Don Ray's Friends and Hideaways

The Christmas Eve Giveaway

2011-12-25T01:15:00.000-08:00

It would never have occurred to me, but my old TV-news-writing associate, Frank Feldinger came up with the concept. You see, he was among the folks I invited to come to a food feast at Frank's Restaurant in Burbank earlier this month. Everyone knew it was my attempt to bring some business to the restaurant our family friend, Jose Lopez bought three years ago when Genio's Restaurant closed down. As you may know, my mom worked there for some 35 years. Jose was the head chef --- and a great friend to her and to me.

Wouldn't you know it, not long after Jose got his life-dream restaurant up and running, the economy collapsed, the rent went up and people started eating at home a lot more --- hence my attempt to lure people to Frank's so they could discover on their own the shockingly good food this food artist creates.

My friend Frank Feldinger couldn't make it to the gathering, so he suggested that maybe he could pay for a meal for someone else. Bingo. The idea was born. Before long, generous and caring people sent a combined $150 to me so that I could buy gift certificates and distribute them to people who wouldn't otherwise be able to go out for a great meal.

We decided to divide the donations into 15 gift certificates with a face value of $10. Today, I was the lucky guy who got to distribute them. As luck would have it, when I drove out of his driveway at 916 W. Olive Ave. in Burbank, I spotted a regular visitor to the nearby George Izay Park. The locals refer to her as the Cat Lady. She's a well-educated woman who somehow found herself down and out and, for whatever reason, couldn't muscle her way back up. She usually beds down in temporary shelters in helpful people's backyards, but spends her days at the park caring for a handful of feral cats that live there. I caught up with her a ways up the street and told her about my generous friends. She said that she didn't like to eat alone, but asked if they'd give her food to go in exchange for the gift certificate. She was pleased to find that they would. She said that some of her friends had purchased her two nights of lodging at a hotel for Christmas. The take-out meal would make it a true Christmas for her.

I drove for a while and encountered a friend named Alvin who was returning on his bicycle with food he'd bought at the 99 Cents Only store for his 94-year-old mother. I flagged him down and asked if he could recommend someone worthy of the food script. He pointed me in the direction of an auto-repair garage that was allowing a down-and-out man to sleep at night. I returned to the park where I hooked up with a handful of homeless friends. One of them was willing to take some of the certificates to Frank's and buy food for everyone in the group. They ended up feasting on hamburgers, fries and soft drinks.

Next, I drove to that garage and met the man Alvin had mentioned. Alvin rode up on his bike and I gave them each a certificate. Next, I looked up a hard-working friend who I had heard had recently landed a minimum wage job that would allow him to lodge there as well. It was good to see that he had finally found a roof under which he could sleep. He was caring for a couple that are both confined to wheelchairs. He was helping them wrap Christmas gifts when I arrived.

Finally, I drove to the Salvation Army Family Store and strolled around until I found a likely family. The young woman was clearly building a tricycle motor (slang for "expecting a baby") and the man I thought was her husband was trying on shoes. It turns out he's her brother, but they were pleased to be able to use the remaining four gift certificates to take their struggling parents out for a meal.

I stopped back at Frank's in the late afternoon and was pleased to see that Alvin and his struggling friend were feasting on barbecued pork ribs and a patty melt. I felt particularly good when I returned to my office to start making gifts for my wife and son. Don't tell them, but I printed some great family photos on canvas and made them into three-dimensional, box-like photographs. I wish I could give more, but this just isn't the year for it.

Oh, by the way, thanks to Frank Feldinger and the other anonymous folks who decided to help a restaurant by helping some needy customers. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of my friends and family!

The Amazing Case of "Skinny Dude", the Hyperventilating Prisoner

2011-11-09T16:20:00.000-08:00

Nearly 40 years ago, I worked for the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, the law enforcement branch of the Postal Service. I went from being a Postal Police Officer to working in the Mail Fraud section in the Los Angeles Division and eventually ended up in charge of screwing up the expense account reimbursements for the Postal Inspectors there. I also messed up business card orders and pretty much proved that I my heart was not in procurement or administration. It was somewhere else. Hence, I became a journalist and haven't regretted it since. I have fond memories, however, of some of the colorful characters who were chasing down the crooks who committed Postal Service-related crimes.

My fondest memories are of Inspector Boyd Manes, a "good old boy" from Texas who had (and still has) a knack for telling stories about his adventures and misadventures. Today he sent me an e-mail with a story of two long days on the job. He gave me permission to share it with my friends. I took the liberty of removing any names, except for his, that is. The ending belongs in a film comedy. Enjoy:

Shortly after my female partner was assigned to work with me at Orange County, CA, we encountered a somewhat bizarre case that was in a nutshell HYPERVENTILATION! It all started with a phone call, as a lot of cases did.

A Huntington Beach Letter Carrier called my office to report that a man had driven off in his Postal Jeep while he, the carrier, was in a store delivering the mail. He was quick to tell me that the Postal Jeep was visible to him thru the glass front of the store at all times. The rules are to take the keys, and lock the vehicle door while away from the vehicle. Could he describe the thief?....Not really, he was a man; Have the local Police been notified? Yes, the store owner called the Police as I was calling you.

I asked my Secretary to telephone the Huntington Beach Police Watch Commander, and advice that we were en route, and we would like to be notified through my radio dispatch if and when Patrol spotted an errant Jeep. At that point neither the carrier nor I knew the number of the Jeep. My office was about 10 miles from the Shopping Center where the theft occurred. My partner and I headed out within minutes.

The missing Jeep was found soon after the theft. A Mall Security guard spotted what he thought was a young kid driving a Postal Jeep vehicle erratically through the Mall toward Beach Boulevard, with no apparent attempt to stop and deliver mail.

We never made it to interview the carrier as we learned via 2-way radio that the Postal jeep had been stopped and the driver was being transported to the Huntington Beach jail. We did not get to see, or participate in the chase, either. We heard the story of the chase when we arrived at the Huntington Beach Police Dept. a few minutes later.

The thief had progressed to Beach Blvd, a major highway, with 3 and sometimes 4 lanes on each side of the raised Blvd. There are also turn lanes at all intersections that are controlled by traffic signals. The arresting Police Officers told us the chase never exceeded the 40 mph. speed limit; however, they had a hard time stopping the Jeep. It was surrounded by other vehicles, and the driver was oblivious to the red lights behind him. The first responding patrolman did not want to jump out of his vehicle while everyone was stopped at a red light. But soon back-up arrived.

Within a few more blocks the policemen positioned four patrol cars in front of, to the rear of, and one on each side of the suspect Postal jeep. The citizens all hung back when the 5-unit caravan slowed to a stop. The offender was removed from the Postal jeep. The jeep was pushed aside to allow traffic to move again. I never did know how the carrier got connected with his vehicle and mail to resume delivery. Maybe the Postmaster fired him. He should have. Anyway, I was busy with a mail thief and/or a postal vehicle thief, as I learned later that the Huntington Beach Police wanted no part of this guy. They had handled him before.

The offender had two prior incident reports by Huntington Beach PD. Each occurred when the offender ordered a meal in a restaurant and had no money to pay for the meal. In both cases, the offender “became faint” causing the proprietor to call an ambulance, after which the offender was hauled away. We decided not to try to interview him in that he had told the police: “I took the car to drive to the Immigration Office to tell them I was ready to be deported to my country.” This was a pretty profound statement for one who is caught red-handed in a stolen vehicle.

After getting all the information we needed for a complaint to present to an Asst. US Attorney, we went to the jail and placed a "Hold for Postal Inspectors" on the offender. By doing this, the offender could not be released on payment of any bond for up to three days. We either had to pick the prisoner up within three days or remove the Hold. Also within the same three days, the Police would have had to file charges with a local district attorney and set bond or release the prisoner. We told the jailer that we would pick up the prisoner the following day at 8:30 am.

That afternoon, I roughed out notes that would make up the Complaint. It is a signed and sworn to statement of the probable cause to make the arrest and began prosecution. A final copy would be completed later at the Asst. US Attorney’s direction. I telephoned a complaint attorney at Los Angeles Federal Court House. He readily authorized prosecution.

The next day, we saw the offender for the first time, when we picked him up. “No, sir, you are not going to the Immigration Office; you are going to Federal Court for arraignment, i.e. (1) setting of bond, and (2) setting a court date for your prosecution on charges as yet to be determined, but relating to theft of US property, namely the U.S. Postal jeep”. There was no need for any other talk.

I cannot recall the arrestee’s name. I will call him Skinny Dude. I later learned he weighed only 80 to 85 pounds. I believe he was of Far Eastern descent, but I do not recall the country he wanted to “get back to.” The 45-minute ride to Los Angeles was uneventful. I drove the government vehicle; my partner and Skinny Dude rode in the back seat, which is the approved way to transport prisoners. I don’t think we handcuffed him, but prisoners are required to be handcuffed when they are turned over to the US Marshals, who maintain the jail cells in the Federal Court Building.

At a private door on the first floor, I handcuffed Skinny Dude. I rang the door bell, and announced, “Two Postal Inspectors with a prisoner!” The door opened; we went in to a brightly lit room with rows of jail cells along one wall, containing prisoners awaiting a court date, and a host of U.S. Marshals, all wearing the standard dress blue jackets. I marched Skinny Dude forward to a steel bared door held open by a US Marshal. I turned to show my partner where to find the paperwork to fill out while the U.S. Marshal patted down the prisoner and took off my handcuffs.

I turned around just in time to see the U.S. Marshal sliding my handcuffs under the cell door on the cement, and just in time to see Skinny Dude suddenly stiffen and fall over backwards just like a tree in a forest falls when the chain saw makes the final cut at the bottom of the tree. It seemed as if his buttocks, shoulder blades and the back of his head all hit the floor simultaneously. It was about 9:30 am. Paramedics were called. Skinny Dude was not bleeding; his vital signs were good. He had HYPERVENTILATED, they said!

Even though Skinny Dude was in the U.S. Marshall lock-up, and I had my handcuffs, the U.S. Marshal would not take custody and said that one of us had to stay with Dude, until he recovered on his own. The paramedics had no idea when or how that would happen. My partner had not done a federal complaint before, and also did not want to go into a cell with Dude and baby-sit while I did it. Bottom line was it had to be one or the other. So I dragged Dude into a cell and the Marshals locked us in while my partner went upstairs to complete the paperwork for the arraignment. Dude was not talking; he looked as if he was only sleeping peacefully.

The sitting U.S. Magistrate usually closed the court for lunch and reconvened at 2:30 pm. Around lunchtime, my partner showed up with a sandwich of some type for me and one for Dude. Dude was still out. My partner reported that a complaint atty. had promised to help her with the complaint during lunch, and we may make the 2:30 pm docket. At 2:30, I was still sitting in the cell, and Dude was still lying on the floor, totally immobile. However, I was beginning to steam.

When the docket was called, my partner tried to arraign Skinny Dude while he was absent. The Magistrate would have no part in that and continued the matter until 4:30 pm. Maybe Dude will wake up by then. We were not that lucky.

At about 5:00 pm, the court closed and everybody but my partner, Skinny Dude, and I, went home, I guess. The Marshals would not transport Skinny Dude to the Los Angeles, county jail, only about 15 blocks away for overnight lodging. So my partner went to get our government car, brought it to the prisoner loading dock, rang a U.S. Marshal, to let me out, after which I physically carried Skinny Dude to our car, and gently put him in the back seat. He did not wake up.

The LA County Men’s jail had a huge fence around the rear entrance. We went in, parked in the spots for automobiles, whereupon, I asked my partner to help me carry Dude in. She refused; “You can do it Boyd, you carried him out of the Lock-up.” I was still steamed, but now I am also getting upset. I grabbed Dude by the belt, drug him out of the car, and carried him as if he was a sack of potatoes into the booking area with Dude’s hands and feet dragging the ground. I was fast losing my compassion for Skinny Dude, and my patience with my partner.

