One of the Guys

Early this past year of 2025, Barbara and I attended a 76-year birthday party for an old friend from her days growing up in the 50s and 60s in Manhattan Beach, California. I sorta knew him, having met Bruce Clayton at about the same time that I met Barbara in 1979.

Bruce had somehow tracked her down, finding her in a funky neighborhood in the Westside of Santa Cruz. I just happened to be living across the street from Barbara. That particular day we were hanging out at my place, which had all the charm of a lost cabin the in the redwoods. A stand of tall trees hovered over one side of my place. Bruce showed up at the front door.

An obviously easy-going guy with a smile that never left his face, Bruce launched into a "remember when" conversation with Barbara while I listened and silently protested his presence, selfishly thinking he was stealing time from me getting to know Barbara. I had a “crush” on her.

How could I have been so stupid.

Today I understand there is no better way to get to know someone than meeting their friends, especially one that goes back into their history of grade-school antics and friends and the stuff that molds a young person.

Bruce was slightly chubby that first day I met him. At his 76th birthday party last January, Bruce was, well, the word to best describe his body, is "obese." He never left his chair located in the middle of his very cool house in a semi-rural neighborhood near the most protected wetlands on the West Coast -- Elkhorn Slough -- with a distant view of Monterey Bay. He and his spouse, coincidentally named Barbara, shared this prized location.

Bruce was as jolly and charming as ever. His white beard hung low on his belly. His eyes literally twinkled. He made me feel important to him. Friends of his milled about the house, reconnecting and talking story about Bruce and their lives.

His spouse Barbara acted the perfect hostess, making sure everyone felt comfortable with her casual, accommodating manner. It was obvious how much she loved him and wanted to celebrate his birthday.

2025 has been a tough year. Adding misery to pain, it was also the year Bruce Clayton passed into the next world. A couple of months following his party, we received a note from "his" Barbara giving us the sad news. She had included a history of Bruce's life that blew me away. I had no idea of the extent of his talents and hobbies and generosity. He never let his body get in his way.

Reflecting on my spotty memories of Bruce, it occurred to me how easy it is to judge a person by their appearance overlooking their essence. When someone you know continually talks about themself, they become tiresome. When a person expresses mostly humor and warmth, he or she becomes easy to accept and enjoy, yet their modesty doesn't reveal their accomplishments, as simple or profound as they may be. You have to ask.

Over the past 40-plus years, I had random meetings with and sightings of Bruce, often on the DeLaveaga Golf Course in the woods above Santa Cruz. I recently learned that he had heart issues most of his life and perhaps that had something to do with his increasing weight. Still, he played golf with talent and agility. He had a sailboat and invited "my" Barbara and me to sail with him many times. We never took him up on his offer.

Being the class clown who performed silly dances and played funny jokes, Bruce left a memory with my Barbara that made her leery of sailing the rough waters of Monterey Bay with him at the helm. 

I wanted to sail with him but it never happened. I'm sure he was an expert sailor. 

Bruce was a super talent hidden in an unlikely body, especially as his beard grew whiter and longer while his body continued to expand. Although he never lost his sense of good humor. Reflecting now, I think he may have been a messenger or even a guru.

He made his living as a mason. He created a brick stair-step motif leading from our house to our patio. Barbara had saved feature pieces of tile from her grandfather’s house in Los Angeles and asked Bruce if he could incorporate them into the brick steps he was building for us. 

That was like asking Picasco if he knew how to draw. He had the knack of an artist. The steps he created are a beautiful tribute to his talent and aesthetic flair. Over the years I have often thought of him while passing through our patio.

The evening of his 76th birthday, I was surprised to see a guitar hanging on his wall. I have since learned that he played guitar and saxophone in several bands, including Captain Reefer and the Jungle Sirens, The Intruders and the Stuks. I can see him hamming it up on stage.

A high-powered telescope sat on a tripod next to the south-facing window with the expansive view, a clue to his curiosity about the heavens and distant shores.

Bruce and his brother Mike were raised by their father, or at least resided with Reed Gilbert Clayton during his youth when my Barbara knew him. Reed worked for Disney, as Barbara remembers. The house became a hangout for neighborhood kids while Reed was at the studio. 

Manhattan Beach at that time was a middle- and working-class enclave of families with kids. Bruce was quintessentially one of the guys -- played sports, surfed and goofed off. Some kids never grow up. And never lose touch with their old friends.

