I was a kid who constantly asked “why,” which I’m sure drove my parents to reach for the ear plugs. Among my first “why’s” was why, in 1970s Pasadena, the San Gabriel Mountains directly behind us continually vanished, especially on broiling summer days? Why was that cough-inducing, eye-watering blanket of gray air rolling at us like a foul-tasting fog from a bad horror flick? Why did adults, who proclaimed to have everything under control, allow this to happen? Because, you know, it felt dystopian, not reassuring. Decades later, those why’s inspired a social history, with fellow author Bill Kelly, about this. The scars still linger, too, as this recent L.A. Times column animating numerous scenes from that book, Smogtown, illustrate. Think of our air-pollution saga as a prequel to the clenching grip of climate change. It’s my fervent hope that someday, this incredible story chronicling the modern world’s first major environmental catastrophe reaches a worldwide screen, if only for the next generation to realize that no disaster is too big, too scary to conquer when people say no more! Today, the Pasadena skies are blue.

https://www.latimes.com/environment/story/2023-10-01/los-angeles-forever-war-on-smog

The post The Brown Air Prequel for our Climate Change World appeared first on Chip Jacobs .

Forty minutes later, I lingered near one of the hospital’s side entrances, unable to spot any fellow journalists milling around. So, I popped open the door, figuring they might be inside. That’s when a tubby police officer whipped around the corner, telling me in an angry whisper that the gunman who’d already shot three doctors — one with a .38-caliber slug to the head — was holding two people hostage just around the bend. “Get down and go!” he said, his hand gripping a revolver.

I left, lucky only to have been chastised, and discovered the media scrum in an adjacent parking lot. It was now your basic hurry-up-and-wait while authorities tried to end the standoff with the gunman, a disgruntled patient who lived on Skid Row. They hauled him off in a squad car after several hours, and as I angled for a view of his face, an overly aggressive TV cameraman whacked me in the back of the head with his lens. But I still noticed the suspect resembled Richard Ramirez, the “Night Stalker” serial killer who had terrorized Los Angeles the previous decade.

By nightfall, with our story for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune in editing, I needed to decompress. I ripped off my nicotine patch and bought the last pack of cigarettes I’d ever smoke.

The O. J. Simpson murders would be the next crime story I’d write about, if tangentially, for the Los Angeles Times and its rival, the Los Angeles Daily News. Full-time crime reporters, as I learned, were the characters in the newsroom, often cynical, swashbuckling, and as brash as the cops with whom they interacted. I didn’t run in that herd.

It wasn’t until one day in 1998, strolling along Hollywood Boulevard, that I got stopped on the sidewalk by a guy named Jerry Schneiderman who had been both a source for stories and a bit of a fabulist.

“Did you know,” he said, “that I once had a double murderer chasing me?”

He claimed the ordeal ruined the “old” him, gutting his first marriage and leaving him forever mistrustful of strangers.

Yeah, right, I said, figuring he was either pulling my chain, as he was apt to do, or exaggerating something unverifiable.

Never was I more wrong.

Schneiderman had been a nerdy 27-year-old space-planning prodigy when his partner, a suave, charismatic fellow 12 years his senior, persuaded him into something of a real estate get-rich-quick scheme: adding construction services to their otherwise white-collar business sketching interior blueprints for Los Angeles companies big and small. In need of an experienced foreman — and a California contractor’s license — they hired a quiet, windburned applicant, sight unseen. What Schneiderman didn’t know was that both his colleagues bore secrets, one more diabolical than the other. From the ashes of financial misconduct and palace intrigue soon emerged a sequence of events out of an Elmore Leonard novel.

Then again, life in 1979 Los Angeles made for plenty of deadbolted doors and just as much paranoia. Murder rates were spiking. “White flight” was growing, as were gated communities and racial tensions between people of color and the increasingly militarized LAPD. Worse, overlapping serial killers (like “The Hillside Strangler” and “The Freeway Killer”) seemed to prowl at their leisure.

Beyond the criminality, Southern California exuded this seething aura, just like the rest of a demoralized post-Vietnam, post-Watergate United States, except amid palm trees and famous boulevards. The anchor’s rant in Paddy Chayefsky’s brilliant Network, where he encouraged viewers to scream that they were “mad as hell,” felt less Hollywood drama than modern documentary. There was a noir quality to our existence that rendered even our beloved La Brea Tar Pits a shadowy expanse you didn’t want to hang around at night. A 17-year-old at the time, what I remember now are the gloomy skies and sullen adults.

