A life on paper

It is the chronicle of my life, documenting the ups and downs, the major tragedies and catharses as well as the smaller and seemingly meaningless everyday occurrences.
I’ve kept a journal since I was 11-years-old and recently decided to dig all of the dusty old books out of storage and read through all of them starting at the beginning.
Reading through my life reminded me once again of how grateful I am that I took the time to write it all down. I admit that I do enjoy reading over certain positive experiences and in a sense, reliving them. But it’s the difficult experiences, the pain and the adversity that I can truly benefit not only from writing about, but also reading it again.
As I read through my own trials and tribulations, I watch my handwriting change from the neat printing, round letters marching across the page, to the haphazard and frantic cursive, to what it is today: a slightly less chaotic and more legible cursive.
Though less obvious at first glance than the change in the handwriting is the change in the subject matter. In junior high, all I ever wrote about was the boy I currently had a crush on or what CD I wanted to buy when I got my allowance, stupid, shallow pubescent fluff. My entries from that time were often misspelled, written in pink or purple ink and punctuated with exclamation marks and doodles of hearts and stars. I read over them now and while I marvel at what a dumb kid I was back then, I can’t help but smile as I feel a nostalgic tug on my heartstrings.
As I grew older, my entries got a lot darker. Gone was the superficial seventh grader with her sparkly lip gloss and silly daydreams and in her place was a severely depressed teenager who was terrified of what was inside of her own head and used writing as a way to get it out.
Those journal pages are stained with tears and sometimes torn form my pen gouging into the paper so hard. It was during those times that I am now eternally grateful that I had an outlet, something to pour my tormented thoughts into. Who knows what I would’ve done otherwise?
While all of my journals and the history they contain are precious to me, it is the ones with the anguished and hopeless entries and cathartic journeys that are among my most cherished possessions. I know now there was indeed and light at the end of that very dark and narrow tunnel.
I don’t write in my current journal as much as I would like. Sometimes it just seems like more work on top of everything else. But I always regret not taking the time to do it, when another momentous event passes by without being properly documented or a bad day just gets worse with no relief.
Though we may not see each other that often and our relationship can be a bit strained at times, my journal remains one of my closest friends, one with whom I know I can always be completely honest and share my deepest darkest secrets and who I can always trust to be nonjudgmental and unconditional in return.

It opened so many doors for me... until it closed its own.

Since moving out of Fresno County five years ago, I haven’t really kept up with its local news very much. Out of sight out of mind. Every so often my mother will send me a newspaper clipping or give me some other tidbit of information I may find interesting: my favorite abandoned building downtown is being refurbished, one of my old school friends got married.

Sometimes these bits of news are uplifting and sometimes they’re depressing. Things change when you move away. Life goes on without you and that’s inevitable. But never have any of my mother’s updates hit me as hard as when she told me that the Fresno Metropolitan Museum of Art and Science had shut down. It was like losing a dear friend, though admittedly one I hadn’t seen in several years.

It was the place of so many happy childhood memories and even several happy teenage memories. It was where I saw my first Georgia O’Keefe painting and my first Rembrandt. It was where I would develop my lifelong love of Impressionism after seeing a painting by Claude Monet.

Almost every year, my elementary school class would take a field trip to the museum. I remember going to the “Dinosaurs Alive!” exhibit and marveling at the amiatronic giants or the “Nature’s Fury” exhibit and experiencing the earthquake and hurricane simulators.

As I got older, I began going to more and more exhibits, once a Rock n Roll exhibit featuring the works of Andy Warhol and Annie Leibovitz among others. One time an exhibit of artifacts from Imperial Russia, including the crown worn by the Empress Alexandra (mother of the famous and ill-fated Anastasia) during her coronation.

The museum had been going through some financial struggles the past few years, especially after a major renovation to the historic building went way over budget. Desperate attempts to gain support failed and the museum finally had to close its doors forever, even going as far as auctioning off all the furnishings and pieces from its permanent collections.

While the auction may have been a wonderful opportunity for a lucky buyer to own a piece of history or a treasured work of art, it doesn’t even begin to make up for the loss of the museum.