While I was trying to explain to the Deputy Sheriff booking officer why Skinny Dude could not stand up on his own, but he will be all right, I heard my partner exclaim, “Boyd , look at that; look at all those nice looking butts lined up against the wall.” I turned to see that my partner was looking beyond two sets of bars to a wall where two Deputy Sheriffs had 40 or more inmates lined up facing a wall with their pants and shorts dropped. One Deputy was carrying a box of plastic gloves and a wastebasket; The other was systematically donning a fresh glove, inserting a finger into the rectum of an inmate, checking for drugs or illegal items, as the two Deputies moved down the line. These inmates had just arrived from court.

That really ticked me off. Furthermore, the booking officer asked me, “Who in Hell is that? Is she with you? In his next breath he told me to get Dude out of here. "We only accept walking inmates. You need to go to the County Hospital, 13^th floor jail ward to book this prisoner." I grabbed Dude, the potato sack, and headed out to our car. By this time, I did not care if my partner went with me or not. I considered her to be useless. She caught up, however, and dutifully got in the back seat with the potato sack.

I had never before booked anyone into the Hospital jail ward, but it was a funny, and memorable, experience. That is why I am writing this story. Anyway, at the back dock of the Hospital, I rang the bell and was directed to place the prisoner on a wheeled gurney that was parked nearby. This was a big help for me. I complied, and we were admitted to an elevator. On the 13^th floor I saw that a view of the back dock was recorded on camera.

The jail ward was a busy place. A doctor came up and made a quick examination of Dude and then left. We were told to leave Dude on the gurney until the nurses had time to look at him. Hours later, I think at about 9:00 pm, two nurses showed up. One unbuckled Dude’s belt, and then pulled his pants and shorts down to below his crouch. The other patted Dude’s cheeks. The two nurses preformed a trick in concert, which tickled the heck out of me. While one opened Dude’s mouth and inserted a small flat board down Dude’s throat momentarily, the other Nurse grabbed Dude’s testicular area then jerked them downward towards Dude’s knees.

Just as if on queue, Skinny Dude sat up, looked around at the two nurses and said something to them. The nurse with the flat board left immediately. The other nurse swung Dude’s legs off the side of the gurney, asked Dude to stand up, kind of pulled Dude’s pants up, and held them up with one hand while putting her other arm around Dude’s shoulders, and together they slowly walked down the hall, talking to each other as if they were old friends, to where I do not know. But, I knew one thing; I was mighty glad to see Skinny Dude walk away. The end of HYPERVENTILATION!

The Sergeant at the booking desk had been chatting with my partner for quite some time at this point. He told me, “OK we have him; you can take off. I can imagine that the approximately 45-minute trip back to Orange County was pretty icy. I was not very happy!

Some old aerials that show amazing change.

2011-10-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

It was in 1978 that I hitched a couple of rides on one of LAPD's helicopters. The then-observer-later-pilot, Ed Reece was cool enough to allow us to fly over the places I used to hang out.

I had apartments in two of the three apartment buildings in the foreground, Bunker Hill Towers. This was during that time when the once-magnificant Victorian mansions-turned-slums had already become victims of the bulldozers. This shot is looking east in the late afternoon. First Street is on the left, the Harbor Freeway (110 to newcomers or young folks) is along the bottom. You can see Second Street appearing from the west end of the Second Street Tunnel at Figueroa Street. ON the right, Third Street heads west into its own tunnel. The south edge of the DWP building is on the left border, across Hope Street from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The World Trade Center is on the right of the photo, with its elevated walkway to the Bunker Hill Towers complex. The tall building was, at the time, called the Security Pacific Bank Building. The same view today would include the Disney building, a whole bunch of banks and office towers and hotels on both sides of Grand Ave.

Back when bunker hill was much more of a hill, and when the wealthy lived in the fancy homes, Grand Avenue had a different name. It was called Charity Street. It ran parallel to Hope Street. Hope and Charity. Clever, huh? Well, that came to an end when the high-brow residents of the city's most exclusive neighborhood petitioned the city to change the name. It seems that they didn't like telling their friend that they lived on Charity. True story.

This is another view of Bunker Hill Towers in the shadows of the Security Pacific Bank Building. The DWP building is on the back side of the tallest Bunker Hill Towers building. Figueroa Street heads north and then northwest after it crosses under First Street. My first apartment was on the 19th floor of the tallest of the three apartment buildings. Then I moved to the one in the center that was on the 6th floor.

The view shows what was then called the One Bunker Hill Building bounded by Hope Street in the foreground, Fourth Street to the left, Fifth Street to the right and Grand Avenue in the background. You'll recognize the Bonaventure Hotel (now Omni?) peeking up from the bottom, the Los Angeles Main Library (before the fire and the remodeling) to the right and the Crocker National Bank Building towering up on the right. Between the library and the Crocker building is the building that housed The Church of the Open Door. You may remember the "Jesus Saves" sign atop it. This was the original location of Biola University, I believe. It's now located in La Mirada, but Biola originally stood for Bible Institute of Los Angeles. Kitty corner from the One Bunker Hill Building is the Biltmore Hotel before they built their tower in that empty spot at the corner of Fifth Street and Grand Avenue. The brightly lighted building with the tower was then known as the Pacific Telephone Building, I believe. On the opposite side of the Biltmore Hotel, of course, is Pershing Square, which is bounded by Hill Street, Olive Street, Fifth Street and Sixth Street.

The One Bunker Hill Building at Fifth and Grand was originally the Edison Building. It was the headquarters of Southern California Edison. In the 1930s when they built it, it was the largest all-electric, steel-framed building in the world. Across Grand Avenue from the Edison Building was the Grand Central Garage. When it opened in 1921, it's promoters tauted it as "The World's Largest Garage.

My girlfriend's father, Bob Ishigaki worked as a low-level bookkeeper for the postmaster. He was allowed to park in the big garage. The postmaster was baffled when he watched Bob drive his Oldsmobile into the entrance and get out. An attendant would then drive Bob's car to the top floor for him. When Bob got off work, his car would be waiting for him on the bottom floor, motor running. The postmaster was baffled that he, himself didn't get that kind of service. What the boss didn't know is that, every morning, Bob left a big, delicious, warm pastry on the front seat. You'll see an image of Bob down below.

Special thanks to the Automobile Club of Southern California and its library staff for providing me

of copies of these two ads from Touring Topics, as Westways was called back in the 1920s.

In the upper-right corner of the photo, on Olive Street near Fifth Street, you can still see the oblong-shaped Philharmonic Auditorium that was built in 1906 and razed in 1985. The H-shaped building in the foreground of the Edison Building was the Engstrom Apartments on what was then Upper Fifth Street. I worked for the U.S. Postal Inspectors in 1970s when its Division Headquarters were on the second floor of the One Bunker Hill (Edison) Building. Behind the Engstom Apartments was another former Edison Building where some of us would park. There was an enclosed foot bridge that took us to one of the upper floors of the One Bunker Hill Building. Before the Main Library arrived in the lower right corner of the photo, this was the site of the California State Normal School, the early teacher's college. It would move to where Los Angeles City College is now, before it moved to Westwood as UCLA.

Yet another view of the Edison Building and the Engstrom Apartments. In this view, you can see the elevated, covered walkway that took employees to the main building from the second Edison building and the indoor and outdoor parking buildings.

Before I worked with the U.S. Postal Inspectors, I was a Postal Police Officer on the graveyard shift here at the Terminal Annex Post Office at 900 N. Alameda Street. It's next to Union Station. The mail trains would arrive behind the building. During the journey, postal clerks rode the trains and sorted the mail before it arrived in Los Angeles. They did this until the late '60s. I started working there on November 20, 1971.

OK, I think everyone is retired by now and the statute of limitations has passed. This is the home of my longtime friend Cindi Ishigaki's parents, Kiko and Bob Ishigaki. Kiko's brother, Tom, proudly displayed an aerial photo of his peach farm and farmhouse near Fresno. I coaxed the LAPD pilot to venture out of Los Angeles so that we could provide the Ishigakis with an aerial photo of their house on College View Street in Monterey Park. Bob is standing outside wondering why an LAPD is orbiting around the house. Kiku is tending to the bushes near the walkway to the front door. I spent probably half of my weekends at their home over the span of 19 years. Before her parents passed away in the late '90s, they were like parents to me.

If you have any questions or comments, please post them here. If you have trouble, just click on the headline above (Some old aerials that show amazing change) and you should be able to then scroll to the bottom of the page and post your comments or questions.

If you want to learn more about the history of Los Angeles, I recommend these books:

Misguided loyalties: An open letter I hope will produce a great cop!

2011-09-21T20:52:00.000-07:00

To the young, hopeful police cadet at the public counter:

Young man,

I applaud your desire to be a uniformed police officer. I’m certain – 100% certain – that you are motivated by goodness and for all of the right reasons. I hope that you accept this message with the knowledge that I, and the rest of the community, hope that you become a model public servant at a time we really need model public servants.

First of all, I hope you will believe that you were, in many ways, a victim today.

You were the victim of a very common phenomenon among corporations, organizations and public agencies. As my wonderful and brilliant friend, Barbara Quint, says, “They make the mistake of putting the least experienced and least knowledgeable people on the skin of the organization facing outward --- they ask them to answer the phones or greet the customers.

When your superiors read this criticism of them, they won’t feel good, but those with wisdom and a good grip on reality will agree with me. They’re not likely to admit it, but I know they are also good people who entered law enforcement for the right reasons.

What happened today in the lobby of the police department was absolutely wrong and absolutely unnecessary. The problem is that you were put in an important position, but they didn’t arm you with the skills that are mandatory if you’re planning to be an effective law enforcement officer. They put you on the counter and then failed to offer you the support you must have. They put you n the counter and failed to either teach you or convince you that your job is to serve the public. So I have sympathy for you. I’m very unhappy with the policy that put you in that uncomfortable position. I hope, however, that this detailed letter will offer you information that you will treasure in the future. For a few days it’s going to trouble you probably. It should. If it doesn’t, you might question whether you’re in the right field.

The woman came to your window with two problems. The first and most difficult problem for her was that she doesn’t speak English. OK, she spoke enough English to say to you, “I don’t speak English.” I’m sure she repeated that well-practiced line at least a dozen times during her troubling time at the police department.

Right off the bat, when someone says they don’t speak English, please believe them. As you’ll see in today’s horrible newscasts about the Fullerton Police officers charged with murder and manslaughter, sometimes things get out of hand when they shouldn’t.

When someone says they don’t speak English, the first thing you should do is to understand that this is the time that, if you say anything, you should say it clearly and with good diction. The response, “You’re speaking English to me now,” is not a good response. When you learned what language she spoke, you did the right thing by trying to find designated interpreter in your department for that language.

Here’s where the department let you down. The designated interpreter wasn’t in the building. You spoke with someone on the phone who apparently said they’d help her on the black telephone in the lobby. The poor woman stood with her ear to that phone for more than five minutes, occasionally saying, “Hello? Hello?”

How long should a customer who has no clue what’s going on have to wait for someone who doesn’t pick up the phone before you realize that it’s time to find another solution to the problem? In my opinion, you should have been trying something else after about a minute or two.

That’s when I asked you if there’s something else you could do to solve the problem. Yes, I asked it a lot of different ways, but you answered it pretty much the same way. Your response was that there was nothing you could do about it.

That’s where you make the fatal mistake. Yes, I could blame the department for hanging you out to dry or for not empowering you to think outside the booth and solve a simple problem.

To make it clear, the problem was that she speaks a language that you don’t speak. I don’t speak that language either, but I know for a fact that there are many, many people working for your city who do speak that language. I found a good candidate on your bulletin board. There was one commander listed who I could tell speaks that language.

However, when it was clear that you were immobilized by the problem, I used my cell phone to call a friend who lives and works in New York City. She speaks the language. It wasn’t difficult for me to brief her, hand the phone to the elderly woman who doesn’t speak English, learn from my friend what the woman needs and then tell you, the person at the public counter.

