life

Future Former L.A. Resident

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Story 50 of 52

By M. Snarky

Our written plan to exit from Van Nuys (gentrified in 2007 as Lake Balboa), located in the San Fernando Valley, a suburb north of Los Angeles proper, stemmed from an encounter with a person I dubbed Dirtman.

In and of itself, taking the effort to write out an exit plan makes it a serious affair by default. It makes it tangible. It makes it actionable. It moves it from a nebulous idea to reality.

How we met Dirtman was something out of a dark comedy. You see, my wife Kim and I walk with our Aussie-Doodle dog named Sydney almost every night around our neighborhood. We arguably know it better than any of our neighbors. I wrote about Walking in My Neighborhood in detail in July of 2024. It hasn’t changed much.

We know which houses have the dogs that start barking a block away, and which houses have the dogs that start barking when you are two doors down, and which houses have the lying-in-wait assassins that postpone barking until you are directly in front of them before they release their fury…and subsequently makes you release your adrenaline. These furry fuckers are almost exclusively the mean little dog breeds. I recently wrote about my firsthand experience with Mean Little Dogs too. You can hear some of these dogs continue to bark long after you are gone and onto the next block…or two.

On a recent July evening as we were walking our usual three-mile route around the neighborhood, we turned the corner into the second cul-de-sac south of our house and this is where we first encountered Dirtman. There he was, standing on top of a large pile of dirt that was dumped in the street, stomping his feet on it, and raising a huge cloud of dust. Apparently, this dirt was originally to be used for someone’s backyard landscaping project, but since it was on a public street, Dirtman appropriated it and then proceeded to flatten it out in his apparent rage against dirt.

Next, Dirtman took off his backpack and his heavy canvas jacket­­—which was already completely out of place for a hot July evening—and then he started dragging the jacket back and forth through the loose dirt very deliberately (as if he were dredging a piece of chicken through a pan of flour), and then he threw the jacket down and started throwing huge handfuls of dirt all over the entire garment. Dirtman then proceeded to carefully pick up his jacket by the collar and gently shake the dirt off—emulating the character Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip the entire time—and then he folded it up carefully and angrily threw it back down on the pile of dirt again. Then he proceeded to roll his body around in the dirt pile like he was a human steamroller, or as if he were practicing the Stop, Drop, and Roll fire safety technique that he learned in elementary school, assuming of course that he did attend an elementary school of some sort.

He didn’t say one single word, but he did sneeze uncontrollably a few times. By now, his perspiration was turning the layer of dirt that was stuck to his face, neck, and arms into a thin layer of dark mud, looking like something you’d get in a fancy day spa for $500. Maybe he was just trying to channel an Aboriginal man living in the outback.

It was next to impossible to tell how old he was with the coating of dirt and mud, but I would guess he was thirty-something. His dark eyes had a glazed, wild look in them indicating that he was probably very high on something, and I did my best not to make direct eye contact as we passed him at a distance. I once read in some psychology article somewhere that direct eye contact with a person who is having an obvious mental breakdown can trigger a violent reaction. This no-direct-eye-contact technique comes in handy here in the suburbs of Los Angeles where the crazies now rule the streets.

As we walked past Dirtman, I noticed that the gate at the end of the street that leads to the infernally busy Balboa Blvd was wide open. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign that said, “Open.” This was unusual because everyone who lives on any of the six cul-de-sacs that dead-end at Balboa know to keep the gates closed and locked to prevent the encroaching homeless population from entering the neighborhood, or at least offer a minor deterrent for the lazy ones. I believed keeping the gates locked was common knowledge around here, but someone apparently didn’t get the memo. It was probably a preoccupied teenager staring at the screen of their smartphone.

As I walked past the gate, I closed it and made sure that it locked. Kim said (in the sweetest, most sarcastic voice one could ever hear), “Great; now he’s trapped in our neighborhood.” It made me chuckle at first, but in the next moment I realized my folly: By not knowing the true state of mind of this Dirtman fellow, closing that gate may have seemed to him like I was locking him in and now my mind was racing with all sorts of wild what-if scenarios of nasty in-your-face verbal altercations and unrelenting physical violence. Then I remembered that I had my pepper spray with me and felt a sense of relief, but I kept him in the corner of my eye anyway.

As we turned the corner out of the cul-de-sac to continue our walk, Kim uttered the words that no husband ever wants to hear: “I don’t feel safe in our neighborhood anymore.” This sent a chill down my spine. We have lived in this neighborhood for 26-years. This statement meant—in no uncertain terms—that we were going to need to start planning our exit NOW. Our hand was forced not by a job change, or by a bad economic situation, nor by any other internal, familial, or personal issues; it was forced by externalities that we have no control over.

Granted, this homeless population has been slowly yet perpetually closing in from all of the major boulevards and streets around our neighborhood: Roscoe Blvd to the north, Saticoy Street to the south, Balboa Blvd to the east, and Louise Ave to the west. We found ourselves living on an island surrounded by a sea of homelessness and lawlessness.

Street takeovers, street gang graffiti, deadly assaults on public transportation, homeless encampments, wildfires started by people living in homeless encampments, robberies, burglaries, RVs in various states of decay parked on the streets, abandoned cars, piles of trash, fires, squatters, open drug deals and open drug use in the middle of the day, and people sleeping on the sidewalks have been pervasive for years, but it has mostly stayed in the periphery of our neighborhood. I’m sorry to say that we had become mostly desensitized to it because you see it everywhere, every single day!

The city and county of Los Angeles are abject failures on so many levels that it truly was only a matter of time before we would be forced to leave in order to preserve what waning sanity, patience, and hope that we have left. Mind you, this is not a trivial decision. I was born in Los Angeles, and I’ve lived here for most of my life. I met Kim (who was born in Burbank) and we got married and raised our children here. Our eldest son Travis died here. It makes me so sad that this formerly fantastic city—a city of the world—is now entirely crestfallen and has become so incredibly untenable that it repels its own native sons and daughters.

