If you are among the unfortunate who had never experienced cross-country road travel back in the 1950s and 1960s you missed the little red Burma Shave signs. Sequential placards with whimsical limericks sponsored by Burma Shave. The little red signs were usually spaced fifty or sixty feet apart and usually tacked to wooden fence posts. There typically would be five or six little 1-foot by 3-foot red signs with two or three words all in a clever rhyme ending with Burma Shave. A shave cream sold back in the 1940s and up into current times. My dad on our road trips would spot these signs and alert us restless kids as we approached each sign.
They would read something like this:
He held her close.
He said he gotta.
I would like my sweet
A Green chili enchilada.
BURMA SHAVE
Book Report of a classic
John Steinbeck’s classic Earthy novel Cannery Row was most likely assigned you along with a hand full of other books to read in senior English in high school. A novel set in the depression years of the 1930s pre-world war II. However as you may know there is a sequel set in post World War II titled Sweet Thursday. Also staged along Cannery Row on the central coast of California. Presented with some of the same characters; including Doc, Mac, Hazel and introducing Susie and a few others. All centering on a few storefront businesses, a flop house, brothel, an empty weeded lot, and Doc’s marine biology business.
But anyway the title is Sweet Thursday by John Steinbeck, fiction 1954. Story focuses on Doc after his return from a few years in the Army and attempts to revive his marine biology business. . Quickly the row’s occupants can tell there is something going on with Doc. Lots of drinking, loneliness, lethargy, and a need to accomplish something.
Again, it’s titled Sweet Thursday. It’s a good read with humor, sadness, determination, and a tiny bit of romance.
I know Pizza.
I grew up in L A where they have Pizza. My first encounter with pizza was with a box of Chef Boy-ar-dee pizza making kit. I was 12-years old when watching my mom assemble the box kit pizza. Saw her do it at least two times before I took my turn. The time I made the pizza in a box kit my middle sister asked me what were the little chopped green veggies were scattered over the pizza sauce and dough. Before I could answer she surmised it was green bell pepper. So, I let her assume that. But I neither had chopped onion nor green bell peppers to sprinkle on the dough. Not sure if she could tell what it was but the truth was, it was chopped sweet pickles. Well, it looked good anyway.
My first experience with eating real professional baked pizza was a restaurant called Deluca’s. Its early days were pizza and some pasta served in a one room dining room with kitchen and a short bar. Basic eating hall but the square pan pizza was pretty darn good. So success came early for Delucas. Gold and red flocking began to adorn the walls of their modest eatery, then oil painted portraits of the owner and his wife and children in a Godfather like fashion were hung on the newly flocked walls, and hanging from the center of the dining room was a rather large crystal chandelier. A monstrous chandelier that would look appropriate hanging from a ceiling in a large hotel ballroom. But the real measure of Deluca’s success was a Rolls-Royce parked out back. Not bad for baking pizza. Let’s hope that is all it was.
None the less, I have sampled pizza from Boston to Los Angeles. And many places in-between. But my most memorable time eating pizza was a New York pizza joint in Tulsa Oklahoma. The guy who ran the place had first come from New York with a transfer of many American Airline employees to American’s maintenance and Admin offices in Tulsa. But later quit the airline and opened up his own pizzeria. Having eaten New York style pizza before we visited his place and started to dig in and eat some of his NY-style pizza. Wife and I were eating away and the guy came over and mentioned, “You guys are not from Oklahoma are you?” He went on to explained; you guys don’t eat pizza with a fork. You guys are eating my pizza with your hands. Just like we do in New York. My thought was doesn’t everybody eat pizza with their hands? Nope. Oklahomans eat with their fork, he explained. But me being a kid who grew up in an Okie family in East Los Angeles we ate almost everything with our hands. Especially fried chicken and biscuits. So, to this day I eat pizza with my hands. It works best that way.
Very smart already.
Going into the third grade.
Granddaughter E-8 and soon to be 9 is headed for third grade this fall. As far as I’m concerned she should be entering Grad-school. Just three legos short of Einstein genius. Far beyond my apprenticeship to the Seven Dwarfs.
