Apologies for failing to get a proper shot of the tastefully furnished apartment where Wiggins opened up on teen wifey with his .38; you can see the window peeking out at the far left. Mrs. Blattenberg is long gone — locals eyed me suspiciously as I snapped from my idling vehicle. Their nods and glances indicated that they were intending to question me intimately as to my purpose, so I waved like Roosevelt and ambled away.
Another shingled Craftsman home sprayed with pink stucco, its double-hung windows replaced with aluminum sliders. Purty gate, too. Special level of hell for all of them.
I mean, they think we’re pining for a White America? Have these people ever been to Anaheim? Did they see what those honkies did to all the Googie signage?!
Whitey, indeed.
You might be interested to read (and perhaps comment upon) the little fracas over at Martini Republic that has flared up regarding your blog, here.