A courtroom crowded with people hoping to hear juicy details in a murder trial… Animal cruelty in the Antelope Valley … Complaints about the mails … A pioneer returns to find Los Angeles greatly changed in his absence … And a man is hit by a streetcar in Bukowski Square. Note that the illustration was done by a Japanese artist, M. Kosai.
Jan. 15, 1958
No one wants to disillusion the
politicians, a high-minded group, but duty dictates that a conversation
between two fortyish women in the Crenshaw shopping district be
recorded.
When George Watkins first encountered them they were
eating hot dogs and waiting their turn at a table set up by a deputy
registrar of voters outside a drugstore.
Realizing the
processing was slower than anticipated, the more determined of the pair
said, "Let’s register after we go into the drugstore." The other said
OK.
THEY CAME OUT a few minutes later, eating ice cream cones, and the first said, "What are you, a Republican or a Democrat?"
"I don’t know," was the reply, "what are you?"
"I don’t know either," said the first. Then she said, "I got an
idea." She plucked a coin from her purse and said, "If it’s heads, you
be a Republican and I’ll be a Democrat. If it’s tails, I’ll be a
Republican and you be a Democrat."
The other said that would be fine and the coin was flipped.
Cringing slightly, George moved out of hearing range. He couldn’t take any more.
NO MATTER what
you hear to the contrary, it’s still a practical world. Louise Kay
Thompson, who operates an antique shop on South Sepulveda Boulevard,
reports that she has recently consummated the following sales: A wooden
potato masher to tamp garbage down the disposer. A tin trunk for a dog
bed. A big wooden salad bowl for a cat bed (so it won’t sharpen its
claws on the furniture). A tobacco cutter for chopping off fish heads
on a fishing boat. A workman’s lunch pail for a handbag. A large China
cookie jar for a bathroom wastebasket.
THE KIDS are
at it again. A young Rolling Hills mother says, "My 3-year-old girl
keeps running around, saying, ‘I’m a mashed potato.’ " How do I
convince her she isn’t?" … And Harry Cimring reports his 5-year-old
returned from kindergarten singing, "Joshua hit the bottle of Geritol,
Geritol, Geritol. Joshua hit the bottle of Geritol and the walls came
tumbling down."
BILLY PEARSON,
the jockey who won all that money answering questions about art on TV
quiz shows, has opened his own gallery in La Jolla, where he now lives.
However, a reporter trying to reach him by phone was told by the
operator there was no listing for him. The reporter finally got the
number from the Chamber of Commerce. And what is the name of the
gallery? Bill Pearson’s Fine Arts. Such is fame.
AVIATION WEEK has
an item datelined San Diego about the driver of a huge truck hauling an
Atlas ICBM from the Convair plant to Cape Canaveral, Fla., being
stopped and cited by a California Highway patrolman. The
charge–illegally using flashing red lights. So the driver kept them
off until he came to the Arizona state line, then turned them on.
We not only can’t (always) get our missiles off the ground, we can’t get them out of traffic.
AT RANDOM–Ruth
Anderson of San Bernardino doesn’t like the new dress styles either. As
she puts it, "Who’s the bag in the sack?" … Sudden irrelevant
thought: Wonder if Public Relations Consultants, 9235 W. 3rd St., ever
consult, seek counsel or communicate with Communications Counselors of
Inc. 8720 Sunset Blvd. Or vice versa … It must have occurred to
Walter O’Malley that we’ve got a pretty smart team of dodgers here
already … Anonymous message left on my typewriter: "Only one thing
was missing from Jayne Mansfield’s quiet little wedding–Elvis singing
‘O Promise Me.’ "
Jan. 14, 1968
UCLA’s Lew Alcindor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) injures his eye in a game against Cal. Will he be ready for the Game of the Century on Jan. 20, 1968, against Houston in the Astrodome?
Jan. 15, 1958
I talk to a lot of men who are fresh out of prison. I do because each
one has a story–usually each is in bad need of someone to listen.
So I do.
I listen as each one alternately curses and praises society and curses and praises himself.
Ninety-nine times out of 100 I don’t go to them. They come to me.
But yesterday was the 100th time–the exception.
I made the initial contact.
I did, because I heard the man’s story when he was released and I felt at the time that it was one worth hearing firsthand.
At my request, the man came to my office. He sat in the chair across my desk. And we started at the beginning.
"When was it," I asked, "that you were picked up?"
"June 15, 1953," he said.
"And the charge?"
"Well, they told me I had illegally concealed some land deeds."
He smiled, like he knew the whole thing was trumped up.
"But it wasn’t true?" I asked.
The man shook his head. "No. It wasn’t. They found some land deeds in
my room. But they were expired. Worthless. Certainly, there was nothing
illegal about them."
