Those Wild and Crazy Dahlins: THE VIDEO

This VIDEO will be the front door of my blog for a short season to debrief any misconceptions about Markie D and his Family. On handheld devices and mobile apps - most people do not see the column that exists to the right of each New Post. Today we are a happy, healthy, bunch of high energy people who love each other and have a great legacy of open hearts.  Enjoy the Video...

And in the next couple of Post, I will be sharing another one of the most classic Dahlin Stories where we lose half of Venice in a storm at Salton Sea.

But since it was just my father's birthday on September 1st, I think I will put the link to his tribute here.  

Carl Dahlin "the Mayor of Venice."

Enjoy Markie D.

Christmas in Venice and the Viking Warrior Gene

Christmas 1970  We were normal once, but that was a long time ago.

At one time we were cute and cuddly and snugly - had manners and said our prayers.

 (I'm the cute one on the rocking horse)

(Erick and Mary)  (Here I am crawling on the floor) 

(Kurt and Karl)

We took pictures without pinching the person in front of us or elbowing the person next to us. We ate meals together at the kitchen table and called our mother and father "mom" and "dad" like most other children in the world. 

Being number 7 most of those days are before my time and are but a shadowy memory at best.

 

(Here is what a couple pictures look like without having prison guards or parents on patrol)

Now that I am 14 and in high-school at Saint Monicas - mom has pretty much checked out and dad stays at work as much as possible--so it is like having the inmates running the asylum.

In the future they will discover something called the warrior gene. This, I'm sure, has been handed down to my family from our Viking ancestry. This genetic disposition is not on my mom's side of the family. There was still some "normal" in her that caused her to long for our family to be like other all the other plain wrap families in the world--but this was not to be.

Everything in our house was a competition. A simple game of croquet turned into World War II with croquet balls launched all the way down Harding Avenue into the Nargie's front yard and the round-missile-objects shot all the way down to the vacant lot where the Fraternity house use to be.

Croquet for the Lennons and Tripps and Blasers was probably just croquet. For us, it would invariability turn into a wrestling match--everything turned into a wrestling match, a boxing match, and a footrace if a chuckwalla, a Iguana or alligator ever got loose.

This is why our house was the center of the world. The Lennons wanted into the fun - the Blasers wanted to hang out here along with the the Tripps - the Grants and is why our house always seemed to be filled with a million people on every occasion.

Why sit around and watch Kung fu or Dick Van Dyke on TV when everyday was an episode of Sanford and Son meets the Adams Family and Dark Shadows--only our haunted house also had a Veloci-Raptor attack-rooster and a crop of luscious marijuana plants in the backyard just to make things more interesting.

(What it looked like then on our front steps)

(What the front steps looks like now with the Police showing up every other day)

Now that I was a Freshman in high school the older boys tried to recruit me into the hippy club and taught me how to smoke and roll a refer. I desperately wanted to be in the club - I wanted to be accepted - I wanted to feel like I was part of the menagerie of older brothers, but didn't want to jump in with both feet quite yet. I wanted to please the older guys and had to show some loyalty to the Wolf Pack by puffing from time to time, but wasn't ready to fully buy in to this whole hippy thing completely.

Making matters worse at Christmas Tony had given up on shopping at Pick and Save altogether. He figured that it was cheaper, more fun and added more to the overall the chaos by rummaging through the attic for junk he could wrap as presents. Then his gift giving digressed from the smelly old-broken stuff to stuff he would steal from someone's bedroom.

One of the highlights of this new Christmas tradition was when any one of of the older boys unwrapped a present allegedly from "Santa" that belonged to someone else all H. E. double toothpicks would break out. This awakens the Force of the Warrior Creed.

Wrestling would break out and bodies would spill out and onto the front lawn.

Dad seemed to enjoy it and acted just like the rest of us but none of this please my mother!

After three or four rounds of utter chaos Mrs. D would stomp her feet on every single tread of the staircase--all the way up to her room while saying things like, "Why couldn't we be more like the Lennons and the Blasers. Slamming her door she would lock her self in imagining what Christmas was probably like next door or down the street at the Lennons.



