"Et tu, Brute?" The Werewolf of Venice

(Continued) I apologize for being late on getting this one out.. but as it turned out, after my epic clash with the rooster, (which was once a close ally) the insidious beast was now nothing more to me than a backstabbing traitor... "Et tu, Brute?"

Needless to say, I was late for school.

I wasn't happy that I had to give excuses for my being late to school, either. I tried the best I could to explain why to my seventh grade teacher, Sister Edith. I went on about how it was trash day and how it was my job (even though I had fifteen thousand older brothers) to drags the cans (all by myself) to the ally because of my "Saint Francis" relationship I had built with the mini-Godzilla (when my brothers tried to kill me by burying in the Igloo of Death Post 2/27/14) and how the ugly attack rooster wouldn't let anyone else in the backyard and how all of this had something to do with the Mexican Tomato plants...

I don't know what it was...but I don't think that a 12-year-old is supposed to use words like: Saint Francis, Godzilla and Mexican Tomato plants all in the same sentence or all in one long breath. She interrupted me, impatiently tapping her worn out yardstick on the old brown desk. 'Rude! Hello!' I thought.

Thump Thump Thump! Tap Tap Tap!  The sound of her rapping that stick on her desk gave me a flashback! My pre-pubescent PTSD kicked in and I zoned out!

The rest of the kids in the class room started laughing. 'What?'  I thought, 'Like this doesn't happen to any of you other little creeps. Yeah like none of you have attack roosters and a Staff-Sergeant-Dad, who beats on the ceiling with a broom handle on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings. Like none of you have to eat oatmeal with meal worms before you get here. Like no one else here has ever had to wrestle an alligator or has been bitten by a snake or thrown over a cliff or shot at with needle-tipped arrows, electrocuted or dropped out of a window. Sure, right, like none of you other kids haven't ever had to do battle with a prehistoric monster first thing in the morning before school.' I sneered at the class and looked at all the empty eyes staring back and then it dawned on me!


THEY DIDN'T!  Normal People didn't have a giant frog the size of a beagle that ate baby chickens, or an alligator, or a monkey, or rattlesnakes, or chuckwallas or a bazillion rabbits and guinea pigs, turtles, a nasty looking cat that had been raised from the dead... or a pigeon that lived on top of the refrigerator or mushrooms that grew in the shower.    

I forgot that the Dahlins weren't normal...by any stretch of the imagination... and then realized that they thought I was making this entire story up about having to do battle with Godzilla before even getting to school! Like it wasn't true! 'Idiots! What do they know?'

Their stupid excuses on the other hand were like pathetic white bread in comparison, "My dog ate my homework." Hello, gag me with a spoon! "I stubbed my toe and my mom rushed me to the emergency room and I had to keep it elevated all day and had to watch cartoons and eat ice cream."  Whaaaaaa! Really? 'Oh poor baby, call the Whammmbulance!'

They thought I was joking and Sister Edith thought I was trying to make fun of her and she pulled a desk up to the front of the room and made me sit right next to her all day long! She wouldn't even let me show her the blood that had run down my leg and into my red Ked sneakers.  "Sheeze-Louise"

Trust me, someone was going to get it!  "Stay clear or my, oh my!"  Forget about the boys for a minute - one of them was bound to get it at recess. But. there. THEY. were! The girls! Ughhhhhhh. Looking at me like I was some alien creature from Mars.  Marilyn and Theresa and Julie and ANDREA!  I knew I didn't stand a chance with the girls against regular boys who were human-beings from planet earth.

Stupid
Dumb
Retarded
There I sat like a wounded or sickly wolf cut out of the pack - right up next to Sister Edith's desk. It was like I had leprosy or some contagious disease.

"Head tones" the Catholic nun screeched.  No! She wasn't about to get 'head tones' from me today... I refused to sing!

I was somewhere outside the Troposphere... Flying in one of the Apollo rocket ships on the way to the moon. I was trying to get away and thought that maybe I could live up there - if I was lucky!

"Read the question Mark!" Sister Edith bellowed judiciously from the platform where her desk was perched! My spaceship crash landed and I was suddenly back on planet Earth, in Venice, in the seventh grade, in a room at Saint Mark's school. I fumbled around for what seemed like 20 pressured-filled minutes trying to find the page we were on and didn't have a clue where we were. I knew it had something to do with Pavlov's dog, and, in a conditioned involuntary reflex I began reading in the middle of the page at the exact same time that Earnestine started to read! Sister slapped my desk with her yardstick and yelled at me.