Thank heavens the problem wasn’t one of life or death. She simply wanted to contest a citation. Heck, I could take over from there. I know all about how to do it. You do it at the courthouse. But then she pulled out the parking ticket and I knew that she was in the right place – at least the right place to start.

Here’s your second mistake, in my opinion. You said something akin to “Why didn’t you tell me it was about a parking ticket.” Do you remember her response? I do.

“I don’t speak English.”

You pointed toward the traffic window and suggested she get the form to fill out. Her reply?

“I don’t speak English.”

So I took her down there so I could tell the person at that window what the problem was. You did something then that I applaud. You also walked to the window and handed her the form she would need to contest the citation.

Of course, the form was in English. I asked her if you might have it in her language, but you told me there isn’t one in her language. Then she looked at the form.

“I don’t speak English.”

I came up with a plan that would help her, but first I returned to your window to express how disappointed I was in what I had just witnessed. This is the part where I wish you had listened, but I believe you were more motivated to prove your innocence. That’s normal.

But here’s the message that I gave you. Your job as a policeman or a police cadet is to serve the people – to solve their problems. As I said to you, your career as a police officer is mostly about solving people’s problems. When I you said there was nobody in the building that speaks her language, I reminded you that one of the commanders certainly must speak that language. Your reply was something like, “He’s probably busy.”

That’s where the message became very, very clear. You are more afraid to bother a commander than you were to throw your hands up and say to the woman (who doesn’t speak English) that she’s not important.

This is the part where I reminded you that you work for her. You work for me. You work for every person in the city. You are a public servant – not a commander servant. Now, in all fairness, as I mentioned, you were set up. If the administration of your department were to remember who they work for, they would have said something to like:

“Young man, our job is to protect and serve people. We work for them. We have powers that they don’t have and they rely on us to solve their problems. Some are about protecting them from danger, but most of them are about helping them with something we have the ability to help them with. So when you work the public counter, please remember that we expect you to go out of your way to help the people for whom we work. We need their support. We need to spread the word that, in the end, we’re here for them. You’re a cadet, so it’s understandable that there are many things that you don’t know. It’s not easy working a desk when you don’t have the training and experience that the rest of us have. So because of that, you need to know that you are only a phone call away from the dispatcher, the supervisor, and, if necessary, the watch commander. In fact, I’ve instructed every employee here to be at your beck and call if you’re with a member of the public who has a problem that you can’t solve on your own. Just let us know and we’ll jump to help you. After all, we work for the public.

“Now, if you can’t reach the supervisor or the watch commander, then here are the phone numbers of all of the commanders. You should not be left alone to solve problems that you’re not empowered to handle. Don’t ever be afraid to call on anyone you think might be able to help you solve that problem.

“But most important, don’t leave a customer hanging! Never! Some will be difficult, some will be bellicose, some will be confused and some will speak no English. It’s your job to facilitate the solution to their problems.”

But I doubt that you got this message from the supervisors, watch commanders, commanders and others who work for me --- and for that elderly woman who doesn’t speak English.

Here’s a great way of handling situations when you don’t know what to do next. Just say, “I’m not sure how to solve this problem, but I promise you I’m going to get an answer right away!” It works every time. The message is, “I’m on your side and we’re going to solve this problem together. After all, I work for you and you expect police people to be there for you.”

When I worked in law enforcement, there were many people who called us when they should have been calling someone else. I could have said, “That’s not our department,” and told them to call someone else. Instead I’d say to people calling us, “Is this a toll call for you? Let me call you back right now so it’s not costing you anything.” Then I’d call them back and say, “I’m not the right person, but I’m not going to get off this phone until I know that I’ve put you in direct contact with the right person in the right agency.”

Then I’d give them my name and direct phone number in case we got cut off. Next, I’d ask them to stay on the line while I found the right person. When I found the right person, I’d let them know that I was putting them in touch with a customer who has had the run-around. Then I’d personally introduce the customer to the right person.

Even though I’m no longer in law enforcement, I still knew there was a way of solving this woman’s problem. I called my friend in New York again and asked her to tell the woman that I was going to take her across the street to get help from a retailer I know who speaks her language. He was happy to help the woman. Together, the three of us filled in her request for an administrative review of her parking citation and he instructed her to walk back to your building and drop it off. It wasn’t that difficult.

You could have arranged a similar meeting by calling anyone in City Hall who speaks the language. Anyway, it’s not hard to solve problems when you:

1) Have the desire to solve the problems, and

2) Have the authority to solve reasonable problems, and

3) You will never allow yourself to say, “I can’t help you.”

Just so you’ll know, I’ve trained thousands of law enforcement folks and conducted customer service training for many law enforcement people. I made contact with your chief within the last year. I offered to volunteer my time and services to help your department.

The chief passed me off to someone else and that’s where the whole thing died. It’s a shame. Maybe you would have already received the training I was offering.

I leave you with one question: If you were in charge, what changes would you make to prevent this kind of problem in the future? I have a few ideas. I’m positive that if you presented these (or your own) suggestions to your administrators, they’d respond in a positive way. There was a time when suggestions scared people in power, but I want to believe that the leaders in your city are different. Here’s what I’d suggest:

Get a listing of every city employee in the area who speaks any other language and deputize them as public servants in your department.

There are notices on your bulletin board that are encouraging citizens to learn about police work in your city --- it even suggests they could volunteer after their 13-week orientation. Why not suggest that they post one of those invitations in each language that people speak in your city.

How about a phone line that connects with outside contractors who speak different languages? In a major emergency, it would be worth the cost. And everyone who comes to your department knows that there’s a lot of money available. Why not buy a service. Suppose you suggest that.

One last thing. After the elderly woman and I left the building, I understand that some of the witnesses to our encounter expressed their opinions (negative opinions) about people who speak the language that the woman speaks. I really hope that you didn’t say or do anything that suggested that you agree with those people. You know that you could quickly lose your job if anyone witnessed such a response.

I hope you take this in the spirit in which I’m sharing it. I want to believe that you’ll never forget this lesson and that it nudges you in the direction of being the best public servant this city has ever seen.

Sincerely

Don Ray

My Fair Lady; Presenting Mary Cotter

2011-09-19T05:32:00.000-07:00

Here's the best reason I could give for you to visit the Los Angeles County Fair this year: Her name is Mary Cotter. She's only 98 years old. I say "only" because she has more life in her than most anybody I've met. The people at the Department of Motor Vehicles know what I mean. When they renewed her driver's license recently they said to her, "Mary, you don't need to return here until you turn 103." I literally caught up with her on her way to ceremonies honoring her for the thousands of hours she's volunteered taking care of "those youngsters" at the Montclair Senior Center.

I sure wish I could write this good:

2011-09-11T00:41:00.000-07:00

I'm a real fan of this guy's writing. When he sent it time me, I couldn't stop reading it until I was wiping tears away at the end. OK, I'm envious and I wish I could write this well. I love the way he re-creates his childhood. It's as if I'm witnessing the whole thing. I hope you enjoy this.

can't quite remember when I turned against the idea of war, but I'm sure it had something to do with the fact that I didn't want to die. From pretty much the sixth grade on, I was firmly, solidly, against dying.

But up until then, I spent many years dying with verve in our neighborhood. The favorite game to play on our street was War. It beat Bloody Murder by a mile because it had weapons. Bloody Murder was really just a game of hide-and-seek (when you found the person hiding, you would yell "Bloody murder!" and everyone would try to make it back to touch the home pole before those who were hiding could tag you).

War was the real deal - and girls couldn't play. The rules were simple. A group of boys, ages four to ten, would divide up into two groups: the Americans and the Germans. We each had our own set of toy machine guns, rifles, and bazookas. I was much admired for my fine stash of hand grenades that came complete with the pin you could pull out as you tossed it, accompanied by a very loud "explosion" that would come out of my mouth.

None of us minded whether we were chosen to be a German or an American - we already knew who was going to win. It became less about winning and more about coming up with creative and entertaining ways to kill and be killed. We studied Combat and Rat Patrol on TV. We asked our dads for ideas but none of us got much help as they didn't seem to want to talk about their war experiences. We all imagined our fathers as well-decorated war heroes, and it was just assumed that if we ever had to go to war we would be every bit the brave defenders of freedom they were.

I was particularly good at dying, and the other kids loved machine-gunning me down. Especially if I was playing a German; I'd stand for as long as I could, taking as many of their bullets as I could, and, long before Sam Peckinpah arrived on the scene, I was going down in a slow-motion agony that gave all the other boys a thrill for offing my sorry Nazi ass. And when I hit the ground, I'd roll over a couple times and, in a fit of spasms, I would expire. As I lay there, eyes open, motionless, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction that I played an important role in seeing one more nasty Nazi bite the dust.

But when I played an American, I would try to stay alive as long as possible. I would find some way to sneak in behind enemy lines, hide in a tree, and then take out as many of the Germans as I could. I especially loved lobbing the grenades from above; it was so upsetting to the "Nazi" boys who could not figure out where all these little bombs were coming from. I would make sure to leave one or two of them alive so they could shoot me. Then I could die a hero's death, cut down in my prime, maybe taking one last "Nazi" with me as I fell on them, pulling the pin off my final grenade, blowing both of us to bits as we hit the ground.

But by 1966, as the pictures on the evening news seemed nothing like what we were acting out on our little dirt street, "playing" war became less and less fun. These soldiers on TV were really dead - bloody and dead, covered in mud, then covered by a tarp, no slow-motion heroics provided. The soldiers who remained alive, they looked all scared and disheveled and confused. They smoked cigarettes, and not one of them looked like he was having much fun. One by one, the boys in the neighborhood put away their toy guns. No one said anything. We just stopped. There was homework and chores to do, and girls seemed distantly interesting. The Americans won The Big War That Counted, and that was enough.

By the summer after seventh grade our family left the dirt street and moved on to a paved one – the very street that we lived on when I was born. I started to think a lot about the Vietnam War that summer, and most of what I thought about wasn't good. I did the math and I realized I was just five years away from draft age! And it was becoming clear that this war was not going to be over anytime soon.

Mrs. Beachum was our afternoon lay teacher in eighth grade. Because our nun was also the Mother Superior for the school, she taught us only in the morning. Her afternoons were spent on her administrative duties and doling out the necessary disciplinary measures to the fallen ones among us.

Mrs. Beachum was black. There were no other teachers and only three black kids in the entire school - and perhaps because their last name was JuanRico, we somehow convinced ourselves they weren't really black, probably Cuban or Puerto Rican! One of the boys was called Ricardo and the other was named Juan. See - not Negro! They were popular, and their parents were at every event helping out in any way that they could.

But Mrs. Beachum was definitely black. There was no getting around it. Her skin was nearly as dark as coal, and she spoke in a Southern dialect none of us were familiar with. Not a day would pass where she wouldn't say to one of us in her distinctive Southern black accent, "Don't be facetious, child!" We had no idea what that meant, but we just loved the sound of it. She had a body that was not covered by a nun's habit, and I would not be surprised if, in 1967, I wasn't the only boy in our class whose first "dream" had the good fortune of Mrs. Beachum playing a significant role in it.

But in our waking hours we did not sexualize her, as none of us wanted to deal with that in the confessional booth. Plus, the Mother Superior kept a strict and watchful eye on our puberty and its progress, and she made sure to spend time reminding each gender in the class just how much we could trust the other gender - which was, to put it simply, not a lot. Since fifth grade, the two genders of our class did their best to put down or ridicule each other, and by the time we were thirteen or fourteen, we had developed enough of a vocabulary and a streak of meanness to slice and dice the opposing side with plausible gusto. The girls were most fond of pointing out the boys who had hygiene issues, and they would anonymously leave a can of Ban deodorant on the locker of the offending boy for all to see. The boys had already picked up on the girls' sensitivity to their growing (or not-so-growing) breasts. One boy had swiped his older sister's falsies and they were thus left on the desks of those girls who had failed to blossom rapidly enough to match the ones we saw in Mike McIntosh's Playboys.

