Photo Essay: Fremont Street Experience, Vegas (Updated for 2019)

[Last Updated 5/2/19 10:50 PM PT—New photos added, details updated]

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.

circa 2019

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.

circa 2019

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

circa 2019

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...



...starting more or less at the El Cortez Hotel...



...past Oscar's Martini neon...



...and the rotating high-heeled shoe from the Silver Slipper Gambling Hall...

circa 2019

...right down to the Fremont Street Experience...

...where you can walk without traffic or whizz by the still-lit neon and incandescent bulb signs on a zipline.



There, you can also see some of the costumed characters you find on The Strip or on Hollywood Boulevard...



...who are somehow so much more charming on Fremont Street.



One of the main Vegas landmarks that I never found on that first trip—and took me years to find—was "Vegas Vic," the waving cowboy and unofficial mascot of Las Vegas.



But there he was—right there on Fremont Street—at the Pioneer Club (or the Famous Pioneer, or both), right alongside an Elvis impersonator and what appeared to be a two-person gospel choir.



Viva Las Vegas indeed.

relocated to The Neon Museum Boneyard main gallery

The neon signs that were preserved and relit by The Neon Museum and once on display on Fremont...

relocated to The Neon Museum Boneyard main gallery

...have since been moved to the Museum campus...

relocated to The Neon Museum Boneyard main gallery

...some of which are still lit up in the boneyard...

relocated to The Neon Museum Boneyard main gallery

...others of which have gone dark (at least temporarily).



Some new signs have actually been added...



...though the Trader Bill's neon has been covered and arrow painted blue by the building's new tenant, White Castle.



And the Golden Goose (circa 1974)—like the Las Vegas Club and (Topless Girls of Glitter Gulch) on either side of it—are altogether gone, forever. All three (plus a couple other neighboring businesses) were demolished in 2017.

Related posts:
Photo Essay: Waking Up in Vegas (On Fremont Street)
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard At Night

Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas

Photo Essay: The Mysteries of Brand Park in Historic Glendale (Updated for 2024)

[Last updated 11/12/24 10:57 PM PT—I got to return to Brand Cemetery, this time with a docent from Glendale Historical Society who unlocked the gate. Some new photos added, with a few more details.]

What draws me to any trail?

Usually, it's some sense of history. Which there is plenty of in LA.

Take Brand Park, for instance. 

2024

Airplane parties were numerous in the days of private flying, and Miradero, the estate of Leslie Brand— who had a strong hand in the establishment of the city of Glendale, just east of Los Angeles—was central to the era of private flying parties. Brand had his own airfield on his private property—just south of the mansion and estate which now constitutes Brand Library in Brand Park—but his estate was also situated close to the old Grand Central, one of the many now-defunct municipal airfields of Los Angeles County.



Climbing the trails behind Brand Library, you can see some of the possible remnants of those private flying days, most notably a light beacon (??), perhaps having served Brand's airfield, perhaps Grand Central.

But there are plenty of other mysteries surrounding the old Brand estate, including some post-Brand city of Glendale developments whose vestiges litter the historic trails.



When hiking behind the library, I discovered some concrete footings that reminded me of the remnants of the Corralitas Red Car Property in Silver Lake...

...which would have been bizarre given the elevation of the Verdugo Mountains back there...

...although apparently there once was a plan to build a funicular in the Verdugos.

Most certainly there hadn't been another incline railway here, but Glendale does have plenty of rail history...



...and Brand himself (the man often referred to as "The Father of Glendale") had been instrumental in a lot of the railway development in the city of Glendale...

...where one of the Pacific Electric lines used to end.

So then...what?



The Parks Department thinks that they look like remnant from some old water line components left over after the systems have been demolished over the years. Apparently, long gone are the water tanks and other piping servicing some of the improvements below, but concrete items like these would have been left behind because they were too heavy to move and wouldn't have had any scrap value.

And there are some pipes still up there.



The interesting thing is, no one really seems to know. "That's Glendale..." said the librarian I visited at Brand Library.



Down below, along the fire road that becomes the Brand Motorway past the Debris Basin, you can find plenty of other ruins—your garden-variety stairs-to-nowhere from once-razed structures, etc. [Ed: Glendale Historical Society docents shared that there were once several outbuildings throughout the property during Brand's time there, which explains some of the structural relics.]

