“LOST
MUSKET DIARY” Sunday July 20, 2014
Sunny
(What Else? There’s a drought on!) 77F/25C in Rancho Las Musket
Just as I
was turning the page on the Register’s Sunday
comic section, Lola came up from under my desk and put both paws on my leg. I
looked down into her pretty dark eyes as she asked me, “What are you writing
about NOW, Mikie? Teabaggers and other political stuff? Your ‘Golden Years’
again? Or is it another obscure moment in ancient history?” I nearly “shushed”
her, fearing what the neighbors might say if they overhead her talking to me,
again, when I remembered that my conversations with my “Emotional Support
Animal” are conducted psychically – no talking out loud. Looking into her eyes,
I thought to myself, “No, my pet. I’m writing about how I learned to use chop
sticks.” With that, Lola my pet poodle, aka Bichon
Frise, curled up to hear the story.
It was a sunny day in L.A. back
in 19-ought-68. I was a newly hired reporter at KFWB Radio, which had just
become a brand-new “all-news” radio station, and I was spending my first day
covering City Hall. Since I had no specific assignment, I was just taking
myself around on a “get acquainted tour” of the City Council offices and the
Press Room. My first stop was the office of 14th District Councilman
Arthur K. Snyder, who at that moment was just another name on the City Hall
contact sheet. I would soon learn that he was one of the more colorful members
of that august body. But, the receptionist explained to me that he was “unavailable
at that moment,” but she would summon his “Press Secretary.” A short time
later, another office door opened and out stepped “Mr. Goldberg,” looking a bit
rumpled, necktie askew and a “five o’clock shadow” on his pudgy face. He shook
my hand and welcomed me to the vortex of city government. “City Council is
where it’s happening, and “my guy” is one of the main players!” Years later,
after I became a “Press Secretary” myself, I would always refer to my boss the
same way. He was always “my guy.” If another press secretary’s boss stumbled, I
would commiserate with my colleague with, “Looks like ‘Your guy’ is having a bad
day.” If my boss won his election, it would be, “Hey, my guy is on a roll.”
Once “my guy” even wound up being convicted. But, that’s a story for another
time. Back to Mr. Goldberg and the chopsticks.
Jerry took me around City Hall
on a whirlwind tour of everything a new reporter on this beat would need to
know. I met all the press folks for all the city council members. Then, we
walked through the Press Room. Whoa, that was a moment! I shook hands with one
grizzled reporter after another. Names that had been legendary “by-lines” to me
up to that point extended their hands and welcomed me to the City Hall Beat. In
their eyes, L.A. Hall was the most important place a newsman could be assigned.
The White House was a distant second. After meeting the guys from the Long
Beach papers, The Daily Breeze, Valley News, Newhall Signal, City News Service
and some others, Jerry took me into the “Holy of Holies.” The City Hall Bureau
of the Los Angeles Times! I was truly in the presence of greatness! As Goldberg
introduced me around, I got the feeling that I was being welcomed into a very
special brotherhood by tribal elders in the Pantheon of still unfolding Los
Angeles history. To punctuate the event, one senior reporter for the Los
Angeles Times shook my hand and welcomed me. Irv Burleigh’s name had appeared
at the top of his Times stories for many years. To me, he struck a resemblance
to Col. Harland Sanders right down to the graying goatee on his chin, the
glasses he wore and the white hair atop his head. Leaning down to the bottom
drawer of his battered desk he reached in and came up with a half empty bottle
of bourbon. “I think a little toast to your arrival is in order, Mike.” It wasn’t
quite 11 o’clock in the morning, and I had remembered scenes like this from old
B-movies, but this was for real. I quickly demurred, blurting out that I had to
talk on the radio and my boss would know instantly if I’d been imbibing. But, I
appreciated Irv’s gesture. It was part of the long standing legend of the “hard
drinking reporter.”
After a few more pleasantries,
Goldberg looked at his watch and said, “Time for lunch, Mike. You like
Japanese?” At KFWB in those days, field reporters didn’t get a set meal period.
Most days were busy and I would be lucky to have time to grab a sandwich. When
I tried to decline the invitation, my host said. “Hey, you are on assignment,
and your assignment is to get to know ‘who’s who’ at City Hall and the next
part of this assignment is to research how the City Hall ‘who’s who’ eats
lunch. Besides, you are the guest of Councilman Arthur K. Snyder.” Who could
argue with that logic, and, off we went, strolling out the south entrance,
across First Street and left toward Little Tokyo. Along the way, Jerry pointed
out the local architecture and landmarks in a never-ending commentary. “There
is the Farmacia Hidalgo, as he
pointed out a drug store we were passing. Very traditional pharmacy. You can
even purchase leeches for medical purposes.” Gee, I thought, doctors haven’t
done that since the turn of the century. “I know what you’re thinking,” Jerry
said, as he read my mind. “But, very infrequently some old school doctor or
medicine man will still apply leeches in his treatments.”
He led me into a nearby
restaurant. “Very down home,” I said as we settled in to our table. Since I had
never eaten Japanese food in my life up to that time, I looked up from my menu
and asked my host to make some suggestions and I would rely on his example.
That worked out very well as it turned out. But, as I started to ask the waiter
for a fork to eat with, Jerry asked, “Don’t you use chop sticks?” I replied
that I had no idea how. He picked his up and said, “It’s really easy. With a
little practice, you’ll get to be a whiz with them.” Since, this was an
authentic “down home” Japanese restaurant, I really didn’t have a choice, since
there was no silverware at our table. “This place caters to neighborhood folks,”
he said. Then, I noticed that ours were the only pale faces in the restaurant
and I hadn’t heard a single word of English since I walked in.
With Jerry Goldberg as my role
model, I did eventually get the hang of the chop sticks, and lunch turned into
a really memorable experience. As we got up to leave, I thanked my host, and
said, “This is one for the books for me, Jerry. Every time I order Japanese or
Chinese or Korean or Thai and someone else at the table flinches and orders a
fork and spoon from the waiter, I’m going to tell them the story of how I
learned to use chop sticks. From a Jewish guy from Chicago named Jerry Goldberg,
in a Japanese restaurant in Little Tokyo, California.” Even today, almost 50 years later, I think
about that time that I first used chop sticks, and I tell the story.
Ciao, MikeBo
