Shaunna's Soliloquies

$10 Ticket for Time Travel

Pay ten bucks (five for parking, five to get inside) and you travel back in time.

So it goes when you step into the flea market that's held quarterly at the Ventura County Fairgrounds. 

Amidst acres of - let's face it - junk (and keeping in mind the fact that one person's junk is another's treasure) lurks a highly entertaining way to spend a few dollars. I prowl about toting my wheeled cart (on the lookout for books, and they can get heavy), digital camera in hand, browsing and perusing, waiting to see what appeals to me. I was instructed by my daughter that she's on the lookout for baked enamel jewelry, so I keep an eye out for that, too.

The thing is, you never know when the sight of some item will trigger a memory - much the same as hearing a certain song - and zap!  there you go... time travel.

I spotted the Prince Albert tobacco can almost immediately.

One of my mother's many (many, many, many) stories of when she was growing up was the one about "calling numbers." She'd get together with her friends and dial random telephone numbers (this was in the early '40s, mind you) and ask the hapless answerer on the other end of the line:

"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"

When the reply was in the affirmative they'd respond, "Well, you better let him out!"

Oh, the fun prior to Caller ID. I'd never analyzed it before, but perhaps that was the inspiration my friends and I had for our own "calling numbers" sessions. We never used any lame Prince Albert routine, though. Truth to tell, I didn't get it... because I'd never seen a Prince Albert tobacco can.

As I made my way throughout the fairgrounds I rounded a corner and came face to face with direct memory, the metal picnic basket (a metal picnic basket!) that my family used my entire childhood whenever we spent a day at the beach.

Zap! There I was at Zuma.

For in the years before we escaped from LA to our vacation place at the beach in Ventura County (before we had a place at the beach, for that matter) we lived in the San Fernando Valley, and the only beach where we spent the day was Zuma.

I always argued against it, everyone I knew went somewhere closer, and my dad always vetoed.  Zuma wasn't crowded, and there were showers for rinsing off before driving home.

Oh, the anticipation in the morning while my mom loaded that picnic basket with goodies and throughout the long drive. My sisters and I would be slightly carsick from the winding canyon road and Mom's cigarette smoke by the time we finally spotted the ocean. But oh! the thrill of seeing those big block letters on the sign (ZUMA).

We'd stay for hours, riding the waves on our canvas rafts (blue on one side, red on the other with a large palm tree in the center), coming out of the water only for lunch. The iron rule was you had to wait an hour to go back in after eating ("you might get a cramp"), so we'd busy ourselves by digging up sand crabs and putting them on our mother's back as she lay peacefully in the sun. Her horrified reaction never wavered, and never failed to amuse us. 

Once we went back in the water Dad joined us. He disdained the rafts, as he preferred bodysurfing. Born and bred in SoCal he was as awesome as that Hawaiian home boy on the waves who now happens to be our president.

At the end of the long day we'd pack it in, shower off and doze on the long drive home.

Such a deal, entertainment and time travel for the price of a flea market ticket.

From the Balcony

I promise I'll write something soon. Promise.

Travel Envy

I'm not usually a jealous - or envious - person. I'm sincere when I compliment someone on something new they've acquired, or somewhere they're going. However, yesterday I'll admit I was pinched a bit by the green-eyed monster.

My son popped in unexpectedly (a somewhat infrequent yet regular occurrence, and no way am I complaining because truth to tell I always love seeing him as well as the fact that he still feels so familiar with me - Mom - that he shows up whenever he pleases). However, I digress. The point was, he showed up because he was in the area on a corporate retreat, and his friends were picking him up on their way to a weekend at the Madonna Inn.

As fabulously kitsch as the Madonna is, I wasn't particularly envious of that,  I was envious of the road trip, and the area being visited.

The Central Coast of California is an area I once regularly frequented.  My dad retired there, and my youngest sister lived nearby. I made my final familia visit a few years ago, and I've rarely been back, and when that has occurred it's been on a pass-thru basis.

I used to go on road trips much more frequently (see number five on the Eight Random Facts About Me meme that circulated a while ago).  I recently went to New York City and Hawaii within a year, so it isn't as though I'm actually travel deprived.

I do miss road trips, though, and now that my car's ten years old I'm more sparing with the miles I put on it. So I grouse and feel envious. And mentally plot a doable road trip before I explode.

The Pier Where I Live

And why I stay. No matter what else may be going terribly wrong, this makes me go "ahhhhhh..."

(For more Fun With Friday Foto, head over to Candid Carrie's.)

 

Don't mess with Jon, pendejo

I've been staying up lately to watch The Daily Show (instead of viewing the re-run the following evening at a more reasonable hour). It's simply been too good... not to mention getting noticed just about everywhere. I received a email reminder from Salon to make sure I read their current take on The Daily Show/CNBC Wars. Time Magazine today has Mad Money vs. Mad Funny in their Tuned In Blog, and the LA Times is also taking notice. Well, it is big news. Remember what happened to Tucker Carlson and Crossfire when Stewart decided to bring attention to their foibles? And I have little sympathy for CNBC, considering my views regarding the stock market. If you missed last night's episode watch Basic Cable Personality Clash Skirmish '09 right here:

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Basic Cable Personality Clash Skirmish '09

Daily Show Full Episodes
Important Things With Demetri Martin

Political Humor
Economic Crisis

Wish I Was There

One of the nicest things about this beach rental was NO WIFI.

