Today's post is about a long-gone business establishment on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood — a store that will forever have a fond place in my heart. You can see it in the above photo and I thought I'd tell you a—

— No, no, no, no! You're wrong! It's not the Institute of Oral Love! I swear to you I never went into that place! I don't even know for sure what went on in there but the buzz was that it was kind of a trap where gullible men would wander in, thinking they were going to be physically gratified and then, once they'd shelled out goodly handfuls of cash, a woman would talk dirty to them — and that was it.  All talk, no action.

And hey, when you think about it, what else could it have been? If you really were operating a business where the suckers weren't the customers, you wouldn't put up big signs that made everyone think that's what went on in there.  You might as well have the signs say, "Attention, Police!  Come In and Arrest Us!!!"   How foolish would the cops have looked if prostitution was going on in that place and they didn't close it down?  (For a few years, there was an innocuous store on La Brea with a sign that said "Bordello."  I don't know what kind of business it was but because of that sign, the least-likely possibility was that it was a bordello.)

The business of which I have great memories is also not the Pussycat Theater next door…though since a blogger is always under oath when posting, I must admit to being in that place a grand total of twice. Both times were while that particular movie — which I think was there for much of a decade — was on the marquee.  In my defense, let me point out that during that time, about two-thirds of the population of Los Angeles went there. It was very much "in" to see Deep Throat, which is why someone somewhere made eighty-three squadrillion dollars off it.

The Pussycat got my money twice — once when a friend of mine (male) wanted to go see it. Later, I had a lady friend who insisted I take her to it — but alas, not to learn a skill.

That's not the business this post is about and neither is whatever enterprise connected with that word "nude" at far right…but you're getting warmer.  See that pink building at the extreme right?  There were two small stores in there.   Around 1963, the one on the right was a kind of business that has become almost extinct in this and age.  It was a very nice second-hand bookstore and this may be the closest I'll ever come to having a real photo of it.

I was ten in 1962 and in an eternal quest for back issue comic books.  That was not then an expensive hobby because new comics then sold for twelve cents and second-hand bookshops sold them for less than half that — a nickel apiece and often, it was six for a quarter. Needless to say, when I bought, I bought in multiples of six. An annual or any comic that sold originally for 25 cents counted as two regular-sized books.

That six-for-the-price-of-five "bargain" is one of the things that broadened my taste in comics. I'd be collecting DCs and Marvels and then one day at a store, I'd find, say, 29 of those comics I needed for my collection. Rather than waste the free comic to which I was entitled, I'd randomly select one issue of something I wasn't already collecting — maybe a Charlton. I'd take it home, read it and on my next pilgrimage to a used book store, I'd be looking for DCs, Marvels and Charltons.

The little shop on Santa Monica Boulevard did not have a name — or if it did, I never knew it. Outside, it just said "books" and most of what it had were books of the hardcover and softcover variety. It was run by a little old lady of about seventy and as far as I could tell, she was the entire staff.

The old comic books were not out for display. She kept them in piles behind a counter and when I came in, she would move one pile out from a shelf behind there and put it on the counter for me to inspect. I'd select what I wanted from it and then she'd put it back and bring out another pile…and then another and another until I'd been through them all. She took a great liking to me — I was pretty adorable back then — and she'd give me my picks from the New Arrivals pile. I'm not sure if it was so but she made it sound like those were comics that were being saved for me and me alone to peruse before she'd let just anyone have a crack at them.

My father drove me there once about every three weeks. Sometimes, he'd come in with me and browse the non-comic books and maybe buy a couple. Sometimes, he let me go in alone and he'd wait in the car or drop me off and come back. It was a pretty seedy area with those stores and theaters full o' smut but they were mostly closed when we were there on a Saturday morning and I don't recall ever feeling unsafe. The Institute of Oral Love had yet to open its doors but there was something else there that didn't seem much more respectable. I believe it was a "Nixon for Governor" campaign HQ.

I rarely left the bookshop with less than 30 comics, sometimes considerably more. Most were great treasures from a collecting (and investment) standpoint but what mattered to me was how they contributed to my evolution as a writer. I do what I do today in large part because I had access then to stories that excited me.

