From all I could find, it seems the Mark Twain is a dive/dump, and has been one for at least as far back as the 1940s. In his autobiography from 1951, Erskine Caldwell, the Southern novelist known for his unapologetic social and political critique, writes about trying to stay here upon his arrival in Los Angeles. (“I judged by its appearance that its rates might be in keeping with my ability to pay,” he wrote, decorously.) Comment boards on the internet reveal testimony like: “Looking for a place to hide from everyone and do drugs while catching bugs and a possible infectious disease or 2? Mark Twain is the place for you! Just wanna hang out and play monopoly with your favorite hooker? Sorry, no visitors. Which makes me wonder how the place got so disgusting one person at a time? And the smell is Hollywood at it’s [sic] finest.”
But what caught my eye was the rusted overhang above the entrance. I like the three variations on the sign, but also how terrifically ugly the whole thing looks. Like a big pink monster poised to devour whatever comes off the sidewalk.