Gut Yontiff

John and I had just finished a late dinner last night when there came a knocking at our door.

Magazine salesmen. I'd seen them in the neighborhood earlier and I wasn't going to answer. But do magazine salesmen giggle?

I opened the door. Four pretty girls stood in a row on our front porch, dressed in bright costumes. I'd make you guess what they did next but we'd be here all day.

They sang "Jingle Bells."

I ran for the camera.

When they finished singing, they shouted, "Trick or Treat!"

They deserved something good. We didn't have candy in the house but the young ladies were willing to accept fruit. I invited them out to the back yard and we picked oranges in the dark.

How did you spend your Friday evening?

Bathe R Doggie

Some people would like to wait even longer between baths than they already do, but some people run in the Arroyo and roll in unspeakable things until they stink to high heaven so as unfortunate as it may appear and as pitiful as they may look, some people are finally forced to bathe, as cruel as it seems to some people.

Thank goodness we've found Bathe R Doggie. Or, to be more accurate, thank Bellis. She recommended the place and we checked it out yesterday. They'll wash your dog, do his pedi-pedi, clean his teeth and--and more. (Yes, that, too.)

You can choose to wash him yourself in one of their nice, clean tubs. They provide everything you need, even a little apron, which I didn't notice until I was soaked and almost finished rinsing. But that's okay. I enjoy the bonding experience Boz and I share when I bathe him (even though he loathes it). At least one of us gets to bond and the other, once the experience is endured, gets a treat.

At last, one person is clean and the other person is covered in soapy dog hair. We come home exhausted and some people get a nap.

Alliance Frankaise

The official address of the Alliance Francaise de Pasadena is 34 E. Union Street. (Pardon my lack of cedille on the c in "Francaise," but Blogger freaks out when I try to insert such things. There should also be an accent aigu on that first e in cedille, but...)

Anyway, the entrance is not on Union but in this little alley off of Union near Raymond. I can't remember the name of the alley and apparently Google Maps can't remember it either.

The Alliance holds classes in French, leads tours to France, and generally lends cachet to Pasadena. (Some of us like to think it's the other way around.)

Regardless of the alley's appellation, yesterday this bicyclette (no accent needed) made the scene look just a soupcon (sorry once again) more French.

Theme Day: Under Construction

A few years ago, the eyesore at the corner of Washington and El Molino was a problem liquor store that plagued the neighborhood. This photo is almost exactly two years old.

Now, thanks to Joel Bryant and Trademark Development Group, it's about to become the Classics at Washington Park, a group of eight craftsman-inspired townhomes.

From the website: "Four of the homes will be marketed and sold at prevailing market rate prices. The remaining four homes will be reserved for moderate-income homebuyers."

I think this tells you a lot about the neighborhood.

Bryant lives in the neighborhood. So do I. We both want what's best for the area and, after he showed me around the site yesterday, I can say he and I are definitely on the same page.

To see how other City Daily Photo bloggers have interpreted the theme, click here to view thumbnails for all today's participants. City Daily Photo is now 1391 blogs worldwide.

Altadena Urban Farmers Market

If the photo looks a bit homey it's because the Altadena Urban Farmers Market takes place at someone's house.

Granted, it's a big house, but it is indeed private property. If you're local you're likely familiar with the Zane Grey Estate, owned by Steven Rudicel and Gloria Putnam, a young Altadena couple. I can't claim to know them but this past Sunday I stood in the goat pen (beyond the grape vines out back) and introduced myself to Steven, just to have a chance to tell him "thank you." I'm awed at how these two regularly open up their historic home to their community.

John and I thought we might pop up to the market and buy some soap from Anne Louise Bannon (because her hand-made soap is superior to every other soap we've ever used), then pop back home. But just because we don't know Rudicel and Putnam doesn't mean we didn't know about half the people at the market, and that included patrons and vendors. Besides Anne and her wine-making husband Michael Holland, we stopped to talk politics with this one, hiking trails with that one, etc. Our neighbor from across the street was there with her daughter. Michael Coppess from East of Allen stopped to chat. Our friend the Apron Strings Baker was there! She who makes the cookies for A Penny for Your Thoughts, the coolest coffee-shop-within-a-gift-shop in Pasadena, was selling challah and cookies at the market! She sold out, of course, as did Anne. You want the good stuff, you get there early. These folks make and grow things at home. It's small business at its loving best.

Read Felicia Friesema's LA Weekly article to learn more about this unique event. Felicia herself gave me this giant, delicious mulberry when I saw her at the market. You meet the most fascinating people there.

