Bye bye bunny

You’ve probably heard of Coney Island, which is a beachfront amusement park located on Long Island, New York, in the borough of Brooklyn. If you’re from Southern California, it’s somewhat analogous to the Santa Monica Pier, and the now defunct Ocean Park, which closed in 1967. But… have you ever wondered how Coney Island got its name?

It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that it was named after a member of the Coney family. After all, a lot of places are. The name New York itself refers back to the famous Yorks of England. Perhaps Coney Island was named after the famous Nathan Coney, who founded Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, a world-renowned place. Oh… except that it was founded by Nathan Handwerker in 1916, long after Coney Island had been named. And, to be fair, “Handwerker” is a really great name for somebody who makes their living crafting foodstuffs by hand.

When was Coney Island named, exactly? Well, most likely when the place had been settled by the Dutch and what we now call New York was known as New Amsterdam. They decided to name this stretch of Long Island Konijn Eiland.  You don’t really need to speak Dutch to realize that those words sound a lot like the final name. In fact, Konine Eyelant is pretty much it. So where did the Konijn/Coney come from?

Let’s jump back just a moment to my childhood, when we used to visit my paternal grandmother, who lived in a town called Atascadero, up the end of a street called Conejo Road. And what does Conejo mean? Well, if you grow up in a place with a big Spanish influence, like Southern California, you’ll learn very quickly that “conejo” means “hare.” So grandma lived on Hare Road. And that’s exactly how Coney Island wound up with the name. The Dutch knew it and later settlers just followed…

The place was hare island, originally because it was covered by them, later from linguistic inertia. But, at the same time, it was a misnomer to name the entire place “Hare Island,” because they weren’t everywhere, just in certain places. Like where later New Yorkers built their amusement park.

Note that I’m not using the word rabbit, because there is still no agreement on how this word wound up in English. It may have come from generic Franco-Germanic terms for “little animal,” but who knows? Ultimately, the sounds that led to the name for this creature are most likely Germanic.

As for bunny, again, no one knows. It may have come from a term for a squirrel or a tail, or could have somehow been derived from “cunny,” a diminutive for the aforementioned coney, although with rather unfortunate connotations in the modern era, at least in English.

Then there’s hare, which gives root to “harrier,” either dogs made for running down rabbits, aka hares, or the description of military airplanes that can jump and shoot the shit out of other planes.

None of which would have flown over Coney Island. And the real answer to all of this, may I abandon my linguistic purist roots, is this: In the great long run — as in centuries away from now — folk etymologies are as good as reality. If I say now that Coney Island was named that because the Dutch thought the place was overrun with hares, then so be it… the Dutch win. If, however, my version — or the version in my links wins — and someday the place is renamed Bunny Brooklyn, or whatever… that will be our future history. And that’s just the thing. History is fleeting and, while I like to try to teach what I can learn from what we know now, I also know that in a century or two or three everything we think we know now will be proven wrong.

All I can really say for now is that my grandma lived in a place named for lots of rabbits, and they were definitely there. An amusement park in Long Island was named for the same, although what they called rabbits probably were not. As a kid, I owned and took care of a lot of bunnies, and they were amazing. As an adult, I do improv, a lot of which involves a game called “Bunny, Bunny.” But forget bunnies and rabbits. If you’re really keeping track, it’s coneys and hares.

Same thing as bunnies and rabbits, except not as cute and more durable, and with different words. Really…

Tribute must be paid

This is going to be a little different than my other entries because this is more personal than educational, but I think it’s worth sharing. I found out from a former co-worker today that our boss died suddenly yesterday evening. He’d been out riding his bicycle, a favorite pastime, and then was found by paramedics, unconscious and on the ground next to the bike, with no heartbeat. They took him to the hospital, managed to get his heart started briefly, but then it stopped and he was gone.

The reason he was no longer our boss was because the company fell apart piece by piece due to forces outside of our department, but we had all promised each other that we’d have a reunion one day, then it kept getting put off, and now it will never happen with all of us.

His name was Dave R., and beyond being just a boss, he was a friend and a mentor to all of us, as well as a fierce protector. If anyone outside of our group, the Digital Team, tried to mess with us, he would have none of it, and was always there to go to bat for us. He supported us without question, and if somebody needed time off for personal reasons or just needed to telecommute for a while, he would okay it without question.

