People land on cars. They just do. It’s how Daredevil and Crank end; it’s how Lethal Weapon begins. Pauly lands on a car in Darkman; Conan O’Brien lands on a car in South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut. And then there’s George Costanza’s suit against the hospital whose mental patient landed on his automobile. Clinicians call it the Evelyn McHale Syndrome, or at least I do.

When it rains, it pours. Which is probably a good thing, since rain will put out all that pesky fire.

Corner of Fourth and Olive, August 29, 1962.

Van R. Alexanian, 23, was loading a barrel of rubbish into the scoop on the front of his trash-truck when the parking brake gave way. The truck ran into an electrical pole, and the live wire caught the truck debris on fire. The pole then fell onto a Mrs. Helen Stairs, 50.

The flaming truck went on to take out a traffic signal and a lamp post before crashing into a garage. This much was fortunate; the garage attendant was equipped with a fire extinguisher.

Officer L. S. Rasic commented that had the truck continued through the intersection, it would have crashed into eight cars waiting for the signal to change.

Wyatt Earp. One of the most evocative names in American History. Dodge City. Tombstone. The OK Corral. He’s also to be remembered as a guy who ran a piece of two-bit flimflam on Bunco Hill. And got popped for it—but then, this was no 1880s gambling saloon. This was the grandest new hotel in Taft-era Los Angeles. Perhaps Earp was a little out of his element.

The Hotel Trenton, seven stories of sober brick laced with fire escapes, its yawning central maw somewhere between a gate of hell and a jaunty fireman's doorway, lurked low on Bunker Hill for many decades. There it is at 10 o'clock in the panorama. It was not a racy hotel, but it had its moments, and left an imprint on the fabric of its times.

When we last discussed the Fremont Hotel, we took a look at the antics of some of the hotel's residents over it's five decade existence. This time around, the Fremont employees get to bask in the OnBunkerHill spotlight.

The Fremont Hotel that stood on the corner of 4th Street and Olive for five decades had 100 rooms. As previous posts on this site have shown us, no place on Bunker Hill with a lot of rooms and a long lifespan existed without a good amount mayhem. The Fremont is no exception.

May 23, 1905

Walter Jackson gave A. J. Munn due pause, back in mid-aught four, when he approached Munn seeking a position at Munn’s hotel. (You can’t be too careful when hiring for an establishment that bears your own name, e.g., the Hotel Munn.) You see, Munn detected liquor on Jackson’s breath, but, some highly-placed hoteliers had recommended Jackson, so Munn engaged him with and on the distinct understanding that Jackson would foreswear liquor and gambling. Any On Bunker Hill reader knows the story won’t end there.

Location: 4th and Olive
Date: April 6, 1898

When the first reports came in about the 14-year-old boy lying drunk and insensible on the streets of Bunker Hill, he was over on Clay Street. But by the time Officer Broadhead went out to have a look, some boys had dragged him to a vacant lot near 4th and Olive, and it was from here that he was taken to receiving hospital. Once conscious, he proved stubbornly unwilling or unable to identify himself, answering "I don't know" to all questions. He did, however, admit to attending the Olive Street School, and it is hoped someone will come forward soon to take this lost lad home.