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

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

Crazy Crafty: You Don't Know JACK-O-Lantern!

As I age, I fear that I am regressing emotionally.  Holidays about food and family and wholesome activities become of less consequence to me as I yearn for the zany indulgence of Autumn's favorite gimme-gimme holiday.  In stark contrast to the traditional holidays, Halloween requires no heavy meals, no gift exchanges, and no forced marches to awkward family gatherings.  It is one night to live with abandon - dressing up, misbehaving, and bingeing on loads of candy without the typical, withering, do-you-really-think-you-need-that glances from those holier-than-thou grocery store cashiers.

As I consider the importance of Halloween in my life, I am forced to truly ponder what Halloween means to me.  As a Halloween romantic, I discovered that all of my love for the day stems more from my belief of what Halloween ought to be rather than what Halloween actually is.  Captured so beautifully by the images in the Dennison's Bogie Books, Halloween should be one big, spooky, Cole Porter musical with Jack-O-Lantern footlights and costumes reminiscent of Erté!

Scepter, wand, cane, crook, staff - a recurring element in many Deco-era
Halloween costumes was one kind or another of stick.  Impressed by the
pumpkin scepter of Little Bo Creep (center), I decided to see if I could
DIM, do it myself.

I started with a seven-foot-long bamboo pole and a twelve-inch, orange paper
lantern, both found at my favorite craft supply emporium - the dollar store!
With a budget totaling two dollars plus tax, this was a provident beginning!

I had the materials, now I just needed a face.  I took to the internet and reference books but was having difficulty deciding on a pumpkin face that I loved well enough to commit to dollar-store lantern.  This was to be a huge decision; once the paint was on, there would be no turning back!  I had considered adapting one of those leering faces found on vintage, German, papier-maché candy containers, but after flipping through one of my favorite Halloween resources, Halloween in America, I knew I had found my face!

I couldn't get beyond the lovable Jack-O-Lantern face of
this Dennison's crepe-paper Halloween apron, dated 1918.
(Source)

I embraced ( and thanks to my unsteady hands, perhaps even magnified)
the loose quality of the inspiration art.  It would be pretentious of this
seriously-untrained "artist" to label my work as "mixed media" when all
I did was sketch on the face with a #2 pencil and fill it in with whatever
I could find around the house, including paint (undiluted yellow
watercolor from a tube of unknown origin and nearly-expired, crusty,
black acrylic from high school art class) and a black sharpie.

With better light and less chance of overspray, I do all of my spray painting in the front yard; given the kind of wacky tacky crafting I am wont to do (see: Pickles the Pink Piggy Purse), I spend quite a bit of time painting in the front yard.  If my neighbors had a questionable opinion of me before, they must have serious concerns over my mental capacity after watching me play a one-man game of ring-around-the-rosie, applying several coats of glossy, black spray paint to a seven-foot pole stuck in the ground.

 

Even I had to question my sanity when I went into the wacky tacky
costume archives and couldn't find the cape I wanted...because there
were too many homemade capes in the way!!!

I tried riding a broom but it wouldn't hold me...

I may perform a few minor tweaks/additions before All Hallow's Eve but for a two-dollar investment, I think I did pretty well!

Lit from within by battery-operated lights that I had on-hand, it has sort
of an eerie, reverse Jack-O-Lantern effect...but I still like it.

Of course, after my craft was completed, my next trip to the dollar store
was met with row after row of battery-operated, jack-o-lantern style,
paper lanterns.  Nevertheless, I am happy with the chance to get into
the Halloween spirit with some custom Crazy Crafty!!!  

Yes, Mr. Tiny's Halloween threads will be built in stylistic conjunction with his Jack-O-Lantern walking stick, but you'll just have to wait until the day draws nearer before the entire costume is revealed.  How about you?  Are you gearing up for the Halloween season?  Are you feeling crafty?  Do you have a great idea for your costume?  Whatever you decide to be this October 31, remember that it's Halloween...

LET'S MISBEHAVE!!!

"Let's Misbehave" as performed by Irving Aaronson

Written by Cole Porter

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

Checking-In: Hotel Congress

The finest sight that any carload of road-weary travelers can see is that of a crackling neon sign standing sentinel atop an historic landmark hotel, beckoning them in for a night of much-needed slumber.

A glowing sight for sore eyes in Tucson, AZ

"Congress" is perhaps an all-too-accurate name for a place that over the past 95 years has undoubtedly housed so many "acts of congress" within its walls that it should soon be putting a bid in for President (zing!!!).  Actually, the name of Tucson, Arizona's most famous hotel, Hotel Congress (est. 1919) comes from the tree-lined street on which it proudly stands (incidentally, Congress St took its name from a 19th-Century Saloon).

