Once in a while, a grown-up will ask me, “Tell me a little about yourself.” The first thing I think is, Oh boy, here we go! When I start talking, it’s like a rocket blasting off—there’s no stopping it. But I’ll try to make this short.
A Brief Tour Through My Early Years
I grew up in the 1950s, and it was kinda like black-and-white TV: simple, but still cool. I was just a kid, climbing trees and making mud pies, but also totally unique, like a taco with extra cheese. Back then, I didn’t have the foggiest clue what I wanted to do with my life. Like, zero. Zilch. But guess what? Life doesn’t care if you’ve got a plan. It just zooms in, grabs the wheel, and says, “I got this!”
And let me tell you, sometimes life’s like that kid on the playground who steals your ball, but then trades you for candy instead. You think everything’s going wrong, and BAM! It turns out awesome. Like, your lows can flip upside down and become highs, like magic. The trick (my teacher calls this a “pro tip”) is to follow your heart. Chase the stuff that makes you happy, like a puppy chasing a Frisbee.
This is just the beginning of my story. It’s about the good, the weird, and the “Holy moly, what just happened?” moments from when I was born until I finished school. If you wanna know more, you’re just gonna have to wait. I’m not dead yet!
“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”
Allen Saunders, 1957
Okay, so, uh, I’m gonna tell you all about where I was born. It’s kinda cool, and a little weird, and I’m gonna use some big words, so buckle up like you’re on a rollercoaster!
I was born in a place called Van Nuys, California, which is, like, a SUPER big deal. Okay, maybe not, like, New York City big deal, but it’s still kinda awesome. My mom said it was near the corner of Van Nuys Boulevard and Sherman Way. I guess that’s where the action was back in the day, or at least that’s what grown-ups say when they talk about “the good ol’ days.” Unfortunately, the hospital where I was born doesn’t even exist anymore. It’s like it poofed away—ka-pow—just gone!
So anyway, lemme take you on a little time-travel trip back to, uh, after World War II. That’s when all this crazy, super-fast suburban stuff happened in Van Nuys. It was like the houses were sprouting up faster than dandelions on a soccer field after it rains! They built these big, boxy houses all in a row, that people called “mid-century modern,” which sounds fancy, but I think it’s just a way to say “old but kinda cool.”
People started coming to Van Nuys. Like, a TON of people! It was kinda like when there’s free pizza at a party, and everybody shows up—even people you didn’t invite. Most of them were veterans—like, war heroes and stuff—and they brought their families ‘cause Van Nuys had affordable houses and lots of jobs. My dad says it was booming, like when popcorn starts going crazy in the microwave.
Van Nuys wasn’t just about houses and people. It had all this cool stuff for cars. I mean, back then, cars were, like, the BIG thing. They had these humongous drive-in movie theaters where you could watch movies outside under the stars, and that sounds so magical, right? Like, can you even imagine seeing a superhero movie on a ginormous screen while munching on popcorn in your car? Epic.
And don’t even get me started on how Van Nuys was part of this whole aerospace thing. My uncle said they were building rockets and planes and stuff there, and I was like, “Whaaat?!” It’s like being part of a real-life video game but with science and space and ka-boom rocket launches.
By the time the 1960s rolled around, Van Nuys was totally living the dream: wide streets, shiny cars cruising down the road, and kids eating ice cream cones while moms shopped at these big, sprawling malls. It was like one of those old TV shows where everybody’s smiling and the sun is always shining. My mom calls it the “quintessential Southern California lifestyle,” which is a fancy way of saying, “pretty much awesome.”
So yeah, that’s where I’m from. Van Nuys might not be Disneyland, but it sure has a lot of stories. And I was going to be at least one of those stories too.
My first home was at 13938 Hamlin Street in Van Nuys, California. It was, like, this super cute little house that was kind of a big deal back then because it was built during this, um, “housing boom.” That just means they were making houses like crazy because everyone wanted a place to live after the war, which I guess was a REALLY big deal. Anyway, our house was one of those ranch-style houses, but don’t think, like, a ranch with cows and horses. Nope, it just means it was a one-story house with a lawn that looked so perfect, it could’ve been on the front of a cereal box.
We had two bedrooms, which was, like, just enough for our family, even though I totally wish I had my own room instead of having to share one with my brother. Our lawn was always super green, and Dad said it was because he “babied” it, which is kind of funny because lawns aren’t actual babies. We had a driveway that went around to the garage in the back of the house. I thought that was so cool because it was like the cars had their own secret hideout. Zoom zoom!
