Dragging their feet, that's right...those in charge of the health and sanity of my brother are taking their diddly time about it. At least he is eating better now, now that I grill his hamburgers at home, and use a Trader Joe's onion and bun it over a Trader Joe's bun.
Why two days ago for dinner he was served a little sliced plane pizza, and of course with a little juice glass and a milk. Last night it was a few macaroni strands and again the milk carton and the juice. Of course I had brought him his filler, the nice Trader Joe's hamburger so he would not starve to death.
Today I feel like singing. I treated myself to a Trader Joe's 12 ounces of uncured Black Forrest Bacon, and fried a few Trader Joe eggs to keep the bacon company. You just can't beat Trader Joe's bacon. The fresh bread I bought from the Java, straight out of the oven.
Last night's call from Connie Glickman made my day. She telephoned me to let me know that the Pico Bag Lady was now out of her house. The Bag Lady, earlier in the year, tricked her in allowing her to rent a room inside her Beverly Wood home. Unknown to Glickman, was that the bag lady had an arrest record and had been going from house to house for many years.
"We paid her off...One thousand to leave the house. At least I can rest in peace now and allow my bruises to heal. The West L.A. police bungled the arrest early in the year when she threw me to the ground. They came but told me they needed hard evidence to arrest her."
Now you can see why I felt so happy and ate bacon for the first time in one month. The Bag Lady of Pico went by several names, but I called her Susie the Slicer. She had cut up the couch and placed salt everywhere. She stole from the refrigerator and made Connie's life a nightmare.
But back to my brother Mel. His head still hurt and he could not move his neck without pain. I even went to the Huntington Hospital to complain to Tony, a supervisor there. His discharge papers warned that if the ear infection got to the point where he could not move his head, the alarm the doctors.And that is what I did. I do believe there must have been a cover up, since a Dr. Jennings from Happy Trails Senior Apartments should have cured Mel's ear problem moons ago.
Nurse David told me that his doctor informed him of the brain cancer. I will never forget what the social worker told me a week after Mel had been admitted to the health center.
"Mel is walking now so that we will be sending him back to Henry Goodfellow and is assistant living facility now."
"That is the trouble with all of you young kids. You move the pieces without thinking. Mel needs to verify that his ear infection is cleared to go. He still has pain in his neck."
Just to much trouble for me lately, so I needed to change gears. On Saturday, I bused it to the air show. The Thunder Birds would do their devilish dances in the air. But for me, it was a perfect day. You could touch Catalina Island if you owned a wide view camera The sets broke from way back and it was a thrill to watch the surfers catch the wave and zing in and out of the while water until the wave had vanished.
No matter what the age, these lads were in tip top shape. The one in front of me did a few handstands after he had slipped on the wet suit and pranced gingerly into the white water and ducked when a wave came his way. Timing when to caress the wave was crucial. I had seen an ambulance take a swimmer away with a board to hold his neck in place. At least he could still wave his hands to signal all was well.
The boardwalk or concrete walk was an avalanche of beach goers walling south to Beach to watch the (not finished.)
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
Huntington Beach -- Halloween Story
These events are true, yet the names of the facilities and people have been changed to avoid endless meetings in court appearances. I must thank Washington Irving, a dear friend of mine, for providing the way to becoming a great writer. Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and its story is still in my thoughts this while I ready myself for October the 31st and the birth of my first grand child Olivia. Oh yes, she'll turn six on this day... my treat.
The discovery of rich veins of oil were discovered in Huntington Beach at the turn of the century. Settlers poured into the city that crisscrossed two rivers: the Santa Ana an Bolsa Chica. Bolsa Chica, or little bag, became a larger when Henry Huntington decided to build railroad track to link up the tracks to Long Beach. Black Gold or oil had been discovered when made a boom town out the city.
The little bag became a suitcase and even had its named changed to Huntington. Thanks to a railroad tycoon Henry Huntington, soon tracks linked the city of Black Oil with Long Beach. Red cars made the city available to many tourists and workers.
My brother Mel began driving here in the late seventies. He would take his Saturn down south each weekend, and I never knew why he came here until I had visited him in a Assistant Living facility over nine years ago.
It could have been Main Street with its many bars and eateries. He worked at the Red Onion for a spell but he probably became intoxicated by the beach women and great surf. Of course forty years ago he could throw a football over sixty yards and had a golden voice that could excite the ladies.
He wished my Dad Harry to buy him a condo for a bit over one hundred thousand but he didn't. The money bequeathed to him, a large sum, went mainly to restaurants up and down Beach Blvd, the main artery in Huntington Beach. He became unaware that the hopping to one restaurant after another soon made him obese. His weight mushroomed to over three hundred and fifty pounds. His roll of cash lasted until about nine years ago. I had called him up at the Sahara Motel in Stanton, a little city located between Anaheim and Buena Park -- that was about nine years ago.
Due to diabetes and a bungled eye operation, he began his stay inside the Lucky Star Assistant Living Apartment about the same time. You probably never ever have heard of Midway City, but it is nothing to sneeze at or you will miss it like I did the first time. Mel had one dead eye, and one close to death. It's vein leaked so he began shots inside the good eye about seven years ago, to prevent the from going dead.
My stay inside Surf City began over one year ago. I could be closer to one daughter and also help Barney get around driving his car. I first became acquainted with the city built over water last February. I had already saved my brother three times from certain death, as the Lucky Star offered poor nutrition, a quick fix doctor, and as one patron said, a host of diseases.but will not bore you with the specifics. Before this immediate one, another be
My phone rang in the early hours of a February morning. I could barely make out the broken English but after several repetitions city about eight months ago when I visited my brother Barney in the hospital with the same name- but found no fountain anywhere.
An earlier phone call from the Lucky Star Assistant Living told me that he had been ambulanced to the Fountain Valley Hospital. I passed Low's Hardware, American Tire on Warner Avenue before I descended on the Euclid hospital. I asked a few people its location.
The Fountain Valley appeared to be a chain of motels, somehow hooked together. Barney, so I was told had suffered a siege of Pneumonia. . He had been staying at the Lucky Star Assistant Living Center inside Midway City for about eight years. On four occasions I had the fortune find him there close to death and made sure he received prompt attention. But a flashback to his first operation will get this new legend started.
