The Infamous "Tuna Canyon" Story part 1: The Quest to Belong

This next part is the lead into one of the classic Dahlin stories which happens to include just about every hippie in Venice and every twenty-something aged person on Harding Avenue. It is a story that is told over and over and over again at every Dahlin function... like the Salton Sea Story.. or the LA Zoo monkey story... or the Good Friday story... or the Fire Escape Pole story... or the Del Diablo story... or the Edna and the Whiffle Ball story... the UFO Story... the Albino Camp stories... McElliot's Pool or of being electrocuted or the story of electrocuting a nun...       

Every man who came back from the military had a nickname. And so it was part of the DNA of my parents generation to give nicknames to friends and to those who fought with you in the trenches.  I never knew my dad's military nickname, but he was the best at dishing out inventive pseudonyms to just about every person he had come in contact with. Jack Underwood, for example, became "Underwater."
Every person who had the last name of McClain or McCelland or McCarthy was called "Mac." Every Ferguson was "Fergy." 

Dad had christened the people in his real estate office after some personality trait or character flaw... "Slim," "Bubbles," and "Liver Lips."  

For the hippies in our neighborhood who hung around our house he gave them names like... "Hercamer Skeeziks," "Kleghorn," "Freeloader," "Sleepy," Girly-Man," "Quaker," "Spongecake" and list goes on and on.  

It was the normative cultural practice at the time. 

And so, this is why all of our friends had a tag-line as a nickname: "Primo," "Sleezy," "Booty" "Pinky," "Monkey boy," "Face," and why my brothers had given each one of us a childhood nickname. This endearing practice quickly degenerated in our house from and were tossed around like hand grenades - meant to inflict harm.  

You could probably figure out the meaning of the insult behind each of  these new names launched by my older brothers (this part doesn't take rocket science).  

In order, our nicknames looked something like this...

Brothers:

            "Zit King"

            "Girly-Man" (BTW, this has nothing to do with being effeminate - only the length of hair). In the                                         early years he was affectionately called, "The Crip." The Crip was the shortened                                         form of The Cripple, because of all the broken bones he had together at one time.                                         Later he was just called "Chewbacca." 

            "Mad-Dog"   

            "Puke-Breath" (if not self-explanatory - he wore a retainer and had the world's worst breath)        

            "Dooh-Dooh-Pants" My 4th or 5th oldest brother(depending on if you counted "Mad-Dog or not)                                                     began early on with this name (because he was always cutting the cheese                                                       and smelled like he had poop in his pants ). This made it easy to find when                                                     we were playing Hide N Seek. 

                                       Then he was called "Lardo" at about 13, because he may have been a                                                               whole 10 pounds over weight! "Lardo" was the shortened form of                                                                "Tub of Lard"(The crueler the better)!    

            "Flea-Bait" (making fun of his short stature). 

Sister: 

             "TQOTW"  (poking fun of her sense of self-importance).

Me: 

          "Marky Sparky" the mailman across the street, Frank                          Nargie, called me this, ( I wished that one had stuck).  

                   My brothers however, has a long list... 

           "Hyper-Boy" "Mosquito-Bait" "Rubber-Band Man"            "Retard... aka 'Tard" (that's the short list...but you get                                                         the idea).

Baby Sister: 

                 She was so far down the food-chain, that she didn't get                    a proper derogatory nick-name...the poor thing. She                        was the only person in our family called by their real                        name ... 

          "Karin." 

   

Following suit (since the Boys Scouts of America was a para-military organization), every kid in our troop had a nick name. Only, most of them had been corrupted by the same viral infection of our human nature (I don't know - maybe it had something to do with the creeping influences of the black ooze) that always seemed to make things flow downhill.

After the infamous camping trip at Camp Slauson we called our skewered and dangling, Senior Patrol Leader, Ray, "Lucky." "Lucky" was intended as a ironic jab and was more sardonic than it was sarcastic, employed in a way to make fun of the poor guy... who was indeed the unluckiest person in the world.

