Third Street Promenade

Third Street Promenade

 

Back to school - Fall 2014

I am tagging along with daughter Brett, age 45, and my two granddaughter cousins, Jersey-Girl Emma 13 and CALi-girl Anna 12, Brett’s daughter. The occasion is back-to-school shopping.

Mostly clothes today, the one exception being the annual backpack search.

We are in Santa Monica, CA, strolling up a walk-street referred to as Third Street Promenade.

The first store is Tilly’s. Never heard of it, but I'm told we purchased backpacks there last year.
OK, fine ... anyway ... backpacks ... if you don’t know, they are very serious fashion statements these days, especially for girls. 

But of course you know. 

Inside the store I adjust my mental state, preparing for the long haul.

Whoops, here's a miracle, the girls have already settled. They get identical packs. That was easy, I think.

A word about backpacks: I have fond memories of my school years and yes, backpacks existed a half a century ago, but mostly in the army. Never with school kids. We carried books in our hands. Girls  cradled them with both arms, against their tummy. Not sure why no one thought of backpacks for school kids. 

Different world in so many ways, I guess.

Regardless, with new backpacks now in hand, the girls want to browse a bit. Fine, I think.  As they wander about, I stray, ever so slightly, from the flock . Off on my own, I feel a trifle out of place. Where's the men's department?

A sales clerk spies me. Her look says, what’s-this-guy-doing-here. She says, "May I help you?” I hear “Are you lost?” 

I'm not making this up. But then it could be my septuagenarian imagination?

Regardless I survive, noting with interest a new style or two. Here’s one: sweatpants with ribbed pant leg bottoms.  Or maybe not. OK, whatever. I continue circling. 

Girls and Brett are still browsing. They hand me the backpacks. I gather that we'll be here a while. I diligently follow the crowd, keeping the girls on my radar. After a dozen or so racks, I’m yearning for a place to sit. 

Good luck.

Stores don’t want me, or anyone, to sit. They want all customers on their feet, visiting each display, touching the garments, holding them against their chin in front of the mirror, asking for opinions, murmuring “mmmmm,"  finally draping selections over an arm and moving on to the next item, or the register.

But, no sitting, period.  

Then I hear, "We're leaving Papa." Huh? 

I tag along, toward the next store, Urban Outfitters.

We arrive and I breeze in, scan the room. Wait, what's this? I spy a place to sit, a couch in the distance. I speed-walk over.

Figures ... all cushions occupied. Three wide eyed senior women, obviously strangers, but nevertheless shoulder to shoulder and staring straight ahead, pocketbooks on heir laps, as if riding a trolley.  

Disappointed I turn back. "I'll be outside," I tell the kids.

I head out to the pedestrian friendly promenade.  The nearest bench with a view of the door is occupied by a young man, well-dressed, and ... well ... he appears sane, that is, if one ignores the fact that he is holding a battery powered megaphone up to his face and shouting advice to the passing crowd on how God wants us all to live. “God doesn’t care about your money or your success,” he screams.   

I find another bench.

Fifteen minutes go by. The megaphone man shows no sign stopping for air. Impressive, in a way. A non stop monologue about what God thinks. And without notes. Hmmmmm.

I return to the store.

Kids are putting things back on the rack. “We’ll come back,” they say.

Really? 

 

Whatever. We move on. Outside, the man with the megaphone is still going strong. We give him a wide berth. 

Next stop is Brandy Melville which is a store that the girls have been talking about.  I say, “I never heard of this place.”

Kids explain, “There are no Brandy Melville stores in New Jersey, just one in New York.”

They know everything.

  

Inside Brandy Melville the girls make rapid selections which they hand over to me as they glide about. Their enthusiasm is so positive that I feel that these items I'm holding Will not be put back. I am happy to be useful, to have a function. Before long I am cradling upwards to two dozen items in my arms, plus backpacks looped on my wrists. I resist the notion to see myself as silly grandpa, human clothes rack.

Eventually I’m given the signal to move up to the cashier. I unload the various items onto the counter separating them into two piles, Emma’s and Anna’s, because I may want to tally the costs of each girl.

Smart huh?

