Death at The Moon Fire Temple (and Hormones—of course).

1972: The Doors The Temple and The Hormones

Last time, I left off I was being chased by a bull and held as a prisoner in the sloshing-outhouse-brig on a Boy Scout houseboat.

Between my freshman and Sophomore year over the summer, there has been BIG changes. Part of those changes has been the hair under my armpits—finally—about time—which means raging hormones have kicked in.

Yeah! UGH!

I think for the regular guys who went through puberty when they were supposed to like Rick Arredondo, who had a mustache in 7^th grade, this hormone business might have set in gradually. But to a late-blooming sophomore like me was as subtle as a tsunami tidal wave of sexual awareness.  

I read somewhere that guys think about sex every seven seconds—that might be the stat-line for those regular guys who have had time for this thing to settle down a bit. For me, however, it was like EVERY SECOND. I was in trouble; every thought was about girls.  

Too much information right! 

Regardless of what was going on below the belt and everything that was happening down there I was still VERY MUCH interested in finding out what this “love thing” was all about. I hoped that this hormone flood and "lust business" would not derail this sacred quest.

I want to know what real love is all about. I want to feel it—experience it and finally be able to grasp the meaning of what it means to be loved.

 

BUT, I almost did not get the chance to find out because of the DEATH RIDE down Tuna Canyon Road earlier this morning.  It all began with a fundraiser yesterday at Saint Monica’s and a group hike we took last night to the mysterious Moon Fire Temple –something hippie in origin that could rival the Dahlin house and anything in Venice.  

We had recruited our new water polo coach from UCLA, Terry Palma, to join us. All of a sudden my sister and her Venice gaggle of estrogen-groupies were suddenly interested in our rag-tag team.

Mary and Theresa Blaser and Theresa McCarthy and Mimi Lennon and Debi Gas were now followers in our social-media-site in the Water Polo corner of the school lot that we controlled. 

This new “Street-Cred” had given us more status and power to rule the roost—veloci-rooster-status.  We were cool. We had a following. We wore Speedos, had shiny hair from chlorine and reigned supreme on the bench by the music room.  

  

Yesterday, Michael Moore, the big brother of my water polo buddy, James, brought a 55 Ford and parked it in the center of the lot along with a giant 50-pound sled hammer. As one of the school fundraisers, he charged twenty-five-cents-a-swing to destroy the car. Bob Rooke must have had a couple bucks—he smashed windows and took it upon himself to crush the front end of the sad dying beast as if slaying a dragon itself.  

He did it mainly for the girls—damsels in distress!  Heck yeah.  Hello, hormones—I get it.

SEVEN SECONDS.  

Well, we decided that for our fundraising project, we would sponsor tricycle races.

This turned out to be more popular than smashing the car. After the first couple rounds of true competition, girls decided they wanted in on the fun. Girls sat on the trikes while the boys pushed them around the small-orange-coned obstacle course. Boy and girls touching each other—oh yeah. Need I say more?

Anyway, we had all of these tricycles we had amassed from the greater Santa Monica and Palisades area that we had to return.

Our water polo team recruited our new coach, Palma, and in true Dahlin-Wolf-Pack fashion we invited our new groupies to join us in a dangerous midnight hike to the eye of the Moon-Fire Temple. More girls increased the chances and the odds of budding romantic interest and thoughts of well—you know—hormones and the seven-second rule.

This turned out to be like the hikes my brothers used to take to the Albino Camp to scare their girlfriends so they would run into the “strong, protecting arms of the brave boys” who were kept them safe by holding them tight. 

Uh-huh! Right? 

You know what the boys were thinking about EVERY SEVEN SECONDS.

The staging area was the Moore house at the end of Bainum Drive in Topanga. They had just put in a huge built-in pool with a bubble over the top that stayed up with air pressure from a giant air pump. It was kind of cool, but I knew in the wrong hands if someone from Venice (like a Dahlin) were to pull electrical cord it could spell disaster—suffocation and murder. Nervously, I looked around for any of my people who might be suspiciously hovering around the outlet before I decided to enter the bubble. My older brother, Tony, wasn’t there so I didn’t have to worry about electrocution.

