A 70-year romance that's still sizzling

A project that's finally ready for me to share.

Gloria and Snicks came into my life in April of 2002 when Neal Velgos and I were exploring the former right-of-way of the Pacific Electric streetcar line that ran from Burbank and Glendale to the Subway Terminal Building at 4th and Hill streets in downtown L.A. They were enjoying the afternoon shadows in front of their small, hillside home in the Silverlake/Edendale neighborhood. They threw a warm greeting our way as we paced up their street. Before we passed the next house, we realized that this was a couple we should spend a few minutes with. Before long, it was clear that theirs was a story that we needed to preserve.

In early 2013, Gloria will turn 90. Snicks will be 93. They met in 1942 and got married before his Army division shipped out to Europe. This is the story of how they came together at a time the world seemed to be falling apart. It ends when Snicks and his best friend finally returned to the two sisters they had married before they went to war. This, by the way, is what The Endangered History Project was meant to create. If it moves you, please share it, or even consider participating in the next project. And we always love it when you subscribe to this blog.

An unnecessary (and humbling) adventure

I was feeling guilty for keeping my treasured RX7 in the office parking lot I share with my office neighbor. So I took the unregistered Mazda home and parked in on the street.

That was dumb!

I came home one night and there was more room to park in front of the house than there had been when I left. Oh! They towed my car. When the nightmare was over, I felt compelled to confess and reflect. Someone I shared it with suggested I send it to the Car Talk program on National Public Radio. It ended up on Car Talk's blog.

Hey, being infamous is almost as good as being famous.

Enjoy.

 To see it, click on this link:  

 The Car Talk Blog

Yes, I'm an angry, old white man.

I confess! I’m an angry, old, white man.

I’m not alone — there are a lot of us out there and there’s no shortage of reasons why old, white men might feel angry. Mostly, we get angry when things change. We tend not to like change. However, many of the changes are long overdue and we should welcome them.

Some of my friends asked me to write about this stuff, so I’ll start with my own inventory.

I’m angry that young people are using technology to isolate themselves from the immediate world around them. I’m talking about iPhones and earplugs and the way text messages divert their eyes and earplugs drown out the chance to communicate with them in person.

I’m happy, however, that, all day long, they’re writing and telling stories. I’d guess that they’re texting more words per day than us old, white guys wrote in a month when we were their age. The same goes for reading. Even though they’re not looking us in the eye, they’re reading and writing and learning how to tell stories.

Unfortunately, many old, white men are angry that some people fall in love with people of the same gender — and that they’re allowed to get away with it.

I’m thrilled that I got over my homophobia a long time ago and realized that love is love and that anyone else’s love is not my business.

I’m angry that words and phrases that were never necessary in day-to-day conversations are invading every conversation. If you didn’t notice them, just listen to how many times people needlessly use “right?” and “go ahead” in their speech. “I got to school late today, right? And the teacher — my 10^th-grader teacher, right? She’s all, ‘Go ahead and take your seat.’ So I sit down, right? And she’s all, ‘Go ahead and open your books to Chapter 12,” right?”

Go ahead and listen for a day or two, right? The clerk will tell you to go ahead and put your pin number in. Go ahead and take a seat. Go ahead and step back. What? Right?

Just omit "go ahead" from just about any such command and it still work. "Take a seat. Step back. Punch in your pin number."

I’m happy, however, that “right?” has somewhat replaced “you know?” and “Nome sane?” Know what I’m saying?

I’m even happier that people are more careful about using racial slurs. I’d be happier if they were changing their vocabulary for the right reasons. Many old, white men have cleaned up their rhetoric, but they complain about “politically correct.” Hint. When you bitch about “politically correct,” you’re probably a racist.

I’m angry that, in the last 30 years (ever since ATMs came along), people feel that they must stand two paces behind the next person in any line. OK, so I’ll stand back so you won’t think I’m stealing your pin number or hearing you ask for your Viagra prescription, but why stand back two paces when you're in line at McDonald’s? God forbid I hear you order your burger with "secret sauce." And, damn it, people are even doing it in the drive-thrus. If it’s the rule on foot, does it have to be the rule in the car? I’m angry when cars are backed up on the street because some idiot won’t come within ten feet of the car in front of him. AAAARGH!

I’m angry at parents driving their fat, lazy kids four blocks to school — and then they race down our alley because they don’t want to wait in line to make a left turn. Walking is good. Kids get exercise, they talk to each other. It saves gas. It makes it easier for parents to get to work on time. What? The streets aren't safe for your kids? B.S.! They're more likely that their teachers will molest them than the people of your neighborhood.

I’m happy, however, that people aren’t driving under the influence as much and that the majority of people have reclaimed fresh air space by making it illegal to smoke in public places.

I’m angry, however, that the laws are not even more strict — and that more kids are smoking and nobody can do anything about it. I’m angry because I’ve seen what happens to smokers when they get older. My mother was 40 pounds when she died of emphysema. Her second husband suffered from lung cancer. Her father killed himself because of his emphysema --- an he smoked until the day he shot himself.

Many old, white men are whining and bawling and bitching because their neighborhoods are no longer bastions of whites and Christians. They miss “the good old days” when they were able to insulate themselves from seeing the poverty and hatred that was going on in neighborhoods in which the poor or the people of color were forced to live. Out of sight, out of mind.

I’m happy that my friends and neighbors are Asian and Latinos, brown and black --- from Colombia and Mexico and Armenia and Egypt. I’m happy that I came to love all forms of Latin music and that I taught myself how to speak passable Spanish. I’m ecstatic that I met and fell in love with and married a wonderful woman from China.

I’m angry that so many old, white men have never traveled outside the United States and, as a result, have never seen how people outside the U.S. have to live.

I’m happy that I did my homework and learned that our “good old days” seemed that much better back then because we were exploiting the poor people in many parts of the world. We exploited them so that we could have their resources, their fruit, their sugar, their oil, their gold, their diamonds and their labor for far less than it was worth.

I’m angry that our corporations and our leaders were able to invade, intimidate, bribe, occupy or overthrow the governments of countries when it was in “the U.S. interest.” U.S. interests have killed millions of people outside the U.S. U.S. interests have helped to keep brutal dictators in power and have prevented the poor from owning or farming their lands so that they could feed their own families.

I’m happy that I have been able to travel to more than 30 countries (mostly third-world countries or developing democracies) and have been able to see with my own eyes the truths that are rarely spoken within our country.

I’m angry that old, white men are so damned afraid of things that are not a threat to them, and that they are so quick to blame immigrants, Democrats, scientists, foreigners, the needy and people of different religions. I’m angry that it’s so easy for them to believe uneducated assholes and liars such as Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck and just about everybody on Fox Television. I’m angry that these scared, angry, old, white men can be so brainwashed that they glue their eyes shut and stuff their ears with putty if any other voices or ideas come near them.

Don’t get me wrong. I won’t budge on certain items. Never!

