#La Cienega station

[circuitmouse]

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮

Hiii!

Okay 51 new sentences for 📚:

---

See, when Ravi dropped out of college, his parents had been scared for him. Convinced he was throwing his life away to become a city employee. Like it was a dirty word. His father, one of the owners in a large property management company, had felt the need to take matters into his own hands. I won’t stop you from following what your heart says is right, Ravi, he’d said. But I also will not leave you without a safety net. He’d always thought his safety net was exorbitantly rich parents, but apparently not. Apparently, he needed properties. To begin building his own generational wealth. His father, therefore, put the ownership of two apartment complexes in Ravi’s name. One in Montebello and one in La Cienega Heights. 

The latter building was smaller. Only six units, one of which Ravi lived in. It was close to work. Easy to manage. And yes, a good asset to his name. The Montebello property - much larger - and the one across the street his father was pushing him to buy? A way bigger chore. One that Ravi was finding difficult to manage. 

“No,” Ravi shook his head. “No, I wasn’t just going to sell it.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Anil said, doing an excellent impression of sincere curiosity. 

“I was going to talk to you,” Ravi promised his father. “About taking it back or selling it. Investing the money properly. Letting the funds accrue.”

His father looked crestfallen.

“You did this behind your father’s back?” His mother asked. 

“No, no.” Ravi said again. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Well you talked to Shin.” Anil dropped another colossal bomb. 

“You talked to an agent at a rival brokerage to your brother’s?” His mother gasped, like Anil accused Ravi of stabbing him.

“I talked to my friend, who is familiar with the area and prices.” Ravi clarified. “It was one lunch.”

And how word of that got to Anil, Ravi did not know. 

“You don’t sell a gift, Ravi,” his father chastized. 

“It’s not…” Ravi sighed. “Look, I’m keeping the La Cienaga place. Montebello is too much for me, right now.”

“Too much for you to manage? Free real estate?” His father retorted.

“Pops, between all the shifts I’m working, and the drive out that way more than once a week, it’s been a lot,” Ravi tried to appeal to him. “I need down time. Time to decompress. I don’t do well if I-”

Anil scoffed. “So this is an autism thing, then.”

---

30 for 🦮:

---

“Are you sure?” Bobby asks.

“Yeah,” Buck nods. “Trainer says it’s my choice.”

Bobby smiles giddily. “Well, good. I love dogs.”

Buck grins. He misses Bobby. He visits sometimes, but it’s different from being here everyday. It’s different when it feels like he’s visiting out of some strange guilt.

“Also, I made everyone wait up there so they don’t overwhelm her,” Bobby says. Buck looks up. Sure enough, Hen, Chim, Eddie, and someone Buck has never seen before are standing at the rails of the mezzanine, looking down. “But we can bring coffee and lunch and everything down here so you don’t have to use the stairs.”

Buck gives the team a small wave before answering Bobby. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Buck says. “I can do stairs. It’s good to get practice in.”

He doesn’t want any more accommodation than he already has by bringing a dog in with him. He’s fine. He’s capable. 

“Okay,” Bobby nods. “Well, then up we go.”

Buck walks towards the fire station stairs as if he isn’t at all daunted. Not just to be climbing them, but to be climbing them with a dog. He’s definitely nervous. And he’s definitely going to feel a little wiped afterwards. Bobby walks ahead of him, and then Buck focuses on climbing each step the way he’s worked on in physical therapy. Foot first, then prosthetic.

[popculturelib]

This week, we are featuring four publications that covered LGBT/queer news in the 1970s.

The Advocate is the oldest active LGBT magazine, and was originally founded in 1967, two years before the Stonewall Riots. This issue - vol. 4 no. 11, July 22-August 4, 1970 - was printed in the aftermath of Stonewall's one year anniversary and features articles about marches across the country. Transcriptions of the articles are below the read more.

The Browne Popular Culture Library (BPCL), founded in 1969, is the most comprehensive archive of its kind in the United States.  Our focus and mission is to acquire and preserve research materials on American Popular Culture (post 1876) for curricular and research use. Visit our website at https://www.bgsu.edu/library/pcl.html.

“13 Hours of Hell: Advocate writer arrested in bar, says cops beat him” by Darby Summers

(Darby Summers is the pseudonym used by a regular contributor to the ADVOCATE who reviews plays and other theatrical events for this newspaper.)

My story is so incredible that, even though it has happened to me, I can scarcely believe it myself. However, I assure you, every word of it is true. It is a story so shocking and disgusting that I tremble with nausea as I look back upon it.

My body is still racked with pain and my throat is so raw and on fire that it is difficult to swallow.

It is amazing that this should happen almost before the ink was dry on the newsprint of the issue of the ADVOCATE in which I reviewed the plight of four prisoners at the hands of sadistic guards in The Cage.

It all began at 1:30 on the morning of June 25th at a straight bar, Christine’s, 2028 West 7th St. in Los Angeles. A straight friend of mine, Chuck, invited me to have a nightcap with him. Normally I don’t drink because a past bout with hepatitis makes any drinking unwise. However, to be sociable, I will take an occasional drink now and then.

I was dressed in a sharp, ‘different-looking’ pair of slacks I had just bought at Jean’s West on La Cienega. I also had on a denim jacket that was custom designed for my by Phyllis Says of Beverly Hills. There is nothing quite like it, but then, there is nothing in our laws that states we all have to dress alike.

The bartender had just handed me a screwdriver, and I was about to take my first sip when I was struck on the shoulder by a heavy object. I turned to see two police officers confronting me.

“Let’s see your identification,” they barked.

Now I have lived long enough

Continued on Page 8

[next story]

“New York City has largest turnout, longest gay march”

by Nancy Tucker

NEW YORK CITY – Some two to three thousand homosexuals, from cities around the East Coast gathered here on June 28th and marched from Greenwich Village to Central Park to demonstrate for “Gay Pride” and “Gay Power.”

The New York Daily News and a local radio station, WINS, carried even higher estimates of the number in the parade. The New said 10,000, WINS, 20,000.