One story I remember: Bruce and my Barbara were speaking by Bluetooth phone while we were driving on Highway 1 near Elkhorn Slough, perhaps on our way south to Manhattan Beach to visit her mom. The subject was dental care. Bruce may have had a toothache or something like that. He said that his Barbara was a flosser -- she believed strongly in regular flossing of her teeth.

"I never floss," he said. "Are you kidding? (laughter by Bruce). He made it sound as if no one in their right mind would take the time to run dental floss between their teeth. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I still don't. 

But I do remember him fondly from the bits and pieces, the rare moments, we crossed paths.

"2026 has got to be better than 2025," said his life partner, Barbara, who misses Bruce terribly.

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CBS and Our Global Village

PHOTO:KCS

If it weren't for technology, you would not be reading these words and I would not be able to reach an international audience. The last piece I wrote attracted viewers (readers?) from around the globe, from Argentina, Brazil and Bengladesh, to India, Singapore and Vietnam. And, of course, the United States.

This is according to Google analytics that tracts blogger posts. This does not include viewers on Substack, where my last story also appeared.

A knowledgeable friend says, “They could be using your stories to learn and practice English.”

I’d Like to believe that my words are going toward education, rather than robo searches. Or something worse. But I remain positive and hopeful.

I am reminded of Canadian philosopher/English professor/literary critic Marshall McLuhan's famous pronouncement in 1964: "The medium is the message." He was talking about television! He claimed that we were now part of a "global village." He hadn't even heard about smart TVs.

McLuhan died in 1980. Just four years earlier, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak had founded the Apple Computer. This was long before iPhones, -Pads -Pods, blogs, podcasts and social media. McLuhan was an influencer before his time.

As we prepare to enter the year 2026, we find ourselves walking around staring at hand-held devices as though they held the secret to life. We, the people of planet Earth, are truly members of a global village of distracted wanderers. We can only imagine the full-fledged introduction of Artificial Intelligence knocking on our village door.

I consider myself an analog mollusk caught in a web of digital spiders. I majored in communications in college in the late 60s, including graduate courses in mass communications. I found McLuhan to be the most provocative, and eccentric, thinker of that period, yet I was still hooked on newspapers and magazines, the printed media. Talk about eccentric.

Ironically, my college hero was Edward R. Murrow, originally a radio WWII war correspondent broadcasting war-time action to listeners in the US and Great Britain. After the War, Murrow made his name in television and became known for the guy who took down Sen. Joseph McCarthy in his (Murrow's) CBS news program See It Now in 1954.

McCarthy was a red-baiter, pronouncing various public figures to be communists. After exposing the Senator from Wisconsin's lies, Murrow and his "boys," including reporter Mike Wallace, went on, under the direction of Bill Paley, to set the standard for broadcast journalism with the debut of CBS's 60 Minutes, now in its 57th year and today making hay with the current Administration.

Sunday, Dec. 21, 60 Minutes pulled a story by reporter Sharyn Alfonsi about the deportation, imprisonment and torture of immigrants from Venezuela. The decision was last minute from above, according to several news sources. The story had been vetted and given full approval from the editorial team, who had contacted the White House for comments. The administration refused to speak. That story did appear a day or so later on a Canadian broadcast, only spurring more traction.

Our global village is in the midst of tribal battles over who controls our major purveyors of news and information. The players are conglomerates Warner Bros./Disney, Netflix and Skydance, owners of Paramount who owns CBS and 60 Minutes. It's about big money, big egoes, including tech baron Larry Ellison and his silver-spoon son David Ellison, who crave big power. Trump says he will intervene, which should make everyone very nervous.

Imagine "Trump''s Truthful Network." With an homage to him beginning and after every program.

The truth, however, is that our global village is full of leaking digital sources. Trump and his pals like Putin can bloviate and propagandize but real stories will continue to appear like a game of Whac-A-Mole.

The question becomes how do we sort through the blizzard to reach clarity. What is real or closest to the truth?

And how do we deal emotionally? I pose that anger is a legitimate feeling but will only get us so far. It will not solve our problems. Anything that directs us toward hate is suspect. Blaming others is only an excuse for not taking responsibility.

Technology is a two-edged sword (good and bad). On the positive side it allows us the opportunity to come together. I believe our earthly village will be happier and more learned when we gather around the global campfire and share our stories without the interference of a dictator-ruler. It's an ancient idea and it could lead to a safer world. Our stories are our life and our survival. This story will be viewed around the globe.

