The Russian River, The Manhunt, and Elephant Man!

From Last time: I figured that I was safe and that there wasn't a whole lot that could go wrong on this family adventure.

This was not just an escape from Venice...I was on a journey. This was more than just a trip to Northern California. I was determined  to find out what love is...all about. I heard about it enough.

The Beatles sang all about love.  I saw the words painted on the sides of brightly colored Volkswagen vans that read "Make Love not War."

"I can't stop now, I've traveled so far" I wanted to know what other people knew - what normal people understood about things like love.

I climbed into the back of my dad's station wagon with apprehension as if testing to see how cold the water was...testing to see how deep could it be and to see how dangerous the current...was.

I got in slowly...with the hopeful expectation that this journey was a path that would lead me to connect with my brothers in a special way that - brothers and sisters do in regular families... like I'm sure the Lennons do.  They're normal.

So off we went!

Our low-down-and-dirty caravan was an eclectic potpourri of hippies and regular people...in a percentage ratio of 92:8.  Me, my dad and my two sisters were the four normal people among the hordes of "herb-smoking" irregulars crammed into our station wagon and into "Red" Sasson's conversion van - as we took off through Santa Monica and headed up the coast route to the Russian River.

We passed the red beach-house on PCH at the foot of Tuna Canyon drive. My eye began twitching and my stomach churned thinking about the Hippie Fest and the betrayal of rope incident. It made me feel as though the Wolf Pack couldn't be trusted and that I shouldn't let my guard down. But since dad was with us, I figured they would be on their best behavior and that I would be safe!


What could possible go wrong?



You couldn't blame someone for having gas...could you?  Kurt and his Water Polo friend, Mario, had both graduated from Saint Monica's. Kurt was famous (scratch that out)... he was infamous for the lethal power of his toxic farts, but was a mere 6 on a Richter-scale compared to the seismic phenomenon of Mario. Deep within, Mario had the unbelievable capacity to blow up an entire city block―that at times measured a 10 on the Richter-scale along with unrelenting aftershocks measuring well above 8.

 (Here is the Poster for the disaster movie that came out last year - 1969)

Every fifteen minutes "Krakatoa" erupted that caused the caravan to pull over so we could exit...take cover and find fresh air.
Long-haired bodies dramatically gagging (as if on stage) stumbling out of the car―pushing―shoving―laughing!      

Point Dume - BAM! "Krakato - East of Java" Mario exploded - mayhem ensued.

Like clockwork - another aftershock - Mario clears the car!

Past Sycamore at "Sand Hill"  Bam! A Mario Explosion. Caravan pulls over giving us the time and excuse to run to the top and slide down on pieces of cardboard.
                                               
ONLY!

Only my dad was building an immunity to the stink and grew more and more impatient with the delays.

THEN!

Then he remembered the button: later to be called, "The button from Hell"

Our top-of-the-line, Ford Esquire wagon was loaded and came with door locks, power windows and all the bells and whistles... One bell and whistle was a button on the driver-side door-panel that locked all the windows.

After we got through Ventura, my hilarious father rolled up all the windows and locked them shut every time Mario exploded with flatulence in something on the scale of Mount Vesuvius that smelled like your head had been forced down the hole of an outhouse on a pig farm.

This might have been funny for most people - but this did not take into consideration my "Superpowers."

My dad thought he was being funny. He laughed as fights broke out and I heaved my guts up in an empty Folgers can that was supposed to be used as a "thunder bucket." A thunder bucket was the traveling port-a-potty all the boys were supposed to use instead of pulling over to make potty-stops - it sounded like thunder whenever anyone had to take a pee. It was gross, but that's the way it was.

Anyway, you could probably guess how much happier the boys were that I was being tortured to the point where I vomited every time Mario "pooped" his pants!

I wanna know what love is

I want you to show me

I wanna feel what love is

I know you can show me...

After the flatulence terrorism we finally - FINALLY - arrived at Roger Sasson's new property - up at the Russian River. From all the vomiting, I felt drained of life as if having gone through grand-mal seizures!   

Everyone had a great time!  

Me, however, I needed the break.  I needed to run away and hide to get my strength back!  

"In my life there's been heartache and pain

I don't know if I can face it again

Can't stop now, I've traveled so far

To change this lonely life"

Sweaty! Stinky! Sticky long-haired bodies squeezed out of the car like toothpaste from a tube under pressure...out we poured like a swarm of blonde locust!   