This was how we spent our mornings in eighth grade, fighting back the heat inside with some church-sanctioned cool cruelty - all done with the good intention, I am sure, to keep us out of trouble and way out of wedlock.

After lunch, though, it was all jazz.

Mrs. Beachum would have none of this "boys versus girls" stuff. She believed in "love" and "being in love," and though we couldn't quite put our finger on it, years later we knew she was also the only teacher in the school making love (or so we wanted to think). When she taught us history, she made the characters come alive.

"What do y'all know about Teapot Dome!" she'd say, never meaning it as a question. We had no thoughts about Teapot Dome, but we knew we were going to hear a sassy story about it.

"Warren G. Harding - uh-huh! He sure was sumpin'! Scandal? Lordy, he wrote the book on it!"

Every class was like this.

"Lemme hear some sweet poetry today, children! Who's written a poem just for me?" Oh, believe me, we were all writing poems. She had us rhyming and she taught us rhythms, and sometimes she would take our poem and sing it back to us. Every once in a while, the Mother Superior would stick her head in to see what was going on. She didn't object, just as long as the boys were still sitting on one side of the room and girls were on the other. Her tacit approval of Mrs. Beachum's methods made us less worried for her, and it relaxed the room to the point where on the day Mrs. Beachum proposed her Big Idea, there was surprisingly little objection among us.

"I think it's time to teach y'all a little manners! You ever hear of 'etiquette'?"

We had heard of it but certainly had never been practitioners of it.

"Well, boys and girls, I think it's time we all went out to dinner with each other and learn how proper people do things! Boys, I want you each to pick a girl to be your dinner partner. Then for the next three weeks we'll all learn proper table manners. When we're ready, we'll go to Frankenmuth for one of those famous fried chicken dinners!"

Of course, what she had in mind wasn't "learnin' manners" or "etiquette." She was going to teach us how to date. I'm sure she had to sell this idea to the authorities without saying the word date, and I guess they saw nothing wrong with us knowing which one was the salad fork and understanding how the releasing of toxic gasses during a meal was not how God expected us to enjoy the fruits of his earth.

The twenty-seven of us in Mrs. Beachum's class had just been told that nature's gates could now be opened. For a few minutes we all giggled and twitched and - and, dang, we liked this idea! It was remarkable how quickly we each took to this concept of "going out" with someone else in the classroom who didn't have our specific reproductive organs. (In years hence, I've wondered what this must have been like for the nonheterosexuals in the room - finally a chance to acknowledge sexual feelings! - but, damn! With the wrong gender! For them, I guess, it became an early lesson in faking it.)

The proper order of the world fell into place quite perfectly as each boy in the room rushed over to ask out the girl who was "appropriate" for him. The basketball star asked out the softball whiz. The piano player asked out the dancer. The writer asked out the actress. The boy from the trailer park asked out the girl from the trailer park. The boy with the hygiene issues asked out the girl with the hygiene issues.

And I asked out Kathy Root. I'm not quite sure how to explain the matchup, but perhaps the easiest way is to say she was the tallest girl in the class and I was the tallest boy. For my part, I couldn't have cared less about our height – I had not taken my eyes off her for the past three years. She had long tan legs and a constant smile and was truly nice to everyone. And she was whip-smart. She was the girl most of the other boys would be too afraid to ask out – including me - so she made it easy on me and came across the room to where I was, frozen and petrified at my desk.

"Well, I guess it's you and me," she said gently so that I wouldn't collapse into my pants.

"Sure," I responded. "Yeah. For real. It'll be fun."

And that was that. I had the catch of the room. The girl who in high school would be elected our homecoming queen was going to be my "date" at our "etiquette" dinner.

By the next afternoon, though, tragedy struck.

"Michael," Mrs. Beachum called out to me in the hallway after lunch. "Can I have a moment with you?"

She led me to a corner so that no one could hear us.

"I just want you to know that you're probably the only boy in the class to whom I could ask this favor."

She had the most encouraging eyes. Her hair made it seem as if she were the fourth Supreme. Her lips ... Well, I didn't know much about lips at thirteen, but what I did know, now standing closer to her than I ever had before, confirmed to me that there were no more inviting lips than those that Mrs. Beachum carried with her.

The lips parted, and she began to speak.

"I've already talked to your date, to Kathy Root, and she said it was OK with her if it's OK with you."

Yes, go on. Please. Don't let the twitch on the left side of my face distract you.

"There are thirteen boys and fourteen girls in the class. So all the girls have a date except Lydia."

"Lydia" was Lydia Scanlon. "Lydia the Moron" was the name most of the boys in class called her. Lydia was the class cipher. No one sat by her, and even fewer knew anything about her. She never spoke, even when called on, and she hadn't been called on since fifth grade. There is always that student or two whom the teachers have to decide whether to fish or cut bait - there are only so many minutes in the school day, and if they won't talk, you have to move on and teach the others. Five years of working on her to participate were apparently enough, and so most of us didn't even know she was still in our class, although she was there every single day, in the last seat in the row farthest from our reality.

Lydia's Catholic schoolgirl uniform was ill fitting, most likely the result of having been worn by two or three other girls in the family before her. Her hygiene was said to be worse than a boy's, and her hair was cut ... well, at least she had access to a mirror while she was cutting it.

It was no surprise that not one boy had made a beeline to her to ask her to be his date.

"I need you to ask Lydia to be your date for the dinner," Mrs. Beachum said.

"Huh?" was all I could mutter. There was an instant lump in my throat because she was asking me TO GIVE UP THE BRONZE-LEGGED FUTURE-HOMECOMINGQUEEN BEAUTY AS MY DATE! I had won the Gold Medal, and now I was being asked to give it back! Just like Jim Thorpe! You cannot do this!

Without saying any of the above, Mrs. Beachum could read it on my face.

"Look, honey, I know you wanted to go with Kathy – but I know you know that no one will ask Lydia, and there's just sumpin' not right 'bout that. She's a nice girl. Just a little slow. Some people fast, some people slow. All God's children. All. 'Specially Lydia. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Beachum." Yes, I knew that, and I actually even believed it. But weren't the longest tanned legs in the school also something worth believing in?

"I knew that would be your answer," she said proudly.

"Couldn't ask this of the other boys. No sir! Only you. Thank you, child."

Ugh. Why not? Why not ask them? Why me?

"Plus, I figured seeing how you are thinking of going to the seminary next year, you won't really need many of these 'manners' I'm teaching you, now will you?"

Apparently the Mother Superior had shared my thoughts about becoming a priest with Mrs. Beachum. And, of course, what use does a priest have for sex, much less "manners," much less those pink-black engorged lips you're using to hand me the worst news of my life?

"Sure. It's fine. But what about Kathy?" I asked. Yes, what about Kathy? You're not considering the grief she's going to experience not being able to be my date!

"Like I said, I already talked to her. She was very happy to do this special thing for Lydia. Said you would be, too."

I decided to give it one last shot. "But, but then Kathy will be all alone at the dinner!"

"No, child, here's what we do. Lydia will sit across from you. Kathy will sit with the both of you, next to Lydia. So in a way, Kathy will still be there as sorta your date, too."

Sorta. (This will become the story of my dating life. More later.)

"But you'll officially be there with Lydia and you will pull her chair out for her and order for her and talk to her and make her feel that she, that she ... is ..."

A hint of tears began to make their way to the front of her eyes, but she blinked fast enough to catch them and wick them back behind her sockets and finished her sentence.

"That she is wanted. Can you do that, Michael?"

That this had suddenly been elevated beyond an etiquette lesson, beyond a date, to a call for mercy and possible sainthood - well, that was all I needed to hear.

"Yes, I can do this. I want to do this. You can count on me! You're right, I won't have any use for girls after this year anyways!" Exactly! Mrs. Beachum, you'd just be wasting all these lessons on me. I'm off to be a monk for life!

I had a pain in the pit of my stomach.

I went into the classroom and asked Lydia to be my date. Though I tried to say it soft enough so none of the other boys would hear me, it wasn't long before word got out that I had given up the top prize for the Loser Lydia - and these little men in their high-waisted pants spent a lot of time on the playground scratching their butch-cut heads and trying to figure out exactly what had happened to me.

"Don't make sense, Mike," Pete said, shaking his head. "How are you even gonna stand it, being next to her?" "I dunno" was about all I could muster. How was I going to sit next to her? Ewww.

The big night came to go to Frankenmuth, and Lydia was all freshly scrubbed and her dress was plain but pretty. I opened the door for her, let her take my arm, pulled her chair out for her and, in a momentary act of rebellion against my impending lifelong celibacy, I pulled Kathy's out for her, too. Kathy talked to Lydia, then I talked to Lydia, and Lydia talked back to us. We heard the story of how her brother had died and how her dad was working two jobs because her mother had health problems and how she spent her time in her room writing poems. Lydia was shy but not a cipher. She was funny, and she had a snorty laugh that after a while was cute and catchy. The other classmates looked down the table to see what the three of us were up to, and a couple of the boys joined in to talk to the newly interesting Lydia. This gave Kathy and me a chance to talk, also a new thing for me, for up until now she had just been an object to observe as often and as vigorously as possible.

"You were a good guy, Mike, to do this," she whispered to me.

"Really? Um, well, you know I'm going to the seminary?"

"Sure. I heard that."

"So, you see, this class wasn't really for me."

"Well, it was fun, don't you think?"

"Sure. Can I have your pie if you're not gonna eat it?"

After our class's First Date Night at the Frankenmuth Bavarian Chicken House, there was no going back to the War of the Sexes. Thanks to Mrs. Beachum, we all discovered that we liked each other - a lot. And while others contemplated their next moves in the dating life, I had time to ponder such things as what kind of trouble would Mrs. Beachum be in for having upended the Puberty Retardation Policy that the Church had implemented. Boys stopped picking on girls, and girls stopped laughing at boys. We helped each other with homework. We let the girls throw the basketball around. Everything felt better and we were grateful to Mrs. Beachum for her enthusiasm and her desire to teach us more than just the capitals of all fifty states. We looked forward to our afternoons with her; it was the best part of every day. So when we came back from lunch for our afternoon with Mrs. Beachum on February 5, 1968, we were surprised to learn that she had not shown up to school. She did not show up the next day, either. Nor the next day. We were told that no one knew where she was, that she was missing. At first, we hoped that maybe she had overslept and just not shown up for work for a few days. The Mother Superior filled in for her. But as the week went on, the look of worry and concern on Mother Superior's face was evident, and her attempts to follow Mrs. Beachum's lesson plans were awkward, as she was surely distracted. She offered no information, and by the fifth day of Mrs. Beachum's absence, enough of us had complained to our parents and asked them to please get to the bottom of just what the heck was going on.

The nightly news on TV that week was grisly. It was the Vietnamese New Year ("Tet") of 1968, and though this was the first time any of us knew the Vietnamese got a second New Year, the only reason we knew this was by way of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley explaining to us why the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese had launched their biggest offensive of the war. NBC News was especially graphic (in those days, TV showed the war uncensored). Their camera caught a South Vietnamese general grabbing a Viet Cong suspect on the street, putting his gun to the man's temple, and blowing his brains literally out of the other side of his head. That made the Swanson Salisbury Steak TV dinner go down easier.

The Tet Offensive of 1968 sent a shock wave through the American public because, opposite of everything we had been told about the United States soon "winning" the war - "We can see the light at the end of the tunnel!" - in fact, Tet showed just how powerful the other side was and how badly we were losing. The Viet Cong were all over Saigon, even at the door of the U.S. embassy. We were nowhere near to winning anything. This war was going to be with us for a very long time. I stared at the TV, and I was happy I was going to the seminary next year. If you were in the seminary, they couldn't draft you. One more reason not to need Mrs. Beachum's dating service.