"There were some others picked up at the same time, weren’t there?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yes," he answered. "Some of them are still in prison."
"Were they held on the same charges?"
"No," was the answer. "We were charged with various crimes." The man
moved uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.
I lit his cigarette for him.
"What happened at your trial?" I said.
"My trial–if you can call it that–didn’t come up until more than two
years after I was arrested. When the guard led me into the courtroom,
he said, ‘You’ve come to receive your sentence.’ I was given four
years."
"You never admitted that you were guilty of anything though?"
"No," he said, "I didn’t."
He paused in thought, and began again:
"Actually, I guess I did. I agreed with them that I had broken the law
on some money affairs. You understand how it is. They have ways of
making you say things."
"You mean," I said, "brutality?"
"Oh, no. I wouldn’t accuse the guards or officers who interrogated me
of brutality. All the time I was in prison I was only hit–struck
physically–once. A guard did it but he was excited. It was during a
questioning session when everybody was pretty excited."
"Then how about the treatment generally?"
"It was a strenuous routine," he answered. "There were times when other
prisoners and I were forced to sit up against the cell wall for hours.
We couldn’t talk. We couldn’t move–even to change positions
slightly–except with permission from the guards.
"Sometimes," he continued, "as punishment they’d make us sit straight
up in the middle of a room. I had a slipped spinal disk and had to be
taken to the hospital because of it. They’d do other things, too, if
you weren’t co-operating–like putting cinders in your food."
"How about the treatment just before you were released?" I said.
"Better. Much better. They want you to leave with pleasant memories, I guess. In honesty, they’re nothing but dedicated liars."
I asked my visitor, now that he was a free man, what he planned to do.
"I hope to eventually go back there," he said, "to go back and work in Red China once again."
And then my guest, Missionary Father Alexander Houle, stood up. We shook hands and he left.
Walter Ames in The Times, May 28, 1954
Yes, today is the anniversary of Elizabeth Short’s murder. As is my custom, I will be cutting back my roses today, which is one way I honor her memory. I also make an annual donation in her name to Shelter Inc., which works with homeless and abused women in the Medford, Mass., area.
Photograph by Larry Harnisch / Los Angeles Times
Here’s another picture I got on my recent outing to Main Street. It was truly a beautiful day.
And by the way, Jeremy Hansen tells Ed Fuentes at View From a Loft that he has the Craby Joe’s sign and that it will be restored by the Museum of Neon Art. Bukowski Square smiles.
George M. Cohan’s "45 Minutes From Broadway" … R.F. Outcault at performances of "Buster Brown" … Victor Herbert’s "The Tattooed Man" … At least 167 die when the Rhodes Opera House burns in Boyertown, Pa. in what will be deemed the ninth-deadliest fire in U.S. history.
Jan. 14, 1958
Judges try not to smile, no matter how ridiculous the charade unfolding
before them becomes. Sometimes they hold back only with great
difficulty.
A woman seeking a divorce in Judge Burnett Wolfson’s court was asked on
what grounds she sought her freedom. She replied that, among other
things, her husband used obscene language.
The judge asked what it was. She said it was so foul she couldn’t repeat it aloud.
SO THE JUDGE asked her to whisper it to the court reporter, who in turn whispered it to him.
When her corroborating witness took the stand, she said also that the husband’s language was awful and couldn’t be repeated.
Then how, asked the judge, did she know what it was?
"Oh," she replied matter-of-factly, "we rehearsed it all before we came down here."
THE SENATOR Hotel in
Sacramento is traditionally the place where legislators, lobbyists and
people with expense accounts gather to make plans, discuss deals and
conspire generally for or against the taxpayers.
Well, the Senator gets out a daily mimeographed single-sheet news
bulletin and a few days ago it had this intriguing typo: "Sacramento
weather: Mostly cloudy. Occasional raid today."
MEDICAL SCIENCE may be aghast to learn of the experience of a West L.A. woman.
She was cleaning out her medicine cabinet and a bottle containing
sleeping pills fell on the floor and spilled. She though nothing of it
until she looked down and saw her dog, a poodle which will eat
anything, gulping them down. A few moments later the pooch was curled
up in blissful sleep.
Alarmed, she tried to rouse him. She got him to his feet, thinking to
make him walk off the effect of the drug, but his legs would wobble,
collapse and he’d fall down.
Then inspiration came. She forced him to swallow some Benzedrine
pills–pepper-uppers. After a while, the dog got up, dashed out of the
house and picked a fight with several larger dogs and came home with
wounds to prove it.
He is now back to normal.
THERE WILL BE no ceremony on the City Hall steps, but today marks the 20th anniversary of a major event in L.A. political history.
It was on Jan. 14, 1938, an old-timer reminds, that a bomb exploded as
Harry J. Raymond, a private investigator, started his car, critically
injuring him.
