Photo Essay: A Night on the Battleship (Updated for 2019)

[Last Updated 4/20/19 10:11 PM PT—new photos added]

When I first visited the Battleship Iowa, there was one thing I couldn't get out of my mind: It would be really fun (and interesting) to spend the night there.



A couple of months later, I found myself on the darkened flight deck, under a waxing gibbous moon, by the glow of blue and red LED lights (so-colored in honor of Veterans Day)...



...and the creaks and moans of the shipping container cranes of the Port of LA.



Everything sure does look different at night.



Part of that was because it was empty in those "after" hours, our group of overnight visitors having the entire historic, retired warship to ourselves.



We peered into dimly-lit hatches...



...and carefully descended backwards down steep stairs into the bowels of the ship.



On this private adventure, we ventured off the path of the normal public tour route, stepping into the officers' galley...



...and lounge areas...



...where 1980s-era furniture intermingles with World War II-era macramé.



And then there's the brig, the cellblock where captives are thrown in alongside unlawful combatants and misbehaving sailors.

circa 2019

This is really how you see how sailors in WWII, the Korean War, and the Cold War lived and worked, be it in the tailor shop (which was something of a dry cleaner for officers' Navy blues)...

circa 2019

...the laundry facilities...

circa 2019

...with the biggest washer/water extractors...

circa 2019

...and dryers you've ever seen.

circa 2019

Then there's the barber shop...



...whose chairs are still outfitted with ashtrays...



...and the dentist's office...

circa 2019

...with its interrogation lights overhead...

circa 2019

...and its spittoon sinks below.



While necessary, those occupations and tasks weren't quite as sexy as being at the helm of a command center...



...in a war room filled with knobs and radars...

circa 2019

...red telephones...

circa 2019

...and secret boxes and switches.



Of course, the ex-USS Iowa has been decommissioned, so it's been painted a few times and cleaned up, no longer having to protect us from the deep waters of the remote Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian Oceans.



But the lower you go, the more you can see the ship in its unrestored condition, unfit for public consumption.



Signs warn of asbestos and PCB-based transformer oil.



And these are the steepest staircases yet, where low overhead abounds...



...and higher-than-usual knee-knocker door thresholds, since the potential full-load water line was so high (at my eye level).



Despite the ship's decommissioning, there are still lights to be lit and levers to be adjusted...

welding area, circa 2019

...buttons to be pushed...

circa 2019

...and valves to be turned.

welding area, circa 2019

After all, though the Iowa no longer sails...

welding area, circa 2019

...it still, to some degree, runs.



And that was evident as we tried to sleep in the tight quarters of the berths, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of expansion and contraction, water or other fluids running through pipes, and the hum of decades-old electronics. It was pitch black after our 10 p.m. "lights out," but the ship was still very much alive.



At 6 a.m., we awoke to the lights being flicked on and a call of "Reveille" (the spoken word of it, not the actual bugle song). We emerged out onto the deck to catch the sunrise and wave at the early birds on deck of the Ruby Princess, a grand-class cruise ship coming in to dock at the World Cruise Terminal.



Our bellies filled with eggs, pancakes, and bacon, and our hands cupping hot coffee, we gathered one final time to reflect on our experience...



...and ask questions of "Battleship Larry," who has clocked in over 1000 hours of volunteer service -- on both the Iowa and the Missouri at Pearl Harbor -- a number that will most certainly go up once he retires.



As a maritime museum, the Battleship Iowa is owned and run by a non-profit organization called the Pacific Battleship Center -- but it couldn't host these kinds of tours and create its displays and interactive experiences without the help of its volunteers, many of whom are veterans (and some of whom actually served on this ship).



As our one night in our coffin-like bunks showed, life at sea wasn't easy for a sailor. They worked hard, slept little, and risked their lives. But for those who love to shoot at things and blow stuff up, they wouldn't have it any other way.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: USS Iowa, The Last of the Battleships
Photo Essay: An American Warship Docks in LA
Brooklyn Navy Yard Tour

Photo Essay: The Picasso of The Caribbean's Surreal, Ceramic Land

Before I visited Cuba and saw it with my own eyes, I didn't associate it folk art... or, really, any kind of fine art either.



Food, yes... mojitos for sure... and music, of course. But when I went to Havana for four days, I did not expect to find myself in the midst of an outsider art environment that would bring me to tears.



In an area northwest of Havana called Jaimanitas, an artist who goes simply by the name "Fuster" has created an enclave of mosaic ceramic tile that sprung out of his own private home and art studio.



Now, the whole thing has spread so much that you can drive through it...



...and plenty of tour buses and classic cars (which operate as taxis) do.



But while it seems like somewhat of an anachronism, at no point in the barrio can you forget that you are in Cuba.



In the time since he first started the project in 1992, Fuster has surrounded himself with a magical kingdom of gauchos...



...as well as whimsical and fantastical creatures.



It's a lot to take in.



Some of it feels ecclesiastical, which makes sense when you learn that Fuster came back to Cuba on a mission after having seen Gaudi's works in Barcelona.



Fuster also cites Romanian sculptor Constantin Brâncuși as inspiration...



...and his works are similarly multidisciplinary and architectural.



His paintings and painted tiles evoke a bit of Picasso as well...



...or maybe something a bit safer, like an illustration out of a children's book.



When you visit, you get to behold what's come of Fuster's artistic dream.