Word eventually filtered through the parents that Mrs. Beachum had indeed vanished. There was no official word from the parish, but this much was said:

"Mrs. Beachum's husband is missing in Vietnam and presumed dead. Nobody knows where Mrs. Beachum is, but she has probably left and gone home to be with her family."

We never heard from Mrs. Beachum again. No one did. It was said she was too distraught to talk to anyone at St. John's and, if she had, no one would have quite known what to say to her. Others said she had a complete nervous breakdown when she got the news about her husband and she went off, to be far, far away, to be by herself and shun this cruel world. One parishioner said she took her own life, but none of us believed that because if there was one person who was thrilled about being alive, it was Mrs. Beachum. We finished out the year with an afternoon substitute teacher who did his best, but he never asked us to sing him a poem.

It was then, in the spring of 1968, after the deaths in Vietnam of Sergeant Beachum and a boy from the high school, plus the assassinations of King and the sweet man in the Senate elevator who helped me find my mother, that I made up my mind: under no circumstances, regardless of whatever amount of coercion, threats, or torture leveled at me, I would never, ever, pick up a gun and let my country send me to go kill Vietnamese.

And if anyone would ever ask me why I felt this way, I'd just look at 'em and say, "Don't be facetious, child." Perhaps Mrs. Beachum is reading this. If so, I want to say: I'm sorry for whatever it was that took you away from us. I'm sorry we never had the chance to say good-bye. And I'm so sorry I never got to thank you for teaching me all those wonderful manners.

Don Ray Exclusive! A crime scene nightmare in Glendale.

2011-07-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

By Don Ray

Staff Writer

GLENDALE — It was a dark and windy night in 2002. Glendale Police officers responded to a silent alarm coming from an upscale house in an upscale hillside neighborhood. By the time they arrived, the wind had blown away all of the electricity in the neighborhood.

The front door was wide open. Nobody responded to their knocks or calls of "Anybody here?" So, with flashlights in hand, they entered the living room and quickly discovered a gruesome scene.

The bullet hole in the center of the man's forehead made two things obvious:

Whoever it was was dead, and there had to be foul play involved — murder. Before they could secure the crime scene, they had to search the place, just in case the killer was still there. Where they had to, police officers broke down doors and anything else that kept them from getting to any place a killer could hide.

While they awaited the Los Angeles County Coroner's investigators, they were careful to not destroy any evidence. Of course, they left the body as they had found it.

A while later, the house's owner, Jerry Quist, returned home to flashing red and blue lights, police cars and the coroner's van. But moments before he arrived, the police or the coroner investigator had solved the mystery.

There was no need for a crime scene. There was no crime. There were no suspects. And there was no dead body.

Today Jerry Quist laughs about the incident. In one sense, the incident was a tribute to his professional skills. Without meaning to, he had fooled the police.

"If the power hadn't gone out, they may have had enough light to see that it was a movie prop," Quist says.

"I had made it for a film called Gigli with Ben Affleck.That's Jerry Quist sitting next to his gruesome creation below.

He says that, following the shooting of the film that was released in 2003, he had kept the body in his Glendale house.

"You never know when they might need to re-shoot a scene or something," Quist said.

When they released the movie, he says it was now OK for him to disassemble the mock murder victim.

The veteran make-up artist and make-up department head has worked in a slew of films including "Red," "Fast and Furious," "Tropic Thunder" and "The Sixth Sense." But he never envisioned that one of his creations would star in the unfolding of a real-life drama.

"It was my fault for not closing the front door when I went out that night," he says. It seems that the wind had blown open the door, which triggered the alarm, and eventually blew out the power before the police would arrive.

Following the debacle, Quist says the police and coroner investigator quickly packed up their things and left him there to repair all of the damage that officer had done looking for a killer.

A near-death experience with a remarkable update.

2011-07-14T22:31:00.000-07:00

Meet Fred Gallegos.

I first encountered him some 42 years ago. This is what he looks like today.

Here’s the story of our previous encounter:

The headlights from the cars going the other direction on the Ventura Freeway were filtered by the chain link fence that divided the freeways back on June 5, 1969 --- all except one set of headlights that were distinctly brighter.

I was in the fast lane heading east. The car with the way-too-bright lights was heading west in our direction. I couldn’t say for sure, but there was a chance he was on our side of the freeway --- in the same lane.

I was home on leave following my time in Vietnam. My friend John Stiles and I had been checking out the Bob’s Big Boy restaurants in Toluca Lake and then Van Nuys. We were looking for another guy we used to run with. It was past midnight and we were heading back to Bob’s T.L. just in case he might be there now.

But now, all I could think of was to get the hell off the freeway – just in case it was a wrong-way driver --- and let him have all of the lanes to himself. John didn’t know what was going on when I darted to the right from lane #1 to lane #4 and then onto the shoulder of the freeway just past the Cahuenga Blvd. on-ramp.

As John was asking me what the heck I was doing, the wrong-war driver failed to come out of the gentle curve and was barreling directly toward us. There was nowhere to go and nothing else we could do.

We both braced for the crash. But less than a second before the unavoidable impact, a little Mercedes Benz drove past us in the slow lane to our left and smashed head-on into the wrong-way driver.

Only about eight feet from the front of our car, the two vehicles rose up in the air and crashed down in front of us.

Then there was silence --- the most eerie silence I’ve ever not heard in my life. If there were other cars, I didn’t hear them. We both got out and, through the steam and dust, we ran up to the driver of the Mercedes. He was crushed up against the steering wheel, unconscious.

But he was still breathing. John immediately pried open the hood of the car and somehow ripped the battery cables from their terminals. At the same time, the driver of the other car, a huge Chrysler convertible with the top down, staggered out and started wandering around the scene.

Quite drunk.

The next thing I remember was seeing a guy walking quickly in our direction from a car about an eighth of a mile in front of the scene. He was lighting highway flares and laying them down. I ran toward him to give him a hand. When I got close to him, I realized that this was the friend we had been looking for all evening.

I had to leave a day or two later for my next duty station in Michigan, so I never got a chance to find out what happened after that --- until today, that is.

I had an appointment with my favorite dental hygienist in the morning at the V.A. clinic in Downtown L.A. Afterwards, I walked to the main L.A. Library to look up a bunch of stuff in the L.A. Times Index they have online there. I used the search terms “head-on,” “wrong-way” and “Ventura” for the months of May and June of 1969.

Back at my office, I dug into the public records indices to find a Fred Callegos (the middle initial was blotched out, as you can see) who was born in 1941 or 1942. The only match was Fred P. Gallegos who has a business in the Agoura Hills area.

So I called the number on the website. Even though it was after hours, a woman answered. I said I was looking for the Fred Gallegos who was in an accident on the Ventura Freeway in 1969. She knew all about it and put him on the phone.

To say that it was a strange conversation for both of us would be an understatement. Probably more for him than for me. I always seem to be doing these kinds of things. To make a long story shorter, he was eager to hear about the accident. All he remembered was waking up in traction in the hospital --- and the year it took him to recuperate.

He was a construction worker at the time, which is probably why he’s alive today.

“The doctors told me that anybody else would have died from that accident,” he said. “I was in great shape --- almost at the peak age of 28.”

But he was still a mess. Broken femurs, broken jaw, teeth crushed and rearranged. But for all of the damage, there were some amazing things that seemed have happened through fate or karma or something.

He used to hang out in a bar in Glendale,he told me. One of his drinking pals was an insurance agent who had pestered him to sign up for a $300 disability insurance package. Finally, Fred had given in, he says.

“Then, a little while later, the guy tells me I should increase it to $500,” Fred said, “so I did.” It was only a short later that he got hit on the freeway. And, it turns out, the drunk in the other car had no insurance whatsoever. If it hadn’t been for that disability policy, Fred says, he’d have been screwed.

And also, right before the accident occurred, Fred’s dentist had taken impressions of his mouth for some dental work. When the dentist heard about the accident, he made up a cast of Fred’s mouth and took it to the hospital.

“He came in an moved all of my teeth back to where they had been!”

Over the years, Fred has had more than 40 surgical procedures for everything from throat cancer to fused vertebrae to a heart attack to gall bladder surgery and four knee surgeries. Then there was his right eye that got hit with something and another six surgeries because of that. But he never once complained to me or murmured a bit of regret. Instead, he wanted to talk about his wife, Paula, and how well the kids have done.

We talked for more than an hour, and I got to know a man whose life is filled with spirit --- positive spirit --- and a man who has never stopped living each day with gusto.

We’re going to get together in the next week or two.

It’s strange how we hook up with people, isn’t it?

I finally learned the name of my early -- unlikely -- hero -- 49 years later.

2011-07-03T21:06:00.000-07:00

If only I could have found a more productive outlet for my creative juices.

Today, I finally learned the name of a man who was my inspiration. For a while, I wondered if maybe I hadn't really seen him --- that maybe it was something I had conjured up in a dream. But thanks to YouTube, today I was the 94th person to view the proof that he existed.

I wasn't dreaming.

I saw him on the evening of February 12, 1962, live on the television program, "I've Got a Secret!" I had just turned 13 the month before. It's a well-know fact among members of my family that I didn't take good notes in school -- and not at all while watching television. So I didn't remember his name. Today, I learned it: Stan Berman.

Why would I be inspired by a Brooklyn cab driver? It was because of his secret: --- he was a gatecrasher. I'd never heard the term before, but by the end of that TV program, I was already dreaming of the day I could be one.

I didn't remember the long, gatecrashing resume he had displayed in photographs that evening, except for one. I'll never forget seeing him sit with the Kennedy Family at the Inaugural Ball for President John F. Kennedy the year before on my 12th birthday, 1961.

That's Stan Berman seated three seats to JFK's right (your left). I don't know who the woman is seated to the right of the applauding Stan Berman, but to his left is the President's father, Joseph Patrick Kennedy, Sr. The President's mother is between him and his father.

No, I didn't make a career out of being a gatecrasher, but I never stopped thinking about pulling such a clever, albeit harmless prank. I will confess that, as a journalist, there were times when I used some of Stan Berman's inspiration to help me get closer to people I needed to interview, but I only did it recreationally one time.

And I consider it one of my greatest accomplishments.

It was at Burbank High School on a Saturday evening, when I was an 11th grader. As usual, I showed up early to an event -- this time earlier than anyone else, it turns out. It was in the auditorium. and it was slated to be a collection of musical performances by some popular music personalities. Most were probably on the downward side of their careers, but they were at least once-popular. The person I was bent on seeing live was a young folksinger who was very popular in Southern California, Tim Morgan.

I don't remember exactly when I decided to attempt the crashing of the gate, but I know when the action started. I was the only person standing in line at the ticket window. Nobody was even inside the booth yet. The custodian walked up with a set of keys and asked me if I was the ticket seller. I responded with a single word -- a word that would launch my own inauguration to gatecrashing.

"Yes!"

A moment later, I was alone in the ticket booth and was able to "sell" myself a front-row, center seat. A moment after I placed the ticket in my shirt pocket, a pretty girl (who was pretty concerned) was knocking on the door to the booth. I opened it and she said, "What are you doing here?" Someone had once told me two rules to follow when caught red-handed: 1). Don't flinch. 2) Always answer a question with another question.

"What are YOU doing here?"

She said she was supposed to be selling the tickets. I said the same thing back to her, but I quickly suggested we split up the task. I allowed her to take the first shift. I'd come back later to relieve her, I lied. I knew I would never come back. Instead, I walked to one of the three or four entry doors to the auditorium. I almost handed off my ticket, but I started thinking that it had been too easy. I didn't want it to end that quickly.

I noticed that there was a second attendant at the door. He was handing out the program booklets.

"Excuse me," I told him. "We've run out of programs at the side door. Could I please take some of yours?" I took my half-stack to the side door and told the person there that he was to go cover one of the other doors. I was supposed to work this door now. Then I handed out the programs until I was down to just one. I carried it inside and took my seat.

