Sadly they are not going to film at my alma mater, although the show is going to be called “Newport Harbor.” There goes my chance to point out earthquake damage and places where people peed on things or did drugs.
The new cast of “Newport Harbor” will feature Chrissy, a smart, pretty high school senior with three top colleges to pick from; Allie, the girl whom all the boys want and all the girls want to be; Clay, a shy, good-looking junior who turns to his gregarious best friend Grant for confidence; Grant, a bad-boy junior who’s the life of the party; Chase, a senior who has a way with the girls; and Taylor, a sophomore who’s the youngest of the group and who is dating Chase.
I’m not sure where the geekulous nerds in the “inner quad” fit in, here. Oh wait, we didn’t.
The publisher of our local rag, Tom Johnson, is a sensible guy, and he wrote a thoughtful editorial on Friday. He
rightly points out that one of the city’s parks has been designated a “passive park,” which is an entirely new concept, exactly to keep Mexican-Americans and other soccer fans from playing in the park.
This is of course the work of Costa Mesa’s racist-majority city council, which includes now internationally known Mexican-baiter Mayor Allan Mansour. But Johnson moves past Mansour to the real force behind the local spiral into race war.
The editorial called out our local white supremacist bile factory, Mr. Martin H. Millard. Millard straddles the border between mainstream politics and skinhead neo-Nazism adroitly. He delivered support and votes for Mansour while keeping his scarier buddies out of the picture. He’s slime. And Johnson points him out very accurately as one of Costa Mesa’s biggest problems.
The response from Millard at CMPress would be funny if he wasn’t so powerful.
I was listening to the fire radio in my car last night because I am a dork.
There was an apartment fire, and the fire department got two wrong addresses and a lot of bad information at first, saying it was a storage unit or a shed or a different apartment building. But they got there in less than five minutes anyway, and charged on in to the burning apartment to put out the fire.
Meanwhile, a full “structure fire response” (lots of engines and trucks) from three other cities and the County got there in < 10 minutes. By then the commander had divided the people he had into functional groups and assigned each of the group leaders the people needed to do a task (putting out the fire, ventilating the building, checking upstairs to see if the fire had spread, searching for people in the building.)
Some of the people from the other cities and county were able to help and sped up the process tremendously.
In less than half an hour the fire was out, no one was hurt, only one apartment was badly damaged, and almost all the outside helping people had been sent away.
I am very, very impressed. And this among other things is why the next AIP post will be about the fire department.
I saw Ten Commandments Car Sign Lady but didn’t get a very good picture. The guy in front of me at the market was buying two canteloupes and two 12 packs of Dr. Pepper.
Seeing assorted Ruba Rats at Kean Coffee and then Clayton at Alta Coffee, now that’s weird. Ruba has gone goodbye, to be replaced by some combination of nothing at all, a kebab house, and/or a Kwik E Mart.
The orange cat who guards my street zipped past me as I entered the house tonight, saying “EEEERRRP!” I hope there isn’t some Catland Security emergency.
I should do all kinds of stuff early tomorrow. Bet you a dime I won’t.
This restaurant is part of my childhood. There’s no longer a cigarette machine, but not much else has changed. It’s “Mexican Food” as it was understood by Anglos in 1972 Costa Mesa. Hard shell tacos, refried beans with rice with every entrée, no surprises, and literally deadly quantities of cheese.
For adults there is a great emphasis on margaritas.
Mi Casa is not Mexican food. Most people who are aficionados of good food would not consider it to be worth considering at all. I like it. It’s my childhood, and there is nothing modern about it. No authentic cochinito en pibil, but no Chili’s waitresses with flair upselling me on the Chi-Chi-Tastic Balsamic Nacho Wrap, either.
They never lost the red leather booths or the hanging baskets at Mi Casa, or the sixty year old women in miniskirts and tights serving food, or even the original tables, which as you can see were from a Roy Rogers steakhouse circa 197… 1971, I bet.
Pleasure boating and jetty fishing aren’t North Sea fishing, but they’re deadly serious business.
Winds to 45 mph and a storm-surge sea? I’ll stay on land. All the way on land, in fact.
When I was a child, we were anchored in our little boat off Catalina Island in a cove, and we lost the dinghy off the back of the boat at night. We couldn’t be without that dinghy, so my father swam out into the black water with a flashlight in his teeth to get it. It was a long, long time before he came back. I think that was our family’s most frightening moment.