It may not have been as grand as the Louvre or even the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it was my museum. I came of age wandering its galleries and gift shop. While other kids my age were celebrating their birthdays at pizza parlors or the skating rink, I wanted to spend my special day at “The Met”, as locals affectionately called it.

Growing up in a small town an hour and a half from Fresno, I never had much of a chance to get out and see the world. In a way, The Met brought the world to me. I never would have seen these items, these extraordinary works of art and pieces of history had there not been a museum for them to come to.

With arts programs being cut from schools across the nation and museums now shutting down, why is nothing being done to stop it? The government will give a multibillion dollar bailout to the auto industry but when a struggling art museum is forced to close down because of the failing economy, no one bats an eye.

It makes me sad to think of all the elementary school children and all the brooding teenagers that will miss out on all that culture and beauty, but it makes me even sadder to think that I’ll miss out on it now too. Never again will I walk the halls of that wonderfully old building that oozed history from its very walls (built in 1922 and once the home of the Fresno Bee). Never again will I climb the stairs to the mezzanine level wondering what marvelous discoveries lie waiting for me just around the corner.

I think of all those nameless, faceless kids who will miss out on all that now and it breaks my heart. They may never know what they’re missing, but I’ll know.

Exploring the Sutro Baths Ruins

The sunlight glints off the water, concrete and metal intersecting, converging and separating again as the waves crash against the rocks. And somewhere in the tangled mess of stone and metal, one can still see a shadow of the splendor from so long ago.

These are the ruins of the once-magnificent Sutro Baths, a sprawling swimming facility and a masterpiece of both artistry and engineering. The labyrinthine complex of esplanades, promenades, stairways, elevators, parlors and clubrooms was nestled on the western side of San Francisco, a stone’s throw from the Cliff House. Completed in 1896, by Adolph Sutro, former San Francisco mayor and real estate giant, the Sutro Baths were unprecedented at the time of their completion and came with the whopping price tag of $1 million. With a maximum capacity of 100,000 people, “California’s tropical winter garden” as it was known, also boasted three restaurants, seven pools at varying temperatures, 500 dressing rooms, a museum, an amphitheater, even its own rail line.

The sheer size of the facility proved to be its undoing however. Despite its grandeur, the Sutro Baths never enjoyed great commercial success. Due to the high operation and maintenance costs, the establishment was plagued by financial struggles. After passing through a series of different owners and a brief conversion to an ice skating rink, demolition had already begun on the site in 1966, when a devastating fire burned the structure to the ground. Plans to build a high-rise apartment building on the site never came to fruition and the ruins were left abandoned. The former testament to the grandeur of the Gilded Age now lies in a state of suspended animation, frozen in time as progress marches on, leaving it behind.

Once a turn of the century playground for the wealthy, very little now remains of the vast glass, iron and wooden structure. As nature is slowly reclaiming the site, a different kind of playground has emerged. The ruins have become a crumbling sensory feast for modern day explorers.

Now part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and operated by the United States National Park Service, the Sutro Baths ruins are open to visitors and only certain areas are cordoned off. While this accessibility and seeming lack of danger may be enough to turn off the more thrill-seeking explorer, The Sutro Baths site remains a monument to decay and, as such, comes with its own set of perils. Narrow stone ledges, steep hills and rusted metal make exploring the site an at-your-own-risk kind of activity. A lone sign warns visitors to be careful, reminding them that people have been swept out to sea and drowned at the site.

According to the popular ghost-hunting web site Shadowlands.com, the site of the Sutro Bath ruins is not only mysterious and potential dangerous, but also haunted. Just to the right of the main ruins lies a large tunnel carved out of the rock. It is rumored that people have been sacrificed at the end of the tunnel and if one visits the site after dark and lights a single candle at the end of the tunnel, an unseen hand will pick it up and hurl it into the water below. The supposed hauntings just add to the place’s enigmatic appeal.

Even as a child, I was fascinated by the decaying and derelict. Standing on my tiptoes to peer through the windows of an abandoned mansion in my small hometown, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly held me so enraptured.

Now much older and a little bit wiser, I’ve learned that there is an entire subculture that shares my odd passion. That little girl on her tiptoes with her nose pressed against the grimy glass has since grown into an adult with the same passion, an adult who isn’t afraid to force open a rusty door or shimmy under some barbed wire to get to her destination.

