I’m always hoping Greg adopts my best qualities and traits. Of course, some of this may be possible from teaching and constant reminders, but other times, Greg surprises me out of the blue.
After recently acquiring a pair of “worn-once” Doc Martens (thanks, Ebay for the steal), I wondered if Greg would ever take notice to my new stompers. And the other day, he finally did. As he watched me straight-lacing them in the living room (something I hadn’t done for over 20 years until now), he studied them and asked, “Daddy, what kind of boots are those?”
“They’re Docs,” I answered.
“Docs? Cool.” He appeared to examine them even closer, almost as if he imagined wearing them himself. “Daddy, can I have Docs like yours too?”
“Yes you can!” I replied.
Perhaps not long afterwards, the lil’ tike will see me buzzing my head and will ask, “Daddy, can I buzz my head too?” That would be simply awesome.
The “Sad Mac” t-shirt pays memorial to October 05, 2011—a truly sad day for Apple and Mac enthusiasts worldwide, with the passing of Steve Jobs. The lone icon stands as a testament to his beautiful creation and our tragic loss. Rest in Peace, Steve Jobs. Thank you (and Steve Wozniak) for your remarkable visions, without which I wouldn’t have enjoyed the past 25+ years of using your computers to fuel and enhance my creativity.
Nearly any ’70s toy will bring me visions of nostalgic grandeur, but not the Slinky. Those guys made it look so easy in the commercial, but I could never get mine to do anything remotely close to what they portrayed (except the “juggling” from hand to hand for that marvelous “Slinkety Sound”—yay).
Perhaps the only form of entertainment I got from those was having a friend hold one end while I walked as far away from him as I could with the other, to see how far it would stretch. Either that, or smelling that wonderful metallic zinc smell on my fingers after handling it. Did you ever get it to “walk down stairs?” I’d love to hear how.
In Part One of this story, we boarded Fillmore & Western’s Baldwin 1913 2-8-0 #14 for a weekend steam excursion. Come along now as we ride the rails…
The Baldwin pulled forward, and after a few seconds I could feel that all the couplers had engaged in the torque and we were under way. Our dining car pitched slowly from side to side; its joints and joists creaking and groaning like an old horse who, although not necessarily wanting to do its duty, knew it had to anyway.
Then came along the conductor, an aged man who exuded a sense of belonging as he patiently punched the passenger tickets one by one. On top of the subtle symphony of sounds in swing, the characteristic “CLACK!” of the hole-punch doing its deed completed the score.
There was a sense of satisfaction that I had, riding this train…a sense of accomplishment. I’d promised Greg that we’d ride a real steam engine, and sure enough, we were. Then I chuckled to myself as I watched the ground outside move past us at a snail’s pace—any kid could’ve blown us away on their Fixie Bike—and realized that actually, this ride wasn’t for everybody. So then, I asked myself: What kind of person would enjoy this type of excursion?
One would definitely need to be a retro-geek of some sort; someone with some kind of fond fixation or appreciation of times before their time; the further back in history, the better.
One would also need to have an appreciation for antiquated technology and/or machinery. A good indicator would be to show the person a picture of a steam locomotive. If he/she says “Wow, that’s awesome,” that would likely make a good candidate for this trip. If he/she says “What the hell is that? That old piece of junk…” then it’s probably not a good idea to take them along.
Last but not least, one should have at least a small romantic notion with the past. Good indicators:
Any mention of wishing one had a time machine to travel to specific time periods, to take part in certain events or to experience the lifestyle/culture firsthand
Any utterance of the phrases “Those were the good old days,” or “Yup, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to,” or “Imagine what it was like back then?” Bonus points for the usage of these phrases accompanied by a wistful sigh and staring off into space, or a slight shaking of the head as if to be disappointed with the the advent of modern technology and the disappearance/obsolescence of old ways and traditions.
And where do I fit in? Heck, all three, that’s me. You should know that by now.
Being this way does have its pitfalls, though. One can live in the past all they want, but it won’t take long for the present to smack ‘em in the face. For one, as the train gathered pace and settled into its rhythmic sway and sounds, I began to fantasize about the Old West and the age of discovery; I imagined myself riding through uncharted territory and rolling meadows and fields yet unclaimed and untouched by greedy human hands. Then I see things like this:
So much for that fantasy, eh?