Hotel Congress - Tucson, AZ

Primarily known as the last hideout of John Dillinger's gang (a January 1934 fire, started in the hotel basement, exposed the thugs and eventually led to the capture of their leader at a nearby residence), the hotel continues to host "Dillinger Days," on the third weekend in January.  Since then, hotel guests have been of either a more upstanding or a more otherworldly variety.  Yep, as with most hotels of a certain age, rumors abound that some guests of Hotel Congress check in but they never check out; we were so tired that the only thing that we saw during the night of our stay was the inside of our eyelids.

They must have known that a terrazzo entry is always a winner
in the book of wacky tacky!  That's kind of spooky, right?

The facade of Hotel Congress is stately, if a little unassuming but...

Once the threshold is crossed, one is
treated to a Southwestern step back in time.

Decorated in the Puebo Deco style (a combination of traditional Art Deco geometry and iconic Southwestern motifs), the common areas of Hotel Congress are a wacky tacky wonderland.  A mix of pattern, color, and shape, the near visual overload is grounded by rich woods and Spanish Colonial furniture.

The lobby, the landings, and the hallways are all decked out in Pueblo Deco finery.
Southwest design schemes tend to walk a very fine line; when it turns into that
flute-playing silhouette and those giant, metal lizards above the fireplace, I'm out. 

Hotel Congress falls decidedly on the SAFE side of that style divide!

Spare by contemporary hotel standards, the guest rooms are actually a treat for full-immersion vintage lovers looking to escape the modern world.  I was shocked to enter a room devoid of a television; and yet the absence of televisions and other modern amenities truly enriched both the overall experience and my sleep!

Black and white tiles and a pedestal sink make the bathroom feel perfectly old-timey.
Simple iron beds made up with white chenille bedspreads, modest furnishings,
and patterned, flat-weave carpets, made the whole experience period perfect!

The third-story sun deck, with its scenic mural of a stunning Southwest vista, looks
incredible and incredibly eerie bathed in the blood-red glow of the hotel's rooftop sign. 

If you find yourself in Tucson, AZ without a place to stay, why not hide out like an all-American hoodlum or haunt like an all-American ghost, and check-in to Hotel Congress.

Hotel Congress
311 E Congress St
Tucson, AZ
(520)622-8848

hotelcongress.com


Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Sew What?! PACKING a Wallop!!!

Soooooo....it has become apparent to me that our subconscious suburban safari has been extended, with us managing to trek even further into the sartorial Serengeti.  You'll soon see what I mean....  

I've been on a sewing/crafting kick that is showing no signs of stopping and that is something about which I will not complain.  I'm getting a lot of satisfaction out of creating things that I feel are a better representation of my design sensibility and an opportunity to hone my skill set.  

The last thing Mary needs is more options in her full-to-bursting closet but when I get the itch to create, she is always happy to make the trip to buy more hangers.  With yet another example of Mr. Tiny's "Put a Lid On It" sun hats and a matching frock, Mary had a nice, new ensemble to don for the sun-soaked, grand opening of the Anaheim Packing House (est. 1919).

Anaheim Packing House - Anaheim, CA

Well, I guess that technically it was the grand re-opening.  First opened in 1919 as the central location for the processing and packing of Anaheim's abundant citrus crop, the Packing House has endured the ups and (mostly) downs of Anaheim's old downtown.  With a history that also includes life as a semi-questionable, less-than-savory living space, the Packing House has been completely rehabilitated with a definite eye toward historic preservation.  It is now a community space that houses multiple cafes, bars, and vendors of artisanal foods.  Things are looking up in downtown Anaheim!

As one might expect, it was a packed house at the Packing House on opening day.  Fortunately, from patios to park space to a cozy backyard, the Packing House offers plenty of charming outdoor space.  With friends, we escaped the crowds for some fresh-air photo ops.

Now do you see what I mean about our extended suburban safari?
I don't know why it didn't occur to me immediately, but this fabric print, an African
print (duh) from one of my favorite discount stores, screams mid-century safari!

Prints can be tricky for me (I usually dream in solid colors) but the
simplicity of the dress' silhouette required a print that packed a wallop -
perfect for a day at the Packing House!!! 

I redrafted a halter pattern to include a peek-a-boo, triangular cutout in the back bodice.
It really is just a peek-a-boo; those ties ended up being pretty concealing.
I hadn't sewn a proper dress in a while so I decided to attach the fully-lined bodice to a 3/4 circle skirt.

I've always been a fan of repurposed buildings; the idea of living in an old firehouse, post office, church, or barn is very appealing.  There must be a great thrill in bringing bustling new life to a space that has fallen into disrepair.  The revitalization of the Packing House is a true inspiration; it is definitely the crown jewel of the new downtown Anaheim and we have high hopes for its long-term success!

That's a funny way to squeeze orange juice...

