Sunday, January 29, 2012

Another Sort of Anniversary

Last week marked not only the anniversary of my move to LA, but also the anniversary of the last time I spoke with my parents.

How do I remember that?

Because it was on my father's birthday, January 26, a date I still am able to remember despite not using it, like my mother's work phone number from over twenty years ago, the last time she ever worked (315-422-0121).

What don't I remember?

How long it's been.

I have a sense it's been about five years. But time hasn't been dragging. I haven't been counting the days, much less the years. I've been living. I've been doing all the things they never let me do, and way more.

And what have they been doing?

It's weird when you're new in town, because besides "What do you do?" and "Where are you from?", the most commonly-asked questions are "Are your parents still back there?" and, oddly, "Are they still together?"

My answer is inevitably "As far as I know," bringing quizzical looks to faces and cracking open an unexpected nest of unwelcome conversation killers.

Are they alive? Are they still in Syracuse? In the same house? Together? As far as I know. I have no reason to believe otherwise.

If I ever really cared to verify their status, of course I could always just call. I could have stopped by while I was in Syracuse for Christmas. My sister could have checked in with them. But after a lifetime of alternating abuse and neglect, neither one of us have any desire to have anything to do with them.

And if they had wanted to have anything to do with us, they would have called. They would have sent something in the mail.

But now five(ish) years, later, we've both disconnected our home telephone lines, moved to different cities (my sister, twice), and forged our own parentless lives. I rarely think about my parents unless someone else brings them up, mostly because I've embedded myself into a new family that actually loves me and isn't shy about saying it - something I didn't think would happen until I'd snagged myself some in-laws, which is taking longer than expected.

So upon the passing of another year, the anniversary becomes more and more of a celebration rather than simply a commemoration. As I meet new people, whose fallen faces express pity over my broken family, my parents' abortion of their adult child, I have to try to convince them that this is a good thing. My unloving parents, unto whom I was born, did me a favor by releasing me, making me available for those who would really love me to snap me up.

Pity my parents. They have to live the rest of their lives (whatever is left of them) without their own children, and no loving surrogate children to replace them.

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Saturday, January 28, 2012

A Year in LA

Yesterday was my one year anniversary of living in LA.

I'm renewing my apartment lease.

I renewed my car registration.

I renewed my renter's and automotive insurance.

And so begins another year in LA.

I guess some people who move here - especially from New York - don't make it this long. I wasn't sure I would, having been up for an HSN hosting gig that would've moved me to Florida less than four months' into my residency here. But when I lost my job, and everyone asked if I would return to New York, I simply said, "Uh, NO...."

Even still, even now, people - from both NY and LA - seem surprised. "Do you miss New York?" they ask.

"I miss my friends terribly," I say. "But I don't miss New York."

"So would you ever consider moving back?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Will I stay in LA forever? I don't know. Maybe after 14 years alone in LA I will have had enough and will want to move onto another city, another country, another life.

But for right now, I still feel new in town. It took me three years before I felt like NYC was really home. I don't know when I'll feel like I belong in LA, maybe never.

But regardless, it's where I live now, and where I'll live for the next year.

Unless the Universe has other plans for me. And that, I do not yet know.

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Photo Essay: Red Rock Canyon, Nevada

I took a trip to Vegas last weekend to tag along on one of the popular monthly tours of the Nevada Test Site, which I had to book months in advance and unfortunately on a Tuesday, necessitating a few days off from work.

After griping about not getting Martin Luther King Jr. Day off, and anticipating no President's Day off, I was grateful for a little post-Christmas vacation.

But being a not-very-Vegasy Vegas traveler, besides the test site tour, I wasn't really sure what I was going to do while in Vegas. After all, most of my trips there have been on business, during which I've been stranded on the Strip carless, shackled to my hotel casino.

Once I got to Vegas Saturday night (after an uneventful stay at the Hooters Casino), all I could think about was getting out of Vegas.

Fortunately, like many popular getaways of the mid-20th century, Vegas is nicely situated in the middle of nowhere desert land. Although densely populated and commercialized now, a half hour drive in any direction takes you out into the wilderness, and to the northwest: Red Rock Canyon.

Red Rock is probably one of the best-maintained Bureau of Land Management sites I've ever visited, with clear signs off the main road, a large visitor's center (with multiple bathrooms), and a paved scenic drive loop that takes you through the park, past all of the overlooks and trailheads.

It also takes you by some desert tortoise crossings...



...and wild burros, grazing their way off the shoulder.



