August 11, 2016
Volume 47, Issue 1
Easy Reader 46th Anniversary Writing & Photography Contest
am
GRAND PRIZE
PHOTOGRAPHY
COVER and 17 “Serenity”
by Homer Hernandez
August 11, 2016
20 “Hermosa Happiness” by Ute Roepke Lorenz
30 “Hazel Street” by Dave Siemienski
32 “The Little Man in the Cabinet” by Nancy Skiba
34 “Naughty Maggie” by Nicholas Gustavson
38 “Zika” by J.E. Marshall
42 “Bar Hopping’s Glory Days” by Pete Whalon
48 “Marriage, Houses and True Love” by Mori Biener
50 “Business 101: The Paper Route” by John Cody
52 “1 Ocean 20” by Don Ruane
STAFF
Volume 47, Issue 1
PUBLISHER Kevin Cody, ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Richard Budman, EDITORS Mark McDermott, Randy Angel, David Mendez and Ryan McDonald, ARTS &
ENTERTAINMENT Bondo Wyszpolski, DINING EDITOR Richard Foss, STAFF PHOTOGRAPHERS Ray Vidal, Brad Jacobson and Gloria Plascencia, CALENDAR Judy
Rae, DISPLAY SALES Adrienne Slaughter, Tamar Gillotti, Amy Berg, and Shelley Crawford, CLASSIFIEDS Teri Marin, DIRECTOR OF DIGITAL MEDIA Daniel Sofer /
Hermosawave.net, GRAPHIC DESIGNER Tim Teebken, DESIGN CONSULTANT Bob Staake, BobStaake.com, FRONT DESK Judy Rae
EASY READER (ISSN 0194-6412) is published weekly by EASY READER, 2200 Pacific Cst. Hwy., #101, P.O. Box 427, Hermosa Beach, CA 90254-0427. Yearly domestic mail subscription $100.00; foreign, $175.00 payable in
advance. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to EASY READER, P.O. Box 427, Hermosa Beach, CA 90254. The entire contents of the EASY READER newspaper is Copyright 2016 by EASY READER, Inc.
www.easyreadernews.com. The Easy Reader/Redondo Beach Hometown News is a legally adjudicated newspaper and the official newspaper for the cities of Hermosa Beach and Redondo Beach. Easy Reader / Redondo Beach
Hometown News is also distributed to homes and on newsstands in Manhattan Beach, El Segundo, Torrance, and Palos Verdes.
CONTACT
Endless insights
If the Grand Prize cover photo looks familiar, it’s because the underside of the
Manhattan Beach pier is a magnet for photographers. If this month’s stories
sound familiar, it’s because bars, crime and nostalgia are magnets for writers.
But no matter how many times photos are reshot and stories are retold, if skillfully
executed, new insights are possible.
If that were not true, reporting on the cities, schools and businesses for 46
years could get tiresome, as would reading about them. It never does.
Each anniversary issue, we celebrate the reason for a newspaper by inviting
readers to offer their insights about our community. The Easy Reader staff thanks
this issue’s contributors and apologizes to those whose submissions we did
not have room to print.
– Kevin Cody, publisher
GRAND PRIZE WRITING
24 “Thank you, Mira Costa” by Spiros “Steve” H. Mikelatos, M.D.
HONORABLE MENTION WRITING
n Website www.easyreadernews.com Email news@easyreadernews.com n Mailing Address P.O. Box 427, Hermosa Beach, CA 90254 Phone (310) 372-4611 Fax (424) 212-6780
n Classified Advertising see the Classified Ad Section. Phone 310.372.4611 x102 n Email displayads@easyreadernews.com
n Fictitious Name Statements (DBA's) can be filed at the office during regular business hours. Phone 310.372.4611 x101.
SECOND PLACE
PHOTOGRAPHY
16 “Calla”
by John Peterson
THIRD PLACE
PHOTOGRAPHY
17 “Falcon Family Hour”
by Tim Tindall
HONORABLE MENTION
PHOTOGRAPHY
20 Crystal
by Gus McConnell
25 Old Souls
by Steve McCall
30 Redondo Pier
by Edward McClure
32 Barrel envy
by Paul Roustan
34 Windy sunset
by Joe Carson
37 Tower sunset
by James Boyd
38 Fire in the sky
by April Reppucci
40 Waves and firelight
by Beverly Gates
43 Talking seagull
by Jerry Averill
44 Solstice moon over the Roundhouse
by Joel Gittelson
46 Fireworks Landscape
by Daniel Sofer
48 Cloud waves
by Jeff Wright
50 Reflections
by Kathy Miller-Fujimoto
BEACH FEATURES
3 Beach Calendar by Judy Rae
20 Growing Great
54 Home Services
6 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 7
10 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
S O U T H B AY
CAL ENDAR
THURSDAY, AUGUST 11
Search for the Perfect Wave
Surfer Magazine writer Kevin Naughton and photographer
Craig Peterson discuss Search for the Perfect Wave, their book
about their exploratory travels through Mexico and Central
America during the 1970s and 1980s. The talk is part of the
Hermosa Beach Historical Society Happy Hour with History
series. Peterson will present a slide show of his now iconic
photos. 6 p.m. 710 Pier Avenue, Hermosa Beach. For more
information visit Search-For-The-Perfect-Wave.com.
Redondo Pier blues
Tonight’s Redondo Pier concert features bluesman Darrell
Mansfield. 6 to 8 p.m. 100 Fishermans Wharf, Redondo
Beach. Redondopier.com.
Surfer Eric Penny at Petacalco in Mexico, a break that writer
Kevin Naughton and photographer Craig Peterson discovered
on their way back from Central America while writing
for Surfer Magazine in the 1970s and 1980s. Naughton
and Peterson will talk about their new book, based on their
travels, at the Hermosa Beach Historical Society Happy
Hour with History Thursday, August 11 at 6 p.m. The museum
is at 710 Pier Avenue. For more information visit
Search-For-The-Perfect-Wave.com. Photo by Craig Peterson
FRIDAY, AUGUST 12
Baking bread for your health
Cancer Support Community-Redondo Beach (CSCRB) hosts
cancer survivor Pam Braun, former chef, restaurateur and author
of The Ultimate Anti-Cancer Cookbook. 1 - 2:30 p.m. Attendees
will make dough and bake bread to take home.
Advance registration required. 109 West Torrance Blvd, Redondo
Beach.Call (310) 376-3550 or visit the website at cancersupportredondobeach.org.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 13
The Endless Summer, in the sand
Hermosa Beach Friends of the Parks and the South Bay Art
& Film Festival present a free screening of “The Endless Summer”
on the sand, south of the Hermosa Beach pier. Fun begins
at 6 p.m. Movie begins at 7:30 p.m. sharp. “Goonies”
screens August 20 and “Top Gun” on August 27. Bring blankets,
picnics and beach chairs. Refreshments, tee-shirts, caps
and blankets will be sold on-site. The event is free. Donations
welcome. hbfop.org.
12 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
Get funky
The Fab Five present “The old and the
new, a different kind of revue.” Free. 3 p.m.
Joslyn Center, 1601 N. Valley Drive, Manhattan
Beach. For more info contact Warren
Rohn at (310) 372-8453 or
mrktplnwjr@aol.com.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 14
Venice plays Hermosa
David Crosby called Venice the best vocal
group in America The group performs on the
beach south of the Hermosa pier as part of
the the Hermosa Beach Summer Concert Series
presented by St. Rocke and Subaru Pacific.
5 p.m., on the south side of the
Hermosa Beach Pier. The next three Sundays
will feature Venice, Robby Krieger of The
Doors and Moustache Harbor. Best to bike
or walk. For more information visit HermosaBch.org.
Semper Fi Car show
The 9th Annual Wounded Warrior Car
Show benefitting the Semper Fi Fund features
pre-1974 show cars, trucks and special
interest vehicles. Gates open at 7 a.m. Cars
parked by 9 a.m. Limited to the first 250 entries.
9 a.m. - 3 p.m. Redondo Beach Performing
Arts Center, 1935 Manhattan Beach
Blvd, Redondo Beach. For show information
call (310) 343-9634 or email
threenthre@yahoo.com. Or visit woundedwarriorcarshow.com.
Concert in Polliwog Park
The widely acclaimed duo of keyboardist
Lao Tizer and violinist Karen Briggs bring
their melding of classical, jazz and rock to
Manhattan Beach popular Concerts in the
Park series. 5 to 7 p.m. Concerts continue
Sundays through September 4. Polliwog
Park, 1601 Manhattan Beach Blvd, Manhattan
Beach. Citymb.info.
Sunday market day
Riviera Village’s new Farmers Market
gives followers of fresh fruit and produce a
place to celebrate on Sundays. Triangle parking
lot along S. Elena Ave, Riviera Village. 8
a.m. - 1 p.m. redondo.org.
MONDAY, AUGUST 15
Get connected
"Triumphs and Tragedies: A True Story of
Wealth and Addiction" by Karl B. McMillen
Jr. and Bill Hayes will be discussed by the
authors at Pages bookstore. McMillen will
distribute free copies of the book, the chief
benefactor of the Thelma McMillen Center
for Drug and Alcohol Treatment in Torrance.
The event will be moderated by Karl and
Carol McMillen and Moe Gelbart, PhD, Executive
Director of the Thelma McMillen
Center at Torrance Memorial. Visit southbayfamiliesconnected.org/book-club
to RSVP
and reserve a spot.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17
Summer nights
The Point’s open-aired plaza will be filled with the
tunes of a different genre of music every Wednesday
through August to ring in summer nights. Tonight it’s
Gold Rush Country, contemporary country. 6 - 8 p.m.
850 S. Sepulveda Blvd, El Segundo. thepointsb.com.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 19
Outdoor movie in Manhattan
Manhattan Beach and Nikau Kai Waterman Shop
present “The Incredibles” at 6 p.m. in the Manhattan
Beach Library Courtyard. Bring beach chairs & blankets.
Come dressed to impress and win the Super
Hero Costume Contest. All proceeds go to the Mira
Costa Surf Team. 1320 Highland Ave, Manhattan
Beach.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 20
Jester Benefit Tennis Tournament
The Jester & Pharley Phund’s 4th Annual Doubles
Tennis Tournament will help kids suffering from cancer
to receive “The Jester Has Lost His Jingle” book
and Jester & Pharley Dolls. No need to find a partner.
Just come and enjoy a day of great tennis. 8:30 a.m.
at Alta Vista Park,. Silent auction, raffles, prizes, and
giveaways. 801 Camino Real, Redondo Beach. Call
(310) 544-4733 for more information. Entry forms
may be printed out from thejester.org.