As usual, Huntington Beach incurred another heat wave, and me without a workable AC inside my car. I carried a large bottle of water as I entered the hospital and did the usual. A worker led me to his room. Inside the doorway was a mammoth turd inside a portable potty. The noxious aroma swept me back off of my feet. Of course nobody works on Sunday so the bowel movement probably had to wait for another day. Immovable Mel had a tube running up his nose and an IV inside his arm. I visited the Vietnamese speaking nursing center
"Mel needs water and maybe a different medication!"
I just knew that a steady diet of chicken in all flavors and forms had been the culprit. He hated the food at the this so-called assistant living center. Somehow I made it to the hospital and found a friendly bush to avail myself of my own bladder problems. Inside the hospital the receptionist could not find the name of Barney's name in the register . Of course, like most Latin's, understanding English was a impossible. I wrote down his name and she sent me to his room.
I had visions of my brother flying in the air holding onto a massive Norm's T-boned steak. Inside the room Mel was asleep with his purplish looking ankles peering out of the bed. His bad eye opened enough to see me.
'"Is that you Barney? I am hungry, get me something to eat." Down the street I removed a few dollars and bought him a burger and fries. Mel stood up in bed and smiled he cheated death again from the Lucky Star Assistant Living center.
About a month later, I found him at what looked like a motel in Santa Ana. off of Beach Blvd. I had bought him a blueberry pie from Knott's Berry Farm and another burger. On a tread mill he was walking and smiled when he saw me and the food I had brought. He had a visitor. Sir Henry Goodfellow, the owner of the Lucky Star facility.
Sir Henry walked as if had suffered with hemorrhoids all of his life. His sucked-in cheeks never knew what is was to smile. He appeared to be sleep walking. Each bed meant over one thousand dollars for this transplant from the Ukraine. His Dad had built an apartment and turned it into an assistant living center for his only child. He made sure to fill each bed so he could buy a brand new jag each year. He lived in San Clemente, no doubt in a home overlooking the best surf boarding waves in the country.
"I have saved a bed for Mel. He will be leaving here shortly."
Two weeks later, I visited him again. He looked chipper and wished me to drive him to Norms, down the street for the usual, chicken gumbo, salad, and a T-bone with a potato and hash browns. His pants, as usual, slid down his large un-shy torso while we sauntered into Norms on Beach Blvd.
The waitress did not need to ask Mel his order. The Lucky Star never had steak or salad, two items that had kept him alive all of these years. But it was that chicken gumbo soup that came alive. In fact, Barney could almost dance with his favorite soup. But it was the T-bone steak that he wished to devour, bone and all.
I needed to cut the steak for him. Legally blind in both eyes, he could still see the second line of the Snellen eye chart. Barney ate each bite like it would be his last. Every fiber of that steak was not safe from Barney's palate, when he still owned enough canines to cut each piece to threads.
Mel, or so I thought, turned into a German Shepard while he attacked the bone. Yes even the bone was not safe from Mel's prodigious appetite -- or so I thought. But the Lucky Star never served steak or even salad, keeping Barney on a low nutrition diet.
About four weeks ago on a Sunday afternoon, I paid my five dollars to eat again with my brother Barney . The dining room area hosted about twenty tables that seated forty residents. Most used wheel chairs or walkers to enter this feeding area.
"Is that you, George?"
He seemed listless and could not see or cut his food. Hell I knew the problem, even if one of his table mates thought he did not care for the food. I cut his thin-sliced brisket, cut it up, and attempted to feed him.
"c...c..c..c..c" like the car's starter that could not negotiate a turn, Barney began to cough up the food I had shoveled inside his gullet. His head leaned to one side and his only seeing eye closed. He didn't move."
Puss rolled down his closed left eye. He felt clammy. I knew that he hadn't been eating due to the lack of sight, and possibly his crazy roommate had provided a new disease for Mel, like the double Pneumonia he had contacted last February and almost died. The Latina manager entered the dining room.
In hysterical English, she muttered, "What Mel not eating...Let me try to make him eat!"
"Mam, can you phone for am ambulance....Please get an ambulance!"
Finally she called for an ambulance. Members of the Orange County Fire Department checked his blood pressure and did not move him. The ambulance, as always, followed few minutes later. They picked him up and asked about me. (The Fire Department bills the user over $1,500 for each pick up.)
"I'm his brother. Can I ride along with you?"
"Not our policy, but ...sure come along."
"Hope the Huntington Hospital is your destination."
"Yep, you're in luck."
By seven that night, he finally was moved to a room and I said my good-by to Mel. The hospital was only a mile to my senior Apartment but I waited to catch the 29 bus off of Beach Blvd. A Dr. Gray called me the next day, and she spoke with patience and concern.
"Melvyn has diabetes, a bladder infection, an eye one too, and also an infected ear."
"Do me a favor Dr. Gray. If he goes to another rehab place, please send him closer to me than Anaheim. Two days later, I again went with an ambulance and she must have listened to my plea, as he was moved to the Happy Trails Nursing Home, a block from me.
That first day was on a Saturday during another Huntington Beach heat wave. The Happy Trails Nursing home did not feel happy that morn since they did not have electricity. Each room carried two beds. The linen was off the patient and all prayed for the electric to be back shortly Yet from ten until that evening, it felt hot and clammy inside.
Well the heat wave continued, but with a restored AC system, it was OK to breath again. Mel still could not get out of bed -- and to put it bluntly he was dead weight. I fed him the mud cakes brought in from the kitchen galley down the hall.
You probably guessed it by now. Whatever the mush happened to be, each guest in the Happy Trails Nursing home received the same food -- mush. Of course my brother was mad. Why he, like me had been weaned on meat and enormous salads by our Mom Edith.
I told Jacob at the sign-in station and he forwarded the message to the kitchen. Mel now was more content. But he still had those mammoth headaches, and blindness. The social worker made an appointment for me to go to an eye specialist in Fountain Valley. The place was packed with the old, retched and blind, many taking advantage of free medical Obama care.
During week two, a shuttle picked us up and we visited a Dr. Do in a medical facility. The shuttle driver had trouble finding a parking place so he parked and I wheeled Mel into a small office room on the third floor.
