In 1969, The Times sent one of its best and most respected writers, Art
Seidenbaum, on a tour of California college campuses: UCLA, USC,
Stanford, UC Berkeley and someplace called San Fernando Valley State.
The resulting series for West magazine was later published in
Seidenbaum's book "Confrontation on Campus."
So in honor of all those who are taking their kids back to campus for
the fall, here's Part 4 of Seidenbaum's "The Troubles With Students" in
which he visits UC San Diego, where "It's pretty difficult to cure 18 years of mind screw." Put on your
wire-rim glasses and burn your draft cards. The dress code is Army
fatigues and beards for the men; serapes and tights for the women. And
lots of revolutionary self-righteousness. Don't worry, man. It's cool.
We're all pass/fail here.
I have only touched in passing on Arkansas Gov. Orville Faubus' fight to prevent the integration of Central High School in Little Rock.
(Faubus called out the Arkansas National Guard to block federally
ordered integration. In response to a request by Little Rock Mayor
Woodrow Mann, President Eisenhower sent 1,000 troops from the 101st
Airborne Division to maintain order).
But it is worth noting that the events in Little Rock weighed heavily
on the congregations of Los Angeles, as reflected in this prayer, which
was quoted in The Times:
Heavenly Father, we invoke
thy blessing upon these beloved United States in an hour of grave
domestic crisis. We pray divine guidance for the president, his
counselors and advisers and for the governors and other officials of
the several states.
We pray that thou wilt implant
racial harmony in the hearts of man, that no man may hate his brother
in his heart or in his school, and that all men shall know that they
are brothers, the children of one God.
We pray for the speedy and just
settlement of issues which assume the false doctrine of racial
inequality. We pray that this just and loving resolution shall come
with peace and not violence, with love and not force, and that right
shall be established without recrimination or revenge.
This we pray, O Lord, for thou hast
taught us since ancient days that in thy common fatherhood there can be
no man-made distinctions introduced. May all men in these United States
without regard to color or geographical distribution, repent before
thee at this holy season the hatreds of the heart and make affirmation
of the desire and the intent to work for a good future for all
citizens of this land and of the world.
And with that prayer, Rabbis
Max Nussbaum and William Kramer of Hollywood's Temple Israel began the
observance of Rosh Hashana, ushering in the year 5718.
Current events also figured in the prayer of Rabbi Edgar F. Magnin of Wilshire Boulevard Temple:
May it be a year of peace
and not of war--not even a cold war. Somehow or other, by dint of
intelligence or by some miracle coming from God Almighty, may the
nations of the earth develop a greater spirit of cooperation.
Let it be a year in which the trying
problem of integration may resolve itself without bloodshed, strife,
bitter words and the acid of hatred.
May juvenile crime decrease and our
youth appreciate the privilege of living in this great and beautiful
country and avail themselves of its blessings. May the young be filled
with loyalty to our country and devotion to the highest ideals.
May religion spread its beneficent
influence over our land and over the entire world. Let it come down
like a bright and radiant beam of light into the hearts of men, women
and children everywhere.
Magnin also presided over ceremonies at Home of Peace Memorial Park, 4334 Whittier Blvd., honoring the memories of those who had died in the past year.
He noted that Home of
Peace was "the oldest Jewish burial ground in the city of Los Angeles,
the resting place of the pioneer Jews of this great community.
"Those who led in the creation of all things we as Jews enjoy today have been interred here.
"Their memory lingers with us as a
perpetual bequest. Every time we practice justice, every time we do
what is good, we do it in the name and spirit of the great giver of the
Ten Commandments. Thus Moses did not die, and cannot die, for his work
and memory go on.
"There are many ways of mourning
one's loved ones besides shedding a tear and the best way is to carry
out the ideals they believed in. Another is to share what we have with
people who need our help, and to support good causes such as the arts,
education and particularly religion.
"Supporting a great religious
institution and upholding the hands of its leaders is a more tender
tribute than laying flowers on a grave."
In 1969, The Times sent one of its best and most respected writers, Art
Seidenbaum, on a tour of California college campuses: UCLA, USC,
Stanford, UC Berkeley and someplace called San Fernando Valley State.
The resulting series for West magazine was later published in
Seidenbaum's book "Confrontation on Campus."
So in honor of all those who are taking their kids back to campus for
the fall, here's Part 3 of Seidenbaum's "The Troubles With Students" in
which he visits Pomona College, where "Due to a Lack of Interest, Tomorrow Has Been Canceled." Put on your
wire-rim glasses and burn your draft cards. The dress code is Army
fatigues and beards for the men; serapes and tights for the women. And
lots of revolutionary self-righteousness. Don't worry, man. It's cool.