My visits there went on for a year or so. One day my father dropped me off there and said he'd pick me up in thirty minutes. At the store, the door was locked and the insides were dark. I knocked and no one answered so I waited around a bit to see if anything would change. When nothing did, I asked at a tailor shop next door and a man there said, without the slightest attempt to break the news gently, "Oh, the old lady died!"

I was just numb. It would be twenty-five minutes before my father would be back for me so I walked a half-block down to a little A&W Root Beer stand that also is no longer there. When it was, you could get a mug of their product for a nickel so I plunked one down and sat there, crying in my root beer. The next time we drove past the store, something else — probably porn — was moving in.

That's the whole story. It flashed through my mind when I came across the photo above and I thought I'd share it with you. It may seem like nothing to you but I can still recall the numbness and still recall what wonderful things I got at that store. For five cents each and six for a quarter.

• My friends and I have something in common with Rudy Giuliani. We're all certain that if Donald Trump testifies under oath, he can't help but commit perjury.

Here's a 1969 Pontiac commercial filled with faces that any fan of old movies oughta recognize. They belonged to Broderick Crawford, J. Carroll Naish, Mike Mazurki, Elisha Cook, Jr, Robert Strauss, Lon Chaney, Leo Gorcey, and J.C. Marsh. I like that although Gorcey is now a prisoner on a chain gang, they let him keep his signature hat…

Night before last around 3 AM, I went grocery shopping and on the way home, I decided to drive-thru a McDonald's drive-thru and get myself a medium-sized order of fries and a quarter-pounder with cheese but without the cheese. I am, by actual measure, one of only eleven Americans who do not like cheese on a hamburger. More people have walked on the moon than prefer cheeselessburgers to cheeseburgers.*

Obtaining my cheese-free quarter-pounder proved to be more difficult than you'd think. Ordering at the little speaker, I explained it twice to the voice from the loudspeaker. It took a long time to get to the window, apparently because they'd screwed-up the order of a customer ahead of me. Since I hadn't paid yet, if there'd been a way to exit the line and drive off without my order, I would have. But there were cars ahead of me and cars behind me and I was stuck…for about ten minutes, I think.

When I finally got to the window, I paid, the fellow there handed me my order and before I drove off, I decided to check it. The fries were cold and the burger had cheese on it. The following conversation ensued…

HIM: That's okay. I didn't charge you for the cheese.

ME: You already charged me…and isn't the burger without cheese the same price as the burger with cheese?

HIM: I guess.

ME: The point is I don't want cheese on my burger. Take this back and have someone make me a quarter-pounder without cheese. And I think I need some fresh, warm fries.

He looked at me like I was causing needless trouble…and I did feel guilty about what I was doing to the cars behind me in line. I could see three in my rear-view mirror and there may have been more but the line snaked around the building going out of my sight. Finally, he handed me a new quarter-pounder. I reminded him about the fries and as he went to get them, I checked the burger. It had cheese on it.

I refused the new fries and gave him back the new burger.

ME: Give me a newly-cooked quarter-pounder without cheese and newly-fried fries. Or if you prefer, give me back my money and we'll forget the whole thing.

HIM: I don't know how to issue refunds. I'm not sure if we're even allowed to.

ME: Then give me the right burger and the right fries.

He went off to do that and was gone for quite a while during which the cars behind me began honking…and I sure didn't blame them. In fact, I decided to just abandon the entire mission and drive off without the meal I'd paid for. I noticed the car directly behind me followed me out without stopping for its order.

The next day, just to see what would happen, I called up and talked to the Manager. He was deeply apologetic and told me that if I came by and asked for him, he'd make good on my order. That was about what I figured would happen. I told him, "Thanks but I think it'll be a long time before I eat again at a McDonald's." He said that was about what he figured would happen.

*By the way: The statistics cited in the first paragraph about how many people don't want cheese on their burgers are totally spurious. I just made them up and I suppose I shouldn't lie like that but I watch the news and it's becoming very apparent that most people don't care if you lie as long as you're on their side. I assume if you read this blog, you're on my side, at least on subjects like this.

A few nights ago, I was in a restaurant and the above card was on each table, advertising a weekly event. I started pointing it out to people there and asked them what it said…and every single one of them thought at first like I did; that this restaurant holds a special promotion every seven days called Urine Wednesday.

