The Hollywood Bisector

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The Black Out

I just heard on the news that the Prez is going to be in Militigan today talking about, "keeping college affordable." Yeah, like that's gonna happen. Damn, its absolutely the first interesting Superbowl game in years, and looks to be going down the crapper this year as a sitting Governor, one Mitch Daniels has gone into full "deer in headlights" mode after using his free buttle to the SOTA to further bamboozle the heathen Indians. Frankly, it looks to me like Mitchy, and Scooter Walker are using the same anti-depressants.

Hope he doesn't try any Lambeau leaps on those!

The so-called right to work is as ugly a little sophistry as any that its been my experience to decode, therefore, so I'll not be at home for the extravagant flat screen spectacle. Things could change, its really up to the players now. Are they going to sit up and bark, or go slinking into Indianapolis with their act upstaged by the clowns. All unions, all locals are different. The NFL broke the strike with scab ballplayers the last time, it took fifteen years before they were all out of the league, but today presents another challenge. I wonder if Ford Field could be made available in time? "Cars on Ice?" Damn.

Sixty-five years of drunken, purblind, McCarthyism by the Federal Government has really taken its tolls upon the organized labor movement, especially as its applied to public servants. They, the other side, refuse to see as implicit the inseparability of the right to strike, within the right to organize itself. Its not much good without it, its not a trinket to dangle in front of savages.

I'd like to remind the President why Dr. King went down to Memphis in 1968, and what he did when he got there, but I shouldn't think I'd need to. Jimmy Carter fired the wildcatting Post Office workers in 1978, and Ronald Reagan fired the striking federal air-traffic controllers under the same rubric in 1983. Hence the notion that its somehow illegal for cops, teachers, and garbage workers to withhold their labor, and presuming then, the right of the current executive to summarily fire them, without due process, purely as an example to deter others from engaging in similar legal activity, as implicit as well, and thereby constitutes a form of forced human labor, involuntary servitude, or slavery.

And so far President Obama's  education program has skirted dangerously off in that direction, that's hard a starboard, there Skipper. Mike Klonsky observed yesterday that Daniels had actually complimented the President's on his awful domestic education policies. "Null, set, and match, Barry."

But if Hoops Duncan is still around when the schools reopen in the fall, if any are left, we could see some massive dislocations, particularly whereas we seem to be running out of steam in the economic recovery, as billions of badly needed dollars are being funneled away down the rat hole, and into specious political advertisements. The Chicago Teachers Union contract is out this year, and they'll come to the table mad as hell at the impolitic antics of his honor:

Rejoice, Recall, Rahmmanuel and ransom captive City Hall which long in Daley's shadow dwelt in fear until the corporate hand-outs disappeared....

Here's a fact I got off the Dylan Ratigan show; that 94% of the time, the candidate who spends the most money in a political campaign wins the election. That's been translated in the common parlance as the sack who blows himself up the biggest on T.V. always wins. Doesn't really say much about any residual survival skill of Americans outside the wealthiest one percent, of us, but may also be myopic in the extreme. I suspect that when their right to vote is the last really free thing they've got, they'll begin to use it with far more discretion, and even an overt discrimination toward the common weal.

A Slow Newsday



The Winterrowd Memorandum

 Sixty-five years ago today, aways out west, in Los Angeles, the heat was officially off whomever the chief Black Dahlia suspect actually was at the time. He who's the non-subject of the still redacted memo addressed to Mr. Ladd, at FBI Headquarters, dated January 20Th. 1947. It was found in J. Edgar Hoover's file. That's something even the FBI still can't talk about, even today. But why not? The war was long over....

Nominally to protect the ongoing investigation, such as it is, or was, but that can only mean one of two things, in this case: either that the subject himself is still alive; or his identity is still an aging, expensive, and well guarded state secret. You simply can't have it both ways; even in a company town like Hollywood.

Therefore whomsoever this Inked Out person might indeed be, or might even have once been, but they just didn't say. And whereas the LAPD didn't say they did, it seems to me; had been as neatly called off of the Short list of suspects at the time, and reacted much like a dog trained on a whistle, their teeth are bared, and they're still visibly snarling, but they're making no sound or fury, not even a whimper, but as thoroughly cowered as a bird in a cage. 

Such a queer fate, we've all been so defiled, dropped, and so disconnected, from each other in the old city, that the line of personal communication is virtually dead, somehow, somewhere its been severed, and cast in twain. We must make her whole again.

Ed, Eddy, and Edwin



Dahlia's Military Pal

Barnes and Wife

Undoubtedly working through some pre-arraigned signal in the newspapers, Edwin F. Burns all too soon felt he needed to chum the waters some more, to keep his publicity binge going, and he responded by dropping her shoes and purse in the trash on Crenshaw, and next with the belongings package, which he addresses to the, "Los Angeles Examiner and other Los Angeles newspapers," and he mailed. 

Oddly occulted layout



Weird Examiner composite layout. That's Ed and Elizabeth on the left, and  Ed in San Pedro in 1943 is second from the right.

 A package which also contained, among other things a 1943 photo of WO1 Ed Burns himself, right along with the 1946 photo booth pictures of himself and Elizabeth Short. We have connected all the dots for you here at the Black Dahlia Reader



W-01 Ed Burns

       However, at the time, Jeanne French and Evelyn Winters still drew breath, and still needed to be served and protected, if only for awhile longer. But it wasn't happening then, for them either, and there's a good chance it ain't gonna happen soon for us. Ed, if he lived, had outsmarted them temporarly, but he was too clever by half. He knows who did it, better than anyone else could, because he did it. Whether it must all eventually happen, or will happen, is entirely beyond the scope of this present inquiry.

Elizabeth Short Blacklist

While censorship is always difficult to defend in theory, its remarkable how quickly we can, and do, resort to it in practice. Nothing is easier to find than censorship out here on the Internet, say what you will, but if you incense the insensibilities the domain-holder; then its, "farewell, and adieu to thee, sweet Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu to ye ladies of Spain." Its half the fun, I should think. What good is some specious intellectual property if you have to share it with people who gets their kicks stompin' on a dream.

I bow to precedent here, having first had my contributions marginalized, and inevitably, any, and all communications with the seedy Black Dahlia discussion boards were very neatly severed. Its fair to say they found something about my contributions offensive, and having nothing with which to counter my purely scientific evidence, they unilaterally broke the stream, and resorted to the worst sort of bilemma. 

And they still don't have a clue, having kept themselves absolutely airtight, safe, and secure from the truth about Elizabeth Short, even as they sit, spin, and wait in hope for the Black Dahlia gravy train to finally run in.

