Demolishing the reminders

THIS MORNING'S OC Register offers a typically chirpy story about the Demolition of the defunct El Toro Marine Base

Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a positive guy, and I’ve been boosting and celebrating the Great Park project, which is slowly supplanting the base with all manner of eco-friendly whiz-bangery (to be surrounded by more housing developments—d'oh!).

I’ve been boosting ATEP, too, which is our district’s development of about 60 acres of the old Tustin Helicopter Station, home of those enormous and supremely cool blimp hangers that manage simultaneously to be in the middle of OC and in the middle of nowhere.

Well, anyway, the Reg chirps that

Every week another building falls at the old El Toro Marine Corps air base. Offices, barracks and homes all are appearing again in piles of wood, concrete, doors, windows and more to be recycled…The Lennar Corp. has been demolishing some of the buildings, trees, asphalt and concrete on its property that surrounds the future Great Park….

As though tearing things down were the most wonderful thing a body could do, the Reg gushes forth with: “Here is what Lennar has demolished as of June’s end[!]….” It then lists over 1,000 structures.

THIS OLD HOUSE

Now, I’ve got mixed feeling about some of this demolition because I love history and I love old buildings and I especially love old buildings with history. I mean, I always feel like hugging them or something.

That’s why, twenty years ago, Kathie and I bought a “historic” house in old town Orange. That was great until I asked my crazy brother Ray to “retrofit” the place, earthquakewise, and he crawled under there and started laughing, and I said, “what’s so funny?”—and Ray, being Ray, wouldn’t tell me, he just laughed, only harder. And he crawled out from under there and finally said, “Man, your house isn’t even attached to this dumb-ass foundation! In an earthquake, your place will just bounce down the street and fall into the Orange Plunge!”

Har har, very funny, I said. But Ray loved to laugh at things, and he was on a roll. He pointed to the roof. “What’s that?” he asked.

“The friggin’ roof,” I said.

“No, I mean, what’s up there?”

That old house, built in 1903, had a skinny, haunted-house kind of chimney poking out of the middle of its roof. It was way cool.

“You’ve got a chimney,” said Ray, but there are no bricks under your house!” He beamed at me.

It took me about a second to process the brick factoid. Then we busted out with hearty peals of laughter. —They had built the chimney on top of the floor, which hovered three or four feet above the earth to which this house was not particularly attached.

That meant that, in an earthquake, the chimney would be free to rip around like a lead ball in a birthday cake.

Ever been to Angelo’s and Vinci’s Ristorante in downtown Fullerton? When it comes to extremely cool old deathtraps, it doesn’t get much better than that. Going there is like munching on a pizza while skydiving in John Wilkes Booth’s suit. (No doubt it's been properly retrofitted, but c'mon.)

Orange County has lots of wonderful old structures, but they're disappearing. And most people don't seem to care about that. Most people are idiots, I say.

COOL MILITARY STRUCTURES

They’re probably death traps, but you’ve gotta love some of those old buildings at the Tustin Base and El Toro. A couple of days ago, I took some snaps of this one:


I don’t know what it was—some kind of hanger—but it’s absolutely fabulous. No doubt, they’re just gonna rip it down, and that’s too bad.

Above: chapel on ATEP property (Tustin Helicopter Station).

NEGATIVITY

OK, BUT HERE'S THE THING. When it comes to these old Marine facilities, people never seem to say what needs saying, in my opinion. It’s this: the conditions that these Marines live and work in are squalid.

Well, maybe not squalid, but consistently shoddy, ugly, and substandard.

I taught out at the base about twenty years ago, and I recall that the building I was assigned to was old, but not in a cool way. It was dusty, ugly, poorly designed, and badly maintained. There was no AC—OK, I get it, Marines are tough—but there was no ventilation either. Everybody sweated profusely in the thick, still air.

I kept expecting some gal to pop her head through the door asking somebody if they'd bust up her chifforobe.

I recall fanning myself, saying, "Man, it's hot in here." The Marines would just stare. I expected a private to ask, “How come they put us in this shitty room?” But nobody ever said that. They were used to shittitude.

Years ago, I drove by the officer housing against the hills along Trabuco Road, and I used to think, “Jeez, if this is where they keep the officers, they must keep the grunts in total shitboxes.” I would look over at what appeared to be basic Marine housing, and, sure enough, I saw seriously cheap apartment buildings, surrounded by dirt, pounded by the sun.

Somebody told me once that those cheap apartment buildings were a a big step up from what they replaced. Old quanset huts, I guess.

PICS

Well, a couple of days ago, I took some pics of Marine housing too:

This appears to be family housing. It probably looked better ten years ago. Still, it's undeniably minimal. Strictly cheapy.

To the right, we see typical Marine apartments. Obviously, made on the cheap, cheap, cheap.

