In Lament of the Missing American Heroes, Bugs, Daffy & Bullwinkle

THE ‘DITH-PICK-ABLE’ AND THE ‘WASCALLY’ — Two American heroes, Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny. / Warner Bros. cartoons

WHERE’S BUGS AND BULLWINKLE? — The ducks, Daffy and Donald? Professor Peabody (the world’s smartest talking dog) and those affable mice — Jerry, Mighty and Mickey? We even had a cartoon Superman. Surprise to some, he didn’t wear the funereal black back then. 

The modern animated hero, the one some of us leave our children alone with, is an X-rated lout and pervert, represented by Butthead, Stan Marsh and friends from “South Park,” “SpongeBob SquarePants,” and lately, a long woke list from Walt Disney. 

Granted. One can point to the freefall use of TNT in the old Warner Brothers cartoons. A forlorn Sylvester the Cat holds an exploding stick of dynamite an inch away from his face and the forever optimistic Wile E. Coyote plummets thousands of feet off a desert cliff, hits the dirt, takes a moment to stare at the camera before a multi-ton boulder lands atop of his head. 

I always had a bone to pick with the creators of the wild dog of the American wastelands and his nemesis, The Roadrunner. Long before there was an Amazon, Wile E. Coyote did his mail order shopping at the one-stop-shopping outlet, Acme. The suspicious part of me always wondered. I never saw pockets in his mangy hide, hence, no place to hide a credit card. Never saw a deliveryman demanding C.O.D. How did the omnivore pay for all the rockets, dirigibles, trampolines and endless oceans of paint, brushes and rollers?

THE PRECURSOR TO AMAZON — Special kudos to the flea-bitten desert dog, Wile E. Coyote, who actually launched the general mail order business with his deep pockets support to the cartoon retail giant, Acme Co. / Warner Bros. cartoons

A deeper thought?

The craven Wile E. spent a fortune on all these Rube Goldberg devices, just to capture, and, I’m guessing, eat, that 99% gristle-&-feathers Roadrunner. I suppose, in part, it was because both my parents were criminally inept chefs and, even as a child, I was aware of a company called Omaha Steaks. The red meat company would rush a 5-pound rib eye anywhere in the continental U.S., no questions asked. Why didn’t Wile E. just order a rack of ribs? And See’s Candy for dessert? 

I mean, the scrawny little scavenger had the ability to read factory manuals and create a bicycle attached to a weather balloon, powered by an electric fan with a really long extension cord. Despite not having opposable thumbs, Señor Coyote even was able to figure out how to strap on a motorcycle helmet. For the money spent on these contraptions, the wild and flea-bitten dog could have purchased a few hundred thousand boxes of mac and cheese along with the cookware to prepare it. 

But, drat. I so admired Wile E. Coyote’s pluckiness and would submit that it was he, not that bird-brained, dullard roadrunner, who was the hero of the series, not the other way around. The definition of a hero? That, doomed to failure, the hero tries anyway. That heroism got us through two 20th-century world wars, the Great Depression and communism. That heroism effortlessly drove a swashbuckling little Tweedie Bird to best Sylvester the black-&-white house cat.  

It’s hard, if not impossible, for me to watch most modern cartoons. There’s an undercurrent of smarminess, smugness, vulgarity. These animated plays some allow their children to watch mimic society, one that worships the lowest common denominator.  

FROM THE FROZEN LAND OF PRE-SOMALIAN FRAUD — sprang Minnesota’s greatest citizens, Bullwinkle the Moose and Rocky, the Flying Squirrel. / J. Ward Productions

And, I know. 

Many of the old cartoons, dating as far back as a century, had their themes of absurdist violence. Is the difference today, with what we mentally feed the next generation, the fact that the modern cartoon relishes darkness in the heart and soul? Wickedness for the sake of it? Subject matter applauds animal cruelty, suicide, sexual perversion and, overall, any moral foundation. 

Failing miserably at picking up the mantle of the old Warner Brothers children’s programs is Tiny Toon Adventures. They aired an episode entitled, “One Beer.” The cartoon heroes get drunk, steal a car and drive it off a mountaintop cliff to their deaths. That ain’t Bugs Bunny falling off a skyscraper, shaking his head and plowing ahead to the next gag. 

Worse? At least for me? Most modern cartoons are either brain-dead or sanctimonious and woke. Like it or not, the airwaves are the church pulpit of America. These shows are not about Popeye about to get bludgeoned and finding the internal strength to open a can of spinach. They include a preponderous of sexual perversion, aimed at 5-year-olds. Again. The difference between the old cartoons and new is stark. Both, of course, include outlandish, “cartoonish,” if you will, violence. I’d offer the difference is that the cartoons of old helped lighten the country, bring it together and unlocked a forgotten treasure we all have within — the ability to be silly.

Cases in point?

BUGS. HIMSELF. — There’ll never be another. / Warner Bros. cartoons

George of the Jungle, Underdog and Porky Pig. They were part of the Golden Age of Cartoons, and, certainly, America. 

The modern cartoons? They often worship, and tout, the darker, twisted and even evil sides of ourselves. They mock essential, good and noble values, paint them as corny.  

They are relentlessly unclever. They make light of doing the right thing, of becoming the hero. They lack class. 

My dad was a hero. He not only fought to save civilization in World War II, he was a blessing to others. It always warmed my heart. Dad was such a serious guy, but, sometimes, we’d watch cartoons together and a smile would crease his face and he just simply would burst out laughing. We both would. 

I feel this change in the air. I hope we can turn around not just our country, but this community of ours, which is so dialed in to the powerful waterfall of media and a messaging, much of it owned and broadcasted by disturbed, twisted, hypocritical people. Pornography used to be something deeply buried and out of sight from most. Today? We spoon feed it to our children. 

We deserve better heroes, in cartoons, in real life … 

• The End •

Copyright 2026 • John Boston and John Boston Books. All rights reserved.