Years later, I realized that Schneiderman only had a keyhole-wide understanding of the darkness that had swirled around him. For instance, he had little understanding that his partner’s execution with a powerful World War II–era rifle represented the opening salvo in a boutique murder-for-profit corporation. The ringleader of it was Howard Garrett, their vulture-faced foreman who’d decided to toss caution to the wind by cashing in on other people’s demises. In a tense meeting where Garrett blackmailed Schneiderman, threatening him and his family with their own murder contracts, Garrett warned Schneiderman that he had killed before “and gotten away with it.” He wasn’t lying.

The web of would-be assassins that ensnared Schneiderman included a bantam-sized gunman with a deadeye aim, a transgender thief, and a bisexual white supremacist crook with a grain of conscience.

But I never could’ve unearthed a drop of this 20-year-old saga without my journalism background. As such, I spent hours in the Hall of Records’s dungeon-esque basement in downtown Los Angeles, examining court filings, even though many were missing or stolen. I interviewed dozens of people swept up in Garrett’s months-long reign of terror, among them former LAPD homicide detectives who, like Schneiderman, couldn’t forget Garrett. Eventually, I connected with the lead prosecutor, who offered public documents that confirmed the outlines of this weirder-than-fiction tale.

One salacious document showed that between the time when Schneiderman’s business partner was murdered and Garrett was dramatically arrested he worked on a freelance construction job at the offices of the California Association of Realtors, a trade group promoting integrity in the real estate business.

All of this digging kept me at a comfortable distance from the actual villains involved. I still craved to learn more, and with Garrett long dead, there was only one person who knew the truth about him: the triggerman who’d fired the fateful bullet into the head of Schneiderman’s feather-haired partner, Richard Kasparov.

Johnny Williams was many things: a bushy-haired man who had already admitted to killing multiple people before this, an industrious criminal alchemist, and the victim of a traumatic brain injury from tumbling out of a moving car. That pivotal event had demented him from a kid with a soaring IQ into a sociopath.

To hear him out, I typed up a letter requesting an interview, and then, probably a dozen times, stuck it in my mailbox only to retract it moments later. Williams had testified under oath, to a stupefied courtroom, that killing to him was no big deal. Years later, the parole board at Corcoran State Prison in Central California repeatedly denied his release, deeming him an ongoing threat to society.

What if my nosy questions about what landed him behind bars incensed him and he was subsequently freed? Even the internet of the early aughts made it simple to locate someone’s address. Would he pop up outside my window with a big gun, just as he had with Schneiderman’s partner, for one last slaughter? What about my family? Were Williams’s sinister memories worth it?

That one-page letter collected dust in my file cabinet for two years as I hemmed and hawed, weighing the risk, when I heard that Williams died behind bars.

Then I wrote The Darkest Glare, a nonfiction account that tried to stitch all the craziness together into a single book. I hope I did it justice without Williams.

I was confident I could handle not only the Kafkaesque twists of Schneiderman’s ordeal but also the prologue of it — the PTSD, the legal and emotional dominoes that cascaded afterward, the questions about hidden identities behind the smiles of Los Angeles contractors. And that’s all because a distracted city editor shooed me out the door to cover that hospital shooting. The best story is the one you never set out to write.

The post “The Accidental True Crime Writer” – my Los Angeles Review of Books essay appeared first on Chip Jacobs .

We had the good fortune of connecting with Chip Jacobs and we’ve shared our conversation below.

Hi Chip, why did you decide to pursue a creative path?
In fall 1982, at parents’ night at my college fraternity, I dropped a bomb on my father, telling him that I was switching my major from business administration to journalism. He’d been a child of the Great Depression, having me in his mid-forties, and ever since disdained newspaper reporters as sort of bottom-scrapers who recorded the day’s big events rather than contributing to society writ large. The argument that erupted between us that evening felt like the climax of a John Hughes coming-of-age movie. Suddenly, a 100+ people listening to a speaker up front swiveled their heads to the back of the meeting hall to hear me scream that this was MY damn life, not his to plot out; that my heart would never be in a soulless corporate job, let alone the slow-suicide of working in family real estate business, however much it’d paid my way. We were a couple of distant planets afterwards, him furious, me terrified about the ramifications of my ill-timed declaration of independence. Somehow, we remained on speaking terms.

