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A nude man shocks the neighborhood by taking a shower in the frontyard of his home on the aptly named "Lookout Drive" ... Los Angeles County Coroner R.S. Lanterman (one of my favorite nefarious officials) wins a ruling in his fight against being forced from office (he was accused of being soused) ... Dance hall proprietors want their fees reduced ... And the Whistling Robber strikes!
Jan. 17, 1958
Add to the file of consternation creators the name of Sterling Ferguson, Redlands real estate man.
He does his diabolic act in crowded restaurants at dinnertime.
While waiting for a table the other night, he listened as the name of the couple ahead of him was called out, then watched as they were escorted to a table.
After he was seated, he went to the couple's table, struck a pose of inexpressible joy and beamed, "Oh, you're the Roneys, aren't you? We did have so much fun that last time." And on and on, but cagily giving no clue. Ferguson used to be an actor.
Meanwhile, the Roneys tried desperately but discreetly to find out who he was and where they'd met him.
They never did, of course, and as Ferguson and his companion, Bill Holzhauser, went out, they looked back and saw the Roneys frantically whispering, trying to identify him. They probably didn't sleep all night.
Which fortifies, in reverse, a policy I've followed for years and which is recommended for all those persons who remember faces but forget names. Cut through the amenities right off when someone recognizes you with, "It's no use, I give up, I can't remember names and I don't know where it was." Eases things immediately.
ONLY IN L.A. -- This is to inform the man who leaves his paper sack lunch on a ledge at 2nd and Olive streets every morning that three fellows who work in a nearby office have been snatching it and splitting the contents. However, one of them asks please, no more butter on the meat sandwiches. He doesn't like them that way.
AS SCHOOL authorities know, there are days when, for no apparent reason, normal school kids become wild, unmanageable devils. They play harder, yell louder and get into more arguments and fights than usual. It is as if they are caught up in a wave of excitement beyond their control.
The other day during the noon playground period at a certain elementary school, this condition obviously prevailed.
When the bell finally rang and the din subsided and the last quarrel was quashed, a teacher shepherding her flock into the building confided to Muriel Barnett, visiting the school, "This was one of those days when I'd like to get them some quicksand to play in."
ACCORDING TO her publicity man, Delala Mur, Lebanese belly dancer appearing in Philharmonic Auditorium tonight with her "belly ballet," has made a thorough study of the art, which goes back to the pharaohs. In fact, she can tell at a glance whether a belly was trained in Damascus or Casablanca, even though each belly dancer improvises as the spirit or whatever it is moves her.
Just thought people would like to know.
AT RANDOM -- A former Boy Scout, now working his way through college, asks that the typographical spotlight be focused on Miss Sally Green, retiring next month after many years with the May Co. handling Boy Scout equipment. Scouts are grateful for her friendship and cooperation ... Jerry Hoffman has a suggestion for the Rolling Hills mother whose daughter, 3, keeps saying, "I'm a mashed potato," causing ma to wonder how to convince her she isn't. Pour gravy over her ... George R. Caterer asked his chess class at Eastmont Elementary School in Montebello to make up a slogan and one 11-year-old came up with, "Teach a boy chess and you make a thinker out of a stinker."
Jan. 17, 1958
An old-fashioned horse thief and gunman is in the Los Angeles County Jail ... Charges of dirty dealing at Santa Anita ... Two police chiefs in Long Beach ... Republicans gather ... A painter is badly burned while holding a candle and pouring benzine into a bucket. And a swindler is accused of using the U.S. mails for gem fraud...
Jan. 16, 1958
Fellow beer drinkers, we've got a crisis bubbling over right in front of us.
Before we call in the United Nations, let's give it a brief rundown.
Plans have been going ahead, more or less quietly, for the California Brewers Festival, April 7-12. Nothing fancy. That is, no dancing in the streets. Maybe proclamations by the governor and mayor. And some editorials and store displays pointing out that California breweries have an annual payroll of $44,000,000, that 70,000 persons depend on the industry for their livelihood, that the per capita annual consumption is 14.1 gallons. Stuff like that.
And then the agonizing word filtered through a few days ago that a temperance outfit was more or less quietly planning to call attention to the virtues of abstinence that same week, April 7-12.
Oh, I tell you, the brewery people are agulp.
But there need be no alarm. After all, it's the era of compromise. Why
not combine the two, with the beer people reminding the temperance
people that eerbay is the beverage of moderation.
BETWEEN EDITIONS the
boys on the copy desk came up with a provocative thought. What is Sir
Winston himself took a plane and appeared at Malibu Justice Court at 2
p.m. today to defend his daughter Sarah on a charge of intoxication.
After all, Winnie has not only been known to sip a little brandy but also has uttered that imperishable line, "There'll always be an England," so eloquently declaimed by Sarah when she got jammed up.
Furthermore, Winnie speaks real good as (like) a former prime minister should.
ONLY IN L.A.--Someone
broke the streetlight in front of artist Julie Byrne's home and she
reported it to someone at City Hall. That afternoon a truck with two
men appeared and installed a new globe. But when darkness came, no
light.
