We need to stop making more cars.

 
The year of the embargo.
The price per gallon went from 29-cents to 59-cents almost overnight.  The year was 1973 and we were living in Hawaii.  Our favorite place to fill up our 1963 Plymouth Valiant with regular gasoline was at the Penny automotive center just down the street and above Peral harbor.  Back then it was full service and to explained, full-service was a station attendant would come to the driver side window and ask if we needed a fill-up or just a dollar or twos worth.  The “station attendant” at Pennys were teen girls and boys in matching shorts and Hawaiian print tops.  Not your oil-stained khaki uniformed grease monkeys.  Just cute girls and boys.  One would switch on the gas pump and fill up your gas tank.  Others would start cleaning off your windshield.  If need others would check the oil and water level.  All defining what is meant as ‘full-service.’ 
But all of that went away when the oil embargo started sometime mid-1973.  Brought on by the OPEC nations of oil producers.  Middle eastern countries who hated us. 
As a result, the cute girls and boys went away.  So gas prices went sky high and one had to pump his or her own gas.  And, from that time on gas became scares and prices kept going up.  Then gas stations began to limit how many gallons one could buy.  With a gasoline shortage with a limit on how much one could buy, lines of cars back then became longer and longer because cars were always in need of gas and often in line gasing up.  Waiting in line went like this:  Get in line, move forward a car length, switch off the engine, restart the engine, move forward, stop the engine, restart, etc. etc.  Waiting in line wasted more gas than just driving in town.
All of this thanks to the big oil companies who imported cheaper oil from middle eastern countries.  Never mind the oil extracted domestically.  A bit more expensive but one would conserve and drive shorter distances.  None the less, why would one buy something from people who despised we Americans.  Cue the guys who flew jetliners into the World Trade Center.  And yet we still buy our oil from the middle east.  Explain this.
 
 

Well then, just zip me up.

 
In this age of downsizing.
There is the practice of shrinkflation.  Reducing the size of a product by size or weight and selling the product at the same price as its previous size or weight.  Soft drinks are coming in smaller cans but at the old price.  Sometimes with a price increase.
But here is something that literally pisses me off.  It’s the size and length of zippers on men’s pants.  In the past the typical zipper on men’s pants was about ten or eleven inches.  These days they zipper is often only three or four inches.  Creating a serious logistical problem.  If you know what I mean.
With the shorter zipper one is required, by the law of physics, to unbuckle the belt, unbutton the top button and risk dropping pants exposing oneself while using a urinal.  Or if need be, going into a toilet stall to do one’s business.  All this is downsizing so couturières can make more bucks by shortening the freaking zipper.  Gougers all of them.  Nothing but greedy profiteers.  I’m just going to wear my pajamas all day instead.  Where’s my house slippers?
 
 

A one word vocabulary.

 
Awesome.
Pardon my sarcastic judgement but I am often amused when eating out at some restaurants.  It is almost entertaining when some female waitperson serve our table.  It seems like most female servers wait on our table they speak with a little girl tone, I would guess, a full octave above their normal speaking voice.  Almost always is talking like the old cartoon character Betty Boops. 
Or possibly the voice of Olive Oil, the Popeye girlfriend cartoon character. 
Unlike Betty Boops, many male waiters attempt to talk like Darth Vader, with a James Earl Jones throaty resonance.  Hello, I’m Godzilla your server…
But anyway, today’s 20-something waitperson server was locked into the word Awesome.
Could I take your drink order?
Me: Pepsi
Server: Awesome.  And you mam
Sheba: Ice water with lemon
Server: Awesome.
Sheba: We also know what we want.
Server: Oh, awesome.
Sheba: We want blab la bla.
Server: Awesome, I’ll get that right away.
Sheba:  Could we get some straws?
Server: Oh awesome yes.
Me: I’d like ranch dressing on my salad.
Server: Oh Awesome for sure.
And it went on and on ever so awesome.
Server:  Will there be anything else?
Sheba: No.
Server Awesome, I’ll bring your check.
Server: Thanks for coming in and have an awesome day and happy new year.
 
 
 

Boy were they happy.

