Beach Magazine August 2016

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


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. 


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 


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.



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 


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 


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! 


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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 


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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 



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 


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 




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 



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 



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, 



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 



Windy Sunset 

by Joe Carson 

January 31, 2016. 

Strong onshore winds 

at the Manhattan 

Beach pier. 

Nikon D800 

Naughty Maggie 


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 


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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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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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 


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- 


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 


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 



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 


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. 


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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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. 


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 


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Fireworks Landscape 

by Daniel Sofer 

July 4, 2016, Hermosa Beach. Seaside Lagoon and Rat Beach fireworks. 

Sony a7rII/70-300mm 


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 

and other estate planning tools. Michelle, a former prosecutor, 

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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 


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! 


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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“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, 



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

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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 



Crusin' 

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June 12, 2016. 

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Coast Highway, 

Hermosa Beach. 

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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 


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Beach Magazine August 2016

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