I had no idea why the nun had gone berserk! First the rooster, now her! In front of the entire class, she wrapped my knuckles with her ruler and broke the thing over my hand. 'Ha! That'll teach her' I thought.

After Earnestine began reading again, I looked down the page of the text book and realized that she hadn't asked me to read.  She had asked Earnestine to read the paragraph following the QUESTION MARK - you know - a question mark the little squiggly thing with a dot that looks like this...
          ?
I thought she had asked me to read the question!  But she had asked Earnestine to read the question mark.

Alright! Touché Sister, this one was yours - you won this one, fair and square.  I limped outside for recess and all the boys wanted to see my bloody knuckles. They thought it was cool how I made up the big story about having to fight a rooster this morning and then how I dared to disrupt the class by reading right over the top of Ernestine, especially since I was in whacking distance of Sister Edith's notorious yardstick. 

Acting braver than I really was, my bloody knuckles were now a middle-school badge of honor and I said, "Oh Yeah!" and tried not to limp. Ricky said it was the best excuse story he had ever heard and all the smelly 12-year-old boys laughed in agreement. They thought I was cool for making up such a far fetch story about guard roosters and Saint Francis and all that! 

Anyway, I had been attacked by a rooster, humiliated, threatened with a stick and whacked with a ruler by a 300-year-old nun. Like one of Pavlov's dogs my fuse was a little short because of all the stimuli I had been subjected to this morning and knew that I had a long hard day in front of me. 

Ralph, the guy who helped me nearly cut off my leg 5 months ago, (blog post 11/29/13) Harry and I decided that we would ditch kickball and twirl ourselves around like helicopters instead. Actually the cool kids didn't pick Harry for one of the teams and I felt sorry for him.

And... this is when the Inner-Viking - the fuse blew... and Pavlov's passive dog turned into a werewolf that snapped. 

Poor, Poor, Terry!  

Blame it on the rooster, on Sister Edith, on her stick - her broken ruler; blame it on my PTSD...blame it on a conditioned involuntary reflex... blame it on my past electrocutions...but none-the-less, I really think Terry deserved what he got next!         
   

Karl Dahlin, the FISHERMAN and his "mighty" crew

I think being a fisherman is something that is definitely one of those "Nature or Nurture" arguments. My Dad, Carl R. Dahlin, loved to fish and took us all the time.

Pictured (right is) Kurt and Karin, Karl showing off all the fish he caught limit and me-his fishing-pole caddy.

We practically grew up with a fishing pole in our hands. We went fishing at the Kings River, at Salton Sea, off of the Redondo Beach Pier, the Santa Monica Pier and the Venice pier.  We caught corbina and bonita, bass and trout, and mackerel and halibut and albacore, however, it just didn't take in my case. Don't get me wrong, I liked being with dad and the gang of brothers...but fishing just took too long and required a lot of patience. I was diagnosed with sever hyperactivity and just couldn't sit still that long (if you don't believe me, ask Sister Godzilla or Sister Edith - they'll tell you). Karl on the other hand...I think he probably came out of my momma's belly holding a fishing pole (that's why the prank on the little old lady next door was so appropriate - post 5/9/2013). He loved to fish; it was something that couldn't be nurtured in me, but was definitely part of his "nature." He was hooked (that was a pun if you didn't catch it - and so was that - I'll stop already).

Pictured left (Erick, me and Tommy)







Here we all are below in that old boat back in 1961 that I was telling you about... "Just look at it!" It was practically decrepit 8 years ago already... and now it sat in our front yard under the palm tree, collecting dates and breading mosquitoes in the green rain water that was slowly rotting the floor boards.

By this time in 1969, Karl had painted the boat, but it didn't mean that it was any more sea-worthy, just because it had a fresh coat of blue paint... Pshaw - sea worthiness never stopped a fisherman - did it? the motto was, "just get a bigger bucket for bailing!"






































Karl took that old '59 Johnson, 35 horsepower outboard motor and had it strapped inside a trashcan filled with water right at the bottom of the front stairs (outside - just in case you thought I was talking about having the motor in the living room or something - but don't put that past us either).