It's winter today. Tomorrow it will be spring.

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I'm Moving to Substack

I'm not Larry David. He just looks like me.

I've started publishing my stories on Substack.

If you're not familiar with Substack, it's a platform for writers and creators to publish content directly to subscribers, paid and not paid. Many journalists, pundits and others have turned to Substack, which is independent and not supported by advertising.

 Print and broadcast journalists are losing jobs for economic reasons as well as being threatened and/or censored as mainstream newspapers and networks (legacy media) are being gobbled up by mergers and acquisitions in the big money game.

The media landscape has changed. Wealthy investors are becoming the overlords of information, including tech titans Larry Ellison, Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. Even Donald Trump has his own social media site.

I've decided to move beyond my blog to reach more readers and get out from under Google, whose platform supports this blog. Substack should offer me more freedom as far as control of my photos and what I write. At least that’s the theory.

I thank Google for affording me the opportunity to publish my work for the past 10 years. They have made it easy. Substack is relatively new, launched in 2017, and does not offer the easy layout tools that Google provides. I’m still trying to figure out the formatting and nomenclature.

All things not being equal, there is no guarantee that Substack will survive, or won’t be taken over. And Google may become an AI behemoth. So what's new? We live in a fast-changing world.

I plan to continue my Talking Real Stories on Google while I begin to post the same and more material on Substack. I may end up using both platforms.

I invite you to join me on Substack by subscribing to my writing :.https://kevinsamson731032.substack.com/. You are not required to start a paid subscription. I'm not clear about the advantage for paid subscribers. For writers it's an opportunity to earn a little money, a rare concept.

Substack will offer you the opportunity to receive my posts automatically by email, without me going through the process of sending them to you individually. That’s a bonus for me.

Thank you, my esteemed readers. It's a great pleasure sending my stories to you, and reading your comments.

Again, Talking Real Stories will continue to appear on this current Google platform for the time being. It will also appear on Substack. If you have questions, you can PM me.

Mahalo, Melekalikimaka, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

Hope to hear from you in 2026! Sending good vibes to all. 

 

Trump’s Comedy Problem

Art by KCS 1/18

Rodney Dangerfield was funny. The way he strode onto a stage, his eyes wide open with a crooked countenance. We laughed. “I tell ya when I was a kid, all I knew was rejection. My yo-yo, it never came back."  His schtick revolved around his famous line: “I get no respect.”

Steve Martin launched his career in comedy wearing an arrow through his head. He played dumb.

Bill Murray became famous for his deadpan humor that essentially mocked himself. 

Will Ferrell called himself "a cotton-headed ninny muffin." 

Lucille Ball, perhaps the most popular comedienne of the 20th Century, played the zany housewife.

Great comedians are funny because they exaggerate and expose their ( and our) foibles. They’re anything but perfect, the same as we normal folks are not perfect. We laugh with them because we identify those feelings and insecurities. It’s called empathy (sorry Elon).

I've recently come up with a theory about our current, painfully insecure president. 

He’s failed as a businessman with six bankruptcies. Ironically, he made his fortune selling his name, his brand. Which is all air. Nothing there but a phony concept.

He’s failed as a president once and is fumbling again into a sorry excuse for a politician. He keeps telling us that he’s the greatest president whoever lived etc, etc. His redundancy and ego may, indeed, cause him to believe his own lies, but he’s faltering again in his role as leader.

Is he just dumb? Maybe. He was able to sell himself to unknowing voters and big money donors who saw opportunity with a president they could buy. You could call that smart. Or cunning. Or corrupt.

Currently he is taking the stage again. He believes he can save himself in front of an audience. Ever the showman, he adores himself when he's in the spotlight. His final encore, he believes, will be as the beloved comedian.

Granted, he wears funny extra-long ties and covers himself with gobs of clownish orange make-up. And he’s in love with that weird hairstyle of a rat’s-nest-on-fire. His presentation wreaks of humor. Yet his shtick is not funny. We laugh at him not with him. 

His jokes are derogatory. He insults other people, gives them juvenile nicknames. He boasts and berates.

His spiel on immigrants, his hands waving in and out like a baker squeezing dough, reveals a self-dealing contempt for people of color: “Somalia," he draws out the word for comedic inflection, calling the country "dirty, filthy, disgusting."