Los Angeles has completely lost its soul and there is zero sense of community anymore. It is now mostly populated by cliques who are only looking out for themselves. The harsh reality is that tribalism rules the day here as the corrupt cabal in city hall continues to circle the drain.

What was once a shining city on a hill, Los Angeles is now an imploding, burning city poised at the gates of hell. The City of Angels has completely ceased to exist—nowadays it more closely resembles Gotham City.

The reasons most people moved into the Valley in the first place was that it was not like living in Los Angeles: The Valley was less congested with traffic and less crowded, it was cleaner, it had better schools, it had newer malls, it was suburbia on steroids for all of the right reasons. But now the Valley has simply become an extension of Los Angeles for all of the wrong reasons, and it is hard to tell the difference between the two anymore.

Fortunately, our little 73-year-old post war tract house sold quickly, and we close escrow soon. We bought a place in another county as far away from Los Angeles as our jobs and careers would allow. I hope the new neighbors will forgive us for being from L.A. On second thought, maybe we should downplay that little fact

Best of luck with the 2028 Olympics, Los Angeles, but I’m sure that the city will put on a lovely façade as only phony Tinseltown can do, and then it will be back to business as usual: broke, broken, corrupt, dysfunctional, and crime ridden. I wonder where they’ll hide all of the homeless people and their derelict RVs and travel trailers for the television coverage of the games. Maybe the city will give them an EBT card and directions to Slab City.

Perhaps Dirtman was simply a metaphor for this insane, dirty, scummy, out of control city.

Vaya con Dios, Los Angeles.

Instagram: @m.snarky

Blog: https://msnarky.com

©2025. All rights reserved.

Musings on Smartphones and Dumb People

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Story 48 of 52

By M. Snarky

You see it every single day here in Los Angeles: People staring at their smartphones while they are supposedly working, or while walking down the street with their dog, or while driving their car (as they dangerously weave between the lane lines), or while at a Taylor Swift concert. These people are usually completely oblivious to anything that is happening around them, and so it is apparent that smartphones are great at blocking out situational awareness, perhaps by design. These people will be the first ones to go during a zombie apocalypse, and when you think about it, they are already in a semi-zombie state anyway, so it isn’t much of a stretch.

More often than not, these same people also have their Bluetooth earbuds crammed into their ear canals as tight as possible so that they can listen to music, or podcasts, or news, or Matt Foley: Motivational Speaker audio books. It is my opinion that they are intentionally tuning out the world and living inside their own personal bubbles. They never respond to you when you say “Hello” as you cross paths (making them seem rude, cold, and indifferent). They don’t hear you when you yell “Watch out!” as they blindly step onto the street while staring at the screen of their smartphone and walk directly into the oncoming path of a speeding city bus—ironically throwing themselves under the bus.

Then again, maybe it’s best to let Darwinism take its course and not interfere with the natural laws of the universe.

The headlines speak for themselves, “Man dies while taking selfie in front of a bison bull.” “Man dies falling off of parking structure while playing Pokémon GO!” “Woman dies in car crash while sexting her boyfriend.” The list goes on and on. Does this imply that smartphones are deadly? No: It only proves that there are too many dumb people walking around amongst us.

I don’t believe that smartphones have truly made people any smarter than they were before smartphones were invented, in fact, I’ll argue that the opposite is true because this has been my experience. It amazes me that even with the entire knowledge and history of the world at their fingertips—knowledge and history that previously required people to either go to a local library or ask their grandparents if they may thumb their way through their latest Encyclopedia Britannica edition—people still believe that Elvis is alive; that the earth is flat; and that the moon landing was a hoax. Indeed, cognitive dissonance is alive and well in the U.S.

I do believe that too much Internet bandwidth is consumed by the millions of pointless, viral cat and TikTok related videos du jour instead of by people seeking knowledge or facts, both of which appear to be in short supply these days. The last time I checked, knowledge and facts are still tariff free, so there is no additional cost to obtain them…and yet they languish. Half-truths, untruths, myths, rumors, and outright lies seem to rule the day.

Now that smartphones have AI capabilities, I think this is only going to accelerate the dumbing down of Americans. It’s going to be interesting to see how it progresses. I used to believe that AI in its absolute sense was isolated to city, county, state, and federal government politicians, you know, the smartest people in the room—just ask any one of them—and you can see how that turned out for us. If you believe that AI is somehow going to save us, you may only be half right because AI also has the potential to destroy us. I sense that AI will end up doing both in an endless creative destruction cycle. Buckle up, kids.

If there is a dystopian AI controlled Tyrellian evil robot future on the horizon, people won’t even look up from their smartphone screens long enough to notice. The masses will be led to their demise by means of a viral, cleverly gamified extermination program in which all of the “accidents” will seem plausible. May I suggest starting with the ones who have the most daily screen time as they pose the most danger to society? Come to think of it, this gives doomscrolling an entirely new meaning. Just kidding—obviously, it should start with the politicians.

Instagram: @m.snarky

Blog: https://msnarky.com

©2025. All rights reserved.

Lifeguard Queen

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This is an AI generated image that looks remarkably like the Lifeguard Queen of my youth.

Story 42 of 52

By M. Snarky

Late summer, 1974, North Hollywood, Calif. The walk from our apartment at 5342 Cahuenga Blvd to the North Hollywood Pool was about a mile, and for 25¢ you could swim all day. With only our towels in hand and one quarter each in our pockets (Grandma Opal Hess would say, “two-bits”), we walked directly west down the dry and dusty Union Pacific Railroad tracks that paralleled Chandler Blvd to North Hollywood Park, and then turn left at Tujunga Ave where the pool was located on the west side of the street just beyond the public parking lot. When the temperature rose above 100-degrees, it was like walking through the sweltering heat of a desert, but it was always worthwhile because I knew she would be there.

