Entries Tagged 'Life' ↓

It is a finger snap. A bad relationship. I have lost more years to the fog of a cloudy memory; years of nothing connected by landmark moments in my life.

Life. It’s a wish in the wind carried on the petals of a daisy, and as such carries along and lasts just as long as there’s a breeze to lift and dance the moments of each day. If I only had but a short time left, that is where I would start – to find a breeze to make each day blend long and lovingly into the next. But there is always hope. And God, the two things that remain after you peel back the layers and reveal the simplicity of life.

That’s what I would do. I’d make things easy. I would stop driving to work in the morning. I would get up with my wife and daughter, and start the day with a smile.

I would still go to work each day.
But the work would not be the mundane toil that generates a paycheck; it would be the work of a legacy, soft and strong, a reminder of who I was and what I offered, and an investment into the future. I would write books. I know, just as I know how to say my name, that I have one, maybe more, inside my heart and mind. I would write one poem a day, about the grass. And the stars, the crooked smile on my daughter’s face, the cool touch of my wife’s hand. I would write about it all. I would write enough songs for an album, never to be sung except in the hearts of those I love. And I would pray, but not for salvation — except perhaps in weak moments when my will wavered and my sorrow rushed the void. I would try to pray for my family, and for peace and strength. And I would pray that God was listening, and that he cared.

Mostly, I would stop worrying about the future, because a finger snap has no future and no past — just the collision of thumb and finger, the punctuation of the present.

Five years, or fifty, perhaps that is something I ought to put more time into enjoying.

My day begins before the sun arrives. In the morning dark, that semi-friendly time of the day where you can just barely make out the traces of the night before, I sit up, shake my head and clear up my head.

Damn. My feet are hurting again. Better wear my nylons to bed tomorrow night. The dog is sleeping at my feet, the wife is snoring in our large Californian King, and the kid is asleep, sideways, on her bed, no doubt dreaming about monsters or dogs or princes. I forget my dreams, mostly. The ones I do remember are usually the result of medication, and sometimes a late night snack, peanut butter and jelly, chips and ESPN. Those are the dreams that make me feel funniest; usually they are of dark men and darker intent, sneaking around our stucco home. It butts up against the hills and we can hear the coyotes howl on cold nights when sound travels and food is scarce.

I look at my clock and think: one hour from the time I get up. I can be at work, best case scenario, in one hour.

Damn. Late again.

I yank the shower knob and step under the stream, searching for soap and a reason to open my eyes. Quick – think – what do you have to look forward to today? I was supposed to be a great man. But somewhere along the way I sold it for a comfortable couch and a remote control. Used to be that I could work for hours – 14, 15 a week, sleep for an hour and do it all over again. I can’t do that anymore, not even close, though my younger colleagues can and it puts me at a distinct disadvantage. Then I go home and play with my daughter, while the rest of them go home to their condos on the beach and sexy girl friends. They work late, usually, because there’s nothing good on tv most days and they have nothing better to do than build their careers. Most already have kids, all divorced or ignored.

I have to get my work done in 10 hours, something that is becoming more of a challenge everyday. Think it’s easy? Make the choice: get to know your wife and child or get to know your work. Can’t have both, not anymore, there are no more jobs out there that let a fella be a family man with a real career. So I go to work, knowing that I will not get everything done, and that if I don’t leave at a certain time, my one hour commute will turn mean and long, two hours of choked traffic, bumper to bumper for 30 miles or more.

I will get home after my kid goes to bed, get up and leave before she awakens. And the next thing you know, it’s been a week and I have yet to speak to my only child.

And the weeks turn so easily into years.

If I could, I would smoke for the rest of my life.

Not because I enjoy it; and not because it makes me cool, and certainly not because my friends are doing it. I simply started a long, long, time ago and now it is as much a part of who I am as my nose or my eyes or my voice or my cough.

There�s no getting away from it. Once you smoke, the stink stays on you.

So I quit; but not because I really wanted to. I quit because I am afraid of being a loser, and smokers are, in fact, the biggest group of losers around. The science is clear � smokers die young. And unless you are a Bible Thumping Bushie or a Muslim Loon, no one really wants to die at 55 with two black lungs. The only reason people smoke is for the addiction, and the addiction will kill you just as sure as getting stoned on crack will put you in a box � it just takes longer.