Folks are not buying his shtick. Latest polls by the Associated Press and NORC found that only 36-opercent approve of his job performance. The most recent Gallup poll shows 60-percent of Americans disapprove of his second term performance. 

Legislators in conservative Indiana voted on December 11 to reject gerrymandering their voting districts to favor Republicans, as instructed to do by His Highness. 

He's still got his dancing girls -- Pam, Karoline and Kristi -- but the whole act is getting stale. It's becoming as he would say, "a very very bad joke."

Barbarian Daze and the Surfing Life

Cowells, November 2025 PHOTO:KCS

Some 30 years ago I rode one of the most memorable waves of my life. The wave was a curling storm of beauty, seemed to break forever and I surfed it through several sections with good balance and control. My ride began at Second Peak at Pleasure Point on the Eastside, one of a series of Santa Cruz's notorious surf breaks.

I had lined up with two friends, Ron Harsh and Derrick Clark. As the wave approached, Ron turned his board as if he were going for it. As compadres we had ridden waves together so I turned and caught the wave believing Ron was behind me. I heard what I thought was a whoop behind me, like woowee!

Through every section I heard Ron whooping it up. Only it was not Ron. The rider behind me was a Point local who was telling me to get out of his way. I found that out at the end of the ride. "Hey, don't let that happen again," he said in an angry tone.

I felt deflated, like a kook. Which I was. You don't jump in front of someone already on the wave. I had been stoked the entire ride. Now this.

When I paddled back, Derrick said, "If you get into a fight, we're not going to back you up."

"I thought you were riding behind me, Ron."

"Oh no. I got out of the way. That was Kevin Miske, one of the best longboarders out here." 

In retrospect, the ride was worth the tongue lashing.

I had returned to surfing at age 50, after more than 30 years of mostly dry dock. I was riding my new custom surfboard shaped by my friend Johnny Rice, a Santa Cruz legend. Johnny was probably in his mid-60s. 

I took the pleasure of riding waves with Johnny and his wife Rosemari (see photo below). We were among a lineup of locals who surfed the long-peeling and mostly gentle waves at Cowells, the local Westside break where "everyone starts and ends," according to local lore.

Rosemari Reimers Rice surfs a wave at Hermosa Beach 1962. Rosemarie is among those honored in the Three Princes exhibit at the Santa Cruz MAH through January 5.

Cowells is a family wave where you meet your neighbors in the water. Here's a few I remember: Longboard Tim who never wore a wetsuit, Talking Todd who never stopped talking, Door-Shop Dave, Rail-Ding Bob, Big Steiny and Little Steiny, Mac Reed, Matt Micuda, Dave Gardner, Jeff Larkey, Nesh Dhillon, sisters Joni and Bonnie MacFarland, Jane “the Lane” MacKenzie, David "the Buddha" Anderson, Kim Stoner, Ed James, noserider Raney Oullette, Jason "Rat Boy" Collins, Joe Collins, Bob Collins, Dave Collins (none related), Carpenter-Dave (Rogers), Juan Hernandez and his buddy Ron, Fritz Bensusan and Laura, Mindy and Jock Martin, Michel Junod, Fitness Todd (Smith), Nel Newman, Corey Salzman, Lisa McGinnis, Leigh Miller, Brian and Meg, Jen Coco, Laura Williams, Susan Coffey, Kai Cole, Michael the “Flyin’ Hawaiian,” Chris Murren, Clarke Shultes, Maureen Niehaus, identical twins Sarah and Rachael Raskin, Sarah Gerhardt (first woman to ride Mavericks) and hubby Mike, Doc Scott, Jeff and Michelle Scott, Greg Kohler, Steve Kurtz, enforcer Vince Collier and Pat Farley, who produced a documentary film, Cowells and the New Millennium (2004),  that was first screened at the nearby historic Cocoanut Grove and everybody came. A fine effort by a rookie filmmaker, Farley's documentary won awards at several film festivals.

I'm sure I missed a few names. But you get the picture. At times it was a love fest. All the local kids surfed here at one time, before graduating to the bigger waves at Steamer Lane and in some cases the monster waves up the coast at Mavericks.

Pat Farley prepares for a paddle on a flat day in September 2025. PHOTO:KCS

 Santa Cruz surfer girls (left to right) Taryn, Bryna, Becca and Paige party before launching on their Costa Rica and points south adventure, year 2000.