He was a huge fan of Seth Grodin and gifted us several of his books. We even once did a sort of book club thing with Linchpin, reading a chapter on our own and then meeting to discuss it. He also organized a work-day field trip for all of us to the L.A. County Museum of Art to see the Stanley Kubrick exhibit, which was amazing — and he paid for all of our tickets and bought us lunch.

I had been with that company for over a decade, but I can truly say that the best years were the last ones, once Dave came aboard. He provided leadership and direction in the midst of an organization that could often be chaotic, with ever-changing goals — this is what happens when the company is owned by a celebrity who likes to come up with ideas but then forgets to follow through. He never got stern with any of us on his team. He reserved that for putting the other execs in their places when they tried to overstep.

He’d had a long career, a lot of it involved in corporate training and education, and used to regale us with stories of his days at the ice cream company Baskin-Robbins, or working with the toy company Mattel. He was an avid fan of Disneyland and collected memorabilia from there. He didn’t have a lot of decorations in his office, but there was a huge framed print behind his desk, maybe 3 by 5 feet, of a hand-drawn map of Disneyland in Anaheim in its early days after it opened in 1955.

He liked to listen to music on his computer while he worked, and his tastes were very eclectic, ranging from jazz classics of yesteryear to modern indie bands. He also had a thing for coffee, buying imported beans from around the world, then roasting and grinding them himself. It was an office tradition that every day around 3 p.m. he would use a French press to make a pot of some exotic caffeinated brew, and then bring out the carafe, for our department only. Generally, it would be gone in a minute as people jockeyed to get their cup. I often felt sorry for our video editor, Peter, who worked in an office converted into an editing bay, often with headphones on, because he would frequently miss out on coffee time whenever I forgot to remind him because I didn’t notice myself that the pot was out.

He was a physically slight man, average height, very slim, and although his hair was completely white, it had style, standing straight up. If they’d ever made a Fido Dido movie, he would have been the person to cast.

And all of that, gone, in an instant. At least he was doing something he loved at the time. He survived a heart attack not long after my own adventure with heart failure, but seemed to have bounced back and was doing well, so in that regard it’s a grim reminder to me. But where it gets really personal and where it hits home is that he’s the second inspirational friend that I’ve lost in two months.

Her name was Cynthia S., and she was a neighbor who lived in a bungalow on the other side of the garden apartment complex where I live. I met her while walking my dog because she often sat out on her front porch, and had a smile and a friendly word for everyone, and treats for all of the dogs. She became a gathering point for neighbors and this was how a lot of us actually got to meet each other. This might not seem unusual if you’re from a smaller town, but there’s a running gag in Los Angeles: The only time neighbors in L.A. ever meet each other is right after a big earthquake.

I stopped to chat with her many a time, and that’s how we became friends. I always felt comfortable sharing things with her, and she did likewise. I’d often told her that she would have been perfect for doing voiceover, and if she’d been cast in a film or play it would have been as the archetypal Earth mother. She was one of the few people that my dog Sheeba ever decided to trust, and had the extremely rare “top of head” privileges. That is, she could pet my dog’s head without her trying to duck or move away. She was also one of two people I ever trusted to take care of Sheeba when I was away, and it was via one of the times that Sheeba stayed with Cynthia while I was out of town for the weekend that I learned the awful truth: My dog likes cats.

Shocking, I know, right?

And then, not long before Halloween last year, I was walking Sheeba past Cynthia’s place and she was on the porch, but did not seem to be in her usual ebullient mood. I stopped to talk, although something seemed off, and then she finally said the three words that no human being with a heart or soul ever wants to hear from another person they care about.

“I have cancer.”

She had just been diagnosed but didn’t have a prognosis yet, but it was like the world fell out from under my feet. To be honest, over the years I’d known her, she had begun to feel like the mother I hadn’t had long enough because my own mother died when I was way too young. It was like being stabbed in the heart by some dark malicious demon who hated any hint of goodness or light in the world. It was, honestly, devastating to me.

And then my walks with Sheeba became more difficult because I would still pass by her porch twice a day, but she was on it less often. And then came the days when I’d walk by and there’d be some hospice van parked out front, maybe an RN sitting on the porch filling out forms, Sometime after that revelation and the end, I did run into her one more time, but the buoyant energy was gone, the spark had left her eyes, and she had lost so much weight that it was frightening.

