Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: Our home survived the Palisades fire. Our love almost did not
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a quote widely attributed to Tennessee Williams: “We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”
When the Palisades fire broke out in January, forcing my teenage daughter and me to evacuate from our quaint canyon home while my husband was at work on the other side of town, I did my best to gather our most essential items before heading for safety. Drenched in a cold and sudden sweat, I grabbed our family’s passports, a baby album, my vintage Levi’s — tossing them all into a large silver suitcase.
As my girl and I crawled out of Santa Monica, inching our way through a clogged artery of cars, I felt as though I were in a dream: Neighbors lined the streets, loading up the trunks of their cars while a massive plume of black smoke hunted us in our rearview mirror. Between chatting nervously with my daughter and navigating the roads, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten my grandmother’s brass heart-shaped locket. I’d forgotten the framed photo of my husband and me from our honeymoon to Maui decades earlier. While my daughter tried to calm our two panting pups in the back seat, I worried: What else had I forgotten to save?
No one knew at the time that what began as a local wildfire would quickly come to decimate our city; a beloved small town within the larger landscape of L.A. And I had no idea that my own life — specifically my marriage and the little family we’d created — was itself about to be scorched.
When you choose to live in Los Angeles, you do so with the understanding that, at some point, you may be required to brace yourself for all manner of natural disasters. Earthquakes are the one that have always scared me the most. As a little girl living with my mother in Ohio as my father resided in L.A., I used to pray at bedtime that he’d make it through the night. When, at 18, I finally made my way out West for good, I began reciting the same prayer for myself.
Fires weren’t so much on my radar, but as it happens, they have the ability to shift the earth beneath one’s feet just as drastically. After days of uncertainty, staring at the Firewatch app as miles of hillside and countless numbers of homes were reduced to ash, we let out a collective sigh as we learned that our house remained standing. And yet with the entire contents of our home ravaged by toxic soot and smoke, we, along with thousands of others, were displaced, forced to find temporary housing.
Five weeks passed in a fever-dream of Airbnbs and air mattresses until, finally, we were able to secure a short-term lease on a place of our own. It was a minor miracle in the current L.A. market of limited availability and price gouging. Standing in the barren living room of an unfurnished Hollywood rental, my husband and I should have collapsed in relief. Instead, we did what any exhausted couple of 20-plus years might do: We fought.
“I need a break,” he said, jaw clenched.
“What do you mean?” I shot back. But after months of couples therapy, I knew exactly what he meant. He needed a break from us, or, rather, from me. Our dogs barked incessantly.
I dropped my head into my hands and squeezed hard — a futile attempt to contain the chaos in my brain. Tears forced their way through closed lids, streaming hot down my cheeks. As a little girl growing up in the ’80s, one of my favorite movies was “Firestarter,” starring an 8-year-old Drew Barrymore. When enraged or overwhelmed, Barrymore’s character would start fires with her mind. I remember fearing back then that I, too, might have this power, so profound was my pain.
Now, despite decades of my own inner work, despite years of actively trying to not be ruled by the wounds of my past, I couldn’t help but to detonate at the threat of my husband leaving me.
But having a child means that even during times of disaster, natural or self-made, we must carry on. As the days passed, I attempted to blend our old life with our new one by scattering our few family photos around the apartment, helping my daughter navigate a new bus route, dealing with insurance adjusters. Yet as my husband grew increasingly more distant, I sank into a state of despair.
Loss suddenly seemed everywhere. Beyond the many dear friends who lost their homes in the Palisades and Altadena fires, beyond the decimation to our once gorgeous coastline between Santa Monica and Malibu, I thought of my daughter who would soon be off to college, of my ailing father, of my marriage. Unable to eat or sleep, I sought out help. I met with my trusted longtime therapist, emailed my spiritual teacher, road-tripped down to Orange County to visit my best friend. I also met with a grief therapist with whom I’d worked a decade earlier.
“You have some very real, very major things happening. But this isn’t just about now. What does this feeling remind you of, Evan?” she asked, her voice soft and supportive as she leaned in toward the screen separating us.
Suddenly I was no longer idling in my parked car, phone propped up on my steering wheel. I was 9 years old again, unaccompanied on an airplane somewhere above the continental U.S., being hurled between two contentiously divorced parents. As I talked through my present-day experience, I began to understand exactly what had happened between my husband and me on the day of our move; why I had lashed out so fiercely.