I rolled onto the dirt like a sailor returning from long voyage and kissed the ground. "Terra-firma!" 

I looked over my shoulder to see the Wolf Pack assembling in a secret meeting that intentionally excluded me and dad. 

There were adults here. I was safe―right? They would protect me if the boys had some sinister scheme to bury me...or to tie me to a tree...or to put me in a straight jacket and throw me over a cliff. 

This couldn't happen―not here―not when all of my physical strength had been drained from my 98-pound-body.  I was too weak to fight them off.  They must have been having a tribal council about the timing and place for them to smoke a little "herb." 

That's it! 

THEN I HEARD MY NAME! Endorphins pumped - adrenaline flowed - my heart raced... brain cells synapsed - Fight or Flight!  Like the Grinch when he held the slay of stolen toys over his head - I now had the strength of five 180-pound hippies.  

I was in danger...and I wanted dad to protect me. Hoping not to incite them (like wasp in a hive), I was careful not to draw their attention. Slowly, I walked in dad's direction.  WHEN I SAW the crowd break like a football team after a huddle and ominously move in my direction - I knew all was not right.  

THEN HEARD THEM SHOUT MY NAME! I ran!  

"Mark" screamed one of the Alpha Males. "We're going to give you a 30 second head-start, then we're coming after you."

Zealously, Erick began pumping the daisy BB gun. This was serious. They meant business. Ironically the MANHUNT included peace-loving hippies armed with BB guns and armed for war. 

     

They didn't care what my dad said... they were coming after me! Life wasn't fair, but I couldn't complain because dad had always said, "Life isn't fair."  

We were in a flat plateau in the bottom of an natural amphitheater surrounded by towering pines and all kinds of scrubby looking brush... I HAD THIRTY SECONDS! 

I ran up up a hill for my life!  The hordes soon took flight and came after me like blood thirsty ZOMBIES... 

Up I ran... "DAD!" I yelled.  Nothing! I was on my own.  

The hippie Wolf Pack - all of them - fanned out and came up hill after me. 

In my mental-sickness, I felt honored to be counted such a worthy prey. 

BUT...I was tired of the game. I was tired of pits and ropes and electrical wires and pink-bellies and the "knock-out" game. I was tired of being chased and dragged and shot at with BB guns and needle-tipped arrows... I hated that fact that bigger people found pleasure in hurting weaker members of the pack.  I hated feeling left out. I hated the betrayal that was nothing more than a funny game to them. I hated not knowing what human kindness and what love felt like... I just wanted to be included. 

There was a lot of talk about Love it two years ago at Haight-Asbury... "The Summer of Love" everyone seemed to know what it was all about - except me!  

John and Yoko knew―right? 

I ran for my life... UNTIL! 

Until, I spotted a shrub with clusters of three leaves that were turning shades of ugly red that I had recognized from Camp Slauson in Malibu. 

I been on snipe hunts a thousand times and never got poison oak. I think I was immune. I wasn't sure, but decided to take a chance anyway as the throng of blonde-haired Zombies closed in. I dove head first into a giant shrub and hid inside.  Then it dawned on me... "Hey stupid dummy" the voice in my head said... "you have three older brothers who are crazy allergic to toxicodendron diversilobum" I ripped two large twigs of the dangerously toxic plants and charged after the delirious band of brothers who took off running in the opposite direction.

What a sight. Markie D was now chasing 300 hippies down a hill!  

I didn't care if I got the horrible plague - it was a risk I was willing to take.  At the moment, all I could think about was that fact that I was winning...all 98 pounds (dripping wet) against an army of that weighed in at 4,228 pounds collectively. 

"The bigger they are. The harder they fall. One and all."  

Did I mention anything about the "Elephant Man?" Oh, I thought I did. Sorry to leave you hanging, but I'll save that for the next time in the big conclusion of who got what and how!  

   

       

The Summer of Love. The Summer of Manhood. Both? Neither?

June 1970: it was a big, big year.
             "A Rite of Passage"







I was finally graduating from Saint Mark's grammar school and would become a man.

Well, maybe not a man, but I would begin a new life as a Freshman at Saint Monica's High School.



This sacred rite of passage, however, seemed to be lost on me. The other normal kids in my class seemed to know things. They knew about love and sex and English grammar. The knew about the three branches of our American government, how to spell and lots of stuff about God and Jesus and Mary and Joseph and also stuff about science.

   Me?  Uh-uh!

