Avoiding Regret

Photo Essay: The Big Parade, Day One, Year Two

2013-05-19T21:44:00.001-07:00

Last year's Big Parade was a pretty epic experience for me.

I'd decided to start as early as I could and go for as long as I could, hoping to reach Griffith Observatory for the solar eclipse.

I made it, just barely. And then I had to find my way back to my car.

I hiked over 17 miles that day. And although it was along a circuitous path only bringing me 4.5 miles from my original starting point, it felt like I went a very long way.

I was excited to embark on the other day of The Big Parade this year, though I felt less of a personal challenge. I'd already walked the 17 miles. I didn't need to break my record. I didn't really need to go anywhere.

But it was something I wanted to be a part of.

Yesterday, I only did the Main Loop of The Big Parade, joining the group in Elysian Park...

... and winding our way through (only) five or six miles of the park, Elysian Heights, and Echo Park before bailing out and heading back to my car.

But actually, despite being much shorter than last year, it was plenty.

Apparently, though I am an avid hiker, I don't climb enough stairs.

My ankles aren't used to walking on that much asphalt and concrete.

I long for the earth under my feet.

Fortunately a lunch stop back in Elysian Park provided a soft grassy seat...

...plenty of doggies (whose stamina far outlasted mine) and the dulcet tones of a ukelele orchestra, the highlight of my entire weekend.

Compared to last year...

I don't feel like I made it very far.

It wasn't as hot as last year, but, without enough breaks, the stairs really wore on me.

Walking in circles wore on me.

I wanted to have somewhere to go, some destination to draw me closer.

As we were tracing the historic steps of long-gone commuters who once needed to climb down to the streetcar and back up to their homes...

...we climbed up...

...and up...

...and up...

...and sometimes down...

...through one zen-like garden...

...past homes teetering on the edge of the world.

At one point, there were over 200 walkers trekking through LA with The Big Parade, a record-breaking turnout.

This year, I wanted to parade so I could be part of something, but our crowd was so big...

...we ended up spreading out into several distant chunks, taking few breaks to let the stragglers (like me) catch up.

And so, for too long, I walked alone.

As I usually do.

I just couldn't keep up. So rather than be left behind, I left.

And afterwards, I still didn't have anywhere to go, or anyone to be with.

Related Posts:
Keep on Moving
Photo Essay: The Big Parade Day Two (Silverlake)
Photo Essay: The Big Parade Day Two Part 2 (Franklin Hills, Los Feliz, Griffith Park)
Photo Essay: Elysian Park, Beyond Dodger Stadium
Photo Essay: The Stairs of LA

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Everything Comes from Somewhere

2013-05-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

On Friday morning - at a time I would have considered still night back in New York - I got up early to go produce shopping with Chef Robert Luna, the man behind the East LA-inspired deliciousness at Malo in Silverlake and Mas Malo downtown (where I spent my lonelyhearts Valentine's Day in 2011).

Technically, anyone can go nocturnal foraging on their own...

...if they're prepared to battle the commercial trucks and forklifts they'll face upon arrival before the sun comes up at Los Angeles Wholesale Produce Market. And if they're prepared to buy wholesale (at least, a case of tomatoes, bananas, whatever).

Though walking through the stalls is somewhat reminiscent of wandering the aisles at Ralph's, we were reminded that this is where Ralph's gets their produce.

In the journey from farm to table, everything has to come from somewhere.

The produce market is currently dominated by what Chef Robert calls the "new market," which is full of A-grade, commonly sought-after produce (and some nuts and herbs and other things)...

...but Robert prefers to go beyond the new market to the old market, where he grew up, his mother too a cook who embarked on nocturnal foraging to bring delights back to Boyle Heights.

It's a sprawling, institutional-feeling complex, whose central courtyard (feeling somewhat like a prison yard) used to be covered and not open-air...

...as evidenced by two columns that remain amongst the pallets and trucks...

...that used to hold the whole thing up.

The nearby cafe has long-since closed, but there is plenty of activity around the old market - and plenty of secrecy. This is the old world. Not everybody likes everybody knowing their business. Not everybody plays by the rules. And these are B-grade products, allowing chefs like Robert to keep their restaurant prices low and still their margins high.

Maybe it's better if you don't know where the beautiful dishes you eat came from. But not everything was born this way. Sometimes things come from ugly places and, with a little help and love, can turn into something beautiful. And just because you know where it came from doesn't make it any less beautiful.

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Photo Essay: Old Soldiers Home Chapel and Streetcar Depot, Closed

2013-05-19T13:42:00.002-07:00

postcard courtesy of the VA

I first realized that the Veteran's Administration campus was showing signs of massive deterioration one of the first times I was driving down Wilshire (probably my favorite street in Los Angeles) near the National Cemetery, rounding the bend onto San Vicente. At the time, I had no idea I was in Sawtelle - not Westwood, not Brentwood - or in the former Racho San Vicente y Santa Monica. I only saw a decrepit chapel, its off-white paint buckling and cracking, and thought, "What is that? That is something."

Indeed, it is something. At least, it was.

The Wadsworth Chapel is actually a rare and early example of a multidenominational chapel: two separate chapels - a Catholic one and a Protestant one - under one roof, separated by a soundproof interior wall (so both faiths could conduct services simultaneously, neither having a preferential time slot).

It is the oldest existing building on Wilshire Boulevard.

Built in 1900, the exterior shingles were originally stained dark, with windows trimmed in white, until the entire structure was painted white in 1941.

The paint is peeling and the fixtures are rusted...

...but that's only the beginning of the troubles facing Wadsworth Chapel.

A structure made nearly entirely of wood, it is constantly under attack by termites.

It is built upon an unreinforced foundation.

Although many of its original late Victorian features - eclectic exterior ornamentation (evoking both Gothic and Romanesque influences), roundels, lunettes, multiple types of windows, wainscoting, etc. - remain intact...

A 1955 fire damaged the Protestant Chapel, forcing parts of it to be walled off and/or closed altogether. Most of the structural damage is still unrepaired.

The 1971 Sylmar earthquake sealed the chapels' fate, cracking interior plaster and loosening the brick foundation, rendering one of the bell towers unstable.

Wadsworth Chapel has been closed to the public ever since.

Six years ago, the VA estimated that restoration of their Building 20 would cost $11.5 million.

In the meantime, they have left a staggering number of modern day "old soldiers" homeless, and generated revenue from the commercialization of their 400 acres. Thing is, nobody seems to know where that money went.

Like the attempts to restore many of the other structures on the VA campus, preservation of the chapel has been stalled...perhaps indefinitely.

Designed in conjunction with Wadsworth Chapel, the streetcar depot at the VA was also designed by J. Lee Burton and built in 1900. Both were listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1972, one year after the Sylmar earthquake closed the chapel permanently. At that time, the depot was already closed.

Building 66 was formerly the terminus of the Santa Monica Air Line's Soldier's Home Branch (named after the Old Soldier's Home), passenger service on which was eliminated in 1953

...rendering the station obsolete.

It stands empty now...

...but it does stand.

You can't get in, but you can look in, and you can get right up to it.

No trains run through Sawtelle now. But with the new construction of the Expo Line, maybe they will again...one day.

In the meantime, both the chapel and the streetcar depot are still-standing reminders of very early Los Angeles, a relatively new city with not a lot of historic preservation, known better for building anew rather than for celebrating its past.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Amongst the Abandoned at the Veteran's Administration, LA

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Photo Essay: Amongst the Abandoned at the Veterans Administration, LA

2013-05-19T10:43:00.002-07:00

The Veterans Administration reportedly spends millions of dollars per year maintaining vacant - and potentially hazardous - buildings on their properties throughout the country.

