Pubate Peons: The Dangeling Appendenge and Smell of Victory

(continued)...after sitting half-day next to Sister Edith and finishing the second half in solitary confinement next to Sister Schultz (for knocking out Terry in the school yard) a group of us ended up at the lawn between the Venice Police and Venice Fire Station.

Sister Schultz was nicknamed by the kids at Saint Mark's school  after Sergeant Schultz on the TV show Hogan's Heroes. The difference was that Sergeant Schultz on TV was a pushover who was always saying things like, "I see nothing. I know nothing" in order to stay out of trouble. NOT THIS NUN...She was the enforcer at Saint Marks and made everybody's business her business. To us kids, she was the second most fear human being in the world right behind the notorious Sister Godzilla.

Sister Schultz looked just like the German prison guard and behind her back all the kids would say, "I see nothzing...I know nothzing" in our best German accents - while being deathly afraid of getting caught. The guys figured that if you put Sister Schultz and Sergeant Schultz in a ring, the Catholic nun would pin the Nazi prison-camp guard and have him begging for mercy in less than a minute.  The eight grade boys started a rumor that she had been a professional wrestler (in men's competition) before she entered the Nunnery!

Anyway, back to the story. It was three O'Clock and the prison doors were open and we were free - in other words school was out.  A bunch of us headed over to a game of tackle at the lawn next to the Venice Police Station.




The hard part was dodging the land mines - dog poop!  This challenged my vomiting superpowers. As the smallest guy on the field, I was hard to catch...but eventually did get caught with the ball on the 10 yard line and managed to drag three older Venice High guys across the goal line for a touchdown. During the game I stepped in a warm pile of dog poop and vomited like a binge-drinker at 4:00 am in the morning. I couldn't take the stink anymore and invited the Saint Mark-ites over to my house for a game of "touch" in the street. I figured that since it was Friday and Irene (our house cleaning lady post 7/15/13) had spent the day clearing paths in the middle of debris, I thought it might be safe to invite friends over because the mountains of clutter had been leveled.      

MOST IMPORTANT - It was still early in the day and the herbal-smoking WOLF PACK have not had the chance to assemble in full force, therefore my friends would be reasonable safe from the terrorist attacks from my hippie older brothers. The last thing I needed was for one of them to be shoved in a hamper, put under a car, buried in a pit, dropped out of a window or electrocuted while flushing a toilet.

Along with Ralph and Dino and RC and Quarto and "Slow Harry" I recruited neighbors like, Tommy Blaser and Jeff Lennon to join us in the game in the middle of the soft, tar street on Harding Ave.  The teams were evenly matched and the score was tied, so we threw out the "Next Touch Down Wins" challenge.  Receiving the kickoff, we made it past the fifty yard line at the bumper of the Dahlin truck full of trash and earned a new first down.

Being so caught up in the game, I failed to notice that Ulrich and his crew of "Angry Little Men" had arrived back from Saint Monica's and had been sitting on the front stairs plotting something against me and my "pubate peons" (they called us).   Ulrich and his crew were a dangerous subgroup of the Wolf Pack and were not as creative as the older more Alpha members. Instead, his cronies were about as inventive as caveman and usually hid behind cars in ambush where they leaped out on smaller victims with fist and knuckles flying.

With three downs wasted, we had one more possession in order to score the winning touchdown. Although Tommy was younger than me he was a very good athlete and the quarterback drew up the play for him. At the snap of the ball and with the count of "alligators" on two, Tommy was covered like glue and I was free on the right side, running along the curb in front of the Blaser house.

RC threw the ball to me. I reached overhead and snagged it out of the air. Miracle - it actually stuck to my hands. I pulled it in and WHAM! Somehow my foot managed to catch something and down I went - face first on the ruff, greasy asphalt along the curb.

Trying to be as stealth as possible, the scheming Lilliputian villains pretended not to be paying any attention to us as they walked up the street in their covert plan to head to Rosie's liquor store. As planned, Ulrich had stuck his leg out and caught my foot!   By the time any of us looked up, he and his bunch of hoodlums were  already down the street.

