Three kids and The Demon Possessed Paint

(continued) Three stupid kids and a 5 gallon bucket of yellow paint.


We knew this was going to be dangerous, but never anticipated the scope of the blast zone.








Tonight Tony was going to celebrate his job promotion from Wright Brother's Ford in Venice (on Lincoln Blvd next to the Carroll Shelby racing facility) to becoming the Service Writer at A and B Chevy in West LA by inviting the hippies to his property on Palms Blvd.

(Above - picture of celebration dinner in front of the Palms garage)

(Right - picture of Shelby Cobras rolling out of the Shelby's factory in Venice directly behind Wright Brother's Ford)*



Assembling our tools, fighting over rollers and pulling the lid off of the big 'O bucket of paint―Tommy, Jeffery and I started off with the best of intentions. Looking back we realize now that the fact that any paint at all actually went on the house―was a miracle in itself.

Tommy bored quickly and was the first to succumb to the small wicked voice coming from inside bucket. The insidious paint told him to lightly brush Jeffery's elbow with his paint-dipped roller and had also tempted him to lie by saying it was an accident.

Jeffery sensed that his cousin had no real remorse and of course, had to―HAD TO paint Tommy's forearm in retaliation. Ughhhhhh! It was almost impossible for a 14-year-old like me to manage a couple immature 11-year-olds. These guys went back and forth, tit-for-tat and were practically worthless, but I tried.  I TRIED!


I really did until Tommy missed Jeffery and got the front of my shirt―accident or under the spell of the evil spirit, I couldn't tell.

All I knew was that the paint in the rolling pan TOLD ME to stay cool and to pretend like it didn't bother me. The haunted paint actually talked to me by name. "Markie D, you're the oldest―you're the boss―they can't treat you like this and get away with it." Everything the demon said made sense. "You've got to show them who's boss. Calmly put your roller into the pan and soak up as much paint as you can. Do it."

I mean a voice from the paint was talking to me. "Something evil this way comes" Who was I to argue.

"Hey Markie D the juggler vain on the side of your neck is bulging and a dead give away―GET IT UNDER CONTROL"  The ominous paint yelled. But it was right.

Trying to calm myself down I breathed like a lady doing la maze at child birth. As if under a spell, I obediently plunged my roller into the paint and pretended to go back to the patch of wood siding I was working on and screamed, "ATTACK!"

I had to show the two little kids that I was older and that I would win at all cost.

The DEVIL TOLD ME THAT I HAD TO WIN.

Screaming "attack" I lunged and ran that roller up the front of Tommy's shirt all the way to his nostrils.

The paint.
The paint.
It was the paint, I tell you! Just like the demon possessed rototiller that had dragged El Heffe around the front yard. This bright yellow paint incited a war and just like in those occasions where more baby food gets on the outside of the baby than inside the baby―there was more yellow paint on the torn up lawn, on  the stack of lumber, on the ladders, on the neighbor's wall, on the sidewalk and on the three of us than on the house itself.

  

 @

It was a canary yellow disaster of epic proportions. By the time Tony arrived back the three of us dripped from head to toe like zombies ONLY instead of blood it was bright yellow paint. This gave new meaning to painting the town red only in this case it was yellow demon paint―nearly half of of Venice was lemon colored. 

It wasn't like we could hurt the prices of Real Estate on this side of Lincoln Blvd, like anything over here would ever be worth more than twenty five thousand dollars.

The three of us stood there dripping and in unison said, "The devil made us do it." knowing full well that we would have to go to confession before we could ever take communion again.




BEST DAY EVER. That is until we found out that it was oil-based paint.

Tony called the Heffe, woke him up from his nap and told him to bring gasoline so we could scrub patches of the haunted yellow goo off of our extremities and out of our orifices.











The party went on as planned, only we were no longer invited. Our moms weren't too happy but the good news is we went trick or treating as three radioactive alien-brothers from Superman's neighboring planet―Plankton!

At least we thought our Halloween costume idea was funny.






Until next time!  














* Shelby Cobra picture posted by Enis Yeneriz on You know you’re from Santa Monica Facebook group

@  Picture telegraph.co.uk/news/newsvideo/viral-video/11643553/Russian-driver-crashes-lorry-and-covers-himself-in-yellow-paint.html

The Elephant Man, The Wolf Pack, The Plague

Continued from last time: The Manhunt!  or "How not to take a Family Vacation (again)"

“Leaves of three, let it be! Leaves of three, let it be! Leaves of three, let it be! Leaves of three, let it be!” 

