Sifting through old boxes in the midst of a multi-year garage overhaul, I encountered a large box of old VHS tapes that make up my dad’s television outtakes from his years as a public information officer (PIO) for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and yet another box that contained items from various eras of my career in media.
I went from photographer to writer. I then simultaneously made a somewhat brief showing as a videographer. My interest in video seemed to have culminated with an on-the-job vehicle accident but segued into experience in the arena of broadcast news radio. This ended shortly after the realization of an unpalatable political environment within the newsroom but also coincided with two situations my dad was involved in that served as a definite conflict of interest. One of these situations transpired after the death of L.A. County Sheriff Sherman Block and was potentially incriminating to the person who eventually took reigns of the office. Neither of us was fond of the guy but my confidence was honor bound and therefore not interested in unseating a snake that the populace gleefully voted into power.
Anyhow, it was thereafter I made the rounds freelancing, primarily sticking to the tasks of a photographer and writer, working both daily and weekly newspapers of the San Gabriel Valley of Southern California. Because I was a media sponge, I readily volunteered to to earn professional experience beyond that of a mere writer and photographer. Thanks in part to guys such as Al Balderas, who last I heard works sports at the Orange County Register, I also dabbled in page editing as well as layout and design (paginating as a paginator) for the weekly throwaways associated with what was then the L.A. Newsgroup, consisting of the Whittier Daily Press, Pasadena Star and San Gabriel Valley Tribune dailies.
During the time, I was an avid backpacker and hitch hiker, logging solo excursions well into the Angeles National Forest as well as the San Bernardino National Forest. And because I was also into off-road scene, I jumped at the opportunity to sign on for an off-road race with Jim Ober at Trackside Photo. I hooked up with Ober through a fellow photographer and mentor by the name of Leo Jarzomb at the San Gabriel Valley Tribune. In addition to Jarzomb’s recommendation of Ober for the purchase of used Nikon equipment, which is a really bad idea considering the beating an off-road race photographer can inflict upon a camera, I also picked on one of my dad’s copies of the Press Photographers Association of Greater Los Angeles newsletter, an organization he was a longtime honorary member of.
The first assignment was a SCORE San Felipe 250 race that earned me a double truck shot of Robby Gordon in Off Road Magazine as well as some reproductions in a multitude of other national newspapers thanks to BFGoodrich public relations (PR) efforts. I continued work with Trackside Photo while freelancing for off-road industry print publications as well as the conventional newspaper publications.
I still maintained some presence in school. I am on the crux of multiple college associates degrees that include English, journalism, photography, art and maybe even one other degree I partially forget. In spite of an acute interest and working knowledge of a career in media, I began to contemplate rededicating my educational pursuits in a longtime urge in the mathematical and physics. I began my collegiate studies in the social sciences, partly inspired by my uncle, who is a professor of sociology a UC Davis. But throughout my high school years and even to this day to a lesser degree, I have delved deeply into the world of physics and found great fancy with the myriad of theories therein. The paradoxical mixture of intense logic mated to a masterpiece of virtual imagination derived from remote viewing only to arrive at an even more perplexing theory of truth was an amusing quest that even still causes me to fathom such an endeavor in education.
I once vehemently defied a elementary college professor who asserted that a certain algebraic therum must be adhered to in order to arrive at an accurate answer. I then skipped a few classes going so far to miss a test only to arrive with a workaround to the obvious. I approached him near the of that class and laid my homework upon his desk. He was surrounded by students seeking test scores and assistance on the day’s study.
He sharply responded without even turning to address me in the eye: “I have had enough. I don’t have time for this.” he replied.
The beginning of the next class he called me up. With a sense of friendship rekindled, he spoke: “I think you found a new therum. I am going to present this to a few colleagues.”
In spite of my love for the stringent mechanics of mathematics, it was an extremely difficult genre to maintain interest in for any given period of time. During my studies, I often pondered the possibilities for far too long or simply lost interest somewhere in between surfing of skateboarding.
