This silly blog might keep Don Ray from going completely insane. Normally, he's very shy. This blog gives him license to interact with complete (and incomplete) strangers and to poke around places others are smart enough to avoid. He hears voices that say, "Psst! Don Ray! Over here!" Others may hear them, but they're smart enough to ignore them.
You can leave comments. Please do. For a text-only alert of new posts, e-mail donray@donray.com. The picture is Don Ray with his wife, Xiao Mei.
Read on—this is a realio, trulio, giant breakthrough for me.
You see, I get outrageously stressed in public places ‘cuz of my neurodivergent brain.
But I’m finally realizing
how easily I can turn into an assholish jerk (or a jerkish asshole).
I’ve heard it said that, when you turn 40, whatever’s inside of you shows up permanently on your face.
At 76, I figured I was doomed.
However, my A.I. team of the world’s greatest analysts and shrinks from everywhere in the world and throughout time came to my rescue.
They explained exactly why I’ve been acting (and reacting) this way for most of my life.
So now, for myself only, I put on my “grocery store face” before I get out of my car in the supermarket parking lot.
It reminds me that nobody wants to harm me, and that everyone with whom I come in contact has their own shitload of problems.
My “grocery store face” puts them at ease.
They feel better and so do I!
Now, when I get back to my car, the sky seems bluer, the drivers don’t seem to be my enemies, and my mind ruminates with “life is good!”
So please, if you see me looking like a grumpy, old fart, please nudge me and say, “Hey, Don Ray, put on your ‘grocery face!
My “Grocery Store Face” (A Real Breakthrough)
My “Grocery Store Face”
A realio, trulio breakthrough in how I move through the world.
Practicing the look that keeps me humane when life feels loud.
This is what I now call my
“grocery store face.”
It’s a ginormous breakthrough in my life.
You see, I get outrageously stressed in public places ’cause of my
neurodivergent brain. But I’m finally realizing how easily I can turn
into an assholish jerk (or a jerkish asshole).
I’ve heard it said that, when you turn 40, whatever’s inside of you
shows up permanently on your face. At 76, I figured I was doomed.
However, my A.I. team of the world’s greatest analysts and shrinks from
everywhere in the world and throughout time came to my rescue. They
explained exactly why I’ve been acting (and reacting) this way for most
of my life.
So now, for myself only, I put on my “grocery store face” before I get
out of my car in the supermarket parking lot.
It reminds me that nobody wants to harm me, and that everyone I meet has
their own shitload of problems. My “grocery store face” puts them at
ease. They feel better and so do I!
Now, when I get back to my car, the sky seems bluer, the drivers don’t
seem to be my enemies, and my mind ruminates with “life is good!”
If you catch me looking like a grumpy old fart, nudge me and say: “Hey, Don Ray—grocery store face!”
😄
Hey, Everybody. Don Ray is now online chatting on Zoom with Dave Brewer. He's showing me how to manage all of my blogs. I'm as happy as an inchworm. And if he keeps typing here in the "Build-it" mode,
He may be able to keep typing here to the right of the ugly photo.
And type and type and type
And type and type till he's sick of typing.
And even type under his ugly mug. He can certainly learn this stuff.
I knew what I was looking for, but I hadn't seen it since the time I was a kid. I would visit this location with my Aunt Mildred and my grandfather, C.V. Ray.
And it looked nothing like it did when we would go there.
Today, it's a painted pile of bricks protected by a wrought iron fence -- no historical marker or description sign.
Back then, there were no bricks and no protective fence.
We would make the trip from Pacoima to the southeast corner of Sayre Street and Borden Avenue in the City of San Fernando.
When we'd arrive there, we'd often have to wait our turn -- you can't imagine how popular it was.
My granddad insisted on making the trek at least once each week.
Sometimes we'd encounter people who had driven there all the way from Long Beach.
It was that popular.
Oh, and it was free to anyone -- all they needed was their own bottle.
