Foothill and Altadena. Photo: M. Imlay.

The aftermath of Wednesday night’s Santa Anas lingers on in Pasadena, which was hit hard by the blusters. This morning I came across the above scene at the intersection of Foothill Blvd. and Altadena Drive: Cleanup from a triple-car collision caused in part by a pair of non-functioning signals that were both snapped in two by the high winds.

Photo: M. Imlay.

This second photo to the left offers a closer look at one of the mangled light standards.

Driving around town, I didn’t see a single neighborhood that wasn’t significantly beat up in some way. Pasadena is a foothill city known for its streets lined with vintage homes and big old pines, stately cedars, gnarled oaks and other tall trees — and every block seemed to have at least one of them dangerously twisted or uprooted. (Many of which displaced sidewalks, gas, electric and water lines when they fell.)

Like many Southland residents, I’m “stunned” at the wind carnage. Road closures are everywhere, and power has yet to be restored to many neighborhoods. The cost in terms of damaged homes and buildings will be astronomical.

Unfortunately, I can’t see this region fully recovered for a very long time.

Old Hollywood Estate. (Photo: M. Imlay)

The entry gate of an old Hollywood estate near Runyon Canyon. When practicing my photography, I try to look for subjects that suggest a story. Somehow these rustic doors caught my imagination: How long have they stood? Which historic names, if any, have passed through them? What momentous events have they witnessed over time? Who or what is hiding behind them now?

(And why hasn’t he or she changed the burned-out light bulb?)

If only walls and gates could talk, the stories these might tell!

(LAPL Digital Archives)

NBC Los Angeles reports that concrete slabs bearing the original footprints of Sid Grauman, Douglass Fairbanks and Mary Pickford have been found in — of all places — a local airport hanger. Along with the still-lost footprints of Norma Talmadge, the silent-era imprints date to 1927 and, through a quirk of fate, were the very first to grace the famous Hollywood forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

Exactly how and why the historic footprints were made, removed in 1958, lost, and eventually rediscovered by TV personality Chuck Henry is a story filled with bizarre plot twists. Ultimately, Henry stumbled across the artifacts while visiting a local airport this past December, and NBCLA has spent the two months since authenticating his find.

(LAPL Digital Archives)

Predictably, the slabs’ reappearance is erupting into an epic tale of Tinseltown avarice. Mann Theatres CEO Peter Dobson has told NBCLA he’d “like them donated to the Chinese Theatre. And I would like the slabs put in front of the forecourt, back to where they truly belong.”

But Hollywood developer Nick Olaerts, who now claims ownership of the famous concrete chunks, has wasted no time in rejecting the proposal, saying bluntly, “I have no interest in giving them back to Grauman’s.”

Poison oak in Altadena's Eaton Canyon. (Photos: M. Imlay)

The upside to the February and March rains we get here in the Southland is that our dry chaparral suddenly springs to life, making hillside hikes all the more enjoyable once the sun comes out. The downside is that same breathtaking chaparral along the trail includes lots of poison oak.

Western poison oak (Toxicodendron diversilobum) is insidious in so many ways. Its leaves are fresh and vibrantly green in the spring and a brilliant red in the summer. It can grow shrub-like in low patches or vine-like to great heights as it twists innocently in and out of other bushes and trees. Worse, its waxy shine invites you to reach out and touch it. The plant is ubiquitous in our region — one of the West Coast’s most prevalent wooded shrubs.

Trail sign.

Yet most day hikers seem amazingly blithe to its presence.

This point was brought home recently on a hike with several friends through Altadena’s Eaton Canyon. One of our group strayed to admire the pretty plant bordering the trail head.

“Watch the poison oak,” I warned.

Too late. He was already exploring the smooth waxy texture of the leaves between his finger tips.

The result of such exposure is often a nasty, easily spread rash. If your pet runs into it, the animal’s fur acts as a natural protection — but not for you. The toxic oils can transfer to your skin when you pet your little Fido or Fifi. Campers foolish enough to burn the plant in their campfires can suffer severe lung infections and rashes all over their body — the smoke is that toxic!

Blending in.