(Mom...Mrs. D Pictured this to the left...




but got something that looked more like this...to the right)

I could only image that this year after midnight mass upon entering the front door we would get the "Under-Pain-of-Mortal-Sin" speech again just before opening large sliding into the living room just seconds before we jumped onto the mountain of poorly wrapped presents under Mr. D's two dollar tree he finagled from the Troop 32, Boy Scout, Christmas tree lot.

We had a lot to look forward to. Zombies and Wrapping Paper Wars. The stolen presents, the wrestling matches, chaos and mayhem and you can be sure that those normal people would stop by - because they wanted in on the fun also. 

Joy to the World. Merry Christmas from me - Markie D - and from my family to you and yours... may your Christmas be less than normal, but Sacred none-the-less.  

The Dahlins: A Great Symphony - Making Great Music

MY PUBLIC APOLOGY to my family for any misunderstanding I have created.

Dear Dahlins.  I love you.

This blog is my story! A symphony. It is the story of a little nine year old kid who was left at Salton Sea. It is the story of an 11-year-old who nearly dies when his leg is severed at the McElliot's pool. It is the story of broken arms, horse play, pranks, cross-country travel, kick the can, lots of fun, and even more laughter.

I have never considered and would never have chosen a different family or a different childhood. I love us. 

Something I read today said, "Everyone touched by a piece of music hears it differently. The composer hears it in the chamber of his imagination. The audience hears it with their senses and emotions. The members of the orchestra hear it most clearly..." filtered and specifically mixed through the sound of the instrument they play and "...the instruments closest to them."

It's like watching a movie. Two people can see the exact same film at the exact same time and yet come away with two completely different interpretations.

We were all there. We saw many of the same events and heard some of the same music, yet heard it through the discerning ears of our particular instrument that allows us to come away with very different interpretations.

This is my symphony of stories - a song mixed through my grid of senses and emotions. You might have composed it different. As members of the cast and orchestra you might have played it different and certainly heard and saw it through your ears and eyes which are very different from mine.

The events are recited with the embellishments of creative spit and polish. The emotions, however, are mine and are portrayed here through the eyes of this little boy with accuracy.  

My life was the music of yearning to belong and the wanting of acceptance. It is a grand symphony of redemption and of forgiveness―the story of yesteryear and not today. I have never hated any one of my neighbors, I have never hated mom or dad and I have never hated any of you. All I wanted was to feel loved. I apologize that my struggles painted you in a bad light or made you feel like I was blaming you for my hardships or made you feel responsible for my faults.

This redemptive chapter was supposed to be 10 years down the chronology of this blog in the life of Markie D. Instead, I'm going to share that now out of sequence by assuring you that my song has changed!  I was indeed a mess. I was broken, insecure, disconnected and desperately trying to find the meaning of life and love.

This drove me to my knees. I prayed. I cried out to God. I wanted a relationship in the universe that was deep, meaningful, and significant. God reached down from heaven in His infinite wisdom and grace and changed my life. Whole. Complete. Forgiven. Full. God took a very hard and numb heart and replaced it with one that was new and pliable. God made it possible for me not only to feel loved, but also to love and to love greatly.

God put tears and tenderness back into my emotions.

I love you and love the times when we get together and tell stories and laugh. You are tremendously important to me and I hold no grudges. This part may sound a bit weird, but I owe a great deal of debt to all of you. I look on my childhood now as one of the greatest gifts given to me (and even orchestrated by God Himself on my behalf).


My youthful feelings as an underdog gives me empathy for the weak and the oppressed. I hate racism―I hate bullying and have stood up for underdogs at great personal risk to myself.

My reaching out and contemplating the deep things of the human psyche at a young age equipped me to be a good listener; to care about other people's feelings and to contemplate the deep matters of the heart and of the human condition.

It has also provided me with the ability to laugh at myself.            Laughter IS good medicine.



C.S Lewis wrote. "Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny..."

To give even more away... For me to claim that we were "America's most dysfunctional family" is facetious. The whole point is to show that every family has its faults and failings, it flaws and shortcomings. The grass is not greener on the other side. The universal human condition is one wrought with problems. It happened in our house and it happened in the houses of those next door and across the street. People will suffer disappointment and hurt. The greatest emotional pain is usually inflicted by those closest and most intimate.

