returned to the good-old-U.S. A to a tumultuous reception.
Dr. Death entered, ever-so-silently. He did some probing and had the assistant take another ex-ray. Now it was about four thirty. I told the assistant she was working on the wrong tooth. She removed herself and returned. Dr. Death returned and shot my left bottom gum with Novocain.
"Dr. Why don't you go to the other cubicle. I am in no hurry." It was now going on five o'clock, adn the left side of my mouth now felt numb. Fifteen minutes later Death reentered. The the sound of his drill pierced my ear drum, but I felt nothing. At last, at last that the drilling stopped and he used a little tit to round out the hole.
I read the part in the Lindbergh story where his windows had iced up. I also felt cold and decided to flee for an overcoat while Dr. Death went to another cubicle. I thought the seasons were changing and I might just catch a cold. The assistant now made some gruel to be used for a temporary. It had to wait for a mold to be made.
The task now finished, I thanked God I could still stand up. My legs worked and I knew I needed a good fix for all of my stress. I went to the Chinese Buffet and can't count how many plates I needed. I had to eat on my right side, but it did not matter, I filled my stomach with shrimp, oysters, clams, pork, soup...more fish, cucumbers and turnips.
About that time, Lindbergh had eaten his second sandwich when he spotted the Irish coast. Eve though the right side of my mouth hurt, the Chinese Buffet rewarded me for my stay in the dentist chair.
At the Chinese buffet, A few kids were swimming in a vat of ice-cream. When they left, I dove into a few spoons of chocolate chip. And the good news is that I am still alive to have you read about my day at the dentist.
And even better news, two days later on Saturday I woke up without pain. I woke up no longer wishing to put a gun to my head. The new tooth took, and now I could eat without pain. I changed the name of Dr. Death to Dr. Life. I celebrated by riding the Metro-Link out of Oceanside to Los Angeles.
And oh yes, I found out that Charles Lindbergh's Grandfather invented porcelain crowns. Among his other scientific exploits, he also was a dentist and no doubt became the driving influence in Lindbergh's life.
Nuts and Bolts for the day: Mr. Folk-Lore wishes to build a stadium for the Chargers. That is bull-crap. We should have a day when the homeless can have teeth implanted in their mouth, for free. Why not, even if Obama care didn't, I did. To my readers, brush and floss every day and stay away from sticky candy.
It has been awhile since I had seen Dr. Death at the Better Smiles Dental Clinic in Oceanside, California. Of course I would have rather have my gall stones removed, or a head tumor than to sit in a dental chair. Yet there I was, almost a half hour early for my three thirty.
I signed an insurance sheet giving away my undeniable rights. Any mistakes by Dr. Death would be billed to God. I needed to pay what my insurance couldn't. At least I had them provide some water for my dry mouth and turn off the cartoon show on the T.V. Next to me sat a man reading a magazine with his companion, a walker, by his side.
It had been a long day and I felt confident I could survive another hour or-so. It was the 'or-so' that became my nemesis. My appointment was set for three thirty. I took my buddy, a book, to keep me company. It was the story about Charles Lindbergh and his Spirit of St. Louis.
Charles Lindbergh had built the Spirit in San Diego for a bit over $10,000. The plane had covered over 2,000,000 miles without an accident. In May of 1927, he made the flight over the Atlantic and landed in Paris, France. Reading that story made time fly while I waited for Dr. Death to dig up a canal in a front tooth before taking an impression for a bridge.
At exactly three forty-five the office manager informed me it would be another fifteen minutes, or so, before I would be placed in the cockpit. Well I knew exactly what she meant, by her comforting words, "or so". The four dental cubicles were full of patients. I continued to read about Lindbergh and found it interesting that his grandfather invented porcelain inlays in about the 1900's in Detroit. At the time only gold was used to fill the hole.
I felt proud to have come this far, although the ride on the El Camino Trail took me a bit too long. Finally at four o'clock I was ushered to cuticle number one. She placed a bib over me and I continued to read my book, although the Spirit of St. Louis became mighty bored. It wished to fly away. She took a little pick and poked around my gums. I let out a loud scream!