You might want to take the hour (it's actually a little over that) to watch this interview with Stephen Colbert. It was done last Monday night after his taping and it's a pretty candid, straightforward discussion, much of it about the Fine Art of Ridiculing Donald Trump. Of special note are Colbert's comments about his election night special when the results weren't what he (and much of America) had anticipated…

Fred Kaplan writes about Trump stripping former CIA Director John Brennan of his security clearance. Really, the entire Trump Administration is about one thing: Whether you kiss his butt or not. I keep seeing these silly articles about how the press could possibly win over Trump and his supporters. It's real easy: Just write nothing except overwhelming praise of him and everything he does.

• Waiting for Triumph the Insult Comic Dog to change his name to Trump the Insult Comic President. @TriumphICDHQ

No matter how well I treated her, no matter how regularly I fed her, I could never quite earn the trust of Sylvia. Feral to the max, she wandered into my backyard one day, eight…maybe nine years ago. Every once in a rare while, she wouldn't run from me. Every once in a rarer while, she'd let me pet her a bit before she ran from me. Never did she not have the accusatory stare on her catface that you see above.

At one point, I was up to four pussycats out there — four stray felines who expected food every evening. There was Lydia, there was the Stranger Cat, there was Max and there was Sylvia. Six years ago here, I told the story of how Sylvia joined the family…

[The Stranger Cat] was coming around to dine, not once a day or twice but thrice or more often. "That Stranger Cat sure eats a lot," Carolyn and I said to each other. The Stranger Cat also seemed to be a bit schizo: Friendly and pettable one visit; stand-offish the next.

One night, Carolyn was working at the kitchen sink and I wandered over to the patio doors, looked out at the feline-feeding area and said, "Carolyn, I think I've figured out why The Stranger Cat eats so much. Come look." She wandered over to see what I was looking at: Two Stranger Cats. They weren't exactly twins but were easy to confuse. It was like it is with Kardashians: Once you know what to look for, you can tell them apart. We dubbed the new arrival, the one who didn't like being touched, The Stranger Stranger Cat.

The Stranger Stranger Cat was later renamed Sylvia. Why Sylvia? I have no idea.  Why do you ask me these things? She was around when Max — a large, Alpha Male Cat, showed up demanding first crack at everyone's supper dish at every serving and they bonded. Max would sleep in the bushes and Sylvia would sleep next to him or sometimes on him. Here's a photo of that happy couple. Note the same expression on Sylvia's puss.

The Stranger Cat (whom I suspect was Sylvia's father) died of old age in May of 2012 and Max stopped showing up for chow later that year. So for the past six years, it's just been the ladies, Sylvia and Lydia. The last week or so, Sylvia hasn't been seen and last night, the owner of the house right behind mine found her remains in his yard. A good coroner might be able to determine Cause of Death but I have no theories.

Lydia does not seem to be grieving. She's showing up, expecting food and receiving plenty. Sometimes when Lydia showed up alone, I'd suspect that Sylvia was in one of her shyer moods and she was hiding until Lydia got food from The Human. And sure enough, once I'd put out the grub and gone back in, Sylvia would spring out and claim half of the Friskies Mixed Grill. That happened often enough that I'd give Lydia food for two and I did that all last week.

This is the first time in maybe two decades that I've had but one feral cat out there. It feels…odd. But since it doesn't seem to be bothering Lydia, I'm not going to let it bother me. Except that it does.

• So the latest silly argument seems to be that if you can't produce a tape of someone actually using the "n" word, they couldn't possibly be a racist. Because, you know, no racist is smart enough to not use that word all the time.

Here's a great example of what Fox News does, making up "facts" in order to sell its audience a phony narrative.  Fox News host Trish Regan slammed Denmark.  Danish politico Dan Jørgensen fired back…

In January of '17, I wrote this post here which began like this…

A writer I know — a man of some prominence in the comic book field — was recently arrested and charged with some heinous crimes involving child pornography and perhaps sexual contact with minors…pretty creepy, serious accusations. Those who know him are shocked because, at least running into him at conventions, he seemed like a pretty smart, decent fellow and we saw nothing to suggest this kind of thing. He is pleading Not Guilty and perhaps that is exactly what he is. I would certainly be pleased to hear that…about him or about anyone. One does not like the idea that any human beings commit such deeds.