We did not have long to wait, even though the receptionist did not get the forms from the Happy Trails. A Mexican family was ahead of us. Finally I pushed Mel inside Dr. Do's room. With his only living eye, he recognized him as the one who treated him inside the Huntington Hospital.
The Vietnamese doctor did not look a day over ninety five. Thin and severely bent over, his gait was slow as he re-examined Mel's left ear. He told me to have a see-see also
"See that lump, it is cancer. We need to remove it and make a skin graft." He removed a bit of puss from the ear and afterwards, had a form written out for the Happy Trails Nursing Home. "We need to set up an operation with Dr. Gray now." He seemed alarmed and nervous as he spoke about the lump in the ear drum.
Of course I thought about my operation way back in 2010 of August. I knew then how important it was to remove the tumor quickly- ever so quickly- or it might spread to other organs. In my case, he got it all. Even a few months back, I had another growth removed, whole in Irvine. I knew the severity of removing the core.
Mel began to look more alive. I bought hamburger patties from Trader Joe's along with the usual of onion and tomato. Mel smiled with each bite. Even the galley down the hall provided him with salads and meat cakes. But a change, a big change came over my brother Mel. The headaches became like a kettle drum beating everywhere. Could it be the ear lobe cancer had spread -- too late for an operation. (Cont.on next post.)
The discovery of rich veins of oil were discovered in Huntington Beach at the turn of the century. Settlers poured into the city that crisscrossed two rivers: the Santa Ana an Bolsa Chica. Bolsa Chica, or little bag, became a larger when Henry Huntington decided to build railroad track to link up the tracks to Long Beach. Black Gold or oil had been discovered when made a boom town out the city.
The little bag became a suitcase and even had its named changed to Huntington. Thanks to a railroad tycoon Henry Huntington, soon tracks linked the city of Black Oil with Long Beach. Red cars made the city available to many tourists and workers.
My brother Mel began driving here in the late seventies. He would take his Saturn down south each weekend, and I never knew why he came here until I had visited him in a Assistant Living facility over nine years ago.
It could have been Main Street with its many bars and eateries. He worked at the Red Onion for a spell but he probably became intoxicated by the beach women and great surf. Of course forty years ago he could throw a football over sixty yards and had a golden voice that could excite the ladies.
He wished my Dad Harry to buy him a condo for a bit over one hundred thousand but he didn't. The money bequeathed to him, a large sum, went mainly to restaurants up and down Beach Blvd, the main artery in Huntington Beach. He became unaware that the hopping to one restaurant after another soon made him obese. His weight mushroomed to over three hundred and fifty pounds. His roll of cash lasted until about nine years ago. I had called him up at the Sahara Motel in Stanton, a little city located between Anaheim and Buena Park -- that was about nine years ago.
Due to diabetes and a bungled eye operation, he began his stay inside the Lucky Star Assistant Living Apartment about the same time. You probably never ever have heard of Midway City, but it is nothing to sneeze at or you will miss it like I did the first time. Mel had one dead eye, and one close to death. It's vein leaked so he began shots inside the good eye about seven years ago, to prevent the from going dead.
My stay inside Surf City began over one year ago. I could be closer to one daughter and also help Barney get around driving his car. I first became acquainted with the city built over water last February. I had already saved my brother three times from certain death, as the Lucky Star offered poor nutrition, a quick fix doctor, and as one patron said, a host of diseases.but will not bore you with the specifics. Before this immediate one, another be
My phone rang in the early hours of a February morning. I could barely make out the broken English but after several repetitions city about eight months ago when I visited my brother Barney in the hospital with the same name- but found no fountain anywhere.
An earlier phone call from the Lucky Star Assistant Living told me that he had been ambulanced to the Fountain Valley Hospital. I passed Low's Hardware, American Tire on Warner Avenue before I descended on the Euclid hospital. I asked a few people its location.
The Fountain Valley appeared to be a chain of motels, somehow hooked together. Barney, so I was told had suffered a siege of Pneumonia. . He had been staying at the Lucky Star Assistant Living Center inside Midway City for about eight years. On four occasions I had the fortune find him there close to death and made sure he received prompt attention. But a flashback to his first operation will get this new legend started.
As usual, Huntington Beach incurred another heat wave, and me without a workable AC inside my car. I carried a large bottle of water as I entered the hospital and did the usual. A worker led me to his room. Inside the doorway was a mammoth turd inside a portable potty. The noxious aroma swept me back off of my feet. Of course nobody works on Sunday so the bowel movement probably had to wait for another day. Immovable Mel had a tube running up his nose and an IV inside his arm. I visited the Vietnamese speaking nursing center
"Mel needs water and maybe a different medication!"
I just knew that a steady diet of chicken in all flavors and forms had been the culprit. He hated the food at the this so-called assistant living center. Somehow I made it to the hospital and found a friendly bush to avail myself of my own bladder problems. Inside the hospital the receptionist could not find the name of Barney's name in the register . Of course, like most Latin's, understanding English was a impossible. I wrote down his name and she sent me to his room.
I had visions of my brother flying in the air holding onto a massive Norm's T-boned steak. Inside the room Mel was asleep with his purplish looking ankles peering out of the bed. His bad eye opened enough to see me.
'"Is that you Barney? I am hungry, get me something to eat." Down the street I removed a few dollars and bought him a burger and fries. Mel stood up in bed and smiled he cheated death again from the Lucky Star Assistant Living center.
About a month later, I found him at what looked like a motel in Santa Ana. off of Beach Blvd. I had bought him a blueberry pie from Knott's Berry Farm and another burger. On a tread mill he was walking and smiled when he saw me and the food I had brought. He had a visitor. Sir Henry Goodfellow, the owner of the Lucky Star facility.
Sir Henry walked as if had suffered with hemorrhoids all of his life. His sucked-in cheeks never knew what is was to smile. He appeared to be sleep walking. Each bed meant over one thousand dollars for this transplant from the Ukraine. His Dad had built an apartment and turned it into an assistant living center for his only child. He made sure to fill each bed so he could buy a brand new jag each year. He lived in San Clemente, no doubt in a home overlooking the best surf boarding waves in the country.
"I have saved a bed for Mel. He will be leaving here shortly."
Two weeks later, I visited him again. He looked chipper and wished me to drive him to Norms, down the street for the usual, chicken gumbo, salad, and a T-bone with a potato and hash browns. His pants, as usual, slid down his large un-shy torso while we sauntered into Norms on Beach Blvd.
