The Los Angeles Times has a longish story/interview with Cheech Marin today,

Cheech — who will, ever and always, in spite of his many accomplishments, be known to Baby Boomers as stoner Cheech of Cheech and Chong — has written a memoir. So the article is about that, about his life, his eclectic passions, and more. Here’s a link to his book on Amazon, Cheech is Not my Real Name … But Don’t Call Me Chong.

And below is my favorite photo from the many printed in the Times.  Because I’m a Baby Boomer, and all Baby Boomers have a pony picture!

Back in the bad on’ days that we all miss, guys with camera and a Shetland pony roamed residential neighborhoods, stopping at houses and offering to take pictures of the kiddies on a pony for cheap. They had Western gear to dress up the kids: cowboy hats, kerchiefs, fringed vests, chaps. Everyone got a black and white photo, and everyone loved it … except, probably, the pony. But we never thought of that back then.

Here’s Cheech. I’m going to go look for my pony photo so I can scan it and post it here.

A friend is taking a series of high-priced classes to empower her. The classes teach her to build up a business and get people to sign up for her products. She tells me that fellow students have varied businesses. Some are life coaches and some are doing woo-woo stuff (my friend’s description). Some are selling technical skills and others are artists.

The teacher is great, I hear. Some million dollar figures are tossed around to describe her business and her home. My friend is trying to pull all this training and information together so she can start making money. The tech stuff – the social media posting and mailing lists, etc.-– is hard, but other than that, it’s just hustle. And my friend, a native New Yorker, knows how to hustle.

“I’d be dead,” I tell her. “I hate hustling.”

“I know. I can tell.” She admits she’s not crazy about hustling herself, but that’s what she’s gotta do. Hustle. Make those calls and get those people, those speaking gigs, those sales.

Know why I hate hustling? Because the core principle of hustling is manipulating another human being to enrich yourself, whether it’s good for her or not.

How is that right?

I hate being hustled; that’s probably why I loathe the idea of being the hustler. When someone hustles you, or pushes you, or manipulates you, you become a mark. Not a partner, not a fellow human being. Just a mark, to be used for their enrichment.  And the best hustlers, sadly, are the ones that look at you warmly, use your name, and treat you like you’re special.

That system sucks. We need a better one.

Here is a post from my History Los Angeles blog,  Links to stories about artist Janet Bennett, who says she designed the mosaic walls at Los Angeles International Airport in 1960, and I believe her; about the past and future of a Hollywood restaurant; about one of Hollywood’s first female executive producers; and some Really Cool Vintage Photos, like this from the 1880s (it’s Santa Monica, and that is a roller coaster).

Santa_Monica_roller_coaster, 2/13/14, 9:46 AM, 8C, 6778×7364 (147+1610), 100%, bent 6 stops, 1/25 s, R95.5, G76.3, B90.8

Just got comment cards back from my last talk on Baby Boomer Holiday Trivia (with pictures):

“Outstanding presentation in every way.”
“Wonderfully nostalgic!”
“Excellent & fun talk”

So nice to hear!

I gave a slide show (Power Point) presentation with pictures of aluminum Christmas trees, Shiny Brite ornaments, the Hollywood Santa Claus Lane Parade, Gene Autry’s album covers and Rudolph’s creator, Robert May, the original Chipmunks (not that cute), Slinky creator and family, Ginny, Barbie and the Bild Lili doll, and more. And I have stories–funny, sad, and true stories–about all of those things.

So if you’re in the Southern California area and need a speaker, drop me an email via the contact page and we can talk!

 

Fer yer eddificashun, from my other blog:

http://historylosangeles.blogspot.com/2017/03/los-angeles-past-and-future-and-theatres.html

A hundred years ago, lots of men and women made money by plugging songs. They were known as song pluggers.

Huh?

Yup; even George Gershwin did it in his early years, before his songwriting efforts took off like Seabiscuit at the starting bell. So what’s a song plugger?

