Riding the Rails to the Fair: A Better Way to Visit the L.A. County Fair

This past Saturday, we decided to spend the day at the Los Angeles County Fair. Like many people, we have gone before and dealt with the usual hassles—traffic, crowded parking lots, long walks to the entrance, and expensive parking fees. General parking at the fairgrounds costs $25, and even then, depending on where you park, you can end up hiking across what feels like half of Pomona before reaching the gate. Preferred parking at the Sheraton is closer and more convenient, but that jumps the price to $40.

This time, however, we decided to try something different, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions of the day.

We parked at the A Line station parking lot in San Dimas. Currently, weekend parking there is free, though I do not know if that policy will continue permanently. From there, we took the train to the La Verne/Fairplex Station. The ride itself was only a single stop and took just a few minutes, making it surprisingly easy and convenient.

It was also one of those perfect Southern California fair days: cool, overcast, and comfortable. Honestly, it was probably the best kind of weather for spending hours walking around the fairgrounds without the usual heat and exhaustion.

Once we arrived at the station, the next step could not have been easier. Right in the station’s roundabout area, Foothill Transit’s Route 67 bus was waiting. The Route 67 line is dedicated specifically to serving the fair, and there were clear signs posted explaining the pickup frequency and operating times. Even near the Red Gate drop-off area at the fairgrounds, temporary signs helped direct passengers where to wait for the return trip.

The bus ride itself was quick and direct. It simply picked up passengers at the station and transported them straight to the Fairplex Red Gate entrance near the Sheraton without making additional stops.

That convenience alone made the trip worthwhile.

We had already purchased our fair tickets online and stored them on our phones. When we arrived at the Red Gate, we scanned our tickets and walked straight in with virtually no waiting. The walk from the bus drop-off point to the gate itself was short and easy.

By taking the train and bus, we saved a little money and probably only a small amount of time overall, but what we really avoided was a great deal of potential frustration. There was no stress about navigating crowded parking lots, no long walk back to the car at the end of the night, and no sitting impatiently in traffic trying to leave the fairgrounds. Instead, the train and bus became part of the Saturday afternoon adventure itself.

Inside the fair, we spent the day exploring the exhibit halls, admiring contest entries, viewing award-winning crafts and home goods, and simply enjoying the atmosphere. The fair always offers something interesting around every corner. But the highlight of the day was easily the blacksmith demonstration.

We sat comfortably watching the blacksmith work metal in the traditional way—heating, hammering, shaping, and explaining the craft as they worked. In a world dominated by technology and automation, there was something fascinating about watching a centuries-old skill performed live. It was authentic, educational, and surprisingly captivating. We ended up staying there for nearly forty-five minutes just taking it all in.

Afterward, we wandered through the entertainment areas, sampled classic fair food, and continued enjoying the sights and sounds that make the L.A. County Fair such a unique experience.

When we were ready to leave, the return trip proved just as easy. The Route 67 bus arrived within about ten minutes and quickly transported us back to the train station. We had just missed a departing train, so we waited for the next one, but even that delay was minor.

One thing we noticed on the ride back was how many other fairgoers were also using the train. Normally, stations like San Dimas, Glendora, and La Verne are not especially crowded, but this time there were plenty of riders returning from the fair. Many likely came from communities much farther away, which speaks to how practical this transportation option has become.

Overall, the experience was smooth, affordable, and stress-free. Between the train and Foothill Transit Route 67, getting to the fair was easier than driving ourselves. We saved some money, avoided a great deal of aggravation, reduced wear and tear on the car, and added a little extra adventure to the day.

For anyone planning a trip to the Los Angeles County Fair, I strongly recommend considering the train and Foothill Transit Route 67. Sometimes the best part of an outing is discovering a smarter—and more enjoyable—way to get there.

Tales from the Pavilion

This was my third trip to Dodger Stadium this season, but the first time in decades I’d ventured back into what is now called “the pavilion.” The last time I sat out there, it wasn’t even really the pavilion yet. It was the bleachers. Wooden bleachers, at least in my memory. Whether they were actually wood or whether nostalgia has varnished them over the years, I can’t say for certain. But I remember sitting there in 1965 or 1966 with my grandfather during the golden era of promotional giveaways: Bat Night, Ball Night, Helmet Night. Back then, a trip to Dodger Stadium meant coming home with enough free merchandise to open a sporting goods store.

This time, the pavilion seats were surprisingly good. Far away, yes, but with a clean panoramic view of the whole game. From out there, you can actually see baseball unfold. You see the defensive shifts, the outfielders cheating toward the line, the way a rally develops before the television cameras even notice it. And every home run looks like it’s headed directly toward your forehead, which adds a nice survival element to the evening.