Still too easy! I was front-row, center, but there were people with a better view: they were backstage. I watched one official walk through a door that led backstage, so I waited a couple of minutes, got up and walked backstage. I hadn't thought about what I would say if someone asked. They didn't, however.

Then I saw Tim Morgan sitting on a stool, warming up with his beautiful guitar. I had to talk to him. I walked up to him and said, "Hi, I'm with the school paper. May I interview you please?" He was happy to oblige me. Afterwards, I asked him if I could play his guitar. After all, the first four chords I had learned on my $7, used Sears Silvertone guitar were the chords to his cult-favorite song, "The Cat Came Back" (E-minor, D, C, B7 -- a most difficult chord to play). He handed me his guitar and I nailed the B7! He was impressed.

Then I wandered over near the light and curtain cage -- just off stage left. Nearby, the designated student "introducers" were reviewing the 5x7" cards someone had handed them --- cards with the introduction information for each artist.

At that moment, there was a crisis at the light and curtain cage. It seems that the custodian who had opened the ticket booth door for me was working the lights, but he was apparently drunk. I think he had just walked away, so there was nobody there to work the lights.

I volunteered and took over. It was a stupid thing to do because I didn't know the first thing about the lights or the curtains. The drama teacher, a former Marine named Miss Wolfson had been barking orders from the projection booth behind the balcony. I'd listen to the intercom and then look for something with a label that matched what she was saying.

Apparently I failed, because a few moments later, she was there at the cage and was chewing me out for screwing up the lights. "You were on the stage crew! You should know how to do this," she said. I didn't think it was a good time to volunteer the information that I had only been a volunteer for one production, "My Fair Lady," the prior year --- and, no, I never learned the lights. Anyway, she kicked me out of the cage.

That left me without a job, so I went up to the person handing out the "introduction" cards and asked for mine. Whoever it was giving them out didn't question my credentials, so I took my card and waited my turn.

Two performances later, I walked out onto the stage and did a pretty darned good job introducing singer Bobby Day singing his hit song, "Rockin' Robbin."

Then I retired as a gatecrasher. It's always good to undefeated -- sort of.

A postscript: After posting this, I found out that Stan Berman died at age 41. How sad.

Died. Stanley Berman, 41, Brooklyn cab driver and self-proclaimed "World's Greatest Gate-Crasher"; of a blood infection; in Brooklyn. No occasion was too exclusive, no dignitary too aloof for Berman, who posed as a waiter to demand Queen Elizabeth II's autograph during her 1957 visit, crashed J.F.K.'s Inaugural Ball in 1961, and had his finest moment in 1962 when he charged onstage to hand Bob Hope an Oscar in front of 100 million TV watchers.

Once Upon a Brick --- A Simons Brick

2011-06-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

I like to explore old maps of Los Angeles and its environs. And when I discover something I'd never heard of before, I'll often get in my time machine (OK, my car) and drive into the future of that map. Such it was when I saw an old map of the area that's now Montebello and the City of Commerce and I noticed a train stop and what looked like a town called Simons. If you ever drive through the area on I-5, it's north of the freeway and north of Telegraph Road, just a bit east of Garfield. There's a Home Depot close by that's pretty close to what was once called Simons.

It was a huge brick manufacturing company, but even more interesting was what I learned about how the owners created a self-contained little city for the employees --- almost all of whom had come north from Mexico to work there, live there, dine there, attend church there, go to school there and even watch movies in the theater there.

When I drove to the area, there was practically nothing left. The school that you'll hear about in the video below is still there, but not the original buildings. What was once a self-contained community is now one of those typical industrial zones with look-alike buildings. I found a few houses that may have been there to house employees. I'll have to do some public records searches to learn more.

Now, whenever I see building or sidewalks made of brick, I look for the distinctive "Simons" bricks. I first found one as part of the steps in front of Shakey's in Burbank. Then I discovered that my neighbors, Jan and Henry, had a couple of Simons bricks on their walkway. Most recently, I found Simons bricks adorning the front walkway in front of my friend Pat Hall's house in Hacienda Heights. OK, I'm hooked on the story of the Simons Brick Factory, better known as Simons Brick Company No. 3.

Today, I was pleased to find a wonderful video made by people who really know how to do the perfect oral history interviews. And they're pretty good at production, as well. I invite you to enjoy it.

And in case you didn't read the full description that goes along with it, I'm including it here:

An interview with Rosa Lemus Carlos who grew up at Simons Brick Company No.3 in Montebello, California.

Her father was a decades-long employee there. Simons Brick Company, established in the Los Angeles area before the turn of the last century, grew to become the biggest brick producer in the world, and to make the millions of bricks that were used to build much of Los Angeles, San Francisco and cities throughout the nation.

Simons imported thousands of Mexican workers and their families to Los Angeles in order to work and live at their 300 acre facility. Simons was almost literally a Mexican town, where generations of Spanish-speaking workers and their families were housed, worked, went to school, worshiped and shopped - and where they died. The work of making bricks was back-breaking and pay was low. But as Rosa Carlos's interview shows, their lives there (and that of their families) were centered around far more than just grueling work: Simons families' cultural and social life was multi-layered, multi-faceted and enriching in its own way.

The Simons Brick Company went bankrupt in the 1950s and closed after more than sixty years of existence, due to changing construction methods causing brick sales to decline drastically. The shanty homes of the workers and their families were condemned and demolished, along with the entire brick yard. Hundreds of Mexican residents saw their homes torn down and the debris set afire, but their memories of their lives at Simons lived on.

Rosa's interview excerpt, from the epic documentary film "Whitewashed Adobe: The Rise of Los Angeles" is very moving and enlightening.

See more at http://www.whitewashedadobe.com

The man who probably saved my life a dozen times

2011-06-18T02:21:00.000-07:00

It was 50 years ago today that I learned of his untimely death.

I first saw him parked there on his motorcycle at the corner on Seventh Street and Verdugo Avenue. He was facing north. I was going south. I guess I didn't think the stop sign at Verdugo applied to me, so I ran it. The police officer pointed his gloved finger at me and gestured to where he wanted me to stop.

Then he wrote the ticket.

My first ticket.

Driver: Donald Ray

Age: 10

Vehicle make: Murray Bicycle.

Place of employment: Joaquin Miller School.

Occupation: Grammer School (That's right, he misspelled grammar, but I must confess that I wasn't the one who caught the gaffe).

Anyway, the punishment was mandatory attendance in the basement of the Burbank Police Building on a Saturday morning. It was traffic school for kids. And that same motorcycle cop was in charge.

Officer Joe Wilson.

Truth be told, all of us kids there were frightened when he first stood up in his motorcycle boots and stared us down.

I'll say this: we paid attention to what he had to say. And what he taught was the traffic code -- the rules of the road. It was Officer Joe Wilson who made it clear to us that we had to obey all of the same laws that drivers of automobiles on city streets had to obey. I mean, he made it perfectly clear, or else.

OK, so I was a slow learner. I think I learned them one violation at a time.

It seems that whenever I would find it more convenient to ride on the sidewalk or to give my buddy a ride on the back of my bike, Officer Wilson was watching me.

And he'd ticket me again. Another Saturday. Another lecture. It happened several times over the next couple of years. It got to where I could sing along with Jiminy Cricket in the bicycle safety cartoon Officer Wilson would show us at the end. Jiminy sang it again and again.

"I'm no fool. Nosiree. I'm gonna live to be 23. I play safe for you and me cause I'm no fool."

Of course, the next time he sang it it was 33, then 43 and so on until at least 93.

I believe that Officer Wilson singlehandedly taught an entire generation of young boys (and a few girls) how to drive safely -- for life. It was a time when the Burbank Police Department was willing to invest in a full-time traffic officer to teach young people the rules of the road -- and cite them when they broke those rules.
I wish they would do that today. I believe it would save lives.

There's no way to measure how many lives Officer Wilson saved over the last 50 years. I still think of him as a hero. And I have to believe that his lessons have kept me alive for five decades.

You see, when I watch impatient people drive through stop signs in their cars, or ride their bikes on the sidewalk or speed through intersections, I think about Officer Joseph R. Wilson.

And I think about the drunk driver who, on June 17, 1961, ran a red light and plowed into the police motorcycle that Officer Wilson was driving.

I cried the next morning when I saw it in the Burbank Review.

For many years, his lone photograph was on display in the lobby of the Burbank Police Department. The last time I looked, it was still on display, but there were photos of at least two other Burbank Police Officers who died in the line of duty.

A few years ago, I asked for the cooperation of the media relations officer at BPD -- I wanted to track down the wife and children of Officer Joe Wilson so that I could thank them for what their husband and father did for me. But the Public Information Officer turned me down. Privacy restrictions.

Then I went through the old news clippings at the Burbank Leader (formerly the Burbank Review) and was able to get the details I needed. I pulled Officer Wilson's death certificate at the County Recorder's office to learn more details -- details that might help me find his children. I cited the California Public Records Act in a records request I filed with the Burbank City Attorney's office. They ignored my request to be put in touch with the Officer Wilson's wife or children. I'm usually pretty good at finding people, but I wasn't that lucky this time around.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

Officer Joseph R.Wilson died a day or two before Father's Day.

This Father's Day, I honor Officer Joseph R. Wilson, 50 years later.

I believe that he cared about me the way a father would. And he cared about scores of other young Burbank kids the same way.

If somehow this message reaches the children of Officer Wilson -- they'd be in their 50s now -- please know that your father has surely saved countless lives, including mine.

I'm certain.

An Adventure I'll Never Forget

2011-05-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

Today, Friday, May 27th, the interview I did with Dick Gordon of "The Story" airs on radio stations across the U.S. But you can listen to the interview here: Don Ray's Vietnam Veterinary Experience

It's the story of being a combat dog handler in Soc Trang, below Vietnam's Mekong Delta, in 1968. It's about being designated a veterinarian technician with no training, no experience and no supervision. It's about taking care of the medical needs of 12 Army dogs as well as dozens of G.I.s' pet animals on the remote airstrip.

And it's about having to deal with a mysterious disease that was killing American dogs in the war zone. If you can't connect with the link above, Go to http://www.thestory.org and search for Don Ray. By the way, the story about the Vietnam dogs is about 2/3 of the way into the podcast.

The experience made me convinced that would, one day, become a veterinarian. When I left the Army, I enrolled at Los Angeles Pierce College with the goal of taking the school's pre-veterinarian courses and then transferring to U.C. Davis's School of Veterinary Medicine. Unfortunately, there were so man young men taking classes at Pierce that, in my four years there, I never had enough credits to get into one of the pre-vet classes. The guys were there, I believe, so that they could avoid the draft by being in college. So in the end, I would take journalism classes and, well, you know the rest.

Remembering Dr. Leo Buscaglia

2011-05-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

If you were in Los Angeles, San Diego or San Francisco in the 1980s, you probably didn't know Dr. Leo Buscaglia --- even though he was a professor at USC, a best-selling author and a lecturer who was famous across the United States and in much of the world.

My friend, Carol Tashiro (that was her name back then) had moved to Phoenix from California. She sent me an audiotape of some guy named Buscaglia and suggested that I would be inspired by what this guy said. Being a typically skeptical Angeleno, I avoided putting the cassette in the player. In my mind, the last thing I wanted to hear was someone trying to brainwash me. Not me.

Eventually, Carol asked me to return the tape, which I did.

Fast forward a year or two and now I'm working in Phoenix as an investigative reporter/producer. Our station was airing one of the very popular Leo Buscaglia lectures and I was helping out in the editing room as the technicians prepped the recorded video for broadcast.

My body language, I'm sure, was a crossed-arm expression of cynicism as I listed, again and again, to this man trying to spread the word about living a loving life. Balderdash!

