Small Wonders

I have this fantasy.... No, not that one, gutter-brain. In my fantasy, I'm a contestant on a TV trivia game show. Not “Jeopardy!” - though I love to watch it, the show is only for former spelling bee champs, savants and people with nothing better to do during college but study. Nor am I talking about “Wheel of Fortune.” Entertaining in its own banal way, if Joe Contestant needs to buy a vowel when the clue is “ocean vessel” and he already has “Tit_nic,” that's not a show I'd get much satisfaction out of being on. I'm talking about game shows that require adequate knowledge of the world without a PhD - “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

This is second in a two-part series. Read part one here . Unprotected by hills to the west, Burbank suffers under the laser-like rays of the setting sun each evening. Driving, or even walking, becomes dangerous as you shield your eyes and hunt for the safety of shade. But for homes on the west side of the street, like ours, the sun's descent turns front lawns into shady glens - well-lit yet comforting oases. I return home from Monte Carlo Deli with my bagful of delights: prosciutto, salami, cheese, fig spread, olives and artichoke hearts; also a few loaves of the mini rustica bread they run out of midway through each day. Two weather-worn Adirondack chairs are permanent fixtures on our front lawn.

The day was perfect. A late-July afternoon in mid-May. Happy children playing happily with friends on the block, defining what Saturdays are all about. The sun descending behind shade trees, but promising to keep daylight around a few more hours. So I sent out the call to the neighbors: “DOTL” Texted it, actually. Feel free to guess what it means. On our block it's the Batman light in the night sky - a call to action. Minutes later I'm at Monte Carlo Deli, the closest Burbank has to Mario's Deli in Glendale.

If you get the opportunity, I highly recommend letting your young children climb rock walls to dangle high above the ground, precariously shimmy across tightropes, balance beams and rope bridges suspended 40 feet in the air, wailing for help in fear for their lives. Panic and dread are great character builders. Or good laughs for sadistic parents. Either way, your little ones may surprise you. I was never a great Boy Scout. Most of my awards were given to me out of pity, or were pilfered from my brother's retired uniform.

I'd love to tell the story of your mother today. But I don't know her. So, I'll tell you about mine. She's a pretty typical mom. Darlene is a wife, career educator, retiree, volunteer and the epitome of a grandmother. She's a mom in the truest sense of the word. The only child to Cecil and Wilhemina, Darlene was born during the Great Depression. Her parents struggled to make sure their daughter would have more than they did. They sent her to college where she became a teacher, the only job she ever wanted.

There were times when I couldn't wait for them to get older. To be able to hold up their own heads. To crawl or walk. To eat with their own hands. To clean up after and dress themselves. Though they still haven't mastered the last one, they are quite proficient at the others. Heck, I still have trouble dressing myself. Spring, with all its rebirth, renewal and awakening, is upon us. It's right up there with winter, summer and fall as one of my favorite seasons.

Dear Kim, I hear you want to run for mayor of my hometown, Glendale, California. I'm sure by now you've discovered one doesn't “run for mayor” of Glendale. No. One first runs for City Council and then wins the annual intra-council rock-paper-scissors contest to become mayor. Or loses it. No one's really sure how it works. Though I now live in neighboring Burbank, as a son of Glendale (a “Glendalian?”) I felt compelled to write and say this: Run, Kimmy! Run! At this moment, all nine of my readers are angrily sending nasty-grams asking if I've lost my mind.

I am about to break one of the cardinal rules of modern mankind. I am going to tell you what happened in Las Vegas. This isn't easy for me. On the flight to Sin City, I told my girls they may see disturbing things that would seem evil and unnatural. But, no matter what they saw, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And then I needed a spring break topic for my column this week. So here's “The Hangover, Part III: Caneday Family Vacation.” Though my youthful days of nocturnal casino carousing are long gone, the siren song of the craps and blackjack tables still beckoned.

Dear Frank, It pains me to write this. Last year I wrote to you, pleading with you to give us back our Los Angeles Dodgers and show yourself out of town. On behalf of all Angelenos who bleed Dodger blue, I implored you to do what you knew in your money-loving, American Express Black Card, bankrupt heart was best, and make a few hundred million dollars for yourself and your ex-wife by selling our team. And this week, you did it.* So here's the hard part. (deep breath)

Did you survive the storm last week? I'm not talking about a meteorological event, but a saccharine-sweet cultural tempest that just swept through not only our community, but the nation. I'm talking about Girl Scout cookie time. Though the eye of the storm has passed, you can still find them in front of Pavilions and Virgil's Hardware, Ralph's and CVS. After that frenzied first week cookies are released, things have settled down to a Tagalong-induced self-loathing lull. Thankfully, we only have a few spare boxes of Thin Mints left in our house.