March 1, 1938
Los Angeles
Reinforcements pour into Graz, Austria, in an effort gain control over Nazi unrest. Below, The Times spills lots of ink over "industrial freedom" … Officers are assigned to protect vegetable peddler George Sakalis, a witness in the Harry Raymond bombing, by following him on his route … And training for the "Welcomettes," who greet visitors at the downtown hospitality center, 505 W. 6th St.
Pat Garrett, the man who killed Billy the Kid, dies by the gun … An update on the Great White Fleet …
Grisly details about a crash in which a car ran into a train … And priests in Chicago are under guard.
Note, below, that the Hancock home, which was obviously torn down years ago, had a pipe organ. I wonder what became of it. And there was room for an orchestra.
Feb. 29, 1968
Some evil person asked me to run a "Dear Abby," so here it is. How will this poor woman’s daughter ever marry a doctor and get into the country club if she doesn’t learn to sort laundry? Who on earth would want a steak dinner at a restaurant instead of a home-cooked meal? And Percy, aren’t you a caution, dumping your date and dancing with a waitress–and a married one at that! America is tearing itself apart over the war in Vietnam, the sexual revolution is underway, and Abby is writing about sorting laundry. No wonder we used to talk about whether things were "relevant."
Update: I’m so upset by this I may have to make a spot of tea.
Photograph by Larry Harnisch / Los Angeles Times
The new police headquarters under construction at Spring and 2nd streets, Feb. 28, 2008.
Faye Dunaway talks with Kevin Thomas about life since "Bonnie and Clyde" … Romney drops out of the presidential race–doesn’t that sound familiar? …
According to reports, President Johnson is preparing to mobilize Marine
reservists and National Guard troops to expand the war in Vietnam …
The secretary of Defense (Robert S. McNamara) steps down … Let me
check the date. Is this really 1968? More Faye Dunaway on the jump.
Quote of the day: "Sometimes I think the only responsibility art has is honesty and it’s not John Wayne coming over the hill victoriously." –Faye Dunaway
Above, the Stoddard-Dayton ($58,265.68 USD 2007). Drivers prepare for the annual Pasadena-Altadena Hill Climb, an important event in motor sports in early 20th century Los Angeles. The race course started at Orange Grove and went up Los Robles, took a turn to Santa Rosa and ended at Lake Avenue. Unfortunately, the route changed slightly over the years and today’s maps and the vague descriptions in The Times make it a bit difficult to determine the precise route. One account noted that dozens of bungalows had sprouted up near the finish line, hampering the drivers–and the new streetcar tracks had become an annoying hazard … A mining engineer shoots a wealthy widow after she allegedly threw a cup of sulfuric acid in his face.
Feb. 28, 1958
There’s a widespread belief among cynics that civilization hangs by a
gossamer thread and if it ever falls it will be because of a trivial
miscue somewhere, not, as others think, from a covey of guided missiles.
This is to report another near miss.
It has to do with the printed cards sent residents of North Hollywood
giving the year’s dates for the collection of noncombustible rubbish by
the city bureau of sanitation.
There it is, unmistakably printed on the cards, Feb. 29–tomorrow.
NOW, IF you’re not sure, a quick look at the calendar will reveal there is no Feb. 29. Not this year, anyway.
Clearly, somewhere around City Hall there lurks a printer who doesn’t
trust calendars, almanacs, soothsayers or North Hollywood. Or perhaps
he has been disappointed in love and disapproves of leap year sneaking
up on innocent people every four years.
However, he played it safe. He made it Feb. 29-March 1.
Hugh G. Kelley Sr. of North Hollywood, who was momentarily shaken by
the date on his card, would like the bureau of sanitation to know that
he is putting out his trash March 1, not. Feb. 29.
THAT PIXIE who
likes to create consternation in crowded elevators is at it again. He
remarked casually to a companion in a Spring Street lift, "I was
chatting with a lady wino of my acquaintance–oh never mind, I’ll tell
you about it later."
THE TWO-HORSE parlay of the year was perpetrated last Friday.
Naturally, the lucky guy insists on anonymity because of snooping revenuers.
He gave $10 to a friend who was going to Santa Anita and told him to
put it on the nose of Wish U Well in the second race and parlay the
winnings, if any, to Money Maker in the fourth.
Both won. Wish U Well paying $110.50 and Money Maker $54.10–returning more than $14,000.
