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

Waking Up at the Pearly Gates

Three hours from the time I closed my eyes giving myself over to death I awakened on the other side.

HEAVEN! 

It had to be.


Next to me was the Veloci-Raptor (the one-eyed crazy attack rooster)  uncharacteristically cooing softly like a hen as though I was the baby chick under its maternal care.  Certainly the killer beast had been transformed as it must have made it way over the River Styx into heaven along with me.

The light was blinding and I expected to see Saint Peter granting me permission to enter the pearly gates.

It had to be heaven, for I was no longer trapped and buried in the dark igloo of death!

Pupils adjusting - Eyes focusing - I was both happy and sad to see the plain reality of my fate. A giant nutcracker, car parts, stacks of National Geographic magazines, old boats and a mound of collapsed construction blocks piled next to my body.

Sad  - that I was not in heaven.

Happy - to be alive.

I had been laid out on my back, face-up, eyes adjusting to the bright sun overhead.  This was my backyard and it certainly was not heaven by any stretch of the imagination.  The ropes were off of my hands and feet and I laid there with a daisy clutched in my fist - hands on my chest - as if prepared for burial. Looking past a couple old boats (that had collected water from the sprinkler) towards the window I saw "Lazarus," the miracle cat, staring at me!       

A SIGN!    I had escaped death!

This cat had cheated death and so did I.  "Cats had nine lives" goes the saying, and as I figured it, I was at least on life number 11:  Salton Sea, The hamper, Sister Godzilla, the Templates, the Furnace, the Pool Electrocution, Milk Wars, Fish Sticks, Escaping rattlesnakes, Snapping Turtles, Prankster Presidents, Iguana Del Diablo, the Alligator, Jerry T. T. and the Flying Leap, Albino Camps, Area 51 and our Harding Ave Roswell event,  Third grade and Mrs Simpson, Jalapenos, The Kitchen Electrocutions, Two other burials...and the Severed leg at McIlliot's pool, of course - not all of those incidents meant literal death, but I should have died at least ten times already -
                              AND NOW I WAS ON LIFE -  NUMBER ELEVEN!   For sure!

I think that stupid cat was actually looking at me as an inspiration...believing that if I could escape death this many times (as a mere mortal), then maybe it had a couple more lives on reserve as well.

There was no one around and I don't know how I got out!



                       There were no parents

No Lennon Sisters (who lived down the street)

   


     No Mr. Nargie (the mailman across the street)

No Edna (the grouch next door)


No Jerry T.T.  (Thank heavens)


No Tommy (my bestest buddy ever)


No Jimmy ("the Slurper")




No Wolf Pack ( I think my older brothers and the hippie commies were all still in Tuna Canyon).






No one, I was completely alone!










This was a mystery that rivaled that of the Fraternity Fire!

The only thing I could come up with, was - "My Guardian Angel"   I don't know how many of these angels my family have already sent into early retirement or how many of those angels get "Hazard Pay" when assigned to the Dahlins as a member of God's elite special forces, but I'm sure they deserve every penny of their paycheck.

It was 1969 and the Pope may have decommissioned poor 'O Saint Christopher... but I was saved somehow - and was convinced it was a miracle!




I turned around, shook my fist triumphantly at the Igloo of Death and although becoming more and more numb inside - Less Human - More Robot -  I felt this deadening on the inside that had been cauterizing the soft tissue of my heart, was a way of protected me from being a victim.

Shaking off the dirt...  I ran over to Tommy's house as though none of this had ever happened!



Whistling on the way - I wondered how more escapes, how many more lives, how many more miracles, and how many more angels I would be entitled to (mom, sorry about the dangling preposition at the end, but for now, I'm done ...oops I mean... I'm finished)!  


Until next time... and I can guarantee there is a lot more to come!

Free Floating Apparition and the Living Dead!

 At 6:30 am the next morning Mrs. D let out a blood curdling scream...

