Where Have All The Children Gone?

Today I entered the movie theatre of my youth, the one we cajoled our father into taking us most every Satuday. It was a grumpy ride down State Street but worth it. He got a few hours free from our bickering and fighting, we got entrance to a magic place: The Fox Arlington of Santa Barbara, California.

It was mostly the same. I walked past the old ticket booth, down thr 100 yard academy award-like foyer to the new high tech ticket office.

Beyond the usual snack bar, I passed into the courtyard of a staged spanish presidio, complete with astronomically correct constellations above. I tried taking a photo of the big dipper but it didn’t turn out.

Before long I was into The Lion King, beautifully put together, just enough Shakespearian evil and drama to engage all generations and a strident but not too obtrusive soundtrack.

But looking around in the semi-darkness, something was off.
I had deliberately come on a Saturday to enjoy this movie with hordes of sticky face preadolescents. Instead I counted twelve others in attendance, all deep in the throws of geezerdom.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, no sunami warnings. Granted it now costs $8 to use the back parking lot, and granted Santa Barabara is over built, overly marketed and these days over crowded.

But still, it was a great movie.
Where were the kids?

Express Lane

                                    Express Lane

(A meeting, a speaker, the subject homelessness. Reminded of a story written forty years ago when cheap wine was cheaper, but nothing much different)

Satisfied, the cashier closed the drawer and adjusted his apron. Everything was in order. He flipped the switch: EXPRESS LANE, 9 ITEMS OR LESS, CASH ONLY

A glowing sign drew customers like moths to a flame.

They jockeyed for positions.

Last place went to a young couple who momentarily hesitated and allowed a woman in curlers to cut them off on their final approach.

Second place went to a young mother whose cart contained a two year-old and the three items her family never had enough of--detergent, diapers, and doughnuts.

First place went to a man in a torn jacket.

Unaware that he had won the contest, the man placed a bottle on the conveyor belt. The cashier scanned it efficiently, a green bottle with a red and gold label offset by large white letters, "Thunderbird"

"That'll be $2.79," the cashier said standing in perfect clerk posture.

The man in the torn jacket dropped coins, scattering them over the counter

The cashier bent over his offering and began pointing and counting.

"That's not enough," he pronounced.

The man in the torn jacket sprinkled more coins onto the counter then pushed trembling hands back into his pockets.

"You still don't have enough."

From the back of the line came a long sigh.

The mother of the two year-old turned. She saw a lady in curlers with an exasperated look on her face.

While she did this, the man in the torn jacket had run out of pockets and coins, the man in the torn jacket stared down at the floor.

The young mother opened her wallet and dropped several quarters.

"Thank you very much, Mam--that was very kind."

His speech was halting, child-like.

"You're welcome--" the young mother started to say.

"That's still not enough," the cashier said.

He looked uncertainly from the old man to the young woman.

She took out a dollar from her purse and laid it on the counter.

The cashier frowned, recounting the money.

And he was not alone. Everyone in line leaned forward and did their own calculations, a high stakes poker game where precious minutes of inconvenience stood at risk.

The cashier swore under his breath and pulled a nickel from his pocket, throwing it into the till.

"Thanks again, Mam," mumbled the man with the torn jacket,
  You're a beautiful person, you really are."

And he continued to thank her until the bottle was bagged and quickly passed through automatic doors.

Someone tapped the young mother on her shoulder.

"Thanks, hon. I thought we'd never get rid of that scumbag."

She said nothing. 
Then the two year old previously occupied with his Hot-Wheels, grabbed Rolaids some from the check-out display.

"No, Tommy," she said replacing the medicine onto the shelf, "That's not good for you."

The cashier rang up her purchase.

"That's right. Just like wine isn't good for winos. That'll be $11.29."

The mother pawed through her purse, made no reply.

"You know, that guy comes in here three times a week to pull off that same old scam," the cashier said handing her the receipt.
With reddening cheeks the young mother looked away and saw the man with the torn jacket beyond the glass doors. He walked between two stores and disappeared into an alley.

She took possession of her grocery bag and rolled her cart blindly out the door. Her son safe in his car seat, she rested her head against the steering wheel.

A minute passed.

She turned the ignition and pointed the car toward the alley.

He hadn't gotten far.

She found him sitting on flattened boxes between two garbage bins.

The bottle was out now and his eyes lit up like a child with a much anticipated present.

Her lips tightened.
She reached for something in her purse. 
The window rolled down, her hand tightened.
An arm shot out toward the man in the torn jacket.

And she dropped it, a crumpled twenty dollar bill...

The woman with the child drove away, her vision blinded by tears.

 

Signs

On a side street in Cambria.
Ever wonder where it stops?

The city's largest cemetery.
Hmm...



Don't believe me?
Look at this:

Now that's nice. Things are clarified.
Except there are no bridges on Bridge Street.