Around 10 p.m., however, another city truck stopped, two more men got out, hoisted a ladder and screwed in a bulb. Julie asked how come.
Maybe he was joking but the bulb screwer inner said, "Oh, the fellows who put in the globes aren't supposed to put in the bulbs."
THE PARENTS of David John Irwin, 2, have been trying to teach him the importance of keeping his word. The other day his mother, Peggy, sharply called his attention to a promise he'd broken. He remained thoughtfully silent so she repeated, "Did you understand me? -- I said you broke your promise."
"Okay," he shrugged, "fix it, mommy."
THE GARDENA Valley News, in an editorial on the election in April which will decide whether the card clubs will be outlawed, had this enchanting line, "We appeal to both sides in the controversy to keep the fight honest and fair, not confuse the voters any more than possible...."
AROUND TOWN -- As a woman driver in front of him put out her hand, the driver of an Olympic Boulevard bus said to a passenger, "The only thing I'm sure of when a woman makes a hand signal is that the window is open"... In discussing newly married friends, William Miranda was overheard malapropping that they were so happy they were in a "transom" ... The fear that has haunted Marjean Haven as she drives over desolate Chevy Chase Drive after dark was realized the other night at 11:30 p.m.--a flat tire. Panicky, she started climbing the grade in her high heels when a motorist stopped and offered help. This sweet guy drove her back to her car, put on the spare, then, in answer to her inquiry, gave his name --Sour. Or more likely, Sauer.
Jan. 16, 1958
In the space of a year, in a county of 6,000,000 persons, a lot of policemen draw their revolvers a lot of times.
And use them, too.
They do it because we expect it of them.
But every now and then, after they do it, we tell them--with remarkable hindsight--that they shouldn't have.
And we rise up in very audible indignation.
I remember a case a few months ago where the body of a teenager who had been sitting in a parked, stolen car was riddled with seven bullets fired by two Los Angeles Police Department officers. [Note: The Times reported that Dennis Montes, 17, was at the wheel of a stolen car on Chicago Avenue near Whittier Boulevard when he was shot nine times after making three attempts to run down Officers N.B. Carpenter and R.F. Shelley of the Hollenbeck Division, May 19, 1957--lrh].
A lot of persons complained to me of the brutality, the barbarity of the shooting. But the officers' report of the incident pointed out that it was their lives or the boy's.
And with information like that, no thinking citizen is going to side with the kid, no matter how young.
Then, over this last weekend, there was the case where another LAPD officer shot a 21-year-old robbery suspect in the back when the youth tried to run out the back door of his home after the police had entered it via the front door. The shots killed him. [The Times apparently didn't report this incident--lrh].
I received some calls and telegrams on that one too.
And finally, this Tuesday--another case.
This one involved a deputy sheriff.
He was attacked by a 17-year-old kid, apparently crazed, six inches shorter and a lot lighter than the deputy.
But the kid had a 3 1/2-inch switchblade knife.
The result of the fight was that the kid was killed. There were four bullets from the deputy's gun in him.
I received more calls--many more--from mothers, from businessmen and from schoolmates of the boy.
They wanted to know why an officer, trained in self-defense and in disarming violent persons, couldn't have subdued the boy by some act short of killing him.
The shooting occurred in La Puente and the extreme of public sentiment was expressed by a group of high school classmates of the dead youth. They sent the involved officer an engraved trophy.
It read: "To the World's Greatest Hero."
About this time, I thought that maybe it would be a good idea to bring this type of an incident out into the open, where the public could see it and hear it.
And maybe, understand it.
So last night, I invited the concerned parties to appear on my 10:15 news telecast. I explained why I wanted to do the program.
They accepted my invitation. The boy's father appeared. The deputy who shot the boy appeared.
Each told his part and his resulting grief.
The father said his boy was a good boy, with no trouble in his background. He said he didn't believe the deputy's explanation, and he didn't believe his only son needed to die.
Then, after I thanked him for talking with me, he blurted out--in pained emotion:
"I hope the deputy lives to be 107 and suffers every second of it."
The deputy was standing only a few feet from him. I talked to him next, not daring to look at the boy's father.
The deputy said he had never been forced to use his gun before, that he had three children of his own, and that he never would have fired at the boy if it hadn't been a case of a battle for survival.
He admitted that he had been under a doctor's care since the shooting, and that it was a pretty terrible experience for him, too.
When the television lights went out and the program was over, some of the studio crew moved in to keep the men apart--just in case.
But it wasn't necessary.
The deputy moved over to a corner, pulled out his handkerchief and broke into tears.
The father stood where he was and bit his lip, hard.
I sat, wondering, after it was over, if I proved what I started out to prove. And I realized too well that the victims of a tragedy such as this are not only the dead boy and his next of kin.
Carrying a loaded gun and knowing you may have to use it obviously is not an easy assignment.
[Note: The coroner's jury was divided over whether this was justifiable homicide. Read the story below--lrh].
Jan. 16, 1958
I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for stories like this:
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