Did I mention I was the first place amateur for the state of California (CASL). Yep. Used to dig skate skating vert ramps. While we had a series of killer ramps that many pros frequented just off the 210 freeway in Azusa, my favorite vert ramp was none other than that of Lance Mountain’s steel-plated vert ramp in Alhambra.
Did I mention I launched Lance Mountain’s Twitter account? Even after an email to him and several old close friends that we share, he has yet to claim the account. Even still, the Twitter account continues to rack up followers. As I’ve said when referring to the world of social media, it’s own or be owned, sucka.
Anyhow, I had always wanted to go beyond the mere role of a freelance writer or photographer at a newspaper and secure a staff position. While the money was good and the freedom to indulge in wanton vacations of adventure had become standard, I opted to downgrade my lifestyle to some extent to pursue my longtime ambitions to become a newspaper staffer.
Placing the feelers out and about, I photographer position arose at a small daily. This might have been good, since there was flexibility to take on some writing assignments. But as per memory, writing would likely deem difficult do to financially-controlled staff shortages and possible duties that would be akin to a photo editor. Weird stuff.
By this time, I had developed a great family of friends in the off-road industry and accumulated great contacts that extended into the automotive and powersports industry. Opportunities availed themselves regularly. My work frequented editorial and advertising efforts internationally. And in the midst, several wild-eyed computer geeks with a haphazard website were prodding me to work for them. They had been at it for quite some time.
And at one SCORE San Felipe 250 off-road race, I finally gave them the lowdown on my ambitions. I needed to land a staff position as a writer for a daily newspaper. They scoffed and belittled the idea. One guy wore dolphin shorts. The other wore piercings throughout what he claimed was the whole of his body, walked like a penguin, barked like a pirate and was known for piloting Glamis Sand Dunes aboard a Quadzilla (Suzuki LT-500).
Quick with the wit and heavy on the humor, my retort resisted the peer pressure of signing on with the gaggle of pseudo web geeks.
Shortly thereafter, a good friend and photo editor called me up for some assistance with a few photo assignments for the Santa Clarita Signal. I eagerly took them on when possible. The more exciting assignments certainly earned greater favor amid a conflicting schedule. The Love Ride that featured George Thourgood and Jay Leno was among those.
The friend who called upon me was none other than ace shooter Dan Watson, a Los Angeles press photographer who was born of an internationally known family of photographers, whom I refer to as The Watson Family.
Anyhow, after some time, Dan called me into the office, requesting I bring a writing portfolio, if I was interested in a writing position in the sports department. He clued me in on the deal and the man behind the wheel of the daily section.
I arrived to meet up with Terry Johnson. The guy was a kick in the pants, extremely adept in his craft, pointedly honest and notably loyal, as I would inevitably learn. But I did not immediately take the position.
Instead, during yet another era of life and at the threshold of opportunity, I opted to call upon a few editors and associate editors in the automotive industry who had standing offers to discuss staff positions. After a few weeks and great consideration, I figured it was now or never for securing a real newspaper gig. In spite of my respect for the trade and admiration for the aroma of fresh ink on newsprint spinning through the hot presses, I highly doubted I would ever return, since my taste for the fast action of motorsports and action sports more suited my adventurous lifestyle.
I never felt the relatively conservative and politically liberal print pages of a newspaper were suitable for the way of life I had chosen and the wild-eyed writing style that accompanied it. My average day off during those years might include walking the gang-laden streets of Los Angeles for great conversation and a few photos or a midnight waltz along a mountain range. That’s just the way it was and from where my words were born.
I’ve been in the crossfire of shootouts. Watched otherwise macho gangsters piss their pants from fear and cry out for mommy when their gun jammed or they simply stared down the barrel of death without recourse. I have seem these gangsters without fathers submit themselves to peril and watched them die. I have hitchhiked and played hobo on trains. I have toured the country and fallen in love with a great nation and its people. For this I am forever in debt to the spirit of its forefathers.
And I have never lived the American dream. I became the American dream. No many newspapers boast of such abundance.