As a BDiH non-person, I can't view any attachments, or follow any links. Ed is the name, which shall not be spoken, but other than that you're cool, if unenlightened for your trouble. While Larry publicly posts his unconscious enemies list as 'spam' comments at the Daily Mirror. And who's number one on Larry's shit list? You guessed it.

I wonder how much it costs him to keep up that absurd counter up? A proud, and impressive spite fence, as one sees, if you will? Why, for lil' ol' me? And not just me, I'll reckon. O.J. too. I'm sincerely flattered, please, don't stop, ever. Still, I cannot in good faith sell you readers off to a cheap four-flusher, a fatuous flim-flammer, or big fat carpetbagger liar like him — Please, please, please, do stop. I don't want to die laughing.

Larry may be God's gift to the newspaper business, but taken strictly as a homicide detective, he isn't. In that, he's worse than a rank amateur; he's wabsolutely full of it. And Steve Hodel? Steve's case is entirely, and overtly biased, that it lacks any useful objective framework, and since the two don't even agree, or show any tendencies to converge; you can easily dismiss the conclusions of both on those grounds a priori.

Maybe John Gilmore is another matter, but he's not a brave man, anymore, not given his last forum foray from which he fast fled. And why were there no wood traces in the Dahlia's skin if they had laid her out and cut her on these boards? What boards? She was secured to the rigging, upright, like Richard Harris in that manacled horse picture. Digging the LAPD's massive head out of the alluvial sands could take a minor miracle. But stranger things must have happened here, in the Magic Kingdom of Hollywood, Lando?

Larry says, "It's lunacy."

Q. What do you make of the "black dahlia solution.org" claims?



A. I think the site's gross manipulation of photos--alterting Elizabeth Short's eyes and mouth, for example--is disturbing. The writing style is virtually unreadable, so it's hard to get through, but what I've read is dysfunctional and demented.


Using the same logic (that Elizabeth Short's body was a "pointer" to Degnan Boulevard in reference to the Suzanne Degnan murder), one could say that the killer was "Gene Rayburn" because the next street over is "Grayburn." It's lunacy. And I wish the author, whoever he is, would stop sending me things under the phony name of "Jack Pico" from his mail drop in San Diego because I never read them. And for the record, there was no Ed Burns.

Special note: This is sarcasm not to be taken literally. I give this warning because it is impossible to say something about this case so absurd that no one will believe it. Again, I'm not saying Gene Rayburn was the killer. This is sarcasm intended to show the lunacy of the Degnan Boulevard claims!


— Larry Harnisch, Heaven is here:

FAQ

The Big Jimmy

The surfeit of useless trivia regarding the Elizabeth Short murder today, stands in stark contrast to the extreme paucity of material to be found out there about the Jeanne French and Evelyn Winters murders, a mere few weeks hence. What very skimpy evidence there is concerning these crimes reads like pure LAPD double speak, blithely intended to neatly sever these three crimes, and their seemingly obvious connections, from each other, in the mind of the public. It must be said that they have succeeded masterfully in doing so, and how stupid did they think we were? Pretty stupid, indeed.

Time marches on, and what was once and eyes only top secret scandal has become a pseudo-public franchise. A pay-per-view on tour event for snowbirds and tourists on early vacations in Hollywood. Somehow even the FBI remains involved, with the great Black Dahlia murder 65Th. year of failure commemoration last week, and by the way; it still considers Short to have been an "Hollywood starlet", and not even those BDiH jerks would buy into that grotesque lie. It's a whopper!

The LAPD handbill above, dated January 21 is chock a block full of factual errors concerning the poor Short girl. The photo is a very bad chroma and only vaguely recalls her in life, or death. She was five-five inches tall, and 115 pounds, and she had dark brown hair and light blue eyes. How did they expect or get anything but all bad leads if they're deliberately misinforming other law enforcement agencies with a bad description? Again, this sort of thing is outside the parameters of my experience. I usually worked from the description given, and begs the question of what they were thinking.

The Johnson's described the beige overcoat, plastic handled purse, and black suede pumps correctly but their story won't break for another day yet. What gives with that? On the other hand, they had released Red Manley from custody early on the morning of January 20th. with a clean lie detector test. Therefore, we can deduce that the Johnson's eyewittness identifications agree substantially with Manley's descriptions of some of her items of clothing.

Whereas the Hirsh Apts. managers described the Dahlia's hair as being covered by a white bandanna. A fact which completely explodes the myth that the couple had incorrectly described her hair as being black, when she went to her room on January 12, 1947, and that it was the L.A. police themselves who were pumping all this bilge water out, about her last being seen on the Ninth of January at the Biltmore hotel, and intentionally fouling their own case. Orders from higher up, there's no recourse left.

Where they came up with the green eyes canard is perhaps the biggest mystery of all. Nobody who ever met Elizabeth would make such a mistake. On the contrary everyone mentions her blue eyes as being the most her most unmistakable facial feature indeed. This is not outside my experience; in fact, witnesses who have had some intimacy with the victim always recall the hair and eye color with a high degree of accuracy. It's an easy marker.

Her mother and sister and brother-in-law were in town by then, I hope they were never exposed to such erroneous materials, although they must have clearly sensed the hopelessness of their search for the real killer of the real Elizabeth Short if not, how immensely long it would finally take to bring Edwin F. Burns to justice, though they cannot have possibly have guessed, that it would last an entire lifetime or more.

Jack Sparrow Noir

Living in an hedge row was a lazy, naughty, and non-conforming little sparrow who decided, on her own, to not fly south for the winter. However, soon the weather had turned so cold that she reluctantly changed her mind, and decided to fly south. But it was too late: in very a short time ice began to form on her wings, and she fell to the Earth in a barnyard, frozen nearly solid.  An old milkcow passed by where she had fallen, and shite on the poor little thing. She thought that it was the end of all things, but the big steamy freshly lain pile of fecal material quickly warmed her pin feathers, and defrosted her wings! Finally able to breathe, she began to sing. Just then, a large alley cat happened on the messy scene. Whereas the hungry cat promptly cleared away the stool, found the happily chirping bird, and ate it.

The moral of the story is that everyone who takes a big dump on your head is not necessarily your enemy, while everyone who helps get you out of the crap you're in is not necessarily your friend. And if you’re safe, warm and happy, even in a big pile of cow chits of your own creation, you might just want to try and keep your mouth shut about it, Seamous.

You can't trust ex-LAPD officers any farther than you can heave a grand piano. But plainly Hodel's had enough time with Larry of Dupage, he'd get the truth out of him. While he's taken all of his abuse with that stodgy flat-footed lack of cop equipoise he so often demonstrated, with me, and back on the force, whereas he literally danced across the boiling sidewalks, from squad car, to squad room, and back again. Station House Steve, or so the story goes, "legendary"; as one of L.A.'s most busiest  loafers, he was as good as handcuffed to his own desk, and always with his feet up.
 
