Above, Spencer Tracy as the Tin Man–that’s a casting idea that never occurred to me. Or to MGM, apparently. Below, former President Hoover is to visit Hitler … Cleanup from the storms continues as the death toll reaches 92 … A "silver lining" to the flood damage: Gold is found in mud left in Santa Monica Canyon …
Above, an African American church is planted at 37th Street and Denker, The Times says. According to the church’s website, Westminster Presbyterian was built at 35th Place and Denker. Below, The Times reports on Los Angeles County’s plans for a network of roads. Unfortunately, we didn’t run a map so it’s difficult to determine the precise routes.
Notice the name of one landmark: "N-word Slough." Early news accounts say the slough, which was fed by overflow from the Los Angeles and San Gabriel rivers, covered 1,500 acres and was slightly south of Gardena. [Aha! Here’s a map from 1920]. In 1941, The Times reported that a mile-square oil slick floating on the water in the slough caught fire at 190th Street and Figueroa. The term remained in use in The Times as late as 1949, although in later years it was replaced by "Dominguez Slough."
March 6, 1958
They’ve stuck a flock of pictures on the walls of the County Museum by
some fellow named Degas and, well, I was shanghaied by some
well-meaning friends the other night just like in "This Is Your Life"
and taken over there for a squint.
The joint was sure crowded. And you should have seen some of the guys.
Yeah, tuxedos. Just to take a gander at some pictures. Imagine.
Well, I paraded around with the gang, picture after picture, making
faces at them as if I could tell whether they were good or bad.
This Degas (pronounced Day-gah) was a fiend for ballet dancers. The
joint was jumping with them, mostly young girl types. Some were real
pretty, too.
Afterward the gang stood in line and some dolls were dishing out coffee
and cake and pink-colored punch, unspiked I figured. Just like at the
mission only these gals were dressed better.
SERIOUSLY,
the exhibit is excellent and admirers of Hillaire Germain Edgar Degas
(1834-1917) will find their feeling for his warmth and depth reinforced.
My favorite, by the way, is a painting of Degas’ father, a rapt expression on his face, listening to a man playing a guitar.
In an exhibit of this kind as wide a variety as possible of the
artist’s work is shown. Thus, some pieces are only fragmentary sketches.
Well I couldn’t help hearing a distinguished-looking gentleman say to a
young lady as they studied one charcoal drawing, "That should teach you
never to throw anything away. That one looks like someone fished it out
of the wastebasket."
AS THE NEWS came
over the teletypes yesterday that the Army had launched another
satellite, irrepressible Delmar Watson went around to former Navy men
on the staff and remarked, "Well, admiral, I see the Navy’s still at
it,"–accompanied by the motion of rowing a boat.
AS IF there
weren’t enough frustration in the world already, employees of an
Alhambra contracting firm are playing a diabolic game on a woman
bookkeeper.
She virtually lives for her personal mail. She even goes home at lunchtime for it.
Well, the last few days she has been finding cards recalling past
associations, expressing regret at not seeing her for so long, ending
"Love"–but with no name.
When or if she finds out it’s her colleagues you may look for a little assault with intent to commit mayhem in Alhambra.
SPEAKING OF practical
jokes, cruel sixth-graders at Montague Street School in Pacoima did a
naughty thing to a boy of Mexican ancestry whose knowledge of English
is limited.
They "taught" him to pronounce his new teacher’s name. One morning he
greeted the shocked instructor, "Good morning, Mr. Jackass!"
A USUALLY reliable
spy reports by long-distance whisper it’s apparently true that when
Sputnik II made its first few runs over Washington, D.C., its
electronic signals opened half a dozen garage doors. The Air Force is
said to have quietly investigated and conceded the probability.
AROUND TOWN — Alan
Fox’s version: "I disagree with what you say but I will defend to your
death the right to say it" … Since the strange disclosures in the
drunk driving trial of Mrs. Ron Waller, taxi passengers are having fun
remarking, "Be careful what you say, the driver may be wired" … Sam
Katzman, Columbia producer, likes the sign on a shoe repair shop at
Hollywood Boulevard and Kingsley: "We doctor shoes. Heel them. Attend
to their dyeing. And save their soles" … Fascinating fragment of
conversation overheard in an Olive Street lunchroom, two women
chatting: "Is he wealthy?" "Oh, off and on."