The waitress did not need to ask Mel his order. The Lucky Star never had steak or salad, two items that had kept him alive all of these years. But it was that chicken gumbo soup that came alive. In fact, Barney could almost dance with his favorite soup. But it was the T-bone steak that he wished to devour, bone and all.
I needed to cut the steak for him. Legally blind in both eyes, he could still see the second line of the Snellen eye chart. Barney ate each bite like it would be his last. Every fiber of that steak was not safe from Barney's palate, when he still owned enough canines to cut each piece to threads.
Mel, or so I thought, turned into a German Shepard while he attacked the bone. Yes even the bone was not safe from Mel's prodigious appetite -- or so I thought. But the Lucky Star never served steak or even salad, keeping Barney on a low nutrition diet.
About four weeks ago on a Sunday afternoon, I paid my five dollars to eat again with my brother Barney . The dining room area hosted about twenty tables that seated forty residents. Most used wheel chairs or walkers to enter this feeding area.
"Is that you, George?"
He seemed listless and could not see or cut his food. Hell I knew the problem, even if one of his table mates thought he did not care for the food. I cut his thin-sliced brisket, cut it up, and attempted to feed him.
"c...c..c..c..c" like the car's starter that could not negotiate a turn, Barney began to cough up the food I had shoveled inside his gullet. His head leaned to one side and his only seeing eye closed. He didn't move."
Puss rolled down his closed left eye. He felt clammy. I knew that he hadn't been eating due to the lack of sight, and possibly his crazy roommate had provided a new disease for Mel, like the double Pneumonia he had contacted last February and almost died. The Latina manager entered the dining room.
In hysterical English, she muttered, "What Mel not eating...Let me try to make him eat!"
"Mam, can you phone for am ambulance....Please get an ambulance!"
Finally she called for an ambulance. Members of the Orange County Fire Department checked his blood pressure and did not move him. The ambulance, as always, followed few minutes later. They picked him up and asked about me. (The Fire Department bills the user over $1,500 for each pick up.)
"I'm his brother. Can I ride along with you?"
"Not our policy, but ...sure come along."
"Hope the Huntington Hospital is your destination."
"Yep, you're in luck."
By seven that night, he finally was moved to a room and I said my good-by to Mel. The hospital was only a mile to my senior Apartment but I waited to catch the 29 bus off of Beach Blvd. A Dr. Gray called me the next day, and she spoke with patience and concern.
"Melvyn has diabetes, a bladder infection, an eye one too, and also an infected ear."
"Do me a favor Dr. Gray. If he goes to another rehab place, please send him closer to me than Anaheim. Two days later, I again went with an ambulance and she must have listened to my plea, as he was moved to the Happy Trails Nursing Home, a block from me.
That first day was on a Saturday during another Huntington Beach heat wave. The Happy Trails Nursing home did not feel happy that morn since they did not have electricity. Each room carried two beds. The linen was off the patient and all prayed for the electric to be back shortly Yet from ten until that evening, it felt hot and clammy inside.
Well the heat wave continued, but with a restored AC system, it was OK to breath again. Mel still could not get out of bed -- and to put it bluntly he was dead weight. I fed him the mud cakes brought in from the kitchen galley down the hall.
You probably guessed it by now. Whatever the mush happened to be, each guest in the Happy Trails Nursing home received the same food -- mush. Of course my brother was mad. Why he, like me had been weaned on meat and enormous salads by our Mom Edith.
I told Jacob at the sign-in station and he forwarded the message to the kitchen. Mel now was more content. But he still had those mammoth headaches, and blindness. The social worker made an appointment for me to go to an eye specialist in Fountain Valley. The place was packed with the old, retched and blind, many taking advantage of free medical Obama care.
During week two, a shuttle picked us up and we visited a Dr. Do in a medical facility. The shuttle driver had trouble finding a parking place so he parked and I wheeled Mel into a small office room on the third floor.
We did not have long to wait, even though the receptionist did not get the forms from the Happy Trails. A Mexican family was ahead of us. Finally I pushed Mel inside Dr. Do's room. With his only living eye, he recognized him as the one who treated him inside the Huntington Hospital.
The Vietnamese doctor did not look a day over ninety five. Thin and severely bent over, his gait was slow as he re-examined Mel's left ear. He told me to have a see-see also
"See that lump, it is cancer. We need to remove it and make a skin graft." He removed a bit of puss from the ear and afterwards, had a form written out for the Happy Trails Nursing Home. "We need to set up an operation with Dr. Gray now." He seemed alarmed and nervous as he spoke about the lump in the ear drum.
Of course I thought about my operation way back in 2010 of August. I knew then how important it was to remove the tumor quickly- ever so quickly- or it might spread to other organs. In my case, he got it all. Even a few months back, I had another growth removed, whole in Irvine. I knew the severity of removing the core.
Mel began to look more alive. I bought hamburger patties from Trader Joe's along with the usual of onion and tomato. Mel smiled with each bite. Even the galley down the hall provided him with salads and meat cakes. But a change, a big change came over my brother Mel. The headaches became like a kettle drum beating everywhere. Could it be the ear lobe cancer had spread -- too late for an operation. (Cont.on next post.)
Thursday, October 13, 2016
A Trip to Coffee Bean off Pico
These events occurred in Los Angeles as well as Huntington Beach. Again riding the rails seemed to be the only way to car it to Los Angles without screaming obscenities. I took the 29 bus out of Huntington beach in the early morn and made it to the Metro-Link station in Buena Park.
The seven o'clock Metro Link train made two stops before its last at the Union Station. The Asians made up most of the passenger list as they are too smart to head into grid lock on our outdated freeways. In the early morning hours, the 5 freeway became a parking lot for five hours to allow the ambulances, tow trucks and investigators to do their jog. By the 405 freeway, a Torrance oil refinery blew its stack causing drivers to click on their window wipers.
But smarty pants, me, took my $3.&50 cent train ticket and tapped it on a turnstile for a ride underground on the Purple Line train out of Union Station. I sat down with my knap sack and finished off two hard boiled before train whistled to our first stop, Civic Center....