The neighborhood around Hamlin Street was full of families, which meant a ton of kids to play with. It was awesome! The streets had these ginormous trees that made it feel like we were living in a tree fort. Okay, not really, but almost. Everyone knew everyone else, which could be good or bad, ‘cause if I got in trouble, someone was probably gonna tell my mom. Gulp.
People back then were all about, like, optimism or whatever, which I think means they were super happy about the future. They called it the “Southern California dream,” which sounds kinda cheesy but also kinda cool. It was like they built this whole place so people could feel comfortable and safe and have, you know, a nice life. That’s pretty sweet, right?
So yeah, Hamlin Street was more than just a place. It was where I learned to ride my bike without training wheels (and totally wiped out like splat the first time), where I met my first best friend, and where I once hid in the garage for, like, an hour because I broke Mom’s favorite vase. Whoops.
Anyway, that was my first home! It might not have been a castle or a mansion or anything super fancy, but to me, it was the best place ever. Well, except for the time my brother threw a water balloon at me in the kitchen. Ugh. But still!
Our family moved to this super cool house at 6545 Colbath Avenue in Van Nuys, California, and OMG, it was like leveling up in the game of life. The house was HUGE—okay, not mansion huge, but way bigger than our old one. If the old house was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, this one was like a triple-decker cheeseburger with extra pickles and fries. It had THREE whole bedrooms. You know what that means? I finally got my OWN room. No more sharing with my brother, who snored like a busted lawnmower. Best. Thing. Ever.
The neighborhood was like stepping into a coloring book that someone finished perfectly—no scribbles or anything. The lawns were so green and fancy, they looked like they got haircuts every day. Our yard? Gigantic. Like, maybe not big enough for a football game with the Rams, but you could definitely play an epic game of tag. Plus, we had this garage that was basically a treasure cave for bikes, scooters, and random junk. The driveway was long enough for me to race my scooter back and forth until my legs turned to jelly.
The street was awesome, too! There were these massive trees everywhere that were left over from when our neighborhood was a walnut grove. Even when the sun was blazing and the ground felt like lava, our neighborhood was always cool. The kids in the neighborhood were the best part. There was always someone to hang out with—like Tom, Ted, and Mike. We had this genius idea one time to have “The Great Walnut Fight of ’61.” While the grown-ups were at work, we split into two teams and collected all the green walnuts that fell off the trees as our ammo. It was like a full-on battle, with walnuts flying everywhere, like POW, SMACK, SPLAT! After two hours, the street was covered in squishy green goo. And guess what? Our parents made us clean it all up before dinner. Total buzzkill.
The house itself was like the coziest pancake you’ve ever seen. It wasn’t super fancy or anything, but it just felt right, you know? My mom said it was “functional,” which I think is code for “not broken.” But I thought it was the coolest place on the planet. Even Mr. Grayson, the grumpy old guy who yelled if you stepped on his grass, couldn’t ruin how awesome it was.
Living there was like being in one of those happy TV shows where everyone’s like, “Hey, neighbor!” and they wave while mowing the lawn or watering plants. We had BBQs, ran around playing tag until the streetlights came on, and just had the best time ever. Colbath Avenue wasn’t just a place to live—it was a full-on adventure. I swear, it was like living in a dream where every day felt sunny and fun, and the whole world was just waiting for you to go outside and play. It wasn’t a castle, but it was home, and it was totally the best place ever.
When I was five, I started kindergarten, then the next year, Van Nuys Elementary School. It’s on Sylmar Avenue in Van Nuys, California, and let me tell you, it’s not just a school—it’s, like, a little world all by itself. The buildings are all low, like they’re crouching down, with these huge windows that make you feel like you’re sitting in a fish tank (but without the water, of course). The playground was MASSIVE, like as big as three football fields smooshed together, and it had swings that could launch you so high it felt like you could touch a cloud. Okay, maybe not a cloud, but close.
Every Friday was the best because it was “Fish Stick Friday” in the cafeteria. People would line up like it was a rock concert or something, and you’d hear trays clattering like clangity-clang. The fish sticks were crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and they came with tartar sauce, which I thought was weird at first but then got kind of addicted to. My mom said it was because lots of Catholic kids at school didn’t eat meat on Fridays, but I just think everyone loved those fish sticks.