Typically, the aging author has either forgotten, or neglected to name this miscreant managing editor to the hopelessly confused reader, causing his drooping, CYA roundhouse haymaker to mistarget badly, but my money's always on Harnisch when there is no shame involved. Not only because Larry's one of a precious few copy editors still actually working, Larry's as likely as not, to have not read it. Or he'll try and act as though he hasn't, but his senile blog readers may have hepped him to it. 

While one of these very shady characters is a complete imbecile, and the other is a rank amateur. Both of them are altogether genuine Hollywood phonies, and they just don't come any phonier, and with both ripening fast under the merciless SoCali sun, neither one of them has a clue as to who actually killed Elizabeth Short, Jeanne French, or Evelyn Winters in 1947, and they couldn't care less. Clearly thar be a Nazi in the woodpile, still. And that's a dirty shame, a lowdown disgrace, and an awful blight on the once beautiful city of Mary, Queen of the Angels.

Cause and Effect

Its a bum rap. If I hadn't long ago divested any real interest in Steve Hodel's tragi-comic pathetic, clown show, and still unresolved publicly held Oedipus complexities, or I'd toss him an effen bone once in awhile, but I'd still be cooling my heels on the front porch for my trouble, if I was lucky. He'd probably sic the dog on me if I wasn't. If their neighbors deck was on fire, and asked to borrow your garden hose; presumably most people would agree to help out all they could, but Steve's the type who would just totally hose him off, and then use it to water his own house down, just in case. Or maybe he lives in an apartment?

I want to thank all three of you who paticipated in my recent poll. I haven't had a chance to run the numbers, but the raw totals have far exceed expectations.

I think Larry would correct his English grammar, and then stall for time by trying to deny the deck was on fire at all, and demand some sort of proof, without bothering to look, and even refuse to let him use the phone. Whereas Gilmore wouldn't be home because as soon he smelled the smoke, he split the scene altogether, on the 405 South by now. The cops are all mummers in their own parade, as far as I can tell. Things cannot possibly be any worse out there than they look from here. 

Did you know that sixty-five was the dignified retirement age set by the late German Chancellor Otto von Bismark during the last Prussian interlude?

Our Social Security legislation then adopted it, and by and large and it held the line on over age wage slavery for some fifty years before all the returns were skimmed off the top to be used as a wager against any and all possible liabilities they could think of, the swill; the monsterous engenics of the sublimest of all sucker bets.

God help us all if even of our millions of retirees ever get anything like a real dollar return on their penny-wise and pound foolish investment. That realization would break the bank at Monte Carlo, but time is always on the side of the house. Instead they get rigged up defined benefits, or fixed incomes, and means testing while they go broke over, and over, and over on your decades old COLA money, and pay you off in discounted coupons, whereas they probably think they've gotten away with it. Exceptional malfeasance in office has raised reitrement to seventy years, in the U.S. and we make lame jokes about seven year old Chinese girls in better working condition.

When I retired from the Navy Department in 2001, the S.S. boys held me to an even higher medical standard than the OPM had, and so I was SOL for three years. Which was just exactly as long as it took swallow my TSP boodle whole. All duly directed cause and effect: seems they had hatched that scheme, on the margins, a long time. But they ignored how hard the game had to played on the rest of us in real life. But if it can happen to anyone, what chance have they got? A very neat trick, Ollie? Indeed.

Ed Burns' Birthday

W.O. E. F. Burns

Yes, its Edwin F. Burns' birthday today, January 11. Born on this date in 1909, Ed's reached the truly ripe old age of a hundred and two. Clean living? Perhaps SoCal's famously short, relatively mild winters, gifts the Marine-Mediterranean subclimate. Le French Rivera? So I see that Crazy Uncle Lar-Lar's blowing awfully hard tonight. Somethings up. Watch, its rising on the west wind; you can almost smell the stench two thousand miles away.

The Hot Tip

The F.B.I. put this blog up just yesterday in still another pathetic attempt to bolster the fallacy that the Black Dahlia went missing sixty-five years ago yesterday. Of course we know this is a totally flat-footed police department lie. The Hirsh Apts managers had both positively identified Elizabeth Short as the woman who joined a party named Barnes in their apartment suite at 11:00 am on Sunday, January 12, 1947. Therefore we reason that aside from this (Barnes and Wife) character, who had checked in an hour or so earlier, the William Johnson's are very probably the last two people who would ever see the Black Dahlia alive, and still in one piece, as it were, but far from the last to see her picture dead.

Whereas their dual eyewitness statements are identical, and have held up for sixty-five years now, and will do so for sixty-five more, if that's what it takes. Its either that or explain why they so flagrantly perjured themselves in front of the cops, risking jail themselves in a capital murder? Like Emily Litella, once they've tripped over their own informants, we're asked to just nevermind, forget the whole thing, and that they, "don't want to see any paperwork on it!" And that peculair set of circumstances is altogether outside of, and runs counter to, my own, not inconsiderable direct experience with hot murder investigations.

Perhaps, as Don Wolfe suggests; the Johnsons were just lying like that because the rival Biltmore Hotel was hogging all the Dahlia action? But I simply don't buy it, and don't you.

While this nearly epochal fact has nowhere else been seriously addressed anytime since, or any substantial length, or precision, even questioned, nor has it been in anyway refuted. Why then should the F.B.I. still be interested in putting this kind of shite out, and at such a grievously late date? Because the LAPD's murder case is still open? Really? Because if that is so,you sure couldn't tell it by Jack, or me, for that matter. Is this, at long last, a signal to the LAPD to finally shit, short¹, or please get off the pot?

Background: The 22 year-old starlet; --2006. Although tidal forces will cause the background geometry to become noticeably non-Euclidean over larger regions, if we restrict search to a sufficiently small region containing a cluster of discrete objects falling together in an effectively uniform gravitational field, their LRF can be described as the physics of that hyper cluster in convecting space time, and free from explicit background gravitational effects.

That's how they found those planetary systems in distant galaxies using Lévy flights² to extract the local probabilities in advance. The point is that nothing moves out there until somebody, somewhere does the proper function necessary to set the time clock moving forward again.

The Hindu are all over this one, it seems with their notions of individual recreating the world in psychic space, via prayer and fasting, but that always fails to account for the left null set. It does account far more for the human element in the story than say; the proof of some moral superiority by God's own predestination: Calvinism, but I digress.

 ¹ A sleepy lagoon is a local reference frame (local frame) which refers to a coordinate system, or frame of reference, that is not expected to function over a large, or unrestricted region of space and time. The term is most often used within the context of the application of local inertial frames to small regions of a gravitational field.