So, back behind the wheel, I took on the position as sports writer, primarily covering prep sports but managed to produce some pro bylines as well. Sports was never really my forte. I loved what is the greatest single-balled sport on earth, soccer, and even became quite good at it, attaining professional-level skills prior to the reintroduction of professional soccer here in the United States. Just two weeks prior to a U-19 club tournament trip to Europe, I severely sprained an ankle. At the time, I thought it was a re-break of one of the skateboard breaks I had sustained during my youth.
And my dad had forewarned me time and time again about playing with the Mexican teams, citing the belligerently rowdy players who were accustomed to fist fights to right a bad call by the ref and the dangerously poor soccer fields riddled with gopher holes and busted beer bottles. For me, the illegal alien pickup games were the next best thing to a game of rugby and a barroom brawl. Mate that to the fact that I consider soccer as physically-demanding chess game of intellect, and you too might see the opportunity tough to resist.
So, instead of sitting around having tamales and menudo with my dad that Sunday morning, I was performing the impressionist artistry of eloquently dancing amid limb-threatening gofer holes, dribbling the ball down the left side line, taking in a cheap shot to the kidney and winding up the right leg for a clear shop up into the upper left corner of the goal, when peril struck. My angle drilled down into the depths of a golfer hole, while the momentum carried an otherwise glorious moment into infamy.
It was until the Mexicans carried tossed me into some beat-up jalopy with a luke-warm six pack of Budweiser wrapped around my ankle that I realized the extent of my dad’s warnings. Minutes later, with an ankle that had ballooned up into a semi-deflated volleyball, I found myself draped over the shoulders of some Mexicans, clad in soccer jerseys that smelt as they hadn’t been washed in several games, which as was the case included the putrid aroma of a smoked pig from last week’s after game barbecue in addition to the case of beer and hangover that ensued.
We were at the doorsteps of what was referred to as a witch doctor. I used every excuse in the book for them to leave me to my own accord. They insisted. While I protested that they deliver me to the Kaiser Permanente building just a few miles south, they earnestly offered to compensate the witch doctor for his troubles in treating me. I had the unique impression that it was an honor to be seen by the guy. In addition to the accolades they enlisted in describing the witch doctor was the fact that they each pitched in a few bucks of their own hard-earned money to have one guy run around the corner to Rosalie’s Market there on the corner of Fifth Street and Virginia Avenue as due compensation for the treatment I was to receive from the witch doctor.
Amid all the broken bones and the laundry list of injuries and array of well-meaning hospital visits I have had throughout the years, this injury was certainly one of the worse pains I have experienced. And this pain remained so up until the witch doctor got his hands on the excruciating limb. Performing obscure voodoo that I only partially recall, the guy alleviated a considerable amount of pain and swelling that failed to return with the same ferocity.
In spite of his efforts, though, I was a no-show for the plane ride to Europe. This was despite x-rays confirming the injury was nothing more than a severe sprain. My ambitions to play soccer at Liberty University were also justifiably doomed. For more than a year the ankle remained black and purple and as raw as turtle’s skin. And each attempt at playing soccer thereafter resulted in the reemergence of the limp. The persistent drive to play soccer at the same level led to the realization that I was better off coaching. I later found coaching professionally to be a far more lucrative endeavor.
You see, I had broken my ankles before. First time, I was on a five-foot high ramp attempting some first-ever stunt that would now be considered a beginner’s move. Physically, that was the worse break. I earned a cast up to my crotch for that ankle break. The doctor said once you break that, you don’t walk for a good while. I questioned him.
“Just how do you think I got home?” He didn’t believe it much, but I did manage hobble home under my own power, resorting to my skateboard as a walker/wheelchair on occasion. Thanks goes out to Karl Gilbert for the escort home.
Second time around we were engaged in a hot dog hoedown at the Azusa Ramps. We had just finished rebuilding the vert ramp. I remember the day well. As if we were in need of any reason whatsoever, it was cause for celebration. I had just returned from a hot dog-and-drink run to Certified Market located off of Vernon Avenue with a friend by the name of Ray Barbee. Haven’t heard much of the guy quite a while, but Barbee was a way-cool black dude who skated pro, always busting out smiles with his brilliant ivory teeth and always shuffled down some sweetly-executed street tricks. And when he migrated from the street to a ramp, his game was much the same, taking those street tricks with him. That was Ray Barbee.