This is especially evident if you visit their 400-acre Sawtelle campus in West LA, sandwiched in between Westwood and Brentwood along Wilshire Blvd. and San Vicente.

Because of heightened security, you can only get in now through the Wilshire Blvd. entrance, but you can get in.

You see, although portions of it are fenced off to the facing residential streets and sidewalks...

...the grounds themselves are not abandoned.

Newer, fully functional buildings intermingle with historic but neglected buildings that have outworn their welcome, outlived their usefulness. At least, to some.

Even though the land was donated in 1888 with the specific purpose of providing housing to war veterans (back then, dubbed "volunteer disabled soldiers"), which the VA did do for the first 100 years of its existence on the westside, Los Angeles still has the highest population of homeless veterans in the country.

Along these old city streets...

...whose new signs even look weathered...

...there are numbered buildings like barracks...

...their sidewalks consumed...

...their windows broken, their paint peeling, their entry verboten.

Even if not originally built as housing...

...couldn't these looming buildings be adaptively reused?

It's not as though their use is no longer needed (unlike the military barracks of, say, Governor's Island or Western Avenue, where everybody moved out but had somewhere else to go).

Instead of providing the housing it was intended to, the VA has made millions of dollars renting its parcels of land to commercial businesses. Veterans using the medical and mental health facilities - some traveling long distances instead of being allowed to stay - have shared a third of the campus with a golf course, a stadium and other athletic fields, two theaters, a barber shop, and even rental cars.

This is contrary to the stipulations of the original deed donating the land: to permanently maintain a home for disabled soldiers.

Wandering through buildings that populate the square mile of land - which has one of the lowest population densities not only on LA's Westside, but in the entire country - it's actually not always easy to tell which buildings are abandoned and unsafe, and which ones are still open.

Homeless people - veterans themselves, perhaps? - wander throughout.

Visitors are directed to buildings that no longer welcome visitors.

Entrances are sealed.

Numerical designations have lost their meaning.

And yet...

...trees and lawns are trimmed.

An occasional window swings open.

Stairs beckon climbing.

Gorgeous architectural details beckon gawking.

However, there is no parking.

Unlike the naval housing or, say, Rancho Los Amigos, you can walk right up to the buildings...

...touch them...

...read their signs...

...rattle their locks...

...and peer into their windows.

But there are no cats to be found.

In some areas, save for the occasional maintenance worker in a golf cart...

...there are no people.

Even the post office has closed.

The battle over the VA grounds has been going on for years, culminating in a class-action lawsuit by the ACLU that objects to the conversion of parcels for commercial and recreational uses that are not in direct service to vets.

And despite promises to rehabilitate some of the existing buildings for future housing, not much progress has been made (though there is scaffolding visible and signs of a couple active construction - not demolition - sites).

map courtesy of the VA

Those vacant buildings that appear abandoned are plenty visible, but for some reason, the people who need to live in them - the abandoned veterans - are not.

Coming Soon:
Wadsworth Chapel and the Santa Monica Air Line Soldiers' Home Branch Streetcar Depot at the VA

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Abandoned Naval Housing, Western Avenue
Photo Essay: Rancho Los Amigos, Abandoned County Poor Farm, Downey (Exterior)

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My Public Shame

2013-05-16T14:59:00.001-07:00

I don't have much use for privacy. I spent my entire childhood in secrecy, hiding the horrible things my parents did to me, putting on such a good show that most of my high school classmates have no clue of the depths of depression from which I still haven't emerged.

For years, I hid myself. I hid my shame about everything. I hid my virginity, which I lost later than most. And then, when I was sexually assaulted my sophomore year in college, I chose to write about it in the campus newspaper. Not anonymously.

And an outpouring of support followed.

I've had my secrets since then. I've snuck around since then. But generally I feel better if everything is out in the open.

I feel horrible about where I've come from and what I've been through, but it's made me who I am today.

And, presumably, that's a good thing.

So why shouldn't I talk about it? Why shouldn't I reveal how I feel? Can't somebody out there relate to me?

Might I do some good if I let my voice lead the way?

Maybe I'm just desperate for the attention. Maybe I think there's no point in doing something - or dating someone - unless people know about it.

My first boyfriend took me on our first date accompanied by his best friend. I thought at first he didn't want to be alone with me, but I realized later he was kind of showing me off. That hasn't happened much since.

After him, when I got older, no one else ever seemed to want to admit any romantic interest in me, and if we ever did consummate, our affairs became a big secret - I became a big secret, to their girlfriends, wives, mothers and friends. All I've ever wanted is for someone to be proud of me, to be proud to be with me. And yet I've constantly been drawn into surreptitious skulking, sneaking around, and serendipitous run-ins.

It seems like no one has ever been able to love me with the lights on.

I am a public person. But not everyone is. That may mean I'll have to be publicly alone.

Though why someone can't be proud to be with me is beyond me.

I have been ashamed of plenty of things in my life, but I never thought I - me, as a person - was the thing to be ashamed of.

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Photo Essay: On Shaky Legs Down to the Grotto

2013-05-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

"Are you OK? Do you want a snack?" one of my fellow hikers asked me once we'd gotten down inside the upper grotto at Circle X Ranch.

"Oh, no, I'm fine, I've got some food in my bag but I'm not very hungry," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow in the cool cave, which felt 20 degrees cooler than the ambient temperature outside.

"You should probably eat something," she said, explaining that our hike leader's girlfriend had noticed I was shaking a lot.

"Well yeah," I said, "But that was from fear."

I'd embarked on what had been designated a "beginner" hike with a group because it seemed difficult enough to navigate and intimidating enough to not want to do alone. I knew there would be some bouldering around the grotto, and some rock-hopping across streams to get to the grotto, which I'd rather do with a little help.

Though the rest of my group bemoaned the lack of running water in the dry stream, I was relieved that I wasn't going to slip again and fall - at least, not there.

I did not know I would be crawling vertically down a boulder, aided only by a stretchy rope tied to a tree. My inexperience in rockclimbing made my big hiking boot feel really unstable in the tiny footholds in the rocks, and I never knew where to put my hands. My body felt too heavy for me to hold up with my arms - even with a rope - and I kept worrying that I would fall onto my hike leader below and crush him, though softening my fall.

The hike to the grotto starts innocently enough, first through the lower parking lot and then down a driveway...

...which turns into a jeep trail past some wildflowers.

There are easy steps leading you down along this reverse hike...

...during which you lose elevation first and then have to climb back up at the end.

The aforementioned rope dangled from our hike leader's pack as we followed from behind.

I'd hoped it was just a precaution, not thinking we'd actually be using - no, relying on - it.

After a shady grove...

...with a few easy ups and downs...

...we emerged into a dry prairie, where sandstone formations loom in the distance.

Hiking through this former boy scout camp, you can see at once the natural splendor that was once home to Native Americans...

...as well as to the Spanish rancheros that settled and worked here (particularly because of the abundance of grasses and water).

Usually there's still a lot of water there, but after a dry winter with very little rainfall, and an early onset of wildfire season, we're lucky Circle X didn't catch fire with the rest of the Santa Monica Mountains in the recent Springs fire.

The grotto itself isn't actually that far, and very easy to hike downhill to...

...as the landscape changes and the ferns arise...

...and the rock outcroppings seem to indicate the end of the trail.

But no, you have to keep going.

You have to climb down and across.

You have to shimmy down a tree and get yourself down there.

Oh, shit.

For those of us lily-white city folk with soft knees and manicured nails, this is a challenge. And unlike our Cave of Munits hike where there was always some strong guy to grab my arm and yank me to where I needed to be, this time I had to get over my fears myself.

As I was struggling, I received lots of offers from the hikers above, and encouragement from the hikers below, to try to get me there. "I can do it," I declared. "Just gimme a minute."