Grammy award winning saxophonist and the
biggest selling instrumental musician of all time Kenny
G makes a repeat performance at the “30th Annual
Honda Evening Under the Stars For Children’s
Healthcare.” The food and wine festival will be held
Saturday, August 27 at the Honda North America
headquarters in Torrance. For tickets call call 310-
517-4703 or visit
torrancememorial.org/Giving/Foundation_Events
SATURDAY, AUGUST 27
Kids under the stars
The “30th Annual Honda Evening Under the Stars
For Children’s Healthcare” combines two of the South
Bay’s most popular food and wine events -- “Evening
Under the Stars,” benefiting Torrance Memorial’s pediatric
department, and “For our Children,” benefiting
Providence TrinityKids Care and Vistas for Children.
Tickets are $200. American Honda is at 700 Van Ness
Avenue, Torrance. For tickets call Call 310-517
4703 or visit torrancememorial.org/Giving/Foundation_Events.
14 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 15
S E C O N D P L A C E W I N N E R
Calla
by John Peterson
July 5, 2016. South Coast Botanic
Garden. Taken during the
Creative Photo Academy First
Annual Foto Fest. Nikon D800
16 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
G R A N D P R I Z E W I N N E R
Serenity
by Homer Hernandez
May 20, 2016,
Manhattan Beach
pier. Photographed
using a dark, neutral
density filter that
allowed a 15 second
exposure. This
caused the waves to
blur and give the
peaceful serene look.
Nikon D810
T H I R D P L A C E W I N N E R
Falcon family hour
by Timothy Tindall
June 15, 2016, Palos
Verdes. A lady asked
me if I saw the family
of falcons in the cliff
area and I said no.
Then I saw them.
Canon T3
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 17
Welcome to the South Coast Botanic Garden -
an enduring community treasure for the South Bay area and beyond.
The South Coast Botanic Garden is an
urban refuge, encompassing 87-acres
and offers a wide variety of blooming
trees, shrubs, and flowers all year.
Visit SCBGF.org
for details and more events.
We provide a place of beauty, serenity,
and learning for thousands of visitors
each year. There are also many fun things
to do throughout the seasons: plant
sales, community celebrations, concerts,
art exhibits, movie nights and much more!
18 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 19
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Crystal
by Gus McConnell
January 2016, El Porto. El Nino surf created giant sandbars, which created a powerful backwash. Canon 7D
H O N O R A B L E
M E N T I O N
HERMOSA HAPPINESS
by Ute Roepke Lorenz
Dedicated to Turner, Ty, and Kalea Conrad
Hermosa is a lovely place.
For some it is a perfect space
Enjoying work and play each day
Where ev’rybody wants to stay.
Let’s go to see Hermosa Beach!
Here’s a town in easy reach
For surfing, volleyball, and fun
While some enjoy a ‘Greenbelt’ run.
The Strand is busy ev’ry day
With bikes and strollers on the way,
And standup paddlers in the ocean
Delight the eye with perfect motion.
For just a couple weeks each year
There are tall dunes beside the pier
Kids of all ages slide and play,
While parents have a lovely day.
Swimming along the beach is fine –
Especially in summertime.
A whale might join you any day
While going southward faraway.
Enjoy your fishing at the pier –
And meet with friends from far and near.
Then watch the dolphins going by
And all the seagulls flying high.
Lovely sunsets bring peace of mind –
And take away the daily grind.
When sailboats drift across the sea
It’s happiness for you and me.
Let’s not forget Hermosa Fair —
Or race excitement in the air.
At Christmas time with lights so bright,
Pier Plaza is a joyous sight.
The Plaza sparkles by day and night –
An evening out is a true delight.
Old friends – new friends – enjoy the food
Which is so plentiful and good.
A million thanks, Hermosa Beach!
I’m glad you are in easy reach.
For sports and fun all through the year,
And memories so grand and dear. B
20 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
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22 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 23
G R A N D P R I Z E W I N N E R
Thank you, Mira Costa
My English became the responsibility of
Miss Jean Swain, my English teacher.
She was young, cute, sweet, and innocent.
by Spiros (Steve) H. Mikelatos, MD
Lt. Colonel, USAF, M.C. (Ret.)
It was August of 1952, I was 15 years old and
close to enrolling in Mira Costa High
School. My school name was Steve, my
Greek name Spiros.
Mira Costa, its teachers and students taught
me to read, write, and speak English. They gave
me an education above and beyond my expectations.
The young high school was opening its doors
wide to welcome students for only its second
year. The students were anticipating some difficult
classes but were also eager to have some
fun. My sister Helen and I were new and a bit
different. I did not speak English. Truthfully, I
spoke 2 words “yes” and “no”. English conversation
was not possible for me.
My sister, mother Angeliki and I had recently
joined my father Harry and older brother Jerry
in Manhattan Beach. My father and brother
had left our Greek Island of Kefalonia to come
to America five years earlier. In Manhattan
Beach, my brother assumed responsibility for
our reunited family as my father was over 65
years old and my mother did not speak English.
Before entering Mira Costa, Helen spoke
some English from lessons on the island. The
money was not enough for my lessons. I tried
to learn some words by myself from a dictionary.
Soon I realized self-taught pronunciation
may sound ludicrous. I decided to postpone my
English learning until I reached America.
In Manhattan Beach, Greek-American ladies
advised my mother and brother not to place
Helen and me in a regular high school. My 20-
year-old, macho brother Jerry was a man who
could think for himself and was fluent in English.
He decided to talk with Principal Lloyd
Waller and Vice Principal Carl Fisher face to
face.
When Jerry returned home, he told Helen
and me that we were enrolled in Mira Costa, in
the same grade we were enrolled in when we
left our Greek high school. Helen was a junior
and I a sophomore. Classes would begin in
three days. Jerry did not forget to mention how
cute and smart Mira Costa boys and girls were.
I did not ask any questions. I had some faith
that “The Lord is my Shepherd…”.
The administration tried to make my life easier.
They gave me a class in woodshop, one in
Glee-Club, and one in Algebra. There was less
need for words in these classes. My classes in
History and English would certainly, expose my
ignorance of words.
For the first day of school, my mother gave
us the Greek equivalent of a brown bag lunch.
She gave us a piece of bread, 2 tomatoes, some
olives, lettuce leaves, and a piece of feta cheese
that looked like a bar of soap.
During lunch break, Helen and I sat together
on the green grass to eat. Our class impressions
were positive and the food tasted good. In a
brief interval, a pretty blonde girl came to sit
with us. Her name was Maureen and she was
a stranger. She asked to be excused by her
friends, then asked permission to join us. On
that day and ever since, I could only believe
that Maureen’s lovely face was a reflection of
the beauty of her soul.
My English became the responsibility of Miss
Jean Swain, my English teacher. She was young,
cute, sweet, and innocent. In the beginning, it
was difficult for her to believe that my English
did not exist. She was more interested in making
learning fun and interesting. She gave me
an elementary school book to read about cowboys
and Indians. She was amazed that I had to
look up every word in the dictionary.
That approach was very, very slow. Miss
Swain quickly changed strategies.
She decided to teach the whole class for 45
minutes, and then gave the class 10 minutes of
work in the room. During those 10 minutes, she
asked me to sit next to her by the class window.
There she introduced her audiovisual method
without an instrument:
“The wall is white”,
“The grass is green”.
She pointed to the object, spoke slowly, and
asked me to repeat every word. From that moment,
I began to learn English. In retrospect, I
was not sure if Miss Swain’s new method was
miraculously effective. Perhaps, it was more the
inspiration of her presence next to me.
As I struggled with English in school, no student
laughed at me or bullied me. No student
complained that I was a burden on a class. Perhaps
this helpful, positive attitude stayed with
me until time came for me to give society some-
thing in return.
When homework allowed, I helped in the family
business of growing and selling flowers. There was
still agricultural land around local cities. Flowers
were beautiful and they made so many people happy.
Early in the fall of 1952, I began looking for school
sports. There was no soccer team, but there was a
track and cross country. Coach Ryan and later Coach
Ray accepted my modest ability. I did some running
and some long jumping too. I began running barefoot
on the uninhabited hills around Mira Costa. Some of
my fellow runners had more speed and grace. I participated
and did my best. Though I was realistic
about my ability, I was often daydreaming about the
immortal runners Louis Zamperini, Emil Zatopek,
and Paavo Nurmi.
I had some good luck in the long jump and the 660
yard run in a meet in Beverly Hills High School. I
was not sure if my effort that day was motivated by
Coach Ryan or was inspired by the Beverly Hills
beauties watching on the track infield.
I also recall my barefoot race on the traditional
Cross Country Course of Mount San Antonio College
(MT SAC) in Walnut/Pomona. I still feel the hard
earth under my bare feet.
Two years after I graduated from Mira Costa,
Coach Ray and his runners won the State Cross
Country Championship. I can only imagine the spirit
of Zamperini, Nurmi, and Zatopek leading their
steps.
It has always been a pleasure to know champions
bloom in Mira Costa and in the South Bay.
My sister Helen did not participate in sports, but
did well in Mira Costa academically.
In my three years in Mira Costa, my English improved
but did not become fluent. I could not hold a
long conversation to my satisfaction. The Greek at
home did not help my English.
Schoolmates, teachers, and administrators showed
support and understanding.
Mr. Waller, Mr. Fisher, Miss. Swain, Mr. Brigham,
Mr. Roy, Miss White, Coach Ryan, Coach Ray, and
others were there for me.
Schoolmates and teachers asked me what was my
family’s relationship with America before I left
Greece. I would have said my father was a naturalized
American citizen before 1930. I was born and
raised on the Island of Kefalonia when Hitler and
Mussolini were preparing for War. I lived in WW II
and have known the hunger and suffering that a war
can bring. I was 7 years old when the Americans
stormed Omaha Beach and Normandie to bring the
peace.
After the War, the US State Department located my
father in our small island village. They invited the
whole family to America.
Schoolmates and teachers asked me to talk about
my island Kefalonia. I could have said the natives
love this island and its nostalgic songs. They adore
the high mountain, the magical landscapes, the idyllic
seashores, and Santorini sunsets. The natives love
the poet Homer who wrote in the Iliad: Legendary
“Ulysses was leading the great-hearted Kefalonians”
to rescue beautiful Helen in the War of Troy.
Sometimes, schoolmates and teachers asked me
about my trip from the island to California and to
Manhattan Beach. My English did not allow me to
24 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Old Souls
by Steve McCall
April 2016, Ruby’s Redondo Beach. My daughter and her two friends in Ryan Jensen's classic car at the Ruby's Car Show. Canon T3i
tell them then.