He wrestled with that motor for two months...as a plume of blue smoke filled Harding Avenue choking the neighbors who smelled the foul fumes of the old gas-mixture from the ancient machine that roared above everyone in the neighborhood who had to scream above the tired old motor as it revved and sputtered and coughed and shot water from the vibrating trashcan...while Gherhing the Great and I (still in our Giant uniforms) stood by soaking wet with wrenches in our hands like operating room assistants as Karl worked his magic and performed surgery on the tired old motor.

This hopeful optimism on for some time swapping pieces from older motors in the backyard, until one Saturday after operating all day on the thing at about 2:00 in the afternoon, Karl finally managed to keep the old motor running in the trashcan for an entire 32 minutes.  Success! IT's ALIVE!  (I wouldn't call 32 minutes a huge success, but the Fisherman was convinced that he had raised the motor from the dead).  We're still trying to land a man on the moon- could you image if they put fishermen in charge of the Apollo moon program - "Ah the thing leaks...who cares.. it'll make it"  "Ah, so the engines sputter and worked for a couple minutes - who gives a rip, let's send the guys up there and see what's happens!"  Sometimes optimism needs a reality check - but not with fisherman - the dream is the only thing that matters.

Nothing was going to keep Karl away from his dream - not a leaky boat nor a motor that coughed for 32 measly minutes.  Erick or Kurt must not have been around and Karl needed deck hands for the USS MINNOW and to my dismay Patrick jumped at the chance. I couldn't let Patrick show me up, so I signed up as crew for the "THREE HOUR TOUR...The three hour tour!"

True to the Gilligan Island Story (that was on TV every week), it was getting late and the sky's were getting dark.. but that did not deter, Karl our Skipper, who was brave and sure. The way I played things out  in my head was that there was no way this thing could have a good ending!

We lugged the motor over to the old boat, strapped it onto the transom and headed out to the Marina Del Rey where we "cheated the man" by putting two quarters into the gate at the launch ramp - for the car only side, and, with a running start, sped through the gate barely clearing the arm as it swung down almost clipping the motor we worked so hard to fix - worked every time!

Karl must have pulled the rope on that rebellious motor a million times... (I prayed it wouldn't start) and Patrick was already bailing as  the boat was still tied to the dock. The dark skies, the increasing wind, the leaky boat and an untrustworthy motor; nothing about what we were doing made any sense to a rational human being - unless of course, you had the "Fisherman Sickness"   Patrick was oblivious to the fact that I had cheated death already more times than Karl's cat - LAZARUS and I didn't know how many more lives I was entitled to.

It got later and unfortunately for me, the motor sputtered and coughed and came to life.  Ughhhhhhh! At this moment there was no one happier in the universe, than my brother the Fisherman! Oh yeah, Karl couldn't wait to set his hook in the mouth of some stinky-smelly bonita that I would have to clean when we got home.

Believe it or not, that little 35 horsepower motor got us past the breakwater Into a headwind that was picking up intensity and as the sun hid behind the darkening clouds.  The swells got so big that whitewater began crashing over the breakwater sea wall. Pat thought it was fun...I don't think he had a clue... No phone, no lights, no motor car - not a single luxury...

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.
A tale of a fateful trip
that started from Harding Avenue
Aboard this tiny ship

Patrick fancied he was a sailin' man
The Skipper brave and sure
The three of us set sail that day
for a Three hour tour
a three hour tour...

The weather started getting rough
the leaky boat was tossed...
all for the sake of a couple fish
The Minnow would be lost.
The Minnow would be lost

so join me back here again my friends..
you're sure to get a smile
From a FISHERMAN and his fearful crew
here on Markie D isle

Next time... the whale... the motor... the storm and the prayer... AND IT'S ALL TRUE!

Gillemonster and His Dog-Poop Alibi

(Continued from 1/25/14) Chewbacca knelt over the dead body as tears lightly fell on the seared flesh that smell of burnt hair.  Crying, he mourned the loss of his friend.

Let's come back to the fatality left behind by the Great Fire of '69 and turn back to our list of possible arson suspects.

