When the sun goes down, the tide goes out, the people gather 'round and they all begin to shout, "Hey! Hey! Uncle Dud, let's jump this dump and head for The Coast. We're California dreamin'!"
Sure, Covid still lurks, prowling the alleys, looking for antivax suckers who can’t tell a skunk from a seahorse. Sure, the airports are crammed with cabin fever escapees blocking the aisles and overfilling the flights. But as Ecclesiastes 3:18 faithfully reminds us, there’s a time for every purpose under heaven. And this is the time for Bill and Siobhan to pack up all their cares and woes, here they goes, winging low, bye-bye blackbird. Make our bed and light the light, we’ll arrive late tonight, blackbird bye-bye.
Visiting Commissioner Gordon
There are friends and then there are friends for the ages. Bill Killeen and Jack (Fournier) Gordon grew up together on the kid-packed streets of South Lawrence, Massachusetts, where the boys were made of fence-wire and a careless remark might earn you spit in the eye, where baseball was the true religion and the Red Sox ruled from a heavenly throne. A trip to Fenway Park was the local equivalent of a believer’s hadj to Mecca, a supplicant’s visit to Lourdes, full of hope and drama and religious fervor. Those who played together stayed together, in spirit if not in person and even when the visits are decades apart now, the years separated are as nothing to old Garfield Street alumni.
Jack lives in Laguna Hills these days with his tolerant wife Barbara, who has somehow figured out a plan for survival amidst the tantrums of baseball season. They have a son who played baseball through high school and a daughter who played the game until she was dragged kicking and screaming to the softball diamond. As luck would have it, the Red Sox were playing the California Angels the night after we arrived, just 40 minutes down the road in Anaheim. Does anyone have to ask if we went to the game?
As everybody knows, West Coast drivers have a terrible reputation for maniacal behavior and we’re here to tell you it’s well-earned. They will slash across six lanes to make their exit ramp and devil take the hindmost, almost as if prior planning was a subject not covered in grade school. We thought the world’s record for exceeding the speed limit was the daily melee on Interstate-75 between Gainesville and Ocala, but that nightmare is just a warmup act for the hysterical California blitzkreig. We would like to report that Jack and Barbara, otherwise a civilized couple, are exempt from these barbarian tactics but that would be a lie. Jack has even invented some new words solely for the purpose of freeway driving.
There are Sox fans everywhere, but fully 40% of the Angels’ stadium was filled with Boston boosters. The Red Sox held an encouraging 5-2 lead heading into the bottom of the ninth, when occasional closer Adam Ottavino entered the fray. Josh Taylor had set the home team down in rapid order in the eighth and Jack and I prayed they’d leave him in for the final inning, but we knew better. The modern dicta of baseball, based on statistics and folly, demands a true closer finish the game even when common sense argues otherwise.
“You know Ottavino is going to get in trouble, right, Jack?” My old pal looked over and grimaced. “Oh yeah,” he conceded. Before you could say ‘Jackie Robinson,’ the Angels had reduced the Sox’ lead to 5-4 and had runners on first and third with two out. We cursed the management, jumped up and down in protest of the current baseball zeitgeist and demanded a halt to this outrage while our sensible wives discussed plants. The worst possible thing had happened; the game was now in the hands of Shohei Ohtani, the Angels home-run-hitting monster, a batter to be avoided at all costs. The situation reminded us of the bad old days of our youth when the despised Yankees would inevitably come back from the dead to steal a game from our heroes at the last minute. Jack was such a nervous wreck he could barely watch.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of Ohtani’s blow. Fortunately for us, the Angels’ slugger blasted a ball into the heart of the Red Sox shift, where the second-baseman managed to handle it after a slight bobble and throw to first for the final out.
By this time, Jack Gordon was catatonic, almost on life-support and he missed the play. “What happened?” he wondered. “We won,” I told him. “I can’t believe it,” he said. Well, Jack, I guess it’s not 1948 any more. J.G. celebrated by driving back to Laguna like a Cuban drug-dealer madly fleeing the DEA on the edgy backstreets of Dade. Ah, it’s so nice so far away to be occasionally reminded of home.
Laguna Beach
There are worse places to live than Laguna. Tens of thousands of them. Laguna’s beach is beautiful, the natives are amicable, the wide-ranging shuttle is free and there’s great art everywhere. You can shop at a wide variety of clever shops and galleries in perfect weather, choose from a number of excellent eateries and drive comfortably in town unless Jack and Barbara are there. On a scale of one to ten, we’d give it a twelve.
The Gordons live a skip up the road in Laguna Hills, which celebrated the arrival of Siobhan and Bill by shooting off millions of fireworks. The fact that it happened on the 4th of July was merely incidental. Jack brought lawn chairs to the viewing area, the better to relax in comfort during the cannonade. Being a seat placement expert, Gordon continually moved my chair until he found exactly the right spot atop a slight rise. Three minutes later, as I busily shot the colorful explosions, my chair started slowly tilting backward until I was resting on the ground. Alarmed citizens came bounding over to see if the old fool needed hospitalization, but I just kicked the chair loose and got up. See, kids from South Lawrence regularly did this sort of thing to one another and being 80 years old offers little protection. “I’ll get you next time,” I told my tormentor, who typically feigned innocence. There’s no pal like an old pal.
Insecurity At Del Mar
Everybody knows about Saratoga Race course, its hallowed halls, its storied history, its annual late-summer thoroughbred meet featuring most of the greatest racehorses in the country. Saratoga has been around since 1863, the oldest major sports venue in the country, and retains much of the charm of olden times.
