Phyllis Diller Girls and Alien Abduction

Circa 1971: You know that old couple in the rusted Ford truck rolling down a lonely two lane highway at night and they get sucked up by a tractor beam and abducted by aliens―well that's me.

I'm trapped in a car with a bunch girls and going completely out of my mind. The station wagon was crammed packed full of all the girls on our street―headed to Saint Monica's High School.

This is my new Monday to Friday morning ritual―purgatory.

The clamorous ride from Venice to Santa Monica was a cacophony of high-pitched girls all talking at the same time broken up with intermittent cackles, ear piercing screeches and singing―if you could call it that.



They carried on multiple conversations about boys along with the occasional whisper-speak in code with me in the back completely invisible―not understanding a bit of it.

Contributing to the din of noise from Mimi Lennon, Sally Lennon, Theresa Blaser, Theresa McCarthy and my sister Marylee was Debi Gas who flipped back and forth between radio stations about every ten seconds. KRLA...KHJ...sound-bites of familiar voices Wolfman Jack, Robert W. Morgan and Rick Dees and tantalizing morsels of songs―none longer than 8 seconds.

Being bombarded with fragments of The Jackson Five ABC; Simon and Garfunkel Like a bridge over troubled Water; BJ Thomas Raindrops are falling on my head―I felt like one of those humans who had been abducted by aliens and whose brains were being blasted by gamma rays.

My little gray-cells were moosh by the time we rounded the corner at Ocean Avenue and turned right onto Wilshire Boulevard where Lawrence Welk was in the initial stages of building his Welk Towers.

I smiled as we passed looking into the giant hole filled with all of the busy construction equipment. Let me tell you, bulldozers and cranes were easier to understand than high school girls suffering from estrogen overload. I also smiled because I felt connected to that construction-site on top of the bluffs in a weird sort-of-way―LENNONS

Not only did we have two Lennon cousins in the car ride but we also had one of the younger Lennon girls. Although we could literally call her a Lennon sister, she was not technically a "Lennon Sister."  The four oldest Lennon girls had performed on TV every week on the Lawrence Welk show for nearly 15 years and the girl who is busy flipping the radio stations―her older brother was married to DeeDee Lennon.

As far as I was concerned that new high-rise going up was mine (well, maybe not mine, but it certainly had something to do with my street in Venice―of which I boast).

If you don't know who Lawrence Welk is, go ask your Grandma. She could tell you. Everyone over 60 watches the guy with the bubbly champagne music who began his show every week with the words, "Wunnerful wunnerful" in his thick German accent.

Anyway, I hoped my brain could recover from my journey through purgatory so that it can function by  4th period at least. Phyllis Diller made a promise to me and it wasn't working out so well.

She told me that I would be the Mayor of LA and that I would marry Andrea. You see every year at Saint Mark's grammar school, Phyllis Diller would show up and read her prophecy for all the graduating students.

Only Phyllis Diller was my mom in costume. With her hair ratted and the cigarette thingy in her hand she looked and sounded just like the famous comedian.

Darn you Phyllis Diller...ah...mom!

I've been in high school five months and haven't been able to say a single word to Andrea. I was too shy, too timid and felt so dimwitted that I couldn't even figure out what to say when I got near her―lips unable to form coherent words. 


I thought playing water polo and hanging-out by the pool in my speedo would give me a chance. But No!

Come on dumb prophecy! Do what you're supposed to do.

My heart leaped every time I saw her, but I had no idea how this boy―girl thing was supposed to work. Nervous and scared I began to think that it had to happen either through osmosis or that she had better do something. Take charge. Be on the advance because my brain had been gamma-rayed by aliens and turned to jello every time I get within 20 feet of you Andrea.

COME ON PHYLLIS DILLER!

COME ON ANDREA! Marilyn? Theresa? Do something―help us out here. I'm too retarded.

I had been blown-up, electrocuted, the oxygen had been cut off from my brain, wrestled alligators, left behind at The Dead Sea been fired as an Altar-Boy and my self-image is so low I could stand up and walk underneath a wiener-dog.

HELP ME. I am in a quest to find out what love is all about and can't even say hi to a girl!  RIGHT?

               (pictured―6th grade, when I first fell in love)








I'd sue Phyllis Diller but she was my mom―what? Ughhhhhh  Can't even get that straight.

Dig your hole Lawrence Welk. I've got hormones problems, brain issues and have my own pit that I'm trying to dig out of and besides I've got to head off to swim practice with Phyllis Diller's step-son! (pictured here in this Saint Monica swim team photo).            

 THE IRONY of it all.






