FREE PRESS, AUGUST 22, 1975 Down around Sunset, about Sunset and Wilton, near the freeway exit and by the gas station, you’ll see them sometimes in their uniforms with swastika. They wear pleasant looks on very white faces and hand out literature. They also wear helmets and some of the boys are big enough to play for the L.A. Rams. They are ready: members of the American Nazi Party. Well, it’s Hollywood and one thinks of it more like part of a grade B movie, but then there are those who will tell you that it began that way over there, too—just a few guys standing around who should have been fingering girls in the back seat of the movie house. Next thing you knew they were sitting at the sidewalk cafés of Paris, getting it off. But then if you’re going to allow the Communist Party and the Socialist Party and the Gay Party and the Demos and Repubs, you can’t very well say, well, the Nazi Party has no right to exist. So there they are but they intend to get the average person more wrought up—memories of ovens and Pathé Newsreels of Hitler screaming, and then they are wearing uniforms that don’t exactly remind some of Jack Oakie in bell-bottoms.
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