"Our next stop is Seventh Street. Don't forget to bump your tap card again if transferring on the Blue or Expo line. Our next stop is Vermont. Those who wish to transfer to the Red Line can get off here on the way to the valley and Universal City.
Western, the end of the line, was my stop. From there I counted out fifty cents in change and deposited the coins into drop box. The ride on the Blue Rapid felt great. I could get all the way to Pico's Coffee Bean on Pico by riding one bus. The bus drives south on Crenshaw and picks up workers at each stop. With each stop more and more Santa Monica College students enter with a few homeless.
Elm streets looms up. I pull the cord and exit to the Glatt Market where I bought a large plum for one dollar and twenty a pound and three navel oranges ripe to eat at 69 cents. I knew the oranges would be sweet if there skin felt like a baby's. .
Up the street I found my large yellow sun hat. It belonged to my brother Mel's surrogate Mother, Connie Glickman. She smiled and stood up to greet me. We hugged and chatted for awhile. The sun felt a bit hot, but not as hot as yesterday's ninety degrees.
"How's Mel doin George."
"He is doin remarkably well when you consider he looked dead a couple of weeks ago. He is now eating and beginning to walk. I make sure the health center provides a lot of salad and meats for him -- unlike the poor quality of food at his assistant living center."
"What happened. I know he had returned from a two month stay in an Santa Ana hospital and now this!"
"It is a catch 22. He had suffered from bed bug bites earlier and all of the sheets had been removed. It seems that his psychotic roommate had returned from a hospital twice which may have contributed to his bladder infection, ear problem, and total blindness."
"By the way, Connie, are you still on one aspirin a day -- and that's all."
"My eye is my only problem. I can see around me but not right at me."
"Is the Bag Lady of Pico still living with you?"
"Got a call from a detective. He needs more evidence to remove her from the back bedroom. But no longer does she throw salt on my bed or steal my food. Apparently a detective talked to her social worker."
"Excuse me a minute. I need to buy a Mocha. Can I get you anything?"
She replied in the negative and I got into line for my drink. I noticed that the bag lady was working her lab top to my right. She didn't notice me but was entrenched looking down at phone numbers of future victims of her scam. Her nose was flanked by her long black hair that swept the top of her long black pants. Hence, I have called her the Black Widow.
Afterwards we took the seven bus up the street to Westwood to see a movie about a women o a train who saw a killing. I backtracked on the bus all the way to Union Station where I took a delayed Metro back to my bus at the station.
The seven o'clock Metro Link train made two stops before its last at the Union Station. The Asians made up most of the passenger list as they are too smart to head into grid lock on our outdated freeways. In the early morning hours, the 5 freeway became a parking lot for five hours to allow the ambulances, tow trucks and investigators to do their jog. By the 405 freeway, a Torrance oil refinery blew its stack causing drivers to click on their window wipers.
But smarty pants, me, took my $3.&50 cent train ticket and tapped it on a turnstile for a ride underground on the Purple Line train out of Union Station. I sat down with my knap sack and finished off two hard boiled before train whistled to our first stop, Civic Center....
"Our next stop is Seventh Street. Don't forget to bump your tap card again if transferring on the Blue or Expo line. Our next stop is Vermont. Those who wish to transfer to the Red Line can get off here on the way to the valley and Universal City.
Western, the end of the line, was my stop. From there I counted out fifty cents in change and deposited the coins into drop box. The ride on the Blue Rapid felt great. I could get all the way to Pico's Coffee Bean on Pico by riding one bus. The bus drives south on Crenshaw and picks up workers at each stop. With each stop more and more Santa Monica College students enter with a few homeless.
Elm streets looms up. I pull the cord and exit to the Glatt Market where I bought a large plum for one dollar and twenty a pound and three navel oranges ripe to eat at 69 cents. I knew the oranges would be sweet if there skin felt like a baby's. .
Up the street I found my large yellow sun hat. It belonged to my brother Mel's surrogate Mother, Connie Glickman. She smiled and stood up to greet me. We hugged and chatted for awhile. The sun felt a bit hot, but not as hot as yesterday's ninety degrees.
"How's Mel doin George."
"He is doin remarkably well when you consider he looked dead a couple of weeks ago. He is now eating and beginning to walk. I make sure the health center provides a lot of salad and meats for him -- unlike the poor quality of food at his assistant living center."
"What happened. I know he had returned from a two month stay in an Santa Ana hospital and now this!"
"It is a catch 22. He had suffered from bed bug bites earlier and all of the sheets had been removed. It seems that his psychotic roommate had returned from a hospital twice which may have contributed to his bladder infection, ear problem, and total blindness."
"By the way, Connie, are you still on one aspirin a day -- and that's all."
"My eye is my only problem. I can see around me but not right at me."
"Is the Bag Lady of Pico still living with you?"
"Got a call from a detective. He needs more evidence to remove her from the back bedroom. But no longer does she throw salt on my bed or steal my food. Apparently a detective talked to her social worker."
"Excuse me a minute. I need to buy a Mocha. Can I get you anything?"
She replied in the negative and I got into line for my drink. I noticed that the bag lady was working her lab top to my right. She didn't notice me but was entrenched looking down at phone numbers of future victims of her scam. Her nose was flanked by her long black hair that swept the top of her long black pants. Hence, I have called her the Black Widow.
Afterwards we took the seven bus up the street to Westwood to see a movie about a women o a train who saw a killing. I backtracked on the bus all the way to Union Station where I took a delayed Metro back to my bus at the station.
Friday, October 7, 2016
A Tree Grows in Huntington Beach
"You don't need to go to Brooklyn to become a Jew."
Two weeks ago, Rabbi Berkowitz uttered these profound words inside his synagogue on Warner Avenue in he booster shot of religion began over one year ago, October 14th,to be exact, and I feel like a mighty Jewish Oak Tree every where I go. .
My Jewish train ride began in San Diego about five years ago when I entered a Chabad on Third and Island in San Diego. I began learning Judaic law inside this small store front that back up to a Chinese cleaners. After my move to Huntington Beach, I remembered that my San Diego Rabbi told me he had a rabbi cousin also living in Surf City,
Back in October of last year, I suffered a crises, so strong on the 13th of October, that my heart beat like a symphonic kettle drum. The thought of a heart attack came over me when I remembered what Rabbi Carlback had told me back in San Diego..