The young cashier girl is overly polite. I feel very accomplished cradling armfuls of clothing as I fish in my wallet for the credit card. “Go ahead, swipe,” the smiling cashier says. I do so with a billionaire’s nonchalance.  I’m handed the slip.  Now, still with my devil-may-care face, I speed sign a chicken scratch signature – my best MD-prescription-like scrawl.  

Outside I announce the totals for each girl. I'm proud like a talented accountant. The numbers don’t seem to register. No comment, so I let it drop. Nevertheless I feel good about a job well done and as we stroll down the pavement, looking for a spot to eat, I’m thinking, table with a view at a nice bistro. Reward for our successful venture. Sit and talk. Can't wait.

The girls choose Wetzel’s Pretzels.

Huh?

I wander across the street (promenade) to a kiosk- like eatery with wobbly aluminum tables the size of dinner plates. The girls join me. They put their pretzel bags on the table as I order sandwiches for Brett and me. Nothing to write home about, but at least we’re sitting.

Cleaning up, I gather the pretzel bags and Styrofoam plates. I notice a couple of pretzel “bites” in one bag. On my way to the garbage can, I reach inside the bag and fish out a small pig-in-a- pretzel-blanket type thingy. 

I take a bite.

Hmmmm, tasty. I toss the bags and plates in the can.

On the ride home the girls entertain us with a fashion presentation from the back seat.  I’m in stitches, the whole way, not wanting their comedy show to end. Late afternoon LA traffic cooperates, extending the trip by almost an hour. 

Ten miles in ninety minutes  and, honestly, I enjoy all ninety.

          

Things to take to college - in the year 2019

Grandson Mike, age 10, has already settled on his college of choice – Bowling Green.* Turns out it is the alma-mater of a number of NHL players. To this end Mike has compiled an impressive list of “necessities” to bring along – eight years down the line.  If the list seems a bit overblown, keep in mind that he claims that his three best friends will be accompanying him, enrolling in 2019 at BGSU as well:

1.       A disco ball and dance floor

2.       Air hockey table, pool table

3.       Fooze ball table

4.       Ping pong table

5.       3 flat screen TVs

6.       A 62 in. couch

7.       A Jacuzzi

8.       A pet dog

9.       Refrigerator

10.    A X box

11.    Play station 4 with controllers for each

12.    4 skate boards

13.    4 bikes

14.    4 pairs of roller skates

15.    4 laptops plus wifi (wireless)

16.    A car (just one???)

17.    4 I phones
18.    Colored spotlights

            College Stuff - 1959 Style
            My own cache of college necessities in the fall of 1959 was considerably pared down from that of my grandson's. I remember lugging a modest suitcase up the dorm steps and my mom carrying a pillow. Dad followed with my high school gym bag, containing school supplies and toiletries.

            Most important, I recall, a small spiral-bound notepad, the dimensions of a credit card, tucked into my back pocket. I thought it might come in handy for jotting down important reminders that were bound to crop up now that I was in college - reminders like the half-dozen addresses I had recently scribbled in the beginning pages. The point was, I intended to write lots of letters while in college - to girls

                The world of letter writing, especially letter writing to girls, was just one of the new worldly realms I was about to enter. I already had a girlfriend that existed through letters only. She had recently moved from our New York state hometown environs to Florida - Orlando. As a girlfriend she was hanging by a thread, but since these were desperate times, people (me) jumping from the familiar to the unknown, the letters helped maintain the thread, albeit temporarily.

                PO Box 120
                In the weeks leading up to actual enrollment my conversation with girls had always included mention of my college mailing address: Lehigh University, PO Box 120, Bethlehem, PA. I gave it to some girls in my town – Warwick, NY - plus to two girls at Greenwood Lake that were standing outside of the arcade, and to the cashier girl at the Middletown (NY) diner, and – believe it or not – to the long-distance operator in Asbury Park, NJ. Yes, I'd be writing lots of letters. I was thinking that there might even be a letter waiting for me at Box, number 120 when I arrived at Lehigh.

                But it didn’t matter. I’d start the flow of letters going soon enough. Walking into my dorm I reached back several times to pat my back pocket, checking that the notepad was still there. Of all things, I didn’t want to leave that behind. Still, by the day's standards, I was traveling light.

                This was not the case with my own daughters who arrived at college in the mid 1980s with enough paraphernalia to fill a North American Van Lines eighteen wheeler. Of course it was a girl thing to lug along the heavy baggage. Boys were still minimalists by comparison.