It had been planted there by Capt. Earle E. Kynette, head of the LAPD intelligence squad, who went to San Quentin for the crime.
The blast blew the lid off a maze of intrigue and graft involving men
high in city government. Its repercussions still can be heard without
benefit of wire-tap evidence.
Ironically, the gamblers and racketeers who were involved in the
conspiracy fled to Las Vegas, where they have continued to amass wealth
at the expense of visiting L.A. suckers.
The moral is clouded in the mist.
MISCELLANY — The typed
agenda for tonight’s meeting of the Inglewood Park Recreation
Commission lists as the only item of Old Business: "Architect’s
relocation of water closet in ladies’ rest room, Inglewood Recreation
Center"… Mike, the copy boy, reports seeing a 1950 Ford in North
Hollywood with a sign on its badly dented rear, "Please, Ladies–Not
Again!"… Let’s pretend we didn’t see the slogan "The Catillac of Pet
Foods" … Have you noticed the new firetrucks have wipers both outside
and inside the windshields? In case it rains on the inside, of course.
Jan. 14, 1958
This is the story of one kid. He lives here. His name is Gene. But with
a few alterations it could be the story of any of 10,000 kids who live
here. Or maybe 100,000 kids.
But I’m just going to talk about Gene.
I’m going to tell you how his trouble started.
They started, according to the man I talked to, because Gene didn’t look quite like all the other kids looked.
He had some sort of a skin disease, which sometimes blotched his face and arms and legs.
He had a mother, with a college background, who worked as a secretary.
He had a father who was a fairly important union official in town.
Gene’s parents, of course, had each other. But they weren’t especially
happy about it. So, to make their individual lives more pleasant, each
picked up a private lover.
That’s what the man told me, anyway.
He also told me how Gene found out about it, and how he reacted to it.
Gene, he said, gradually became a pretty irresponsible kid.
For no reason, he started skipping school. He refused to do his
homework. He picked up the habit of smoking, but got his biggest kick
out of doing it on the grounds of his junior high, where other kids
could watch him.
His parents were told about what he was doing.
But they didn’t do anything about it.
Because, I guess, they didn’t quite know what they should do.
The result was exactly what you guessed. Gene’s rebellion became a little more obvious.
In one semester, he ditched school 16 times.
And there were some questions by the police about some "Midnight Auto
Supply" activities of his. About hubcaps taken from parked automobiles.
Things like that.
Next–and it wasn’t too long–Gene found himself with a probation officer.
And he found out that if he wanted to stay in good with his probation
officer, and stay out of work camp–he’d better start paying regular
visits to the "man" at the Southeast Youth Guidance Center in
Huntington Park.
The "man" happened to be a professional, trained psychologist.
Gene’s first visit was early last year, when he was 14. Since then, he returned for some 64 additional private sessions.
He didn’t particularly want to go. But he went. And, after a bit of
pressuring, his mother and father went to the center, too. To attend
weekly therapy group classes.
The result, to date, of what has happened is on a paper in front of me.
It reads, in part:
"After approximately 20 sessions, the diminution in Gene’s tensions and
anxiety apparently resulted in alleviation of his skin disturbances.
"By then he had also begun to feel out possibilities of making friends other than those with whom he had been in trouble…
"He began to spend more time with his father, who was made to realize
that a good parent did not always act like a union official…
"Gene’s mother also became less rejecting of him and of her home in general…
"The last time I saw Gene he still could not be considered the
personification of psychological adjustment. However his feeling about
himself and others seemed to be such that he would have a very good
chance of leading a happy and worthwhile life."
The report was one of more than 50 written during the past year by the
11 professional psychologists and social workers who contribute their
time to youth counseling at the center.
Their tab for maintaining offices and purchasing supplies ran to about
$1,200 for 1957. It was picked up by local service clubs, which felt
the need in their community for such a center.
From the reports I’ve read, it appears that Gene and a lot of other
pre-delinquent and delinquent kids were given the attention they needed
before they committed some major crimes against our society.
We need more centers like this one in Huntington Park.
But it isn’t very likely that we’ll recognize the need until an awful
lot of kids who could have been helped are standing behind cell bars.
Today is the 70th anniversary of one of the more notorious events in Los Angeles history, which occurred at 955 Orme St. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. If not, read about it here. It’s called the Harry Raymond bombing.
Mansfield and Mickey Hargitay, 1958-1964? (It’s unclear if a 1963 divorce in Juarez was recognized in the U.S.) She married Matt (Thomas Vitale Ottaviano) Cimber in 1964 and filed for divorce in 1966. The final decree was pending when Mansfield died in a 1967 car crash outside New Orleans, along with attorney Sam Brody and driver Ronnie Harrison. Mickey Jr., Mariska and Zoltan Hargitay (who had been mauled by a lion at Jungleland) survived the crash. She was married to Paul Mansfield from 1950 to 1957.