Famed psychologist Richard Schwartz, founder of Internal Family Systems therapy, posits that our minds are made up of different sub-personalities much like a family system. He labels some of these parts our exiles — the wounded selves that hold our deepest pain. When my husband questioned our marriage, my exiles, my most fragile, fearful parts felt wildly threatened. That is when my firefighters — our most reactive, protective parts (and no, the irony is not lost on me) — stormed in to shield them unfortunately in the only way they knew how: through rage.
They weren’t trying to destroy my marriage; they were just trying to keep me from once again experiencing the anguish of being launched into the world, alone and afraid.
Every day for over a week, I knelt before a makeshift altar in my bedroom, anchored myself to my breath and performed a most Herculean feat: twice daily, hour-long meditations. Rather than resist my sadness, I allowed myself to feel it fully — even when this meant soaking my T-shirt in tears, even when it felt as though the tears would never stop.
“I can handle my life” became my new mantra.
As I began to experience the sort of clarity and calm that only meditation can bring, I had a powerful insight: I recently trained to work as a doula, supporting women through labor, reminding them that the most unfathomable pain — in life as in birth — comes just before the new version of themselves can be born.
I considered how, for days on end, I’d cried in the shower, doubled over in heartache. I can’t survive this, I’d sobbed to my best friend. You will, she insisted.
I pleaded to the universe to spare me of my suffering, to reverse time, to let me be anywhere but here.
Just like birthing mamas do in the throes of labor.
But as I was recently reminded, our agony isn’t the end of the story. It’s the threshold. And when once we emerge on the other side — and we always do no matter how unlikely our survival may seem — we emerge transformed.
After eight interminable days, it struck me: My husband was suffering just as deeply as I was.
Sitting across from him at a tiny, borrowed wooden table, I chose to tell him: “I understand now. I hear you. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, he softened. My ability to empathize enabled him to see a door where once he’d believed none had existed.
In the end, had I saved love? It’s such an amorphous, ever-evolving entity; I’m not really sure. Though I certainly hope so.
But what I do know now is that this fire hadn’t come to destroy me; it came to show me what was indestructible. It came to show me that I could, indeed, handle my life.
The author is a writer, yoga teacher and doula in L.A. She is at work on a memoir. She’s on Instagram: @evanecooper
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Online prediction market platforms allow people to place bets on wide-ranging subjects such as sports, finance, politics and currents events.
Photo Illustration by Scott Olson/Getty Images
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Photo Illustration by Scott Olson/Getty Images
The rise of prediction markets means you can now bet on just about anything, right from your phone. Apps like Kalshi and Polymarket have grown exponentially in President Trump’s second term, as his administration has rolled back regulations designed to keep the industry in check. Billions of dollars have flooded in, and users are placing bets on everything from whether it will rain in Seattle today to whether the US will take over control of Greenland. Who’s winning big on these apps? And who is losing? NPR correspondent Bobby Allyn joins The Sunday Story to explain how these markets came to be and where they are going.
This episode was produced by Andrew Mambo. It was edited by Liana Simstrom and Brett Neely. Fact-checking by Barclay Walsh and Susie Cummings. It was engineered by Robert Rodriguez.
We’d love to hear from you. Send us an email at TheSundayStory@npr.org.
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Now you can pair your big show with dinner and a more intimate listening experience. The Hollywood Palladium, an Art Deco music venue graced by performers like Frank Sinatra, Richard Pryor, Jimi Hendrix, Lady Gaga and Jay-Z since 1940, has debuted a swanky lounge known as Vinyl Room.
Inspired by 1970s Japanese high-fidelity (hi-fi for short) listening rooms and operated by entertainment company Live Nation, it’s a space where concertgoers can have dinner, grab drinks and catch a vinyl DJ set before, during or after their ticketed event in the same venue.
With a name like Vinyl Room, you can expect to see vinyl records everywhere.
“You’re in [for] a whole night of music,” says Geni Lincoln, president of the California region for Live Nation, adding that her team put “so much thought” into the sound and design of the space, which was in development for more than two years.
“I’ve been coming to the Palladium since I was a teenager, so it’s really special to see,” she says.