It was called “the most important event in gay history” by the Christopher Street Liberation Day Committee and was planned and supported by a coalition of eastern homophile organizations.

Marchers traveled to New York from Boston, Philadelphia, New Haven, Washington, and as far away as Alabama and New Mexico to commemorate the first anniversary of a spontaneous demonstration by Gays which took place on June 27, 1969 following a raid on the Stonewall Inn by New York City police.

At that time patrons of the bar, located at 53 Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, were put out into the street as police took action against the bar’s management. Groups of Gays gathered and barricaded the police into the bar and then began a series of protest gatherings within the neighborhood. These led eventually to the formation of the Gay Liberation Front and the Gay Activist’s Alliance during the Fall and Winter.

The three-mile march took place in perfect 75° weather, be-

Continued on Page 5

[next story]

“1200 parade in Hollywood; crowds line boulevard”

The gay community in Los Angeles made its contribution to Americana on June 28.

Over 1000 homosexuals and their friends staged, not just a protest march, but a full-blown parade down world-famous Hollywood Boulevard.

Flags and banners floated in the chill sunlight of late afternoon; a bright red sound truck blared martial music; drummers strutted; a horse pranced; clowns cavorted; “vice copes” chased screaming “fairies” with paper wings; the Metropolitan Community Church sand “Onward Christian Soldiers”; a bronzed and muscular male model flaunted a 7 ½-foot live python.

On and on it went, interspersed with over 30 open cars carrying ADVOCATE Groovy Guy contestants, the Grand Duchess of San Francisco, homophile leaders, and anyone else who wanted to be seen, and five floats, one of which depicted a huge jar of Vaseline, another a homosexual “nailed” to a cross.

Christopher Street West, they called it.

Sensation-sated Hollywood had never seen anything like it. Probably the world had never seen anything like it since the gay days of Ancient Greece.

Crowds lined both sides of the boulevard up to 10 deep along the half-mile-plus parade route and spilled down the side streets and into the marshalling area at McCadden Place and down Ivar Street where the parade was supposed to disperse.

As the last united rounded the corner at Hollywood and Ivar, people began to stream blocks after them, following the three blocks south to Sunset Boulevard, where other crowds struck out on the sidewalks to watch. Although the marchers on foot had dispersed at Selma, the cars and floats remained mostly together and identifiable as a procession in the heavy traffic of Sunset nearly back to Highland Avenue, a block west of McCadden.

15,000 to 20,000

Laconic police estimates put the number of participants in the parade at anywhere from 400 to 1500, depending on which police source you took, and the number of spectators at 4000 to 5000.

More realistic estimates put the number of spectators at 15,000 to 20,000. Parade officials, using a mechanical counter, obtained a total of 1169 participants.

The turnout appeared to catch the Los Angeles Police Department largely unprepared. Although the police had opposed the parade on the grounds that hostile spectators might turn it into a riot, they had blocked off only one side of the boulevard, as specified in the permit, and permitted traffic to proceed on the other side.

As a result, cars were trapped in the rush of spectators who surged into the street all along the parade route, despite the efforts of a few squad car units and motorcycle-mounted patrolmen to force them back to the sidewalks. Shortly after the parade started, they gave up and began diverting all traffic except the paraders off the boulevard.

No Violence

There was no violence of any kind, and police would acknowledge only three arrests, those of MCC Pastor Troy Perry, Daughters of Bilitis Los Angeles Chapter President Carole Shephard, and Kelly Weiser of HELP, who were hustled away as they began

Continued on Page 6

[drownmeinbeauty]

LIKE FRED ASTAIRE

The word that kept popping into my head as I walked through Ed Ruscha/Then Now at MoMa was elegant. The drawings and paintings here (commercial logos, formal streetscapes, hazy Western landscapes, gas stations) are characterized by graphic precision, compositional balance, and uncluttered space. But the views don't settle into prettiness; they pull one's thoughts aside, they unsettle. The show is hung chronologically. There are smaller student works in the first gallery, larger iconic canvases (including the gas stations) in the second, and text-based work in the last. Throughout, the artist crafts mesmerizing two dimensional icons while exposing their failure to hold.

Andy Warhol, a contemporary, painted with similar visual flair. But when one steps forward to look at a Warhol painting there's nothing to gain, the surface is absolutely flat. We see Marilyn Monroe and we see soup cans. When one steps up to one of Ruscha's logos we see the geology of the surface: the rise of paint around each character and traces of the guides that were cut, fastened, painted, and removed to make them. When one steps up to one of his exquisite pencil drawings on sees graphite dust spread molecularly fine across. The sky, glass and infinite space that are rendered just are exposed as illusions.

Artists like Jenny Holzer use words to disrupt the image behind them cleanly, ironically. Some of Ruscha's later canvases use a similar format but dissemble meaning more complexly. These works aren't detached, they're fully engaged, and some are quite dark. (One canvas shows two galleons in profile tossed on a dark, unsteady sea, a scene complicated by two white rectangles that hover across it. It conjures the violent settlement of North America.) There's a suspension of meaning here, a failure of semiotics, which might be fundamental to painterly elegance, and to the myths of modern American life.

Ed Ruscha, Norms La Cienega on Fire, 1964.