But let all horse players offer a moment of silence for the resolution
of the proxy bettor in putting the $552.50 he collected on the first
horse on the second, a 26-1 shot. Chances are if the winner had been
there he’d have let it go at that or blown it on some favorite.
LIFE HASN’T BEEN quite
the same for Edward D. Mitchell, 68, L.A. insurance executive, since he
received a National Urban League award for his policy of hiring persons
regardless of race.
The story went out on AP and Mitchell has been receiving a deluge of
mail from all over asking for money, guidance and, in one instance, if
he would finance a divorce.
The topper came the other day from a man who wished to become his chauffeur–as soon as he got out of prison in Oklahoma.
AT RANDOM — A
Wilshire district housewife engaged a new cleaning lady who said her
name was Patience, although it didn’t sound like that when she said it.
The housewife asked her to spell it and she did: P-a-s-h-i-o-n …
Recommended reading: Clifton Fadiman’s essay in Holiday on writers. It
includes this provocative sentence: "For most men life is a search for
the proper manila folder in which to get themselves filed" … When
Beverly Hills High School students who are going steady break up they
say they’re "getting a divorce" … Walter Winchell inquired in print
if the LAPD intelligence bureau hasn’t the lowdown on the Marie
McDonald kidnapping and if it doesn’t involve a former Detroit hoodlum
now in legitimate business. Hmmmm … That pretty young woman you see
at Union Station guiding the confused is Mabel Sue Richardson. Her
title: passenger director.
Feb. 28, 1958
The following is not to be construed as against womanhood.
Because, in all sincerity, I think women are necessary.
They serve a purpose.
Just like trees and oceans and poison ivy, they’re part of the scheme of things.
In fact, they’re one of the more attractive parts of the scheme of things. They’re nice. I like them.
But they bother me.
Of all the female species, they’re the most sensitive, defensive irrational people I know.
Basically, they’re a miserable, unhappy lot.
But suggest to them that they themselves might be partially responsible
for their uncomfortable, awkward position in American society, and
you’ll be attacked by an avalanche.
I did it, last week, indirectly. I ran an interview with a man whose platform was to put the American woman back in the home.
He even intimated that it might be an idea to take the Levi’s and motorcycle boots off of her.
This, maybe, is being a little severe.
It’s attacking–or at least it sounds like it is–all women for the actions of a few.
But the problem comes with the realization that the "few" are growing in number, rather than diminishing.
They have moved into pants, into bars, into cuss-down contests and into
the dominant figure in too many American homes. They’ve invaded the
most stenchy corners of the male domain.
Today, there’s nothing a man can’t do bad that a woman–with a little effort and encouragement–can’t do worse.
I, for one, am quite willing to admit that the male is as responsible, if not more responsible, for the evolution.
We botched. We didn’t live up to the obligations and duties of our sex.
We allowed the woman to move in and take over our responsibilities, and then we treated her with a crude lack of deference.
Most men are willing to admit this.
The man I interviewed last week was.
But ask a woman?
I’d guess that 90% of the calls and correspondence I received following
last week’s column was from two women who felt the male was 100% to
blame.
There were no maybes, no ifs.
Even women who claimed perfect husbands, perfect homes, perfect
adjustment, came to the aid of their less fortunate, more masculine
sisters.
It’s all man’s fault, they told me.
I’m afraid that so long as we men go on playing willing scapegoats for
the abnormal behavior of women, they can rationalize their invasion of
our responsibilities and vulgarities.
And they can go right on recruiting their sisters.
MIDNIGHT MEMOS: Miyoshi Umeki (you heard me, what I said) opened at Mocambo the other night.
The young Japanese film star, who has won an Academy nomination for her
performance in "Sayonara," has all the necessary ingredients for a top
nightclub act. She is lovely looking, has a warm, husky voice quality
and a charming sense of humor.
If there was any lack on opening night, it was that her selection of
numbers was not too well chosen. A little advice on what a good, strong
closing song means would help her considerably.
Her costar is baritone Johnny O’Neill, who has been here before, but fared considerably better this time out.
Ringsiders included the Harry Jamesons, Claudette Colbert, Dr. Joel
Pressman and the Bill Goetzes. There were others, but it was too dark
to see.
Regular reader Callbox Sam passes along a photo showing the Pacific Electric building on Hill Street. Hmm. This doesn’t look like the drawing in the Feb. 28, 1908, Times. Aha! Note that the story says the 1908 station is only going to be a temporary facility until another terminal is built on the site of the Masonic Temple — shown in this picture. So I would assume this station is just to the north of the current Subway Terminal Building.
