"At least a couple of months," I said, despite the authorities telling us it would only be three weeks.
"Really? That long, you think?" she said.
"Oh yeah."
Warner Grand Theatre, San Pedro (taken 4/25/20)
Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query pandemic. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query pandemic. Sort by date Show all posts
March 13, 2021
Upon the One-Year Anniversary of the Pandemic Times
"How long do you think this is gonna go on?" my friend asked.
Warner Grand Theatre, San Pedro (taken 4/25/20)
Warner Grand Theatre, San Pedro (taken 4/25/20)
July 25, 2020
Pandemic Amusements: Through The Donut Hole
Adapted from my KCET.org article "Best Drive-Through Adventures in Modern-Day SoCal"
If there was ever any question before, it’s now been unequivocally confirmed by the coronavirus pandemic that donuts are essential.
And none of SoCal's donut shops are more thrilling than the one where you can drive through the hole of a larger-than-life donut!
The Donut Hole—now a living relic of a defunct donut chain—has been in continuous operation in La Puente, in the San Gabriel Valley, since 1968.
It's one of the few remaining examples of "programmatic" architecture—or a building shaped as the object it’s selling.
In this case, that means a donut.
The genius of The Donut Hole is that you don’t just drive through one giant fiberglass donut — but two, connected by a tunnel.
The design of this particular behemoth of baked goods has been credited to the architectural trio of John Tindall, Ed McCreany, and Jesse Hood.
While they designed a take-out window for easy walk-up access, alongside the exterior of that tunnel...
...the pedestrian experience can't compete with lining up in your car and waiting your turn to enter the hole.
Upon entry, you can already start to smell the raised dough and the glaze...
...and as you creep forward, you catch glimpses of what’s fresh...
...like maybe an apple fritter or a jelly, or one of the more modern additions to the menu, like one that’s topped with cereal...
...which means, of course, that it can be both breakfast and dessert.
I may be easily amused, a trait that's well-suited for surviving the pandemic—but I've always found The Donut Hole amusing, at least since I first drove through it in February 2013.
And now, I'm grateful for the opportunity to return (twice!) during the pandemic and take a closer look. I never seemed to have time before.
But now with lots more time on my hands, I'm trying to spend it in delicious frivolity—while I still can.
Related Posts:
Pandemic Amusements: At the Drive-In, On a Former Cornfield
If there was ever any question before, it’s now been unequivocally confirmed by the coronavirus pandemic that donuts are essential.
And none of SoCal's donut shops are more thrilling than the one where you can drive through the hole of a larger-than-life donut!
The Donut Hole—now a living relic of a defunct donut chain—has been in continuous operation in La Puente, in the San Gabriel Valley, since 1968.
It's one of the few remaining examples of "programmatic" architecture—or a building shaped as the object it’s selling.
In this case, that means a donut.
The genius of The Donut Hole is that you don’t just drive through one giant fiberglass donut — but two, connected by a tunnel.
The design of this particular behemoth of baked goods has been credited to the architectural trio of John Tindall, Ed McCreany, and Jesse Hood.
While they designed a take-out window for easy walk-up access, alongside the exterior of that tunnel...
...the pedestrian experience can't compete with lining up in your car and waiting your turn to enter the hole.
Upon entry, you can already start to smell the raised dough and the glaze...
...and as you creep forward, you catch glimpses of what’s fresh...
...like maybe an apple fritter or a jelly, or one of the more modern additions to the menu, like one that’s topped with cereal...
...which means, of course, that it can be both breakfast and dessert.
I may be easily amused, a trait that's well-suited for surviving the pandemic—but I've always found The Donut Hole amusing, at least since I first drove through it in February 2013.
And now, I'm grateful for the opportunity to return (twice!) during the pandemic and take a closer look. I never seemed to have time before.
But now with lots more time on my hands, I'm trying to spend it in delicious frivolity—while I still can.
Related Posts:
Pandemic Amusements: At the Drive-In, On a Former Cornfield
September 18, 2020
Another Month of the Pandemic, A New Swimming Pool to Try
We just passed the six-month-mark of the coronavirus pandemic this week. It's starting to feel like it's never going to end.
Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning in anxiety.
And the only thing that helps me come up for air is getting in the water. Even when it stresses me out.
It's still better than life on dry land.
The City of LA's aquatics facilities haven't reopened yet. The West Hollywood Pool has been demolished. And reservations for the Culver City and Santa Monica public pools have become increasingly hard to come by—especially when residents have first dibs.