Crack..went the sound of my bones when my right arm stuck the concrete curb that reshaped my dangling appendage into a grotesque "U" shape.  I guess the adrenaline shock had minimized the pain of the face-plant and the blunt force trauma. The first thing I thought was how lucky my team was that the ball was dead and Dino couldn't score on the fumble.

At first, I had no idea that anything was wrong. As usual, I was the the last one to figure it out. The angry little subgroup of the Wolf Pack ran away to the Kissel's house and it wasn't until I stood up to my feet that I realized that my arm was deformed into the shape of a pretzel. This was a bummer, I had just gotten the full use of my leg back and now my arm. Ughhhh! We were just a bunch of 7th graders and all of them too stupid to know what to do, so they left me there - in the street - with a broken U-shaped arm and scurried home like a bunch of frightened cockroaches when the light is turned on. Irene had already left for the day and Kurt had just gotten home.  He was sitting on the front steps by this time and as I approached from the Blaser's direction I screamed, "Hey, Kurt! I broke my arm!" in stoic, Viking non-emotional language that was instilled in our Dahlin DNA.

"Yeah, right" he said, sarcastically thinking I was pulling a seventh grade prank. Dad always said, "Swedes don't cry" and since there was no tears and carrying-on like a normal kid with a broken arm - Kurt didn't believe me, until I had gotten close enough for him to see the roller-coaster shaped appendage.

The Saint Monica record-breaking Water-Polo player, LA County Lifeguard and Eagle Scout - causally stood to his feet, tore the flap off of a cardboard box of decrepit National Geographic magazines that had cluttered our front porch and folded it lengthwise down the middle. He set my arm in it like a splint and tied twine around the bent thing that had been placed in the crud contraption.

"Go find mom" he said rather unceremoniously, then turned as if bored and went into the house in search of alfalfa sprouts and other hippie food.
(Before cellphones, and before 911, this was not such an easy task - but at least on this occasion, I wasn't going to die like last time (Post 11/29/13).

My white uniform shirt was full of grease, mixed with blood from the a fresh flow that dripped down from the cut over my right eye. It looked worse than it really was - but with the blood and the cardboard splint and the grease, I was a sight to behold.

I went from house to house looking for mom. Blasers. Tripps. Nargies.


I went to the Lennons knowing that mom probably wouldn't be there, but having a little bit of Viking terrorist in me, I was hoping to gross them out. It was devilish, I know, but it worked. Panic ensued when Dick Gas and DeeDee Lennon saw me, but I also have admit, it felt good to think that someone cared. On the way out, I said "Hi" to the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary in their front window and headed towards Saint Mark's school.  I waved Hi to the Smiths and to the Gillemots on the way and thought I would try the convent (where the nuns lived) next. I really didn't think mom would be there either, but figured that I could get a little payback on some of the Catholic Sisters and hoped to freak them out like I did when I showed up at their front door as "Spawn of Charles Mason" on Halloween (10/28/13).



The adrenaline was wearing off and my arm had began to throb in excruciating pain. Going from door to door in a bloody, grease-stained shirt with a twisted limb in piece of cardboard was just about the most pathetic picture in the history of the Venice California...NO!...in the History of the world. I looked worst than the "pagan kids" we collected money for in the plastic loafs of bread handed out to us in class.  I felt like that little bird in the book, "Are You My Mother"...... only the little lost bird, didn't have a broken wing and wasn't covered in blood.

Oh well, I found mom later that evening and the poor thing took yet ANOTHER trip to Saint John's emergency hospital. When I arrived home later that night with my arm in a cast the Wolf Pack made fun of me. I may have been down, but I wasn't out.  I thought about putting the alligator we had in the backyard in their room, but I already had one wrestling match with that aquatic dinosaur and didn't want to go through that craziness again. Instead, in the middle of the night, I decided to sneak quietly upstairs to the third-floor abode of the Wolf Pack and slightly opened the cage of Iguana Del Diablo (8/1/13)

Wait for it! 

Wait for it! 

I was like a kid waiting for Santa Clause to arrive. I didn't sleep until I heard the screaming and panic of the Wolf Pack on the third floor as they wrestled with Del Diablo and with each other(that was the part).  I smiled, reveling in sweet revenge and fell sound asleep with this comforting thought,  "Victory...smells like the sounds of the Wolf Pack turning on each other."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 hehehehehe

I know I was the one with the broken arm, but I felt like I had won! 