The crazy mantra from the Boy Scouts got louder and louder as it kept playing over in my head. 

This just might have been the worst idea I ever had. WHAT IF I GOT POISON OAK?  I had seen the ugly and debilitating effects of the toxic plants on my brothers enough times to know how horrible it was and how long it lasted.   

For protection against the predator Wolf Pack, I jumped into the middle of a scraggly poison oak plant. And bolted downhill with two torn branches of the poisonous red leaves - full throttle - chasing a retreating army of 40 hippies.       

                                        It all made sense to me: David verses Goliath. 

He ran headlong into the giant who stood in front of him. My five smooth stones happened to be - weaponized sprigs of  toxicodendron urushiol...i.e. poison oak waving violently in my quivering fist like a mad man.  

"Hippie anti-venom…  hippie anti-venom… hippie anti-venom"

 I screamed all the way down the hill chasing siblings and their friends who scurried like frightened cockroaches. 

My dad, Mr. Sasson and Red took cover, locking themselves inside the station wagon even though it was a hundred degrees out. 

I did victory laps about the camp and tied the insidious branches to my head like antlers and continued to terrorize the viking brood. 

In a evil taunt I even laid in a lounge chair, arms folded under my head, as if tempting the universe to take it best shot.  BAD IDEA! BB's began flying. But it was a pump gun - so I took off directly into enemy fire knowing that "reloading" was hard to do on the run and swiped an assailant who was caught off-guard in the panic of pumping the Daisy rifle. 

A new tacit... I hid in the bushes for hours and didn't move. As the haughty Philistines began trickling back one by one - I lulled them into a false sense of security.  

THEN ATTACKED. Who was the blood-thirsty zombie now - Huh?  YEAH - ME, the little vampire fish.  

I got two of them when called off by my dad who sought to broker a peace treaty. 

All of that to say  ... that by the end of three days - The Plague of red rash... itch... boils... oozing... leaking... swollen arms and legs and other unmentioned body parts... had taken it devastating toll. 

Fortunately for me; it turned out that the itch on my forehead was an irritation from the twine.

ALL WAS WELL! And it got better.   

On the way home... we looked like a traveling circus with at least three of my brothers so severe that they were mocked by the others and one who was so grotesque that he was affectionately called "The Elephant Man."  

One stop, at a gas station in Big Sur, the owner had called the police who forced us out of the store and escorted out of town with lights and siren. 

I would love to post those pictures, but they have been banned by the Federal government... Okay, not by the Feds, but essentially banned by older brothers who later burned the incriminating evidence. 

Crusty-pink hippies were running around Venice coated in dried Calamine lotion while one recuperated on the hospital bed in the dining room and Chewbacca was quarantined in a room in third floor - naked - with a fan blowing over the aforementioned (unnamed) body parts. 

Of course it was bound to be an adventure - it involved the Dahlins ...and that's the way it was. 

I was none-the-closer to knowing what true love was all about - but for three weeks I had a spring in my step and a huge grin on my face!

        "Ahhhhhh.... the smell of Calamine in the morning."   

                       Just another day on Harding Ave...  

Holy Indignation at Cockrell's "Full Moon!"

(Here is what I didn't tell you last time). While the top brass from the other troops were all on one side of the scout bus (which was stuck on the bridge) talking things over Pinky Parlette and our two scout masters, Cockrell pulled down his pants and pressed his bare-bottomed ham-cheeks against the porthole window on the other side - "mooning" the Boy Scout "cake-eaters" on the other side.

12:00 noon: This grotesque, teen-ritual took place out of sight of the fretting leaders on the other side who where trying to figure a way of getting the truck unstuck. A small percentage of the boys - clapped and cheered because they thought it was funny (as most normal adolescent kids should). The rest, cringed in holy indignation, as if this wasn't something that guys this age were supposed to do and acted as if we had broken one of the Ten Commandments of Boy Scouting or something sanctimonious like that.