² The movement of animals closely resembles in many ways the random walks of dust particles in a fluid.This similarity led to interest in trying to understand how predators move via the analogy to Brownian motion. This conventional wisdom held until the early 1990s. However, starting in the late 1980s, evidence began to accumulate that did not fit the theoretical predictions. In 1999, a theoretical investigation of the properties of Lévy flights showed that an inverse square distribution of flight times or distances could optimize the search efficiency under certain circumstances. Specifically, a search based on a Lévy walk, consisting of a constant velocity search following a Lévy flight path, is optimal for searching sparsely and otherwise apparently randomly distributed revisitable targets.

The Black Hawk

Up the Army

Make no mistake, Edwin F. Burns was a sexual sadist of the first rank. If some people prefer the best selling, patently ridiculous, if pleasantly co-authored, naughty schoolboy fantasies of Stevie land, or the purblind nonsense of Larry the L.A. Times Copy Editor(sic). It surely takes all kinds of people to make a really good cover story.

The discerning reader will recognize the frame-up as a detail of a photograph of what was left of Jeanne French, after Eddy got through with her, that I've carefully cropped, and rotated -90° from its customary orientation, in order to filter out some of the inertial bias, which has the practical effect of changing the viewer's perspective to the left port upright position.

The lipstick smears in this section appear to have been applied in such a manner as to suggest something like a rebus. What most would have you believe is that these markings are variously interpreted as "B.D." for Black Dahlia, or "P.D." which presumably means the L.A.P.D. This is purely a manufactured consensus which crumbles under the first few blows.

I suggest that the "B" could reasonably be an isomorphic representation of three fingers making a crude gesture, or "flipping the bird," relative to the "D" character which looks rather more like a capital "A" for Army from this angle: Fuck the Army. Now we can return the photo to its original cardinal alignment and and its message retransmits as "E"-"D", E—D, or ED.

That, of course is getting away from the official narrative, as far as possible, and that's the whole idea. Once they were called off Edwin F. Burns trail, the authorities found it far more expedient to try and disassociate the two crimes from one another, as much as practicable, in the eyes of the public; when the published evidence clearly says otherwise. Edwin probably couldn't believe his own dumb luck, so he resolved to test it again. Maybe just once more, in a month or so.

La Matin Lévesque

There is measure in all things. The ancient Roman Goddess Minerva is, "she who measures." La nova retour; for each time that a new dawn appears, the mystery is still there, in its entirety.  When the sun comes back, the landscape hearkens, and shadows hold their breath. Whereas many more worship the rising, than the setting sun, there is nothing more fair, for all aglow is the last night's work. What an elegant mannequin? A flower by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye, as fair as a morning star when only one is left shining in the sky, and when it goes, it goes like the distance, on the overlook of death. Dull would he be of soul, who could pass right by so awful a blight, and not be moved.

Here upon a dark theme, I'll try and trace some verses of light.

Elizabeth Short's badly savaged, totally severed and dessicated body was discovered by a Mrs. Betty Bersinger, at approximately 10:15hrs. Jeanne French's was found at about 08:15 and Evelyn Winters' body at precisely 00.10hrs. Pacific Standard Time (PST). These three vectors all played an important role in finally resolving Ed Burns' horrible, unsolved, and covered-up 1947 woman-killing spree, and those forces acting on the events are all perfectly described by these two tightly enclosed navigational, and temporal vectors.

The final proof of this killer's true identity is found within the subset of all serial homicidists everywhere, and is a function of the rational number of cases favorable to the string itself, and to the number of all cases possible, when nothing leads us to expect that any one of these murders should occur anymore than any other, which renders them, for our purposes, equally probable negative outcomes. Many other physical quantities can be usefully thought of as vectors. Although most of them do not represent distances (such as position or displacement), their magnitude and direction can be still represented by the length and direction of an arrow.

Recalling that a spatial vector is a geometric entity characterized by a magnitude, and a direction. Those parameters specifying the probabilities of each possible outcome are constrained only by the fact that each must be in the range 0 to 1, and all must sum to 1. In pure mathematics, a vector is any element of a vector space over some scalar field and is often represented as a coordinate vector.

The coordinate vectors described in this article are a very special case of this general definition, because they are contravariant with respect to the ambient space. This contrivance captures the physical intuition behind the idea that the vector has both, "magnitude and direction". If an Euclidean space is equipped with a choice re the point of origin, then a free vector is equivalent to the bound vector of the same magnitude and direction whose initial point is the origin.

The acceleration of a point is a vector which is the time derivative of velocity. Its dimensions are length/time². And force is a vector with dimensions of; mass×length/time², and Newton's second law is the scalar multiplication. Typically, these components are the point projections of the vector on a set of reference axes (or basis vectors). The vector is said to be decomposed, or resolved with respect to that set. An illustration of the tangential and normal components of a vector to a surface.

However, the decomposition of a vector into components is not unique, because it depends on the choice of the axes upon which the vector is then projected.Here the scalar triple product is not a new operator, but a way of applying the other two multiplication operators to three vectors. The scalar triple product is sometimes denoted by (a b c) and defined as:

Truth or Consequences

True or false? The answer is F, false. Edwin F. Burns has taken this standardized test before and passed it, it seems, with flying colors. I remember my own vocabulary and reading comprehension scores were always in the top one percent on the California Achievement Test (CAT). Those state mandates were my speciality at St. Lucy's.

And I guess my math scores were pretty OK too. I was destiny's big kahuna, a pachuco from the sunbeached blond bones, to la tres noveau noir Chicago. A DoD G-man in a fur hat, a sure lock, and a rock clock. The Long Beach reader, a suave razorscraper, brown-eyed, and red-legged. A real dyed in the wool radioactive federal fire zouave, at your service, at no charge, Mr. & Mrs. Taxpayer Holmes.  

And since even I'm not yet done with testing, I thought I'd push poll my readership with a real semi-anthropomorphological post, plagiarized via wiretap from a localized high school biology survey class. "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Its an older gag, an hoary Harnisch holdover which has been lurking around the basin annoying people forever, like  Dr. Fibber McMaggot's bugged house of mystery blogs. 

But you would probably be amazed how many people simply don't know which of this particular came first. I don't know, do you? That's what makes it a good place to start. Its there on the sidebar. Its closing on the 9Th. so shake it. See how you do on it?

Not to Henny Penny, or increase any unheeded, or extra-added air pressure on your already seriously overheated crainial cabasas. Please remember that if its actually a riddle, then its not quite the simple question you first thought, whereas its obviously asking for an opinion, enlightened, or otherwise; and that's the point.

Choose one. 