Okay let's move on.
It's a long and dusty road:

Where does it lead?




Hold on, there's another sign:

And wouldn't it be nice if life had signs like this?
You've got 500 days, 5 months, or even 5 minutes.
A little warning would be appreciated...



But then, suddenly, there you are:

Count it. Twice reminded that this is a cemetery. What else could it be, an exposition of finely polished granite?


But let's get serious. This is a place for dead people.
And we must respect their transitions.
Still there's hope: (look at the size of that mailbox!)

Makes me happy to know friends and relatives can still get in touch, albeit snail mail.
And there must be one Hell-uva-party after 4:00 pm.
And please don't intrude upon us.



But let's get serious.

Besides tombstones, there are drawers.
And in one of these my ashes will reside
With Deb's.
She might be stuck with me for a while.

In fact, you will be able to find us in the third vault over, second row down, fourth over...
I think...
or is the the fifth?

Oh heck, just surprise me!
Life and death always do.

But I'm certain about what will be engraved on our little copper sign:

                    At the end, nothing remains but love

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday was a good day for stones

But not so good for bones

 

 

Still standing despite the sticks (and the ticks).

Hmmm.
So you found me.
Just by logging into my site, I have found YOU.

Hope you have friendly intentions.

San Simeon, Bored Meeting 8/8/14:

Car Shopping, Homesteading, Poo, and ESP

 

The high point of the District Board meeting occurred at 6:04:

The Pledge of Allegiance.

 After that things pretty much went down hill.
 

 With some notable exceptions:

Our sheriff’s liaison delivered a fascinating report about petty thefts, suspicious characters and sad assaults on grandmothers.

 But he also introduced the concept of “car shopping”.  Officers have interviewed various malefactors in our community and learned that our local bad actors like to cruise through neighborhoods and “try” car door handles. If they’re locked, move on. If open, however, it’s time for “CAR SHOPPING”: selecting various items like purses and keys, the discounted items of the day. These “purchases” lead to other crimes such as identity theft, changing locks, and loss of a stale candy bar.

He also mentioned something I will refer to as “homesteading”: the tendency of our transient population to identify empty residential units, timeshares, vacation rentals and decide set up camp there for several days. Again, locking all doors was recommended as the first line defense.

Another highpoint in the Board meeting was the excellent report by our district operations staff member who assured us that sewer, water and pothole abatement were all proceeding quite well. Good report, quick and to the point.

Then things really started to go down the toilet…

One resident was concerned about the high levels of sewer aroma between the hours of 3 and 7 am.

Wow, I thought, if it awakes her wake up during hours that I would normally be stone cold asleep, things must’ve gotten mustier.

In response, it was pointed out that the opening of Highway 1 also means we’ve entered a peak “poo” period. A former district employee also mentioned that Hearst Castle saves their shipments so that we receive an 8 am“surge”.  Sure glad I learned that.

 Then I glanced over a district disbursement for work done along Avonne. An avenue I frequently walk. Apparently there was a perceived emergency and the district was billed $11,000 plus bill for some leaky and corroded pipes. Thank God my plumber works at a cheaper rate.

But that’s what you get when you call on a Sunday.

 But wait, it got better with item #7:

Open public discussion was allowed on item #8, a CLOSED door Board meeting that would not take place until after the conclusion of this meeting.

 I was astounded at the board’s faith in our psychic awareness!

Not only could we foresee any issue discussed behind the doors of a closed meeting (precognition), but we also possessed sufficient paranormal acumen to analyze the ongoing events of this remote session (clairvoyance). I tried to question the sanity of this agenda item, but the lawyer explained away my mystification.

Still, I’m mystified.

But then I’ve really never understood why local politicians make critical decisions behind closed doors. Perhaps our local representatives imagine themselves members of a secret club. I enjoyed doing that when I was a kid.

My memory of all these events is sketchy and incomplete. I suspect psychic MIB (Men In Black) have erased whole parts of the proceedings.

But in a week or two, you should be able to visit our district office and borrow the video of this meeting. Decide for yourself how much of my narrative is verifiable—or mere hallucination.

 The truth is out there…

 

SSS?

SSS?

I was scrolling through this Nextdoor.com app and was amazed at all the menu options available after you enter your zip code and sign up.

You can stay in touch with immediate neighbors, keep track of local government, learn about critter threats, and choose to address your own public concerns.

Besides that you can find (or recommend) a plumber, fencer, or insurance agent, locate a lost dog or get rid of an ugly credenza.

The San Simeon community is so underrepresented by nearby news agencies, we could even consider it our local newspaper: The San Simeon Sentinel, SSS for short!

     ("Sentinel"  NOUN, definition: a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch)

We need to watch out for each other.

And you know what else we need?  A comics section.
Anybody out there have some ability to draw cartoons?