Missy vs. Mamas

 Regarding the "incident" that happened yesterday, I am okay -- No one really is to blame - Not grandma or grandpa -- Meg2 has a little blame, but we are both female dogs, and shit happens. I saw the light, but my love for my daddy kept me from pursuing it. Thank the doctor for stapling my ear, stitching me up, and giving me the GOOD drugs. Hopefully, any scarring will add to my character and not detract from the beautiful mug. I will post pictures later, but I'm tired and ready for another dose of the GOOD stuff right now. Love to all my peps - Miley.

Last night our new British Bulldog, Mamas (she'll be a year old next month, July), got her ass handed to her by Connie's cat, Missy Katt. Sitting ringside and watching the action brought memories of when our Pitbull mutt, Meg2, jumped our late British Bulldog, Chata.

Below is the story I wrote right after the Meg2 vs. Chata brawl. But first, a little on the Katt vs. Mamas massacre.

The one-sided affair ended as Missy Katt scored a first-round KO over Mamas. The fight had just started, and both combatants were getting ready to mix it up in central ring when Katt landed a left jab, a right cross followed by a Tony The Tiger left hook that sent Mamas down for the ten count. With her head somewhat cleared up by the smelling salts, Mamas responded to me when I told her that I was working on the rematch: "hell no, you fight the bitch; that bitch is crazy; she is trying to kill me" So no redo, any time quick, of last nite fight.

The Chata vs. Meg2 memory     

"Mija, Chata, I am so sorry you got your ass kicked last night for no reason. I witness live the whole chingada. You were just sitting in my room minding your own freaking business, and when grandma opened the door to come in, Meg2 ran between your grandma's stubby legs, knocking her on her butt, and she jumped you chola style: you know, from behind. You didn't even have a chance to whip out your switchblade. Orale, Mija, that Meg2 is a dirty fighter, man! She pulled a Mike Tyson on you; she bit half of your ear off. But you don't need to worry about your ear because your daddy knows an expensive doctor who will take good care of you. But next time you listen to me, and when I tell you to use your jab, damn, use it!! You might have gone the 12-round distance if you had listened to me instead of getting KO'd. But, Mija, that's all water under the bridge. Next time, with some good gym work, you will be ready to kick Meg2's boney ass. Good luck in the rematch, Mija; if you want me to, I'll work your corner in the rematch. I am a little stale since I haven't worked a corner in over 20+ years, but I believe I can help you win the rematch. But even if not me, you need to change trainers because Beto is not doing right by you.---- Love you, Mija."

Our late granddaughter, Keana.

 Our late granddaughter, Keana.

Late last week, on Friday evening (the 4th of July, 2023 weekend), I saw Keana walking into our bedroom for a few seconds.

It was a beautiful evening, and just about when the sun goes and hides on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. But there was still some sunlight to cast shadows through cracked window shades in semi-dark rooms.

I was sitting up in bed, with just the evening sunlight to lite up the room, watching TV when someone opened the door and walked in; I turned to see who it was, and I saw Keana walking through the shadow casts by the sunlight that was, like a peeping tom, peeking through a cracked shade, as she walked out of the shadow, I saw that it was Keana's sister Sierra, and not Keana walking in. Thank you, Sierra, for returning Keana, even if it was for the briefest moments

Ouch!

 By kiki

Ouch! Our dog Jack, a Jack Terrier, wanted to play with me on April 6, 2023, while I was talking to Fernie, and when I didn't respond to him, he jumped up at me to get my attention, which he did when with his paw he ripped my arm up.

4-6-23

My skin changed with my two-year prostate cancer hormone therapy (Lupron); it got thin, and I will bruise easily. My oncologist at USC's Norris Cancer Center sent me to see one of their hematologists, who ran some blood tests, and they all came back negative, so they all blamed the Lupron therapy.

                                                4-12-23

My private nurse, Connie, treated me with an antibiotic ointment, and the healing process has been quick (the two photos are six days apart).

Jack is a good dog who just wanted to play, so I don't blame him for ripping my arm up; he, like all Jack Terries, is a very hyper dog, but a great pal he is.

A Hard-Bitten Place Named After Jim

 My wife Connie was from Jimtown.

L.A. Then and Now /Cecilia Rasmussen

latimes

It owes its name to a saloonkeeper and never has offered its residents a whole lot more than hard work and a hard time. But the tiny tract called Jimtown in the Whittier area is not only one of Los Angeles County's oldest continuously inhabited communities, but also the most enduring legacy of California's last Mexican governor, Pio Pico.

It began in the mid-19th century as a primitive labor camp for Native Americans on the banks of the San Gabriel River, where a scattering of thatched huts, playing children and drying fish created a postcard scene of life in Old California.

In the 1860s, the site became part of the former governor's 9,000-acre spread, formally known as Rancho Paso de Bartolo Viejo and informally as El Ranchito or Picoville. Soon the Native Americans were joined by poor Mexican immigrants, and the camp was on its way to becoming a rough-and-tumble town of mud and wood hovels for those at the bottom of the farm labor pool.