About midnight we drove up Tuna Canyon Road towards the top of the mountain range where it intersected Saddle Peak Road. We turned off our lights and rolled quietly onto a dirt road and ditched the cars. There was a big locked gate that we had to climb around to get in.

The moon was only half-full. This gave us enough light to see the path in front of us and also made it dark enough for this clandestine operation.

We heard footsteps approaching that scared the beegebees out of all of us. We took some minor injuries by jumping off the road. Boys and girls huddled together—this part was good—seven seconds, remember? But we could not see the security guards armed with machine guns who were slowly moving along the path searching out intruders. Some alcohol and other herbs were involved, and though hunted, giggles still prevailed.

 Sheeze Louise. We were goners.

 

The armed security guards turned out to be two curious llamas. As we walked along the windy ridge road towards the Moon Fire Temple, James Moore told us the story behind, Lewis Beach Marvin III, the eccentric who built the place and the animals he had brought in – like llamas and camels and “Lions and tigers and bears—Oh my!”

James knows everything. Even though some people believe that the Temple was built for the 1966 movie called Harper, starring Paul Newman and Lauren Bacall, he said that wasn’t true.

He said, Mr. Marvin, the heir to the S&H Green Stamps fortune built the place. James said that this Marvin person had a bunch of artsy-type friends and musicians who came and performed there—like The Doors, Van Morrison, George Harrison, and Janis Joplin.

 

Where it gets weird, is that James says the Manson Family was also part of Marvin’s motley crew who painted bizarre cultic circles all over the place just a couple years ago that lead to a raid by the FBI.

Coming around the ridge we saw the round temple and quietly stepped onto marble flooring with the round moat that had a giant fire-pit inside in the shape of eye. The top was open to the sky and we could feel the eclectic vibes of the hippie ranch and the eerie feeling of crossing paths with the likes of the Charles Manson cult.

 

Whispers grew. Giggles and wonder abounded. Shushing from the “shushing-police” died. We spun, taking in the 360-degree view from the top of the Santa Monica mountains. We jumped back and forth across the dry moat and explored some of the abandoned side rooms as budding romantic-relationships bloomed.

I had my eyes on a couple girls, but I struck out—dang that seven-seconds.   

This would become the first of many trips to Moon Fire or "The Temple in the Clouds." 

On the way out we heard the llamas approaching and walked boldly towards them until we saw the oncoming lights of two jeeps that must have had key access to the large front gates.

Back into bushes.

Quiet this time. The threat was real. Apocalypse pending, we crawled through the rugged chaparral and prickly manzanita bushes. We made it to the cars and escaped.

Hours later, Palma and the girls and the groupies and the casual followers left the Moore’s house that left a small group of us water polo guys who spent the night, for the even more dangerous frivolities that followed the next day. 

DON’T! 

Please don’t, ever allow stupid guys with tricycles loose on the top of steep mountain roads. Trust me it only spells disaster.  

NEXT TIME.

Death on Tuna Canyon Road.   

Oops another second.  hehe 

   

Girls at Saint Monica's credit: Mark Mullineaux Facebook Post 

Harper Movie Poster credit: http://www.impawards.com/1966/harper_xlg.html

Moon Fire on side of cliff overlooking ocean credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/30369681@N03/9317732954/in/album-72157634692817677/

Moon Fire pics Credit: Wall Street Journal “A Cosmic Crash Pad”   http://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424127887324705104578147121874414006

Charles Manson credit: http://history1900s.about.com/od/1960s/p/charlesmanson.htm

S&H Green Stamps credit: http://myauctionfinds.com/2010/06/09/licking-and-gluing-s-h-green-stamps/

Booby-Trapped between Hormones and Hope.

I was in Hensheys on the fifth floor. Hensheys in Santa Monica was upscale for those of us from Venice. Excited to be buying new clothes I was, “bouncing off the walls” according to my mom and all the other regular people in the store who were freaking out about the earthquake.

I wasn’t really there at all. I was back at Saint Monica’s thinking about the time I was cornered.

Darting from clothes-rack to clothes-rack, my  mind traveling back as if I was right there when Marilyn and Theresa cut me off and trapped me in the hallway. I felt like the wounded gazelle on one of those nature shows on TV.