Family vacations became surfing holidays in Hawaii and Mexico. We traveled with our friends Nancy and Steve Howells. Steve was a shredder. He rode short and longboards, on all kinds of waves. He had been employed in the nascent surf industry of the 60s in shops where the holy grail surfboards themselves were first born and John Severson’s Surfer magazine and logo decals for your car windows were distributed. Steve had tested new boards for shapers out of Santa Barbara. 

Our youngest daughter, Isabel Bryna, joined us on these trips. She established bonafide cred as the surfer in our family, having grown up with the waves, competing in various contests and school-sponsored events, a charger who nearly lost her leg when the fin of her board sliced into her thigh. 

Following graduation from Santa Cruz High School, she and a pod of surfer girls -- Bonnie Salter, Becca Davis, Sara Stewart, Paige Nutt and Taryn Craig -- split for Costa Rica and points beyond, including the beaches of Australia. They spread out and beyond, fearlessly chasing waves and life experiences in the Southern Hemisphere. We parents hugged them goodbye and held our breath in the terminal at San Francisco International Airport.

My claim that I have surfed the Atlantic Ocean in Uruguay is due to our adventuresome daughter. Barbara and I made two trips to the far coast of Atlantica in Uruguay, where our granddaughter Viva was born. Today, Bryna and Taryn reside on the island of Kauai where, as surfer moms, they continue to ride waves of the Pacific with their children.

Since that wild ride where I got yelled at at Pleasure Point on my new Johnny Rice board, I have surfed through six surfboards, four of them shaped by Bob Pearson, one by Ward Coffee, both Westside shapers. That’s a paltry number for my surf buddies who have accumulated quivers of boards for all conditions. For many who ride waves, the surfboard is not merely an aquadymanic vessel for riding, but a finely shaped objet d'art that merits a place on the wall.

The iconic longboard is built to glide through water like a dolphin and turn gracefully as directed by the rider through footwork and weight balance. The rider becomes one with the wave resulting in being stoked, having been fed the fire that fulfills your being. Or so the soul surfer believes.

My surf buddies Tony Lorero, Rob Butterfield, Don Iglesias and I -- continue through our seventh decade to live for another wave. When the ocean turns calm and there are none, we paddle on our boards, tell stories and complain just enough so that we never lose our stoke and good humor. Fellow paddlers are welcome.

According to Don, "Surfing makes you a better person." 

Tony finds that debatable.

Rob says hello to everyone.

COVID, which sent thousands of wannabes into the water, was a boon to the surf industry that has morphed into clothing and related gear that the old timers would never believe, like the wetsuit wrench. Hell, Rod Lundquist, one of the early Santa Cruz surfers of the 50s says they entered the cold water in second-hand wool sweaters from Goodwill. There were no wetsuits! Or surf contests. The crowds drove Rod to hang-gliding.

With so many people in the water today riding new iterations of the noble surfboard -- including kite boards and motorized hydrofoils -- and with technology making secret spots widely known, localism seems fairly quaint. 

Old surfing maxim: We were all kooks at one time.

Left to right: Don Iglasias, Rob Butterfield and Tony Loreo ham it up at the Three Princes surf exhibit currently showing at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History through January 5. The exhibit chronicles the history of surfing in North America that began in Santa Cruz with three Hawaiian princes (not these guys). The show features replicas of early surfboards made by the Hawaiians, reproduced here by local shaper Bob Pearson of Arrow Surfboards. Also on display: a retrospective of early surf shops and key local surfers as well as the "guns" (big wave surfboards) that were ridden on the 30-foot wave faces at world-famous Mavericks. A tribute to Johnny Rice is shown in the background.

 

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to all from the Surfer Statue on West Cliff Drive in the Westside of town. PHOTO:KCS 2023

The Longest Week

Shohei Ohtani, 31, the highest paid player in Major League Baseball, helped the Los Angeles Dodgers win the 2025 World Series over the plucky Toronto Blue Jays in seven games and 146 innings.

It started with the second longest World Series game in baseball history. Which was the third game of this year's Series. 

What was I doing sitting in front of a TV screen in a dark house shortly before midnight rooting for a team from Canada to score a run and end a game that had lingered nervously into the 17th inning?

The standard baseball game goes nine innings. The game was about to run 18. That’s two games worth of baseball and neither team had scored a run over the last 10 innings.

Like tennis and all-night poker, there is no clock in baseball. It can go on forever.