A week before Christmas last year, I was walking my dog past her place and ran into one of the many neighbors I’d met only because of Cynthia, and she smiled and waved at me and said, “Did you hear?” And I hadn’t heard, but those three words told me all that I needed to know. On December 18, 2018, Cynthia passed away at home, and the Bitch Demon Hellhound called Cancer claimed another good and gentle soul.

I’m not a religious person at all. I don’t believe in an afterlife. But if one did exist, I’d like to think that Cynthia is sitting on a rocking chair next to the rainbow bridge, greeting all of the arriving dogs and looking out for them until their humans arrive.

And typing that made me cry like a baby.

Here’s the point, though. At the end of the day — or the end of your life — what matters isn’t what you’ve done, what you own, what you’ve said, or created, or any of that. What matters are the people you have loved and the people who have loved you. What we can so easily lose sight of is the simple but nasty fact that any of us or any of them could be gone in an instant. Strangely enough, this truth is hidden in the climax of Avengers: Infinity War, when a finger snap kills half of all living things. In case you didn’t know, the character doing the snapping, Thanos, has a name derived from the Greek word for death.

Anyway… I needed to make sure that I memorialized these two amazing people, but also wanted to remind all of my readers of this: There is no guarantee that any of us will ever see tomorrow, so take the time today to remind someone you care about that you love them, because in 24 hours they might not be around for you to say it, or you might not be here to say it yourself.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O! if, I say, you look upon this verse,

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;

But let your love e’en with my life decay;

   Lest the wise world should look int’ your moan,

   And mock you with me after I am gone.

— Shakespeare, Sonnet 71

Going back up the family tree

I became fascinated with genealogy years ago, and used to spend many a Wednesday evening in the Family History Center next to the Mormon Temple near Century City in Los Angeles. Say what you want about them as a religion, but their work in preserving family history has been invaluable and amazing, even if it did originally start out for the most racist of reasons wrapped in a cloak of theological justification. Fortunately, the nasty justifications have long since been removed, and if it takes believing that all family members throughout time are forever bound together in order for the Mormons to keep on doing what they do in this area, then so be it.

It had been a while since I’d actively done any research, largely because I no longer had time for it, but back in the day, I did manage to follow one branch, the ancestors of my father’s father’s mother’s mother, also known as my great-great grandmother, to find that at some point this line had been traced back to the magic date of 1500.

Why is that date magic? Well, if you do genealogy, you know. If you manage to trace all of your own family lines back that far, you can turn your research over to the LDS, and they will do the rest for you. Keep in mind, though, that it isn’t easy to get all of your branches back to 1500, and certain ancestries naturally create blocks to progress. For example, if you’re descended from Holocaust survivors, you’re probably SOL for any time during or prior to WW II. Likewise if you’re descended from slaves, or your ancestors immigrated from Ireland, you’re not going to find many records after a few generations.

This is, of course, because paper records can easily be lost. For example, almost all of the records from the U.S. Census of 1890 were destroyed by a fire in 1921. During the period from June 1, 1880 to June 2, 1890 — the span between the two censuses — around 5.2 million people legally immigrated into the country. At the same time, the population grew from just over fifty million to just under sixty-three million. Or, in other words, the major and official historical record of just over eleven million people newly arrived in the country, through birth or immigration, were destroyed forever, with no backup.

Fortunately, over the last decade or so, science has developed a way of researching genealogy that cannot be destroyed because every single one of us carries it within us, and that’s called DNA, which can now be tested to match family members. On the upside, it can reveal a lot about your ancestry. Oh, sure, it can’t reveal names and dates and all that on its own, but it can tell you which general populations you’re descended from. Of course, this can be a double-edged sword. At its most benign, you might find out that the ancestry you always thought you had is wrong. At its worst, you may learn about family infidelities and other dark secrets.

I haven’t had my DNA tested yet, but my half-brother did, and his girlfriend recently contacted me to reveal that at least one family secret fell out of it, although it doesn’t involve either my brother or me. Instead, it looks like a cousin of ours fathered an illegitimate child in the 1960s and, oddly enough, that woman lives in the same town as my brother’s girlfriend.

Of course, the test also came with a minor existential shock for me, since she gave me the logon and password to look at the data. It turns out that my half-brother’s ancestry is 68% British Isles and 15% each from Scandinavia and Iberia. Now, since we have different mothers, the latter two may have come from there, but the surprising part was that there is nary a sign of French or German, although our common great-grandfather, an Alsatian, is documented to have emigrated from the part of Germany that regularly gets bounced back and forth with France, and the family name is totally German. I even have records from a professional genealogist and historian who happened to find the small village my great-grandfather came from, and my brother’s girlfriend tracked down the passenger list that documented his arrival in America from Germany on a boat that sailed from France.