“Well?” Marilyn said with hands firmly planted on her hips, in the way Sister Godzilla and the nuns did at Saint Marks every time I was in trouble.

I looked at Marilyn then to Theresa, then back to Marilyn, and did this a couple times before opening my mouth.

“Well…well…well what?” I asked with great trepidation. Not knowing what I was in trouble for, feeling like the girls were about to pounce on me and rip the flesh from by body.

This could be a problem. Not because Marilyn was about 9 feet taller than me or that she outweighed me by a good 50 pounds, but because we had two rules in our house.

Rule 1: Dad said that us boys were never…NEVER ever…EVER to hit one of our sisters i.e. girls.

Rule 2: I can’t remember what the second one was.

Anyway, I wasn’t really afraid that they could beat me up, after all I had taken on members of the Wolf Pack more than twice my size before. I was more afraid that if war broke out between us I would have to let them beat me up and was also afraid for them if my crazy-psychotic adrenaline stuff kicked in ( I didn't want to go to prison). It was a Game of Thrones. Who was in charge here? Definitely not me.

Trapped.

With pupils pinpointed they waited for my answer and held their ground, blocking any chance I had of escape.

I had no idea what they were talking about. I felt like I was in History or Latin class—nothing my teachers said made any sense to me.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of them said demanding an answer.

You know that proverbial “Deer in the headlights of an oncoming car” look. That was me. The same look I give my teachers whenever they asked me a question in class.

      Today would probably not be a good day.

I opened my mouth. No words. What do I tell them?

There were a lot of things wrong with me—duh!

Where do I start?  Do I tell them that I was tested to see if I was retarded? At least, that’s what my oldest brother said. He said that was the reason Aunt Mary had taken me up to Loyola University. Usually I didn’t believe him, but felt it had to be true because all of my other brothers agreed with him, when they laughed about it at the kitchen table.

“I’m retarded.”  I thought. No, that wasn’t the answer they were looking for.
“I’m hyper.” All the nuns at Saint Marks said so.

I ran down the list of all my faults, “I’m a robot,” “numb” “adrenaline junkie” “PTSD” “memory issues.”

I don’t think any of those explanations is what they were looking for. AND I certainly wasn’t about to share my deepest-darkest-secrets with anyone—EVER!  Fear. Shame.

Sighing, I shrugged, hoping they would give me a clue for this ambush.

“What’s wrong with you,” Theresa led off with again followed with, “why didn’t you do anything?”

While processing the words, “Do anything” Marilyn jumped in. “Yeah. Why didn’t you go after her?”

Stunned and having no idea what these crazy girls were talking about, I stared as the oncoming car came speeding toward me. This was not like Marilyn and Theresa, they were my friends—I didn't understand.

(Marilyn pictured to the right)

“Andrea!” blurted Theresa like an erupting volcano that couldn’t hold back the pressure anymore.

My brain was processing—slow—too slow. “Andrea?”

“Why didn’t go after her?” Marilyn said looking down at me.

Blank stare…processing…processing…This was like Brother Coleman asking me to translate some Latin. Omnes viae Romam ducunt—I didn't have a clue, it was like a foreign language to me.

The building shook. People panicked and screamed. I didn’t know. I wasn’t there. I was still back in that corner being interrogated by the hungry cheetahs.

“Well?” Theresa said trying that line of questioning again.

Three words squeezed out as I stared up past the boobs, which were at eye level and distracting (the advantage and disadvantages of being short), “Go after her?”

“Yes,” Marilyn said frustrated.

Like magma flowing down the side of the agitated volcano, “That whole thing in the school yard,” Theresa said, “was for you.”

“The whole thing?” I carefully asked more confused than ever. "Me?"

“When Andrea hugged that boy, over by gym...that was for you.”

“That was her cousin, stupid. She was trying to make you jealous.”

One thousand thoughts flooded my brain cells. HOPE! I felt like not all was lost because “someone liked me?”  Me?

The whole leg-lift and head-tilt thing Andrea did. The hug of 1971 was intended to make me jealous. I was jealous and hurt but now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get her phone number or how to approach a girl or what the next step is. “Ugh…I just wished these two girls would get their boobs out of my face and tell me what to do next”

Help me, I pleaded. I guess spoken words on my part would have been better. I am a looser, but a happy one because someone liked me.