You must love the game to stay tuned. I was enjoying every nuanced second from the expression on the pitchers' faces as they prepared to throw curves, sliders and 100-mile fastballs at batters with wooden sticks, to base runners calculating when to go, fielders anticipating a hardball smacked at them and what to do if they caught it. 

Baseball at its highest level with everything on the line is a pleasure to watch.

Once revered as the nation's pastime, baseball has been called out, lost its place to the faster, continuous action games of football and basketball that keep fans in front of a TV screen. Baseball is the opposite: slow, fit for a languid summer day or evening, a bunch of guys spitting and farting, grabbing their crotches waiting for something to happen. Or so the stereotype would have it, with all due respect to women's fast-pitch softball, a different game.

Going18 innings against the current champions, the underdog Toronto Blue Jays had already issued a warning to one of the wealthiest teams in baseball, the Los Angeles Dodgers: You've got competition from a scrappy club from north of the border. Trump's tariffs on Canada served as a backdrop, as former Jays superstar Joe Carter said: All of Canada was rooting for Toronto. Los Angeles was rooting for the Dodgers.

We had business in La-La Land the next day, would be driving 380-miles from Santa Cruz to Dodger Town. I couldn't stay up all night.

Recent reports show that Hispanics make up 40-percent of Dodger fans. Since 1980 when a 19-year-old left-handed wunderkind from Mexico named Fernando Valenzuela stepped on the pitcher's mound for the Dodgers, Angelenos of Mexican heritage have been in love with the team. They wear the blue caps with mucho pride.

LA, with all of its diversity and derision, deserves a rally factor. Let it be the team that was first to accept a Black player, Jackie Robinson, whose number 47 is sacrosanct as the only 47 in Major League Baseball. 

ICE (Immigration Customs Enforcement) has been extremely active in LA, rounding up folks from south of the border like cattle. Easy pickins, I thought, at Dodger Stadium located in Chavez Ravine which has only one road in and out. Would ICE be hiding in the bushes?

This added a new statistical element to a game built around numbers and averages. How many immigrants can you lock up versus how many paying fans and/or votes you lose. Factor in three Japanese nationals playing for the Dodgers, including Shohei Ohtani who, incredibly, excels at pitching and hitting. He walloped two home runs and two doubles in the marathon third game that the Dodgers eventually won after 6 hours and 39 minutes and 18 innings. Ohtani reached base in the game a record 9 times.

Baseball records were falling like bowling pins in this Series. 

Dodger star Freddy Freeman finally broke the stalemate, smashing a walk-off home run to end the marathon 3rd game giving the LA team a 2-1 lead in the Series. 

The 6-foot, 4-inch Ohtani (more like 6'5" and over 240-lbs, according to a local broadcaster) has a contract with the LA franchise for $700-million. Once known as the Bums from Brooklyn, today the LA franchise is valued at $7.73 billion. Many fans wear newly-minted Brooklyn Bums T-shirts. The team moved to California in 1958. Go figure. Forget it, Jake. It's Dodger Town.

Heat Wave

California was suffering a heat wave the Tuesday we drove to LA where Game 4 would be held. We always take Hwy 101 for the scenery that in recent years has been blanketed in grape vines, the rolling hills of California vineyards.

We got an early start. Barb and I take turns at the wheel. Traffic was light. I looked forward the game that evening. Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, Pismo Beach, Santa Maria, Los Alamos... we flew by without our usual stops. 

"Let's check Super Ricos for lunch," she said.

I could almost taste the fresh poblano peppers and homemade tortillas that attract long lines at this nondescript taqueria in south Santa Barbara. No line today. The place was closed -- Tuesday and Wednesday, according to the handwritten sign on the front door.

Adding to our hunger, the dull smell of oil began to penetrate the far reaches of my olfactory passages. I spotted the familiar six oil drilling platforms off the coast. Drill baby. The sensation worsened when we passed through Malibu on the PCH noting the remains of the Palisades fire in January. 

The ruins, even on the coast side, included partial foundations, broken brick walls; a decorous concrete birdbath stood alone, a symbol of elegance amidst ruin. The fires had blown down the canyons to the coast with indiscriminate results. We saw dwellings standing erect like sentries next to empty lots and scorched black palms.

We reached our destination of Manhattan Beach in time to see the sun set. My throat had begun to burn. The Jays evened the Series that night in LA at 2 games a piece. Angelenos were becoming notably nervous.

"People around here have been taking Toronto too lightly," said one resident from his balcony apartment.