They didn't realize it, but that was a huge accomplishment for me. Not long ago, I would've burst into tears and bawled, "I can't do it!" But I knew I could do it. I just needed to take my time to figure it out.

I was the first one into the upper grotto cave, feeling proud of myself...

...until the others arrived, concerned for my well-being.

I had embraced my fear of heights and falling.

Now I just had to worry about the boulder that had fallen on top of this waterfall 8000 years ago to form a cave. Would it move again? Geology is now.

We hung out there for a while, dipping our fingers into the water and eating our snacks, but our hike was not over. We still had to climb down to the lower grotto, whose waterfall is fed by the upper grotto.

The lower grotto is more of an open-air formation, the sun reflecting off the water onto the rocks...

...but you wouldn't want to go swimming in there.

At least, not now. It's pretty green and slimy. And full of tadpole-eating water snakes, and at least one salamander.

It's another other-worldly landscape.

I suppose when the water is really raging in a wet season, the Grotto is kind of an exciting place to visit. But when the water is down to just a trickle, it was calm and cool, a welcome respite from the hot day, and from the terror I felt getting there.

Even the lizards are willing to pose for a photo.

But all the way down there, at the bottom of the lower grotto, I couldn't help thinking, "We've got to get all the way back up there - the same way we came."

And we did.

And I survived.

But not without a little shaking from fear.

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Dispatches from My Soft, Naked Core

2013-05-13T16:23:00.002-07:00

Maybe I've grown old.

Maybe I've grown up.

Maybe I've lived alone for too long, I've forgotten my former liberal sexual politics.

Maybe California has changed me.

Maybe I've finally developed some long-sought sense of self respect.

But now the casual, soulless world of dating just makes me sad. Like, really sad.

It used to be that being alone made me sad. Being rejected made me sad.

Now being pursued makes me sad. And knowing the ins and outs of those pursuits, which are most certainly used on others, perhaps more unsuspecting than me, has burst my bubble so badly, I've given up nearly all hope of romance in this world.

I have a high school friend I haven't seen in years who has used Facebook to compliment me, at first out of admiration, then out of some long distance sexual pursuit. I am a lonely woman, so I admit that I encouraged him at first, despite his marital status, assuming he was lonely too, in a loveless marriage, and was trying to connect with something familiar and safe. When he admitted that he and his wife did love each other, and were continuing the marital act of lovemaking (despite not always actually sleeping in the same bed), I turned cold. It didn't matter how smart or talented or interesting he thought I was. I no longer felt complimented by his lecherous comments on my photos.

I have an LA friend I don't know very well, who has pursued me on and off since we met in October, usually in between dating some other girl. We've gone out a couple of times, so it seemed OK to accept an offer for a sexless sleepover. (After all, I am more often turned down for sex than pursued for it in LA, so it would probably be safe enough.) Upon peeling back my layers of clothing and revealing my soft, naked core, he delighted in everything I saw as physical flaws, and exuberantly pointed them out. When I complained, wanting to bury myself in a winter coat and never come out again, he protested, "No, I like it!" But someone telling you how much they like your love handles or your unshaven legs or your big nose or your ears that stick out - and, for my own protection, those were not the things that he pointed out - only makes you more self-conscious about those areas. I guess we women don't want guys to even notice that we haven't waxed our eyebrows in over two years, not for them to exclaim, "No I love how messy they are!"

Besides, why was this guy so hyper-focused on my body parts anyway? Why are all guys across the board obsessed with nipples and do everything in their power to catch a glimpse of one?

Both those situations made me feel horrible. And those were guys who know me, who profess to like me.

In New York, I never knew it back then, but I now marvel at strangers' ability to pretend, quite convincingly, for the span of time that they're with you, that they are so into you. You are soulmates. You are the most gorgeous woman they've ever met. You are hilarious. They can't spend the night without you. (And then, of course, you never hear from them again, and if you do see them again, they don't remember you, or pretend not to.) In LA, a harsh reality sets in before anyone is even naked, when guys say things like, "I don't know if I like you. I don't know you." And for some reason, you still take your clothes off.

I'm not sure if it matters if they like me or not, because even when they do like me (see above), it doesn't feel so good.

I don't know what I expect - what I ever expected - but it's not that. It's not this.

It's not meeting a bartender who's also new in town, bonding over moving from New York, and then getting booty-called by him at the end of his shift, punctuated by a text message that reads, "Wanna bang?" the next morning.

It's not him telling me, after I've gracefully declined his kind offer, that he wishes I wasn't all "cracked out", or he'd give me his big you-know-what, and do you-know-what to me.

That doesn't make me laugh. At this point in my life, that feels like a threat. I don't know where in the world that behavior is considered acceptable, but not in mine. I don't know what girl would have gone for an approach like that, but not this girl.

I went on a blind date fix-up the other night, and when I finally arrived to the bar late, the guy sitting next to my date got up to leave. Clearly he was lit, and apparently had been drinking for hours already. He bowed out of the conversation, gave up his barstool, and declared, "Don't worry, I'm clearly not driving home. I'm going to go hit up my Top 5."

I was stunned. "I knew that happened," I told my date, "but I've never heard it actually said out loud by a real person."

My date wasn't sure what I was talking about, so I clarified, "He's going to go try the top five girls he can booty call."

"Oh," my date said. "I had no idea."

And then I wondered why I knew that and he didn't.

And what that said about me as a dater.

And whose Top 5 I had been in.

And for whom I'd only been #5. (Somehow that feels worse than being off the list altogether.)

I am a competitive person. I don't like to play games I can't win. When I won a game show, I didn't answer a question unless I was absolutely sure I would get the answer right.

I kind of don't want to do this anymore unless I can be #1. And not just on the booty call list. I don't want to be #1 Nipples or #1 Ass or #1 Orgasm.

I just want to be important. And valued. And the only one. At least for a while.

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Downtown LA's Upwards Build into the Open Air

2013-05-11T22:54:00.002-07:00

One of my biggest complaints with New York right before I left (and now, whenever I go back) was the claustrophobia I felt, both underground on crowded subway trains, and above ground on tourist- and stroller-infested sidewalks, under the ever-present shadow cast by the looming buildings that you were never supposed to look up at.

There are many days I never saw the sun, even during daylight.

So I escaped from the vertical build of New York City to the horizontal, suburban sprawl of Los Angeles.

For all of the wide open spaces of LA's ranches and canyons and flat freeways, people sometimes forget that LA is more than Hollywood Boulevard and Route 66 and beaches and the Sunset Strip. For a long time, LA's center city was Downtown, an area of town where density once ruled.

LA's Downtown, however, wasn't like other cities' downtowns. And it still isn't.

For decades, a city ordinance prevented developers from building higher than 12 stories, in order to preserve the city's open air landscape. Even when a workaround was figured out for City Hall - and that municipal building towered above all others - for years, no one could build anything higher than City Hall.

But in the mid-20th century, when urban renewal became a thing and the once-affluent Bunker Hill, with its once-spectacular Victorian houses, became a blight overlooking old Downtown, LA city planners had an idea: demolish (or move) all the ramshackle houses that had become an eyesore and cost the city more money to maintain than the city made in tax revenue, flatten the hill, and build a "New Downtown."

This New Downtown would be tall. And this New Downtown would be spacious, not crowded like Broadway and Spring Street, full of pandhandlers. The new, modern skyline would rise high above the streets and the cars below, but yet still allow you to see the sky.

Each skyscraper was planned with its own public space - gardens, plazas, and, in the case of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power building, a moat - that would create a fortress-like isolation for the new buildings.

They would be self-contained and self-sufficient...

...leaving the incandescent lights on to warm up on chilly nights...

...and firing up the water features to cool down when it's hot.

At night, the city sparkles like any metropolis might...

...but you can be right in the middle of it, and still gaze at it from afar.