Of course some people just drive through Red Rock Canyon (as I would've been apt to do four or five years ago), but between two visits in four days, I got out of the car and meandered along four different trails, including...

Calico Tanks














(where the moderate trail seemed to end at a big pile of red rocks, prompting me to turn around and go back)


Pine Creek Canyon, site of an ancient pine forest









(which featured ruins of an old homestead)

























Lost Creek




(which required some pretty unfamiliar bouldering from me)

On my final hike in Red Rock, towards the end of daylight on Wednesday, an hour before I was supposed to start driving back to LA, my hiking date (a local who I'd only just met three days before) led me deep into Ice Box Canyon, whose temperature reflected its name. I didn't take any pictures, mostly because I was trying to keep up with my fellow hiker whose familiarity with the path allowed him to hike at a pretty fast clip. And I started to wonder why I'd agreed to hike with a complete stranger, out into the middle of nowhere, surrounded by no one, with nothing but rocks to echo my own screams back at me. Alone, I usually worry about getting lost, but with this other person, who knew his way well around the canyon, I worried about never coming back. My inner New Yorker took inventory of my hiking pack - car keys, ID, Blackberry - and wondered what might be taken or used against me, what might be left to identify my discarded body should something go terribly wrong.

But in the cold box of the canyon, we sat on a rock and rested, sweat cooling my hot, worried forehead, breathing slowing. It was quiet, though I thought I could hear a distant creek, one of the many lost creeks of Red Rock.

I waited to see what would happen.

My date got up and faced me.

"Ready to go?" he asked, as he held out his hand.

I scrambled up off the rock on my own. "OK..."

A quick hug and a kiss later, and we hiked back to my car before the sun dipped behind the mountain.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest
Photo Essay: Joshua Tree's Pine City

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Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Photo Essay: Pinball Hall of Fame, Vegas

I'm like a bird.

Or a cat.

I like shiny things.

And bells and whistles.

And flashing lights.

This attraction leads me to amusement parks, Times Square, Hollywood Blvd, arcades, and Vegas, which is full of all of those things.

Vegas' Pinball Hall of Fame is billed as sort of a roadside attraction - a museum of oddities - but really it's just an arcade full of old pinball machines (and some video games) from the last several decades, dating back at least to the 1960s, maybe earlier.

And with enough quarters, you can play almost all of them.


X-Files


Revenge from Mars


The Twilight Zone



The Twilight Zone



Eight Ball Deluxe


Firepower



Pinball Wizard



Nugent


Big Flipper



Dr. Dude



KISS



The Bally Game Show




The Bally Game Show



Lawman

After playing nearly 20 of them, all circa 1970-2000, I realized I have a strong affinity for the pinball machines of the 1980s. Perhaps it's merely because of the familiarity of my childhood and what I must've played at Chuck E. Cheese, but given the fact I wasn't really allowed out of the house and never went to an arcade besides Chuck E. Cheese until I was an adult, I think it's more than that. In the 1980s, the pinball machines hit a nice sweet spot between electronic technology (at least, the score-keeping) and analog, manual mechanism. This era pre-dates the time when you press a button to launch the ball, and the predominant sounds are those of rattling metal, contracting springs, flipping flippers, bumping bumpers and kicking targets. You don't need LED video projections or movie quote sound effects to generate excitement. You feel the entire box quake.

Yet another amusement worthy of a trip away from The Strip.

More to come.

Related posts:
Photo Essay: Fremont Street Experience, Vegas

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Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Photo Essay: Fremont Street Experience, Vegas

When I first visited Las Vegas in the late 90s - dragged there by my friend Tony who abandoned me when I got sick on our trip, leaving me shivering with chills under the covers in our room while he galavanted around town, not even spending the night in our hotel - I couldn't figure out where the Vegas I'd seen on TV and in the movies was.

Back then, the Sands was still open, as were many of the other soon-to-be-imploded "Old Vegas" resorts, including one nearby with a mechanical bull, which I gazed at wistfully through the window of our hotel room at the Stratosphere.

But even back then, Vegas seemed too...new.

Now, in the advent of Steve Wynn's Vegas takeover, glimpses of that old Vegas - predating my first visit - are hard to find, but not impossible.

And one of the best places to find Old Vegas is downtown, on Fremont East...







...And at the Freemont Street Experience, where the Neon Museum has preserved many old classic neon signs that are all lit up, which you can whizz by on a zipline under an LED screen ceiling, and see some of the costumed characters you find on The Strip or on Hollywood Boulevard, somehow charming on Fremont Street...

































Related post:
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas

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