An incorrec answer maybe damaging to ones online profile, as we was self-esteem. The upper limit of responses taken is the sample size. It serves as the first blind, and the time limit is the second. The survey population is you, me, and the outlandish. The opinions expressed there are yours alone. The expected problem outcome is +1. The less probable outcomes all<1. I predict a 100% sample of chicken responses. There's really no trick to it, kids, just don't click on the "egg" prompt — but I violently digress.

The really quite serious L.A. Noire gamers are finally starting to engage with the vast Black Dahlia simulacra.  And I must say yhey're bringing a much broader based attack on the schematics of the French, and Winters case as we understand it. I've heared positive reviews of the game as it has played out along the line of the actual Ed Burns murders themselves.

This is personally very, very gratifing, because so of you many have referenced my work here in your media, and have come back again, again and again to study and sharpen your skills. Do keep it up with the good play, as it were, it feels like things are starting to shake seriously loose, my young G's. While you're out on your afternoon coffee break, check out this shit. Registration required, sorry.

The French Test

"The Belongings Letter"(detail), January 25, 1947 

Now we can begin to forage ahead, and we can be phat off the rocky road ice cream in our redcairns. The most common binomial test of the empty, or "null-set" hypothesis, wherein two categories are equally likely to occur (such as in a coin toss).

"A point hypothesis is more complicated to describe." -Wikipedia.

The term arises within contexts where the set of all possible population distributions is put in parametric form. A point hypothesis is one where exact values are specified for either all the parameters, or for a subset of the parameters.

Formally, the case where only a subset of parameters is defined is still a composite hypothesis; nonetheless, the term point hypothesis is often applied in such cases, particularly where the hypothesis test can be structured in such a way that the distribution of the test statistic (the distribution under the null hypothesis) does not depend on the parameters whose values have not been specified under the point null hypothesis.

Careful treatments of point hypotheses for subsets of parameters do consider them as composite hypotheses and study how the p-value for a fixed critical value of the test statistic varies with the parameters that are not specified by the null hypothesis.The reduction occurs because, in order to gauge support for the alternative, classical hypothesis testing requires calculating how often the results would be as or more extreme than the observations.

This requires measuring the probability of rejecting the null hypothesis for each possibility it includes, and second, to ensure that these probabilities are all less than or equal to the tests quoted significance level. For reasonable test procedures the largest such probability occurs on the region boundary. Fisher said, "the null hypothesis must be exact, that is free of vagueness and ambiguity, because it must supply the basis of the 'problem of distribution,' of which the test of significance is the solution" implying a more restrictive domain.

According to this view, the null hypothesis must be numerically exact — it must state that a particular quantity, or difference is equal to a particular number.

In classical science, it is most typically the statement that there is no effect of a particular treatment; in observations, it is typically that there is no difference between the value of a particular measured variable and that of a prediction. The majority of null hypotheses in practice do not meet this "exactness" criterion. For example, consider the usual test that two means are equal where the true values of the variances are unknown—exact values of the variances are not specified.

Most statisticians believe that it is valid to state direction as a part of null hypothesis, or as part of a null hypothesis/alternative hypothesis pair. The logic is quite simple: if the direction is omitted, then if the null hypothesis is not rejected it is quite confusing to interpret the conclusion. So what is the conclusion? Not enough evidence to reject the null hypothesis?

Surely not!  And do not call me Shirley! 

But we cannot accept the one-sided alternative in this case. Therefore, to overcome this ambiguity, it is better to include the direction of the effect if the test is one-sided. The statistical theory required to deal with the simple cases dealt with here, and more complicated ones, makes use of the concept of an unbiased test.

The sample size: Statistical hypothesis testing involves performing the same experiment on multiple subjects. The number of subjects is known as the sample size. The properties of the procedure depends upon the sample size, and even, Steven, if a null hypothesis does not hold for the population, an insufficient sample size may prevent its rejection.

If sample size is under a researchers control, a good choice depends on the statistical power of the test, the effect size that the test must reveal, and the desired significance level. The significance level is the probability of rejecting the null hypothesis when the null hypothesis holds in the population. The statistical power is the probability of rejecting the null hypothesis when it does not hold in the population (i.e., for a particular effect size).

Quite often statements of point null hypotheses appear not to have a "directionality", namely, that values larger, or smaller than a hypothesized value are conceptually identical. However, null hypotheses can and do have "direction"— and in many instances statistical theory allows the formulation of the test procedure to be simplified, thus the test is equivalent to testing for an exact identity. Where there are more than two categories, and an exact test is required, the multifamily test, based on the multinomial distribution, must be used instead of the binomial test.

I'm 10-8.

Happy New Year

The Middle March

The Eddy (1943) 

The exciting countdown to the XVIII Oscar Awards from the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles continues to ratchet up the fear volume on the morning of February 10, 1947 with the brutal, unsolved, and largely forgotten rape and murder of Jeanne Axford French the Flying Nurse, whose body discovered in a West Los Angeles construction site at 08:15 hrs. Jeanne, like many other women, including many of her contemporaries, who had all most nobly fought to crush the savage, beastly and inscrutable Nips, but now she has received as her own last reward, the Edwin for best supporting actress in a killer serial nonfiction, ahistorical snuff trilogy, L.A. area spree killing documentary, horror spectacle, or somewhat blithely misogynistic nineteen-forties film noir anthology. While French hadn't been consigned to an Ursa major studio contract, she had a brand spanking new day's sunbeam shining down on her slimy shady resting spot, and she was but a minor silverscreen actress in her own right.

She got around. "OK, so perhaps she drank some, maybe too much," and they say that her last husband, and only son, were becoming disgruntled with her sodden solo act, but nothing so-far had prepared her for her very last death scene; an altogether uphill fight against an sudden, and hard rain of tempered steel blows from that nutty hexagonal ranchero Ed Burns, who had gone there once before, and who had done all that, and plenty more. He springs upon her and strikes completely without warning or chivalry; suddenly he was whooping down upon her poor brittle little thached cabasa, running up his body count, and attending to two of his chronic old saddle sores.

The couple had been seen and heard arguing loudly when they left the piano bar. He's described as a small dark-haired man with a thin moustache, by the colored guy who the piano played there. They then drove the machine down the steep inchine for a last bowl of white hot Chinese chop suey, then it was back into the car again, as they drive, drive, and then sometime after two, stop somewhere darkly lit and park it.   

And then, just as she starts fixing her make-up, and while distracted by primping before the car's rear view mirror, Eddy becomes suddenly aroused, agitated, and commences his sneaky aWAC attack upon the totally helpless succubus wahini, once again relying entirely upon the element of surprise to quickly as he may subdue her. Once he has got her warm substance under his grasp, and in his power, then drives her up to the kick in the can somewhere by the corner of Grandview Dr. and Indianapolis St. in Mar Vista, where its wham, bam, and thank you, Ma'am! The silent stars slow rotate, the mid-watch passed away on all the ships at sea. The exact time of death was by fixed by Newbarr at eight bells, or 0400hrs.

