On a Slow Day, Think High Colonics

Slow, slow days here in California. As quiet as Canada. Our boom times long faded away. California not the same without its boom. Drought gone, too. A pity. Used to be, on a slow day, you could always complain about the drought.

Back East they’re selecting presidential timber. No slow days there. Excitement everywhere. Yesterday it was Connecticut, right? A micro state with a population about the size of, oh, Fresno’s. Nonetheless, Connecticut fairly hopping. All the hotels packed with pundits. Everyone watching.

But here, sleepy time. No primary in California until June, long after presidential timber issue has been settled by likes of Connecticut. And I suspect that’s the way we want it.

For example: It so happens we have a U.S. Senate race going. Two of them, in fact. First time in anyone’s memory that we will elect two senators at once.

So, quick, tell me the candidates running for just one of the two seats. You have 15 seconds.

Can’t do it? Of course not. I can’t either.

Slow, slow, in California.

Here’s something to perk us up. A New Age newsletter, just arrived on my desk, reports Santa Barbara ranks as No. 1 center for high colonics in U.S. Who would have thought? Newsletter not entirely clear on methodology producing No. 1 ranking for Santa Barbara, but other interesting facts abound.

Apparently, high colonics come and go in California like a cultural tide. The first wave of enthusiasm struck in the ‘30s. All over Los Angeles, citizens decided that clean bowels formed the cornerstone of healthy life.

The fad died during World War II, only to return in the ‘50s, about the time Joe McCarthy was ferreting out Communism. Then it faded again until the recessionary ‘90s.

New wrinkle this time: house calls. Newsletter reports that monthly arrival of high colonics van bestows status on patrons in certain neighborhoods of Hope Ranch and Montecito.

These facts clearly suggest high colonics function as social barometer. But barometer of what? And why Santa Barbara? A California mystery.

Moving on, here’s more slow-day news: you are probably aware that several cities of Southern California hand out official-issue garbage cans to residents. But do you know that the size of these cans has great meaning?

First, the background. Recycling and automation are forcing cities to provide standardized cans to all residents. Eventually, the old cans you bought at Thrifty will be useless. Only government-issue cans will get picked up at curbside.

This means each city must decide the type and size of the can that will be distributed to the masses. A Soviet-style decision, and highly symbolic. Santa Monica, natch, gives citizens a choice: 95 gallons, 68 gallons, or 40. Also, natch, there is a catch. Starting in April, all conspicuous-consuming pigs who choose the 95-gallon cans will get docked an extra fee.

In L.A., the city provides no choices. Everyone gets a middle-of-the-road, 60-gallon job. Actually, you get two, putting the total at 120 gallons. This total obviously reflects toadying by bureaucrats who fear that the spirit of Sam Yorty’s garbage revolt in ’61 has never died away.

Then there’s Beverly Hills, which makes things simple. It hands out one can to all. Size: 300 gallons. No questions, no problems. Just fill it up. If not used for garbage, can is suitable for swimming.

Enough on garbage, let’s cruise to slow finish with this item: unbeknown to most of you, a certain block of shops in downtown L.A. may hold the secret to ending the trade gap with Japan. This tiny block, tucked into Little Tokyo, sells mostly American goods. But it caters exclusively to Japanese tourists.

Get it? These shops, in pure capitalist fashion, sell only the American-made goods that the Japanese want . What are those goods? Here is a selected list: cowboy boots, Dodgers jackets, console radios from the 1930s, Indian headdresses, neon beer signs, Jack Nicklaus golf clubs, sand paintings of Ronald Reagan riding horse.

Also, rice grown in Sacramento Valley. Rice is major item for Japanese tourists because American rice cannot be purchased legally inside Japan. Store clerks say Japanese businessmen buy two-pound sacks to use as paperweights.

So how to take advantage of these precious trade secrets? A tough one, beyond me. Bill Clinton might have an idea, of course. Or Jerry. Or George. Those guys always have ideas, if only we could ask.

But we can’t. Because this is just a slow day in California and they’re not here. They’re back East, in a state the size of Fresno, answering the questions of more important people who, after all, are choosing our presidential timber.