So, you’re a Dentist, what’s up with the Writing Thing? Part 2 Family

So just like in the film Trading Places, the origin of my written words mostly in complete sentences can be argued in terms of environment or DNA. And OMG! Trading Places was released like 40-years ago, before the LA Summer Olympic games and just after my braces came off and I had my first hernia surgery (for dentophobics, last the two events weren’t related.) But in the film, Dan Akroyd and Eddie Murphy traded Entitled Rich Boy and street-smart hustler roles respectively during a social experiment/strategy to keep framed Rich Boy outta jail. I prefer playing the Eddie Murphy role because I’m sure he’s the better athlete. I once saw Akroyd up close and personal with gorgeous wife Donna Dixon at the Pasadena Playhouse. And Dan looked like he just finished mowing the lawn several times using office scissors on a rainy day after the walk from the car. The athletic DNA factor will show up in a few.

Anyway, the environment was Southern California. And I, along with W.C. Fields, thank the Almighty at least once every morning for the sun and the detour from anywhere close to Philadelphia where men are men and Santa Claus dodges batteries. Congratulations Kansas City Chiefs!

My mom’s side of the family, the Blandinos, comprised the courageous entrepreneurs who got off the boat from Sicily, spent a minute in New Orleans, and then bought a colony of homes in LA on 23rd St, not to mention the ranch that occupied most of what today is Canoga Park (they sold too soon!) My proudest Blandino literary accomplishment (aside from Cousin Leslie- who gets paid to write) was my uncle’s restaurant/bar, Tony’s Nightmare. My uncle Tony bought property, founded a business that hosted entertainers the likes of Nat “King Cole, and could fix anything within eyesight. Uncle T also got me a recommendation to USC dental school from LA’s most powerful politician of the day, his childhood buddy LA County Supervisor Kenneth Hahn. Hahn’s son James later was elected Mayor of Los Angeles; his daughter Janice became a congresswoman. And during my official interview, when the USC School of Dentistry’s Dean of Admissions disrespected my dad’s job, and added unions were “good in their day,” I asked for his thoughts on slavery…and still got in. Thank you, Uncle Tony and Supervisor Kenny.

But Tony’s Nightmare is a name in search of a title for a story I haven’t written; and hopefully, that will change sooner than later. Despite the best food I’ve ever had, the most memorable weddings ever (aside from the one in Positano), fireside debates/conversations indoors and out, and a family population the size of both Dakotas, the writing part seems to have come from Dad’s side of the family. Much of the material, however, has been pure Blandino.

Dad’s side of the family gave me my aristocratic German last name (The military tag includes two Field Marshals, plus WWII U-boat Commander Otto (aside from this essay, Otto retains a very low profile.) I gained a deep respect for unions and a literary dose of Native American heritage from my Von Bulow grandparents. I never met my mom’s parents but both sides of the family merged to mold me into one unlikely first-year dental student in a USC class of 120 students (only two of whom were women.) Today, women comprise more than one-half of dental school class…and the overall IQ profile has obviously climbed. Grandma Von Bulow would be proud.

Grandpa Jasper Von Bulow (my namesake preferred Jack- thank God, I could’ve been a Jasper) stood 6’6” and busted several heads as a dockworker in San Francisco during the early 1900s, while providing some of the muscle employed in organizing the bay area’s Longshoremen union. I stand 5’9,” dealt a one-punch TKO in the 6th grade, and immediately retired from the ring.

My dad was an exceptional athlete (All-City LA Basketball and Baseball) and stood about 6-feet; he inherited his father’s work ethic and commitment to the working man. And dad willingly accepted the challenge to be my coach and mentor. Dad was fearless.

Dad’s stinginess regarding athletic DNA (as well as his talent for adding sizable columns of numbers in his head in a few seconds) and grandpa’s lack of vertical genetic generosity remain sore points to this day. But Hans Von Bulow, a legendary conductor, composer, and virtuoso pianist would seem to be the stingiest Von Bulow of ‘em all. I can whistle with anyone, including Otis Redding, but musically, that’s all we got.

My grandmother was born on a Native American reservation and into the Pechanga Band of Luiseño Mission Indians, located in what is now Temecula, California (just north of San Diego.) Grandma was far ahead of her time; she left the reservation on meeting her future husband and spent half of her time in Los Angeles, and half in Washington, DC. Grandma lobbied for Native American rights, was Secretary for the California Indian Rights Association (CIRA), testified on behalf of Indian Rights before the U.S. Congress, and edited the California Indian News for seven years. Grandma, in fact, was a pioneer, being among the first to model the role of female and native American editor.

So, my grandmother was an activist whose name is on the Congressional Record representing and defending Indian Rights. And even though today the Pechanga Band of Luiseno Mission Indians thrives with a casino, hotel, golf course and is the virtual Las Vegas of Riverside County, they don’t recognize my grandmother as having been a tribe member, let alone their strongest past advocate and an important part of the tribe’s history. Shame on them.

My dad inherited his mother’s writing talents. When Mom passed away, two friends volunteered to help organize all the stuff stored for over 40-years in our family home. On the Sicilian side of things, about $5,000 in cash turned up. From Dad, a trove of poems written to Mom told a love story. The romance began the first time Mom, sipping a soda at her brother’s Tony’s Nightmare establishment, spotted Dad with Blandino brother Joe celebrating a win at the ballpark. The result was a big win for Mom and Dad and even a bigger one for my brother and me.

My brother was 10-years my senior; when I was in grammar school Jay was sports editor during his 2-years at East Los Angeles Junior College. Jay saved the money he made as manager of a local grocery store to travel to sports events all over the globe. And I feel the guilt to this day for constantly urging him to stay in school and get paid to cover those same events. But Jay lived an amazing 31-years; he died in an accident while attending the Mexico City during summer Olympics of 1968. And I lost the greatest big brother a kid ever had. But Jay was my boots on the ground influencer when it came to the joy of reading, writing, and taking the time to enjoy life.

And after considerable thought (about 4-seconds), all I’ve got to say for myself, even after being blessed with the advantages of environment AND DNA, is summed up by none other than Steve Martin, who once shared “Thankfully, persistence is a great substitute for talent.”