On the 'net, a lot of folks who know him or know of him are expressing shock, which is a natural reaction. A lot are reminding each other about "innocent until proven guilty" which is fine, but I'd take it one notch farther. I would remind you that we do not have to decide whether we think he's innocent or guilty at all. We're not a jury and we haven't heard the details or seen any evidence. We will probably never see or hear all of whatever there may be.

The writer in question was — as most followers of the comic book industry assumed — Gerard Jones, who has authored at times, Green Lantern, The Shadow and some other fine comics. One I liked an awful lot was one of his first, which he co-wrote with Will Jacobs. It was a detective spoof called The Trouble With Girls and I thought it was so clever, I wrote the foreword for a collection of it. Gerry also wrote some good books about comic book history.

Last May, he changed his plea of Not Guilty, removing the "Not." This morning, he was sentenced to six years in federal prison for possession and distribution of child pornography. Since I don't know precisely what he did beyond what was stated in the previous sentence, I can't say if that was a fair and just sentence…and again, I don't have to have an opinion on that. The judge in his trial had to have an opinion. Gerry and those around him have to have their opinions. So do others who were in or out of that courtroom. I don't.

Well, I do have two opinions. One is that it's sad…sad that he did what he did, sad that anyone would do what he did. "Sad" is not the only appropriate emotion — I could do anger, outrage, frustration, disgust, etc. "Sad" is just the one that hits me at the moment.

The other thought: It is significant that Gerry seemed to so many of us like a bright, decent guy. He did not seem like the kind of guy who'd wind up behind bars for kiddy porn…and we need to know that and remember that. There are a lot of people out there doing this kind of crap who don't seem like the kind of people who'd do this crap.

I only recently became aware of Randy Rainbow, who's been producing funny videos of politically-themed song parodies. I'm going to feature a few of them on this site even though they might be a little dated. Here's one such video…

The other day here, I embedded this video of Groucho Marx in a conversation with William F. Buckley. I thought it was an awkward, cringe-inducing show but my pal Steve Stoliar, who worked for Mr. Marx in his later years, saw it differently. It reminded him of Groucho's serious side and he liked it a lot more than I did.

I got a number of messages about it and here are two. The first is from my e-mail buddy Ira B. Matetsky…

Actually, William F. Buckley did acknowledge that innocent people could be convicted of murder. For several years, Buckley famously championed the cause of Edgar Smith, who was convicted of first-degree murder in New Jersey in 1957 and sentenced to death. Smith remained in prison for 14 years, during which he corresponded with Buckley. Smith convinced Buckley that he was innocent. Buckley began publicly advocating for Smith's exoneration and release, including in a famous article in Esquire, and visited him in prison.

In 1971, Smith was granted a retrial, at which point he accepted a plea to second-degree murder with a sentence of time served. Smith denied that he had actually committed the murder, saying he accepted the plea just to get out of jail. According to the New York Times, after being released "Mr. Smith immediately appeared on Mr. Buckley's Firing Line program, holding forth about criminal justice and prison reform. The conversation was steered by Mr. Buckley, who said he believed 'profoundly' that Mr. Smith was innocent. Mr. Buckley had described Mr. Smith in the 1965 Esquire article as 'an essentially phlegmatic young man of nonviolent habits.'"

In 1976, Smith kidnapped a woman in California and stabbed her, nearly killing her. On the run from the FBI, he called Buckley, who arranged for him to surrender. Smith was convicted of these new crimes and sentenced to life imprisonment. During this trial, Smith admitted that he had committed the earlier murder and relied on it as evidence he was not responsible for his action.

So, Buckley admitted that the state could convict an innocent person for murder and sentence him to death, but unfortunately, the person he chose as an example turned out to be guilty.

Y'know, now that you mention it, I do recall that case. The fact that Smith went free though guilty did a lot to convince people that if you're charged with a crime of violence, you probably did it. I still see that sentiment today, especially when there's a racial element.

I remember an acquaintance of mine — he was a friend before this conversation — and I were talking about the death penalty. I forget which one it was but there had been a recent exoneration thanks to DNA testing of a poor, uneducated black guy who'd spent a decade or more on Death Row for a murder he did not commit.