“Royyyyyyy! 

Startled from mom's screeching, dad woke up from a sound sleep, grabbed the broom next to his bed and began beating the ceiling.  "Up and at 'em...Time of the harvest moon!" he began yelling in his staccato staff sergeant cadence. Meanwhile, mom continued to scream in fright at the piercing red eyes from the black apparition of the living-dead zombie that stood at the end of her bed.  Woken up abruptly to mom's screaming, Mr. D forgot it was Saturday, which was his only day to sleep-in, and thought he urgently needed to wake up the tribe for the Viking "Street Cleaning" ritual (must see blog post 7/13/13). 

The hippie Wolf Pack on the floor above groaned and moaned and cursed and burped and farted and stomped on the floor in mutinous rebellion. "Mr. D its not Wednesday" Puke-Breath yelled back at dad, but unable to overcome feverish pitch the frightened Mrs. D.  When Dad's sleepy eyes finally focused he turned the wrath of his broom handle onto the scabby burnt ghost and chased the demonic phantasm from the room in his underwear.

The free floating apparition sprang from the foot of the bed with the speed of light and escaped up to the third floor to the long rear bedroom. The scabbified-black poltergeist startled the Wolf Pack along with the rattlesnakes and nasty looking iguana that resided in cages built into the side of the room.

 Mayhem broke out. "Fright or Flight." The hair on the rat's spine stood up, rattlesnakes defensively coiled, the iguana from hell (blog post 8/1/13) thew itself against the glass and Ulrich clenched his fist ready to take on the repulsive manifestation. Dooh-Dooh Pants pulled the covers over his head and Puke-Breath cussed out the disgusting creature. Chewbacca, on the other hand recognized it for what it was!

A MIRACLE!

It was not something to be feared or loathed, but something to be venerated and loved. Chewbacca gave the creature its new name. "Lazarus" he affectionately cried, in an emotional embrace. The room was silent - it was not a ghost! NO, the dead calico cat (that was in a small shoe-box coffin out back at Wall Drug) had risen from the dead!

Apparently the cat had cashed in all nine lives and had cheated death itself.



When Chewbacca was a small child; before The Beatles, before all the hair, he used to fall over all the time and bonk his head. Mr. and Mrs D felt they needed to protect him from brain damage and made him wear a green hockey helmet as an exoskeletal brain bucket.  My vote was that - it didn't fully work and he had some serious issues... either that or it was the hippie weed that had affected his perception of the world.



It wasn't like things weren't bad enough with the veloci-rooster, the chickens, "grampa" the chicken-eating-frog, the alligator, the escaping rattlesnakes, and the dozens of hippies that lived at our house - NOW, the smelly burn victim of the Fraternity Fire (see previous blogs) was considered one of our numbers.





And the rest of us had to contend with the place of honor in which Chewbacca placed the gross looking cat. History turned a new chapter in the Dahlin house as none of us dared to take back our chair from the reviled demon CAT or kick him off the countertop when it dropped scabs and licked the butter - lest we face the wrath of Chewbacca.

   

Gillemonster and His Dog-Poop Alibi

(Continued from 1/25/14) Chewbacca knelt over the dead body as tears lightly fell on the seared flesh that smell of burnt hair.  Crying, he mourned the loss of his friend.

Let's come back to the fatality left behind by the Great Fire of '69 and turn back to our list of possible arson suspects.

Out of the 16 or 17 on my original list, I have narrowed the suspects to a mere four:

1) Rita Nargie
2) Sea-Shell
3) Anti-War, Draft-card-burning, peace-loving hippies
4) The Owner

RITA HAD MOTIVE. She had been rejected by one of the "Frat - guys" and was holding a grudge. When my brothers and crew went down to the "Frat-House" in drag (dressed as women) and two were invited in - it only served to intensify her female hormonal angst against every man in the world. From the kitchen window of her house next door, she was allegedly heard screaming at the top of her Italian lungs that she would get even someday.  Unfortunately for Rita, the entire neighborhood heard her threats and this is why I felt she needed to be investigated. It does turn out that she had not come out of her room for more than a month, which I was able to verify by the dirty stack of surplus dinner plates left just outside her bedroom door.  Her mother had been in no mood to clean up after Rita, which the neighborhood also knew about.