Behind his back, we called our Scout Master, Mr. Degotbee.  Degotbee was the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym, D G O T B, which means "Don't Go Over The Bridge" (which he did). 

Here I am, a 13-year-old late-bloomer and easy target. Not only do I feel insecure in my place in the world, but feel like an outsider in own family desperately trying to fit in.

I'm short for my age...don't have one strand of hair under my arm pits... I'm not a dope-smoking hippie and just don't fit in with the older boys...ie. The Wolf Pack. 

I am not welcome in hippie hooch-hut out back... I am too young to be invited to the hippie parties on Hollister ave in Santa Monica. 

I am not old enough, big enough or good enough to be part of the Venice Pinners softball team.

                       And... I didn't surf! 

I don't have my scuba certification like the rest of the older  boys and just don't belong! 

One time they took me on a scuba trip and tied me to the inner-tube they floated offshore as a marker (I made it "more visible"- they said laughing and "if carried away by a swell or wind, then it would be no loss. We tried to get rid of you at Salton Sea, but that didn't work - remember?"). 

They said things they thought were funny... and used cruel nicknames that deeply cut the heart of a little kid, who had longed for a sense of belonging in his own tribe.           THEY DIDN'T KNOW ME.

They told the Salton Sea story as a joke and laughed at each embellished rendition around family gatherings... to newcomers. I laughed too. But it made me feel like the biggest crisis in a life a nine-year-old was of no concern to them - it hurt! 

Here's the weird thing... the more I felt like I didn't belong - the more I felt like I needed to belong. 

That's why I said, "yes" to everything. "Yes, I'll go into the hamper."  "Yes, you can bury me in a pit."

"Yes, I'll hold this wire."  "Yes' I'll stick my finger in this hole." "Yes, I'll do underwater laps." 

And..."ARE YOU KIDDING ME? OF COURSE, I'LL GO ON A HIPPIE HIKE TO MALIBU CANYON WITH YOU GUYS! And the desperate (maybe even psychotic) 13-year-old said, "YES, I'LL GLADLY FIND A ROPE AND BRING IT."

Which brings me to another infamous story, a Dahlin classic. A story I pretend to laugh at and is used as a from of subtle torture at family gatherings!

Here is how it Began...   

Poochie laid out on the warmth of the soft, tar street as cars began assembling on the driveway and on the front lawn on a perfect Saturday morning.  

Hippies! Hundreds and thousands of them.  Maybe not hundreds and thousands... but 30 or 40 would be no exaggeration... gathered on the front lawn of the Harding House...  

     AND Markie D  WAS INVITED!  

 ....and I was even called by my real name...   

They liked me... everything was good in the world.  

                                            I Belonged!  

                                                                                                                                                              At least I thought so... 

                 

Conclusion: The Psycho Revenge and the Unluckiest Man Alive

Have you ever seen cockroaches scurry around at night after turning the lights on and watched the mad, frantic dash for cover before they were squished by the giant shoe?  That's exactly what we looked like - only different. We were wearing underwear and had tribal markings duct-taped across our naked upper torsos scrambling for cover in our tents.

Seriously, though the duct tape- was the personification of cool!

After the snakes had been let loose in the tents of the other Boy Scouts, we scurried like those cockroaches- only with chonies on - back to our tents, and pretended to be like other normal Boy Scouts.  Ray and Alan had used an entire half roll of the duct-tape on Cockrell - securely fastening his underwear to his stomach. The last thing they wanted was Cockrell running around naked. We giggled in anticipation and then hit each other and shushed each other and giggled and hit and shushed each other in the thrill of anticipation that couldn't be contained.  

Then it happened!

1:37am: "The screech that was heard around the world."
                   
One 14-year-old from Troop 34 screamed like a 10-year-old girl on the drop of a roller coaster when the snake slithered across his face in the middle of the night (or like that lady in the shower scene of Psycho).

This acted as the ALARM and was exactly what we had hoped for. The terrified screaming woke everyone up at Camp Slauson (everyone, expect for us of course). This was when one of the girls from the Santa Monica Troop also discovered the garter snake that had nestled in between two of them (Did I say "one of the girls"? - darn it, I meant one of boys).