We're all pass/fail here.
Motorcycle Officer W.W. Wilhelm decided to put some teeth in fashion
law and cited motorist Louise Squire for wearing a plastic mesh basket
on her head. When stopped at Argyle and Franklin Avenues, Squire, of 8531 Wonderland Ave., insisted that whatever a woman has on her head is a hat.
Although it was unclear whether the basket interfered with Squire's
vision, as Wilhelm said, it was apparently distracting other drivers
and therefore impeding traffic.
Maybe I've lived in Los Angeles too long and become inured to the
Hollywood eccentrics but look at her picture. Is her hat really all
that terrible? A little unusual, perhaps, but the upturned brim makes
it a bit sporty--for a plastic basket. As all Angelenos know, real nuts
wrap their heads in tinfoil.
A search through the clips reveals that Squire had novel ideas about
millinery. She once appeared in court wearing a hat made from a
potholder and another time attended a hearing with her head bound in a
turban of belting fabric.
Unfortunately, The Times failed to ask her about where she found the
inspiration for her finery. And after a few run-ins with the police,
she vanished from the public record.
Every Friday after work, Roy Huerta, 38, drives to Tijuana and spends
the weekend with his beloved family--his wife, Manuela, 32, and their
three girls and two boys.
It is an unsatisfactory arrangement but it can't be helped.
Roy and Manuela met here in 1947 and were married. Their enforced
separation dates to a black day in 1949 when they took a trip to
Tijuana.
At the border on the way back, they were asked the usual questions. Roy
had no trouble. He was born in Johnstown, Pa., served three years in
the Army, including 18 months in New Guinea, the Philippines and Japan,
and came to Los Angeles after his discharge.
Manuela, who was born in Zacatecas, Mexico, and speaks little English,
panicked. She said she had never been in the United States, then said
she had. She was detained and accused of having entered this country
illegally.
A hearing was set and Manuela was notified, but she never mentioned it
and didn't appear, compounding her guilt. She was convicted of perjury
and forbidden under the McCarran Act to reenter this country.
And so for the last eight years Roy has made a weekly pilgrimage to
Tijuana. He takes along groceries, clothes and gifts for the children.
During the week he lives in an apartment here with a brother. He works
as a cook at the Bull and Bear Restaurant, 655 S. Spring St. In the
three years he has been there, says the owner, Ridley Billick, who
admires him greatly, Roy has missed only one day.
For a time, his eldest daughter, Gloria Jean, who will be 9 next month,
attended school in L.A. but she became lonesome and rejoined the family
in Tijuana.
Conscientious, disciplined Roy Huerta does not complain. But he has
never stopped hoping that somewhere, somehow, the immigration laws may
be modified or his case receive attention so that he may be reunited on
a full-time basis with his family.
YOU MAY BE vaguely
conscious that MGM is bringing out a picture titled "Raintree County"
but I am dynamically aware of same. I happen to be sitting in the shade
(fluorescent lighting shade, that is) of an 8-foot tree in a heavy
5-gallon tinfoil-covered can incongruously placed alongside my
third-floor desk by persons unknown.
The job of hauling it there easily constitutes the most muscular press agentry of the year.
What kind of tree is it? A rain tree, of course.
TODAY MARKS
the 10th anniversary of the Great Books Foundation, and representatives
of the 52 study groups in the area will gather at 8:30 p.m. at Beverly
Hills High to observe it.
The path to literary culture has not always been easy.
Not long ago a Pasadena group which had been meeting in a hall on Green
Street arrived to discover the building locked. It had changed
ownership and they had not been notified.
After a curbstone conference they went to the only available place
nearby, a bar, and, Bibles in hand, went on with their assigned
discussion, the Book of Job.
TODAY IS ALSO Downtown Felt Hat Day and a little lore goes with that too.
It is traced to Daniel Desmond, who opened the city's first men's hat
shop at New Commercial and Los Angeles Streets prior to 1870. It was
the forerunner of Desmonds, Inc.
Prior to that, hats, mostly toppers and bowlers, were sold in general stores.
Old Dan was quite a fellow. He organized the city's first band, was a
member of the volunteer fire department and when business was slack
strolled over to the city jail and chatted with the inmates.
The night was made for love, according to such perpetual sentimentalists as Lanny Ross.