Pico built a chapel north of his mansion, and soon an adobe saloon went up not far away. The patron fed, sheltered and gave work to the willing, while questionable characters hid out in the dense growth of vines and cottonwoods along the riverbank. It was a lively place where horse races, cockfights and dances were the usual entertainment. Fights were frequent, and the community soon attracted the attention of the new American authorities in nearby Los Angeles.

In those days, the city's Anglo elite forced its will on minorities through the Monte Boys, Texas and Tennessee squatters from the "island" of El Monte, who were allowed to deliver vigilante "justice" to the region's Indians, Chinese and Mexican Americans.

Meting out their punishment at the end of a rope, the Monte Boys hung a shoe thief from a tree near the riverbank in Picoville.

In September 1883, Ranulfo, one of Pico's two sons by his mistress, Felicia Romero, was shot and killed over a young girl at a dance in the saloon.

Less than a decade later, Pico became a victim of a real estate scam and lost his storied ranch. A local political heavyweight named Jim Harvey stepped in and bought a 22-acre slice of the property bounded by the San Gabriel River, Whittier and Beverly boulevards and a natural cliff formation to the east near Whittier.

Harvey was a constant source of scandal to the strait-laced Quakers who had settled next door in Whittier. But, by the turn of the century, he had subdivided his land as more Mexican families trekked north in hopes of nurturing their version of the American dream.

"Eso es lo que dicen,"

 In the dark ages (1952), we worked the picas in Paicines, CA. And one evening, after getting off work, we teenagers were hanging out by a fire that we would light up just about every night. Tony Lopez, who was from Jimtown (West Whittier), was hanging with us, and one of the guys pointed to a group of beer-drinking adult men, and he asked Tony, in Spanish, if the man talking was his dad, "el es tu papa?" Tony's answer was priceless. "Eso es lo que dicen," so that's what they say.

Charlie "El Jefe"

 Charlie "El Jefe"

By kiki

When the late Charlie "El Jefe" was around 77 years old, he stopped going to the local beer dives because he said it looked terrible for El Jefe of the La Puente Dog Mafia to be seen drinking at seedy joints. So since La Puente didn't have classy joints, he sipped at his casa with some of his dog mafia soldados.

Some years back, he was on the lam until he got busted when the Dog Patrol spotted him walking down the avenue; he was looking at doing some hard time, but I bailed him out, and Tom "The Mouthpiece" worked out a deal for him, one that he couldn't refuse...Before the Mouthpiece worked out the deal, Connie and I bought El Jefe some cigarettes so he could use them for money in the Big House. But since he wasn't going to do any jail time, his soldados smoked the cigarettes during their beer-drinking sessions. El Jefe only smoked cigars.

His soldados from Puente would come and visit the Jefe, and they would kiss his ring and ask for a favor; most of the time, he would say "simon que si," but now and then, he would say chale ese "fuhgeddaboudit!!".

El Jefe passed a few years ago, and his funeral was fitting for his status as El Jefe of the La Puente Dog Mafia.

Crazy Times At The Olympic Auditorium

By kiki

I was at the Olympic Auditorium for this 1951 fight, and decades later, I can still hear the crowd's roar as Art Aragon was pounding Johnny Gonsalves against the rope.

                                               John Adame

My uncle John Adame, who spent all his life in a wheelchair, was one that I would go to the fights during the late '40s and early '50s. We would go with uncles Ray Gonzalez AKA Rata, and Tony Ramos. Because of his situation, John would get to sit ringside (in his wheelchair) with a general admission ticket while Tony, Rata, and I would have to sit in the nosebleed section, which I didn't mind because that was where all fun was.

                                         Ray "Rata" Gonzales

                                   

                                         Tony Ramos

I can still vividly remember those days. It was during Los Angeles' Golden Era of boxing. In those years, the Olympic Auditorium was packed to the rafters week in and week out. And parking was paramount to all. We would usually find all the close-bye parking lots full so that we would park about 3-4 blocks away, and because I was the youngest, I would get to push John in his ride. Once I had wheeled John out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, I would push him as fast as I could, and John, while hanging on tight to his ride, would be cursing me with every cuss word he could think of.

                  The Olympic Auditorium was packed to the rafters.

The beer-guzzling sold-out crowd at the nosebleed section always sought ways to entertain themselves while waiting for the fights to start. First, they would get rolls of toilet paper from the auditorium's bathrooms and throw them around the gallery. Next, some of the fans would bring their wife's/girlfriends underwear: bras and panties, and that too would be flying around the gallery, but not to be outdone, some fans would get female Kotex pads, and some of the most daring guys would put red paint on the pads. Finally, the guys, already with a beer buzz, would throw the woman's underwear and female Kotex pads at the females in the crowd. Finally, young teenagers like myself would make paper airplanes, and we would fly them from the upper gallery down to the ring.

I will always be grateful to my uncles for giving me a chance to experience those crazy times at the Olympic Auditorium. Sadly, all three uncles are gone, but I still have those memories they left me.