Photo Essay: Celebrating Day of the Dead at the Birthplace of Los Angeles

I've liked cemeteries for all of my adult life, at least ever since I used to climb up behind Chapel House and spend some quiet time at the Colgate University Cemetery. 

 

But living in Southern California has taught me a little bit about how Mexican cultures honor the dead in a very living sort of way—namely, building altars (or ofrendas) where they honor the lives of those who've passed by making offerings (like sugar skulls) and setting up photos, dioramas, and more.

Photo Essay: The Museum Preserving Showgirl History in Post-Jubilee Las Vegas

What is Las Vegas without its showgirls?

 

Well, that's Vegas right now—because since the "Jubilee!" show at Bally's closed in 2016, there's no longer a showgirl show.

Just the girls wearing feathered headpieces standing outside the Flamingo or the Venetian, or on Fremont Street, trying to get cash for photos. 

Well, except the 50-foot ones that were installed on the North Strip section of Las Vegas Boulevard. 

   

Since October 2023, the closest thing the city has had to a good old fashioned showgirl spectacular is Dita Von Teese's DITA LAS VEGAS: A Jubilant Revue in the Jubilee Theater at Bally's (which was rebranded as Horseshoe Las Vegas in December 2022). Unfortunately, that closed this weekend—but the good news is, I made it back to Vegas in time to see a performance of it on its second-to-last weekend.  

 

But this post isn't about Dita—and, as I learned at the Las Vegas Showgirl Museum, neither Dita nor her production qualifies as a showgirl show, even though it used some of the Jubilee sets and original costumes designed by Bob Mackie.

Photo Essay: A Reimagining of LA's Century Plaza Hotel, the Centerpiece of a 'City Within a City'

I started driving past the Century Plaza Hotel, along Century City's Avenue of the Stars, pretty regularly sometime in the year 2020, during the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

circa Dec. 2021

It was on my way home from the Santa Monica College swimming pool—but it wasn't the most convenient way home.

Photo Essay: In the Pink at the Madonna Inn

[Last updated 12/25/19 11:07 PM PT—photos added]

*All photos by the author except where noted.

Photo: Cory Doctorow via Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

"This must be documented," I've found myself saying a lot lately. The sense of urgency surrounding my time in California has waned, but not by much.



And after realizing it would take me a half-dozen years to get back to California's Central Coast, I figured I'd better make this most recent trip count.



So of course, since I was staying in San Luis Obispo for the Morro Bay Winter Bird Festival, I had to return to the Madonna Inn (though I was staying about three miles down the road at the Motel 6).

Built by local rancher Alex Madonna and his wife Phyllis in 1958 as a motor lodge with a whole lot more panache...



...most of the Madonna Inn as it stands now dates back to the late 1960s.



A fire had wiped out most of the accommodations in 1966—and Madonna, having made his fortune in construction, simply rebuilt (again, without the help of an architect).



Only after he replaced what was lost in the fire, he kept going.



The Madonna Inn became so popular that he continued to expand the guest quarters to encompass three separate buildings and a total of 110 rooms...



...in addition to the check-in/reservations office and "Round Room" and attached dining establishments (built circa 1960).



At the top of the hill (the lower eastern portion of Cerro San Luis Obispo, one of the Nine Sisters of the city), there's Building One—with its spiral staircases and storybook railings and flamingo pink golf carts that give just a teensy glimpse of the opulence that lies inside each of the uniquely deco-ed guest rooms, each with their own theme (chosen by Phyllis).



Loosely based on the design of a Swiss chalet, the Madonna Inn is a kitschy roadside attraction made of local rock during the day.



It features a renowned bakery and breakfast and lunch spot, the Copper Cafe, where you can dine in a booth lined with painted murals depicting California history...



...and drink out of glass goblets that come in every color of the rainbow (not just pink).



During daylight is the best time to admire the custom leaded glass windows that enclose the dancefloor, dining room, and lobby...



...with more historical depictions.



But at night, The Madonna Inn simply sparkles. And it's quite the destination even if you're not spending the night.



The lobby is adorned with a gleaming bronze bust of Alex Madonna, of course...



...as well as seraphim...



...and cherubim.



One such cherub beckons you to approach a staircase heading downstairs...



...past the painted portraits of Alex and Phyllis Madonna...



...for a tasting of some local Central Coast wines.



More of these little baby angels point the way upstairs along a white marble balustrade to the gift shop, where you can splurge on various pink wares (including goblets).



It's all angels, wine, and roses at the Madonna Inn.



At the Silver Bar Cocktail Lounge, you can order any number of pink cocktails—from the Daisy Mae (kind of a tequila sunrise, with house-made raspberry syrup) and the Flora Dora (a raspberry gin mule) to the Raspberry Gimlet (above).



Perched upon a pink leather stool, above a red carpet festooned with pink roses...



...you can admire the work of Bavarian wood carver Alexander Zeller, one of the many artisans hired to provide custom woodworking for the Madonna Inn.



In the outrageous Gold Rush Steakhouse...



...you can dine in a hot pink booth under the branches of a gold tree that stands more than 16 feet tall and nearly 30 feet wide...



...as you sip a quartino of pink wine...



...and, on a Saturday night, listen to the swinging stylings of The Rose Garden band.



When they're busting out big band classics like "Sing, Sing, Sing" or "In the Mood"...

Photo: Waifer X via Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

...it's hard not to get up and jump, jive, and wail yourself out there on the dancefloor, even if you don't know exactly the right moves, and even if you don't feel like dancing with a partner.