       

"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!         
   

"Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - bird or devil! Pt II

Tap! Tap! Tap!  As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber floor. It is no one I muttered. No one rapping on my bedroom floor. Deep into darkness peering, long I lay there wondering fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
But since the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the whispered words of "Monday morn!"
This I whispered, "nevermore" an echo chanted louder, "Monday MORN!"

Rap, rap, rapping on my bedroom floor.

"Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, it bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
In this Harding house by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore
Is there - is there balm in my Gilead - my head - tell me, I implore!'
quote the raven, 'Nevermore."

Thump, thump thump grew the rapping as a beating heart of the dead body beneath my floor.

"Monday morn! Monday morn!"shouted in cadence with the tapping from my chamber floor.
"Prophet!" said I, 'thing of evil! - Prophet still, if bird or devil!"
"Nevermore" I said, tossing in my slumber to the haunting voice below one floor.

Thump, thump, thump went the broom handle on the entry ceiling - "Truly your forgiveness I implore."

"Up and at 'em!" yelled the vice that had been rapping at my bedroom floor, "It's Monday morn!"
Presently the light grew stronger and I realized that that tapping and voice morphed into my nightmare lore.
It was not a a heart beating -  not the dead rising - in fact it was not to be that tame!
No! Monday morning was always the same and yet no timid game!

Eyes finally adjusting to the light of day, it was the staff sergeant's broom handle beating on my bedroom floor.
"Up and at 'em!" yelled my dad. "let's go, go, go, go, go" cried he,
"Its time of the harvest moon" he implored!
Be it beating heart, or dead man or ghoul beneath the floor would have been better than what was in store!

Morning morning trash day had become my chore.
This was not Wednesday or Thursday "street cleaning day" circus galore (blog post 7/1/2013).
This did not involve the entire Wolf Pack, only Markie D and this infamous chore.

No one dared go out the backstairs door with what the Veloci Raptor had in store.
No dared tempt the evil bird that was no one's friend!
Someone flesh the rooster was destined to rend!

I marched down stairs with angry in eyes, dragging trash cans twice my size.
"Why was I the only one?" I criticized!
I knew the answer, it was no surprise.
I was Saint Francis, to the evil bird with crazy eyes.

Only me. Markie D!
My gift.  My superpower gave me a free pass
The bird of prey allowed me and me alone on the weeds and remnant grass.
Only I was allowed to drag the trash cans pass.

(Okay, you get the idea and the story will take much too long to continue in the prose of Poe)

Blaming the violent rooster for scares and blood, the older boys on the third floor were not part of my Monday morning ritual on trash day. Dad pounded on the ceiling below my bed. I dragged out the billion cans of trash to alley every Monday morn.  I looked at the rooster with love in my eyes and spoke a language it didn't despise(Blog Post: Kid in a pit with a water hose 2/27/14).  The hideous beast cleared a birth wide enough for this little lass, unhindered by the wild beast, I did pass.

Packing cans and stacking trash in the alley I did my chore.. my chore forever more.
when finished with the mundane task, I turned towards the house alas...
this is where things got wild, for the beast blocked my path - standing on the grass.

The Veloci-Raptor stood in the narrow path between cars and junk old kitchen sink
and a look in the eye of the evil beast cause my heart to sink.
But I was Saint Francis lover of animals not the typical hippie or rat fink!
Why rooster? Why?" Be that word or sing of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and quell this nightmarish horror.
Leave no blood foul fowl as a token of our sacred bond and let me pass now and forevermore!"

Why? (Again too much rhyming and I mean it -  anyone care for a peanut)

This is a true story as I looked at the crazy bird
and threw out positive pheromones of gentleness and kind word.
slowly approaching with my Saint Francis confidence and the "Covenant we struck in the Pit"
I trusted that rascle -  "Oh - S...Poop!"

Nevermore be still
Nevermore cursed bird or devil
I shrieked as betraying raptor flew waist high
and struck me repeatedly with sharp talon usually reserved for the hippies and the other guy!