In aggregate, depending on where you're standing (like beneath the Central Library, or on the Oviatt Penthouse roof deck), the structures that comprise the New Downtown create a crowded skyline.

But individually, each on their own, they tower in solitude.

And walking or driving beneath them, I don't feel claustrophobic anymore. I can relate to them. I need my space, too.

Related Post:
Looking Up from the Streets of Downtown LA
Wide Open Spaces
Up and Down Bunker Hill on Angels Flight

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Photo Essay: Abandoned Naval Housing, Western Avenue

2013-05-10T01:27:00.001-07:00

We drive by so much in LA.

I like to walk by and have a look.

I like to park my car, get out and have a look.

Among the attractions that often pass us by as we're tuning our radios, flicking our blinkers, wiping our windshields and shifting our gears are the places that used to be something.

There's not much - or, perhaps, nothing - there now, but - once - something was there.

(This is the same thing I say on many hikes when I encounter some footing or foundation or some stairs to nowhere - "That used to be something.")

Case in point: wedged between a cemetery and an oil refinery along California State Route 213 near the border of Rancho Palos Verdes and San Pedro is a stretch of abandoned sidewalk, beyond which is fenced off. Not much there.

But when you take a closer look...

You come across some secret governmental property...

...with a road that has long since been closed...

...and an unmanned security kiosk.

No one's really around. But it feels like they're watching.

A peek beyond the chainlink fence reveals old naval housing, shrinking into the dusty hillside...

...looking like dollhouses with their still-green bushes and still-standing wooden fences.

Boarded up, they're clearly abandoned, but not in shambles - at least, from the outside.

But you can't get in there.

The fence is patched up, covering any access points that were once made, by deterioration or by force.

Electrical wires dangle...

...trees, shrubs and aloe plants overgrow.

But despite the cracked pavement and the desolation...

...it is not entirely abandoned. The entire parcel is now privately owned.

And they're keeping us out, because they have big plans for it.

I mean, like Surfridge, there's a whole town in there. At 62.5 acres, it's huge.

Developers would like to turn it into a housing project called Ponte Vista...

...which was first proposed at 2300 units in 2005...

...and has since been downsized (a couple of times) to a sprawling suburban gated community of 830 homes.

There has been a huge community uproar over the proposal...

...despite the fact that it is just sitting there, inaccessible to the public...

...right behind a local high school.

Fences beckon climbing.

Barbed wire invites tetanus.

And the biggest community concern over the development proposals?

The traffic.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Trespassing Through Southland's Military History

Other Reading:
LA City Planning Ponte Vista Historic Resource Report

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Photo Essay: Hike to a Ghost Shipwreck

2013-05-06T23:22:00.000-07:00

When we first got to the first bits of the Dominator shipwreck, our hike leader said, "Well, there it is. There's some more if you go a little farther, but it's all the same."

We'd hiked three miles on treacherous rocks to get there, and all of our ankles were hurting. "Was it worth the walking on the rocks?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," I grumbled, as I trudged on, waiting to see the rest of the wreck.

We'd met on a residential street in Palos Verdes Estates, not far from where I'd first looked for the Dominator. I knew where the shipwreck was, and had followed its GPS coordinates, which led me to a house on a cliff. I had no idea how to get down there.

It turns out, there's a trail that leads down there...

...at first dusty and sandy...

...and soon, rocky and craggy.

It smelled like the ocean down there.

And unfortunately, in the United States, that smell is not so pleasant.

This is where rock slides make their final tumble to the ground.

This is where the stormwater drains.*

This is where pelicans go to die.

But despite the putrid smell (or maybe because of it), this is also where baby sea lions do push-ups on the rocks...

...and where brightly-colored ornamental flowers dot the beach line.

In New York, this beach would be littered with used condoms, dirty underwear, and drug paraphernalia.

Here, the worst I found - besides the sewer drains graffitied and looming like bunkers - were a few discarded energy drinks, bottles of tea...

...and the occasional plank to walk.

Our first glimpse of the shipwreck was something sticking out from the water - and not one of the scuba divers or illegal harpooners we'd spotted earlier.

We then came upon a smoke stack...

...and some rusted metal sheets.

Our hike leader stopped there...

...claiming that anything beyond was all the same.

I decided to split from the main group and continue...

...to see what else I could find.

I then happened upon the holy grail...

...distinguishable mechanics...

...more stacks or tubes of some sort...

...and a crazy rusted bulldozer.

Was the bulldozer part of the original shipwreck, which occurred more than 50 years ago when the Greek freighter became trapped on the rocks?

Probably not.

Maybe it had been onboard the freighter, but the Dominator had been carrying wheat to deliver to Algiers. It only meant to stop in Long Beach for fuel.

When it got stuck on the rocks - because of low visibility, because of lack of GPS navigation, who knows? - the crew stayed on board for a couple of days, hoping for rescue.

Coast Guard tugboats attempted rescue, but when they failed...

...the crew abandoned ship.

Now the debris is scattered over a half mile...

...much of which is still underwater.

At over 400 feet in length, that's a lot of wreckage.

Nature has taken over the debris, but not as much as you'd think.

The rusted metal still holds strong - enough for you to walk on it.

And rather than being consumed by the beach, the rust seems to have spread far and wide over the rocks, many of which aren't that close to the remaining pieces.

The landscape is other-worldly, and it's hard to imagine its alien terrain being much different in 1961. It is extremely difficult to walk on, even in hiking boots, even with a hiking stick, with every rock wobbling underfoot, and cast aside rusted trapping cages waiting to slice your ankles.

Some of us spent our break time exploring the bulk of the shipwreck, while others stayed beyond to sit atop a rock and have a snack. When I returned to their stopping point, I exclaimed how the hike wouldn't have been worth it unless I'd gone all the way.

"Eh," our hike leader said, "It all looks the same to me."

By the time we were ready to turn back, we were all so tired of walking on rocks, I feeling mentally exhausted from having to carefully plan every single step, so we agreed to take a shortcut back: up the Drainpipe trail.

At first I imagined scooting our way up inside the drainpipe, and then perhaps shimmying atop the drainpipe, but it turns out there's a rough, easily climbable trail alongside it...

...that gives you a break from all the rock-walking, as long as you can survive the steep climb and not look down behind you.

"It was worth it," I proclaimed, "But I'll probably never do it again."

It's easy to say that after a couple of hours of ankle-breaking rock-trekking and a foul sewer stench.

But upon refection, I think I could do it again. At least, to show somebody else. It's not so easy to find on your own.

[*Ed: Not the sewers!]

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The Long Path to Sleep

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A Wayfarer's Visit to a Chapel

2013-05-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

I feel a little lost right now.

Not that I think I'm going to find my way through religion, but in my wandering journey, a couple of times I've found myself at churches.

Entertainingly, they haven't been churches of the faith in which I was raised - Catholicism - but rather some other species, variety, permutation, or sect that believes in Jesus and uses the Bible but conducts themselves quite differently than what I'm used to.

I don't particularly like what I'm used to, so I've enjoyed the religious tourism of the First Congregational Church's Easter organ concert, and most recently, the Wayfarer's Chapel.

As a wayfarer myself, on my way to hike down to a shipwreck in Palos Verdes, it seemed appropriate that I at least stop by.

Besides, I'd tried to visit once before, and was shut out because of a late Saturday afternoon wedding, on one of the sunniest days of the year.

I went back today, on one of the cloudiest.

But as the pastor - or reverend, or priest, or whatever he's called in Swedenborgianism, the religion celebrated there - reminded us, after all these wildfires that have ravaged our western canyons down to the Malibu beach, we could use the cool weather, and the rain.

I couldn't concentrate much on the readings from Psalms, or the Book of Revelations, or God knows from Edward Swedenborg himself, but I liked sitting in a pew in Lloyd Wright's "Glass Church"...