So, I've returned to my routine from when I first moved to LA—which is to try any pool I can get into that's new to me, no matter where it is.
Today, my swimming took me to the South Bay municipality of Torrance, California.
Instead of driving 20 minutes to swim for 40, today I had to drive an hour to get to my time slot.
It was slightly quicker getting back home—but I still questioned my sanity.
After a week of swim session cancelations because of poor air quality—with smoke from the wildfires that are raging up and down the Pacific West and Northwest blanketing us in a milky-white haze and an orange glow—I was willing to drive pretty much anywhere, as long as I could find a pool that would take me.
The Torrance Plunge is named after former Torrance City Councilman Victor E. Benstead, who served from 1952 to 1964. It was his idea to build the Plunge. It was even part of his campaign platform—the one that helped him get elected to city council.
After he fulfilled his campaign promise, his fellow council members surprised him with the renaming. And the name has stuck since it was originally dedicated in 1956.
Despite the pandemic, the Torrance Plunge offers the chance to swim laps in half the length of its Olympic size—and, as with the other pools during the pandemic, in a lane all to yourself.
The west wall of the plunge—at the deep end—features a mural by artist Emily Bradley, which was unveiled late last year.
But I didn't notice much of anything beyond the first blue sky I'd seen in two weeks.
That, and the blue and white backstroke pennant flags above me, flapping in the ocean breeze. I stared at them as I counted to 25 and reached out my hand to brace myself against the wall behind me.
So, where to next?
I'm open to suggestions.
Related Posts:
July 15, 2020
Pandemic Amusements: At the Drive-In, On a Former Cornfield
It didn't matter that Paramount Drive-In isn't as exciting as Mission Tiki Drive-In.
Located in the City of Paramount, home of the Zamboni, it's a lot closer to where I live in the LA area. And it seemed less crowded, at least upon my early arrival.
Besides, I don't have to choose right now. I want to hit them all. Even the ones in San Diego, San Luis Obispo, and Barstow. And Vegas, too.
I'd been kicking myself for not going to any drive-in movies for the first 9 years I lived in California—but in the case of Paramount, I get a little bit of a break. Movie screenings had ceased between 1992 to 2014 (though the swap meet operated continuously since 1955) and the theatre was closed for the first two months of the pandemic shutdown.
Opened in 1947, Paramount Drive-In Theatres was originally known as the Roadium—a brand that has recently been revived in Torrance, with drive-in movies and an open-air market.
Back then, that area was "Clearwater Township"—named after the seasonal lake that would form when fed by nearby artesian wells—but was rechristened "Paramount" in 1948. It was all dairy farms and chicken coops until the 1970s.
Amazingly, the entire site—built upon an old cornfield—remained intact enough for the drive-in to reopen in 2014, with digital projection and FM transmission for sound.
It's been a two-screener since the 1970s—and at least since its grand reopening six years ago, one screen is devoted to family-friendly programming (with each main attraction showing twice for an early and late screening).
This new venture is the brainchild of Glenn Bianchi of Bianchi Theatres—son of Joseph Bianchi, a WWII penicillin peddler who came out west to become the original proprietor of Roadium. Born in Compton, the younger Bianchi used to work in the snack bar as a teenager and eventually got promoted to manager.
The concessions stand still serves popcorn and hot dogs—but instead of malted milkshakes and Cherry Cokes, there are agua frescas and churros.
While the twin theatre's 45 acres should accommodate 800 cars, the pandemic requires keeping a space open between every parked vehicle. And their lightsaber-wielding ushers/security guards enforce the policy, thankfully.
But even with the capacity restricted, Paramount Drive-In has reported selling "double" the number of tickets it would any other year—any other year not in a pandemic, that is.
For some, it's just something to do. It almost doesn't matter what the movie is. And that's a good thing, considering how Hollywood has hit the brakes on its big summer releases.
But the little guys—the indies, the low-budget horror flicks—are thriving at the drive-in. And lucky for me, I like to watch a good scary movie in the dark while sipping soda nervously through a straw.
After years of feeling like I had to go to the movies by myself if I wanted to go to the movies at all, now I prefer solo adventures at the cinema. I don't want to leave my car or congregate with anyone else.
It's a perfect night out, with minimal risk of contamination and maximum entertainment.
Related Posts:
A Tropical Escape In a Time of Adversity: Mission Tiki Drive-In
Located in the City of Paramount, home of the Zamboni, it's a lot closer to where I live in the LA area. And it seemed less crowded, at least upon my early arrival.
Besides, I don't have to choose right now. I want to hit them all. Even the ones in San Diego, San Luis Obispo, and Barstow. And Vegas, too.
I'd been kicking myself for not going to any drive-in movies for the first 9 years I lived in California—but in the case of Paramount, I get a little bit of a break. Movie screenings had ceased between 1992 to 2014 (though the swap meet operated continuously since 1955) and the theatre was closed for the first two months of the pandemic shutdown.
Opened in 1947, Paramount Drive-In Theatres was originally known as the Roadium—a brand that has recently been revived in Torrance, with drive-in movies and an open-air market.
Back then, that area was "Clearwater Township"—named after the seasonal lake that would form when fed by nearby artesian wells—but was rechristened "Paramount" in 1948. It was all dairy farms and chicken coops until the 1970s.
Amazingly, the entire site—built upon an old cornfield—remained intact enough for the drive-in to reopen in 2014, with digital projection and FM transmission for sound.
It's been a two-screener since the 1970s—and at least since its grand reopening six years ago, one screen is devoted to family-friendly programming (with each main attraction showing twice for an early and late screening).
This new venture is the brainchild of Glenn Bianchi of Bianchi Theatres—son of Joseph Bianchi, a WWII penicillin peddler who came out west to become the original proprietor of Roadium. Born in Compton, the younger Bianchi used to work in the snack bar as a teenager and eventually got promoted to manager.
The concessions stand still serves popcorn and hot dogs—but instead of malted milkshakes and Cherry Cokes, there are agua frescas and churros.
While the twin theatre's 45 acres should accommodate 800 cars, the pandemic requires keeping a space open between every parked vehicle. And their lightsaber-wielding ushers/security guards enforce the policy, thankfully.
But even with the capacity restricted, Paramount Drive-In has reported selling "double" the number of tickets it would any other year—any other year not in a pandemic, that is.
For some, it's just something to do. It almost doesn't matter what the movie is. And that's a good thing, considering how Hollywood has hit the brakes on its big summer releases.
But the little guys—the indies, the low-budget horror flicks—are thriving at the drive-in. And lucky for me, I like to watch a good scary movie in the dark while sipping soda nervously through a straw.
After years of feeling like I had to go to the movies by myself if I wanted to go to the movies at all, now I prefer solo adventures at the cinema. I don't want to leave my car or congregate with anyone else.
It's a perfect night out, with minimal risk of contamination and maximum entertainment.
Related Posts:
A Tropical Escape In a Time of Adversity: Mission Tiki Drive-In
April 15, 2021
Pandemic In the Rear View?
Almost two weeks ago, I went back to Six Flags Magic Mountain to get my second shot of the COVID-19 vaccine.
June 10, 2020
Heading Into Chapter Two of the Coronavirus Pandemic
I know the coronavirus pandemic isn't over yet. But it kind of feels over. People are acting like it's over.
At first, it was characterized by a precious emptiness—at least on the freeways.
Though never on the sidewalks—at least, not in my neighborhood.
With everything canceled, I felt I tremendous amount of freedom from my own schedule—finally liberated to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as it didn't involve the indoors or other people.
It felt like the month of March would never end, even as the calendar indicated that we'd already passed into April, May, June.
Back before things started opening up again, I was just fine with what may have looked desolate to other people. The world was my oyster.
It felt much like my early days first visiting Southern California, when I'd just drive around to look at stuff. I'd just go exploring to see what I could find.
Sometimes during the shutdown, which restricted travel to essential purposes only, it was essential for me to get out of my apartment, get out of my own head, and get in the car—even if it was to indulge a certain morbid curiosity to document a SoCal I'd never seen before and hopefully would never see again.
The physical distance from people made me feel emotionally closer to both my friends and strangers. Radio DJs kept telling me, "We're in this together." And I believed them. That made me feel better.
I knew there were people who didn't know me who'd be looking out for me if something were to happen.
But I was going to try to make sure I didn't wind up in their care.
I masked up—but not to protect others. I selfishly wore a mask to protect myself.
And I still do.
I might still, even after the mask requirements are loosened.
I'm writing about the COVID-19 health crisis now because with trails and dining rooms beginning to reopen, the first chapter of it has ended (though there are more chapters to come).
I'm glad to see that car hop service will continue at some places. I was having a good time eating in my car.
In fact, my car is pretty much the only place I've felt any sense of safety since this all started—since January, when I first caught wind of a "novel virus" that was on its way to California (though it had probably arrived before then).
