Photo Essay: The Coney Island Carousel in Central Park

"The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off, they fall off..." — Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye

I've got a lot of brass rings to try to grab in New York City still.



There are a lot of carousels there that I haven't made it to yet.



I don't remember ever even seeing one in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park; and I never made it to Forest Park in Queens. And, in my defense, the Sea Glass Carousel and Jane's Carousel both opened after I'd moved to California.



So, on my last trip to NYC, I found myself outside the wrought iron fence of the Friedsam Memorial Carousel, one of the "Scenic Landmarks" of Central Park...

...and—with a turntable measuring 50 feet in diameter—one of the largest carousels in the country (with some of the largest horses).



The current Central Park Carousel is actually the fourth one to be located more or less on this site at the south end of the park, in the former "children's district" near West 64th Street, just down the way from Tavern on the Green and Sheep's Meadow.



It was crafted in 1908 by two Jewish immigrant woodcarvers from Russia, Solomon Stein and Harry Goldstein, who'd partnered in their Artistic Carousel Manufacturing Company of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.



They gave the carousel a pair of decorative chariots...

...and 57 hand-carved horses (52 of which are jumpers).



Of course, the first Central Park Carousel in 1871 was actually powered by real horses (and a mule).



The subsequent two burned down (which happened far too often).



This one, though, had stayed in Brooklyn for over 40 years, spending its last decade or so abandoned in an old BMT trolley terminal in Coney Island until it was donated to Central Park in 1951.



The music comes courtesy of a Ruth und Sohn band organ from Germany with 86 keys, two drums, a tambourine, and cymbals. It plays 20 paper roll records of waltzes, marches, and polkas.



The Central Park Carousel was restored in 1990, giving a little new polish to its flamboyant, bejeweled horses with big heads and giant teeth, characteristic of the "Coney Island style" made most famous by Charles Looff.

With a carousel career that really only lasted about a decade (at which time the "Golden Age" was coming to an end), Stein and Goldstein made less than 20 carousels. There isn't much of their work left out there to ride besides the Central Park Carousel (except perhaps the King Arthur Carrousel at Disneyland).

But it actually feels like I've got too many carousels to ride, while I can still climb up there (and not surpass the weight limit) and while they're still around.

There's still a chance that any of them could burn down or be washed away in floods or monsoons.

Maybe I can't get to them all, but I don't want to know.

So don't say anything.

Related Posts:
A Change of Heart in Central Park
Photo Essay: The Faces of the Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round

A Change of Heart in Central Park: Tavern on the Green

In the time I spent living in New York City, I never really knew why everyone always made such a fuss over Central Park.



Sure, I liked to sit on the Great Lawn for Philharmonic concerts and fireworks and run up to Rumsey Playfield for free Summerstage shows; but I was usually more interested in what was along its perimeter—The Met, The Plaza, The Frick, The Guggenheim—than Strawberry Fields or Sheep's Meadow.



I never even rode in a hansom cab in Central Park—despite enjoying the opportunity to travel en calèche in Tunisie.



But I'm coming around a bit. When I'm back in New York, I'm trying to cross some places off my list, and Central Park keeps coming up. Case in point: Tavern on the Green.



Several years ago, Maria and Mike were talking about taking a trip down to "The City" from Upstate, and as they rattled off where they'd like to go, they mentioned Tavern On the Green.



"Uck, why?" I bemoaned, "It's not even that good." But back then, you didn't really go for the food anyway; you paid for the experience. Back then, I was more interested in new trends rather than the establishment.



What I didn't understand until I found myself there six years after having moved out of New York City was that going to Tavern on the Green—established as a restaurant in 1934—is a rite of passage.



I didn't yet know that although the restaurant had been a staple of the 20th century, the structure it was housed in dated back to the 19th century, having been designed by designed by Calvert Vaux and Jacob Wrey Mould and built in 1870 as a sheepfold—to house the sheep that would graze the meadow (hence its logo, which I never paid much attention to, either).



Upon the conversion of the Victorian Gothic building into a restaurant, that flock of sheep relocated to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Seventy-five years later, Tavern on the Green filed for bankruptcy and closed, the building once again transforming, but this time into a visitor's center.



Lucky for me, this historic eatery—the one I had so mistakenly underestimated and, in fact, had denounced—underwent a massive restoration and reopened as a dining establishment in 2014.

And I'll admit: I was wrong about the place. Of course I want to eat in a 19th century former sheepfold. It almost doesn't matter what I eat there or how it tastes. What history have we here!

Fortunately for me as well, the meal surpassed all expectations—and was punctuated by a dessert of the best carrot cake I have ever had, hands down.

What other iconic NYC experiences have I dismissed and missed out on? The probability seems definite; the possibilities seem infinite.

Related Posts:
Alone in A Crowd: Central Park Edition
Photo Essay: Central Park Arsenal

I'm Not In Love

...but I've been in love before.