But that wasn’t the troublesome part of the conversation. What was troubling was finding out that one of my cousins, her husband, and two of their kids had all died, most of them young, and I had no idea that they were all gone. This led me to search online for obituaries only to wind up at familysearch.org, which is the Mormon-run online genealogy website, and decide to create an account. Once I did, I searched to connect my name to my father’s, and… boom.

See, the last time I’d done any family research, which was at least a decade ago, I’d only managed to creep up one line into ancient history, as in found an ancestor that the Mormons had decided to research. This was the line that told me I was descended from Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine via an illegitimate child of King John of England. This time, things were different, possibly due to DNA testing, possibly due to better connection of data. Whatever it was, though, wow.

Suddenly, I started out on my father’s father’s father’s side of things and kept clicking up and… damn. After a journey through England and back to Scottish royalty and beyond, I wound up hitting a long chain of Vikings that eventually exploded into probably legendary bullshit, as in a supposed ancestor who is actually mentioned in the opening chapter of Beowulf. That would make my high school English teacher happy, but it’s probably not true.

The one flaw of Mormon genealogy: Their goal is to trace everyone’s ancestry back to Adam, and so shit gets really dubious at some point.

But… if you’re willing to write off everything claimed for you before maybe Charlemagne’s grandmother, then you will find interesting stuff, and the stuff I found after clicking up a few lines was, well… definitely interesting, and maybe reinforced the idea that, despite a German great-great-granddad, my half-bro and I are apparently British as bollocks for one simple reason: Everybody and his uncle invaded Britain over the centuries, including the Romans, the Vikings, the Danish, the Gauls, the Celts, and so on.

And, true enough… up one line, I wind up descended from nothing but Vikings. Up another, from but Vandals and Goths. Several lines tell me I’m descended from a King of Denmark. Along another path, it’s the Franks, house of Charlemagne, except that the Mormons tell me I’m descended from there long before Karl Magnus himself. Several other lines, including that King John one, I’m more Welsh than the Doctor Who production company. And there are all the royal houses: Swabia, Burgundy, Thuringia, etc., as well as several Holy Roman Emperors, and kings of France, the Franks, the Burgundians, and the English, that are dancing a pavane in every cell in my body.

So, what does it all mean? On the one hand, it’s nice to be able to flip back through history and look up people from past centuries — bonus points if they made enough of a dent in time to at least have some records to look up, and big ups if they appear in Wikipedia. On the other hand, you only have to go back six generations — to your great, great, great grandparents, to find a point where each of the 32 of them contributed less than one whole chromosome to your genetic make-up. About 40 generations back, each ancestor could not have contributed more than a single atom from that DNA to you, and before that, it gets meaningless. (I’ll leave you to do the math, but it’s about 8.5 billion atoms per chromosome, times 46.)

Yet… life and time marches on. A lot of our history is oral or traditional or recorded on paper. A lot of it is false, although science is marching us toward a sort of truth. Maybe I’m not as German as I thought, but I won’t know until I test my own DNA, and may very likely run into the ancestral roadblock on my mother’s side common to people of Irish descent — ironically because people of English descent were such right bastards a few hundred years ago. That’s one set of ancestors trying to wipe out another.

But if you go back far enough, what you learn about humans is what you learn about air and water. By this point in time, every molecule of air has been through countless lungs and every molecule of water has been through countless plants, animals, and people. All of us now living have literally breathed the same air and drunk and excreted the same water. We have shared precious resources that keep us alive. Likewise, our human DNA has been through each of us, has existed long before any of us, and ultimately came from the same primordial ooze of long ago, and is also essential to our continued existence as a species.

Or, in other words, while it’s fun to do genealogy to try to pin specifics on our ancestors, there’s really only one truth. We are all related to each other. We should all treat each other like family. And this circles back to the Mormons. While they might try to justify their interest in family history based on some sort of theological belief, they’re still on the right track. Yes — all family members are sealed to each other throughout history. The thing is, all humans are family.

That’d be all humans, no exceptions. And that, perhaps, is the most amazing thing about studying genealogy. All roads lead to the idea that borders, nationalities, differences in belief, and separations by geography are complete and total bullshit. There’s another religion that put it succinctly and nicely. They were founded about twenty years after Mormonism, and they’re known as the Bahá’í. Their motto is “One planet, one people, please.

I think that’s a motto we can all get behind right now. It’s one we need to. Otherwise, we’re not going to leave any people on this planet to carry on our DNA.

The power of making stuff up

As I’ve mentioned before, ComedySportz doesn’t just do improv shows. They also do classes for adults, kids, and teens, and improv training for businesses and other forms of team building. And this is the true power of the art form. Improv can teach you so much more than just being funny on stage.

It can teach you how to think on your feet, and adapt to the situation under changing circumstances. Do you deal with customers or clients on a daily basis? Are you in law enforcement and have to defuse tense situations? Are you a teacher who has to handle an audience of rowdy kids every day? Then improv is for you.

It can teach you how to listen. Do you deal with coworkers? Are you in a mental health or medical profession, customer service, or a lawyer or accountant or whatever? Learning how to really hear what other people say and respond accordingly is a very important skill.

It can teach you how to work together. The golden rule of ComedySportz is this: “We make each other look good.” A corollary is “Got your back,” and most of what we do is to bail out our fellow players before they flop on their face, often by jumping in with no fear of looking bad ourselves despite having no ideas — because we have other team members who will have our backs as well. “Do, don’t think” is a guiding principal, built on the idea that everyone else will be there to catch you before you fall.

One of the warm-up games we use that really demonstrates this principal is called “Pencils are good for…”  Basically, we get a suggestion (not pencils) and then have to jump out and rattle off as many things we can think of that fit the form. For example, if the suggestion is “pickles,” then there we go: “Pickles are good for…” Putting on sandwiches, sticking in jars, making little hats for hamsters, using as tiny Frisbees, making toadstools in tiny ponds, relishing an idea, using as really bad darts, (mumble mumble)… and the next player jumps in to toss that life preserver.

And the whole point here is to not leave your fellow player hanging. And the other idea is to jump in whether you have a good suggestion or not. “Because it rhymes with nickels” would be a totally valid save, even if it weren’t a funny joke, for example.

Back to the original premise: Knowing how to improv will help you in every bit of your everyday life. Job interview? Think on your feet and you’ll nail it. Company meeting designed to generate ideas? Bing bang boom, go into pun game mode, and you’ll blow them away. Any sort of meeting or consultation with another person? Learn how to listen, then really listen, and you’ll win. Customer service? Make the interaction an improv game in your mind, and, if you live on tips, you’re probably going to start rolling in them.

The basic lesson is this: Every single interaction we have with another human being every day is basically an exercise in improv. We usually do this without even thinking about it. But… if we learn how to think about it and pay attention and focus, then we will learn how to be in control of our interactions — and this bit alone is probably the best way to completely end any sort of social anxiety that we have. As Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” If we learn how to approach life like that, then we will have no more stage fright. Learn how to improv and kiss social anxiety good-bye. Really.

The odd origins of 7 city names in Los Angeles County

A lot of place names for cities and streets are pretty straightforward. They come from famous people, frequently those involved with its founding: Burbank, Lankershim, Van Nuys; or from physical features: La Mirada, La Puente, Eagle Rock. But some place names have slightly weirder origins. Here are a few from my home county of Los Angeles.

  1. Agoura Hills: This somewhat rustic and suburban enclave is located on the extreme western edge of the county, a bit beyond the West Valley made famous as the birthplace of the Valley Girl archetype. Originally, most of it belonged to a sheep ranch owned in the 19th century by a man named Pierre Agoure. By the 20th century, the place was called “Picture City,” because Paramount studios owned their own ranch out there and various film companies used it to shoot their own. When the residents needed to establish a post office, they had to come up with a name, and they voted in 1927. In a very pre-internet version of Boaty McBoatface, the winner decided to name it after that sheep rancher, but whether the person who made the nomination goofed up or the government worker who tallied the entries is anyone’s guess. Nonetheless, Pierre Agoure became the namesake of Agoura, later Agoura Hills.
  2. Azusa: This is a neighborhood out beyond Pasadena. Marketers would love to have you think that this town was named because it has “Everything from A to Z in the USA,” but that’s just a bunch of bunk. In reality, like many place names in California, this one was stolen from the natives, in this case the Tongva, who called the area Asuksagna, their word for “skunk place.” As someone who’s driven on the freeway through the area multiple times on evenings when, as we like to put it, “a skunk went off in the hills,” it’s a rather apt description. You can smell those cute but dank little buggers for miles, whether your windows are up or down. Other place names Tongva have given us are Canoga Park and Tujunga.
  1. Echo Park: Located not too far from downtown, you’ve probably seen this lake and its fountains in many a film and music video. This is one of those place name origins that will sound like a total urban legend until you get to the explanation. When this artificial lake was built in 1892, Superintendent of City Parks Joseph Henry Tomlinson picked the name Echo Park because, well, that’s what he heard when people shouted at the construction site — but those echoes went away as soon as the project was finished. It sounds weird until you realize that, in order to create an artificial lake, human engineers had to create a gigantic concrete quarry first, so while that thing was set up and empty, of course it was echo city. But as soon as it was filled with water, ta-da: Echoes no more. Doesn’t seem so weird now, does it?
  1. Los Feliz: Directly south of Griffith Park and probably most famous because Swingers was shot in the Dresden Room right in the middle of town, Los Feliz is one of those interesting places in L.A. that not only seems to be named wrong, but which everyone pronounces wrong. On its face, “los” is a plural article but “feliz” is a singular noun. It’s a Spanish thing, but the expression should be either el or la feliz, for “the happy one” (feliz doesn’t change regarding the gender) or los or las felices, for “the happy ones.” On top of that, people in L.A. tend to pronounce it as “Las FEELis,” rather than the correct way, “Los FayLEASE.” (If you know the song “Feliz Navidad,” then you know how the word is supposed to be pronounced.) Now here’s where it gets more interesting. “Los Feliz” is actually correct, but for only one reason. It doesn’t refer to a happy person or persons. Rather, it refers to an entire family with the surname Feliz, founded by a Spanish explorer named José Feliz. They owned land in the area for years, had a very colorful history, and, in this case, Los Feliz correctly refers to the Feliz family. Unlike English, where you might refer to “The Smiths” to mean the entire Smith Family, Spanish only changes the article, so “Los Feliz” really means “the Feliz family.”
  1. Sylmar: This is way up on the north central part of the San Fernando Valley, and a place that is more known by name than by anyone actually ever going there. This one is short and sweet. The name was created by cobbling together the Latin words for forest and sea: sylvia and mar. (Sylvia is also part of the name of the state of Pennsylvania — Penn’s forest.) At the time it was named, the place had a lot of olive trees and was the location of Olive View Hospital, which was destroyed in an event that will be forever associated with the city, the Sylmar Earthquake of 1971.
  1. Tarzana: Mostly known as that bedroom community stuck up in the hills that tries to keep Woodland Hills and Reseda from banging into each other, Tarzana has a simple etymology that looks like it’s made up, but it’s not. It’s where Edgar Rice Burroughs eventually retired to. Ol’ Edgar was most famous for creating the character called Tarzan. The place needed a name, he was a famous resident. Ta-da: Tarzana.
  1. Venice: While it’s not a huge leap to realize that Venice, California, was named after Venice, Italy, if you only know this hippie/hipster hangout stuck between Santa Monica and LAX for its boardwalk and colorful people and street vendors, it’s easy to forget that it was originally absolutely intended to recreate the original Venice, right down to the canals — some of which are still there, although you do have to travel a bit inland to find them. The main plaza leading to the beach was also designed to resemble Piazza San Marco in the original Venice, although on a much smaller scale. Its founder, Abbot Kinney, was a polyglot who spoke six languages, and eventually made his fortune from tobacco. Originally called Venice of America, it opened in 1905, and was an immediate success. Kinney died of lung cancer as karma took its revenge in 1920. Nearly a century later, Venice is still a success as one of the more recognizable and unique parts of L.A., and well worth the visit for tourists and locals alike.

What are some interesting place names with weird origins where you live? Share in the comments!

Pursue what scares you because it will make you stronger

After a month off for the holidays, it’s nice to be back on the improv stage again, and in tonight’s match I was captain of the blue team and we won, 25 to 20.

If that terminology for improv seems strange, let me give a brief explanation. I do improv for ComedySportz — the Rec League, the starter rung, as it were, of their performance groups. They also have the Sunday Team and the Main Company. It’s an international franchise, founded in Milwaukee Wisconsin in 1984. The L.A. company opened in 1987 and it’s the longest-running comedy show in town.

If you don’t know what the term “improv” means, then you might recognize it from shows like “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” It’s basically comedy that is made up on the spot by the performers with a lot of possible games, which generally divide into two broad categories: Scene games, in which the players are performing a scene about characters with specific relationships in a particular setting with the goal of finding a conflict and a resolution; and non-scene games, in which the goals revolve around things like wordplay, puns, or rhymes.

There’s also short-form and long-form improv, the latter known as a “Harold,” but what I do is strictly short-form. The ComedySportz twist is that each match, which consists of a number of games, is performed by two competing teams, Blue stage right and Red stage left, moderated by a referee and with an announcer keeping score. Matches usually have two halves, which open and close with a head-to-head or team vs. team game, then alternating single-team games. Sometimes, there will also be another head-to-head game in the middle of a half. This is all in keeping with the sports (or sportz) analogy — and if you’re wondering why it’s “sportz,” that goes back to the mothership in Milwaukee, a city with a strong Polish-American heritage, and a lot of Polish words either end with or have a Z in them.

But that’s not the point of this story. The point is a note that I got about a non-scene game that we played to open the second half of the match. This is a rhyming and singing game in which we line up alternating red and blue team members, then sing a particular song using a suggested name from the audience. The first person gets to just use the name. The second person has to use a rhyming word. The third person has to come up with three rhymes that haven’t been used yet. So, for example, if the name is “Jon,” the first person uses “Jon,” the second might use “gone,” and the third could use “con,” “non,” and “pawn.” The pattern repeats, so that every third person has to come up with three rhymes.

Needless to say, the more times around it goes, the harder it gets for that person in the three-rhyme spot to hang on, and people are eliminated if they hesitate, break the rhythm, or repeat a rhyme. Homophones are okay, though, so if the original name were Jim, for example, the words gym and gem would be acceptable, provided that the differences were clear in context: “He goes to the gym,” and “his ring has a gem,” for example.

And when I first started learning improv, although I loved to watch this game, the idea of doing it scared the holy crap out of me. And, in fact, every single time I tried to play it in class or when I first joined the Rec League, I would be (clap clap) “out of there” during the first or second pass because I’d either repeat or totally freeze up.

But the entire reason I’d started taking improv classes in the first place was because I loved the art form but it scared the hell out of me to actually do it. And the more classes I took the more I realized that I liked it, so a big note I gave myself when I actually started performing for people was this: Play the games that scare you silly.

This was one of them, and by forcing myself to keep playing it, I’ve managed to go from “person who gets thrown out on the first or second pass” to “guy who keeps winning it.” That’s not an attempt to brag, by the way. It’s just the lesson I’ve learned. You can absolutely get good at something that terrifies you if you put the fear aside and do it. And what is that fear about, really? It’s the fear of failure. And yeah… every time I used to play this game, I would fail badly and get called out early. But as soon as I put aside that fear, a funny thing happened. If I got called out early, so what? And if I didn’t, I was just having fun, and the more fun I had the easier it became to keep on going to the end.

A really nice personal culmination to all of this came tonight when we got notes after our first match of 2019. The note I got basically boiled down to, “You’re really great at this game, but please don’t be so great when your team is ahead at the start of the half.” In other words, intentionally fail at what you’re good at so we can keep this as more of a horse race. Which, in a strange way, is really kind of the next level thing I need to latch onto in my improv progress: Failing spectacularly in this genre is just as good as winning it all.

So, note to self: Keep playing games that terrify you while not being afraid to fall on your sword when it will make the other team look good.

I would have learned none of this, by the way, had I not gotten over my initial fear of actually doing improv and starting classes in the first place. If you’re interested in doing improv and have a ComedySportz franchise in your city, look them up. Especially if you’re interested in doing it but also scared to death of trying because, trust me, three or four classes in, your fear will be a thing of the past.

A company town

Despite its size, Los Angeles is a company town, and that company is entertainment — film, television, and music, and to a lesser extent gaming and internet. So, growing up here, seeing film crews and running into celebrities all over the place was always quite normal. Hell, I went to school with the kids of pretty big celebrities and never thought much of it. “Your dad is who? Whatever.”

But here’s one thing I don’t think a lot of non-locals understand: None of the major studios are actually in Hollywood. How the city of Hollywood — which is where I was actually born — became conflated with the movies is a very interesting story. Once upon a time, there were some studios there. Charlie Chaplin built his at La Brea and Sunset in 1917. It was later owned by Herb Alpert, when it was A&M Studios and produced music. Currently, it’s the location of the Jim Henson Company. The Hollywood Hills were also a popular location for celebrities to live, and a lot of the old apartment buildings in the city were originally designed for young singles who worked in the industry.

