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)
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