March 13, 1938
Just to compare to the current crop of graphic novels, here’s a panel from Chester Gould’s "Dick Tracy" and yes, he’s beating up a suspect. In fact, he had the man unhandcuffed just to slap him around, much to the amusement of other law enforcement officers. More to my adult taste is vintage Al Capp. The caliber of artistic talent in the comic pages 70 years ago is staggering.
Above, entertainment of the day … Below, because the St. Francis Dam broke after the March 13 paper had been published, The Times couldn’t report the disaster until March 14 … Robert Towne drew on this event as a plot device in "Chinatown" when Hollis Mulwray refers to the Van der Lip Dam disaster. Bonus fact: In one draft of the screenplay, Lt. Lou Escobar says some of his relatives were killed when the dam broke.
Above, furnishings for the smartly decorated office in 1908 (shoutout to my pals at Allsteel!) Below, the postmaster receives a letter from a 60-year-old widow asking his help in finding a man … A modest appearance conceals the heart of a kleptomaniac … A woman dies of a broken heart after being abandoned by her husband–a theater executive who ran off with a chorus girl … Two Japanese women suspected of being illegal immigrants are held in a secret location to prevent their friends from helping them escape … All is not well in the world of Los Angeles’ sainted streetcar system. A proposed line from Pasadena to Hollywood via Eagle Rock runs into opposition from Col. Griffith J. Griffith and Henry E. Huntington … And a young lovelorn woman tries to commit suicide with toothache medicine, but the driver of the new police automobile hits every bump and pothole in the road en route to the hospital and the rough ride revives her.
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April 15, 1983
March 12, 1958
More people than usual are collecting their unemployment insurance and
inevitably new pressures are added to a transaction that is always
difficult–handing out public money. And so complaints are
reverberating.
A woman who worked steadily for four years at an aircraft factory was
recently laid off and has been collecting her compensation.
She has been cashing the vouchers at a bank. Recently, under the new
policy of cashing them at the unemployment office, she presented her
slip for an OK.
The clerk pointed out severely that her card hadn’t been stamped for
two months, indicating that she had not been interviewed for employment
possibilities as required.
The woman replied truthfully that no one had told her the stamp was necessary.
The clerk went into a tirade and called the manager who, after scrutiny, approved it.
The woman went a couple of windows down the line and came under the
glare of another clerk who sullenly checked it and finally cashed it.
The woman has become so intimidated she now fears Friday, the day she gets her check.
She is not alone. In fact there’s quite a chorus of jobless people who
resent the implication that everyone who collects unemployment
compensation is a chiseler.
Unfortunately a few are and they make it tough on the others.
DID YOU HEAR about
the man who came home without his pay because he’d been taken in a
poker game? His wife grabbed a rolling pin and said, "Lead me to your
taker."
INSTEAD OF PAYMENT, Pacific Telephone received this note from a subscriber on East Adams Boulevard:
"My mother is out of the city. Will pay Feb. 13 bill as soon as she
comes back within a week. I fargot and spent the money for a baseball
glove to warm up far the dodger.
Billy
P.S.: I will pay her back when she gives my allounce. I won’t ever do it again. Thank you."
QUOTE & UNQUOTE — Paul
Drus catches himself singing softly, "Oh where, oh where, did our
satellite go? Oh where, oh where can it be?" … Phil Girten saw this
sign on Van Ness Avenue Monday, "Silky Sullivan for Mayor" … Ruth
Shartel of Glendale says we really shouldn’t condemn the sack dress,
it’s the comedy relief for the hectic times we live in … Joe E.
Brown, emcee at the Hollywood Women’s Press Club clambake for gents of
the press yesterday, thanked the gals for their efforts in his behalf.
"I’ve never complained when they wrote something about me that wasn’t
so," he confided, "because they have said so many wonderful things
about me that weren’t true I guess it evened things up."
AT RANDOM — No
question about it, the Detroit chrome boys are belatedly concerned
about the foreign car invasion. Loran Smith, who acquired a Renault six
months ago, received a four-page questionnaire from the National
Research Institute there asking why he bought it and if he had it to do
over again would he and so on … The Animal Regulation Department
report for February lists the year’s first mole and seal bites …
Observes Frank Goldberg: The worst thing that could happen to the
Indian is for the Lone Ranger to get married … A passenger remarked
to Betty Dixon, driver of a Beverly Boulevard bus, "Don’t you think
L.A. people are about the most inconsiderate you ever saw?" "On the
contrary," replied Betty, "I’ve driven buses all over the country–I do
it on my vacations sometimes–and I’d say people here are the best
behaved anywhere." So there.