Studio executive Harry Cohn dies … On the jump, the rest of the Cohn obituary … A man commits suicide by jumping from the Subway Terminal Building … Pilot whale Bubbles "celebrates" a year in captivity … The Fire Department rescues a boy who was trying to trap pigeons beneath the 4th Street bridge over the Los Angeles River … And Gene Sherman’s column.
Paul Wright, found not guilty of killing his wife and best friend while they were doing something that couldn’t be printed in The Times, walks out of jail and hopes to be a forgotten man … World War I hero Gen John "Black Jack" Pershing lingers near death … Note the lead story from Graz, Austria, where forces are trying to block a Nazi march to Vienna. As a reader pointed out, the police chief of Graz in this era was a fellow named Gustav Schwarzenegger.
Now this is interesting: Plans for a new Pacific Electric depot on the west side of Hill Street between 4th and 5th. Hm. Isn’t the Subway Terminal Building on Hill Street between 4th and 5th? Sure is … Powdered eggs … A man commits suicide by stepping in front of a switch engine … A court ruling may affect the sentence of Michael Meskil in the slaying of a Officer Patrick Lyons … And an adopted child tries to find his biological parents …
Feb. 27, 1958
John Cusic, 25, a Northrop Aircraft worker, his wife, Irma, and their
daughter, Pamela, 5, drove to the downtown district of Fullerton one
day recently to pay some bills.
As Mrs. Cusic came out of a utilities office on Spadra Street, her
husband picked up a plastic pistol on the seat, pointed it playfully at
her and snarled in accepted gangster fashion, "Come on, get in!" Their
daughter plays Annie Oakley with the pistol.
They drove off and stopped at several more places to pay bills, unaware
that two teenage boys on bicycles had seen the pistol-pointing and
excitedly reported it and the car’s license number to police.
AS THEY stopped at a doctor’s office they noticed a police car behind them but thought nothing of it.
And then suddenly outside a market they were surrounded by three police
cars and five motorcycle officers. Red lights flashed and an officer
with his real gun drawn ordered them out of the car. He saw quickly
that the pistol was a toy, of course, and after a few questions the
tension dissipated.
But it proved a fine dry run for the gendarmes and a lesson for
everyone. The Cusics were "apprehended" 17 minutes after an APB went
out on the "kidnapping."
Hereafter they’re keeping the plastic pistol at home.
THE SOCIETY to Discourage Dimly Lit Restaurants will come to order.
A bon vivant named Tom ordered some canapes (it’s easier to spell than
hors d’oeuvres) in an elegant Palm Springs spa and a lady named Ann, a
member of the party, dipped what she thought was an Oriental tidbit
into the hot sauce and began chewing. Turned out to be a tiny Turkish
towel, pre-soaked in warm water, for wiping the hands after eating the
real canapes.
THE WAY George
Q. Ibid heard it, a Frenchman went into a wine shop and asked for his
favorite Bordeaux. He found it only in small bottles and asked if it
were available in larger sizes. "Oh yes," said the clerk, "we have the
bigger bottles in the cellar."
"Eh bien," beamed the Frenchman, "take me to your liter."
AND IF THAT doesn’t
shake you up, Bill Graydon has been speculating on a possible
aftermath to the AP story from Hong Kong stating the Chinese Communists
have banned such degenerate, reactionary juke box tunes as "Love for
Sale" in favor of numbers like "I Want to Cooperate With My Commissar."
As Bill sees it, this harsh crackdown doubtless will cause the Peiping
sideburn set to reminisce about the good old days when their favorite
was "Give Me That Old Soft Chou."
AIRY NONSENSE — Lee
Goodman reports that when he boarded a plane in S.F. on what is
advertised as a "red carpet" flight to L.A. the stuff he walked on was
definitely linoleum … And while on a nonstop flight from S.F. to
Chicago, Jimmy Baker, producer of "Stars of Jazz" got to talking with
an elderly lady who thought she was going to L.A. Wrong plane, proving
it can happen.
AROUND TOWN — The
driver of a mail truck misjudged the distance as he stopped for a
pickup at Wilshire and Westlake Avenue and rammed the mailbox. Yep,
Jean Gelber said it: "The mail must go through!" … Bob Keeshan, who
portrays the 60-year-old Capt. Kangaroo on KNXT at 7 a.m. is only 30.
