Photo Essay: Another Red Rock

On a recent visit to Vegas, I hiked its nearby Red Rock Canyon - twice.

But I didn't have to travel so far to get a red rock experience. There's not only one but two nearby Red Rock parks: one in the Santa Monica Mountains near Woodland Hills and Calabasas, and a state park up north in the Mojave Desert.

This week, I visited my second Red Rock park, the former one, practically next door to Calabasas Peak.

Just up in the West Valley, it's not terribly far, though it takes some time and effort to get there, reached only at the end of the narrow, dirt, unmaintained Red Rock Road, which most definitely makes you feel like you've gone the wrong way. (Luckily I conquered the nerve-wracking path in my rental SUV, with my subcompact thankfully in the shop.)



I was drawn to Red Rock Canyon - despite the early fall absence of wildflowers - for its other-worldly landscape...



...the view of which pays off quickly with a number of odd-looking, unusual sandstone formations...



...both near and far off the trail.



Right at the beginning of the hike, a short detour leads to some caves...



...where nature echoes into each pit and groove of the stone which appears to have been once poured, molten, and then frozen in time.



Farther out, rock outcroppings beckon climbing...



...aided by some stairs...



...while only a few signs of civilization interrupt the interplanetary trip.



I suppose I always feel like I'm from another planet.



Sometimes it's nice to lose myself in an escape to a place that feels like another planet.



A single cairn makes sure that the way is not entirely lost...



...as do the sandstone creatures at the peak...



...those stone-faced aliens...



...those stoic watchmen.



They guard only a minor peak - perhaps a saddle - as the trail continues past them...



...perhaps infinitely.

The geologic guards do, however, mark a good turnaround point, if one is to ever turn around and choose to leave this lovely place.

Putting on the Brakes, Or, Braking Bad(ly)

A week ago today, I was stopped at a red light. Although I run through them all too frequently, it's actually one of the few times in life I don't mind stopping, because it gives me a few seconds to check my phone, pull something out of my purse, pluck a stray hair, apply lip gloss, etc. It's a minor rest, a brief respite from the curb-swerving rowdy ride I get in my little tin can of a subcompact car.

If my car were a dog, it would be a toy fox terrier. Or a husky puppy. Tiny but lively.

At this red light, somewhere in Los Angeles or West Hollywood or Beverly Hills, my right foot was sitting comfortably on the brake pedal, until something let all the air out, my foot depressing farther down, the pedal sinking all the way to the floor. I let up my foot a little, and my car creeped forward. It was as though there had been a balloon between my foot and the floor, and an undetectable pinprick had deflated it.

But then the light changed from red to green and my attention turned from brake to gas, not needing to stop again - not really stop, only pause or slow - until some time later.

When I did need to stop again, I pivoted my foot into its usual position, depressing the brake, but the car did not stop. It barely slowed. I kept pressing. I floored it until it finally stopped, though I wondered whether its eventual lack of movement was more attributable to a lack of acceleration rather than anything actually stopping it from moving.

This continued for a couple of days, while I considered science and physics of which I have no real grasp. Could I blame the drop in ambient temperature? A near-empty fuel tank? Natural aging of the vehicle which, at over two and a half years old, has clocked in over 30,000 miles?

I'm normally good at focusing on the road and ignoring the rumble of the engine, the roar of the transmission, the vibration of the chassis at high speeds while the windows are rolled down, but given the distinct mechanical and functional malady at hand, I began to play close attention as to how long it took me now to slow down and come to a full and complete stop, and what it felt like when I stopped and started up again. Oddly, my car was jostling side to side. Wheels screeched if I had to stop short even remotely.

Given my pace in life, you would think I would be more concerned with how quickly my car can accelerate rather than decelerate or stop altogether, but by God, agility is key while driving. You have to be able to stop, start, turn, switch, back up, and go, as necessary. Whatever the road dictates. Whatever the journey necessitates. Stopping is just as essential as starting up. You, in good conscience, can't drive a car that you're not confident you can stop.

And you can't drive around with your right hand wrapped around the emergency brake, trigger thumb ready to depress the button if the foot is of no use.

I brought my ride into the shop, wondering what I'd done to my brake pads all those times I'd stopped short and had nearly given the occasional passenger a heart attack. My service rep seemed puzzled, but returned after an inspection with a diagnosis: dirty brake fluid line and an expanded cap. They would flush out the line, replace the cab, and everything would be fine again. They drove around my car and it felt fine to them.

Only, when I picked up my car the next day, it wasn't fine. It wasn't stopping. I had to put the pedal quite unfavorably to the metal to even slow down. The same as when I brought it in.

