Old oil

THINGS SURE DO CHANGE. I remember the first time I changed the oil on a lawnmower when I was a kid. I asked an adult what I should do with the old oil. “Just dump it into the ground near the garage,” he said.

PICCOLO PETE:

When I was a kid, experimenting with fireworks was a part of growing up, at least around here. I had a big Bangsite cannon that was perfect for shooting marbles across the street into the neighbor's garage door. Did that a lot. Using powder from Red Devil fireworks—sold by a local Boy Scout troop—I used to make “bombs” and blow stuff up in my backyard, too.

Near as I could tell, all my friends were doing similar things. I remember thinking how “safe and sane” I was, compared to them.

I recall that, years later, a friend of mine—a spoiled brat whose dad was the team physician for the “California Angels”—blew up the plumbing in a restroom at Cerro Villa Junior High (in Villa Park). I think he used a Cherry Bomb or an M80. The incident was all hushed up. They had money.

I sure do remember Piccolo Petes. They whistled. Loudly. Reportedly, if you pinched ‘em with a pair of pliers, they’d whistle for a second and then they’d just blow up.

According to this morning’s OC Register, “Earlier this year, Buena Park banned the sale of the popular Piccolo Pete and the Orange County Fire Authority urges residents to abandon personal fireworks parties in favor of taking in one of the many public displays.”

Well, I’ve gotta say, that makes sense. If kids today are anything like I used to be, then they should have zero access to fireworks.

The Reg article is about some knucklehead who dubs himself the “unofficial ‘Fireworks Historian of California.’” The guy builds miniature fireworks stands in his garage and spends the rest of his time carping about increased fireworks restrictions.

The Reg quotes Capt. Stephen Miller of the OCFA: “I've never really understood the Fourth of July in that we teach our children not to play with fire and yet we allow them [to do that] during that day. It just makes no sense."

You are correct, sir.

THE DEAD BARON:

As a kid, I read books. Do kids still do that?

The Reg has an article about the closing of one of the biggest used book stores in California: Book Baron in Anaheim turning the page:

Bob Weinstein is writing the final chapter on his career as a bookseller…He's closing Book Baron in Anaheim, the used bookstore he opened in 1980 and nurtured to its current size of 400,000 books spread over 20,000 square feet….

…The departure of the Book Baron…is part of a nationwide wave of used bookstore closures. In recent years, the ranks of well-established secondhand bookstores that have shut their doors include Gotham Book Mart in Manhattan, Wessex Books in Menlo Park and Black Oak Books' Berkeley branch.

Locally, the venerable Acres of Books in Long Beach, an institution known for its dusty, maze-like corridors of books, is closing its downtown location, which is slated for redevelopment. And what was the oldest used bookstore in Orange County, Apollo Book Shop in Costa Mesa, closed its doors recently.

I remember going to Acres of Books about thirty years ago. I recall thinking: If there’s an earthquake right now, we’re toast. It made Acres special; a portal to a dangerous past, full of unreinforced masonry and lethal shattering windshields.

I still get that special feeling when I go to some of those antique shops in Old Orange. I get it bad when I’m in the basement of one of those places. Sometimes, you hear the creaking of the old wood somewhere above your head. I remember once, in the 80s, hearing some of that and meeting Kathie’s eyes. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said. We nearly ran.

MR. OC ALL-AMERICAN:

In the early seventies, I worked at a Mobil gas station on Fourth Street right along the Newport Freeway. I was just a kid. In those days, gas was like 39 cents a gallon. I don’t recall exactly.

The assistant manager was Mr. Orange County All-American, a former High School football star. Very clean cut. Very straight. The owner, a bit of a redneck, was grooming this kid for big things, gas stationwise.

Once in a while, when things got quiet, Mr. All American would suddenly appear up front with these crazy eyes. He’d say: “Royston [my nickname]! Come to the back!” I’d follow him back there, shambling, just to annoy him. Once I arrived, he’d proceed to pull out a pump action shotgun and shoot twice straight into the air! He'd laugh maniacally. You shoulda seen his eyes.

I’d always say, “Hey, isn’t that dangerous?”

“Shut up, Royston! Go back to the front! And don’t tell Haight!”

That’s right. The owner’s name was Haight.

THE CASE OF THE SYRUPY ANGEL:

One time, when I was in Boy Scouts, we “camped” in O’Neill Park. Two or three of the kids got the harebrained idea of putting molasses into a plastic bag and throwing it at one of the Hell’s Angels as he rode down Live Oak Canyon. They didn’t ask me to join ‘em cuz I was some kind of leader.

I remember those dopes running into camp and diving into their tent. They told me what they did. They were scared shitless. Soon, this big Hell’s Angel (well, that’s the way I remember it) came stomping right at me, demanding to know where those “fuckin’ kids” were. I saw ‘em run “way over there,” I said.

Later, the biker, still dripping molasses, showed up with a cop. We got a lecture.

I’ve gotta say, the Hell’s Angel guy was pretty nice about the whole business. I mean, he didn’t bring any of his friends.

I remember studying the cop’s face. Even he appreciated that.