I had just turned 13, my younger brother Scott was 11-1/2, and our younger cousin Chris was 10-1/2. The three of us were accidentally representing the poor white boys of North Hollywood with our holey T-shirts, cut-off jeans, knee-high tube socks with holes in the heels and the toes and our worn out Keds and Converse sneakers. We had no food, no water, no sunscreen, and usually no extra money – not even a nickel for some bubble gum. Our parents were so broke that we would often have to resort to scouring the neighborhood for returnable soda bottles to collect enough money for the pool entry fee.

Whenever we did have any extra change, we would stop by the Winchell’s Donut House near the corner of Lankershim Blvd and Chandler because it was on the way to the pool, and we would have been foolish not to pick up a few 5¢ donuts.

At the front counter of the pool house, you handed over your hard-earned quarter to the attendant for a ticket, then you took the ticket over to the men’s side of the pool house where there was another counter. There was a hand painted sign above that counter that said, “No Cut-Off Jeans!” and, “No Swimming in Underwear!” and “No Urinating in the Pool!” There was another hand painted sign above the door that exited to the pool deck that said, “Rinse Off Before Entering Pool.” Being the ignorant youth that I was, I would have argued that the no cut-off jean policy was dumb and that the no swimming in underwear and no urinating in the pool rules were obvious, but why do I need to rinse off? But rules are rules, and in a public space they must be posted…and obeyed, that is, if you want to avoid getting kicked out.

There was this persistent rumor going around that there was a chemical in the pool water that turned bright red if you peed in it, which signals to everyone in the water around you AND the lifeguard staff that, a) you are a rule breaking savage, and b) you will be promptly removed from the pool, Pissboy will be tattooed onto your forehead, and you will be escorted off of the premises by two burly lifeguards, and banned for life from entering any of the Los Angeles County Parks & Recreation managed public pools. I will tell you unequivocally (although not without some level of embarrassment) that this was indeed just a persistent rumor that I believe was likely propagated by the lifeguard union.

Anyway, you gave the male attendant your ticket and they would hand you a mesh bag with what I can only describe as a large diaper pin that had a number stamped on the end of it which matched the stamped metal number tag attached to the bag. The first time we went to the pool I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the mesh bag or with the pin. After observing what the other men and boys did with them, I quickly figured out what to do, so I put my beat-up shoes, tube socks, T-shirt, and cut-off jeans in the bag, attached the pin to my swim shorts, and handed the bag over to the young man behind the counter who promptly hung the bag on a rack in numerical order.

Scott, Chris, and I, after rinsing off in the remarkably cold water (why was there never a hot water valve?), walked out onto the pool deck like we owned the place. Around the entire pool deck, about every ten feet or so, painted in fire engine red, was “NO RUNNING!” in huge, stenciled letters. More rules. So, with our towels draped around our necks, we briskly walked over to our favorite spot on the deck near the far southeast corner of the deep end where I could observe the high lifeguard chair from afar, which was the throne upon which my Lifeguard Queen sat.

She was a tan, brunette beauty with hazel eyes, wearing Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses, a white sun visor, and the iconic red one-piece Los Angeles County Lifeguard issued bathing suit. Being an official lifeguard, she also had the shiny metal whistle on a lanyard around her neck and a large megaphone by her side. She was a magnificent, powerful sight to behold, and I was crushing hard.

Mind you, I was not creeping on her or staring or ogling – I would simply glance over at her every now and then, hoping that one day she would notice me and smile and maybe wave at me. I had no idea what I was going to do if she ever did acknowledge me like that, but I probably would have suffered a heart attack.

I was comfortable in the water and thought that I knew how to swim, but I truly didn’t know how to swim well. You could say that I only knew how not to drown, just like most other recreational swimmers, I suppose. It wasn’t until I took professional swimming lessons decades later at Los Angeles Valley College for Ironman training with my wife Kim, that I realized how bad I was at swimming. How bad? It went something like this: On the first day of training, coach Stuart directed us (about three-dozen people) to self-seed ourselves along the pool coping thusly, “Advanced swimmers in the right-hand lanes, intermediate swimmers in the middle lanes, and beginning swimmers in the left-hand lanes.” I considered myself an intermediate swimmer and lined up in the middle lane.

Then coach Stuart said, “Okay swimmers, we’re going to split lanes for this drill in a clockwise direction, so we don’t swim into each other. Tom, Frank, Lisa, and Caroline will demonstrate this for you.” The four of them jumped into the middle lane and with a “Yip!” command from the coach, they started swimming in single file along the left-side next to the pool lane divider and when they got to the far end of the lane they turned around and came back along the right-side pool lane divider, passing each other without crashing as they swam in opposite directions.

Coach Stuart continued, “Does everyone understand this?” and we all nodded our heads in acknowledgement. “Now I want everyone to swim a few laps to warm up – Yip!” And with that, we jumped into the water and began swimming as directed. When I got back to the coaches side of the pool after a couple of laps, coach Stuart signaled me to the coping and asked me my name. “Okay, Kent, move down a lane to the left.” I moved down as directed. After a couple more laps, coach Stuart signaled me again and said, “Brad, move down another lane to the left.” I complied. By the time the warmup was over, my name was Norman, and I was standing in the wading pool.

But back in 1974 at North Hollywood Pool, I felt like I was channeling Olympic Gold Medalist Mark Spitz, and I was positive that I caught the queen’s eye once or twice as I swam by her elevated throne.

On the opposite side of the pool from the lifeguard chair were the two glorious springboards – one set at 1-meter, and the other set at 2-meters. These were our favorite activity to do at the pool. We got pretty good at doing jackknifes and swan dives (or so we thought), but big fat cannonball and cherry bomb splashes were our favorites. We mostly just goofed around doing boyish things like belly flops, lazy forward flips, mostly out-of-control back flips, and “Change-your-minds” where you acted like you were going to dive straight into the water but tucked into a cannonball at the last second.