Incidentally, he used to be the Clarabelle of the Howdy Doody
children’s show … A bar on Pico Boulevard near Hoover which is
getting a face lift has a large sign in front, "Open During
Altercations." But all was peaceful as Bill Biggers drove by … A
knight in armor is picketing the Old Curiosity Shop, 8629 Melrose Ave.,
carrying a sign stating the place is "Unfair to Other Antique Dealers"
because its prices are so low. Only in L.A.
Feb. 27, 1958
This is a story that never ends.
It started two years ago when a man in his early 20s came into my
office. He had a problem: Heroin. He’d had it for three or four years.
He wanted to do something about it, he told me. Maybe he just wanted to talk about it–but at least to him that was something.
We talked, I remember. He told me about his wife and two kids. In
return, I offered what encouragement, what stimulation I could. I think
I mentioned a hospital or two.
And he left.
I never heard from him again–until, that is, last Monday. This time he
phoned me. He said it was pretty important that I come to see him at
his home. It was a story for me.
I said I’d try, and he told me it was very important. So I said I would.
And the following afternoon, I did. That was Tuesday.
His wife answered the door. She was blond and didn’t look old enough to
be the mother of the two girls–ages maybe 6 and 4–at her side. She
invited me in.
It’s OK," she called to her husband. He appeared from another room.
Switching a glass of orange juice from his right hand to his left, he shook hands with me.
"I didn’t think you’d come," he said.
His wife ushered the two children out of the room and he and I sat down and talked.
He filled me in on the last couple of years.
"I took your advice," he said. "I went to Fort Worth. To the hospital."
He let me wait a minute before he continued.
"But–well. I got impatient. I split. I cut out."
The reason? He was worried about his wife and kids. He came back to town and started working. He was all right.
For a year he was, anyway. Then he fell back with the same bad crowd and the same bad habit.
As we talked, my friend cast repeated glances at the window. Twice, in
the period of half an hour, he asked me to step to the back of the
house.
Both times, his wife went to the door and said no, her husband wasn’t home.
"Those hypes," he growled. "They never quit. They come by like it’s a parde.
"Hypes," he said, disdainfully.
Then he explained. He said he’d kicked it this time, on his own. This, he told me, was the eighth day.
He waved a fresh glass of orange juice at me. "Today’s the first day I’ve been able to keep it down."
I asked him if that was why he’d called me, why he wanted me to come over.
"That’s part of it," he said. "The other part’s the reason why I
kicked." He led me to a bedroom and showed me a baby, maybe 3, 4 weeks
old.
"A boy this time," he said. "He needs a man for a father."
We talked for a while longer and I asked about the men who had come to the door. "How come you didn’t talk to them?"
"Not yet," he told me. "Maybe in two months, a month. Then I’ll walk right by them on the street and I won’t bat an eye."
I was invited for dinner, but I said I had to leave. I wished them both a lot of luck. I told them to keep in touch.
And I figured, I suppose, that maybe I’d hear from them in a couple more years.
But I was wrong.
My friend phoned again yesterday. "I’m sorry," he said. "I’m real sorry. I goofed."
"What happened?" I asked.
"I answered the door."
[Note: The Daily Mirror mourns the passing of Vivian Sheehan, speech therapist who worked with Paul Coates after his 1966 stroke].
Feb. 27, 1938
Los Angeles
It’s Sunday in Los Angeles, time for the funnies, like "Smokey Stover," one of the most eccentric American comic strips. Above, Crenshaw Boulevard and Vernon Avenue. Today, we would probably call this area Leimert Park … Below, an event that reminds me of the Raymond Chandler line about "standing out like spats at the Iowa Picnic" … and Earle Kynette remains in jail in the Harry Raymond bombing. On the jump, meter readers in Chinatown.
An interesting slice of life in Los Angeles a century ago: If you have ever seen old pictures of downtown you know the significance of the story about removing excess utility poles. The streetscapes in the old days were a tangle of overhead wires … The toxic effect of fake jewelry … A doctor uses fright in an attempt to awaken Beulah Hawkins, the unfortunate comatose woman at county hospital … An actor getting off a streetcar at 4th and Hill falls over a pile of dirt and is hit by another streetcar. But the show goes on … More than $1 million in scrip, used "in lieu of cash during the dull days" is incinerated.