The credit union was in this permanently temporary shitbox:


Clearly, at one point, this old theater was remodeled, using cheap, inappropriate, ugly stucko.


I know: nothing new here. We treat our soldiers and veterans like crap. So what else is new?

Yeah, but at least let’s be honest about it. Let's not act like it isn’t right there in front of us, as plain as day.

No doubt, everyone will be relieved when the evidence of our never-ending shittiness is entirely hauled away, replaced by a beautiful New Agey park.

Presidential chutzpah!

A FRIEND sent me this Sac Bee article about the recent resignation of the President of Lassen College, Homer Cissell—an entertainingly corrupt fellow, it seems.

My friend writes: “some leaders know when to quit.” No doubt, she was alluding to one of the many deficiencies of SOCCCD's "leader," namely, Chancellor Raghu P. Mathur, whom our board seems determined to support no matter what he does or fails to do.

According to the Sacramento Bee,

Homer Cissell, president of Lassen Community College since 2002, resigned Thursday in the midst of a crisis that includes academic probation, declining enrollment and a projected deficit of more than $1 million.

…The college with about 1,600 full-time students has been on academic probation since January, when an accreditation commission found "a pathological college culture" and a power struggle that "has crippled the college governance structure."

Last month, critics of the college administration launched a campaign to oust four members of the governing board.

Citing a 20 percent drop in enrollment, financial deficits and "a failed administration," the recall committee targeted the four trustees who have "consistently supported Cissell without question," said Carole Hack, one of the recall proponents.

…A native of Illinois, Cissell had 25 years of college teaching and administrative experience when he arrived on the Lassen College campus near Susanville. The college had 2,600 full-time students and had just learned that its accreditation had been reinstated after six years on academic probation.

…Cissell said one of his proudest accomplishments is obtaining $1.8 million in grants for a campus computer system that will allow students to register, add and drop classes and pay bills online.

But his Lassen legacy also includes a faculty vote of no confidence, a class-action lawsuit alleging discrimination, and a 2006 grand jury report citing several incidents involving abuse of power by Cissell.

A state attorney general review of the grand jury allegations found Cissell's actions "somewhat unorthodox" but not illegal…. (My emphases throughout.)

Naturally, one wants to know more about these “unorthodox” but “not illegal” actions.

According to a year-old Chronicle article (which refers to an article in the Lassen County News),

the jury found that the president, Homer L. Cissell Jr., arranged to be the only student in a carpentry course one of whose objectives was to remodel a barn where he keeps two horses.

Wow. Homer L. Cissell, we wish you well!

See also China sentences official to death for corruption

A straw hat, a kingly wave

"Man is a military animal, glories in gunpowder, and loves parade."

—Philip James Bailey

AS YOU KNOW, parades are stupid. No intelligent person who witnesses a parade is not stunned and amazed by its inanity.

That doesn't mean he or she can't enjoy it.

In the 17th Century, the word “parade” meant an “ostentatious display.” (My, how vulgar.) Pretty soon, the word could be used to refer to the “assembling or mustering of troops for inspection or display, esp. at set hours.” (Oxford English Dictionary)

Not long after its appearance, the word started to refer to ostentation or raw power on the move. (Doubly vulgar!)

That’s our word.

Now, it is true that there was a time, not so long ago, when one could present something impressive to a multitude only by parading it in front of them. For instance, when I was a child, I, and millions of others, could see the Queen of England in the flesh only because she zipped by us in a motorcade. I remember her as a flash of pink, a gloved hand.

Nowadays, of course, they could tie the Queen to the end of a rope and fly her around from city to city, pleasing millions more.

And yet, still, we have parades!


AN UNSAVORY THING

Let’s face it, parades arose from and with vulgarity, and vulgarity attends them still. In fact, there is little about parades that isn’t embarrassing and even unwholesome.

Think about it: If you had to work with one of two people, and one of ‘em loves parades while the other hates ‘em, who are you gonna pick? Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?

And who would want to be IN a friggin’ parade? No doubt, most paraders parade involuntarily. You can’t blame ‘em for their ostentation. I get that.

But what about paraders who seek being objects of vulgar paradery? You know the sort I’m talking about.

And what about those who do that year after year, without fail? Every time you look up, there they are again, waving at the multitude!

Why, they’re narcissistic rat bastards. Obviously.

LEPRECHAUN

Years ago, I was at a colleague’s home for dinner. He told a story of coming across the yearly Lake Forest parade (it had a different name then). He couldn’t avoid it, cuz he lived there then.

At one point, to his surprise, he observed Raghu P. Mathur in the goddam parade! That's right, Raghu P. Mathur.

According to my friend’s story—I might have the details wrong—Mathur was waving to the crowd from a car while dressed as a leprechaun!

That’s another thing about parades. There’s no dignity in them, especially for participants.

