Photo Essay: Paramount Ranch & Raceway (Updated for 2018)

[Update 11/9/18 2:51 PM PT: Park officials have announced that Paramount Ranch's "Western Town" has been destroyed by the Woolsey Fire. More info will be posted here as it becomes available. Photos from photojournalist John Screiber on Twitter here.]

I'd had Paramount Ranch on my list of places to visit in LA for a while, but I'd been putting off my visit.



Sure, I was interested in the Western Town that still stood as a living movie set for a variety of westerns...



...but what else was there?



For me, given how much LA has to offer for exploring, it just wasn't enough that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman had been shot there.



By the time Westworld had been shot there, I hadn't watched much television in years.



And I'd seen other "western" towns before.



And then I discovered another part of Paramount Ranch's history...



...a part that ended up intriguing me the most.



It wasn't the old train station...



...or any of the ramshackle structures that dated back to the 1940s.



It was the decommissioned raceway.



The famed race track was only open for a few years.



And it was shut down in the late 1950s after fatalities on the figure-8 track—with its hairpin turns and dangerous conditions—became too numerous.



Part of the historic track's original straightaway has been repaved and serves as an access road to the national park site...



...but besides that, there's a surprising amount of asphalt that remains...

...though parts of it are clearly crumbling...



...with weeds and trees sprouting through.



As you follow the original path on foot...



...since no motorized vehicles are currently allowed...



...you can imagine the adrenaline rush of racing those curves in a car...

...and you can almost hear the revving of phantom racecar engines...

...till you realize it's just the motorcycles roaring down the highway above.

In one section...



...far from any traffic of any sort...



...the tarmac is barely interrupted by nature or weathering...



...and you can still spot the original double yellow line painted down the middle.

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Off to the Races: Part One
Off to the Races: Part Two

The Best I'll Ever Have?

I can't remember a time when I ever felt proud of my life.

Sure, I've felt proud of certain accomplishments - grades, awards, victories, prizes, promotions, raises - but they've always felt like aberrations, the exceptions in my life. I haven't been able to be proud of my life as a whole.

In fact, I can't remember a time when I didn't feel embarrassed over...something...

...When I wasn't humiliated by
my parents
my weight
my glasses
my hair
my voice
my period
being single
being penniless
being alone
being sick
being young
being old
feeling ignored
getting lost
losing hope

I spend my whole life trying to convince other people that I'm fine. I hide, obscure, spin, maneuver, euphemize, and minimize the heartbreaks, fears, shortcomings, and misgivings. I color my hair. I wax it elsewhere. I paint my nails. I line my eyelids. I perfume my chest. I gloss my lips. I shave my legs.

I no longer cry in public, the girl that once wept openly on the subway and let steady streams of tears flow down her face while sipping drinks at bars.

Or, rather, I wait until I'm in my car, driving home late at night, gulping down my sobs, when the only people who can see me are those peering at me in their rear view mirrors at stop signs, or pulling up alongside me at stop lights.

When will good enough be enough?

When will I stop agonizing over not being...
thin enough
young enough
old enough
serious enough
happy enough
Jewish enough
rich enough
popular enough
fashionable enough
?

When will it stop being my fault that I am too single?

When will my life stop requiring me to do something about it? At what point do I get to just...enjoy it? When can I say, "Enough is enough" and accept that the way things are are the way they're going to be, and live with it?

Can I ever do that?

Can anyone ever do that? (Well, certainly some people do, some at earlier points in their lives than others, but that doesn't mean they necessarily should.)

Every year, I used to vow, as a singular New Year's Resolution, to simply get better - to make my life better in whatever ways I could. In my mind, that usually meant losing weight, wearing more makeup, tweezing my eyebrows better, choosing my hookups better, making more money, whatever. But rather than giving me just one resolution to stick to, it was so vague that it opened up a whole world of possibilities of how I could potentially improve my life, and if I didn't - or couldn't, especially in those areas over which I had no control - I felt like a failure.

So this year, can I just give myself a year during which I cut myself a break? Can I just...be?

I'm tired. I know I'm not the best out there. I know I don't have the best life, or even the best life I could have. And this year, I may not be able to be better than I was last year. But while I try to take a break this year, I can only hope that the best I ever had - so far - isn't the best I'll ever have. God help me, I hope the best is yet to come. Because I wouldn't go back to any part of my past life for anything.

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Photo Essay: NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Pasadena (Updated for 2017)

For a long time, I thought California's history in space exploration was limited to the telescopes at observatories like Mt. Wilson and Palomar.


circa August 2016

But it turns out, not only does NASA have a flight research center near Edwards Airforce Base, but also the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, in conjunction with CalTech...


circa August 2016

...where space-bound robotics (rovers, probes and the like) are designed, built, tested, and remotely operated.



Abutting the Upper Arroyo Seco, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory sprawls across the foothills of the Angeles National Forest.



Like its own little hamlet, the campus has its own network of streets, and even cautions unique to its industry.



But given its proximity to the Forest, it also has a lively population of "friendly" deer who mingle peacefully with the staff...



...though we were warned not to approach them too closely, for fear they'd charge us in defense.


circa August 2016

Because of its affiliation with Caltech (as it was founded by Caltech faculty), JPL was built like a college campus...


circa January 2017

...and is run like a college campus.


circa August 2016

And because it's an active, working facility (with government ties), security is pretty tight.


circa August 2016

On the tour, we only got to go inside a few of the buildings...


circa August 2016

...like to the assembly room, where the next Mars rover (temporarily called "Mars 2020") will be put together.



We also visited the In Situ Instrument Laboratory...



...where duplicate models of rovers are placed in laboratory-controlled situations that are nearly identical to conditions on the surface of Mars, so they can test out maneuvers.


circa January 2017

But there's not much room inside, so JPL has a much larger "Mars Yard" outside...


circa January 2017

...where technicians and engineers can do a lot more maneuvering to figure out how to pass over rough terrain or get unstuck out of space sand.


circa January 2017

And if something goes wrong, JPL has its own fire department—well-versed in HAZMAT—it can deploy to be on the scene as quickly as possible. 

circa August 2016

Throughout the tour, there are various models that you can get up close to, including a 1/5 scale model of the solar panel-powered Juno Spacecraft (which studies Jupiter)...


circa August 2016

...a 1/10 scale model of Genesis, which collected samples of solar wind from 2001 to 2004...



...and a 50% scale model of Cassini, whose 2004 mission was to orbit Saturn, study its rings, and release a probe towards Saturn's largest moon, Titan.


circa August 2016

There are also models of the three rovers that have landed on Mars so far—the first being the size of a microwave oven and the second, the size of a golf cart. The 100% full-scale model of the third and most recent Mars rover, Curiosity—which landed on Mars in 2012—is approximately the size of an SUV.



Curiosity is technically considered a "chemist"—whose built-in "science laboratory" collects specimens from the planet's surface, tests them, and sends its analyses back to Earth (communications of which go through the Goldstone complex).



Among the artifacts in the museum include a moon rock and a sample of Aerogel, a silicon-based solid which is comprised of 99.8% air, making it the lightest solid in existence. It's used as insulation on Mars rovers, and was also used on prior missions to help trap comet particles.


circa August 2016

There's also the four-track, 114 MB magnetic tape recorder that stored data from the 1989 Galileo mission (also to Jupiter)—which just goes to show how quickly our technology can become antiquated by the time a mission is completed (in this case, 2003).



All of these missions are controlled from one room in the Space Flight Operations Facility ("The Center of the Universe," and a national historic landmark built in 1963), whose computers and large screens look like a scene out of Wargames.



It's probably the coolest access point on the whole JPL tour—especially if you can catch a guy "in the act" of operating a Mars rover down there, in public view.



Because our understanding of "deep space" (that is, the moon and beyond) is constantly evolving, and there's often something either being launched or landed via the controls at JPL, you kind of have to keep going back.



Fortunately, I've gotten to the point where I don't have to take an official tour every time—because I can get the "unofficial" tour from a friend who works there.



And that tour includes lunch.



Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Getting Interstellar at NASA's Top Secret Goldstone Deep Space Complex
Photo Essay: Where Old Meets New at Caltech
Photo Essay: Gazing Beyond the Stars at Carnegie Observatories
Intergalactic Reflections at Mount Wilson's 100-Inch Telescope
Photo Essay: Palomar Mountain & Observatory

Shattered But Not Broken

I walked out of my apartment building this morning as usual, late as usual, but as I approached my parked car by the curb, something seemed off.

I hadn't left the window open all night, had I?

No, the window wasn't rolled down. It wasn't there anymore.

"Oh. Shit."

I looked around, across the street, up and down the block, but the neighborhood was quiet, as usual. No witnesses. No onlookers or bystanders.

Nothing but broken glass. Everywhere.

Oh shit.

I approached the car, jagged shards of glass now looking an eerie sea blue color poking out from the door frame. My inner crime scene investigator told me not to touch anything.

I called my boss.

"I gotta stay and take care of this..." I said, drawing the sentence out too long, as though each word carefully deliberated, one at a time. "I'm...not...really...sure...what...to...do...now... I guess I call the police?"

"Yes, call the police," she said.

"Hm, how do I do that? When it's not an emergency? I only know 911."

"Oh just call 911!" she said. "What are you worried about?!"

Not wanting to detract from others that may have real urgent problems, I dialed 911 and said, "It's not an emergency, but I need the police."

"OK, where are you?" the operator said, somewhat alarmed.

I eventually got transferred to the Beverly Hills police, who dispatched an officer to the scene of the crime while I waited in the sun, kind of glad I wasn't in the office yet with the summer weather that had greeted us this first week back after the holidays.

Officer Kim looked puzzled as he questioned me.

"It's odd," he said, "Because usually this sort of thing happens on the driver's side. People drive by and throw stuff, smash stuff up. But on this side? In this neighborhood? Strange."

"Yeah I know!" I said. "We're in Beverly Hills! Why my car?"

Then he looked at me, squinting in the sun, smiling out of the side of his mouth. "You don't have any angry ex-boyfriends, do you?"

"I don't have any ex-boyfriends..." I grumbled.

"Any beefs with anyone?"

I had to think for a second. I could think of some women who might not be too happy with me. But none who would know where I live or which car was mine...Right?

"I don't think so...?"

"OK so we'll just call this vandalism," he said, as he pulled out a stick - his nightstick? baton? - and started to clear the large fragments from the frame.

But I still couldn't help but feeling that I'd somehow been targeted. My street is always full of parked cars. Why my little hatchback? Why not the BMW or Lexus or sportscar models that speak more to the neighborhood in which we reside? And how could someone have shattered the window so greatly - with a tire-iron? crowbar? - and then not have taken anything inside - not my GPS unit, my Amy Winehouse CD,  or the most valuable item, my Beverly Hills parking pass?

After the responding officer left, and I called in a claim to my insurance, retrieved my packed lunch from my apartment, and a towel to sit on to protect my rear from all the broken glass, I approached the driver's side and stopped short. Aha! The weapon! A medium-sized, smooth rock sat nestled on the floor near the gas pedal, resting from the trip it had taken sailing through the passenger-side window.

And then I imagined the scenario: drunken cohorts stumbling down a dark, empty street on a Tuesday night, egging each other on, grabbing the first missile they could find, a hefty landscaping stone from some condo's front lawn. Perhaps they engaged in a heated debate as to how the assailant would launch the missile: an underhand softball toss, a windmill pitch, or an over-the-shoulder shotput throw.

And although I can relate to the foolishness of youth, the misaligned intentions under the influence of alcohol, all I could say while gazing at the debris that surrounded my car this morning was, "People do horrible things."

You can't stop people from doing horrible things, but you can call the police, file a report, file an insurance claim, call the glass guy and have him come fix your window while parked at the office, pay him $184, and make the whole thing go away.

Until the next time.

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This Diamond Ring

I am not married (woefully), but I have a diamond ring.

I am not engaged (woefully), but I have a diamond ring.

My diamond ring shimmers from my right hand, not my left.

But people don't look at which side it's on, and they only see the diamond.

Maybe they think I'm taken? Sometimes they ask.

But, as Maria, who gave me the diamond, said, I don't need a man to wear a diamond.

And, as the saying goes, "the right hand is for me."

I shake hands with my right hand. I hold a pen with my right hand. I rest my chin on my right hand. I raise a toast with my right hand. I sneak a taste with my right hand. I wipe a tear with my right hand.

The diamond was an estate piece when Maria got it, and I've had it several years now already, but it still sparkles every time I look down on it, even more so in the shine of the sun, by burn of candlelight, or by twinkle of nightlight.

My diamond ring is a little loose on my finger now, but it stays on steadfast, sometimes twirling around, but never squeezing past the knuckle to fall off.

I'm keeping my diamond ring on my right hand, to keep my left hand for him, whoever he may be. And until I find him, I still have a diamond that's all just for me.

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Photo Essay: Mr. Brainwash Art Show 2011 Closing Night

A few months ago, word got out that (possibly fake) street artist (and sort of accidental Shepard Fairey protégé) Mr. Brainwash was taking over an abandoned warehouse on LaBrea in LA.

Given my interest in urban exploration and abandoned buildings, I was intrigued.

I managed to catch the last night of the Art Show 2011 this week, on my last night of Christmas vacation. Although I'm usually not apt to photograph art - it's a bit too meta for me - this particular installation was interesting to me because of the elements of abandonment: broken windows, junked appliances, graffitied walls and floors.

But what's more curious is the question as to how much of that already existed in the abandoned warehouse, and how much was inserted into it as "art"?

Was the warehouse previously in pristine condition, only to be junked up for the sake of spectacle?

The installation certainly included some of Mr. Brainwash's calling cards, namely spray paint cans, Warhol-esque celebrity depictions, and rock star portraits composed by broken LPs...





















...and one haunting figure of Mickey Mouse.



But what happens to that warehouse now that the art show is over?

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Upon Starting a New Year

2011 was the year of...

• the move to LA
• two new jobs
• the return to the stage
• the open road
• the concussion
• gratitude
• distance
• niceness
• elevation (from wire, plane, and mountaintop)
• secret affairs
• sexting
• facing my fears
• withstanding heartbreak
• Becoming Californian
• walking, swimming, hiking, and driving my way through LA

I met someone on New Year's Eve who asked me, "What's your greatest accomplishment of 2011?" and I responded, "Besides moving to LA?"

And I couldn't think of anything else that measured up to moving to LA, though perhaps staying in LA despite losing the job that moved me here, crippling loneliness, debilitating food poisoning, and getting rushed to the emergency room.

Flying a plane?
Driving a racecar?
Getting published?
Getting cast?

Nah.

Just moving here and settling in was scary and difficult enough. And enough to be proud of. Enough to be most proud of.

Hopefully 2012 won't be monopolized by being new in town. Hopefully I'll find some new friends. Hopefully I'll solidify some of the friendships I've already started. Hopefully I'll take pride in something greater than just relocation and survival.

Hopefully this city will start to love me back.

Hopefully somebody will love me back.

Related post:
Search for Tomorrow

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A Tale of One Dress

I have one dress that, over the years, has been my go-to for special occasions.

I don't remember when I bought it, but I remember where I bought it. It was at the Strawberry in Union Square, when I was still shopping at Strawberry, because everything was so cute and so cheap there. And there was something about buying clothes in Junior sizes that made me feel still young.

This dress, the strapless hot pink dress with the black polka dots, and the poodle skirt with black crinoline, made me feel thin and pretty. This dress made me feel like a girl.

I don't remember when I first wore it, but I remember I wore it to the party for my 30th birthday.

"I don't remember ever seeing you in this dress before," my friend George, the owner of the bar where I held my party, said.

"I don't wear it that often..." I said.

"Well," he said, looking at me deeply with those eyes, and one brow cocked just a little bit, "You should wear it more often."

Truth is, I usually wore it to weddings outside of New York. I'd worn it to Steve's wedding in LA, when I made our friend Eric drive my ass around, and I broke into the Beverly Laurel pool after hours and hooked up with Steve's best friend. I'd worn it to Jon's wedding in Upstate New York, when his best friend and best man got so drunk I had to lure him back to the car with my boobs. (I had boobs back then.) I wore it again to James' wedding in Connecticut, where I salsa-danced with the father of the bride, such that now when he sees me, he says, "I remember you - good dancer!"

In September 2008, I'd been invited to Jen's wedding as her friend Rob's date, but I'd gained so much weight that none of my dresses fit me anymore. I went shopping for a new outfit but couldn't find anything. And in the final hour, I resorted to the one dress that had done me right over the years: that hot pink and black polka dot dress.

Sure, it was tight on me. It barely zipped up. But I threw a sweater over it and took to the dancefloor like a pro, trying to forget my heft, trying to forget my heartbreak, trying to feel like a pretty girl despite how I suspected I looked.

That dress hasn't fit me in a while. After losing 51 pounds, I haven't been a size 13 in a while. But I couldn't let that dress go. I couldn't donate it to Goodwill like I had so many other pants, skirts, shirts, and dresses inside which I now swam. So I got it taken in at the tailors, and suddenly, years later, it was like new again.

And in my new hometown, far away from New York, on New Year's Eve, it was time to wear it again.

So I wore the hot pink and black polka dot dress last night with high hopes for a New Year's Eve that wouldn't break my heart.

I hoped for a midnight kiss, which at one point in my youth, was all I ever wanted on New Year's Eve night.

My wish was granted by the first guy I saw, who complimented me on my dress the minute he saw me (it).

But this year, I wanted more.

What I got?

"You look like a ladybug," a friend said, after I complimented him on his suit.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" I asked.

"It's an observation," he stated, deadpan.

"So you're saying I look like a bug..."

"A very ladylike bug..."

At this point I walked away. My dress was hot pink, not RED. I did NOT look like a ladybug.

Did I?

Had I looked like a ladybug all these years?

I went to two different parties searching for something more, leaving behind my midnight kiss and friends, seeking affirmation, reinforcement, flattery, seduction, I don't know what. At the next party, I was complimented in kind by a cute guy: "I like your watermelon dress," he said.

"Uh, thanks," I said. Also not what I was going for.

So maybe I've outgrown this dress. Maybe the dress that got me through my 20s has been ready to be retired for some time now. Maybe Californians just don't get this dress. Maybe even though I got it taken in, it just doesn't fit me anymore.

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