Coming back to planet earth, I looked to see all the people in Hensheys clutching the floor and crammed in doorways. It was a big aftershock, but I had no idea that the old building had been violently swaying back and forth.

I calmly walked over to the cashiers table where a pile of red clothes were stacked up and asked what all the commotion was about.

Incredulously, three ladies stared at me as my Mother explained that we had just experienced another earthquake.

“What Earthquake?” I asked.

My mom laughed knowing that I had been totally oblivious. She knew that  it was because I had been moving more than the building and that I had probably disappeared into one of my out-of-body day-dreaming experiences. The others ladies joined in and soon everyone on the Fifth Floor was pointing at me and laughing. Fun on the Fifth Floor. It didn't matter—but it did.

On the way home, from the back seat of the car, I told my mom and Mrs. Exstromer that I really didn’t feel like the whole Europe thing was real yet—that’s why I was so calm.

“Calm!” my mother chortled from the driver’s seat, breaking out in laughter.

“Calm!” Mrs. Exstromer barely managed to get out after spraying her Tab cola all over the inside of the windshield when the two of them broke into a hysteria of laughter.

The two of them laughed so hard that mom couldn’t see because of the Tab cola and the tears in her eyes and had to pull the car over.

Gasping for breath like both of them could die of laughter, they volleyed the “calm” word back and forth between them.
(Pictured L-R Mom, Herb Williamson, Mrs. Blaser, and Mrs. Extromer. Mrs. Extromer was the Secretary for Saint Marks grammar school in Venice).

I sat in the back of a car in the parking lot of Kenny’s shoes watching the two ladies who I felt might have need medical attention at any moment.

Embarrassing…hello! This was the first time I had ever seen adults wet their pants.

Happens to the best of us, I guess. Oh well, at least with my new red Hang Ten shorts, and my red Hang Ten T-shirt, and my red Hang Ten socks I’ll be the best dressed kid in Germany. This had to be better than the stupid reverse turtleneck with the zipper on my first day of High School.

On the following Friday, my big, squishy, beautiful Irene, saw me dressed in my red Hang Ten "outfit" and said that it was probably better that I was going to wear this in Europe rather than in Watts, where she was from (I didn't know what she meant, but we both laughed).



Hormones were kicking in...being booby-trapped wasn't so bad... :)

Maybe not "Straight out of Venice."
Via Europam Amantissima ac spei plenus

Pictures Credit : Hensheys of Santa Monica posted on Facebook by Michael Hayashi; May 16, 2016 “You know you're from Santa Monica if”

Hormones. Hodads. Harding: Nothing Makes Sense

The more I try to make sense of the world, it seems that the more nothing makes sense.

I am short and skinny and look like I’m a seventh-grader.

Impatiently I pray at night for more reluctant hair to show up under my arm pits—infuriated at the practical joke God was playing on me. Here I am, FOURTEEN in high school among towering mature oaks—gorillas with hair all over their bodies. 

I’m in love withAndrea, walk among the apes and have only two freaking hairs under my right arm pit. The small pond of choice at Saint Mark’s has grown into a very large sea at Saint Monica High School. 

I am frightened that Andrea now had the option of picking from the slick-surfers donning mustaches from the Palisades. I am merely minnow in the vast ocean.

It was spring – something was happening in my body that I couldn’t explain other than the fact that I was officially twitterpated.  It is time to take matters into my own hands. I wrote her a love letter (Though Paul Anka and Annette Funicello may see it as nothing more than puppy love – It is real to ME!). Never-the-less, this is a secret to keep from the Wolf-Pack. Couldn’t let my family find out about my secret crush–they would most certainly use this information against me somehow.

I tucked the note into my Pee-chee folder and was determined to give it to her at school.

Lunch.  

At lunch!  

That was my plan. 

I begged AlexDelgadillo for food.  As with our new tradition, he opened the bun on the hamburger his mother made him and handed me the pickles. 

“STOP!” James Moore charlie-horsed me in the thigh, to stop the nervous jitters of my leg that had been driving him crazy. 

“Hyper” I said, as an excuse—never knowing when it was happening.  Everyone had been calling me hyper for so long that I figured I might as well use it as my alibi. 

This. Was. It.

