Dateline>City of Angels

Faithful readers of my former blog may recognize the next two entries. The first is an updated version of something I originally posted two years ago, and deals with an amusing backstory to Los Angeles’ Hall of Justice. The second, which first ran Feb. 11, 2006, touches on another fun tidbit of Angeleno history that few people have ever heard.

I’m not a big fan of summer reruns, but these items rank among the favorites from my recently defunct site. Plus I have a whole new audience now that has never seen this stuff before. Please bear with me as repopulate my new weblog with these “oldies but goodies.”

Fresh material is coming this month as well — I promise!

As the $14.6-million rehabilitation of Los Angeles’ Hall of Justice progresses, August seems a fiitting month to recall a long-lost chapter in the building’s colorful past.

I’m not talking about the trial of legendary 1930s “Trunk Murdress” Winnie Ruth Judd, or the proceedings involving mobster Bugsy Siegel, or even the autopsy of Marilyn Monroe, all of which took place within these hallowed walls. No, I’m referring to the even more wild and tawdry escapades that rocked the site years before the cornerstone was even laid.

The story goes that when the City of Angels finally outlawed prostitution in 1874, the law still went mostly unenforced for decades. In fact, during the 1890s, the infamous madam Cora Phillips and cross-town rival Pearl Morton took the world’s oldest profession to dazzling new heights, stirring sensations among the Angeleno elite with their opulent, openly advertised brothels.

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Next time you visit L.A.’s Chinatown, stroll to the northwest corner of College and Hill, close your eyes, open your mind, and listen ever so carefully. If you’re psychic enough, you just might hear shouts of “Ole!” echoing from the past.

That’s because within a few yards of here, on the grounds of the Pacific Alliance Medical Center, along what once was called Calle del Toro (Street of the Bull), brave matadors stared down angry, charging bovines.

Yes, this was the site of the town bullring, built circa 1849.

During the Spanish-Mexican Period, animal contests were a staple of Californio life, with bullfights and bear baiting making for popular events at mission and town fiestas. In fact, Los Angeles’ Ocampo Plaza, a small square in front of the Francisco Ocampo Adobe near Aliso St., was infamous for its cockfights. Historians believe that before the Calle del Toro arena was completed, bullfights were similarly held at a makeshift site closer to Olvera St. and the Plaza.

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Catching up on my reading, I see that local blogger Militant Angeleno recently confessed his desire to one day become the “New Huell Howser,” should the popular PBS personality ever retire or meet with some otherwise unfortunate end.

Now this is a problem. You see, watching Howser’s roving reportage has always been one of my guilty pleasures as well. If the Southern-draling visitor/interviewer ever does exit the scene, you can bet I’ll be right there in the KCET-TV lobby alongside Militant, resume in hand.

Truth be told — as long as we’re admitting to fantasy alter egos — Howser isn’t the only local media icon I admire. Secretly, I also want to be Cecilia Rasmussen.

Don’t be alarmed. This isn’t some weird gender-bending thing. It’s just that growing up, I always enjoyed her “L.A. Then and Now” pieces in the Times. Thanks to her breezy, humorous style, Rasmussen manages to infuse life into even the most mundane of historical tidbits. She has a special knack for discovering and introducing readers to the wildly offbeat people, places and events that characterize this region’s past. (Who says history has to be boring?)

In the end, both Howser and Rasmussen have profoundly inspired my interests in local history and culture. I’ll probably never replace Howser at Channel 28, or unseat Rasmussen at the Times. But the local blogosphere is still open, unclaimed territory. And I have an inkling that amid the glut of hipster, “sense of place” blogs, there’s an audience in search of something more. Something a little different. Something along the lines of what Howser and Rasmussen have brought their respective audiences. Something I’d like to offer here.

Ambitious? Audacious even? Maybe. But a guy can still dream, can’t he?

As I observed in my last post, America is indeed a growing nation, and not just in the figurative sense. Want proof? Mouse on over to the following CNN link, where you’ll find hard data on the craze of corpulence sweeping the nation. Clicking on each progressive year will reveal the alarming results of our fast-food, couch-potato culture. And while it’s tempting to make a few clever puns about “Middle America,” the frightening fact is that “fitness-obsessed” Californians aren’t too far behind. See you at the gym…

I just returned from a business trip to Las Vegas, which explains the brief hiatus from posting to this blog. Of course, the heat out there was miserable, but not nearly as miserable as the travel itself. I remember a time when flying was fun, especially on Southwest Air, which used to boast friendly flight personnel with a perky sense of humor. But those days are gone. Long gone.

Here are 10 observations I made while wasting way too much time at the airports awaiting my flights…

1. How incredibly overweight Americans have become.
2. How loud and inane the average cell phone conversation can be.
3. That few people actually look where they are walking anymore.
4. How outdated typical airport design has become, considering modern security needs.
5. Just how close on your heels other travelers like to stand when invading your personal space in line.
6. How truly rude other passengers can get once they finally board a plane.
7. That as rude as those other passengers can get, the airline personnel can still top them.
8. Given the level of airline disorganization, it’s a modern miracle that so many planes actually get off the ground anywhere close to their scheduled time.
9. Given the level of airline disorganization, it’s an even greater miracle that so many planes actually get off the ground, period.
10. That, despite all the advisory signs, and the long lines winding their way through the X-Rays, a disproportionately large number of travelers (especially women — sorry, ladies, it’s true) seem to prefer waiting until the last possible second before hanging up their cell phones and removing their shoes, keys, laptops, liquids, lotions and other sundry items from their persons and bags for screening.