Little Wiener was on the inside of the Scout Bus and was watching the "Cockrell-show" from the front side and was a little too happy about it - which creeped out Jeffery and the other kids who had lost interest in tormenting poor Ray. Everyone agreed that Little Wiener's excitement earned the little twerp a pink-belly. It had been about two weeks since his last one and he was due for another one!

3:00pm: Anyway, several of the kids from Troop 34 broke the guy code by snitching on Cockrell to their Scout Master when they returned to "camp-regular-kid."

4:00pm: Cockrell got called into a court marshal tribunal which had sanctioned him to solitary confinement inside the cabin tomorrow while the rest of us "got to" hike to "Fossil Ridge."

5:00pm: Jeffery Lennon was so upset about the whole thing that went around calling the snitches, "bottle-feeders," and incited the rest of the kids of our troop in agreeing that these mamma's boys deserved no less than the full wrath of Troop 32 (for which we were prepared in advance - hence the snakes).

8:00pm: After dinner and just before the snipe hunt, we began making plans and decided that this would be the inaugural Camp Slauson "White-Angel Raid" like we did at the National Jamboree last summer at Farragut State Park in Idaho (only this time with underwear on). Cockrell was so upset in what he felt was unjustified persecution that it had somehow earned him the right to go on the raid naked tonight and pleaded his case. Senior Patrol leader, Ray Vandenmark, had to calm him down and talk him out of going in his "birthday suit" all over again. (I'm telling you - this kid just wanted to have his pants off all the time. He had the mind of an eight-year-old in the body of a 22-year old - I'm not sure that is the best mix).

8:42pm: We gathered the ropes, the snakes and waited until after midnight, while Jeffery anxiously walked around in circles, rubbing his hands together like a kid at Christmas - doing a personal chant "down with the bottle feeders, down with the snitches."  He was so excited - he wasn't too far away from earning his own "pink-belly."

So we had crossed the bridge, crashed into a tree, crushed the front of the truck, skewered Ray, Cockrell had exposed himself and we had upset the Boy Scout cosmos. By now, Jeffery was sure that this was going to be one of the best camping trips of his life (that wasn't saying much - he never went camping with this family).  He was thrilled, but sad that his cousins Tommy Blaser or Michael or Kevin or Kippy Lennon weren't here with him to enjoy the more "Dahlin-side-of life."

9:30pm: We did the dreaded snipe hunt - and it appeared that even Jeffery liked being out late at night, in the dark, crawling around in bushes and snapping his thumbs inside a brown paper lunch sack. "A man who protest too much, gives himself away."  Apparently Jeffery had bought into the legendary snipe hunt "hook, line and sinker" by vehemently defended his claims that he had actually caught one of the fictional bird-related-rodents which had subsequently managed to escape by eating a hole in the bottom of his brown lunch bag.

I hated the insidious, late-night ritual and hated that Jeffery wasn't the least bit scared - perhaps it was because he was too excited about the raid to think about things like Albinos or Zombies or rattlesnakes that lived in the bushes. On the way back from the snipe hunt we tackled Little Wiener, wrestled him to the ground - pulled up his dirty uniform shirt and with a hundred hands patted his soft, white belly until it turned a bright shade of pink! Every "newbee" got one on their first camp out. He had already gotten his fair share, but seemed to keep earning one every time he acted like one of those namby-pambies from Mar Vista or Santa Monica.

12:33am:  16 of us kids sneaked out with nothing on, but our tight, white undies and some duck tape on our chest and back in the symbol of a cross - we looked like some bizarre tribe that was ready to participate in the crusades...only different... or a mutant group of Scots under William Wallace (we were just happy to be going into battle to defend the honor of our troop - and happier that we were near naked - and happiest about the plan).

Like a bunch of squeaky mole rats we took the rope and tied it to the front tent stakes of Troop 34's tents and wound it around from tent to tent 4 inches above the ground. We had another group doing the same thing over at the campsite of the troop from Santa Monica.  We had Little Wiener and Mosquito Bait doing the same thing at our campsite so it wouldn't be so obvious who perpetrated the crime. Lastly, we had two members stealthily sneak into a fourth camp and leave it completely untouched excepted for lots of evidence that was planted to frame them: i.e. end rolls of duck tape... pieces of rope... and other such paraphernalia.

