A couple of snaps not of the actual incident, but from the greater 47 collection, and which, we feel, get the spirit of the event across.
To you, the uninitiated, “Se Rentan Mesas y Sillas†might mean these reg’lar folk rent tables and chairs. In actuality, it’s really a depraved shorthand for “We Throw Cops Off Porches.†Word to the wise.
What could be more un-American than strongarming businesses to pony up cash for a collection of plastic manger scenes? After all, not everybody believes in that sort of thing. Why, here’s a congregation that aren’t son worshippers, they’re sun worshippers!
Yes, apparently the folk who’ve inhabited the Academy Theater (S. Charles Lee, 1939) are sun worshippers. Whether they believe Sol will be devoured by Skoll at Ragnarock, or that Ra must defeat Apep every morning, they’re part of the community, just like you and me.
So, friends, fight the power-the electrical power, that is!
Ah, Broadway. (Here, looking west on 7th across B’way, the Bank of America on your far right at the NE corner.)
Scroll back to November 29 for Ms. Bertha getting a little loot lifted. And today Vets, without even the decency to toss a little water in their faces, are sticking pistols at people. In the future, of course, bank robberies will be graciously moved to the Valley.
I’ve been on the wrong end of a piece, and while it’s unpleasant, it’s nothing compared to the terror you will feel at the horror you are about to witness:
If you dare-scroll down to see what happens when we turn to peer back east on 7th at the Bank of America building-
So I set out to see where Mark, this budding Nero, grew up.
But here, in 1947, in what was known as Los Angeles Judicial Township, a stone’s throw from the Goodyear Rubber Plant, there was no “South Flower†or “South Grand.†Just a stretch of homes from Figueroa to Broadway:
And that, children, explains where 412 W. 68th Street went–that’s 428 in the picture, and as far as the addresses go.
The bars were here, just across those tracks.
Washington Court, aka Washington Village Park Apts., have taken up the area, wiping out the 10200 block north of 103rd.
Judging by what I saw go down there, I’d say the community was better off with the cocktail lounges.
Costello must’ve gotten one hell of a paycheck for 1948’s-Meet Frankenstein. (1947’s $7,000 has 2005’s purchasing power of $62,529.) This, despite Bud Abbot famously signing lousy contracts while liquored to the gills (he was combating epilepsy-it was medicinal).
So-did Costello skim from the Lou Costello Jr. Foundation? Not likely. Costello bordered on the Christlike, as he-after his 3-yr-old son drowned in daddy’s Los Angeles pool-became obsessed with building churches and sending terminally ill children to world-class doctors. Every child a potential Lazarus.
Valley landmark, the LCJF:
(As for Bud Abbot, by Costello’s death in ’59 [there was no resurrection], Abbot had become penniless and forgotten, excepting some work voicing himself in the 1966 Hanna-Barbera A&C cartoon.)
The evolution of a neighborhood. From left to right, a nice Italian Renaissance/Spanish Eclectic, ca. 1935; some dingbatian boxitude ca. 1955; and our friend 100 Catalina with the Mexican lamp, Colonial S-bracket and Mansardisme, ca. 1975.
And look, here’s a copper blazing through the red, off to go help some wayward lass with a belly full of Seconal. We presume.
Whether suicide is an act of weakness or strength is beyond the scope of this post, but what’s certain is that in telephoning her mother, Pamela has revealed her attempt to be merely a parasuicidal gesture. I say neglect the phone bill!
The 1928 Schulte United building has been downgraded to a “hut.†A shoe hut, no less.
Downtown strollers beware, indeed. Vanishing money is endemic to the area. It’s rife with grifters and dips parting citizens from their geetus. Half a block down from Schulte I espied this collection of folk. 
And what were they entranced by? Why it’s that old street con, the shell game! 
And Mr. Flimmflam-man had no lack of marks today. The Deep Pinch, the V-Grip, Side Steal, Inside Shift and Side Load; sharpie had it down when spieling the nuts.
There are times I wish I’d been sober during my high school Spanish classes; woulda loved to glom said spiel, which had that unmistakable rhythm of Three Card Monte patter.
With a little more effort, he could have been dubbed the “Washerboard Killer.”
Nice house, though. No stucco, no enclosed porch…nice fishscale shingle in the gable…and that’s some bold fascia over those deep sofits. Dig the side lights at the door.
The perfect place to come back to after tying one on. And then mother pulls her uppity “J’Accuse!” routine. He probably went out of his way to let her live there with him. The ungrateful wretch. Uh, oh. Nice double-hung windows.