On the last August day of the summer pool season – which was coincidentally also an extremely hot day – a Speedo wearing whale of a man swam right into the diving lane impact zone as I launched myself off of the springboard. I was in midair when I heard the whistle blow, but I didn’t see him until it was too late because I was looking across the pool to the Lifeguard Queen of all my dreams who was blowing said whistle. I collided with him upon entry of my almost perfect starfish belly flop, the impact of which knocked the wind out of me. I involuntarily inhaled a lungful of water which burned my lungs like fire. I began gasping uncontrollably for air under the surface of the water as I started sinking. The last thing I remembered was hearing a muffled splash next to me as I was looking up at the blazing, shimmering sun through the rippled surface of the water.

When I came back to my senses, there she was, smelling like Coppertone coconut tanning oil, leaning over me with the bleach scented chlorinated pool water dripping off of her face and hair and red swimsuit, giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the warm concrete pool deck. Her lips tasted like cherry flavored ChapStick. She was even more beautiful close up. Was I in heaven? I looked into her stunning hazel eyes and smiled. She pulled back and asked, “Kent, are you okay?” She knew my name! THE LIFEGUARD QUEEN KNEW MY NAME! Wait! How did she know my name? What happened? Never mind – let it happen! I started to say, “I love you, Lifeguard Queen!” but before I could say anything, I was rudely awakened by a big splash of pool water. Alas, it was all just a very vivid dream, probably intensified by the heat, hunger, and dehydration. But it seemed so real.

On the way out through the pool house that day she was working the front counter. We made eye contact, and I bashfully looked away. She said, “Cool Tee-shirt!” I was wearing a classic white Coca-Cola Tee-shirt with the red arm and neck ringer bands. I blushed. Then she said, “Have a nice day – see you next summer.” My heart skipped a beat. In an awkward, broken voice, I barely got, “See you next summer,” out of my mouth. At that age, “next summer” always seemed such a long way off and it would never come soon enough.

Summer, 1975, North Hollywood, Calif. This year we had secondhand BMX bicycles that we pieced together to get to the pool faster! On opening day, we raced each other down the railroad tracks from the apartment to the pool. All along the way we kept trying to one-up each other to see who could bunny-hop the highest or ride a wheelie the longest – this turned into a serious competition! Breathless, we locked our bikes to the rack at the pool and rushed to the front counter to get our tickets. The three of us; Scott, Chris, and myself, breathing heavily and dripping with sweat, didn’t even register with the attendant who just smiled at us as he took our quarters and handed us our tickets.

The singular thing that was occupying my mind was the Lifeguard Queen.

This time, the cold shower before entering the pool area was appreciated after riding our bikes so hard in the summer heat. We speed-walked toward our regular corner when we heard “Slow down!” coming over the staticky public address system, clearly directed at the three of us. We complied and slowed down – barely. As we briskly walked behind the queens throne I glanced up to get a brief look of her highness without being too obvious, but this time, the occupant of the throne was not the queen, instead, there was an imposter in her place: the throne was being occupied by one of the male lifeguards. Noooo! Where in the world was my Lifeguard Queen? Wahhhh! Sadly, I never saw her again. The pool days were never the same afterward. I felt an emptiness in her absence and became less enthusiastic about going to the pool.

Although I didn’t learn what her real name was, I imagined that it was something regal like Elizabeth, Genevieve, Catherine, or Margaret.

The summertime always reminds me of those carefree days at that pool with my brother and cousin, but mostly, I wonder about the Lifeguard Queen.

Old crushes die hard.

Instagram: @m.snarky

Blog: https://msnarky.com

©2025. All rights reserved.

Zombie Shifts

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Story 41 of 52

By M. Snarky

For the last three months I have been working the overnight shift on a retail store network equipment refresh project for a global shoe brand. Due to contractual obligations, I am not at liberty to disclose the company name, but what I can say is that they’re kind of a big deal and I’m grateful for being part of this project.

However, working the night shift is hard for us humans. It throws our circadian rhythm so far out of whack that what once was perhaps a pleasant samba groove in 4/4 time becomes an offbeat primal sound more like that of a chimpanzee on meth beating on a metal trash can with a crowbar.

Getting out of the familiar 8 AM to 6 PM daytime rat race schedule and into the 6 PM to 4 AM nocturnal racoon schedule – the wee hours of which, incidentally, are the same as those of the tweakers, serial killers, zombies, vampires, and aging rock stars – is certainly not for everyone. I don’t love it, but it is necessary and mercifully temporary.

Your instincts are that when it gets dark outside, you are supposed to be winding down, not up. By 2:00 AM, you find yourself in an epic mental battle between your mind desperately wanting to sleep and your mind needing to stay wide awake and mentally sharp. You oscillate between these wildly opposite mental states. It’s not easy. It’s an eternal battle between Greek gods Hypnos and Argus Panoptes.

But you find ways to stay awake, like reading a book, listening to upbeat music, or playing a newly discovered online version of Whist, a popular 19th century card game that Dostoevsky mentions in The Brothers Karamazov that I had to Google when I read it. Whist was a predecessor of modern Contract Bridge, which is my dad and stepmom’s favorite card game. Sometimes I find myself doing all of these at once.

I feel oddly guilty about pouring a dram of whiskey at 4:00-AM and getting up at the crack of noon. It feels strange going to sleep for 8-hours and waking up on the same day. And even though I do typically sleep for 8-hours, I still feel tired. But why though? I mean, it’s just a time shift, right? I should feel totally normal, right? Well, not exactly…

In 1972, geologist Michel Siffre, one of the early pioneers of experiments on human circadian rhythms, spent six months in Midnight Cave in southern Texas. Siffre suffered both acute and lasting effects, only partially recovering from the isolation physically, mentally, and emotionally. His internal clock shifted to 48-hours, and he completely lost track of hours, days, weeks, and months. He stayed awake for 36-hours straight and slept for 12-hours at a stretch. His Day 63 inside Midnight Cave was really Day 77 above ground.