Del Mar, near the southern tip of California just above San Diego is less recognized but has its own story to tell. In 1937, crooner Bing Crosby and stockbroker William Quigley greeted fans at the track they had built with loving care and high aspirations, the Del Mar Turf Club. One year later, Seabiscuit put the track on the map, winning a match race with Ligaroti by a nose in front of a great crowd. It was the first race ever to earn a nationwide broadcast on NBC radio. In 1946, the Santa Fe Railroad began offering a racetrack special bringing spectators, bettors and the simply curious down from Los Angeles. By 1950, the track had become the Saratoga of the West for summer racing and in November of 2017, Del Mar hosted the prestigious Breeders Cup for the first time.
Never having been to Del Mar, I thought we’d drop in. The track was still closed to the public, of course, with a bevy of workers inside hustling to put all in readiness by opening day, July 23rd. My companions, led by the champion law-abider of all time, Siobhan Ellison, were a little reluctant. “We can’t go in there,” she said, “the place is closed.” Her companions, Jack and Barbara, were inclined to agree. It was obviously up to me to unveil to them one of the great secrets of the universe.
“If you look like you know what you’re doing,” I told them, “people don’t bother you. We could be the Shahs of Iran for all they know. Just park over there.” Jack was warming up to the idea, but you know girls.
Despite its state of disarray, Del Mar retained a lot of charm. We wandered around, taking pictures and turning over rocks. The track surface looked like it could host a meet the next day, the grandstands were spiffy and the flowers were everywhere. We meandered over to the winners circle, sat down for a chat and recalled the days of some of our own racing stars. Siobhan and Barbara were amazed no one bothered us.
On the way back to the car, alas, the spell was broken by a loud “Stop! You can’t be in here!” It was Nestor, the Hispanic security guard, a one-man deterrent to a possible Del Mar crime wave. He was motivatin’ quickly in our direction. Visions of paddy wagons danced in Siobhan’s head.
“We’re leaving,” I told him. “Our car is right over there.” Nestor insisted on accompanying us out, preferring a circuitous designated exit route rather than a straight-line walk to the vehicle. While I was advising him of our own racing history, the ladies had stopped to admire some flowers. Apparently, Nestor didn’t consider them a problem since he herded us to the car without so much as a look over his shoulder at the potential flower thieves.
When he finally got back to them, Siobhan and Barbara were all atwizzle with chatter and admiring looks toward the champion of justice. He adjusted his belt buckle, stuck his shirt in and even posed for some pictures with them. Almost in tears, he finally waved goodbye to the two chiquitas and returned to his bleak dungeon. The girls returned in jaunty form. “We told Nestor you guys forced us to come in here,” said Siobhan. “He said he didn’t doubt it. Nestor thinks we’re too good for you two. Hard to argue, right? He invited us out for a great Mexican dinner tonight. We have to be back at seven. You guys think you can find something to do?”
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| Above photo, Nestor hustles Barbara Gordon. Below, Alice with the cast of The Bachelor. |
Catch A Falling Alice
It’s a short hop up the coast to raggedy Venice and then Santa Monica. The once-venerable Venice boardwalk, site of endless California videos of freewheeling skateboarders and junior Schwarzeneggers, is but a shadow of its old self. There’s a large encampment of tented bums at the north end of the boardwalk, the endless array of souvenir shops are simple clones of one another and even the once-lively marijuana doctors have taken their ship inland. Worst of all, the Muscle Beach weightlifting area is bare as a newborn’s butt. All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.
In Santa Monica, we stayed at the Wyndham Hotel right across from the famous Pier, the better to meet my sister, Alice (the Republican) for dinner. We meandered around The Pier, which is little changed from our last visit six years ago, then took our positions outside Bubba Gump’s (not our restaurant, but one with an elevator from the Pier parking lot) until Alice got there. Not long before the appointed hour, I got a phone call from a frantic woman. “Your sister fell down and is bleeding down here near the parking lot!” That Alice---anything for attention.
The adamant young woman guarding Bubba’s entryway wasn’t letting anyone sneak by on her watch. “Do you really think I’m lying?” I asked her, barging ahead toward the elevator. A kinder, gentler staff member guided me to the spot, where Alice was sitting beside a little pool of blood, surrounded by concerned citizens. She looked damaged but okay, a cut along the outside of her eyebrow and another mess on her forearm. My sister, who falls a lot for unknown reasons, had stumbled on some uneven planks of raised wood on the walkway. She has a walker and a cane at home, of course, but she is not going to let her sibling rival see her so encumbered.
Girls who grow up on Garfield Street are tough. Alice will not be retiring to the hospital with superficial injuries while her brother is in town for dinner. The first-rate quartet of firemen/EMTs who arrived on the scene, which put to shame the cast of Baywatch for looks and talent, gave Alice their assessment but didn’t push her to opt for the hospital. When she chose the restaurant, they drove both her and us up there in their cute little beach vehicle, which was undoubtedly a breach of the company rules. Siobhan gratefully returned the favor by sending them a giant pizza the next day. Alice dined, made conversation, then tootled off to the ER for stitches after dinner. Sure she did. They don’t make ‘em like that any more.
That’s all, folks….
Next Week: off to Cambria, site of California’s bastion of elephant seals, Siobhan’s favorite part of the trip. Not much excitement at the seal site. They mostly grunt and flop around. No Dodgem cars, Ferris wheels or cotton candy, but big crowds show up every day. Go figure.