...surrounded by redwoods, which have just recently reached maturity, and being invited to take a moment, if I hadn't already this week, to listen to the sounds from the wilderness that were calling out to me.

I hadn't already this week.

And I did today.

And it was the best. The leaves rustling, the surf crashing, the rain drizzling, a bird chirping.

And then I realized, as I tiptoed out to get to my scheduled hike in time, that my church is outside, out in the open, not in some building somewhere.

When I cast my eyes heavenward, I want to see the sky - not a ceiling - even if that sky is full of clouds.

As churches go, the Wayfarer's Chapel is a good one, with glass all around - allowing you to look out at nature, even if it doesn't quite let nature in.

But I left the Glass Church satisfied with the notion that what I was supposed to do next was hike down a cliff to the beach and look for a shipwreck for a couple of hours.

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Photo Essay: Union Theatre, West Adams

2013-05-05T21:06:00.000-07:00

I had the chance to visit the old Union Theatre in LA's historic West Adams neighborhood, where the Velaslavasay Panorama is now housed.

I captured only a small amount of photos.

Then again, it's a very small theater.

It originally opened as the Union Square Theater, maybe in the '30s, maybe in the '20s, maybe before.

It's been reincarnated many times, as a neighborhood cinema, a church meeting house, as well as a tile layers' union hall.

A piano stands unplayed.

Lights illuminate the pockmarks on the walls.

An organ invites curious fingers.

An upstairs level has been constructed to house the panorama, which changes periodically.

Right now it's "Effulgence of the North."

Outside in the back...

...there's a lovely garden...

...that feels wild and a bit unkempt...

...which is part of the charm of the entire place.

I went to the Union Theatre for a beekeeping event. It turns out they keep bees on their roof, and facilitate would-be beekeepers to learn their craft.

You just never know what you'll find in LA...

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Photo Essay: The View Above the 405

2013-05-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

We drivers in LA love to talk about "driving over the hill," but how often do we get out of our cars and actually go hiking in those hills?

After visiting The Getty Center, I took the opportunity to bring Edith into the hills across the 405 Freeway, to gain a little elevation and look down upon The Getty itself as well as the rush hour cars crawling their way up over the hill into the Valley, while we let the sinking sun's golden rays washed over our sweating faces.

I always marvel at how high you can get, so quickly.

It's late in the season for wildflowers, though we saw a few...

...and the hills still retained their green hue, not having turned themselves over to their summer brown yet...

...though still bearing the scars of a brush fire from Fall 2012.

Those cars down there don't know what's up here.

The trail winds around, all the while keeping the 405 and The Getty in view...

...past a few more wildflowers...

...through Getty View Park. The normal approach to this park - and its overlook, marked by a shady tree - is closed due to 405 construction...

...but you can still get to it from Sepulveda Fire Road, a wide, dusty path.

We encountered one tiny kingsnake (I think) along the way, during one shady portion as Hoag Canyon opened up to our right...

...but otherwise the hike was bright and sunny, ending at a fenced-off private property...

...signaling us to turn around and go back the way we came.

Whenever I drive over the hill - along the 405, the 5, Laurel Canyon, the 101 or Cahuenga - I always look up at that which rises above me, wondering, "What's up there?"

Getty View is just a small taste of it.

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A Kick in the Pants

2013-05-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

My former boss took me to lunch this week to catch up with me, and probably to take pity on me and feed me.

She also took the opportunity to yell at me.

After all this time of waiting for signs from the Universe, it's been nearly a year since I left the job for which she'd hired me. And I haven't really gotten anywhere. I haven't figured anything out.

Fortunately, I am working right now. I'm not making enough to live on, but I'm proud of what I'm doing. But the six month gig is halfway over, and by the end of July, I've got to figure something else out.

I don't know what I'm going to do the rest of this year, and she's asking me what my five year plan is, what my ten year plan is.

What do I want to be doing?

Because apparently, it's not this.

I told her, "I'd like to write."

"SO WRITE!" she yelled. "Write a book! Don't waste your time on a fulltime job you're going to quit! Get a book deal!"

I shrank in my seat. I nodded. I just agreed with everything she said. I chose the path of least resistance.

I don't have enough money to live on now or enough time to write. I don't know how she expects me to do that, without help of some kind of benefactor or windfall.

I know she loves me. I know she was only yelling because she cares about me. But when someone yells, "YOU HAVE SO MUCH POTENTIAL!" at you, it doesn't feel flattering. It still feels like you're being yelled at.

I know she's right. I know I'm just treading water. I know I'm going nowhere.

But I refuse to worry.

I write all the time. I find ways to make money. I usually choose to work. I can still pay my rent - for now.

Maybe there's something lackadaisical about California that permits its residents to float on by, to not settle down, to rebuke the five year plan. Forty-somethings sleep on mattresses on the floor and board up with roommates. Travelers car-camp instead of forking over $50 for a night in a motel. Starlets couch-surf and sleep their way into their star-making role.

I'm worried that I'm going to lose my apartment soon. I desperately need a new mattress that I can't afford. I don't want to commit to a full size (the only size my murphy bed will hold), but I'm worried I'll never need a Queen or King size.

I'm worried that I've been out of the game too long.

I'm worried that I'll never be happy in an office again. That I'll never be able to respect authority again.

I worry that my time is up.

So what's my five year plan? My ten year plan? I can only imagine that my attractiveness will continue to wane (having peaked two and a half years ago), my loneliness will worsen, my 401K will disappear entirely, and infertility will finally set in.

Then again, magic may happen. As my own beauty dies, the beauty that surrounds me may persist. Someone may someday love me, even if I don't love them back. Fortune may befall me.

After all, I now live in the Land of Opportunity. Anything can happen.

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Photo Essay: The Getty Center, On a Clear Day

2013-04-30T00:49:00.001-07:00

The first time I visited The Getty Center, I was in LA on a business trip in June, still not used to the gloom of the summer, and I encountered not just an overcast day up there in the hills overlooking the 405, but a misty fog so low and thick, it was like being in the clouds.

It was a soft focus version of LA that's common in June, unable to see past the neighboring Bel Air communities.

I went back a few weeks ago, nearly three years later and a couple months earlier in the year, and I got probably the clearest day The Getty Center will ever see, a day so clear you could see forever.

From the blindingly bright tram ride up...

...to our first arrival, jaunting across the lawn...

...we could see a clear blue sky...

...and straight out to the ocean.

The sun glistened off railings...

...reflected greens and blues that I had not yet seen at The Getty...

...casting shadows in stark contrast...

...whether from building...

...or human.

The cleaved travertine undulated in the light...

...its fossil-like leaf impressions exposed...

...and its stacked columns glowing an unnatural orange.

We went to The Getty for a couple of special exhibits for the currently-running Pacific Standard Time...

...but I've always been a bit more interested in The Getty itself, than in its collections.

I'm happy now that I've seen it under a bright bulb.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: The Getty Center Under Fog

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My Time Has Passed

2013-04-30T00:25:00.000-07:00

I think it's too late for me.

I think my time has passed.

I think I have grown so resilient to the perils of life and love that I can't stop being suspicious.

I can't stop being hurt. It's the most natural thing for me.

I can't stop assuming I'm going to be hurt.

I can't stop assuming the worst.

I can't stop waiting for the worst to happen.

And when it does, I'm kind of glad.

When it does, I'm kind of relieved.

Because I knew it. I just knew it.

I was right all along.

And I am not good at letting someone prove me wrong.

No one has ever loved me back. Why would anyone start now? Or later? Or then? Or ever?

I have gotten good at being alone. It is both the easiest and hardest thing I do, every day. My independence is perhaps my greatest accomplishment.