But if I were to teach her third grade class, this is what I would teach a third grade Rhode scholar:
First, the delicate fine art of scooping a kitty litter box. Plus daily feeding and watering of three family cats.
Next, the care and placement of underwear and toys. The bedroom floor is not where undies, shoes, dinosaurs, and ear buds reside. They go into closets, chest of drawers, and shelves.
Finally, practicing piano without reminder is an imperative on one’s own resume. That and going out front to the mailbox and retrieving the mail is also an important item on a good comprehensive resume. And equal to that is opening and reading letters sent to her by her Papa. A written response would be the icing on the cake.
So, welcome to third grade.
How fast can you drink that?
On our annual non-stop summer vacation trips from Los Angeles to Oklahoma we drove across the southern desert of California, southern Arizona, deserts and mountains of New Mexico, west Texas, and south central Oklahoma. On this overnight 24-hour endurance run we would briefly stop at some Texaco stations for potty and a Coke. Back then, in the early 1950s, an eight ounce glass bottle of Coke from a big red Coke machine was Five-cents. If you kept the bottle it was an additional two-cent deposit. More money than I wanted to spend. So I quickly guzzled down the Coke and placed the empty bottle back in the empties rack because my dad did not want to spend much time at the gas station. So our stops were about five-minutes long. Faster than the pit stops at the Indy-500. Only enough time to visit the boy’s room and wolf down a bottle of Coke. If you had ever drunk a coke in thirty-seconds a sudden reaction will almost always occur. Especially if you are eight-years old. It’s amazing how loud a bubbling belch could come from a small grade school boy. Not to mention the soda fizz that erupts out the boy’s nostrils. Creating a burning and tear producing re-action. Boy howdy it hurt. “Get in the car son!” So after a brief head-count we are off like Andy Granatelli.
The very big news.
The Cleveland baseball team known as the Indians has changed their name to the Cleveland Guardians. Out of respect to Native Americans. As they should.
However, the designation Indian as coined by early explorers was a “misnomer.” The early explorers thought they had reached India. Therefore calling whomever they ran into as “Indians.” Boy were they ever wrong. Their GPS was a bit off. They had only sailed half way and came to a dead end. None the less, calling the new world in the Gulf of Mexico and Bahamas the West Indies.” They should have been called “The Locals” or “Westerners.” Maybe even the “Columbians.” So in essence unmisnomering those as Indians are even wrong.
But as a result of all this misnaming Indiana, Indianapolis, Indianola, Indio, and yet even Indiana Jones names must be changed out of respect to India. But really, Native Americans have no claim to the name Indians. Only the Indians in India. Are you following me?
So, to play Cowboys and Indians as well will have to be corrected. It probably should be “Cowboys and Originals.” Or Cowboys and the first people on the North American continent.” Does get a bit confusing.
So for the Cleveland Indians to change their name is out of respect to India. Now, does this settle this matter?
Therefore the sport teams called the Braves, The Warriors, the Chiefs, the Red Skins, or the Pow Wows must all be changed out of respect to the American indigenous people. Go Originals!
Rocketing to the big red planet.
Mars, why would anyone in their sober mind want to travel to Mars? Is Mars the fourth planet from the sun? None the less, anything big and red must invariably be hardcore Republican. Far far to the right. Wouldn’t you think? Why would any earthling want to rocket to a planet filled with conservatives. A hostel place with people who lean right. Good grief Berry Goldwater!
So, where is the big Blue planet? I’m looking for a Blue Planet with lots of liberals. Must be way out in the outer reaches of the galaxy. Frozen. A big ball of ice maybe.
But anyway, there are some folks who want to go to Mars and populate the big Rouge colored ball. But you know come to think of it Mars would be an excellent place for Republicans. And the more the better. However, the first interplanetary rocket will have, as reported, about a hundred adventurist souls. Scientists, engineers, mathematicians, astronomers, geologist, technowizzards, and a flight crew with flight attendants and some really bad in-flight food. Could you imagine sitting in the middle seat for six months? Yes, it will take six months to get to Mars. You would think there would be a faster way to get there. And never mind the ‘Air Rage’ that will inevitably happen if they have to wear medical masks.