So how do you recognize it? Poison oak’s leaves are usually lobed like an oak tree’s, and cluster from the stalk in groupings of three. (Thus prompting the old woodsman saying, “Leaves of three, let it be.”) As stated above, they can range in color from pure green in the spring, to a mix of orange and red in summer, and a russet color in the fall. During winter, the plant stalks are barren. Once in bloom the shrub also features small clusters of whitish-green flowers that eventually ripen into small white or tan berries.

Want to know more? For a quick and easy primer on identifying and avoiding this toxic flora in all its guises, click here. For a deeper botanical understanding of the shrub, along with tips for dealing with the itchy aftermath of exposure, click here.

StockXchng image.

Frantically looking for last-minute Valentine’s activities in the Downtown Los Angeles area? Don’t worry, all is not lost. The Downtown Center Business Improvement District (DCBID) has a host of ideas for procrastinating Romeos (and/or Juliets), including intimate dining locales, lovingly thoughtful gift-shopping suggestions, and especially romantic spots to pop the question if you’re so inclined. (If on the other hand you’re not anywhere near the downtown area, well, you’re on your own. Sorry.)

Santa Bear comes to Griffith Park. Photo: M. Imlay

Decorated for the holiday season, this Santa Bear guards the Ferndell entrance to Griffith Park. Someone has apparently taken it upon himself to ensure the statue is always dressed appropriately for every occasion. A few weeks ago the bear was wearing a winter sweater. During the summer he’s bare (bear?) naked.

The bear was a gift to Los Angeles from the citizens of Berlin in thanks for American support throughout the Cold War — although I doubt Berliners quite expected Angelenos would outfit their gift in the latest seasonal styles.

In any event, Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays to all my Dateline>City of Angels readers.

Manger scene in Upper Hastings Ranch. Photo: M. Imlay.

Well, sort of… With the rain pouring and the troubled economy encouraging drastic energy conservation, the annual Upper Hastings Ranch Light Up seems more of a hit-or-miss event this year.

Driving through the soggy Pasadena enclave during a 10 p.m. deluge, I saw plenty of houses wired up with lights and displays, but few were actually turned on. This gaudy, tinselly manger scene was one of the few creative efforts that truly stood out (for better or worse). Otherwise, most of the houses featured the sort of mundane outdoor light strands and bobbing reindeer found universally in every Home Depot throughout the Southland.

As they have for decades, Hastings Ranch residents continue to compete house against house and block against block for best themed-display honors. While it’s no longer the lavish affair I remember from childhood, their holiday show still merits a driveby, along with San Marino’s St. Albans Rd., Altadena’s Christmas Tree Lane, and the nearby Balian Ice Cream Mansion.

Skip the annual DWP light display at Griffith Park, though. Due to reservoir construction, it’s been trimmed back to a crowded corner display around the Mulholland Fountain. Nice if you’re in the neighborhood, but hardly worth a long drive with the kids.

The city's first car. LAPL Digital Archives.

Unless you’re totally pedestrian, you probably know the L.A. Auto Show has made its yearly return to the Los Angeles Convention Center, running Nov. 19-28. I’m headed that way tomorrow, filled with anticipation. It’s always hard to say which I enjoy most — seeing the exciting new automotive technologies and concept cars or bumping into fellow industry journalists, editors and contacts.

Whatever the case, I can think of no better venue for an auto show than the City of Angels. That’s because, much to the chagrin of today’s urban planners, no other American metropolis has ever embraced (or been shaped by) the internal combustion engine to the same degree. After all, Southern California’s car culture gave us the West’s first freeway (Arroyo Seco Parkway), the first drive-inspired shopping district (Miracle Mile), and even the first go-kart, among many other innovations.

Blame the breezy, fun-loving, open-top vehicle depicted above. Yes, it’s Los Angeles’ first official automobile, circa 1897. The driver is Los Angeles resident J. Philip Erie, the vehicle’s builder. (Some accounts say he had help from a tinkerer named J.D. Sturgis.) Along for the ride is the honorable William H. Workman, mayor at the time.

For its part, the L.A. Auto Show dates to 1907 when the city boasted one car for every 80 of its quarter-million inhabitants — a record-setting trend even back then. In fact, when it debuted, the exhibition was the largest west of Chicago and the first to be held on the Left Coast.