Bad Bunny, Roger Goodell & The All-Polish, All-Gay & All-Somalian Super Bowl National Anthem

SINGING IT LIKE IT IS — Will NFL commish Roger Goodell (left) and his band, Roger & The Good-Dells, perform the White Tall Guy National Anthem to kick off the next Super Bowl?

Dear Mr. Roger Stokoe Goodell, National Football League Commissioner:

While I didn’t watch last Sunday’s Super Bowl, I take digits to keyboard this fine morning to commend you for the recent courageous choice you made. It was the singing of the Black National Anthem pre-kickoff. I’m not sure who played in Super Bowl LX (Gay Acapulco State vs. ICE-Free Minneapolis?). But, I’m confident that it was an actual Black person and not you who sang the Black National Anthem.

Sorry. I’m white. Approaching middle age. I confess, I don’t know the lyrics to the Black National Anthem nor the song’s title. I do hope against hope, that it was, “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” by the 1972 group, Undisputed Truth. Same year? The Temptations rerecorded it and I’m still humming one of Moe Town’s greatest offerings while doing the White Man’s Overbite Dance.

I also applaud you on your efforts to broaden the market to more people to enjoy the NFL. Good hustle on fixing the Super Bowl this year to represent two, left-leaning population centers — Seattle and New England. Geez, Rog. What happened? Did the capitol city of Pyongyang in North Korea and Havana have AYSO soccer practice Super Bowl weekend and couldn’t participate?

Anywho. Back to the Black National Anthem (“My Girl?”). I ask that next year, you boldly use this momentum gained by incorporating other ethnic national anthems to kick off next year’s Super Bowl. As a member of targeted hatred by America and its institutions, I’m asking that you book someone to sing:

The Slightly Tall Older

White Men National Anthem.

I’d be happy to sing it. Here. Someone give me a little lead guitar in the key of R-ruptured flat:

“Oooo-ooohhhh… Truth shall be told — I’m tall, white and old. There’s great things to be done — my ex-wives weigh, a metric ton…”

SPEAKING OF MULTI-TONNED EX-WIVES — It’s rumored that part of next year’s Super Bowl halftime entertainment will be that hit Vermont bluegrass group, The Annoying Karens.

Excuse me, Rog. We just got the first frothing note in the comments section…

Dear Mr. Boston:

How DARE you. You and your pasty-skinned people don’t DESERVE a national anthem. We’ve toiled under American oppression for thousands of years and were kept as slaves by the Anasazi, who predate Native Americans, just because we knew the secret to making a smack-dab delicious recipe for a delicate and succulent Pleistocene bison pastry smothered in barbecue sauce. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD WE TAUGHT THE INDIANS HOW TO PLAY FIELD HOCKEY!!! If any peoples deserve their own national anthem, it’s us.

Sincerely,

Pastor Moe Mentum,

President, The National Congress of Swegroes (Half-Swedish, Half-Negro)

Thanks, Your Reverence. I’ll bounce it by Goodell.

Anyway, back to you, Roger. I suffer from being slightly tall. I’m 6-1-&-3/4. And whiter than a nude Vanilla Ice hugging Steve Martin. I used to play basketball for Addidas and faced five years of discrimination. Sixty percent of the team identified as, or were, actually, Black. I identified as a  6-foot-8 Croatian power forward, but, management (Mrs. Karen von Karen, white soccer mom) forced me to play point guard, which meant every game, I literally had to run five miles less than the other guys. By game’s end, I hadn’t developed a sweat. The other fellas? They accused me of loafing. Plus, I don’t mean to sound conspiratorial, but, it seemed like the Black players were meeting secretly somewhere and constantly developing their own, new, pre-game handshakes, which, depending on the day of the week, may have included bumping bottoms, which, I am not allowed to do due to my religion (Southern Baptist, unpaid intern). All I had to offer was the traditional, warm, easy-to-execute and sincere White Chamber of Commerce/Amen-Boy Howdy pre-center court jump handshake. Fortunately, our second-string center was a Christian and ex-All-American at Howard University. Taking pity on me, we’d sit on the bench’s end and he feigned interest in learning my people’s greeting, which isn’t that hard.

So, you can see the living hell my life has been.

Besides building the entire United States of America all by ourselves while women and ethnics just watched, the achievements of Slightly Tall White Men (good band name!) are legion. We invented the ball bearing, latex house paint, the suppository, The Infield Fly Rule and jazz.

There are Black detractors who will claim THEY invented jazz.

They’re lying.

TRUTH BE KNOWN — We set loose our John Boston-Books.com crack research team. Checking with ChatGBT, it turns out ROBOTS invented jazz, not Black people…

It’s been no secret, Roger, that, adept businessman you are, you’ve been leading the NFL to broaden its international appeal. Confidently, you’ve figured that your base audience (me and Slightly Tall White Men) will watch pro football no matter what, even if it’s Rosie O’Donnell playing the Jets.

In the nude.

It’s vital to expand the NFL. Roger. I salute you for boldly going after non-traditional viewers, like girls, Democrats, Mennonites and al-Qaida.

Next year, the NFL should expand your pre-game, half-time and post-game shows, which already surpass a Jupiter orbital year, to include musical tributes to the various ethnic, socio-political stereotyped enclaves. Sung to the Star Spangled Banner, here are some examples:

MEXICANS: “Oooo-ooohhhh… (73-minutes of self-indulgent macho 12-string guitar strumming and a few ‘¡olays!’) Carnals we do rule, and you white booger-eating gabacho devils all drool…”

ASIANS: “Oooo-ooohhhhh… We’d like to learn Super Bowl’s fate, but alas today we — all —must — work — late…”

POLISH LESBIANS: “Oooo-ooohhhhh… Confused are we again, we seem to like men…”

SOMALIANS: Oooo-ooohhhhh… “Chew my food for me, please, Homeland Security and MAGA Republicans have fleas…”

“FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA!” — Now EVERYBODY sing!! Another rumored musical group the NFL plans to sign for the next Super Bowl halftime show is the popular Hamas quartet, Def-2-Jews!