"Are you working on the correct tooth" I asked the dental hygienist. Sorry we made an error. I thought we were working on #27 but it should have been #16. I can't not account for the error. The doctor reentered but the assistant was not ready for the root canal. I had not idea I would be inside the cockpit for three hours.
I have never seen such awful gums. I defused the remarks while I read about Lindberg overcoming oxygen deprivation, sleep and the thought the reliable plane would run out of gas. Instead of gas, the good Dr. Death slithered into the room and shot my gums up with Novocain. By that time Lindbergh had returned to the good-old-U.S. A to a tumultuous reception.
Dr. Death entered, ever-so-silently. He did some probing and had the assistant take another ex-ray. Now it was about four thirty. I told the assistant she was working on the wrong tooth. She removed herself and returned. Dr. Death returned and shot my left bottom gum with Novocain.
"Dr. Why don't you go to the other cubicle. I am in no hurry." It was now going on five o'clock, adn the left side of my mouth now felt numb. Fifteen minutes later Death reentered. The the sound of his drill pierced my ear drum, but I felt nothing. At last, at last that the drilling stopped and he used a little tit to round out the hole.
I read the part in the Lindbergh story where his windows had iced up. I also felt cold and decided to flee for an overcoat while Dr. Death went to another cubicle. I thought the seasons were changing and I might just catch a cold. The assistant now made some gruel to be used for a temporary. It had to wait for a mold to be made.
The task now finished, I thanked God I could still stand up. My legs worked and I knew I needed a good fix for all of my stress. I went to the Chinese Buffet and can't count how many plates I needed. I had to eat on my right side, but it did not matter, I filled my stomach with shrimp, oysters, clams, pork, soup...more fish, cucumbers and turnips.
About that time, Lindbergh had eaten his second sandwich when he spotted the Irish coast. Eve though the right side of my mouth hurt, the Chinese Buffet rewarded me for my stay in the dentist chair.
At the Chinese buffet, A few kids were swimming in a vat of ice-cream. When they left, I dove into a few spoons of chocolate chip. And the good news is that I am still alive to have you read about my day at the dentist.
And even better news, two days later on Saturday I woke up without pain. I woke up no longer wishing to put a gun to my head. The new tooth took, and now I could eat without pain. I changed the name of Dr. Death to Dr. Life. I celebrated by riding the Metro-Link out of Oceanside to Los Angeles.
And oh yes, I found out that Charles Lindbergh's Grandfather invented porcelain crowns. Among his other scientific exploits, he also was a dentist and no doubt became the driving influence in Lindbergh's life.
Nuts and Bolts for the day: Mr. Folk-Lore wishes to build a stadium for the Chargers. That is bull-crap. We should have a day when the homeless can have teeth implanted in their mouth, for free. Why not, even if Obama care didn't, I did. To my readers, brush and floss every day and stay away from sticky candy.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Ash Wednesday at Lindbergh Field
This true event at Lindbergh Field might amuse you, but it scared the hell out of me. I had taken the Coaster from Encinitas to go to my synagogue. I would celebrate the holiday of Purim on G Street a block east of Ralph's.
Purim commemorates the Persian Queen who saved the Jews from a certain death. We celebrate with a fast. I descended the train and boarded the 992 bus for Terminal One, where Southwest Airlines sleeps. The seats had been removed and as I had two hours to waste, I walked where there was a place to sit and covet my Charles Dickens book. were other places to read my Charles Dickens book. A little gal was curled up and welcomed me with a quick smile. There were two empty spaces on her sides I sat on her right side gal sat in the middle of two empty places. s
"Is this seat taken?"
"No go right ahead." She threw a cute smile at me.
"Are you waiting to pick up somebody?"
"No my sister is coming for me. I lost my husband of forty one years, two years ago. He came down with a brain tumor and..." Tears emptied and Elizabeth confided more to me — as if I really needed this.
"Even several years back, I had a hunch he was seeing somebody else. It bothered me but I was brought up in Mexico and told to stick to my man. Everyone back in Idaho thought I was crazy when I described how he acted the last few years to my family. My daughters thought I must be crazy. He began removing lots of food from our refrigerator...Finally he removed himself to New York to be with our daughter."