Fresh blood flowed through the holes in my jeans
I laid on the ground with unrequited screams
shaking my fist at a horror worst that any of my bad dreams

Like wounded soldier, I crawled to the back gate
stood to my feet in haste I scrounged for battle gear
I plundered a trash can lid as shield and buckler
a broken mop handle - IT WAS WAR for this little suckler.

(Hey, if Dr. Suess and rappers can make up so so can I)

Thump Thump Thump! Tap Tap Tap! Rap Rap Rap
we clashed in epic battle
With my trash can shield and wodden sward I gave that beast quite a rattle.
Losing my Saint Francis I said, "Mess with me you devilish pig, your shallow grave, I'll gladly dig!"

Anyway, I managed to survive the fiendish attack before I set off that day for school
and was bent on being no bodies fool
Not Erick, Sister Edith, Mike, Terry, not Joe
Though animals and babies, I'll consent to try to give my Saint Francis eye
but for this mini-Godzilla, Wolf pack or foe
all I can say, "Stay clear or my oh my!"

I came in to test my Dad's experimental milk (Post 7/13/13)
and choked down clumpy oat meal meal worms and all (Shocking and Vomitous Thursday post 7/11/13).
and limped off to Saint Mark's school
determined not to be played for anyone's fool




                                    
                       "Watch out Terry, don't even think about messing with my friend Harry!"


Quote the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Trash Towers" Dahlins and The Eight Wonder of the World!

It was 1969 and a lot was going on... the US is making progress with the Apollo Program and it isn't too long now until mankind would walk on the surface of the moon. Tommy still thinks the moon is made of cheese and Jeffery thinks that our astronauts will be shot by laser beams from the green aliens that live on the dark side of the moon.





The Vietnam war in is full swing - I've got one brother in the Army and one in the Marines and three that sent their draft cards back to President Nixon.  There is a long hair that doesn't like the short hair for being such a rich one, that will not help the poor one and so on and so on and Scooby dooby doo-bee.

Probably worst of all was the fact that the Beatles decided to call it quits!  I don't know why they did it. I don't know if they had gotten around my brothers and the Mexican Tomato Plants had gotten to them- or if it was Yoko Ono... or if it had something to do with their new manager... or if it was just too much money or too much fame - but it didn't matter...it felt like the world was coming to an end.
Oh, sha sha, - even The Beatles couldn't figure out how to live together.

No more tours.. and they weren't jumping with joy like they used to. IT WAS OVER!


Now that all SIX of my big brothers were of legal driving age our front yard...our street and backyard were full of cars and trucks and dreams. They had brought home junkers they hoped to fix up and junkers they hope to cannibalized and strip for parts for the ugly heaps that they hoped would run someday.  Kurt even brought home a friend from his water polo team who brought project cars home to our house because this wasn't something that happened in Malibu along the beach where Mario lived. Our family kept growing and the clutter just kept stacking up.

I kind of felt sorry for Mr. Blaser next door. He liked his house like the "Father Knows Best" house on TV. He wanted everything spic and span - tidy and neat and the poor guy lived next to the Dahlins!
Our backyard was a primordial graveyard of old cars parts, decaying boats, travel trailers —that had no travel left in them, carcass’s of prehistoric washing machines and outboard motors that haven’t had pistons in them for ten years. 






We failed to tame the encroaching ivy which had an insatiable appetite and had consumed an entire patio and other structures that had been gobbled up for archaeologist to unearth in the distant future. The ivy and the bamboo had become perfect ways to camouflage the hippie crop of Mexican Tomato plants that were hidden in the far back behind all the junk and protected by mini-Godzilla the dreaded Veloci-Raptor.   

Even more to Mr. Blaser's dismay was the power and vitality of the bamboo the boys had planted. Different strokes for different folks. Bamboo is literally a fungus that cannot be killed by anything short of a nuclear blast. That stubborn bamboo grew up through old rusted barbecues, a bazillion used Schwinn bicycles, ancient baby strollers, red and rust wheels from abandoned Soap Box Derby - go-carts...cabinets - lots of cabinets (cabinets people had thrown-out that my dad had rescued from the jaws of the garage trucks on his notorious pre-dawn trash-run days - free cabinets that he hoped to hang in the carport someday... someday... someday!) along with bumpers, carburetors and other sundry car parts. It looked like this junk had been lifted up as sacrifices to some pagan god on an altar of bamboo (Asherah Poles I think they were called in the Old Testament). 