                I'm not sure what the future holds but if my grand kids are any indication it might be wise to invest in North American Van Lines a little before September of each year.

              

Epilogue:
Since Mike's "college list" I have prompted the other grandchildren to make a list. Here are Eddie's (age 7, 1st item - Max - is the family dog, plus much is heavily borrowed from Mike) and Emma's (age 9). John (4 1/2) simply said he was going to bring books - "big books like Papa has."

Precious.

Ed's "Collage" list: Max, all my hockey pucks, Pool table, air hockey, Wi, XBox 360, Play station


















Above is Emma's (age 9) list:
1. toothbrush
2. the game of Life (a board game)
3. my pillow
4. the Harry Potter series
5. pajamas
6. suitcase
7. chap stick
8. hair brush
9. bean bag
10. Clothing
11. journal
12. pencils
13. backpack
14. gum
15. makeup
16. hair beads
17. XBox 360 / Harry Potter Legos ??
18. Wii
19. Wallet
20. fuzzy socks / regular socks
21. calendar
22. pictures
23. TV
24. snacks
25. art supplies

Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century

Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century

Ed, 8, above, demonstrates choosing sides.

Speaking of things - if parents today tried to raise their American children with the material possessions (sports equipment) of the 1950s they’d be reported to DYFS for child abuse (that’s Department of Youth and Family Services in NJ).

Think of two twenty-first century boys, my grandsons, approximate ages 8 and 6. And let's just take baseball as an example: Their garage today has two buckets filled with white baseballs and enough aluminum bats for a high school team. Gloves? Again, enough for a team including a catcher's mitts. 

In the 1950s, like the family car, there was, most likely, one baseball, but if there were two the second was definitely wrapped with black friction tape (frayed seams) that peeled off further with every hit. At the very least it was the color of cooked spinach. A white baseball? Maybe at the Polo Grounds, but not in the pocket of my Rawlings Marty Marion mitt.

As for bats, back then they were made of wood - like the big leagues (Hillerich & Bradsby, Adirondack, Louisville Slugger) - and if there were two in the family (again unlikely) then one was definitely broken and the handle was wrapped with the same black tape as the baseball. Severe breaks required a nail or two in the handle, a futile attempt to mend the break. It never worked. Tap the handle on the ground and you'd hear the sound of a string instrument. 

Oh, and how did the bat get broken? The little brother did it. Just ask the big brother. “Cause he didn’t have the label up,” big brother will tell you - which was how bats got broken in the days before all were aluminum.

For pick-up games there was a time-honored tradition of choosing sides. Two "captains" were designated and team picking began by one captain gently tossing a bat to the other who grabs it somewhere on the handle. From there, each alternatively places his hand atop the other’s until there is not sufficient room between the last hand and the knob. Last full hand on the top gets to choose the first player. Unless, that is, you’re invoking the three-finger rule i.e. if you can fit three fingers above the top hand and knob, that counts – you win.

Another last chance is this: if you lose, you may twirl the bat, holding it above your head, with fingers only, by the knob, and the bat dangling like a wind-chime. Now twirl it three times about your noggin – without dropping it. Do that and you get the first choice. Invoking this rule was often a stretch, not fully ethical, it was thought. 

What brings all of this side-choosing to mind is a recent after-supper game in Ashley’s (daughter, age 40) backyard. 


It begins like so: Kids rushing out the back door, with papa (yours truly, age 70+) trailing. They race onto the yard, neatly lined with baselines, and a home plate batter’s box (I’m quite proud of this. A spay can of “Marking Paint" by Rustoleum did the trick). The children jump about, calling out teams. 


Ed, 8, protests, saying we must choose teams and proceeds to gather four bats and gloves placing them in a pile near second base. 

"What the heck?", I think.

He gets on his hands and knees, closes his eyes and feels for the items before him (see accompanying picture, above). When he touches one item he flings it to one side or the other. With eyes shut tight he continues, deliberately, and blindly rubbing his hands over the dirt feeling for another bat or glove. Despite some trouble locating the items, Ed persists, sightless and less than deft as he feels around. 

I'm curiously impressed.

Finally, having flung all items left or right, he stands up, opens his eyes and surveys the bats and gloves on each side of him. 