By this time, I put down my book and removed a handkerchief from my pocket. Tears continued to flow from this little gal who had met her husband in Guadalajara, Mexico.
"Let's back up for a moment. How did your relationship begin."
" We began to write love letters back and forth. He proposed and my Mom gave me permission to marry him."
While Elizabeth spoke and revealed her story, a lady with curves in the wrong places sat beside me to my right. That is when Maggie interrupted my conversation with Elizabeth.
"I enjoyed bring up my two daughters who have provided me with seven grand-ones. That was all I wished to do but take care of my husband and kids. But he began to mistreat me. I didn't care if he played on the side, but when he mistreated me it hurt...really hurt me."
At this juncture, the lady on my right chimed in while the one on my left blew her nose.
"My name is Maggie. I also had a problem with my husband. He was a cook in the army during the Vietnam War, had to pick up the bodies. On bad days, he would place parts of their bones inside his vat to get even with those who complained. Of course they all loved my vegetable soup."
Maggie's daughter arrived with her baggage and she left...A few seconds later, a thin-grey hair came over with two pieces of black luggage and asked me to watch them while she bought bottle of water. She returned and replaced Maggie with Dorthy- I found out her name later. . She seemed warm and looked me right in the eye. She wished to know my name and my living.
"Well Dorthy, I am a writer but today I have become a psychologist. Are you waiting for your flight?"
"No I am here to bury my husband."
"What flight is he on?"
"Here, on my side." She pointed to the second piece of black luggage.
"Do you mean you had him cremated? She nodded.
" My daughter is going to pick me up and we'll stay at the Navies Hotel before going to Rosecrans with Barney's remains." She asked for my phone number and told me she lived in San Francisco. I gave her my card while the other on my left began to get up.
I kissed the little Latino's hand. She told me she would continue to vent and join a bereavement group when she returns to Idaho. She wanted me to meet her sister, but I felt like getting away from Terminal One. I needed to save my appetite for our Purim Holiday. (Not edited.)
Purim commemorates the Persian Queen who saved the Jews from a certain death. We celebrate with a fast. I descended the train and boarded the 992 bus for Terminal One, where Southwest Airlines sleeps. The seats had been removed and as I had two hours to waste, I walked where there was a place to sit and covet my Charles Dickens book. were other places to read my Charles Dickens book. A little gal was curled up and welcomed me with a quick smile. There were two empty spaces on her sides I sat on her right side gal sat in the middle of two empty places. s
"Is this seat taken?"
"No go right ahead." She threw a cute smile at me.
"Are you waiting to pick up somebody?"
"No my sister is coming for me. I lost my husband of forty one years, two years ago. He came down with a brain tumor and..." Tears emptied and Elizabeth confided more to me — as if I really needed this.
"Even several years back, I had a hunch he was seeing somebody else. It bothered me but I was brought up in Mexico and told to stick to my man. Everyone back in Idaho thought I was crazy when I described how he acted the last few years to my family. My daughters thought I must be crazy. He began removing lots of food from our refrigerator...Finally he removed himself to New York to be with our daughter."
By this time, I put down my book and removed a handkerchief from my pocket. Tears continued to flow from this little gal who had met her husband in Guadalajara, Mexico.
"Let's back up for a moment. How did your relationship begin."
" We began to write love letters back and forth. He proposed and my Mom gave me permission to marry him."
While Elizabeth spoke and revealed her story, a lady with curves in the wrong places sat beside me to my right. That is when Maggie interrupted my conversation with Elizabeth.
"I enjoyed bring up my two daughters who have provided me with seven grand-ones. That was all I wished to do but take care of my husband and kids. But he began to mistreat me. I didn't care if he played on the side, but when he mistreated me it hurt...really hurt me."
At this juncture, the lady on my right chimed in while the one on my left blew her nose.
"My name is Maggie. I also had a problem with my husband. He was a cook in the army during the Vietnam War, had to pick up the bodies. On bad days, he would place parts of their bones inside his vat to get even with those who complained. Of course they all loved my vegetable soup."
Maggie's daughter arrived with her baggage and she left...A few seconds later, a thin-grey hair came over with two pieces of black luggage and asked me to watch them while she bought bottle of water. She returned and replaced Maggie with Dorthy- I found out her name later. . She seemed warm and looked me right in the eye. She wished to know my name and my living.