[24-role-0301-x]

dr la cienega & m.h. bentley ℠

the post oak bentley ℠

[ well i guess what you say ls true

I could never be the right kind of girll for you ]

azeulstin denver ! zulanites lzenaustin motoroalaser dreven !

cyhmn ℠

own your tomorrow by lucky charles schwab ℠

what would you be selling today ℠

Coach de Channel 22: alcatel esde gallrio magnet ℠

that ls the original kode of this coach [ station ]

you will not beat this charge guranteed

Coach de Channel 22:  cep krisler nes judah sprint ┴ telepathe℠

north texas ls 30 suburbs att dallas

all with homes of least 1 million dollars or more

queens new york new york 214

will not discover this type of wealth

anywhere ln the world

discover us.gov

metro 86 north mercedes texas

north texas 404 mercedes mag

you could call

however

ls he there [ ? ]

priest martin luther

[ +dad ]

do yu komprehend [ -dad ] ?

att stanford financial the stanford cardinal 314

would not hav discovered me far from motown royalty

back then

on the oklahoma plates [ dark chick ]

ls a niece of louis armstrong

713.222.2192

se bringhurst [ so ] these are the graves

i once dated diana ross

who lived on this street in the 5th ward

so

by now

we know the bank does not do loans

rather the loan is approved via 2 channels

mastercard or visa

both of which are the simson doj

aka

oj simpson

the entire emphasis of loan application

ls your place of employment

which is

oh you work here

great

95 percent of loans l do here att kbr

are in great standing

or

oh your work here

good

44 percent of loans l do here are in great standing

which is not about the money

rather

koke prints

so

what lm really seying

ls

that att

holland tunnel the mercedes ls hot

not designed for ru shower

[emperorsfoot]

So, I'm home safe. But I just wanna know what the hell was going on at the intersection of La Cienega/Jefferson. All 4 ways were blocked off, there were cops and a helicopter, and the smell of burning rubber in the air. 

[metroartlosangeles]

Metro Art Highlights: Daniel Gonzalez’s “Engraved in Memory” (2012), La Cienega/Jefferson Station.

A forehead pressed against the window of the subway carriage. Forlorn and heavy with the hubbub and persnickety pother of the midweek. The commute home is just another dram of daily disappointment. A melancholy soufflé that is always swelled and served without fail. It’s a minatory meal that is munched on begrudgingly.  

But save room. For there’s a sliver of sanguinity that can salvage your scuppered supper. Found in Daniel Gonzalez’s hand-carved porcelain mosaic panels made from eight linoleum prints singling out the singularity of the surrounding neighborhood’s past stories. The images include the history of the Ballona Creek and Rancherias recreating scenes with the native Shoshoneans and Gabrielino people.

Gonzalez seeks to harbor some hindsight, “I retell on the art panels the history of the peopling of this area, the transformation of space into place. This rediscovery of our past gives us perspective on our present moment.”

Spoons clangor the bottom of the bowl wetly. Make a meal out of memory, why not.  

[laconservancy]

Six Women Who Shaped L.A.’s Landscape

Johnie’s Coffee Shop (1956). 📸: George Rose

March is #WomensHistoryMonth! In honor of the occasion, we’ve collected some of L.A.’s most influential--if unsung--pioneering women architects, designers, and entrepreneurs, whose contributions to our built environment can still be seen and felt today. 

***

Mary Colter (1869 - 1958): Architect and Designer 

The former Harvey Company restaurant at Union Station (1939). 📸: Elizabeth Daniels

Fans of the classic Judy Garland musical The Harvey Girls need look no further than Union Station in downtown Los Angeles to walk in the shoes of the famed chain of railroad rest stop eateries: the Fred Harvey restaurants. The Harvey Company, along with the Santa Fe Railway, boosted the Southwest as tourist destination during the late 19th century, and the famous “Harvey Girls”—waitresses “of good character” and adventurous spirit—helped popularize Southwest travel. 

The Union Station location was designed by the pioneering Mary Colter, who was an architect for the Harvey Company from 1904 to 1949. She was one of the earliest architects—male or female—to give American buildings a sense of place and one of a very few number of women architects working during the early 20th century. 

Best known for her buildings at the Grand Canyon, she’s been called "the best-known unknown architect in the national parks." And her signature Southwest spirit is on full display at her Union Station location. Opened in 1939, the restaurant features both Spanish Colonial Revival and Art Deco designs— reflecting the spirit of Union Station itself—while still incorporating Southwestern elements, including the floor, which was designed to resemble a Navajo rug. Its distinct tiled walls display a parrot motif; Valencia Spanish Tile Company manufactured these tiles especially for this building. 

The former Fred Harvey Restaurant space reopened on October 2018 as the Imperial Western Beer Company.

***

Helen Liu Fong (1927 - 2005) : Architect and Interior Designer 

Pann’s Restaurant (1958). 📸: Stephen Schafer

Few women, let alone Chinese American women, were practicing architects in postwar America. But Helen Liu Fong not only excelled at her art--her works remain among some of the most loved among Angelenos even to this day. Fong was born in Los Angeles’ Old Chinatown in 1927. She received a degree in city planning from UC Berkeley in 1949. 

Upon graduation, she moved back to Los Angeles and got her first job working as a secretary for architect Eugene Choy, where she learned the administrative side of architecture. Two years later, she began working for Armet and Davis, located in the same office building as Choy’s firm, where she remained until the late 1970s. Best known for her Googie-style design work, Fong seamlessly integrated interior and exterior elements. (The rich reds you'll find in many of Fong's designs, for example, were strategic: the color could register from the roadside.) 

Fong also commissioned a variety of talented artists to custom create artwork, murals, and clocks, among other things. Perhaps her most popular work—and certainly the best preserved—is the iconic Pann’s Coffee Shop on La Tijera Boulevard in Westchester. (But you’re guaranteed to find some of her other designs, namely Norms on La Cienega Boulevard and Johnnie’s Coffee Shop, pop up regularly on your Instagram feed. ;) 

***

Greta Magnusson-Grossman (1906 - 1999): Architect, Furniture Designer, Interior Designer 

The Greta Magnusson-Grossman residence (1948). 📸: Hilton + Hyland

Greta Magnusson Grossman was one of the few female professionals to play an integral role in the Los Angeles Modern movement. 

From the 1940s to the 1960s, she was the only female architect to own an independent practice in Los Angeles. Grossman had been an award-winning designer in her native Sweden, but fled to America to escape the Nazi regime. She and her husband settled in Los Angeles in the late ‘40s where she wasted no time in setting up her own studio, launching a cutting-edge brand of Swedish Modernism. 

She was a hit among a progressive set of Angelenos, with clients including powerful women in the film industry like Greta Garbo and Ingrid Bergman—fellow Swedes, both—and was lauded by contemporaries and critics. She designed 14 residences in Los Angeles, all based on the Case Study House design principles, including the Nelson Houses in the Hollywood Hills. With their simple Mid-Century Modern lines and their breathtaking views, the Nelson Houses are an excellent example of Grossman's residential designs, and proof that she undoubtedly helped define California Modernism. 

