My Fay Young’s Little World

There is no profession more honorable than nursing, and I steadfastly believe all nurses give 110% to their craft. Such said, I’ve found nurses—having known an inordinate quantity for some reason—to be emotionally damaged sex addicts with rather pronounced substance abuse problems. Like yours truly. Which is why I like them so much, or at least that’s why I’ve known so many.

In any event, the Nurse: like the Cop, she spends her days with her head in the human toilet, seeing people only at their lowest ebb. Is it any wonder they garb themselves in black and take in a lonely GI ACP as their only friend?

Here’s where my new delightful intended Fay Young lived:

Note her small apartment building just there to the left of the Gates Hotel. Both of which are gone, having been replaced like so:

(Orient yourself in the two pix via Wurdeman & Becket’s 1946 Mobil Oil/General Petroleum bldng peeking from the corner.)

And where Fay boosted some schmendrik who so dearly deserved to be relieved of his nine dollars:

Relatedly, on a Los Angeles streetcorner I recently reacquainted myself with M—– R—–, former nursing student and former girlfriend of mine at that, who now panhandles to support her, uh, nursing habit.