Someone who, in the days before radio, stood on street corners or outside of stores, or even rose at the end of a Vaudeville show or movie, to belt out a tune that was for sale nearby. “For sale” meant as sheet music, to be played on piano. Remember, no radio, no recordings, very few records. The idea was to get that song to a customer’s ears. If they liked it, they’d hurry to Woolworth’s or a music store and plunk down a nickel for the 12 inch by 15 inch pamphlet of notes, and learn to play/sing it themselves. This was advertising before 1925, and a little bit after.

Easy work, if you’ve got a pair of lungs and a bit of nerve. Not sure how well it paid. Gershwin supposedly made $15 a week, as a 16-year-old kid. The profession  evolved into a pitchman-type of thing, but has mostly disappeared.

Today, we have jobs that people a hundred years ago could not have envisioned. Even fifty years ago. I’m not talking about the latest flavor of astrophysicist or network administrator; that high-tech and scientific jobs would get more specialized and complex IS predictable. But who could’ve foreseen, for example, that ordinary, middle-class folks would be hiring coaches to help them deal with life?

Life coach is a career path. It’s rather competitive now (so was song-plugging), but ever since Tony Robbins became famous and started pulling in bazillions o’ bucks for pumping up the rich and famous to perfect their craft/swing/tone and become more rich and famous, coaching has become a respectable way to make a living.

I know writers who pay to meet with coaches each week or two and be encouraged to set goals, make outlines, take x number of actions towards achieving said goals, or maybe just be gently chided for not fulfilling the promises of the previous meeting. Sometimes this graduates into buying packages of weekly online sessions or empowering weekends with a particular coach and other supplicants.

I also know mild, sweet people in the coaching business. They don’t rant and scream; they honestly want to help all their clients and make a living doing so. I see training programs for coaches offered. It’s a business, I fear, that is fast reaching the coach-client saturation point.

But it is a business no one saw coming.

Another example of a profession no one could have foreseen: Mata Amritanandamayi, the religious figure that gives hugs. Tens of millions have received her hugs; her entourage is apparently fifty strong. She works hard; hugging up to 15,000 people a day. Is there any precedence for such a career?

Is this a one-shot op? Maybe not. There’s a 7-year-old child traveling the USA giving hugs to policemen, supported by a GoFundMe account.

 

It seems that someone at Kohl’s assumes I am too overwhelmed by their incredible selection to figure out for myself how to keep track of the clothes I want to buy. How thoughtful of them to provide these guides:

Can I ask something naive?
What is attractive about this picture?  Or, in what alternate universe is this attractive?

This photo ad came up on my email. It’s for a not-so-cheap health club; I assume it’s aimed at men and women in their 20s and 30s. Maybe 40s. I would assume that Equinox and its ad agency feels the male and female bodies in the center of the photo are attractive to such potential customers.

So, male first:

In fact, let’s spend a short paragraph on the male to the far left. Do his six-pack abs look sprayed-on to you?

But the guy in the center … What is splattered across his chest to start with? And face? Mud? Blood? And while his arms and trunk show muscle tone, is it not verging on way-too-thin to be healthy? And the belt, so low, perhaps about to fall. Is this considered erotic? Because to me, an old lady, it looks pathetic. Like the guy is oblivious to his pants falling off.

Now the woman: compared to the men, she’s overdressed! So I assume this photo is aimed at those who like the male form.

Now the phones obscuring every face, and the magenta glare reflecting off every forehead. What is the point of all that?

How does anything in this photo contribute or uphold the phrase, “Commit to something?”

Commit to starvation? To enjoying a trance of oblivion instead of taking photos?

And what is the giant eye overhead supposed to mean?

And the phrase “Experience Equinox” cannot possibly mean that one would experience anything like what these people are undergoing and snapping at a gym.

This picture might be a good prompt for a creative writing group, but how does it pull me or anyone into an Equinox Fitness Club?

Don’t get it. Not sure I want to. Ads like this make me glad to be old; I don’t think I’d enjoy this performance scene even if I were 25.