Although her work has gained the recognition it deserves over the years, her architectural legacy lies in jeopardy with only a scant handful of her work remaining. 

***

Biddy Mason (1818-1891): Entrepreneur and Philanthropist 

The Biddy Mason Memorial. 📸: L.A. Conservancy

Bridget "Biddy" Mason is an American hero. Born a slave, Mason endured decades of hardship before winning her freedom and becoming one of Los Angeles' wealthiest citizens, and most celebrated philanthropists. In 1847, at almost thirty years old, Mason walked more than 2,000 miles behind her owner's wagon, from Mississippi to Utah and then California … her small children at her side. 

When she arrived here in 1851, California had been a state for less than a year. It had been admitted into the Union as a free state. Even so, many slaves, including Mason, were not free. Black settlers had a tight-knit community in Los Angeles, ensuring newcomers, like Mason, knew their rights under California law. 

With their support, Mason sued for and won her freedom in a landmark court case in 1856. Mason became a midwife and parlayed her earnings into real estate, establishing a homestead on what is present-day Broadway and Spring Street in 1866. She continued to invest in land and accumulated a relatively large fortune, carving for herself a prominent place in the community. "Aunt Biddy," as she was lovingly known, founded the First AME Church in her home, opened schools, and was a constant source of support to the growing settlement of Black Angelenos. 

The Los Angeles of Mason’s day is all but gone, but you can follow her legacy and remarkable achievements at Biddy Mason Memorial Park. Behind the Bradbury Building, where her original homestead was built, the artwork "Biddy Mason's Place: A Passage of Time" commemorates her incredible journey. 

***

Julia Morgan (1872 - 1957): Architect and Engineer 

The Marion Davies Guest House (1929). 📸: The Annenberg Community Beach House

Julia Morgan was one of California’s most influential architects. Truly ahead of her time, she was California’s first licensed woman architect and one of the most influential--and prolific-- architects in the state: By the time of her death in 1957, she had designed an estimated 700 buildings, mostly in California. 

Perhaps most famous for her work for magnate William Randolph Hearst--namely, Hearts’s Castle in San Simeon--Los Angeles is home to some of her most significant structures: The Herald Examiner Building (1914) and the Marion Davies Estate in Santa Monica (1929), both for W.R. Hearst. The Examiner building was the first large-scale project she would design for Hearst, designed in the Mission Revival style of architecture popular throughout Southern California in the early twentieth century. The red tile roof and blue and yellow tiled domes make the building a visible landmark on Broadway in downtown Los Angeles. 

Out in Santa Monica, the Annenberg Community Beach House occupies part of what was Morgan’s spectacular estate for actress Marion Davies. Commissioned by Davies’ life partner W.R. Hearst, Morgan designed an estate befitting the major movie star: it was a mansion of 100- plus rooms, featuring an ornate marble swimming pool. As was the case with Hearst Castle to the north, the Marion Davies Beach was a popular and exclusive destination for Old Hollywood’s biggest stars. 

The main mansion was demolished in 1956, but the Beach House thrives today as a year-round public beach facility. 

***

Norma Merrik Sklarek (1926 - 2012): Architect 

The Pacific Design Center (1975). 📸: WikiCommons

Dubbed "the Rosa Parks of architecture," Sklarek's courage, talent, and ambition led to a trailblazing career that forged a place for herself in an industry dominated by men. When she received her B.Arch from Columbia in 1950, Sklarek was just one of two women and the only Black person in the graduating class. 

With both her gender and race against her, Sklarek's self-described "stick-to-it" attitude resulted in her becoming the first Black woman to join the American Institute of Architects, in 1959. In 1960, Sklarek moved to Los Angeles and joined the firm Gruen and Associates. 

Later, after becoming California's first Black woman to be a licensed architect in 1962, she became the firm's director of architecture—the first woman in the company to hold that position. The California Mart (1963) was one of her earliest projects and she also worked on such iconic projects as the Pacific Design Center's "blue whale" (1975). 

In 1985, Sklarek scored another "first" as co-founder of what was then one of the largest woman-owned firms in the country: Siegel, Sklarek and Diamond. She became a mentor to many aspiring young women architects and architects of color: 

“In architecture," said Sklarek, "I had absolutely no role model. I’m happy today to be a role model for others that follow.”

[omgjasminesimone]

Juvenile Delinquents Part 1

Logan x MC (Ellie)

Summary: Ride or Die AU. Logan’s day started out routine, but it ended with mugshots.

Next Part: Part 2

Word Count: 1600

Logan sighs as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He hates the waiting, it makes him anxious, too much time to think and allow his nervous energy to build up.

He switches on the radio to have something to drown out his buzzing thoughts, flipping through several stations before settling on 90s West Coast hip hop.

“Logan, it’s time.” Kaneko’s voice comes in clearly through Logan’s earpiece.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Logan replies, revving his Devore’s engine before peeling out of the parking lot at top speed.

In short order, he catches up to the rest of the crew. Kaneko, in the just stolen sports car they’ve been targeting. Mona drives her own convertible to his right, Ximena is in a pickup truck to his left, and Toby is just in front in his favorite Italian import car of the year.

Logan falls into place in the back, completing their diamond formation.

“No one saw you pretty boy?” Mona asks. He can faintly hear the Lebanese traditional music playing in her car through his ear piece.

“Nope. Got to the parking lot without anyone tailing me, and peeled out quick.” Logan answers, unable to mask his cocky tone.

“That’s my boy.” Kaneko praises.

“Uh oh.” Toby mutters.

“That can’t be good.” Ximena replies.

“I’m picking up cops on my scanner boss. Coming up on the 405 South fast.” Toby informs.

“Damn it. Everyone, take the next exit.” Kaneko directs. They all merge right to exit the freeway.

