Senior Day at the Abandoned Zoo

There are benefits to getting old.  One, for instance, is that park rangers seldom hassle you when you find yourself sidling through a hole in a chain link fence to trespass in the cordoned-off animal enclosures of an abandoned zoo.

Wanting to go for a hike, my sister-in-law and I headed to Griffith Park.  Griffith Park is known for many things - the hiking trails, the eponymous Observatory, the carousel, the trains at Travel Town, and the world-class, if sometimes controversial, Los Angeles Zoo.  Long before The LA Zoo opened its gates in 1966, however, there was the original Griffith Park Zoo.  The "old zoo" opened in 1912 with a small collection of both exotic and domestic animals.

At the height of the Great Depression, the zoo got a makeover.
 Relief organizations built fantastic environments that, despite every effort to appear
the handiwork of Mother Nature, have a distinctly-Deco feeling about them.

In a move that is contrary to Los Angeles' typical modus operandi of "seek and
destroy," the eighty-year-old enclosures have not only been left standing, many
have also been left open to civilian exploration.

As we cave-hopped, we heard some noises coming from above and decided to follow the trail up-and-around the backside of the caves.  We were met with a chain-link fence behind which stood even more animal habitats - and cages.  Now the fence said "NO" but the gaping hole in the chain link said "YES," (it should be noted here that the rules of consent need not apply to abandoned zoos) so we climbed trough the fence to explore.

Do you ever find yourself in questionable circumstances only to be overcome by the thought, "This is how a horror movie starts," - like, we sneak into "abandoned" animal habitats only to become the animal attractions at some demented human zoo masterminded by Dr. Jane Goodall gone rogue.

Somehow it is not that hard to imagine...

It wasn't long into our exploration before we heard tires on the nearby path.  The sound of the tires was followed immediately by a searchlight, which seemed a wee bit excessive considering that it was about two hours until sunset.  Concealed by the animal habitat, we were such dorks that we looked at each other and wondered if they were looking for us.  Our question was quickly answered when a voice on a loud speaker ordered us out.  I've spent my whole life as a goody-two-shoes so I am pretty sure that I went into full Chunk mode, blubbering as I confessed to every childhood wrongdoing beginning at year one, before putting my hands up and slowly backing towards the fence.

Our hillside hideout

Maybe I overreacted.  I think the ranger was so surprised to see what looked like two responsible, adult citizens that he simply told us that we weren't allowed to be there, directing us to climb through the fence and move along.  He didn't even have time to remove the toothpick from his clenched teeth before he added, "If you can fit..."  I suppose fat-shaming me is just all in a day's work for a park ranger.

Perhaps I'll just stay in here.
As they say, "If the cave fits, wear it."

Actually, I think we looked so square and so sweaty that he was inclined to feel more sorry for us than upset with us.  Also, compared to the scores of young people he probably extracts from behind the fence every day, our activities were comparatively benign.  The odor of marijuana may have hung heavy in the much-graffitied enclosures littered with spray cans, but I think he could tell that the peri-middle-aged nerds in color-coordinated outfits with cameras hanging around their necks were probably up to anything but "no good."

It wasn't us, Mr. Ranger.

We got off so easy that I considered asking the park ranger if he would give the two trespassing oldsters a ride back to the car but my sister-in-law didn't think that was such a good idea.  She said that just because he had a badge didn't mean that it was safe to enter his vehicle and get transported to a secondary location.  Thanks, Sis, for a great hike and for reminding me about the perils of Ranger Danger!

"Pluto at the Zoo" (1942)

The Old Zoo at Griffith Park
Griffith Park Dr
Los Angeles, CA


Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

wacky tacky Icons: Dame Edna Everage

You know it's a good day when you can convince your adult sister that staring at pictures of the sun (sunrise photos from her recent camping trip) is just as dangerous an act as staring into the sun itself.  Will I ever grow up?  May the odds be never in my favor.  

Stargazing would seem like a safe alternative to sun-staring but there is one star so bright that she outshines the very center of our solar system by far.  To gaze directly upon her radiant magnificence is to be blinded by the brightest heavenly body that the universe has ever known.  To the residents of Moonee Ponds, she is just Mrs. Everage, Melbourne housewife.  To the British Royal Family she is trusted advisor and confidante.  To the rest of the world, she is Australian gigastar and squillionairess, Dame Edna!

