Author: Nathan Marsak

Slack. Yes. A lady just a-sittin’ on her rocker, smoking the day away. Now that’s slack. Slack Road, though, is no more, having become Michael Hunt. Whoever the hell that was. Ohhh-Mike Hunt. I get it. Real mature, El Monte.

A house of Slack…little bench behind some picket railing, the perfect place to smoke and be smoked.

(Actually, that spire in the distance is the 1956 Epiphany Catholic church, at which Michael Hunt was the first pastor. The street was renamed for him in 1985.)

Of course, looking backward should be of little difficulty to the peruser of 1947project. Have just added a dozen follow-up posts throughout October-El Monte to Santa Monica to Compton and all points in between-thought your neighborhood would fall through the interstices of history? Think again! Click on “archives” to your right to shine the spotlight on hidden history and forgotten folly. (I mean, at least check out Augusta Mayo on October 16. Mmmm. Mmm-mm-MMM.)

We here at 1947project know that you have many fine news sources to turn to in this great city. We thank you again for your trust in us.

I hope Bill Baker and pals appreciate the effort it took for their robbers to dress like police officers. Y’know, people just don’t put that sort of thought into their robbery outfits anymore, and we at 47p applaud these lucre-lifting louts for respecting their prey enough to put on a good show. (As Larry has pointed out in a previous post, you didn’t need a black-and-white to pull off convincing cop masquerade.) Perhaps, post Hallowe’en, these gents still had a few days’ rental on the outfits and figured they’d put ‘em to good use-besides, 2g’s in 47, adjusted via the consumer price index, would equal $16,484 today-not bad for a night’s work.

I think Bresciani got this whole “money laundering” thing all bollixed up.

And looky here, a reappearance of the William Mead Homes, last seen on 47project July 8 as a corner near the Rosenda Mondragon dump.

Here’s the doorway where Bresciani blasted States the Launderer through the screen. The screen is gone, of course, having been replaced by a steel security door. Had Wm. Mead had those then, States might have fared better.

Do not mess with Lionel Stander. The gravel-voiced six feet of iron from the Bvonx was Red-blooded, as in an unapologetic ideologue for Uncle Joe, and told HUAC t’go fuck themselves to boot.

In 1947 he landed a bit part in Call Northside 777 but by ’51 was soundly blacklisted and didn’t see the business end of a camera again ‘til the early 60s.

After having stirred the masses, he ended up as chauffeur for Jonathan and Jennifer Hart. Like to think he was cogitating on proletarian uprising as he tooled the bosses around. On the other hand, had he become a starveling of slumber? Those Rolls seats are pretty cushy, y’know.

The house in question:

Uh, humble digs there, comrade.

I like to huff fumes as much as the next guy, paint included. Sure, they make you think some kraaaazy things. But honestly? The old bat was out to poison him. With aunt paste. Mmm, paint-and that Sherwin-Williams? Cover the Earth? Red? Commies. And that bastard Judge Fricke was in on it. Bastard Thulist Albert Pike Commie is what-murmur-

Here’s where that traitorous poisoness Lucy Nolan got what was coming to her-

(What do we notice about the houses on this street? They’ve been stucco’d-or “texture coated” as the man on the radio ad says, and will continue to say until he hangs from piano wire in the town square-and therefore there’s no paint around the ‘hood. No fume-crazed suburbanites drubbing family and friends. Man, I wish kids still built plastic models. Not a hint of mayhem or disorientation on this block. Made me want to push a shopping cart full of whippets and butyl through the streets-the first one is free-then they’ll have to pay for the paint thinner and scotch-guard and white-out and felt tip markers-what am I going on about? Sorry. Am building a ’64 Aurora Dr. Jekyll kit and the Testers is really getting on top of me.)

I’m sorry. What’s the big deal? If rancid meat is good enough for our fighting men, shouldn’t it be good enough for our children? Sure, only 379 of our 5,462 casualties in ’98 were caused by battle, a fair share of the rest felled courtesy Chicago’s Armour & Co. Carrion Plant, but did you hear our brave boys in Guanica and Santiago piss and moan about a little spoiled meat? No! Because they spiced it up a bit, using those delicious native spices! Spiced it up good, I bet!

And now, I am going to inundate you with photos of Mayo Elementary. Trust me, it will do you good.

And last, but not least-

-the cafeteria! Yes, the cafeteria (no finer original 30s industrial tile floor in all of Los Angeles), scene of Peal and Berman’s “crime.”

Peale is a NUTRITION SUPERVISOR, for the goodness’ sake. I think she knows what she’s doing. And I’ll thank you not to denigrate our brave fighting men again.

While a group of LA businessmen had formed a company called “Suburban Estates Incorporated” and parceled out the town of Granada in ’25, nothing was really built there til after the war. So poor Mr. Fuzzy was just lumbering about, wondering what the hell was happening. And they had to go and whack him. Poor bastard is on our state flag, after all. And the seal of Los Angeles.

Granada Hills backyard, 1950:

But in the Granada Hills frontyard of 1950-

For where in 1947 Granada Hills looked like this:

It now looks an awful lot more like this.

If we can reintroduce the wolf to Yellowstone, I say we can reintroduce the bear to Granada Hills.

The mighty Pantages, last of Alexander P’s palaces, 1930 meisterwerk of prolific theater designer and irrepressible Scotsman B. Marcus Priteca. The Pantages was one of the Fox chain til Hughes picked her up in ’49. Here she is in 1952 (note Hughes’ RKO logo affixed atop the blade):

And today:

Over 40% of this baby was devoted to public spaces, lounges, lobbies-plenty of good Saturday night kid-smackin’ room. I mean, look at it. Who wouldn’t want to be scarred for life in such opulent surroundings?

As for the King residence on Whitley, where we can only assume more terrors were bestowed liberally –

They had an apartment in Leland “Sunset Tower” Bryant’s 1928 Fontenoy building. Note, if you will, the angelic, cherubic child above the entry. The child whose peaceful countenance mocked Sheppard, father of screaming tot.