I’ll admit, the scenery on the way to Santa Paula was far from spectacular; it is a welcome change from the concrete and billboard-riddled jungle of L.A.’s Westside, but mostly not anything to write home about, unless you like to discuss how cool it would be to own one (or all) of the several fruit orchards whose properties the F&W rails lay right through.
After about 30 minutes or so, the train slowed to a stop at perhaps the most bizarre track side tourist traps one would encounter 60 miles North of Los Angeles: The Loose Caboose Emporium. I realized that this wasn’t the first time we’d been here; we’d come up to the same location for their pumpkin patches on Halloween. My wife and I nudged each other and stifled our laughter as we both recalled the awkward selection of items these merchants had to offer to a trainload of passengers, who, one by one, began to wonder why we stopped here.
We were already hip to it, and decided to keep our patience as we shuffled through, convincing ourselves the whole way that this was all for the entertainment of our son, who was indeed entertained by the tanks of giant Koi fish for sale (ah, the innocence of childhood).
For the other passengers though, some of whom may have been first-timers, I’m sure this place would’ve conjured up reviews similar to this one on Yelp, which I’ve quoted below:
What the fuck is this place? And why is the train stopping here? Has there ever in the history of the universe been someone who clambered off the train here, bought a two foot koi, then carried it around in a giant water filled baggie for the remaining 4 hours of the train’s itinerary? Hmm, they sell birds too…alrighty then.
Actually, I would’ve been happy to give this place 3 stars if only they sold something for my headache. Dramamine, check. Antacids, check. 400 pound marble fixtures for your garden, check. Disappointing fruit (this being in the middle of the richest agricultural area in southern California, mind you), check. Honey with flakes of red pepper in it, check. Pain reliever, eeh not so much…that’s not something people need too often.
It’s like someone with only the vaguest notion of what a tourist trap is decided to build a tourist trap. Scary.
On a positive note, it did give me a great opportunity to take some shots of the steamer at rest.
It took some encouragement to get Greg to stand next to this gargantuan; he’d witnessed its power and was no stranger to the strength of steam. I think he felt that at any moment, a blast of steam would emanate from one of its pipes unexpectedly, or the engineer would blow the whistle while he was right beside. I told him they wouldn’t, but then even I myself was weary to be alongside the beautiful beast, whose core churned impatiently with hisses and heat.
Nevertheless, I did take some time to marvel at its construction, and it was amazing to know that every single pipe, fitting, rivet and rod had its meaning on this machine. And mind you, these pictures hardly compare to what it’s like to be there. The pungent smell of greased iron, black oil and musty water vapor—the perfume of power—is one I’ll never forget.
There’s a certain thrill associated with being able to see how something works; much like how much more exciting it would be (for me, at least) to look inside an old Victrola phonograph than an iPad.
If there’s one thing Greg really loves, its to be up in the cab, fantasizing of holding the reins to this roaring dragon. After being comfortable enough to be around this creature, he asked if he could. After a few words with the staff, his wish was fulfilled.
I admire the souls who run this train and give it all the TLC she deserves. I’m just hoping that they’re able to pass the torch to the next generation, so that the wisdom of how to operate these things doesn’t get scrapped like nearly all of these steam engines did. Then again, Greg does constantly ask, “Daddy, when I grow up can I be an engineer?” So perhaps the future holds a glimmer of hope after all.
Today I take you back to 1985, when this music video totally won me over with its awesome ending. I mean, the song itself was a hit out of the park, but the video is really what makes it so effective. I’m not much of a music video watcher nowadays, but this still has got to be one of the best endings ever made, IMO.
I wish some couple out there nowadays would have the guts to pull the same stunt at an opera, just for kicks. Wouldn’t it be totally hilarious, especially if they looked the part?
One of the defining characteristics of Filipino culture is the inseparable bond of the fork and the spoon. I would say that just about all 2nd-generation Filipinos like myself were raised eating with a fork and spoon, having mastered the technique after a lifetime of training.
Then, for many, comes the fateful day when they are invited to a non-Filipino household for lunch or dinner, and they are faced with the ultimate dilemma of having to eat with just a fork. It’s not a pretty sight (Cue “impending doom” music here).
This dark day came to me in my senior year of high school, when I was over at a friend’s house. It was summer and we’d spent the whole day messing around, so when his mom called us in for supper, you could bet we were starving.