2024

Equally mysterious is the Brand Cemetery...

2024

...which was once the burial ground for the dogs of the family, while they still resided at Miradero (although only one headstone survives, its glassed-in photo stolen at some point.

2024

Leslie and the rest of the family members are now laid to rest there, too—and relatives continue to be buried there. 

The cemetery—and the pyramid-shaped headstone—lie behind a locked gate amidst the ruins, although a 2024 tour hosted by Glendale Historical Society brought visitors right into the graveyard to have a look around.

Elsewhere, there is a graffitied shed (reminiscent of Murphy Ranch) that historians speculate could have once served as a meat locker...

But what the heck is this boat doing there?



For now, much of it remains a mystery.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to figure it out...

Related Posts:

Photo Essay: Brand Park Trails

Christmas at the Doctors House, Saved From Demolition and Moved to Brand Park

Sound Horn

On the fire road in Brand Park, behind Brand Library on the way to the Brand Cemetery, the S-curves in the road are so tight that a low speed limit isn't enough to prevent accidents, so there are regularly-posted signs instructing you to "Sound Horn." Presumably, that's to let those who are approaching you from around the curve to know that you're on your way, and also to let those whom you approach know of your imminent arrival from around the bend.

If someone or something is on its way to me, can it please sound its horn?

Now?

I feel like I've been sounding my horn for ages, maybe centuries, certainly decades, since the first contraction erupted in my mother's dilating cervix, and I emerged bellowing from the birth canal four hours later, wailing so much as a baby that my Grammy predicted I would become an opera singer.

Since then, I've sung, screamed, speeched, hollered, and used my stage voice and projected even in normal everyday conversation. I've sounded my horn. Everyone knows when I'm coming, and when I've arrived.

But does my horn fall upon deaf ears? Does my horn warn or transform anything around me, anything at all?

Or maybe I'm warning nothing and no one, because they're not over there, on the other side. Perhaps nothing this way comes.

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Photo Essay: The Lost Ruins of Rustic Canyon

Update 9/11/21 1:46 PM PT—I'm not 100% sure of the status of these structures, as I haven't been able to get down there and see it myself. But I have heard from reliable sources that some of the ruins at Murphy Ranch have been removed. I'll update this post when I have a definite confirmation.

I first tried to visit Rustic Canyon by hiking through Will Rogers and then Topanga State Park.

But, as usual, I got lost.

I visited a second time more directly, by approaching it from the Sullivan Fire Road in Pacific Palisades, and reaching what I thought was my ultimate destination: Murphy Ranch.

But it turns out there are plenty of other ruins to be seen in Rustic Canyon. And during my last visit, I only found a few more of them.

Another Case of Not Getting the Part

At 36 years old, living alone in Los Angeles, I'm still learning about life.

Being alone in a new city teaches you a lot.

Several months ago, when I'd only lived in LA for less than half a year, I connected with someone who called me a kindred spirit. I thought I'd found a real friend, maybe more.

But when things became romantic, he backed off, citing excuse after excuse as to why getting involved would be too complicated: all of our mutual friends, our semi-professional association with each other, his need to focus on his writing, etc.

Knowing there was no reasoning with him, I tried to seduce him again, only to be told, "I'm not a piece of meat."

And then the final judgment came down: "Whatever you're looking for, Sandi, I'm not your guy."

And there was no protesting. There was no convincing. The finality of the statement was undeniable, and, though not devastating (especially since I was and am still hung up on somebody else), definitive.

At least for the moment.

But our connection was so strong that I held out some hope for a rekindling. Maybe he'd change his mind. Maybe he'd get a lot of work done and would make some time for me. Maybe he would get to know me better and like me more. Maybe enough time would pass so that he would stop worrying about all of his excuses.

Most importantly, I just wanted to stay connected, even if that meant not romantically. If we were, indeed, kindred spirits, I wanted to keep him in my life. I'd been waiting a long time for him.

He, apparently, had an easier time letting me go, successfully fading away by not replying to text messages or emails, ignoring invitations to movies, hikes and events, and avoiding me when we inevitably saw each other in person.

And then, just as I'd come to terms with his unavailability, he started pursuing someone else.

Right in front of my face.

It was blatant to me, maybe because I know him. I know how he operates.

And when that relationship had been consummated, he didn't do a very good job of hiding it from me, though somehow he's managed to hide it from most of the rest of the world - so far.

So I now have two of his secrets to keep: me, and now this other girl, who, for some reason, though seemingly far less his kindred spirit, and only slightly less in his social circle, makes him want to be her guy.

Now, of course, I realize that sometimes an excuse is just an excuse. It's not a reason. It's an escape. It lets someone off the hook from saying that they're just not that into you, or that they've gotten what they wanted from you and now they're done.

At 36 years old, I'm still learning these things.

At 36, I can't get that upset about it anymore.

I have to remind myself, as in the world of auditioning: if I'm not right for the part, I'm not right for the part. My feelings aren't hurt. But don't call me back, and for God's sake, don't cast me for a day and then release me from the role. Don't pretend that the reason is that the role got cut or that the play has been postponed.

Cast who you want in the role, if they want to be cast, and be proud of your choice. Let the rest of us move on to some other audition.

Let the rest of us off the hook to find an actual real friend.

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The Emptiness Beside Me

As I approach closing out a year in LA, I can't help but feel a bit defeated. I'm lonely. I didn't think I'd be so lonely.

But I don't feel like the emptiness is inside of me. I feel enriched, fulfilled, adventurous, accomplished, intelligent, and expanded.

No, the emptiness is not inside of me. The emptiness is merely...next to me.

As I prepared to move from New York, I considered which of my possessions to sell, give away, throw out, or just leave behind. All along, I planned to get rid of my full-sized bed and upgrade to a Queen, not because I had anyone to share it with, but just because I'd started to fill up the bed built-for-two all by myself. But when I signed the lease on an apartment that came equipped with a murphy bed frame that only fit a double-sized mattress, I gave my 10 year-old one to the movers and had it hauled across the country.

As I sleep in it now, all by myself, I can't imagine having a Queen- or a King-sized bed. It would just be...embarrassing.

It's as embarrassing as buying a bike rack that fits three bikes, when clearly it's just me, it's just one bike, and there are and will be no more bikes.

Occasionally, when I go out to dinner alone, the hostess tries to seat me at a large table, built for two, or three, or four, or more. I campaign for a seat at the bar so I can sit alone, in one seat, in my own little space, with the bartender as my date, but sometimes there is no bar, and I'm forced to dine alone at a table, the wide expanse of tablecloth stretching out before me. Instead of sticking to my tiny little area and leaving the rest of the table's blank space to the imagination of my fellow diners, sometimes I order enough food for two, as much food as I would order if I were splitting dinner with another diner, to try as many items as possible, filling the entire table's surface, knowing that I'll take half home and have another nice meal all to myself.

But sometimes, the waiter tries to put my leftovers in a too-large container - two slices of pizza in an entire cardboard pizza box - and I have to stop them. "Just give me a piece of foil," I say. "It's embarrassing to walk out of here with that giant thing."

My life is full. My heart is full. But my bed, my bike rack, my dinner table and my pizza box are all half-empty.

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No Stopping Any Time

Even though LA is slower-paced than New York, I still feel like I'm always rushing.

I still hurry through my breakfast and my shower - taking short-cuts along the way (like not washing my hair) - to get to work on time. I rarely get to work on time.

I still hustle may way through the work day, multi-tasking between dozens of open applications and documents, typing away while on the phone, juggling interns, email attachments, spreadsheets and contracts.

I race through canyons before the sun sets. Sometimes I don't make it and I have to finish in the dark. I don't like the dark very much so I have to hurry more.

I bob and weave my way through traffic, learning short-cuts, bypassing freeways, scooting down alleys, changing lanes and turning right on red just to shave a few minutes off of my journey.

When a night for which I have no plans approaches, I make a plan - even if it's by myself, at the restaurant around the corner.

If I have a plan that ends early, I squeeze in a nightcap.

I'm so much calmer than I was in New York, than I was ever in my life, but as much as I may have slowed down, I'm not stopping. I can't stop.

I can't stay home alone.

I can't stay inside if the sun is shining.

And so I find myself...kind of hoping...for a rainy day...so I can just....

...stop.

For a day.

Or even just for a minute.

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Photo Essay: Brand Park Trails

What draws me to any trail?

I talk to so many people - so many strangers - in LA, all of whom have advice about where to eat, drink, hike, explore, that I generally take their advice and just put it in the coffer. I don't remember who told me what, where I read what, why I bookmarked what, but I have a good running list of spots to hit within a day trip's distance of Beverly Hills.

Brand Park was one of those places.

I wasn't sure what was there, but I saw a Meetup posting about a climb up Mt. Thom, and it seemed easy enough to tackle on my own on a Saturday, within close driving distance, so I headed there by myself, without aid of a group.

Upon my first attempt at climbing the mount behind Brand Library in Brand Park, I considered that a mistake.

Of course I arrived too late in the day to spend much time tackling the hike, and as usual, my impatience got the best of me.



I started the hike at the American Green Cross statue...



...partially because it seemed easy enough with the well-maintained trail...



...which was easily navigable with plenty of landmarks to guide the way, like the nearby water tank and fire road.



But the trail quickly becomes harrowing.



The trail becomes slippery, steep, and harrowing.



It keeps getting steeper and steeper, requiring a scramble on all fours...



...until the hike became so scary that I became frozen in place, unable to go up, unable to go back down.



I was alone on the trail, so I couldn't follow in the footsteps of fellow hikers, learning from their footholds. The thought of going any farther up freaked me out, mostly because it seemed like I would have to return the same way back down. Which, as we know, is always worse for me.



I looked down, and couldn't imagine descending.

So I sat down for a while.

Eventually, I decided to go down instead of up, but I felt like a failure.

So when I got back down to the bottom, I decided to go back up.

I decided to go back up a different way.



I reapproached the mountain from a different trailhead, this time the Boy Scout's nature trail from directly behind the library.



As the sun began to set, I ascended a hill until I could see that the two trails met at the peak, creating a loop trail. One of the women who passed me on the way up the first time now passed me on the way down on my second try, meaning it was all connected. But with the disappearing sun, I didn't have enough time to complete the loop, so I headed back down, retracing my steps once again.



When I returned to LA after spending the holidays back east, the first thing I wanted to do (besides take a tour of the JPL) was revisit Brand Park. I had to conquer that hike.



So I went up the other way again - up the Boy Scout Nature Trail behind the library, otherwise known as the Library Trail - which I would soon come to find out was "the easy way" but by no means easy.

And although its steep grade was far less scary than the American Green Cross Trail way, I was terrified on this trail by something else: a rustling in the bushes, and the backside of something which I can only guess was a baby bobcat. After having witnessed coyotes and giant teddy bear-sized raccoons in Beverly Hills, and rattlesnakes throughout LA, I thought I'd had my fill of southern California wildlife, but I always knew in the back of my mind that there was a chance I'd seen a mountain lion (common in Griffith Park) or a bobcat (especially since two babies had recently been discovered under a car in Burbank).

I was too terrified to pause for long, or to snap a photo. I heard loud purring. I could've turned around, but I decided to move on.



Like the American Green Cross Trail, the path behind the library was steep, slippery, and eroded.



Its elevation revealed panoramic views of the city of Glendale - and beyond - below.



And although I was once again alone on the trail, this one seemed achievable. This was surmountable.





And it was placid at the top, at a small plateau with several benches from which to enjoy the view, but I knew I couldn't pause there for long...






After all, it was a loop trail, and I would have to go back down the American Green Cross trail, which originally freaked me out so much.

In the end, I took an easy way out. I saw the path that led straight to my turnaround point from last time, and I bypassed it, choosing instead to take an easier trail that would meet up with the American Green Cross Trail farther down, past the really harrowing point.

But, of course, even when I met back up with the original trail - the one that had defeated me - I still had to scoot on my rear at a certain point to descend the mountain, preferring to crab-walk on all-fours rather than risk tumbling head-first down a rocky demise because of the inevitable effects of inertia and gravity.

Were the trails in Brand Park part of just any ol' hike, I might not have been so proud of my accomplishment. But, it turns out, Brand Park is full of many mysteries - both on the trails and beyond - that were worth my double exploration, and further exploration in the future....

Stay tuned.

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