Every spring, the school had this thing called a “Newspaper Drive.” It was like a scavenger hunt but for grown-up stuff. All the kids would run around their neighborhoods, knocking on doors, asking for old newspapers. “Got any newspapers you don’t want?” we’d say, like mini salespeople, except we weren’t selling anything. Some kids even got sneaky-sneak and swiped newspapers from their dad’s garage piles (not me, though). Whoever collected the most newspapers got a prize, which was usually something totally epic, like a shiny new bike or a giant stuffed animal. One time, my friend Jimmy tried to strap a hundred newspapers to his wagon, and they spilled everywhere—kablam!
Van Nuys Elementary wasn’t just about classrooms and homework, though. It was like the glue that stuck everyone together. All the families in the neighborhood seemed to know each other, and you’d always hear moms talking at pick-up time like, “Oh, can you believe how fast they’re growing?” (which they always say, like a million times a day). It was the kind of place where you could run into someone you knew pretty much everywhere, even at the grocery store. It made you feel safe, like you were living in a big, happy bubble.
The teachers were nice, mostly. Some of them had that “teacher look,” you know, where they just stare at you until you sat down and stopped talking, but they also told funny stories and let us do art projects with glitter, which was awesome. I even learned what “community” meant because my teacher, Mrs. Lanning, said it was like all of us were little pieces of a giant puzzle that fit together perfectly. I thought that was kind of cool, but then Jimmy asked, “What if a piece gets lost?” and we all started laughing.
Van Nuys Elementary wasn’t fancy, but it was cozy and fun and felt like home in a way. It’s where I learned how to read big words, like suburban (which I still think sounds like a weird kind of sandwich), and where I made my first best friend, Sue Ann. She and I used to race each other to the monkey bars every day, and even though she always won, I let her because, well, that’s what friends do, right?
Around the time I turned 13, I transferred to James Madison Junior High School, which is on Hart Street in North Hollywood. It felt ginormous, like a whole city just for kids. Seriously, the campus was so big, I needed a map just to find my locker. It had open walkways, like paths through a park, and this huge quad in the middle where everyone hung out. The quad was like the heart of the school—always busy, with kids talking, laughing, and sometimes yelling like a flock of noisy seagulls.
The classrooms had these wide windows that made it feel like you were outside even when you were stuck inside doing math. Oh, and the cafeteria? It was a mega-smorgasbord. Okay, maybe not really, but it felt that way when you saw all the kids lining up for food. My favorite day was “Taco Tuesday” because, let’s be real, tacos make everything better. The tacos weren’t fancy—more like soggy shells with mystery meat—but everyone still loved them.
The school was part of the Los Angeles Unified School District, which is, like, this HUGE group of schools. It made me feel kind of special, like we were part of something bigger than just one little school. And since it was the early ’60s, everything had that clean, modern look, like it had just popped out of a futuristic TV show. The buildings were all simple and neat, like Lego blocks someone had stacked perfectly.
At Madison, there were tons of activities for kids to do. They had clubs for everything. There was the Science Club for the brainiacs, the Art Club for kids who loved doodling, and even a Chess Club for people who liked staring at tiny wooden pieces and saying, “Checkmate!” I tried joining the Drama Club because I thought it would be fun to be on stage, but my audition was such a disaster that even I started laughing halfway through.
What made Madison really cool was how it felt like a place to get ready for the “big leagues.” All the teachers kept saying stuff like, “You’re preparing for high school now!” and it made everything sound so important. They had these fancy science labs where you could mix weird stuff together (as long as you didn’t spill anything that might explode), and the library was full of books about everything, from space rockets to Greek mythology. It was like a treasure chest for your brain.
The best part, though, was meeting kids from all over. It wasn’t just kids from Van Nuys—there were kids from other places, too, like North Hollywood and Reseda. Everyone had their own stories, and it was fun trading snacks at lunch and hearing about their lives. One time, my friend Tommy brought this weird green drink in a thermos and called it “alien juice.” I thought it was gross, but he swore it gave him “superpowers.” Spoiler alert: It didn’t.
Madison wasn’t just a school. It was like a mini-world where you could learn, play, and sometimes totally mess up but still have fun. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty close, and I felt like I was really starting to grow up there—just a little bit, anyway.
After two years at James Madison Junior High, I switched to Notre Dame High School, which is on Riverside Drive in Sherman Oaks. It was a private Catholic school just for boys. At first it sounded like it might be super boring, but it was actually kind of cool. The place looked like one of those schools from an old black-and-white movie, with brick buildings and a big chapel right in the middle. It was run by these brothers in long, black robes who always seemed really serious, like they were trying to crack the secret code of the universe.