March 6, 1958
I was visited yesterday by one of the women who placed the following classified ad in a local community newspaper:
The lady gave her name as Mrs. Clara Alberty. She wasn’t timid about giving her age, either.
"I’m 60," she told me. "Two years younger than my husband."
I asked Mrs. Alberty to sit down and she did–on the edge of her chair.
She clasped her hands together and began:
"My
husband is a member of Local 250, Steamfitters Union. I like unions,"
she said. "They’re wonderful if they’re run right. But this one isn’t
run right."
Mrs. Alberty opened her purse and handed me the classified ad. I read it.
"What
happened," she explained, " is that when a reform group moved in and
tried to clean the mess up, the local was suspended by the
international.
"Their men are running it now, and it’s no better than it ever was. Our men can’t even get a decent day’s work now."
"How did the wives get involved?" I asked.
Mrs. Alberty leaned further forward on her chair.
"Well,
naturally, we all took a little interest in our husbands’ work. We got
together now and then and finally, last year, we decided to form a
ladies auxiliary–a social club.
But at the meetings we got so
riled up at what was happening to our husbands–at the way some of the
officials were stealing money from them and the way the goons and
ex-cons were coming from the East to take over their jobs–that we
finally decided to do something about it.
"So, last fall, we set up a picket line of wives. We carried big signs telling the union bosses what we thought of them."
"What did the signs say?" I asked.
Mrs. Alberty smiled. "Oh, they said plenty. Things like ‘McClellan, Where Are You?’ "
"Are all the wives being sued?"
"Oh no," she answered. "They just picked out seven of us. Seven whose husbands were active in the reform movement."
"Who’s doing the suing?" I said.
"There’s
a Mr. Schoemann, he’s head of the International," she answered. "And a
Mr. Gelski. He’s the man Mr. Schoemann sent out here to manage things
after he took away our local autonomy."
Mrs. Alberty continued:
"My
husband was getting lots of work until the local was suspended. But he
hasn’t been given a job out of the local since last May. He’s had to
work out of Riverside.
"Lots of others have just moved away.
They’ve been starved out. But they’re not going to starve me out. This
is my home. I shouldn’t leave."
"What does the suit charge you with?" I said.
"Well," Mrs. Alberty spoke, "we picketed them a few times and we hung them in effigy once. They’re suing us for libel."
"And you go to court next month?"
"That’s
right. They’ve got a lot of money–some of it our own money we paid in
dues … against us. But I think we’ll come out all right. We’ve got
some facts."
I handed the classified ad back to Mrs. Alberty. Standing, she folded it and placed it in her purse.
"This ad wasn’t just a joke," she said. "We still need money to fight them. And like our men, we’re not afraid of work."
Perhaps other folks were shocked by the revelation that "Love and Consequences" by Margaret B. Jones, a.k.a. Margaret Seltzer, was a complete fake. It was old news to me.
Here’s my own experience, from Donald H. Wolfe’s 2005 "The Black Dahlia Files," published by ReganBooks, an imprint of HarperCollins.
As a published author, Wolfe was granted access to the Los Angeles County district attorney’s files on the 1947 Black Dahlia case. To bolster his absurd contention that Elizabeth Short was killed by Bugsy Siegel, Wolfe produced what appeared to be an official document.
Let me show you how he faked it.
First we take this authentic memo:
Then we snip off the top:
Then we get another memo:
And we snip a piece of out that:
And get another piece from the next page:
The finished product looks like this and appears on Page 198 of "The Black Dahlia Files":
I originally pointed this out two years ago. Was the book recalled? Ha! Did anyone involved with the book apologize? You can’t be serious! Did Wolfe respond to a request for a comment? Of course not! This is how the book publishing industry works, folks. You should be outraged, you should be sad but you should not be surprised. This will surely happen again until the industry’s attitude changes. It is really no more complicated than that.
Above, Hey look what I found! An interview with Saul Bass. Is this cool or what? Below, Marie McDonald and Harry Karl, alias "Karl the Shoe Man." You may recall earlier posts about the Jane Russell film "Fuzzy Pink Nightgown." This is what I was talking about …
It’s Sunday in Los Angeles, which means The Times runs all our special weekly features. At top, the home plan of the week. Above, a full page ad for Camels in the comics, showing that champion skaters smoke like chimneys without affecting their endurance. Below, another incident with Japanese troops, this time in Shanghai, and recovery from the storm continues … Stokowski and Garbo? Really?! … At bottom, another photo page of the destruction.