I refuse to talk to a computer at the other end of the telephone. If it isn’t a real person in real time, I won’t participate.

I refuse to purchase anything at an automated machine at a grocery store or hardware store. I’ll set down anything I intended to buy if I can’t look a clerk in the eye and say, “Hello!”

I’ll never use one of those GPS units to tell me where to go. I prefer to use a map (online is OK) to learn where I’m going and know that I’ll never be lost or at the mercy of a machine.

I refuse to ever own a luxury car or a gas-guzzling, fat SUV. I'm not impressed. I have no reason to try to impress you.

I’m happy that I have a cell phone, but I don’t have a smart phone. Mine is smart enough to make calls and allow me to answer them. Texting? No thanks! I can still speak. And besides, nothing pisses me off more than sharing my valuable time with someone and then realize that they’re texting or Internet searching while we’re talking. Nope. Not me. I respect one-on-one humanity

I’m angry that so many of my old, white men friends have taken the bait and now have smart phones. At the very least, they can feel young as they do the same rude and disgusting stuff the young people are doing.

I’m going to give a talk to young journalists next week and I’ve decided that I will refuse to continue sharing the great stuff I share if any of them are even touching their mobile phones or other electronic devices. They don’t realize that I can teach them more journalism — real journalism — in three hours than they’ll get in six months of school. Damn it, I’m worth paying attention to (even if I end sentences in prepositions).

Mostly, I’m angry at the old, white men — and many of the old, white women who married the old, white men — who can pretend that they’re not racists when they oppose absolutely anything President Obama does, says or stands for. I’m angry that they didn’t call for the impeachment of other presidents who suffered setbacks on their watches. I’m angry that stupid, angry, old, white men are so frightened that they’re willing to set their own logic aside.

I’m happy that I see the light. I’m happy that Barack Obama is my president and not Mitt Romney or any Republican I’ve seen since Dwight Eisenhower.

I’m not happy with everything the president is doing, however. I’m angry that he hasn’t stood up to Wall Street. I’m angry that he doesn’t call every Republican representative into the Oval Office and kick their butts the way President Lyndon Johnson did.

I’m angry with him for not bringing more sunshine into the processes of government.

But he’s hundreds of miles ahead of anybody else right now.

I’m happy that my friends have asked me to write about this stuff. I hope my angry, old, white men friends will wake the hell up and take an inventory of their own worlds.

If you're a cop or a fed, don't read this!

I don’t usually associate with criminals unless I’m writing about them. I’m breaking with my policy this time. I’m not only associating with an admitted criminal — I’ve become a co-conspirator.

Her crime is feeding pigeons. The crime scenes vary. She makes it a point to juggle the illegal feeding times so that authorities cannot easily stake out the crime scenes. I won’t use her first name. Just let me say that her last name is not Dickinson or Post. And Simon and Garfunkel were not singing about her when they performed “For ______, Wherever I may Find Her.

”

She called me today because of a chance encounter at one of her crimes scenes when, in fact, she was committing the crime.

I notice these things, so I very carefully worked my way into her confidence. She’s a remarkably normal-looking immigrant from an unnamed country that was once part of a larger group of countries that was once our main enemy during the Cold War. She’s from a country that once had a nasty nuclear generator accident. But I’m not going to disclose anymore.

Here’s the thing: she’s looking for an accomplice who’s not afraid to risk life and liberty to ensure that her pigeons get their daily meals.

“They are there at the same time every day,” she told me. “They are waiting for me, but because I don’t have a car right now, I can’t always get there.”

She offered this bit of conspiracy: “I’d be happy to pay someone to come and feed my friends. I’ll buy the food and I’ll stash it behind nearby trees.”

Did Coder and his father survive when the dam collapsed?

It was nearly 85 years ago that the 185-foot St. Francis Dam collapsed and sent as many as 450 people to their watery graves. It was the worst disaster in Southern California's history. Only the San Francisco earthquake killed more people in California.

35 years ago, my journalism professor and I set out to write a book, "Without Warning; Diary of a Disaster," in which many of those who survived the disaster could tell their first-person stories.

It was in 1977 that Bill Thomas and I sent "An Open Letter to Coder" to the largest 100 newspapers in the United States. We had hoped that we might be able to solve one of the disaster's most intriguing mysteries. We wanted to know if the dam keeper, Tony Harnischfeger and his son, Coder, actually survived that night back in 1928. And if we couldn't find proof, at least we could spread the word that we were organizing a memorial reunion of the survivors of the disaster on the 50th anniversary of its collapse.

No, we didn't find Coder, but we succeeded in reaching dozens of survivors and their families. 50 years to the day following the collapse of the St. Francis Dam, more than 200 survivors and their family members gathered for a luncheon in what's now Santa Clarita, about 10 miles downstream from where the dam once stood.

Bill and went to the homes of many of the survivors we had found and we interviewed them about their experiences. We sent sample chapters of the book to a boatload of publishers, but none of them were interested in "more disaster stories." You see, there had been a series of disaster movies in recent years --- "Towering Inferno," "Earthquake," "The Poseidon Adventure," etc. --- and they were afraid the market had been glutted.

Then, over the next three decades, both Bill and I focused our energies on our careers. And in the meantime, most all of the people whose stories we had promised to tell had passed away. Now, however, The Endangered History Project, Inc., is gearing up to finally publish the long-awaited book. Bill is clear off on the Right Coast, so he has giving me the green light to complete the book. I'm not doing it alone, however. Many of my friends and family members participated back in 1978 and some of them are eager to pitch in to complete the project. So please consider this an open invitation to be a part of this historic book project. We can use your help. E-mail me if you want to be part of the team.

Our target date to have the book available is March 12, 2013. That will be the 85th anniversary of the disaster.

Don Ray is a sniffling, sobbing sentimental --- but jumping for joy today!

Officer Joe Wilson was first my nemesis, later my hero and, for decades now, an obsession. Today, a dream came true for me. Today I was able to connect with Joe Wilson’s family. Now I’m typing as quickly as I can on a salty, sticky keyboard.

In 1961, Burbank Police Officer Joe Wilson died at the corner of Buena Vista Street and Thornton Avenue in Burbank. He was on duty on his motorcycle. Someone plowed into him and killed him. His life and his death would change my world forever.

Two years before the accident, Officer Joe Wilson began stalking me. OK, he wasn’t stalking, he was looking out for me and hundreds of other 10-year-olds who he felt were at risk. We were bicycle riders without a clue. We were tragedies waiting to happen, he believed.

So with the support of the Burbank Police Department, he waged a campaign to ticket as many of us as he could. We didn’t have to pay fines, we had to show up at the police department on Saturday mornings and face Officer Joe Wilson. We had to learn traffic laws and bicycle safety. Let me cut to the chase here — I’m sure he saved my life and the lives of others. We became safe, law-abiding drivers.