Come to think of it, they still serve that purpose, although given the cost of rent in this town, a lot of those studio units are cramming in two tenants.

The one thing that Hollywood did have in abundance: Movie premieres, and that’s still the case to this day. The Chinese, The Egyptian, and the El Capitan are perennial landmarks, and the Boulevard itself is quite often still closed down on Wednesdays for red carpet openings. Although Broadway downtown also boasts its own movie palaces from the golden age of cinema, it was always Hollywood Boulevard that had the great grand openings. It’s also still home to the Pantages, which is the biggest live theater venue outside of downtown, although they generally only do gigantic Broadway style musicals. (Side note on the Chinese Theater — although it’s technically called the TCL Chinese because, owners, nobody refers to it that way, and you’re still more likely to hear it called what it always was: Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Want to sound like a local? That’s how you do it. You’re welcome.)

There is one Hollywood tradition that does not date from the golden age of cinema, though, and it might surprise you. The Hollywood Walk of Fame wasn’t proposed until the 1950s, and construction on it didn’t begin until 1960 — long after all of the movie studios had left the area.

In case you’re wondering where those studios went, a number of them are in the oft-derided Valley: Universal in Studio City (they like to call themselves “Hollywood” but they’re not), Warner Bros. in Burbank, Disney in Burbank and Glendale, and Dreamworks Animation SKG in Glendale (across from Disney Animation!) all come to mind — and damn, I’ve worked for three out of four of them. On the other side of the hill, in L.A. proper, Sony is in Culver City, 20th Century Fox is in Century City (which was named for the studio), and Paramount is in L.A. proper, right next to RKO, which really isn’t doing much lately, both due south of Hollywood and right behind the Hollywood Forever Cemetery — which isn’t in Hollywood either, but which has a large number of dead celebrities. I think that covers most of the majors. YouTube Studios is in Playa del Rey, on the former sight of the Hughes helicopter factory that also happens to be right below the university I went to for film school, Loyola Marymount.

Like I said, company town.

The other fun part about growing up here is all of the film locations that I see every day, and there are tons. Ever see Boogie Nights? Well, most of that film was basically shot within a five mile radius of where I grew up, with only a few exceptions. Dirk Diggler’s fancy new house once he became a porn star? Yeah, my old hood. Location of the club where Burt Reynold’s character finds Mark Wahlberg’s character? I took music lessons a few blocks away from there. Parking lot where Dirk is mistakenly gay-bashed? Pretty close to the public library where I fell in love with reading.

Remember The Brady Bunch or the movies? Well, that house is only a couple of miles away from where I live now. The OG bat cave? Let me take you to Griffith Park. If you’ve ever seen Myra Breckenridge (you should if you haven’t) the place where Myra dances in the opening is right next to where Jimmy Kimmel does his show now and two doors down from the now Disney-owned El Capitan.

The Loved One (an amazing movie) — Forest Lawn Glendale, where I happen to have at least four ancestors buried. Xanadu? The major setting was the Pan Pacific Auditorium, which was a burned down wreck in my day, but it’s where my dad used to go on date night to roller skate. Go to the Vista Theatre? It sits on the site where D.W. Griffith built one of his biggest sets for Intolerance, his “mea culpa” for making The Birth of a Nation.

I’m not even going to get into how many times the complex I live in has been used for various epic TV shoots (which is a lot) or, likewise, how the area in NoHo I work in is used by everybody, from YouTubers to major studios. Although, I can tell you that having to put up with film crews and their needs is always a major pain in the ass, especially when it comes to parking vanishing. That’s right — there’s really no glamor in show biz outside of that red carpet.

But I guess that’s the price of admission for growing up and living in a company town and, honestly, I’ve never had a single adult job that wasn’t related to that company ever. (We won’t count my high school jobs as wire-puller for an electrical contractor and pizza delivery drone.)

Otherwise, though — yep. Whether it’s been TV, film, theater, or publishing, I’ve never not worked in this crazy stupid industry that my home town is host to. And I really wouldn’t have it any other way. What? Wait tables? Never. Although sharing my home town with tourists is a distinct possibility. I love this place. A lot. And you should too, whether you’re a visitor or a transplant. Welcome!