"My cousin has a Chabad in Huntington Beach. Visit the sanctuary when you move there."
Five minutes , yes five minutes inside the Air conditioned synagogue was all I needed. My heart now sang like a piccolo and I put the thirteenth of October behind me. The little old bearded Rabbi had a smile I could never forget. Not only could he look and speak like a Jewish Rabbi, but his anecdotes about the theme or Pasha of the day put into a spell that soften each day. .
Now that was about one year ago. I now read from the Torah and bless my seeds or children on each Saturday, It is my way t shield off the thoughts of a car stolen, and the kiddish has provided me with the nourishment needed to finish the month..
It takes me four buses to arrive there on Warner. There is always a seat and the friendly faces of Benny, Kenny and a few others to help me forget my problems. A mixed salad, beans, horse radish , bread, chips pickles and herring, salmon make up the feast that begins at about twelve thirty. I even have forgotten about my car Dolly, stolen from my apartment building.
There is something to be said about chasing buses to bring one closer to God but the time and wait is worth it. I can read and study waiting or taking a bus ride to and from the synagogue each Saturday. and hopefully will get a car soon.
The Saturday services begin at nine o'clock and end with kids singing "Ankaylohano" or something like that. It is great seeing a kid of five reading from the Torah. To me it feels like a picnic in the park but instead of food, the words clean my soul with their content. A word i have become familiar with is Yahrzeit, or the week before the birthday of one deceased. S speech is made by a family member about their loved one. For this year, I hope to speak and understand Hebrew and spread the word of Hashem to Jews throughout the world.
Happy Yom Kipper. Of course I have become the mighty Oak Tree whose fruit will be blessed and mightier than me. And you don't need to go to Brookly to become a Jew, it is right here is Surf City U.S.A.
Two weeks ago, Rabbi Berkowitz uttered these profound words inside his synagogue on Warner Avenue in he booster shot of religion began over one year ago, October 14th,to be exact, and I feel like a mighty Jewish Oak Tree every where I go. .
My Jewish train ride began in San Diego about five years ago when I entered a Chabad on Third and Island in San Diego. I began learning Judaic law inside this small store front that back up to a Chinese cleaners. After my move to Huntington Beach, I remembered that my San Diego Rabbi told me he had a rabbi cousin also living in Surf City,
Back in October of last year, I suffered a crises, so strong on the 13th of October, that my heart beat like a symphonic kettle drum. The thought of a heart attack came over me when I remembered what Rabbi Carlback had told me back in San Diego..
"My cousin has a Chabad in Huntington Beach. Visit the sanctuary when you move there."
Five minutes , yes five minutes inside the Air conditioned synagogue was all I needed. My heart now sang like a piccolo and I put the thirteenth of October behind me. The little old bearded Rabbi had a smile I could never forget. Not only could he look and speak like a Jewish Rabbi, but his anecdotes about the theme or Pasha of the day put into a spell that soften each day. .
Now that was about one year ago. I now read from the Torah and bless my seeds or children on each Saturday, It is my way t shield off the thoughts of a car stolen, and the kiddish has provided me with the nourishment needed to finish the month..
It takes me four buses to arrive there on Warner. There is always a seat and the friendly faces of Benny, Kenny and a few others to help me forget my problems. A mixed salad, beans, horse radish , bread, chips pickles and herring, salmon make up the feast that begins at about twelve thirty. I even have forgotten about my car Dolly, stolen from my apartment building.
There is something to be said about chasing buses to bring one closer to God but the time and wait is worth it. I can read and study waiting or taking a bus ride to and from the synagogue each Saturday. and hopefully will get a car soon.
The Saturday services begin at nine o'clock and end with kids singing "Ankaylohano" or something like that. It is great seeing a kid of five reading from the Torah. To me it feels like a picnic in the park but instead of food, the words clean my soul with their content. A word i have become familiar with is Yahrzeit, or the week before the birthday of one deceased. S speech is made by a family member about their loved one. For this year, I hope to speak and understand Hebrew and spread the word of Hashem to Jews throughout the world.
Happy Yom Kipper. Of course I have become the mighty Oak Tree whose fruit will be blessed and mightier than me. And you don't need to go to Brookly to become a Jew, it is right here is Surf City U.S.A.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Huntington Beach Senior Center
Yesterday it was only 104 degrees. But today, the temperature will decrease to only 97, yet it is still a strain to breath. Yet I have learned to deal with global warming. Outside I wear a mask that at least keeps out the dirt and grime from the toxic air.
I am waiting for the number 25 bus to deliver me to the new Huntington Beach Senior Center. Good cold clean air is the bait as well as to meet charming old people my age. But it is at lunch when all hell breaks lose, and laughter becomes another visitor to the dinning room, and while at it, have sa three bit lunch. My $22 monthly bus pass is well worth it.
Yesterday the Center was host to channel three who filmed the wrong piano player. It was channel three who wished to unveil the new center to the T.V. audience. While waiting for my turkey with cranberries Tony came to my table and screamed, "The wrong guy is being filmed. He can't play a lick of piano like you."
Yesterday's meal and lost of laughs gave me the battery charge I sorely needed. To my right was Mildred, from the bay area by way of Wisconsin and who worked for the Flying Tigers, and to my left, my cigar store Indian Andy from Sweden who build parts for the airlines.
The hellish weekend, that really began Thursday evening. At dinner time at the assistant living facility, Mel closed down. He could not stand, open his eyes and it all was in living coma. His left eye, the barely good one had closed to and I waited for the fire trucks and ambulance to be called. He had not really eaten for a few weeks so I knew something was amiss, as it always is at this assistant living center.
But that is where the Huntington Beach Senior Center comes in handy. I have the chance to vent, play the piano, and eat with some good friends where laughter is served up free. The only restriction is that each new visitor to the back table has to sign a release stating that any stroke or heart attach is entirely their fault -- like the paper I signed when my brother Mel was admitted. A Huntington Beach doctor called me on Friday evening stating what the medial problems" Conjunctivitis, infected bladder as well as an infected ear. We had a delightful conversation.
The next day Saturday it took a gigantic effort to move him. At least he was hungry, yet the Sea Cliff Nursing home, a block from me, had a different item on its menu-- a blackout. Wheel chairs roamed the hallway. At eight o'clock and manger told me it would be fixed by eight.