Wishing I could love Father's Day

Some Father’s Day questions for my father(s)

Think of it this way, when you read what I’m sharing on this Father’s Day, you may think it’s a downer. But I’ll bet it will make you appreciate your own father even more.

Questions I wish I had asked my father:

Even if you believed that you weren’t my father — that your brother was — how could you be so cruel to tell me such a thing when I was only seven? 

If I hadn’t looked up just in time those two times when I was playing with my toy truck while you were digging in the planter, would you have crushed me with the shovel as you were poised to do?

OK, I was only nine the last time I saw you — before the accident that would put you in a coma and eventually kill you, but why can’t I remember just one kind word or one bit of encouragement, or remember you ever touching me with something other than your belt?

Why did you get so angry with me at Gilmore Field when I was unable to pick out which player the batter was? You kept shouting that he was the guy standing in the box. I looked and looked, but there were no boxes lying on the ground — much less someone standing in one.

His life cut short at 101

He was 101 years old -- but not too old to inspire people of all ages.

It's a story that could have spread the word and maybe saved a life or two.

His friends say that Otto W. Jensen had the energy of a 20-year-old, the disposition Santa Claus and the kindness of a saint. When he was 99, his friends videotaped him sprinting across Olive Avenue to get from the senior center to his home and photography studio across the street.

It was in that exact spot that a 91-year-old woman's car hit him in the dimming dusk.

It's just a half block from where we live, so when the police helicopter was orbiting about us and the emergency vehicles were converging, I grabbed my video camera and, in true journalist spirit, scurried over and recorded the scene.

I didn't know anything about the victim until I called the Burbank Police watch commander later that night. He could only confirm that the pedestrian had died and that he was a 101-year-old man.

The Christmas Eve Giveaway

It would never have occurred to me, but my old TV-news-writing associate, Frank Feldinger came up with the concept. You see, he was among the folks I invited to come to a food feast at Frank's Restaurant in Burbank earlier this month. Everyone knew it was my attempt to bring some business to the restaurant our family friend, Jose Lopez bought three years ago when Genio's Restaurant closed down. As you may know, my mom worked there for some 35 years. Jose was the head chef --- and a great friend to her and to me.

Wouldn't you know it, not long after Jose got his life-dream restaurant up and running, the economy collapsed, the rent went up and people started eating at home a lot more --- hence my attempt to lure people to Frank's so they could discover on their own the shockingly good food this food artist creates.

My friend Frank Feldinger couldn't make it to the gathering, so he suggested that maybe he could pay for a meal for someone else. Bingo. The idea was born. Before long, generous and caring people sent a combined $150 to me so that I could buy gift certificates and distribute them to people who wouldn't otherwise be able to go out for a great meal.

We decided to divide the donations into 15 gift certificates with a face value of $10. Today, I was the lucky guy who got to distribute them. As luck would have it, when I drove out of his driveway at 916 W. Olive Ave. in Burbank, I spotted a regular visitor to the nearby George Izay Park. The locals refer to her as the Cat Lady. She's a well-educated woman who somehow found herself down and out and, for whatever reason, couldn't muscle her way back up. She usually beds down in temporary shelters in helpful people's backyards, but spends her days at the park caring for a handful of feral cats that live there. I caught up with her a ways up the street and told her about my generous friends. She said that she didn't like to eat alone, but asked if they'd give her food to go in exchange for the gift certificate. She was pleased to find that they would. She said that some of her friends had purchased her two nights of lodging at a hotel for Christmas. The take-out meal would make it a true Christmas for her.

I drove for a while and encountered a friend named Alvin who was returning on his bicycle with food he'd bought at the 99 Cents Only store for his 94-year-old mother. I flagged him down and asked if he could recommend someone worthy of the food script. He pointed me in the direction of an auto-repair garage that was allowing a down-and-out man to sleep at night. I returned to the park where I hooked up with a handful of homeless friends. One of them was willing to take some of the certificates to Frank's and buy food for everyone in the group. They ended up feasting on hamburgers, fries and soft drinks.

Next, I drove to that garage and met the man Alvin had mentioned. Alvin rode up on his bike and I gave them each a certificate. Next, I looked up a hard-working friend who I had heard had recently landed a minimum wage job that would allow him to lodge there as well. It was good to see that he had finally found a roof under which he could sleep. He was caring for a couple that are both confined to wheelchairs. He was helping them wrap Christmas gifts when I arrived.

Finally, I drove to the Salvation Army Family Store and strolled around until I found a likely family. The young woman was clearly building a tricycle motor (slang for "expecting a baby") and the man I thought was her husband was trying on shoes. It turns out he's her brother, but they were pleased to be able to use the remaining four gift certificates to take their struggling parents out for a meal.

I stopped back at Frank's in the late afternoon and was pleased to see that Alvin and his struggling friend were feasting on barbecued pork ribs and a patty melt. I felt particularly good when I returned to my office to start making gifts for my wife and son. Don't tell them, but I printed some great family photos on canvas and made them into three-dimensional, box-like photographs. I wish I could give more, but this just isn't the year for it.

Oh, by the way, thanks to Frank Feldinger and the other anonymous folks who decided to help a restaurant by helping some needy customers. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of my friends and family!

The Amazing Case of "Skinny Dude", the Hyperventilating Prisoner

Nearly 40 years ago, I worked for the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, the law enforcement branch of the Postal Service. I went from being a Postal Police Officer to working in the Mail Fraud section in the Los Angeles Division and eventually ended up in charge of screwing up the expense account reimbursements for the Postal Inspectors there. I also messed up business card orders and pretty much proved that I my heart was not in procurement or administration. It was somewhere else. Hence, I became a journalist and haven't regretted it since. I  have fond memories, however, of some of the colorful characters who were chasing down the crooks who committed Postal Service-related crimes.

My fondest memories are of Inspector Boyd Manes, a "good old boy" from Texas who had (and still has) a knack for telling stories about his adventures and misadventures. Today he sent me an e-mail with a story of two long days on the job. He gave me permission to share it with my friends. I took the liberty of removing any names, except for his, that is.  The ending belongs in a film comedy. Enjoy:

Shortly after my female partner was assigned to work with me at Orange County, CA, we encountered a somewhat bizarre case that was in a nutshell HYPERVENTILATION!  It all started with a phone call, as a lot of cases did.

Misguided loyalties: An open letter I hope will produce a great cop!

To the young, hopeful police cadet at the public counter:

Young man,

I applaud your desire to be a uniformed police officer. I’m certain – 100% certain – that you are motivated by goodness and for all of the right reasons. I hope that you accept this message with the knowledge that I, and the rest of the community, hope that you become a model public servant at a time we really need model public servants.

First of all, I hope you will believe that you were, in many ways, a victim today.

