"At first it was sporadic," she said. "It was, like, for two years, the same group of people, and it bothered us, but it was every once in a while. Then, this past summer, it went on every single weekend, starting at 2:30, after the bars closed, and they'd get, like, 20 people out on their deck, hootin' and hollerin' and playing music until 5:30. They weren't very approachable, and they obviously didn't care about the people around them.”
By Geoff Bouvier, Nov. 20, 2003 | Read full article
Like time. Driftwood marches on, and like time, somewhat relentlessly. The rents inch up and many are felled by the wayside. I can always tell when someone is ready to move —all of a sudden there is nothing good about the place; the management is terrible, the tennis courts are breaking down, the Front Row is too pushy, there isn’t a decent man here, the girls are all tramps, and, crowning blow, the rent has gone up.
By Gay Harper, Dec. 2, 1976 | Read full article
Thursday dawned bleak and foreboding. The night had been cold; rain fell intermittently all morning; everyone was stiff, miserable, and inclined to think the worst of his fellow man. When I got my turn at the list, one of the people just a little down the line from me turned up missing. I tried to find him. I argued he might be sick. Finally I suggested a vote. Everyone said cross him off except one — my daughter Anne.
By Katie Elsbree, May 12, 1977 | Read full article
Later my father moved to Enchanted Land, that part of Belmont Park which you could enter for several tickets and use on an unlimited basis. It contained many mini-attractions: a hall of mirrors; a black-light maze; a visual-illusion room with a tilted floor that appeared flat; a long, fast, wooden slide; a set of hinged ramps that moved up and down like waves. The best of all in Enchanted Land, though, was “The Barrel.”
By Mimi Cornell, Aug. 12, 1982 | Read full article
Crew members, nearly three-quarters of whom were Portuguese, addressed each other in the idioms of their native villages while they laid the huge black purse seine nets on the docks. Nautical designers and employees in ship-building trades and in marine supplies and repairs also had Portuguese surnames, although some had converted Oliveira to Oliver, Rodrigues to Rogers, and Machado to Marshall, for instance, to avoid being confused with Hispanics.
By Sue Garson, March 31, 1988 | Read full article
Until recently, I had never heard of Mount Soledad. Passing the huge sugar-white crucifix at its summit on Interstate 5, I would think that Carmelite nuns lived up there, or some Baptist commune looking down with hostility at the Hollywood-Gothic temple of the Mormons below. Then came a feature in a spring edition of Vanity Fair on fallen financier Ivan Boesky, with a series of photographs of his multimillion-dollar home at the top of Mount Soledad.
By Lawrence Osborne, Aug. 12, 1993 | Read full article
Four motor homes are parked along Brighton Avenue near a grassy area between the street and the beach. I knock on the door of a camper mounted on a brown Toyota pickup. Lance Read pokes his head out, and we sit on the grass by the sidewalk. Lance is 42, of medium build with a slight potbelly. The ’86 Toyota pickup and camper have been his home for the last year. He chomps on potato chips.
By Ernie Grimm, March 14, 1996 | Read full article
In a long list of enumerated allegations, the board charged, among other things, that the profits promised to the public have gradually shrunk, that the city has granted McMillin “major concessions,” that “public input has been marginalized,” that “historical buildings on NTC are not being maintained by the developer in a manner that preserves their historical integrity as required by Municipal Code,” and that the redevelopment will create “traffic gridlock” in adjacent communities.
By Justin Wolff, July 3, 2002 | Read full article