I left my island with tears in my eyes but an
optimistic spirit. Loved ones wished me a
brighter future in America. I sailed the Atlantic
Ocean for two weeks. Then, I gazed at the Statue
of Liberty with the torch held high. Someone
read the inscription: “Give me your tired, your
poor…”.
My brother Jerry traveled from Manhattan
Beach to New York to meet us.
My mother, sister, and I were happy to see him
there. From that great city, we traveled by train
over the mighty Mississippi, across the Great
Plains, and the Wild West. We reached Los Angeles
and in Manhattan Beach, it was a joy to
meet my father and see the family reunited.
Schoolmates and teachers had asked me how I
liked Manhattan Beach and the South Bay. I
could have said, I often walk The Strand. The
ocean reminds me of Homer’s “Odyssey.” In the
Odyssey, Homer describes the Elysian Fields, the
paradise of the Greeks: “A place where no snow
falls and very little rain. In the afternoon, the gentle
breeze comes from the sea to refresh the people.”
This description of paradise best fits
Manhattan Beach and the South Bay.
In my junior year in Mira Costa, a counselor
made appointment for me to discuss my field of
interest. I was not prepared. I thought of becoming
a priest, a monk, an actor and a life science
teacher. Finally, I thought of helping people in
pain and suffering applying medical skills. I had
a feeling the counselor could have hinted that the
study of medicine is long, difficult, and expensive.
Instead, counselor Bernardi said, “Medicine
is a nice choice.” Relatives were supportive. My
orientation was set. I did not broadcast my
choice.
Before graduation from Mira Costa, I was
happy to be accepted by UCLA as a premedical
student. I was also happy to receive two substantial
monetary scholarships. One came from the
beautiful people of the Bank of America. The second
came from the beautiful humanitarian group
Sandpipers and Sandebs. A few years ago, I had
a chance to thank the Sandpipers and Sandebs in
person. I was impressed how they walk in style,
grace, and beauty and have compassion in the
heart.
One evening in June 1955, an idyllic sunset appeared
on The Strand horizon. It was graduation
day for Mira Costa High School. It was time for
me to say a silent “Thank you, Mira Costa”.
Many people were at the school to see students
receiving diplomas. Some of my loved ones were
far away but vivid in my memory.
My loving family was present.
Schoolmates, teachers, administrators, friends,
and well-wishers were there for me and for others.
The beautiful people of the Bank of America
and the beautiful Sandpipers and Sandebs were
there in person or not far away.
Some people wished me the best.
Some wished me good luck at UCLA.
Someone simply said, “Vaya Con Dios!” B
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 25
Hermosa Beach Sidewalk Sale August 13 - 14
Join us for small bites and wine
50% off
Select Spring
and
Summer Apparel
beach food
GROWING GREAT FARM TO TABLE GALA
G
rowing Great, the non-profit that teaches gardening and nutrition in local
schools, held its annual “Farm to Table” gala on May 2 at the ad agency
72andSunny’s Playa Vista campus (the former offices of Howard Hughes).
More than 200 people attended the event, which featured celebrity chef demonstrations,
a live auction, and a locally sourced, farm-fresh dinner.
321 Pier Ave.
Hermosa Beach CA
Summer Hours 10:30-6:30
Mike Tiva of Wolfgang Puck Bar & Grill prepares an octopus salad before a
somewhat startled audience.
• Serving the South
Bay for over 35 years
• Full Service Contractor
• Complete Installation
• New Construction
• Remodeling
• Second Floors
• Additions
• Cabinets
4203 Spencer St., Torrance, CA 90503
(310)214-5049 • www.pevelers.com
Appointment Recommended
Showroom Hours: Monday Thru Friday 10-5
Closed Saturday and Sunday
License #381992
Visit Our
Kitchen &
Bath
Showroom
Growing Great
gala chair Peggy
Curry and Chef
Diana Stavardis
of Manhattan
House. Stavardis,
whose restaurant
includes a garden
and an emphasis
on farm-to-table
cuisine, also gave
a cooking demonstration.
Photo by
Mark McDermott
Ellen and Mike
Rosenberg, cofounders
of
Fresh Brothers
Pizza, received
Growing Great’s
“Green Fork”
award. The couple
have been
key contributors
to the non-profit
since its founding
in Manhattan
Beach in 1999.
Photo by Mark
McDermott
28 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 29
H O N O R A B L E
M E N T I O N
Redondo Pier
by Edward Mcclure
November 26, 2015,
Redondo Beach. Early
morning sunrise at the
Redondo Beach Pier.
Canon 5d Mark ii
On our block, everybody knew everybody.
That’s the way it was in the 1950s. I never
had a key to my house. We never locked
it. The kids played in the street or in the backyards.
We went to the park without supervision.
People were like extended family up and down
the street. We knew all the names, and we knew
all the stories.
Nobody moved in, and nobody moved out. I
loved engaging in conversation with the oldest
residents on our block. I would soak up their wisdom
as if it was from Aristotle himself. My neighborhood
had the most profound and brilliant
philosophers on the planet at just the right time
for me.
“Ole Man Shannon” was a crotchety old guy
who pulled no punches. He told me secrets most
people never knew, and I never shared with anyone
else. Mr. Chapman knew the whole history
of the goat farms that existed before our homes,
and Mr. Clemens knew where “all the bodies
were buried.” Mrs. Zink gave us perspective
along with lunch on a tray of sandwiches, and
Merton told us how all those animals became
30 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Hazel Street by Dave Siemienski
My neighborhood had the most profound and brilliant
philosophers on the planet
pets hanging around his yard. Old Charlie Coyle
and I argued who was better, Stan Musial or Ted
Williams.
Mr. Nicholson gave me the most joy. Although
he had his own son, he treated me like his second
one. And he was like my second father. His boy
was always gone (being seven years older than
me), so he reserved a lot of his wit and wisdom
for me. I first began mowing his lawn when I was
only 8 or 9 years old. That was my first job.
As my work ethic emerged with this new responsibility,
so did my appreciation for money
and the satisfaction of a job well done. Mr.
Nicholson taught me many things about working
around the property. I got to know his garage as
well as I did my own. We lived right next door to
each other.
I remember the first day I saw the small little
wood “treasure chest” on his work bench. It was
no bigger than a box of Kleenex, and it had a
small lock on its latch. The lock was so small that
it looked like one hard pull would break it apart.
I asked Mr. Nicholson what was in it?
“The thing that means the most to me, Davey.”
He always called me “Davey.” Nobody else did.
It was always Dave or David to everyone else.
“Can I see it?” I naively asked.
“Some day” came the reply.
Irvin Nicholson was an exceptional man. He
worked as hard when he got home as he did
while at the lumber yard where he earned his living.
He had a great sense of humor, and always
made me and everyone else laugh. He loved his
wife, and always put her priorities first in his list
of duties. Although he had a fine relationship
with his son, their busy schedules seldom
synced. I would fill that void when the occasion
called for it.
I learned from Mr. Nicholson that my work for
him gave me credibility in our neighborhood.
Soon I was cutting almost every lawn on the
block, and my business model was booming. A
dozen years later I would buy a new sports car
with the cash I made mowing lawns on Hazel
Street.
No matter what other responsibilities I had, the
jobs for Mr. Nick were always the top priority.
We enjoyed spending this time together, and the
apport was a natural extension of the relationship. He always expressed
his appreciation for this time I spent with him, but I just thought he was
being nice.
The lots on Hazel Street were exceptionally long for the residential properties
of that town. Our yard had gardens and fruit trees in the back, but
the Nicholson lot next door was much more barren. Since our families
were so close in every sense of the word, I was able to use both yards as
my private playgrounds. This included almost every sport, including golf.
The Nicholson yard provided enough open space for me to really work on
my golf game, and Mr. Nicholson did not fail to notice my passion. One
day he asked me, “would you like a putting green in my back yard?”
Before I could even comprehend what I was hearing, a dump truck deposited
two tons of dirt and gravel in his back yard. Then Old Nick proceeded
to show me how to construct a real golf green, and I was forever
in debt for one of the best gifts in life I was ever given. My friends came
from everywhere in town to play in our back yards, and this just amplified
the incredible euphoria of growing up on Hazel Street. This was heaven
on Earth for young boys of that era.
As I got older, my tasks included every variety work imaginable. If a
family locked themselves out of their house, and I was called upon because
of my notorious skinny body (even as a teenager). In the ‘50s, some homes
had small milk passages on the outside wall, where the milkman would
deliver the bottles. I could slip through that tiny opening, to the always
amazed onlookers. I did whatever was necessary to get a job done.
The work ethics learned in my neighborhood lasted a lifetime. There
were no better teachers on the planet than my mom and dad, Mr. Nicholson,
Mr. Chapman, Mr. Shannon, Mrs. Zink, and all the rest of the great
generation which populated this country in the middle of that century.
I moved away from Hazel Street in my early twenties. My parents still
lived there, and so did the Nicholsons. Whenever I would visit my folks, I
would make sure to go see Old Nick next door. Nothing seemed to change
much, but it was always good to see him and the old neighborhood again.
On a phone call one day, Mom mentioned that Mr. Nicholson had not
been feeling well lately. I told her I would probably stop by soon to see
him. Sadly, that would never happen. Two days later I was told that Irvin
Nicholson had a heart attack, and died suddenly. I regret not going to see
him immediately to this day. That was another lesson learned, and in the
most difficult fashion.
After the funeral, we went over to the Nicholson home. It was hard for
me to speak to anyone, as my emotions were still raw, and the place was
crowded with relatives. When I eventually exited through the garage, as
was my custom, I noticed that little wood treasure box was gone.
Three days later, I received a package from a familar address on Hazel
Street. Inside, was that small wood box with an enveloped attached. With
great trepidation, I opened the letter. It was from Mrs. Nicholson. It read:
“Irvin asked me to mail this to you if he died before me. I have taped the
key to his box here on the bottom of this letter, and I trust you will know
what to do with it. I have not opened the box myself, and I feel no need to
know what is inside. I only know that he wanted to make sure you had it
after he was gone.
Thank you for all you always did for us, and I know Irvin greatly enjoyed
having you around.
~ Warm regards, Bernice”
My hands trembled, and I had to dry my eyes before even removing the
key from the letter. I held the box in my lap, and paused to think of what
might be inside. When I finally opened the box, there was just a Thank
You card inside. I opened it and read:
“Davey, I want to thank you for the time you spent with me. It meant so
much, and it was the most important thing I wanted you to know. Nick.”