My Fair Lady; Presenting Mary Cotter

Here's the best reason I could give for you to visit the Los Angeles County Fair this year: Her name is Mary Cotter. She's only 98 years old. I say "only" because she has more life in her than most anybody I've met. The people at the Department of Motor Vehicles know what I mean. When they renewed her driver's license recently they said to her, "Mary, you don't need to return here until you turn 103." I literally caught up with her on her way to ceremonies honoring her for the thousands of hours she's volunteered taking care of "those youngsters" at the Montclair Senior Center.

I sure wish I could write this good:

 I'm a real fan of this guy's writing. When he sent it time me, I couldn't stop reading it until I was wiping tears away at the end. OK, I'm envious and I wish I could write this well. I love the way he re-creates his childhood. It's as if I'm witnessing the whole thing. I hope you enjoy this.

can't quite remember when I turned against the idea of war, but I'm sure it had something to do with the fact that I didn't want to die. From pretty much the sixth grade on, I was firmly, solidly, against dying.

But up until then, I spent many years dying with verve in our neighborhood. The favorite game to play on our street was War. It beat Bloody Murder by a mile because it had weapons. Bloody Murder was really just a game of hide-and-seek (when you found the person hiding, you would yell "Bloody murder!" and everyone would try to make it back to touch the home pole before those who were hiding could tag you).

Don Ray Exclusive! A crime scene nightmare in Glendale.

By Don Ray

Staff Writer

GLENDALE — It was a dark and windy night in 2002. Glendale Police officers responded to a silent alarm coming from an upscale house in an upscale hillside neighborhood. By the time they arrived, the wind had blown away all of the electricity in the neighborhood.

The front door was wide open. Nobody responded to their knocks or calls of  "Anybody here?" So, with flashlights in hand, they entered the living room and quickly discovered a gruesome scene.

 

 The bullet hole in the center of the man's forehead made two things obvious:

Whoever it was was dead, and there had to be foul play involved — murder. Before they could secure the crime scene, they had to search the place, just in case the killer was still there. Where they had to, police officers broke down doors and anything else that kept them from getting to any place a killer could hide.

While they awaited the Los Angeles County Coroner's investigators, they were careful to not destroy any evidence. Of course, they left the body as they had found it.

A while later, the house's owner, Jerry Quist, returned home to flashing red and blue lights, police cars and the coroner's van. But moments before he arrived, the police or the coroner investigator had solved the mystery.

There was no need for a crime scene. There was no crime. There were no suspects. And there was no dead body.

Today Jerry Quist laughs about the incident. In one sense, the incident was a tribute to his professional skills. Without meaning to, he had fooled the police.

"If the power hadn't gone out, they may have had enough light to see that it was a movie prop," Quist says.

"I had made it for a film called Gigli with Ben Affleck.That's Jerry Quist sitting next to his gruesome creation below.

 

He says that, following the shooting of the film that was released in 2003, he had kept the body in his Glendale house.

"You never know when they might need to re-shoot a scene or something," Quist said.

When they released the movie, he says it was now OK for him to disassemble the mock murder victim.

The veteran make-up artist and make-up department head has worked in a slew of films including "Red," "Fast and Furious," "Tropic Thunder" and "The Sixth Sense." But he never envisioned that one of his creations would star in the unfolding of a real-life drama.

"It was my fault for not closing the front door when I went out that night," he says. It seems that the wind had blown open the door, which triggered the alarm, and eventually blew out the power before the police would arrive.

Following the debacle, Quist says the police and coroner investigator quickly packed up their things and left him there to repair all of the damage that officer had done looking for a killer.

A near-death experience with a remarkable update.

 

Meet Fred Gallegos.

I first encountered him some 42 years ago. This is what he looks like today.

 Here’s the story of our previous encounter:

The headlights from the cars going the other direction on the Ventura Freeway were filtered by the chain link fence that divided the freeways back on June 5, 1969 --- all except one set of headlights that were distinctly brighter.

I was in the fast lane heading east. The car with the way-too-bright lights was heading west in our direction. I couldn’t say for sure, but there was a chance he was on our side of the freeway --- in the same lane.

I was home on leave following my time in Vietnam. My friend John Stiles and I had been checking out the Bob’s Big Boy restaurants in Toluca Lake and then Van Nuys. We were looking for another guy we used to run with. It was past midnight and we were heading back to Bob’s T.L. just in case he might be there now.

But now, all I could think of was to get the hell off the freeway – just in case it was a wrong-way driver --- and let him have all of the lanes to himself. John didn’t know what was going on when I darted to the right from lane #1 to lane #4 and then onto the shoulder of the freeway just past the Cahuenga Blvd. on-ramp.

As John was asking me what the heck I was doing, the wrong-war driver failed to come out of the gentle curve and was barreling directly toward us. There was nowhere to go and nothing else we could do.

We both braced for the crash. But less than a second before the unavoidable impact, a little Mercedes Benz drove past us in the slow lane to our left and smashed head-on into the wrong-way driver.

Only about eight feet from the front of our car, the two vehicles rose up in the air and crashed down in front of us.

Then there was silence --- the most eerie silence I’ve ever not heard in my life. If there were other cars, I didn’t hear them. We both got out and, through the steam and dust, we ran up to the driver of the Mercedes. He was crushed up against the steering wheel, unconscious.

But he was still breathing. John immediately pried open the hood of the car and somehow ripped the battery cables from their terminals. At the same time, the driver of the other car, a huge Chrysler convertible with the top down, staggered out and started wandering around the scene.

Quite drunk.

The next thing I remember was seeing a guy walking quickly in our direction from a car about an eighth of a mile in front of the scene. He was lighting highway flares and laying them down. I ran toward him to give him a hand. When I got close to him, I realized that this was the friend we had been looking for all evening.

I had to leave a day or two later for my next duty station in Michigan, so I never got a chance to find out what happened after that --- until today, that is.

I had an appointment with my favorite dental hygienist in the morning at the V.A. clinic in Downtown L.A. Afterwards, I walked to the main L.A. Library to look up a bunch of stuff in the L.A. Times Index they have online there. I used the search terms “head-on,” “wrong-way” and “Ventura” for the months of May and June of 1969.

 

Back at my office, I dug into the public records indices to find a Fred Callegos (the middle initial was blotched out, as you can see) who was born in 1941 or 1942. The only match was Fred P. Gallegos who has a business in the Agoura Hills area.

So I called the number on the website. Even though it was after hours, a woman answered. I said I was looking for the Fred Gallegos who was in an accident on the Ventura Freeway in 1969. She knew all about it and put him on the phone.

To say that it was a strange conversation for both of us would be an understatement. Probably more for him than for me. I always seem to be doing these kinds of things. To make a long story shorter, he was eager to hear about the accident. All he remembered was waking up in traction in the hospital --- and the year it took him to recuperate.

He was a construction worker at the time, which is probably why he’s alive today.

“The doctors told me that anybody else would have died from that accident,” he said. “I was in great shape --- almost at the peak age of 28.”

But he was still a mess. Broken femurs, broken jaw, teeth crushed and rearranged. But for all of the damage, there were some amazing things that seemed have happened through fate or karma or something.