The Altadena Urban Farmers Market is more than a market. It's a community bonding event. Yet it's possible John and I attended the final one. Let's hope there'll be another market in June.

Zen Monday: #148

I know it's a holiday but it's also Monday. I wouldn't leave you hanging without your Zen.

Is this your first Zen Monday at PDP? Here's the deal: today's the day I don't give you my interpretation of the photo. Instead, you give me yours. There's no winner, no prize (although I admit folks get competitive). Just let your imagination go.

Leave your thoughts in the comments and have a good time. I always do.



For two different, thoughtful takes on Memorial day, I encourage you to visit
Laurie at Glimpses of South Pasadena
and
Ben at The Sky is Big in Pasadena.

Sermon on the Mountain

St. Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment. (He was pronounced a saint in July of 1228. Do you suppose they used the word "environment" then?) He was many other things as well; interesting guy.

It's a refreshing surprise to come across such works in our ramblings. It makes me feel privileged to live where people create.

I wonder if Francis knew his words would continue to be relevant for 900 years. Maybe he hoped we'd have learned all this by now.

Boz can't read, but it doesn't matter. This stuff is instinctive to him.

Summer

Those would be limes. That would be salt. And over there is a pitcher of watermelon margaritas. Summer's here. It's official.

I have a list of things to do this weekend:
hike
garden
bask
bathe the dog
think
clean up the pile on my desk
have an iced coffee on the back porch
have an iced coffee on the front porch
read

I'll probably get most of it done, but not all.

Have you got something great planned for your weekend?

Favorite Place in Glendale

My Burbank friend and I have finally found the perfect middle ground: Favorite Place (that's its name) in Glendale.

I'm not a foodie. I'm not a restaurant reviewer. I can't describe the delicate blabbedy blah on the palate or the minglings of fine spices in the this and the that. What I can tell you is the food is fresh and tasty and unusual, the service is not just friendly but downright sweet, and the atmosphere is all charm.

From a glimpse of the outside you could be fooled into thinking you're about to enter a greasy-smelling diner to sit at a Formica counter and drink coffee that's been sitting on the burner since last night. But don't judge a restaurant by its storefront. And do call ahead for reservations.

Favorite Place has unself-conscious class. Also they have rose petal lemonade. Who else has rose petal lemonade?

Seriously, Though

It's safe to say that every moment in one's life is the result of all previous moments, but some moments are more culminating than others. Every once in a while there's the rare instance that requires you to stop and remember what brought you there.

It's a gratitude moment. It's standing at the end of the diving board and pausing to remember--not your training, because that's in your muscle memory--but your trainer, your friends, your family, your education, your lover, your past, your present, your good and your bad. All of it--all of it--has brought you there and made you ready. You don't know what's next, but you give thanks.

And then you dive.

And then you laugh at yourself for having chosen a picture of cement to accompany these thoughts.

Guest Post: Dianne Emley and "Love Kills"

Today we welcome guest author Dianne Emley, best-selling crime novelist. Her Nan Vining "thrillogy" is set in Pasadena and features a female Pasadena Police Detective. Dianne was the first author I interviewed for PDP and she's been a friend of the blog ever since. I always wondered how she researched the books and today we get to find out.

Hello Pasadena Daily Photo readers. I'm delighted that Petrea invited me to contribute some words to her blog space. My current series of suspense novels features Nan Vining of the Pasadena Police Department—homicide detective, single mom to a spirited teenage daughter, and survivor of an ambush by a knife-wielding assailant who got away.

I'm often asked whether I do a lot of research for my books. Yes, I do. Research is fun. And since I'm writing about the life, work, and mindset of a police detective and her colleagues, it was absolutely necessary because before I began the series, I had virtually no experience with the real world of law and order. So why did I decide to write about cops?

I had the first glimmer of the idea while attending the Pasadena Police Department's Citizen Police Academy (CPA)—a wonderful program available to anyone who lives or works in Pasadena. I found that I was fascinated with police work, from the tactics and procedures, to the psychological aspects, to the politics. I wondered, could I pull off writing a novel about cops? I knew if I did it, I'd have to nail it. Frankly, I was terrified.

Of course, I read books: cop novels, cop non-fiction books, and police science and forensics textbooks. The books were valuable, but they weren't enough to help me give my story the colors, textures, and emotions necessary to make it seem real. For that, I needed first-hand experience.