Mosaic Heart by Robin Murez (Venice, CA)

I loved the one who cheated on me.

I loved the one who cheated on his girlfriend with me.

I loved the one who married somebody else.

And I loved the one who loved liquor more than me.

I've had enough of love.
I don't want to love, and I don't want to be loved.

Not like that.

Not that way.

I'm OK with the fact that the love of my life is my cat.
And I may not be his, but I feel loved when we're together.

It's a love that gives as much as it takes from me.

That's a different kind of love.

But we speakers of the English language only have one word for all the loves,
no matter how different they are from one another.

At this point in my life, I'll take almost any kind of love...

...just not that kind of love.

As I look back, I'm glad I loved. I know what love is.
I've lost it, but I know what it's like.

But no more love.
No more love like that.

The Year of the Cat

It may be the beginning of The Year of the Rooster according to the Chinese lunar calendar; but for me, the beginning of February marks the end of what will forever be known as The Year of the Cat.

(Note: Although the Chinese zodiac has a Year of the Dog, it replaces the cat in the Vietnamese zodiac with a rabbit.)

Just about a year ago, I made all my childhood dreams come true by adopting a three-year-old black cat with trust issues. Even the shelter wasn't sure how he'd adapt to new surroundings; but despite any trepidation, I decided to give it a whirl.

I was impressed with how quickly he was willing to venture out of the kitchen into the rest of the apartment, despite the fact that the shelter had advised I keep him in one room with the door closed for up to a week.

I was delighted when he accepted my invitation (in the form of a strategically-placed cat bed) to come join me while I slept. Soon, he didn't need (or want) the cat bed; he simply snuggled at my feet in peaceful coexistence.

Slowly, he made his way up to the pillow next to me—and, occasionally, to my shoulder as a perch while I was asleep. Pretty much from the beginning, he'd wake me up every few hours, every night for some kitty love. I was told that would wear off; and while it's gotten less frequent throughout the night, it's still every night.

But I'm still so happy to lose sleep for him. I've even gotten pretty good at petting him in my sleep.

There were many times I wondered if I'd chosen the right cat—if I could possibly make his life better, or if I was just needlessly stressing him out. He seemed pretty calm at the shelter. The folks there loved him. But he reacted to every noise in my building with terror. And he'd look over his shoulder at me with a mixture of suspicion, guilt, and panic.

I accidentally stepped on him once (black cat on a black carpet next to my black pants) and I thought I would die from the heartbreak. I've fallen apart anytime I've scared him with the brush or the nail clippers.

I don't know what happened to him before I brought him home that first day a year ago. But fortunately, I understand PTSD. And so, I've tried to love him on his terms, backing off when it's too much for him.

But, more importantly, I've kept coming back.

I remember certain milestones of the last year—the time I woke up to him licking my underarm, the first time I came home to him sitting comfortably on my bed, the first time I noticed him sitting with his paws straight out instead of tucked underneath him, and so on.

Eventually, he's gotten to the point where the entire apartment is his, and he'll sit anywhere, not just where the cat beds have been placed for him. That's a comfort level I never reached in the house I grew up in.

It warms my heart to hear him snore and to see him waiting for me outside the bathroom door (though he runs away as though in denial of the act). I live to see the corners of his little mouth arch up into a smile while I rub his belly.

He's my preferred Friday night date. He's the only man I want to sleep with. And he's the best reason to get up in the morning.

In these last 12 months with him, I've learned to walk softly—and speak softly—around him. He's brought out the best parts of me—including some maternal instincts I didn't know I had.

I've learned to trade forgiveness for acceptance. Forgiving him would mean he's done something wrong, which he hasn't. If something he's done has ever displeased me, he was just being a cat.

But I haven't learned how to love him unconditionally—because I so desperately want him to love me back.

I know he sometimes gets agitated with me and needs his space, but I hope he accepts me. I'm always trying to take his picture, despite his distrust for cameras and smartphones. Sometimes I pet him awkwardly. Sometimes I get in his face too much when I try to kiss him. He still doesn't like it much when I pick him up, though he might permit it.

I'm only human, after all. But I am, forever, his human.

In this past year, he's made so much progress (as have I). I can't wait to see how he progresses in the coming year.

May every year be The Year of the Cat!

Related Posts:
Rescue Me
On Motherhood

Photo Essay: Ringing In The Year of the Rooster

I don't follow the Chinese lunar calendar or zodiac (or really any zodiac, for that matter)...



...but I'll take any excuse for a parade.



The Golden Dragon Parade that marches through LA's Chinatown for Chinese New Year is much like the Rose Parade that commemorates the New Year of the Gregorian calendar...

Where Church and State Collide

Assalamu Alaikum. السلام عليكم

Or, as we say in Catholic church services: "Peace be with you." (And also with you.)



After expanding my horizons a bit over the last few years, I've realized that I'm a big fan of Islamic art. I quite enjoy visiting mosques, though I was raised Catholic and find myself without prayer these days. And I've had the time of my life traveling to two different Muslim countries (Morocco and Tunisia).