1:02am: When everything was set... and all of our mole-rats in underwear had returned to our camp and put their clothes back on - over the duck-tape tribal markings, I turned a snake loose in one of the tents of the guys from Troop 34. At the same time, Kissel was busy loosing the other harmless garter snake in one of the tents of the guys from the Santa Monica troop.

We ran like "H   E  double toothpicks" back to our campground and waited! AGAIN...Cockrell had asked if he could be pretend to be sleeping in the tent naked, so that when the mayhem broke out he could run around like a chicken with its head cut off in full view of all the scouts at Camp Slauson. That idea was quickly squelched and the two other boys in his tent decided they would sleep outside under the stars.

1:15am: Giggling, in hushed excitement and whispers - We Waited!

And, I do have to tell you this: it worked out better than than anything we could have imagined - EXCEPT for poor Ray (the luckiest and the most unlucky person in the world).

1:37am: "The screech that was heard around the world!"



             (Pinky pictured in his Pajamas)

(p.s. no snake was harmed. Unfortunately, I can't say that about Ray and some of the boys in the other camps - hehehe).

The Dark Secret of the Ouija Board.

1969: The Ouija Board and Dark Portal of Harding Ave.

Last time I left off with - not only my pride bruised from the epic "love-fail" in the Saint Mark's schoolyard in front of all the girls, but also with a couple choice bruises on various body parts at the hands of a bully big brother and his gang of angry little men.  Now I am in my room talking to my dog and worried about what is going to happen after dark.  You see, not only do I try to avoid the flippant hippies downstairs who think I'm a throw toy and the schemes of the unfeeling Wolf Pack upstairs on the third floor, but spend nights frightened to death of something even more dark and sinister that began years ago.









My family was responsible for opening a portal to the dark underbelly of the demonic realm by dabbling in the dark arts by staging séances in our living room. I was young and remember the time the table lifted off of the floor and how one of my older brothers pee'd his pants - two cried because they were scared to death (teenagers crying - could have been the best day ever EXCEPT...

...Except the fact that at that very moment it was the precise instance that we unleashed something insidious that dwelt in the dark places of our house and we had lots of dark places.  Being young, I had a special sensitivity to the boogie man and monsters under the bed, Zombies, demons and things that go bump in the night.

Me? I saw it - they didn't! They were dull and clueless to what they had  unleashed into the house and into the neighborhood and probably worst yet - didn't care.

And here I sat in my room with my trusty dog - in the room nobody wanted. The reason I had a room to myself in a house with something like 532 people (that would be my brothers) crammed together in the limited number of bedrooms ... was because this room had a dark secret.

The hole that I slept in was discovered by the Ouija Board.  

                              THIS IS ALL TRUE!

Here is a picture of me (later in about '72  with a broken leg - and a hippy older brother clickhere Hotel Crazy and the Harding History of Broken Bones) and the loft bed in the background.   I liked the loft bed because it gave me an advantage over the Wolf Pack that had protection on three sides and offered high ground.

It made it easier for me to defend myself against night raids and suffocation but was the portal of the ghost that lived in the basement.

Since this it is just a couple days to Halloween I think I will tell you the story of that day with the Ouija Board that changed everything.            


 If you don't believe me ask my brothers!


What my house looked like...

What I thought it felt like....  

Next time the conclusion to the Ouija curse. 

 

Mad Man vs Policeman and the Rescue

Circa Sept 1969 (cont pt 2)

The old turn-of-the-century house was built without fire-blocks and the gluttonous flames raced up the studs between the walls devouring the old dry wood on its way to the second floor.

Pop...pop...pop went several more windows exploding from the intense heat as the occupants on the second floor found themselves trapped inside - as the hot flames filled the grand staircase (their only means of escape).

Meanwhile one of the officers from the protective detail (stationed at the Lennon house on the opposite corner) searched between houses thinking that it was the crazed-lunatic, Chet Young or that it might have been Charles Manson who was responsible for the Molotov cocktail that had been thrown through the large front window as a distraction to get at the Lennons.  The popping sounds from the exploding windows sounded just like multiple gun shots. The crackling blaze, sounds of gunfire and the heavy dark smoke was like a scene from the war zone in Vietnam.

As it turns out, the officer who had been tackled on the front lawn of the Tripp's house next door to the blazing inferno was not tangled up with a crazed assassin or with one of Charles Manson murderous minions...as he had thought at the time. No, it wasn't a madman at all. Instead it turned out to be my neighbor Bobby Tripp who had just returned from Vietnam and was experiencing a flashback.

