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.  

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." 

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.

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