But not according to me.
At my advanced age, the night was made for such prosaic chores as getting to the column you didn't write during the day.
Unobserved, you can sit around in your shorts, stare at the typewriter
and sip hot milk until, touched by inspiration or desperation, you
begin to write.
That was the depraved condition I was in at precisely 2:29 a.m. when suddenly the phone rang.
I flipped it from its cradle to my ear.
"Coates here," I informed briskly.
A rather unsteady voice mumbled, "Geez, I dialed an old British movie."
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"Paul?" he inquired uncertainly.
"Right!"
"Well listen. I got a hot one for you."
"A hot one what?"
"A story, buddy," he explained. "Hot story."
I set aside my warm milk and fumbled for a pencil.
"Shoot," I snapped.
"What?"
"Shoot, buddy," I explained. "Let's have at it."
He cleared his throat and said:
"All right now, get this. It's an expose. I'm in Gardena."
"And you lose?" I suggested.
"I lose a little," he admitted. "But I'm not complaining. They take me on the emmis."
"Then what's the beef?"
He snorted into the phone. "What's the beef? I'll tell you what's the beef. You ready? Take this down."
The caller paused dramatically.
"They," he said, after a moment, "won't give me nothing to eat."
I shifted the phone to my other ear. The right one. It's my good one.
"And I'm willing to pay," my caller went on. "I don't want no charity from no one."
"They," he continued, "know that I had a drink."
"A few drinks," he added.
"A lotta drinks," he finally cried, "an' I am drunk. If I don't eat something soon I won't sober up."
He took a deep breath.
"What's what they want. They want me to get arrested for drunk driving."
"Why?" I asked.
"So I won't tell what I know," he replied.
"What do you know?" I asked.
"That they won't let me in their restaurant to get something to eat,"
he said patiently. "I been trying for a half of an hour. But every time
I come up to the door, they tell me to go away."
He sighed.
"Listen, Paul. Send a photographer out."
"For what?"
"To take a picture of them not letting me in."
"Can't do it," I told him.
"Why not?"
"Can't take a picture of something that's not happening," I explained.
"I thought so," he said bitterly. "You're like all the rest. You write
about the downtrodden. Then when someone calls you up with a problem
you just give him a brush. A brush-off. A cold shoulder."
"You," he said accusingly, "are a phony."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, "but..."
"You don't care what happens to me. If I don't get something to eat I'm
going to be drunk, but nobody cares. You're just like all the rest. And
I might as well be damned."
"Might as well," I agreed.
"Might as well what?" he challenged.
"Be damned."
"That does it!" he snapped. "I don't have to take profanity from anybody."
Then he hung up. I picked up my lukewarm milk, stared at the typewriter
and tried to figure out what to write for today's column.
In 1969, The Times sent one of its best and most respected writers, Art
Seidenbaum, on a tour of California college campuses: UCLA, USC,
Stanford, UC Berkeley and someplace called San Fernando Valley State.
The resulting series for West magazine was later published in
Seidenbaum's book "Confrontation on Campus."
So in honor of all those who are taking their kids back to campus for
the fall, here's Part 2 of Seidenbaum's "The Troubles With Students" in which he visits what is now Cal State Northridge. Put on your
wire-rim glasses and burn your draft cards. The dress code is Army
fatigues and beards for the men; serapes and tights for the women. And
lots of revolutionary self-righteousness. Don't worry, man. It's cool.
We're all pass/fail here.
Remember the straw hat you bought back in May? Get rid of it, gentlemen, straw hat season is over! It's time to get back to felt in wide array of colors, from gray to blue-gray.
I must say, I always enjoy those rare occasions when I see a man in downtown Los Angeles dressed in a suit and hat, usually around 7th Street and Figueroa. There are men in L.A. who know how to wear a hat. I'm not one of them, but I do enjoy seeing other guys decked out. It's different than the people in vintage clothes you see at some of the L.A. Conservancy events. Those are costumes. These men really have the look.
And yes, I know "hat day" was strictly a strictly commercial event dreamed up by the merchants. In fact, Matt Weinstock will talk about it in a column later today.
Information on Gene Leonard Cornforth is a bit sketchy, but he certainly had interesting taste in women.
Take the first Mrs. Cornforth, Maureen. After she and Gene divorced,
her boss at Hughes Aircraft, David L. Fohl, got her drunk at a
Christmas party, kidnapped her and forced her to marry him in
Ensenada. When they got home, Fohl held her prisoner for 10 days
before she could escape, according to testimony at her 1955 divorce
hearing.