Siffre later described the experience as: “A slow slide into madness.” He talked to insects for company. He found comfort in his own voice, but silence always returned, crushing and relentless. After 180 days, Siffre’s team removed him from the cave. To him, only 151 days had passed. 29 days were unaccounted for in his daily diary. Time literally slowed down, stretched out, and slipped away from him.

So, from Siffre’s experiments we can conclude that our circadian rhythm is nothing to trifle with or you just might risk losing your mind a little bit. Duly noted. It’s still May, right?

I have one more week to go. I hope I make it. But if you see me talking to insects, you’ll understand why.

Instagram: @m.snarky

Blog: https://msnarky.com

©2025. All rights reserved.

Odd Jobs

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Story 32 of 52

By M. Snarky

I was recently reflecting on how many jobs that I’ve had over the years and decided to write them all down for posterity, you know, in case anyone was wondering. Also, the electrical trade had its ups and downs and in between the slowdowns, I worked odd jobs. As you’ll see in 1979-1981, I jumped around quite a bit between a bunch of jobs because I was:

  1. Between electrical jobs due to economic slowdowns.
  2. Chasing better paying jobs
  3. I simply got bored with them.

In 1978 I had moved in with my dad in Sacramento after getting released from Fire Camp #7 – Camp William V. Mendenhall, a juvenile detention facility in Lake Hughes, CA. Yes, I was a juvenile delinquent at one point in my life and I absolutely paid my dues for it. It’s a long story. I recently wrote a memoir about my juvenile delinquency and am currently seeking a literary agent – stay tuned. Anyway, after working in the kitchen at Mendenhall, I decided that the culinary arts was going to be my career path and that is how I ended up working as a prep cook in a Japanese restaurant.

1975-1976 – Gopher at Errol Sign Company, North Hollywood, CA. The summer of ‘75 was the first part-time job that I had. My best friend Mark Flaata got me the job, and the pay was a whopping $2.10 per hour – big bucks for a 14-year-old. With In-n-Out just down the street on Lankershim Blvd, this is where much of my money was spent. The owner Errol Biggs was a mustachioed character that drove around in a 1969 Chevy El Camino. He had dirt bikes that he let Mark and I borrow and eventually destroy.

1977 – Part-time machinist apprentice at Jack Drees Grinding, North Hollywood, CA for $3 per hour. Another job that Mark landed for me. Precision grinding for all sorts of military parts. Surface grinders, double-disk grinders, Blanchard grinders. I was pretty good at learning this and was running my own Blanchard grinder within a few months. Not bad for a 16-year-old.

1978 – Part-time prep cook at a Japanese restaurant in Sacramento, CA, $3.25 per hour. Among other duties like chopping, cutting, slicing, julienne, etc., all sorts of foods, this is where I learned how to break down and debone a whole chicken lickety-split.

1979 – Pumping gas at the Union 76 gas station at the corner of Whitsett Ave. and Vanowen Blvd., North Hollywood, CA, $3.50 per hour. My brother Scott got this job for me. For the Vietnam veteran owner George Christie, the gas station was a side hustle as he was a full-time engineer for the Southern Pacific Railroad. I quit after a few months.

1979 – Floyd Floor Mats, North Hollywood, CA,  $3.75 per hour. This job consisted of cutting out carpet shapes and sewing on edges and silk-screening logos on floor mats. I didn’t particularly care for this filler job, and it lasted only a couple of months before I left for a better paying gig.

1979 – Part-time machinist apprentice at a machine shop on Hinds St., North Hollywood, CA, $4 per hour. I forgot the name of this company, but this is where I learned to run an analog Bridgeport milling machine. I left this job to go back to Drees grinding for more money.

1979 – Machinist at Jack Drees Grinding, North Hollywood, CA, working the swing shift as assistant foreman for $4.50 per hour at 18-years-old. Mark Flaata was working the same shift at Lockheed, so we would meet when our shifts were over and go off-roading and drink beer and smoke weed and listen to music, sometimes until sunrise.

1980 – Electrician – apprentice, G.G. Electric, North Hollywood, CA. $5 per hour! I got this job  through my friend Jerry Podlevsky. I quickly learned the basics of reading blueprints, layout, and wiring. I was pretty good at this too and was a quick study.

1980 – European Motor Connection, North Hollywood, CA, $5 per hour. Low level mechanic and gopher for my brother-in-law, Armand Azran, a French Moroccan national. A shitty filler job. By 1993, Armand began engaging in criminal activity and had to leave the country before Guido and Tony caught up with him. He convinced my sister and mom to go, which was the dumbest thing for them to do. Armand eventually went to prison in Morocco.

1980 – Electrician – apprentice, Sheffield Electric, Reseda, CA, $6 per hour, through Jerry Podlevsky. This company had the notoriety of writing bad checks to its employees, so it was always a race to the bank on Friday.

1981 – Morris Richman Auto Sales, Studio City, CA, $5 per hour. Gopher, car washer, and porter. Another shitty filler job, but at least it was close to where I was living. This was the first time I took a reduction in my hourly wage.

1981-1984 – Electrician – apprentice to journeyman, J. J. Master Electric, Los Angeles, CA, $7 up to $12 per hour. Joe Masterson was the cigar chomping owner of this A-list electrical contractor. Landmark locations like Chasen’s and the Hotel Bel Aire plus various film, TV, radio and sports personalities and old L.A. money families like the Doheny’s and the Keck’s. Meeting and working with Vin Scully was a highlight.

1984-1990 – Electrician – journeyman, White Glove Electric, Santa Monica, CA, $13 up to $20 per hour. This company was started by Woody Miles and Rudy Martinez, two veteran electricians from J. J. Master who recruited me for more money. I left White Glove after a falling out with management. Promotional promises were made but not kept.

1990-1992 – Electrician – journeyman, Kamashian Electric, Van Nuys, CA, $21 up to $22 per hour. Joe Kamashian was great to work for and very professional. Lots of industrial control system work that I geeked out over, and I was really good at it There was a major slowdown and I got laid off.