Packing House at The Anaheim Packing District

440 S Anaheim Blvd

Anaheim, CA

anaheimpackingdistrict.com

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Holy Rollin': A Day on Mount Ecclesia

It's funny how certain facets of human philosophy can so completely evade one's consciousness until the door to enlightenment is opened just a crack.  Once even the tiniest glimmer of information is revealed, it then seems practically impossible to avoid the glaring light of related scholarship.

I recently completed reading a biography of L. Frank Baum, entitled Finding Oz.  The book chronicles the trajectory of Baum's famous Land of Oz by citing meaningful moments in his personal history.   Many of his novels' themes derive from the author's adult conversion to a metaphysical philosophy known as Theosophy.  Before reading the book, I don't think I had ever heard of Theosophy; in one sentence, it is the belief that God's wisdom "may be achieved through spiritual ecstasy" and "direct intuition."  My personal take on it is that Theosophy is a kind of well-intentioned, if far-out, combination of the best of Eastern and Western religious/philosophical precepts with a dash of the occult thrown in for good, mystical measure.

Now we don't often get into heavy discussions of religion and philosophy at wacky tacky, but on a recent drive to a family get-together, the strangeness of the bright-white, dodecagonal, domed building high atop a hill in Oceanside, CA led to a serendipitous meeting of philosophy, literature, architecture, and wacky tacky holy rollin'.

Like Dorothy being led to The Emerald City, we were drawn to the mysterious, mountaintop structure that we spied as we zoomed down our own sort of yellow-brick road.  Little did we know upon reaching our destination that we had risen to the top of Mount Ecclesia, the world headquarters of the Rosicrucian Fellowship.  I had heard the word "Rosicrucian" before but had no idea what it meant.  As it happens, the mystical branch of Christian philosophy is inexorably linked to Theosophy.  Based on ancient wisdom as interpreted by a 14th-Century, German philosopher, the 20th-Century incarnation of Rosicrucianism draws heavily upon the beliefs of theosophists, like L. Frank Baum.

Mr. Tiny trying very awkwardly to avoid disturbing "the healing energy field"...

Lest one think that the hippy movement began in the 1960s, Rosicrucians' strong embrace of pacifism, vegetarianism, and an earnest preparedness for the coming of the Age of Aquarius predates fringed vests and Hair by decades, if not centuries.  Self-branded as "An Association of Christain Mystics," the fellowship has a strong belief in healing through a legacy of secret, ancient truths as presented by founder, Max Heindel.

The sprawling, hill-top grounds includes a vegetarian cafeteria, meeting rooms, a
hotel, and several houses.  The crown jewel of the Rosicrucian compound is, of course,
the healing temple known as The Ecclesia. 

Added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1995, The Ecclesia is home to daily healing meetings.

Even had the doors been unlocked, I'm not so sure that we would've been allowed inside...but we always try.

With ties to a variety of secret societies and fraternal organizations (ahem,  Freemasons),
Rosicrucianism, a branch of "esoteric Christianity," employs much of the same ancient
Egyptian imagery, as seen here on the entrance to The Ecclesia.

Teeming with symbolism beyond my comprehension, the building has many
interesting features; my favorite was the atomic light fixture that I'm sure
has much more meaning than a simple a rooftop sputnik or lighthouse for
low-flying planes coming into the nearby air field.  I'm convinced that it is
some kind of "astral antenna."

Rosicrucianism seems a little bit spooky at first; really though, once most religions/philosophies are broken down into their most elemental parts, they all come across as a little spooky and hard-to-believe, don't they?  Esoteric Christianity, while difficult for me to fully grasp, is an area of philosophy with which I am pleased to have become acquainted.  At the very least it will up my game when I play Jeopardy with the TV.

Before reading Finding Oz, esoteric Christianity was not on my radar; post-read, it seems that I see Theosophy everywhere - but I'm not complaining.  I mean, who doesn't love a good medieval, Egyptian, Christian, occult, Masonic, hippy, astrological, conspiracy-laden philosophy that begins and ends with The Wizard of Oz?

I want to go all "astro projecto" as much as the next guy but I'm still not
one-hundred percent certain what this Rosicrucianism thing is all about; it seems
that Mr. Tiny and Rosicrucianism might always be a little "star-crossed." 

I'm not so sure that Mr. Tiny will be partaking of the Rosicrucian Kool-Aid any time soon, but I really do encourage and appreciate anyone's search for truth.  Should Rosicrucianism's basic tenets truly be self-improvement, altruism, and the pursuit of universal wisdom, well, then that's good enough for Mr. Tiny.  Anytime that "peace will guide the planet and love will steer the stars," we're ready to take a backseat to whomever is driving.  But maybe that's just me looking at the world through Rosicrucian-colored glasses.

"The Age of Aquarius" - The 5th Dimension

Mount Ecclesia & The Rosicrucian Fellowship Headquarters
2222 Mission Ave
Oceanside, CA
(760)757-6600

rosicrucian.com


Cheers!

Mr. Tiny