The school was huge-mongous! There were buildings for classes, a gym where we had basketball games and assemblies, and fields for every sport you could think of. The football field was so big you could probably land a plane on it. Not that anyone ever did, but still. The art rooms smelled like paint and glue, which was awesome if you like that sort of thing, and the chapel was always super quiet, like the opposite of the cafeteria at lunch.
Speaking of lunch, whenever it rained, things got wild. They’d herd all of us into the gym, freshmen and sophomores on one side, juniors and seniors on the other. It was like we were two rival kingdoms about to go to war. And let me tell you, that’s exactly what happened. The moment the proctor stepped out for, like, a split-second—BAM!—food would start flying everywhere. I’m talking sandwiches, apples, and even a milk carton or two. Someone once launched a slice of pizza so high it hit the basketball hoop and just stuck there, cheese-first. It was like the biggest food fight in the history of ever, and it happened every time it rained. They tried to stop it, but once the first apple flew, it was all over.
The classes were kind of tough. They called it a “college preparatory school,” which basically means they gave us more homework than any human should have to do. Math was like trying to solve riddles written by aliens, and in English, we had to write essays with big words like “metaphor” and “alliteration.” My favorite class was P.E. because you didn’t have to think too much—just run around and try not to trip over your own feet.
The brothers who ran the school were really into teaching us how to be good people. They said stuff like “faith, service, and community” all the time, which sounded kind of fancy but mostly meant helping people and not being a total jerk. We did projects like collecting cans of food for families who needed it, and once we even cleaned up a park. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it felt good to do something nice.
Even though Notre Dame was all about rules and responsibility, there was still a lot of fun stuff. The Friday night football games were HUGE. Everyone would show up to cheer, and the band would play songs that made you feel like you were in a parade. The cheerleaders from the nearby girls’ schools would come, and all the guys acted like complete dorks trying to impress them. It was hilarious.
Notre Dame wasn’t perfect. Like, I could’ve done without the surprise pop quizzes and the cafeteria mystery meat—but it was definitely a place where you could learn a lot, make friends, and maybe even have a little fun. Especially if you were good at dodging flying milk cartons.
Shifting gears again, I had enough of Notre Dame’s all-boys thing. Seriously, it was like living in a world where no one knew what a perfume bottle even was. So, I transferred to Van Nuys High School, and boy, was it a game-changer! The school is on Cedros Avenue, and it’s huge-mongous. I mean, the campus stretched so far, it felt like you needed a treasure map just to find your next class. The buildings were all spread out, with palm trees swaying like they were waving you along to your next adventure.
Van Nuys High was kind of famous because it had all these kids from entertainment families. Like, you’d hear someone casually say, “Oh yeah, my dad was in that movie,” and you’d just nod like that’s totally normal. Also, they filmed this big-deal movie there called “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” I haven’t seen it, but it sounds cool—like kids surfing in school hallways or something.
My friends and I joined the Ski Club, which, let me tell you, was not really about skiing. It was more like the “let’s-use-this-as-an-excuse-to-talk-to-girls” club. Every Friday, we’d try lines like, “Hey, you wanna hit the slopes with me this weekend?” even though half of us didn’t even know how to put skis on. It was hilarious. The girls usually just laughed at us, but sometimes they said yes, which felt like winning a gold medal.
Then there was “Sports Night” every Friday, which had nothing to do with sports. Unless, of course, you count the guys running after girls and trying to impress them as a sport. The gym was packed, with music blasting so loud it felt like the bass guitar was shaking your bones. Everyone was hanging out, munching on nachos, and laughing like it was the best night of the week. Honestly, I don’t think anyone even knew why it was called “Sports Night.” It should’ve been called “Flirt Night,” or maybe “Snack Night,” because there were always snacks. So. Many. Snacks.
The classes were good, but let’s be real, nobody was there just for the academics. Math still made my head spin like a tornado, and history was kind of fun because we got to learn about old wars and stuff. My favorite was science class because we got to mess around with experiments. One time, the teacher tried to make a mini rocket with baking soda and vinegar, and it fizzed up so much it sprayed everywhere—kaboom! He wasn’t too happy, but the whole class was rolling in the aisles.
The school spirit at Van Nuys High was off the charts. The pep rallies were crazy. The cheerleaders would do these insane flips, and the band played so loud you could feel it in your stomach. Everyone screamed and clapped like their team had just won the Super Bowl, even if it was just a regular, old football game. And the talent shows? Oh man, people got up there and sang, danced, juggled, and one guy even did magic tricks. It was like being on a live TV show.