BTW the picture on top of this post (at least temporarily) was the end of a fishing trip with Dad. With fishing poles in hand this was the moment the older boys concocted the plan to catch the biggest land-shark in the history of the world (photo credit Donny Blaser)






Wolf Man Jack (photo credit) Facebook post

Welk Show (photo credit) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lawrence_Welk_Show#/media/File:Mancinimercer003.jpg

Wilshire and Ocean 1970 (photo credit) Posted in "You Know Your From Santa Monica" by Michael Hayasha

Lips Ablaze and Instruments of Mass Destruction

Here is another infamous story I gathered while in southern California reminiscing with one of the older boy's favorite victims.  The Wolf Pack were generous...no, not generous  - they were lavish with terribly creative pranks. John said that every time he came over he had to prepare himself for whatever the Dahlins would throw at him.  My crazy older brothers were equal opportunity offenders and nobody was safe in our house.

I can't lie and must admit that whenever I was not the one being lowered in a suitcase, shot at, buried in a pit, or dropped over a cliff  and they were busy cleverly torturing someone other than me - I was very happy and yet also felt a tinge disappointed for not getting my adrenalin fix - (That's why I figured that I must be a little retarded)!

Here is a Picture of John telling me his story... the audio however, did not get transferred, but you can see the pained look on his face.

This story like most of our stories has a long back-story...which I'll attempt to make very short. It begins somewhere between Lennon envy and The Sound of Music.

Look at the Lennons! Look at how cute they were, and all of them sing! All of them! The Lennon sisters sing like angels, The boys sing, Mimi sings and Kippy the baby brother - even he sings!  It just wasn't fair!

When God was handing out singing voices - I think the Lennons were in line first and God ran out by the time He came to the Dahlins. None of us could sing! Not one of us could hold a tone or sing a note on key!  Look at 'em...just look at them!

Look at us! Does it look like any of us can sing? 

Well, to make matters worse a couple years ago, out comes The Sound of Music. My mom saw the movie a hundred times and wished we were like the singing Von Trapp family or the Lennons - with us, it was just lemons instead.  

So my poor mom, thought that if we couldn't sing - by golly, at least we would all play a different instrument and be a 9 person orchestra. She fantasized that other mothers from Saint Marks church would come into our house and we would line up on the entry stairs and play "So long, fair-well...auf wiedersehen ...good bye" in our symphonic nine piece orchestra."  This was her dream! 

Tony with his Clarinet

Karl with his Trombone

Kris with his Coronet

Kurt with his Trumpet

Erick with his Violin and Piano

Madeline with the Viola 

Me with a squeaky hand-me down ancient Clarinet

Karin on the Piano! 

All of us taking lessons at Saint Marks...

Dude this could have been great! Except for the part about this being the Dahlins. 

The instruments were turned into weapons of mass destruction as we used them for warfare and to beat each other up with.

Besides the foul-mouthed mynah bird that cussed, our entry also had a piano, a couple other pieces of furniture and a million of these unused and banged up instruments in their dusty, old, black cases that had been piled into what looked like siege ramp that reached the top of the grand staircase. 

As John told the story, he said he was invited in by Kurt to play his trumpet!  Now mind you, this was the very place that we had electrocuted poor John in another one of our horrible pranks(Blog 7/11/13)!  There was no reason for him to say yes! He checked to make sure no electrical wires were attached to the the thing and against his better judgement he acquiesced to Kurt's nagging, persistent, insistence - And try, John did!  ONLY...

ONLY... Kurt had smeared the mouth piece with jalapenos peppers and Tabasco hot sauce! 

Obediently, but foolishly, John put his lips on the mouth piece and blew!  He blew for about a second when he threw the trumpet and howled like a lone wolf at a full moon.  The mynah bird cussed as Kurt rushed to John's rescue with a cup of water. John took the cup and hastily threw it down his gullet only to find it had been laced with more Tabasco hot sauce!   UGHHHHHhhhhhhh

The Wolf Pack cheered!  

John howled and ran around in circles like a mad dog...So as it turned out, one of our hated instruments was finally put to good use. At least, that's what the Wolf Pack thought!

I wanted to laugh, but ducked and took cover for I was having a pre-pubescent PTSD Flash back from a incident that nearly killed me when I was just a little boy! That story next time! 

Android users click here for. Paul Simon Loves Me Like a Rock

 

part 3 THE HAMPER OF DEATH: Blazing Saddles

Last time I left off with the old metal container being carried off by the wolf pack as though they were a cannibal tribe carrying an unwelcome guest in a giant stew pot to the sacrificial fire.  Kidnapped and squished inside the tin can of death I had no idea where the agitated hordes were taking me.