“Shit, they’re expecting us boss.” Toby is still in front, so he’s the first to see the police spikes set up across the asphalt.

“Bet they’re not expecting this.” Mona mutters, engaging the modified spike proof tires Toby installed and driving through the spikes, dragging them along after her car.

The others quickly fly out of the opening Mona has created, and the police give chase.

They use all their usual tricks to try to shake them, but the Mercy Park Crew has been very active lately, and it seems the police have been studying up on their tactics.

“God damn it, I’m running low on gas.” Kaneko informs his crew.

“What do we do boss?” Ximena asks.

“Logan, I need you to peel off, let them catch you to buy us some time.” Kaneko directs.

Logan blanches, gripping his steering wheel tight. “But then I’ll have a record. They’ll have my prints. Know who I am. I’ll be fucked.”

“You’re 17. It will be a juvenile offense, while the rest of us will definitely get prison time. You’ll get off easier. You’re the only one who can do it.” Kaneko explains.

“But-“ Logan starts.

“Logan.” Kaneko interrupts, and his tone informs Logan he’s not asking.

Logan sighs, peeling off from the others as he takes a right on La Cienega. “Will you make sure someone picks up my car when they impound it?” Logan asks.

“I’ve got you Logan.” Ximena promises.

“Thanks.” Logan replies, turning off his headset as he leads some of the police away on a high-speed chase. He circles back and runs a red light, causing one of the cops to crash into the ones still pursuing the crew. But he’s going so fast that he can’t make the next turn, slamming into a pole.

Logan groans as he tries to remove himself from his dented in car. There’s a lot of damage, but he knows the crew will be able to fix it.

“Get out of the car with your hands raised!” A cop yells, and Logan can see he’s pointing a gun at him through his rear-view mirror.

“I can’t! The door is dented in!” Logan shouts back, raising his hands so the cop can see he doesn’t have any weapons.

Several cops approach, guns raised, to remove him from his vehicle. As soon as he’s out, they cuff him and force him into a patrol car.

…

Logan toys with the bandage wrapped around his forehead to stem the bleeding from his head hitting the windshield as he surveys the police station.

It’s busy. Phones ringing, cops dragging resisting criminals to cells, people being processed with fingerprints and mugshots.

It seems like there’s so much going on, that if he could get his wrist out of the hand cuff chaining him to the bench, he could make a run for it. He experimentally tries to squeeze his hand free, but the cuffs are too tight. He sighs. Guess it’s time to face the consequences of his actions.

“Oh my God Jason, you don’t have to forcefully restrain me, I’m not going anywhere.” An airy voice complains.

It’s a girl who looks to be around his age. She’s pretty, with long brown hair and matching brown eyes. She looks too innocent to require the tight grip the detective has on her arm, dressed in a Langston College sweatshirt and jeans.

“Yeah right, like I’d fall for that, again.” Jason replies, forcefully pulling her over to get fingerprinted.

Logan leans back against the wall, closing his eyes as he tries to drown out the loud cacophony of sounds so he can think. What’s his next step after this? He’s got ID on him with his real name, so they’re going to know who he is, and have his prints, and be able to track him back through foster care records.

Will they try to force him back into a group home? He’ll just run away, again, so hopefully they don’t bother.

Is Kaneko going to let him back into the crew? Seems like that would be an unnecessary risk that Kaneko’s not going to be willing to take. But Kaneko can’t just cut him loose either, he knows too much. He doesn’t think Kaneko would hurt him, but he might send him away. Back to Michigan maybe? Logan doesn’t want that.

“What are you in for?” The pretty girl he noticed earlier asks.

Logan is startled to find her sitting beside him on the police precinct’s cold metal bench. She hadn’t been there a second ago.

He looks her over, measuring whether or not she’s harmless. She quirks an eyebrow at his silence. “Hablas ingles?” She asks.

“Yeah, I speak English.” Logan replies. He doesn’t know much Spanish, despite his father allegedly being Salvadoran according to his birth certificate. All his foster parents spoke English, so he only picked up the Spanish basics once he realized people were always going to look at him and assume he speaks the language.

The girl smiles at him, and when she speaks again, he notices a peek of silver in her mouth, a tongue piercing. Guess she’s not as clean cut and innocent as he first clocked her to be.

“So, what are you in for?” She repeats.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to ask people that in here.” Logan responds warily, and the girl lets out a laugh.

“So, I take it you’re a first timer then.” She quips cheerily.

Logan glances down at the pink nail polish adorning the girl’s fingers, the charm bracelet on her delicate wrist. As he looks up into her innocent looking face, a few freckles dotting her tan skin, he has a hard time wrapping his mind around a girl like her being in a place like this.

“And I take it you’re not.” Logan finally replies, and her lips turn up in a grin as the two teenagers stare each other down.

“Fucking hell, Eleanor. Again?! Really?!” An officer interrupts, storming up to the teens.

The girl, Eleanor, he supposes, rolls her brown eyes. “Calm down Dad.”

 The Detective’s face becomes red with anger at his daughter’s flippant attitude. “I will not calm down! You’re out of control. Drugs, Eleanor?! Really?!” He yells. The other cops desperately try to ignore the scene he’s creating.

“Prescription drugs.” Eleanor stresses. “It’s really not that big of a deal. If Ingrid wasn’t such a snitch, everything would have been fine.”

“Is this a cry for help Eleanor? Selling prescription drugs at school? I can’t get you out of this, not this time. Ever since your mother died-“

“This isn’t about Mom. This was about making enough money so I could pay LA rent and not have to live with you anymore! You treat me like a child, you’re overbearing!” Eleanor yells back.

“Maybe I would treat you like an adult if you acted like one!” The Detective yells back. His daughter shoots him an icy glare in return, and Logan watches as he closes his eyes before taking a deep breath, trying to compose himself. His attention turns to Logan.

He uncuffs Logan from the bench, gripping his arm and leading him over to be fingerprinted. “Hands up.” The Detective orders gruffly, and Logan reluctantly complies. The Detective frisks him, coming upon his wallet. The Detective rifles through it, quickly finding Logan’s license. “Logan Sanchez?”