The event only served to stoke Angeleno desires for independent, carefree mobility in a region enjoying both affluence and a perfect year-round touring climate. Soon men and women alike were swamping the more than 50 car-related businesses springing up around Broadway and Main. For Southern Californians, the auto was an instant love affair, igniting passions still burning strong more than 100 years later.

StockXchng image.

Fines for dumping illegal garbage in Los Angeles have skyrocketed drastically, thanks to a new city ordinance. Yet, strangely, officials waited weeks to launch their public awareness campaign for the new regulations, which actually took effect last month.

Aimed primarily at businesses, the law allows trashy offenders to be charged “administrative” fines of $500, $750 and $1000 for each successive violation. The trouble is, for all the hoopla, most of the news and blog sites hyping the story offer us little clue as to what now constitutes “illegal dumping.”

Kudos to the L.A. Weekly for actually asking the question — and explaining to readers how vague and haphazard the ordinance and its enforcement may prove over the long haul.

Diablo, age 1.

Back in August this blog introduced Diablo, “my cute little puppy from hell.”

Mischievous and troublesome from the moment he arrived home, the black-and-tan Dobie was a replacement for my irreplaceable red Doberman, Ramses, who died much too young this past summer. (To this day, I still miss him.)

“Little Diablo” hailed from a European sire who weighed in at 110 pounds, so the new pup was destined to become the new Big Dog of the house. Sure enough, here he is pausing from a first-birthday training romp at Pasadena’s Rose Bowl Park, already pushing 90 pounds. Huge as he is, though, Diablo still hasn’t filled out his paws — much to the chagrin of Isis, my demur little 70-pound black-and-tan female, age 7.

Happy first birthday, my big demon pup! Here’s to the many more life adventures that lay ahead!

Tumbleweed snow couple near Elysian Park. Photo: M.Imlay.

The return of these tumbleweed snowmen to Stadium Way can only mean one thing: It’s officially Christmas time in the City of Angels.

It’s amusing how ingrained the concept of a White Christmas is in our pop culture. Even here, at the edge of the Mojave Desert, these are the lengths we’ll go to in “recreating” the idealized winter wonderland.

Perhaps that’s in large part because we’re a region populated by countless East-Coast transplants like a friend of mine, who every year laments that here in Los Angeles we never enjoy a “real” Currier and Ives Christmas like the ones he had back home. (It’s one of the many common complaints East Coasters seem to have about L.A., along with our supposedly “unfriendly” atmosphere, poor public transportation, and the inability to find a “decent” — i.e., New York-style — pizza anywhere.)

Reality Check

On the other hand, I maintain that a SoCal Christmas is just as “authentic” as any commercialized fantasy concocted by Macy’s, Hallmark or those maniacal Rankin/Bass cartoonists — perhaps more so. After all, a good portion of the world never sees snow in December. Count among that number Jesus himself, who was born in Bethlehem, a city that also shares a Mediterranean clime like ours in which snow is rare. Moreover, if you take into account current scholarship that dates his actual birth to spring or possibly summer, there’s not a snowball’s chance in you-know-where that the first Christmas was white.

Photo: Curious Country Creations

And yet for some reason, from California to New Mexico, we denizens of the Southwest still feel an annual compulsion to build snowmen — even if we have to resort to spray-painted tumbleweeds to do it. (Not surprisingly, there are even commercial enterprises ready to help us with the basics for as little as $59.95!) But I’ll happily take a tumbleweed snowman over the “real” variety any day.

The great thing about Southern California is you can visit the snow in the nearby mountains whenever you like without ever worrying that the fluffy wet stuff is going to follow you home.

Or you can do like me, forget about the powder and slush altogether, and just hit the beach instead.

Whatever your preference, here’s to a happy, healthy, traditional SoCal holiday season — clear, balmy, and Santa-Ana breezy, with just enough scattered showers here and there to keep the smog at bay…

Photo: M.Imlay

It’s either the best of wall art or it’s the worst of wall art, depending upon your perspective. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But if you ever needed a demonstration of the self-evident principle that murals mirror the life and cultural assumptions of their respective communities, this is it.

Detail, Temple City mural.