He used to hang out in a bar in Glendale,he told me. One of his drinking pals was an insurance agent who had pestered him to sign up for a $300 disability insurance package. Finally, Fred had given in, he says.

“Then, a little while later, the guy tells me I should increase it to $500,” Fred said, “so I did.” It was only a short later that he got hit on the freeway. And, it turns out, the drunk in the other car had no insurance whatsoever. If it hadn’t been for that disability policy, Fred says, he’d have been screwed.

And also, right before the accident occurred, Fred’s dentist had taken impressions of his mouth for some dental work. When the dentist heard about the accident, he made up a cast of Fred’s mouth and took it to the hospital.

“He came in an moved all of my teeth back to where they had been!”

Over the years, Fred has had more than 40 surgical procedures for everything from throat cancer to fused vertebrae to a heart attack to gall bladder surgery and four knee surgeries. Then there was his right eye that got hit with something and another six surgeries because of that. But he never once complained to me or murmured a bit of regret. Instead, he wanted to talk about his wife, Paula, and how well the kids have done. 

We talked for more than an hour, and I got to know a man whose life is filled with spirit --- positive spirit --- and a man who has never stopped living each day with gusto.

We’re going to get together in the next week or two.

It’s strange how we hook up with people, isn’t it?

I finally learned the name of my early -- unlikely -- hero -- 49 years later.

If only I could have found a more productive outlet for my creative juices.

Today, I finally learned the name of a man who was my inspiration. For a while, I wondered if maybe I hadn't really seen him --- that maybe it was something I had conjured up in a dream. But thanks to YouTube, today I was the 94th person to view the proof that he existed.

I wasn't dreaming.

I saw him on the evening of February 12, 1962, live on the television program, "I've Got a Secret!" I had just turned 13 the month before. It's a well-know fact among members of my family that I didn't take good notes in school -- and not at all while watching television. So I didn't remember his name. Today, I learned it: Stan Berman.

Why would I be inspired by a Brooklyn cab driver? It was because of his secret: --- he was a gatecrasher. I'd never heard the term before, but by the end of that TV program, I was already dreaming of the day I could be one.

I didn't remember the long, gatecrashing resume he had displayed in photographs that evening, except for one. I'll never forget seeing him sit with the Kennedy Family at the Inaugural Ball for President John F. Kennedy the year before on my 12th birthday, 1961.

That's Stan Berman seated three seats to JFK's right (your left). I don't know who the woman is seated to the right of the applauding Stan Berman, but to his left is the President's father, Joseph Patrick Kennedy, Sr. The President's mother is between him and his father.

No, I didn't make a career out of being a gatecrasher, but I never stopped thinking about pulling such a clever, albeit harmless prank. I will confess that, as a journalist, there were times when I used some of Stan Berman's inspiration to help me get closer to people I needed to interview, but I only did it recreationally one time.

And I consider it one of my greatest accomplishments.

It was at Burbank High School on a Saturday evening, when I was an 11th grader. As usual, I showed up early to an event -- this time earlier than anyone else, it turns out. It was in the auditorium. and it was slated to be a collection of musical performances by some popular music personalities. Most were probably on the downward side of their careers, but they were at least once-popular. The person I was bent on seeing live was a young folksinger who was very popular in Southern California, Tim Morgan.

I don't remember exactly when I decided to attempt the crashing of the gate, but I know when the action started. I was the only person standing in line at the ticket window. Nobody was even inside the booth yet. The custodian walked up with a set of keys and asked me if I was the ticket seller. I responded with a single word -- a word that would launch my own inauguration to gatecrashing.

"Yes!"

A moment later, I was alone in the ticket booth and was able to "sell" myself a front-row, center seat. A moment after I placed the ticket in my shirt pocket, a pretty girl (who was pretty concerned) was knocking on the door to the booth. I opened it and she said, "What are you doing here?" Someone had once told me two rules to follow when caught red-handed: 1). Don't flinch. 2) Always answer a question with another question.

"What are YOU doing here?"

She said she was supposed to be selling the tickets. I said the same thing back to her, but I quickly suggested we split up the task. I allowed her to take the first shift. I'd come back later to relieve her, I lied. I knew I would never come back. Instead, I walked to one of the three or four entry doors to the auditorium. I almost handed off my ticket, but I started thinking that it had been too easy. I didn't want it to end that quickly.

I noticed that there was a second attendant at the door. He was handing out the program booklets.

"Excuse me," I told him. "We've run out of programs at the side door. Could I please take some of yours?" I took my half-stack to the side door and told the person there that he was to go cover one of the other doors. I was supposed to work this door now. Then I handed out the programs until I was down to just one. I carried it inside and took my seat.

Still too easy! I was front-row, center, but there were people with a better view: they were backstage. I watched one official walk through a door that led backstage, so I waited a couple of minutes, got up and walked backstage. I hadn't thought about what I would say if someone asked. They didn't, however.

Then I saw Tim Morgan sitting on a stool, warming up with his beautiful guitar. I had to talk to him. I walked up to him and said, "Hi, I'm with the school paper. May I interview you please?" He was happy to oblige me. Afterwards, I asked him if I could play his guitar. After all, the first four chords I had learned on my $7, used Sears Silvertone guitar were the chords to his cult-favorite song, "The Cat Came Back" (E-minor, D, C, B7 -- a most difficult chord to play). He handed me his guitar and I nailed the B7! He was impressed.

Then I wandered over near the light and curtain cage -- just off stage left. Nearby, the designated student "introducers" were reviewing the 5x7" cards someone had handed them --- cards with the introduction information for each artist.

At that moment, there was a crisis at the light and curtain cage. It seems that the custodian who had opened the ticket booth door for me was working the lights, but he was apparently drunk. I think he had just walked away, so there was nobody there to work the lights.

I volunteered and took over. It was a stupid thing to do because I didn't know the first thing about the lights or the curtains. The drama teacher, a former Marine named Miss Wolfson had been barking orders from the projection booth behind the balcony. I'd listen to the intercom and then look for something with a label that matched what she was saying.

Apparently I failed, because a few moments later, she was there at the cage and was chewing me out for screwing up the lights. "You were on the stage crew! You should know how to do this," she said. I didn't think it was a good time to volunteer the information that I had only been a volunteer for one production, "My Fair Lady," the prior year --- and, no, I never learned the lights. Anyway, she kicked me out of the cage.

That left me without a job, so I went up to the person handing out the "introduction" cards and asked for mine. Whoever it was giving them out didn't question my credentials, so I took my card and waited my turn.

Two performances later, I walked out onto the stage and did a pretty darned good job introducing singer Bobby Day singing his hit song, "Rockin' Robbin."

Then I retired as a gatecrasher. It's always good to undefeated -- sort of.



A postscript: After posting this, I found out that Stan Berman died at age 41. How sad.