But the pavilion has its own ecosystem.

Around the second or third inning, I got up to grab something and found the corridor blocked by a medical emergency. Gurney. Paramedics. Security guards creating a human wall. It was handled professionally, though the sight of emergency personnel weaving through a stadium crowd always carries a strange combination of seriousness and inconvenience. Everyone slows down just enough to stare while pretending not to stare.

The pavilion concourse itself is fascinating anthropology. There are these huge aisleways dividing sections, and near the entrances from the main concourse are clusters of people who appear to have purchased tickets primarily so they could stand in circles drinking beer and discussing matters entirely unrelated to baseball.

At any given moment there were probably thirty or forty people gathered there, talking loudly, laughing, occasionally glancing toward the field as if surprised to discover a game was in progress. Navigating through them became a tactical exercise. I eventually adopted the safer strategy of climbing back up the stairs, walking around the crowd, and descending again like some sort of baseball stadium mountain goat.

And then came the seventh inning.

Two security guards appeared near our section. They stood on the walkway, quietly talking into radios while looking toward someone several rows below. Then two more arrived. Then four more. Suddenly there were seventeen security personnel converging on one man like the Dodgers were attempting a bullpen game with ushers.

They finally moved in, took the guy into custody, and put him in handcuffs. Right on cue, two LAPD officers showed up, including a sergeant with the old-school rocker chevrons on his sleeve—the kind of detail only former cops and people who watch too many crime shows notice.

But the true beauty of the moment was the crowd reaction.

As security escorted the man out, somewhere in the pavilion one brave soul began singing:

“Na na na na…
Na na na na…
Hey hey hey… goodbye…”

And suddenly four hundred people joined in.

The entire pavilion serenaded this poor guy as he was marched up the stairs in handcuffs. It was equal parts cruel, hilarious, and oddly harmonious. For one shining moment, the pavilion became a drunken community choir.

Honestly, it was kind of magnificent.

The crowd out there definitely skews younger. Not necessarily rowdier—Dodger Stadium has always had its moments—but younger, louder, and more social. Yet nobody blocked my view during the game, the wave originated near us several times, and the section itself never felt overcrowded.

And perhaps best of all, because attendance wasn’t packed, the trip home was easy.

The Dodger Stadium Express bus back to Union Station moved quickly, the late-night train ride was calm, and the entire public transit adventure took almost exactly the same amount of time as driving would have—except I didn’t have to fight traffic or pay forty-five dollars to park. Public transportation after a Dodger game feels slightly post-apocalyptic at 11:30 p.m., but efficient.

So yes, I’ll buy pavilion tickets again. Probably for one of the June day games.

Good sightlines. Better stories.

And apparently, free musical performances.

The Masonic Trial of George Washington

The Masonic Trial of George Washington is not an attempt to rewrite history, but to examine it through the lens of alternative history. By imagining a world in which the American colonies failed in their rebellion against the British Crown and George Washington was brought before a Lodge of Freemasons to answer charges of unmasonic conduct, the essay seeks to explore a question that has lingered quietly within Masonic history for more than two centuries: Were the Freemasons who took part in the American Revolution acting in violation of their obligations as Masons?

The question is neither simple nor merely political. Masonic charges and constitutions long instructed a Mason to be “a peaceable subject to the civil powers,” “not to be concerned in plots or conspiracies against government,” and “not to countenance disloyalty or rebellion.” Yet many of the leading figures of the American Revolution—including George Washington and several signers of the Declaration of Independence—were themselves Freemasons. To Loyalist Masons of the eighteenth century, the Revolution could appear a direct violation of Masonic duty; to Patriot Masons, resistance to tyranny could be understood as fidelity to justice, liberty, and conscience.

This essay intentionally places those competing principles into direct conflict. It does not seek to condemn nor vindicate the men of 1776, but rather to examine the enduring tension between obedience and liberty, order and justice, law and moral conscience. Through the imagined defense of George Washington before a Masonic tribunal, the reader is invited to consider not only how Freemasons of the era may have understood their obligations, but also whether the moral duties of a Mason are owed solely to established authority, or to higher principles believed to stand above it.

The Stage 

In the autumn of 1784, the rebellion of the American colonies had long since collapsed beneath the restored authority of the Crown. General George Washington, having surrendered what remained of the Continental Army after the disastrous winter at Morristown and the subsequent fall of Philadelphia, had withdrawn from public life beneath a cloud of ruin and suspicion. Yet the judgment now before him was not that of Parliament, nor of any royal court, but of his brethren. Convened under dispensation in New York City, a Lodge composed largely of Loyalist Masons assembled to hear charges of unmasonic conduct preferred against Brother Washington, formerly Master of Alexandria Lodge. The accusations rested upon the ancient duties of the Craft itself: that a Mason is “a peaceable subject to the civil powers,” that he is “not to be concerned in plots or conspiracies against government,” and that he is “not to countenance disloyalty or rebellion.” Having heard the testimony and arguments of the prosecution, the Worshipful Master at length granted the accused brother leave to deliver his final summation before the Lodge retired for deliberation.