"Hello, Possums!!!!"
Dame Edna Everage wearing a rather -modest example of her signature "face furniture."
(Source)

After attending Dame Edna's farewell tour of 2009, I had resigned myself to the fact that the only way to get my fix would come from reading her books, re-watching my collection of Dame Edna DVDs, and bingeing on the hundreds of available YouTube videos.  Fully convinced that her last farewell tour would indeed be the last farewell tour, I was delighted when my friend asked me me if I wanted to attend the dame's latest farewell tour, "Dame Edna's Glorious Goodbye."  Surely hers was a rhetorical request as she had to know that I would never pass up the opportunity for a few hours of Dame Edna's legendary "caring and sharing."

So maybe I should have paid closer attention; it says right
there on the ticket, "Dame Edna: My First Last Tour."

If you have never been to a Dame Edna show it is important to know that the first six-or-so rows of the orchestra section are akin to Sea World's "Splash Zone."  Theatergoers with the temerity to opt for the most expensive seats will likely become unwilling or, at the very least, unwitting participants in Dame Edna's ever-interactive performances, to wit, "Do you have any regrets?  I mean, besides placing such misplaced confidence in your hairdresser."  Feeling quite young and brave the first two times I saw Dame Edna, I opted for the "good seats."  Only once was I graced to be picked-on; fortunately, it was just to stand and tremble my gladiolus (the Dame's favorite flower).  This time, we sat well into the safe zone of the Mezzanine where, as spectators, we could relax and fully enjoy the hilarious proceedings.

The show was at The Ahmanson Theater in Downtown Los Angeles;
the beautiful grounds, the sunny February day, and the drunk audience
made for a magical day of live theater!

To avoid looking like a poser, I should explain that I have loved Dame Edna since childhood.  When I was young, my grandparents traveled to Australia to visit my uncle and his Aussie bride.  Returning home with an unbridled enthusiasm for Australia's greatest export since Vegemite, they passed their love for Dame Edna onto me.  My fandom is so enduring that I once costumed Mary as the Dame for Halloween (using the officially-licensed wig and glasses) before she even really knew who Dame Edna was.

At the very end of the performance, Dame Edna invited us
to get out our cameras and take photos of the curtain call.

It's always a poignant moment when Dame Edna creator, Barry Humphries,
comes onstage as himself.  Unfortunately, I was applauding with such fervor
that this is the best photo I could get.

At 81 years of age, Barry Humphries, the man behind Dame Edna, mightn't be as agile as once he was.  But after fifty years of glamorous globetrotting and treading "the boards" in exquisitely-crafted high heels and fantastic frocks by in-house couturier, son Kenny, who would be?  His/Dame Edna's timing and inimitable wit are still firing on all cylinders, keeping the audience roaring with laughter.  As one who loves to laugh as earnestly and deeply and often as possible, I admit to entering early-onset asthma anytime and every time I am in the rarified presence of Dame Edna.  Honestly, my raucous laughter actually got me a few stares from other audience members; I like to think that they were simply making sure that the weird fat guy in the row behind them wasn't experiencing some sort of theatrically-induced medical problem. 

If this truly was a "farewell tour," then I am thrilled that I was able to attend.
If this is not a true farewell tour, then you can be sure that I will have tickets
for that "Glorious Goodbye" as well! 

I tend to reject the popular use of terms like "spirit animal" but were I to hurl such an epithet at any living person, it would definitely be wacky tacky icon, Dame Edna.  As wonderful as all of the physical trappings may be (gowns, hair, jewelry, face furniture), my affinity for Dame Edna is founded in her wit.  Balancing the line between "nothing sacred" and "family friendly," Dame Edna's ability to interact with a live audience without missing a beat, should be considered a master class for all aspiring performers.  She has connected three continents with her "slightly raunchy" brand of cleverly-disguised insult comedy.  She has bridged multiple generations of celebrity with her inventive programming.  She has conquered the worlds of stage, screen, and television.  She has captured the hearts of wacky tacky comedy-lovers everywhere.  She has interviewed Lauren Bacall and Tom Jones at the same time; there is not a damn thing this dame can't do!

My favorite episode of The Dame Edna Experience with Lauren Bacall & Tom Jones (1989)

As the song says, "There is nothing like a dame!"  Oh, Mr. Oscar Hammerstein II, you are so right!

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Holy Rollin': Our Lady of the Bright Mount, Pope John Paul II Was Here

From the Acropolis of ancient Greece to Paris' Notre Dame Cathedral, man's desire to connect with the Divine might be most beautifully expressed through architecture.  The act of creating a building in which to perform holy rites, a building in which to display religious relics, a building in which parishioners and nonbelievers alike can find beauty, really gets us feeling all "holy-rolly" from our heads down to our heels.