John shouts that he wants the teams to be him, papa and Emma against Eddie, three against one. Emma shouts louder, "Me and papa," she says.

Ed is silent - still looking over the flung bats and gloves. It seems obvious what he’s thinking; Should he try to explain that teams need to be assigned according to which (who’s) bat or glove landed where? 

Seconds pass. 

Suddenly he comes to a decision. Foregoing the glove/bat location scheme he grabs a bat and rushes toward home plate. “You pitch Papa,” he says. 

Emma and John protest that they should be first up.

I quickly lob a pitch to Ed. He hits a grounder which, thirty feet from home, is swallowed by a patch of pachysandra. "Lost ball," I think. 

“Next batter,” I call as Ed circles the bases. "Home run Ed," I shout. All seems settled. I keep pitching, now to Johnny. I reach for another ball. No problem, we have thirty.         

World Famous Turkey Burgers

World Famous Turkey Burgers

Do you remember the day, years ago, early in our time together, we were driving around looking for a spot to have lunch? We saw a sign, something like Bob’s Diner or Kathy’s Kitchen. Another mile was another sign, then further on another, each more bold than before, and all bragging about “Famous Turkey Burgers.”

We finally came to the restaurant itself – “Home of the Turkey Burger,” it said, over the door.

We both ordered the turkey burgers.

You spit yours into the napkin. I forced down a few bites. 

Now what? we thought.

Fortunately my sport coat had large side pockets. Discretely we cut up the burgers, moved small chunks around on our plates, picked at the rolls, and intermittently, carefully slipped the small burger parts into the pocket.

Full disclosure: I believe we were unfair taste-test subjects. We doubtless anticipated a beef burger taste sensation and thus were turned off, Today (2019) I'm actually a fan of "Turkey Burgers, or even better, "Veggie Burgers."

 
After a tenable number of minutes while we diligently pretended to chew our lunch – rolls and water - we got up and walked to the register to pay. A young man/boy in a flannel shirt and pin-striped suit pants ambled over from behind the counter. He was carrying two cups of coffee, obviously intended for the [only] other customers, a young couple in a booth a few tables behind us.

It was obvious to me that those customers were somehow connected to the diner. The woman had papers spread on the table before her like she might be paying bills or doing night school homework. The dad, sitting sideways in the booth watched his two children playing a modified version of hopscotch on the floor tiles. Had to be diner family, I thought.

 

The cashier/waiter guy set the coffee on top of the case next to the register.

“Take the coffee to your customers,” I said, “We’re in no hurry.”

  “You don’t mind?” the young man said.  

“Not at all.” 

As we waited, I noticed that on the top of the case, next to the cash register, there was a miniature roulette wheel. I speculated that perhaps the diner sold these, a side business of sorts, but looking below, inside the glass case, I saw only a half dozen loose packs of Juicy Fruit Gum, otherwise the selves were bare. No roulette wheels in stock.
     

My pity gene kicked in: pity for the owners of the diner, for the boy waiter / cashier (no customers = meager tip money), for the young mother doing her homework, for the instigator of the Turkey Burger idea (they were probably good, just ahead of their time) and anyone else that I thought was dependent on the diner’s success.

The cashier lad returned. He stepped behind the register and looked up at us. He seemed to pause as if he had forgotten something – perhaps cream for the coffee he’d just delivered – but he would now take care of us, he said.

“Spin the wheel,” he said pointing to the roulette wheel, “Land on ‘Jackpot’ and your dinner is on the house.”

No way was all I could think. I placed my hand on the roulette wheel, tempted, before spinning, to warn the young man about bad business practices – i.e. giving away the store, but I held back, figuring that landing on Jackpot was far-fetched. Me, who had never won anything.

You guessed it, I hit the jackpot.

I looked up at the cashier. He looked at me. “Your meal is free,” he said.  There was sadness in his eyes, doubtless in our eyes as well.

“No, we’re paying for the meal,” I said in an I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone, “Plus could you give me some singles for the tip?’ Then I added, “But that is a nice game, thanks for letting us play it, but I wouldn’t think of not paying. Oh ... and the turkey burgers were really great.”

I over tipped, leaving five singles on the table. “You tip like a gangster,” you said.
  