March 12, 1958
The fact that I detest the tactics of some car repossession outfits has nothing to do with why this story appeals to me.
It’s just that I’ve always been a pushover for a tale which blends a touch of irony with a little poetic justice.
This one concerns a man named John Van Doren of Pomona and his new car that–one day last week–suddenly wasn’t there.
Van Doren had purchased the car last January. It was a ’57 model, which the salesman called a "demonstrator."
"We just use it to take prospective buyers on short test rides to show
them what excellent performance the model gives," the salesman
explained. "Naturally, we’ve loved it and cared for it like a baby."
"You mean it’s never been driven except under supervision of your salesmen?" Van Doren recalls asking at the time.
"That’s right," the man reassured him. "It’s strictly a demonstrator."
The price sounded right too, and Van Doren said he’d take it. He
offered to pay cash but the salesman said it would be foolish to tie
all his money up like that. Besides, the terms were easy and the credit
friendly.
They settled on $85.78 ($625.14 USD 2007) a month, with the first
payment due Jan. 20. Van Doren met it ahead of time, as he did the
second payment of Feb. 20.
The third payment hasn’t come due yet.
And that’s why on the morning of Sunday, March 2, Van Doren was more than a little bewildered at what happened.
It was about 8:30 a.m. when he glanced out at his driveway and discovered his car wasn’t there.
First, he checked with his wife. "Honey where were we last night?" he asked.
They stayed home, she said. So he called the police. "My car’s been stolen," he told them.
The officer with whom he talked contradicted him. "No it hasn’t," he
said. "It’s been repossessed. A man came in and filled out the
repossession notice a couple of hours ago."
Van Doren recalls that, at the time, he blew his top. "Impossible," he
said. "I’m ahead on my payments." He demanded that the police file a
stolen car report, but they refused.
Next, Van Doren contacted the president of the bank which was carrying
the papers. He reached him at home and explained what apparently had
happened.
The president, in turn, contacted the assistant manager at home and
dispatched him downtown to check the records. Then the assistant
manager recontacted Van Doren with the startling news that apparently a
mistake had been made.
"It appears," he explained, "that the repossession order was against the previous owner of the car."
"The previous owner?" gasped Van Doren. "But they told me I was the original owner."
The apologetic banker said he didn’t know anything about that, but
added he’d be glad to drive Mr. Van Doren over to the auto agency so he
could pick his car up. But the information that the car wasn’t a
demonstrator recharged Van Doren’s anger.
"Someone else took it," he said. "Somebody else can bring it back. Or,
on second thought, maybe I better see my lawyer before anybody does
anything."
That’s the way matters stood until the next day, when Van Doren’s wife saw the car come wandering back into the driveway.
Immediately, she ran out of the house and informed the driver:
"We don’t want it until we hear from our lawyer."
The bewildered repossession expert obligingly towed it off again.
But when the Van Dorens awakened the following morning, there was their
car, back in the driveway again–neatly blocking the car which they had
borrowed from their son to use until matters were straightened out
again.
It’s been there more than a week now. The Van Dorens haven’t touched
it, nor have they been able to use the car which they borrowed.
Mr. Van Doren rides to work every day with a friend. And Mrs. Van Doren walks two miles each way when she goes to town.
They do have an attorney though–Marlin H. Shirley.
He’s mailed a letter to the bank, to the auto agency and to the
repossession outfit, stating that the Van Dorens have not accepted the
return of their car.
And until such time as they do, or until the matter is brought to
court, there will be a $5 daily storage fee charged unless the vehicle
is removed.
If that ain’t poetic justice, I can’t read a rhyme when I hear one.
March 4-May 7, 1958
Riverside
A couple of Pinal County deputies found the new Fiat, wrecked and
abandoned in Florence, Ariz., with a bloodstain in the backseat and a
charge slip dated the previous day from a gas station in El Centro,
Calif.
The Fiat was registered to John Henry Sherman, 29, 5213 Walkerton St.,
Long Beach, whose mother, Doris, had just reported him missing.
The last anybody had seen of him was about noon March 4, 1958, a
Tuesday, at BJ Service, 6505 Paramount Blvd., a supplier of oil
drilling equipment. According to The Times, Sherman was a psychology
student at Long Beach City College and he called his employer at 2 p.m.
on the day he vanished to say he was taking an exam and wouldn’t be
back for the rest of the afternoon.