By 1990, after flirting with the idea of a career as CIA analyst (you know, to save the world from nuclear apocalypse), I secured my first reporting job at the Los Angeles Business Journal. Never was I happier. It wed my natural, admittedly annoying curiosity with a genuine love of writing, filling me with pride and a hunger to improve every day. Seven years, and a bunch of newspaper posts later, I took another plunge you could either term courageous or self-sabotaging. On a decided roll, with the Los Angeles Times interested in hiring me after a string of front-page exposes, I up and quit its fierce rival, the Los Angeles Daily News, to pen my first book, Strange As It Seems. My editor and others begged me not to, that I was making a terrible mistake, but hazy voices seemed to be calling me. My mother’s side of the family, I knew by then, was chalked with creatives. There was that famous European dancer, a Broadway star, Hollywood directors and musicians; heck, author Irving Stone was a distant cousin.

Still, in leaving a job I adored for this more solitary pursuit, I frequently second guessed my decision to walk away from the never-dull newsroom. When a  preliminary book deal with St. Martin’s Press fizzled, it seemed as though I’d magically converted that potential folks told me I had into smoking ruin. My second book about the “Great” L.A. smog crisis garnered critical acclaim, though releasing it at the onset of the “Great Recession” was a recipe for commercial frustration. I plowed ahead after Smogtown anyway, reminding myself about all those moody writers sustaining themselves on little more than self-belief while peers racked up champagne successes. In reporting, I always felt luck sided with me. In the literary universe subject to fads and social changes, it was swamp-plodding. One day, when I was actively considering returning to journalism, an epiphany floated down on me. I was picking book subjects that in a fashion picked me based on my childhood, my outrage as the world as it was, or on topics that’d always secretly fascinated me. My mom, who passed on in 2008, just as my biography about her larger-than-life brother was slated to appear, had always encouraged me to lean into my artistic ancestry. Sometimes I loved her for that, though other times I resented it for where it lead me

I gulped reliving those memories when Arroyo, my debut novel about Progressive-Age Pasadena and its mysterious Colorado Street Bridge came out, reaching, to my surprise, the L.A. Times bestseller list and becoming a local hit. As I reflected on my serpentine journey to that pre-pandemic jubilation, I prayed that the father who wanted me to grip a briefcase instead of banging away on a keyboard was peering down from the afterlife. Hopefully, he appreciated that our Reagan-era hollering match funneled me into the Chip I had no choice in becoming.

Let’s talk shop? Tell us more about your career, what can you share with our community?
When I was a kid in the foothills of Pasadena, I had this older, neighborhood pal blessed with the innate ability to sketch. Football players; cats dressed up like NHL players; smoggy landscapes. Gerald just had the gift. I tried copying him, and quickly realized I was no Gerald, for I topped out artistically with stick figures. Reading was where I found my organic meter: ”The Three Musketeers,” “Robinson Crusoe,” and “Lord of the Rings” transported to me to the most fanciful spot in the universe: between my own ears.

By college, the verdict was in. I should stay a million miles away from advanced mathematics (and drawing for that matter) and apply myself in any field where the ability to tell stories was at a premium. And who was I to argue with a metaphorical jury? The first time I saw my byline was in a political column at my college newspaper, The Daily Trojan. I grabbed every copy I could find, feeling the rock star when classmates gave me the occasional attaboy. My roommate started calling me “Scoop.” I was giddy. And just as naive.

Thousands of newspaper articles later, on subjects ranging from the genesis of the Original Tommy’s hamburger empire to an investigative take-out about a genius environmental businesswoman who ran with shadowy CIA types, I know I stayed in the profession I was supposed to, even if often paid like crap and some of my subjects pined to get me fired. Here’s the thing: every word one writes is one’s own mirror on the world—a reflection of not just dry facts and curated quotes but the writer’s life experiences. My articles were also my Killroy: proof that I was here. They painted heroes, identified villains, and, I hope, gave folks blue about their lives an occaionsal chance to laugh. Only this Chip would be weird enough to jump at the opportunity to write about the joys of dumpster diving. All those years removed from USC, I wouldn’t have it any other way! Journalism for me was less an occupation and more a crusade. From my first reading of All the President’s Men, I was hooked. Woodward and Bernstein became my Lennon and McCartney.