The CPA gave me a head start because the program includes a patrol car "ride along." Boy, was that eye-opening. I arranged more ride alongs, with a male rookie recently approved for patrol, a female seasoned officer, and a veteran officer who'd seen it all. A helpful lieutenant let me shadow her. I probed friends and family for other connections, leading me to a prosecutor in the L.A. County District Attorney's Major Crimes division, the first female LAPD Deputy Chief, the first female FBI Executive Assistant Director, and the LAPD Robbery Homicide detective who led the task force that nabbed the notorious "Grim Sleeper" serial killer. Yes, there's value in studying how Joseph Wambaugh's cops talk in his novels but it's richer to hear it firsthand.

A great place to meet real law and order professionals is at conferences. There's a terrific one, The California Crime Writers Conference, on June 11 and 12 at the Hilton Pasadena. It's only held every two years, so don't miss it. Those folks I mentioned are going to be present there, plus several more, as I organized most of the Forensics track. Keep your pen and notebook handy.

A Stubbornly Persistent Illusion

I've always had a desire to travel back in time. I've even written a novel about it called Camelot & Vine.

I'm not the only one with this desire. We want to go back and take a look—safely, of course—with plenty of food and decent sanitation and toilet paper. And beer.

Renaissance Faire! That's the way you do it. You can go, have lunch, and be back in time to feed the dog.

Friends of ours spend their spring weekends working at Faire. The mom is a serving wench. The older daughter dances. The younger—I'm not sure, she's cute enough to sell anything and she'd make a fine pick-pocket (she'd fit right in with these kids). The dad is a Poxy Boggard. (Don't click that link unless you enjoy sublime harmonies and profanity as much as I do. Click this one if you want to skip the profanity.)

My only regret is that we waited until the last day of this year's Faire, and a massive crowd of other time-travelers did the same. But the weather was cool, the mead flowed (very good and very strong but not very cheap! huzzah!) and we had a good time.

I realize this post doesn't help you one bit, as it's too late for you to time-travel to the Renaissance Faire this year. But I couldn't time-travel to the future to post it, so I've done my best. 


The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.
--Albert Einstein

Zen Monday: #147

Here's your Monday Zen, a chance to give us your thoughts on the photo without me telling you what I think it's about.

There's no right or wrong, no secret, no prize. Just tell us what the picture makes you think or feel. Have fun and enjoy the other comments, as I do every Monday.

No Darwin Awards Yet

Close, but no cigar. I wonder where that saying came from.

We had a good time here Friday making fun of predictions of the rapture. We weren't the only ones. The internet is rife with photos of piles of clothes left empty. At parties last night, people celebrated not being raptured. I heard of a gathering where they released 20 blow-up dolls filled with helium. Hilarious.

It's a tad less hilarious for those who believe(d) in this stuff. 

I don't think Harold Camping deserves 100% of the blame. Sure, he perpetrated a fraud (and collected $18 million from his followers to advertise it), but it's not like he forced people to believe him. Folks needed this. They ate it up. A few wanted so badly to leave this awful, awful earth that they sold everything they had and spent their life's savings in the process.

$18 million. Imagine if Camping had decided to do something good, like help people.

They say God helps those who help themselves. You know the story about the guy stranded in the flood who's sure God will save him? A boat comes by and he refuses to get in it, saying "God will save me." A raft comes along with friendly folks aboard. He says no to their offers of aid. "God will save me." A helicopter comes but he won't climb on. "God will save me," he says. Finally, when the water's up to his chin and there's no help in sight he calls out, "God, why haven't you saved me?" and God says, "Hey! I sent you a boat, a raft and a helicopter! That's all I've got!"

Some churches have offered consolation and counseling to those followers of Camping whose hopes were dashed along with their bank accounts and their pride. Maybe a few will see the hand of their God in that generosity, offering a life raft. But when Camping has disappeared from the limelight, the rest of the cowards who are too lazy or scared or just plain tired to help themselves will seek out some other Jim Jones, who will be more than glad to lead them by their noses to their ignominious doom.

I feel sorry for these people, I really do. It makes me angry to see them abused. But they make it so easy for the bad guys.

I post at midnight. I hope this story doesn't get any worse by morning.

If only the numerals in the photo said "2012." Close, but no cigar.

Thank You, San Rafael School

A distinguished group invited me to speak to them yesterday morning. I was summoned to their headquarters at 9:15 a.m.

They were the bright, charming 5-year-olds of Pasadena's San Rafael School. These kids are part of a dual language immersion program, where English-speaking and Spanish-speaking kids go to school together. Most of their classes are taught in Spanish at the start, and gradually English is introduced. By the time they graduate all the children will be bilingual. They've been learning about different careers and they wanted to know about acting.

My Spanish is abysmal, and after a brief demonstration to that effect the kids were willing to hear me in English. They had wonderful questions about stunts, make-up, plays and movies and they told me stories about their own acting experiences. I was in my first play when I was about their age, so we had a lot in common.