1992-1994 – Electrician – journeyman, Shamma Electric, Granada Hills, CA, $22 up to $23 per hour. On December 26, 1994, I was electrocuted and almost killed on the job. It took me seven months to recover. This also set me up for a better career path 5-years later due to the California Vocational Rehabilitation law at the time. Long story.

1995-1998 – Electrician – journeyman, Kamashian Electric, Van Nuys, CA, $24 up to $26 per hour. It was good to work with Joe again. This was my last job working in the electrical trade.

1999 – obtained my Microsoft Certified Systems Engineer (MCSE) certification. This was a major career game changer.

1999-2005 – Systems Engineer for Center Automotive Group, Sherman Oaks, CA. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. The owner David Farguson had decided to update their dealer management system (DMS) from the green screen terminal-based mainframe Reynolds and Reynolds system at BMW, and ADP system at Chrysler/Jeep to a centralized Windows based system called Carman. I was moonlighting for them doing some electrical work on the BMW parts department remodel. They had a meeting where Mr. Farguson announced the decision to move to Carman and asked if anyone knew someone that knew Windows systems. My brother Scott was at that meeting, and he knew that I was taking the MCSE certification courses going to night school and floated my name out. David invited me to a meeting and offered me a salaried position starting at $80K. I was only making about $60K in the trade at the time. You bet your ass that I took the job. I happened to be at the right place at the right time and it changed my life.

2005 –  Started my own IT consultancy, Business Technology Services & Management, LLC, Van Nuys, CA. Also certified on an IP based telephony system called Fonality. I had sold and installed a handful of these systems and got a call from the people that I knew at Fonality to help out one of their partners, Cbeyond Communications (a CLEC out of Atlanta), who was opening an office in Gardena, CA. The story was that Cbeyond had hired a cabling contractor to do a temporary cabling job on one of the floors of a building while another contractor was building out the suite a few floors above. The cabling contractor had disappeared, and Cbeyond was left in the lurch with plans to occupy the space within a week. I had been working with a cabling company named Streamline Communications which was owned by Sam Mazzola, one of my instructors for one of my MCSE certification courses. I got Sam and the Cbeyond team to together and Streamline delivered the project in five days! This set me up for something unexpected.

2007-2015 – Landed a major Field Services contract with Cbeyond Communications for the Los Angeles and San Diego markets. After helping Cbeyond with their cabling fiasco, their field services manager John Favors invited me to a meeting and asked if I was interested in doing field services for them as a preferred field services provider (FSP). Even though I was not fully prepared, I said yes because I knew I would figure it out as I went along. At the peak of the contract, I had ten employees in various positions working for my company. Total billing for this contract was $4.24 million over 8-years. After Birch Communications bought them out in 2014, they slowly bled out the FSP’s by bringing the field services in-house. I had to let go of everyone that was working for me.

2015-2018 – Field Nation platform for IT field services. Various tech related field service projects for hospitality, retail, food and beverage, and health care.

2018-2023 – Remote IT Systems and Network Consultant to TransformITive, Inc., Berkeley CA, $80k up to $90k.

2021 – Obtained my Cisco Certified Network Associate (CCNA) certification. I had wanted to get this certification for years, and during COVID-19, I buckled down and did it. This certification is difficult – the global pass rate for the exam is under 50%, and the average pass rate is 2.5 attempts.

2023-present – Sr. Network Engineer consultant for a global retail network refresh project for a major shoe brand. Due to contractual restraints, I am not allowed to disclose the finances of this project. All I can say is that it pays well.

Twenty-four jobs in total – wowzah – I never tallied it up before! Setting the odd jobs aside, I mostly worked in two major but vastly different careers: the electrical trade (18-years) and in IT (25-years).

And now I am attempting to be a writer too, so maybe the count is three major careers?

Blog: https://msnarky.com

Instagram: @m.snarky

©2025. All rights reserved.

The Ride

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Photo credit: Shutterstock

Story 31 of 52

By M. Snarky

At this precise moment, if you are reading this, you are a human being, and you are alive. You should celebrate this with every fiber of your being. Why? Because the odds of you being born are astronomically low – like 1 in 400 trillion – so you really need to consider yourself as more than extremely fortunate.

You are also on an ancient planet called Earth that is spinning at 1,000 miles per hour that is in a swirling galaxy named the Milky Way that is traveling through endless space at 1.3 million miles per hour. Is it not also wondrous that your body is made out of the same elements that are found in this galaxy? You are stardust.

By being alive, you have also found yourself on the ride of your life. There are many twists and turns and ups and downs on this ride that oftentimes leaves you feeling completely disoriented and out of control. This is actually good. Why? It is good because you feel something. You are alive.

This ride is both terrifying and exhilarating and will leave you breathless and bewildered and brokenhearted at times, but you can’t slow it down. In fact, it goes faster as you get older. Don’t fear it: hang on and embrace it. Enjoy it.

There is only one true way off of this ride and death will come soon enough, so don’t throw it away or rush it or force it or waste it or complain about it. Feel it. Fight for it. Live it. Feel the sunshine on your face. Watch a sunrise. Listen to the birds. Smell the flowers. Drink the wine. Eat the food. Immerse yourself in the wonder of it all. Love the living things. Love people. Love yourself. Amor fati.

Instagram: @m.snarky

© Copyright 2025. All rights reserved.

The Checkout Line

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Checkout line photo courtesy of StockCake.com.

Story 15 of 52

By M. Snarky

American supermarkets are true wonders of choice and convenience. You can practically find everything you need at almost any time that you want it. You can also tell a lot about people by observing what they put on the conveyor belt in the checkout line.

I love to cook, and my shopping list is built exclusively around the menu for the week. My product choices are almost never driven by coupons or discounts – they are largely driven by what I want to cook and eat in the upcoming week. Admittedly, I’m a very pragmatic shopper and don’t diverge much from my list. However, if I see that tri-tip is on sale as I’m cruising through the meat department, I’ll grab one and save it for a future meal. Pragmatic, not foolish.