"Well Dorthy, I am a writer but today I have become a psychologist. Are you waiting for your flight?"
"No I am here to bury my husband."
"What flight is he on?"
"Here, on my side." She pointed to the second piece of black luggage.
"Do you mean you had him cremated? She nodded.
" My daughter is going to pick me up and we'll stay at the Navies Hotel before going to Rosecrans with Barney's remains." She asked for my phone number and told me she lived in San Francisco. I gave her my card while the other on my left began to get up.
I kissed the little Latino's hand. She told me she would continue to vent and join a bereavement group when she returns to Idaho. She wanted me to meet her sister, but I felt like getting away from Terminal One. I needed to save my appetite for our Purim Holiday. (Not edited.)
Sunday, March 1, 2015
A Metro-Link Holiday
Saturday I needed a break from reality. The Schindler story was wearing me out. Besides, my car window had speckles of red over it. The allergy season had begun and the unrelenting winds made my head feel like it would explode any minute.
In Oceanside I bought my ten-dollar-all-day ticket. One of the two ticket machines worked. In front of me, one chap took too long. I became testy. Hell I needed a ticket before the train left the platform two.
"You can judge a man's IQ by how long it extract a ticket from the machine." I told him you must handle the credit card gingerly when paying plastic."
And that is how I met Kevin Milton. He was taking the train to Santa Ana where his Huntington Beach girl friend would pick him up. They were on their way for a Palm Springs concert. He appeared like Santa Claus, with big cheeks and a bigger smile. I grabbed a seat in the row in front of him. And so began my friendship with the jolly one. .
"My family is from Louisiana. I have 23 brothers and sisters. I live in a condo in downtown San Diego. I am 56 and not married."
May I ask what you do? "I am running for the California State Assembly. I am sick and tired of these boys making laws for me. When I sold my magazine, Seniors after 55 to Disney, I quit work and decided to run for office. I only lost by about a thousand votes last time. And I am sick and tired of our San Diego counsel for their redistricting.
How often do you take the train? "This is my first time on Metro-Link. It beats driving. In fact, I seldom drive in San Diego. By the way, if the Chargers leave for the Carson area, all you need to do is take Greyhound and a connecting bus and you'll be at the stadium." "Do you mind if I take a U-Tube of you?" He he hemmed and hawed, but after a few minutes quipped that he was ready. (The Picture will be here.)
I turned around and saw the candidate from San Diego. A hug smile covered his face and he had taken off his hat. "How long do I need to smile?"
He got off at Santa Ana and I continued to read my Omar Bradly book. He was Eisenhower's right hand general during World War 11. With pure air, my head felt normal and I could smile. I had one hiccup when the train arrived at the Union Station. I had trouble buying a subway ticket to Pershing Square but a fine gentleman from Boston helped me. I just did not know how to tap my card.
Inside the library I took pictures from the Chicago Tribune Wow how that paper's format excited me. In the month of August of 1940, the paper had something about the All Star troops and also the Green Bay packers. I took some good shots of Ambrose Schindler and also Nile Kinneck that will be shown in the book. Schindler outvoted the Heisman Award winner Kinneck during the 1940 Chicago All Star Game
It excited me to see what Archie Ward, its sports editor and other writers wrote about the game. I returned to the Union Station and waited for the 4:40. It dawned on me what train travel is so invigorating. Besides drinking pure air, you can read while looking at the wonderful California scenery after a storm. But for me the highlight going south to Oceanside was two little kids. It occurred in Tustin.
A Mother was having some trouble with her four year old. He was jumping on the seats while she played with the baby of about two. She was large on top, no doubt, so as to feed the baby. Her husband of ten years looked distraught. Like all fathers, he longed for attention, but got none
"Mummy, but why should I be quiet. I want to play!" That is when I chirped up. Standing, i looked at the kid square in the face. "I am an Old Man, older than time. I need to take a nap. and besides this is the sleeping car."
Well now that did it. He ambled over to me and wished to ask me questions.
"Are you a grandfather...what is that yellow over your face?...Are those your teethe?