There’s nothing like a good summer-night campfire and some real-life spook stories. The two that follow are re-posts from my former blog. The Doheny entry originally appeared Feb. 25, 2006, and the Marian Parker item was first posted Feb. 24, 2007. Whether you’ve caught them before or are reading them for the first time, enjoy!

I’ve wanted to visit this L.A. landmark for quite a while and finally had the opportunity recently. At first glance, this rather nondescript house that straddles the West Adams and Koreatown districts would appear no different from the many late-Victorian homes dotting the city. However, it has quite a storied past, being connected with a gruesome kidnapping/murder that shocked the nation in 1927.

Back then it was the residence of banker Perry Parker, his wife, and their twin 12-year-old daughters Marian and Marjorie. Parker was a prominent officer of Los Angeles First National Trust and Savings; the children, students at nearby Mt. Vernon Junior High School. On Dec. 15, 1927, a man appeared at the school asking for Marian. Her father, he said, was ill and anxious to see her. Totally hoodwinked, the girl’s teacher handed Marian over to the stranger, who then sent several bizarre ransom notes to the Parker home signed “The Fox.” He demanded $1500 in gold certificates in exchange for the girl.
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Though it happened nearly eight decades ago, Beverly Hills officials make it their policy not to discuss the tragedy of Greystone Manor. They’re even less inclined to acknowledge the numerous ghost tales surrounding the property. Off the record, however, many familiar with the estate have plenty to say about eerie lights and gruesome visages in the windows, along with weird apparitions, strange thuds and shrill cries in the mansion’s dark, abandoned halls.
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Our San Diego neighbors to the south have quite an architectural brouhaha on their hands. Seems that a daring new design for a 40-story residential tower in their downtown district is a little too “organic” for critics. You’ll have to follow the link for the story and photo, but let’s just say the edifice in question gives a whole new meaning to the cliche “thrusting skyward.”

And you thought L.A. was wacky…

Mary Bingham, a historian-writer based in Arizona, has completed another article in her fun and informative series about families and descendants of the famous Anza Expedition. Appearing in the June/July issue of the Tubac Villager, this installment focuses on Jose Vicente Feliz, a Los Angeles founder and first grantee of Rancho Los Feliz. She quotes Yours Truly regarding the legendary curse attached to the land. (Thanks, Mary, I’m honored!) I’ve enjoyed my back-and-forth exchanges of info with Ms. Bingham and look forward to following her continuing series as it unfolds.

My recent post about the fate awaiting the Herald Building got me thinking. For years, a major knock on Los Angeles has been its lack of respect for history. Thanks to our constant fascination with everything hip, trendy and modern, we’ll eagerly level any cultural landmark that stands in the way of a glitzy new development project. It’s a constant headache for preservationists, but why fight it? Hell, as long as we’re kissing off the ol’ Hearst place, we may as well go on a free-for-all.

Here’s my list of potential targets to get the wrecking ball rolling. Don’t hesitate to add your own…

The Triforium (Fletcher E. Bowron Square) — This 60-ton civic jukebox cost nearly $1 million to build in 1975. Situated across Temple St. from City Hall, its colorful plastic lights actually pulse to the beat of muzak tunes piped through its enormous, bug-like speakers. (Yes, folks, this is what passes for public art here in La La Land.) Please, please, please, can’t we build a flashy new high-rise here instead?

Fort Moore Memorial (Hill St. near Sunset) — Occupying the hill on which the Pueblo’s garrison once stood, this huge wall celebrates the American Conquest of L.A. in 1847. Soooo politically incorrect! Worse, it features an ugly waterfall that hasn’t worked in god knows how long. Isn’t it time we raze this relic in favor of something more multi-culturally sensitive?

Crystal Springs Carousel (Griffith Park) — It’s old and kids love it. What better reason to tear it down? Built in San Diego in 1925, the classic merry-go-round was relocated here in the 1930s. Carefully restored in the 1990s, it managed to escape the park’s recent wildfire. Now’s our chance to finish off what the fire didn’t! The question is, what to replace it with? While nothing immediately pops to mind, I’m sure Councilman Reyes can think of something.

Music Box Stairs (923 Vendome St.) — Not really much to behold today, these Silver Lake steps were immortalized by Laurel and Hardy in their 1932 Academy Award-winning short, The Music Box, in which the pair heaved a piano ever upward, only to see it careen down again and again. But with the gag forever preserved on celluloid, who needs the actual stairs? Screw history! What Angelenos really want on famous spots like this is more high-density housing!

“The David House” (Hancock Park) — Although not truly “historic” in the strict sense of the word, given L.A.’s penchant for kitsch, it could well become a designated cultural landmark someday. Let’s save future generations the horror while we still can. Let’s pave this sculptural paradise and put up a parking lot…

Think shorthaired dogs are tidier around the house than longhair breeds? Think again.

With the Summer Solstice, my faithful Dobies Ramses (left) and Isis have entered yet another season of massive shedding. Only a day ago I vacuumed the house top to bottom. Today I thought a quick follow-up sweep with a broom might be in order. (Thankfully, all my floors are hardwood, making this a relatively easy task.)

I started upstairs and diligently swept my way down. When done, I was startled by the realization that there was enough animal hair to build a small Chihuahua. As disgusting as that is, however, it’s not half as bad as the actual possum carcass Isis dragged in through the doggie door last week.

Oh, the joys of pet ownership!