This first mural decorates a small gift shop in the heart of Temple City, the sleepy WASP-ish suburb where I grew up. Murals were never really a part of my former hometown’s tableau, so this one grabbed my attention during a recent visit. I have no idea when it went up, but the painting appears to depict an idealized scene from the area’s formative years as a predominantly Anglo ranching community a century or more ago. Although Temple City has become more Asian in recent years, the old Euro-centric cultural cues remain — this piece might just as easily be a depiction of an English or German country scene.

Viva La Diferencia…

Photo: M.Imlay

As a study in contrasts, the second mural above is a well-known icon found in my current Echo Park, Los Angeles, neighborhood.

Detail, Echo Park mural.

Of course, all murals tell a story, but I much prefer the Latin-themed tales scattered about my “grown-up” neighborhood. More often than not the storytellers here think big and bold, employing vibrant symbols to impart powerful cultural messages and social commentary. Expressive and colorful, their murals are more than mere wall adornments — they exude energy and purpose.

I guess that’s another reason I prefer life in the big city vis-a-vis the suburbs. Up against diverse pieces like this, the few murals you’ll find in my old childhood stomping grounds seem as flat as the walls they’re painted on.

Photo: M. Imlay.

A colorful gate to a community garden catches the morning sun in the Elysian Valley’s Frogtown neighborhood. Just a block or two from the river, this is one of the nicest community gardens I’ve ever stumbled across. Everything is very neatly arranged and tidy, with a well-maintained brick path leading past a variety of fruit trees and other useful plantings. The residents obviously take great pride in their little patch of shared earth.

Incidentally, if you’re a gardener, community or otherwise, check out my friend Hilda Brucker’s new Gardening blog for Gadabout Media. It’s a high-quality site offering expert info and tips.

Anonymous billboard urging boycott. Photo: M. Imlay.

At first I thought this new billboard along Sunset’s 4400 block might be the work of advertising amateurs — or possibly a lone disgruntled customer angry enough to splurge on an outdoor display. The slogan’s catchy enough, but there’s nothing to support the message or make us care. For all we know, the alleged “injustice” is that Vermont Hand Wash stiffs you on air freshener.

And why should Los Feliz, Hollywood and Silver Lake motorists join an anonymous boycott? The billboard offers no sponsor name, no contact number for further information, not even a website to visit. Not very effective advertising.

Thank heavens for Google. Search on “car wash + injustice” and up pops a web page for a group calling itself the Clean Carwash Campaign, currently in organizing and labor disputes with Vermont Hand Wash. The campaign says it’s working to clean up car washes all over L.A., but it’s clear from the website that they’ve narrowed their wrath on the Pirian Family, which owns six washes throughout the area.

According to an AFL-CIO blog, the signage is the latest in an ongoing “billboard war” that has struggled to find just the right wording.

Personally, I think it could use a little more tweaking.

Silver Lake's new 13,600 sq. ft. library. Photo: M. Imlay

It was a long time in coming, but Silver Lake finally saw the much-anticipated opening of its new $12-million library this morning. The residents’ campaign for the building actually began in the mid-1990s, but considering how Silver Lake’s elite history dates to the early 1900s, you wonder why it even took that long.

In any event, today’s opening ceremonies at the corner of Glendale and Silver Lake Blvds. featured the usual speechifying by Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, district council representatives Eric Garcetti and Tom LaBonge, and a host of other civic dignitaries.

However, the real heroes in this story are Los Angeles Public Library administrators who resourcefully used a $335-million construction bond approved in 1989 to build or upgrade a total of 64 branches. Not only were they able to commission many more libraries than originally envisioned, but they managed to create a series of distinctive, state-of-the-art structures perfectly blending with each community’s “sense of place.”

Silver Lake’s library is the capstone to this venture, with a design inspired by architect Richard Neutra, who lived and worked in the neighborhood not far from the new building.

• For a full library backstory, see this LAT piece.
• To become a Friend of the Silver Lake Library, follow this link.
• For more about Neutra and Silver Lake, visit this L.A. Places post.

Careful before stepping out! Photo: StockXchng.

As if you didn’t have reason enough, now there’s even more cause to fear the mean streets of Los Angeles.