Well. Kindest regards. Good luck in continuing to divide the country because, you know what happens when we come together — we just quarrel.

Oh. And Roger? Please? Pass along what the Puerto Rican crooner, Bad Bunny, sang (in Spanish) during that touching tribute to your mom at the recent Super Bowl halftime show:

“Su mama no tiene zapatos y no hacia bien en su SAT…”

Or, as we like to sing in English:

“Your mother owns no shoes and did poorly on her SAT’s…”

Publishing (for money!) nearly 12,000 columns, blogs and essays and another 150,000-plus stories, John Boston is the most prolific satirists/humorist in world history. Winner of the Will Rogers Lifetime Achievement Award to go with 119 major writing awards, he is one of America’s top newspaper columnists.

SAD FOOTNOTE…

The NFL announced today that Puerto Rican rapper Bad Bunny will be unable to attend next year’s Super Bowl halftime performance as he will be in hiding from the Trump Administration’s CIA.

There’s Always A National Day For Something

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ON ANY GIVEN DAY, THERE’S A GIVEN DAY. Every blank space on the calendar comes with some sort of “National” or “Official” warning on the label.

Let’s take today, February 6th. There are an entire passel of observances for this 24-hour parenthesis. Among many high holy days of obligation, today marks National Pay A Compliment Day. It was started in 1995 by a Chicago writer, Adrienne Sioux Koopersmith. Ms. A.S.K. reportedly was riding a bus in the dead of winter and noticed that the driver pulled over at a non-designated stop to pick up a freezing commuter. Koopersmith was so moved, she complimented the bus driver, then went through all the rigamarole to establish it as an official American day of recognition.

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Fine. A little kindness can go a long way. For instance, we had some local protests last weekend here in my hometown of SClarita, a bedroom community in sunny Southern California. The usual suspects who looked like they stepped out of a Gary Larson cartoon were at Valencia and McBean, brandishing signs demanding The Man release felonious miscreants from foreign lands and abolish ICE. As I rounded the corner, they screamed at me and held up posters. I think one said: “RAPISTS FROM PONGO PONGO HAVE FEELINGS, TOO!!”

In my own way, I celebrated Pay A Compliment Day a week early by smiling and wishing the Democrats with the 14-inch foreheads to go forward, like, off the curb and into traffic, and be fruitful and multiply, except without the benefit of a kind and loving sexual partner.

Locally? With a frozen yogurtorium every 23-feet in the SCV, we’ll need to say a couple of rosaries because across America, it’s also National Frozen Yogurt Day.

General Santa Ana (the guy who killed Davy Crockett?) after the Mexican American War, helped invent bubble gum here in the states. His wooden leg is on display at the Illinois State Military Museum…

Today’s National Bubble Gum Day. I still wince at the local angle on that one. Back when I was a kid in the 1950s, the manager of the restaurant in the old Solemint Store, collared two boys my age and no. I’m not insinuating I was one of them. He called their mothers to pick them up. Seems they were grossing out the diners by prying off hardened bubble gum from underneath the café seats and chewing the previously owned mucilage. Here’s a good one for you. Mexico’s General Santa Ana, on the wrong end of “Remember The Alamo” fame? He helped invent bubble gum around 1859.

In a seeming cross purpose, today is also National Working Naked Day AND National Wear Red Day.

One of my favorites? Today’s National Time To Talk Day. Specifically? It was created to raise awareness about mental health issues. I’m again reminded of Democrats with 18 inches of white around their pupils standing on street corners in Che Guevara T-shirts and screaming at passers-by. This holiday allows me to raise awareness about mental hygiene and point out: “Heavens. You’re bat shiatsu nuts, aren’t you?”

I don’t know how I feel about National Chopsticks Day (you’re standing smack dab in the middle of it as you read). The suspicious, conservative part of me feels this could be a lousy communist Chinese plot to overthrow America. But then, there’s sushi and that’s Japanese and they’re our ally.

For now.

Today’s Ronald Reagan Day. I adore the guy. But, I have no idea what to do with that except maybe shrug and maybe offer a poor impression of, “…well. There you go again…” then go about my business.

February 6th is National Woman’s Heart Day. I’m not sure who that one woman is who deserves an entire continent-size high holy day of observation. It’s either a typo or some whacky syntax fine print thing because I feel “Woman’s” should be in the plural. But, we’re supposed to be talking about how this one, mystery woman who probably weighs 468-pounds shouldn’t be eating a Quadruple Quarter-Pounder in one hand and a box of See’s in the other.

The heart wants what the heart wants.

Today’s also National Reclaim Social Media Day. Be nice on the internet!

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Here’s a good one for the mutants who misuse the various online Letters To The Editor spaces. Until midnight tonight, it’s National Reclaim Social Media Day. That’s when you’re supposed to take the 24 hours and only post nice things on social media. Well LMAO, the “A” standing for, of course, “Asterisk.” It’s the one day of the year where people on Facebook aren’t supposed to post another person’s home address, bank card pin number or number of sexual partners your spouse enjoyed prior to saying, “I do” and “Amen boy howdy, I sure did like a gleeful weasel before I got stuck with you!!”

Same darn day as the above is National Valentine Shopping Reminder Day. I’m confident I’m speaking for all guys when I point out what bubbling 55-gallon metal cauldron filled with poisonous snakes and boiling oil we males would be in if we forgot Valentine’s Day and isn’t it nice to be reminded that we men have to pop $1,379.49 for chocolates, flowers and enough complex cheap plastic molecules and a billion tons of “I Wub You” cards coated in purple glitter to fill the Marriana Trench six times over?