But that was nothing compared to the second Mrs. Cornforth, Dona.
Dona and Gene were having a slight disagreement at their restaurant,
the Golden Rooster, 2139 Westwood Blvd. Dona ended the fight by chasing
Gene in the family car and finally ran him over in a vacant lot next to
the restaurant.
Attendants from a nearby gas station jacked up the car and Gene was
taken to Santa Monica Hospital in serious condition. Dona was charged
with assault with a deadly weapon.
Unfortunately, The Times never followed up on the case so we don't know
the ultimate disposition. Gene survived his injuries and according to
California death records, died in 1989 at the age of 63.
This is what makes reading the Mirror so interesting. Notice that the headline writer has zeroed in on the fact that she is a blond. (Trust me, it's in the first paragraph of the story, otherwise known as the "lede"). Apparently, the reporter assumed her hair color somehow explained why she ran over her husband with a car, i.e. "You know blonds. Put them behind the wheel of a car and anything can happen."
Now look at her picture. I can't imagine how anyone would consider her a blond. Granted, the reproduction is hardly the best. But I mean--really! A blond?
And what did she tell the police? "Oops!" (More or less). "This is all a mistake. I just don't know how to drive very well." As Nathan Marsak would say: "OK, sister."
Dona and Maureen Cornforth (she went back to her previous married name
after divorcing Fohl) vanished without a trace. The Golden Rooster was
still in operation in 1977, as shown below, and was a great place to watch Monday Night
Football, according to The Times.
In 1969, The Times sent one of its best and most respected writers, Art
Seidenbaum, on a tour of California college campuses: UCLA, USC,
Stanford, UC Berkeley and someplace called San Fernando Valley State.
The resulting series for West magazine was later published in
Seidenbaum's book "Confrontation on Campus."
So in honor of all those who are taking their kids back to campus for
the fall, here's Part 1 of Seidenbaum's "The Troubles With Students." Put on your
wire-rim glasses and burn your draft cards. The dress code is Army
fatigues and beards for the men; serapes and tights for the women. And
lots of revolutionary self-righteousness. Don't worry, man. It's cool.
We're all pass/fail here.
There's no telling what spooked Ben, but the horse was frightened and
galloped toward Nordhoff Street and Tobias Avenue in what was then the rural San
Fernando Valley.
The rider, Carol Goetzinger, 13, tried to
control him, but Ben dashed into the intersection and was hit by a
passing car with such force that the saddle was ripped from his back
and landed on the hood. Ervy Zeke Gill, 29, the driver of the
Chevrolet that struck Ben, said he swerved but was unable to avoid
hitting the animal.
Carol, 14931 Community St., Van Nuys,
was taken to Valley Hospital for treatment of bruises and a broken leg.
She sobbed when she was told that Ben, whom she had for six months, had
died.
Did she ever ride again? Did her parents ever buy her another horse? It would be interesting to know.
Everett Robert Ayala's last words on earth were: "Go ahead, shoot me,"
spoken to his 8-year-old foster daughter as he resumed beating his
wife, Pauline.
So Linda Louise Narez, who was holding a .30-caliber deer rifle, killed him instantly with a bullet to the chest.
Linda
had been raised from infancy by her aunt, Pauline Ayala, 29, and uncle,
Everett Ayala, 28, a construction worker. About 9 on a Tuesday night,
Pauline came home to 870 1/2 W. 9th St.
in Pomona and Everett began beating her after accusing her of having a
boyfriend. The brawl went from the kitchen to the bedroom and back to
the kitchen.
Finally, Pauline shouted to Linda to get the deer rifle from the closet and shoot Everett.
"Mommie told me to get the gun. Daddy told me to go ahead," Linda testified at the inquest. "I didn't know what to do."
Everett
went to the closet, got the deer rifle, loaded it, gave it to Linda and
said: "Go ahead, shoot me" as he resumed beating Pauline in the
bedroom.
Linda screamed "I can't!"
And then she pulled the trigger.
At
first, Pauline told Pomona police that she had killed her husband, but
after hours of questioning, the truth came out. The coroner's jury
returned a verdict of justifiable homicide.
Officially, the
case was closed, but that was only the beginning of the story. What
becomes of an 8-year-old who kills an abusive father? Unfortunately,
The Times offers no further information. Linda would be 58 now. I
wonder what the rest of her life was like.
The Social Security
Death Index lists a Pauline Ayala who was born Jan. 25, 1924, and died Nov. 19,
2002, but it's unclear whether this is the same woman.