Yet, if there is hope and healing and reconciliation and forgiveness for someone like this little boy, there just might be a chance for healing and wholeness for just about anyone―it is possible.

I beg you please, not to confuse the ramblings of a hurt and lost child so many years ago with who I am today.

I will continue to tell my story... and ...

         1) I'll be careful not to paint anyone in a bad light.

         2) I have many positive qualities for each of you that I carry with me that are worth sharing―so people                  would know that none of  you  are evil monsters (stupid kids doing stupid things―maybe, but not                  evil bullies).
     
         3) People don't like plain-wrap stories―we were never a plain-wrap family.

AGAIN, forgive me for making some of you feel defensive if I have crossed some unspoken boundary―this was never my intention only a means of  moving the symphony of my emotions to an amazing crescendo, which would otherwise, be nothing more a simple melody on white keys (white bread and non-fat milk).

This is my story. This is my song.

Let's make music together!

Love baby brother.  

Tony 

Karl 

Kris

                                                                             Kurt 

Erick

Mary

Mark 

Karin

Bob

Pinky

                                                                    AND our Favorites....

David and Lisa 

Dad and Mom 

The Biologicals 

Pavlov's Tortured Dog - Damaged Goods and Me!

Ring the bell, drool. Ring the bell, drool. Raise the fist, flinch.

Continued from last time that began with with the shirt.



Everyone thought it was funny—except for Brother Michael. So I went with it and let my classmates think I was doing one of my comical bits. In reality, however it was my PTSD. I didn't want them laughing at me. I wanted them laughing with me.

My brother Bob had come home from Vietnam, as well as two of my neighbors, Robert Tripp and John Gillemot. They looked fine to me on the outside, but they had this Post Traumatic disorder thing that made them flinch and caused them to react wildly and to do weird things at times.

This was understandable for them—they fought in war!  BUT WHAT WAS MY @#*%#@#^% Problem?

(Bob pictured above)

 (John Gillemot pictured to right) 

Like the returning Vets, I looked fine on the outside, but was all messed up in my head and hated myself for having no control over my wild reactions.

I don't know why my brothers felt they had to raise their hand up in the air like they were going to strike me in the head every time they walked by. But they did. Either it gave them a sense of power or they just liked to see me cover my head and duck—or both, I guess. They would gesture violently in my direction, I would cover my noggin, cower in fear, drop to the floor which always made them laugh.

Haha.  I was the laughing stock at home—make me cower or make me vomit—the ironic thing was it that it was the "peace loving" hippies who burned their draft cards that loved to hurt me. Their was nothing peaceful about them. 

I had been hit so many times on the head I was like Pavlov's stinking dog. Ring the bell and I drool only in my case I "stop drop and roll." And if the boys got really lucky, they could make me vomit up my guts which was the height of entertainment in our house.

Every time my poor dad raised his hand—I fell to the floor and took cover.

THANK YOU WOLF PACK.
Let me see if I can make you happy by getting all schizoid whenever you treat me worst than a dog. 

I don't know why my brother Chewbacca had to squeeze my temples or lift me by my chee-chees or by me neck or had to repeatedly slug in in the leg. I don't know why "Flea-Bait" felt he had to beat me up every day. I don't know why I had to be electrocuted, Jalapeno'd or buried in pits. I don't know why I was the one who was chased - hampered - shot - dropped - dangled and tattooed.

Anyway, I realized how bad it was in Brother Michael's class the day after he caught me half-naked in janitor's closet.  

He smirked and talked about Catherine the Great or something in history that excited him when Earnestine raised her hand to answer a question.





Earnestine had graduated with us from Saint Marks.  She was a girl. She was a friend.  A 14-year-old girl for Pete's sake. The 14-year-old girl who sat in the row just opposite me, raised her hand to answer a question and like some mental case I flinched, covered my head and dropped to the floor.
















How retarded was that. Everyone started laughing so I went with it—acting as if it was just some dumb comic bit. I was a hero and comic genius. All the stupid kids in 9th grade loved me.
   