Well for the next twenty minutes, I could not get the Curly hair away. His large blue eyes attacked me. Then the baby got into the action. She wished to be picked up..After a few minutes the one and a half year old gave me a look . She must have known I was not her Dad. She let out a cry that could be heard all the way to Lindbergh Field . They got off in Oceanside.
Well now you know why I love traveling by train. I love to mix it up with the patrons and am never bored. And who could ever be bored playing on a train. And who could be bored playing on a train?who can be bored playing on a train. They got off in Oceanside. It made my day!
In Oceanside I bought my ten-dollar-all-day ticket. One of the two ticket machines worked. In front of me, one chap took too long. I became testy. Hell I needed a ticket before the train left the platform two.
"You can judge a man's IQ by how long it extract a ticket from the machine." I told him you must handle the credit card gingerly when paying plastic."
And that is how I met Kevin Milton. He was taking the train to Santa Ana where his Huntington Beach girl friend would pick him up. They were on their way for a Palm Springs concert. He appeared like Santa Claus, with big cheeks and a bigger smile. I grabbed a seat in the row in front of him. And so began my friendship with the jolly one. .
"My family is from Louisiana. I have 23 brothers and sisters. I live in a condo in downtown San Diego. I am 56 and not married."
May I ask what you do? "I am running for the California State Assembly. I am sick and tired of these boys making laws for me. When I sold my magazine, Seniors after 55 to Disney, I quit work and decided to run for office. I only lost by about a thousand votes last time. And I am sick and tired of our San Diego counsel for their redistricting.
How often do you take the train? "This is my first time on Metro-Link. It beats driving. In fact, I seldom drive in San Diego. By the way, if the Chargers leave for the Carson area, all you need to do is take Greyhound and a connecting bus and you'll be at the stadium." "Do you mind if I take a U-Tube of you?" He he hemmed and hawed, but after a few minutes quipped that he was ready. (The Picture will be here.)
I turned around and saw the candidate from San Diego. A hug smile covered his face and he had taken off his hat. "How long do I need to smile?"
He got off at Santa Ana and I continued to read my Omar Bradly book. He was Eisenhower's right hand general during World War 11. With pure air, my head felt normal and I could smile. I had one hiccup when the train arrived at the Union Station. I had trouble buying a subway ticket to Pershing Square but a fine gentleman from Boston helped me. I just did not know how to tap my card.
Inside the library I took pictures from the Chicago Tribune Wow how that paper's format excited me. In the month of August of 1940, the paper had something about the All Star troops and also the Green Bay packers. I took some good shots of Ambrose Schindler and also Nile Kinneck that will be shown in the book. Schindler outvoted the Heisman Award winner Kinneck during the 1940 Chicago All Star Game
It excited me to see what Archie Ward, its sports editor and other writers wrote about the game. I returned to the Union Station and waited for the 4:40. It dawned on me what train travel is so invigorating. Besides drinking pure air, you can read while looking at the wonderful California scenery after a storm. But for me the highlight going south to Oceanside was two little kids. It occurred in Tustin.
A Mother was having some trouble with her four year old. He was jumping on the seats while she played with the baby of about two. She was large on top, no doubt, so as to feed the baby. Her husband of ten years looked distraught. Like all fathers, he longed for attention, but got none
"Mummy, but why should I be quiet. I want to play!" That is when I chirped up. Standing, i looked at the kid square in the face. "I am an Old Man, older than time. I need to take a nap. and besides this is the sleeping car."
Well now that did it. He ambled over to me and wished to ask me questions.
"Are you a grandfather...what is that yellow over your face?...Are those your teethe?
Well for the next twenty minutes, I could not get the Curly hair away. His large blue eyes attacked me. Then the baby got into the action. She wished to be picked up..After a few minutes the one and a half year old gave me a look . She must have known I was not her Dad. She let out a cry that could be heard all the way to Lindbergh Field . They got off in Oceanside.
Well now you know why I love traveling by train. I love to mix it up with the patrons and am never bored. And who could ever be bored playing on a train. And who could be bored playing on a train?who can be bored playing on a train. They got off in Oceanside. It made my day!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)