Exhausting nearly every urban exploration opportunity in Fresno County, the Sutro Baths have been my Holy Grail since moving to the Bay Area five years ago and would no doubt, become the crown jewel of my collection of abandoned and ruined locales. In short, my odyssey to this site has been a long time in the making.

The day dawns gray and foreboding behind my curtains, foggy and damp, a moldy washcloth of a day. Perfect weather for exploring! The clouds look like cotton candy tinged with gray and a light rain begins to fall as I head south.

Nearly an hour later, after a traffic jam, a few phone calls, an argument with the GPS system and a quick detour to the San Francisco Legion on Honor, I spot a sign bearing the words “Sutro District”. It shines like a beacon after my long and difficult journey. Sutro Baths, you are harder to get into than Heaven!

Clutching my camera in one hand and a notebook in the other, I carefully trek down the hill to the ruins. I feel a little like Christopher Columbus when he first “discovered” the Americas or how I think famed archeologist Howard Carter must have felt when he stumbled onto Tutankhamen’s tomb. Though perhaps not as spectacular as an entire continent or a young pharaoh’s burial place, the site of the Sutro Baths still has an undeniable air of mystery. Though the fire that obliterated most of the original structure was only a little over 40 years ago, the site feels ancient, worn and weathered from an eternity exposed to the elements.

I climb through a rugged hole in the side of a concrete structure that seems to be a honeycomb of small chambers. I can’t even begin to imagine what it used to be. Stretching out on a narrow concrete ledge, I prostrate myself before this strange place and all its decaying glory. The surreal, haunting beauty of the site brings tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat. I’m devising a plan to somehow stay here forever when my eye is drawn upward to the crumbling brick staircase that winds its way precariously up the cliff side. Never in my life have I wanted anything as badly as I want to ascend those rickety stairs.

The remains of the original pools can still be seen, choked with algae. Entire families trip along the rocks, mothers holding the hands of unsteady children, couples both young and old stroll arm in arm, gazing out over the water, a group of pre teen boys runs from rock to rock, laughing and calling to each other in a foreign tongue. For them, their visit to the ruins is a field trip or an afternoon family outing. For me, I have the same feeling of awed reverence that I would have if I had just walked into a cathedral.

It becomes a day of small discoveries and simple delights. A vivid purple flower blooms from out of a pile of rubble. A small concrete room conceals a graffiti mural on one wall. Bits of blue paint still cling to the side of one of the pools. A single falcon floats overhead gliding on an air current.

Making my way around the perimeter of the site, I climb back up the hill and head to the northern side of the small bay. The view is stunning, the Golden Gate Bridge stands in the distance, piercing the cloudy sky as seagulls call overhead and the waves crash against the rocks below. Ignoring a barricade that has fallen over and a sign bearing the warning, “Area closed for your safety”, I inch closer to the edge and find myself peering down at my coveted stairway from earlier in the day. Always the cautious explorer (despite my sign-ignoring tendencies), I step gingerly onto the first step. It is surprisingly sturdy under my feet as if the stairs have been there for thousands of years, carved into the face of the rock. The stairs wind all the way down the cliff and come to an abrupt end just before reaching the jagged rocks down on the beach. I venture only as far as the first landing.

Perched there, on the small balcony, gazing back toward the ruins, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer size of them. Figures like 500 dressing rooms and 1.7 million gallons of water are meaningless until you see it with your own eyes.

Poised at a spot where land and sea meet and meld, seemingly at the edge of the world, the ruins seem to be waiting for something, perhaps for some brave explorer to discover them, maybe a prince who’ll awaken them from their enchanted slumber. I can’t help pretending that the something they’re waiting for is me. “I’m here now!” I want to shout into the wind. “You can be magnificent again and reveal all your secrets to me.”

The sun is just beginning to set as I head back to the car to begin the journey back home. I’m tired and quite grubby from the day’s adventures climbing on rocks and trudging through the sand. Stealing one last quick glance back at the ruins before heading home, I realize that the secret has already been revealed. The glass-domed ceiling has cracked and fallen, and the train no longer stops there. Gone too is the ticket booth and the grand staircase. But for all its danger, its deterioration and overall uselessness in this day and age, the Sutro Baths are still magnificent.