If you leave at night rather than staying in the Safari Room, Austrian Suite, or the room with a carousel horse suspended from the ceiling, a neon stagecoach with a galloping team of horses will send you on your merry way to wherever you lay your head.

But if you can get a reservation early enough and can afford the nightly rate, it sure is a more complete experience to wake up and shower in one of those crazy rooms.

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Following the Sound of the Drum

Life is full of all sorts of seemingly little choices that can have a pretty big impact.

This weekend I went stag to a wedding, as a friend of the bride's family. Her aunt and uncles and cousins were all sent off to take the elevator to the hotel conference center, where they could see the groom's procession approach up the driveway.

I could've joined them. In fact, I was encouraged to—but it seemed like the only reason to do so would be to avoid walking up a steep hill.

And according to tradition, I probably should've been there with the bride's family to "receive" the groom and his family.

But if I had, in fact, taken the elevator as recommended, I would've missed the majority of the baraat (बरात), including watching the groom climb onto a horse's back (perhaps for the first time ever) and dancing along with all of his family members to the beat of the dhol drum (ढोल).

That's where I want to be: I want to arrive, not watch someone else arrive. I want to move with the music, not stand and wait in silence.

Besides, who knows when I'll get to attend another Indian wedding (as a guest or a participant)? This might've been my one and only shot—and that means I was going to make the most of it.

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The Silence Is Deafening

I'm the kind of person that needs a lot of sonic distraction.

I can't sleep out in the middle of the country unless there are wolves howling, trains chugging, or the wind whipping. Absolute silence keeps me awake at night.

In college, I didn't just listen to music while I wrote a paper or studied for a test. I listened to music while on the London Tube or sitting in the middle of a Burger King in Leicester Square.

Some might consider listening to the radio while driving a distraction. As for me, it's a good way to focus on the task at hand.

So, imagine my discomfort today when I attended a puppet show that had practically no soundtrack at all.

I might as well have been watching a show of mimes. Only the mimes were wearing costumes that looked like giant hands and carrying umbrellas to look like jellyfish.

The problem, however, wasn't that the auditorium was silent. It's that the lack of sound coming from the stage meant that all the other sounds in the house were amplified.

All the coughing children and their fluish parents.

The stuffy-nosed child behind me lying on her father's lap.

The tike who insisted on narrating the show with his observations, like "He's counting how many!" and "Pink!" and "There's two of them!"

Thanks, buddy. We know. We're watching the same show as you.

The woman sitting next to me was wrestling with a plastic bag and eating trail mix out of it. The smell of chewed peanuts intermingled with some personal care product she'd used that reminded me of industrial-strength public restroom air freshener.

The silence was making me nauseous. I was dying for some music or dialogue.

Mummenschanz had been haunting me for the greater part of 30 years—or even more—after watching the TV commercial for it on repeat as a child. I never knew exactly what it was.

And when I saw the troupe of dancers-slash-contortionists-slash-puppeteer-mimes were performing locally, I figured it was time I found out.

But in the end, I couldn't watch it.

At least, I couldn't just watch it.

I'm sure this falls under the category of "It's not you; it's me." I take the blame. Others seemed to be enjoying the show.

But I couldn't even concentrate on the show with all that hacking and sniffling and rattling and chatting and vibrating of a cell phone two seats down from me.

I got a brief reprieve when one of the skits was about a frog trying to catch a fly. Thank god for the buzzing of that fly.

But once it ended, I knew I had to leave. I couldn't take it anymore.

At least now I know.



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The Intricate Dance of Herding Sheep

"I gotta go," I announced to my brunch companions this past Saturday. "I just scored tickets to this weird sheepherding performance later this afternoon."

After a moment of puzzlement, my friend Phil broke the silence with, "That's not something you hear every day."

Unless, of course, you're friends with me.



I was lured to the historic polo field at Will Rogers State Park by something called Doggie Hamlet—some kind of interpretive dance performance starring some sheepdogs, sheep, and dancers.



Well, two out of three ain't bad.



I can't say I understood a thing about this "3-D pastoral poem"—and I'm not sure that I was supposed to.



But sitting behind that temporary fence, perched upon a bale of hay, I got to thinking about sheep, safety, and power.



In sheepherding, there are, of course, the fluffy beasts of the orvine variety—but there are also the herding dogs, sometimes just one for a flock of 1000 sheep.



And the dogs take their cues from the shepherd, who doesn't do much direct herding of sheep, but is still an essential part of the equation.



Snarky humans criticize sheep for being mindless followers, using that old insult, "sheeple."



But if sheep were so dumb, they wouldn't bother to pay attention to their canine master.



They wouldn't flow into the hypnotic patterns that keep them safe as one undulating mass.



They somehow know that if they disperse, they'll die.



And it's to their advantage to stay living—at least long enough to reproduce.



But they can't do it alone.



And there's nothing weak about taking help when you need it, maintaining safety in numbers, or even obeying—as long as your obedience benefits you in the long run (by, say, ensuring your survival).



God-fearing Bible readers will recall passage after passage in scripture that refers to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks. Sheep are mentioned in the Bible more than any other animal is—mainly used as an analogy for God's followers.

And yet, the "Lamb of God" was also the Big Guy's supposed one and only son—who was much more a leader than a follower, if you believe the stories that have been told.

Maybe atheists and agnostics are the ones who scoff at sheep.

But even if they're not God's creatures (and even if there is no God), their synchronized choreography is something to be admired.

After all, every dancer needs a choreographer.

And every sheep needs a shepherd.

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