Brother Washington's Defense 

“Worshipful Master, Wardens, and Brethren:

In rising to address this Lodge upon a matter involving not only my own character, but the principles by which I have endeavored to govern my conduct through life, I confess sensations more difficult to subdue than any which attended me amidst the tumults of war. Before the world, a man may defend his actions by appeals to necessity, to fortune, or to the uncertain judgments of posterity. But before brethren, seated beneath the solemn obligations of our ancient institution, no subterfuge can avail, nor would I insult this honorable body by attempting any.

I shall not deny that I took up arms against the authority of the Crown. The fact is known to all mankind. I shall not deny that, in consequence of that unhappy contest, blood was shed, homes desolated, and the peace of society violently interrupted. These truths are written already in tears and graves, and no argument of mine can erase them.

The question before this Lodge, however, is of another and more solemn nature. It is whether, by those acts, I violated the duties of a Mason.

Brethren, I have listened with the attention due both to the wisdom of this Lodge and to the gravity of the charges preferred against me. I have heard recited those ancient admonitions which instruct a Mason to be a peaceable subject, obedient to the civil powers, and not concerned in conspiracies against lawful government. I acknowledge those principles. I have ever acknowledged them. Order is the safeguard of society; obedience to just authority is among the first duties of civilized man; and he who lightly excites rebellion for purposes of ambition or private gain deserves equally the condemnation of the state and the reproach of Masonry.

Had the contest in which I engaged arisen from personal resentment, from restless ambition, or from a desire to overturn government itself, I should stand before you not only without excuse, but without hope of deserving your charity.

Yet I ask this Lodge to consider whether submission is, under all circumstances, the highest duty of a Mason. We are taught within these walls that justice is the cement and support of civil society. We are instructed to walk uprightly before God and man. We are admonished to act not merely with obedience, but with virtue. If government itself departs from the great ends for which government is instituted; if the rights secured by long inheritance and constitutional compact are systematically violated; if petitions are answered only with punishments, and remonstrances only with force; then the unhappy subject is compelled to inquire whether passive submission remains a virtue, or whether it becomes participation in injustice itself.

I do not pretend, brethren, that such questions admit of easy resolution. Wise and good men have differed upon them in every age. Many worthy brethren, whose integrity I neither question nor diminish, remained faithful to the Crown and believed resistance unlawful. I honor the sincerity with which they acted, though they cannot approve the course which I pursued.

But I must answer according to the dictates of my own conscience, before which every man must finally stand alone.

I believed the liberties of these colonies to be invaded contrary to the constitutional rights of Englishmen. I believed that repeated injuries, endured with patience and answered with humble petitions, had left no reasonable expectation of redress. I believed that the object sought was not anarchy, nor the destruction of law, but the preservation of those principles of lawful liberty without which government itself degenerates into mere power.

If these judgments were erroneous, then I have erred honestly and without selfish intent. If they were criminal, then my crime proceeded not from disloyalty to justice, but from too fervent a conviction of its necessity.

Brethren, Masonry has survived kingdoms, factions, and revolutions because it was never intended to be the servant of temporary powers alone. It binds men together not merely in obedience, but in the pursuit of virtue, truth, and moral improvement. The square teaches rectitude; the compasses teach restraint; but the Great Light itself instructs us that there exists a law above all human institutions, to which rulers and subjects alike are accountable.

I ask no indulgence for failure. Providence has rendered its verdict upon our undertaking. The cause for which I contended lies defeated, and I stand before you stripped alike of command, of influence, and perhaps soon of reputation itself. But I cannot confess that I acted from motives unworthy of a Mason; nor can I declare that resistance to what one sincerely believes destructive of liberty and justice must forever constitute rebellion in the moral sense.

Should this Lodge determine that my conduct has violated the obligations of our fraternity, I shall submit to its judgment with the same composure with which I have endeavored to meet the other reverses allotted me by Divine Providence. But before you retire to deliberate, I entreat you to consider well the precedent now to be established: whether the duty of a Mason consists solely in submission to existing authority, whatever its character may become, or whether there yet remains within our institution some sacred regard for conscience, justice, and the natural rights of mankind.

Upon that question, brethren, not my fate alone, but the moral meaning of our ancient Craft, may well depend.”