Thoughts upon emerging from a hiatus

Greetings faithful readers! Please accept my apologies for my recent lack of posts and I very humbly beg your forgiveness. A family tragedy in the middle of spring break has left me with very little inspiration and even less motivation.

As I’m trying to and get back into the swing of real life, I’m also trying to regain my writer’s voice, that delightfully snarky commentary that has become my trademark. Here’s a proverbial shot of throat spray in the hopes that I can get things up and running again.

A few things that have been on my mind as of late…

Sarah Palin and CSU Stanislaus: What a horrible mess this is. And it just seems to be getting worse every day. I don’t know what I find more disturbing about this whole situation. Palin’s rock star demands are certainly ludicrous enough. While it is not quite as outrageous as Barbra Streisand requiring rose petals in her toilet bowl or Motley Crue asking that their dressing room be stocked with with a 12-foot boa constrictor and a submachine gun, Palin’s requirement of multiple hotel rooms and bendy straws is starting to border on diva-ish.

It’s no secret that I’m hardly the president of the Sarah Palin fan club, but why any college in the the CSU system would be spending money on any speaker is entirely beyond me (especially someone like Palin, who commands upwards of $100,000 per speaking engagement). Classes are being cut, professors laid off, fees raised again and again and CSU Stanislaus thinks it’s OK to pay what will no doubt be a ridiculous sum for a speaker at an anniversary celebration. For shame, Stanislaus. And even more shame that you went to such devious and underhanded lengths to conceal and dispose of the evidence. Shredded documents fished out of a dumpster? What’s next? Erased tapes, slush funds? This is getting completely out of hand.

If all the recent hullabaloo over the Carinalli loans at SSU isn’t enough to make a case for more transparency in university auxiliary organizations, then this certainly should be. Help me, Senator Leland Yee. You’re my only hope.

School bullying: It’s been in and out of the news for a while, since Columbine at least. But with the recent developments surrounding the suicide of Massachusetts high school student, Phoebe Prince, the issue has once again been pushed into the foreground.

I wonder, when Judy Blume penned the iconic young adult novel “Blubber”, if she suspected the frightening depths to which school bullying would sink and the very tragic results it would have on those being bullied.

I admit this is a somewhat personal issue for me, having been subjected to a bit of bullying in elementary school. Perhaps my mismatched clothes, good grades and band geek status made me an easy target, I’ll never know. But having gone through it in the days before cyber-bullying became the norm, I think I got off lucky. I never had a Facebook page devoted solely to how much people didn’t like me. Nor did I ever get my inbox spammed with hate mail and threats.

Nevertheless, I feel for Phoebe Prince. I see her cherubic face smiling out from the cover of People Magazine and I ache for her. It really isn’t much of a stretch to go from misunderstood and picked on to seeing absolutely no light at the end of the tunnel and having only one option left.

Over the years, school bullying has been downplayed, even glorified. Films like “Heathers” and television shows like “The Simpsons” have earned bullying a place of honor in pop culture, but at its core, bullying remains a very serious problem often with devastating consequences. I know it’s supposed to be funny, but every time I see one of the kids on “Glee” take a Slushie to the face, I can’t help but cringe.

Kids can be cruel and, unfortunate as that is, perhaps there’s just no way around it. But someone needs to advocate on behalf of the ones who are bullied and tormented. If not their parents (who can be hopelessly in denial), then the teachers and administrators, who surely must see it in their day-to-day activities. Someone needs to speak out and go to greater lengths to both prevent this behavior and to punish it when it does occur. We can no longer afford to turn a blind eye to school bullying and chalk it up to youthful boisterousness. Perhaps if schools took a more proactive stance on bullying and if parents were more in touch with their children and served as better role models, the persecuted and alienated kids in today’s schools won’t feel the need to resort to such extreme measures, and perhaps they may see a light at the end of the tunnel after all.

Let the mudslinging begin!

With elections looming on the horizon and the historic vote on health care reform about to take place, politicians are taking no prisoners in their ad campaigns. These emotionally charged and sometimes completely unethical attack ads and the masterminds behind them have no problem calling their opponents’ morals and integrity into question, all the while sinking to new levels.

