Life at the Outpost
A couple named Janet and George, who moved recently from the lowlands to a home in the Hollywood Hills reached by a short private road, invited some friends to dinner the other night.
All the guests arrived on time except a doctor and his wife and Janet was wondering what had happened to them when the doctor phoned and said he guessed he was lost.
"Where are you?" she asked. It was a bad connection, full of static, but she heard him say, "I guess we're somewhere near the top of Mulholland Drive." She told him to go back down Outpost Dr. and come up again and her husband would meet him at their street.
Soon the three came in, laughing like crazy. The doc turned around in their driveway and telephoned on his car phone that he was lost from in front of their house. Then, as instructed, he'd driven down the hill and back.
Oh, I tell you, this pioneering is rugged.
FURTHER EVIDENCE that we don't have the proper attitude toward smog comes from a longtime resident (since 1905), recently returned from an eight-week trip east.
Everywhere he went people asked, "How's the smog in Los Angeles?" In Pittsburgh, when the question was put to him he pointed to the haze in the distance and asked, "By the way, what's that?" It looked like smog to him. "Oh, that's different!" was the enthusiastic reply, "we're thankful for that. It means people are working!"
In Gary, Ind., the question was put to him again and again he inquired about the haze over the industrial section. "Oh, we're proud of that," was the reply, "that's prosperity!"
His conclusion: L.A. smog is over-emphasized by gripers, most of whom are people from elsewhere.
THE BEST KIND
There's non-fat this
And non-fat that,
The one I miss
Is non-fat fat.
--JOSEPH P. KRENGEL
A NOTE of sanity in the trading stamp craze appeared about a week ago in a San Fernando Valley market. The management posted notices stating that it did not give stamps because of the time and bother entailed but would donate 1 1/2 % of any purchase to a customer's favorite charity on presentation of the sales tape.
The other day the store capitulated to customers who naively believe they get something for nothing. It now gives blue chip stamps.
OF HAGGIS, which people of Scottish descent ate ceremoniously this week in observance of Robert Burns' 201st birthday anniversary, Paul Drus writes, "As I understand it, the Scots stuff a sheep's stomach with heart, liver, oatmeal, etc., sew it up, then play soccer with it to tenderize it. When the game is over they boil the thing and eat it." Great kidder, Paul, usually under the pseudonym Ding Pedro.
Since my first sampling of haggis, by the way, I have revised my opinion. Tastes more like scrapple than chopped chicken liver.
MENTION HERE of the re-lining of some streets to create left turn islands and the resulting confusion to motorists confronted with two sets of white lines, the old and the new, drew a response from Dave Loudon of Concut Sales Inc., El Monte. His firm is bringing out a machine which erases old paint markings on highways by abrasive action at 10 feet per minute. Mr.Loudon, meet Mr. Leask.
FOOTNOTES -- Sylvia Miller has been concocting variations on an old theme in the Westlake Post as follows: Old firemen never die, they just get along asbestos they can. Old masseurs never die, they just get rubbed out. Old cowboys never die, they just quit horsing around. Old politicians never die, they just tirade away . . . A customer asked a liquor dealer, "How's business?" "Good! Good!" he replied. "But it'll pick up!" . . . Bess DeMar knows a man who pronounces it "beatnuts."