Transitioning to being an author prone to skipping around in different genres requires many of the same traits: confidence, creativity, a bit of insanity, and a lot of sheer “want-to.” Many assume being an artist is about creating something thought-provoking that you gawk at in art galleries or murmur about on in view of catwalk or book signings. After many years, I view it differently. I believe it’s about challenging oneself to stretch higher than ever imagined, and knowing the result is for both other people’s benefit as well as leaving footprints that our souls recognize as evidence of right-brained free will.

Let’s say your best friend was visiting the area and you wanted to show them the best time ever. Where would you take them? Give us a little itinerary – say it was a week long trip, where would you eat, drink, visit, hang out, etc.
It’s an autumn Friday night, and we’ve been starving ourselves for a gluttonous weekend. Dinner has to be at Park’s (Korean) BBQ, on Vermont Avenue in mid city LA. Come for the grilled meats, stay for the kimchi and pork belly. Did I mention beer was created thousands of years ago specifically for this salty fare?

The following morning is no time for slacking or calorie counting. It’s breakfast at South Pasadena’s retro-roofed Shakers, crispy hash brown, please, and then a drive down the Harbor Freeway to the gray lady — the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum — to watch my beloved USC Trojans play on that immaculate green turf, as I’ve been doing since I was a child barely able to see anything. Since man doesn’t live on Coliseum dogs alone, it’s Langer’s No. 19 pastrami for a post-game meal. Back home, we fall into the kind of slumbers reserved for pythons after consuming a gazelle.

Sunday, we eat lighter, maybe something from a San Gabriel Valley farmer’s market. Next, my guest allows me to give them a tour of my hometown, just like my protagonist Nick Chance in my novel Arroyo. We drive up into the San Gabriel Mountains to see where Thaddeus Lowe’s once world-famous electric railway ran, then walk off some fat by hiking south from the Rose Bowl to where dreamy Busch Gardens and exotic Cawston Ostrich Fam used to sit. Since I can only describe its paintings so well, we venture into the Norton Simon museum for glimpses of the world’s most prize art, from Picasso to you name it . After that, we traipse around Caltech’s shady campus, home of eggheads, Nobel prize winners, and underrated architecture. That night, we’re back on the road, grabbing Ethiopian food (literally with our fingers) at Massob, capped by an intimate show at The Mint LA club. If we’re lucky, we’ll see an enormous talent, like Squeeze’s Glenn Tilbrook, blow the doors off the place. If not, we’ll see a Donovan impersonator (kidding).

Come Monday, we get tacos to go from Lupita’s, a strip-mal eatery close to a dog-washing shop, and eat lunch on one of those flyover benches carved inside the historic, Arroyo-Seco-spanning Colorado Street Bridge. The mountain views there are heavenly. Given our fare over the last three days, we might just ascend up those Pearly Gates, grateful to have been alive and hopeful for a return.

The Shoutout series is all about recognizing that our success and where we are in life is at least somewhat thanks to the efforts, support, mentorship, love and encouragement of others. So is there someone that you want to dedicate your shoutout to?
I’d be nowhere, obviously, without the undying belief of my family, friends, work colleagues, plus the tail-wagging support of the mutts I’ve loved. When your dog stares you in the eye, telegraphing a message that he/she knows you can do better than you are, you disregard at your own peril.

High school — in my case, Flintridge Preparatory School just about JPL in La Canada-Flintridge — was where I first discovered my footing for the future. Our history teacher there, John Hamilton, was a brilliant communicator who knew how to breath the past back to life for  us bunch of distracted, girl-crazy boys. How? He framed personalities, conflicts, and giant stakes into a narrative that made you hang on his every word. To him, manifest destiny wasn’t only an expression of America’s westward pioneers. It was what lived in each one of us to do whatever it took to extract what we had to offer the world, or die trying. My senior year English teacher, Cheryl Ginzton, was another shaper of me. I still remember vigorously arguing with her about Hamlet’s sanity, and her later urging me to be a writer who followed his curiosity wherever it transported him. Though Mr. Hamilton is no longer with us, my English teacher is. I know that because when I did a book reading at the Pasadena Central Library, she showed up with a copy. Sure, she dozed off while I was reading from my novel, but I was humbled she made it. Plus I will parlay the scene, names changed of course, in a future book fueled by my unquenchable, sometimes pathological need to tell stories.