Van Nuys High wasn’t just a school. It was a whole experience. There was always something happening, and even though it was chaotic and loud and sometimes totally bonkers, it was also kind of perfect. I guess you could say it was the place where life felt big, like anything could happen, and maybe, just maybe, you’d figure out where you were going next. Or at least, who to ask out at “Sports Night.”
I joined the Navy in 1967 right after high school because, well, I had no clue what else to do. I thought it might be fun, like joining a club but with uniforms and boats. They bussed me down to the San Diego Naval Training Center, or NTC, which was like a mini city for sailors. It was HUGE, with rows of barracks where we slept, big drill fields where we marched until our legs felt like they’d fall off, and classrooms where they crammed our brains with Navy stuff. It was right by San Diego Bay, so there were always these big ships floating by, looking all cool and important.
The first thing I learned at NTC was that you had to do everything fast. They’d wake us up before the sun even thought about rising, yelling, “You’ve got ten minutes to shit, shower, and shave!” I NEVER heard that kind of talk before. My parents never yelled things like that. I’d stumble out of bed, half-asleep, and try not to trip over my boots while getting ready. The showers were freezing, the razors were dull, and if you took even a second too long, the instructors would be on you like flies on a hot dog.
We all smoked in boot camp. Not because it was cool, but it helped to keep you out of yucky jobs. Throughout the day, the drill instructor would yell, “Break time. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em.” If you didn’t smoke, or you didn’t “got ‘em,” he would say, “Don’t smoke? Well, in that case, I have some trash cans over there that need cleaning. Get to it!”
One day, they told us we were gonna learn how to escape a burning building. That sounded kind of exciting, but also kind of terrifying. First, they marched us into this giant building, and it smelled like burnt tires and bad ideas. They lit something—probably motor oil or some other gross stuff—and the smoke started curling up to the ceiling, thick and black like a Halloween fog machine on steroids. We all wore masks, so it wasn’t too bad at first. I was like, “Okay, this is fine. I can do this.” But then, the instructor yelled, “TAKE OFF YOUR MASKS!”
As soon as I pulled off my mask, it felt like my face was on fire. My eyes started burning, my throat felt like I’d swallowed a cactus, and I couldn’t stop coughing. My lungs were screaming, “What are you doing to us?!” Everyone around me was coughing and bumping into each other, trying to find the door. It was total chaos. Someone shouted, “I CAN’T SEE!” which didn’t help because nobody could see anything. Finally, the instructor yelled, “Evacuate!” and we all ran out, coughing and choking like a bunch of cartoon characters who’d just been hit with a cloud of pepper spray.
When we got outside, I was gasping for air like a fish flopping on a dock. My clothes smelled like smoke for days, and my lungs felt like they’d been roasted on a grill. The instructor just nodded and said, “Now you know why you don’t stay in a burning building.” No kidding. I could have never figured that out by myself!
The rest of training wasn’t quite as insane, but it was still tough. We spent hours on the drill fields, marching back and forth while shouting, “HUT-TWO-THREE-FOUR!” until I thought my voice was gonna fall out of my throat. The obstacle course was like a jungle gym for grown-ups, except way harder. We climbed ropes, crawled under nets, and jumped over walls. One guy got stuck at the top of a rope and just hung there like a wet noodle until the instructor yelled him down.
At night, we’d collapse into our bunks, which were stacked two high like Navy bunk beds of doom. If you were on the top bunk, you had to be careful not to roll off, or you’d end up face-planting on the floor. Just like in the movies, the beds had to be made so tight you could bounce a quarter off them, and if your locker wasn’t perfect, you’d be scrubbing the bathroom floors with a toothbrush.
Even though it was hard, there were moments when it felt kind of amazing. The bay was always right there, with seagulls squawking and ships gliding by. At night, you could hear the waves lapping (is that the same as crashing?) and it made you feel like you were part of something big. Training at NTC wasn’t easy, but by the end, I felt like I’d turned into someone tougher, faster, and ready to take on the world—or at least another burning building.
Even though I volunteered to go to Vietnam, the Navy sent me to Barber’s Point Naval Air Station in Hawaii instead. I mean, hello, Hawaii! That’s when I learned a cardinal rule: “whatever you want from the military, ask for the opposite.” The base was on the southwest edge of Oahu, and it was huge. There were giant planes zooming around, long runways, and barracks that kind of looked like big Lego blocks where we all slept. My job was to help with stuff like flying, talking on radios, and making sure everything didn’t fall apart. They called it “aviation, communications, and logistics,” but really it was just a bunch of important Navy stuff.