My eyes were now swelling, and the emotions uncontrollable. It took
me a while to assemble my thoughts, but they became more coherent as I
calmed down.
The fact that Mr. Nicholson attached the most importance to spending
time with me would never be forgotten. I was always thinking in those
early years that the elderly folks I was spending time with were teaching
me, and giving me great gifts of wisdom. It never occurred to me until now
that I might have been giving something back to them. B
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 31
H O N O R A B L E
M E N T I O N
Barrel Envy
by Paul Roustan
January 8, 2016,
Hammerland,
El Segundo. Surfer
Cassio Pereira and
friend watch Tyler
Hatzikian plow
through a giant wave.
Nikon D70
The little man in the cabinet
He had been an odd, mysterious sibling of her mother's,
long separated from the family
Katie looked around the hillside beach
view house one last time. Her stained
glass lamps, paintings, cook books, potted
plants and the rest of her clothing were
packed in her white Rover in the driveway. It was
good timing. Jared was at his job site at his latest
renovation project. She didn't need another unpleasant
scene. It was over. She was relieved as
she drove away.
The Victorian mansion in South Redondo was
an oddity. As peculiar a curiosity as the belongings
and its former owner, her uncle Seaghan O'-
Doyle, the magician. It was beautiful yet
somehow forbidding. He had been an odd, mysterious
sibling of her mother's. Long separated
from the family, he passed away a while back,
and surprisingly had left the home to Katie, a
niece he had only met as a child. One of the provisions
in his will was that she live in the home
for a year.
It would take that long to sort through all of his
strange memorabilia.
As she brought her things into the home she
had the sense of not being alone. The interior was
dark. Dark wood, dark floors, dark Oriental rugs,
32 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E
M E N T I O N
mahogany antiques everywhere.
And tall paintings of Uncle Seaghan in his various
magician poses, all peering down at her.
There were bronzed figures of ravens and Egyptian
cats, cartouches, magical paraphernalia of all
kinds. Closets filled with costumes. And many
shelves of books on the occult, magical arts, secret
societies, clairvoyance, and the Egyptian
Book of the Dead.
Katie ran a bath, and sank into the soothing
aromatic herbal water, lighting a scented candle
and sipping some Chardonnay. To new beginnings.
She thought of the old song lyric......"when
a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes...."
And how.
Katie carried her wine glass as she walked
around the house in her cuddly robe. She wandered
into her uncle's study. A huge antique desk
and chair, more magician's collectibles. Celtic art.
An old gramophone. An old family album was on
a shelf with pictures of relatives in Ireland. Old
homes, farms. Uncle Seaghan as a lad, and later
as a young man with his arm around her mother
Rose, and as a man in a severe black suit, standing
with a little girl looking very very sad.
by Nancy Skiba
It was a cemetery. There was a picture of her
mother's headstone. She set the album aside, and
looked around the room. There was an antique
cabinet about five feet high, with a beveled glass
door. It was locked. She yawned. She'd have to
find the key but for now was tired and went upstairs
to bed. There was a full moon. The only
sound outside was the ocean's rolling roar.
An antique grandfather clock ticked somewhere
in the parlor. The cabinet door softly
clicked open. Inside the cabinet stood the small
figure of a man, perhaps three and a half feet tall,
dressed in dark pants and an old-style jacket and
a flat cap. He appeared lifelike, with ginger hair
curling from beneath the cap. His rough features
were Gaelic.
A black Dodge Ram pickup was making its
way down the hill. The pickup inched along, the
driver looking toward the house and the white
Rover. The driver parked halfway down the
block, got out and walked quietly toward the
Rover.
He was visible in the moonlight, a handsome
man of 35, muscular, with a determined look on
his face. Looking around, he pulled a folding
knife from his belt, and deftly jabbed the tires on the Rover. The man was
Jared, Katie's ex-fiancé, and for him it was not over. The tires had not satisfied
his anger.
The little man in the cabinet opened his eyes.
Jared quietly made his way to the side of the house and peered in
through the windows and found them to be locked. He walked around to
the back of the Victorian, until he reached the garden outside the study.
As he reached for the window pane, his light jacket opened and a larger
knife was visible in a sheath on his belt.
The little man's eyes moved toward the sound.
Jared inserted the knife into the window jamb. But the lock held. He
looked up toward the bedrooms.
The cabinet was now empty. The little man was not in sight.
Jared was outside, looking in the beveled glass front door. There was
murder in his eyes. The little man stood in the darkness to the side of the
door, unseen. Finally Jared, frustrated, left but not before he stomped on
the flower bed for good measure. He moved quickly toward his truck, and
got in.
The door of the Victorian was open a crick. The little man was standing
under the shadow of a tree, watching as Jared started the engine and slowly
rolled past the manse. He began walking after the truck. Then began jogging
after it. The truck stopped at a stop sign, and continued left toward
the hills.
The little man followed, unnoticed. He continued following the truck up
the hilly twisting roads all the way to its own driveway. He stood in the
darkness as Jared went into his hillside home. The little man watched him
through the window, on the dark side of the house. He watched Jared
throw framed photographs in a trash basket, breaking the glass. Jared carried
the basket outside and dumped it in a recycle bin at the curb, then
went back inside.
The little man peered at the broken picture frames -- pictures of Jared
with Katie.
He stared after Jared as he went back inside. In a few minutes the lights
were turned off. The little man waited.
Jared was asleep in his bed. The house was silent. Suddenly he awoke,
at the sound of running water. He picked up a baseball bat on the way and
headed toward the bathroom, where the tub was filling up. There was no
one in sight. He turned off the tap. A moment later, he heard the television,
but when he crept toward the den, it turned off. He looked around nervously
and waited. He heard the microwave in the kitchen go on. He went
to look. The microwave dinged. He saw no one. He opened the microwave
door, and found nothing inside. There was a soft rapping at the front door.
He peeked out through the peephole. No one. He pulled the door open and
looked around the porch and front yard and into the street. He heard a
scratching sound.
The little man was walking around the pickup, scratching the paint with
a shard of the broken picture frame glass. Jared raised the baseball bat and
rushed after him. When he got to the other side of the truck, the man had
vanished. He stood there in astonishment, looking at the damage. He
turned in time to see the little man rush back into the house. Jared ran
after him. He switched on the lights. No sign of the little man. He heard a
singsong voice from his bedroom. The voice was speaking Gaelic. As he
stepped into the room, the little man leapt down from the top of a dresser
and clung to Jared's back. He tried to shake him off. But it was useless.
The little man was strong. He held Jared tightly, and would not let go. Jared
dropped the baseball bat, and tried to pull the man off him. He tripped
and fell, and the little man was on top of him again. Jared saw the wicked
shard of glass in the man's leathery hand.
Neighbors thought they heard a moaning sound in the night but went
back to sleep. One of Jared's crew came by when he did not show up at
the work site, and saw the evidence of what had been a terrible struggle,
and a futile one.
That morning, Katie went outside and got in her Rover, and left for work.
Her tires were fine and the paint of the Rover as perfect as it had been the
day before.
The cabinet door was closed now. The little man was back in his place,
still and life-like as before, eyes closed.There was the slightest of a smile
on his lips. B
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 33
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Windy Sunset
by Joe Carson
January 31, 2016.
Strong onshore winds
at the Manhattan
Beach pier.
Nikon D800
Naughty Maggie
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
by Nicholas Gustavson
Things got sloppy. A spilled drink. Chip wearing the trucker hat askew, the girl tossing it on the bartender’s head.
After his flight home, Chip decided to get
sloppy drunk. Teenagers could treat each
other this way, he reasoned, breaking up
via text messages, but grown-ups? Specifically
Trina, texting him about a trial separation? Have
the decency, he’d typed, to talk in person. Her
reply?
You’re never home.
How was that an excuse? He’d been busting his
hump all year, frequent flying Sunday through
Friday to Chicago. For what? To pay their Manhattan
Beach mortgage and finance her South
Bay lifestyle. He explained it again. She didn’t
reply.
Trina wasn’t home when the Uber dropped
him off. He checked their garage. Yup, she’d
taken her yuppie cart somewhere. She couldn’t
have gone far, he figured, not with the cart’s maximum
distance of 30 miles on a full charge. Probably
SoulCycling class, or busting out thrusters at
that outdoor gym on Harbor Drive. That made
him chuckle. Trina obsessively purchased
Groupons for new exercise classes; CrossFit,
Bikram Yoga, Contemporary Pilates, G.I. Joe
Bootcamp. Hell, she’d probably join Stroller
Strides if she could borrow someone’s baby.
Baby?
There’s a word he hadn’t spoken since forever.
He said it again. Still sounded bad. It hadn’t
sounded good since last summer, when they’d
spent a hot Saturday night in the emergency
room at Little Company of Mary. The waiting
room sucked, crowded with nightlife casualties,
and their hysterical friends in party dresses and
blood stained blazers, no one anticipating this
conclusion to their night. When the nurse called
Trina’s name, they went in and listened to a harassed
physician read out Trina’s dropping HCG
levels like a sailor sounding out ocean depths.
4600 yesterday. 68 today. Mark goddamn Twain.
What happens, he’d wanted to ask, when she hits
bottom?
He knew the answer of course. The egg breaks.
And after the egg broke, after they’d driven home
to their immaculate house, where they’d presumptively
assembled an heirloom-style crib
from Pottery Barn (stupid, he knew, stupid) he
heard the shell around their marriage cracking
too.
He left the house on foot, not bothering to shed
his work clothes. Half hour up the Strand, sweating
through his slacks, he turned uphill. Time for
that drink. He spotted a trucker hat lying on the
curb. It looked new. What the hell, he thought,
and picked it up. The hat fit nicely over his thinning
hair.
He didn’t realize he’d reached El Porto until he
surfaced on Highland and saw the Beach Hut
across the street. Except it wasn’t the Beach Hut
anymore, just some hair salon. Funny how things
change. He used to inhale loco moco there after
surfing, back when he was single.
Single?
He hadn’t used that word in forever. Last summer
they were destined to become a smiling trio.
But now? He’d been on board for trying again,
for a rainbow baby, but she wouldn’t have it.
Eighteen weeks in, Chip. What if it happens
again? He’d told her he was willing to take that
34 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
chance. She couldn’t bear it, she’d told him, before disappearing into her
phone.
He headed south. Sharkeez was gone, replaced by a fish restaurant undergoing
construction. Still open during remodel! the sign said. Sorry, he
thought, don’t want sawdust in my beer. He forgot how much El Porto had
transformed itself. Then he remembered Sharkeez, where he’d cruise girls
with his friends in that low ceilinged, pirate ship of a building, had sailed
across the street and commandeered Harry O’s.