In February, California Senate candidate Carly Fiorina released an ad against her opponent Tom Campbell that could quite possibly be the strangest and most disturbing ad in political history. The ad, which has been described as both psychedelic and terrifying, features images of a red-eyed demon sheep frolicking with its ruminant fellows, a seeming wolf in sheep’s clothing. While obviously meant to be serious, the ad is so bizarre, so outlandish that it seems almost impossible to watch it and still keep a straight face. This animal themed ad is obviously not cut from the same cloth as Ronald Regan’s memorable 1984 “bear in the woods” television spot.

Fiorina’s more recent ad targets Barbara Boxer, depicting the senator as a gargantuan head, floating over California like the Goodyear Blimp while an ominous voiced narrator tells of her “liberal partisan elitist ways”.

Sure they may border on fear mongering and character assassination, but this type of political mudslinging is nothing new and the television ads have been around nearly as long as the medium itself.

Who can forget the “Daisy” ad, a campaign commercial for Lyndon B. Johnson that only ran once during the 1964 presidential election? The ad juxtaposed images of childlike innocent with images of nuclear war, while a voiceover used phrases like, “These are the stakes!” and “We must either love each other, or we must die.” Preying on the public’s fear of the escalating threat of nuclear war, the ad portrayed Johnson’s opponent, Barry Goldwater as some kind of nuke-happy psychopath who would bomb the world into oblivion if elected. It only aired once, but that was enough. The seed had been planted in the public’s subconscious and, in the end, Johnson won the election by a landslide.

The newest attack that’s stirring up controversy targets not only Ohio representative Steve Driehaus, but also his family. The ad, which prominently features Driehaus’ underage daughters, has been called outrageous by critics and even earned an apology from the Washington-based committee responsible for it.

The art of frightening and confusing the public while simultaneously hurling accusations and allegations at lightening speed is as old as politics itself, but how much is too much? Where does one draw the line on what information the public needs to know and, more importantly, how that information is conveyed? Perhaps voters will be able to look past the floating heads and demonic sheep and see the real issues at hand, and make an informed decision on voting day. More than likely, they’ll find the ads offensive or even laughable and simply change the channel whenever they appear. Whether full of surreal imagery or overly emotionally, ads like these only succeed in alienating voters and being counterproductive to their true purpose.

Another One Bites the Dust

The flashbulbs have burnt out, the cameras have stopped rolling and the myriad of screaming teenage girls have all grown up. Another former child star joins the ranks of the gone-too-soon club.

Cory Haim, the actor who became a household name with such movies as “Lucas”, “License to Drive” and “The Lost Boys” died on March 10 of what is now being called a suspected drug overdose. Haim, who gained notoriety in the 1980s, experienced a subsequent career slump with a stream of direct-to-video releases before making the inevitable jump to reality TV. He also experienced severe drug problems and had been in and out of rehab a reported 15 times.

What is it about gaining stardom at an early age that lends itself to a troubled adult life? Is it merely as case of too much too soon? Though they may not be earning as much money or working as many hours as their adult counterparts, child stars often have to shoulder the burden of adult responsibilities and many go on to crack under the pressure.

No doubt the fast paced Hollywood party lifestyle is also a factor in the destruction of many a young star. With drugs and alcohol readily available at every turn, is it any surprise that so many are unable to resist and end up going down that dark and twisted road?

The combination of adult sized responsibilities and temptations and young minds not mature enough to handle them almost always leads to tragedy.

Certainly Haim wasn’t the first child star to meet a tragic and untimely end. The tradition dates all the way back to Dana Plato of “Diff’rent Strokes” fame and includes such big names as River Phoenix, Brad Renfro and even Michael Jackson.

Even when it doesn’t end in suicide or an overdose, several other former teen and child stars have descended into lives plagued with career mishaps, drug problems and brushes with the law.

Jodie Sweetin, who played precocious middle child, Stephanie on the sitcom “Full House”, went on to develop a daily methamphetamine habit that expanded to include cocaine and ecstasy.

Jaimee Foxworth of the TGIF staple, “Family Matters” would battle depression and substance abuse, star in a number of pornographic films and eventually find her way back to television by participating in Dr. Drew’s “Celebrity Rehab.”