Thankfully, it turns out I don't have to hop a plane to North Africa or the Middle East to visit one—because there's a big one in Culver City that accepts visitors of all faiths.



It's a little complicated, though, because lots of non-Muslims don't feel so comfortable with this mosque in a major LA suburb. Maybe that's because it was initially bankrolled by Saudi Arabia—specifically, $8 million to open it in 1998, donated by the (now late) Saudi King Fahd and his son, Crown Prince Abdullah ibn Abdulaziz (though the mosque no longer receives funds from overseas—instead sustained by donations from its congregants).



And a recently declassified report from the FBI identified it as a site of "extremist-related activity both before and after September 11." (Suspiciously, the mildly redacted document has been moved from its original file location on the U.S. House of Representatives Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence website.)



And, it's true that 15 of the 19 terrorists associated with the 9/11 attacks hailed from Saudi Arabia.



It's possible one or more of them may have attended the Culver City mosque for whatever reason at any point during their time on the West Coast.



But then again, Saudi Arabia wasn't included in the recent so-called "Muslim Ban [archived link]."

But Saudis have had some troubles crossing our borders in the past—before the current presidential administration, that is. In 2003, the State Department wouldn't let Saudi diplomat Fahad al Thumairy (a high-ranking member of the clergy at the mosque) back into the country.



Somehow, though, the King Fahad Mosque has continued to thrive—and, by all appearances, keep the peace.



That's no easy task, since all Muslims aren't the same. In fact, there are two major denominations of Islam—and they don't always get along with each other very well.



But somehow, surrounded by these hand-painted, patterned tiles...



...that are inscribed with calligraphy...



...and marble walls...



......under that 72-foot minaret...



...and a dome so typical of Islamic architecture...



...the two factions can come together to face the holy city of Mecca (which happens to be in Saudi Arabia) in prayer.



On the one hand, you have the Sunnis—the majority population of Muslims who follow the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad as carried on by the man he deemed his successor.



On the other side of the divide, you've got the minority Shiites (a.k.a. Shia), who claim that the successor should have been a relative of Muhammad—and, judging by blood lines, they've got a certain divine right to accession in the Islamic religion. But Muhammad didn't select one of his relatives before he died back in the year 632 A.D.; so, in practice, his descendants have no power.



Although the Culver City mosque is primarily Sunni-leaning, you can find both Sunni and Shiite Muslims together facing Mecca and praying in its 63,000 square feet of prayer space.



Elsewhere in the world, you'll find most of the Shia in Iran and Iraq. But the Shia have had a hard time uniting even just with each other—instead, splitting off into three different sects. And, as I said, it's complicated—because, judging on religious denomination alone, there's no clear way to differentiate the "good guys" from the "bad guys."



And whenever the majority—in this case, the Sunnis—is given absolute power without a system of checks and balances, disaster is practically inevitable. Once seen as loving, peace-making people, the Sunnis are now better-known for their militant faction (the minority within the majority faith) that has given rise to ISIS.



In Iraq and Syria (the last "I" and "S" in ISIS), dissent has become deadly. The Islamic State seized large portions of both countries and have made enemies out of just about everybody.

Sunnis are executing Shia based on faith alone (under the assumption that the Shia are unbelievers). But plenty of Sunnis have died as a result of the attacks, too, despite being on the "right" side of the argument.

Sometimes it seems like these radicals are just trying to bring on the apocalypse. They're trying to tear everything down and start anew. They're ready to blow up whatever they need to, no matter who gets hurt in the process. The casualties are "a small price to pay" for the larger goal at hand.

Unfortunately, the Islamic State is not so much a religious group as a militia. It's a political and military movement, not a religious one.

But it leverages religion to make a point.

The King Fahad Mosque has been reported to "reject Western values." Maybe that's because it encourages those who walk through its doors to cover up a little more than we Californians are used to. Or maybe it's because you're asked to remove your shoes before entering and, if you're a woman, to head upstairs for your own distraction-free "safe space" for prayer, far from the male gaze.

Or maybe it's because you may break bread and participate in interfaith services at the mosque, no matter how you pray, who you pray to, or what you think of Muslims. You are welcome there all the same.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Pico-Union Project, From Temple to Church to Mosque
Photo Essay: Aimee's Castle on the Lake

The Democracy of Ham and Eggs

[Last updated 5/15/26 11:48 AM PT—Removed some historic photos which were not exactly historically accurate. To find out why, you'll have to read the book.]

Welcome to the Shrine of Friendship... the Temple of Sentiment and Idealism... where people come together to bury the hatchet... and have breakfast.



This is the current headquarters of the Los Angeles Breakfast Club, located in Friendship Auditorium on the fringes of Griffith Park. This weekly crack-of-dawn confab was founded in 1925, when it took place near some horse stables more or less in the same spot along Riverside Drive.