“Si se puedes!” yelled Chewy like a cheerleader. The swarm of neighborhood locust heard his chant and cheered thinking he was egging them on in his native Spanish.  Up, up, up… they excitedly lifted me precariously high over their heads in the ex-baby-diarrhea-diaper-pail, turned hamper, turned sacrificial tribal-pot-of-torture and imminent death.  Thinking about the mountain of stinky baby diapers my stomach heaved desperately wanting to release all of its contents but my brain knew that trapped inside this dark, small, airless space was a bad Idea.   I could hear angels singing. I was going to die, they were here to carry me home.

Wait!

It wasn’t angels…it was the Lennon Sisters practicing for the Lawrence Welk show. The restless brood was carrying me off in the direction of the Lennon’s house. That was all I knew at that moment!

The metal coffin crashed with a loud thud as they dropped my ceremoniously to the ground in middle of the street.  Were they going to leave me here to play chicken with traffic?   Blind and unable to move I had a serious disadvantage. Was Tony going to electrocute the container I was in…the mad scientist loved to play with electricity.

 

Mr. Steadman stood on the porch and yelled inside to Mrs. Steadman, “Lock the doors; the Wolf Pack is on the move.”  Peering out through the blinds she mumbled back… “No wonder lions eat their young.”

Thump…. Thump…. Thump… Thump…. Thump…  Several hands began tapping out a beat on my metal container like a tribal war drum.  They giggled and laughed and began to sing along with the rap-tap-tapping on my vessel of death. Then one of the boys (I think it was Dooh-Dooh Pants) began to lead them in a chant that sounded like the witch’s minions in the Wizard of Oz…

“Oh-Wee-Oh. Wee-Oh… Oh-Wee-Oh, Wee-Oh…”

On and on they droned along with the tribal rhythm being pounded out on the lid of my latched container until someone kicked it onto its side. Crash!  Then, with a great shove, one of the boys sent me - my container - the lid - the latch and all, sliding sideways across the asphalt. The metal grated against the asphalt with a horrible screech that sounded like Sister Godzilla’s fingernails against a chalkboard, only a thousand times louder!

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhh,” I screamed, thinking this is how they were going to kill me… they intended to slide me around the neighborhood until my ears bleed and my brain explodes.

IF ONLY!

If only I knew what was going to happen next… I would have wished this was the way they had conspired to kill me.  If only.

Anyway, they shot me across the asphalt like an astronaut in a cockeyed rocket launch…that went sideways. My metal container screeched until it crashed to a halt with a colossal CLUNK striking something ginormous and solid and heavy and metal.  I didn’t know just how frightened I should be...but began to get a clue when I heard all ten-thousand feet hurriedly scramble away in a million directions as if they had seen King Kong. It was like a scene in an Alfred Hitchcock horror film. 

 Even the angelic voices from the Lennon House stopped singing. It was an ominous sign that I felt deep in my bones. I had no idea just how diabolical the plan was that they had hatched for the hamper and me.

That was until!

Until, I heard the dreadful and terrifying sound of Edna’s screen door hinges screeching. 

GOOSEBUMPS!  Every single hair on my arms and back of neck stood up in the sudden realization of exactly where I was… My rusted burial sarcophagus had come to rest and was lodged under the rear differential of Edna’s behemoth precious BUICK. 

I screamed as I heard her frantic footsteps racing off her wooden porch towards me.

“Help Edna, stop!” I wanted her to know that there was a child stuck inside the putrid can that was stuck under her car.  ‘Edna, Nooooooo…if you kill me, you’re breaking the 5^th commandment” I thought a dose of Catholic guilt might save my life, until I heard her keys jiggling in the door. I WAS A GONNER!

 

They couldn't erase me at Salton Sea, so maybe this was their next chance.

Varoom roared the engine to life…Her car jerked backwards as she hastily forced the gear shift lever through reverse on the way to drive… creasing the hamper and pinning me inside my tiny metal coffin under the heavy metal housing of her behemoth Buick’s rear end.   

Tires squealing, can screeching, sparks flying and kid screaming.  The angry grouch tore down the street in her 18 ton battleship with my hamper of death heating up and shooting a forty foot rooster tail of sparks. 

Talk about blazing saddles... my stinky death container was getting red hot and my Swedish little derriere was hotter than molten lava... Krakatoa (east of java) was about to erupt.

 

Pt 1 The HAMPER of DEATH: The Trap is Set.

Okay, so I barely survived my first day of Fifth Grade because Sister Godzilla almost kicked me out (she had enough Dahlins already). Innocently, Marilyn had brought up the "Tragedy" of our last family vacation that ended up on the front page of the Herald Examiner. Nothing ever seemed to go right, so mom decided that she was going to lock herself in her room, whenever she was home. Between watching Bonanza, The Andy Griffith Show, The Beverly Hillbillies and this new show that just started called Star Trek, she had plenty to keep her busy.