At some point, I realized that he was asking nothing of the viewers. He wasn't really selling anything, and he seemed to have no personal stake in how people responded. I think think the fact that most of the audience wanted to hug him afterwards was what made me suspicious. I guess it scared me a bit. Was he manipulating people?

When I learned that he would be coming to the Phoenix area for a couple of "performances" --- and that we would be taping it and producing the TV special, I asked my boss if I could arrange a one-on-one interview with him. After all, I had not seen anyone ask him direct questions.

"Absolutely not!" my boss exclaimed. The last thing he wanted was an investigative reporter with a reputation for doing tough interviews asking the beloved Dr. Buscaglia anything at all.

I've never been good at rejections from insecure bosses, so I wrote a personal letter to Dr. Buscaglia and gave him an honest assessment of my reason for wanting to interview him. He responded with the most warm letters I've ever received and agreed to allow me to do an in-depth, one-on-one interview with him the morning after the first of his two performances.

I wasn't terribly tough on him, but I did ask the questions that reflected both the suspicions I first had about him, and my own, personal questions about living my life. Shortly after this interview, Dr. Buscaglia entered the hospital for multiple heart-bypass surgery. He died of a heart attack in early 1992.

Recently, I sent a facebook message in which I shared my victory over my own anger. My friend Jeanne (Barron) Aikman asked me to share the secret of my transformation. I haven't yet explained it all, but this may have been the beginning. The interview runs about 28 minutes, so maybe you can't watch it now. But I promise you that, if you're feeling even the slightest bit unhappy, watching this will help:

If you get a chance to watch this, forgive me for my youth and inexperience. Also, it would be great if you could rate it or leave a comment. Thanks.

A Eulogy for the News Media

2011-03-07T09:03:00.000-08:00

It's not easy for me to stand up here today before all of you, my fellow friends of the First Amendment, the American flag, hot dogs, apple pie and picnics in the park on the Fourth of July. It's not because I don't want to share my thoughts --- it's more about being in denial that we've lost our friend, the News Media.

After all, when I turn on the TV, I still see the deceptive remnants of NBC, CBS, ABC, as well as the skeletal remains of programs such as "60 Minutes," "20/20" and "Dateline NBC." It's when I tune in and watch hour-long remakes of real, live murder mysteries that I remember that the days of hard-hitting investigative reports are gone.
And to think that, for so many years, my dream was to work, full time, as a segment producer for one of these programs. And why not? They were doing what our founding fathers intended them to do --- they were wearing the uniforms of watchdogs. They were doing their part to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." They were there to function as the Fourth Estate --- to provide the proper balance when the balance of powers tip too far in any direction.
Our founding fathers knew very well about the dangers of despots, about religious zealots whose enthusiasm sometimes bleeds over into the desire to inflict their beliefs on the unwilling, about power-hungry representatives who fall prey to bribes and influence-peddlers.
Our founding fathers, however, had not an inkling of a dream about the power that businessmen and their corporations would, one day, wield. They could never have dreamed that the greatest threat to the democratic republic they created would be the very commerce they encouraged.
And despite their concerns over the rights of people to gather peacefully and to say and believe what they desire, they never anticipated that the greedy businessmen would, one day, execute a 30-year plan to muzzle the watchdog.
But as you, who have gathered here today, very well know, the watchdog is dead. With nobody there to check their forward motion, the corporations have come very close to wrestling the government away from We the People.
So we're here today to remember our friend, the News Media, as it existed before its demise. We're here to remember its determination to report the events and situations that all citizens needed so that they could make intelligent decisions about how we should run our government. We're here to remember their goal of reporting --- in a fair and balanced manner --- the points of view of ALL of the parties involved in disputes. And we're here to remember their goal of building a strong wall between the news gatherers of their organizations and the advertisers, the folks who sell the papers and the owners, who were once able to express their opinions in one place --- the editorial page.
Our founding fathers never anticipated that the greedy business people could buy up and control the once-free press and begin to feed their unwitting customers exactly what they wanted --- not exactly what they needed.
Oh, I was an unwitting part of the deception and now I regret it. When I broke the story of the police investigation into singer Michael Jackson, I contributed to the rush to make entertainment stories more important than stories about how our representatives are running our country.
And for those of you who feel guilty here today --- guilty for not educating yourselves in spite of the ever-growing incompetence of the failing News Media --- it's not your fault. You were seduced.
Admit it. You were seduced.
The greedy business people who stole your First Amendment-empowered News Media from you replaced the important stuff with things that touched you on more emotional and prurient levels. They diverted your attention by filling your TV screens with swim suits, high-speed chases and, worst of all, stories about people who, in no way, deserve your attention --- people such as Paris Hilton and Charlie Sheen. They filled your soul with fear --- fear that your kids will be kidnapped if they simply walk to school, fear that someone who prays to a different version of God than you worship are really trying to take over the world, and fear that anyone who cares about the rights and needs of the poor or the elderly or the workers must somehow be part of a communist takeover.
No, please don't blame yourselves. You were seduced.
While you weren't paying attention, the messages put out by the ailing News Media have sent you down a self-destructive road. And you won't realize it until you step back and look at the map with a critical eye and a wide-angle view. Unless you check it out yourself, you won't realize that many of us have been supporting points of view that, in the long run, keep us from advancing toward the so-called American Dream.
You have to give them credit. The clever folks who finally succeeded in stealing from you the vibrant News Media of the past worked for more than 30 years to, little by little, take control.
I know that some of your are still unwilling to believe that you have been deceived. I was there once. It was in 1984 that I had my awakening. It was just in time to watch what was happening and to begin to feel the frustrating, helpless anger.
I posted a photograph of myself here today from when I was about eight years old. It was about that time that I witnessed something --- and even participated in something --- that was as remarkable now as it was then. You make think that this is silly. OK.
I was on the playground of Joaquin Miller Elementary School in Burbank, California, and I noticed one of my classmates walking around the inside perimeter of two connected playgrounds. It was when he passed by me the third time, that I walked up to him and said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm walking around the playgrounds," he said. "Do you want to join me?"
I did.
I walked behind him. After about two more times around the playgrounds, another kid got in line behind me. Then another and another and another. Nobody ever explained to anyone why were all walking in a long line around the playground's inside perimeter --- we just did it.
When the ringing bell ordered us all back to our respective classrooms, every student was in this line.
Every single student.
I was reminded of this phenomenon when I learned what was really happening in Madison, Wisconsin. I came to realize that, even more than before, my friend , the News Media, was dead. If it were alive, it would have reported the truth. It didn't lie --- it just didn't tell the whole story.
And, to me, that's when my friend breathed its last breath.
Whether or not it comes back to life --- or if something else emerges to rival its glorious past --- well, as they say "remains to be seen."
For now, we must all look, on our own, for the truth, the balance and the complete stories on our own. We can no longer count on NBC, CBS, ABC, Fox or even CNN to feed us these things. They've all been corrupted. They're all serving up the Koolaid.
There are some uncorrupted, unafraid voices out there. If you're interested, I'll share them with you.
In the meantime, I was thinking about starting to walk around the inside perimeter of our society. Maybe if I walk long enough and far enough, others will join me. Maybe if thousands of us are peacefully walking and gathering more walkers, more people will notice and we can put a stop to the decay of our democratic republic.
It requires nobody's permission. It's legal. There's still enough of the First Amendment in place to empower us all.
Do you think I'm crazy to want to start walking? Please let me know.

A time for being inspired -- and, one day, actually inspiring others.

2010-10-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a while since I've posted to my silly blog. I wasn't ready. Now I am. Here's the briefest of brief updates, followed by something that moved me -- finally -- to share something that I believe is worth sharing:

Since last time . . . . . let's see . . .

Cancer -- stage two Melanoma. Three times under the scalpel. Finger-biting time. Good news. No more cancer. Whew! A quick second scare. No worries. The Veterans Administration and Social Security recognize my combat-related condition and grant me disability status. Roller coasters of emotions, adjustments, scrambling to adjust more and time to face irritating obstacles I should have faced years ago.

A brief journey to Belgrade and Novi Sad, Serbia, and then to Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, along with a couple of days working on my documentary about a most surprising, former German concentration camp where thousands of Jewish women and children spent their final days on Earth.

Home again and still adjusting and still facing (but not embracing) personal obstacles.
The whole time, I've explored a pathway for that mysterious and illusive desire to change things somewhere for the good.

Today, this inspired me enough to want to share it with everyone I know and even with people I don't know.
Would you please take some time to watch it? If it doesn't touch you, at least you'll know what touches me.

Oh, and you should feel free to share it with other folks. And if you wish, leave a comment here or send me an e-mail at donray@donray.com. I'm looking for ways to get involved somehow.

For all of your time travel needs.

2010-06-16T19:22:00.000-07:00

Where can you get all of the news from the future as well as the past? Only at the Echo Park Time Travel Mart.
Welcome!

The moment I heard about the Echo Park Time Travel Mart (EPTTM), I had to go there for a visit. It's at 1714 W. Sunset Blvd. in the Echo Park District of Los Angeles.
What a great experience --- an experience you shouldn't miss.

Trevor Byrne was running the unique (that's an understatement) shop that offers everything you'll ever need for that time-travel trip you've been planning. It doesn't matter if you're going forward or backward in time, this store has what you'll need.

It opens up at noon (not that time matters), which gives you more than enough time to examine the goods for sale there --- goods such as Time Travel Sickness Pills, bottled Robot Milk, dinosaur eggs, medicinal leeches and Woolly Mammoth Chunks.

My mouth was watering for a Time-Freezy Hyper Slush, but the machine was out of order. I didn't have time to go back yesterday when it was working.

I was able to sneak into the back room to see if they had other things in stock, but what I discovered instead was the real reason for this timeless store's existence.

You see, it's really a front for a tutoring service that's part of what's called 826LA. Truth be told, I first heard about this remarkable volunteer effort when I watched a fascinating video about the germ of this project on Ted.com. You can also view it at Dave Egger's Ted Wish.

I know that there are a lot of educators who visit my blog, so I encourage you all to consider volunteering for the one-on-one tutoring during the school year or work with the entire classes that come to EPTTM during the daytime. You journalists out there can also help out ever Monday night from 7 to 8:30 p.m. when the young staff of "828LA Good Times"convenes to put together its astoundingly professional newsletter.

The student journalists write about more than their pets. For example, in the current edition, reporter Alanis offers up a Q&A with seismologist Kate Hutton from CalTech. Josephine, another reporter, interviewed Tom Overton of Gems and Gemology Magazine as well as Wendy Van Norden of National Earth Sciences Teacher Association. Ruby used her interviewing and writing skills to address the dispute about whether Pluto is really a planet. She turned to USC Professor Werner Dappen for her material. Pretty impressive stuff, indeed.

I promised Trevor that I'd have to travel to the future (when my next check arrives) before I can return to buy some of the really cool items at the store --- including books that the students have published as part of the program.

The best part is that the money the store raises goes directly to the tutoring programs and helps pay the rent. It's a worthy endeavor and I encourage you to stop in and buy something.

That is, if you have the time.

You can learn more by visiting them online http://www.826la.org

A kind of love that everyone should experience. A vicarious video.

2010-05-07T17:26:00.000-07:00

Catalina Provencia agreed to talk about growing up in the Palo Verde section of Chavez Ravine before the city cleared the area of houses and people for what was supposed to be low-income housing. Instead, it became home to Dodger Stadium.

At the annual gathering of former Chavez Ravine residents in 1990, I noticed the most intriguing couple. Catalina was animated and gregarious.She stood four inches above her quiet, unassuming husband, Morro. Whenever their eyes connected, however, bolts of amorous energy seemed to dart between them. I knew that I couldn't leave without trying to tap into that energy.

During the "neighborhood" interview, I asked Catalina to tell me about her first encounter with Morro. The result is this jewel. Before I could share it with the world, I had to track down Catalina and first show her the 20-year-old video. It was a great excuse to capture, again, her electrifying and contagious spirit.

