Andy Rooney…on Rosemead Blvd, Part II
So it doesn’t seem possible Andy Rooney’s been gone two years in November; he died only about a month following his last 60 Minutes appearance (he was 92 years old and it was his 1,097th commentary.) Rooney’s video essays had been a 60 Minutes staple since way back in 1978.
I’ve always been a huge Andy Rooney fan. And I’m not sure whether I’m troubled or proud that we began our runs at practically the same time. And I bet my dental team sees me more like a crotchety curmudgeon than I’d care to believe (so is having lots of opinions a crime?)
Anyway, I always admired Rooney’s seemingly endless sense of curiosity. I also thought it was cool the way he never put up with any of the usual and customary El Toro doo-doo (aka…BS) most of us let slide way too often.
I’ve heard Rooney wonder aloud for pay on Sunday nights (since I was a kid) about stuff like door knobs, hyperactive opossums, paper clips (not what they used to be), Rodney King, the NBA, Matisse, cold remedies, and even how coffee goes into a coffee can.
And I’ve virtually interviewed Andy twice in the last seven years right across Las Tunas at El Pollo Loco. The first time, Andy was wondering what Chihuahuas really thought about. Next time around it was the Mafia, reformed smokers, and born-again Christians and why they were all so stinkin’ intolerant.
So while the memory of Rooney’s 33-year CBS stint was still fresh, I couldn’t help but wonder what he thought about stuff more ridiculous than dairy subsidies on the moon.
I give you…Andy Rooney (the commentary’s two years old but still far more relevant than the words “bruin” and “football”.):
“Tonight I’m going to talk about Rosemead Blvd.
I’ve been on probably the most disastrous highway in the U.S. twice now (both times visiting a friend who says he’s the foremost scribe/elite athlete/DDS in the San Gabriel valley.) Today I went back for one last look and I think it’s time I finally speak up.
So a little while ago while attempting (in vain) to get to Temple City off The 10 north on Rosemead, I had to wonder why I was spending so much time being somewhere I really don’t like.
And you’re right; the same principle applies when I’m traveling to cover political conventions.
My dislike for this “Boulevard (under-perpetual-repair) to nowhere” is now complete. And my going south on the clogged aortic passage, toward the burg that used to be downtown Temple City, actually caused me to age…and I’m already 92 freakin’ years old!!!
Yeah, today it finally hit me I must finally be getting old when I realized I hated a street from two different directions. I even shouted out, “I hate Rosemead!!!” And it felt good too. Just so you know; it’s not just me. My Temple City molar jockey buddy Dr. V. goes by “Smilin’ Jack” in select sophisticated dental circles and I didn’t even know those circles existed…but he hates Rosemead too!!!
And if I’d ever used the word “hate” when I was a kid (under 50; okay, 60) my Mother would’ve washed my mouth out with un-fluoridated soap.
So after all these years I guess maybe it’s time to finally look in the mirror. No…I don’t think so. Not for this! We’re talkin’ Rosemead!!!
So I knew I was sick and tired of Sarah Palin. And I don’t think I’m the only guy around who isn’t impressed by a politician who guns down a moose from a helicopter with automatic weapons. And I know Von Bulow isn’t crazy about screeching Bolton, whimpering Blount, and cutesy Buble’ either. But “hate” is far too strong a word.
And I do hate Salmonella, E. Coli., and the Tijuana trots. I don’t hate Wall Street bankers…but I do hate cynicism and a sense of entitlement that reduces less fortunate people to less fortunate numbers.
So maybe I really don’t hate Rosemead. Maybe I’m just sick and tired of the sight of the crummy looking thoroughfare all the way from what used to be Del Taco to the wastelands of Temple City to the freeway that makes body and fender guys millionaires
And there it is. I just had a full out conversation with myself discussing the merits of my hatred for an inanimate object when it might really be just a preference. Good grief, I bet I was even wearing that mean looking hawk-like scowl I’ve seen permanently etched on the faces of old white folks who thought they were just going to a tea party.
So thanks for putting up with my rant. Oh yeah, I’m still on Rosemead but you’re never too old to slow down and take some time to smell the roses…or whatever.”