-- -- -- --

And good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

The Red Burn

Absolutely nothing would startle me at this point. The Edwin F. Burns theory: Its an example of the generalization of the Bernoulli distribution for a categorical random variable: a categorical distribution which has a discrete probability distribution, and within whose sample space is the set of n individually identified items. But what the hell do I know? I was born up in a cold, and lousy Women's Correctional Facility in Corona, Eureka Baby! To me a Mr. Ed was a talking stalking horse, and Francis was an Army mule that talked a bit too much, and the four sites of the Drukken Steps. Sure, and I've seen merlot's of cornball acts, popdogs and pony popo shows in my day, but this one lone nut killer Burns wins the big surprise prize. 

Make your appointments, keep them, and take your medications as your doctors prescribe, look both ways before you cross the street, depart not but leave us, and once again explain how, for, and why Auld Lang Syne became the public domain.

Look at how far we've come with the investigative work in just the last two years? All we need now is an anatomically complete skeleton of an Edwin F. Burns (ed burnsaurus rex) which has been suitably parboiled, dredged, dessicated and was probably last last seen in lying a filthy oil sump, or a sleepy lagoon; somewhere in the famous La Brea noir tar pits district. The point is that we can go on like this forever: The Black Dahlia II: Elizabeth Short and Ed Burns in Kismet, The Black Dahlia III: Evelyn, Jeanne and Me, and The Black Dahlia IV: Christmas in San Diego.   

This New Year's Day is the formal beginning of the annual Flowery Festival Season of Fealty to the Impossible Black Dahlia Parade from North Pasadena, Ca. Wherein which there will be fully fourteen of floral floats, floating down to the sea, drawn by Anheuser Busch Clydesdales to mark Elizabeth Short's winter everlast blast, off fortnight upon this famously coin-operated mortal coil-spool.

The forthcoming New Hollywoodlandic fable being absolutely true, and runes will thus be told in an altogether forthright, factual, and foreshortened fashion, whereas we've welded them back together, and offered up in an as obsequious,  facile, and flowery  prosthetics, a fetid fourth estate treatment, maybe not all that well written, but ruthlessly edited, and excised of any naturalistic mannerisms.

Three murderous relapses, and a possible suicide all in early 1947. From North Chicago it looks like somebody out there needs the guts to wake the fuzz up early once in awhile.

Just for drill.

In reality enough serious dramatic tension exists here within to sever the Goddamn Gordian knot. Take for instance the radically incorporeal nature of that almost inconceivable personal tragedy which caused Burns' initial nervous breakdown out in the field, where the news had reached him. 

He was then immediately flown states-side, and onto the  Ft. Leonard Wood Army Hospital in St. Louis, Mo. where he met his Army doctors, who diagnosed, treated him for two months, and  approved his section-eight medical discharge, with a small monthly disability check.

And now Ed Burns whom, according to the still unaccountably redacted FBI file; despite all the awful anguish he must've suffered over those two years, simply hasn't a mark on him to prove it. Its the year of the Eddog, back to the eggnog, and furthermore, none of that misfortune which had befallen him already could have reasonably been construed in anyway as his own doing, leeching it of any sense of guilt and tragedy.  The tale becomes expulsive, Oedipus among the columns, with his eyes gouged out. That's mostly what would fuel his incontinuing resolutions to the incoming of the Kingdom on the last day.

His military service record clearly states he was fighting in the Philippines in Mid-May, 1945. The rest is simply metal fatigue. Then its a brooding, rather clumsily dressed, and heavily clad example of a double bind dilemma; which was identified and described in experiments by Bateson and others, et al.

Indeed its resolved itself over that time into a near perfectly, and abjectly symmetrical object. Its light bending, and  convexed, due to the electromagnetic resistance modulator  and an highly polished Palomar observer with an ego eviscerating false dichotomy as its map source.

Muy Prospero Ann-yo; to L-period, A-period! Lot's of fun at all the wrap-up parties was Eddy. He was strictly on the graph an x,y-Lister; in still life works semi-annually for La Cartesian Quarterly.

Remember that boredom, booze, and burnt blackened hedonism are for the PTSD subject, the individual exploding devices, still at play. The worst of the many enemies of the veterans getting the rest and recovery time they need. These were the same collateral cultural forces at play in the postwar city of the Queen of Angeles, which were as close to tearing Sgt. Ed Burns soul asunder, as he was surely their forever elusive arch nemesis. This was their next year after next year, and it certainly wasn't boding much good for his next best girlfriends, either. None of it coming any too soon as the Black Dahlia revels away her last few new dates, days and nights.

The Wilshire Bullocks

Back in the old days Steve and I used to throw it down pretty good online. I recall that he once texted me that the Black Dahlia's upper torso was actually pointing at the Bullock's Wilshire location. La fuzz had considered, looked at, or even partially decrypted Ed's sociopathological cartography. Without the true bearings, as given, they must've quickly discarded the lead, or perhaps Steve was just giving me the business. How like him? No quarter, no clue, and no mas. Either way, it was a very, very near miss. The point I'm making here is that as cold case detectives, we're under no serious temporal constraints, and should be testing even the strangest congruences of those old cases which must be reexamined, and recalibrate with a minimum of the kind of misogyny, racism, or cultural anthropomorphism which is usually enough to disquiet the contemporary accounts, and bury the actualities of the acts under mountains of urban mythologies, mixed with flecks of the truth which must be panned out of the muddy river.

These exotic crimes can't be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the fine madness, precise mathematics, and elegant triangulations of Edwin Burns' highly irrational calculus. Without these, one is wandering about in a dark wiki labyrinth, like Theseus seeking to do battle with the Minotaur with only a sword, and a string with which to escape the trap, once the monster is finally dead, and the children once again are snug, and safe in their beds.

In other words: we must be politically, historically, and sociologically correct, as well as aware of the likely chance that one or more of these contemporaneous narratives are corrupted, and by some of those countervailing antisocial forces which are still hard at work dangerously undermining their various local jurisdictions. But who are they?

Whereas the casual reader would not feel him, or herself alone, or asea with the uncanny notion that those same officials who are able to control such things are in no hurry to see the Elizabeth Short murder investigation closed. The obsequious imposer Larry continues to play Renfield, while Steven is writing still another absurdest, blasphemous, and preposterous book about his absentee father, the lewd, and lascivious expatiate China hand, the L.A.V.D. Dr. George Hodel, M.D.