Jump Back In... Here's Friday Foto(s)

(For Friday Foto, head over to Candid Carrie's.)

This past summer it was pretty traumatic when my twelve year-old cocker spaniel sustained an injury to her left rear leg, and it was kind of sketchy if she'd get well. It took a lot of nursing and pampering:

But well worth it, as she's now up and running around and almost too spry for a grannie dog that turned thirteen a couple of weeks ago:

Blog Neglect Redux

I have a history of non-maintenance with this blog. (No, really?) Not to mention an awesome talent for stating the obvious. (As an aside, that spec script premise actually ended up being the novel that was lost in the Mac crash.)

Anyway, in the beginning the blog appealed to my journalism training, and I welcomed it as my own private op/ed column. It probably helped that I participated in the first BlogHer conference about a month after I started it (someone canceled, and I was close enough to drive), and that gave me a major blog boost to network with a wide variety of like-minded women.  I had also recently relocated, and was stuck on a precipice with my other writing. I needed a break, and the blogosphere provided one.

The problem is, I have a problem juggling the two worlds.

I was prodded this past fall to return by my sister when I went to visit her. She'd embraced blogging, and wanted me to get back to it. Now, that probably seems quite reasonable, except for the fact that she lives in Hawaii (blog in paradise?), and one of the reasons I'd quit was the fact it became so time-consuming.  But she was right, it felt good to be back. It probably helped that I flew into Honolulu on the final night of the Democratic convention, and that gave me plenty of fodder. I'm an opinionated news junky, and with that and my pesky journalism training my blog is my soapbox.

And my sister and I found another outlet in which we are quite companionable. There we were, on the lanai at the vacation house on the North Shore for the Laborless Labor Day Weekend, she with her laptop while I read.  When we returned to her home, we'd work in separate rooms while we blogged in happy camaraderie.

After I returned home to California the upcoming election and the state of the nation occupied most of my interest and output, while my sister was finding her voice and building a rapport with her virtual friends.

It did not escape our notice that some of our most effective compositions were from the last three years that we actually lived under the same roof, when our family decided to live full-time at our vacation place at North Malibu. My sister gets more up close and personal, while I tend to be detached, employing a journalistic manner. But there's no denying that those years had a definite impact on our approach and outlook on life, and the women we became.

Again, my sister prodded me into action. She had the brainstorm that we should write a joint memoir about that time in our lives. 

Once again I resisted. A bit. A memoir definitely means up close and personal, and maybe going to places I wasn't sure I wanted to go. And then she outed me.

That means I've been researching, doing a lot of reading. I have my memories, of course, but I find it easier to immerse myself in that time and bring it back by stimulating those memories with facts. I've been absorbing those facts, and percolating.

That's it for now. I want to watch the Top Chef reunion. You've got to relax sometime.

Hey, Mr. Steele! I said it... in 1993! Extree, extree.... read all about it!

Here I am once again popping in (I did the most eloquent entry a few days ago, full of carefully crafted discourse clarifying what's been going on with me lately, and then Typepad for reasons known only to itself decided to obliterate it).

Anyhoo, just a quick entry while it's timely, I can't resist.  I have a message for Michael Steele: I said it, I meant it, and I didn't apologize.

Quick backstory... in 1993 I was incensed when the local paper ran a front-page story - complete with picture - about a couple who were apparently inconsolable (particularly the wife, who brought it to the attention of the media) because they couldn't tune in the Rush Limbaugh show. So I whipped out a quick letter to the editor that was published on September 5, 1993:

"Have we reached the point where front-page news now constitutes an inability to tune in the Rush Limbaugh show? The next time when for some unfathomable reason my household does not receive the Disney Channel, I'll call you with a hot news tip. You can come out and photograph my daughter on the front porch clutching her teddy bear and weeping copiously. I promise that it will make good copy.

Contrary to popular dittohead opinion, Rush is simply an entertainer (italics in the original, now bold by me). He's a smart disc jockey who developed a schtick that sells well and is making millions. He may have different material, but he is no different from any talk show hack - i.e., Howard Stern, Bill Handel, Jay Leno, David Letterman, Phil Donahue, Oprah et al. He really is in illustrious company.

Would you have made (person's name, now deleted) plight a front-page item if she had whined that she couldn't receive Dr. Laura at noon on KFI? I think not. Boy, what some journalists will do these days to avoid the dread label "liberal media."

Now we've come full circle in fifteen and a half years. As far as I'm concerned, this whole brouhaha gives Rush more credit and attention than he deserves. He - and his ilk - got their way with the impeachment of Clinton and 2000-2008, and look where it got us. In a big, fat mess (much like Rush is a big fat blowhard).

I know my grandfather would not be pleased... as much as I'm sure he would be pleased by the possibility that the eggheads could triumph over the dittoheads within his party, if only they weren't so thin-skinned. Remember, Rush is a college dropout whose mother claimed "he flunked out of everything," not exactly an indication of a masterful critical thinker.  Mayhap a masterful entertainer with a multi-million dollar contract and ratings (for now - has anyone other than me wondered if the main reason for his bloviating is to ensure those precious ratings remain positive?), whose main purpose after all is to remain viable.

Sooooooooooooo... I really wish he'd stop getting press, but that's show biz.

And that's all, folks. For the time being.