Fritz Kreisler and ostriches, with the White Sox thrown in. No shortage of things to do in 1908 Los Angeles … Below, in an ideal world The Times would have packaged its three stories about red activists, two on the cover of the second section and one inside. All are worth reading. One talks about immigration agents targeting socialists and malcontents–native and foreign-born. In another, a fire official traveling with the White Sox talks about revolutionaries in Chicago. The third reports on a meeting of activists. To be sure, the writing is incredibly slanted. But the account is vivid and immediate.
March 5, 1958
A few days before his father died in 1936, F.B. Kelley sent him a postal money order for $50.
Last month, in going through some old papers, Kelley came upon the familiar green piece of paper–uncashed.
It was made out at Rockefeller Center Station, New York, Serial No. 345914, dated Nov. 17, 1936.
Kelley, advance man for the play "Middle of the Night" at the Biltmore
Theater, tried to cash it. He was told he’d have to fill out a form
requesting issuance of a duplicate and submit it to the Money Order
Center in St. Louis. He did.
A few weeks ago he received a printed slip stating, "We regret that it
is not possible to accord favorable consideration to your claim as the
Public Law No. 65 (84th Congress) stipulates no money order shall be
paid after 20 years from the last day of the month of original issue."
"Everywhere I travel I see post offices," says Kelley, who lives in
Delaware, Ohio, "so I assume they are still in business. But that
doesn’t get me back my $50. I suppose a law is a law."
G. BERNARD SHAW,
in his day a stern advocate of spelling reform, once spelled fish as
ghoti–the gh as "rough," the o as in "women," the ti as in "fiction."
Publicist Felix Mendelsohn Jr., who agrees with old G.B.S., has taken it from there and coined the word potzwabshmuckeling.
Pronounce the p as in "psalm," the o as in "leopard," the l as in
"valet," z as in "rendezvous," w as in "wrong," a as in "head," b as in
"tomb," s as in "demesne," h as in "catarrh," m as in "mnemonic," u as
in "four," c as in "czar," k as in "know," e as in "awe," l as in
"could," i as in "cruise," n as in "condemn" and g as in "reign."
In short, potzwabshmuckeling is an utter deathlike silence.
ONLY IN HOLLYWOOD — A
man named Al who lives in a second-floor flat answered the doorbell at
11:35 the other night and a young man said, "I’m with an organization
that’s trying to help people. We’re making a survey–"
Talk about fully loaded: This GMC pickup has a dome light! A lock on the glove compartment! Vinyl insulation instead of cardboard!!!!
"Not at 25 minutes to 12, you’re not," interrupted Al, "and if you don’t get out of here I’ll throw you out!"
The young man fled but ever since Al has been wondering, are things that tough?
A MATRON met
a friend at a women’s club and after a few minutes’ chatter reached in
her purse and said, "Have I shown you the latest snapshots of my
grandchildren?"
"No," squelched the friend, "and I’m certainly grateful to you."
SILVER LINING NOTE — Vic
Knight argues that people shouldn’t worry about a recession or whatever
it is. Any day now, he predicts, all the things amateur
do-it-yourselfers put together will start falling apart and
professional craftsmen will be called in to correct their mistakes,
creating a business upturn.
MISCELLANY — One
of the most popular desk signs at Northrop is "Are you helping solve
the problem or are you part of it?" … L.E. Emigh of Woodland Hills is
afraid his wife is watching too many TV westerns. When she drives her
tiny Metropolitan on the Hollywood Freeway she gets a panicky feelings,
"like the head heifer in a stampede" … Diabolic inquiry from Barney
Hutchison: "Tell me, is President Hagerty’s golf game improving?" …
The internal revenuers have been checking Irish sweepstakes winners in
Culver City. So beware, happy horse players … Have you noticed,
people say "There’s more truth than poetry" when there isn’t a fragment
of verse in sight … Nobody will believe it but a gray squirrel has
joined the blue jays, sparrows, towhees, juncos and thrushes in the
backyard. Permits you to come within about three feet before jumping
onto a tree. Loco, hombre, loco!
Regular reader Callbox Sam pointed out this item on EBay: A copy of the Feb. 8, 1947, Herald-Express with the Page 1 story about Joseph Dumais’ confession in the Black Dahlia killing. Dumais conned Army investigators (but not the LAPD) that he was the killer. He had nothing to do with it. The item is listed as $499. Would I pay that kind of money? No way. Your mileage may vary, however.