It was actually the first time I’d ever had a real dinner at a friend’s house, so I was careful to mind my manners and be on my best. Yet, as I sat myself at the table, I studied the dinnerware and noticed I only had a fork and knife on either side of my plate. My heart raced inside my chest and I felt a huge lump in my throat.
Meanwhile, my friend’s sweetheart of a mom smiled at me from across the table as the rest of the family settled in. She brought to the table a large pot with a lid on it. It smelled delicious, but the only thing I could focus on was that darn missing spoon.
Now, my parents always taught me never to ask for things at a host’s home, and to be thankful for everything they gave me, no matter what. But in this case, I just could not imagine eating my dinner without a spoon. It took some nerve to ask, but finally, I mustered up a meek, barely audible request—”Um…could I have a spoon please?”
The entire family—mother, father, sister and brother—responded with the most puzzled look ever. “But honey, we’re not serving soup,” his mom replied. “Dood,” my friend whispered with a what-the-heck-was-that tone. “What do you need a spoon for?”
“But—” and my parent’s training cut me off immediately. Do not ask. Just accept. “…Oh. You’re not serving soup. Okay.” All I could do was smile the way someone smiles when they’re about to eat something they don’t want to.
For someone so accustomed to eating with a pair of utensils, eating with just a fork was like some kind of torturous game-show challenge where I had to eat with one hand tied behind my back. Whenever I could, I tried sneaking in my thumb to help push food onto the fork, but that was next to impossible since it was a small round table, everyone was close by, and everyone was watching me anyways.
It was by far the longest and most tedious meal ever, simply because of a missing spoon. And don’t get me wrong—the food was delicious—but I just couldn’t enjoy it.
Fast-forward to almost 25 years later and I’m the total opposite. I only use a spoon for stirring coffee and eating soup, and I eat my meals with a fork and maybe a knife if needed. Heck, even my own rice cooker is practically brand new. I guess it all started, or ended rather, after I left from home. Tell you one thing though, whenever I see stray grains of rice or morsels of food left on my plate, I push them onto the fork with my thumb, and smile and say to myself, “Man, this wouldn’t happen if I was using a fork and spoon.”
I drew the above comic back in 1993, almost 20 years ago (gasp).
I remember laughing to myself while drawing it, thinking that tight/skinny jeans would never, ever be associated with Hip Hop culture. Little did I know that nearly 20 years later, skinny jeans would actually dominate the scene. Just goes to show that one generation’s extremes become the next generation’s norm.
Take mohawks, for example. Back in my day, anyone who had the balls to sport one (which were basically only punks) were seen as ultra-extreme and often criticized and/or outcast by the mainstream. Nowadays? I see tellers at the bank with ‘em. Same with this “skinny jean” thing. Hip Hop fans and thugs in the ’80s shocked the public wearing pants with waist sizes 2–3 sizes large so that they “sagged,” showing perhaps the boxer hem underneath and maybe a little more. Today? Forget it! You can literally see their whole boxer-covered butt.
Interestingly though, the “skinny jean” phenomena, to some, appears to be some kind of homage to the ’80s. I’ve seen some comments by young kids who claim that ’80s star Hip-Hop artists such as Run DMC “wore skinny jeans.” But sorry to tell you, kids, but those weren’t circulation-constricting leg-huggers like the ones you have on. They were simply regular, fitted jeans, which may have seemed “skinny” to everyone, after the whole baggy saggy fad.
Lil’ Greg’s been obsessed with Steam Trains for at least the past 2 years. For the longest time, it seemed the only live, full-size steam trains here in SoCal were the ones in Disneyland, which we took full advantage of with our annual passes.
Yet, after hundreds of hours of Train DVDs, multiple visits to the Travel Town Train Museum and endless page-turning through train picture books, Greg has become all too familiar with the iron giants, and just the other day remarked, “Daddy, I want to ride on a real steam train, not the small ones like in Disneyland.”
Not to discount the Disney Railroad; if it weren’t for them and their friendly engineers, Greg would have never known what it was like to sit in the cab of a working steam train in full operation. Nevertheless, Greg still knew there were larger steam specimens out there somewhere. The problem was, where were they?
My fellow SoCal rail fans and/or parents of, look no further than Fillmore & Western.
The Fillmore & Western Railway Co. is a low-key, modest train depot 60 miles North of Los Angeles, off of Freeway 126, but to any resonant rail fan like my son, it’s nothing short of pure paradise.
After hearing the exciting news that Fillmore & Western acquired the 1913 2-8-0 Baldwin Steam Locomotive #14 late last year, I’d been checking their website constantly for a chance to get Greg on board.