 
Flying the boys home.
November 1973 Sheba our three-year-old daughter and myself were flying on what they called a MAC flight from Honolulu.  The flight, on a PanAm 747 was mostly loaded with US Marines coming back from Vietnam.  A joyous flight for sure.
To back up, Sheba was back then an employee of American Airlines and were flying stand-by.  A space available ticket.  Meaning we get on a flight whenever seats were available.  Early that afternoon we had missed two flights because of no available seats. 
The reason we were on a MAC flight is Pan Am decided to fly a bunch of eager Marines back home.  The Pan Am flight was not a scheduled flight but Pan Am decided on the spare of the moment this flight could be a charter flight for the military.  So since Pan Am made this flight available and with lots of extra room, Sheba, daughter, and I were transferred to tis flight to San Francisco.  We too were elated and almost as happy as the Marines returning home.
I must admit the flight mood was almost festive and party-like.  Flight attendants were strutting up and down the aisles serving the boys with whatever Pan Am had to serve them.  Attendants were wearing some of the Marine’s hats.  The flat brimmed hats with indented crown.  The smoky bear look.
Sheba and I sat up at the bulkhead with our daughter.  One of the Marine gentlemen came up and sat with us and chatted a bit.  He said he had a daughter about our daughter’s age and was anxious to get home.  A very nice visit.  However, I could only imagine the horrific experiences most of them had.  Not a good thought.  Some of us thought the Vietnam war was senseless and without merit.
But anyway since this was a red-eye flight we were scheduled to land about six AM the coming morning.  Later we all got our instructions to return seatbacks to its upright position, stow away tray tables, and flight attendants buckle up and prepare for a landing.  The aircraft began it’s descent into the San Francisco sky.  As soon as the landing gears squealed and touched the ground a rousing cheer with clapping hands filled the main cabin from happy returning home marines.  They did what was expected of them and now they are home.
 
 

Question: Who is tapping me on my leg?

 
I swear, I’m telling the truth.
I don’t know if this is poltergeist or spooky phenomena or what.  But almost always it happens when I’m taking a brief afternoon nap.  It could be a guilt response or something like that.  But I swear it happens. 
I will be dozing and almost into dreamland and someone or something taps me twice on the leg.  But there is no one in the room or no one else in the house and tap tap on the leg.  Once I and positive I felt someone squeeze my foot when in a dreamy recumbent pose.  But, no one in the room.  Then there was a tap tap on my shoulder as I was drifting into snooze land.  All as if to say, I should be doing something productive.  Or get up and go for a walk.  Again, I’m telling the truth.
Does this ever happen to you? 
It is as real as Sheba thumping me on the leg or arm.  “And then saying, “Get up and unload the dish washer, now!”
But anyway, it has happened many times for the past few years.  It’s annoying.  It truly interrupts my very brief naps.  If only I could catch that rascal tapper.  I would put my foot up its Waa zoo.  Maybe I should write ‘Ask Amy’ or ‘Miss Manners.’  Dog gone-it anyway.
 
 

Oh Christmas tree. How do we put you away?

 
There’s got to be a better way. 
As of this date, Christmas tree is still up and plugged in.  At thanksgiving Sheba is more than willing to haul down the attic the half dozen boxes to erect and decorate a tree.  However, when it comes time to dismantle and put the tree and its accoutrements back in its proper box, feet seem to drag.  Excuse begats delaying.  What once was joyously engaged in way before Christmas becomes dread and sudden reluctance.  “I’ll wait until grandson comes and he can help with disassembling and hauling it back up into the attic.” 
If it all was left up to me I would buy a tree that opens out like an umbrella with ornaments and lights already in place and then plug it in.  Then reverse the entire operation and put it neatly back into its single box.  There!  Finished and done.  An almost automatic process.  Happy undoing Christmas.
 
 

Oh nuts with a White Christmas.

 
I’m dreaming of a somewhat hazy Christmas.
Just like the ones I use to know.  Just like in my little village of Los Angeles.  Busy with people and cars honking, crowded shopping malls, difficulty finding a parking space, and a red-kettled bell ringer at every mall entrance.  Not to mention a light shroud of smog surrounding the numerous palm trees.
And if you aren’t at the many malls, you would probably be at one of the many beaches.  Huntington, Redondo, Malibu and on up the coast.
So you would first grab a light breakfast of bagel and veggie cream cheese along with a cup of hot snicker doodled coffee.  Then head to either a huge shopping mall or Walmart and/or Target.  I prefer shopping at Best Buy myself.
Just the bumper-to-bumper traffic getting to the mall is worth the togetherness.  I’m sure we could all sing Jingle Bells or possibly even White Christmas while sitting idle in our electric vehicles.  Merry Christmas.
 