Entering Vinyl Room feels like you’re stepping into a secret speakeasy for music lovers, one with iconic music memorabilia, a thoughtful food menu and premium sound quality. Want to check it out? Here are five things to know.
Everything inside of Vinyl Room is inspired by the sounds and the musicians who’ve played at the Hollywood Palladium since 1940.
1. Vinyl Room is exclusively open to members and concertgoers with an upgraded ticket
Vinyl Room is open only on Hollywood Palladium show nights, starting 90 minutes before doors open, and remains open one hour after the concert. Admission is limited to concertgoers who purchase a ticket upgrade, which starts at $35. Early reservations are recommended.
Vinyl Room also offers annual membership packages, which start at $2,000 and come with various benefits such as complimentary guest passes to Vinyl Room, access to an exclusive menu, valet parking, table reservations inside the lounge, a dedicated private entry, complimentary coat check and concert ticket credits.
Tip Dunn, also known as DJ tenSpeed, played records during opening night at Vinyl Room at the Hollywood Palladium.
2. Hi-fi is having a moment in Los Angeles — and Vinyl Room delivers on sound quality
From Common Wave Hi-Fi in Boyle Heights to Slow Jamz Gallery in the Arts District and Gold Line bar in Highland Park, hi-fi — a 1950s term used to describe the high-quality reproduction of sound — venues and experiences have been slowly popping up around L.A. over the last few years. Vinyl Room joins a short list of places where audiophiles can go to listen to music on hi-fi equipment, which many argue is the best way to experience it.
Much like the Hollywood Palladium, which is known for its top-tier sound, Vinyl Room also makes sound a priority. The lounge utilizes hi-fi sound equipment including Master Sounds Clarity-M speakers to ensure that the records sound as crisp as possible. Live DJs spin records on a set of turntables, which helps to create a richer and more analog sound that is closer to the original track than compressed versions such as MP3s.
Ruthie Embry, vice president of architecture and design at Live Nation, says the records and other memorabilia inside the space “connects you directly to the venue’s history the second you walk in the door.”
3. All of the decor ties back to music and the Hollywood Palladium’s rich history
With a name like Vinyl Room, you can expect to see vinyls everywhere. Records line most of the walls and shelves, drinks are served on vinyl-shaped coasters and tables and light fixtures are designed to the theme. There’s even vinyl wallpaper in the photo booth. In one corner of the lounge, you can dig through records under a neon sign that reads, “But have you heard it on vinyl?”
Ruthie Embry, vice president of architecture and design at Live Nation, says the records and other memorabilia inside the space “connects you directly to the venue’s history the second you walk in the door.”
Some standout items include a Red Hot Chili Peppers show flier, a Hollywood Palladium postcard signed by late musician and host Lawrence Welk and a photo of late singers Bonnie Baker and Orrin Tucker at the venue. Even the bathroom creates a memorable photo moment: The stalls are filled with photos of musicians and an “on air” studio sign lights up when a stall is occupied.
Vinyl Room’s menu, created by Chef Ryan DeRieux, is inspired by Asian flavors and includes items like the “Vinyl Roll,” which is made with spicy tuna.
4. Don’t worry about dinner plans before or after the show. Vinyl Room has got you covered
Eliminating the need to find a pre- or post-show restaurant, Vinyl Room has a full Asian-inspired menu created by Chef Ryan DeRieux.
Think sushi tots (like crispy tuna but with tater tots instead of rice), tuna poke nachos, chili crunch chicken wings and shiitake tempura burgers. There’s also a mouth-watering 10-ounce American wagyu skirt steak served with shishito peppers, pickles and charred carrots. For dessert, try the taiyaki, a popular fish-shaped Japanese street food, which is served with a delicious passion fruit cream that I wanted to take to go because I liked it so much.
Signature cocktails at Vinyl Room, inspired by popular songs, include the Superfly, Escape (if you like piña coladas) and Smoke on the Water.
5. The craft cocktails aren’t just delicious — they each have a story
Vinyl Room’s old-fashioned is made with Nikka Yoichi whisky, which is made in Japan.