This was the moment of truth. 

I saw her—she looked my way. My heart stopped or my breathing or something.  Shock.  Excitement. Nervous. She still had a thing for me. YES! I still had a chance.

I stood. She walked in my direction. I fumbled pulling the folded paper out of my pee-chee folder. I crushed it in my fist. I breathed—I tried to.  Nervously, collecting my thoughts I took a step towards her and looked down for one second at the hand that held my undying declaration of love for her way back since sixth grade. I looked up as she walked right past me and right up to a guy standing in the ally way between the gym and the music room.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me. I glared. She smiled and giggled and even tilted her head. TILTED HER HEAD. Did you hear what I just said? You know the tilt girls do when they are “in-like.” She tilted her head to a stupid surfer kid from Santa Monica. 

UGHhhhhh...someone help me please! 

I was ruined. Where were you in the spring of 1971? If you were anywhere on the West-coast, the odds are, you probably heard the sound of my heart breaking?  

Minnow yes—plankton maybe –in a large ocean filled with sharks, hairy apes and giant oaks. I placed one of Alex’s pickles in the love-letter and ate it. The swim-team guys thought I was retarded.  Nothing made sense—not love—not hormones or puberty—NOT girls.

Words I thought I’d never say: “Today I need you Wolf Pack.” I was numb. “I needed to be put in a pit or hung out of a window. I needed to be electrocuted or tied up in a straight jacket and thrown over a cliff. I needed to get into a fight with someone.  I needed Richard to steal my chocolate. I needed Erick and the band of Angry-Little-Men to ambush me.” 

I am a Zombie in need. I was drifting. I needed James Moore to try to hit me in the leg one more time.

Despondent, I skipped swim practice and hitchhiked—home, half-hoping to be kidnapped, and got only as far as POP.

Surf-rats turned skater-rats were hanging out at the ruins. 

Dude it was on. 

Here I was in my catholic uniform completely out of my element right where I needed to be. Two rough looking kids screamed profanity at me and walked up as if I had invaded sacred territory—in surf talk—a “hodad.” This was my day to die. This was my chance to be pummeled, to feel pain, to feel alive.

“Dahlin?” one of them asked.  

I came straight out of the Dahlin cookie-cutter mold and looked just like my brother Karl who, along with Bruce Grant and Jeff Ho, surfed there all the time. I nodded. 

"Cool." Knowing I was a Dahlin from Venice this kid, Tony, offered me a toke of a joint they were smoking.   

                      I had a decision to make. 

To toke or not to toke that is the question?

Oh BTW two years later...  

On March 15, 1972, DJ Robert W. Morgan played the Donny Osmond version of Puppy Love for 90 minutes straight on KHJ in Los Angeles. The LAPD mistakenly raided the station studios after receiving numerous calls from listeners. Confused, the officers left without making any arrests.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Puppy_Love_(Paul_Anka_song)     (It was right for people to call the cops it was torture)!

Pee chee folder Picture credit https://www.flickr.com/groups/peecheefolderart/pool/

POP picture 1 credit: Facebook post the rise and fall of Pacific Ocean Park 

POP picture 2  credit: Facebook post ?  

Pride Prejudice and Zombies

He had lips that looked they were good for kissing, the kind you see on women in the movies.  Although he was Mexican he had this pasty skin like a desert gecko that looked as if it had never been out in the sun. I don’t why for sure but my stomach wanted to heave whenever he got within a yard or two. Every day in class I tried to be as invisible as possible and did everything I could to avoid making eye contact.

One way was to spend most of my time flying jet airplanes outside in the wide blue yonder. I could be Chuck Yeager or some fighter pilot doing loops and flying upside down while Earnestine and Alex and the other poor ordinary-humans in my history class were in their seats—attentive—slaves to his gooey words and scary eyes.  

      Not me.  I was free. Sometimes.  

Sometimes—not. 

When he yelled my named it was like getting hit by a missile and downed behind enemy lines.  So much for my flight of fantasy. I didn’t mind the fact that all the other kids were staring at me—I was used to that by now. It was something in the way he stared at me that literally sickened me.  He smirked with a grin like the Cheshire cat about to eat the head off a mouse. I shivered and slunk down in chair feeling like he had caught me half-naked in the janitor’s closet again—only this time he gloated as if he had been the one who undressed me and I was his cat-nip.  