Was I wrong? Had my leg changed? Had my foot changed?

I waited another day and a half until I couldn't take it anymore. I was a nervous wreck. For the first time  since I was a newbie teenage driver, I was scared to be on the road. I didn't have complete control of the vehicle. And although I could manage with this new set of movements and manipulations necessary to operate this heavy machinery, I had absolutely no control over my environment: the other drivers, bicyclists, pedestrians, dogs, squirrels, sparrows, trash flinging themselves into my line of fire.

Sometimes, you have to stop. Because of you. Because of others. Because of wind. Because of life.

I called the service station yesterday with an inquisition as to what exactly they checked, and why exactly I couldn't stop. I pleaded with them to take me back, to have another look, to give us another chance. I try not to cause trouble. I try to do what I'm told. I try to handle rejection like a pro. But I was terrified, and would rather not drive at all than drive this steel death trap around the city, endangering myself and all those around me.

My service rep acquiesced, and let me return my car for another examination today. After all of my protesting, he drove my car himself, disappearing for a while, and then returning with a new diagnosis: I needed a new master brake cylinder. It would take a week for the replacement part to arrive. They would cover my replacement rental for that week.

"I shouldn't just drive it until it comes in?" I asked, thinking about that entire week I'd already driven that disobedient beast around, knuckles white and leg extending fully, toes to the floor.

"No."

"It's that unsafe to drive?"

"Uh, yes."

Oh, thank God.

I remember once I wasn't feeling so good, and I went to the doctor, and she diagnosed me with something minor, giving me antibiotics for treatment. It got a little better and then it didn't. I let it go for a while and then returned to another doctor, asking for a complete workup. She resisted at first, saying she'd know if I had something else, she'd be able to tell. But I insisted on a battery of tests for all sorts of things, and one of them came back positive, for something more severe, but entirely treatable and curable. The whole ordeal lasted a month, because of my self-doubt, trust in authority, and reliance on the system. But who knows a body better than she who lives in it? And who knows a car better than she who drives in it, as an extension of her own body?

I am not a hypochondriac. I am not a neurotic. I am not a worrywart. (And therefore I am not my mother. Not yet, anyway.)

I can trust myself.
I can ask.
I can insist.

And I know now: I need to be able to stop.

Sometimes.

Related Post:
Keep It Moving

Photo Essay: Vision Theatre Rising

You don't always hear a lot about the suburban movie theaters. After all, they weren't built to attract tourists and visitors; they were for the locals. Therefore, they were a bit cheaper and more simply decorated, and ran movies that had spent some time making their way around the upper tier theaters in the city first.

Over the decades that followed their initial construction, a lot of these single-screen theaters gave way to multiplexes, closed or renovated beyond recognition.

Lucky enough for the 1930 Leimert Theatre, in the Olmsted & Olmsted-designed subdivision of Leimert Park (part of the former Rancho La Cienega, owned and sold by Lucky Baldwin's daughter), it closed comparatively early in 1968, avoiding the inevitable "modernization" and thereby kind of accidentally preserving it.

circa 2017

After years being operated as the Watchtower by the Jehovah Witnesses, eventually it reopened in the early 1990s as the Vision Theatre, owned by TV actress Marla Gibbs (The Jeffersons, 227) who, after a few years, couldn't continue to operate it entirely on her own. It subsequently went into foreclosure, the bank sold it to the City of Los Angeles, the community got involved, a Friends organization was established, money was raised, and now the first of three phases of restoration have been completed, evidenced in the facade (marquee and tower), outer and inner lobbies, and upstairs.



The tower - common in suburban theaters that need to call attention to their locations - is one of the most ornate aspects of this simple Art Deco theater...



...which, at the time, was just considered in "the modern style." (No one called anything "Art Deco" until later.)



Now the marquee lighting is truly modern with the addition of LED lights...



...hanging over the colorful original terrazzo grand entrance of the outer lobby.



Many of the streamlined decorative elements of the original design have now been restored...



...including the walls and ceiling of the outer lobby...



...as well as of the inner lobby...



...whose curved shape exemplifies the Streamline Moderne style of the time.



The ornate and exultant painting of Samson & Delilah in the inner lobby (whose carpet has also been restored to something patterned very closely to the original) was removed at some point, at one time replaced with concessions, and now standing as a bare wall.



The inner lobby walls undulate...



...and curve around an oval-shaped auditorium known as "the chamber."



Upon entering the auditorium, its most striking feature is its brightly colored ceiling, whose paint and design are original...



...recalling somewhat the terrazzo floor in the front, without the geometric symmetry.