So I quit. Cold turkey. For months.

And then I started again. And then I quit again. And all I really know is that if I could, I would smoke for the rest of my life.

Earl’s Home Cookin’
Chicken Fried Steak and Eggs, steaming hot and full of grease. Or maybe it’ll be the New York Steak and Eggs, served with a heaping pile of home fries spilling off the platter. And be sure to order up those delicious biscuits soaked in gravy so thick you could eat the lumps with a fork.

Ahh. There’s nothing quite like a plate full of lard.

And there’s no better place to get it than Earl’s Home Cookin’ Restaurant in Orange. Through good times and bad, Earl’s has been the place where real (but not real healthy) Americans go to chow down on traditional coffee shop fare — and is there anything more American than a huge steak served with a slab of potatoes, or a sandwich so big you can barely manage to wrap your jaws around it?

If you want entertainment, go to Lenny’s and play with the table tents. But if you want a hot cup of coffee and food sure to satisfy, go to the only place on the safe side of the Southland that’s open 25 hours a day. At Earl’s, if you wait to be seated you’ll wait for a long time. The menus are where they belong–on the tables–and what the servers lack in sophistication they more than make up for in friendliness and ability.

It’s worst because no one ever lost weight eating at Earl’s.

Earl’s is simply the best worst place to eat in OC. It’s best for one simple reason: nothing ever beats a good piece of meat and pile of potatoes. Yeah, they’ve got salads and such on the menu, and I’m sure they do a good job of it, too, but no one seriously eats that stuff at Earl’s. What you get ain’t foo foo food–just old-fashioned grub and good service at a reasonable price.

In fact, spend enough time here and you’ll start looking like one of the regulars. Which is to say you might start looking like a real Orange Countian. If you ever wondered if there was a thing called locals in such a transient place like Orange County, Earl’s is the local’s natural habitat. It’s here you’ll find the working stiffs and business owners gobbling down lunch. And of course, the pyramid-scheme salespeople are always here, hunched over tables and pitching their game to some poor sucker.

Best of all is the smoking section — I mean the indoor patio.

Out where the air is thick you’ll find the senior crowd puffing on their Lucky Strikes, hangin’ out and talking about Reagan to a runny-nose gang of students from Chapman University.

Which is exactly what happens when you put real food in front of real people.

That’s Life
The following stories are fictionalized accounts of actual police reports.

All he got was a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, an awkward smile and a handshake. It all happened in a blur, and even though deep down inside he knew it was coming, he still went numb to the news.

Downsized. Laid off. Canned. Just an ordinary man, an unlucky ordinary man who got a pink slip for Christmas.

Should have listened to that little voice that told him to save, to stop living paycheck to paycheck. But times were so good, everyone was so prosperous. How could this happen in the fastest growing economy in the nation?

All he got was a dirty smile and a sarcastic shrug from a boss who never really liked him anyway. It makes him wonder why; he always worked hard and kept his nose clean. The reason dawns on him as he drains his third martini. He wasn’t one of them, and everyone knows those guys stick together. This unlucky ordinary man is looking for someone to blame.

It doesn’t take long to find something to burn.

It sits in front of a house in the same Fountain Valley neighborhood he calls home, just a couple of streets over from his own. Bastards. He’ll show them. He’ll burn that damn Chanukah flag.

Except the thing won’t catch fire. No matter how many times he holds the flag up to a match, the thing will not blaze up like all the times he’s seen it done on television. He runs out of matches and tries ripping it–but only breaks the pole.

He leaves it lying on the ground in front of his neighbor’s house, a broken flag with a hole burned in the center.

Fountain Valley…
Someone removed a resident’s Chanukah flag from a holder outside the home, broke the flagpole and attempted to burn the flag sometime Thursday night. The flag did not catch on fire, but a 1-inch hole was burned into it. It was left on the driveway.
—
He always knew a sales career was not for the thin-skinned. That was OK; it was a decent living and he was tough enough to take it. As a salesperson at a Fullerton furniture store, he got his share of challenges. Every time he thought he’d blow it, he’d recall what the old man who trained him would say:

“Don’t ever let ‘em see you sweat, Charles. Don’t ever let them see the real you.” It was good advice, but Charles believed that to maintain self-dignity you had to draw a line. He just hoped he’d never find out what would happen if a customer made him cross past the point of no return.