Allow me to digress once again. It was that trip to Certified Market when Barbee and I were about to hop into the car. I vaguely remember the particulars but recall some bigot shouting out a few n-words at the guy. I laid the groceries down and charged at the guy some several cars down. Barbee intervened without hesitation. In a calm voice that even still wore a smile, he coerced me into the car, and we were on our way.
Back at the ramp, it was a friendly snake pit for the vert action. I went up for what was some sort of leaping invert to fakie that might have well been real cool had I not lawn-darted onto the transition upon my ankle. All the action upon the ramps stopped at the sound of the large crack reverberated off the masonite walls.
While at that instant, the pain was easily bearable, the realization that I might suffer another five months on crutches, hobbling 2.5 miles back and forth to Gladstone High School some five days a week threw me for an emotional loop. I didn’t shed a tear but was screaming so profusely out of anger that I should have been.
So, then again we were pounding out stiff-neck newspaper prose before an archaic Power Mac 8600 with Terry Johnson busting jokes from within the slot. The guy never missed a beat until the day he died. They held a memorial at Dodger Stadium as a tribute to the man. Dodger Blue was his beat. He knew it inside and out. He was an artisan of the craft. He’d send us over final edits with some insanely hilarious headlines and second graphs. Most of the shenanigans that went on might never be repeated. It was just that good. And if you were too blitzed and brain baked from cranking out 20-inchers throughout the day’s shift and couldn’t catch one of this classic TJ ruses, he’d send it off to Kenny the plate maker just to have you drop your jaw and have you let loose of a brick. They guy was way to sharp to allow any shenanigans to make their way onto the paper but certainly bold enough to get a most memorable laugh out of you that you might just take to your own grave.
Just when I was getting in my zone at the paper, TJ reeled me in after dropping in between two assignments. In a semi-mournful moment, he announced he was leaving. Then, he announced I was the new sports editor, bolstering a boisterous laugh that accompanied his very own chorus of sarcastic applause.
We’d been through quite a bit together. I was honored with much schooling from the master sports writer. He had worked some 400-odd days straight without break. I had undergone the death threat from Canyon High School coach and the accompanied threat of his principal (great story of sticking to your editorial guns and an editor’s loyalty). We shared the same laughs after prank calling the L.A. Times, the L.A. Daily News, the Associated Press and a slew of others that spanned the country. And with each one, he knew exactly the right button to push for the best of laughs. All in good fun, it was TJ’s way of saying hello.
Myself, after a few months behind the slot, I received an email. It was just your average email that one might receive if he was a member of Tony Tellier’s Cheeze List, an off-road racing insider’s email list, consisting of all the main veins of the off-road racing industry. It was an email from Dolphin Shorts himself, the man behind the wheel of the second largest motorsports website in the world, Off-Road.com. While the email was somewhat unrelated, as per my memory, it did have a noted prod. My response was to book me for a round trip ticket to Las Vegas.
A few days later, we were gathered around a dim-lit table in the bowels of some swanky Las Vegas local’s bar, discussing about as much business as the average street bumb on L.A.’s skidrow after a bout with Boones Farm. And that’s about how pointless the meeting ultimately amounted to.
Just a few days thereafter, I was once again making the rounds to a few other standing opportunities. The most noted interview of all was none other than the top-selling off-road mag on the rack, Four Wheeler Magazine. The editor was a thin-skinned liberal basted with a hint of eco-freak but my way in between the pages was the publisher, a classy and notably professional man that offered up the position to the horror of the clown that played a great role as a religiously-bigoted Democrat.
And with the offer, I asked one question, and it pertained to coverage of the quickly approaching Baja 2000. Since the race was viewed with little interest, requiring me to post my own finances for the effort of a possible two-page article, I made way to Vegas within weeks, which led me to this entry into my memoir.
Picking through the old boxes this evening, I laid memory onto an HTML For Dummies book. Managing to make my way only through a few pages, the book was virtually worthless upon my arrival at the gaggle of characters that amassed at the offices of Off-Road.com. The aimless ship was without regiment and its new star player had no clue about the web.