I refer to that incident as "The Leaning Tower of  Stand-off Soufflé"   
 So Rita went off the list and the fire somehow brought closure to all the hurts she had suffered and had seemed to exact the vengeance she was looking for and the next week at church it was mentioned from the pulpit by the droning-monotone Irish accent of  Father Hoban as a miracle.  One lady said, "Hallelujah" and was promptly asked to leave the church.

I'm am now left with 1)  Sea-Shell, the 11 year-old-sister of the Frat-House President who had been
                                      dropped on her head.
                               2)  Hippies - other than my brothers
                               3)  Mr. Malon, the owner of the Property.

As for Johnny the Gillemonster...as I mentioned before he had motive!  He was a paperboy for the our local Herald Examiner newspaper. His route included the Harding Avenue Fraternity House. You can only imagine what a nightmare it must have been for the poor kid to collect the Newspaper fee from a bunch of transient squirrely irresponsible college-dropout types!  Every time Gillemonster knocked on the door, a different person answered and told him to come back tomorrow. After about 10 such visits 'O Gilly figured that they were running him around and that no one was ever going to pay.  He turned bright red and shook his fist at that house and said he's get payback. "You just wait and see!"  he yelled and spun dirt on the porch  from the back wheel of his customized Schwinn Sting-Ray (bicycle) as he spun out.  (Every kid in America had a Stingray bike).

Remember I told you about the lyrics that Four Eyes sent in to Creedence Clearwater Revival... about Do..do...do... looking out my back door... and all the other words the nuns told me when I interrogated them... well it wasn't "do...do...do"  It was literally "Dooh...Dooh...Dooh!"

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Lookin' out my Back Door

Johnny was so angry at feeling like he had been messed with... that he took the largest... stinkiest... warmest... pile of fresh-steaming dog dooh he could find early the next Sunday morning on a neighbors lawn and squished it between the sports section and the comics of the 50 pound Sunday Morning edition of the Los Angeles Herald Examiner.  "Gilly" left that "special" payback edition of the newspaper right on the welcome mat in front of the large entry door. He rang the bell, ran across the street, hid in a bush and watched in delight as those drunkards with hangover vomited their guts out.  Gillemonster told me, that was his alibi and as he spoke I carefully watch every indicator on his face and really believe that the Dog-Poop completely satisfied his desire for payback.  TRUE!

I would never accuse a Catholic Priest - that's why Father Hoban never made it on my list to begin with, but he was known to have quite a temper - and being raised in Belfast had plenty of training in making Molotov Cocktails.

Let's just leave it at that - for now!  I was too frightened about going into the Rectory so I wasn't about to interrogate the Father... I'd leave that investigation to the Fire Marshal.

I already had enough problems at Saint Marks and next year - my last and final year - was destined to be a living Purgatory, for I had to look forward to spending the year under Sister Shultz.

Meanwhile, the mellow and cuddly Chewbacca grieved over the death of the neighborhood cat as though the thing had been a close relative of his.  Before the fire, I'd have to admit, that the feral Calico cat did look like a miniature version of my hairy older brother.  My brother looked like a giant version of Cousin It  from the Addams Family TV Show.

In the midst of smoke and firemen and ambulances and Secret Service and the Crazy Vietnam War vet with a broom and the Zombie Holocaust, Chewbacca scooped the dead cat into a cardboard box and took it past the dreaded Veloci-Rooster into the the hippie sanctuary of "Wall Drug" in our Venice backyard.  If you think the Rita-thing was a miracle - wait until next time.