Seeing the scuffle from inside the house, Mrs. Tripp frantically ran out in her nightgown and began yelling at the officer, "Don't hurt my son...don't hurt my son, he just got back from Vietnam." Thankfully, the officer didn't let his wounded pride get the better of him.  Heeding the frantic pleas of Bobby's mom, both of them stood to their feet, respectfully dusted each other off and turned their attention to the fire!

In his skivvies and nothing else, Don Blaser was already on the scene with my Dad along with a couple of my draft-card-burning brothers who were building a human ladder out in front, up the corner of the crude balcony that been built a year earlier by numerous "Frat house members" while on an intoxicated binge.

Chewbacca had climbed onto the balcony contraption and shoved his waffle-stomper through the window and began helping the trapped "fraternity members" out of the window and onto the second story overhang as my brothers lowered members one by one down the human chain of Dahlins, Blasers and Tripps.






I don't know if you have been paying close attention, but every time I talk about the "Frat house" I always put it in quotes. It totally looked legit from the outside with its Greek letters ΦΒΧ  that had been fixed to the exterior of the old house (seen above in the picture), but I'm pretty sure they didn't even know what those letters meant in Greek.  The whole thing was sham - a cover for a party house for guys who couldn't make it into a real college Fraternity - an animal house which was the brain-child of Cameron Grant.


Can't fool O' Markie D - no siree!


The Venice Fire department set up mobile command unit at the Tripp's house next door and Myrtle seemed a little too happy have all those young men in uniform running through her house.  She was more than happy to oblige the terrible - awful - no good interruption.

Anyway, the Lennons on the other corner were safe, but still on protective lock-down. The fireman took some time protecting the nearby properties of 900 Harding Avenue and let the majestic old lady burn to the ground.   (Oh by the way - its not like the Lennon Sisters were always standing outside the Lennon house posing for pictures or anything like that - but I think you get the idea)



This is where I come in. This is where I began my investigation of possible arson suspect. I don't think it was Dracula or Frankenstein or anything as insidious as that but it's interesting that just about everyone on the Harding Avenue including the Nuns in the convent on Coeur d'Alene had a good motive to burn the place down.





My list will follow...  But kids please be careful with matches - and I'm specifically talking to you Tommy Blaser.

The Epic Race: Dahlins verses the Lennons

Star Date: August 11th 1969.

I got back from the "diarrhea-trip to Valhalla" (otherwise known as the 1969 Boy Scout Jamboree in Idaho) to find that things were awfully weird on Harding Ave.
Wait!
Wait!
Wait...that didn't come out right...everything was always kind of weird on my street, because we lived there of course.


 "Weird" is not the right word, maybe I should have said "unusual." Not that things had gotten normal all of a sudden, but that there was this ominous vibe in the air. I think the adults could explain it better, but as a kid it's something that you could feel by the silence.

Mr. Lennon was very athletic and always had his kids running time-trials up and down Naples avenue with a stop watch in his hand. I don't know if the times he recorded should have counted because the 50 and 100 dash-marks he painted in the street next to their house ran down hill towards Saint Marks church. Anyway, I think Danny and Mimi were his two fastest runners. Mr. Lennon was always trying to get us to race his kids, but I saw Mimi run a couple of times and knew that she could beat the pants off of me by a mile. Danny was playing football at Loyola University up on the hill with the big letter L that you could see from our house. Mr. Lennon's big challenge was his oldest boy, Danny, race against my oldest brother, Tony...
                            .                  ...i.e. the Lennons verses the Dahlins.

It was the anticipated event of the summer!  But when I got back home to Venice from this Boy Scout trip with Troop 32, there was no visible activity going on anywhere on Harding avenue.

 No diabolical plans of reeling in the old grouch next door (post 5/9/13).
 No launching of flaming UFO's (post 8/24/13).
 No bags of dooh-dooh on Edna's front porch.
 No hamper torture (post 6/5/13)
 No electrocutions (post 4/26/13 & 7/8/13).
 No screeching down the streets in Hot Rods.
 No Helm's Bakery Truck ambushes (post 8/3/13).