I’m thinking about starting my own 1/365th parenthesis of remembrance. I hereby declare today, Friday, February 6th, as — National Buy 27 John Boston Books Day. You don’t have to like them. Heck. You can be illiterate. Use them to shore up the flood control channel next to your condo. Paint them dark brown and pass them off as Valentine’s chocolates for that relationship teetering on the rocks.

Just think of it as doing your part for National Pay A Compliment AND National Time To Talk days. I assure you. With 350 million people in the USA, each buying 27 books? Math’s never been my strong suit, but, I estimate that’s got to exceed $37,500.

You’d be doing wonders for my mental health…

On Sheep, Lynchings & Bouquet Canyon Traffic Jams

SINCE I WAS A KID, I’VE BEEN DRIVING UP AND DOWN Santa Clarita’s longest-existing typographical error. Bouquet Canyon Road, an hour north of L.A., would unofficially shut down, allowing Basque shepherds to cross with sheep numbering in the hundreds. They’d wait for a lull in the traffic — which didn’t take long back then. A noble and alert sheepdog would nudge the alpha male ram across the narrow country road and, there you go.

That’s that. You’re stopped for a half-hour.

I had the 1959 potty brown Buick with the space age fins back then. It had a small hole in the muffler, which made it sound like a hot rod. It wasn’t. The company’s motto then was, “Buick Is A Beauty, Too…” Eye of the beholder, the big gas guzzler was a dog. I’d turn off my car, set the brake, climb out and sit on the hood, back resting against the windshield. Hands behind my head, I’d feel the sun on my face and count — well. Sheep.

In the 19th century, Bouquet was known as Hangman’s or Dead Man’s Canyon…

I didn’t know then Bouquet was a mistake in translation, dating back to 1850 when the first government cartographers modernized ancient maps. On horseback, they rode up the then-dirt road and came upon the vast ranch of a former French sailor named Francois Chari. He had jumped ship years earlier off Ventura, cowboyed around and eventually carved himself a big chunk of today’s Bouquet Canyon. Years later, the area would also be known as Hangman’s Canyon after one of the participants of the epic Castaic Range War was lynched there. Personally? I like Hangman’s Canyon better than Bouquet. Not as sissy. Looks better on a ranch entrance: HCR — Hangman’s Canyon Ranch.

Anywho. The mapmakers spotted a wooden sign on the property boundary — Rancho del Buque. It was a tribute to Chari’s sailoring days and, translated, it meant, “Ship Ranch.” Technically, it’s, “vessel,” but let’s save the quibbling for social media. Because of hills wild with flowers, the American cartographers thought “Buque” meant “Bouquet,” as in a floral arrangement. And so “Bouquet Canyon” became thus.

Coming down the partly bucolic highway this week, I left in enough time to make an appointment. But, dumb old me, I ended up bumping into six construction snags, from Silver Gate Farms’ horsey ranch (where they teach you to ride with your pinkies out on saddles the size of doilies) down to Newhall Ranch Road. Truth In Advertising Alert? There IS no ranch on Newhall Ranch Road. Ended up being a half-hour late and still ten minutes away. Had to call and cancel.

An old post card of The Big Oaks Lodge, a former great place to get prime rib and dance to live bands. It was a sometimes biker hangout on weekends and a world-famous boxing training camp. Sadly, my old hangout burned down in 1983.

They’re building another eyesore yuppie concentration camp up Bouquet, cramming people into soda cracker boxes posing as houses. Traffic will be congested for they say 11 months, which, in government-speak, means until April 7, 2071, coincidentally, my 121st birthday. On the bright side, at 121, I’ll be able to vote twice.

And I thought people were fleeing California.

I know I can tighten my belt and live through yet another SCV bright and shiny new bland and unimaginative eyesore housing project or flavored yogurt plaza. I sigh heavily, wondering the fate of that which stretches beyond the figure S’s of Bouquet Canyon Road.

Just north of the construction begins ranch country. It was the way Santa Clarita looked when I was a boy. The road is narrow, dotted on both sides by old houses and two-horse ranches, rotting old fence posts, barbed wire, a truck transmission rusting in a ditch, chickens, lazy dogs, tractors, and, most importantly, everyone has a different looking mailbox in various states of neglect.

Me? I love it. It’s my Beautiful America.

I worry that these wretched, unimaginative, bland, vanilla projects will creep up Bouquet, swallowing up horse stables and family pomegranate jelly stands. 

After 50 years, one of my best friends just sold his ranch and headed off to Tall Tree Country. He lived right on Bouquet, serenaded by the coyote’s howl and scream of Japanese rice rocket motorcycles racing up and down at insane speeds. That’s another Bouquet Canyon marker. The white wooden crosses, decorated with flowers, memorializing two-wheel speedsters who, for decades, ended their parenthesis on a quiet highway of death. My pal moved out just in time to avoid the epic traffic jams.

Ed Muhl ran Universal Pictures for years and owned a big spread up Bouquet Canyon. He produced hundreds of movies, from the Rock Hudson/Doris Day flicks to ‘Spartacus.’ He liked to hold up traffic by driving down Bouquet all the way into Newhall on his old Ford tractor…

I remember working on the ranch up there. My father-in-law Ed had the world’s largest collection of socket wrenches, each with the same, 5/8th socket missing. Ed spent a half-century, expertly sculpting barrancas to guide storm water into Bouquet Creek. The work was endless, from cleaning chicken coops that no longer held chickens, to harvesting alfalfa. We were bailing one day and one of his sons asked why I always wore sunglasses. The honest answer was that I wore contact lenses and the shades kept the dust out. I looked around, scanning for spies and intruders, then, solemnly confessed the real reason:

“I have many enemies — in the hay business . . .”

Except for the occasional kamikaze road racer, it was so quiet up that canyon. Well. Add Ed’s tractor to that which broke the silence primeval.

Ranch work it seemed, always required socket wrenches and Ed just kept losing them.