Before the Watts Towers, was the Eight Wonder of the World in our backyard; The Trash Towers of Venice - which rivaled the "Hanging Gardens" of Babylon.        

Perfect! Right? Every adventurous 12-year-old's dream.... image the go carts I could assemble and the magnificent forts a kid could build back there...except!

Except for the Veloci-Raptor!  No one in their right mind could enter the backyard without being armed with a whip and a chair like a lion tamer.  

But me and Veloci-Raptor had a good relationship ever since the older boys buried me in the pit and tried to kill me (Blog Post 2/27/2014). There is a yellow one that won't accept the black one that won't accept the red one, that won't accept the white one or big brother that won't accept the little brother. Different Strokes for Different Folks... why can't we live together?  

That's what I wanted to know so I started in my backyard and I developed mental powers that made me like Saint Francis that gave me a special way with animals. I could look at them in the eye and show them that they were loved and it's as though I could speak right to their heart and they understood me. Everybody was looking for kindness - even animals! I could be right, I could be wrong. 


Since the Nuns at Saint Marks had it out for me and my older brothers had it out for me...God had given me this gift with dogs and babies and the mini-godzilla that roamed our backyard...UNTIL ONE FATEFUL MONDAY MORNING on Trash Day! 

That is when the magic wore off and I became an everyday people. 

Until next time... and the bloody showdown at the Dahlin OK corral.     OH Sha Sha... don't hate the rooster, just hate the bite! 

for you android users Everyday People Sly and the Family Stone

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!

Altar Boys: On Being Dahlin and Being Catholic

Being a Dahlin means being a lot of things.







It means letting the Monkeys out of the Zoo (post 4/29/13). It means being 10 and wrestling an alligator; it means being left behind because there are too many children for parents to keep track (5/13/2013).

It means hand-me-downs that become see through after years of wear and tear before the youngest boy (that's me) inherits them; 

It means pushing broken down cars from one side of the street to the other in the hectic chaos of street cleaning days, it means Milk Wars, it means having an attack rooster instead of a guard dog, it means taking in strays who become part of the family, it means fun and  frivolity.

It includes breeding mosquitoes, looking like you have leprosy, trips across country, running into the President of the United States, being buried in pits or covered in red ants, it means having your pants pulled off in a catholic convent, it means electrocution, pranks, "Templates," simulating UFO's, nearly burning down the Lennon's house and saving others.




It means robbing the Helms truck, passing gas (that's Dooh-Dooh pants) and lots of vomit (that was my superpower) and frequent visit from the Police.

It means tons of kids...

 

and tons of junk...

 ....tons of cars running and not, hot rods, and cruising Van Nuys Blvd.

It means surfing, lots of long hair, lots of friends and Mexican tomato plants.

Oh...and it also meant being cute... (I didn't say anything about being humble).

 Dad "Mr. D" 

  Karl 

 Kurt

 Erick

 Markie D 

...and Being a Dahlin also meant being Catholic.

Being a Catholic meant... Big families... i.e. Dahlins, Blasers, Lennons...etc etc...

....it meant, "Fish Stick Fridays"

...going to Catholic School...i.e. Saint Mark's grammar school in Venice

Being taught by Catholic Nuns...  Catholic nuns with funny names....

...Like Sister Godzilla

and Sister Shultz

It meant being related to a nun  - 

 It meant first holy communion

Dressing up as Saints for Halloween 

 (John the Baptist AKA Wolf Boy) 

...it meant playing in the schoolyard 

fighting in the schoolyard

being whacked with yardsticks by the nuns... 

Attending Mass on Sunday and serving as an ALTAR BOY!  

This is where it gets tricky!

Give a 12-year-old boy a cross, candles and the blunt object to hold against the throat of another 12-year-old (who is about to receive communion) ...NOW you have the recipe for disaster.

that story to follow