John walked into the store looking for a fight. Traffic was terrible and Christmas was racking up ever more in credit card debt. Why he was here he didn’t really know for sure, except for some vague notion that his wife wanted a china hutch.

This was supposed to be the store with the cheapest furniture and easiest credit terms. He had already been turned down three times, and John was not used to rejection. Charles smiled and told him not to worry. They approve everyone, he said. Bad credit, no credit–no matter. Everyone got furniture here.

He showed John every single hutch in the store, opened all the doors and drawers for his careful inspection.

John haggled. Charles told him the price was not negotiable.

He called him a liar. Charles asked him not to be insulting.

Finally, John realized he was getting nowhere, so he picked the first hutch Charles showed him and asked for the paperwork. Charles smiled and told him not to worry. They approve everyone here–bad credit, no credit, no matter. Everyone gets credit at this furniture store.

They approve everyone here–bad credit, no credit, no matter.

Everyone, unless your name is John and you’re maxed out beyond hope. No one trusted his signature anymore–not even the easiest furniture store in town.

It gets a little fuzzy after that. John started getting crazy, yelling and shouting and creating a scene. Charles remembers that John said some pretty nasty things, and at some point he decided that he didn’t want to be a punching bag anymore. He can’t recall what it was that did the trick. All Charles knows is that he pushed John out of the store and closed the door.

John called the cops and filed assault charges.

Fullerton… Report of an assault…apparently a furniture salesman grabbed a customer and pushed him out of the store.

Trampled Underfoot
It stood next door to the Fullerton train station, about a block from downtown and on a little rise overlooking Harbor Boulevard. It was almost an eyesore — a bit tatty and dirty — and, truth be told, most of the patrons were also a bit on the eyesore side.

But my, how the Melody Inn would rock.

On weekends the Jazz would go on all night, bouncing off walls and swirling around chairs, dancing on table tops, grabbing the audience by the scruff of the neck and shaking the blues right out onto the floor.

When it burned down they built a Spaghetti Factory.

Belisles was very much like the old Melody Inn, but instead of Jazz musicians it had history on its side. Stuck on a bad corner between Garden Grove and Anaheim, this was the place where past met present over a heaping helping of the best food in Orange County.

On Katella Avenue, the only Googie left is the Anaheim Convention Center’s spaceship top.

Forty-four years of memories were preserved in that place, four decades of history chronicled on menus, walls and bookshelves. Belisles was the best museum in Orange County because it combined the two things most responsible for the development of the county: farming and tourism. At Belisles, you ate a farmer’s dinner next to a family of Mickey Mouse heads from Australia.

When they knocked it down they left the old sign — 5 out of 4 eat here — up for a day or so. It was an appropriate grave marker for yet another piece of OC history trampled underfoot.

Elsewhere, the old character survives, at least for now: Angleos still has the big, bright red sign.

Back in the day, that old Belisles sign was a giant freestanding beacon to hungry people driving down Harbor Boulevard. Big and bold, with the letters stretching 30 feet or so across the top, it was like so many that injected personality into the community. Space ships, planets and rocket launchers adorned the establishments dotting Harbor and Katella, from the Inn of Tomorrow to the Astro. Colorful? Yes. Ugly? Perhaps. Unique? Definitely. Each multi-colored extravaganza served a greater purpose than that of standard signs: “Googie” architecture was a thematic, creative way to offer travelers a unique experience.

Anaheim Plaza does a passable job of recreating the Googie look of old times.

Today, the Inn of Tomorrow is called Best Western Stovall’s Inn.

I can imagine a conversation between a couple who vacationed at Disneyland: “Honey, do you remember that motel we stayed at? Wasn’t it owned by that stuffing company, Stouffers, or something?

Something tells me that guests had no trouble recalling the Inn of Tomorrow. Not that a dirty little motel with funky signs and landscaping would ever matter in the big picture of redevelopment.

It’s just the same as orange groves and hills: eventually, they all have to come down.