I’m with you on too many of these bullet points to list. Just to hit a few: My grandparents lived up the street from Flooky’s so I was a regular even if I was too timid to use the batting cage. I once made it to the final callback for an after school special where I auditioned opposite Robbie Rist. (Ron Howard was also in the room.) And Colonel Lee’s Mongolian BBQ was a four minute walk from home but we were too intimidated to enter. Sigh.
Oh Brian...as always, this nice Jewish Valley girl who never quite belonged but spent her childhood in the belly of the beast north of Ventura Blvd., can so relate. Laughing, crying. I was trying in vain recently to share some of these very memories with my guy, who is several years older and grew up on Long Island; similar suburban lives but a world away. The Valley is or was like nowhere else, and that is its blessing, and curse, source of our weirdest childhood experiences. Thank you for distilling the essence of its all-American otherworldliness, in all its normal-to-us but occasionally unsettling oddness (kind of like when you try to explain family stuff from childhood that you take for granted but make other people's eyes go wide). If Tracton's was still around, I would meet you there for a Green Goddess salad and their famous shrimp scampi (which my kosher Zady loved to watch us enjoy at family celebrations) and play 'Do you know...' til the cows come home. Shana tova and don't dis my Land of the Lost peeps, lest I sic a Sleestack on you!
Here's one thing we didn't have to do, "re-authenticate" ourselves constantly like this site. Love your stuff, thanks again.
Great lines:
Orange groves to Orange Juliuses to Orange Theories.
I've spent 41 of my 58 years within walking distance of a Leslie’s Pool Supplies.
Many believe I was found as a baby, floating down the L.A. River in a Pioneer Chicken box.
Zero Michelin star restaurants but 3 million Michelin tire shops.
Instead of covering the casket with dirt, they’ll use Tommy’s chili and sawdust from Mike’s Pizza.
(I too want this, except cremate me, put me in a steamed bun from The Wiener Factory, then add the Tommy's chili and Mike's pizza sawdust and leave me in a Town and Country movie with a Fresca, regardless of who owns the movie chain at the time, as that theater will outlive the Apocalypse. I remember the Wiener Factory sign, "We've Sold Over (4) Hot Dogs This Year." )
In an essay wall-to-wall with pull-quotes, this is the one that put me on the floor, for obvious reasons: "It was like going to junior high in the House Targaryen."
My house may have been just outside the now-818, but I *lived* in the Valley. From our big TV with a chip at one corner from when it fell off the shelf during the Sylmar earthquake, to Tony Roma's and The Melting Pot (and, yes, Farrell's and The Weiner Factory of blessed memory), to endless summers of scraped knees and farmers' tans at VNSO Park, the Valley formed me, for better or worse. Your wonderful essay is like a slam poetry version of the Valley Relics Museum. Thank you.
I’m with you on too many of these bullet points to list. Just to hit a few: My grandparents lived up the street from Flooky’s so I was a regular even if I was too timid to use the batting cage. I once made it to the final callback for an after school special where I auditioned opposite Robbie Rist. (Ron Howard was also in the room.) And Colonel Lee’s Mongolian BBQ was a four minute walk from home but we were too intimidated to enter. Sigh.
Oh Brian...as always, this nice Jewish Valley girl who never quite belonged but spent her childhood in the belly of the beast north of Ventura Blvd., can so relate. Laughing, crying. I was trying in vain recently to share some of these very memories with my guy, who is several years older and grew up on Long Island; similar suburban lives but a world away. The Valley is or was like nowhere else, and that is its blessing, and curse, source of our weirdest childhood experiences. Thank you for distilling the essence of its all-American otherworldliness, in all its normal-to-us but occasionally unsettling oddness (kind of like when you try to explain family stuff from childhood that you take for granted but make other people's eyes go wide). If Tracton's was still around, I would meet you there for a Green Goddess salad and their famous shrimp scampi (which my kosher Zady loved to watch us enjoy at family celebrations) and play 'Do you know...' til the cows come home. Shana tova and don't dis my Land of the Lost peeps, lest I sic a Sleestack on you!
L
Here's one thing we didn't have to do, "re-authenticate" ourselves constantly like this site. Love your stuff, thanks again.
Great lines:
Orange groves to Orange Juliuses to Orange Theories.
I've spent 41 of my 58 years within walking distance of a Leslie’s Pool Supplies.
Many believe I was found as a baby, floating down the L.A. River in a Pioneer Chicken box.
Zero Michelin star restaurants but 3 million Michelin tire shops.
Instead of covering the casket with dirt, they’ll use Tommy’s chili and sawdust from Mike’s Pizza.
(I too want this, except cremate me, put me in a steamed bun from The Wiener Factory, then add the Tommy's chili and Mike's pizza sawdust and leave me in a Town and Country movie with a Fresca, regardless of who owns the movie chain at the time, as that theater will outlive the Apocalypse. I remember the Wiener Factory sign, "We've Sold Over (4) Hot Dogs This Year." )
Cheers
Brian De Palma
Great piece!
The voice of my unconscious mind, only so much smarter. I love you and all you bring. BREATH STOLEN! xSusan Hayden aka Library Girl
In an essay wall-to-wall with pull-quotes, this is the one that put me on the floor, for obvious reasons: "It was like going to junior high in the House Targaryen."
My house may have been just outside the now-818, but I *lived* in the Valley. From our big TV with a chip at one corner from when it fell off the shelf during the Sylmar earthquake, to Tony Roma's and The Melting Pot (and, yes, Farrell's and The Weiner Factory of blessed memory), to endless summers of scraped knees and farmers' tans at VNSO Park, the Valley formed me, for better or worse. Your wonderful essay is like a slam poetry version of the Valley Relics Museum. Thank you.