Sometimes, they sent us out on these humongous aircraft carriers. Let me tell you, those things were massive. They were so big, it felt like they could hold a whole town on them—and they probably could. Planes would take off and land on the deck, and it was super loud—like a giant BOOM every time a jet blasted off. We’d practice “War Games,” which was basically pretend battles, but it felt real enough to make your stomach flip. Everyone was running around yelling, “Clear the deck!” and “Move it, sailor!” It was like being in a big action movie, but sweatier.
The base was cool and all, but the North Shore? That’s where the real action was. They had waves as tall as buildings, like 60 feet high! These surfers would paddle out, looking all calm, and then BAM—they’d ride those waves like they were superheroes. It was crazy to watch. I tried surfing them once, but let’s just say the ocean won that round. Big time.
When my brother Warren found out I was stationed at Barber’s Point and requested this thing called “Brother Duty” so he could come to Hawaii, too. How cool is that? We rented this house right on Waimea Bay, and it was awesome sauce. You could throw a rock from our porch and hit the water. Every day, we’d sit outside, watching the waves and eating stuff like pineapple and grilled fish. It was like living in one of those movies where people are always on the beach and never have a care in the world.
But, um, it was the late ’60s, and stuff got kinda…interesting. One night, I was at this party, and someone offered me a hit off a “doobie.” That’s what they called a marijuana cigarette, by the way. At first, I was like, “Uhh, I don’t know about this,” but everyone was laughing and saying, “Come on, man, live a little!” So I tried it, and WHOA. It felt like my brain turned into a balloon and floated away. Everything was hilarious, the music sounded like it came from outer space, and the lights looked like they were dancing. I was flying, but, you know, without a plane.
Even with all the hard work, Barber’s Point was pretty amazing. I mean, living in Hawaii, hanging out with Warren, and working on cool Navy stuff? It was like a mix of being on vacation and going to a really intense school where the teachers yelled a lot. Whether I was watching surfers on giant waves, running around on an aircraft carrier, or just chilling at Waimea Bay, every day felt like a new adventure waiting to happen.
Los Angeles Valley College, or LAVC, was this, like, college in Van Nuys, California. It’s at 5800 Fulton Avenue, which is kind of a fancy-sounding address, right? It’s not super huge like those big universities, but it’s got everything you need—classrooms, labs, and even these giant green fields where people can sit and pretend like they’re studying. Back in the 1960s, it was, like, THE place to go if you didn’t know what to do after high school or if you wanted to get a job that paid more than two bucks an hour.
So, I still had no clue what I wanted to do with my life, but I thought, “Drama sounds cool!” Drama is where you get to act and pretend to be other people, which is basically just being a professional goofball, so I signed up. And let me tell you, it was a BLAST. We did all this funny warm-up stuff like, “Be a tree! Be a bird! Be…a stressed-out apple!” Everyone in drama class was super fun, and that’s where I met Cindy.
Cindy was the best. She had this smile that was, like, sunshine on a rainy day, and she laughed at my jokes even when they weren’t funny. We’d practice scenes together and crack up because sometimes we’d forget our lines and just make stuff up like, “To be or not to…uhhh, eat tacos?” We were pretty much glued together, like peanut butter and jelly, until we graduated, split up, and had to go do grown-up stuff. That part was super lame.
Anyway, LAVC wasn’t just about schoolwork. They had a ton of cool stuff going on. You could learn how to build stuff, fix cars, or even become a scientist if you were into that kind of thing. And the campus? It was really nice. Like, you could sit under a tree and feel all smart while reading a book, or you could just chill and people-watch. The cafeteria food wasn’t that bad either—I mean, probably better than mystery meat day at high school.
The best part about LAVC was that it was like a launchpad. You could go there, figure out what you wanted to do, and then BOOM—head off to a big university or get a cool job. It was like a starter kit for life. So, yeah, LAVC was pretty awesome, and even though I didn’t end up being a famous actor or anything, I wouldn’t trade those drama days with Cindy for anything.
Snow Summit Ski Resort is, like, totally the coolest place ever. I mean, it’s up in Big Bear Lake, California, and it’s got everything. The slopes are all smooth, like a giant slide for grown-ups, and the lodge is super cozy, like when you wrap yourself up in your favorite blanket and sip hot chocolate. Plus, the mountain views? They’re like Mother Nature painted them herself.