I didn’t like Brother Michael. I broke from his yucky gaze by pretending to read the textbook. I had no idea what page we were on—heck I had no idea what chapter we were in. The other kids seemed to like him—not me. He would walk up and down the isles with his soft-pasty-skin and brush against my chair as if trying to send me a message—and look—and grin.

I prayed against my vomit superpowers—and prayed to have them at the ready.    

He walked back to the front of the class and made some gross sexual innuendos about how Catherine the Great died—American History or not, this his favorite story year after year. It was above my pay grade. He talked about a horse or something and laughed and got excited as he watched the other boys laugh. He seemed to take more pleasure in it all than he should have.  

                 Gross, right?  

                            Am I right?

Was I wrong to feel this way about this priest-type-person, a Catholic Brother—whatever the heck that means?  

I never read the textbooks—I was too busy flying jet airplanes and daydreaming about Andrea.

You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back

Where there is love, I'll be there

I'll reach out my hand to you, I'll have faith in all you do

Just call my name and I'll be there.

It was here at Saint Mo’s I thought I would find out the meaning of love.  I didn’t know. We didn’t use the “L” word in my house. Never heard my mother say it.  Never heard my father say it. I wanted to know and I hoped Andrea would save me before I become a completely numb to human emotions—a Zombie.  Don’t leave me Andrea—make a pact with me—save me.  Show me what love is. Help me. Help me discover what it means to love and to be loved.         

Just call my name and I'll be there

And oh - I'll be there to comfort you,

Build my world of dreams around you, I'm so glad that I found you

I'll be there with a love that's strong

I'll be your strength, I'll keep holding on - yes I will, yes I will.

Andrea don’t you know that I’m too stupid, too small, too insecure. I don’t want to lose you—hold out your hand—look over your shoulder—say something.  Take initiative and rescue me—I’m here and I promise I'll be there.

Still talking to my textbook, the room was empty and the class had been over for who-knows-how long.  

Stupid!

I sat and stared at Andrea’s chair. Puberty had hit. Hormones were exploding my brain cells and I wanted her to show me what love was. I wanted to feel it. I wanted tender human contact.  I wanted someone to say the word to me. I wanted to know that it existed in the universe and that it was real—like I belonged here on this planet—like earth was my home. 

It was World’s Finest Chocolate day. School was over and I had a ginormous box of fundraising chocolate we were forced to sell. 

Two of the kids who were at least a foot taller than me—the guys who had gone through puberty in the sixth grade and sporting mustaches in the seventh grade—caused a ruckus at the bus stop. It was the 3 Lincoln taking all of us Saint Mark kids back to Venice and the Saint Gerard kids back to Culver City.

 These prideful jerks played football and were prejudice against water polo players—especially water polo players with blonde hair. 

Pride and Prejudice. No two ways about it. 

Towering over me, Ricky poked me in the chest, but I stood my ground because Marilyn and Theresa and Julie and Andrea were there. Pshaw, I don’t think Ricky knew that I had to fight just about every single day at home against the Wolf-Pack. He had no idea that I had to take on two, three and sometimes four at a time. He didn't know that I bested an alligator and a veloci-raptor. He didn’t know that I a condition and lacked the ability to feel physical pain whenever adrenaline set in.

I set my box of chocolates down and hoped that I didn’t kill him if he attacked me—it would be his fault. I would probably go for the head like I did with “Cursey” in the fifth grade. Big guys hate it when you jump on their head.

He did that lame thing where he acted tough by thrusting his chest and head forward in my direction. I didn't flinch. I tried to keep the inner Pit-bull at bay. I looked him in the eye. I don’t think he liked what he saw and he walked away making some snide remark that all the kids laughed at—at me. Big deal. I was used to it. Lie. You never get used to it. I spun around to pick up my box of chocolates and it was gone.

The whole thing was a ruse. Jim had slipped away with the box when I was being distracted. I stood there and looked like an idiot.  Zombie-like I got on the bus and made sure not make eye contact with anyone because I had been played for the fool.

Andrea, I don't know how this thing works. Phyllis Dillar, Please be right. Love if you’re out there find me! 

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