Logan nods, and the Detective writes the name onto his paperwork. He takes Logan’s wrist, forcing his fingers to the ink pad and then rolling each finger over the fingerprint paperwork.

“Wheeler, mugshots. You know the drill.” Another cop calls. Eleanor hops off the bench, smiling cheekily as her mugshot is taken. Her father shakes his head as she blows the camera a kiss for her last frame.

The cop she called Jason grips her upper arm again, leading her away. She turns back toward Logan. “See you inside!” She says with a wink before Jason tugs harder, forcing her to walk.

Her father frowns as he turns to look at Logan. His look conveys his belief that Logan is going to be a problem. He grips his arm, rougher than Logan thinks is necessary, and positions him in front of the camera.

Unlike Eleanor, Logan doesn’t smile for the camera.

taglist:  @choicesarehard​ @ifyouseekheart​ @brightpinkpeppercorn​ @regina-and-happiness​ @drakexnadira​ @flyawayboo​ @fairydustandsarcasm​ @alesana45​ @umiumichan​ @maxwellsquidsuit​ @lahelable​ @god-save-the-keen @mrsmckenziesworld @paisleylovergirl​ @iplaydrake​ @sinclaire-made-me-sin​ @choicesgremlin​ @lovehugsandcandy​ @desiree-0816​ @cora-nova​ @justdani14​ @emceesynonymroll​ @emichelle​ @badchoicesposts​ @client-327 @riverrune​ @liamzigmichael4ever​ @princessstellaris​ @mrskaneko @anxious-arliah​

[irwintry]

Like Candy

Warnings: swearing

Author’s Note: stomp on the ground (sea bears take it as a challenge) i kinda wish i could rewrite this part but at the same time i dont wanna 

Word Count: 1.9k

part one

Ashton's life felt like clockwork. Everything fit together just perfectly, and he had it all planned to a t. He knew exactly what kind of life he wanted to live during and after fame. Of course, there were a few roadblocks here and there, but his life remained steadily consistent.

You played a big part in that. He was used to you, even though he was the biggest pest of your life. That he knew. He loved seeing you flustered, and a part of him wanted it to be because of other reasons. Except, Ashton couldn't have that. His plan didn't involve you like that, so he scrapped whatever pieces included seeing you. That meant no Scotty's, no sunny-side-up eggs, and no you.

He stopped holding parties, too. He feared you would show up announced so you could talk to him. If he was honest – which he really, really wanted to be, he would let you talk to him. He would stop the entire world to see you one more time. But, he couldn't convince himself to even drive by that diner that had every jam in the world but orange marmalade. It was okay because he didn't like orange marmalade.

"You're depressing," a friend of his pointed out one night. They were four beers in, and Ashton felt nothing.

"Don't say that," he told his friend (whose name did not matter). Ashton felt it was his duty to defend himself at every given moment. He wouldn't allow himself to feel vulnerable, even when he wanted to crumble. He wanted to admit he was weak. He wasn't the Ashton that you grew to hate at the diner.

One morning, he drove by Scotty's. The windows were gone, and the glass doors had painted red x's down the front. He accidentally honked out of frustration, which caused a parade of honks to echo down the boulevard. The diner had been cut out of his life for two months now, but it destroyed him to see it go before he could say goodbye. This also meant he had no idea how to find you.

He only knew your first name and that you had a pug named Horace. By this point, the only way of seeing you again was if you decided to knock on his front door. You wouldn't; he made it clear he didn't want to see you again after never going back to Scotty's. He could tell you weren't the type to chase after things, especially when they weren't even yours in the first place. But in a way, he hoped he was wrong.

That kind of made Ashton hate himself. Why couldn't he just be nice to you? He wanted to show you exactly how he felt, but he couldn't. He had become the definition of a stupid schoolboy being a meanie because he had a crush on a girl. The pure idea made it hard for him to live with himself. He wanted to take it all back. Ashton didn't like to apologize, but for you, he wanted to spend the rest of his life making sure you knew how sorry he was.

Maybe that was why he drove by Scotty's in the first place. He had to start somewhere.

Sometimes, he drove by that gas station off of La Cienega to see if he could spot you pumping gas. He would even stop there a few times to buy him a little more time... just in case.

Ashton felt really pathetic. To him, you were sweet like candy (you reminded him of a Hershey's kiss), but not a fucked-up Warhead like himself. If you kept him in your cheek, it would only burn a little less. Too much of him would be unbearable.

What he didn't know was that you wouldn't believe any of that. You saw right through his sour shell. You also felt bad for him, but you'd never admit that to the poor soul. After knowing him for as long as you had, you figured out why he built a wall around his feelings. His "likings" towards you were hidden behind cold glares and deep, unkind laughter. You wanted to forgive him for that, which is why it took you two months to shake off the complex emotions rattling around in your brain.

You were pounding on his front door at eleven o'clock at night– you were too tired of feeling this way. You were too tired of this open-ended story he wrote for the two of you, even if it meant rejection.

Ashton had been fresh out of the shower, his eyes droopy and exhausted from a long day of writing and brainstorming. A stained gray shirt adorned his chest, the heathered material tucked tight into sweatpants of a darker shade. He was just about to make himself a bowl of black raspberry frozen yogurt when he heard your rhythmic knocking.

Neither of you said anything as he opened the door with a tired smile – a smile that fell right as his eyes landed on your sad ones. He took you in, forcing himself to keep the damn door open because he needed to face his feelings. It was a miracle you were here; he wouldn't have found you if you hadn't shown up.

"I– "

"'m not gonna be mean," he said, his voice sleepy.

Already, things were off to a different start than you had thought. You figured he'd slam the door in your face with a roll of his eyes. You would knock again, and he'd shout something rude from the inside. Or, he'd let you in and fuck you over once again.

You nodded.

Ashton felt a bit of bile rise up in his throat, so he opened the door for you and swallowed it down while you walked by him. It was his body's way of pushing away any temptations to be as cruel and sour as he had been months ago.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked softly. He couldn't even believe he had enough strength to vocalize coherent words. "Water? Toast with jam?"