The next morning I jumped into the ocean to cool off, hoping to cleanse my nasal passage with salt water. Barb had a family meeting. I walked to the North End Cafe in Manhattan Beach for delicious chilaquiles. The chef was a portly Latino wearing a Dodger cap who seemed at home and a fan of his own cooking. I don't want to make a big deal out of it, but under the circumstances you start to notice who's doing the work.

Mission Impossible

Our ultimate mission was to provide support to our friend Stephanie who had undergone knee replacement on Tuesday. She lives alone caring for her lovable pit bull Freya in a residence crawling with plants and wild visitors from the local environs.

"Welcome to my Jurassic Park," she greeted us. Her post surgery mood, doubtless drug-supported, was upbeat. "A hawk landed over there recently," she pointed to the jungle just outside of her room-sized terrarium connected to her main living space. She had a photo of the predator. "I have raccoons and opossums, too."

Another of the many sides of Los Angeles.

Stephanie's hawk

Stephanie and I shared at least two major concerns: Deep disgust for our the current administration in DC, and a desire to watch what was turning into a historic World Series, being held in her greater backyard (aka Chavez Ravine) near downtown. The same Chavez Ravine where a Hispanic community was removed in order to build Dodger Stadium. Irony upon irony. 

The Series served as a distraction (a baseball frequency) for both of us. That evening my nose ran like a faucet. I did everything possible to cover up what I was sure was an allergic reaction to air-borne particles in Los Angeles. Stephanie's myriad fertile, tangling greenery surely did not help my condition.

The evening following Steph's surgery, we all watched the Jays go ahead in the Series 3-games to 2, as 22-year-old pitcher Trey Yesavage struck out a record-sertting 12 Dodgers, to become an instant Canadian hero. Things were suddenly looking dubious for the modern-day Bums but divine for the Canadian Birds. Although we never saw Steph's hawk.

Barb and I like our coffee hot in the morning while Steph drinks a cold brew from the refrigerator. I volunteered to pick up two cups at a nearby Starbucks.

I rarely do Starbucks and I'm not familiar with protocols like names of coffee drinks. It was a day off for the Series and the day before Halloween. Appropriately spooky black and orange decorations were abundantly on display on local lawns. I had to pull over and figure how to defog the windshield. I needed my caffeine fix. Discomfort in my throat had subsided but my nose continued to drip.

Starbucks was empty, save for three employees. Funny for a Thursday morning. What was I missing? I walked from one end of the counter to the other hoping to be recognized with no response. I did note a row of cups filled and ready to go arranged in some kind of alphabetical order. I'm from Santa Cruz where Starbucks is not recognized. We have Verve, The 11th Hour, Cat and Cloud, Firefly, Santa Cruz Roasting Company and a few other local roaster/purveyors.

I finally drew attention from a barista. Noting the size of cups, I said. "Two tall cups of drip coffee, please." She performed the electronic payment routine and went about her business. I wondered what she was up to, since it didn't seem to be pouring two cups of coffee. Anticipating where the cups would be delivered, I went to the counter where the aforementioned cups were full and waiting.

People began to show up for those ready-made specialty coffee drinks. They had obviously ordered online, were probably on their way to work. I got it! Service was designed around car culture; you pick up your brew on your way to work or wherever you're going. No one was wearing Dodger merch. Did they know about the Series? Another side of the beast: blase'.

My name was called, I picked up my two tall cups, already fitted with lids and proceeded to the counter where I spotted two canisters of cream, one on the right side with half-and-half the other on the left side of the counter with oat milk. I couldn't imagine adding oat milk to coffee. Or was it goat milk? I wasn't wearing my readers so I couldn't tell. Neither appealed to me.

I bumbled around with the lids and discovered coffee filled to the brim. I would need to pour out coffee before I could add cream. With a tall cup in each hand, I searched for a place to pour out coffee, feeling very conspicuous, knowing I was doing it all wrong. 

I discreetly, finally, poured the excess coffee into the trash, added cream, replaced the lids and with both hands full with top-heavy cups, I backed out the door.

Halloween fever on The Strand in Manhattan Beach

Trick or Treat

Steph seemed to be healing rapidly. Freya the contented pit bull roamed around the house, stopping occasionally to cough deeply. She continued to show signs of a recent bout with pneumonia. We walked her one afternoon and Barb took her out one morning. Not much of a walker, Freya preferred lying on the neighbors' grass on her back and stomach, emulating the decadence of the famed Cleopatra. Watching her made my throat itch.