Brother Micheal sent me to some guy with a name like "AutoBelly." Autobelly, what kind of name was that?  

It was worth a trip to the Dean's office, because I made Brother Michael hate me which I counted as a victory. I win!

Raise your hand, flinch. Raise your hand, flinch. Raise your hand, flinch. I felt like I was worst than Bob and Robert and John who had returned from the Vietnam war. Something in me was broken. I was Pavlov's stupid dog.





I was sure there was love in the world somewhere—maybe next door at the Blasers or over at the Lennon's house across the street—it certainly wasn't something I could find at home. 

They seemed to like each other.  That's all I wanted. Love may have been asking too much for my family. I was starved and willing to feel liked.



This guy, Waldo Autobelli, stuck his finger in my chest and began yelling at me. It didn't matter. He could scream his head off all he wanted—though I stood at attention like any real kid—I was nothing more than a Zombie who was dying a little more inside each day. 

I was becoming a robot and his finger couldn't penetrate my steal plate exterior. 

Alex shared his pickles with me as I thought about poor 'O Billy Joe MacAllister - he died and it didn't matter to anyone.  Same thing would happen in my house I thought.   

 "Today Billy Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge"

'n' Papa said to Mama as he passed around the blackeyed peas

"Well Billy Joe never had a lick of sense, pass the biscuits, please"  

"Hey, Alex could you pass the pickles please." 

I Said Yes! Why?

       Why? Why did I say yes to her?

Where were we before I interrupted the story of Markie D for the long pause while I traveled to Malawi with Water Wells for Africa.

Oh, yeah—we took a side trip into the future for the harrowing but true life adventure of grownup Mark—who had to fight off an intruder and found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle in Paris. I reported that crazy incident, just to show that you can leave Venice, but can't take the Venice out of you.

Going back in time to 1970, the next 4 years at Saint Monica high school was not like a new invasion of Venice had suddenly spilled into Santa Monica—by no means. 

My grandmother taught at Saint Monicas and my older brothers had already carried the Venice virus into Santa Monica for about 10 years already! We had already loosed the infection into Santa Monica, Topanga, Ojai, Malibu, Ocean Park, Mar Vista, Culver City, Salton Sea, Kings River, Detroit, Idaho, Northern California and all parts between.  

September 1970.  The hippie hordes at my house subscribed to the doctrine of Antiestablishmentarianism, which means they boycotted and protested against any kind of political or adult authority—i.e. "The Man." The Vietnam war granted them permission to rebel against everything. 

This included oppressive parents (or parents they view as oppressive) who still believed in the antiquated rules for acceptable social behavior.  In March, John and Yoko Ono, had staged their "Bed-In For Peace" following the "Love-In" two years before that. 

NOW, everything was okay—Sex, drugs, Rock and Roll. I was still a little young for sex and drugs, but I loved my Rock and Roll, and felt sorry for my parents. I felt sorry that they were marginalized by the ones who felt had marginalized them and had empathy that their authority had been blatantly disregarded and disrespected. I was torn. I so desperately wanted to fit in with the "Wolf Pack" and was so willing to be tortured by them just to feel like I belonged, yet didn't want to totally give myself completely over to hating my parents.  

Okay, here is what I'm trying to say. I'm pretty much a looser and don't know what world I live in. Do I listen to the "Wolf Pack" brothers (who hate me) or do I listen to my mom which will make my brothers even more mad at me—inviting even more physical harm?

I felt like Uncle Fester (from The Munsters) as if I had a giant clamp on my head with my tiny brain stuck in the middle.

So, when mom says she went to Hensheys and bought me a new shirt for my first day of high school, I had empathy for her and said, "Yes." 

No one listened to her anymore and so I thought it was only right to show respect for her.                                                      
                                           Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid

Ugh. Against every impulse; against any chance of belonging (which I so desperately wanted), I said yes to the multi-colored shirt that had a zipper on the back collar. She thought it was cool and I didn't want to hurt her feelings even though I knew that I could be persecuted for showing up in it on my first day—in a shirt that wasn't even fit for a girl.  

I could put it on, wear it out of the house with a smile and take it off somewhere in between—she would never have to know.  I thought scheming up a plan.          

