|A 1941 Plymouth Woodie used in "Bugsy" has been listed with Hemmings Motor News. The price is $69,990.|
Los Angeles history
Update: This is David Warfield, one of the most noted figures of the American theater in the early 20th century.
Just a reminder on how this works: I post the mystery photo on Monday and reveal the answer on Friday. To keep the mystery photo from getting lost in the other entries, I move it from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday, etc., adding a photo every day. I have to approve all comments, so if you're wrong your guess will be posted. If you're right, you'll have to wait until Friday. There's no need to submit your guess five times. Once is enough. The only prize is bragging rights.
Here's another photo of our mystery fellow. He has been correctly identified by Claire Lockhart, Eve Golden, William, Zapgun and Dru Duniway. Congratulations! Please also congratulate Dewey Webb, Richard Heft and Sam.
Update: Another picture of Warfield as Shylock.
David Warfield ... and a flea circus, a Times reporter strolls Los Angeles, 1909.
Above, an undated photo. At left, David Warfield died in 1951, 26 years after retiring from the stage.
Check back next week for another mystery photo!
Nancy Sinatra ... in WAX!
Last week, when Walter H. Wright was driving his family up to Crestline, someone in a car coming down threw a large snowball which shattered his windshield, impairing his vision. At the ranger station he learned this is a common occurrence. It is even more common for people on foot to throw them at passing cars.
Near Crestline he also came upon a chartered bus with a windshield in worse condition than his from a thrown snowball. On the way down he saw a second bus, filled with children, with its windshield splintered.
Wright talked to a highway patrolman, who deplored the practice but said he was powerless. The irony is that it's done in a spirit of play, not malice.
A WILD EXUBERANCE seems to grip Californians, unaccustomed to snow, when they get in it. They don't realize the dangers of throwing a hard-packed snowball. Furthermore, there are no signs warning them that there is a law against it and violators are subject to a fine.
It seems incongruous to mention it in our mostly sunbaked paradise, but apparently what this country needs are also better snow manners.
CIVIC PRIDE can be expressed in many ways.
Several pedestrians were waiting for a freight train to pass so they could cross Ramona Blvd. As the 39th or 40th boxcar inched past, Charlotte Searles heard a woman remark, "That freight train coming through the middle of town every afternoon is the reason Baldwin Park never amounted to anything!"
All my doctor's instructions
Are quite easy to follow.
It's just his prescriptions
I find hard to swallow.
-- JUNE ROSS DRUMMOND
WHEN authorities have an oversupply of unserved warrants, which is most of the time, bail bondsmen sometimes hire private investigators to find culprits who have jumped their bail- like bounty hunters in TV westerns.
On such a mission Dan Whelan the other day located a rape suspect working under another name in Pacoima. All the way downtown the fellow complained bitterly about being taken into custody, but by the time they drove into the Hall of Justice parking lot he had accepted his fate. Looking up at the gray building he remarked philosophically, "Home, sweet home!"
PROVOCATIVE fragment of conversation overheard by Milo T. Klikos in a downtown restaurant, one sharp-looking young lady to her coffee-break companion: "All right, all right! But if she has everything why does she want my husband and any boy friend I may have on the string?"
PUBLIC AT LARGE -- On the subject of irritating phrases, J. Stuyvesant Fish cringes at the story about the athlete who after years of trying finally "came into his own." His own what? . . . Rosetta Case Bent treasures this typo in a news story of a wedding in her home town paper in Flemington, N.J.: "After the ceremony a small deception was held by the bride."
AT RANDOM -- A ragged gent on W 3rd St. was using a golf club as a cane. Looked like a 4-iron, maybe good for about 175 yards on a good day . . . Speaking of golf, Stan Wood, who coaches same at SC, says there's no truth to the rumor about a TV program titled Playhouse 45, for those who fall asleep in the middle of you know what . . . "It isn't the rain," D.K. says, "it's having to look at the eastern overcoats and raincoats that have been stored away since last June" . . . Max Factor has done it again. Or didn't you see the ad for the new "Ivy League Hairpiece," described as "the greatest innovation in hairpiece realism in more than 20 years." There's something enchanting about the phrase "hairpiece realism."
Labor Force Exile Because She's 65
Nellie Malone is 65 years old and proud of it.
But she's not very proud of the position to which she's been relegated by society.
"I guess they want me to die," she explained to me a few days ago.
"But," she added, "I'll be darned if I will. I'm just stubborn enough to outlive all of you."
Nellie is one of the legion of women in this town who have been exiled from our labor force because they're "too old to work."
Yesterday, I interviewed an experienced executive secretary who was "too old" at 45. The consensus of prejudices of the bright young men in industry's personnel departments condemned her to decrepitude 20 years before she'll reach Nellie's age.
In some instances, the line is drawn at 35.
But, wherever it's drawn, it's a nonsensical line. To indiscriminately shelve a high percentage of the able working force in any community just doesn't make for sound economics.
And Nellie Malone is the first to testify to it.
"I don't want charity," she told me. "I don't want my neighbors to have to pay for my right to live.
"I've got good legs, good feet. I can stand up alongside any clerk in any store.
"The trouble is," she added, "I can't get past the personnel interviews to prove it."
Nellie lives -- so to speak -- on a $63.30 monthly Social Security check, supplemented by occasional baby-sitting, nursing and domestic work.
Most of her "profits" she spends on phone calls, bus fares and newspaper ads in search of steady employment.
A couple of weeks ago, there was the classified ad for 20 salesladies inserted in a metropolitan newspaper by a downtown department stores.
Mrs. Malone was first in line to answer it.
"I'm especially experienced in bedding," she told her interviewer, "In 1952, I headed a store's bedding department."
"Fine," she was told. "You're just the woman we need."
But then she made a mistake. She gave her true age -- 65.
The store's policy: Nobody over 55 gets hired.
"That's the story every time," she told me. "If it's not 55, it's 50 or 45 or 40. Last Christmas time I did get a month and a half of work fancy-wrapping gifts in a department store. We stood and wrapped all day long.
Scrubbing Hard at 65
"The younger girl I worked with complained about being tired sometimes, but frankly, to me, it was a lot easier than lifting heavy patients around or scrubbingsomebody's ceiling."
Mrs. Malone sighed.
"I love my freedom," she said. "I have my own friends, run my own home, but how can I run my own life on $68 a month?"
Mrs. Malone's husband died in 1950.
"What money we had saved went for his hospital and funeral bills, but I could make it fine now if someone would wake up and realize that I'm still healthy and alive.
"Even though," she added thoughtfully, "some people are trying to starve me to death, I'm going to keep fighting."
I hope it's not a losing battle.