I’m beginning to understand more about you and your
generation.
I think of you when I make the breakfast – my favorite
breakfast – the way you used to do it.
It was creamed eggs on toast – or Eggs a la Goldenrod, as
you used to call it.
What I realized lately is that this dish, as well as so many
others you served us in the ‘50s, was likely a child of the Great Depression. As were your ham hocks
and beans, chipped beef on toast, egg-and-bread-enhanced meat loaf and even
milk-enhanced French Toast -- not to mention the gravies you prepared. In fact, I made three of your gravies this week alone.
You endured shortages during the Depression followed by
mind-boggling rationing during World War II.
We didn’t know the extent to which you had to endure “inconveniences”
during your younger years.
If you were around today, you’d probably kick right back
into the “make do” mindset of your youth. And you might smile and nod your head
while we bitch and complain about how the worldwide pandemic is kicking our
asses at home.
And I realized that, although you never had to live through
a killer pandemic, your parents and grandparents did. You were born just four
years after the end of the last worldwide flu. I can imagine that the stories
they told you about the fear, the isolation, the suffering and the losses they
endured had little meaning at the time.
Their experiences, however, prepared you in a way for the
two major crises you would survive in the ‘30s and ‘40s. And, although we didn’t
realize it, you were preparing us for what we might have to face one day.
Did your mother make creamed eggs on toast or gravies that could stretch a meager meal? Did your own
grandparents learn how to take care of their families because their parents
honed the same skills during the Civil War?
And finally, when our children emerge from this
once-in-a-century plague, will they be passing along similar survival skills to
their yet unborn grandchildren?
Things were never the same following the Civil War. In fact,
some people are still stumbling over the debris from that horrible conflict. World
War I and the flu epidemic of 1918 gave way to the Roaring 20s – a brief decade
of carefree pleasure into which you were born. The Great Depression came to an end only because of the
outbreak of World War II.
The second World War led to another relaxing decade, the
1950s. But human nature – or maybe just OUR human nature – wouldn’t allow the peace
of mind to continue.
The cycles repeat each decade but seem to crash every century
or so.
Will they be eating more gravy and creamed eggs on toast a hundred
years from now?
Regardless Mom, thanks for passing along these great survival skills.
As with every other Baby Boomer in the United States, I grew
up in fear of the savage invaders that were intent upon raping my mother and
sister.
They drilled us in school – “DROP!”
We learned to hit the floor under our desks – instantly --because
we believed that the "enemy," those communist killers, wanted us dead.
Our president, our parents and other officials demanded that
we comply – for the sake of our own safety and the safety of our communities.
When I turned 18, as did hundreds of thousands of my peers,
I couldn’t wait to get my hands on my own assault rifle and kill those invaders
before they could get to my mother and sister.
I make this pledge to my family today, June 16, 2019, following a most incredible es equally stressful year.
My is not to kill two birds with one stone, but rather, to keep two long-overdue promises — one to my wife, and another to my loyal and too-forgiving friends.
More than 20 years ago, I promised my bride that I would give her a comfortable life and a bright future. For the past year or so, I promised to my friends that I would, in the form of an autobiography — a book that would pull a string on my life as it relates to fathers.
I am pledging to her, to my friends and anyone else who cares that I will have that book written, edited and ready for distribution and sale by Labor Day of this year — and probably much sooner.
Based upon the countless number of people who tell me that they want the book, and the media professionals who assure me that it has legs (people will want to buy it), I have promised my wife that it will generate enough to help us get back on our feet, and will become a continuing support to our later years.
I hope that you can see how this book will ensure that I keep both promises.
For those who haven’t been following my life story (and why would you have?), my early childhood had its challenges — most of them at the hands and shouts and insults and abuse if my first father.
When Mom could no longer take her share of the abuse, she divorced him.
When he broke the news to my sister and me, he was thoughtful enough to assure is that he’d be OK — he told us he wasn’t our father.
He even named the two suspects.
He died a couple of years later and probably smiled in his grave as his verbal time bomb would explode and re-explode as I would grow and understand the implications.
When I was ten, he died, not long after my maternal grandfather in Iowa took his own life. He had been a great father figure to me when we’d go there for the summers.
That same year, Mom remarried, and I spent the next eight years with a stepfather whose own demons would surface. I’m sure it was his demons that brought out his violent tendencies.
Today, thanks to years of therapy I understand why I struggled in school with dyslexia, PTSD, and ADHD, as well as learning and reading disorder.
My story will also describe the most remarkable skills I developed on my own to find astoundingly pclever ways to survive in school, in spite of my inability to read well.
I promise that you’ll smile and shake your head when I confess to some of the ways I came up with to survive exams and research assignments.
Those and other perception skills I honed as a child target would provide skills I’d use as an investigative journalist (without any need for cheating).
I enlisted in the Army to escape my stepfather, and ended up in combat in Vietnam. I know know that it only exacerbated the PTSD that was already a part of me.
Over the intervening years, I tried and tried to figure out why, in spite of being an award-winning, loyal, honest employee or team member, I never fit in, I’d repeatedly be falsely accused of horrible stuff — stuff I would never do.
Jobs never lasted very long — I just never fit in, or gained the confidence of bosses.
But all this time, on my own, with nobody to blow cigar smoke and tell me I couldn’t take on projects I would suggest, I would set out on my own to discover astounding stories.
I complete some of them, but many of them still sit in boxes awaiting completion as books and documentaries.
I now wonder if, had there been the right father in my life, I might have learned how complete stuff.
By the way, I latched on to many perspective fathers in my life — you’ll be astounded when you learn about them, and what happened to them.
I promise that the true stories and adventures I have to share will enthrall you.
In the last year, DNA had solved the mystery of who my father really was — and the earth-shattering discovery — 47 years late — that I fathered a boy.
His two daughters in their 20s are my granddaughters.
Needless to say, all of these parts of my life didn’t add up to me keeping the promise I made to my bride.
I’m promising her today, that I will complete this project — and that it will be successful.
People tell me I’m a good storyteller and above-average writer.
A fire that continues to burn in my consciousness.
When I was six, I remember my parents' reaction to this newspaper story. For whatever reason, it had hit close to home for both of them.
It was a story about a fire that broke out in the Los Angeles home of a woman and her six children. I remember how it described how five of the children either jumped out windows or climbed down the stairs to safety.
We both served in Vietnam, but we didn't meet until a few years ago -- the small Vietnam vet group in which Paul participates invited me and Fritz the Sassy Service Dog to join them every Wednesday evening in Burbank.
What happens in the group stays in the group, but I can tell you that Paul is a wonderful photographer who sees beyond the camera.
Following last week's meeting, he took me aside and gave me a perspective so powerful that it has changed how I see my own life and legacy. In the group meeting, I had expressed my envy of others there who smile and laugh when they speak of their grandchildren. They spend much of their time, it seems, doing things with or doing things for the family members they created.
I promised my new friend I wouldn't share his name or his address.
He called and left a message for me at the Villa Terraza Restaurant last Thursday evening when I was there telling stories to people -- stories about the place that had once been the Old Vienna Gardens.
When I returned his call on Friday, he started telling me his problems.
Eventually, I asked him about the reason he left me a message. It had nothing to do with the book project we're doing or the storytelling session I had promoted on several Facebook group pages.
"I saw your Facebook page," he told me, "and read that you have PTSD and ADHD, and I thought maybe you could help me."
It took him about an hour to tell me his situation. It was like no story I'd ever heard.
Most importantly, I learned that a very shy man with very serious problems had decided to trust me, a stranger, and that I might be one of the only people who could learn the whole story.