Anthony Brancato, killed Aug. 6, 1951, 1648 N. Ogden Drive, Hollywood, along with Anthony Trombino in the "Two Tonys Murder." Jimmy "The Weasel" Fratianno eventually confessed to the killings.
Photograph by John W. Wilson Los Angeles Times And what did mobsters carry in their wallets in the 1950s? Trombino had a bunch of baby pictures.
Photograph by Clay Willcockson, Los Angeles Times
When Willcockson went to take the "crime doesn't pay" toe tag shot in the Los Angeles County morgue, the medical examiners were busy performing the autopsies on Brancato and Trombino. So the enterprising photographer borrowed the toe tags, put them on two other bodies and took his morgue shot. How do I know? It says so on the back of the photo.
I stumbled across this story while researching yesterday's post on South-Central vice raids and it was too wonderful to ignore. It sounds almost like one of the "Honeymooners" episodes involving Ralph Cramden, Ed Norton and the International Order of Friendly Sons of the Raccoons.
Apparently some lodge member had a perfect plan: "Our wives are
always complaining about us going out to lodge meetings at night, so we invite them,
OK? After some refreshments, our wives go play bridge while we have a business meeting! " So 62 of them rented the Hollywood
Eagles Hall, 1203 N. Vermont Ave., for an evening.
But instead of holding a business meeting once the wives left,
the members of the unidentified lodge rolled out a projector and began
watching stag films.
(At right, the result of a 1951 raid on the Eagles hall.)
And although the wives weren't aware of the scheme, the police knew all about it.
Police Lt. W.C. Nemetz and the Central and Hollywood vice squads stationed
themselves around the hall, "peered through bamboo blinds when the
movies began and then crashed the 'business meeting,' " The Times said.
" 'Follow us down to the Police Building. Your husbands will need help
to bail out,' vice squad officers informed the women as they roared off
into the night with their convoy of lodge members," The Times said.
The men were charged with suspicion of viewing lewd films and bail was set at $500 ($3,582.64 USD 2006).
The Times apparently didn't follow up on the case. The domestic turmoil is best left to our imaginations.
Lots of guesses so far: Telly Savalas (2 votes!), Mickey Cohen, Sammy
Cahn, Billy Wilder, Mel Blanc, Neil Simon, Jack Dragna, E.H. Land,
Harry "Big Greenie" Greenberg, Johnny Roselli, Frank DeSimone, Bugsy Siegel, Matt Weinstock and Dustin Hoffman.
But none of them are right.
Maybe you have become fond of our mystery guest or wondered what he was like. Unfortunately, the end of his life was not pretty.
No, I don't consider Louis L'Amour a great writer. I don't even consider him a good writer. But I'm dedicated to presenting a variety of voices and not necessarily those I agree with. And he has some interesting things to say about the West.
P.S.: Note the similarity between Wyatt Earp and James Ellroy.
Let's suppose you are the mayor
of the nation's third-largest city. Let's further suppose that your
wife has received several letters complaining about rampant crime in a
heavily minority neighborhood. You might turn the complaints over to
the Police Department.
Then again, you might not.
Because
if you're Mayor Norris Poulson, you won't bother with the LAPD. You'll
hire a couple of private investigators to look into the situation on
South Central Avenue, which, according to Albertha J. Callahan, is
"full of bookies by day and at night it's full of women on the street."
Nor did Police Commission President Michael Kohn contact anyone
at the LAPD about the allegations. Instead, Kohn disguised himself in
work clothes and drove down to Central Avenue in an old car.
"The situation was appalling," Kohn told the Mirror. "At Vernon Avenue and Avalon Boulevard I found groups of four or five girls on each corner waving at cars."
"Groups
of four or five women cruised in cars and waved at men. Others stood on
corners and when traffic stops for a red light, they 'come out to your
car and knock on the windows,' " Kohn said, according to The Times.
By
now, you're probably wondering why Poulson didn't contact Chief William
H. Parker and say something like, "Oh, by the way, Bill, old chum, how
exactly are things down in the 'hood?"
The answer: Poulson
figured the police either couldn't do the job or were on the take. He
had complained to the department before, he said, "but we were always
told there was nothing to it. They would tell us the persons making the
complaints were troublemakers or that their reports were exaggerated.
The police were paying no attention to these complaints."
He told the Mirror: "We have been making inquiries through usual
channels about vice conditions and getting the usual replies that
everything was hunky-dory. I took it upon myself to look into the
situation."