Our Lady of the Bright Mountain Parish - Los Angeles, CA
(Source)

The simplicity of Our Lady of the Bright Mount's boxy, mid-Century exterior belies an interesting history.  Built in the front yard of what was once Fatty Arbuckle's West Adams estate, the church and its Edwardian-era grounds are now the home of the Los Angeles Polish Festival.   Every year, Southern California's Polish population flocks to get a taste of the homeland and an audience with His Holiness.

As Our Lady of the Bright Mount is a Polish parish, it is small wonder that Pope John Paul II is considered quite the celebrity.  His lifelike statue lovingly greets all visitors to the forecourt of the church.  His lofty positioning only meant that Cynthia had to give me a boost so I could kiss his ring.

Aside from the gaudy chandeliers and colorful iconography, the airy, light-filled sanctuary, with its angled
roof and beamed ceiling, could pass for the modernist stylings of many working architects of the 1950s-60s.
A fan of Eastern-European religious art (and gaudy chandeliers), I was in Holy-rollin' heaven!

The ceilings, the structure, the materials are all textbook Mid-Century Modern architecture.  It is the windows, however, that distinguish Our Lady of the Bright Mount as a wacky tacky landmark.  Echoing Eyvind Earle's art direction in Sleeping Beauty (1959), the stained glass artwork of this church masterfully straddles the aesthetic line between Medieval and mid-Century. 

 Like a large-scale illuminated manuscript, the expansive windows of Our Lady of Bright Mount
make up three of the church's four walls.  From indoors or out, the windows truly illuminate  heroes
of both The Bible and of Poland (see the Polish Coat of Arms below).

It was exciting to find the artist's signature in a pane of the window.
Ludwik Wiechecki, do you think he might be Polish???

A search returned very little about the artist except that he was part of the poster art
movement in Poland that existed during and survived both the Nazi occupation and
communism.  It appears he moved to America and accepted stained glass commissions
for the Paul L. Phillips Studio of Pasadena, CA before he died in 1988.

While she was clearly inspired by the images in the stained glass,
 I nevertheless asked Cynthia why she was praying.  After her "amen"
she simply told me, "Man, 'We got to pray just to make it today!'"

I was praying that I could take "Mother Mary of the Stony Grotto" home with me.
Raised outside of the Catholic tradition (rest assured, some of my best friends are Catholic),
I was surprised to fall so completely in love with the statue; it is the glorious, starry halo back-
lighting the bougainvillea that I really wanted.  Her ever-watchful eyes would have made
stealing her that much more difficult!

"Pray" - MC Hammer

The bonus of attending the Los Angeles Polish Festival at Our Lady of the Bright Mount Parish is that the church is immediate neighbors with the striking, stony, brutalist facade of Holman United Methodist Church - which makes it terribly convenient when one has to run next door to borrow a cup of holy water (for an exorcism or whatnot).  As if tmy hunchback wasn't enough incentive, that double-boomerang bell tower alone has Mr. Tiny ready to become a modernist Quasimodo!

I suppose it is impossible for me to convert to Polish, but maybe if I convert to Catholicism I'll be a little bit closer.  Does Our Lady of the Bright Mount Parish (not to mention its next door neighbor) have you seeking sanctuary?  Do you have any cool churches in your neighborhood?  Do you attend an architecturally-significant church (for more than just the free communion)?  

Our Lady of the Bright Mount Parish

3424 W Adams Blvd

Los Angeles, CA

(323)734-5249

polskaparafiala.org

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Mr Tiny's Neighborhood Watch: The Haunted Houses of West Adams

Once home to the brightest stars in early-Hollywood's firmament (think Theda Bara, Fatty Arbuckle, Norma Talmadge, Buster Keaton), the area of Los Angeles known as West Adams, while full of historic charm, includes a veritable graveyard of decaying mansions and haunted houses.

As scared as I am of manufactured gore (see: every horror movie ever made), I am equally unafraid of the "supernatural."  Ghosts, spirits, and their ectoplasmic kin just don't bother me...I mean they literally do not bother me.  When the witching hour settles in and most guests have left the party, every friend I have is able to regale the remaining crowd with multiple ghostly encounters.  I, on the other hand, sit there quietly thinking, "You should have an electrician check your breaker box" or "Maybe you have a squirrel in the attic."  I have never had a spooky experience that couldn't be explained by an overactive imagination or the forgetful placement of keys.  The fact is, I'll have a ghost story when I actually see ghost.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that I am inviting a demonic possession or anything, but you can classify me as a supportive non-believer; I believe that you believe ghosts are real.  I am the guy that would happily take the opportunity to spend the night in a "haunted house," more afraid of roaches, wayward hobos, and spotty cell reception than visitors from beyond the grave.  Here is just a small, real estate sampler of West Adams' phantasmal finest.