Barb and I went out to purchase Halloween candy for trick-or-treaters, which would be the same day as the 6th game of the Series. If the Jays win tonight, Toronto wins the Series. The Dodgers had to win both Friday and Saturday's games to claim the trophy. Both games would be played in Toronto in front of thousands of screaming Cannucks. Tension verging on surrender settled over the basin.

The kids came in their costumes as predicted. One little couple were dressed in homemade police uniforms. Interesting, given the smattering of American flags in the neighborhood. "Cute costumes," I said. I struggled to keep my mind on the game, which the Dodgers ended up winning, which meant the 7th game on Saturday night would be a barn-burner, pull out all stops, anything goes. It had been six years since the World Series had gone to seven games!

Pressure was on. The final game played in Canada. Winner take all. Could the Dodgers take the trophy back to LA? Did the upstart Blue Jays have enough in them to beat the star-clad team from La-La Land? 

Stephanie appeared to be managing well, with support friends in the area. We made plans to drive home on Saturday. I hoped to arrive in time to watch the critical 7th game of the Series. 

Wrap Up

I drove back to Santa Cruz in a fury. "You rest, Honey." My nose and throat felt better. But I still had baseball fever.

Canadian Karla Courtney shows off sweater she knitted for good luck during Toronto Blue Jays playoff games and World Series, timed with finish of 7th Game. That's real fandom, and errr... fashion.

You've probably heard by now that the Dodgers won the 2025 World Series. But it required 11 innings in Game 7 to do it, before catcher Will Smith cracked a home run in the top of the inning and his teammates turned a crucial broken-bat double play in the bottom of the 11th that kept the hometown Jays from scoring. The 6th and 7th Games in Toronto were as close as baseball can be. All told, the Series consisted of 146 nail-biting innings . I believe the baseball gods favored the Dodgers for a reason. Maybe due to the many immigrants under duress in LA. I just wonder how many Angelenos stayed tuned when it appeared to be over for the Bums. Overall, the Series was a winner for baseball. It seemed fitting that a Japanese National, Dodger pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto, was named Most Valuable Player. He won three of the four games, plus relief in the final game, with an earned run average (ERA) of 1.03 (which is excellent).

After a long week of touching bases in California, we were safe at home.

Too Much Fun!

Art by Isabel Bryna

My daughter tells me that I need to change my frequency.

She blithely dances around her house singing amid bright colors and art, as if she were the star in a fantastical musical. She talks about moon phases and draws cosmic connections and spiritual symbols on canvas. 

I, on the other hand, issue warnings of doom and gloom due to our dictator president. 

She's tuned into the universe.

I'm tuned in to the next election.

I want to tell her that under a fascist government her art could be censored. It's a possibility, I want to say.

I realize she doesn't need to hear this, coming from an elder member of the old establishment. I think about how I tuned in, turned on and dropped out as a young man. That's how I arrived in Santa Cruz, at that time an enclave of post-Sixties hippies and progressive idealists. I lived on the fringe in a time warp.

Today I'm a doomsayer. I don't want to bum her trip. But...

What about AI? I ask.

She says it will never match the inner human spirit that is counterpoint and the essence of our spiritual being. Or something like that. She actually writes and publishes oracles. Her expressions exceed my simple understanding.

Each morning I bombard myself with negative energy of how the dictator has flaunted the law, extorted dollars, made himself richer while stealing medical care from ordinary folks. And so on and so forth. That's the job of a free press, to hold the government accountable.

But I believe my daughter is right. I need a new frequency in the greater cosmic universe. Regardless of who or where we are, the only thing we really have is time. This has become more obvious as I've watched friends pass into the next realm, whatever that is. 

With these meanderings in mind, following a day-long travel episode from the Hawaiian islands to the mainland, I had a dream unlike any other. I can best describe it as a psychedelic trip, with bending imagery and incredible audio depth. It was exhilarating.

I was throwing a party and many of my friends who have passed were in attendance. I wore a feather on my head and rode a galloping horse bareback over grassy, sloping grounds. I hugged the horse's neck whose head turned out to be Frida, my late, beloved German Shepherd. 

I greeted each of my guests with the two-finger peace sign and called: "Too Much Fun!" Which boomed out as if broadcast by loudspeaker. From their faces, surrounded by halos. I was feeling a new frequency.