“They need the money,” I said and you agreed. On the trip home we talked about the diner, speculating who the owners were (had to be the family doing homework and playing hop-scotch), who thought up the “Turkey Burger” idea, who’s recipe it was and various other scenarios about the diner’s family, and mostly the sad eyes of the cashier when we won at roulette.

“Do you think anyone ever won the free meal before?” you asked. We both decided that we were the first.

Then I said, “And you know that cashier guy went right into the kitchen immediately after we left and told the cook, "Another customer loved the Turkey Burgers."

“Yeah.”

“A shame.”

“Sad.”

“Yeah, but we were good Samaritans.”

“We were."

Anti-Aging Tips

Anti-Aging Tips

 

Here are a few tips to make you feel young again.

Tip 1
Say you're walking through the parking lot to your office. It's early morning and you notice a puddle a few paces ahead.

Jump in it. 

If it happens that you're walking with a co-worker, even better:  Jump in the puddle. Make a splash. The co-worker will wait, or he/she might to join in.

Oh ... if it's winter and all the puddles are frozen then, stomp on the ice, try to break the ice. If the ice won't break, step back a few paces, get a running start. Slide across the ice. Then resume your walk. Talk a little business with the co-worker.  

Tip 2
If, along the path that you are walking, you come across a low retaining wall of any sort, something like a high curb that follows a sidewalk,  leave the sidewalk and walk on the wall. One of the best places to find these balance beam-like structures is the bordering concrete that often runs up the side of cement stairs. Contractors and architects call it a “stringer.” Never mind that; I had to look it up. Regardless never take the stairs, always take the stringer.

Tip 3
If you’re a commuter, waiting for the train to the city and an inch or more of fresh snow has fallen on the platform, scoop up a handful, eat it.

Tip 4
Snow, of course, presents numerous opportunities to combat aging. Think snow angels, forts, snowballs. My favorite is if the snow is still falling, big flakes, raise your eyes skyward, stick out your tongue, let the snow hit your tongue. Repeat this several times.

Tip 5
This tip is a bit deviant. If you're in someone's car and you notice some pocket change laying around, pick up the coins and try to put them into the various “coin slots” (aka heat vents) that automakers build into the dashboard.

The best coin slot, actually it’s a secret coin slot, is any opening in the hub of the steering wheel.* Try to shove a quarter in there. These coin slots may take only quarters, not sure, but the great thing about the steering wheel hub coin slot (Remember, it’s not your car) is that it will confound the driver no end. How? Because the horn will sound on a truly random basis (I'm guessing a short circuit of some sort) for as long as the quarter is in there jostling around. Everyone will be dumbfounded. When you pass people on the street and the random beep goes off, you may get a friendly wave, but if someone is crossing in front of you in a parking lot and the beep startles him/her – here you may get the finger.

All in good fun.

* Grandson Johnny found this coin slot and performed the "random horn" to perfection - which dumbfounded grandpa (yours truly), various adult passengers, a few strollers we passed that assumed the random beeps were me tooting hello.

 

Tip 6
Also related to automobile travel is this: again, you're riding in someone else's car - immediately after sliding into the front seat, aka shotgun, turn on the radio and start pushing the selection buttons, frantic like.  Keep pushing buttons until music comes on, something you like. Turn up the sound. If it happens to be music that someone over thirty would like, go back to pushing the buttons, change the station.

If it’s music you don’t like (read: extra loud, generally incomprehensible lyrics) let it play for a while (give it 20 seconds) then start the button pushing again.  

Tip 7
Here's my favorite: Ask a child, or even better, another adult, to have a catch (throw a ball to each other). Like this, “K’we have a catch?” Give your request a pleading tone. Then begin the catch, but don’t stop, ever. None of this:  “OK that’s it.” Or this “OK, enough, I’ve got to make a call,” or “Gotta go inside now,” or “OK, it’s getting late,” etc. NO! None of that. Just keep tossing the ball, or stuffed animal, or balled up sock, whatever. Keep it going, no stopping, the catch. I’m not sure if a real child will ever call a halt to a catch – I’ve never witnessed it, but that’s not your problem. You want to get younger right? Then keep playing catch.

If you're serious about anti-aging, playing catch with a child will do it. But it must be forever, or until the child says something like I'm bored. 

Trust me, it works.