Given that this house is regularly used for filming (most famously for the show, Six Feet Under, according to my brother), my guess is that the rooms have been thoroughly saged, exorcised, and whatever else superstitious Hollywood believes one must do to banish specters.  I'm not saying I wouldn't pee a little if the lights started flickering, but I would love to spend the night in a house with such enticing attic space .

While only one fearless cat remained on the porch, this house is in the running for world's-
biggest, feral-cat condo.  It is clear that someone - or maybe something - is sustaining the
herd, as the side porch is littered in styrofoam plates crusted over with bulk-buy cat food.

Living in Southern California, the land of one million single-story ranch homes, houses like this - even in its current condition - are awe inspiring.  To see a haunted mansion of this magnitude, we usually have to visit Disneyland.  The eerie grandeur of the neo-Classical architecture, highlighted by the seriously-peeling paint job, is done no favors by the rotting baby doll on the front porch???  I admit that if I had the chance to spend the night here I would probably go into shock - albeit of the anaphylactic variety (cat dander is practically deadly to me).

I love this house!  Like a long-forgotten lodge found in the most deeply-wooded area of my imaginary version of the Black Forest, this freaky fairy-tale house reminds of me the one belonging to Shelley Winter's in Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? (an early-'70s, Victorian retelling of Hansel & Gretel).  I would spend my night in this house searching for secret passageways and underground tunnels...and maybe hysterically sobbing in a corner (I told you that I have an overactive imagination)!

Without even setting foot inside, it is undeniable that these houses are creepy, kooky, mysterious, and spooky.  Given the all-together-ookiness of West Adams' many old mansions, it seems like a more apt spelling might be West Addams; any one of them could have easily stood in for television's coolest manor of the macabre.

The theme from The Addams Family

Do you have any haunted houses in your neighborhood?  Are you afraid of ghosts?  Do you have any scary stories that you tell in the dark?  Would you willingly spend the night in one of these houses?

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Pole-toberfest II: Return to Pierogiville

With a proper Polish princess as a distinguished member of the wacky tacky adventure team, the opportunities for cross-cultural exploration are both frequent and fun.  Getting restless remembering our "Doin' the Dozynki" exploits of last year, we excitedly donned our butter-stained pierogi bibs and headed for  Our Lady of the Bright Mount (Southern California's premiere Polish parish) for the 2014 Los Angeles Polish Festival.

Now we know why Warsaw is the capital city.

I've said it before but it shouldn't go unstated that, as a regular attendee of our local German club, card-holder of our members-only Asian grocery store, patron of the southland's two European marketplaces, and investigator into the local Dutch club, it is clear that I am in the midst of a chronic cultural-identity crisis!  The only thing my family had that tied us in any tiny way to our Yugoslavian ancestry was "Toshka," a mac-and-cheese/mashed potato hybrid dish that my great-aunt made on special occasions (I have found zero substantiation anywhere online to verify the authenticity of the more-than-likely-midwestern foodstuffs).  With every new dip into the Polish pool, however, I feel like I'm moving in the right easterly-European direction; now an old pro on the festival circuit, I knew that my mission was to find and document the three "F's."

FOOD
The line for pierogies was so long that I could only capture the first third in the picture.
Exhausted by the wait, we soon gave up on sampling much of the Polish cuisine -
except for my preferred prune-filled Polish pastry, the paczek (it doesn't look like
 much...actually it kind of looks like turd but it is really good).

FASHION
I believe this is what is referred to as the Polish Tuxedo.
Cynthia was quickly taking style notes for next year's festival.

FOLK DANCING
Without question, my favorite Polish dances are hip-hop, the tango, and the Zorba...
Wait, those aren't indigenous to Poland?  Well, it looks like some of these dancers were
experiencing a cultural identity crisis of their own.  Seriously, there was a Polish hip-hop
number with a routine that culminated in the king of Greek dances - it was AWESOME!