Harry O’s! They’d elbow their way to the long rectangular bar, Joe’s
Band playing, and the women’s bathroom door opening on the dance floor,
offering up embarrassed girls straight from the toilet. Then he’d stumble
down Harry O’s steps and run to Hillary’s Hole in the Wall for a last drink
before stumbling home.
Chip wanted to try Hillary’s for old times, but he remembered it was
now Bora Bora steakhouse. No, that was gone, replaced by Four Daughters,
a breakfast place he loved walking to with Trina on weekends.
Then it hit him.
Pancho’s.
Pancho’s hadn’t changed. There was a bar, and entertainment too. He
walked through the rustic doors, into a dim lobby and felt a thrill. He’d
celebrated so many birthday dinners here, and danced to the house band,
what was its name, Day After Daze?
The cantina was mostly empty. He took a seat at the bar. Crossfit Games
played on mute (maybe Trina had tickets). The bartenders looked the same,
maybe with whiter hair. He removed his new hat and placed it on the bar.
He ordered a Corona, nice and cold. The bartender chatted with an older
couple at the end of the bar. They looked like regulars. He downed his beer
and ordered another.
When the Crossfit stuff ended, the bartender switched on the Dodgers.
The bar began to fill with the evening crowd, and Chip felt embarrassed
— he was that solo guy at the bar. He checked his phone. No messages. He
texted Brian. Brian responded, something about a babysitter and he and
Kathy had reservations on Abbot Kinney. Chip texted Alex, but Alex didn’t
respond. He ordered another Corona and a lobster taco plate. Alex texted
back, something about working. Great. He almost texted Trina. She hadn’t
texted him, so forget it.
He heard giggles. He swiveled around, his loafers catching on a girl’s
purse. She glanced his way. He realized she was mid-selfie, arms around
her best friend, a stick raised with a mounted miniature camera.
“Hey girls,” he said, louder than he wanted, “I can take your picture.”
“That’s what my selfie stick is for,” she said. “So I don’t have to ask you.”
Rusty. What’s it been? Twelve years, since he’d asked out anyone besides
Trina? He finished eating. The crowd filled in behind him, elbows and
purses pressing against his back. He decided to close his tab. Walk home.
You can’t go back, even though Pancho’s menu, with its glorious history
printed on page one, says you can.
He needed the restroom. When he finished, he made for the lobby. Then
he remembered the trucker hat. He’d left it on the bar. Forget it. But he
wanted to go home with something tonight, some memento. He squeezed
passed shoulders. His old seat already occupied — the hat gone. He
scanned the crowd, spotting a girl wearing it cockeyed, her ponytail poking
through the back.
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“My hat!” he said, pointing.
“No, my hat!” She clutched the bill. “I lost it
today.”
“I found it. But you can have it back.”
“I already haves it back.”
He realized she was slurring. Not drunk, but
getting there. She looked youngish, maybe midthirties.
Pretty eyes, but peeling skin, and he
wondered how many sunburns she had left before
skin cancer. “Hat thief!” she shouted, poking
his shoulder.
Someone cheered, and the opening chords of
“Jessie’s Girl,” ripped through the cantina. Chip
saw the band, the drummer tapping the hi-hat,
the guitarist launching into the first verse about
Rick Springfield’s changed friendship with Jessie.
The crowd bubbled. Normally Chip turned off
Jessie’s Girl, but when the band reached the chorus
and the crowd joined in, Chip decided he
loved it. And the hat girl was still watching him.
“Want to?”
He didn’t know how to ask.
“Maybe I should thank you,” she said.
He took her hand and they forged a space for
dancing. Her ponytail whipped him and he liked
her hands on his shoulders. She didn’t seem to
mind his awkward feet. The Outfield’s “Your
Love” followed and Chip sang all the lyrics.
When the band covered “Little Red Corvette,”
Chip watched in amazement as the guitarist
burned up the fretboard.
“He’s good,” he shouted.
“He should be,” she replied. “He’s Eric Dover.”
He didn’t know that name. Maybe he could tell
Trina—
After “Boys Don’t Cry,” the girl needed a margarita,
and not a skinny one. He led her to the bar
and ordered Naughty Maggies — Pancho’s version
of the Cadillac.
Things got sloppy. A spilled drink. Chip wearing
the trucker hat askew, the girl tossing it on
the bartender’s head. They ordered more
Naughty Maggies. He remembered leaving with
her, skipping out the door, down the hill. Once
barefoot in the sand, the darkness blanketed
them and the waves roared louder than the Pancho’s
band. Her mouth tasted like Margarita salt.
He didn’t get very far before the thing pressed
against his back. A man’s voice in his ear.
“Get down, face in the sand.” Strong hands,
pushing him down. “Don’t look up.”
Sand in his eyes, Chip didn’t dare move. Stupid
cops. Busting them for indecent exposure. Hell,
they didn’t even get indecent yet.
The girl screamed. The man hissed. Struggling
sounds. Something seemed off. The cops
wouldn’t do this, would they?
He felt lopsided. Spinning. He stole a glance
and saw a guy, more like a boulder crushing the
girl. Didn’t look like a cop. Bulky jacket. Chip
shut his eyes, heartbeat hammering in his ears. A
wave crashed. She screamed again.
Something popped. He felt sobriety clawing
back. Wait. He’d heard about this before, in the
news. Didn’t the bad guy escape?
Chip sat up. The man wasn’t watching him. He
figured he could run away. He might even make
it. Trina. Gotta stay alive for her.
But the girl. He couldn’t just leave her, could
he? The man looked like he was crushing her, and
that’s when Chip reacted. He lunged, clumsily,
and the man caught him with a cocked elbow.
Chip’s nose spurted, but the motion whipped the
gun hand from the man’s pocket, and Chip saw
the barrel-shaped index finger, and the hammer
was the guy’s stupid thumb.
Embarrassed, enraged, Chip swarmed him,
hammering sloppy punches on the man’s head,
kicking him with stockinged feet. Chip’s middle
finger snapped. The girl landed a kick against the
man’s jaw. He had enough and scurried away.
Chip wanted to follow but the girl needed help.
He crawled to her, but she kicked him. “Don’t
touch me!” She took off running down the beach.
Chip chased her but she was fast. She reached
the Strand and disappeared up a side street. He
tripped on something. Lying on the sidewalk, he
dialed the police with a shaky thumb. He shouted
details into the phone, but the dispatcher only
wanted his location and the victim’s name, and
he realized he didn’t know her name.
“She’s got a trucker hat,” he said, before passing
out.
When Chip regained consciousness, he found
himself in the waiting room at Little Company of
Mary. This time in a wheelchair. Someone pushing
him outside into the sun. When he squinted,
he saw Trina’s yuppie cart parked arrogantly on
the sidewalk. Trina, in her Lululemon, sitting behind
the wheel. She helped him into the passenger
seat.
“Nice parking job,” he said.
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36 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Tower Sunset
by James Boyd
June 7, 2016. Taken on
Redondo Beach Esplanade
with global filters used, but
no spot manipulation.
iPhone 6+
“Nice face.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Despite the nose brace, he could
smell her body butter. He decided
he liked it. Smelled like breakfast.
“The nurses say you’re a hero.
Did you really save that girl?”
He felt weird talking to her
about it. He didn’t know where to
start.
“Look, about last night—”
“Save it.” She started the cart’s
motor. “Let’s talk later. You need
sleep.”
Sleep sounded good. But, breakfast—
“I’m hungry. Let’s get breakfast.”
She seemed sympathetic. An
outpouring of sympathy before she
turned him out?
“Okay, sure,” she said. “Where?”
“Hillary’s.”
“Who?”
“Bora Bora.”
“Huh?”
Naughty Maggie. Hospital
Drugs. The open cart, sun baking
his immobilized arm, his finger in
a brace. Eric Dover.
“I mean that breakfast place—
Four Daughters.”
“You want four daughters?”
“Yup.”
“How about we settle for one?”
Jessie’s Girl. What was she saying?
Trina removed her sunglasses.
She’d been crying.
“Look, after this, I—” she said.
“Maybe, okay?”
She drove off the curb, jostling
his broken nose and finger. Chip
didn’t feel pain. The fluffy wind
blew like powdered sugar through
his nose brace. The cart’s electric
motor purred. Magic gas, he
thought, maple syrup and honey
butter. B
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 37
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Fire in the sky
by April Reppucci
July 2, 2016,
El Segundo. An
LAX flight soars into
the smoke from the
Santa Clarita Sand
Fire, 45 miles away.
Canon T5i
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Zika by
Sage was under Darling’s skin. It wasn’t supposed to go
down this way, but Sage was in control, completely.
J. E. Marshall
July 1, 2016, MANHATTAN BEACH MARRIOTT, Room 431
Special Agent-in-Charge, Roy Starky reviewed the profile of suspect Jacob
Sage with Special Agent Francis Darling.
“You know why you were selected?” Starky didn’t look up.
“Because I was lead singer in my high school band, sir,” Darling replied.
“Correct. What we want from you is swagger. You’re a barfly. You sing
karaoke with attitude, but you sing badly.” Starky looked up and smiled.
“How bad, sir?” She was amused.
“Fingernails on chalkboard bad. You will butcher every note. Special
Agents Scott White and Daniel Dorsey have established cover as lounge
lizards. You will be fawned over. You will mooch off everyone. Sage hates
karaoke. He complains because his band has to endure it while they set up
their equipment at the Starboard. Sage hates barflies. He especially hates
people who can’t sing but think they can. Special Agent Thomas Dufay has
been living undercover in the same El Segundo flop house as Sage for six
months and the only thing he learned was by accident last night when Sage
got his hand sliced open by a junkie who tried to steal Sage’s Gibson Les
Paul. Dufay drove Sage’s van to the emergency room. Sage didn’t say a
word. No ‘thank you.’ Sage takes off without giving Dufay a ride home.
What’s your take, Agent Darling?”
“My impression, sir, is maybe Sage didn’t say much because he has nothing
to say. He’s a loser. His roommate may have hacked into the CDC during
their dorm days but Gabriel Tyler’s skills did not rub off on Sage. With
all due respect, sir, if Jacob Sage had been paired with a different roommate,
I don’t believe he’d be on the watch list today. He flunks out of Harvard.
He alienates his rich parents. He can’t maintain a relationship. His band
has different members every week. I’m amazed he can complete the task
of performing an entire song. He’s a drug addict, just end-stage-Elvis-damaged-goods,
sir,” Darling gave her opinion.