By the way, Catalina has already agreed to another interview in ten years when she turns 101.

If I receive enough encouragement (comments here or on Youtube -- or direct e-mails), I'll begin posting more gems from the two interviews.

Signs that confuse me . . .

2010-05-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what they were thinking.

This is like the drive-up ATMs that have instructions for the driver that are in braille.

Or it's like the sign in the post office that reads: "No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye dogs."
These signs are there for the blind, the illiterate and the dogs.

How about this one in a Pollo Loco Restaurant?

Curious Critter

2010-04-26T07:29:00.000-07:00

My dog Mija and I like to get up and out early. I don't know about her, but I prefer to walk when there's a shortage of other people out there. It's in the early morning on our walks that I'm able to think through my day, and come up with crazy ideas that I'm certain will revolutionize the world.
Mija is a little nervous about some of the dogs behind fences and gates. It's interesting that she fears the little nippers more than the macho mutts.
We both marvel at how the young squirrels will scurry part of the way up the trunk of a tree and then hide on the backside -- if it can't see us, then maybe it thinks we don't even know that it exists.
This morning, we both noticed a little movement on the bricks that run alongside the cement path to a wrought iron gate. It wasn't a cat -- the ears and nose were to pointy. It wasn't a mouse or a rat -- much too slow moving. The little fella was curious, and not nearly as cautious as one would think.
I'd never seen one of these this young. I was surprised that Mama wasn't around. One of his or her little sisters or brothers, however, was exploring the flower bed on the other side of the pathway, but wasn't nearly as brave.
I'm sure you know what it is -- even without seeing its telltale tale. Telltale tale? I don't think I've ever written that before.

Night flight to Saigon to save a dog's life

2010-04-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

It was one of the most touching moments in my tour in Vietnam. I made the journey in late 1968 -- probably in October. I was with the 212th M.P. Company at a small detachment at the Soc Trang Army Airfield.

Countless times in my 30+ years as a reporter, producer, author and teacher, I've looked into the eyes of people I was interviewing and realized that they weren't there with me -- they had taken a mental journey into the past. They were somewhere else. I eventually learned to remain as silent as possible so that they could stay in that place -- any questions would quickly bring them back to the present.

Ten years ago I attended a memorial presentation at the unveiling of a statue honoring the bravery and dedication of the thousands of dogs what served our country in combat. I remember how, during the ceremony, I found myself in one of those trances -- I was in another place, in another time ....

The strange thing is that I wasn't with my dog Fritz, I was with a 105-pound German shepherd named Samson. I was back on a gunship in the middle of the night sky on our way from Dong Tam to Saigon. I was trying to take Samson to the veterinary hospital at Tan Son Nhut Airfield so a real veterinarian might keep him alive. Samson was suffering from encephalitis -- he was burning with fever and having trouble breathing through the muzzle. I had tied his paws together to keep him from trying to stand up.

Samson's handler was on R&R somewhere and had no idea that his best friend was fighting for his life. All I could think of was my own dog in a similar situation. How far would someone else go to save my dog Fritz? I was determined to get Samson to a place where someone could help him.

It had all begun a few hours earlier when someone discovered Samson nearly passed out in his kennel. Only a day or two earlier I had been "volunteered" to be the acting-vet tech at our little 12-dog detachment in Soc Trang, south of the Mekong Delta. The nearest veterinarian was in Can Tho. On the phone, he told us to get the temperature down (we put him in a bathtub-sized dip tank with ice water) and rush him to Saigon. A local dust-off (Med Evac) pilot agreed to take us as far as he could -- to the airfield at Dong Tam. It was after midnight, when he dropped us off and flew away. Even though I had neither the orders nor the authority to request a helicopter for the dog, I still insisted that the CQ runner (enlisted guy on duty) awaken the officer-of-the-day. I don't know how I did it, but I convinced the mafor in charge to authorize a Huey helicopter gunship to take us the rest of the way.

The pilot and copilot were not happy about the run. They were reluctant to help me load the stretcher into the copter. Of course, there were no side doors and no way to tie the stretcher down. I sat on the floor and held onto the back of the pilot's seat as we took off on a most frightening ride. As they'd bank to the right or the left, the stretcher would slide toward the open door. It took all my strength to keep the stretcher and myself from falling out.

There was nobody manning the M-60 machine guns at either of the open doors. But we were traveling fast enough and high enough that the bright red tracers rising from some ground fire was of little concern to the pilot and copilot.

We eventually landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base at an evac hospital for people. Two Vietnamese ambulance drivers were afraid to load the dog into their 3/4-ton ambulance. Eventually, I convinced them that the dog was tied down, shey finally helped me and then drove us to the triage area.

Two more Vietnamese workers opened the rear door of the ambulance and were equally shocked to see that the patient was a dog. One of them helped me carry the stretcher to one of the empty racks in what seemed like an ocean of occupied stretchers. Soon about 15-20 medical personnel were crowded around us pointing, laughing, and talking.

It was about that time Samson completely stopped breathing! All I could think of was doing that leg-lift-chest-push artificial respiration I had read about somewhere. But his front paws were tied together with gauze. I couldn't get them untied. All I could think about was Samson's handler coming home from R&R to find his dog was dead.

Everyone around me were just spectators -- amused spectators! By this time I was crying.

"Would someone please help me? Please?"

It was then that an angel -- a nurse -- yelled, "Get the %@*% out of my way!" and shoved her way through the crowd.

"What can I do?" she asked. I told her I couldn't untie the gauze. She reached in a pocket a pulled out some scissors and freed Samson's front legs.

She quickly caught on and started lifting his right leg while I pushed on his rib cage. Within two minutes he started breathing again. At almost that moment, some veterinarian technicians from the veterinary hospital arrived in a jeep, and I helped them load Samson into it. It happened so quickly that I never had a chance to thank that beautiful angel. She had vanished.

By sunrise it was clear Samson was going to survive. I knew I could face Samson's handler.

Decades later, on February 21, 2000, I sat listening to the poignant comments at the War Dogs Memorial dedication at March Air Force Base. I looked at all of the guys around me and I could feel the love each one had for his dog, and the lengths to which they would have gone to save their dogs' life or save the live of any other handler's dog.

After all, I'm convinced every dog handler who attended the ceremony was able to be there because of his dog -- and maybe because of the dogs of his fellow handlers. And I wondered how many lives Samson went on to save when he went back to work. And I wonder what ever became of that beautiful nurse.

If she only knew the importance of her work that night.

If you ever encounter a former Army nurse who says she served in Vietnam, please ask her if she remembers saving that dog's life.

If you have a conscience, boycott Costco!

2010-04-21T15:44:00.000-07:00

Tens of thousands are expected to picket Costco stores across the globe on Earth Day to protest the blatantly cruel treatment of God's cotton creatures.

One can only imagine the terror and torture these innocent animals endured in Asia, Africa and South America before someone packed them into cardboard, pitch-black prison cells and shipped them to North America, Europe and other parts of the world.

Its no wonder stuffed animals are rarely, if ever, found in the wild.

These loving creatures were bred to be silent and obedient enough to live in the homes of children and adults.
But at what price?

If you've ever cuddled a Teddy bear or Curious George, you must take a stand against this kind of treatment!

Please share this with everyone you know who has ever been the recipient of their love.

The Real World of Mr. Mum

2010-04-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

It was the perfect reading material for a kid who couldn't read very well -- a pantomime cartoon. The Strange World of Mr. Mum ran in scores of newspapers during the 1950s and '60s. I discovered a paperback compilation of the Irv Phillips cartoons when I was nine or ten, as I recall.

I must have "read" the book a thousand times -- and I still laugh at the strange things that the little man and his little dog observed along their way.

When I took a television job in Arizona, my great friend (and former journalism professor), Bill Thomas told me that I should look up his cartoonist uncle in Phoenix. When he mentioned Mr. Mum, he was surprised when I said something like, "Your uncle is Irv Phillips?"

Bill had not encountered too many people my age that had heard of the character -- much less its creator. It was in 1981 that I went to visit the man who had created my favorite cartoon. It wasn't long before I returned with a camera crew to interview him on camera.

Irv Phillips died in 2000 at age 95. He left his lifelong collection of his cartoons and other creations to Bill Thomas and his sister. Today, Bill and his wife are keeping the memory of Uncle Irv at http://buymrmum.blogspot.com.

If you want a book that you and your grandkids (and their grandkids) will treasure, search Amazon.com for The Strange World of Mr. Mum. That's the book that got me hooked.

A rational message about what's rational and essential

2010-04-05T08:04:00.001-07:00

It's been a couple of years since I worked with young, professional journalists in Malawi, Africa. You can learn more about my work there at http://www.malawiobserver.com.

Since I was there, two of the students have died. It's not surprising in a country where the life expectancy is under 40 years or so.

One of the big reasons is AIDS and HIV. It's not a fun or amusing topic, but this talk posted to day at www.ted.com is essential viewing.

Read between the lines of signs

2010-04-03T12:47:00.000-07:00

Indoor Road Rage Rantings

2010-04-03T11:11:00.000-07:00

I told a couple of my friends to be on the lookout for a really interesting posting I’m working on. For the record, this isn’t the one I was talking about — that one is still in the works.

I thought I’d share my response to a job posting on Craigslist.com. The person was looking for someone to help with a start-up website that focuses on the rude things that rude people rudely do:

Dear Rude-ologist,

I probably wouldn’t have been able to send this e-mail if I had acted on my impulses yesterday in that public parking garage in Burbank. You see, I don’t believe they have e-mail access in the city jail.

In my fantasies, I was going to put my car in park and sprint to the car that was blocking everyone in the indoor garage. The back-up of cars caused cars on Palm Street to back up to Third Street.

You know what was going on, don’t you? The lazy, “Oh my god, there’ll never be another parking spot available in the world,” jerk-faced idiot was, you guessed it, waiting for someone to get into their parked car and vacate the space.

In the mind of the rude, senseless, brainless amoeba, this was to be a quality, “premium” spot, as spots go. And in his micro-bacterial mind (I’m being generous here), there were surely no available spots in the three-story structure.

And Parkinson’s Law says that another tired shopper would be unable to back her non-compact car out of her nearby compact car space. That prevented the first exiting driver from backing out and allowing the peanut-brained donkey in front of us from getting his once-in-a-lifetime spot.

Finally, when the second shopper in her over-sized “non-compact” car wriggled her way out, I was able to pass Jerkface on the left, round the first corner and select from more than three dozen available spaces.

My inclination, however, was to yank the oblivious, selfish, self-centered moron (no offense to clinically diagnosed morons — they never do stuff like this) out of his car, turn him inside out and make him eat his stomach.

When I was fuming my way on foot out of the parking structure, Mr. I’m-the-Center-of-the-Universe was still blocking traffic with that stupid turn signal flashing a Morse code message that surely was saying, “Screw all of you! I’m more important than you are! Don’t be in such a hurry! I’m waiting for this spot so I won’t have to walk as far to the Burbank Health Club across the street where I’m going to pay to get exercise!”

Meanwhile, the traffic on Third Street was backed up to Magnolia.

What the hell is wrong with people?

Oh, by the way, your proposed Rudeness site is just what I’ve dreamed someone would create. Don’t get me started on the thousand other “let me tell you about rude jerks” examples I have bubbling out of my frustrated brain.

Then again, maybe you should get me started!

Thanks.

I feel better now!

Don Ray

Are you old enough to remember the comedy bit that the late Steve Allen used to do on his Steve Allen Show? He would pick up a newspaper and read the letters to the editors with the same voice, passion and anger that he figured the original writer was feeling. Maybe you should read the above message the same way.

By the way, I didn’t hear back from the folks who posted the job on Craigslist. Maybe I wasn’t rude enough. Or maybe he or she didn’t believe that I could rant so much over something that apparently doesn’t bother other people.

Don't get me started about my grocery store observations. Did you know that people drive shopping carts the same way they drive their cars? Aaaargh!