Yesterday, laundering sheets and pillowcase, jammies and socks: when I opened the dryer, all of the socks (four pairs) came out together. Each one of a pair touching each other. Perfectly matched.

This has never happened before. I take it as a sign of miraculous synchronicity to come. That or aliens playing with the space-time continuum again.

Have you ever, after engaging in a conversation with someone, sudden choked on the growing realization that the person you’re talking to is not completely sane?

It’s always a shock, because we just don’t expect to be face to face with crazy, especially if it’s someone we know.

The worst instance was a telephone conversation at work, decades ago. OK, not face to face … thankfully. A salesman I knew, someone I’d gone to lunch with, called me and began to talk about his sister. How she’d been the victim of a crime, a brutal, sexual attack. His voice broke; he cried, apologized, and then went into the details. Graphic, gory details, until I cried, “Stop! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t listen to this!”

By then, a friend had come over because he could tell by my face that I was hearing something awful. It took a few moments to realize what had just happened. Then it took a few hours to sink in. I’d never heard the term “mind fuck” before, but add a scoop of blood-drenched shock and that’s what I was served up. I felt like a fool, because I’d let the man talk.

My friend called the boss, and we called the police. They didn’t treat me like a fool, thank goodness. The guy never came near me again; we learned from his boss (eventually) that mine was not the first complaint.

Like I said, that was the worst instance.

I’ve been creeped out by strangers who sat next to me, pointed out their former co-workers there, on the dance floor, and told me how they dreamed of getting a gun to punish them for the way they behaved. That happened twice, when I was young and went to dance clubs. What weird karma is that?

I was getting to know a friend who told me about her childhood in the south. Fun times, great conversation. Six months later I brought up an anecdote from that talk because it seemed appropriate. She stared at me like I was nuts. She’d never been to the south. She grew up in Arizona. Her partner, a long-time friend, told me later that such things happened to him too. She had alternate personalities that came out at times to tell stories about their lives.

A fellow writer, who was finally getting her magnum opus published, moved because of one neighbor who stalked her, stole her mail, and frightened her. Her friends heard about these incidents as they happened, every few weeks. Then the former neighbor showed up at her new place. She called the police, who referred her to a private detective. The detective made her a hat of sensors and wires to deflect the stalker’s probes.

At some point, you blink and realize there is no stalker, no stolen mail, no detective. What do you do then?

A smart, clever woman called to tell me she would no longer join our group at a restaurant because she’d heard us all talking about her, condemning her. It went round the table, those hissing rebukes. I tried to calm her, tell her that hadn’t happened. No one condemned her, but she wouldn’t believe me. A year or so later she was hospitalized with dementia and she died the first day of this year.

Last night I listened to an elderly woman, a casual acquaintance, who has been telling everyone for months about her computer viruses and problems, and who has blown off every suggestion that made sense. She told me about the sneaky hackers passing themselves off as Paypal investigators, about Microsoft ripping her off, about the bank lady telling her to take her accounts elsewhere because my friend keeps closing and opening new accounts as she’s hacked. The FBI is investigating, she’s been told. Has she called the police about this identity theft? No, because the FBI is handling it. She was told that. She never said by whom. Meanwhile, she’s cancelling all her plans for the weekend because the computer people may call her then and keep her on the phone for hours.

What do you do? When you’ve been listening to a woman talk for 45 minutes and never answer a direct question, but go round and round about these bad people who pass themselves off as good people, what?

We like to believe that the folks we know or meet see the same world we do, more or less. We seek common ground and build on it. When the person across from you begins to sink into quicksand, when their moaning and groaning crosses a line into paranoia, when their stories become confused and there’s no logic to the drama that keeps growing and expanding, it’s a threat, in a way. Crazy is close, it’s just across the table on on the other end of the phone.It’s grabbed hold of someone I know. How long has this been going on?

I no longer feel like a fool when someone fools me. It’s not about me at all. I also don’t often cut and run, unless the person speaking is a total stranger and getting away seems imperative..

I guess the answer to “What do you do?” is you listen and try to think of a way to help.