Poulson said his inquiry showed that: "Flagrant vice
conditions exist in this area.
Prostitution, gambling, bookmaking and illicit traffic in narcotics are
allowed to flourish without apparent restraint. A condition of this
sort indicates either that vice is operating with protection or
reflects inadequate law enforcement in the area."
If you know anything at all about Parker (or even if you don't),
you can imagine his reaction to being ambushed at a hearing, especially
because Poulson didn't make his charges in person, but had Kohn read a
letter while he was out of town.
Parker heatedly denied
charges that the department was corrupt. Instead, he blamed a lack of
officers, the higher cost of patrolling Newton Division (now known as
"Shootin' Newton"), an increase in criminals who had been chased out of
skid row by urban renewal, lax courts that freed suspects on low bail
and recent judicial decisions that hampered the police by granting
rights to suspects.
"You can't put people in jail without evidence any more," Parker said.
"We're going to have evidence to justify arrests and I'm not going to
violate anyone's civil rights and I don't want it done by anyone in the
department."
"We know who a lot of these people are, but we can't arrest them just
for walking down the street," said acting Newton Division commander Lt.
Walter Baker. "Not until they commit some overt act can we nab them.
What's more, we think we've been doing a pretty good job as it is."
The criminals were clever, Parker said: "We have a wolf pack situation
where a number of prostitutes work together. If one doesn't recognize
one of our vice officers, one of the others will."
And there were more of them: Arrests for prostitution in Newton
Division were up 24% from 1956 and gambling arrests increased 34.7%.
Why? The demolition of skid row, police said. In the previous two
years, nearly 500 buildings were destroyed, The Times said.
Police also complained that the jails had revolving doors when it came
to vice arrests. Police Commission member Emmett McGaughey cited the
case of a prostitute who had been arrested six times in a year, but
only fined $200 ($1,433.06 USD 2006).
In response, Parker assigned Deputy Chief Richard Simon to examine the
problem, along with Police Inspector James Lawrence (an obsolete rank
that was between captain and deputy chief).
The LAPD sent more motorcycle officers and police cars to the area and
assigned photographers to document the situation, the
papers said.
And what about the residents? The Times didn't look into the local
reaction to the vice crackdown, but the Mirror did, interviewing
several African American leaders.
Dr. J.A. Somerville, a dentist and former Police Commission member,
complained: "An investigation of any neighborhood, regardless of its
racial complexion, will disclose prostitution in some form. The trade
carries no racial label. To point out the Vernon and Central Avenue
districts as a vice area because colored people live there, without
naming other sections where similar conditions exist, seems biased to
me and designed to discredit Negroes."
The Rev. B.O. Byrd of New Hope Baptist Church, Central Avenue and 52nd
Street, said: "There is vice in almost every section of our city. In
some areas, however, they are financially able to cover it up better."
What did the California Eagle and the Los Angeles Sentinel say about
the LAPD's vice crackdown? Looks like a trip to the microfilm is in
order.
Larry Harnisch. The leading Black Dahlia expert and a collaborator in the 1947project, Harnisch has been a copy editor at The Times since 1988. He has appeared on many TV shows discussing the Dahlia case, notably "James Ellroy's Feast of Death."
Join him for a spin through old Los Angeles in the Mirror's radio car. Keep your eyes open for Mickey Cohen and Tempest Storm. It's quite a ride.
The reporter's badge belonged to Sid Hughes (1908-1958), legendary reporter who worked at nearly every newspaper in Los Angeles.
Keith Thursby. Keith has been an editor at The Times in news, sports and design since 1986. The Rams moved to St. Louis on his first day as assistant sports editor of the paper's Orange County edition. He grew up in Norwalk and lives in Irvine.
Larry Harnisch. The leading Black Dahlia expert and a collaborator in the 1947project, Harnisch has been a copy editor at The Times since 1988. He has appeared on many TV shows discussing the Dahlia case, notably "James Ellroy's Feast of Death."
Join him for a spin through old Los Angeles in the Mirror's radio car. Keep your eyes open for Mickey Cohen and Tempest Storm. It's quite a ride.
The reporter's badge belonged to Sid Hughes (1908-1958), legendary reporter who worked at nearly every newspaper in Los Angeles.
Keith Thursby. Keith has been an editor at The Times in news, sports and design since 1986. The Rams moved to St. Louis on his first day as assistant sports editor of the paper's Orange County edition. He grew up in Norwalk and lives in Irvine.