Sadly we’d missed the few rare excursions on Christmas and this year’s Railfest, but crossed our fingers for the next time(s). Then, just by chance, I visited their website this week and discovered they were indeed running steam August 6th and 7th! I bought tix immediately and prepared for an awesome adventure.
I was actually expecting a large crowd to be there that morning. After seeing the immensely large turnout at National Train Day 2011 at the Union Station downtown, I thought the same kind of flock would be waiting at F&W. But instead, it was totally mellow, which was a happy shock to me—I don’t really like crowds. Remember, I’m a Scorpio.
Thanks to endless reruns of Matt Bown’s Extreme Trains DVD (specifically the Steam Train episode featuring Union Pacific’s #844), I’d known that it several hours to prepare a steam train for an excursion, so I knew the #14 had to be coming to life somewhere. As Mr. Bown puts it, “Starting [a] giant locomotive is like waking a sleeping dragon.” I scanned the tracks, and sure enough, there it was tucked away in the distance, with steam slowly bellowing from its stack. It was an awesome sight to behold.
We were scheduled to depart at 11:30, and shortly after 11, Baldwin #14 pulled up to the station. The telltale clanging of a steam engine’s bell upon arrival has got to be one the most haunting sounds ever. Since the Baldwin’s construction in 1913, I can’t even imagine how many people have heard its bell, and what kind of stories are associated with it. Believe me, I drown in the possibilities. Here was that epic moment. This, coincidentally, is also the very first video I’ve ever uploaded to YouTube. History in the making, folks.
Up close, the locomotive was a feast for all five senses, and conjured up even more senses I was previously unaware of. Here was a genuine, living and breathing testament of American struggle and triumph—an iron-clad icon of the perseverance of time and tradition. There was a distinct, pungent smell of water vapor, oil and greased steel which defined this dragon; an aroma all its own—several times more imposing than the trains of Disneyland ever wafted forth. See how Greg coughed towards the end of the clip? That was it. Even at rest, this beautiful beast hissed and churned with a burning heart.
We had reserved a spot in the vintage Dining Car for our lunch, and it too had more than enough vintage décor to write home about—especially, for one, the series of antique fans gently cooling the car. It was pretty cool and comfy in there for a hot day, and I wondered if that was indeed due to the fans or a hidden upgraded modern air conditioning unit.
Greg, meanwhile, was so excited to be on board, that only after a couple of minutes he shifted uneasily in his seat, pleading “Aren’t we gonna go yet?” I had to explain to him that trains leave exactly on schedule. “See? It’s 11:26, Greg,” I showed him on my iPhone. “We’re leaving at 11:30. So that means in four minutes.” He seemed to calm slightly, calculating the exact duration of four minutes in his head.
When we finally got going, the sequence of two long whistles signaling the train releasing brakes and proceeding sent chills up my spine, as the entire train tugged forth in a groaning symphony of squealing metal bearings and creaking wood joints. Greg’s eyes flew wide open and his jaw dropped when he heard the sound and felt the pull. His dream of riding a real old, real big steam locomotive had finally come true.
Speaking of train whistles, I could never fully describe the particular melancholy feeling I’ve always associated with them and why they have such an effect, but after reading this Wikipedia article I now know why. Some excerpts from the page:
“In popular and folk culture, train whistles are often associated with loneliness or hard luck, because of the association of trains with transients and hobos who often wait outside the train station and run and jump on to ride the railcars as they just begin moving out of the station. The book Hear That Lonesome Whistle Blow is an example.”
“Furthermore, minor chords (like that of a train whistle) are said to have a melancholy sound…Additionally, steam whistles (the traditional sounding mechanism of train whistles) tend to waver in pitch, and thus make more of a crying or wailing sound, that further adds to the lonesome nature of the shrill steam whistle.”
“Lastly, train stations were (and, to some degree still are) associated with the departure of loved ones, and the sadness of saying goodbye. To the extent that the sound of a steam train whistle is unique, and somewhat symbolic of long distance travel, it has come to contextualize itself as mournful and melancholy as this three-chime steam train whistle.”
Exactly. But for me, also, the whistle symbolizes both a departure and discovery. Saying goodbye but also saying hello to a new world, previously unreachable and uncharted. Once again, I asked myself, “How many people have heard that whistle…and how many tears have come with it?”