And yet, perhaps, it is also my greatest impediment.

Related Post:
Damaged Goods, Or, The Female James Bond

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An Alternate Route

2013-04-27T21:11:00.001-07:00

I had such a good time at last fall's CicLAvia that I considered asking Edith to come visit from NYC during the spring weekend so she could experience it too.

But then six months passed and I forgot, and when Edith attempted to schedule her next visit, her only available weekend just happened to coincide with CicLAvia.

Bonus.

Last fall, they had free bike rentals, but this spring, we'd have to arrange a paid bike rental for her. This hung over me like a dark cloud, as did the inevitability that my own bike would have two flat tires after having sat dormant all winter, locked to the fence in the back.

The route was different this year, too, making its way all the way down Venice Boulevard - a former Venice canal - "to the sea."

At my suggestion, we started at the sea, for easy bike rentals and a reverse route to fight bicycle traffic from Downtown LA. At first, it was smooth sailing.

I wanted to go as far as Alvarado and Venice, to see all the route I hadn't seen before, but it would've been 12 miles one way, 7 or 8 miles more than I did last year round trip. So instead, with Edith in tow, with whom I've biked a minimum of 12 miles before in the past, I set a minimum goal of Venice and La Cienega, a familiar intersection 12.4 miles away from our starting point. At LaCienega, my usual turning point off of Venice, I asked if we could go farther, so I could at least see a bit more of a stretch of boulevard I never drive on.

We made it as far as Airdrome Street, only a few blocks past LaCienega, when I suggested we turn around. We didn't have much time before the streets were going to reopen to traffic. We didn't have much energy left.

And we would have to fight the crowds back to the sea.

On our bike ride back to Venice, we encountered the worst traffic jam I have ever seen in Los Angeles, making me think that alternative transportation is not such a viable alternative, and - after getting hit* by two fellow bicyclists - making me wish for my car. With only one side of the road closed off to vehicular traffic, there were too many bikes vying for their route to the sea. Tricycles competed with unicycles. Fifteen-foot custom bikes competed with tandem bikes, sidecars, and motorbikes. I kept having to look over my shoulder to make sure Edith didn't get left behind.

These were not the open streets of last fall. This was a nightmare.

I blame the popularity of the event, as well as its infrequency, causing such an outpouring of support that a half a boulevard could not handle the demand. I blame multiple municipalities (Los Angeles and Culver City) being unwilling to completely shut down their streets, allowing cross-traffic at too many intersections. I blame a route designated along one half boulevard with no other options.

I hate to see something I love in LA get worse. But things change. People change their minds. Routes vary. We rely on genetic variation and biodiversity for the ultimate success and survival of the species.

But as much as I like trying new things, sometimes I don't like change. If something tastes good, feels good, works well, and makes me happy, why alter it?

[*corrected from typo "bit"]

Related Posts:
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Proceed With Caution

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Photo Essay: A Venice Without Canals

2013-04-26T17:23:00.002-07:00

I grew up in Syracuse, New York, a town known better for its canal (the Erie Canal, that is) than even its salt.

I would spend hours as a child staring at old postcards of Downtown Syracuse, marveling at how the canal used to run right through the middle of it, right in front of the clock tower where I sang Christmas carols at the city treelighting. I couldn't imagine how it had been dug in the first place, much less then filled back in. And whenever I cruised down Erie Boulevard, I always thought about how I was riding on top of that old canal.

When I moved to LA and started working in Venice, the canals didn't really occur to me. I couldn't look much beyond the hippies and the homeless that littered my way to the Whole Foods.

I kind of hated Venice back then. It took me four months in - and one month after being laid off - to even figure out where the existing canals still are.

It didn't really occur to me that the whole thing used to be canals.

This weekend, as a precursor to CicLAvia (for which we were going to use Venice as our starting point), Edith and I took a walking tour of present-day Venice, with its modern architecture - but seen through the lens of the Venice that once was. Edith pointed out United States Island to me, with its century-old palm trees and tiny vacation rental houses, each named after a different U.S. state.

"What do you mean, 'island'?" I asked, puzzled.

She pointed to the triangle between Windward Avenue, Altair Place, and Cabrillo Avenue - an intersection completely unfamiliar to me - and said, "That used to be an island."

"What do you mean?!"

"Um, these streets were all canals."

Mind blown.

Our walk led us down Windward Avenue (the old Lion Canal) to Windward Circle, a modern day traffic circle that used to be the swimming lagoon of the recreational area that bordered the amusement park and the "Race Thru the Clouds" rollercoaster, a behemoth that was demolished in 1923, two years before the City of Venice became part of the City of Los Angeles, and six years before the canals were filled in.

Now, in modern day Windward Circle, there are a trio of structures built in the late 80s that are meant to evoke the original lagoon and rollercoaster, including the "Race Through the Clouds" building...

...the Arts Building (which evokes the old Hotel Antler)...

...and the Ace Market Place, reminiscent of the dredging machines that dug the original Venice of America canals.

But you really have to look at them to know.

As you walk atop those filled-in canals, you can find some original structures...

...like The Architecture Gallery on San Juan Avenue, a brick building built in 1914 which once stood on the banks of the Venus Canal and - we think - was used to store boats.

It's got a bright sea blue coat of paint, but you can still see some of the original brick facing the street.

Dating back to 1912, a brick warehouse on Abbot Kinney Boulevard (named, of course, after the founder of Venice whose vision gave rise to the canals) still stands...

...after having been used for over 40 years as the offices for Charles and Ray Eames.

Inside, the warehouse has been modernized to house its current occupant (Continuum, a design consultancy), but the wood beams and skylights have been preserved.

Newer construction in Venice is baffling as the community itself.

Frank Gehry designed another trio of buildings on Indiana Avenue, the Arnoldi Triplex, each as an artist's studio with its own theme...

...the first theme being "stairs"...

...which can be seen even from the green-stained exterior from the entryway.

Gehry also designed the Chiat-Day building, a roadside attraction for its giant binoculars (which Gehry himself didn't actually design) facing Main Street (formerly Coral Canal).

I always wondered where this building was.

Its address was so close to my old office, yet I never saw it.

When I finally found it, I realized I had walked by it, a few times in fact, but had never looked up to really see it.

I don't know how I could've missed its huge and bizarre facade. But I wasn't looking for it.

A block away from Main Street, after Electric Avenue (where the Pacific Electric used to run) turns into Hampton Drive which turns into 2nd Street, we also found an old Edison electrical plant built in 1910...

...having been converted into the Powerhouse Theatre for live stage performances...

...and now pending another renovation into a restaurant.

In many ways, Venice remains true to its roots as an artist community and a seaside recreational destination, but long gone are the trains that took you there, and the boats that got you around.

Now we drive, bike, and walk our way through the city which lost its incorporation and got gobbled up by Los Angeles.

This is what Venice is without its canals.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Venice (Beach) Canals

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Avoiding Regret Through Exploration - from Atlas Obscura

2013-04-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

My favorite database of weird and wacky places around the world, Atlas Obscura, featured some of my photos and an interview with me today.

It tells the backstory of Avoiding Regret and takes a neat peek behind the scenes of my various explorations.

You can read the full article here.

You can see all the places I've been and want to visit - a work in progress - plus a lot of my photos (some of which have not been published here) at my Atlas Obscura Profile Page.

I am tickled pink.

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A Good Woman

2013-04-22T22:38:00.002-07:00

Lately I've been thinking about what it means to be a good woman.

I've spent my whole life obsessed with walking the fine line between good girl and bad girl, hard on the outside but soft on the inside, innocent and vulnerable yet naughty and nasty.

I was an excellent student in school, so much so that none of my teachers expected any evil-doing when I showed up late to or skipped class.

I was obedient to my parents.