You chuckled to yourself. "'m good," you said. "I just– uh, I should've stayed home." You scratched your arm through the waffled material of your sweatshirt.

Ashton looked at you with wide eyes, and he let you continue.

"I thought it would be smart of me to come here and tell you everything that's been on my mind," you continued. "I thought I would waltz in and easily explain how you've made me feel. I mean, fuck, Ashton you played me. You told me you liked me, fucked me, and then left me there. I shouldn't have come because clearly you don't care, and you never cared." You started towards the door, proud that you had said all of that without shedding a single tear. When you reached for the door handle, Ashton stepped in between you and the metal.

"'s not fair," he whispered, it was quite wimpy at that. "Not fair what I did to you. I'd take it back if I could."

"Then why– " You took a deep breath. "Why did you do it in the first place?"

He sighed and instinctively reached for one of your hands; it shocked him that you didn't pull away. "A little messed up in here," he said as he used his other hand to motion toward his head. There was a light laugh that escaped from his lips, but it wasn't genuine. Seeing you and holding this conversation gave him the worst anxiety he had felt since his first stage performance.

You nodded but said nothing. You were waiting for him to prove himself.

It was like a bomb went off in Ashton's head. He gripped his hair, attempting to force the truth out of his mouth while every muscle in his face tensed as time passed. He had never been this awful at feelings, especially when the risk of you never believing him was so strong. Not only that, but he had no excuse to act the way he did around you. You knew he liked you. What he never told you was that he was absolutely head over heels in love with you and the idea of you. Most likely, it was the latter that drove him insane. He didn't know you, not enough to be in love with you.

"But you know me better than anyone else," he said out of the blue. He waited to see your expression change, yet it didn't. Maybe you agreed. "Y'know, I really don't expect you to understand anything 'm gonna say."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because you don't think I'm smart, or something?"

"No!" Ashton had fucked up already. "Fu– no, that's not– I didn't mean to say it like that. You, like, really fucked my mind up. You know I like you, you know I– "

"Do I?"

He frowned. "I like you way more than I let out. I mean, it's fucking crazy how much I like you. You and Scotty's were my escape, and once I started going there for you and you only, I didn't know how to be nice. You were bringing out the worst in me, and to this day, I don't know why. I'm giving you no reasons to trust me or believe me. Literally no reasons. You have every right to be mad or confused, or to just fuckin' slap me if you– "

It was like a brick hit his face. He hadn't actually expected you to slap him, but he was glad you did. It stopped the word vomit from ensuing moments later, and it released whatever tensions you were holding back.

He breathed out, shutting his eyes momentarily so he could steady his emotions. "I wanted you more than I've wanted anyone in my life, and I didn't know what to do. I want you." He couldn't open his eyes. "I played you. I fucked you over. And I'll forever hate myself for treating you the way I did. I wanna make it up to you– I'd spend my whole life doing it, but I'd never blame you for walking away."

When he opened his eyes, he noticed your rosy cheeks. You appeared to have relaxed a little bit– even though your arms were crossed, and your shoulders were hunched over. You weren't looking at him.

"'m just confused," you whispered. You looked so small, and he wanted to do was wrap you up in his arms. "I've never met anyone who will confess their feelings to someone and then drop them out of their life like one of their hook-ups. I actually had feelings for you, too. Dunno how. You were fuckin’ cruel."

Ashton's face crumbled. He could hear his heart in his ears as he took a step back against the door. Had you ever told him how you felt before? He couldn't remember; like always, he had focused on himself.

After that, he didn't know what to say. The silence was burning into his skull after every passing moment and looking into your eyes was too overwhelming for him to focus on another thought. The situation he had put himself in created this. And yet, he no longer felt nervous. He felt every bit comfortable being this vulnerable in front of you– something that he never thought he would ever, ever feel.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed out, almost a little too hushed for anyone to hear.

But you had. You just nodded.

"It's late," he said. "Stay tonight."

"Ash– "

"Please."

You didn't react right away. This was the longest time the two of you had maintained solid eye contact, and it was too overwhelming to look elsewhere. You wanted to see those hazel eyes until colors failed you.

"Okay," you mumbled.

Ashton felt his heart skip. The universe was giving him another chance    

[circuitmouse]

[architecture-anddesign]

Los Angeles panorama from La Cienega/Jefferson Station (9632 x 3120) (OC)

[alaturkanews]

Search continues for three suspects who shot and killed man in Beverly Grove

Search continues for three suspects who shot and killed man in Beverly Grove

Three man walked up to a man pumping gas at a gas station on La Cienega an Beverly Boulevard Friday evening and opened fire. The victim later died at a local hospital. CBSLA's Tena Ezzeddine reports.

[chasecampen]

Metro wins $100M federal grant for last leg of Purple Line extension

Photo courtesy of The Source/LA Metro. Article written by Bianca Barragan for Curbed LA.

Metro announced Wednesday that the federal government has approved $100 million in funding for the third and final leg of the Purple Line subway extension between Century City and the Veterans Affairs campus, just west of Westwood.

That’s just a fraction of the $1.3 billion in federal funds the agency is seeking for the third phase of the extension, which will put new subway stations at UCLA and the VA. Metro says this $100 million grant is “a significant step in the path toward obtaining” the full funding, which it expects to receive in early 2019.

Construction on the third segment of the extension is expected to begin that same year.

Metro is also using funds from Measures R and M—two sales tax hikes that were approved by voters—to pay for the project, but the federal money is crucial.

It’s “needed to complete the Purple Line to Westwood by 2026,” says Steve Hymon at The Source, Metro’s news blog.

It’s estimated that the third section will cost $3.56 billion in total to complete.

Metro has already won $1.25 billion from the federal government for the first segment of the extension, from Wilshire/Western to Wilshire/La Cienega. It has also received about $1.2 billion for section two from La Cienega to Century City’s Constellation Boulevard, despite expertly publicized protests from Beverly Hills schools.

Both portions are under construction now.