Oh well, Panic ensued. Chaos! Mayhem! When the girls oops boys began shooting out through the flaps like cannonballs, they caught the rope, which the recon-team had tied 4 inches above the ground in snare like fashion. Not only, did the stealth rope trip the first kid out, but it also pulled the tent poles along with them - collapsing the tent and trapping the other kids inside.

Perfect and utter pandemonium - couldn't have worked out any better.  Boys fighting inside the shrouds, that had now covered them in pitch blackness, were frantically trying to claw their way out. The death-shrouds were in a tug-of-war match - anchored to a foot of the stupid troglodytes on the outside who were crawling in the dirt thinking that a Zombie had him by the ankle (which was only the rope he had tripped over and on the way out and was now tangled up in).

Santa Monica - same thing.

Beverly Hills - they just started crying thinking it was a Zombie Apocalypse and paid no attention to the empty rolls of duct-tape and pieces of rope lying in their otherwise, pristine camp.

Thank goodness the noise was so loud that our Scout Masters couldn't hear our laughter.  And on cue, this was when we went into our Oscar award winning act. We emerged from tents screaming and running around as if we were casualties of the same prank. We carefully collapsed a couple of the poles when everyone was out of their tents to make it look like we had been victimized as well, by the troop we had framed. ONLY!


Only, on the way out of his tent, Ray FORGOT!

 Ray forgot that we had tied ropes to the front poles of our tents in a ruse that had caught the poor guy right across the ankle (the unluckiest and the luckiest person alive). Down he went with a thud!  Our Troop 32 cabin was on a hill. Down Ray rolled! Bouncing from one dirt terraced step to another - pulling the tent behind. Poor "unlucky" Ray was sure to die. There was no way he could live through this.


Then  WHAM- Ray shot up into the air like an animal in a hunter's snare.

When setting up the tent, Ray had decided to take a shortcut and tie-off the top peak of his tent to a tree branch. Rolling down the hill to his sure death the branch stopped the tent which suspended the "luckiest-man-alive" in mid air.






Ray proved to be the perfect cover up! There was no way Troop 32 could have been involved in the greatest Boy Scout caper of all time, placing blame squarely on Troop 33 from Beverly Hills.

The laughter we had at Ray, who was precariously dangling from the branch - covered the laughter we couldn't contain at the snitches...the cake-eaters and (as Jeffery Lennon called them) the bottle-feeders from the other three troops.

Unfortunate Bridge Crossing

Branch Cracking

Truck Smashing

Ray Skewering.

Arms and Legs Flailing

Markie D Singing

Cockrell mooning

And Little Wiener Cooing.

Some Kids applauding

Cake-eaters snitching

Tribunal meeting

And Jeffery Seething

Payback Brewing

A Plan Ensuing

Paraphernalia Gathering

And Snipe-Hunt Pursuing.

Snakes Slithering

Boys who need Mothering

Zombies Reaching

And Death-Shrouds Smothering.

Venice Scheming

Mar Vista Bleeding

Santa Monica Weeping

And Beverly Hills Pouting.

Ray Dangling

Our Kids Laughing

Jeffery Proclaiming...

              ...The best Boy Scout Outing! 

You think I jest! But, 96.34% of this story is absolutely true.

Just find Jeffery and ask him yourself. He would tell you, "No Reserve. No Retreat. No Regrets"

To me, it was just another lousy day in paradise on Harding avenue. And that's just the way it was... until the next true of adventure of Markie D and growing up on the best street and the best city in the world.

Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters and 20 Intoxicated Rats!

We had an excuse in the back of the Boy Scout truck for being crazy. We had been freely inhaling carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen and other hydro-carbons that got belched out of the tailpipe of the old moving van that blew over the half barn-doors filling the prison space we inhabited for the duration of the slow moving - hour and a half drive to Camp Slauson. BUT, the guys in front - the two Scout Masters and Pinky Parlett had no excuse for what was going to happen next. Mr. Tapp was a novice in driving the horrendous beast - this was his "solo" checkout flight - per say!