June 29, 1977
Isn’t this a grim little story…. How odd that Pellicano was involved in it. Hm.
Above, note the longstanding popularity of mysteries–alas, the Daily Mirror won’t be doing mystery tunes anytime soon. Below, a prowler who cures his nausea by being a peeping Tom is arrested near the scene of the Marjorie Hipperson killing … He is later cleared in that murder but is arrested on a couple of old traffic warrants, never to appear in The Times again … Arizona State College students riot in the state Capitol over plans to change the school’s name to Tempe University … Will Nixon go to the Soviet Union?
Los Angeles begins to repair the damage from the floods, finding time to run a photo of a couple of attractive young women … The death toll reaches 85 … Be sure to look at the photos of the storm’s destruction.
Here’s a fun game … Whom would you read in a hypothetical match-up? William F. Buckley on Sunday Telegraph editor Peregrine Worsthorne’s newfound opposition to the Vietnam War? Or Dear Abby on women’s padded fannies? Both columns are from March 1968.
A cat poisoner is loose in Watts … Mayor Harper plans to crack down on free boxing match tickets for his aides … Three months ago, the mayor caused a near-riot at City Hall by forbidding his secretary to let free tickets come into his office, The Times says … A father sues Pacific Electric over an accident that required the amputation of his toddler’s right arm … A judge berates reds for wanting a jury trial, saying that such things hamper the wheels of justice … Col. Harris Weinstock talks about "The Political and Social Status of the Jew in America"
… And the streets are in terrible shape because of heavy loads of dirt being hauled through the city.
March 4, 1958
A midtown resident was awakened at 2 a.m. recently by a woman
screaming outside his apartment. He rushed to the phone and called
police.
Before he could fully give the circumstances he was
asked his name and phone number. For reasons of his own he refused to
give them.
The request was politely repeated. "What’s that got
to do with it?" he demanded. "I gave you the address, didn’t I? She’s
out there now, in distress of some kind. Isn’t that enough?"
He was reminded that he wasn’t being cooperative. "Forget it!" he snapped, and hung up.
"From here on," he told me over the phone, "I don’t care what happens. I’m never going to call them again."
He
was reminded that the people on the police complaint board were merely
following procedure and that they receive many calls from
mischief-makers, practical jokers, cranks and crackpots.
"I don’t care," he said, "I’ve had it."
That’s today’s stalemate. By the way, I wonder what happened to the lady who was screaming.
THE POLITICAL season
is upon us and this is to report that a 234-foot electric dredge two
miles offshore is creating a breakwater at L.A. Harbor to be used as
dock space. The huge, dragonlike monster with its two-mile
"tail"–pipe, that is–will remove "approximately 1,440,000 cubic yards
of muck from the bottom of the ocean to form the new land area,"
according to the newsletter Expediter. That’s a lot of muck. Anybody
want to try for 2,880,000?
ONLY IN
Santa Monica–Someone recently painted "Jesus Saves" on a retaining
wall on the Pacific Coast Highway just north of Sunset Boulevard. A
short time later it was changed to read, "Jesus Saves at Bank of
America." As Neil McDonald passed a few days ago men in business suits
were painting out the last four words. Next week, Security?
THE WAY Frank Goldberg
tells it, a retired businessman bought his own bleak little island and
a broken-down, three-master vessel and was showing the surrounding bay
to some friends. It was rocky, forbidding and almost inaccessible,
prompting one friend to whisper to another, "How can he possibly sail
in this bight?" Cracked the other, "If you think this is bad, wait’ll
you see the boat. Believe me–his barque is worse than his bight."
QUOTE & UNQUOTE — Everyone
has heard someone referred to as a "musician’s musician" or an "actor’s
actor" or a "ballplayer’s ballplayer." Well, Rudy Cleye heard a patron
in the Blarney Castle remark loftily, "I like to think of myself as a
beer drinker’s beer drinker" … Freddie Shaw: "When juveniles start
calling them Boy Scout shivs instead of knives that’s when I take to
the hills" … Scotty Rosenberg: "I must be getting old. I can remember
when people used to count up, not down."