In the meantime, the freezer stopped working. Mel, for lunch, was treated to pees and a biscuit. His weight had trimmed down to a bit over two hundred pounds. One wheel chair screamed for attention. Another tried to leave the facility. I could not even watch college football.
Mel, through it all, could now see out of his conjunctivitis left eye. He could see the T.V. And slowly he began to eat again. By six o'clock the electric came on and things began to get back in order.
Monday I needed a break -- so I bussed it to the Senior Center. I arrived early and was able to get seating for the sliced turkey and vegetable lunch. Two others came late and had to watch us eat. Of of course it was bingo day -- the big day for many seniors. A time to remove the troubles for a game or two.
So as the song says, just leave your troubles in a large brown bag and play, play, play... or at least something like that. With clean air, and friendly people, "who could want for anything more." I enjoy scrabble day on Wednesday and of course chess on Monday.
No matter what you like, you'll find the flavor of your choice at the new Senior Center
I am waiting for the number 25 bus to deliver me to the new Huntington Beach Senior Center. Good cold clean air is the bait as well as to meet charming old people my age. But it is at lunch when all hell breaks lose, and laughter becomes another visitor to the dinning room, and while at it, have sa three bit lunch. My $22 monthly bus pass is well worth it.
Yesterday the Center was host to channel three who filmed the wrong piano player. It was channel three who wished to unveil the new center to the T.V. audience. While waiting for my turkey with cranberries Tony came to my table and screamed, "The wrong guy is being filmed. He can't play a lick of piano like you."
Yesterday's meal and lost of laughs gave me the battery charge I sorely needed. To my right was Mildred, from the bay area by way of Wisconsin and who worked for the Flying Tigers, and to my left, my cigar store Indian Andy from Sweden who build parts for the airlines.
The hellish weekend, that really began Thursday evening. At dinner time at the assistant living facility, Mel closed down. He could not stand, open his eyes and it all was in living coma. His left eye, the barely good one had closed to and I waited for the fire trucks and ambulance to be called. He had not really eaten for a few weeks so I knew something was amiss, as it always is at this assistant living center.
But that is where the Huntington Beach Senior Center comes in handy. I have the chance to vent, play the piano, and eat with some good friends where laughter is served up free. The only restriction is that each new visitor to the back table has to sign a release stating that any stroke or heart attach is entirely their fault -- like the paper I signed when my brother Mel was admitted. A Huntington Beach doctor called me on Friday evening stating what the medial problems" Conjunctivitis, infected bladder as well as an infected ear. We had a delightful conversation.
The next day Saturday it took a gigantic effort to move him. At least he was hungry, yet the Sea Cliff Nursing home, a block from me, had a different item on its menu-- a blackout. Wheel chairs roamed the hallway. At eight o'clock and manger told me it would be fixed by eight.
In the meantime, the freezer stopped working. Mel, for lunch, was treated to pees and a biscuit. His weight had trimmed down to a bit over two hundred pounds. One wheel chair screamed for attention. Another tried to leave the facility. I could not even watch college football.
Mel, through it all, could now see out of his conjunctivitis left eye. He could see the T.V. And slowly he began to eat again. By six o'clock the electric came on and things began to get back in order.
Monday I needed a break -- so I bussed it to the Senior Center. I arrived early and was able to get seating for the sliced turkey and vegetable lunch. Two others came late and had to watch us eat. Of of course it was bingo day -- the big day for many seniors. A time to remove the troubles for a game or two.
So as the song says, just leave your troubles in a large brown bag and play, play, play... or at least something like that. With clean air, and friendly people, "who could want for anything more." I enjoy scrabble day on Wednesday and of course chess on Monday.
No matter what you like, you'll find the flavor of your choice at the new Senior Center
Friday, September 23, 2016
Main Street Huntington Beach
By God, we actually had a on shore breeze today, so I took the hint and headed to the Main Street Library. Built in 1914 it is the fist so not treated for air conditioning but treated for mold. Don't know how many dollars were spent and how many book were thrown out, but I can assure you that a good A'C system would have saved lots of money.
My lungs actually sang today, and no need to open my throttle to breath air. I worked on a few stories written in San Diego that have a religious flavor. Hope to have them ready for the high holey days.
Three bikes outside meant a few young street people had entered before me. Sure enough, a couple of the computers already had been taken but not number one. After one hour, I headed outside to eat my lettuce and egg sandwich. A muscle bound tattoo then sat next to me. After a few minutes muscles had fallen asleep. Of course the homeless use the library for their R and R.
Long Beard waited patiently for a computer to become available. Muscle bound fell into a deep sleep. The frantic librarian tried, to no avail, to awaken him. Her shouts and even a visit by another one didn't change the picture. He was dead asleep, probably a heavy night of drinking drugs.
The super dialed 911.
"Sir," she touched him, "We are the police, you have to leave. Sir.."
Muscles muttered some idle word and slowly extricated himself from the computer. The police followed him outside where he put a bag inside a basket and began to walk the bike back to his hideaway going east.
All awhile I still typed. On this day, nothing could bother me, well except my appetite. I opened up my peanut butter sandwich and endulged. After reading the L.A. Times, I headed for the beach and if lucky, a volleyball game.
No such luck. Anyway, my was set to visit Mel. I felt happy he had been in good hands at the Huntington Memorial off of Beach. I had told his doctor that I would like any of the care-facilities to be located closer to my Florida Street abode. The 29 bus off Pacific took me two blocks from the facility.
Mel was dead asleep. And I mean dead! "Discharge" was posted on a wall chart along with the doctors and nurses in his care. At the nurses station, Mel's nurse was nice enough to give me a summary of his medical problems.
"He leaves at 3 today."
"Where is he going?"
"Seacliff Nursing Home."
"Hey, that is on my block."
The movers came, but fortunately did not charge to life the $240 brother of mine. He was dead weight. I drove inside the coach and watched as the attendants pushed him to his new room. I signed the usual consent forms and trudged back to my apartment down the street -- with the knowledge he was in good hands.
Oh yes, the paper mentioned diabetes, heart, infected ear and eye, blind and a host of other ditties, but the main thing is he had me to watch over him, as My Mom Edith requested on her death bed.