The full 9-mile extension will connect Downtown LA to the Westside, mostly along Wilshire Boulevard. When complete, it will offer a one-seat ride from Union Station to the Veterans Affairs campus in a mere 25 minutes.

[abelalejandre]

On Sunday September the 23rd I will be giving a short talk about my work at the Westowood/ Rancho Park Metro Station. It will be part of a special Metro station art tour. Sunday, September 23 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Meet at the entrance to La Cienega/Jefferson Station Meet Metro artists Abel Alejandre and Shizu Saldamando during a special, free art tour in honor of National Hispanic Heritage Month. Join us as we journey along the Expo Line with both Alejandre and Saldamando. They’ll share behind-the-scenes stories of their process in creating artworks for Westwood/Rancho Park Station and Palms Station. The tour will begin at the entrance of La Cienega/Jefferson Station promptly at 10:30 a.m. and travel the Expo Line, concluding at Downtown Santa Monica Station. This tour is free and open to the public, no reservations required. #hands #drawing #crosshatching #illustration #detail #art #realism #artoftheday #pencil #graphite @staedtlermars #repost #artist #beautiful #illustrator #studiotime #metroart #metrostation #publicart #losangeles #westside #figurativeart @metrolosangeles #representationalart #mystaedtler https://www.instagram.com/p/Bny-QoDBg0I/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1n6u57ay1abrs

[orbemnews]

The photographer who captured Hollywood's last wild decade Written by Ana Rosado, CNN It isn’t unusual for a Hollywood native like Randall Slavin to grow up wanting to be an actor. But hanging out with promising young stars steered Slavin in a different direction: photography. During the 1990s, armed with an Olympus Stylus camera, he became the visual chronicler of Hollywood’s young celebrities — the last pre-internet generation of musicians and actors, like Hilary Swank and Charlize Theron, who at that time were still trying to make it in the business. The magic of soul and funk in the seventies “I think I was hyper aware that I was around special people,” Slavin wrote in his book, “We all want something beautiful.” The book charts Slavin’s career, from candid photos of his on-the-verge-of-stardom friends to his latest glossy works, revealing his aptitude for capturing unguarded emotion. Each page is filled with familiar faces, like Lindsay Lohan, Reese Witherspoon, Jennifer Garner, Amber Heard, Rose McGowan and Tara Reid. “One of my main focuses is to get people to forget they’re being photographed, because that’s what makes people feel stiff,” he said in a phone interview. “It’s a joy to spend some time with these legends, so I want to use the time I have to get to know them… I like to talk a lot during my shoots.” Actress Charlize Theron captured by Randall Slavin. Credit: Randall Slavin Born and raised in LA, Slavin had wanted to become an actor. He compared Hollywood to Pachinko, a Japanese game that resembles a pinball machine: “Everyone comes (here) wanting to be an actor and then they slowly filter down and find their slot.” During the 1990s, he had minor roles in blockbuster films, like “Primal Fear” and “Legends of the Fall,” but to support his acting dreams Slavin needed other side gigs. In his early 20s, he was working at a Chevron gas station in La Cienega, in Hollywood, when he decided to try his hand at taking photos. He befriended the owner of a headshot photography studio across the street, who gave him some basic pointers, and soon after he was taking headshots of his friends — including Hilary Swank, who, in one picture, had just chopped her hair off to express contempt for having been fired from the hit TV show “Beverly Hills 90210.” Actress Hilary Swank captured by Randall Slavin. Credit: Randall Slavin “I was very fortunate that a lot of my friends… let me experiment on them, and it helped when they blew up and became movie stars. I certainly had a leg up on a lot of other photographers who were starting out,” Slavin said. The first celebrity portrait he took was of The Black Crowes’ lead singer Chris Robinson at his “hippie paradise in the hills above Sunset Boulevard,” and Charlize Theron, a longtime friend, once invited him to tag along and document a trip to South Africa. “I was breathing rarefied air, and I wanted to remember every single moment,” Slavin wrote in the book. With his camera in hand, Slavin seemed to be in all the right places at the right time. He captured an image of Leonardo DiCaprio — right before the film “Titanic” was released — hanging out with Theron at her birthday party in Hollywood’s iconic Bar Marmont. “You had these incredible places with people relaxing and letting their hair down,” he explained. “I don’t know if that happens anymore.” Going through his archive, Slavin also found a few surprising faces: “Six years before his breakthrough in ‘Hustle and Flow,’ Terrence (Howard) was at my birthday party. I didn’t know him. I just held the camera aloft to get a shot. Years later I looked at the picture and realized he was looking directly into the camera,” Slavin wrote in “We all want something beautiful.” Eddie Mills and Reese Witherspoon captured by Randall Slavin. Credit: Randall Slavin Social media has kicked the doors of Hollywood wide open, but Slavin’s photos give insight into a time when celebrities could party in relative privacy. Actor James Van Der Beek appears in the background of one photo, wearing a beard, glasses and a baseball cap. It was 1999 and he’d already shot to fame as Dawson Leery in “Dawson’s Creek.” “Everything about it says, ‘Pay no attention to the confused boy in the too-baggy jacket,'” Van Der Beek said in an Instagram post, noting that Slavin’s images captured a time before everyone carried a camera in their pockets. Singer Fergie captured by Randall Slavin. Credit: Randall Slavin Slavin agreed. “Everybody thinks their 20s were a special time, but I also think it was a special time because it was right before the internet, social media and cellphones. Those three things came along and privacy went out the window,” he said. It isn’t easy to make it in Hollywood as an actor but it’s equally hard to start out as a photographer. In Slavin’s case, his craft was given a boost by an all-access pass to the life of his Hollywood friends. But he wasn’t driven by dreams of exposure. Slavin’s early black and white images were simply intended as a visual diary of the great times they were all living. “I was very fortunate to be at the right place in some very magical times,” he said. LA feels enormous but when you’re here it’s a small town, a small little company town, and everybody works for the same factory.” “We all want something beautiful” is available now from Mascot Books. Source link Orbem News #captured #decade #Hollywoods #Photographer #Wild