The Transportation for America (TFA) advocacy group has released a report ranking Los Angeles as 27th in the nation for pedestrian accidents, but third in pedestrian fatalities.

In other words, your stroll along Main Street carries less peril overall than in other American cities, but is more likely to end in tragedy if you do bump into an Angeleno motorist (or vice versa).

Entitled Dangerous by Design, the TFA report is part of a campaign to push pro-pedestrian legislation through Congress. Not surprisingly, it finds the elderly (especially those living in Florida), women and minorities the hardest hit (perhaps that’s a poor choice of words) amid a growing “epidemic” of unsafe urban infrastructure:

“[B]ut people of all ages and all walks of life have been struck down in the simple act of walking. These deaths typically are labeled ‘accidents,’ and attributed to error on the part of motorist or pedestrian. In fact, however, an overwhelming proportion share a similar factor: They occurred along roadways that were dangerous by design…”

How “Unwalkable” Are We?

While even the casual observer would agree that L.A. has become increasingly hostile for pedestrians — a trend we need to reverse — TFA’s analysis should probably be taken with a grain of salt.

To attain its deathly statistics, the group lumped Los Angeles, Santa Ana and Long Beach into the same “metro area.” Not only is Santa Ana the seat of a whole other county, but these three cities are linked by some of our state’s busiest commercial trucking routes. We have no way of knowing from the analysis whether accidents occurred primarily in civic and shopping centers, along “city walks,” or in port, industrial and warehouse districts.

It’s an important distinction, since the problems — and their solutions — are entirely different.

Bottom line: While everyone wants a more walkable L.A., taking that stroll down Main Street may not actually be as dangerous as reported.

The decaying aftermath. Photo: M. Imlay

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday. I guess it still is, but I just don’t seem to enjoy it as much nowadays.

The past several years a busy work schedule usually kept me on the road for the holiday. No costume parties, no Day of the Dead processions at Olvera Street, no ghosts, ghouls or goblins of any sort. This year, however, my annual business trip evaporated and I finally found myself available for All Hallows Eve.

So how to celebrate it?

I opted for a nice, quiet, homespun Halloween. I bought candy, spent hours carving Jack O’ Lanterns (and roasting their seeds), dressed up the porch with some scary decorations, turned on Adams Family reruns, and settled down to await hordes of marauding urchins at nightfall.

But, alas, the demonic hosts never came. By midnight a mere seven Trick-or-Treaters had dared to approach my spooky abode.

To be honest, my Echo Park neighborhood has never been awash with ghosts and zombies, but when I first moved here several years ago, there was at least a respectable showing. In my absence the last couple of Halloweens I’ve apparently missed a frightening phenomenon: Gentrification has driven a stake through the heart of good ol’ fashioned Trick or Treating and Halloween mischief here in the hood.

Ever so quietly, all our tough, street-smart kids have disappeared one by one, only to be replaced by “perfect children” raised by “perfect parents” to be “perfectly fearful” of razor blades, fish hooks and poisoned goodies. (Never mind that these fears have been shown to be largely based on urban legend and hoaxes.)

I feel like Charlie Brown the morning after the Great Pumpkin Vigil. Here I am, left with a bowl full of candy, contemplating how I’ll revive an otherwise dying Halloween spirit the next time around. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be caught dead scooping and roasting pumpkin seeds in 2010.

Sigh. I miss my favorite holiday.

But more than that, I mourn what Halloween has become for today’s kids. All the magic seems gone.

Riverside Graffitti. Photo: Michael Imlay

Ride along the Glendale Narrows Bike Path to its southern terminus, and you’ll find these colorful, life-size scribblings “decorating” a Golden State Freeway overpass of the L.A. River.

Taggings. Photo: Michael Imlay

Similar graffiti graces another bridge approach just beyond the bikeway (left).

So how should we label these taggings? Guerilla art or urban blight?

To me, graffiti is like a paisley outfit from the 1960s — criminal, ugly and rarely acceptable in polite society.

But you can’t stop people from breaking the rules, and much as I hate to admit it, sometimes you have to grudgingly admire an inherent artistry in what they pull off.

I’m just not convinced this is one of those times.