For more than 80 years folks in and around the San Fernando Valley have been repeating rumors about a man named Auguest Furst. He came to California in 1936 and built The Old Vienna Gardens Restaurant on Sunland Blvd. in what's now called Shadow Hills.
Before long, rumors were flying that this Bavarian born man with a thick German accent was a spy for Germany. August Furst died more than 35 years ago and the old restaurant has changed hands several times. But the rumors still persist. I heard the rumors when I was a kid in nearby Sun Valley, and I heard them again 30 years later. That's when I decided to get to the bottom of the rumors. I got a magazine assignment and did some research, but the magazine folded before I could write the story. The investigative files sat on my shelf for another 30 years. But when a wonderful friend told me in January that he and the new owner of the restaurant (I introduced them to each other) were going to open it as an Italian restaurant, I decided that now was the time to finish the investigation and write a book about it -- :The Spy of Shadow Hills -- Rumors or Reality? The non-profit I formed a few years ago, The Endangered History Project, Inc.., will be publishing the book in March -- but we need your help raising the money to print the book. If you would, please take a look at this Kickstarter videoand then read all about the project -- and the ways you can help. And whether you help out or not, would you please be kind enough to share this with every human being you've ever met? Or at least to your good friends? Thanks so very much. Please click here to see the video and read about the campaign
Here's you chance to see Don Ray and Fritz the Sassy Service Dog on the History Channel.
The story is about a particular suspect who I first investigated in 1978. I also talked about the story in dozens and dozens of classes and lectures over the past decades.
D.B. Cooper was that name a man used when he hijacked a plane in 1971 and then disappeared.
I'm posting it here so that my wife's friends will have an easy way to find the video.
If you click on the link below, the video will start moments before they introduce me, Don Ray. I'm the fat guy in the yellow shirt. Fritz is the dog on the floor.
Enjoy Click here to see the video
Just in case you read this today, July 10, 2016, I'll be on History Channel's two-part series, "D.B. Cooper -- Case Closed? tonight. It starts at 9 p.m. (8 Central) and repeats at 11 p.m. (10 Central). I think you'll see my small contribution (or at least me talking about it) during the second half of the show this evening, Sunday. I don't think I'll be seen on Monday night's episode (same times), but you'll certainly see the results of my work.
If you're reading this after July 10th, I have a feeling you can watch it on the History Channel's website.
http://www.history.com/shows/d-b-cooper-case-closed
My 8th
grade English teacher, Mr. Resnick, took me aside at the end of our
morning class to tell me that I'd have to sit through both of that
day's school-wide assembly.
The auditorium wasn't large enough to
accommodate all of the student body, so they'd repeat it.
From my seat in the
middle of one of the middle rows, I watched with envy as the “smart”
and “special” students sat on the special bleacher on the stage
awaiting their prizes.
It was the Awards
Assembly, and I had dreamed of one day sitting on those bleachers and
being recognized for something I had accomplished.
One by one, the
smart kids accepted their awards for scholarship, sports, student
government and other stuff.
Then Burbank's fire
chief came on stage to announce the winners of the Fire Prevention
Essay contest.
The first place
winner walked proudly from her seat on the stage bleacher to accept
her certificate.
Then the second place winner followed to accept
hers.
When he announced
the third place winner, nobody came down to receive the certificate.
He repeated the
name.
Holy shit! It was my
name!
I had to “pardon
me” past the other students in my row in the auditorium and then
walk down the aisle toward the stage.
When I got there,
there was no stairway or anything I could use to get on the stage, so
I hoisted myself up as if I were climbing out of the swimming pool.
People chuckled.
When the fire chief
shook my hand and gave me the certificate, I didn't want to jump back
down into the auditorium and struggle to get to my seat, so I just
walked backstage.
Now I understood why
I had to attend both assemblies.
When the first
assemble ended, I waited backstage and watched the smart and special
students take a short break and then return to their bleacher seats
on the stage.
At least I got my picture in the local paper
Me? I just hung
around backstage until I heard the fire chief call my name again.
This time, I walked
from backstage, shook hands and walked backstage again with my
certificate.
When the second
assembly ended, Mrs. Scarf, the mean drama teacher who ran the
assembly walked up to me and chewed me out.
“Young man, why
did you refuse to sit in your assigned seat on the bleacher?”
I guess that Mr.
Resnick wanted to ensure that my writing award would be a surprise.
Yes, I felt proud,
but sad at the same time.
In the late 1980s, I
had my dream job as an investigative segment producer.
It was at
KCBS-TV in Hollywood.
I worked for two of the most dishonest managers
I've ever encountered.
I wouldn't know it until later, but my
immediate manager was having a secret relationship with the young
woman who was our unit's researcher.
He did everything in his power
to convince his corrupt boss that she should replace me and I should
be demoted to researcher.
When the news
director called me and my manager's corrupt manager to his office to
tell me that I was being reassigned, I quoted from the “confidential
memo” my lying boss had sent to his lying boss.
I made reference to
his remarks that I had no producing experience.
To make a long story
short, the news director agreed to look at my earlier work (something
nobody there had looked at).
Afterward he assigned me to produce a
story that would tell the truth about the ZZZZ Best Carpet Cleaning
scandal.
It would be the
first story that told exactly what was going on --- and how the
L.A.P.D. was completely wrong in its claim that the case involved
drug money.
A few months later,
when my lying manager announced that he and the researcher were
getting married, management realized that he had intentionally tried
to do me in.
They ended his contract, broke up our investigative unit
and then announced that the station had to lay off people --- and
that I was the last hired and the first to go.
On my own, I
submitted to the L.A. Press Club the ZZZZ Best story I'd written and
produced.
I entered it in the “Best News Writing” category in
their awards contest.
I also submitted another story that I had
completed on my own time after my layoff (but before I was officially
released). I entered it into the “Best Investigative Reporting”
category.
Long story short,
both of my submissions won first place in their categories.
I was proud to
accept the two awards at their big ceremony, but sad that I won them
only after I had lost my dream job.
Two more wins –
the same sadness.
Today, I learned
that the Azerbaijan Supreme Court ordered the release from prison of
my longtime friend and colleague, Khadija Ismayalova.
She had been
locked up for a year and a half of her seven-year sentence on bogus
charges.
The real reason they arrested her was because she was
writing stories about the corruption of that country's presidential
family.
A year ago, I was in
Sarajevo, Bosnia, working with a wonderful team of investigative
reporters on the Khadia Project in which we were continuing Khadija's
corruption investigations.
The message was, if you imprison a
journalist, there will be dozens who will continue her work.
Truth be told, when
the project wrapped up last year, the project leader was unhappy with
something I was or wasn't doing.
I failed completely in my attempts
to create a two-way dialog with him, so I left as an outsider.
I was delighted a
while back to learn that the Khadija Project had won the most
prestigious award for investigative reporting.
One of my life dreams
would be fulfilled, while at the same time, I knew it would not be
likely that I would be able to join the team when the investigative
news organization hands out the award next month in New Orleans.
I had gotten over
that sad, pity me feeling until today when I heard the great news
about Khadija's release.
Today, I'm immersed
in my own pity party because there's no appropriate place for me to
shout out how proud I am.
I've been in this
lonely place so many times in my life.
What's a difficult-to-get-along-with
misfit to do?
There's nobody else to blame except me.
Maybe the answer is some form of the a simple phrase.
Not an easy person to describe or categorize. Take a wannabee "nice guy" and mix in some ADHD, some PTSD, dyslexia, reading problems and a severe learning disorder and you end up with a sort-of talented mess that wishes he could change the world.
Then again, ask others about Don Ray and you'll hear everything from a worthless loser to a brilliant dreamer -- and a lot of other good and nasty stuff in between.
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