As much as I enjoyed our one-day excursion to Mother Polonia, I was even more excited by the festival venue.  On the grounds of an Edwardian-era estate, I had heard whispers that the beautiful house once belonged to a Hollywood movie star.  I figured that it must've been a star of Polish descent who deeded the enormous estate to the church upon his/her death.  After doing some investigating, I learned that, rather than Pola Negri or Theda Bara, the true owner of was one of Hollywood's most infamous legends.

Fatty Arbuckle lived here (a fourth F)!!!
Clad in high-fired terra cotta block, the Vienna Secessionist-style house was completed in 1910.
Unfortunately, the only access to the interior that we were granted was the basement bathroom/library (a brilliant, if completely un-photogenic, combination).  The terraced backyard has enough remaining details to have our wacky tacky imaginations running riot thinking about the amazing parties thrown here.

This adventure was definitely a "twofer" - Polish festival and Hollywood house hunt all in one!  I was thrilled to find that the fourth "F" of our festival experience stood for Fatty; sometimes it feels good to know that you're not the only fatty waddling around.  Neither fatty, Arbuckle nor Tiny, claims any Polish lineage, but His Holiness loves us just the same.  Dziekuje, PJP II...see you next year!

Our Lady of the Bright Mount Parish

3424 W Adams Blvd

Los Angeles, CA

(323)734-5249

polskaparafiala.org

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Mr. Tiny's Neighborhood Watch: The "Luck" of Baldwin Hills

As soon as the words left our mouths, we knew we had made a rookie mistake; during a round table discussion with a group of European friends, we suffered from an unfortunate choice of words by referring to the charming, turn-of-the-century, downtown area of a Southern California neighborhood as "historic."  History is a matter entirely relative, as was evidenced when one of our friends laughed heartily before explaining that the still-functioning church at the end of his street was constructed in the Fifth Century - like first, second, third, fourth...FIFTH CENTURY!  Yes, the rest of the world scoffs when Americans start detailing the highlights of our "rich history."  Imagine how much sillier it sounds when we as Southern Californians, wax poetic about the fascinating history of our state.  And yet, in spite of our infancy by world standards, there are certain neighborhoods that leave us feeling genuinely proud of our still-blossoming heritage.

Named after famed California pioneer, Lucky Baldwin, Baldwin Hills is one Los Angeles neighborhood that has us running to fill out our membership forms for the local historical society.  Offering unparalleled panoramic vistas of Los Angeles, Baldwin Hills is a city (within a city) upon a hill, a utopia of modernism.

The view from Baldwin Hills is, dare we say it, HEAVENLY!

Even better if you live in this flat-topped, window-walled dream house

I had heard that Baldwin Hills was filled with mid-century modern homes; after winding my way through the circuitous streets, I was happy to find out that I was not misled.

CHINESE MODERN!!!
From the beautifully-manicured gardens, to the stone wall, to some of the difficult-to-capture
details, this home is a perfect example of Chinese Modernism in residential architecture.

Not to be outdone, this otherwise nondescript ranch house is done up
with contrast stripes, shaped shrubbery, and festive faux foliage!  Let it
be said that there is no guilt in gilt double-doors with dynamic decorations.

Remove that distracting satellite dish (or even better, decorate it as a UFO or giant paper lantern) and
 this steel, glass, and concrete masterpiece would be an amazing venue for the coolest cocktail parties.

Filled with an equal measure of luxury and modest abodes, Baldwin Hills is a microcosm of the entire city's history as multicultural melting pot.  The street names (Don Diego, Don Luis, Don Felipe, et al.) are a nod to California's pre-statehood days.  Once predominantly caucasian, the neighborhood has become well known as an African American enclave.  Always considered an affluent community, the makeup of the population is becoming increasingly diverse.  Fortunately, the architectural character of the neighborhood has endured the progress of Baldwin Hills' evolution.

The roofline, the corner wall of windows, the stone facade, the well-integrated landscaping, and
the atrium entryway work together to create an urban oasis in which we'd be happy to seek relief.

There are still a few holdouts in our own neighborhood with pebbly roofs; this
petite pink palace puts them to shame with it's seriously-rocky rooftop landscape. 

Whoever said, "Simplicity is beauty," must've had this sweet, little house in mind.
The stacked flagstone retaining wall/foundation and two-tone color scheme
in sage and sea foam offer all the pizzazz that this house could possibly need.

Proving that a wacky tacky pedigree is made of more than mid-century modernism, Baldwin Hills offers homes of all varieties.

Sure, there are plenty of MCM details - breeze block, decorative screens, dimensional
trim - but we really go gaga for oversized reliefs of playful elephants, regal gates with
suits of armor, and custom garage doors with the street address as a clock face!