Died. Stanley Berman, 41, Brooklyn cab driver and self-proclaimed "World's Greatest Gate-Crasher"; of a blood infection; in Brooklyn. No occasion was too exclusive, no dignitary too aloof for Berman, who posed as a waiter to demand Queen Elizabeth II's autograph during her 1957 visit, crashed J.F.K.'s Inaugural Ball in 1961, and had his finest moment in 1962 when he charged onstage to hand Bob Hope an Oscar in front of 100 million TV watchers.

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,900024,00.html#ixzz1R6rWJf52

Once Upon a Brick --- A Simons Brick

I like to explore old maps of Los Angeles and its environs. And when I discover something I'd never heard of before, I'll often get in my time machine (OK, my car) and drive into the future of that map. Such it was when I saw an old map of the area that's now Montebello and the City of Commerce and I noticed a train stop and what looked like a town called Simons. If you ever drive through the area on I-5, it's north of the freeway and north of Telegraph Road, just a bit east of Garfield. There's a Home Depot close by that's pretty close to what was once called Simons.

It was a huge brick manufacturing company, but even more interesting was what I learned about how the owners created a self-contained little city for the employees --- almost all of whom had come north from Mexico to work there, live there, dine there, attend church there, go to school there and even watch movies in the theater there.

When I drove to the area, there was practically nothing left. The school that you'll hear about in the video below is still there, but not the original buildings. What was once a self-contained community is now one of those typical industrial zones with look-alike buildings. I found a few houses that may have been there to house employees. I'll have to do some public records searches to learn more.

Now, whenever I see building or sidewalks made of brick, I look for the distinctive "Simons" bricks. I first found one as part of the steps in front of Shakey's in Burbank. Then I discovered that my neighbors, Jan and Henry, had a couple of Simons bricks on their walkway. Most recently, I found Simons bricks adorning the front walkway in front of my friend Pat Hall's house in Hacienda Heights. OK, I'm hooked on the story of the Simons Brick Factory, better known as Simons Brick Company No. 3.



Today, I was pleased to find a wonderful video made by people who really know how to do the perfect oral history interviews. And they're pretty good at production, as well. I invite you to enjoy it.

And in case you didn't read the full description that goes along with it, I'm including it here:

An interview with Rosa Lemus Carlos who grew up at Simons Brick Company No.3 in Montebello, California.

Her father was a decades-long employee there. Simons Brick Company, established in the Los Angeles area before the turn of the last century, grew to become the biggest brick producer in the world, and to make the millions of bricks that were used to build much of Los Angeles, San Francisco and cities throughout the nation.

Simons imported thousands of Mexican workers and their families to Los Angeles in order to work and live at their 300 acre facility. Simons was almost literally a Mexican town, where generations of Spanish-speaking workers and their families were housed, worked, went to school, worshiped and shopped - and where they died. The work of making bricks was back-breaking and pay was low. But as Rosa Carlos's interview shows, their lives there (and that of their families) were centered around far more than just grueling work: Simons families' cultural and social life was multi-layered, multi-faceted and enriching in its own way.

The Simons Brick Company went bankrupt in the 1950s and closed after more than sixty years of existence, due to changing construction methods causing brick sales to decline drastically. The shanty homes of the workers and their families were condemned and demolished, along with the entire brick yard. Hundreds of Mexican residents saw their homes torn down and the debris set afire, but their memories of their lives at Simons lived on.

Rosa's interview excerpt, from the epic documentary film "Whitewashed Adobe: The Rise of Los Angeles" is very moving and enlightening.

See more at http://www.whitewashedadobe.com

The man who probably saved my life a dozen times

It was 50 years ago today that I learned of his untimely death.

I first saw him parked there on his motorcycle at the corner on Seventh Street and Verdugo Avenue. He was facing north. I was going south. I guess I didn't think the stop sign at Verdugo applied to me, so I ran it. The police officer pointed his gloved finger at me and gestured to where he wanted me to stop.

Then he wrote the ticket.

My first ticket.

Driver: Donald Ray

Age: 10

Vehicle make: Murray Bicycle.

Place of employment: Joaquin Miller School.

Occupation: Grammer School (That's right, he misspelled grammar, but I must confess that I wasn't the one who caught the gaffe).

Anyway, the punishment was mandatory attendance in the basement of the Burbank Police Building on a Saturday morning. It was traffic school for kids. And that same motorcycle cop was in charge.

Officer Joe Wilson.

Truth be told, all of us kids there were frightened when he first stood up in his motorcycle boots and stared us down.

I'll say this: we paid attention to what he had to say. And what he taught was the traffic code -- the rules of the road. It was Officer Joe Wilson who made it clear to us that we had to obey all of the same laws that drivers of automobiles on city streets had to obey. I mean, he made it perfectly clear, or else.

OK, so I was a slow learner. I think I learned them one violation at a time.

It seems that whenever I would find it more convenient to ride on the sidewalk or to give my buddy a ride on the back of my bike, Officer Wilson was watching me.

And he'd ticket me again. Another Saturday. Another lecture. It happened several times over the next couple of years. It got to where I could sing along with Jiminy Cricket in the bicycle safety cartoon Officer Wilson would show us at the end. Jiminy sang it again and again.

"I'm no fool. Nosiree. I'm gonna live to be 23. I play safe for you and me cause I'm no fool."

Of course, the next time he sang it it was 33, then 43 and so on until at least 93.

I believe that Officer Wilson singlehandedly taught an entire generation of young boys (and a few girls) how to drive safely -- for life. It was a time when the Burbank Police Department was willing to invest in a full-time traffic officer to teach young people the rules of the road -- and cite them when they broke those rules.
I wish they would do that today. I believe it would save lives.

There's no way to measure how many lives Officer Wilson saved over the last 50 years. I still think of him as a hero. And I have to believe that his lessons have kept me alive for five decades.

You see, when I watch impatient people drive through stop signs in their cars, or ride their bikes on the sidewalk or speed through intersections, I think about Officer Joseph R. Wilson.

And I think about the drunk driver who, on June 17, 1961, ran a red light and plowed into the police motorcycle that Officer Wilson was driving.

I cried the next morning when I saw it in the Burbank Review.

For many years, his lone photograph was on display in the lobby of the Burbank Police Department. The last time I looked, it was still on display, but there were photos of at least two other Burbank Police Officers who died in the line of duty.

A few years ago, I asked for the cooperation of the media relations officer at BPD -- I wanted to track down the wife and children of Officer Joe Wilson so that I could thank them for what their husband and father did for me. But the Public Information Officer turned me down. Privacy restrictions.

Then I went through the old news clippings at the Burbank Leader (formerly the Burbank Review) and was able to get the details I needed. I pulled Officer Wilson's death certificate at the County Recorder's office to learn more details -- details that might help me find his children. I cited the California Public Records Act in a records request I filed with the Burbank City Attorney's office. They ignored my request to be put in touch with the Officer Wilson's wife or children. I'm usually pretty good at finding people, but I wasn't that lucky this time around.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

Officer Joseph R.Wilson died a day or two before Father's Day.