I had been too busy running for my life, dodging needle-tipped arrows, digging myself out of pits, surviving electrocutions, fighting off ambushes by the "Angry-Little-Man-Crew," pushing our fleet of broken down cars from one side of the street to the other, not to mention the psychological torture of the Catholic nuns at Saint Marks, and most recently, the bullying and physical torture of the "Wolf-Pack" hippie clan that repeatedly threw me over the cliffs in Malibu - TO ACTUALLY LEARN ANYTHING.

I was okay at math - accepted into the "Zero Period" advanced math program at Saint Monica's, but other than that I barely knew the difference between a noun and a verb. I was so preoccupied with ducking every time one of the kids in my class raised a hand - thinking I was going to be belted in the head - that I didn't have sufficient brain synapse to learn a blinking thing.

Why, I was so ignorant that I hardly knew where babies came from. 







It seemed my only "rite of passage" was the fact that I finally outgrew my dad's frugal invention of the infamous sugar-water, gel-concoction that attracted the mosquitoes to California.





I graduated from the hard shell helmet-look to the  dry-look with my long bangs as a junior-hippy.


The girls in my 8th grade class seemed to like my golden locks and began doting on me - you would think this was good... right?  Well, I don't think it had anything to do with any sort of romantic inclination. At our graduation party at Mike Dunagan's house the girls sat me on their lap and combed my hair as if they were 8-year-olds (in touch with there mothering instincts) playing with me like I was a doll. 

I didn't put up a fuss. It made me feel good. I enjoyed actual human contact and physical touch that didn't leave bruise marks or some kind of road rash. Though it wasn't love (other than Irene), this was the closest thing I had come to making contact with what might have looked like love.

I sat on the front steps of our Venice house, watched the world go by and surveyed the landscape - trying to take it all in.

I think the Lennons knew what love was.


I think the Blasers knew what love was.


I think the Tripps knew what love was.





My friends next door and across the street... surely Tommy and Jeffry and Joey and Ricky knew... right?







The girls in my class knew. Marilyn and Theresa and Andrea - they had to know... didn't they?











There was a normal family behind us - across the ally - the Arnolds - they knew. Right?


 (Photo courtesy of Cheryl Arnold - Miss Venice, Miss Santa Monica, and Miss LA)






So what is wrong with me? COULD SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME! I wanted to believe that what I felt for Andrea was love, but was so insecure that I couldn't utter one coherent word in her presence.

I was either retarded, like my brothers said, or I was damaged goods.  I began to wonder if I was even capable of something so grand a notion as love?

Numb! An Island! A Rock!  I had spent considerable time building a wall around my heart to protect myself - afraid of becoming vulnerable and afraid that only by being vulnerable could I know what love truly is.  "In case I need it when I get older."



Do I just blurt it out! Do I tell Andrea that I love her?  We didn't use the word in our family and I couldn't get the "L Word" past my lips.  Andrea, please, read between the lines.


I've traveled so far... I wanna know what love is. Please someone show me.



Do I let down my guard and trust my brothers? Maybe, one small steps at a time!  Take a little time and think things over. I have this mountain I have to climb.

Tomorrow, we are going to set out for another great adventure. It's always a great adventure when my family goes camping.

As usual we will cram a hundred bodies into our Ford station wagon and drive up the coast to visit our neighbor, Roger Sasson's, new property up by the Russian River.

I'm sure that I'll be perfectly safe and nothing will go wrong.... NEXT TIME "Russian River, The Man Hunt, Elephant Man and The Plague"    

Act 2 This Was No BEE-utiful Day!

To refresh your memory...

We flashed-back in time where dad had taken us on a celebratory trip to the Kings River.

After paddling around and splashing in the tame water of the shallow tributary where we had been camping for several days, we decided to head for a day trip on the big river below the dam.





  Here is our infamous "Dam Picture"


There we are to the left - unpacking - posing and melting in the sun anticipating fishing and splashing around in the swifter currents of the water just below the Pine Flats Dam.

Puke breath is in his full length cast from the accident at Saint Marks that was later billed as:

          The Dahlins verses The School Yard Fence.

                         The final decision: A Tie

We managed to bring the entire fence down, but the fence inflicted as much damage as possible in breaking poor Puke-Breaths leg in 8 places.

Previously, Dooh-Dooh Pants got caught in the strong current in the middle of the Kings and was carried downstream to a deadly waterfall on the paddle board, which was too big for him to handle.