The house is slated to be included in Phase 2 of the planned restoration, which has not yet begun...



...so the seats are dusty and fragile...



...still bearing their original Art Deco features.



The floor is littered, heating vents rising up from under the seats like dusty metal mushroom caps.



There are remnants from the Vision's last operating days...



...including some ticket stubs from 2003 in a catch-all by the doors.



Golden Art Deco plasterwork elements flank the stage by the proscenium...



...which will be expanded to include equipment and flies for more elaborate stage productions to encompass all performing arts (in Phase 3), though the theater was built purely as a movie house.



In the back of the house, you can look up towards the ceiling at what was once the projection apertures...



...though now they lead to a completely renovated, handicap-accessible upstairs...



...which can also be reached by two sets of staircases.



Upstairs, a clean, sleek space lays claim to offices...



...classroom and community spaces...



...as well as a peek of the back of the tower, which might house a public patio one day (though not included in any of the restoration phases currently planned).



The alleys on either side of the relatively small building give a glimpse into the neighboring commercial district...



...which the city and community hope to convert into a modern multiplex of its own, a destination for permanent tenants and visitors/shoppers/audiences alike.



The new plans include a structure that will rise high above the back of the Vision, but it's worth the time to poke around behind there now to see the mural.



The Vision's three-phase restoration is slated for completion in 2015, though their stop-and-start approach to the restoration (largely because of the fragmented availability of funding) does slow the process down, as does the involvement of government bureaucracy.

It's great to see some attention being paid to a theater which has no landmark designation or official historic status (though generally considered historically significant), in an area geographically, racially and socioeconomically far enough away from Downtown and Hollywood to be easily ignored, overlooked, and/or underappreciated. It could've been torn down. It could've stood vacant and deteriorating for years. It could've been converted into a drug store.

But there is a vision for Leimert Park - already a destination for African American arts, culture and commerce. The theater is just one part of it.

Photo Essay: Hollywood in Wax

I seem to celebrate Halloween earlier and earlier every year. I blame my addictive personality. I wore three different costumes to three different masquerade parties last year, and it wasn't enough. I only have two planned this year, and I can't stop shopping for accessories.

When I'm feeling sad and want to get drunk, I go to a Halloween store.

It soothes me.

I think the first real Halloweeny thing I did this year was attend a screening of the classic 3D horror flick House of Wax in original 35MM dual projection at the Egyptian, nearly two months before Halloween itself. (Two days later, I started shopping online for Halloween costumes.)

Since then, while I wait for the various haunted houses and other terrorizing attractions around Southern California to open for the season (sure to brave them alone again this year) - in between my visits to Spirit Halloween, Halloween Adventure, Target, KMart, Hot Topic, Hollywood Toy & Costume, Frederick's of Hollywood, Trashy Lingerie, Claire's Boutique, and Halloweentown (the latter of which I've already visited three times, despite its location up over the hill in Burbank) - I've been obsessed with visiting a wax museum.

Now, as far as I know, there aren't any local wax museums exactly like the one in the movie - certainly none that SPOILER ALERT pour hot wax and shape it over real corpses - but Hollywood does have two from which to choose, so I went off the mainstream and visited the Hollywood Wax Museum instead of Madame Tussaud's. (I'm sure I'll visit the Madame soon enough, though I haven't seen her handiwork since Rock Circus in London in 1995.)


Photo added 9/12/16

In addition to its celebrity recreations in wax, the Hollywood Wax Museum has its own chamber of horrors through which you can walk, once passing a "I wouldn't go in there if I were you" type of warning sign.



It's where Dracula meets Frankenstein...



...and they meet Hellboy.



Chuckie and his bride are forever united behind a glass panel...



...Hannibal Lecter behind bars...



...and Lon Chaney's Phantom freed from his mask.



These wax figures forever raise hell...



...and prey upon...



...and thrill visitors.



And then, of course, are the movie stars...



...some on the red carpet...













...and some in character.















There are also the occasional television stars...





...pop stars...



...and just...stars.



I think most people go into these wax museums to cozy up to the wax figures and get their picture taken with them, so they can tell their friends, "Look, it's me with George Clooney!" But I liked to get right up under their noses, stare into their glassy eyes, and read their faces. Most of them looked sad to me. Most of them looked like there was someone else inside, trying to break free of their waxy exoskeletons, the characters that had been painted and puttied upon them.

I got a little spooked, alone in there with them, their lips parted mid-sentence, lids and lashes never blinking, eyes gazing to the distance, always looking for something else, never really making eye contact, no matter how close I got.

It feels a bit like Hollywood itself.