1947 Project

Again with the AFL (set your 47p wayback machine for October 9)-fortunately, we’ve since learned that whacking labor leaders and firing into crowds with the odd SKS are the preferred methods of contract negotiation.

Culinary workers? Long hours, sure, but they don’t hurt for eatin’. AFLCW didn’t hurt for anything, being one of LA’s famously corrupt mob puppets before their eventual implosion.

The Bombay Palace, at 8690, is a prewar brick building with a new façade. But our Vallera’s at 8680 is lost to the winds, the winds that carried off the last stench of class struggle-

My, isn’t this riot of AFL window-smashing & stench-bombing charmingly old school? Less charming, we must suppose, should you have to smell the stench.

FYI, should you need to show your displeasure with the company unions by the boss making by the workers double cross: hydrated lime may be purchased where cement is sold, and sulfur is the primary ingredient in rose dust; mix at one to two, add water and heat. Pour off into a container leaving the lime residue behind. Now add sulfate of ammonia (also in your garden department). Stir, cover, drain through cheesecloth into the bottle you’re about to throw, and there you have it. You now know as much as the Folks of 47 and we implore each and every proletariat on the side of the pin-setters to begin stench bombing Los Angeles in earnest. You have nothing to lose but your chains and stuff.

One cannot judge Mrs. Gavrus too harshly. This was, after all, a full 25 years before Alice Cooper recorded “Dead Babies,” his warning against just this sort of occurance.

But it was 1947. A time when not only were there no childproof caps, but all seemingly harmless drugs contained deadly poison.

Maybe ol’ DG is crazy like a fox. Consider-pull at stunt like this within a year of the Dahila, and you’re gonna be picked up for some serious questioning. However, once they’ve cleared you of that heinous event, won’t an overtaxed PD’ll be less likely to burden themselves with a a simple leg-carver? This is Christmas, not Thanksgiving.

Nice to know the pair in question will be played by Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey in the MOW.

What burns me up is that the papers don’t mention in which hôtel Graeff shacked up the young bride. There are many. Here are a few.

A decidedly post-1947 complex of late-fiftiesiana has replaced the Mills’ death apartment. Hail the authoritative and striking Berendo Vista! Certainly we must imagine suicides of only the finest and most modern order conduct themselves here.

Despite my love of the Mills’, after having blogged about nurses a scant two days ago, I was hoping Kim would go with this story:

-because I’d hate to see another nurse, of whom I love collectively, whose mints on the pillows of the ol’ Hotel du Crazy are always fresh, fall through the cracks of 21 December 1947. That a blarney-smooching nurselet shall hang from a kookootown window, turning herself that particular shade of necrophile grey, is to be forgotten on my watch? Think not, dear reader.

Hey look, that’s one of the many Edward Sibbert-designed Kress department stores (this being from 1935, ogle those setbacks) on the right. That’s a 1928 JJ Newberry Company on the left.

Christmas shopping represents nothing more than a Consumer Confidence Index precisely mirrored against the Death of the Earth. When our last National Treasure, the choked and gasping American Landfill, dies via poison spilled from Christmas’ gaping chasm, we shall recall the time when the only terrors visited upon us were those involving popgun-wielding desperadi. As we suck in our final breath of outgassed CFCs we will beg for the Kress bandit’s bullet to put us out of our postmodern misery!

On behalf of the 1947project, I invite you to consume as hard as you can, while there is still time. Thank you for your attention.