along the banks of the LA River.
“Whether we pass it or not, who’s going to enforce it, for God’s sake?” said Councilman Rusty Millar.
HAT TIP to MAISIE ALLISON:
- “Why would you want to take our identity away from us?” said Chris Ashe, who has lived in Silver Lake for five years.
- “Last speaker says we call ourselves Eastsiders because it’s human nature to want to feel a part of something ‘edgy.’” HAT TIP! to Adrian Glick Kudler of CURBED LA! Who ATTENDED the meeting and took this picture of council woman Anne-Marie Johnson during the Eastside debate:
- Adrian also witnessed the debate on REUSABLE BAGS:
8:21 pm: Nina Sorkin wants to spend $2,000 on reusable bags as giveaways and Charles Herman-Wurmfeld is NOT comfortable with that.
8:23 pm: Clint Luken to the rescue! He has a box of leftover bags in his office!!!
8:29 pm: Spending money on bags instead of additional polling places is “voter suppression,” so says Renee Nahum.
8:31 pm: Anthony Crump abstains from bag vote!
8:33 pm: First use of word “ludicrous” by Paul Michael Neuman. Spending money on muffins and expensive sandwiches also “voter suppression.”
But how do people with web series feel about the issue?
Kit Williamson holds a poster of his Web series, “The Eastsiders,” at his Silver Lake home. He is very connected to the Eastside name. But, he said, “I would never say Boyle Heights and those other areas are not the Eastside. That would be hurtful and should be avoided.”
As I continue shepherding the transition of my website into one which is entirely focused on passages from biographies of Lyndon Johnson, I thought I would take a quick detour to share a passage about Herbert Hoover (which I found in Path to Power). Hoover doesn’t want to do anything about the Depression. Like, when he gets asked about hunger, he says “Nobody is actually starving. The hoboes, for example, are better fed than they have ever been. One hobo in New York got ten meals in one day.”
Then, in 1932, he starts campaigning for another term, traveling across the country by train.
As the President’s train was pulling into Detroit, the men on it heard a hoarse, rhythmic chant rising from thousands of throats; for a moment they had hopes of an enthusiastic reception—and then they made out the words of the chant: “Hang Hoover! Hang Hoover! Hang Hoover!”
And as the Presidential caravan sped past, those inside his limousine saw, through its thick windows, that the route was lined, block after block, with tens of thousands of men and women who were, in Gene Smith’s words, “utterly silent and grim save for those who could be glimpsed shaking their fists and shouting unheard words and phrases.”
When, in St. Paul, the President defended his treatment of the Bonus Marchers [out of work veterans Hoover had driven from DC] , saying, “Thank God we still have a government in Washington that still knows how to deal with a mob,” the crowd responded with one vast snarl, a snarl so vicious that the Secret Service chief suddenly found himself covered with sweat.
I’m now listening to the first volume of Robert Caro’s Lyndon Johnson biography. He writes that “Lyndon was an unusually restless baby.” As soon as he could walk,
He would be playing in the yard and if his mother turned away for a minute, Lyndon would toddle down the road to see ‘Grandpa.’
As he grew older, his trips grew longer. Relatives who lived a half-mile — or more — away would suddenly notice that tiny figure toddling along with grim determination — a picture of Lyndon Johnson at eighteen months is striking not only for his huge ears but for the utter maturity of his expression — across the open country or up one of the long dirt tracks that branch off to the various farms from the main “roads.” They would take him back to Rebekah—and the very next day, or, if Rebekah wasn’t careful, the same day, the tiny figure would appear again.
Lyndon was running away so frequently that his father had hung a big bell on the front porch so Rebekah could more easily call for help in finding him.
School started at five in his town, but when he was four he started running away to school everyday (a mile away from their house) so he could play with older children while they were at recess.
When Miss Kate excused one of her students to use the privy out back, the student had to write his name on one of the two blackboards that flanked the back door. The other students wrote their names small; whenever Lyndon left the room, he would reach up as high as he could and scrawl his name in capital letters so huge that they took up not one but both blackboards. His schoolmates can remember today—seventy years later—that huge LYNDON B. on the left blackboard and JOHNSON on the right.
Later on, when he’s a teenager, he becomes all bad, especially after he graduates from high school. Every night after his father goes to sleep, he takes their car out and races with it, and one night he crashes it. He decides that he just can’t face his father, so he runs away and hitchhikes to Robstown, Texas, 160 miles away near Corpus Christi. He spends the summer working in a cotton gin, keeping the boiler running.
And it was explained to him that if he ever let the water run out (or if the pop-off valve for some reason failed to work, and too much steam was kept pent up inside), the boiler would explode. Several had exploded in Robstown gins that summer; he was terrified.
Lyndon decides to have a friend call his dad and tell him how Lyndon is doing such dangerous work, and his dad immediately tries to get him back:
Then Sam went home and telephoned Robstown, telling Lyndon to come home. But Lyndon wouldn’t let his father know he wanted to. Pretending that he was having a good time where he was, he said he would come home only if Sam promised never to punish him for the car wreck—or even to mention it. And when his father finally agreed, Lyndon insisted that his mother come to the phone and say she had heard the promise, so that in the future he would have a witness. And thereafter, whenever Sam, angry at Lyndon, would start to bring up the car wreck, Lyndon would say, “Mama, you remember, he said he wouldn’t do it”—and Rebekah would say, “Now, that’s out, Sam. You promised.” And Lyndon’s father would always drop the subject.
I’m never going back.
There for to eat dog food.