The cocktail program, developed by third-generation bartender Sean Kenyon, is inspired by the songs created by musicians who’ve graced the Hollywood Palladium stage. A nod to the 1970s, the Superfly is a fizzy, citrus-forward play on Curtis Mayfield’s 1972 track and is made with Roku Gin and yuzu and sencha syrup. Other signature drinks include the rum-based Escape (if you like piña coladas) with coconut oolong syrup, pineapple juice and miso, and the tart yet sweet Smoke on the Water, which is reminiscent of Deep Purple’s 1972 song. The bar also offers an espresso martini (called the MT Joy), a signature old-fashioned (made with Nikka Yoichi whisky) and a Japanese whiskey highball (made with Hibiki Harmony whisky). The bar offers a number of non-alcoholic options as well.
A screenshot from George Mélière’s Gugusse et l’Automate. The pioneering French filmmaker’s 1897 short, which likely features the first known depiction of a robot on film, was thought lost until it was found among a box of old reels that had belonged to a family in Michigan and restored by the Library of Congress.
The Frisbee Collection/Library of Congress
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The Frisbee Collection/Library of Congress
The Library of Congress has found and restored a long-lost silent film by Georges Méliès.
The famed 19th century French filmmaker is best known for his groundbreaking 1902 science fiction adventure masterpiece Le Voyage dans la Lune (A Trip to the Moon).
The 45-second-long, one-reel short Gugusse et l’Automate – Gugusse and the Automaton – was made nearly 130 years ago. But the subject matter still feels timely. The film, which can be viewed on the Library of Congress’ website, depicts a child-sized robot clown who grows to the size of an adult and then attacks a human clown with a stick. The human then decimates the machine with a hammer.
In an Instagram post, Library of Congress moving image curator Jason Evans Groth said the film represents, “probably the first instance of a robot ever captured in a moving image.” (The word “robot” didn’t appear until 1921, when Czech dramatist Karel Čapek coined it in his science fiction play R.U.R..)
“Today, many of us are worried about AI and robots,” said archivist and filmmaker Rick Prelinger, in an email to NPR. “Well, people were thinking about robots in 1897. Very little is new.”
A long journey
Groth said the film arrived in a box last September from a donor in Michigan, Bill McFarland. “Bill’s great grandfather, William Frisbee, was a person who loved technology,” Groth said. “And in the late 19th century, must have bought a projector and a bunch of films and decided to drive them around in his buggy to share them with folks in Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York.”
McFarland didn’t know what was on the 10 rusty reels he dropped off at the Library of Congress’ National Audio-Visual Conservation Center in Culpeper, Va. A Library article about the discovery describes the battered, pre-World War I artifacts as having been, “shuttled around from basements to barns to garages,” and that they, “could no longer be safely run through a projector,” owing to their delicate condition. “The nitrate film stock had crumbled to bits on some; other strips were stuck together,” the article said. It was a lab technician in Michigan who suggested McFarland contact the Library of Congress.
“The moment we set our eyes on this box of film, we knew it was something special,” said George Willeman, who heads up the Library’s nitrate film vault, in the article.
Willeman’s team carefully inspected the trove of footage, which also contained another well-known Méliès film, Nouvelles Luttes extravagantes (The Fat and Lean Wrestling Match) and parts of The Burning Stable, an early Thomas Edison work. With the help of an external expert, they identified the reel as having been created by Méliès because it features a star painted on a pedestal in the center of the screen – the logo for Méliès Star Film Company.
A pioneering filmmaker
Méliès was one of the great pioneers of cinema. The scene in which a rocket lands playfully in the eye of Méliès’ anthropomorphic moon in Le Voyage dans la Lune is one of the most famous moments in cinematic history. And he helped to popularize such special effects as multiple exposures and time-lapse photography.
This moment from George Méliès’ Le Voyage dans la Lune (A Trip to the Moon) is considered to be one of the most famous in cinematic history.
George Méliès/Public Domain
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George Méliès/Public Domain
Presumed lost until the Library of Congress’s discovery, Gugusse et L’Automate loomed large in the imaginations of science fiction and early cinema buffs for more than a century. In their 1977 book Things to Come: An Illustrated History of the Science Fiction Film, authors Douglas Menville and R. Reginald described Gugusse as possibly being, “the first true SF [science fiction] film.”
“While it may seem that no more discoveries remain to be made, that’s not the case,” said Prelinger of the work’s reappearance. “Here’s a genuine discovery from the early days of film that no one anticipated.”
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