The same is true to an even greater degree, with the Jeanne French and Evelyn Winters murders, coming as they did, so hard upon each other in anthropological time, and being so obviously similar to Short; clearly demonstrating his increasing incontinence, analogue to the del operator character within this context. What did they know? When and how did they they know it? They know Ed Burns is missing no later than January 23rd. The FBI had passed on the results of their sub-rosa inquiries, one made at the request of the Los Angeles Times newspaper correspondent in Washington D.C. back on Sunday, January 19Th. 1947.

So while J. Edgar Hoover's G-men had been the ones who first fingered him, they had also been fooled by his alibi. However, now that Ed had gone to ground, even they could be reasonably sure they had their man. And that's where the entire manhunt was knocked dead in it's tracks, defiled, and left to rot in the morning sun, another American tragedy.

Everybody who had the need to know was then informed in due course that Ed Burns was an untouchable. They scratched him from the record, and he remained safe under an horse blanket of semi-maniacal postwar secrecy, and is almost certainly the single named suspect in the still redacted Winterrood memorandum of call released to the public in 1997.  A flawless cut, a perfect fit, it seems the Ed Burns hypothesis is the correct one. California florists and fawners: not another garden variety SoCal sociopath, lone nut-case lady killer, undead vampire with an original valid magic kingdom club card. 

Old Soft Shoe

Candidate Obama tells union workers to go forth and pound sand in South Carolina, 2007.

It's a total mystery to me why the man who found Osama bin laden, and then killed him, can't seem to locate those damned comfortable shoes of his. Did he forget where he put them? Maybe he can't find a picket line that will have him these days. Could be. While he's had his chances, to say that as president, he's fulfilled the expectations of American labor, or even close, is to engage in sheer hyperbole.

Nowhere is his failure more obvious than in the administration's semi-barbarous education policies, which are totally predicated upon that seemingly abject childlike fear and irrational hatred of, anyone with authority, and a powerful, and concerted attack upon the teachers unions. Why? Perhaps because, as they're the largest and most powerful unions in the public sector, and they have political clout, and that troubles them so sorely that an empty suit like Arne Duncan floats like a turd in an unflushed commode.  Whereas, we're stuck with the pathological, "race to the mop", is his education program/scenario; which has already done more to broaden social, and material inequality, than a flat tax scheme.

Meanwhile all those who are still poor, still unemployed, but under the age are being sold off piecemeal by non-unprofitable skimmers and you local marginal capitalistas. Or just as a sop to the mostly self-deluded, whose are the one percents; are altogether the most generous contributors to his reelection campaign. While twenty-one months of managerial, and upper middle class job growth has meant absolutely zero redistribution of wealth.  His mission seems accomplished.

No room at the Hyatt House: Here I see Boss Obama as just another loathsome, vile keeper of this blindly avaricious new sort of ethics. A new type of business, rapine, and commercial society. He's put himself down for among those who cannot, or will not, see themselves being mixed down in the end, nor ever find any real common cause with their economic inferiors. The bucks stop up here.

Can you imagine the Democratic party is holding its convention in a right to work state? So sorry, sucker you see, your money is fungable, and whereas workers are the new fungus among us, must be eradicated. Will those in the party who so despise the working class poor, be so empowered as to drag us all to rack and ruin from a exclusive private suite with a oceanview, or poolside from their ultra scabby highrise fleabag hotel, somewhere in down home North Carolina next summer. Bank on it. 

 

Where workers are concerned, a bigot, is a bigot, is a bigot. Especially where there's some big money to be made. Then there's always plenty time to fuck over the labor unions. Fix it, you stupids. Massa Barry Obama is of no different opinion, and that's why his personal approval ratings are really quite tepid now and likely will remain so, thay is until this big, badass, bullshitter brother ever walks down on the sidewalks with the rest of us.

Don't hold your breath.

No, I do not think he's out of touch, but rather; that he's always too busy trying to put the touch on us, his, had been, would be voters, "just give me more money, and don't you dare keep the change, or Mitt Romney will take you and me back to the Gilded Age." How can they tell us otherwise? They can't, and therefore we won't wait upon that outcome, but will deal with that highly unlikely eventuality in its own turn.

Onto Obvious Things

Mr. Edwin F. Burns Esq. is still an upright citizen of Van Nuys, Ca. and as far as I know; is both conscious, and breathing. That said, if he's also bipedal, social, and tool using. Ad hominid, and not without those few scarce gifts God gave him. Or really a just a big fat nothing without the tools, and nothing in all these intervening years has changed any of that. So nowadays these high handed true crime authors like Steve Hodel, newspaper bums like Larry Harnish, and their ilk are absolutely free to varnish, freitag, and can all but indelibly tarnish this poor simple tradesman's reputation to such an exotic rub. Publicly, and according to their finest whimsies indulge in egging on the authorities to chase down their tales of a wilder geese, seemingly without any real fear of the law's official recourse. 

This Larry Harnish character, to my mind, is undoubtedly the single worst offender, whereas he persists to this day in claiming that absolutely no such animal, vegetable or mineral, with exactly that name had ever existed in the city of L.A., now, or at the time in question, and he continually refuses to retract this durable falsehood. Also by unknowingly aiding and abetting Ed Burns for those crimes, even so long after the fact of their commission, which is the most shamefully unethical conduct on Larry's part, and for which, he should probably be run out of town on a fence rail, and given his bus fare home to his native Naperville,  Il., in one piece, where they'll be sure and give him a nice warm welcome, you bet. 

But hey, alone out here, I simply can't make these Southern Californians admit to the fucking truth, even to themselves about anything, anymore, let alone the ugly truth about Mr. Ed. Even if its all typed out for them, and spell-checked for errors, they won't read it. Maybe they just can't read? And for another thing they, in all probability could never even understand your beautiful, elegant, and  intricate calculus as the final proof of your guilt in a million years.

Those probability vectors will draw only the blankest of their blanket expressions. Steve won't forbear in it because if its all just based upon, some non-linear and derivative concepts, or even a secondary school level of scientific thought, they cannot possibly fathom it out, with their crude semantic skills, and whereas; I have absolutely no jurisdiction in the matter, and therefore no clout; I'm literally stymied out back here in Illinois.

Do you know that I've even obtained, and subsequently published your military service record. There Eddy? What there was of it, and its short, if not an impressive one. Hell, I even gave out your correct mailing address, w/zip code, and nobody, but nobody, could give a shit. In consequence, we all need your help, now Edwin. Do us a favor turn yourself in, and soon. Otherwise you'll have gotten so far away with it, then that as far as they're concerned it never happened at all.