Dignity-wise, willing participants may as well stick a flag pole where the sun doesn’t shine. It’s bad enough wanting to be seen by multitudes—“I am important. Behold me.”—but wanting to be seen by multitudes while wearing some stupid hat or costume? Now, that’s just sicko.

At the time, Mathur was a lowly chemistry teacher at Irvine Valley College, but, by hook or by crook, he had snagged a seat on a local school board, and so he counted as a local “official.” Hence, his paradery.

By 1997, again by hook or by crook (crook), Mathur managed to situate himself as interim president of Irvine Valley College. Thanks to the SOCCCD board’s indifference to the law, a few months later, Mathur was appointed permanent president.

Rumors began to fly that the fellow was back in the parade.

In 2001, after Mathur had received two massive votes of “no confidence,” the board naturally decided to make Mathur Chancellor of the entire district.

The rumors continued.

HUCK FRIGGIN' FINN

Last year, we reported that Mathur was again spotted in the Lake Forest parade. According to our source, sitting next to him was Thomas Fuentes, a notoriously ruthless and disagreeable fellow with a broad “I hate you” smile. I can see why somebody might want to take a gander at that guy. It’s like seeing a famous criminal.

Yesterday, the source wrote me a quick email. He offered a riddle:

Where can you find six llamas, some Scottish bagpipers, a shiny OC Waste Management truck (complete with a precision drill team, rolling shiny trash containers), Thomas Fuentes, and Raghu P. Mathur?

He had witnessed the annual Lake Forest 4th of July parade!

I asked him for details. He wrote back:

I never expect to see them, so it is always a bit of a shock. Last year they were on top of the back seat of a convertible and Oscar and I were waving like idiots because it didn't register who they were until they were upon us! I still have nightmares.

This year they sat down in the back of a Cadillac. I spotted them earlier this time, so I was able to smack down Oscar’s wildly waving arm before they got to us. (Poor Oscar.) Raghu donned a straw hat and waved a kingly wave. Tom, hatless but unfortunately not headless, waved hugely and yelled “Happy 4th of July” to everyone.

I felt a chill. Had Oscar and I remained on the other side of the street, where we had just been, our faces would have been about five feet from these two. Yikes!

Straw hat?! A friggin' straw hat!? ■

See also
• Tom and Raghu poop on our parade
• Lake Forest parade
• Narcissus (Mathur)

Hey, Baby!

Young Adam turned three today! Adam's a great kid, a happy kid. Laughs at the drop of a hat.

Whatever happened, I apologize
So dry your tears and baby, walk outside
It's the Fourth of July

On the stairs I smoke a cigarette alone
The Mexican kids are shooting fireworks below
Hey, baby, it's the Fourth of July

—Dave Alvin

Editing, archiving old family photos

THIS SUMMER, I've already spent about a hundred hours editing, archiving, and digitizing old family photos—prints, slides, and negatives, some of them going back to the 1920s. (I've even got a shot of my grandfather, wearing a Communist uniform in the late 20s.)

¶ In 1951, my dad, an eighteen-year-old German emigrant, showed up on Canadian shores with nothing, really, but his camera, a Kodak Retina, one with a Carl Zeiss lens. He used that camera until the early seventies, when he switched to a Pentax. He seemed to stop taking pictures in about 1990.

But, before then, he took thousands of 'em! Mostly, they're preserved as slides or negatives, in dozens of boxes. Some of those boxes are organized; some of them aren't. Sheesh.

Have you ever scanned photographs? It's like watching paint dry. I expect this to take me a while.

I'm writing some family history, too. (See Chunk's Mom for the beginnings of that project.)

It's late, but something makes me want to share some of these pics.



¶ These first two are from 1952, in eastern Canada (Niagara Falls?). (My grandmother and mother; then my mother.)

¶ The mountain shot is from 1968. That's my dad and my littlest brother ("Dr. Ron"), who, these days, has little kids of his own. He takes them to the Sierra Nevada, too.

¶ The next two pics are from the mid-seventies. The shoreline is between Laguna Beach and Newport Beach. Not sure about the desert scene.




I almost never took pictures back then, but, back in '75, I took this shot of Attila the Pup ("Billy"). What a guy!


¶ The next two are from the mid-eighties, when my dad was a director of a local water district. He took lots of trips up north to check out rivers and reservoirs and such. The Mono Lake shot is from a family vacation, apparently.

¶Last: my dad's Retina, which, naturally, I snagged years ago. Still works fine after sixty years!

Have a good Fourth!

Looking at nothing

LAST NIGHT, I looked outside my window and saw the moon, shining bright.

Took my camera out to the balcony. Mr. Moon was an eyeball in the sky. It seemed to look upward, toward empty space.

I took a snap.

I turned around and saw Sunny Girl sitting, silently, on a chair, looking over to the left, looking at nothing.

I hate when she does that.

• • •

Re the price of gas in 1974:

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.