He’d grumble and curse, hop not into car or pickup. In pith helmet and tan Jungle Jim work suit, he’d climb aboard that tractor and bounce the 10 miles down to Newhall Hardware to buy yet another socket set. A month later, he’d repeat the Kabuki theater. Behind his back, we called the retired motion picture executive, “Fast Eddie,” because he’d block traffic all the way into town, doing 20 mph in that old, yellow Ford earthmover.

Truth be known?

I don’t think he liked ranch work. I think Ed Muhl liked holding up traffic, inching that carbon monoxide-spewing old tractor down Bouquet Canyon Road, enjoying a beautiful, spring day…

A Chuck Norris Smile & 2nd Amendment Iranian Lessons

ONCE I HAD THE NEATEST CONVERSATION WITH CHUCK NORRIS. You know. Karate guy? Movie and TV star? One of Earth’s toughest people? I was sports editor at the local Newhall Signal newspaper then and it couldn’t have been a summer 50 years ago because, frankly, I’m still cute and personable. My home village was a small Southern California town in the mid-1970’s and there was zero-nada of anything to cover. Local athletics were so dead in the high desert dog days of August, Editor Ruth Newhall allowed me to run a full-page photo spread of empty tennis courts, vacant gyms, swimming pools with nary a ripple and softball fields collecting spider webs.

Collecting Spider Webs.

I believe that’s this month’s three-hour luncheon slide presentation at Live Nude Zonta.

Anywho. Mrs. Newhall enforced a strict edict that all Signal Sports must carry a local angle. I convinced the formidable and deadly newsroom godmother that Chuck Norris was local because I was from Newhall and would have to drive to L.A. to his dojo to chat with him. Either that, or we could rerun the previous week’s photo spread of the dead fields of jockstraps, which, I pointed out, would help me immensely because it’d only take seconds to change the date at the top of the page.

Ruth gave me one of her fatigued and practiced, You’re So Young, Tedious And Unfunny stares. But, she gave me the go-ahead.

That’s Bruce Lee on the left, Chuck Norris on the right. Not their actual sizes. (:- )

I had the most enjoyable interview and conversation with Chuck. He was between lessons and sat comfortably in his thick, off-white cotton karategi, or, the commonly accepted, “gi.” I’d say he’s more like his Walker, Texas Ranger TV persona in real life — extremely funny, big-hearted, all America. He had just made essentially his major motion picture debut as the heavy in the Bruce Lee flick, Way Of The Dragon. The two martial arts legends squared off in that famous fight scene at Rome’s Coliseum and that would launch a skyrocketing film career where Chuck became an international action star on the big screen.

It always bothered me. I wished I had a chance to call back years later to ask a follow-up question. Chuck Norris was so effortlessly personable, his laugh and good humor contagious. And yet, later, he’d portray heroes who were often cardboard and one-dimensioned. In that summer interview so long ago, I asked him if being a world champion martial artist, did he have a problem with louts and idiots coming up to him in restaurants or bars to pick a fight. The question amused him and he had to think about it.

“Geez. No,” he said, chuckling. “Isn’t that funny. It’s never happened. I guess if it did, I’d just walk or run away.”

I suspect his answer is both parable and parallel as to why we have the 2nd Amendment. He was so Superman tough, just being Chuck Norris was a lifelong deterrent to anyone fatally self-destructive enough to pick a fight with him.

Over the years, I’ve been blessed with many interesting conversations. One was with a local and liberal politician who wanted to know why I felt the need, in then-present climes, to have a gun. She threw out the tedious, cliched and I Am Woman Hear Me Roar insulting macho accusations. The Democrat didn’t like my answer.

“I need to own a gun to protect myself from people like you,” I said.

Few, in 2nd grade, yearns to grow up to be a bureaucrat and tyrant.

As I write, I am terribly saddened. Again? It’s the world. I read that Iranian doctors estimated that 16,500 people have been murdered so far in the protests of Tehran’s psycho religious dictatorship, with another 330,000 injured. Those stats are now a week old. Plans to execute hundreds, if not thousands, of Iranian protesters were halted after President Trump vowed to open a 256-ounce jar of Miracle Whip Asterisk on the flea-bitten mullahs and their Islamic goon squads should they follow through with their murderous plans. The Iranians have no 2nd Amendment. They cannot defend themselves from the very gangster-theocracy they, themselves, created.

An example of when you only have a scarf and poster to defend your right to protest the government. / abc/au

We humans are such complicated, contradictory creatures, clumsy, oafish and saint-like, often at the same time. I grew up here in Newhall and shake my head at a statistic that I’m probably the only one who knows. In the early 1960s, at the peak of their popularity, 9-out-of-the-top-10 TV shows were Westerns. Every episode ended with a fast-draw duel. Life imitates art and you know what was the number one major injury at our little Newhall Hospital on 6th Street? The self-inflicted gunshot wound. About one person per week, in a berg so small, was admitted for accidentally shooting themselves, either via fast-draw practice in a lonely canyon or while out hunting. Guns do, carry consequences.

Insanity is my first language. Speak it fluently. I assure you, we are living in both the most abundant paradise while navigating through the most perverse insane asylum. I personally don’t care if you’re Catholic, Kiwanis or Muslim. You don’t machete to death those of another faith. You don’t rape. You don’t put babies in ovens ala October 7th. You don’t leave the stench of death so pungent in a home that it must be burned.

Isn’t it strange? Here, in America, we live simultaneously in cacophony and paradise.

The devil walks amongst us, sometimes whispering, sometimes screaming. In this human realm of opposites, we must learn, for each and every encounter, which solution is called for. Each, like the most polite Chuck Norris, requires strength.

And then what?

Is it a confident smile and prayer for the devil’s salvation, followed by a smart retreat?

A good, swift, threat-ending punch in the nose?

Or, as a last resort, is it the calm reassurance you are strong, armed and will defend yourself and yours?