The contents of this post are nearly identical to the article that ran in Shoutout LA

The post Meet Chip Jacobs: Author, journalist, dog-enthusiast, spiritual optimist appeared first on Chip Jacobs .

Untainted by defense scandals, distanced from corporate takeover battles, it lives in the hearts of its “can-do” stalwarts and the minds of America’s foes.

When U.S. F-117 aircraft screamed low through a moonless Middle Eastern night, raining laser-guided terror on Iraq’s military nerve center in Operation Desert Storm’s opening air salvo, Saddam Hussein became a believer.

Lockheed’s Skunk Works lives.

Not that Ben Rich, the outspoken engineer who ran the legendary Lockheed Corp. research and development outfit from 1975 to 1990, had any doubts.

“We had a lot of our stuff in the Gulf: F-117’s, U-2’s, TR-1’s. I guess you’d call it tremendous validation,” he blurted.

Named after Al Capp’s Li’l Abner comic strip five decades ago, the Skunk Works is home to 6,000 who toil in cutting-edge confines from Burbank to Palmdale, and is secretly funded by the Pentagon’s “black budget.”

Queries about the facility’s security precautions, or its work on the $80-billion Advanced Tactical Fighter program or a 21st Century spy plane, are met only with knowing smiles by company officials.

Consider the sleek, V-tail F-117, whose visibility on radar is said to be the equivalent of a small bird. The $42.6 million per copy aircraft was flying seven years before its existence was acknowledged in 1988 – Manhattan Project-like in its secrecy.

Forty-nine years ago, when a circus tent next to a foul-smelling Burbank plastics factory was its temporary base, Skunk Works became a haven for handpicked scientific hotshots whose only constraints were laws of physics and flight chronicled by Isaac Newton and the Wright brothers.

It was – and continues to be – more a state of mind than a network of plants filled with drafting boards, prototypes and wind tunnels.

“Be quick, be quiet, be on time,” remains the organization’s mantra.

Back in 1943, no one imagined what the Skunk Works would do – the tens of billions it would make for Lockheed, the technological barriers it would dismantle, the Cold War arms race it would chronicle or the platforms of controlled violence it would assemble. No one except for a hardnosed, aeronautical wizard named Kelly Johnson, who died last December, taking a piece of Skunk Works with him.

Since those heady early days, much has changed with the Advanced Development Projects – Skunk Works’ formal name. Like the rest of the now wobbly aerospace world, Skunk Works can’t escape the new found U.S.-Soviet lovefest, declining military budgets or more mundane environmental regulations. High-speed computers long ago replaced the slide rule as the designer’s best friend.

Now a stand-alone division, Skunk Works will relocate its manufacturing operations to a new $39 million facility in Palmdale, leaving the once-sleepy town where it grew up in inconspicuous, unmarked buildings near Burbank Airport.

But Johnson’s famous “14 rules” still form its backbone. Top-secret military projects are developed best when they are done with small groups of people working on short productions runs, with minimal red tape and tight contractor-government relations. The idea of KISS – “Keep it simple stupid” – is also attributed to Johnson by Lockheed folk, as was the concept, “Keep all the do-gooders out – including management. They’ll help you to death.”

Other defense contractors have tried to copy Johnson’s creation, but found only limited success. Rich, now a Lockheed consultant, said only one power has effectively taken a page from Skunk Works’ management ways: the Japanese.

“It operates with minimum overhead and oversight, permitting it do amazing things in record time,” opined Kemper Securities defense analyst Lawrence Harris. “If you want something that has never been done before, the first place to start is the Skunk Works.” Last year, the secret organization brought in roughly $800 million to Lockheed’s coffers, Harris noted, though it is not the money-maker it used to be.

Johnson was able to spark unconventional thinking by laying down bets with his workers, though he usually won. He said he’d give anyone $100 if they could reduce the weight of the SR-71 by 10 pounds. Rich first suggested filling the tires with helium. When that failed, he recommended giving the pilots enemas.

It was those type of things that gave Johnson the ability to “lead by charisma,” according to Rich.

“He didn’t tolerate stupidity or lying, but he was generous with praise,” Rich explained. “His success was that he asked a lot of questions and got everyone involved early.”