This Father's Day, I honor Officer Joseph R. Wilson, 50 years later.

I believe that he cared about me the way a father would. And he cared about scores of other young Burbank kids the same way.

If somehow this message reaches the children of Officer Wilson -- they'd be in their 50s now -- please know that your father has surely saved countless lives, including mine.

I'm certain.

An Adventure I'll Never Forget

Today, Friday, May 27th, the interview I did with Dick Gordon of "The Story" airs on radio stations across the U.S. But you can listen to the interview here: Don Ray's Vietnam Veterinary Experience

It's the story of being a combat dog handler in Soc Trang, below Vietnam's Mekong Delta, in 1968. It's about being designated a veterinarian technician with no training, no experience and no supervision. It's about taking care of the medical needs of 12 Army dogs as well as dozens of G.I.s' pet animals on the remote airstrip.

And it's about having to deal with a mysterious disease that was killing American dogs in the war zone. If you can't connect with the link above, Go to http://www.thestory.org and search for Don Ray. By the way, the story about the Vietnam dogs is about 2/3 of the way into the podcast.

The experience made me convinced that would, one day, become a veterinarian. When I left the Army, I enrolled at Los Angeles Pierce College with the goal of taking the school's pre-veterinarian courses and then transferring to U.C. Davis's School of Veterinary Medicine. Unfortunately, there were so man young men taking classes at Pierce that, in my four years there, I never had enough credits to get into one of the pre-vet classes. The guys were there, I believe, so that they could avoid the draft by being in college. So in the end, I would take journalism classes and, well, you know the rest.

Remembering Dr. Leo Buscaglia

If you were in Los Angeles, San Diego or San Francisco in the 1980s, you probably didn't know Dr. Leo Buscaglia --- even though he was a professor at USC, a best-selling author and a lecturer who was famous across the United States and in much of the world.

My friend, Carol Tashiro (that was her name back then) had moved to Phoenix from California. She sent me an audiotape of some guy named Buscaglia and suggested that I would be inspired by what this guy said. Being a typically skeptical Angeleno, I avoided putting the cassette in the player. In my mind, the last thing I wanted to hear was someone trying to brainwash me. Not me.

Eventually, Carol asked me to return the tape, which I did.

Fast forward a year or two and now I'm working in Phoenix as an investigative reporter/producer. Our station was airing one of the very popular Leo Buscaglia lectures and I was helping out in the editing room as the technicians prepped the recorded video for broadcast.

My body language, I'm sure, was a crossed-arm expression of cynicism as I listed, again and again, to this man trying to spread the word about living a loving life. Balderdash!

At some point, I realized that he was asking nothing of the viewers. He wasn't really selling anything, and he seemed to have no personal stake in how people responded. I think think the fact that most of the audience wanted to hug him afterwards was what made me suspicious. I guess it scared me a bit. Was he manipulating people?

When I learned that he would be coming to the Phoenix area for a couple of "performances" --- and that we would be taping it and producing the TV special, I asked my boss if I could arrange a one-on-one interview with him. After all, I had not seen anyone ask him direct questions.

"Absolutely not!" my boss exclaimed. The last thing he wanted was an investigative reporter with a reputation for doing tough interviews asking the beloved Dr. Buscaglia anything at all.

I've never been good at rejections from insecure bosses, so I wrote a personal letter to Dr. Buscaglia and gave him an honest assessment of my reason for wanting to interview him. He responded with the most warm letters I've ever received and agreed to allow me to do an in-depth, one-on-one interview with him the morning after the first of his two performances.

I wasn't terribly tough on him, but I did ask the questions that reflected both the suspicions I first had about him, and my own, personal questions about living my life. Shortly after this interview, Dr. Buscaglia entered the hospital for multiple heart-bypass surgery. He died of a heart attack in early 1992.

Recently, I sent a facebook message in which I shared my victory over my own anger. My friend Jeanne (Barron) Aikman asked me to share the secret of my transformation. I haven't yet explained it all, but this may have been the beginning. The interview runs about 28 minutes, so maybe you can't watch it now. But I promise you that, if you're feeling even the slightest bit unhappy, watching this will help:




If you get a chance to watch this, forgive me for my youth and inexperience. Also, it would be great if you could rate it or leave a comment. Thanks.

A Eulogy for the News Media

It's not easy for me to stand up here today before all of you, my fellow friends of the First Amendment, the American flag, hot dogs, apple pie and picnics in the park on the Fourth of July. It's not because I don't want to share my thoughts --- it's more about being in denial that we've lost our friend, the News Media.