Out of the 16 or 17 on my original list, I have narrowed the suspects to a mere four:

1) Rita Nargie
2) Sea-Shell
3) Anti-War, Draft-card-burning, peace-loving hippies
4) The Owner

RITA HAD MOTIVE. She had been rejected by one of the "Frat - guys" and was holding a grudge. When my brothers and crew went down to the "Frat-House" in drag (dressed as women) and two were invited in - it only served to intensify her female hormonal angst against every man in the world. From the kitchen window of her house next door, she was allegedly heard screaming at the top of her Italian lungs that she would get even someday.  Unfortunately for Rita, the entire neighborhood heard her threats and this is why I felt she needed to be investigated. It does turn out that she had not come out of her room for more than a month, which I was able to verify by the dirty stack of surplus dinner plates left just outside her bedroom door.  Her mother had been in no mood to clean up after Rita, which the neighborhood also knew about.

I refer to that incident as "The Leaning Tower of  Stand-off Soufflé"   
 So Rita went off the list and the fire somehow brought closure to all the hurts she had suffered and had seemed to exact the vengeance she was looking for and the next week at church it was mentioned from the pulpit by the droning-monotone Irish accent of  Father Hoban as a miracle.  One lady said, "Hallelujah" and was promptly asked to leave the church.

I'm am now left with 1)  Sea-Shell, the 11 year-old-sister of the Frat-House President who had been
                                      dropped on her head.
                               2)  Hippies - other than my brothers
                               3)  Mr. Malon, the owner of the Property.

As for Johnny the Gillemonster...as I mentioned before he had motive!  He was a paperboy for the our local Herald Examiner newspaper. His route included the Harding Avenue Fraternity House. You can only imagine what a nightmare it must have been for the poor kid to collect the Newspaper fee from a bunch of transient squirrely irresponsible college-dropout types!  Every time Gillemonster knocked on the door, a different person answered and told him to come back tomorrow. After about 10 such visits 'O Gilly figured that they were running him around and that no one was ever going to pay.  He turned bright red and shook his fist at that house and said he's get payback. "You just wait and see!"  he yelled and spun dirt on the porch  from the back wheel of his customized Schwinn Sting-Ray (bicycle) as he spun out.  (Every kid in America had a Stingray bike).

Remember I told you about the lyrics that Four Eyes sent in to Creedence Clearwater Revival... about Do..do...do... looking out my back door... and all the other words the nuns told me when I interrogated them... well it wasn't "do...do...do"  It was literally "Dooh...Dooh...Dooh!"

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Lookin' out my Back Door

Johnny was so angry at feeling like he had been messed with... that he took the largest... stinkiest... warmest... pile of fresh-steaming dog dooh he could find early the next Sunday morning on a neighbors lawn and squished it between the sports section and the comics of the 50 pound Sunday Morning edition of the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.  "Gilly" left that "special" payback edition of the newspaper right on the welcome mat in front of the large entry door. He rang the bell, ran across the street, hid in a bush and watched in delight as those drunkards with hangover vomited their guts out.  Gillemonster told me, that was his alibi and as he spoke I carefully watch every indicator on his face and really believe that the Dog-Poop completely satisfied his desire for payback.  TRUE!

I would never accuse a Catholic Priest - that's why Father Hoban never made it on my list to begin with, but he was known to have quite a temper - and being raised in Belfast had plenty of training in making Molotov Cocktails.

Let's just leave it at that - for now!  I was too frightened about going into the Rectory so I wasn't about to interrogate the Father... I'd leave that investigation to the Fire Marshal.

I already had enough problems at Saint Marks and next year - my last and final year - was destined to be a living Purgatory, for I had to look forward to spending the year under Sister Shultz.

Meanwhile, the mellow and cuddly Chewbacca grieved over the death of the neighborhood cat as though the thing had been a close relative of his.  Before the fire, I'd have to admit, that the feral Calico cat did look like a miniature version of my hairy older brother.  My brother looked like a giant version of Cousin It  from the Addams Family TV Show.

In the midst of smoke and firemen and ambulances and Secret Service and the Crazy Vietnam War vet with a broom and the Zombie Holocaust, Chewbacca scooped the dead cat into a cardboard box and took it past the dreaded Veloci-Rooster into the the hippie sanctuary of "Wall Drug" in our Venice backyard.  If you think the Rita-thing was a miracle - wait until next time.