AT RANDOM —
A returned traveler reports a dress shop in Arizona has a sign, "The
Bustle–Deceitful Little Seat Full." And a restaurant, "If you don’t
like the way this place is run, pay the owner $100,000 and run it to
suit yourself" … Alan Ferber claims he listened to TV for three hours
the other night without once hearing the phrase, "And now a message
from our alternate sponsor." Hard to believe … In step with the trend
toward horror movies, a one-shot magazine, "Famous Monsters of
Filmland," is on the stands. Sample title: "Every monster has a ghoul
friend." My, my … If a Redondo Beach lady hadn’t seen it she wouldn’t
have believed it, but she did–a youngster putting soy sauce on ice
cream.
March 4, 1958
Oct. 3, 1957–A former Santa Monica councilman was announced as
winner of the $140,000 capital prize in the Irish Sweepstakes today.
Jack Guercio, 49, had a ticket on Stephanotis, which brought home his $140,000 by winning the Cambridgeshire Handicap.
Guercio
resides at 1703 Maple St. with his wife, Pauline, and two youngest
sons, Vincent, 17, and Jackie Jr., 13. His oldest son, Ronald, 23, is
married.
Mrs. Guercio, overwhelmed by her husband’s fortune, told reporters:
"I’d like a trip to Honolulu for the whole family, and maybe a new car."
At the time of Jack Guercio’s
windfall, I figured he was too damn blase about the whole affair. And
if there’s anything that annoys me, it’s a man who can keep his wits
about him after winning $140,000.
So, for the last few months I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for Guercio to get his hands on that green–and to go stark raving out of his mind, like any respectable amateur gambler would do.
Then, I figured, I’d call him up. And let him pour our his soul to me–about how he frittered all those beautiful green dollars.
So yesterday I phoned him.
"Paul Coates," I said. "How’s everything going, Jack?"
"Fine," he said. "Just fine."
"The wife?"
"Fine."
"The $140,000?"
"The what?" he demanded.
"The $140,000," I repeated.
"Oh," he said. "That! That’s fine too–what there’s left of it."
Now I was getting somewhere. "Been having a ball, eh?" I pressed.
Guercio laughed, casually. "I mean what’s left of it after the income tax men took theirs."
"I see," I said. "But how about your share?"
"Like I told you," he repeated, "it’s fine."
"Bought a lot of nice luxuries with it, I’ll bet?"
"No," he said.
"New house?"
"No."
"But you DID redecorate the old one," I insisted. "After all, it’s been over four months."
Guercio chuckled evenly. "Not yet. But we’re thinking about it."
"The mortgage, then. You’ve paid that off."
"No," was the reply. "Not yet."
The
man was being difficult. "So," I finally ventured, "you took the wife
and kids on that luxury cruise to Hawaii, like she wanted. Like she’d
always dreamed of."
There was a pause. Finally, Guercio answered: "As a matter of fact, no."
"Come
on, Jack," I pleaded. "You’ve been swamped with all kinds of offers.
Trips. yachts. Expensive cars. You must have bitten on some of them."
"Paul, it’s surprising. But hardly anybody’s pestered us at all."
"The money!" I demanded. "The money? Where is it?"
Guercio laughed, harshly. "It may be gathering dust but it’s gathering interest too. Something for the boys’ education."
"You mean to say," I asked, "You didn’t even make a trip?"
Guercio
told me that he didn’t mean to say anything of the kind. "Didn’t you
hear? My wife and I took the two youngest boys over to Ireland."
"Then you did squander some of it?"
"What happened," Guercio
explained, "is that I went to my local bank and they refused to collect
our winnings for us. They didn’t want to get involved. So I figured–"
"So you blew a big chunk of it on a fancy trip to Europe," I interrupted.
"Well," Guercio admitted. "The four of us did go. It was a very pleasant vacation."
"Wastrel," I hissed half-heartedly, hanging up.
March 4, 1958
Los Angeles
Late one night in his cell at the County Jail, in fitful sleep,
convicted killer L. Ewing Scott had a dream: An arm … his missing
wife’s arm … bloody … wrapped in newspapers … her wedding ring
still on her finger … Where? … beach…. Corona … Corona del Mar.
Yes! Near the beach home of William H. Brawner, one of his wife’s
friends. That’s where the arm was. Go there, find the arm and get me
out of this murder rap.
And like a half-remembered dream that evaporates upon awakening, the
details in this footnote to the Scott case are foggy and indistinct,
grisly and contradictory. Impossible, but somehow true.
Some characters in our absurd, macabre drama tell the truth. Some of
them lie. Some of them lie and change their stories to other lies–or
maybe the truth. Dreams are like that.