(Picture above of "boy scout" truck in background with dent over driver side)

We already looked ridiculous pulling into campground!  We didn't care. We liked being different! We like to proudly say we are from VENICE to every other smug Boy Scout in the Boy Scout Universe (you know - the other regular kids who were actually there to learn something and to do something constructive).  We had our plans, which did not include anything to do with merit badges nor anything  remotely considered constructive.

                                     (pictured above- regular kids from Troop 34 pictured at camp Slauson)

Since my over-achieving Eagle Scout brother, Kurt, had left the troop last year and went away to Humboldt State University where he went into rigorous training to become a full fledged hippie, we were not about to let small details like merit badges and rank advancement get in the way of having fun.

In the meantime, Ray Vandenmark, who had been to Slauson a billion times, had his face pressed up against one of the two porthole windows that had been cut in front of our cargo compartment, (one either side of the cab), when Mr. Tapp was faced with the decision of crossing over the creek bridge to take the back route up to our Troop 32 cabin or to take the road most traveled that would put us below the cabin on main road.

Pausing, to contemplate the decision - wondering what direction to take... Ray began screaming into the glass window not to cross over the bridge!  His screams became the fuel for a chant the rest of us intoxicated kids in the back which only made the noisy arrival of Troop 32 even more inglorious and obvious to every camper within 16 miles (give or take 15 miles).
                             "Don't cross the bridge"
                             "Don't cross the bridge"
                             "Don't cross the bridge"
                             "Don't cross the bridge"
Louder and louder the cacophony grew as Kissel began pounding on a bucket while Mosquito Bait and Cockrell pounded on the inside walls of the converted moving van, like drums beating in unison to our new song!

We had reason... We were drugged  - but Tapp chose the bridge. Pinky was too large and was squeezed in so tight - that he had his arms pinned between Mr. Tapp and Mr. Sarosi - rendering him powerless to grab the wheel in order to prevent Tapp from driving the oxidized, blue monster over the creaky, wooden bridge.

There could be no greater entrance like ours, with boys at full octave - blaring off key,  "Don't cross the bridge," buckets pounding, walls resounding the thuds of enthusiastic fist like the beating of African drums... Ray screaming and bridge squealing in protest under the load.          

Venice had made it's way to Topanga - and everyone knew it!

Headlong with confidence, without heeding the wisdom of the 20-drugged-rats making noise in the back to the contrary - Tapp drove "boldly where no man has gone before."

In one final gasp Ray screamed at the top of his lungs before ducking to take cover...

...went the sound of a branch shattering the window where Ray (a mere nano-second) previously had been watching the awful event unfold before his very eyes.  Ray, was both, the most unlucky person alive and the most lucky! Somehow he had escaped death more times than me, but was like a magnet for near-death experiences without needing any help from older brothers. He did this all by himself and didn't need anyone else to shove him in hampers, bury him in pits, dangle him out of windows, tie him to trees, throw him over cliffs or electrocute him - like I had been privileged at the hands of my older brothers.

In an explosive crunch of twisting metal, the low hanging branch crushed the top driver-side of our juvenile delinquent containment box (other-wise known as"Scout Bus"). The branch shot through the window and slid along the flesh of Ray's back - under his uniform shirt that subsequently dangled him in mid air as though he was a large piece of meat on a Sish-Kabob!

Arms flailing and feet kicking, Ray dangled as the impaled truck was pinned between the large oak and the old bridge... the snakes had gotten away in the chaos while all of the other normal Boy Scouts on the planet watched in horror at our arrival.




So far, this is turning out to be just the kind of trip that Jeffery Lennon is going to love!  He was tired of being normal and wanted a dose of "Dahlin" to spice his life up, and believe me, he was going to get his share of "crazy"this weekend in the Santa Monica Mountains.

Just saying!

Seeing that we were stuck on the bridge, I climbed out on top of the scout bus and began an "air-guitar" rendition of the new Simon and Garfunkel song, "Like a Bridge over Troubled Waters"

Next time: "The White Angels"


  
   
                         

I Talked Cockrell out of Going NAKED!