“Well then, it might surprise you that he drove to his gig right after they
sewed up his hand last night and played a hell of a set. What might surprise
you even is more what Agent Dufay did find.” Starky pushed away his
lunch, took a swig of cold coffee and grimaced. “We got a blood sample. I
wish my blood was so pristine,” Starky shook his head, “All the footage of
Sage shooting up under the pier, all the meetings with his dealer, all the
squalor…. staged. Find out what he’s up to,” Starky tossed the coffee in the
trash.
“Yes, Sir,” Darling ate the pickle from Starky’s plate.
“I was going to eat that,” Starky grumbled.
July 2, 2016, STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER
Agent Darling roller skated around the pier at King Harbor all afternoon.
She climbed the stairs to the Starboard Attitude Cocktail Bar when her partners
signaled that Sage’s van had pulled into the pier parking lot. As Sage
and his band were setting up their equipment, Darling sang the worst ever
rendition of Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ after midnight.” Agents White and
Dorsey clapped and whistled. Darling beamed with pride. Dorsey demanded
an encore. Not to be outdone, White gave Darling a standing ova-
38 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
tion.
Sage was not afraid to deliver a mean comment to anyone who earned
it but bit his tongue when he got a good look at Darling. He trusted his instinct
to keep his disgust to himself.
Dorsey bought Darling drinks and left with her just before Sage’s gig
was up. Sage didn’t bat an eye.
July 2, 2016 CROWNE PLAZA HOTEL, REDONDO BEACH
Darling waited in Dorsey’s hotel room until Agent Scotty White finally
ambled in.
“It’s about time,” Dorsey blurted.
“You two are a sight. Why so glum?”
“When you sober up you might realize we didn’t exactly make an impression
tonight,” Darling sighed.
“I wouldn’t say that. After you left Sage said some pretty nasty things
about ‘Patsy Cline’” White smiled.
“Really….” Darling leaned in. “Tell me every word he said.”
July 3, 2016 STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER
Darling sat on Scotty White’s lap while she sang Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”
as off key as possible. Once again Jacob Sage ignored her.
Darling’s rear was jutting out of her daisy dukes. She leaned on the bar,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other so that her see-sawing butt
cheeks hypnotized every man in the bar except Sage.
“This is the martini James Bond really drinks,” Darling rudely shouted
over Sage’s rendition of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Tightrope.” Darling dragged
White to the dance floor and upstaged Sage so seductively that Agent White
blushed in spite of himself.
Sage made his Gibson squeal like a pig and transitioned from “Tightrope”
to a jacked up rendition of the opening riffs of “Immigrant Song.” He nearly
ripped the strings off his guitar. His normally deep, buttery voice gave way
to an earsplitting falsetto as he called out at the top of his lungs: “Ahhhhhh
ah Ahhhhhh Ah!”
“Mother of God!” a startled drunk fell off his stool.
Sage looked at his frozen band as if they were stupid.
“What the f...?” The new drummer was pissed.
“Roll with it. It usually works out,” the bass player said, kicking the
drummer’s foot.
Sage just kept ripping the opening riff from of his Les Paul until his band
caught up with him. When everyone was on the same page, Sage tore into
the body of “Immigrant Song” like a jackhammer. Sage’s guitar was so terrifying
that everyone stopped dancing. Sage jumped off the stage and spun
in circles on the empty dance floor, screaming in the incredible high octave.
His guitar made sounds no one had heard before. He used his teeth as a
slide. He blew on the strings so that his breath caused magical sounds. His
grip on the neck tightened and the stitches on the palm of his hand burst
open. Blood gushed down his arm.
Sage stomped out of the bar. He abandoned his band and drove off without
them.
Agent Darling heard Sage mumbling under his breath, back in his sweet
and low buttery voice, “Dance to that, bitch!”
The bartender mopped the blood off the dance floor before anyone could
slip and break their neck.
July 4, 2016 STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re early tonight so you can enjoy the fireworks,”
Sage purred in his deepest, sexy voice as if nothing insane happened
the night before.
Agents White and Dorsey were called away suddenly. Darling was on
her own. She sipped her trademark James Bondish martini that the waitress
gave her before she could even order it. The waitress nodded towards
the band. Sage bought her a drink. Sage never bought anyone anything.
Darling was excited. She wished White and Dorsey could see this.
Sage’s band kept repeating the opening riffs of “Zombie” by the Cranberries
for a long while to create more tension in the crowd.
“Alas, no karaoke tonight,” Sage grinned. “Ya’ll know what karaoke
means to me. But hey, I’m not mean. I won’t deprive you of your darling.
Darling, don’t disappoint your fans. Come up here and help me sing this
song.” Sage stared over the crowd into Darling’s bewildered face.
Darling fought to stay in character. Did Sage call her “darling” or did he
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 39
H O N O R
Waves and Fire Light
by Beverly Gates
July 23, 2016,
Redondo Beach
The red glow was
caused by the
Santa Clarita Fire.
Sony Mirrorless A7RII
say her name, Darling? The crowd squished together to clear a narrow
path for Darling. Mercifully the loop ended. The song began.
Sage was under Darling’s skin. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way,
but Sage was in control, completely. Without warning he handed Darling
the mic. She picked up the next line. It did not come out bad. It felt good.
It felt like when she was young and the world was hers. She belted out
“Zombie” with the force of a volcanic eruption. Sage chuckled and nodded
to the band. “Let’s see what she does to Adele.”
Sage yanked a chair from a customer and put it on stage because Agent
Darling was soon going to fall on her ass from what Sage put in her drink.
He didn’t hate her enough to let her suffer that indignity.
Darling’s rendition of “Rolling in the Deep” had the crowd bouncing in
place like a single organism. The new drummer stopped bitching and let
all hell break loose. The old timber of the Starboard Attitude creaked.
Drinks bounced off the bar like lemmings leaping into the sea. Young girls
wept. Outside the crowd completely blocked all passage surrounding the
bar.
Sage glanced up at the police station across the way and saw White and
Dorsey waving their arms in the air, shouting. They were trying to fathom
what happened to the East Coast and the Midwest. All the information
was coming from drones and automated feeds. There was not one person
left who could answer any of the questions White and Dorsey were frantically
screaming. Sage knew they must be watching the Times Square
loop of Sage performing “Purple Rain.” Yep, they saw it. They both looked
up and glared at him with hatred in their eyes. They would never make it
through the crowd in time.
“Ok, Darling, let’s try some hellacious harmony, ‘Don’t Call Me Up,’
Mick Jagger,” Sage purred.
Sage pulled Darling to her feet and kicked the chair into the crowd. Sage
and Darling sang “Don’t Call Me Up,” as if they had practiced it together
a million times. The crying girls began blubbering when Sage and Darling
crushed the lines, “I will hold my head high and just gaze at the sky. I was
under your spell! Ya took me to hell!”
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“We’ll be back after a short break,” Sage dragged Darling to the bar’s
tiny restroom. The band played an extended all instrumental version of
“Purple Rain.” Sage and Darling made mad love. Afterwards their lips
softly brushed for a moment. Darling couldn’t help herself. She pressed in
for a deep kiss. Sage stabbed her in the neck.
He plopped her outside on the narrow balcony.
“White! Dorsey!” Darling cried out, panting into her no longer hidden
microphone.
“Two thirds of the country is down” were the crackling last words she
heard from Dorsey.
“I made you when you showed up with that ridiculous sunburn trying
to pass yourself off as a wharf rat. You people put the wrong guy in prison.
Gabriel Tyler took the fall for me in exchange for immunity. I just gave
you immunity.” He pulled the syringe out of her neck and flicked it into
the ocean.
“Thar she blows!” Sage pointed to the purple fireworks in the sky. The
crowd suddenly started milling about aimlessly. “I call it ‘Purple rain,’ but
marketed it as “Purple mountain majesties’ to be patriotic. I undersold
competitors and gave away the firecracker and sparkler forms in every
neighborhood across the country. The coastal eddy and fog make a nice
extended delivery.”
“What does it do?” Darling cried.
“It’s a weaponized version of the Zika virus. It doesn’t kill. It doesn’t pass
on to the next generation. It only affects those exposed and reduces them
permanently to a two year old mentality.”
The next firework launched directly through the crowd and into the
parking structure where it caused cars to explode.
“Ok, it doesn’t directly kill but if you are driving a car when you inhale
it, it’s probably not going to end well for you,” Sage corrected himself.
“I’ll be back, Darling,” Sage went back into the Starboard. Everyone had
wandered off to find their ma-ma. The new drummer was sitting on the
floor playing with a tub of maraschino cherries. Sage took up his Les Paul
and played “Purple rain” while civilization fell all around him. B
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 41
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Bar hopping’s glory days
by Pete Whalon
For those fortunate enough to have lived
through those hazy, booze-filled glory
days, I’ve got a serious question.
How many of these joints did you
frequent back in the day?
Travel back in time with me for a nostalgic journey to the ‘70s and
‘80s in the South Bay. The classic beach cruise in the ‘70s and ‘80s
began at 45th St. and Highland Avenue, dipped down to Manhattan
Avenue and then to Hermosa Avenue, which turned into Harbor Drive,
culminating at the Redondo Pier. I received my honorable discharge from
the Army in 1971 after spending 22 months in Vietnam. I had just turned
22 and for the next two decades that hallowed stretch of pavement would
be my “adult playground.” The bars, clubs and restaurants offering music
and dancing littered those streets of the three beach cities. For a young single
male on the prowl, it proved a mecca for meeting nubile, perky, suntanned
chicks (yes, that’s what we called them before the invasion of
political correctness). And for most of that period the Red Onion on Harbor
Drive was, hands down, the quintessential stop for achieving that goal.
If you arrived at the “O” after 9 p.m. on a Friday or Saturday evening
you would find a line of enthusiastic young mavericks zigzagging out the
front door and down around the mosaic water fountain near the parking
area. Ladies, however, were never turned away and never had to wait in
lines. The whole process reminded me of fishermen throwing chum into
the ocean to attract fish. As the guys stood anxiously in line waiting their
turn, a steady stream of hotties in body-hugging shorts and skin tight tank
tops sashayed into into the restaurant. A high school friend of mine
worked as a bouncer and allowed me immediate access anytime he was
working. Of course, whenever you mix alcohol, macho men with raging
hormones and desirable females, chaos occasionally ensued. Over the
years I did witness some of the most vicious and brutal fights in barroom
brawl history. They usually involved a damsel in distress.