Some rabbit hunters finally found Sherman’s body Sunday, March 9, at
the bottom of a 20-foot gully near Riverside. He had been beaten
savagely in the head with something like a tire iron or a jack handle
and had been dead for several days. Sherman was identified by a tattoo
of a rabbit–with a strong resemblance to Bugs Bunny–on his left forearm.
Riverside County deputies tracing the route from Riverside to Florence
learned that state agricultural inspectors at the Yuma border crossing
remembered two men in a new Fiat either late Tuesday or early
Wednesday. They were later reported in Florence on foot, presumably
after wrecking the car.
Several days later, highway workers found Sherman’s wallet near the spot where the Fiat had been abandoned.
And here’s where the mystery occurs. One way or another, investigators
identified a 22-year-old baker from Rochester, N.Y., as the killer. His
name was Donald Earl Klaus. Riverside Detective Lt. William Auld
refused to reveal any information about Klaus except that he had been
charged.
Klaus was extradited from Missouri and on April 28, 1958, investigators
took him to the gully where Sherman’s body had been found. "You got the
story," he said to Riverside Sheriff Joe Rice. "I ain’t saying nothing."
On May 6, 1958, Klaus was convicted of second-degree murder for killing
Sherman with a rock and sentenced to five years to life in prison.
Prosecutors agreed to a reduced charge because "there was not evidence
of premeditation," The Times said.
Something is not right with this story–there’s a big piece missing.
It’s as if the suspect’s name was pulled out of a hat. And how about
the crime? Was it a simple robbery? The lack of premeditation would
seem to rule that out. If the killing wasn’t about money or stealing
the car, what else could it be? Could Sherman–a 29-year-old
bachelor–have been killed because he was gay? If so, it might explain
the savage beating–and why The Times wrote virtually nothing about the
case and provided very few details.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer and we’re not going to get it from The Times clips.
March 12, 1968
Dear Troubled, Let me get this straight. You’re married. You leave your husband at home so you and your much younger–unmarried–boss can take coordinated vacations … to Europe. While you’re there, he and his friends entertain you "royally." And you wonder why your co-workers are gossiping? Either I am missing a big piece of the puzzle about your boss or you’re living on another planet. Of course people in the office are going to talk–this is crazy! The fact that your husband has signed off on it means he’s as goofy as you are. If you really want your co-workers to stop gossiping, TAKE HIM ALONG! … Dear Befriended, Those friends were a blessing. Give thanks and pass it on … Dear Confidential, the parent part of me applauds that advice–and the 17-year-old high school student part of me … doesn’t.
Above, a cook goes on a bloody rampage–and no, we didn’t follow up on this story. According to California death records, mad cook Andrew Rewal lived to the age of 79, presumably without access to sharp objects … Below, the Air Force loses an atomic bomb, but don’t worry folks, it wasn’t armed. Just go on about your business now. Nothing to see here … Police arrest four suspects in a robbery ring that preyed on people in wealthy neighborhoods … Racing comes to a close at Santa Anita.
Above, an excerpt from the Saturday religion page featuring the Church of the Open Door and Sister Aimee at Angelus Temple … Below, Hitler seizes Austria and the world holds its breath.
Quote of the day: Developments in Austria "make you think there might be a war over there." Sen. George William Norris (R-Neb.)
Below, notes on pianist Ignacy Jan Paderewski during his stay in Los Angeles. A typical musician, he is usually so wound up after his performances that he doesn’t go to bed until 4 a.m., then sleeps to noon … The Times boasts about its gains in circulation … Temperance speaker William Murphy is to be honored in a celebration at Temple Auditorium … And Coulter Dry Goods Store moves its ribbon counter.
March 11, 1958
Committees have been formed, speeches are being made and posters and
slogans are everywhere to discourage that abomination of society, the
litterbug.
It is clear that in the scale of villainy he is barely one notch below
the wife beater, the monster who puts slugs in telephones and the
fellow who gets drunk and disorderly.
At his worst he is hopelessly bugged on the subject of litter. Come what may, he throws it from his car.
Well, this corner today offers a cataclysmic idea that may help pull
the plug on this enemy of society. Perhaps it could be integrated into
the campaign propaganda.
IT’S UTTERLY simple.