 

I’ll watch the bag. You go pee.

 
After celebrating Christmas with the In-laws on the mainland.
Wife and I were sitting in the waiting area at the San Francisco airport or SFO.  Waiting on our plane to depart going back to Honolulu to our island home.  Then a distinguished swarthy looking middle eastern man in a nice gray tailored suit and wearing a turban approached me with a leather briefcase.
Now let me explained, This gentleman could have, by my limited judgement, could have been a gentleman from either India or the middle east.  And forgive me for saying, they all looked the same to me.
But anyway, he placed the briefcase on the floor in front of the seat next to me.  Then he asked me if I would mind watching his briefcase while he goes into the Men’s room.  He said he would be right back.  Certainly.  As I continued my conversation with Sheba I placed my hand on his case so others might see I’m in control of things.  Okay?
Now, this was years before TSA, long lines, shoes off, hijacks, and exploding luggage.  I wasn’t even thinking of such a thing.  So a few moments back into wife and my conversation The gentleman returned and reclaimed his case with a kind thanks.  All without incident.
Now if this had happened today, people would have scattered and yelled BOMB!  Duck for cover!
But it all turned out okay.  We caught our Pan-Am flight and flew back to paradise.  Merry Christmas.
 
 

Twas the night before Christmas

 
The night before Christmas and peeking out the back window shade.
It must had been about 10-O-clock and I was peeking out the back bedroom window.  What I saw was most encouraging.  I saw my dad carrying into the back door a brand-new blue Schwinn 3-speed racer bicycle.  I thought to myself, hot diggitydog!  How am I going to sleep tonight.  But somehow I managed to fall asleep. 
Then the following morning I began to hear people stir and talk softly.  Then the phone rang and someone said it was our old maid Aunt Elsie wanting to know if all were up and ready for Christmas morning.  She would be right over with more gifts. 
Then my dad came to our bedroom door and knocked.  Get up you guys, Aunt Elsie will be here in a minute or two.  Plus the Morgan’s(my mom’s sister’s family) across the way will be her any time.
It didn’t take a half second to get up, go pee, and wash my hands, and dash into the living room. 
And there to my surprise were two brand new Schwinn bicycles.  One blue and one red.  My brother quickly stated the blue three-speed racer bike with hand breaks was his.  The red single speed slower looking bike with big fat tires and coaster breaks was mine.  He went on to say he bought the three-speed himself with his paper rout money.  Never mind I had to help my brother at no cost to him; deliver his freaking papers before sunrise each morning as firmly requested by my dad.  Or else.
Merry Christmas.
 
 

Chicken Pox for Christmas.

Second grade 1952.

It was our class last day of school and we were having a Christmas party with cupcakes and small candy canes.  We had drawn names and was not to spend more than 25-cents for a gift.  So we ate our cupcakes, gave out the gifts, and I was looking forward to a nice two-week Christmas vacation.

Then my teacher, Mrs. Block asked me if I could drop off a gift for Georgie Hernandez.  Georgie was missing because he was home with the chicken pox and he lived just up the street from me.  So I agreed to drop off his gift.

Then off I went headed home and first came to Georgie’s house, walked up the steps, rang the  doorbell, and Mrs. Hernandez opened the door.  I explained to her I had Georgie’s gift from the drawn names at our second grade Christmas party.  Standing just behind Mrs. Hernandez was Georgie himself in pajamas.  So I quickly gave her the gift and ran home.

The next morning I woke up, walked into the kitchen and told my mom I was itching all over.  She looked and saw red spots all over my face and neck.  She proclaimed, Butch!  You’ve got the Chicken Pox.  Get back into your PJs and go back to bed.  Fortunately my brother and sister had chicken pox already and wasn’t affected.  So all through Christmas vacation I was in bed.  Miraculously it all stopped and went away the first day of school in the New Year.  Some Christmas I had.  Bah Humbug.

Well, I did get an electric train set for Christmas and my dad set it up around our little Christmas tree.