Forty-seven speaker cards, a tray of Henri Baptiste's dated floor-paint chips passed along the dais, and a studio attorney who announced — in her twenty minutes — the first booking the stage has had since August. It goes to the council next. Lorne Szymanski, 61, rigging gaffer, spoke for two minutes and sat down.
The special session did what it promised: a yes or a no. Harlan Beaufort was the yes, on the condition that the merchants' parking count be run for real. And the city attorney found the liquidated-damages clause — $1,200 a day — along with three change orders that moved the date it counts from.
Marshall went for two and the win with 41 seconds left. Daniel Okotie, the first sophomore anyone can remember starting a Marshall game, got there first. Everett Teale carried the 1988 roster to midfield, and Marv Sinclair kept his promise — one sticker.
Aurelio Renteria spent thirty-eight years keeping a private census of Hollywood's ornamental lamps. His daughter delivered seven notebooks and fourteen albums to the Bureau of Street Lighting last week. The bureau has already used them once.
A July that cured the grass a month early sent brush inspectors back through Beachwood, Outpost and the canyons in late August. Nine in ten parcels passed. The rest belong mostly to people who are not there.
Four weeks after he walked away from a Franklin Avenue care home, the 68-year-old was recognized at an all-night coffee shop counter by a server who did exactly what his family had asked: nothing, except a phone call. He is now in hospital care and back on his medication.
Vernon Teague left a Franklin Avenue residential care facility on July 26, two days after moving in. He has schizophrenia, is without his medication, and is considered at risk. Police and family are asking the public to report sightings.
Seventeen Augusts after it began as a card table with 40 backpacks, the Franklin Avenue drive sent nearly all of its 1,200 bags out the basement door in a single Saturday. The scissors were solved, the calculators arrived with a day to spare, and the pencils, as ever, were not the problem.
A week after this newspaper printed the words "blunt-tip scissors," the church basement on Franklin has more than two thousand pairs, some of them left-handed. What the drive still needs is duller: money, and two evenings of hands.
Summer at the Hollywood Bowl means 17,000 people arriving in a canyon with one road in. The residents up the hill have spent forty years negotiating over the last mile of it.
Twenty-two minutes, three men and a truck ended fifteen years of a bus bench boxing in Marisol Quintero's newsstand. Her tape says forty-one inches. The inspector comes September 24. Cornell Biggs has a new seat, fourteen feet east.
Back from recess, the council committee spent three hours on four items and finished three: $4,850 for the bench move, 'pending counts as compliance' through December 31, and an up-or-down bike-lane vote set for September 16. The Walk of Fame motion ran out of afternoon — again.
About 120 people came to the reading room Saturday. The volunteers kept the one rule — promise the building, never the hours — and the campaign left with a new commitment it did not plan to make: asking the system to publish how the 34 branches were chosen.
The street-furniture company's written answer reached the city Wednesday: ordinary service gets to Hollywood in late October, past the newsstand's deadline — unless someone invokes the contract's expedited clause and pays the fee. Everyone at City Hall wants the money found. Nobody wants it found in their budget.
Hollywood's permit counter is running ahead of projections; the county health queue behind it is not, and the difference lands on September 30. Meanwhile, the bus bench blocking the Boulevard's last newsstand turns out to have a clock of its own.
A motion filed Thursday demands a public accounting of the terrazzo restoration's third delay. Its authors say they have found no liquidated-damages provision in the contract — and the city cannot yet tell them whether one exists.
The measure heading to voters will fund construction and seismic work at 34 branches, Hollywood's among them. A clause promising to protect operating hours did not survive the drafting.
Foxglove Animation took its second floor in July. Filling it has turned into an argument the studio is having with itself about whether a junior artist can still be trained at a desk.
Twenty-two years in one building, and the mixing stages now run until four. The owner says it is the only way to compete with facilities eight time zones away — and the people working nights have opinions about the arrangement.
Four days of triple digits pushed exterior work to nights, moved three shoots indoors and cancelled two outright. A crew on a weekly deal gets paid anyway. Most of the people on a Hollywood set are not on a weekly deal.
Fifty-eight July casualties, one rebuilt diner compressor, thirty-one new maintenance contracts and a one-day spike to 97 that did no damage anyone has reported. The neighborhood's walk-ins have been cold since Labor Day. Their owners are not relaxed.
Walt Dorsey opened in 1980 and hired Marisela Ybarra as a Saturday cashier in 2004. She bought the business last week, on a ten-year note, with the key machine and the bin of odd screws included.
The cooperative's August: revenue flat, which counts as a win; the 4 a.m. wholesale route still scheduled for an October vote; and a retired owner who has been caught fixing the proofer he no longer owns.
The racks are still wide apart and the fitting curtain is still unattended, but the buying is done, the mending has started, and the owner has made her annual guess about what the season will want. She gives herself even odds.
The late, compressed season arrived exactly where the shopkeepers said it would — all at once, on the weekend. The shoe store had its best Saturday since 2019, the uniform rack kept pace, and the happiest shelf off Highland is an empty one.
Three weeks after the July heat broke, Hollywood's refrigeration men are booked into September, the parts counter is still on allocation, and the machines that survived the wave are failing on a schedule of their own.
Two weeks out from the first bell, the shops that live on August say the traffic is there and the baskets are lighter. The resale racks are the exception, and they are having their best summer in years.
Ignatius Broadfoot spent title week looking for nine men who could run. He found them, and then the title arrived on a play that required no running at all.
Four teams, one Thursday, and a championship that comes down to which roster can field nine men who are permitted by their doctors to run.
Helmets only, no pads, one practice a day, and a heat index reading taken on the field before anybody runs. The Sheiks' first week is a science experiment that the coach says he wishes had existed in 1994.
She kept an index card on every student — about 1,400 of them — and a rule she repeated for six decades: play the wrong notes loud. A session pianist, a dentist and three generations of one family were among those who learned it.
He painted gold-leaf shop names, sale banners and truck doors from 1957 until his hands told him to stop. A dozen of his windows are still on the street, and one owner has refused for twenty years to replace hers.
She sold popcorn to three generations of the same families, memorized a thousand standing orders, and maintained a private accounting of children who could not pay, which balanced to zero every night by her own method.
He serviced the ornamental double-lantern poles by route and by name, kept a notebook the city never asked for, and held that a street you can see is a street you can love.
For fifty-one years he parked the neighborhood's cars in a lot that was always somehow one space bigger than it looked, and held its keys, its packages and a fair number of its arrangements.
He ran a rental warehouse off Cahuenga for fifty-three years and kept, in his head, a catalog no one has ever been able to write down. Its contents went under the hammer last month.