After all, when I turn on the TV, I still see the deceptive remnants of NBC, CBS, ABC, as well as the skeletal remains of programs such as "60 Minutes," "20/20" and "Dateline NBC." It's when I tune in and watch hour-long remakes of real, live murder mysteries that I remember that the days of hard-hitting investigative reports are gone.
And to think that, for so many years, my dream was to work, full time, as a segment producer for one of these programs. And why not? They were doing what our founding fathers intended them to do --- they were wearing the uniforms of watchdogs. They were doing their part to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." They were there to function as the Fourth Estate --- to provide the proper balance when the balance of powers tip too far in any direction.
Our founding fathers knew very well about the dangers of despots, about religious zealots whose enthusiasm sometimes bleeds over into the desire to inflict their beliefs on the unwilling, about power-hungry representatives who fall prey to bribes and influence-peddlers.
Our founding fathers, however, had not an inkling of a dream about the power that businessmen and their corporations would, one day, wield. They could never have dreamed that the greatest threat to the democratic republic they created would be the very commerce they encouraged.
And despite their concerns over the rights of people to gather peacefully and to say and believe what they desire, they never anticipated that the greedy businessmen would, one day, execute a 30-year plan to muzzle the watchdog.
But as you, who have gathered here today, very well know, the watchdog is dead. With nobody there to check their forward motion, the corporations have come very close to wrestling the government away from We the People.
So we're here today to remember our friend, the News Media, as it existed before its demise. We're here to remember its determination to report the events and situations that all citizens needed so that they could make intelligent decisions about how we should run our government. We're here to remember their goal of reporting --- in a fair and balanced manner --- the points of view of ALL of the parties involved in disputes. And we're here to remember their goal of building a strong wall between the news gatherers of their organizations and the advertisers, the folks who sell the papers and the owners, who were once able to express their opinions in one place --- the editorial page.
Our founding fathers never anticipated that the greedy business people could buy up and control the once-free press and begin to feed their unwitting customers exactly what they wanted --- not exactly what they needed.
Oh, I was an unwitting part of the deception and now I regret it. When I broke the story of the police investigation into singer Michael Jackson, I contributed to the rush to make entertainment stories more important than stories about how our representatives are running our country.
And for those of you who feel guilty here today --- guilty for not educating yourselves in spite of the ever-growing incompetence of the failing News Media --- it's not your fault. You were seduced.
Admit it. You were seduced.
The greedy business people who stole your First Amendment-empowered News Media from you replaced the important stuff with things that touched you on more emotional and prurient levels. They diverted your attention by filling your TV screens with swim suits, high-speed chases and, worst of all, stories about people who, in no way, deserve your attention --- people such as Paris Hilton and Charlie Sheen. They filled your soul with fear --- fear that your kids will be kidnapped if they simply walk to school, fear that someone who prays to a different version of God than you worship are really trying to take over the world, and fear that anyone who cares about the rights and needs of the poor or the elderly or the workers must somehow be part of a communist takeover.
No, please don't blame yourselves. You were seduced.
While you weren't paying attention, the messages put out by the ailing News Media have sent you down a self-destructive road. And you won't realize it until you step back and look at the map with a critical eye and a wide-angle view. Unless you check it out yourself, you won't realize that many of us have been supporting points of view that, in the long run, keep us from advancing toward the so-called American Dream.
You have to give them credit. The clever folks who finally succeeded in stealing from you the vibrant News Media of the past worked for more than 30 years to, little by little, take control.
I know that some of your are still unwilling to believe that you have been deceived. I was there once. It was in 1984 that I had my awakening. It was just in time to watch what was happening and to begin to feel the frustrating, helpless anger.
I posted a photograph of myself here today from when I was about eight years old. It was about that time that I witnessed something --- and even participated in something --- that was as remarkable now as it was then. You make think that this is silly. OK.
I was on the playground of Joaquin Miller Elementary School in Burbank, California, and I noticed one of my classmates walking around the inside perimeter of two connected playgrounds. It was when he passed by me the third time, that I walked up to him and said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm walking around the playgrounds," he said. "Do you want to join me?"
I did.
I walked behind him. After about two more times around the playgrounds, another kid got in line behind me. Then another and another and another. Nobody ever explained to anyone why were all walking in a long line around the playground's inside perimeter --- we just did it.
When the ringing bell ordered us all back to our respective classrooms, every student was in this line.
Every single student.
I was reminded of this phenomenon when I learned what was really happening in Madison, Wisconsin. I came to realize that, even more than before, my friend , the News Media, was dead. If it were alive, it would have reported the truth. It didn't lie --- it just didn't tell the whole story.
And, to me, that's when my friend breathed its last breath.
Whether or not it comes back to life --- or if something else emerges to rival its glorious past --- well, as they say "remains to be seen."
For now, we must all look, on our own, for the truth, the balance and the complete stories on our own. We can no longer count on NBC, CBS, ABC, Fox or even CNN to feed us these things. They've all been corrupted. They're all serving up the Koolaid.
There are some uncorrupted, unafraid voices out there. If you're interested, I'll share them with you.
In the meantime, I was thinking about starting to walk around the inside perimeter of our society. Maybe if I walk long enough and far enough, others will join me. Maybe if thousands of us are peacefully walking and gathering more walkers, more people will notice and we can put a stop to the decay of our democratic republic.
It requires nobody's permission. It's legal. There's still enough of the First Amendment in place to empower us all.
Do you think I'm crazy to want to start walking? Please let me know.

A time for being inspired -- and, one day, actually inspiring others.

It's been quite a while since I've posted to my silly blog. I wasn't ready. Now I am. Here's the briefest of brief updates, followed by something that moved me -- finally -- to share something that I believe is worth sharing:

Since last time . . . . . let's see . . .

Cancer -- stage two Melanoma. Three times under the scalpel. Finger-biting time. Good news. No more cancer. Whew! A quick second scare. No worries. The Veterans Administration and Social Security recognize my combat-related condition and grant me disability status. Roller coasters of emotions, adjustments, scrambling to adjust more and time to face irritating obstacles I should have faced years ago.

A brief journey to Belgrade and Novi Sad, Serbia, and then to Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, along with a couple of days working on my documentary about a most surprising, former German concentration camp where thousands of Jewish women and children spent their final days on Earth.

Home again and still adjusting and still facing (but not embracing) personal obstacles.
The whole time, I've explored a pathway for that mysterious and illusive desire to change things somewhere for the good.

Today, this inspired me enough to want to share it with everyone I know and even with people I don't know.
Would you please take some time to watch it? If it doesn't touch you, at least you'll know what touches me.





Oh, and you should feel free to share it with other folks. And if you wish, leave a comment here or send me an e-mail at donray@donray.com. I'm looking for ways to get involved somehow.

For all of your time travel needs.

Where can you get all of the news from the future as well as the past? Only at the Echo Park Time Travel Mart.
Welcome!

 

The moment I heard about the Echo Park Time Travel Mart (EPTTM), I had to go there for a visit. It's at 1714 W. Sunset Blvd. in the Echo Park District of  Los Angeles.
What a great experience --- an experience you shouldn't miss.





Trevor Byrne was running the unique (that's an understatement) shop that offers everything you'll ever need for that time-travel trip you've been planning. It doesn't matter if you're going forward or backward in time, this store has what you'll need.

It opens up at noon (not that time matters), which gives you more than enough time to examine the goods for sale there --- goods such as Time Travel Sickness Pills, bottled Robot Milk, dinosaur eggs, medicinal leeches and Woolly Mammoth Chunks.











My mouth was watering for a Time-Freezy Hyper Slush, but the machine was out of order. I didn't have time to go back yesterday when it was working.

I was able to sneak into the back room to see if they had other things in stock, but what I discovered instead was the real reason for this timeless store's existence.

You see, it's really a front for a tutoring service that's part of what's called 826LA. Truth be told, I first heard about this remarkable volunteer effort when I watched a fascinating video about the germ of this project on Ted.com. You can also view it at  Dave Egger's Ted Wish.


I know that there are a lot of educators who visit my blog, so I encourage you all to consider volunteering for the one-on-one tutoring during the school year or work with the entire classes that come to EPTTM during the daytime. You journalists out there can also help out ever Monday night from 7 to 8:30 p.m. when the young staff of "828LA Good Times"convenes to put together its astoundingly professional newsletter.

The student journalists write about more than their pets. For example, in the current edition, reporter Alanis offers up a Q&A with seismologist Kate Hutton from CalTech. Josephine, another reporter, interviewed Tom Overton of Gems and Gemology Magazine as well as Wendy Van Norden of National Earth Sciences Teacher Association. Ruby used her interviewing and writing skills to address the dispute about whether Pluto is really a planet. She turned to USC Professor Werner Dappen for her material. Pretty impressive stuff, indeed.

I promised Trevor that I'd have to travel to the future (when my next check arrives) before I can return to buy some of the really cool items at the store --- including books that the students have published as part of the program.



The best part is that the money the store raises goes directly to the tutoring programs and helps pay the rent. It's a worthy endeavor and I encourage you to stop in and buy something.

That is, if you have the time.

You can learn more by visiting them online http://www.826la.org