Advise potential litterbugs to remove the contents of their so-called
glove compartments–the broken comb, the torn map of Northern
California, the rusty pliers, the flashlight with the dead batteries,
the unused instruction manual — and use the space to stuff the stuff
ordinarily tossed out the window.
Those who have formed a strong affinity for this potpourri could stow
it under the turtle back or, if a late-model car, the deck.
Of course, those who actually use the glove compartment for gloves can just skip the whole thing.
A LADY I KNOW was
banging on an heirloom radio which had suddenly stopped working when
the phone rang and a voice asked pleasantly if she were listening to a
certain TV program.
She said no, she didn’t approve of television although her husband did,
particularly westerns. The caller said she should try it oftener and
perhaps she’d find things she liked.
Just then the radio, as if fearing competition and anxious to get back in her good graces, began working again.
THE CHILDREN have the floor again.
Colleen Clement, 7, came home from school after being absent several
days because of the flu and announced, "I think I’m getting adjusted."
When her parents laughed she thought she’d used the wrong word so she
corrected, "I think I’m getting group oriented."
Of course, Colleen is the same little number who, while in a
supermarket, asked in awe, "Do people eat lion?" Her mother saw the
sign on the meat counter and corrected, "That’s loin."
And then there’s Laurel Phinney, 7, whose grandmother was telling her
how God created heaven and earth and the animals and plants and the air
and water. Laurel thought this over briefly, then inquired, "Then who
made the devil?" Grandma is still stumped.
AS THE public
address announcer at International Airport called the arrival of a
flight from Chicago, a young-looking woman remarked, "Here comes the
end of my freedom."
"Why," asked a devilish fellow waiting alongside, "is your husband coming home?"
"No," she squelched, "my three grandchildren."
LOOSE ENDS — On
his return from a trip to the Caribbean, Hatton Hulett was accosted by
a friend who kept calling him Cookie. He finally asked why and the
friend triumphantly explained–because he’d been a wafer a while. H.H.
promises not to let it happen again … Dan Pursuit, director of the
Delinquency Control Institute at SC, is on the traffic safety congress
program March 17. If anyone can catch those elusive youngsters, he can
… Noel Coward is appearing in his own plays at the Huntington
Hartford Theater, recalling that classic remark attributed to an
anonymous Frenchman, "I’m brave the rest of the year, but I’m a Noel
Coward" … No snarling, please. This is National Smile Week.
March 11, 1958
He sat across the desk from me, and while he didn’t admit it outright,
I got the feeling that he knew–by standards of our society–he was the
lowest form of human being.
Because in our kind of society a man like him walks without friends.
Every step of the way, he walks afraid and alone.
He wonders how long it’ll be before somebody gets him.
He does, because he’s a fink. A stool pigeon.
Or, in polite language, an informer–a man who profits by telling tales
on his underworld acquaintances and neighbors, who fingers them for the
police.
He explained that financially there wasn’t much gain in being a fink.
Not for him, anyway. A few bucks now and then from a narco cop. No
money–no big money–like there is in pushing H.
Maybe his gain was strictly mental, he suggested. Sort of an atonement for past sins, for the two stretches he did at Quentin.
Or maybe it was a personal grudge against junkies, against pushers.
Getting even with them for the way they got his kid brother hooked.
That’s what he wanted most to believe. That’s what he wanted me to believe too.
"My brother was only 15," he said. "A pusher got to him young. Honest,
it’s just the pushers I finger. Nobody else. Not even users."
He told me that he had arranged 15 or 20 setups for the narco officers.
"Most of them are doing time now because of what I did," he said. "He said it without pride, without remorse.
I asked him about the people he sent up. Close friends? Casual friends?
"One of them," he answered, "was my brother."
"Your brother?"
"Yes. That’s right."
"For pushing?"
"No. For armed robbery."
"But you said–"
"I did it for his own protection."
There was a pause.
"You see," he began again, "he was pulling too many jobs. He was
getting careless. He’d go in with two guns, but sooner or later
somebody would be there waiting for him. They’d blast him from the back
room before he had a chance.
"I turned him in to a real nice cop who promised to go along when the robbery detail picked him up."
Still, I didn’t quite understand.
"I’d rather have him alive, doing time," he explained, "than see him blasted to death."
"Does he know that you turned him in?"
"No. But if he ever found out, he’d hate me for it. He hates stool pigeons."
I was beginning to wonder why the man came to me. I asked him.
"The police," he said finally. "I set up a big one for them–a big pusher. I was going to make the buy. But I got nervous.