Little Diablo. Photo: M. Imlay

Allow me to introduce Diablo, the latest addition to our Echo Park household.

While our entire family still very much misses Ramses — and realizes no dog can ever fill the void left by his passing — life must go on. Plus our surviving Dobie Isis desperately needs a companion, having slipped into an obvious funk over being the sole canine left in the house.

A purebred European-line Doberman, Diablo was a mere 11 weeks when he reluctantly paused from a backyard romp for this blurry closeup. One week later, he’s now pushing 23 pounds, well on his way to becoming a 110-pound heavyweight like his sire Argento.

We named the pup Diablo because he appeared to be the hell-raiser of his litter. Unfortunately, we were unaware that the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua featured a Doberman of the same name. So much for originality… (Shows how often we get to the cineplex nowadays.)

Anyway, don’t let his innocent, wide-eyed demeanor fool you. Already Diablo is living up to his evil moniker. Extremely bright, playful and curious, he also exhibits a willful streak that’s clearly going to take some extra-patient obedience training to curb.

In addition to seeing him housebroken, I can hardly wait for Diablo to finish all his puppy shots so he can finally start exploring life in L.A. This devilish little dog is definitely raring for adventure.

Ramses at Play. Photos: M. Imlay

Your humble blogger hasn’t felt much like blogging lately. This past week our household had to say goodbye to our proud red Doberman, Ramses, roughly a month short of his eighth birthday.

We knew this day was coming. On average, Dobermans live about nine years, making Ramses a senior dog. Yet even in his advancing age, he maintained a puppy-like spunk.

Each morning he’d rise, take his blankie in his mouth, and parade around with it, daring you to get up, get out of bed, and play “keep away” with him. Once that was accomplished, he’d lead our second Doberman, Isis, downstairs to the kitchen where they’d patiently take  their positions for feeding.

After breakfast, he’d chase Isis through the doggie door for a half-hour game of tag or hide-n-seek outdoors. Then he’d do one last patrol of the yard before trotting into the house to nap in my office as I worked. Come late afternoon, he’d begin another round of sentry duty from an upstairs balcony as neighbors walked their dogs along the street below.

He was goofy, loving, loyal and playful to the end.

The Medical Roller-Coaster…

But amid all our faithful Dobe’s seemingly boundless exhuberance for life, my partner and I could sense deep down that something just wasn’t right.

A few months ago Ramses began to groan in his sleep. The vet attributed it to possible early arthritis and told us to monitor the situation. Then, about four weeks ago, other symptoms emerged indicating a bladder infection. When treatment for that failed, further tests revealed the true culprit: severe prostate inflammation, resulting from large, possibly cancerous, abscesses.

The last two weeks of his life were spent in and out of animal ERs and specialist clinics, examining, poking and prodding. While waiting for the results of a final test, the inflammation closed off his urethra, requiring yet another late-night ER visit for catheterization.

…And a Tearful Farewell

Ever resilient, Ramses took it all in stride, but we couldn’t bear to put him through any more procedures. Tough as the decision was, Ramses deserved to exit this world with his dignity intact.

He was one of those extraordinary, “almost human” dogs that come around once in a lifetime. Smart beyond belief, he knew the names of every room in the house, and would go to any one of them and wait for me on command. When running in a park or along a beach, he exhibited a thoroughbred’s beauty, and hurdled obstacles with a dolphin-like grace.

Even on his final ride to the vet, his eyes shone with the same intensity and indomitable spirit that first captured our hearts almost eight years ago when we picked him from his champion litter.

As devastating as the loss is to our household, we’ve been amazed at the extent he’s mourned by others. A surprising number of family, friends and neighbors teared up when  told of his passing. All had incredibly fond memories of him — the way he’d greet them at our door, escort them around during visits, and show off for them. Though a fearless protector of our home, he knew friends when he saw them and showered guests with affection.

It’s taken nearly a week for us to lift ourselves — and especially Isis — from a listless depression. Nothing around here feels the same. Even now, as I finally sit down to pen his tribute, there’s an aching in my soul. Who knew a Doberman could touch so many people, so deeply, in so many ways?

Goodnight and goodbye, Ramses, my big puppy. You are, and will always be, sorely missed.