A sister edition to T's 212 series on New York establishments, the 213 column focuses on popular landmarks in and around Los Angeles.
On a dark February night, east of the 5 Freeway and south of the 134, down the street from what is known as a gentlemen's club, glows a blue neon sign for Moonlite Rollerways. These are the industrial hinterlands of Glendale, a tidy enclave within the rambling city-state of Los Angeles, where, surrounded by plumbing-supply warehouses and a site for Amazon delivery vans, a heavy concrete-block building serves as an unexpected entrance.
Underneath the white overhang, there are many signs such as “No Trespassing,” “No Fast, Wild or Reckless Skating,” and “Keep Tidy and Clean.” Long sentences are polite and serve as a solid reminder to visitors that sports involve the risk of accidents. “If you don't want to take that risk, don't roller skate here,” it says.
Assuming the risk, the 30 or so customers in front of me steadily climbed the cement ramp to the ticket office and flashed their tickets to the clerk behind the counter. Those who bring their own skates (about half of the audience) will present them for inspection (no fiberglass wheels or microwheels, which can gouge the floor). Then the door slams behind us and we are in some other, moving land.
Nostalgia comes easily from all directions. The black carpet with fluorescent zigzags, the buzz and trill of a Ms. Pac-Man game, the smell of sweets warming up at the snack bar, but first and foremost, the links. Skaters spin under two disco balls, some glide, some wobble, some press themselves against Red's carpeted walls, and Donna's Summers says, “Maybe this is magic?'' ?” he asks.
“We want you to walk in and feel like you've stepped back in time to the times you remember,” says Adrian Van Houten, the rink's manager. “This is my 1973 or '74. For my kids, it's the '90s.”
For me, it's 1983, and I'm driven by a piercingly vivid flashback of a childhood birthday party where I was skating to Taco's “Puttin' on the Ritz.”
For software developer and Links regular Jack Cardinal, it's not a trip to the past, but to the present. “You have no choice,” he says. “You're talking about work, money, whatever, and it's all put on hold for a few hours.” Cardinal started going to the gym several years ago after her doctor told her to find a form of aerobic exercise she enjoyed.
Dominic Cangelosi purchased the rink in 1985; he worked there as the organist for nearly 30 years. The building was built in 1942 for an entirely different purpose: designed as a foundry to make airplane parts during World War II. It was then converted into Harry's Roller Rink in the 1950s and renamed Moonlite Rollerway in 1969 by then-owners Cliff and Mildred Neschke. When they retired, Cangelosi took the reins and has since led a chevron path into the pantheon of hallowed Los Angeles institutions that include Musso's and Frank's, Bob Baker Marionette Theater and Apple Pan.
Cangelosi started Rainbow Nights in 1985, one of the country's first LGBTQ-themed skating events, and it remains one of the busiest times of the week. He hosted artistic skating competitions that drew teams from all over the world and countless birthday parties. for more than For 60 years, he accompanied skaters on his electronic organ, serenading them with waltzes, polkas, foxtrots and cha-chas, but the pandemic closed the rollercoaster in 2020. When it reopened 14 months later, many of the old-timers came because live music was not coming back. Now in his nonagenarian, Cangelosi is retired from the keyboard but not from the rink. When he's not on-site in person, he watches the action on a live camera monitor from his home.
We live for the infinite scrolling of screens, but that's simply not possible on the floors here, 2.4-inch maple, all tongue-and-groove boards, not a single nail in them. Another rule: no hoodies, because floor guards in striped referee jerseys deftly weave through the swirling crowd to make sure people aren't wearing earphones. If the skaters aren't listening to the same music, clashes are inevitable.
“We can give them ice packs and call an ambulance,” Van Houten said, but staff are not legally allowed to provide medical assistance.
No one seems to be protesting Parker's rules. Everyone is clearly happy in their collective groove, and most have big smiles on their faces as they bring their skates back to his rental counter.
“That's because the adrenaline is still pumping,” Van Houten says with a laugh. “Their quadriceps pain hasn't started yet.”