And it is wonderful.



He is a sculptor, ceramicist, mosaicist, painter, and builder of fantasies.



And whatever money he makes from exhibiting and selling his work internationally, he puts back into the ever-expanding, endlessly colorful and joyous neighborhood art project. He also takes donations and sells t-shirts.



In his collection, there are plenty of green reptiles...



...cruciform Cubanos...



...hands outstretched heavenward...



...surreal visages...



...fish, and a few chickens and other types of birds.



In all, there are over 80 homes that contribute to the canvas of Fuster's work...



...spread out across a couple of streets.



Out in the neighborhood, the work manifests more as murals and less as sculptures...



...although, at times, it can be mistaken for pure ornamentation.



And there is something quite decorative about Fuster's craft...



...but it's so much more than that.



It's an optimistic and idealistic vision of home...



...and not just of Cuba.



All people gather here...



...under the sun and the shade of the trees...



...to recite the poetry of Cuban national hero José Martí...



...and to celebrate the great nations of Central America.



Like much of the art of its kind —perhaps most famously, Gaudi's Sagrada Família — it is perpetually unfinished, a work in progress.

After all, Fuster's art has come so far that there's no reason for it to stop now.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The Wall of Toys at the Garden of Oz
Photo Essay: Mosaic Tile House, Venice
Photo Essay: Tile House, Hollywood Hills

Open Letter to Our New President

[Photo added 12/28/16 6:34:00 PM - CC0 Public Domain]

I don't think I've ever known a U.S. president as well as I know you. 

In fact, I met you years ago. I met you over and over again in the 20-plus years of my adulthood. You had different faces and different names; you were in different cities and wore different clothes; but you were you, all the same.

You were the man who pulled his car over on Sunnycrest Drive and asked me for directions to the high school when I was walking home, and then pretended not to be able to hear or understand me as I kept my distance, urging me to come closer. You were the first man to show me your penis uninvited, but you were far from the last.

You were the man who lived in the dorm room next door and came to visit me drunk one night, just to tell me how inexperienced and foolish I was and coerce me into doing things I hadn't done before and didn't want to do. 

You were the man who denied doing all of it and then blamed me for misunderstanding. 

You were the stranger who followed me off the Night Bus in London and shoved your hand up my skirt while muttering something unintelligible and then slithering away.

You were the classmate who walked me home drunk just to have sex with me, even though I said I didn't want to.

You were the guy who used a crowded subway train on the way to work as an excuse to rub up against me with your hard-on, so bold and unabashed that I couldn't believe it was happening, and I froze in fear. 

You were the guy that catcalled me on the street and then called me an ugly, fat cunt when I rebuffed your advances.

You were the date who complained that my bra didn't match my panties.

You were the date who complained that I didn't wax my hair down there.

You were the bartender who wanted me to crawl around on all fours like a dog.

You were the bartender who tried to shove it in the back door without asking nicely first.

You were the bartender who only pretended to put on a condom.

You were the friend who started having sex with me while I was asleep, even though I only let you stay because you were too drunk to drive home.

You were every guy who got too handsy with me in the office, and who got every excuse on earth from all those around you. You were just being friendly. You were just joking. You were married. You told me I was being too sensitive and uptight. 

You were the boss who couldn't see past my womanhood. I was smart and successful, but you took every chance to tear me down with a double entendre, and you made sure you had plenty of witnesses.

I've often wondered why I've encountered so many versions of you over the years, what makes me a target and makes you seek me out to harass, abuse, assault, and otherwise victimize me over and over again.

But now I know: It's not me, it's you. 

There are so many Donald Trumps out there, and they all voted for you. 

And there are many more of them than I ever expected, even though I'd met so many of them already.

We tell our girls to stay away from guys like you. We tell them not to put themselves in a compromising situation with you, not be alone with you, not to go home with you, not to get drunk with you.

But how can we avoid you, when you're the president of our country? When grabbing life by the horns -- and women by the "pussy" -- is considered presidential?

How can we teach boys who are becoming new men to be kind, loving, and fair -- and not to rape?

How can I have any hope for anything, when the people have most certainly spoken, and what they've chosen is the one thing I've spent my entire life trying to get away from?

Don't get me wrong, President-Elect Trump. It's not all your fault. You're simply the pied piper of all the sexist, misogynist, superficial blowhards who've finally come out of hiding.

They say you should know your enemy. Well, I know you. I know you all too well. 

But you don't know a thing about me.

Related Posts:

Don't Blame It On Me

Dispatches from My Soft, Naked Core

A Case of the Unsecure

Living With the Terror

Halloween at the Dead Doctor's Mansion

I remember the days when Halloween night was all about how late I could stay out and how wild of a time I could have. My life has gotten a bit more civilized over the last couple of years.

When it comes down to it, for me Halloween really isn't about partying anyway. It's about being spooked. It's letting the macabre drape over me and stick to me like a cobweb. It's the smell of a fog machine and the feeling of an icy grip on my back.

It's when the hauntings that I feel all year feel welcome and safe, rather than intrusive and threatening.

So it makes sense if I'm not going to dress in some sexy costume that I should go to a notoriously haunted 19th century Victorian house for ghost stories and a magic show on Halloween night.

And, for the first Halloween night in my life, I had a date.

Circa 1909 (postcard courtesy of Santa Ana Historical Preservation Society)