I lost my virginity relatively late, at the ripe old age of 19, to my first and pretty much only boyfriend.

After that, I let myself loose on the world. And even though at heart I think I was always a good person, I became a bad girl.

In New York, though, it doesn't matter so much. We're all bad girls in New York. That's why we can't find boyfriends in New York. That's why we don't get married in New York.

But does it have to be one or the other?

I mean, the Virgin-Whore Complex is a bore.

We girls grow up. We become women. And if we didn't marry while we were still girls, if we didn't have children while we were still children, we can't maintain this Madonna image as a Single Woman late into our 30s, 40s and beyond. It's just not realistic.

At age 37, I now qualify as a cougar. I've been having sex for nearly half my life.

At this point, I'm not wearing white to my wedding. I am scientifically old enough to be a grandmother. I surpassed advanced maternal age two years ago.

When can I stop worrying about being coy, playing hard to get, waiting for the third date, batting my eyelashes, saying no and putting up a good fight and just do what I want to do?

It seems to me that a Good Woman is honest about who she is, how she feels and what she wants. She respects others, but above all, she respects herself. A Good Woman knows the life she wants to live and the person she wants to be, and she doesn't let anything or anyone stand in the way of letting her become it.

A Good Woman enjoys a meal.

A Good Woman makes eye contact.

A Good Woman knows how to put together an outfit, order a drink, and find her way out when she gets lost.

A Good Woman can pay for herself but lets you pick up the tab.

A Good Woman stopped calling herself a "girl" a long time ago.

I'm not sure I was ever a very good girl, but I'm trying to be a Good Woman. I am not a mother. I am not a wife, and may never be. I am no longer my parents' daughter, nor my sister's sister. I am no more than a passing fancy, a fleeting memory, a stolen kiss or a one night stand to most. And I am a friend to fewer people than I ever have been in my adult life.

So, perhaps for the first time in my life, I am no longer defined by those who surround me. I have no work to do, no titles to hold, no roles to portray - only my own self, embodying my best womanhood I can, while I figure out what that even means.

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Photo Essay: Rancho Los Amigos, Abandoned County Poor Farm, Downey (Exterior)

2013-04-18T17:40:00.001-07:00

I was excited enough to wander around the exterior and peek inside Linda Vista Hospital, a relatively large, abandoned medical complex in East LA.

But then I heard about Rancho Los Amigos in Downey, just southeast of Linda Vista, which is practically an entire town of abandoned hospital facilities.

The former Los Amigos is not to be confused with the currently open Rancho Los Amigos, a very much open rehabilitation center.

Just south of it, across the highway, is a huge complex of other hospital buildings and residences, all abandoned.

They say that when it closed in the 1980s, all the workers and residents left so quickly, they just left everything behind.

They even left the lights on.

This complex is where the old Los Angeles County Poor Farm used to be - once simply called "The Farm" - where paupers of the elderly and disabled variety would be sent to rehabilitate...or not.

This area also housed the Hollydale Mental Hospital...

...and an old polio ward.

It is famously haunted.

Everything is fenced up and boarded up now...

...but not too long ago, doors swung wide open. Brave souls wandered through. Many got spooked enough to go running out.

The facilities many buildings and support and maintenance structures, however, aren't entirely in disuse.

In 2006, the Marines were using the abandoned buildings as part of a military exercise (reminiscent of the firefighter training that used to happen in Governor's Island's old Coast Guard barracks)...

...when they made a gruesome discovery:

...a freezer in the morgue...

...full of mummified body parts.

Upon investigation, a pathologist explained that the severed body parts were probably from amputees...

...but who knows what else is lurking in these buildings?

The County Poor Farm opened in 1888, but it continuously expanded over the following decades...

...evoking the same Mission Revival style of the current Rancho Los Amigos Rehabilitation Center across the highway...

...and bearing modern ephemera and signage.

Because most of the structures are relatively well-protected and locked up now...

...they have been able to keep people out of them...

...but not nature. Trees grow where they can grow, where there are no humans to stop them.

That being said, someone does come and trim the lawns surrounding the buildings. There was no overgrown grass to be seen lining the sidewalks and open walkways.

Some of the areas of the old Rancho seem like they must've been quite nice, once, surrounded by palm trees...

...and balconies...

...but gazing at the broken windows on a drizzly, cloudy day...

...the silence and abandonment is enough to make you shudder.

Reportedly, feral cats have taken over many of the cottages and buildings...

...prompting neighbors and animal lovers to set out food to take care of them, a practice which is strictly verboten and prohibited by ubiquitous signage.

I wonder if the cat-feeders know they are also nourishing a giant skunk, who I spooked out of one of the shelters. (I was lucky enough not to get sprayed, but unlucky enough not to get a photo.)

With all the cats there, it's surprising that a couple of people can be spotted walking their dogs...

...but there are areas of this ghost town which are actually quite lovely and open, like by the Art Deco auditorium with its pergola-like shelter. I wanted to get in there.

With all the No Trespassing signs, there's nothing really keeping anyone from skulking around...

...as long as they respect the boards and fences...

...and it's kind of nice to explore a traffic-free environs in LA County.

But people did once live here...

...and parked here...

...and there are constant reminders of that.

Now, decades after closing, this expansive area remains in limbo...

...as the birds build their nests in the rain gutters...

...the paint peels...

...the locks rust...

...and the lights go out.

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Photo Essay: The View from a Famous Mapmaker's Estate

2013-04-15T11:49:00.000-07:00

The man who made maps widely commercially available also built an entire town, starting with this ranch.

Now known as the Neff Estate - consisting of a Mission Revival house and a barn, but also once a schoolhouse, servant's quarters, olive press and ore - the former Windermere Ranch was established by Chicago mapmaker Andrew McNally (of Rand McNally fame), who had a winter home in Altadena and bought some property in an even farther flung area outside of LA to try to draw his midwest friends and associates all the way out West.

LA County is full of stories of midwest industrialists being drawn to warm weather and pleasant communities like Pasadena (see: Gamble House), but McNally not only bought land and built property out here: he bought enough land from out of the Rancho Los Coyotes to found an entire town, which he named La Mirada (Spanish for "The View").

When his Chicago friends didn't follow him out west, McNally built the house on his land for his daughter and son-in-law (that's Neff)...

...and although it wasn't for himself, the vision for it was distinctly his.

The elaborate grounds housed an arboretum and aviary, as well as olive groves that produced nationally famous olive oil that was shipped all over the country. (Some of those olive trees can still be found in the area, though somewhat displaced).

McNally also secured Frederick Roehrig ("The Millionaire's Architect") to design the building, whose Mission Revival style is actually somewhat of a precursor to the Arts & Crafts movement. The main house still has some of its original features: curved plaster ceilings, intricate woodwork, oak floorboards, and gasolier lighting fixture.

The dining table and chairs are also original...

...and there are plenty of windows from which to take in that view.

The house was preserved and restored in the 1960s, when preservation wasn't a thing and people were generally more concerned with new construction and tearing old things down.

There is period-appropriate laundry machinery in the laundry room, and many features of the kitchen (including a copper sink) have been returned to their original state.

But much of the restoration done was a result of guesswork, using references like the Sears Roebuck catalog from the time.

Upstairs in particular, Roehrig's style can be seen in the number of arched windows throughout the bedrooms and their closets...

...letting lots of natural light in, especially for a time when electricity was highly undependable.

The rest of the furnishings and decor are not original, but you can get a feel for what it must have been like to live there in the early 1900s...

...to catch a glimpse of the vast expanse of land wherever you could...

...and constantly hear the trains go by.

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Photo Essay: South Coast Botanic Garden

2013-04-15T00:37:00.001-07:00

Whenever I've got some time to kill, I'm always happy to wander through a garden, even if just for a little while.

