I grew up watching Emergency! from age seven to fourteen, alternating throughout between a simple buff and wanting to be a firefighter. It seems I have chosen the former path, and as a part of that collect patches of fire departments that are relevant to me.
This shoulder patch, worn by the Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedics in the show, naturally belongs at the top of my collection, since it commemorates when my fascination with firefighting began.
On the way back from Gaviota we pit-stopped at The Cajun Kitchen in Goleta for a breakfast mercifully devoid of windborne clay dust. We rewarded the scouts with beignets.
I tried one, enjoyed it, and decided that I would not feel deprived if it were my last.
No aspersions on the Cajun Cafe: I have of late, but wherefore I know not, slid quietly into “eat-to-live” mode. Food has become fuel, not fun, and while I still appreciate good food, I don’t give it anywhere as much thought as I used to beyond ensuring that a) I won’t go hungry, and b) I become increasingly Kosher in my habits.
Boring? Maybe. But I don’t think the world will suffer for the lack of one more foodie, and it makes weight management much easier. In the end, I might even live longer.
I am a nostalgist at the best of times, and at the worst the combination of music, moment and memory turn me into a weeping ninny.
A fair chunk of Tom Petty’s oeuvre does that to me, “Free Falling” more than most. My teen years were passed in the San Fernando Valley, and the song brings the worst of those years back in a painful rush. I never said so aloud, but Petty for me was like that cool older brother I never had, the guy who made me feel like everything was going to be okay because I shouldn’t take it too seriously, anyway.
In “Free Falling,” I heard Tom telling me that, yeah, I had hurt people, that it was wrong, that it didn’t make be a “bad boy” for breaking a heart, but that my true struggle was going to be learning to live with the hurt I had caused without daring to try and rationalize, minimalize, or forget it. That’s what the bad boys did, and that was anything but cool.
Was that what he wrote the song to try and provoke? I don’t know. That’s what the song meant to me. I can only hope that my expropriation of his music for my own emotional purposes wouldn’t have bothered Tom.
I think about meeting him on some other level of being and asking him about it. I hear him saying “no, man, if I can sing and you can heal, I’ve done my job. Mission accomplished.”
The Rebbe once said “music is the pen of the soul.” Mine will always carry an autograph of Tom Petty.
Keep playin’, big brother. Lots of healing to be done where you’re going.
I grew up driving past (and occasionally going into) Robinson’s Department Store in Beverly Hills. My parents had a charge plate there, and though we found ourselves more often at Bullock’s in Westwood or the Broadway in Century City for our department store shopping, it seemed like when we needed a slightly nicer gift for someone, we would as often as not wind up at the somewhat ritzier Robinsons.
Finding myself with a few months to spare between graduating from UC Davis and starting Thunderbird and only only partially occupied with taking some extension classes at UCLA, I got a job at Robinson’s Beverly Hills as seasonal help, working initially in the gifts department, and later in candy.
After a few weeks, the GM decided to set up a “flying squad” of seasonal associates who could be moved from one department to another to handle rushes. She asked me to be the supervisor and, after a month, I was overseeing my own team and was welcomed into management meetings.
I left to move to Arizona for Thunderbird right before New Year, but not before the GM, Patti, offered me a job and a slot in their management training program. It wasn’t in the cards, but it was an incredible send-off. It may have been the eighties, but jobs weren’t leaping off of trees, and having looked two such gift-horses in the mouth in three months I felt like I was pushing my luck a bit.
But off to Thunderbird I went, to pursue my career in China, rather than in retail.
In an interesting twist, the old William Pereira and Charles Luckman icon fell in 2014 to a wrecking ball swung by Wang Jianlin* of Dalian Wanda, as a part of a multiuse redevelopment project. I was sad to see the old gal fall, but I took it as proof of my theory that in order to do business in/with China now, you don’t even need to get on a plane: China is coming to you.
* I have no particular affection for Wang. Once you get past a sophisticated exterior he is the quintessential Chinese robber-baron. In another time, he would have been a warlord.
I came out of UC Davis determined to go into business with China, and having read and re-read James Clavell’s Tai-Pan and Noble House until the covers fell off I was convinced that shipping was the way in. After all, this was how Struan & Company made their fortunes, and by extension so did the modern trading houses. Shipping was IT.
Plus, every young man loves hardware.
A three-month internship at Seapac Services, the North American sales department for C.Y. Tung’s Orient Overseas Container Line, proved that the steamship business was not the right path into global business. The money was being siphoned out of the industry by brutal business cycles, giant capital requirements, and the commoditization of service. It was all scale and price, and by the time Seapac offered me a job at the end of my internship, I was ready for almost anything else.
That said, spending that time in the guts of the business was a front-row education in the mechanics of trade that served me brilliantly at Thunderbird and throughout my career.
That summer I lived at my parents’ house in Beverly Hills and commuted to Long Beach. My car was new, the freeway smooth, so I hardly noticed the drive.
And frankly, if you had to spend a summer overlooking a container port, there are few of the breed more picturesque than Long Beach.
June – August 1985 Intensive Workshop in Elementary Chinese (Mandarin) University of California Berkeley, California
I moved out of my dorm a week before school was over, dumped my stuff in my sister’s deserted Berkeley apartment, and commuted back and forth between Davis and Berkeley for finals even as I started my summer Mandarin immersion program.
After that overstretched first week – during which I managed to permanently frustrate a professor who had believed in me – I settled into what would be the brutal routine of study, that would result in near-proficiency in two-and-a-half months.
I have my share of regrets about my time in college – roads not taken, opportunities missed – but taking this course opened up more doors than anything before or since, and it continues to do so decades later.
I originally started thinking about transferring to UC Davis for reasons that were anything but academic, or even rational.
Yet the more I learned about the school – and the International Relations program – the more I realized that I would be even more at home than I was at UC San Diego.
So I transferred, and though I literally wept the day I moved out of the dorms at UCSD (the place had grown on me more than I realized,) in retrospect it was the best move I could have made, and more than any other institution, it set me on the path I walk today.
While everyone else was watching the Olympics, I got a summer gig in the accounting offices of the L.A. Section of the National Council of Jewish Women, processing a massive backlog of thrift store donation forms.
It wasn’t a bad gig. Perched in the middle of Fairfax Boulevard, we were never far from food, and the people we worked with were nice. It was a weird summer for me, though. I was in transition between UC San Diego and UC Davis, my love life was a mess of my own making, and I had failed to even chase the summer job I’d REALLY wanted, which was to be a security guard at the Olympics.