The year is 1970


I got the ink off my face from being tattooed by Chewbacca. It's Spring - I was smitten and twitterpated like Bambi; still very much in love with "being in love" with Andrea, though still desperately wanting to know what this thing "love" is really all about.

I must put aside this quest momentarily and go with our Venice, Boy Scout Troop to Camp Slauson in Malibu for an early work-trip in preparation of summer!

Basically, it's a testosterone thing! Smelly kids that don't really shower, but once a week or so, herded into the back of our (now) infamous Troop 32 "Scout Bus" - a converted moving van that Ralph Nader would have said, was, "unsafe at any speed" because of the noxious carbon monoxide fumes that got sucked into the back.

Usually by the time we got to our destination whether Idaho or Malibu, we were like a bunch of wild hyenas who had already fought each other and were foaming at the mouth and ready to take on any other pack of wild animals.

I don't think there was anything about this particular "sweaty-toxic-smelly-fighting-work-trip that would get me closer to understanding the meaning of love.

Conceding on giving up on my quest for the meaning of love temporarily, I figured that this whole Boy Scout thing was just a way to even the playing field.

My next oldest brother up from me, was 4 years older than me and it went up to 9 years from there.  It wasn't easy fighting against a herd of 20-something-year-old Hippies. At least this way I got to fight against guys who were at least in a 4-year range of my age group!





Tommy Blaser couldn't go, because of the Hippy his mother thought we had killed with the pennies on the railroad track, but Jeffery Lennon anxiously anticipated the "Snipe Hunts" and was fully invested in whatever mayhem our troop would bring to the otherwise tranquil Boy Scout weekend in Topanga.
     
On the top of our list was Troop 34!  Boy, were they in for a surprise!

I had to reason with Dego and Steve and "Melvin Pervis" and "Mosquito-Bait" and Conklin and nix the idea of raiding the other troops in the middle of the night as the "Naked Angels." I think Cockrell (not a nickname btw) just wanted another venue to show off generous male endowment - like He had in Idaho last summer. Embarrassed, as a late-bloomer, I convinced the guys to go on the midnight raids in our underwear...AKA "THE WHITE ANGELS"

All of us swore to secrecy about the the snakes I had stolen from the cages upstairs on the third floor of my house of which we had no intention of releasing back into the wild... we had more sinister motives that involved the boys in the Mar Vista Troop!



(Pictured couple years later with Ray and Steve and Me - with the notorious "Scout Truck" in our front yard!)


Stay tuned until next time!  Havoc at Slauson

Normal isn't what it is all cracked up to be... Remember "You only dance on this earth for a short while."

Where we Buried the Body

(Continued from the last post about the hippie we murdered and from the post before that about my sex education).


Anyway, running away from the Kingdom Hall on West Washington Blvd, I was very concerned about becoming emotionally attached to my captures. This is something that happens to Swedes don't ya know... There is no name for it yet, but trust me in the couple years it will be a diagnosed syndrome named after something Swedish - maybe after me or maybe after a city in Sweden like Stockholm!   Just saying!



Afraid of having positive feelings and have empathy towards our kidnappers - I didn't look back and ran straight up the street to the Troop 32 Boy Scout house followed closely behind by Tommy and Jeffery!

There we met up with the likes of Ray Vandenmark and Alan Scout, who were the two Senior Patrol Leaders on the infamous "Boy Scouts from Venice" raid on the National Jamboree in which we nearly killed that nerd kid, Bill Gates, from Seattle and were forever banished from returning to a Jamboree. Anyway, all the same hoodlums who were on that 1969, "fighting-cage-on-wheels," "diarrhea-revenge" road-trip were all there. It was a pretty derelict group and I had earned everyone's respect by fighting my way to the top (Special forces training, care of all of gnarly fights with my big brothers - thank you very much Wolf Pack!).