And while we're not huge fans of apartment living, Baldwin Gardens has the look we like!

In fact, some of our very favorite homes were those that were more mainstream America than mid-century modern.

I don't know how I'd feel about trudging up those stairs with arms full of grocery bags but I do know that
I love the scalloped trim, diamond-pane windows, and subtle storybook charm of this white clapboard house.

After a second glance, I'm not so sure that isn't a multi-unit dwelling rather than a single-family home.
Either way, this stately manse cuts an impressive, nouveau-neo-Classical figure on the corner of Don Mariano.

Oddly enough, it seems that Mr. Baldwin never kept house in his namesake hills.  If I was Lucky, I would have built my castle at the very top of said hills, proudly surveying the surrounding land like a king on a throne.  If I'm lucky, maybe I'll be able to make the candy-colored, post-war dreamscape of Baldwin Hills (or a neighborhood like it) home someday.

"If I'm Lucky" - Perry Como

Well, what do you think of Baldwin Hills?  Are you a fan of city living with a quaint suburban feel?  Are there neighborhoods in your town that always have you itching to be in the market for real estate opportunities?  Is there an incredible neighborhood for which you think Mr. Tiny should currently be on the watch?  Let us know!

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Chow Time: Dinah's Family Restaurant

It's a restaurant story as old as the hills (see Vince's Spaghetti), a family successfully opens up a restaurant using a tried and true, family recipe, and subsequently establishes itself as a neighborhood landmark of hearty dining.  As word spreads and business grows, it becomes apparent that a second location across town would be the natural progression.  That second location opens to acclaim and the manager (usually a brother, son, uncle, cousin) decides that to increase business, the menu should expand, the hours should change, and the recipes should be refined.  Outraged at the young upstart, the original proprietor severs all ties with the new location and each facility runs independently of one another, refusing to change the name, the sign, or the very menu item for which the small chain became famous.  In all honesty, I don't know if this is the case behind Dinah's Chicken in Glendale, CA and Dinah's Family Restaurant on the west side of Los Angeles, but it is the story I made up to appease myself when I could find no connection between the two besides the signage, the chicken bucket, and the signature fried chicken itself.

Opened in 1959, Dinah's Family Restaurant is definitely representative of its place in history.  With minimal updates, this fixture of West Los Angeles casual cuisine gives patrons an opportunity to catch a glimpse of midcentury, mid-level, Southern California dining.

My favorite part of the restaurant is the stucco flying saucers suspended at staggered heights from the ceiling.

The cantilevered barstools are comfy and portions of the original
flooring are still visible.  Under all that commercial-grade
carpeting lies some seriously beautiful terrazzo. 

The menu is huge - both in terms of
 size and quantity of available items!

Mary opted for the dish which Dinah's is most famous -
the fried chicken.  Apparently, the creators of Dinah's developed
 a method for fried-chicken preparation in which the final
 product is completely "free of cooking oils," rendering it the
crispiest and juiciest in town.

I don't know enough about midcentury lighting to
understand this particular fixture - or why I love it.
It looks like the bell that used to ring at the end of
recess - perforated just enough to let a bit of light to
sparkle through and illuminate the rock wall.

The holiday decorations - including paper plates hung by tinsel garland -
seriously distract from the integrity of the restaurant's design.  The heavy
color story doesn't help matters much either.  Design dilemmas aside,
Dinah's is a good place for an inexpensive lunch.

There is no lack of merchandizing at Dinah's - mousepads, magnets,
and mugs make Mr. Tiny hungry for chicken.

If you can't find the time to stop in for a bite, be sure to drive by and get a glimpse of the iconic chicken-bucket sign.  According to the website, Dinah's was the original bucket sign in Southern California and has been featured in multiple Hollywood productions, most recently in Little Miss Sunshine.  

I do not have any idea what the real story is behind the two Dinah's.  Although I do have a second theory that someone was in the kitchen with Dinah "Strummin' on the ol' banjo" and that led to the "Fee, Fi, Fiddle-e-i-o" that wrenched the chain in twain.  If anyone has the real low down, please feel free to share.  Until then, treat yourself to some mighty-fine food and a song.

"Dinah" - Louis Armstrong

Dinah's Family Restaurant

Los Angeles, CA

6521 S Sepulveda Blvd

(310)645-0456

www.dinahsrestaurant.com

Dinah's Chicken

4106 San Fernando Rd #A

Glendale, CA

(818)244-4188

www.dinahschicken.com

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny