Cold Water Canyon Park

Sometimes dreams don't come true, darlings. Sometimes that fountain of youth just ain't real. Sometimes, no matter how long you hike the hills- the damn "Studio City Lake" at the intersection of Mullholland and Coldwater Canyon just doesn't seem to exist(thanks Lance!). I was walking for over two hours searching, then I got lost and some of that time was spent scooting on my butt. Having done my typical Hadley shtick, I took the narrowest path possible, my legs stung by tall nettles, and when I came to a steep incline my rainbows were insufficient so butt scooting down the mountain it was.


Coldwater Canyon park IS right at the intersection of Mullholland and Coldwater and it is home to the other worldly and largely absent( I only saw one employee on the whole compound) organization known as the Tree People. The tree people are all about trees and water conservation and teaching city kids that there are other plants besides sick looking palms. They also want you to pee in the restroom for Christ's sake as the sign to the right attests(however they are dog on leash friendly). There are green houses, classrooms, very pretty paths that smell like Christmas and a small and very picturesque amphitheater funded partly by Steve Martin where they have shows at night.

My biggest complaint about most trails in LA is how dusty the dirt paths are. The dust clouds entice large flies that buzz around because of the shitty smelling dust. So I was thrilled that the paths Tree People maintain are covered in sweet smelling and all around cooling wood chips. It makes everything so much nicer and you don't feel like a buzzard. But alas, once you reach the serious hike and enter the Santa Monica Mountains the large, exotic trees go away as do the wood chips, and you are left with just another dusty Los Angeles hike, with outstanding views of giant houses you wish you owned and people (probably show biz people) having conversations you wish you didn't overhear.

The worst was the obscenely vapid looking dad with a "Hawthorne RN" shirt on, who kept trying to make his daughter do math problems on her I-phone or else it was "back to the workbooks." As she tried to do the division problem he gave her, he kept goading her to move faster so she tripped not once, not twice, but three times. He, and I quote, "didn't give a shit." He is probably an actor. We are a charming breed. When I asked a gnarled, faux mountain man(read: set grip or electrician) for directions to the lake, he chuckled and basically said "There ain't no water in the mountains, ya hear, if you want water you should go back to your neck of the woods, to Lake Hollywood. It's too dry up here for any water, ya see."

So after hours of hiking, focusing on the wind(I kept thinking it feels cooler, so I must be near the lake) and the pretty sky(I thought I saw the water reflecting off the clouds) and lush man made pools in the canyon below(I WANT THAT!), I finally gave up my search and headed back to my car. Since I had no clue where I was it was cool using a particular tree, or grove or mansion as a signpost for taking the right way. I felt very Jane Austen and pretended I was on a walking tour until two large writers talking about their "Ellis Island project" pulled me out of my dream. I was never more glad to get in my car, crank up some air conditioning and drive back down to my neck of the woods and my own personal lake, Mr. Bathtub.

Travel: A ( I was telling Mike and Dylan last week- there is nothing in the world I love more than driving on Mullholland, it's just so curvy and decadent and decaying- it is so LA).
Ease:C
Content: C( If you live in Studio City or Beverly Hills it's a great place. If you live on the Eastside forget it- just go to Griffith Park instead).
Subjective Coolness: B-
Overall: C+

Directions: Take the 101 to the Mullholland exit. Go up Mullholland until you reach the aforementioned intersection. The address is 12601 Mullholland Drive. Parking at Tree People is free( beware, it is a sharp right turn).
Hours: Dawn till Dusk.
Price: Free.

Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine

Very pretty, very calming, very quiet...wait, did a mac truck just rumble by? Lovely flowers, nice old people, honeysuckle smells...oh man, I just got a whiff of that mac truck. Such is the dichotomy of the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine. It is very serene, very peaceful and right off of one of the loudest parts of Sunset Blvd. in the Palisades. How LA is that? Some of Gandhi's ashes are interred right next to a street teeming with angry cars. How Gandhi is that? Now that I think of it, very.

One of my favorite things about SoCal is how down we are with all religions, particularly Eastern ones. Paramahansa Yogananda,(you know I cut and pasted that) the man responsible for bringing yoga to westerners and writing the bestseller, Autobiography of a Yogi, founded the center in honor of the underlying truth in all religions. I guess that is why there are five markers that look suspiciously like gravestones with the names of religions on them by the lake. There are also little placards with words of wisdom from the major religions(no Scientology or Mormonisims...yet) placed all around the trees.

Admission to the garden and lake is free and was filled with people meditating on perfectly placed benches, elderly tourists taking pictures and one bigger lady who was bitching really loudly about her annoying son-in-law(someone needs to do her oms!). There is a little museum and gift shop next to the lake filled with lots of healing stones and Yogi's robes(PS- have you heard that Spencer and Heidi Pratt have spent over HALF A MILLION DOLLARS on "magic" crystals?). Expertly crafted water falls and a breeze from the lake really do make this a soothing, calming place.

The coolest and honestly magical part of the garden was at the meditation chapel inside the recreated Dutch windmill-don't ask me why they chose a windmill. Inside it is like a tiny old English church, all white walls and shiny wood. About ten people, some in robes, sat quietly meditating or praying or thinking or whatever, and the only adornments were pictures of the great teachers, all male of course- Jesus, Buddha, etc. I meditated in there for a while and I must admit it was lovely. It was like the air was rarefied in that small windmill on the lake and everything felt lifted and elevated and well... peaceful.

The Fellowship offers all sorts of classes in the garden and in the great white temple(which is open only for services) which looms overhead. The Gandhi peace memorial, while visually unimpressive, is a very special thing to have in LA.

Travel:B
Ease: B
Content:B
Subjective coolness: A-
Overall: B

Directions: Take Sunset Blvd. down to the Palisades. The lake/shrine/garden(this place has about a million names) is located at 17190 Sunset Blvd. Turn left and you will enter the free parking lot.

Hours: Tuesday-Saturday: 9am-4:30pm. Sunday: 12pm-4pm.
Price: Free, except for gas or whatever you cannot live without from the gift shop.

Riding the rails

I've always had this fascination with those homeless kids who like to jump on trains and have big dogs and the nose plugs and always seem to be from the great North West. I also HATE driving in LA. It is my number one complaint among many, and I have always thought of our metro system as exotic and foreign. (I mean my best friend was born here and has never been below in her whole life). So I thought I'd take one for the wussy hipster team and spend the day riding the rails ala my fellow blond sister Veronica Lake in Sullivan's Travels.

I walked the two blocks from my place to the Hollywood and Western Metro Station, took a deep breath, and headed down. I was immediately stuck by two things. One: It was almost empty. Two: A day pass is only $5 ! $5! I spend more on gas every freakin time I drive to Santa Monica. They have these weird passes they call TAP, which LD Hadley could not figure out how to use, so this nice old man helped me out. Realization Three: Everyone on the Metro (especially the Metro employees) are super nice. Like almost eerie nice. I guess it's a way to put their more recognized brothers in NYC and London to shame.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon. The trains run very promptly every 12 minutes. I knew I wanted to go to Union Station so I hopped on the Red Line. Like almost all the trains I rode, it was about half full, this one with Lakers fans on their way to the Staples Center. Everyone's newspaper seemed to be opened to a story about the Dodgers. Men in business suits chatted with young punks about the finals game. On the way there we passed about five of the places I have written about- places it had taken forever to get to by car.

I arrived at Union Station in downtown LA, grand and crowded, and remembered how much I miss the special communal feeling of the hustle and bustle that comes with public transportation. That feeling of importance that everyone has places to go and everyone's in this brave new journey together. I think that's sorely lacking in the LA that I live in. But a seed was starting to germinate in my mind that perhaps the LA I live in isn't the real LA at all.

I decided to go to Long Beach- so another super-friendly lady in a kiosk told me to take the Purple Line to the Blue Line. The Blue Line is heaven for a nervous voyeur such as myself since the train quickly becomes above ground and goes right through all of East LA. You pass right by the Staples Center then on through neighborhoods in Compton, Watts, Firestone, Artesia. The train is slightly elevated so you can see what people are doing in their yards- kids playing basketball, old women watering plants and lost looking guys playing craps. A whole metro culture exist- swap meets and notaries sit right next to stops loudly advertising their wares.

The Blue Line lets out right at downtown Long Beach. I took a walk on the waterfront (where I saw another of my old haunts-the Queen Mary). As I watched a bunch of kids hanging out by the water and fans lining up to watch the Lakers I realized that we Hollywood folk, whether we live in Echo Park or Brentwood, really aren't members of the real "Los Angeles" at all. We are like travelers passing through, making it our own insulated and sadly isolated community and wearing blinders to the vibrant and rough city all around us.

But like all adventures which start starry eyed and exhilarated ("I will always ride the metro, I am getting rid of my car!") it soon became tempered with boredom, vague disgust and disillusionment. I took the Green Line to Redondo Beach and for the first time the train car was dirty and the people were sad. Most of the Green Line runs right through the Interstate, which makes you feel very nauseous and the Redondo Beach stop was not actually at the beach but in the middle of industrial hell.

Depressed, I caught the high speed Silver Line bus (literally in the middle of the freeway) back to the Red Line and was immediately perked back up. The bus driver was very friendly and so were the patrons and we soon became banded together trying to get through the escalating mayhem that was downtown LA during the final Lakers game. Many surface streets were closed and we had to forge our way through the sea of yellow jerseys and police helmets. Regular bus riders were helping the driver figure out streets and a lovely lady kept trying to fill me in with what was going on in broken English and I replied to her in broken Spanish.

It was 8.00 pm by the time we made it to the 7th Street Station and I was tired when I finally headed back home on the Red Line. But then these three adorable but hardened kid brothers in my car began singing a beautiful rendition of "Nothings Going to Change My World." Everyone listened. A couple of people danced and a majority of folk gave the kids whatever money they could. I think this is the "real" LA, the LA that counts- we entertainment types are only here till the mill closes down and stops spewing gold to a lucky few.

Travel: A
Ease: B
Content:A
Subjective coolness: A
Overall: A

For Direction, hours and price: http://www.metro.net/

Watts Towers

Oh lord, I'm all fired up. First off- pictures of Watts Towers do not do it justice. Second of all- standing in front of Watts Towers does not do it justice. In both instances the humorless California sun blots out its thousands of colors and renders it a huge gray ghost ship.

The artist behind these massive towers, the Italian construction worker Simon Rodia, was crafting a ship(once inside the structure the layout of a ship is evident, down to the steering wheel on one of the spirals). But it is a ship full of color and love and hope. It was a ship back to his homeland and it was a ship that symbolized the promise of America and the American dream.

Rodia built this amazing testament to genius and commitment in his own backyard in Watts. Using metal, special cement and found objects(china, bottles, plates, rocks, shells) he created the towers from 1921-1954. Once you are inside the site, you are in a sparkling collage of color and texture and weirdness. The towers are a textbook on the creative process which this strange, apparently unlikable man celebrated by pressing his tools in cement, as if doing them honor.

He covered everything on his property with mosaics, from the fireplace he used to melt glass and metal, to his mailbox and the bench his wife used to sit on when she was waiting for him to come home(she eventually left him due to his obsession with his project.) Hearts are everywhere, on the ground and between the tiles. Flying buttresses connecting one tower to the other are covered in porcelain and ingenious ladders are built into the towers so that the 4'9" Rodia could stand steady as he built higher and higher.

The towers are in a park and sit next to a very cool Arts Center for kids. Everyone who
works here- from the guy who gave me my tour, to the ladies in the office, are super cool and joyful. The center provides free artistic programs for 6,000 at risk kids in the city of Watts. They make some money through tours of the towers, but otherwise they are funded by the city.

And now the city is threatening to cut off funding for the Watts Towers Arts Center and they are in great danger of closing. That means 6,000 children will be left without a place to create their American future, without a safe place to hang out after school. For those of you who haven't been there- Watts is scary disadvantaged. I like to think I am pretty well-versed in desolate landscapes, but Watts only compares to some rural areas I have seen in Mississippi and Jamaica. Their kids need this center.

Please go to http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/stopculturalgenocide and sign the petition demanding the mayor keep his commitment to today's youth and continue funding both the center and the historical park. What a special place Watts Towers is. It is a living testament to the transformative power of art and its ability to make this sometimes gray world extraordinary.

Travel: C-
Ease: C
Content: A-
Subjective coolness: A-
Overall: B

Directions: Take the 101-S to the 110-S. After about 9 miles merge onto the 105-E. Take the Wilmington Ave. exit and turn left on Wilmington.
Turn left at E 108 Street, right onto Willowbrook Ave. and right onto 107th street. There is gated and street parking.
Hours: Wens-Sat. 10am-4pm. Sunday 12pm-4pm.
Price: Tour is $7 for adults and $3 for seniors and children(tour includes a 15 minute documentary).

LA River bike/walking path

Reflections along the LA River

(In the form of a Hollins University workshop poem)

Blurb, blurb, gurgle gurgle
concrete tub
not really a river, but alive just the same
with plants
and birds and mists and beer cans filled with earth

From Los Feliz Blvd. to the Colorado St. exit---
along the
I-5
I walk the paved path looking for dead bodies in the shallow stream
(a la Chinatown)

as the roar of automobiles is heard
their metal frames the only bodies in sight

I Inhale
the scent of fresh flowers and feces---
Lots of feces.

To my right I pass the golf course
where old men and swingers play
in the early morning drizzle
(thank god for residuals and unemployment).

It is Tuesday
and suddenly a horse ranch
appears through the chain metal fence.
Neigh! Slobber, bray.

Oh Thomas Wolfe, you were mistaken.
I am home again
back in Virginia where rich bitches and stable hicks
ride hard the dirt under drooping trees

our commonality continuing drunkenness from the night before.

I walk off the path under lovely foliage
A worker waves
saying you are welcome
Oh shit no
the jerk is actually yelling at me to get off the property
Screw you LA butt hole

there is no NO TRESPASSING sign!

I continue past the dumping grounds
LA parks and rec,
where recreation goes to die.
Men on bulldozers
push around old scraps of metal and
plastic playground pieces, kinda sad.

Whoa is that a body?
Nope it is just a bird.
Bummer.

I sniff the air, it smells of sea

It is another place of poo

this time human.

LA water treatment plant
your pretty reservoir and fountain
conceal your true filth

like Angelina Jolie.

Next is an office park straight
out
of the Midwest.
And always the concrete river
swelling from rain and pollution
and my tears
since I did not find a dead body and
will not
be
in
the
papers.

I turn around and walk back to my
Ford, dejected, soon I will be in a metal body
a speck on the 5
alone listening to Ira Glass...

Virgina Wolfe, Edgar Allen Poe,
something about the confederacy.




Travel: A
Ease: A
Content:A
Subjective Coolness: A
Overall: A

Directions: Path I took starts where Los Feliz Blvd. and the 5 intersect.
Hours: Dawn to Dusk.
Price: Free!

P.S.- This post is done with great unskilled love.

The Original Renaissance Pleasure Faire

Ah, Renaissance Europe, when I think of you I think of brilliant artists, genius stateswomen, Shakespeare, the Medici, the rebirth of learning and now…GIANT freaking boobs…

I have never seen so many boobs pinched and heaved to an inch of their life as at Thee Original Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Irwindale. Many participants in the Renaissance Faire are of the more voluptuous turn and seem to like to wear corsets that stop just under the bosom so that their DD’s can absolutely spill over their polyester peasant blouses. This seems to be a kind of mating call to the many swingers who (according to a tattooed bondage type lady we met- I believe she called herself a “fantasy carnie”) troll the faire looking for others to “ravish”, as one delightful herald kindly offered to do to me while hawking turkey legs.

The bawdy atmosphere doesn’t stop there. The faire is HUGE, a winding, dusty and colorful bizarre next to a beautiful, calm lake. Vendors sell petticoats and mead, squires and wenches play traditional board and dice games, children and costumed adults crowd typical fair booths (shoot the crown off the king etc…) with an olden times theme. There are multiple performances on different open air stages- magicians, comedians, and my favorite, a troupe who specializes in dirty(and I mean dirty) songs. A full fledged royal procession of HRH Queen Elizabeth I took over the streets at one point, with cheers and songs being sung by the decked to the nines, joyful regulars.

The fellowship that goes on between the comfortable costumed communities is heartening. I think one of the big draws of these faires is the great amount of banter and human interaction that they provide. People yell across to each other from the gallows to the washing tub, using vague old English, telling jokes and saying dirty, (mostly) good-natured things. Many of the participants seem like they are probably rather awkward and feel misplaced in real life, but here size, and looks and skin don’t matter. Cat and I both (as did Doren and Ben who also joined us) envied the great sense of play and make believe that goes into learning an intricate Maypole dance, or creating a court costume or drinking stout out of a wooden mug as you get married to your winged, goth partner (at Ye Old Wedding Gazebo, of course).

The Renaissance faire takes place every year and goes on for one more weekend. All girls and open minded boys should definitely go if it's pretty out. It may seem like a freak show, but there is a surprising bit of substance behind the obsolete style.

PS: The Santa Fe Dam Recreation Area where the Faire is held is amazing. Irwindale seems to be squarely centered in Fitzgerald's “Valley of the Ashes” but the park is really awe-inspiring, with a huge white rock dam you can ride your bike on top of, a swim beach on the lake, and lots of day trip and picnic opportunities.

Travel: D (You will need a good mix of music, preferably some CCR.)
Ease: B-(Off roading is required when parking.)
Content: A
Subjective Coolness: A
Overall: B+

Directions: Take the 101-South to the CA-60 East. After 10 miles you will merge onto the I-605 North. Take exit 25 for Live Oak Ave. towards Irwindale. Keep right at fork and follow signs for Live Oak Ave. Continue onto Arrow Hwy. Turn right into the Santa Fe Dam Recreation Area Park. Trip takes around an hour.
Hours: 10:00am-7:00pm. April 10th- May 23rd ONLY!
Price: $25.00- adults, $22.50-students( I was given the student rate although I lost my ID card before I graduated from college...), $15.00-children.

Mosaic Church

Cool but edgy historic auditorium in downtown LA?
CHECK
Concession bar featuring espresso machine and trendy baristas? CHECK
Strobe lights?
CHECK
Smoke Machine?
CHECK


Audience that skewed younger and hipper than Hadley?
CHECK.
Band of dudes that came out to rapturous applause?

CHECK.
Total number of praise songs Hadley had to stand for?
FOUR.

Welcome to Mosaic Church, the "hippest" church in Los Angeles. Hip as in they don't have services, they have traveling "gatherings" at various venues, and once the "gathering" is over all guests are welcome to the "After-Party." Hip as in the preacher wears a simple black, collarless shirt with a womanish sweater and gives a sermon that is two parts Woody Allen and one part Elmer Gantry. Hip as in there is not one DJ, but two, and the pre-show bass pounds so hard it feels like your heart is jumping out of your chest.

The amazing and ironically pagan themed Mayan Theater where the non-denominational Mosaic holds its Sunday night 7pm service, was filled with folding chairs packed with straight-edge young twenty-somethings. You know the type, lots of grey hoodies and beanies but hardly any tattoos. I felt like I was in an under-18 club, somewhere I never felt very comfortable, even at 17. I totally should not have worn my pearls.

When the house band slunked out I knew I was even further out of my element. Mosaic picked the wrong outreach style to convert this still seeking lady. Back in my youth, I unhappily went to enough alcohol-less Battle of the Bands featuring Quartets of Scruffy Boys to last a life time. This group was fronted by a very earnest Emo guy, and he sang the most banal songs of generic rock glory that I have ever encountered. Three giant screens projected the lyrics, which might as well have been written by a computer program, they were so boring. When I think of all the awe-inspiring works of art and song made in praise of Jesus, I cannot fail to be continuously shocked by what passes for worthy in contemporary Christian music (see South Park episode #105).

After we had to stand (and sway and raise palms) through FOUR songs, the lead singer begrudgingly directed us to sit down. We were treated to a short film (this is LA after all) that was supposedly comic and had something to do with having the strength to carry your new digital TV up the stairs?!? And something to do with Superman?!? And then there was the highlight of the evening, a trio of voguish men in suits doing some kind of neutered and sexless but very angry and aggressive Trip Hop dance (at one point Beyonce's "Single Ladies" came on).

I sort of felt like I was at a Chippendale's review.

Here is the thing. The guy next to me was crying. The young adults in the audience seemed like a genuine community, laughing warmly at inside jokes, hugging each other constantly. Everyone was very respectful. And a church, is a church is a church. The message is still the same, self help though God's help. I figured that out as soon as the preacher casually strolled on the stage. Sure his sermon was clever, there was no pulpit, and he was great at tailoring his themes towards an artistic community. He used a lot of new agey references to the Myers Brig personality test and some kind of in house test Mosaic does called YELLOW. But at the end of the day the talk was still based around one line of scripture(Ecclesiastes 10:10, "The duller the ax, the harder the work...), how it could help you a little and Jesus can help you a lot.

And there is nothing wrong with that. I am apparently an old fuddy-duddy and prefer my Christianity served up with a side of gospel, graceful old ladies in hats, pretty sermons in heavily poetic English and some tea and cookies served in a fellowship hall. I just ain't cool enough to stay for an after party.

Info on Mosaic: http://mosaic.org/

I'm not going to rate a church, that is like totally asking for it(from above and below). However, it is free and has parking right next to the Mayan Theater.