Tommy couldn't come out and play, the Blasers had to stay inside for some reason

Jeffry couldn't come out and play, Bob and Jeanette Lennon's family had to stay inside.

None of the Superior ave Lennons were around (and they were always around).

No touch football was taking place in the street. No kick-the-can and none of the Dahlins were shooting each other with B.B. guns nor we they hunting me with needle-tipped arrows.


I couldn't put my finger on it, but something wasn't right.

The hippies were in the back, quietly minding their own business, doing whatever it is they do in that back-ivy-cave with those "Mexican tomato plants" of theirs. I was beginning to get suspicious of those plants because they never seemed to grow any tomatoes  - even after all the attention my brothers gave them.

One of hippies was making his way from the ivy enclave (the dark ivy cave that the older boys called "Wall Drug") when the Veloci-Rooster attacked and scared the "long-hairs" spit-less who then screamed like a little girl and fell onto the thin, tin walls of the old, pool-turned reptile-habitat. Stretched out across the side of the fallen tin wall, the freaked-out screeches of the long-hair turned to a muffle as the dude landed face down into the billion gallons of sand that we had stolen from Venice Beach. When the cocky attack rooster caught a glimpse of what was slowly making a predatory approach in the direction of the downed hippie, it wisely backed up and gave way.    

The insidious yellow eyes of the creature blinked slowly as if assessing what to do with its victim. Exposing its dagger-shaped teeth the Caiman alligator appeared to have weighed it options and decided for escape rather than attack.  

Let me tell you, "That was one lucky hippie!"

The "gator" creature took off across the stoned victim and began running in a frenzied circle around the backyard looking for the easiest means of exit.

Chickens flew! Feathers were everywhere! Rabbits and chuckwallas and guinea pigs and even the desert tortoises took cover. Things flung, rusty bikes buckled into a heap and old BBQs standing on three legs fell over as stacks of decaying National Geographics swayed as if under the influence of the latest earthquake.

The chicken squawking, the awful screaming, the animal caterwaul, and the clamorous racket of the symphony of dissonance alerted all of us in the house that something terrible was "afoot" (Sherlock Holmes would say), in the backyard.  Tony and I looked out the window in time to see the gator making his way into the front yard.  The prehistoric reptile ran to the soft tar street and couldn't decide which way to turn. I hoped the Tripps wouldn't open their front door after what had happened to them last time (post 8/1/13 Iguana Del Diablo) and thought how nice it would be if Edna's brother, Hutch, was makings one of his notorious visits to Harding Ave instead and had a close encounter of the worst kind with the savage reptilian gargoyle.

(Ricky Tripp pictured to the left).

Without any fear at all, Tony took off his shoes and bolted after the flesh eating monster. The sharped-toothed beast raised it's body on all fours and took off towards the Lennon house. Forget Tony verses Danny Lennon, this was Tony verses the lightning fast cold-blooded carnivore that had escaped from the Dahlin swamp.

Billy Lennon decided he would break the top security curfew and had lurking outside in front where he watched the whole thing.

Down the street, came the gator ablaze with the inspiration of freedom, followed by the barefooted Dahlin whose feet were moving so fast that you couldn't even see them.


Taking a right at the corner of the Lennon's house Tony bolted after the high-strung vertebrate and made a record 50-yard-dash, grabbing the tail of the raptor so that it could not run into the wide open doors of Saint Mark's Church!

Tony flung the thing around a couple times to scatter its feeble brain, heaved it over his shoulder and returned the ravenous beast to it home.

Billy knew!  He saw the whole thing.

Billy knew that his oldest brother, Danny didn't stand a chance against my oldest brother! He sneaked back inside the safety of the compound and whispered accounts of the events of the epic race that took place right out in front of his house.

(I just put in the picture to the Right, for fun of course. The Lennon Sisters weren't really out in front during this latest episode...they were being diligently protected by the watchful eye of their Dad because of the rising intensity of the lunatic threats that the crazed fan, Chet Young, had made against Bill Lennon).

My birthday was in two days. I would finally become a teenager...13!  But in two days that didn't seem to matter anymore.. because everything was about to change the very next day on our beloved street!

                 Venice as I knew it, was about to change forever!

Oh and if any one sees Keith Bjelajac, thank him for letting me borrow his Saint Mark's sweater.

                  Next Time: The Tagic News!