Photograph by the Los Angeles Times
Who are these gentlemen and what are they doing? Bonus question: Who was the former owner of this Cadillac?
Jayne Mansfield and Mickey Hargitay get married… (note that The Times used an AP photo)… will the Dodgers play at Wrigley Field? (no "Moon Shots" there, folks)… Sarah Churchill, daughter of a fellow named Sir Winston, gets popped for being incredibly drunk and magnificently abusive… Hollywood pioneer Jesse Lasky dies… and a deputy kills a teenager… So many stories and only one Larry Harnisch.
A man convicted of killing a police officer killer tries to sell his body for a little cash … and his partner goes on trial… A man can’t get picked up by the streetcar because he looks like a robber… and Boyle Heights is smiling.
Sylvan C. Diamond writes of the Felicitas Nicholson case:
I do not have the tapes since they were the property of Ray Lapica’s (former UPI
rewrite man) radio station K-ACE when it was on the air in Riverside.
He
eventually sold the station and earned a law degree at USC. Last I read,the call
letters belonged to a Jazz station in Santa Monica 😦
Side bar. Judge John Gabbert
(as I understand it) is the son of the founder of The Riverside Press Enterprise
newspaper. It was his contention that more people should be made aware of
court proceedings other than the 40 or so who could crowd into his
courtroom.
Therefore, he agreed to allow me to place my mic next to his at the
witness stand. (Yes. He recorded his own trials). The recording equipment was
placed out of sight in his adjoining chambers.
At that time, I believe, allowing
the broadcast was a violation of Judicial Canon 13(Whatever that was). None of
the privileged exchanges at the bench were broadcast but everything else was
fair game.
Judge Gabbert may have received "a slap on the wrist" for his
courageous, pioneering stance but no other penalties.
Jan. 13, 1958
There are words which somehow people think mean the opposite of what Mr. Webster states about them in his big book.
For instance, enervate. It means to deprive of strength, to enfeeble. Yet many people think it means the opposite–to pep up.
Another is fulsome, meaning coarse, sickening, repulsive, disgusting.
But many persons believe it means the reverse–flattering or adulatory.
Onetime adman Jack Smalley wrote a commercial for a wine account
describing a product as "fulsome in flavor." Pat Bishop recorded it and
it was broadcast for several weeks–until a university prof suggested
someone consult the dictionary.
HORRIFIED, Jack withdrew the commercial and since that time has brooded over the world.
Whenever he found it improperly used by others he felt a little better but his error left a wound.
A few days ago, however, Jack came upon this sentence by that master of
English, W. Somerset Maugham, in the introduction to "The Portable
Dorothy Parker":
"Fancy not knowing that a writer will accept fulsome praise as only his
due, but will grizzle and grieve over a hint of imperfection as though
his publisher had gypped him, his wife betrayed him and his son gone
into the movies."
He says the last sting has been drawn.
SOMETIMES
the mad, gay social whirl becomes more than a person can take, even for
a gal who gets around, as does Mary O’Brien, the advertising lady at
The Broadway.
It sounded very provocative, but Mary has sent her regrets.
ONE OF MY operatives on bat-cave patrol came upon two soiled gentlemen discussing a certain police officer.
"Aw, what did he ever do?" snarled one.
"For one thing, he arrested you," replied the other.
"Well, he better not take all the credit for that, he better spread it
around," said the first. "I been arrested by four or five other guys,
too, you know."
THE PEOPLE
at a party got to discussing unaccountable things that happen–strange
noises in the night, disappearance of objects, weird experiences
involving life and death, and so on. Some attributed them to
coincidence or natural causes, others to psychic phenomena and
extrasensory perception.
A woman who had listened intently but contributed nothing to the
discussion finally got her chance. "I have a strange power myself," she
said. "I attract wrong numbers on the telephone."
ONLY IN L.A. — Kendis
Rochlen’s car stalled on Santa Monica Boulevard near La Cienega and a
mink-coated woman at the wheel of a 1958 Cadillac behind her leaned on
her horn then swung out and around her. As she passed she yelled, "Why
don’t you get out of the way–I’m late to work!" Kendis couldn’t help
thinking it must have been nice work.
MISCELLANY
— Who says the dollar isn’t worth more than it used to be? A woman
flying back from Las Vegas had to pay nearly $3 for an overweight
bag–in which she had placed 50 silver dollars… Between editions, the
rewrite boys worked out this definition of a pundit: a man with a
plethora of opinion, a paucity of information and a ptypewriter… Ivan
Cazier of Arcadia inquires, "What about the Dodgers playing at Santa
Anita?" At least there’s plenty of parking space.