The Saugus Cafe: The Soul of a Cheeseburger

OPEN? CLOSED. OPEN? CLOSED. OPEN? — After nearly 140 years, the historic Saugus Cafe in Santa Clarita, California, shocked a nation by reporting it would be closing. For. Ever. Perhaps they doth protest too much?

I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A NIGHT OWL AND FIND PEACE in small hours when milk men and vampires stir. My home for eight decades, Santa Clarita has always been an eclectic thorn in Southern California’s side. We used to carry the unasked-for nickname of, “Quirky.” Today? Not so much. The Saugus Café was sanctuary, back when it was famous for being open 24 hours. Long after bars closed and before annoying morning people stumbled from bed, I’d slip in to write, nibble French fries and sip hot tea.

One uncommon hour, I sat by myself. I couldn’t help but notice a young, stunningly beautiful mother, alone, with her child. Odd time for a new baby to be goo-gooing in a sanctuary tailored-made for outlaw motorcycle gangs. Soon, from the men’s room, the father joined them. Tall, I’m guessing he was 6-8, closer to seven feet because he was wearing white, platform patent leather shoes. He was stuffed into an outlandishly tight, white outfit, dotted with sequins and fake jewels, a matching belt championship wrestler wide, giant high collar, werewolfian sideburns, towering rockabilly black hair and a slightly affected hunka-hunka sneer. He was the largest Elvis impersonator I had ever seen. I’m wearing a cowboy hat. We nodded at one another. That was the last eye contact we made. I remember thinking: I love this place.

DROPPING IN FOR A QUICK BITE? — About a century ago, an errant truck driver apparently couldn’t wait to get the businessman’s special and smashed into the quaint eatery.

I’ve always loved the Saugus Café. I can’t recall anything approaching a good meal there. Passable? Filling? Yes. But nothing where you pat your tummy afterwards and coo, “Wow! Was THAT delicious!” And yet, in a world of sameness, of chain restaurants passing as dystopian Disneyland eating troughs, my eclectic soul was safe there. It’s the oldest restaurant in Los Angeles County. Well. Was. After 140 years (minus a couple) it closed last Sunday.

Few know this, but this wasn’t the first time the colorful greasy spoon locked its doors. It’s been boarded up a few times over the decades. Due to World War II rationing, smack dab in the middle of cattle, hog and farm country, we couldn’t get enough food to stay open and closed for a year-plus. Since 1900, the diner had been open 24 hours a day. When owner Laura Wood shut the place down at 10 p.m., June 30, 1943, she made a curious discovery. They had never locked the place in nearly a half-century. When it moved across the street from the train station to its new brick edifice in 1916, they didn’t have a padlock or a place to hang one. Ms. Wood had to buy locks and hire a handyman to install them.

In the 1950s it shuttered for remodeling. Technically, it moved a few feet and was given a new street address. About 40 years ago, a bureaucrat from CalTrans called me and asked if there’d be any community repercussions if the state bulldozed the place to widen Railroad Avenue. I asked the gentleman if he was familiar with the word, “jihad” and would CalTrans be interested being on the receiving end of one?

Owing about $100,000 to creditors, the Saugus Café closed again in 1983. A former owner, Fred Kane was interested in reacquiring it, but, didn’t want to monkey with all the liens and paperwork. So? Fred sidestepped the red tape and opened a new restaurant instead. He called it, “The FAMOUS Saugus Cafe and Lounge.”
Or, the Saugus Cafe for short.

LET IT SNOW LET IT SNOW LET IT SNOW — At about the 1,000-foot elevation, it rarely snows in Santa Clarita. We had a pretty good mini-blizzard in 1932 over the Saugus Cafe — other parts of town, too. In the late 19th century, there was some disagreement as to what to call this town. Some called it Saugus (after the boyhood home of valley founder, Henry Mayo Newhall). Some called it Surrey (don’t know why, except there may have been someone with relatives from Surrey, England). Merchants with a sense of humor compromised and painted a line on the wooden sidewalk, dividing up the community with Saugus on one side, Surrey on the other…

Back to the 1950s, C.M. McDougal, owned a few eateries, including the Saugus Café. He was our local justice of the peace, despite the small technicality that Mac didn’t have a law degree. In fact, the Icabod Crane-ish jurist took the bar exam eight times, flunking it the first seven attempts before passing — WHILE he was the sitting judge. Another funny story? Around the same time, when I was little, we had an eatery a couple miles down the road in Newhall called The Bamboo Café. Identical twins, both of whom had been Navy cooks in WWII, were head chefs at both the Bamboo and Saugus cafes. Just two main coffee shops in town?

Every? Darn? Day?

The lunch and dinner specials were — Exactly. The. Same.

I remember a story, can’t recall the exact date — I think it was from the 1930s. There had been a horrific kidnapping and murder of a small child in Los Angeles. A suspect fitting the description was seen climbing aboard the train in San Fernando and headed north toward the Saugus Train Station, which was then across the street from the Saugus Café. A posse of 50-plus heavily armed men filled with a terrible resolve was quickly formed. The perp climbed off the train, saw the mob and, under a hail of bullets, fled screaming across the street to the Saugus Café. Ordnance ka-powed through walls and windows, into the coffee shop. They considered lynching the fellow, but didn’t. (Then and now — no trees.) As they dragged him back to a prowl car, he commented, “This sure is one law-and-order town to earn such a greeting!” Turns out it was mistaken identity. He wasn’t the murderer, just a guy who stole a car in Bakersfield — a year earlier.

Our valley is rapidly losing its identity, becoming indistinguishable from the same, smotheringly mediocre, Stepford Soccer Moms/Look-Alike Yuppie Concentration Camps that make up California. The Saugus Café is a huge part of not just our identity, but our soul. Safe bet? New management will soon take over. While the service has always been stellar, I do beg any new owners to consider a fresh, new concept — good food. This blandness was what helped keep customers away in the first place. Splurge. Invest in better ingredients. Aim higher than just surviving a meal. Make the menu unforgettable. Word will get out.

