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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