So, back in early 1970s, I was a ski patrolman, which is just a fancy way of saying I got to ski all day and save people. It was basically like being a superhero, except instead of a cape, I had a rescue toboggan. One time, though, things got kinda nuts.
Someone was yelling, “Hey! There’s a girl lying on the slope! I think she’s dead!” and I was like, WHAT?! So I grabbed the toboggan and zoomed over there, feeling like Batman swooping in to save the day. But when I got there and asked, “Are you okay? Do you need help?” she just rolled over and started laughing, like crazy laughing! Turns out, she wasn’t hurt. She was drunk! Totally snockered.
She had these ski poles that were basically long, skinny flasks. You twisted the top, and BOOM—instant booze. And get this, it was only ten o’clock in the morning! She was already three sheets to the wind, like a sailboat caught in a hurricane. I tried to strap her into the toboggan so I could get her down the slope, but she kept saying, “No way, mister!” So I told her to just sit on top, hang on, and I’d get her down.
Here’s where it gets bananas. Every time I turned the sled, she’d roll off, like blueberries sliding off the top of a hot pancake. I kept yelling, “Hold on!” but she just kept rolling and laughing. It was like a never-ending game of “pick up the tipsy skier.” I’m not even kidding—it took a whole hour to get her to the bottom. By the time we made it, I was sweating more than a snowman in the desert.
But hey, we made it. She was safe and sound, still laughing her head off. And me? I felt like I’d just run a marathon in ski boots. Being a ski patrolman was wild, but honestly? It was the most fun job in the whole wide world! Best. Job. Ever!
After skiing for two seasons, I went to this place called the American Barber College, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Los Angeles at 331 West 5th Street. It was, like, the barbering capital of the world! Okay, maybe not the whole world, but it was the place to learn how to cut hair, shave beards, and make people look super sharp. The barbers floor was full of chairs that spun around, and there were mirrors everywhere. It was kind of like being in a carnival funhouse, except instead of clowns, there were barbers with scissors.
Once a month, though, things got…weird. They’d bring in this big group of, like, 30 homeless guys to get “cleaned up.” The instructors called them “customers,” but honestly, they didn’t exactly smell like flowers. When we saw them walking in, all of us students would run for it. Like, zoomsplat! We’d hide in the bathrooms, crammed into stalls like sardines in a can. But, of course, the instructors always found us. They’d drag us out by our ears—ow!—and say, “Get out there and start cutting!”
The guys we cleaned up hadn’t seen soap or water in, like, forever. Their hair was wild, their beards were scraggly, and sometimes it felt like you needed a machete just to get through it. One time, I even found a gum wrapper in some guy’s beard! I mean, whoa! But when we were done, they actually looked pretty good—like, “ta-da!” moments on a makeover show.
The best part of barber school was learning how to use the razors. You’d lather someone’s face with this foamy cream, and it smelled like peppermint or something. Then you’d take this shiny razor and shave their beard, being super careful not to nick them. The first time I did it, my hands were shaking so bad I thought I’d turn the guy into a porcupine. But by the end, I was slicing through stubble like a samurai with a lightsaber.
Barber school wasn’t just about cutting hair. It was about learning how to be fast, precise, and, honestly, not gag when someone smelled funny. It wasn’t always fun, but it taught me stuff I’d never forget. And hey, now I know how to give a perfect haircut—just don’t ask me to find any more gum wrappers!
Charles Ross Cosmetology School
So, after I finished barber school, I was like, “Cutting hair is fun, but you know what would be even cooler? Styling women’s hair!” So, I signed up at the “Charles Ross Cosmetology School” in Beverly Hills. BEVERLY HILLS. Fancy, right? The school was on West Olympic Boulevard, which even sounds super important, like a street where movie stars probably walk around with sunglasses and little dogs.
At cosmetology school, they taught us everything. Like, not just haircuts, but also perms and dyes and making nails look shiny and perfect. And skincare! There were all these bottles of lotions and creams, and the room smelled like a mix of flowers and fruit—kind of like walking through the perfume section at the mall. It was so, so, SO cool because we got to practice on real people. But, I was a little disappointed. I thought I’d be styling a famous celebrity, like a singer or a TV star.