Dang it. I got caught leaving the house by a brother who laughed at me, pointed at the hideous shirt and called me a 'tard. 

My mocked "coat of many colors" had a turtle neck with a gold zipper - DOWN THE BACK!

Maybe Chewbacca was right. Maybe I was a bit retarded. Who would wear a shirt like this—after all it had a round, golden ring-thingy attached to the zipper-pull.  

    Nothing about this shirt made since to me.

I felt like John the Baptist—Again. 

(Here I am pictured to the right confused by a previous clothing malfunction - submitting the to fox stole and a bloody head on a paper plate).    

It turned out to be a blistering 80 degrees that day and I refused to take off my stolen Saint Mark's uniform sweater—a sweater that did not hide the collar and zipper from hell. 

AND WHY DID I CHOOSE TO wear this colorful plaid-shirt WITH PANTS that had colorful STRIPES. I looked like a dork from another planet. I deserved every bit of ridicule that I received that day.  

Putting her nose in the air, a senior girl came up to me and said, "Didn't anyone ever show you how to dress? Never put stripes and plaids together you dork." 

No I thought. No one ever took the time to talk fashion sense with me. My family only makes fun of me and me tells me I'm retarded.  I'm an orphan raised by the Wolf pack.  Idiot.    






















Our front yard










                                                Their front yard

Their backyard 










                              Our backyard

I said, "I'm wearing this shirt to make my mom happy. She feels bad about her parenting skills, because no one listens to her anymore. She wants to compare our family to the incredible Lennons who live across the street and is suffering an identity crisis of her own. So I am wearing this shirt—despite the criticism I know that I would receive today because of love. You're so stupid" I said. "Don't you know anything about kindness or about love?" 

There I did it. She spun on her heal and walked away.  

I'm 14. It's my first day of high school. I am a freshmen dork cornered by a beautiful, stuck-up, senior girl—of course I didn't say those words (those words went through my head about three days later—actually about 3 weeks later—when I woke up in the middle of the night). 

The only thing that saved me so far was the kid from Saint Gerard's grammar school in Culver City who road his bike to school first day—in White Pants!  Kevin McCaffery hit an oil slick, skidded across the greasy asphalt and continued to slip across a patch of grass. Poor kid dressed to impress but looked nearly as bad as I did. He took some of the attention off of me. Thank you Kevin for crashing your bike and wearing "The Pants of Many Colors." 

Listen, I had been in love with Andrea since 5th grade and haven't had the courage so far to look into her eyes and say anything about my feelings. She's probably going to give up on me. I don't blame her.  




I had about as much chance with the girls as Philip.                                                                                                                                                   Philip was one of the strays my mom took in who lived in one of the rooms on the third floor. 

This shirt all-but-sealed my fate with the ladies for the next four years of high school.







What was wrong with me? 

I hid out the best I could for most of the day and even skipped the meeting after school for everyone interested in playing water polo.   

I had to take the Big Blue Bus (the 3 Lincoln) all the way back to Venice, which would be crammed full of  mean high school kids. What was I to do?  How do I face the cool kids and the cute snob in her hush puppies and low-rider jeans. 


Epic fail, I forgot to bring the extra shirt.
I will either have to:
                                  kill myself
                                  mug an 11-year-old kid and steal the shirt of his back     
                                        or 
                                  hitchhike

All three were out—I didn't want to die—not yet. I wasn't going to rob a kid and I couldn't hitchhike with THIS STUPID SHIRT.  I was a doomed, "retarded" 14-year-old and it was only the first day of high school.  


I needed a new plan.  

I snuck into the janitors closet that was filled with brooms, with the smell of moldy mops and with a thousand rolls of toilet paper.  I skipped 6 period and began undressing. 

This was the only thing I could come up with. Unfortunately the door open at exactly the wrong time AND it wasn't the Janitor. 

Who was it?     Will Markie make it back to Venice with any sort of dignity at all? 

Next time. 


P.S. Even though this combination pictured above is terrible—this is not the shirt I was talking about (turn this shirt around backwards put a gold zipper on the back collar and you can pretty-much get the idea).