My shopping basket of groceries is practically all-telling with the protein, produce, baked goods, canned items, and condiment choices. I also like a wide variety of foods and cuisines, so my list is never static or based on a standard meal like meatloaf every Thursday night. I don’t even subscribe to the Taco Tuesday craze.

I can also always tell who the personal grocery shoppers, are, i.e., the Instacart and Uber Eats types. They are always in a rush and often have two or three shopping carts in tow clogging up the aisles while scrolling down their shopping lists on their phones. Can you really trust these people to buy produce for you? Like, do they really know how to pick out a ripe watermelon?

The produce department is also an interesting place to watch people. I have personally seen a person squeeze every single lime in the bin and pick out only the ones that apparently have the most juice potential. There are also the ones that grab a handful of string beans and eat them while they shop; grazing while shopping (GWS?), if you will. This is why it’s imperative to wash your produce before eating it.

While waiting in the checkout line, I look at what the shoppers in front of me are putting on the conveyor and play a game where I try to guess what they are cooking, essentially, foretelling their menu. I’m probably mostly wrong, but sometimes I do get some inspiration.

But some shopping carts make me scratch my head. For example, the ones with cases of soda pop, a dozen frozen pizzas, ten cans of canned stew, a liter sized yellow mustard container, and the largest bags possible of potato chips or cheese doodles. Maybe these are the coupon only driven shoppers.

I can ascertain a couple of things from this:

  1. This person absolutely does not cook at home.
  2. If this is what this person consumes on a regular basis, they are not going to live very long.
  3. They are likely diabetic.

And sometimes there’s the female 3-item shopper buying a box of white wine, a frozen Lean Cuisine dinner, and cat food.

There’s also the male counterpart buying a six-pack of beer, a Hungry Man dinner, and dog food.

It’s not hard to guess that they are probably single. I think the supermarkets should use AI to identify shoppers like these in their expansive database and maybe play matchmaker.

There are also the single-minded shoppers purchasing a bottle of tequila, a bottle of orange liqueur, a bottle of agave syrup, and a dozen limes. Margarita, anyone?

Self-checkout is generally limited to 15-items, but people regularly exceed this limit and slow down the entire quick checkout process. The other night I witnessed a woman with two full shopping carts using the self-checkout. These are also the people that often cut in line. They should be banned.

The most interesting and sometimes comical interactions happen between the shopper and the cashier, and the shopper and the payment terminal.

I have seen people with what could be considered a purpose-built coupon wallet pulling out dozens of coupons. Sometimes a coupon is rejected for one reason or another which always prompts some often-intense verbal interaction between the shopper and the cashier. I have seen these people remove items from their purchase because the coupon expired, or it was the incorrect size per the coupon restrictions. I think these are also the people who never pay full price for anything – no ifs, ands, or buts.

Then there are the people paying cash, sometimes with fistfuls of coins. This coin counting takes way too much time and should be outlawed.

An honorable mention goes to the old-timey check writers. Albeit writing anything in cursive these days is becoming a lost art, writing out a check takes way too much time:

  • Date (after asking the cashier what the date is): 10-seconds.
  • Pay to the Order of: 5-seconds.
  • Entering the dollar and cent amount in the $ window: 5-seconds.
  • Writing out One hundred twenty seven & 32/100: 15-seconds.
  • Signature: from 2 to 10 seconds depending upon the number of syllables.

So, 10+5+5+15+5=40-seconds in total, the time of which you’ll never get back. It’s almost exclusively the old folks that do this.

How about using a debit or credit card instead? 5-seconds tops unless you fat-fingered the PIN code and have to re-enter it. The old folks almost never use these because they still don’t trust the system.

Writing checks is definitely a generational thing with the exception of someone intentionally “kiting” or “floating” a check which is to make use of non-existent funds in a checking or other bank account “until payday,” which is technically illegal. Others are “paper hangers,” that intentionally write bad or stolen checks. No matter how good the economy is, there are still lowlifes like this running around.

Anyway, this last Tuesday, someone had the following on the conveyor:

  • Flank steak.
  • Corn tortillas.
  • Two white onions.
  • Six Roma tomatoes.
  • A half-dozen Jalapeño peppers.
  • a half-dozen Serrano chilies.
  • One head of garlic.
  • One dozen tomatillos.
  • One bunch of cilantro.
  • One 12-pack of bottled Modelo beer.

I’m guessing carne asada tacos with salsa verde and pico de gallo and cold beer on a Taco Tuesday night. Hell yeah! Oh, wait – that was me!

Instagram: @m.snarky

©2024. All rights reserved.

Hello Back – A Lost Art

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Story 13 of 52

By M. Snarky

I’ve mentioned in a previous post (https://msnarky.com/2024/08/30/walking-in-my-neighborhood/) that I do my best to get my ten-thousand daily steps. It’s good for me. It gets me away from my screens for an hour or so. It gets my heart rate up a little bit. I also benefit from the sunshine and fresh air and the endorphins especially after getting chased by a dog for half a block. I do most of my walking around my neighborhood and I’ve become familiar with the streets and the houses and the other regular walkers.

I’ve gotten myself into the habit of saying hello to everyone that I pass. Not an over-the-top, phony “HELLO!” like what the salesman at the car dealership says as if they know me, it’s just a regular, friendly, low-key “Hello,” which to me is a simple greeting and an acknowledgment of someone’s presence. Oddly, my hello back ratio is lacking, like maybe I get a one out of five response, or 20%. On a good day, maybe one out of four, or 25%. My ratio is 100% because I always say hello back.