The most notorious bouncer working the front door during those years
was a mammoth, fierce, callous looking Hawaiian dude with an impressive
Fu Manchu moustache, shoulder length black hair and arms the size of
telephone poles. One evening as I sat outside at the fountain talking to a
hot blonde chick with perfect teeth, Fu Manchu appeared from the building
dragging an unfortunate drunk by the neck. As he shoved him to the
ground, Fu demanded, “Stay the f- -k outta here asshole!” As the Hawaiian
returned to his position at the front door the drunk awkwardly arose from
the brick walkway and made a painfully costly mistake. “Who the f- -k is
gonna make me ass face!” Fu turned around as the ill-fated idiot staggered
toward him. One swift, powerful punch and Mr. drunk hit the bricks like
a sack of flour right in front of Blondie and me. He was out cold. A few
minutes later three of flour-sack buddies came out looking for him. By this
time the drunk was mumbling and moaning simultaneously. His pals
began asking about who had hit him. Between spitting out blood and attempting
to balance himself he agonizingly replied, “Bouncer dude with
the whiskers.” His clueless toadies started talking tough. “Let’s kick his fu-
- -ing ass.” Since they were only a few feet from where I sat and I wanted
to impress what’s-her-name, I attempted to do the humanitarian thing by
offering some sound advice. “Hey dudes, if I were you I’d just go home
now. I’ve seen guys challenge him before and it did not go well for them.”
Now, you’d think they would be grateful…they weren’t. The three stooges
started flipping me off and firing f-bombs at me as if I had decked their
comrade. So much for impressing blondie. I just sat there silently, questioning
my poor decision to get involved as the trio scooped up their dented
playmate and began carrying him toward the parking lot. Of course they
42 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
maintained their verbal assault toward me. I took away a valuable lifelesson.
Discretion is the better part of valor. In other words, keep your
trap shut.
Besides the Red Onion there were a variety of hangouts close by the
Redondo Harbor. One of the all-time classics, The Flying Jib, was only
a few blocks away but light years removed from the clientele at the “O”.
The Jib was on the corner of Broadway and Catalina, which today is
part of Dive N Surf. It was a rendezvous point for hardcore druggies
and alkies. The born losers. They were the wayward souls of our first
generation of serious drug addicts. Inside the Jib the scraggly, motley
crew were either in search of drugs, passed out on narcotics or selling
the stuff. I did have some druggie friends and visited the Jib five or six
times. Frankly, it proved too depressing for my taste and smelled like a
pile of moldy, dirty laundry. Everybody knew that it was unwise to
drive too close to the Jib on the weekends since most of the burnouts
were totally wasted when they staggered out of the bar and they were
usually driving ratty looking, banged up cars. It was truly an accident
scene waiting to happen. On Friday and Saturday night it was commonplace
to see cop cars, fire trucks and flares as you drove up or down
Beryl Avenue or Catalina Avenue in Redondo.
If you grew weary of the crowd and loud music at the Onion or just
wanted to go somewhere less jam-packed for a short break, you didn’t
have to look far. Across the parking lot from Red Onion was Castagnola’s
Lobster House. I swear, almost every time I walked into that place
the house band was playing Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. I had
nightmares with that song pounding in my head. The crowd at the Lobster
House was older (boring) and more subdued (boring). Although I
enjoyed the atmosphere, after a short stint I would get bored and return
to the raging party next door. One of the best parts of visiting the Lobster
proved to be the free gifts. Their drink glasses had a cool Lobster House
logo on them, so every time I left the building I would grab a glass or
two off of a table and put them in my car to later add to my growing
collection at home. Although the glass was cheaply made and would
crack if you played loud music, I still have one intact glass. At one time
I possessed over 30 collectables of their faulty glassware.
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Talking Seagull
by Jerry Averill
December 12, 2015, Manhattan Beach pier. I was shooting the surfers and
noticed this seagull opening his mouth really wide.
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 43
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
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Pier Roundhouse
and the solstice
moon
by Joel Gitelson
June 20, 2016.
Got up early,
hoping for a clear
moonset. Not until
2062 will there be
another solstice
full moon. Canon
5D Mark III
On the other side of the “O” was Beach Bum Burt’s (now the Cheesecake
factory). With its tiki décor and their retractable roof, Burt’s was a classy
place and perfect location to take a date. However, their Sunday afternoon
beach parties were out-of-control with bikini-clad bombshells everywhere.
If you arrived too late chances are you wouldn’t get in. Unfortunately,
Burt’s closed in the early ‘80s, probably because it couldn’t compete with
its big brother the Onion. Around the corner from Burt’s was Ruben’s (now
Joe’s Crab Shack) and the Portofino Inn (still there). Both offered decent
bands with ample parking, however, much like The Lobster House, a little
too laid back (boring) for me.
Another bygone treasure, the Blue Moon Saloon, sat just behind the
rocks at Redondo’s breakwater. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a splash-wall.
In 1988 it was wiped out by a violent storm. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons
in the summer you couldn’t find a better place to party in the
South Bay. If you enjoyed chicks in bikinis, reasonable drink prices and
promiscuous women, it proved the perfect spot. Due to my notable work
ethic, I often pulled a triple shift on weekends — Friday night until 2 a.m.
at the Onion, then up for my second shift on Saturday from noon until
around 5 p.m. at Blue Moon, then home to take a nap, shower and return
to the scene of the crime, The Red Onion, for the Saturday night debauchery.
44 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
One afternoon while drinking at the bar in the Blue Moon with a friend
we noticed the bartender snorting cocaine in the far corner of the bar area.
He returned at least three times within 20 minutes for a quick blast. A few
minutes later we observed him in a heated argument with an irate customer
a few seats down from us. The snorter began dropping f-bombs as
he stormed away from the agitated barfly. The bartender was clearly pissed
at something the dude had said and he looked ready to explode. We were
laughing thinking he was putting on an act until suddenly he grabbed a
glass and hurled it into the sink shattering it into hundreds of pieces. A
split second later I felt a slight pinch to my chin. I touched the spot and
came away with blood on my fingers. There was a tiny sliver of the glass
buried in my chin. The bartender never noticed that I had been hit by
shrapnel. Twenty-two months in Nam and never wounded — now I’m hit
by friendly fire at The Blue Moon Saloon. The manager, standing nearby,
noticed that I had been injured. Before the manager confronted the cokedout
bartender sulking in the corner he stopped to apologize to me. He asked
me what had happened, although he already knew. The boss then offered
me and my buddy free drinks for the day. However, the absolute best part
of the fiasco was that he forced my goofball assailant to apologize to me,
which he begrudgingly did. A few weeks later at the Blue Moon I asked a
waitress if the short, stocky bartender was working and she informed me
that he had been fired.
There were so many fantastic nightspots to party at during those memorable
two decades, I can’t begin to recall them all. For those fortunate
enough to have lived through those hazy, booze-filled glory days of the
South Bay, I’ve got a serious question. Including the above mentioned establishments,
how many of these joints did you frequent back in the day?
Critters, Orville and Wilbur's, The Lighthouse, The Attic (Santa Monica),
The Bull Pen (still standing), La Paz, Tequila Willies, Shellback Tavern (still
standing), The Rain Tree (Torrance), Pancho & Wongs, Cisco's, Buccaneer,
Besties, Pier 52, The Flagship, Ercoles (still standing). My apologies for the
classic haunts I’ve omitted, due to my severely fading memory. B
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 45
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46 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
Announcing…
Dean|Rosen LLP
Attorneys Pauline Rosen and Michelle Dean are merging
their law firms to form Dean|Rosen LLP. With two
locations to serve the South Bay community, Pauline
and Michelle will continue their tradition of excellence in family
law representation.
Pauline and Michelle are experienced trial lawyers with
over thirty combined years of advocating all aspects of divorce,
including child custody, child support, spousal support,
retirement benefits, business valuations, characterization of
separate and community property, and property division.
Additionally, they assist clients with grandparent’s rights, premarital
agreements, and post-nuptial agreements.
Pauline also assists clients in wealth transfer planning
through living trusts, wills, advanced health care directives
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provides criminal defense for misdemeanors and DUIS.
Both attorneys mediate family law disputes for parties willing
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 47
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Cloud Waves
by Jeff Wright
June 2, 2016,
below Del
Cerro Park,
Rancho Palos
Verdes. Taken
after sunset
with low
clouds over
the ocean.
Canon 5D MkIII
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Marriage, houses and true love by
Mori Biener
SAs she yells, she opens the drapes and points to the balcony. The tour must go on!
48 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
o I’m entering a better than average house on a bad street in a nice neighborhood. That would be Realtor talk. I’m here on
a listing appointment with Gracie, who was referred to me. She’s a very nice lady, short, thin, attractive but I can’t understand
half the things she says because she has a very thick accent and she speaks in broken English. But I can tell Gracie
is sharp. I sha you hos…I bild it, she says proudly. I follow her as we tour the lower floor and I try not to say, what is that?
too many times. The feture fo sal too; is ver spensive, she says. What was that?, I say. It took me three times to understand
that the furniture is for sale too. Why are you selling the house? I ask. Husban no good bum get divos, she says. I’m sorry
to hear that, I say. I like to think I’m pretty good in divorce situations. I’m quick on my feet and have handled warring
parties in the past with aplomb. We go upstairs and she opens the master bedroom double doors. We step into darkness.
She turns on the lights. Up pops a man from under the blankets dressed in pj’s, night mask and an attitude. He tears off
the mask. Squinting intensely he yells, I sleap why you tun on light?! I freeze. My heart stops. I bring Retor, show bedroom,
sell hos, she yells back. I want out in the worst way but I’m frozen. He blurts out a barrage of foreign words and she
counters with her own. As she yells, she opens the drapes and points to the balcony. The tour must go on! You go see masa
bath now, she tells me excitedly. But I’m frozen! You go! she commands curtly and I unfreeze. I take a quick look and rush
out of the bedroom fearing to cast an eye toward the bed. Gracie’s behind me, words unknown to me flinging out of her
like poison arrows toward whom I presume is her husband. She slams the door behind her, big breath and slowly turns toward
me. I’m at a complete loss for words, red in the face. She apologizes, gives me the listing and I sell the house without
ever seeing him again. Gracie handled everything. When the house went into escrow she decided to buy a nicer house
where she now lives happily with that very same no good husband she tangled with in that bedroom. Go figure. Sometimes
sharing an uncomfortable situation with a stranger can be a bonding experience, which can result in a sale…or two. B
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 49
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
“Reflections
by Kathy
Miller-Fujimoto
December 27,
2015, RAT Beach. I
decided to go to
RAT Beach and was
blessed with a
spectacular sunset.
Canon 5D Mark III
In our small town there were about 10 paper
routes. Only one or two would turnover annually.