But what of the former child stars who managed to avoid the life of debauchery and depravity, the Melissa Gilberts, Alyssa Milanos and Tatiana Alis? What elusive factor do these success stories have that keeps them from heading down the path followed by so many of their costars, a path littered with drug abuse, eating disorders, DUIs and death?

Jason Bateman, who achieved teen idol status in the mid ‘80s with roles in “Silver Spoons” and “Teen Wolf Too”, went on to become the Director’s Guild of America’s youngest ever director at 18, and earned roles in such hits as “Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story”, “Juno” and “Hancock”. In 2005, Bateman won a Golden Globe for his role on the series “Arrested Development” as well as being nominated for several other awards, including an Emmy.

While his character Doogie Howser dealt with the pressures of being an adolescent in an adult world, Neil Patrick Harris was able to successfully make the transition from former child star to well-adjusted and established actor. Developing cult following from his role in the Joss Whedon Internet musical “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog” and as Barney Stinson on the CBS sitcom “How I Met Your Mother”.

For the current generation of child and adolescent stars, only time will tell. Abigail Breslin, Dakota Fanning and Jaden Smith among others could all enjoy long and successful careers in the industry, could find their calling in another field (hello, Danica McKellar) or could go in the opposite direction, joining the long line of stars who burned too hot and fell from the heavens far too soon.

Free speech threatened on college campuses

On March 3, a Texas university football coach publicly praised a number of his players for removing every issue of the campus newspaper from stands because it contained a story on a teammate’s recent arrest on drug charges.

Texas A&M Commerce’s coach Guy Morris lauded the action as the “best team building exercise we have ever done.”

Though there have been no arrests made in the removal of the 2,000 copies so far, the paper’s Editor is estimating the loss at about $1,000.

At the risk of sounding callous, who cares about the monetary loss? There are much more important and disturbing things at play here. For Morris to condone any act of theft by his players (no matter how small) in unconscionable. Is this how we treat our college athletes, as if they are somehow above the law? Perhaps it’s good practice for when they become professional athletes and they really can get away with anything, and breaking one rule to cover up another violation will garner little more than a slap on the wrist.

Was the story somehow libelous? Was it not true? Is that why the football team took it upon themselves to censor it? Had that been the case, maybe their actions would be more understandable. Many U.S. universities have speech codes in place to prevent the publication of libel, harassment or hate speech, but unless any of those were present in the story, it should be allowed to be printed and remain on the newstands.

Perhaps it’s safe to assume that neither a football coach nor his players have extensive knowledge of censorship laws, so chances are the papers were stolen because of the potential negative reaction of the public when they discovered that one of the team’s players had been arrested on drug charges. After the glory of a 5-5 record last year, a drug scandal would have no doubt been devastating news and quite detrimental to the team.

Here’s news for YOU, Coach Morris and for your players; it is not up to you to decide what information the public can and cannot have access to. An arrest is considered public record and, as such, is available for public scrutiny as dictated by the Freedom of Information Act.

Sonoma State is now planning to release its new and revised free speech policy, “Campus Expression: Time, Place and Manner.” Though it’s not nearly as extreme as the theft of 2,000 student newspapers, it remains a limitation on freedom of speech and is therefore unconstitutional and unacceptable.

Place and manner aside, the time is now, time for students to stand up and ask why such extreme measures like this are even necessary. Is the First Amendment not enough? Why do universities and administrators feel the need to restrict the automatic rights granted by the U.S. Constitution? As centers of learning, of diversity and open-mindedness, it is imperative that freedom of speech (and of the press) exists unfettered and unrestrained on college campuses.

It’s obvious that Coach Morris was laboring under the assumption that he was protecting his team from potential public ridicule and perhaps even protecting the public from a story that he saw as damaging. It’s also seems obvious that universities with so-called “free speech policies” believe they too are protecting something, whether it be their learning environments by ensuring that nothing disrupts or threatens them, or their students, who just don’t want to be bothered by hearing or seeing anything unpleasant.

As all these shields fall into place in the form of restrictive policies and when the noose of censorship gets tighter and tighter under a guise of security and protection, will anyone protect the inherent Constitutional rights granted by the First Amendment or will they be slowly gagged and chocked until they are cut off completely?