There is a semi-regular walker in my neighborhood that I call Bigfoot. He is a thinnish sixty-something year old mustachioed man with a ruddy complexion and thinning hair and he’s maybe five-feet-nine-inches tall. He wears Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses…even at night. He walks with duck feet (out-toeing) at such an unbelievable angle with shoes so large that it reminds me of Bigfoot, hence the nickname. He walks with his head at a downward angle as if he is avoiding making eye contact with anyone. His body language tells me that he is walking reluctantly – as if he’s only doing it because of doctor’s orders.

I have said hello to this man at least dozen times. He has never, ever, said hello back. My first inclination was that he was tuned out with earbuds (which, unfortunately, is often the case) and maybe blasting Liberace’s Greatest Hits and simply didn’t hear me, but there was nothing jammed into his ears. My second inclination was that he had a hearing deficit and simply couldn’t hear me. But then I saw him having a conversation with someone in the neighborhood which ruled this out. So, if he can hear me, there must be another reason. Maybe he’s just a shy person. Maybe he’s just going through the motions of life and not really engaging in it, which is sad, really. Perhaps he is in a witness protection program and is suspicious of everyone, which pretty much borders on paranoia. Or maybe he’s just an anti-social crank that hates the world. I’m leaning toward that last one.

So, this got me thinking about the actual word, hello, where it came from, what it means, etc., and down the world-wide-web rabbit hole I went…

According to Merriam-Webster, the etymology of the word hello is that it is an alteration of the word hollo (14th century) which was originally used as an exclamation or to attract attention. The Oxford English Dictionary notes the earliest known use of the word hello is in the 1820s. Okay, so the word has been in use for a couple of centuries so it’s not like it’s a new word that hasn’t caught on.

According to NPR, Thomas Edison is credited for popularizing the word hello by suggesting that this is how you should answer your newfangled telephone in the late 19th century. His rival, Alexander Graham Bell, however, thought the better word was “ahoy.” I can’t imagine answering my phone with, “Ahoy!” instead of, “Hello!” unless, of course, I was a pirate.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why there is a hello back deficit and I do have some theories about this. But first, some definitions (that I made up):

  1. Hello-er [he-loh-er] – the person who says hello first.
  2. Hello-ee [he-loh-ee] – the person who is the recipient of the hello.

Theory 1 – People are Generally Unfriendly

For whatever reason (or reasons), people, in general, are just not that friendly. By default, they are wary of a random stranger talking to them. Maybe they think replying with a hello back will open up an opportunity for a life insurance sales pitch. Or maybe this is just an L.A. thing.

Theory 2 – Avoiding Conversation

People might think that if they respond with a hello back, it will open up the floodgates of a potentially awkward conversation with the unknown hello-er, so they avoid replying back because they don’t want to get pulled into a discussion about politics or religion or veganism.

Theory 3 – Cultural

Unless you have been introduced to a person by a friend or a family member of a member of the clergy, you just don’t talk to strangers unless you want to get flogged. This is probably more applicable to women than men because it is mostly men that make up the rules that incorporate flogging.

Theory 4 – Stranger Danger

Similar to Theory 3 but without the flogging part, Stranger Danger mandates that by default you don’t talk to any stranger for any reason or under any circumstances because they might be a slasher or a rapist or a politician. Don’t even make eye contact. Be a ghost. Indeed, we teach our children to be paranoid and anti-social at an early age here in the USA.

The response of some hello-ee’s is sometimes that of a happy surprise,  as if they didn’t expect you to acknowledge them at all, and when you did, they smile and say hello back. These are my favorite people – they are spontaneous and genuine.

For example, there is a family in my neighborhood that has a special needs daughter in her late teens or early twenties. She is non-verbal and the parents have this special three-wheeled wheelchair contraption for her that straps her feet onto pedals and her hands onto handlebars that are articulated to encourage motion in her withered limbs. It is both heartbreaking and beautiful to see parents that are so devoted to their daughter that they regularly walk her around the local elementary school.

The first time we walked by them we were walking in opposite direction around the school, so we saw them face-to-face. I said hello, not only out of being social, but also to convey to them that I see them and that I acknowledge them. They probably didn’t sense that I silently understood the 24/7 anguish they must be experiencing. The response from the parents was as if they had become so accustomed to being invisible that they didn’t think anybody cared to say anything to them, especially a perfect stranger, and I think that I caught them off guard. My hello evoked from them a quick smile and a friendly hello back. It appeared to me that this family had grown accustomed to people walking silently past them. They were used to people ignoring them, not particularly out of callousness or indifference, but because people don’t naturally know how to act or what to say to someone that is clearly living day-to-day with such hardship.

I strongly recommend that people say hello to the passersby that are less fortunate – you might just make their day.

I’ve also noticed that there are vast differences between the hello back response rates of men versus women. In my experience, the man-to-man hello back rate is probably close to one in two, or 50% while the man-to-woman hello back rate is much lower, like maybe one in five, or about 20%.

Not being a woman, I have no idea what the woman-to-woman or woman-to-man hello back ratio is, but I imagine that it is not exactly the inverse. What I mean is that perhaps the woman-to-woman is on par with the man-to-man ratio but the woman-to-man hello back percentage is probably much higher because most men are, frankly, a bunch of horndogs. I also wonder what the national average is between the hello-er and hello-ee ratios between the sexes.

I recently discovered the Google Books Ngram Viewer, and it appears that the frequency of the word hello peaked around 2012:

Google Books Ngram Viewer results for “hello.”

Is hello getting cancelled? If so, we’re doomed.

I’m going to rebel against this trend and keep saying hello anyway.

Instagram: @m.snarky

© 2024. All rights reserved.

Supporting Links

Hollo – https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hollo

Hello – https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hello, https://www.oed.com/dictionary/hello_int?tab=factsheet#1691340

NPR – https://www.npr.org/sections/krulwich/2011/02/17/133785829/a-shockingly-short-history-of-hello

Google Books Ngram Viewer for hello https://books.google.com/ngrams/graph?content=hello&year_start=1800&year_end=2022&corpus=en-2019&smoothing=7&case_insensitive=true