This is invisible, hard to see.

But Santa Clarita cannot be Santa Clarita without the Saugus Café. Without it, unknowingly, we shall suffer to live out our lives in a shell of a crowded ghost town.

Where’s Jon Stone These Past 1,742 Monday Nights?

I OWE AN APOLOGY TO MY PAL, JON STONE. Not the sheriff from the old Beach Boys’ song, ala, “Sheriff John Stone — why don’t you leave me… alone…? I feel so broke up, I gotta… yada yada.” The kid brother of my lifelong buddy, Curtis Stone, famous country bass player of Highway 101 fame. Curtsie and I grew up together. Maturity doesn’t seem to be in the cards for either one of us.

We sorta played a near-fatal practical joke on his sibling, Jonathan and it’s not like Jon isn’t without sin. The three of us are apex predator practical jokers.

For years, Monday nights were reserved for poker. We’d gather in this little bunk house the size of a Home Depot tool shed, with room only for a poker table, chairs and cigar smoke. After 12 hours in a windowless lean-to the size of an outhouse and absorbing enough smoke to kill the dinosaurs, all of them, I’d head back to the ranch and have to strip completely naked outside, leaving my smoky duds hanging from an oak tree branch. What can I say. I had an understanding wife at the time.

Us guys would play late, usually 3 a.m. was the cut-off time as our host, Bob Becker and Jonathan had, ewe, cooties — “…jobs.” One particular evening melded into dawn’s early light and beyond. The next evening, Curtis and I, nocturnal creatures we were, slid into the evening and who do we bump into?

POLICE SKETCH ARTIST rendition of Bob Becker, poker player extraordinaire, who had nothing to do with the prank we played on Jon Stone, BUT, did provide the smoke-filled bunk house where the alleged crime was committed.

Jonathan Stone’s wife, Katie.

Beautiful, statuesque, Amazon of a woman. Nearsighted, too.

Katie gives us an earful about keeping her Johnny man out after milkmen and vampires are long ago sawing logs, the inference being me and Curtie are inferior, art-types who couldn’t spell “job” after being spotted the “J” and the “B.” Gentlemen we were, we didn’t infer that her husband was just out acquiring what he didn’t have at home — love, laughter, several concerned sets of listening ears and a good time.

“You guys are a coupla writers and musicians,” Katie pointed out. “You could sleep for a week and no one would notice.”

We’re gentlemen. We didn’t point out to Jon’s wife that Jon was a music producer, and, he, too, could sleep for a week at his desk and no one would notice.

Katie should’ve known. Me and Curt? We’re evil. Our lives are an ongoing performance art dedicated to The Practical Joke. We profusely apologized.

“Gosh. We’re so sorry we kept Jonathan out so late, Sis,” said Curtis. “The game ended up running late and we closed up — what time was it when everyone left, Dude?”

I shrugged. “Geez, Curt,” I chimed in. “It was pretty late. I don’t know. Coupla minutes after midnight when Jonathan climbed into his car?”

(Insert dramatic wifely pause here)

“…wuh…?” Katie stammered. Math was fighting inside her brain.

“‘ AFTER,’” Katie looked as if she required the immediate services of an exorcist, “‘ MIDNIGHT?!?!?!’” Katie shared what the two of us already knew. “He got home at 9:15 and had to be at work in the city at 10!!”

Me and Curtie should have been given our Oscars right there on the spot. I stuttered, pointing out that I didn’t see Jon drive away, that I think he maybe fell asleep in the car. “You know, Jonathan didn’t look well last night. I think he was…”

In unison, Curtis and I harmonized. Curt filled in the blank with, “sick” and I said, “tired.” Again, being a missus, Katie wanted to know about these Monday nights, stretching back years. Like a homicide cop building a case, she asked, what time did these unholy card games usually end? Again, in imperfect harmony, Curt and me shrugged, looked at one another and answered, “I don’t know. Eleven?” Atop his note, I said, “Ten?”

Curtie and I fumbled that we recalled seeing Jonathan asleep on the couch when we left. Pretending to fold like a Delaware savings and loan, we collaborated the fable of seeing Jonathan asleep on someone’s couch because, again, in unison, Curtis said Jon was “sick” and I said Jon was “tired.” I resisted to add, in Jon’s defense, “…poor little fella…” Didn’t need to. I could see that invisible Rolo-dex of female possibilities in front of Katie’s forehead, spinning out everything from Okay. Who Is She? to the memorized telephone numbers of life insurance salesmen and divorce attorneys.

This was before the days of cellphones. Curtis and I both had sports cars then and raced back to his Rolling Stone Ranch in Sand Canyon because we knew somebody would be calling.

WHAT OUR WIVES ENVISIONED our all-guys Monday Night poker games to be…

Sure enough. Jon’s still at the office, ear warm from Katie’s inquiries about his whereabouts on the past 642 Monday nights.

“KATIE’S GOING TO DIVORCE ME!!” screamed Jonathan. This was followed by a few minutes of blue language.

“Buddy,” said Curtis. We’re in his recording studio, both hunched over, grinning like special needs third-graders. “I’m sorry. Dude. You want me to call Katie, maybe smooth things over for you?”

Jon screamed, “NOOOOO!!!”

I asked Jonathan if he needed a place to stay. I didn’t offer my own, warm, cozy, spacious home with an Olympic-sized swimming pool but asked if he had ever stayed at that budget motel in Castaic, “…at the foot of the Grapevine.”

Curtis cut in, “Because, bro, that’s where Katie thinks you’ve been getting your mail.”

Jonathan was never in the Navy. I wondered where he learned to creatively swear like that.

More inappropriate language, and laughter, from Jonathan. I have to hand it to him. He could see the Guy Humor in it and we wouldn’t have pulled anything on the couple if the two of them didn’t just adore and trust one another.