Whereas, Miss Elizabeth Short's New England grown raven hair, alabaster forehead, and light blue eyes, those delicately balanced facial features were as just finely cut, as trim, and as well crafted, and bearing his hand-tooled benchmarks. And as he pealed off with all his horsepower, the sound of his tin horn in the distance broke the morning, and brought me up from my warm bed.

Only when he who works upon the poems, and then does the poems themselves some justice, rather than merely recites from them, he rearms them for battle, and is then worthy of the title of counterpoet. The last ten years I've labored on these here, so that I might so overwhelm myself with it; so that I could do it unto the utmost end, and with a clear conscience, as well. That, my friends is the supreme power on this warming wet, snot green planet, and its the whole of it; it decodes the inarticulate voices of the past; the once before, and the two since.

As when the mutilated bodies just multiplied, and the corpus deleted those who had died, and when  material evidence of the crimes has altogether vanished. Our modern murder investigation is conducted using those various mechanisms, which are without the slightest possible development of any human individuality traits, or can show the least spontaneity, and yet will kill quietly each other in a most artificial manner, if its as skillfully programmed. If it reads what you said, and  sees what you sawed, and you who slit, along goodbye with it, in the end, thought it was a nearly an infinite lie.

The time must come when Ed must finally pass through the wall of his occult oblivion, and if he should try and leave a scratch upon it, we would indeed be gratified. You've led us a merry chase.  Just like as nothing that's truly worthwhile, out of the past, never really departs, so no lie, after long, or short circulation, will not come back postage due, like a rubber check drawn upon an alternate reality, and with the answer coming always back: not another mystery of science fiction hack; or some lousy cartoon mime with music, without any special effects.

Without a whiff of the old grapeshot, almost all things are impenetrable in the minds of the aristocracy, or of the ontologically bent. Sprechen ist silbern, schweigen ist golden. He that first shortened the labor of the copy editors belongs to his own gilded age, and references his own ad-libbed mad doctors, long dead popinjays, and the usual Black Dahlia mini minutiae: re Clement Junction.

While down there by the L.A. river all the while, they did shat on their truly stupendous bottom lines of style, where those members of the Lost Bovine Escadrille; of the Fourth Estate, sayeth hail and withal now thats spring arriving in a blackened, rehearsed, and incursed, that spell which they brought, a check against those weathermen, even now plotting against them, back in the studio aptartments. And upon whose widely expanded road maps of the spheres of influence, and while those nasty sots on plots of exposed female genital centrailia remains strewn all over town,  but somehow still under the L.A.P.D's radar screens: Killer of sheep: Found Off Rodeo Drive (FORD).

Down Doheny Way

Its surpassing strange that while forever being intimately linked to the Elizabeth Short murder, the great detective novelist Raymond Chandler never even mentions the Black Dahlia anywhere in his published work? Why not? Its also somewhat odd that nobody ever seriously asked him on the record about what is an obvious connection to his own work. Would the then world famous writer perhaps have known the story of the longtime Angelina, an ex-Air Force airplane mechanic; Tech. Sgt. named Edwin F. Burns, whose first wife had committed suicide back in May of 1945, right after killing their only daughter by drowning the two year old in the bathtub.

Had that been the real life and death story lurking behind this absurdistly lurid, racy, and alcohol fuled script for the Blue Dahlia? If it had made the papers, he might have, and if it hadn't, then why not?

Undoubtedly, the story's names were originally changed by the Army to protect the wartime morale on the home front. Legend has it the War Department ordered changes in the movie; to the sex of the child, and the cause of its death, into a drunken-driving accident with mom as the lush behind the wheel, they appear to be entirely upon the original authors indiscretions. When Johnny come marching home and finds out, this would leave her character alive just about long enough to get shot dead by Pops, the blackmailing house detective.

The Blue Dahlia is the most esoteric thing of all; it's the just too good to be true; the you can't believe its real, because it isn't real. No, its only the cheap, painted fraud, the paper flowers, the gilded lily. There's no such thing as a blue dahlia, you fool, nor a black one for that matter. Directed by the "old hack" George Stevens, and produced by Orson Wells' old side-kick, John Houseman at Paramount Studios, "La Dahlia Azul" had earned an 1946 Academy Award nomination for the best original screenplay for Chandler.

March 13, 1947, The Shrine Auditorium: This was to have been, and would have been the stunning climax to the Hollywood years, when he was at his most supremely creative, and at his popular acme, as well. The Oscar would have to have been his supreme vindication for the many indignities he had suffered from the movie studio moguls, and a final validation from the city of a hundred thousand snubs.

But the public total revulsion over the third gruesome murder of a woman in two months, one with connections to the moguls, had doomed those hopes for good. But, since Cissy was dead, and Ray had split the scene, its a no-go. What was he so afraid of? Sgt. Ed Burns was still at large.

Not that the day was an importune one for Eddy, coming as it does, just a day after the horrifying death of Evelyn Winters, his third victim, and two days before his suicide note, brown moccasin loafers, and blue herringbone suit (the one that he wore to bring out Elizabeth Short's blue eyes in the photo strip), was found abandoned out on Venice Beach at the foot of Breeze Ct. I'd really like to know what the well informed Ed Burns actually thought of the whole damned thing, from his own, rather unique, and discerning perspective on the matter.

Did he see himself as a winner, that winter, as well? — And the winner is...San Diego is the gateway to Mexico, and represents Chandler's figurative decent into hell, in L.A.s post war noir sensibility. His long exile to La Jolla would convex mirror Short's short, but agonizing visit to San Diego, where she also watched the Blue Dahlia tragedy play out upon the silver screen of the old Aztec.

Chandler's 1949 short novel, The High Window is based on his own short story of the Brashear Doubloon, was based upon the real coin. The better part the of novella is set in Pasadena, the society-page capital of La-la land since she was the Queen of the Cow Counties, and was not at all loosely based on the Edward Doheny Jr. case from the Roaring Twenties and Navy Department oil drilling leases for sale cheap. Other than to the extent that the narrator has Marlowe wistfully recount the facts of the actual murder case to the bored Bay City police officer using the fake name of the Cassidy case. The older cop, Lt. Breeze remembered the case, having himself worked it. But Breeze sensibly keeps his big mouth shut about it, until the after the big slam-bang finish.

Therefore while much of his work is not all that loosely based upon real unsolved crimes in L.A., and with a distinct penchant for regurgitating the issues within those cases which were, and are, still open to some question. Raymond Chandler  also wrote about the seamy underside of his own community, and he refuses to wink at his own class, rather, he gives them the finger. If the interests of justice are still being as badly served by official Los Angeles, as they were when he was living there, and its a well established fact in Los Angeles and environs, and this ongoing lack of public confidence in the L.A.P.D., the harsh reality of which lifts this fiction above the mere noir detective novel, even for the modern reader.