One time, though, I totally messed up. I was doing this perm thing, right? You had to put these little rollers in the person’s hair and then add this super stinky solution that smells like rotten eggs. I was trying to look all professional, but I left the solution on too long, and—BOOM—one of the rollers popped off and rolled onto the floor. I kicked it under the so nobody saw, but the hair looked like it had gone through a tornado. The teacher said, “This is what we call a kick perm,” and I tried not to laugh because it wasn’t supposed to be funny, but it kind of was.
The clients at the school were so different. Some of them were really nice and smiled a lot, but others just stared at you like, “Don’t mess this up, kid.” It made me super nervous, but I got better every day. By the end, I could curl, braid, and style hair like a total pro. I even learned how to do those fancy updos that look like someone’s hair is defying gravity. It was, like, magic.
Charles Ross was the best place to learn because it wasn’t just about the hair—it was about making people feel good about themselves. Like, they’d come in all grumpy and tired, and after you worked your magic, they’d look in the mirror and smile because you just made their day. It was awesome. Plus, Beverly Hills? Come on. I felt like I was one step away from Hollywood!
Okay, so by the late 1970s, I was, like, donezo with the San Fernando Valley. I mean, the traffic was like playing Frogger but way scarier, and everyone was either honking, yelling or both. So I packed my stuff—well, okay, mostly just clothes and a few random things—and moved to San Diego. San Diego was SO much cooler. Literally. There’s a beach, and no one seems to be in a rush to honk at you. Oh, and I enrolled at San Diego State University! It’s this ginormous school where they teach you everything—like, seriously, you could learn about bugs, or stars, or even how to speak French, if you wanted to.
At first, I didn’t really know what to do, so I just signed up for random classes. It was like picking mystery flavors of jellybeans—except not as yummy. Then I remembered when I was that ski patrol guy, and I had to help people with broken bones. And not just tiny breaks—like, FULL-ON BONES sticking out of their legs! Gross, right? But also kinda cool. So I took this class called “Human Anatomy and Physiology.” And, WHOA, it was intense! One day, the teacher rolled in a REAL DEAD BODY. No joke. A whole human cadaver. The girls in class were like, “EWWW!” and ran out screaming, and I was like, “Well, guess I’m staying.”
Then I met this dude who said he was an “Exercise Physiology” major. I was like, “Exer-what-now?” And he told me it was about making people stronger and healthier with exercise. My brain was like, BING! Because I had just started running, and it made me feel like a total superhero. So I was like, “Sign me up for that!” I worked super hard—like, so hard I thought my brain was gonna explode sometimes—and I ended up getting a Master’s degree. Yep, a MASTER’S DEGREE! That’s, like, being a wizard of exercise.
Then, in 1983, I got my first big-kid job at this super fancy place called the “Los Angeles Athletic Club.” It was all shiny and posh, and I felt like I had to walk around with my pinky held high just to fit in. My job was to help people get in shape, and it was the BEST. Watching people go from “I’m so tired” to “I feel AWESOME!” was like watching a caterpillar turn into a butterfly—except, you know, with more sweat. That’s how I went from being a clueless class-taker to a Master of Exercise Wizardry. Pretty cool, right?
And, the rest, as they say is history!
Okay, so, like, I’ve done a TON of cool stuff in my life. I climbed Mount Whitney, which is this super ginormous mountain, and I went scuba diving on the backside of Catalina Island, playing with seals. I’ve run four marathons, taught skiing at Vail Mountain, and even carried the torch at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympic Games. And, I’m only in the fourth grade! I’ve pretty much done most of the stuff on my bucket list, but, you know, there’s still more cool things I wanna try.
So, why am I telling you this? It’s simple. If you’re a kid, like me, you should totally find something that makes you go, “Whoa, this is the COOLEST thing ever!” Like drawing dragons, or building, like, a pillow kingdom in your living room. Just don’t say, “Nah, I’m too chicken,” ‘cause that’s boring. Many famous people started with, like, nothing? No money, no college, no clue—just a big dream and maybe some snacks.
And, like, don’t let people tell you you’ve gotta grow up and work for “the man.” Like, yawn, right? Be a rock star or a ninja or someone who makes pizza grow on trees—pizza trees, people! Sure, you might mess up, but, like, everybody does. Thomas Edison? He totally messed up like a bazillion times before he made the lightbulb. If he can do that, you can do your thing, too.
Life’s not all boring, like sitting in traffic or doing, ugh, math homework. It’s about finding that one thing that makes you jump outta bed yelling, “Let’s do this!” Like, I dunno, maybe inventing a robot that folds your socks or something. Just go for it, and don’t stop till you’re all like, “HECK YES, I DID IT!”