Deep down, Katie knew it was one of those idiotic, immature, incurable, Guy Maladies.

Actually?

Me and Curtie were doing the couple a favor.

Why?

Because these are but the little things that keep a marriage interesting…

John Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist/satirist. Look for his new novel, ‘Naked Came The Novelist.’

The Long Lost Art of Saying, ‘Merry Christmas’

IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS AND I AM HAPPY. I used to go complete robot cattle stampede when it came to celebrating. I’d purchase a new, live tree every December, decorate the pants off it then plant it outdoors somewhere in January. Sometimes it would rest on the property, sometimes I’d cart it out to some lonesome canyon that Nature stopped short of perfect feng shui and could really use a baby Christmas tree. My daughter’s sneaking up on 23 and we still drive to our secret spots to inspect how our conifers are doing. Some are still around, 40-feet-high now.

My dear folks weren’t much on acknowledging 12/25-The Lord’s Birthday. Dad grew up dirt farm poor and, as a little boy during The Depression, an apple was the only thing Santa would bring. Insult to injury, they lived in an apple orchard. Mom was visited by darker, non-holiday elves with accusing whispers and sharp teeth. We didn’t decorate, sing carols nor exchange presents. I did sit on the lap of a department store Santa or two. When they’d ask what I wanted for Christmas, I’d whisper, “Can you possibly get me out of here?” I made a decision in my early 20s that I’d change the end of my own story and make the Big Whoop-Tee-Doo out of Christmas. If anything, I’d celebrate for myself. As an adult, I made sure my parents had a proper Christmas. That annoying one-liner about it’s better to give than to receive? It’s true. Mom and Dad would light up like — well — Christmas — opening presents and sitting in a festive house, complete with eggnog, lights, tinsel, crackling fire and a proper stuffed gorilla in a Santa hat atop the tree as a homage to King Kong.

I’d take dad on Christmas Day road trips. We’d head to desert, mountains or ocean. Yule Tide was observed in blessed solitude in camp chairs, overlooking miles of sandy emptiness, interrupted by tumbleweeds and black rocks, spit up by volcanoes millions of years ago. Or, we’d snowshoe for miles in untouched fresh powder. Sometimes? We’d sit, mesmerized, on a big log washed up on a beach, watching waves crash in and then race out.

Life has its ups and downs. The last few years have been what the untrained eye might call, “challenging.” Nothing wrong with a good challenge. Builds muscle, character. I’ve found God hasn’t dealt me anything yet I can’t handle. My daughter is back in the Midwest with her mom and except for a cherished Christmas Eve with some old and special friends, I’ll spend Christmas Day by myself. Why? I’m good company. I’ll take, and make, a few calls. I’ll visit Nature and can’t wipe the smile off my face at the thought of it. I don’t throw the giant parties anymore. I’ve already hosted the World’s Smallest Christmas (not, “Holiday”) Office Party for John Boston Books and it’s umbrella corporation, Scared o’ Bears Ranch. I’m the only employee. Polite soul I am, I acted surprised when I opened my present (a new pocket knife!). Decorations? A pine tree the size of a pencil adorned with one tiny bulb. I’ll read poetry, the Bible, some spiritual literature. It adds to my smile.

I’ve noticed something different in recent years. We seem to be drifting off a familiar and safe shore. People hardly say, “Merry Christmas.” I do. I get the strangest reactions. Some react as if I spit on them. There’s surprise, sometimes offended shock and I get the feeling an official report is about to be filed with the Grinch, Human Resources or the forever offended Woke Police. Heavens. Wouldn’t want to send some atheist, pearl-clutching Crabby Appleton into cardiac arrest.

Oops. It’s Christmas.

I’m not supposed to lie.

Actually? I DON’T mind sending some anti-Christmas Spirit grumpy-dump fanning himself all the way to the ICU for emotional triggering because that’s the reason why I’m forever atop Santa’s Naughty List.

A few December holidays ago, I said, “Merry Christmas” to a tatted-up Gen Z grocery store employee complete with a surly attitude and Home Depot bolts bisecting his noggin. He didn’t return my farewell with a, “…we’re not supposed to say, ‘Merry Christmas.’” He instructed me that — I, I — wasn’t supposed to utter that most foul curse of, “Merry Christmas.”

I really don’t like acknowledging I’m a flawed Little Santa’s Helper, especially over Winter Break. How un-Christ-like of me? I wanted to punch the guy. No. Grab him by the lapels, drag him acriss the counter as he screamed, “CLERK IN DISTRESS, CHECKSTAND FOUR!!!” over the intercom, stuff him into a shopping cart, then squeeze him like a brie through the grates. Instead, I took the high road. I bent over. Motioned for him to come close. I whispered, “Look at me.” Terror — the best of Christmas presents — filled his eyes. I said, “Merry Christmas. Say it back to me. With fervor and conviction” the “You Miserable Little Rusting Emaciated Ungrateful Wet Blanket Excuse For A Generation Dash Head Shaped Like A Naughty Reproductive Organ Or I Will Beat You To Death And Bury Your 54-Pound Body On Aisle 6 Behind The Pop Tarts” unspoken but implied.

Ah, self-righteousness. It’s the gift that just never stops giving, isn’t it?

I remember growing up and times were tough. But, whether it’s the realization that it’s Jesus’ birthday or that, in a mythical North Pole, merry elves were building toys, this time of year was supposed to bring out the best in people. Strangers would smile. Jew, agnostic, Kiwanis, they’d call back those two magic words, “Merry Christmas,” with such joy and gusto.

I’m so blessed with family, neighbors, friends and readers. Bottom of my heart? I wish a Merry Christmas to all you dear souls. Truly? Merry Christmas and forgive me for even seeing a grumpy checker with nose bolts instead of as the most divine of gifts — my fellow man.

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Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.