Dad rushed... we followed...Puke Breath hobbled... Dad lowered a rope...over Dooh-Dooh Pants head it went... around his neck it ended...Dooh-Dooh Pants freaked out...paddle board spun... rope wrapped about board and Dooh-Dooh Pants...trapping him under water...
                                                 ... we had killed him before he even reached the bloody cow carcass that was being stripped of it leathery hide in flesh-shredding waterfall.

The board turned perpendicular to the shore and caught in some bushes just before the deadly falls... Dooh-Dooh Pants revived... and that was ACT 1... It could have been something right out of a Three Stooges movie - only the 10 Stooges!

We had almost lost one boy, now it was time for ACT 2:

Two of my dumb-courageous older brothers approach a trashcan swarming with Killer Bees from Africa; not really bees from Africa (they hadn't arrived yet in the United States) Meat Bees...AKA "yellowjackets" sometimes called "WASPS!"

I'm not talking about White Anglo Saxon Protestants - we were Catholic! 

These little critters are nasty because unlike bees... they craved meat to eat...and have been known to tear at the flesh of the inside of your eye. SO THEY CAN BITE AND THEY CAN STING! They are social and travel in colonies of up to 1500 bees.  I guess they like to travel in a social pack like my older brothers.

Anyway, the boys won the first round by approaching the trashcan and trapping a bunch of those yellow and black flying terrors in an old Styrofoam worm container.  I don't think the boys had a "Plan B" in mind yet. Had they, then this next part is premeditated.

Joining the rest of the crew, who were busy fishing, the boys opened the container and pretended as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

HOW RUDE for those yellowjacket/wasps/flesh-eating-bees to be angry!  Well they were - imaging that.

We smelled like fish guts and the wasps began an aerial attack. Dad ordered all of us into the water.  Pushing, Pulling, Screaming, Yelling, (just about the same way we get into the van every time) we dove in and began splashing in hopes of  defending ourselves against the enemy air-force.

Most of us survived...we forgot one thing, however, "One Legged Limp Along" (that's what my dad called Puke Breath) had a full leg cast and couldn't join us in the water.

Gustav took a hit. One of the meat bees got a hold of the skin under this armpit. He freaked out and began running like a mad man!

THE DAHLINS HAD SHOWED UP. We had already put on a spectacular performance for everyone who had planned on spending a nice leisurely day by the river and now they were getting a glorious "TWO-FER"     It was like having two movies on one ticket, a veritable Three Stooges marathon.

Gustav deserved it...divine payback, a prank that finally stung him in the____________ !  Well anyway, he ran out of the water and on the beach he headed for low lying branch so he could swan-dive into the river and put an end to his nemesis.  Only...

ONLY, as he ran up the branch the bee fell off and straight down into the top of Puke-Breath's cast! (There really are no scientific explanations for these kinds of phenomenon - like hangers that tangle in the night -  socks that go missing in the dryer and the Lennons, 200 miles away sitting in the safety of their family room).

Up to this point, Puke Breath had done a decent job of defending himself by swinging his crutches at the aerial  onslaught.
 
But now, the universe had tilted against him and the angriest meat-bee/yellowjacket/wasp was caught in the cavernous darkness of this white thigh meat and pretty upset about it.

Throwing his crutches he leapt like that lame man who had gotten healed by Jesus.  He groaned and hobbled on his cast running back and forth on the shore as unintelligible language spewed from his lips - which needed translation if it were to be Biblical. He spun and threw himself back on the ground like the demonic in Mark's gospel!  

He wriggled and writhed on the ground, inserting a thin twig into his cast as he frantically tried to poke the demon bee.

It was no use, the pain was so great that he decided to give and die! Dad knew of only one thing. THE WATER.

In he went, cast and all!  The bee died!  The cast disintegrated over the course of the day... which ended up being a good thing... not just so mom could put pink calamine lotion on his bites and wasp sting...

BUT BECAUSE... it was only then, we discovered that the twig he had inserted into his cast was POISON OAK!

His leg swelled up with red and puss - three times it's natural size and "Quasimodo" the "Elephant-man" 
spent another week, quarantined, in that 'O hospital bed he had been so familiar with.

Since I'm still waiting to drop the "HALLOWEEN" video on you - which is in the works now...  Next time, I'll tell you about our 1963 cross country trip the following year - that ended up with naked Swedish bun-buns in a Detroit Convent full of Nuns.

REMEMBER

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly."

~ Richard Bach