While the majority of Southern California was shut down, I'd go anywhere—as long as I could stay in my car.
I used the pandemic as an opportunity to live out my American Graffiti dreams and reclaim some portion of the 1950s that I was born 15 years too late to enjoy.
It was also an excuse to indulge in my donut obsession—especially a roadside donut tunnel I could drive through.
Behind the wheel, I felt invincible. Even curly fries couldn't hurt me.
And if everyone else was staying safe by staying inside, wasn't it the perfect excuse for me to go out and explore—blissfully alone?
At the first suggestion of "opening back up," I felt sad. I loved my little solo dates with Los Angeles, those get-to-know-you moments that usually only occur at the beginning of a relationship.
Nine years in, I realized there was still more to learn about LA—and about myself—and about myself in LA.
I'd feel better about the loosening of the restrictions if that meant the coronavirus were gone or that people weren't getting sick or dying. But that's not the case.
The virus hasn't gone away. And neither has the risk.
We've just normalized the risk.
And it seems that most people are willing to sacrifice their own health—and the health of their customers—in order to stay in business.
But the more other people go out, the more I stay in.
They say another "wave" of infections is coming in the fall, with cooler weather and the start of cold and flu season.
I'm hoping to get a few safe activities in before then, maybe a day or two off and even a hotel stay or a dip in the pool.
But I'm bracing myself for what's to come.
Related Posts:
Quarantine Angst?
My First Outbreak
Peaking Poppies In a Pandemic
At first, it was characterized by a precious emptiness—at least on the freeways.
Though never on the sidewalks—at least, not in my neighborhood.
With everything canceled, I felt I tremendous amount of freedom from my own schedule—finally liberated to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as it didn't involve the indoors or other people.
It felt like the month of March would never end, even as the calendar indicated that we'd already passed into April, May, June.
Back before things started opening up again, I was just fine with what may have looked desolate to other people. The world was my oyster.
It felt much like my early days first visiting Southern California, when I'd just drive around to look at stuff. I'd just go exploring to see what I could find.
Sometimes during the shutdown, which restricted travel to essential purposes only, it was essential for me to get out of my apartment, get out of my own head, and get in the car—even if it was to indulge a certain morbid curiosity to document a SoCal I'd never seen before and hopefully would never see again.
The physical distance from people made me feel emotionally closer to both my friends and strangers. Radio DJs kept telling me, "We're in this together." And I believed them. That made me feel better.
I knew there were people who didn't know me who'd be looking out for me if something were to happen.
But I was going to try to make sure I didn't wind up in their care.
I masked up—but not to protect others. I selfishly wore a mask to protect myself.
And I still do.
I might still, even after the mask requirements are loosened.
I'm writing about the COVID-19 health crisis now because with trails and dining rooms beginning to reopen, the first chapter of it has ended (though there are more chapters to come).
I'm glad to see that car hop service will continue at some places. I was having a good time eating in my car.
In fact, my car is pretty much the only place I've felt any sense of safety since this all started—since January, when I first caught wind of a "novel virus" that was on its way to California (though it had probably arrived before then).
While the majority of Southern California was shut down, I'd go anywhere—as long as I could stay in my car.
I used the pandemic as an opportunity to live out my American Graffiti dreams and reclaim some portion of the 1950s that I was born 15 years too late to enjoy.
It was also an excuse to indulge in my donut obsession—especially a roadside donut tunnel I could drive through.
Behind the wheel, I felt invincible. Even curly fries couldn't hurt me.
And if everyone else was staying safe by staying inside, wasn't it the perfect excuse for me to go out and explore—blissfully alone?
At the first suggestion of "opening back up," I felt sad. I loved my little solo dates with Los Angeles, those get-to-know-you moments that usually only occur at the beginning of a relationship.
Nine years in, I realized there was still more to learn about LA—and about myself—and about myself in LA.
I'd feel better about the loosening of the restrictions if that meant the coronavirus were gone or that people weren't getting sick or dying. But that's not the case.
The virus hasn't gone away. And neither has the risk.
We've just normalized the risk.
And it seems that most people are willing to sacrifice their own health—and the health of their customers—in order to stay in business.
But the more other people go out, the more I stay in.
They say another "wave" of infections is coming in the fall, with cooler weather and the start of cold and flu season.
I'm hoping to get a few safe activities in before then, maybe a day or two off and even a hotel stay or a dip in the pool.
But I'm bracing myself for what's to come.
Related Posts:
Quarantine Angst?
My First Outbreak
Peaking Poppies In a Pandemic
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