Typically, paper boys, only boys,
would start around 11 years old and quit when
they started high school. To get the job, one hung
around the drop off area. The drop off area was
a central point in town where the circulation
manager would drop off bundles of the newspaper
each afternoon. The aspiring paper boy
would help rubber band and bag the papers
Eventually, he would help carriers with delivery,
get to know the manager and hopefully be given
the route of a departing carrier.
Mondays and Tuesdays, when the paper was
thin, the paperboys boxed the papers, folding
them without using rubber bands. They had to
buy their rubber bands. The downside to boxing
was the papers did not always fly straight when
tossed. On a long toss, boxed papers tended to sail
into the bushes or on to rooftops.
Capital expenditures and
operating expenses
Capital expenses were minimal. One needed a
bicycle with high, butterfly handlebars. Butterflies
allowed the paperboys to drape their heavy
carrier bags over the handlebars. A bicycle with
drop handlebars would not work. The large bags
were able to carry 70 to 100 papers. The bags had
front and back pouches, with a hole between
them. Some carriers preferred to wear the bags
like a poncho, pulling papers from the front and
back to keep the bag balanced.
Since most routes were five to six miles long
and the papers were delivered six days a week,
50 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Business 101: The paper route
the paperboy would incur operational costs, such
as bicycle brake pads and bicycle tires.
Operations
Routes had 90 to 95 subscribers, so carriers had
to memorize which houses to deliver to and
which to skip. About 40 percent of the houses on
a route were customers. Carriers quickly learned
all their names. Carriers rode down the middle
of the street, tossing papers with either hand. It
helped to be ambidextrous. There was little traffic
to worry about, though occasionally carriers got
hit. Some customers insisted their papers be
porched. Extra papers were always carried and,
if not needed, brought home for our folks. If a
customer complained that their house was
missed, or their paper was thrown in the bushes,
or soaked by a sprinkler, the circulation manager
would phone us at home and we would hop on
our bike, ride to that customer’s house and hand
deliver one of the extra papers. Too many complaints
were the main cause for dismissal.
The paper had to be delivered daily, except on
Sunday. If you were unable to work, it was your
responsibility to find a substitute.
Receivables
At the end of each month the paper boy would
go to each customer’s house to collect. My paper,
the Santa Monica Evening Outlook, cost $1.50 a
month. Since I had 90 papers, I paid the Outlook
$90 at end of each month and I kept $45. I collected
in the evenings and never worried about
my safety. The customers would usually give me
$2 and expect change. Only during Christmas
Everything I needed to know about business,
I learned on my paper route by John Cody
would I receive tips, often as much as $50 to $60.
We carried the cash, no checks, in a pouch and
paid the circulation manager on the first of each
month. No exceptions, which meant we had to
be diligent in collecting from our customers.
Marketing
Because only about 40 of the people on a route
subscribed to the evening paper, the circulation
department was constantly encouraging us to get
more subscribers. Every year, the newspaper
would hold a circulation drive and reward the paperboys
who increased the number of customers
on their routes. The most effective motivation
was not money, but an outing or a trip. For us, it
was usually an all expenses paid Sunday at Disneyland
with the other winners. We learned that
recognition and trips are stronger incentives than
plain cash. Failure to increase market share was
also grounds for dismissal.
Conclusion
One can see why a paper route was a great introduction
to business. The barriers to entry were
low capital and investment costs were minimal,
as were operational costs. Efficient distribution
was the responsibility of the paperboy and required
memorization and logistical skills. Increasing
circulation was stressed, so constant
marketing was important. Collecting receivables
was necessary for survival. I’m sure not all successful
businessmen of my generation had paper
routes as boys, but I’ll bet many did. I learned
more business skills as a paperboy than I did during
two years in MBA School. B
PEDAL YOUR CRUISER
Redondo Beach Pier and Boardwalk
August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 51
You’re Invited
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
1 OCEAN 20
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The sound of burning rubber,
tires peeling, and engine belts being
pushed way beyond their limits,
could be heard
that? Never seen them before."
Hermosa Sgt. JD Clements mumbled to himself as he
"Who's
drove North along PCH, past the Four Star gas station and
repair shop, "Lemme just have a quick look."
Clements did a quick right turn and blacked out, no interior or headlights,
killed the engine and rolled down the driveway of the all night filling
station.
August 6, 1953, not only was the planet Mars the closest it’s been to
earth this century, there was a Super Moon event that evening. The brightness
from the east-rising moon lit up the ocean like a search light .
The officer got out of his car and called out to the night attendant,
"Jimmy, need to talk to you!" There was no response, but he thought he
heard someone in the manager’s office. Not a voice, but some shuffling
and a muffled response. Clements unleashed the holster of his sidearm
and walked towards the open door of the office.
As he got closer, he saw the moonlit silhouette of the night attendant,
bound and gagged, prone on the oily floor. Holding his .45 in his right
hand, ready to shoot at anything that blinked, Clements whispered to
Jimmy, "Just nod your answer, is he still here?" Jimmy's head went up and
down like a jackhammer. That rapid cranial movement somehow loosened
the gag covering the attendants mouth, enough for him to blurt out, "He
has a gun!"
At this exact same moment, the sound of burning rubber, tires peeling,
and engine belts being pushed way beyond their limits could be heard from
the south end of the building. Clements ran back to his patrol unit just in
time to see the 1951 Plymouth Seville pull out of the driveway and head
north along PCH.
"Sorry, Jimbo, I'll have to come back for you later," the officer said to
himself as he grabbed the mic from the dash and told anyone who was interested
that he was in pursuit. This was just months before all the South
Bay cities were brought onto one emergency frequency, so when there was
an incident like this, the neighboring cities’ police units were already in
position along Sepulveda Boulevard.
"1 Ocean 20, I'm now crossing Manhattan Beach Boulevard, approaching
Marine, speeds at 100 plus."
Clements looked in his rear view mirror and what he initially thought
was a firefly making erratic horizontal movements, was actually none other
than Hermosa Chief Holly Murray, on a city motorcycle — riding at an incredible
speed.
"1 Ocean 20, crossing Rosecrans, speeds at 100 plus,” radioed a Manhattan
unit driven by Sgt. Mike Martin. Then a two man El Segundo unit
joined in the pursuit. Its wide open road from this point north, and everyone
instinctively knew that this incident was going to end in the next
minute or so. The adrenaline of the chase wears off quickly with the realization
that the pursuits never end well.
1 OCEAN 20 cont. on page 54
52 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N
Crusin'
by Ted Anderson
June 12, 2016.
Pier and Pacific
Coast Highway,
Hermosa Beach.
I saw this cool
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Pier and noticed
the dog, had to
take it.
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August 11, 2016 • Easy Reader / Beach magazine 53
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1 OCEAN 20 cont. from page 52
As the parade continued past El Segundo Boulevard, Sgt. Martin held his
service revolver out the window and shot out the rear tires of the suspect’s
vehicle, right wheel first, causing the driver to over-correct by turning the
steering wheel to the left, with the second bullet prompting the Plymouth
to cease all forward motion. Unfortunately for the suspect, the Hermosa
unit was still in "forward motion" at about 50 m.p.h. when it impacted the
front left area of the Plymouth, knocking it into the gully that adjoins the
strawberry fields. The force of the collision launched the black and white
up on its two left wheels for about 20 yards before the unit rolled over on
its side and skidded to a stop.
About 20 yards from the termination of the pursuit the two El Segundo
officers pulled Clements out of his wrecked vehicle and hauled their seriously
injured patient to Gardena Hospital.
Sgt. Martin and Chief Murray each grabbed one arm of the suspect and
yanked him out the driver’s side window and placed him, knees folded,
into the mud. As Martin did a pat down for weapons, Murray leaned over
to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of the suspect’s vehicle. It
revealed a floor plan of the Mermaid Restaurant. He motioned the Manhattan
officer over. "I stopped some guy earlier this evening, down at the
waterline, got a call that he was behaving weird, using a flashlight to signal
someone off the coast. As I rolled up I could see a guy in a small craft,
about 50 yards out, just south of the pier. He took off when I walked down
towards flashlight guy.
“I asked the guy who was sitting in the sand for his ID, and who his
friend with the panga was. He said he didn't have anything and didn't see
any boat. I told him he's not going anywhere ‘til he gives me something
w/ his name on it. He was fumbling around his pockets, pulled out the
map, then quickly shoved it into his jacket pocket. I grabbed his arm and
reached into his pocket to grab the map.
Same one as this clown has. He started to get up so I shoved him back
down and cuffed him. Let’s go find out who this guy is.”
The officers walked back towards their suspect and laid it out for him.
"We have your friend. You wanna tell us your version, ‘cause his story
throws you under the bus.”
After about 15 seconds of the seven stages of grief, the suspect spoke up.
"I knew this wasn't gonna work, the whole thing was so stupid. My idiot
cousin saw it in a movie, and we just tweaked the plot to fit our plan. We
were gonna knock over the Mermaid. It's a Saturday night, the owners
can't go to the bank ‘til Monday, so it makes sense that there'd be a ton of
cash there. We hired this kid and paid him to drive away from the Mermaid
as fast as he could, blacked out around 11 p.m. figuring he could keep u
guys busy chasing him down, while we scooped all the cash from the tills
and customers.”
“Then we were gonna run down to the beach and get aboard a dinghy
to take us to a bigger boat, maybe hide out at the isthmus on Catalina. But
the kid called and said some cop ran my cousin off the beach and then off
to jail.”
“So our plan was on hold. I didn't want to go home empty handed, so I
stopped off at that gas station you saw me at, was gonna knock that over,
but you guys ruined that plan, too.”
Martin lifted the guy to his feet and walked him back to his unit as a
message from the Hermosa desk was relayed to Murray.
"Clements called from the hospital, he's gonna be fine, but thought it’d
be wise to mention that the victim in the gas station robbery is most likely
still tied up in the office and will probably lash out at anyone who shows
up to free him.”
Murray radioed back that he'd head over to the station and take care of
that, but on his way, he did a slow roll by the Mermaid, looking at the lot
full of locals and rummies, heading in and out and thinking to himself,
"You people have no idea how two nosy, suspicious civil servants made
your life a lot more pleasant tonight."
As he turned his motor west and headed up Pier Avenue, he rode by but
didn’t recognize the kid who was gonna drive the car away from the Mermaid
and now was walking back toward the restaurant, seeing if there was
any way to salvage the evening. He glanced towards Pier Ave at the fading
light of Murray's motorcycle, with its back and forth excessive changes,
and thought to himself, "That looks like a drunken firefly." B
54 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
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56 Easy Reader / Beach magazine • August 11, 2016
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