Still, Kelly’s first task, assigned during the war to end all wars, was hardly a technological breeze: to develop the first operational U.S. jet fighter for the Army Air Corps. With corporate carte blanche, Kelly literally begged, borrowed and stole engineers from other Lockheed World War II projects.

Working almost around the clock for five months, 136 Skunk Work employees completed the P-80 prototype – dubbed the Lulu Belle – 37 days ahead of schedule. Development cost: $9 million, or a measly $124 million in today’s money. Nine thousand were eventually produced.

But the next Skunks Works project, a commercial feeder transport called the Model 75-Saturn, bellyflopped. So did the next plane, the turboprop XFV-1, a strange-looking bird that was part helicopter, part plane. Designed to perform vertical takeoff and landing like the modern-day Harrier jet, it was shot down by the Navy, partly because pilots couldn’t look over their shoulders to land.

New Soviet threats opened a window of opportunity for Johnson, though.

When the Air Force spotted a MiG-15 fighter over Korea, Skunk Works won the contract to develop the F-104 Starfighter. In less than 12 months Skunk Works built two prototypes able to fly at more than March 2, twice the speed of sound, forging the F-104’s name as a “missile with a man in it.”

But Skunk Works’ real glory was still ahead. When the Air Force needed a high-altitude spy plane, they came to Johnson. With $20 million in convert money funneled through the Central Intelligence Agency, the Skunks Works took 75 people and designed, built and flew the first U-2 in less than eight months. Pentagon officials were even stunned to find Lockheed actually returning $4 million in unused funds.

“Sixteen months after we got the check the U-2 was flying its first mission,” Rich gushed. “I can’t get a letter out of the Pentagon in that length.”

How secret was the U-2?

When Johnson called his test pilot Tony LeVier into a closed-door meeting, he couldn’t tell him about the plane he was asking him to try out. When Johnson told LeVier to find a dry lake bed to put the U-2 through its paces, LeVier had to traipse through three states under an assumed name, passing himself off to everyone as a hunter.

On flying the famous plane: “It was basically a huge metal sailplane that took off like a homesick angel,” LeVier recalled.

The U-2’s furtive mission, and vulnerability to radar tracking, was exposed on May 1, 1960, when Francis Gary Powers was shot down 1,000 miles inside U.S.S.R. territory. The incident put U.S.-Soviet detente into the freezer, fueling Nikita Khrushchev’s shoe-pounding, anti-West diatribe at the United Nations.

But the U-2 soon redeemed itself, this time in a superpower showdown that tested the world’s nerves.

U-2 pilots spotted the Soviets installing long-range nuclear-tipped missiles in Cuba.

The Department of Defense later ordered a tactical version of the U-2 – the TR-1 – that could find targets behind enemy lines. Decades later, new-generation versions of those frail-looking planes still provide U.S. war planners with information that even the most advanced satellites cannot.

So do three Skunk Work spy planes, designed during the 1960s, able to fly at Mach 3. The most important was the SR-71 Blackbird, a thin delta-winged craft with a 56-foot wing span, a sleek fuselage and the ability to fly altitudes exceeding three miles.

A menacing-looking twin engine reconnaissance aircraft stuffed with photographic and electronic sensors, the Blackbird became an integral part of the military’s ability to monitor Third World hot spots and other geopolitical developments.

Not everyone is bullish about the future of organizations like the one Johnson pioneered.

“You are going to see |black’ (covert) budget programs under pressure,” said Kevin Knobloch, an analyst with the liberal Washington think tank, the Union of Concerned Scientists. “The turning point was the B-2 bomber and the fact that some in Congress thought it was kept under wraps too long.”

In the mid-1980s there even was a congressional brouhaha over Skunk Works security procedures, forcing Rich and his staff to go back and classify documents dating back to the U-2.

These days Rich doesn’t fret about whether Skunk Works will flourish in the 1990s. He says he is more concerned about America’s eroding industrial base, the loss of Lockheeed faithful to Disney Imagineering or the government’s “grindstone” military specifications. He’s also seen the organization called the gem of Southern California’s aerospace world swell from 14 departments in 1965 to more than 200 now.

“There will always be niches to fill in for the military and we’ll keep asking them what they will need in the next century. Remember, there are only 3,000 days left in this one.”

copyright Los Angeles Business Journal

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