Problem now was - Dad was out at Salton Sea selling lots which left the inmates to run the asylum (The inmates were my brothers - affectionately know as The Wolf Pack).  I think whenever mom watched the Lennon Sisters on the Lawerance Welk Show it just proved how much more dysfunctional we were - than the picture of perfection that lived across the street - which drove her to buy more locks for her bedroom door.

Without the parentals around, this promised to be the best life a kid could ask for. This was every kid's dream. RIGHT? That is, unless you just so happen to be the last born - the last born male child in a family already littered with too many male children. You already got a glimpse of our life: we let the monkeys out of the Zoo...terrorized the grouch next door...and subjected ourselves to be cooked, fried, Shaked-N-Baked  in a trailer so that we could cover ourselves in volcanic mud and camp for free.
                                                     My dad the frugal Swede!

Anyway, it was 1966 and the boys battled over the surf sounds of the The Beach Boys and The Beatles. Regardless of what 45 was playing on the record player at the time -  the winner was long blonde hair.

Me, on the other hand, as the runt of the litter (The omega male of the Wolf Pack), received all the sibling torture my creative and innovative brothers could conjure. With mom locked in her bedroom and dad at Salton Sea, there was no telling what torment would be in store for me on any particular day.

Especially since the "Salton Sea thing," I had felt distanced and alone and disconnected and desperately longing to feel a part of the TRIBE! This longing to fit in...is the only explanation I have for saying, "yes" to the offer I was about to receive. I mean would anybody in their right mind...anyone who is dreadfully, fearfully, and absolutely claustrophobic - as well as anyone who lives vicariously through their nose - say yes to something that was sure to kill them. 

I had vomit superpowers...I would not...could not - ever do such a thing. Just goes to show you that I was not in my right mind and would do just about anything to feel like I fit in (this is probably the definition of psychosis right?).

I can't tell you exactly who was involved in this one...because I could only hear the muffled voices of all the perpetrators through the small metal coffin that I voluntarily subjected myself to. I tell you right now, it was a very bad decision.

List of those involved: The entire Wolf Pack: Tony, Karl, Kris, Bob, Philip, Kurt, Kleghorn, Erick, Charlie, Terry, Tom Weltz...In addition to that, it was possibly...Donny Blaser, Bruce Grant, a Smith or two and maybe at least one of the Lennon brothers - Pat most likely? But I wouldn't be able to tell you for sure in a court of law. All I know was that I was out numbered by about a hundred to one. Let's just say, the odds weren't exactly stacked in my favor.

This latest scheme was to be a "TWOFER" on the grandest scale. On the following Saturday, Kurt cheerfully bounded up the stairs and announced that "Harding Ave" (that's the street we lived on and this is how - even to this day, we identify ourselves), "Harding Avenue was preparing to have the world's biggest Hide-N-Seek game," and he was inviting me to play!  (What you have to remember is that with just the Lennon and Dahlin kids in four houses on our block - that was over forty kids alone). This was going to be huge. He was inviting me. My clan, my pack, my people, my family were including me... I felt liked, wanted, accepted  (to the point of psychosis) and wanted to be included. How could I say No! I never did and it never ended well.

"Sure, you want me to hold these electrical wires - no problem"
"Sure, you want me to put me in a straight jacket and throw me over a cliff - no problem"
"Sure, you want to bury me in a pit in our backyard - no problem"
"Sure, you want to hang me on a wire - no problem"
"Sure, you want to tie me to the palm tree for Good Friday - no problem" 
"Sure, you want to hang me out of the third story window by my ankles - no problem"
"Sure, you want to hunt me with BB guns and needle-tipped arrows -  uh...no...problem"

...and..."Sure...Kurt, you want me to climb into an old diaper pail - turned hamper and hide from The Wolf Pack...um...um...um...and you want to latch the lid? Do you mean you want me to climb into a thing that held a billion old baby diapers...um...um...um...and into a thing that is dark, that has a lid, that has a latch and that still stinks of old baby diapers...um...um...sure big brother - uh no...problem!"

Did I just say, "no problem?" Well, I did! So, next time I'll tell you the whole gory story of betrayal, entrapment and the flaming hamper of death.

Kids, remember, (as Mrs. Blaser used to tell Tommy), if Markie D were to jump off a building, it doesn't mean you have to! Or if a big brother were to coax you into an old metal hamper that has a latch on the lid, it doesn't mean you have to climb inside...     LEARN TO SAY NO!