In addition to Scott, there are two private investigators named Richard
Mowery and Frank Massad, defense attorney P. Basil Lambros, two
chiropractors named Victor L. Hite and Rudy Salomons, several police
officers and, hot off the Confidential Magazine trial, private
investigator Fred Otash. Then there’s guest star Leo Carrillo, who
played Pancho in "The Cisco Kid" TV show.
Oh, I almost forgot Lambros’ $5,000 reward for proof that Evelyn Scott was still alive.
The plot, based on The Times’ stories, went something like this:
Lambros apparently told homicide detectives that they should search
Brawner’s home for "evidence." In the meantime, Massad, who worked for
Lambros as a private detective, was promised half of everything Scott
owned in return for coming up with a woman’s arm. Scott also told
Massad where he had hidden his missing wife’s wedding ring to support
the claim that these were his wife’s remains. The fingerprints would be
taken care of … somehow.
To complicate things, Mowery, a freelance private investigator who said he had worked on the Sam Sheppard
case, approached Lambros with the idea of helping exonerate Scott by
showing that his wife was living in Mexico. Mowery was given permission
to proceed on his own, which he did.
According to testimony, finding a woman’s arm was more difficult than
expected. Mowery mentioned to Salomons, his chiropractor, that he was
about to cash in on a big deal and wanted Salomons to help him find an
arm and some blood. Salomons and his partner, Hite, pretended to go
along with the scheme but didn’t believe it for a minute.
When that fell through, Mowery thought of approaching a TV actor he
knew from Cincinnati, Duncan Renaldo of "The Cisco Kid," in hopes of
persuading him to testify that he had seen Evelyn Scott in Mexico. When
he couldn’t get in touch with Renaldo, he decided to approach Renaldo’s
TV sidekick, Leo Carrillo.
Mowery and Frank Stuckel, a probationary police officer from Santa
Monica, called on Carrillo. They showed him Evelyn Scott’s wedding ring
and tried to persuade him to testify that he had seen her in Rio de
Janeiro. The only problem was that Carrillo had never been to Rio.
The
actor said: "Do you realize what you are doing? Do you want me to
perjure myself?"
They said: "That’s about it."
Instead of gaining Carrillo as a conspirator, he reported them to the
district attorney’s office, which took the case to the grand jury.
Somewhere along the line, two Newport Beach police officers caught
Massad and Mowery prowling around Brawner’s home at 3:30 a.m. in Ewing
Scott’s car. The private investigators were released after claiming
that they were working for Lambros on the Scott case, the officers
said.
The bizarre drama ended up before the grand jury, which indicted Massad
and Mowery on charges of preparing false evidence and obstructing
justice. Massad was found not guilty. Mowery pleaded guilty and
sentenced to 166 days in jail, the exact amount of time he had been
held because he couldn’t make bail.
He promised to leave town, The Times said.
You’re wondering how Otash figured into this crazy mess. Here’s the
answer: Mowery and Massad borrowed a small wire recorder from Otash to
interview jurors after Scott’s conviction. But instead,
Otash said, Massad recorded an enraged Scott complaining that Mowery
and Lambros had gone to Carrillo. No, Otash didn’t have the recording any longer. He said he erased when the private detectives said they didn’t need it.
And if L. Ewing Scott had any more dreams, he apparently kept them to himself.
March 4, 1968
Let’s get this straight: You have two kids, you’re pregnant, and you "can’t imagine how this happened." All right, I won’t make fun of your predicament. This guy is a heel and you sure don’t want to be married to any man who would take advantage of a woman in your circumstances. He is not primo husband bait. He is loser-rama (why do you think he’s single in the first place, eh?) As for the child, I will pray that he or she found a loving home whether it was with you or someone else … Dear Perplexed, sit the 5-year-old "holy terror" in front of the TV set for a day of cartoons (Bugs Bunny! Speedy Gonzales! The Roadrunner!) and he’ll be your friend forever. Problem solved! … Dear Long Beach, I would imagine your married friends are worried about having a single woman around their husbands. I could introduce you to a man named Percy who loves to dance! And the Confidential to Chris … Sounds more to me like some secret message to Soviet agents.
Above, a Jack Smith piece on religious figure Daddy Grace. Click at the bottom of the post to read the entire column. Below, a very dull news day in The Times. So dull, in fact, that I’m adding the Mirror just to contrast the story play.