I studied French when I was growing up and would have loved a language immersion education. Pasadena has a dual language immersion program in Mandarin Chinese, too. It's a fantastic opportunity for the kids.

Three of my English-speaking neighbor children go to San Rafael. Two of them were in yesterday's class. It's their first year in school and already they speak Spanish well enough to translate, negotiate deals (truly) and know abysmal Spanish when they hear it. These girls were responsible for inviting me. Seeing their smiling faces in the group was my favorite part.


Update: You can contribute to the San Rafael School here.

Oh Joy, Oh Rapture

I don't know about you but I've left my weekend calendar open, especially tomorrow--you know, for the rapture and all.

I don't fool myself that I'm going anywhere, but I'm excited to see who's holy enough to get raptured. Who do you think? The pope? John Boehner? Beyonce?

Anybody who thinks they're holy probably isn't, so it's going to be a surprise. It's supposed to be only about 3% of the world's population, so maybe we won't even notice.

Are you going? Anybody you know? Whom would you like to see raptured tomorrow?



Oh Joy, Oh Rapture Unforeseen (Boz found this particularly annoying.)

Baby (pant pant) Steps

Yesterday I did a strange thing. I got up at 6:30 in the morning and went running.

I haven't been running in...ever. I tried once in Chicago when I was in my twenties. I think I did about a mile and decided it wasn't for me.

A mile. I was so ungrateful.

I don't want to tell you how far I didn't make it yesterday morning. The important thing is I went. I'd run a bit then walk until my lungs gave me permission to run again.

Okay. I'll tell you, because it's all right for you to know I'm not an athlete, and because maybe my lack of prowess will inspire you to start your own pathetic regimen. I went around the block. I had to stop running four times and walk. But hey, I started four times! And it's a big block! And I ran in the rain!

It felt good. I plan on doing it again today. I'd be sitting on the edge of my seat waiting to see what happens, except my butt kind of hurts for some reason.

Pure Love

When you set up a cage at the Farmers' Market and fill it with puppies, you will draw a crowd. The sign requested cash for photos. I tossed a dollar in the box and started shooting.

Would a legitimate breeder sell dogs at the Farmers' Market for $3,000 a pop? (or pup?) Apparently so. I looked them up when I got home and as far as I can tell, the operation is aboveboard. This sweet baby is a Lakota Mastino, "not for the passive owner who has no plans on working the dog. Needs a strong leader who understands dog behavior." 

In other words, you don't bring this dog home, stick him in the back yard and give him a bowl of kibble and a Nylabone. You train him. Every day. If you don't, pretty soon you've got 125 pounds of muscle, teeth and chaos on your hands. This breeder will find homes for these dogs even at the price he's asking. I hope he's clear with the buyers about what they're getting into so the dogs don't end up in shelters, or worse.

I have nothing against purebred dogs. Though my personal preference is for mutts, some of Boz's best friends are purebreds. But if you're in the market for a dog, I recommend skipping breeders altogether and going straight to a shelter, even if you're looking for a purebred--even if you're looking for a purebred puppy. You can find what you're looking for if you're willing to put a small effort into the search because there are so many unwanted dogs. Spend a couple of hundred dollars instead of a few thousand and save the remainder for your pooch's Nylabone fund. Now those things are expensive.

Nylabone images

Not On Their Watch

I've had my head in the proverbial sand for some time now. We unplugged our TV a while back and I've turned off my car radio so as not to hear about politics because I want to enjoy life.

Today I drove John's car. The radio was on when I turned the key in the ignition and I heard "brush fire near JPL." I forgot my errand, turned west and took Oak Grove Drive above Devil's Gate Dam.

The radio said the flames were moving slowly uphill, away from the Jet Propulsion Lab. I could see that, yet I had to pull over when I saw the smoke. My reaction was physical, a loss of breath, an almost-sob. Look--a 5 acre brush fire is nothing compared to the Station Fire of 2009, but of course that's what I thought of. I've seen flames on these hills before. I've stood on the dam and watched the mountain burn because I couldn't take my eyes away.

I'm not the only one who remembered. 115 firefighters shut this baby down in fewer than ninety minutes. I may have watched an inferno from atop the dam, but they've seen it from within.

Zen Monday: #146

Here's your Monday Zen, a chance to reflect on the photo and give us your thoughts without me telling you what I think the photo's about.

Just say what the picture makes you think or feel. There's no right or wrong, no secret, no prize. Just have fun and enjoy the other comments, as I do every Monday.