The grungiest kids were from the  "Golden Triangle" area of Venice whose parents were pretty persnickety by thinking they were better than those of us north of Washington Blvd as though they had somehow been annexed into the new Marina Del Rey. Even though they wrote Marina Del Rey on their outgoing mail - it was still 90291 and they still had Venice DNA, despite how much they pretended to be "Beverly Hills yacht owners."  Even though Steve Kissel was from that area - he was pretty cool and didn't smell as bad as some of the other kids.

Anyway, we get to the troop meeting late when the patrols were already outside in the backyard for the group activity.  I don't know what they did for the group activity over at Mar Vista Troop 34...(if I had to guess) probably something a whole lot tamer and a whole lot cleaner than what we were used to - crocheting maybe..hehehe.  We assembled out back in the dirt lot of the small property that was located between West Washington Boulevard and Washington Way (confusing right... "Sheeze" I guess someone ran out of names when they were naming all the streets in Venice) for a game of "Steal the Bacon."  This was a universal Boy Scout tradition...however, THIS WAS VENICE!  This was not like the normal kind of Steal the Bacon they played over in Mar Vista or in Beverly Hills or in little Billy Gates' troop in suburbia Seattle...  NO... this was knock down and drag out.

I loved it; it was Viking style.  Like something that took place on regular basis in our front yard (only with kids closer to my age).
                         









However, poor Tommy had the wet spot on his jeans and no matter how hard he tried to hide it, as soon as he got dragged across the dirt yard a couple times, it collected dirt that acted like a beacon - a neon sign in Vegas that said "Look, I Pee'd my Pants!"



The boys mercilessly "stop-drop-and-rolled" poor Tommy. When he got home, I got called in to testify about jumping off of metaphoric ten-story-roof and how I shouldn't have encouraged him to jump.







I did want to tell Mrs. Blaser that the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Pope and the Catholics should all be proud... but that might led to having explain about the hippie we might have killed, so I kept my mouth shout about the railroad tracks, the pennies, the guitar...about the Kingdom Hall incident and just said,  "Yes, ma'am!"  afraid that she would ask us to show where we buried the body.

Jeffery kind of liked the thrill of the whole thing and wanted some more...He signed up to go to Camp Slauson in Malibu next week with us and decided to help me with my big plans of payback for Chewbacca. I warned him in advance by asking how he did with snakes and dead things. He said he wasn't sure, but wanted to give it a try. They run a tight ship over at Bob and Jeanette Lennon's house, but Jeffery sneaked over and that is when we put into play       "PLAN: X Y Z!"

Mr. D's Birthday... A Tribute to the "Dad of Harding Avenue"

It's a little bizarre that I had a dream last night about my dad.  It's been 29 years since my dad died and I still have dreams that include him...but that's not the weird part - the thing that made it so interesting to me was that today (Sept 1st,) is his birthday. Coincidence? I don't know, call it what ever you want, but since today is Carl R. Dahlin's birthday, I think I use this Labor Day Blog as a pictorial tribute to a truly great man and awesome dad!

Let's go back to the beginning...first of all Dahlin is a Swedish surname. My Dad's family immigrated from Sweden into Canada and then into the United States where they settled in Michigan - Those Swedes always looking for cold weather I guess.

Here is a picture of little Carl growing up in a Suburb of Detroit!


Dad's mom and two of his sisters. His mom is direct descendant of Leif Ericson (you know the guy who discovered America)!





Two of his blonde haired-sisters with all of the recessive genes you'd expect as Swedish imports!



Aunt Sally and Aunt Pearl

 Enlisted in the Army   Oh by the way - Watch out Elvis (Good looking guy right?)

Rising through the ranks - Staff Sergeant   Teaching hand to hand combat (Martial Arts to the Marines)

Meets a sweetie pie from Santa Monica - Hilberta Joan Sommer (her tribute blog post ) 

they get married and start having babies - He's not quite sure how to change diapers at first...

My mom's not sure how to do baby laundry at first...

 Four boys and the 'O Ford Woody

  

Late 50's  - early 60's begins selling lots at Salton Sea... An Inland Sea Paradise destined to rival Palm Springs... 

Four oldest Brothers and Ian Williamson (a neighbor friend who is about 9 feet all) 







Five boys then comes the First GIRL yeah! 

















Paints the VW van  red - eight of us on Easter Morning 1960 (with "Nana" in the van - my mom's mother). 











They get the hang of it ("hang" of it - get it? it's pun based on pictures above) and begin to have lots and lots of really beautiful children...to many kids for small house on Euclid in Santa Monica and buy the big house on Harding in Venice.

 He takes all 132 of us to Kings River

 Then lots of fishing! There he is on Santa Monica pier baiting hooks!

Fishing below Pine Flats Dam (Kings River) 1962 

He takes us to Salton Sea...  Dad is laying on the ground taking a nap! (Who knows what Karl and Steve Smith are doing?)  I'm flexing (some things don't change). 

My dad let Bill Lennon and the famous singing Lennon Sisters move into to Harding with all 11 of their kids. 

He also let Don and Mary (Lennon) Blaser move in right next door... and their 9 kids! 

Tommy Blaser out in front of the Blaser house with Karin (my baby sister) and Mr. Blaser's Lincoln Continental in driveway and the Fraternity house pictured in background 900 Harding Avenue.   

Then my dad let another Lennon Family move in across the street - Bob and Jeanette and their nine kids... We were surrounded by Lennons, 36 of them - with our mob we had enough to take over the World. 

  More Real Estate 

Then partners with Don Blaser - Dahlin/Blaser Realty

Another new car  - 1967 Ford Esquire Station Wagon will all the  bells and whistles and FM RADIO! 

 As the official designated unofficial Mayor of Venice _ I.e President of the Venice/ Marina Lions Club...President of the Venice/Marina Chamber of Commerce...Board member of Bank of Marina Del Rey...Treasurer of Venice Boy Scout Troop 32... President of the Venice board of Real estate (in other words he was involved in everything -  which made it mandatory for him to Golf!  

He brought home lots of Trophies... he won many closets to pin and Long Drive competitions! 

....earning him the occasional nap! 

 

not the most flattering picture (I know), but not only were my brothers ornery so was my sister and her gaggle of friends... Weenie Tripp, Theresa Blaser, Debi Gas, Mimi Lennon, Mary Blaser, Theresa McCarthy, Sally Lennon and an bunch of others who would put his hair in those great, big, giant, pink-foam curlers and put make-up on his face while he was sleeping and then sneak out and without saying a word and let the poor guy wake up and and head out doors into the neighborhood...without suspecting a thing -  looking like (Well, use your imagination)!  

Dad with Karl and Bob (at Bob's wedding with my 1959 220s Mercedes convertible in the background). 

with a bunch of us in the front yard... too many to name...

 With Ray Vandermark and little Mary Blaser and Barbara Blaser and Mrs. Blaser and me and Tony and Steve Kissel and Pinky Parlett, and David Smith and Theresa McCarthy Dahlin, Marylee (top) and Billy Blaser right in the middle of it all. 

Goofing around with Christine Blaser and Sally Lennon and little Mary Blaser and Theresa. 

with mom and crazy dog "Bluin" who got the frontal lobotomy from Veloci-Rooster (post XXX) 

messing around with wigs  circa 1980 

even the dog gets a wig makeover 

Dad hold pictures of his parents

diagnosed with cancer 1983...

begins losing weight... 

With Peggy Lennon (other "Harding" Lennons the one with 13 kids) 

His Last Birthday party at the Blaser's house everyone singing "Happy Birthday Mr. D" written by Markie Lennon.

Surrounded by the family, near the end. 

Dies January 25th 1985

Saint Mark's church filled to capacity as Lennon Sisters sign the "Our Father" as we commend his spirit into the loving arms of our Father who is in Heaven. 

  

If I had to guess, I'd say he's probably goofing off in heaven right now and golfing with Bill Lennon and with some of the other good 'O boys from the "Harding Ave Gang"...  (pictured Frank Nargie) 

....when he's not fishing with Karl (RIP). 

I miss you Dad!  We miss you dad and Venice misses you!

 Circa 2014