There's a strong argument against the death penalty that human beings should not be killing other human beings even as a reprisal for killing other human beings. But even if you don't believe that, you can believe that the death penalty is wrong because so many innocent people are wrongly convicted of capital crimes.

My about-to-become-a-former-friend opined that the recent exoneration I cited did not change his mind about how the government should be frying more such folks, preferably within hours of the "guilty" verdict. He believed that even if the man I mentioned was innocent of that particular crime, he was a poor, uneducated black guy so he probably committed other crimes that warranted his execution.

In the late sixties, I was way more Conservative than most readers of this blog will ever believe. I wanted to like Buckley. Part of the reason I watched him was because I wanted to learn the arguments I could use against my more Liberal friends when we got into debates. But I came to have an opinion of him only a little higher than Richard Morgan's. He's the person who sent me this e-mail…

I started to watch the video of the Firing Line with Groucho Marx, but I quickly felt the bile rising in my throat with the first words out of the pursed-lipped mouth of Buckley. I couldn't stand to watch or listen to him at the time and I soon had to opt out just as Groucho started to reply to the first inane question.

I could not subject myself to watching this arrogant, bullying, pseudo-intellectual displaying one of the ugliest visages and most irritating voices ever on television. The only time I watched the program for the full hour was when Jerry Brown blew Buckley out of the water in a question of Roman Catholic Dogma. The glee which I felt as Buckley had to admit his own error and his visual hatred for Brown in exposing his stupidity.

The only other times I had occasion to watch anything to do with Buckley was when one of my favorite writers and pundits, Gore Vidal, served him up on a skewered platter during their televised debates during an election. Buckley finally was so frustrated that he had to pull out the "gay" card to attempt to demean Vidal with slander as his idiotic attempts at intellect were blunted at every turn by Vidal. I still miss the erudite offerings of Gore Vidal on every television forum as opposed to the current dearth of intelligence or intellect allowed on any televised medium.

I enjoy reading your daily diary of events and activities in the entertainment industry.

I recall the Buckley-Vidal skirmishes during ABC's 1968 election coverage and wonder if any network has since contemplated trying something similar for its election coverage. It might not be possible to find and match-up two such erudite combatants but it surely wouldn't be hard to find people who liked to argue. Even though I was then more-or-less on Buckley's side, I thought Vidal mopped the floor with him. And I'll write more about this later but I have to be off to a meeting. Thanks, Ira and Richard.

It's been a while since I tallied how many friends I've lost because of their crazed support of that guy in the Oval Office but I think I'm now up to ten. Understand that I have friends who back D.J.T. but who don't go all Alex Jones on me about it, spouting "alternative facts" and borderline hate speech. The counter is tallying a different list — one of folks who are now clearly living in a new reality where all news either backs Donald 100% or is fake. You can't really talk with people with whom you do not share a common language or facts.

The latest inductee has been sending out texts and posting online messages begging for "civility." Okay, fine. I'm all for that. But to him, that only means we must not say negative things about The Greatest President Ever. I live in a land where one of our blessed freedoms and strengths is our right to criticize our alleged leaders. If you can't do that, you're not living in America…and indeed, my Trump-supporting friends are still fine with every insult and conspiracy theory directed at Barack Obama or anyone named Clinton.

The tenth person on my List of Lost Friends really believes that when Trump calls people stupid or losers, that's not incivility. It's just striking back with the truth against those who deserve to be slapped…and by the way, I think that's part of the appeal of Trump to some people. They have people in their lives (and on their televisions) who they'd like to see have the crap beaten out of them and they adore a leader who won't be statesmanlike and respectful towards such folks.

But really, it doesn't work like that. Incivility is reflexive and has been since the first time "Caveman A" hit "Caveman B" and "Caveman B" hit back. You can have a world where no one calls their opponents idiots or one where everyone calls their opponents idiots…but you can't have a world where one side is allowed the unilateral right to insult because they're right and the other side isn't allowed to insult since they're wrong.

And I should add here that I'm not following the Trump/Omarosa battles. I've just read enough about them to feel that neither one should never have been anywhere near a position in the government.