My lungs actually sang today, and no need to open my throttle to breath air. I worked on a few stories written in San Diego that have a religious flavor. Hope to have them ready for the high holey days.
Three bikes outside meant a few young street people had entered before me. Sure enough, a couple of the computers already had been taken but not number one. After one hour, I headed outside to eat my lettuce and egg sandwich. A muscle bound tattoo then sat next to me. After a few minutes muscles had fallen asleep. Of course the homeless use the library for their R and R.
Long Beard waited patiently for a computer to become available. Muscle bound fell into a deep sleep. The frantic librarian tried, to no avail, to awaken him. Her shouts and even a visit by another one didn't change the picture. He was dead asleep, probably a heavy night of drinking drugs.
The super dialed 911.
"Sir," she touched him, "We are the police, you have to leave. Sir.."
Muscles muttered some idle word and slowly extricated himself from the computer. The police followed him outside where he put a bag inside a basket and began to walk the bike back to his hideaway going east.
All awhile I still typed. On this day, nothing could bother me, well except my appetite. I opened up my peanut butter sandwich and endulged. After reading the L.A. Times, I headed for the beach and if lucky, a volleyball game.
No such luck. Anyway, my was set to visit Mel. I felt happy he had been in good hands at the Huntington Memorial off of Beach. I had told his doctor that I would like any of the care-facilities to be located closer to my Florida Street abode. The 29 bus off Pacific took me two blocks from the facility.
Mel was dead asleep. And I mean dead! "Discharge" was posted on a wall chart along with the doctors and nurses in his care. At the nurses station, Mel's nurse was nice enough to give me a summary of his medical problems.
"He leaves at 3 today."
"Where is he going?"
"Seacliff Nursing Home."
"Hey, that is on my block."
The movers came, but fortunately did not charge to life the $240 brother of mine. He was dead weight. I drove inside the coach and watched as the attendants pushed him to his new room. I signed the usual consent forms and trudged back to my apartment down the street -- with the knowledge he was in good hands.
Oh yes, the paper mentioned diabetes, heart, infected ear and eye, blind and a host of other ditties, but the main thing is he had me to watch over him, as My Mom Edith requested on her death bed.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
A Surf City Mexcan/American
Trader Joe's inside the Five Points Senior Center is where I begin and end each day. Located on Main Street a block from Beach, in the Five Points Shopping Plaza, the store wakes me up in the morning with its 17 cent bananas and free coffee. But it is the sunset of each day that I enjoy most.
There is an endless parade of flip-flops or flats flats who hobble back to their black SUV's laden with bags of wine, cheese, meats, frozen fish and veggies and just about anything you can think of. There is no football game today outside the Sushi restaurant so I settle for my lawn chair next to Trader Joe's.
A wooden lawn chair is where I spread out and allow my feet to relax after a day of chasing buses. I am happy that Mel is inside the Huntington Beach Hospital on Beach Blvd. I am overjoyed that the Huntington Beach doctor got to the core of his problem" conjunctivitis, and a bladder infection to be exact.
This evening, one of the two slanted chairs was taken, and I recognized the thin man. It was Carlos Griego, who I had met at Wal Marts when I first moved to Huntington Beach. That was when I drove my car there for a ninety cent coffee. He recognized me and allowed me to sit next to him.
"How is it going Carlos?"
"My buddy at the Gothard Shelter got me $160 of food stamps. So now I have enough wine to last me to the end of the month. Found a good place to sleep, in back of the baseball field on Talbert. Only trouble I have is with the mosquitoes. The police don't bother me since I put everything in the trash and keep my little spot clean."
"I treated myself to these strawberries. Have one?"
"No, just eaten...tired of these young kids taking all of these drugs. They are filthy!
"Why don't you get Social Security? You've got to be over sixty five."
"Wished to live day by day so took some out. Now I can't get any. But my health is excellent and I don't need much to be happy, just a little wine at night. But those dam mosquitoes and lizards bug the hell out of me."
"Can't be a pound over one hundred a five."
"Actually one hundred and ten."
Just then I heard the second siren of the night headed down my street while Carlos stood and left. I remained watching the Gap shoppers buy last minutes item while another skateboarder whizzed-by. It was going on seven and I decided to go to the fourth floor to play the piano.
Music has filled my life with joy and was a good way to relax before I headed to my room to listen to the Dodger game before dozing off to sleep.
.
There is an endless parade of flip-flops or flats flats who hobble back to their black SUV's laden with bags of wine, cheese, meats, frozen fish and veggies and just about anything you can think of. There is no football game today outside the Sushi restaurant so I settle for my lawn chair next to Trader Joe's.
A wooden lawn chair is where I spread out and allow my feet to relax after a day of chasing buses. I am happy that Mel is inside the Huntington Beach Hospital on Beach Blvd. I am overjoyed that the Huntington Beach doctor got to the core of his problem" conjunctivitis, and a bladder infection to be exact.
This evening, one of the two slanted chairs was taken, and I recognized the thin man. It was Carlos Griego, who I had met at Wal Marts when I first moved to Huntington Beach. That was when I drove my car there for a ninety cent coffee. He recognized me and allowed me to sit next to him.
"How is it going Carlos?"
"My buddy at the Gothard Shelter got me $160 of food stamps. So now I have enough wine to last me to the end of the month. Found a good place to sleep, in back of the baseball field on Talbert. Only trouble I have is with the mosquitoes. The police don't bother me since I put everything in the trash and keep my little spot clean."
"I treated myself to these strawberries. Have one?"
"No, just eaten...tired of these young kids taking all of these drugs. They are filthy!
"Why don't you get Social Security? You've got to be over sixty five."
"Wished to live day by day so took some out. Now I can't get any. But my health is excellent and I don't need much to be happy, just a little wine at night. But those dam mosquitoes and lizards bug the hell out of me."
"Can't be a pound over one hundred a five."
"Actually one hundred and ten."
Just then I heard the second siren of the night headed down my street while Carlos stood and left. I remained watching the Gap shoppers buy last minutes item while another skateboarder whizzed-by. It was going on seven and I decided to go to the fourth floor to play the piano.
Music has filled my life with joy and was a good way to relax before I headed to my room to listen to the Dodger game before dozing off to sleep.
.
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