"The pusher was a big man. Lots of friends."
He studied the floor and looked up again.
"Either way I was caught in the middle."
He leaned toward me.
"I chickened out. I backed down. I left the cops looking awful foolish.
"Now," he went on, "they hate my guts. Last week they told me to get out of town. Not to come back. They meant it too.
"Then this weekend, Saturday, suddenly nobody else was talking to me. The bookie, the prostitutes, the users.
"They used to talk to me. But now they won’t touch me with a pole."
With a certain finality, he added:
"Nobody will."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"There’s nothing I can do," the informer told me.
March 11, 1958
Los Angeles
As rackets go, it was a pretty good one. There was a lot of quick, easy
money to be made from suckers. And because the victims were breaking the law, they couldn’t complain that they had been scammed. Not bad.
It worked like this:
Step 1) Distribute ads offering dirty pictures to be sent through the
mail, and of course, in 1958, sending smut through the post office was
against the law.
Step 2) Don’t send out anything that is actually illicit–keep it tame.
Sept 3) Haul in $400,000 ($2,915,080.89 USD 2007) a year.
Step 4) Ignore complaints because what are they going to do? Go to the
cops? The postal inspectors? They’re breaking the law by receiving
illicit material.
Repeat as needed.
Of course, some men complained to authorities anyway.
And so we have the case of Edward E. Paramore III, 30, 8801 Encino
Ave., Jacob Heiderich, 32, 12437 Ventura Blvd., and Kathleen Walker,
19, 13554 Rye St. Police confiscated two truckloads of photos and movies, The Times said.
Unfortunately, The Times never followed up on this story. In fact, it
received far more coverage in the Mirror, including a photo of Walker,
who insisted she was only a secretary at the Ventura Boulevard company.
A little research shows that Paramore was an interesting character and
not just because of his name. (Bonus fact: The Times says his father, Ted, helped found the "Screenwriters Guild"). Here’s Dick Adler’s interview with him from 1968.
March 11, 1968
Dear Stuck With Mother, boy do I hear you…. At 55, your mother is exactly the age that the Eskimos put their "ancient ones" on an ice floe and push them out to sea–just to solve problems like yours … Let’s do a little math, girlfriend. Your mom is 55 and has been married 35 years. That means your folks got together when she was 20 and she started right in raising you with the diapers and baby bottles–and arguing with your dad. Cut her some slack and enjoy her company while you can! You’re lucky to have her. At least she’s not nagging you about when are you going to make her a grandmother!! … Dear E.C., it’s 1968, man. Who are you to put your head trip on this young woman? Does she make fun of your love beads and your sandals? Just groove on the open communication. And if you think this is bad, wait till she stops shaving her legs! … Dear Father, exiling the young children from the dinner table is one solution. Then again, why don’t you get with it and start eating frozen dinners around the TV set like the rest of America? … Note to W.H. These still sound like secret messages to enemy agents.
Los Angeles Examiner Negatives Collection in the the Regional History Collection of USC Libraries
OK, who are they?
Above, an early column by Jack Smith. Click on the thumbnail for the entire story … Below, meat prices are going up by 3 cents to 21 cents a pound (22 cents to $1.53 USD 2007) … The U.S. will apparently increase military spending to fight unemployment–watch for more orders for B-52 bombers! … Vice President Nixon calls for a tax cut as a cure for the recession rather than increased government spending … And a bill is introduced in the Legislature to require a college prep curriculum. Under the proposal, every high school student would be required to take at least a year of science, math and English.
Above, The Times not only identified a woman who says she was the victim of an attack (notice how we tiptoe around the word "rape"), we even ran her picture. Even though I knew newspapers used to do identify rape victims, it’s quite another thing to actually see one of the stories in print. Aggie Underwood once complained of being sent out something like five weeks in a row to interview rape victims. Unfortunately, we never followed up on the story so there’s no further information. Below, a father is in jail on charges of whipping his daughter … Good grief, was there really a state commission for the protection of children and animals? … Austria descends into civil unrest, especially in Graz, the hometown of our future governor, with rioting and violence against Jews … On the jump, Florsheim shoes, as worn by Jake Gittes in "Chinatown."
Below, 100 masked night riders shoot and whip African Americans in Birmingham, Ky. … A man is arrested after a fight over a woman turns deadly … And there’s pandemonium in prices at Bukowski Square, courtesy of Overell’s. Continue reading