I feel at peace among the statues and gnomes and fountains. It feels a bit like a cemetery to me.

This weekend, before a scheduled hike in Rancho Palos Verdes' Portuguese Bend, I found myself at South Coast Botanic Garden...

...whose trees were in full orange bloom...

...and whose Garden for the Senses delighted mine, with aromatic flowers like the chocolate daisy...

...and plants that were as fuzzy to feel as felt.

There are a variety of succulents in their small Cactus Garden...

...and lots of different ornamental blossoms in the Volunteer and Children's gardens.

It was very much alive.

Yet, surrounded by all of these plush petals and healthy buds, I found myself drawn to the crumpled...

...withered...

...wrinkled ruins of flowers past...

...whose best days have already passed...

...but are still hanging on.

In the Rose Garden, although it's too early for rose season, many roses are past their peak...

...shriveling...

...shrinking away.

Even those that are healthy feel sad...

...because their demise is imminent...

...and they're already starting to show signs.

A rose in full bloom is dying...

...no matter how pristine it may look now.

In the rose garden, you can see all varieties of roses, species of all colors...

...as well as unique hybrids...

...like the Hybrid tea "Love & Peace"...

...the Grandiflora "Love"...

...and the Hybrid tea "Paradise."

But of course, the roses are best seen when dying, in full bloom. Nobody wants to look at a brand newborn baby bud, all closed up tight.

The South Coast Botanic Garden is sprawling, with a Grass Garden, groves of various trees, seemingly endless paths...

...and even a hidden lake.

An hour wasn't enough, but it was enough to make me want to come back for a little solace, quietude, and time amongst the dying.

At least we know the perennials will come back, too.

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Photo Essay: Los Angeles Central Library, Twice Threatened, Twice Saved

2013-04-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is probably more full of stories of loss - historic buildings demolished - than stories of preservation. Many structures that are threatened never get a fighting chance, fall into irreversible disrepair, are razed, forgotten.

It's amazing that a landmark like Los Angeles' Central Library, which has survived two major threats, has managed to survive.

Built in 1926 as the last work of American architect Bertram G. Goodhue, the Central Library's architcture and design is an interesting manifestation of the message carved above one of its main entrances: "In books we live in all ages."

In this house of books, 20th century architecture intermingles with classical influences and references of ancient cultures.

Outside, the main branch of Los Angeles' public library system looks a bit more like a skyscraper than an institution...

...though today it's dwarfed somewhat by the surrounding high rises that dot the skyline of Downtown.

Above the entrances you can see the intricate panel carvings...

...as the concrete seems to reflect the sunlight shining off of the nearby glass towers.

Despite its own imposing beauty, Central Library was slated for demolition in the mid-1970s, and as a result of community efforts and the Los Angeles Conservancy, it was preserved in 1983.

But that was not its last threat.

Now, looking up at modern additions like the painted ceiling of the first floor lobby (which is also concrete made to appear as slats of wood), it's hard to imagine...

...two fires (both suspected arson) raged through the library's upstairs, near the Lodwrick M. Cook Rotunda upstairs (in the area now designated as the Teen 'Scape)...

...destroying much of the library's collection and some of its interior decorations.

The magnificent globe chandelier (which represents the solar system) survived, as well as the Dean Cornwell murals which rise to the ceiling (and have since been restored and cleaned). The windows shattered and were replaced.

Other lighting fixtures had to be replaced with reproductions...

...including the Art Deco lamps in the Children's Literature Department, which also houses a number of California history murals (The Landing of Cabrillo at Catalina, etc.).

Intricately carved ceilings rise above figures of sphinxes, and an Italian marble Statue of Civilization, with nearby iconography representing everything from the pyramids to the pioneers and the Liberty Bell.

Now, despite the devastating fires, the library also sports a new wing and a full rehabilitation.

And - as an institution focused on printed matter, a threatened and nearly defunct format itself - it takes its preservation seriously, having saved its card catalog cards...

...reusing them to line the walls of its elevators.

Is Central Library's fight finally over? Sure, it's preserved and landmarked, but paper sometimes goes up in flames. Wind blows trees down; trees fall. Things happen. People change their minds.

You have to be strong in LA, but it's a different toughness out West than back East. In New York, it's about how hard you can hit. In LA, it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. (Thank you, Rocky Balboa.)

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Photo Essay: Geisel Library, UCSD Campus

Capturing Sunlight on an Open Hillside

2013-04-08T00:37:00.000-07:00

Out of all of the things that I want out of life, beauty might be first and foremost.

I think nature is beautiful. I hike through its vast reaches, its undulating terrain, its meadows and plains and fields and rocks and creeks and canyons and boulders and flowers, under its sun and clouds and stars and moon.

But when I hike up high, I look down at the city below, and that's beautiful to me too. I love manmade things. I find beauty in buildings, folk art, trains, planes, mines, and neon signs. I relish in the ruins of a past modern age. I am drawn to poured concrete, cracked pavement, and sunken cities.

As much as I long to see nature undisturbed, I love driving my car along paved roads. I love hiking along official, cleared trails. I don't see what the point is of open space if no one can get to it, or get through it.

Man's influence on the land that surrounds him doesn't necessarily have to be interpreted as ruination. But his attempts at helping the environment under the guidance of modern technology - namely, wind farms and solar panels - are often deemed as such.

And usually, it's because people think they're an eyesore.

Occidental College (home of the Moore Laboratory of Zoology) recently embarked on a controversial campaign to install a 4886-panel solar array on three acres of a southwest-facing hillside of its campus that borders the Eagle Rock, Highland Park, and Mt. Washington communities.

Some neighbors had a hissyfit, largely influenced by the recent installation of the Montecito Heights solar array, which sparked a heated debate because of how high it stood off the ground and how visible it was from how far away.

Oxy was tasked with installing something that would not only convert sunlight into 12% of their electrical power on campus, and despite its hefty price tag would pay for itself in 12 years, but would also be visually appealing, and would work with the landscape.

Down below, near the soccer fields, the first panels you see are above corrugated metal sheets that overhang the parking area. It is a certain industrial chic that I found beautiful to view from below. In the desert, someone would be watering the undersides of those things to rust them up.

Above the soccer fields, the panels come into view, unfortunately behind a chain link fence. The slope is steep, and the edges sharp, no place for drunken coeds to stumble through in the dark.

The array keeps a low profile, its panels mounted only two to three feet above the ground...

...with (seeded) wildflowers rising up around them.

They'll have to be trimmed several times a year...

...since any shade cast from a high-sprouting plant will knock out the efficiency of the entire plate.

The panels are mounted onto poured concrete pylons buried deep into the ground...

...but their bolts can be loosened so that they can be tilted to cascade with the curvature of the hillside, hugging the topography of the slope.

Although the panels themselves are black, they are, by their nature, reflective - not only of the sun's light, but also of the blue sky itself, its clouds, and - if you're lucky to catch it - of the sunset.

One of the largest ground-mounted arrays in LA, it is relatively unobtrusive, appearing as a mere speck from a distance. And because it was designed not only by engineers and mathematicians but also by architects [Ed: credit due to design think tank Lettuce Office, and its principal designer Kara Bartelt], it has the appearance of public art.

You can hike up all around it, and then up past it to the top of Mount Fuji...

...where you can look down upon the array...

...and stumble upon a long-eroded survey marker.

Predictably, it's sunny and hot up there on Fuji Hill during the day. They say it's a popular drinking spot at night. I wonder what might have happened to it if not for the solar array installation - what trampling may have occurred, what terrible tumbling accident may have called for its grading, what inanimate monument may have gotten mounted on it.

Now, although it's been developed, industrialized, solarized, it somehow feels wild, pristine, untouchable. It may not be a living thing, per se, as the designers might argue, but it is...beautiful.

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