Just before Christmas, my parents lost their house-trained dwarf
rabbit. She had been sick for some time, and simply didn't wake up one morning.
There might be some who think, "Oh, it's just a rabbit . . . it's not like it was a real pet, like a dog or cat," and I will firmly and respectfully disagree with them. "Bunny," or "Rabbit" as she was called, was litter box trained, had free run of my parents' family and laundry rooms, knew when her bedtime was, and would come over to my parents, my father especially, when they were watching television in the evening and wait to be picked up and petted. If that's not a real pet, then I don't know what is.
But more than that was the literal companionship this little rabbit provided. She was a rescue, being found by my parents one Sunday morning wandering around the parking lot at church. She wasn't wild, and didn't run away when someone simply went over and picked her up. Perhaps she escaped from someone, or was released for some reason, but for the seven years she was with my parents, she was a loved member of the family. When they first brought her home, my parents would block the steps and slats on the deck behind their house, and let Rabbit wander around unsupervised. Until a hawk landed on the deck railing, eyeing Rabbit as an easy meal and was luckily shooed away by my mother. After that, Rabbit stayed in the house.
When I still lived in Maryland, and my parents would go away on vacation, I would go up to their house every night after work to care for and "play" with Rabbit per my mom's written instructions. I would come into the house and let her out of the laundry room, and she would do a once-around the family room and kitchen and then head down the hallway to the living room. The living room, especially under the piano, was a forbidden zone, and Rabbit would inevitably sense a new person in the house and head right for the piano. As Mom recalls, "When you wanted to get her out, you had to sharply say, 'Rabbit, Rabbit, where are you?' And then rattle the Ritz cracker box and say, 'Want a cookie?' And she would come out to the the laundry room and you could close the door...it was funny and sad at the same time to remember those instructions."
My father's nighttime ritual of watching "
Wheel of Fortune" and "
Jeopardy!" included petting Rabbit, either holding her on his lap or tucking her next to his leg as he sat on the floor. And much like a cat purrs when it's relaxed and content, Rabbit would let out a series of small grunts and clicks when she was with my dad, thoroughly enjoying the gentle petting.
Once the two game shows were over, Rabbit knew it was time for bed, and she would leave my father and hop into her cage, waiting for her nightly graham cracker, and the top to be placed on her cage, ending her day.
And after I moved away, Tori, the daughter of my mom's colleague Amy, would watch Rabbit, or "Flopsy," as she called her, as an unknown disorder caused her to lose her balance and somersault. This condition grew progressively worse, and ultimately proved fatal.
The morning Rabbit died, my father, always the soft-hearted one, cried softly as they wrapped her in a soft towel, placed her in a shoebox, and then my father buried her under a tree in their backyard.
The importance and value of a pet cannot be underestimated, nor can the loss of a pet, even a rabbit, be dismissed lightly. Even before she died, I asked my mother if she would ever replace Rabbit, and she was adamant that she wouldn't. I believed my mother then, and still believe now that she and my father won't have another pet.
Because no pet could ever replace Rabbit.
In normal daylight, this palm tree is ratty and ragged, but in silhouette, it looks just fine.
The S-foils open and close, the rear guns swivel and tilt, the three canopies open, and the two proton torpedoes actually fire. Thanks, Young . . . this is cool.
As complicated as the few plastic car models I managed to make as a kid, but without the messy glue or paint.
My friend and colleague Young gave me a Star Wars ARC (Aggressive ReConnaissance) 170 Lego model for Christmas, and I spent the better part of two hours assembling the 400 pieces together.
I recently cleaned out the center console of my car, the repository of more receipts and ticket stubs than I'd care to admit. But as I went through them (yes, ALL of them, to ensure there wasn't any information I needed before I shredded them), I could trace a road map of sorts. Restaurants I had been to, events I had attended, but more importantly, whom I had been there with, all formed a pathway of the last few years. I need to clean out more often . . .
I'd like to say it's my remarkable skill as a photographer that I got this gull in perfect mid-flight across the sun, but that's hooey. Luck, plain and simple . . . that's all it is.
Although this shot looks blown out, I was trying to get good backlight on the backwash of the surf.
The southern tip of the Santa Monica Bay is an excellent spot for whale watching.
Just before Christmas, my parents lost their house-trained dwarf rabbit. She had been sick for some time, and simply didn't wake up one morning.
When I still lived in Maryland, and my parents would go away on vacation, I would go up to their house every night after work to care for and "play" with Rabbit per my mom's written instructions. I would come into the house and let her out of the laundry room, and she would do a once-around the family room and kitchen and then head down the hallway to the living room. The living room, especially under the piano, was a forbidden zone, and Rabbit would inevitably sense a new person in the house and head right for the piano. As Mom recalls, "When you wanted to get her out, you had to sharply say, 'Rabbit, Rabbit, where are you?' And then rattle the Ritz cracker box and say, 'Want a cookie?' And she would come out to the the laundry room and you could close the door...it was funny and sad at the same time to remember those instructions."
My father's nighttime ritual of watching "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy!" included petting Rabbit, either holding her on his lap or tucking her next to his leg as he sat on the floor. And much like a cat purrs when it's relaxed and content, Rabbit would let out a series of small grunts and clicks when she was with my dad, thoroughly enjoying the gentle petting.
And after I moved away, Tori, the daughter of my mom's colleague Amy, would watch Rabbit, or "Flopsy," as she called her, as an unknown disorder caused her to lose her balance and somersault. This condition grew progressively worse, and ultimately proved fatal.
The famous French Dip sandwich at Philippe's, double dipped with a slice of Swiss cheese.
As a fan of macaroni salad (don't ask me why, I just am), Philippe's has some of the best around . . .
Stew Herrera is a fabulous voice-over talent, and a huge baseball fan to boot. He's a blast to hang with and tells some of the best stories.
The sign for Felix Chevrolet, opened in 1957 by Winslow Felix, was designated as a cultural landmark by the City of Los Angeles in 2007.
Apparently this is one of the most well-known small tracks in Southern California.
The largest panorama I've ever done, this is a combination of 40 images. And in its native size, it'd be over 37 feet long . . . a great mural on the side of a building.
Oxidized copper just isn't used as a building material enough anymore. This is on the top of the Griffith Observatory.
Rain in L.A. equals snow in the mountains. And if you look closely in the lower right corner, you can see Eagle Rock.
The obelisk in the center of the observatory's front courtyard is flanked by the great astronomers of history - Kepler, Newton, and here in profile, Copernicus.
I walk through her streets, 'cause she's my companion. I walk through her hills, 'cause she knows who I am.