Now, when these brave souls arrive on Mars they will need to build their colony from scratch. But wait a minute. There is no Home Depot or Wal-mart on Mars to buy their lumber and building goods. There’s no CVS to buy TP, band aids, or deodorant. And worse of all, no Starbucks. This alone is reason to stay home on earth. How can one exist without a morning Latte? I don’t know about you but this is not looking good.
By the way, I found the big blue planet. We are already there. The big blue planet is our Earth. Good. I’ll stay home. Maybe go visit Bill and Hillary.
They came from everywhere.
The Los Angeles neighborhood I grew up in was a mixed jumble of nationalities, religions, dialects, and varying skin tones. To label it a melting pot is an understatement. It was the United Nations of East L A. Mostly working class blue collar folks all with several things in common; register to vote, educate the kids, and work towards retirement.
The Hispanics go back several generations. Even before statehood. Mostly Mexicans and Native Americans. Mixed in with Russian and some Asian. So here they came. After California statehood came more Russians, Armenian, middle easterners, Chinese, Japanese, Polynesian, Filipino, Korean, Central American, German, Italian, French, British, Catholics, Jews, Lutheran, protestants, Eastern Orthodox, Buddhist, New Yorkers, Ohioans, Texans, and Arkies and Okies. And yet, even more.
They all came to find job and opportunity. They all came to make sure their children have a better early life than themselves. Work hard, live modestly, save money, buy a house, and support their neighbors. The American Dream was their common goal.
Today a new generation of immigrants is knocking at our borders and shores. Immigrants who are attempting to escape threats on their lives and others just wanting to earn a decent living. People willing to work hard in order to feed their families and find education for their children. You see them almost everywhere on roofs tacking down shingles in the midday sun. Pruning, clipping, mowing, and grooming our landscape. Laying bricks, applying stucco to walls, and pouring concrete for a foundation. Many in the farm fields picking fruit and vegetables for your evening salads and your breakfast creations. Others work against time to ready hospital and hotel rooms for new visitors. And generally laboring diligently with jobs most of us just don’t want. You might call it entry level America. A fresh beginning for many. Our ancestors came this way. So can the new generation immigrant. Welcome, work hard, and take care of your family. God bless immigrants and God bless us all. Amen.
Mysteries by the foot.
Help me understand this. I wear socks and shoes most days. I have house shoes and street shoes. All worn with either long socks of little footie socks. Rarely do I walk around in my house or outside barefoot. Plus my feet go with me when I take a shower.
So, here is the question. How does dirt make its way in-between each of my toes? Some call it ‘toe jam.’ Just accumulated gritty dusty dirty dirt. Again, my feet are protected by sock and shoe. Sometimes protected by my pant leg covering the top of the shoe. So and again, how does that granular grit get between my toes? Necessitating me to remove the fine gravel with my fingers. But in order to remove the foot soot I must wedge my fingers between each toe and shovel it out. Just an awful thing to do. But it needs to be done. Just a freaking smelly mess.
So here is my suggestion. To keep from touching the icky stuff someone should invent and manufacture “toe floss.” Perhaps a thick cotton string. Just run a strand of toe floss in-between each toe and then toss the floss out. It could be branded as “Dr. Foot’s Feet Floss” or “Jam Ram.” What do you think?
Why vote to take away my benefits?
Why would I want to support and vote for someone who wants to suppress voting rights for many minorities? Why would I want to support and vote for someone who wishes to discourage immigrants seeking asylum in America and looking for a new life and beginning? Why would I support and vote for someone who wants to take away affordable healthcare from working class people and their families? Why would I want to support or vote for someone intent on taking away my Social Security and Medicare? Why would I support or vote for someone wanting to reduce government funds going to education and teachers? Why would I want to support and vote for someone who would disallow women to choose for themselves? Why would I support or vote for someone who Denys the need for vaccine to prevent Covid-19 and the variants? Why would I support or vote for someone who would deny food or drink to someone waiting in line to vote? And why would I vote for someone who thinks our last presidential election was stolen and ought to be reversed after many recounts and court decisions? Why? Just why? Tell me please.
Chuck the Blogger Guy 