March 14, 1958

There are days when it doesn’t pay to be a peaceful, sleepy, slightly overgrown little community.

And one of those days came this week.

It came at the weekly session of the elected county Board of Supervisors. On its agenda was the action to appoint a county mental health advisory board.

The establishment of such a board would be a step toward realization of a much-needed, expanded local mental health program, with the state footing half of the bill for us.

It could lead to more clinics, more mental health facilities and to fewer persons — including dozens of children — on endless waiting lists for psychiatric care.

The sooner the Board of Supervisors appoints the advisory board, the sooner the advisory board can evaluate the community’s needs, and the sooner the county (or the communities within it) can take advantage of the state’s offer to help.

But as I said, we were in a complacent slumber when the board met. It just didn’t seem possible that anyone would object to a plan which would benefit everyone.

But we were wrong — badly wrong.

The board’s chambers were packed with "angry, protesting citizens."

There were 70 of them altogether. And I got a hunch that they all climbed out of the same clubhouse.

Most of them cried that it was all a plot to railroad us into mental homes, to mold "world citizens" and lock up those who refuse to conform.

(A provision of the Short-Doyle Act, through which the supervisors planned to expand our mental health facilities, clearly states: "It is the intent of this act that services to individuals shall be rendered only upon voluntary application.")

Not one citizen raised his voice in favor of a better mental health program, and apparently the mob on hand completely intimidated the supervisors.

Because the body — which five months ago enthusiastically passed a motion to establish the county mental health advisory board — tabled the action for three weeks.

There seems to be a certain highly vocal element among us which revels in the thought that there are men in white coats in every alleyway and a Communist plot under every bed.

I hope, at the next meeting, another element appears to vocalize. I hope it’s a representative group of citizens and I hope it’s equipped with good lungs.

If you want to know why, just check the back issues of your newspaper.

Read the articles about some of the pretty grisly crimes committed in our community by badly mixed-up youngsters.

Read the articles down to the last paragraph — where the mother or father sobs out:

"I knew something was wrong with Johnny. I tried to get him examined and treated but we’re poor people. And there was just no place for us to take him."

MIDNIGHT MEMOS: There’s a new slant on the Sunset Strip.

Like all of a sudden, it’s Oriental out there, Dad.

It started two weeks ago. Mary Morrison’s Mocambo headlined Mioyshi Umeki, the petite star of "Sayonara."

That worked very well.

She’s being held over. And the new revue is a supporting bill of hep Japanese dancers called the Keigo Imperial Troupe.

Whether or not their impressive title indicates they have the royal blessings of the emperor I do not know.

And it is not important. After their American debut at Mocambo, they will surely be looked upon with the royal favor of our local emperor, William Morris.

This is a cafe act that is a hit on the simple basis that it offers something unique for the tarnished appetites of ringsiders.

The group stars Takeuchi Keigo, a light-footed dancer who has the good sense to surround himself with a half-dozen attractive girls in attractive kimonos.

They offer some of the traditional Japanese dances, but then go so far afield as to do the Charleston. Which ain’t easy in a kimono.

It’s a refreshing performance and sets the stage nicely for Mioyshi, who is one of the most charming young women you’ll ever see.

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.