Riding the A Line to Chavez Ravine: A Dodger Game Journey from San Dimas

There’s something uniquely Los Angeles about deciding, on a whim, to go to a Dodger game—and actually pulling it off with ease. No gridlocked freeways, no overpriced parking, no stress. Just a tap of a transit card, a train ride into the city, and the slow swell of Dodger blue building with every stop. That’s exactly how the journey began on a warm afternoon in San Dimas.

At around 4:30 p.m., I boarded the Metro A Line—what many still call the Gold Line—heading west toward Union Station. Though the line technically runs from Pomona North all the way to Long Beach, picking it up in San Dimas felt like stepping into a current already flowing toward Chavez Ravine. The train ride itself was smooth, efficient, and—at 54 minutes—remarkably predictable by Los Angeles standards.

At first, it was just another weekday ride. But somewhere around Arcadia, the tone shifted. A few jerseys appeared. Then caps. Then entire families dressed head-to-toe in Dodger blue. By the time we passed through Pasadena, the train had transformed into a rolling pregame rally. You didn’t need an announcement to know where everyone was headed.

Union Station answered the one question I hadn’t quite figured out: where to catch the Dodger Express. It turns out, you don’t need a map—you just follow the crowd. Fifty, maybe seventy-five people from my train alone streamed off and moved as one through the station, out the front doors, and straight to the buses. The system worked not because it was clearly labeled, but because it was obvious. The “blue wave” knew the way.

Boarding the Dodger Express was the most physically crowded part of the trip. These buses are run like standard city buses, which typically hold around 60 seated passengers with room for 20–30 more standing. This one felt like it pushed that limit. Shoulder to shoulder, aisle filled, every inch occupied. I managed to get a seat, but many stood packed in tight as we made the roughly 20-minute climb up Vin Scully Avenue toward the stadium. Every pothole along Sunset made its presence known.

Still, the payoff was immediate. The bus dropped us right at Dodger Stadium, and within minutes—after a short walk and an easy pass through security—I was inside.

My seat that night: Section 166LG, Row G, Seat 15 in the Loge Level.

For the price, it was hard to beat. The Loge Level is often considered one of the best values in Dodger Stadium, and this seat proved why. Elevated just enough to take in the full geometry of the field, but close enough to track the pitch-to-contact rhythm of the game. From this angle, you see everything—the defensive shifts, the outfield gaps, the pitcher’s tempo. It’s the kind of seat where baseball makes sense.

It was also Women’s Night, and the stadium buzzed with energy—groups from organizations, friends out for the evening, a different kind of crowd dynamic that added to the atmosphere.

On the field, the Dodgers faced the Miami Marlins. The final score: a tight 2–1 loss. Shohei Ohtani took the mound, and watching him pitch live was worth the trip alone. There’s a different appreciation when you see his command and movement in person. But the Dodger bats were quiet that night—just enough offense missing to turn a win into a narrow defeat.

Still, the game wasn’t the challenge. The return trip was.

Because the score stayed close, few fans left early. That meant when the final out was recorded, tens of thousands moved at once. Finding the correct Dodger Express line became its own adventure. There were multiple loading areas, and confusion sent people into the wrong queues. What formed was a massive, zigzagging line—hundreds deep, snaking across the pavement in organized chaos.

It took about 45 minutes just to board a bus.

By sheer timing, I ended up being the last person allowed on one of them—called forward as they looked for “one more.” I squeezed in at the front, standing beside the driver, packed tightly among fellow fans replaying the game in conversation.

The ride back didn’t go as planned.

An apparent accident blocked the usual freeway transition from the 110 to the 101, forcing a detour deeper into downtown Los Angeles. What followed was a winding, improvised route—off the freeway, onto surface streets, weaving through traffic, with the driver coordinating over the radio. It wasn’t lost exactly, but it felt uncertain. Streets blurred together—3rd Street, Bixel, turns and merges—until eventually we climbed back toward Union Station from an unexpected direction.

That leg alone took another 30 to 35 minutes.

By the time I reached the train platform, the A Line was crowded again—but this time with tired fans heading home. No tension, no issues—just shared fatigue. As the train pushed east, it gradually emptied. Stops passed. Conversations quieted. The energy of the game gave way to the rhythm of the rails.

At 12:04 a.m., I stepped off at San Dimas.

From a spontaneous ticket purchase at 4:00 p.m. to being home just after midnight, the entire experience felt both effortless and eventful. The cost? Minimal. A few dollars for the train, $3 for parking—far less than what stadium parking alone would have been.

The verdict is simple: I’ll do it again.

Because beyond the logistics, beyond the crowds and detours, there’s something satisfying about letting the city carry you to the game. About watching Dodger blue fill a train car. About following a crowd that doesn’t need directions.

It’s not just a trip to the stadium.

It’s part of the experience.